By the Nine!

Curse that Dragonborn to the darkest plane of Oblivion.  Damn him and the lot of them. The ancient doors of the keep rattled as Markarth stood under siege.  If that Talos-worshipping mongrel hadn’t sided with the rebels none of this would be happening.  His magic burned from the well deep within him as the altmer’s golden eyes fixed on the shuddering dwemer metal.  The screams of Nords were harsh on his fine Mer ears, but Ondolemar could pay no mind right now.  It seemed a travesty that such a superiorly bred mer as himself would die in a wretched crag like this.  He prayed to the Eight that they returned his body to the Summerset Isle, but before he went he swore to leave a swath of burned heretics before him.  He was not going down without a fight. 

 

Already one of his guards had fallen, they’d run to defend the gates.  The justicar had tried to talk them down, but they’d been determined.  They were not as fine stock as himself, but he never enjoyed mer life being lost.  Now only one of his guards were at his side and he knew that she too sensed the grim truth.  Smoke hung heavy in the air, like the rank breath of one of the ancient dragons this savage land was cursed with. 

 

Even through the pain Ondolemar could savor his last scrap of victory against these savages, as his flame cloak burned the wretch who’d stabbed him alive.  To be killed by man, shameful, but at least the human went first.  Hopefully the Eight would look favorably upon him.  The Justicar Ondolemar died in a storm of screams and fire. 

 

____________

 

Cold. 

 

That was what stirred the justicar at first.  It was so damned cold.  And as he felt the firm of ground beneath his back and the bite of cold and wet he thought in a grim moment that somehow he was still in Skyrim.  It was not comforting.  Only when the altmer opened his eyes, uncomfortably dragging himself to a sitting position did the reality of his situation truly sunk in.  Wherever this was, it was no place that he knew. No, this was… elsewhere. 

 

He never thought he’d find a place more punishingly cold and miserable than Skyrim.  The Divine’s ill sense of humor never seemed to disappoint, for this was place was far colder and it had the finely bred mer barely able to conceal a flinch at its bite. 

 

A prime Altmer like himself was made for the Summerset Isles, not a forsaken crag like Skyrim, and most certainly not for weather like this.  But Ondolemar refused to give the weather the satisfaction, even the enchantments on his thalmor robes seemed completely dead.  It was that more than anything that made him begin to truly consider that he was not in Tamriel any longer.  The Dominion did not skimp on the attire of their emissaries, and to have them all fail at once… it could not have happened anywhere of this world. 

 

Divines but it was cold…  Thalmor robes held far more enchantments than was apparent to those outside the Aldmeri, particularly ones for warmth, comfort, and finishes to make them weatherproof along with the amplification of the Altmer’s natural magic.  But with their magic dead the finespun cloth was little more than a too thin dressing gown letting in the bitter wind, and growing increasingly dampened by flakes of melting snow. 

 

He couldn’t make sense of it, but wherever he was he would not let it be said that an officer of the Dominion just gawped at his circumstances and let himself freeze to death.  So gathering his ribe tighter to him, for what little it could insulate him from the cold, Ondolemar trudged slowly forward.