Watching as yet another whelp of a Nord "warrior" was half-carried away toward the Temple of the Eight, Rondin allowed himself a small, tight grin of pure satisfaction. It didn't quite reach his cold eyes, but it was there.
He knew, intellectually, that they were nothing. Greenhorns. Children playing at war, their faces still soft, their movements unpracticed.
He knew the Ambassador would likely hear of this and offer one of those polite, icy rebukes about 'maintaining diplomatic decorum.' But in this moment, standing amidst the stone and sweat of the courtyard, none of that mattered.
There was something profoundly, primally satisfying about putting these savages in their place. To demonstrate, with elegant, undeniable force, the gulf that lay between the cultured mastery of the Aldmeri Dominion and the grunting, brute-force flailing of Men.
The impotent, simmering glares from the Imperial instructors only made it sweeter.
If only looks could kill, Rondin mused, adjusting the fit of his golden gauntlet. But they cannot. Only skill can. And steel. And the bloodline of the gods.
It was, as always, good to be born an Altmer.
He was scanning the remaining recruits—their faces pale, some angry, most just scared—trying to decide which one to humiliate next, when the world in front of him exploded.
THOOM-CRACK!
A giant axe, more a slab of silvery metal than a weapon, slammed into the flagstones between him and the recruits. The impact wasn't just loud; it was a detonation. Shards of stone sprayed outwards like shrapnel, forcing Rondin to throw up an arm to shield his face. The ground vibrated under his boots.
Before the dust had even settled, two more shapes landed with heavy, ground-shaking thuds, one significantly larger than the other.
As the debris cleared, Rondin blinked, his smug confidence replaced by a cold, professional frown. A Nord man—no, a boy, though a terrifyingly large one—stood there, casually reaching down to wrench the monstrous axe free from the crater it had made.
Beside him, a fully-grown cave bear loomed, its dark eyes fixed on Rondin with unnerving focus.
The young man hefted the impossible weapon onto his shoulder as if it were a walking stick. He offered Rondin a smile that held no warmth whatsoever.
"I see you've been giving the whelps a lesson in combat," the Nord said, his voice deceptively casual. He tilted his head, his eyes, grey and sharp as flint, scanning Rondin's perfect armor, his unmarked face. "How about you teach me something, too?"
Rondin didn't reply to the challenge. Instead, his eyes—cold and calculating—flicked over Torin's shoulder to the gathered crowd of onlookers: recruits, Imperial trainers, castle guards. From within their ranks, a man emerged.
Torin recognized him—the same functionary in the fine robes who had fetched Torygg the day before.
The man moved with brisk efficiency, heading straight for Rondin. He leaned in, whispering urgently into the Altmer's ear. Torin watched as each hushed word caused a minute shift in the elf's expression: the smug satisfaction draining away, replaced first by surprise, then by a flicker of irritation, and finally settling into a mask of cold, diplomatic restraint.
When the man was done, he gave a slight bow and melted back into the crowd, his job as messenger complete.
Rondin turned back to Torin. The earlier, predatory grin was gone. In its place was a cordial, perfectly crafted smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I would not presume to teach someone as… renowned… as yourself, Storm-Caller," he said, his voice smooth as polished glass.
He cleared his throat delicately. "And although I would, of course, be fascinated to test my skills against a warrior of your legend… I'm afraid that is simply not possible. A regrettable matter of protocol."
Torin's eyes, which had been merely cold, turned glacial. "Why not?" he asked, his tone flat. "Because you know you can't win?" He didn't wait for an answer. His gaze swept pointedly to the line of bruised and battered recruits. "A difference in skill didn't stop you from 'testing your skills' against them. It didn't stop them from accepting your challenge either."
A prominent vein throbbed suddenly at Rondin's temple. The insult was blatant, delivered in front of the very audience he'd been dominating. This damned, brazen savage was openly calling him a coward.
The urge to lash out, to draw his blade and carve that smug Nord face into something more respectful, was a hot, physical pulse in his hands. He wanted nothing more.
But it wasn't that simple. The whispered message had made that abundantly clear.
He forced the smile back onto his face, though it grew strained at the edges. "That is not the case at all," he said, his tone straining for amicable reason. "You misunderstand. They are soldiers-in-training. Part of the local garrison. A friendly spar to… share techniques is within the bounds of our diplomatic mission."
He took a subtle half-step back, putting a fraction more space between himself and Torin's massive axe. "You, however, are an important member of the Companions. An independent organization with considerable influence across Skyrim. If you were to be… harmed… in a spar with a member of the Aldmeri diplomatic delegation, the consequences would be dire and felt by many... my superiors, for one, would not be pleased with me..."
Torin couldn't help but let out a low, mocking chuckle. The sound was dry and utterly humorless. "Aside from the frankly ridiculous notion that you could do a damn thing to harm me," he said, shaking his head slowly, "the rest of your words are just… ludicrous."
He let out a thoughtful hum, tapping a finger against the haft of his axe. "Let me get this straight. You're afraid to spar with me because I'm with the Companions. You're worried about 'diplomatic complications.'"
His gaze swept over the injured recruits again, his voice dropping into something colder, harsher. "But you think it's perfectly acceptable to beat these young lads—children of Skyrim, soldiers of the Empire you're supposedly allied with—half to death for your own amusement?"
He took a single, deliberate step forward, the air around him seeming to grow heavier. "Why? Do you think everyone in Skyrim, everyone in the Empire, except for the Companions, are just pushovers? Easy targets for a bored, pointy-eared cunt with a superiority complex?"
Rondin was on the verge of exploding. His knuckles were white where they gripped the hilt of his practice sword. He had never, in all his years of disciplined service and inherent racial superiority, encountered such an insufferable, blunt, disrespectful brute.
Every word from the Nord's mouth was an insult—some direct, others layered in implication like poison. The humiliation of being publicly dressed down, of having his actions so crudely dissected in front of this rabble, was a fire in his veins. He wanted to scream.
He wanted to shove that condescending smile down the savage's throat with his blade.
But he couldn't. The Ambassador's warning echoed in his mind, a leash of cold reason on his hot pride.
He took a deep, shuddering breath through his nose, forcing his expression back into that brittle mask of civility. "I would appreciate it," he said, each word clipped and precise, "if you did not twist my words in such a manner. My interactions with the local garrison are a matter of mutual professional development. My refusal to engage with you is a matter of diplomatic prudence."
He lifted his chin, a final, fragile show of hauteur. "In the end, no matter what you say or do, I simply cannot cross blades with you. Not without… a good reason."
Torin's eye gave a single, betraying twitch at the phrase 'good reason.'
He knew, with cold certainty, what that meant. If he gave the bastard a 'good reason'—a direct physical assault, an undeniable breach of peace—then he wouldn't just be fighting Rondin. He'd be fighting every Thalmor soldier in the delegation. And the Imperial guards, obligated to keep the peace.
It would be a disaster. Exactly the kind of 'complication' Sheogorath would probably find hilarious, and the exact opposite of 'making things better.'
I suppose I should have expected the bastard not to fall for simple provocation, Torin mused, a flicker of reluctant respect for the elf's discipline cutting through his anger. He's part of a diplomatic delegation, after all. A snake, but a trained one.
He stood there for a long moment, the massive axe resting on his shoulder, Echo a silent, hulking presence at his side. The courtyard was utterly silent, every eye on them.
The thrill of violence hung in the air, tantalizingly close, yet blocked by the invisible walls of politics and protocol.
Eyes narrowing, Torin began to seriously consider cutting his losses. He'd already publicly humiliated the elf, called him out in front of his audience. The pointy-eared bastard would have to be an idiot to keep beating up recruits after this display; the lesson, in a way, was already taught.
He knew he couldn't push further. Throwing the first punch would turn him from a provocateur into a criminal, and the Thalmor would use that to their advantage in a heartbeat.
A resigned sigh and one final, parting taunt were on the tip of his tongue. He opened his mouth to deliver it.
"He might be a problematic opponent for you."
The voice that cut through the tense silence was soft, clear, and utterly calm. It came from the edge of the gathered crowd. Every head, including Torin's and Rondin's, swiveled toward the speaker.
Torin's eyes widened a fraction.
Auri stepped forward. The Bosmer moved with a hunter's silent grace, her bow held loosely in one hand. She didn't look at the crowd, or at Torin. Her sharp green eyes were fixed solely on Rondin as she walked straight toward him, stopping a polite ten feet away.
"So," she continued, her voice still even, "how about me? I am… acquainted with the Storm-Caller. That should suffice for you to accept me as a substitute in his place."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "I am also unaffiliated with the Companions, or any guild, or any court, for that matter. I am just a traveler. A hunter. No 'diplomatic complications.'"
She let the last phrase hang, echoing Rondin's own words back at him with perfect, innocent delivery.
Rondin's gaze shifted from Torin to the new arrival. He gave her a slow, assessing once-over. She was short, wiry, built like a coiled spring. Her frame was all compact muscle under simple, practical leathers clearly of Valenwood make.
She looked like exactly what she claimed to be: an experienced hunter. Fast, light on her feet, probably deadly at a distance.
But that was all she was. A Bosmer. A wood elf. A second-class citizen of Tamriel in the eyes of the Thalmor, a creature of the forests, not of civilization or true power. She had walked into his arena, offering herself up. Not as a political entity, but as a mere individual. An acceptable offering to sate his rage.
A slow, cruel smile spread across Rondin's face. The frustration and humiliation Torin had heaped upon him found a new, perfect outlet. This wasn't a complication. This was a gift. A chance to reassert dominance, to show these savages that even when their brute champion was muzzled by politics, the Aldmeri Dominion could still crush any who dared stand against them.
Still, Ronding would not accept the challenge so blindly. His gaze snapped to the functionary from before, and the man merely shrugged, as if to say, I don't know what she is...
That was all Rondin needed. The man, a pathetic sycophant he was, knew his place and supposedly knew everyone worth knowing in Skyrim. If he didn't know this audacious wood elf, then no one of any significance would miss her.
He inclined his head, the gesture dripping with condescension. "A hunter from the Green, are you? How… quaint. Very well. If you seek instruction, little one, I would be… delighted… to provide it."
...
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