âI could do with a tankard of mead, really,â one of the Stormcloak soldiers announced as the group of them kept a decent walking pace on the path that would bring them home if only they stayed on it and followed the right signs. The comment earned a few mutters and chuckles of approval and agreeing. Ulfric himself nodded as well with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
The Jarl found himself in the middle of the considerably small group of his personal guards travelling along with him. He had been visiting Jarl Laila in Riften, and he had brought only a few men and women with him, since his army had long conquered the Rift and managed to keep out the Empire ever since. It had been a quick visit to check up on her, and they had packed very lightly so that there was a smaller risk that the Thieves Guild would sneak by and steal from the Rebellion leader. It was a miracle that nothing had been stolen, apart from a single coin purse â quite a big one, but still just /one/ â one of the guards had forgotten to hide away properly.
Now, they found themselves on their way back to Windhelm. A trip that should not take long, neither would be too tiring. Nonetheless, even the Jarl had to admit he longed for a nice, big tankard of cold mead as he would sit in the throne room and dine with his comrades. But they were not home just yet, and there was still the thread of wildlife on the road. Yet none of the guards seemed to be concerned about that. They just continued to talk, laugh and jest as the group continued its way home.
A thud then, and the sound of a startled guard gasping in surprise. Some of the Stormcloaks bumped into each other, others immediately responded by drawing their weapons as they noticed exactly what had caused the uncomfortably familiar sound. It was an arrow, lodged in the road in front of the feet of the guards that had been walking up front. Several pairs of eyes scanned their surroundings, others aimed their swords and arrows at the road ahead, and some turned to face the part of the journey that was already behind them. For a few moments, there was no sound but that of more soldiers, including the Jarl himself, drawing their weapons. Then there were voices. Aggressive voices. Voices declaring battle and belligerence. High Elves. Thalmor.
The sight of Thalmor struck hatred in the hearts of the Stormcloaks, and even more so in the heart of Ulfric Stormcloak himself. He held a fierce grudge against them ever since the Great War, and now they had come to take his own home as well. He would not allow that. He would fight. And so he did, alongside his soldiers, lodging his war axe into Thalmor chests and heads whilst dodging dangerous spells and swift daggers. Arrows rained down, but there was no telling whether it were his soldiersâ or the Thalmor had stationed elven archers up ahead. It mattered not right now. The battle was too alive to avert his eyes from to check.
Dammit, thereâs another one! Ulfric could hear a Thalmorâs voice not far from him, and he turned to look for a brief moment. An arrow was stuck in the elfâs armour, no doubt piercing it and scraping his skin, if not puncturing it. The elf turned to face his attacker â and then Ulfric saw. It was not one of his own men. It was another elf, a womer. She was quick to end the Thalmor soldierâs pathetic battle with a knife Ulfric vaguely recognised. There was no time to tell for sure, because there was another approaching her, swinging at the womer with a heavy looking mace. The Thalmor soldier that had been forced to the ground and saved by his comrade never was able to get away; Ulfric lunged forward, his war axe swinging down, hitting the High Elf in the face. What was left of it as the Jarl withdrew his weapon was not a pretty sight, but there was no time to either admire or disapprove of his work, for the next soon approached, causing Ulfric and the unknown, white-haired elf to stand and fight back-to-back.
She unfortunately hadnât been able to keep the knife in her hand when she rolled away, but she could retrieve it later so long as she survive this fight. Azariel dodged the mace again by jumping to the side, briefly catching sight of the man who killed the agent sheâd tackled. Well, at least that one wouldnât be getting back up again. Not with his face caved in, anyway. Her bow already slung over her back now.
Ducking beneath another swing of the mace, she drew her sword from itsâ sheath and parried the next attack, pushing the enemy back. When she felt someone behind her, she paused, but already knew it wasnât one of the Thalmor, otherwise she would be in pain. Or dead. Reassured by the fact that she was fighting with allies, she pressed the attack on the agent trying to kill her with the mace. With her free hand, she grabbed the shaft of the elven weapon as she stabbed forward with her sword, lightning quick. The mer looked surprised when the blade pierced through his armor, and his gut. Azariel grinned at him, pulling the blade back out, and pushing him away with the mace he let go of.
âThatâs two down.â She said, gripping the hilt of the mace and tossing it at the back of another onesâ head. It struck the helmet, instantly causing the agent to become disoriented. The Stormcloak soldiers nearby jumped him, and Azariel noticed two more agents running at her and her current... ally. She drew her bow off her back, notching an arrow quickly, her sword still in her hand. The arrow caught one of them in the neck, but the other was still coming, sword aimed for the man behind her. She caught the blade against her own and deflected the strike, holding him off as another Stormcloak came over and killed the agent.
The fighting was pretty intense, but there were still more Thalmor than even sheâd realized. Then again, she hadnât exactly tried to find out how many of them there were. Still, at least this battle wouldnât turn into a Stormcloak massacre. That was something she wanted to avoid, especially given her own hatred of the Thalmor, she wouldnât allow them to get their way.
