Out of the main road and into the brush of the plains of Whiterun she had walked, walked until spurts of stones stretched into great leagues of withered gray rock. Until all that lay in front of her was a yawning alcove in the mountain side. Clunky, clopping steps did not accompany her; she rode no horse, nor did she bear an attendant at her side. Solitude was what she required. A quiet place to admire the statue before her. Eyes roamed the edifice, alighting upon the face as stoic as the rock it was hewn from. The skalds spoke of that face; the expression all Nord warriors of old wore—perpetually, unflinchingly. Static in personality as the tales their spirits were borne upon; always grim, always ready to fight, and ever-prepared for death. Her Merish maid dispelled those tales ever so quickly, ripping their severity away with a well-placed joke or comment. And as a child Elisif grew to laugh at those figures, revered though they may have been.
But now?
Now Elisif was positively terrified of them. Men and women of a differing Era, cold as the Skyrim winter, hearts harder than ice. These were the qualities of her revered ancestors; warriors that people wanted—no, needed her to be. Elisif’s throat constricts, sickness brewing deep in her belly, the very sight of the Talos statue offending her senses. Hjalti encompassed all of the traits of a desirable leader, a desirable Nord. And yet he presents an affront to her very being. The skalds wove tales, but so did old Niranwe, the mother who had not carried Elisif, yet might as well have. Destruction, genocide, blood dripped from her maid’s tongue as she spoke of the horrors of Numidium, the construct of absolute slaughter that Talos himself had used. So the expression on his face brings her, weak-kneed, to the ground. Slaughterer and hero. Face ever unchanging, be it war or love or sickness or death. This is the summation of leadership, she thinks, frigid, unforgiving stone. To pray is to submit oneself to his wisdom. So she clasps her hands together, pale-faced and wide-eyed, and—
A voice. Cutting through the haze of her submissive throes, comes clear enough to pierce her heart, to make her double-over. Not once has anyone made her such promises, and the words catch her halfway between a laugh and a sob.
"And how would you know of such things, stranger?"
