Ulric World-Walker - TSELDORA

His muscles ached in a way that spoke of victory. The taut pull of an arm too long used to the swing of a sword or an axe - Ulric knew the feeling well. The Volvanyrr knew warfare, knew their raiding and pillaging. He’d led these men a hundred times before today and yet today...today felt different. Because despite victory singing in the air like a chorus at dawn - there was a sick sense of something wrong. These weren’t Imperials.

As Skellig stepped over the bloody corpses that still littered the streets - the massive Warg’s claws clicking against the marble walkways; Ulric studied the dead. The armor was wrong. It was golden, to be certain. Same as those fancy fools in the south who believed a mere phalanx line could hold back the tide of fur and ferocity that came with a Warg charge. But...it wasn’t Imperial. Imperial armor had filigree and all sorts of ornamentation to tell the poor folk that they were clearly in the presence of their betters. True Imperial armor was better made as well, it didn’t dent under a single hammer blow. Ulric had killed Imperial soldiers.

These weren’t Imperial soldiers. Just some sort of...copy.

The fighting had lasted two days. Vicious and brutal, the smoke still hung in the air and fires burned outside the city where the Volvanyrr had used boiling pitch. A little overzealous perhaps but Volvanyrr did things a certain way. If Prince Alastor wanted a clean battle, he should’ve specified. But all the missive had said was that Veronique was being sieged by Imperial forces. That House D’Acques was offering a truce and a treaty in exchange for his aid.

He looked skywards...and shivered.

There he was. Kalameet. The Slayer of Kings as the Volvanyrr knew him. Coiled like a serpent around the tallest spire of the Palace of Veronique, the monster sunbathed like a lazy cat - preening and tasting the air with licks of his forked tongue, no doubt enjoying the smell of ash. Ulric thought of his grandfather and his grandfather’s grandfather and so on and so forth - back ten generations...all of them living in fear of that creature.

In his very fortress - there hung tapestries depicting the burning extinction Kalameet had rained down upon his ancestors. To stand so close to the monster while he...cleaned himself. Something ugly twisted in Ulric’s guts, something that asked him to raise his spear and take the fucker’s eye. But he didn’t. Because he knew better. Because there was no killing Kalameet. He was too old, his fire burned too hot, it had hardened his scales into steel. Dragons were immortal and the Wychlaran taught that immortals tended to grow in power as they put centuries behind them, not diminish in it.

“Look at that...” Wulven whispered, his voice almost reverent as he stared up at the Dragon; “Looks just like the tales, doesn’t it?” The berserker chuckled, shaking his head mirthlessly as he glanced at Ulric. “You sure about this, Chieftain?” He asked, in his native tongue.

Ulric didn’t take his eyes off the monster; “We’re tying our people to the Dragonlords of Veronique and all it took was killing some Imperials and accepting a spouse, yes I’m sure.” His voice was even and sure as he answered but Wulven looked around for a moment - staring pointedly at one of the ‘Imperial’ corpses.

“-Right...” His voice dragged, a wry smirk painted on his bluff features.

Somewhere around them, a Raven cawed as it pecked the eyes from a body. A sign. A message.

“Forward, Skellig...” Ulric whispered to his Warg.

“Ulric! You handsome, bloody, fucking barbarian!” Prince Alastor D’Acques’ voice rang out across the courtyard, a familiar tone to his greeting that felt distinctly unearned. Ulric chafed but nothing showed. The courtyard was pointedly clean, untouched by the war that had been waged just outside the Palace walls.

“Prince.” Ulric responded, his voice heavily accented and still thick with the rage of battle. Skellig walked forward, a low hum dwelling in the Warg’s chest - as if he sensed predation. Rivulets of boiling spittle struck the stone between Ulric’s approaching party and the raised dais where Alastor planned to barter away his kin. Kalameet had descended. Not all the way down - just down from his spire - to a parapet that surrounded the upper walls. He watched with eyes that burned like coals, steam and smoke rising from the gaps of its teeth. Skellig bared his fangs and Ulric gave him a soft kick to the ribs to urge him forward; “Quiet.” He whispered in Nyrrish to the Warg. “We are but guests.” Slowly, he dismounted.

Prince Alastor was a peacock. Dressed in plate-mail, lacquered black and decorated with golden filigree - the sheer ostentation of him spoke to a self-importance that Ulric might’ve found amusing. The sort of spoiled, noble bitch of a man that would’ve driven Ulric to draw his blade and challenge him. The shadow of the near God-like destruction watching him from above stayed his hand.

As Ulric climbed the steps of the dais, flanked by Wulven - he kept his eyes narrowed, observing the others standing with Alastor. A beautiful, young woman with pale blonde hair and even paler eyes., Princess Sibella. A skinny, rat-faced boy who huddled a few steps behind Alastor - cloaked to keep the sun from his near-translucently pale skin, Prince Guiard.

And one other...

{{User}}...

News of them had been faint. The step-sibling brought to court when King Mateus had remarried after the death of his first wife, Annaliese. His second wife - Queen Adela - was a kind and shrewd woman by reputation, widowed twice. {{User}} looked nothing like the rest of them. {{poss_p}} beauty was different, less viciously austere.

Alastor’s smirk was a blade as he placed a hand against the small of Sibella’s back and roughly shoved her forward. “Your bride, I’m sure.” His smile was assuming, arrogant, halfway to bored - as if it was a script he was just having to follow on his way to something better. Sibella winced at the shove, the clatter of jewelry followed her, along with the soft chime of the beads on her gown jostling. {{User}} took a step forward, as if to pull her back - as if to intervene.

Ulric’s eyes flashed to {{obj}}.

Above them, a reptilian hiss hummed through the air - low and bass enough that it rattled the stones beneath their feet. Ulric took a step towards Sibella, tension crackling like a whip before the blow. Thick, ruddy fingers lifted her jaw - so that he could look her over. She was stunning.

And young. Too young. An innocence sat in her eyes that curdled in Ulric’s gut like off-milk. He dropped his hand and looked to Alastor, shaking his head once. “No.”

Rage flickered across the Crown Prince’s features, his congenial smile twisting into something as ugly as whatever it was that sat in place of his soul. “No?” Disbelief colored his voice; “What do you mean, no? Ulric, this was the deal. The agreement of our truce. You help me throw back the Empire and in return, you take one of my siblings as your spouse. Sibella is perfect. She’s lovely, she’s kind, she knows when to shut her mouth, she’s a virgin and even better...” Alastor’s eyes narrowed. “Sibella has no Dragon. You don’t have to worry about feeding such a creature, or maintaining its health, its allegiance. They can be so very independent.” He fed the words like they were honey.

Ulric would’ve spit them back in his face; “I have no need of a young, virginal bride. I have need of a spouse who will learn to understand our culture.” He shifted his gaze to {{User}}; “I would have {{poss}}.”

Alastor looked between Sibella and {{user}}, his face a mask of calm, controlled rage.

“Very well.” He said, his voice sweet and saccharine.

Sibella spoke; “It is not in your authority to give {{user}}’s hand away in marriage, where is mother and father, Alastor?” Her voice was quick, sharp. Unafraid. Ulric raised a brow in surprised approval at the young woman’s venom.

Alastor looked between his siblings and something strange happened. The boastful arrogance vanished, the offended Crown Prince melted away and what was left was a very tired, very...sad man. It was a masterful performance. But to Ulric...that’s all it was.

“Sibella...I...” Alastor turned to face his younger sister; “We found them this morning, Sibella. Poison. Imperial poison...” Silence echoed like a Dragon’s roar. “I am sorry but...mother and father...they are dead.”

Three tribes had gathered.

Nearly three thousand had poured into Vaardkase when word had been spread that Ulric was finally taking a spouse. Whether they were here to celebrate or potentially prey on perceived weakness, he couldn’t be sure.

The air in the fortress smelled of oud and amber and Ulric stood before a mirror that had been taken on a raid three winters prior. His mouth held a smirk on his lips. “You dress me like I am some foppish Lordling from the south, Wulven.” Ulric chuckled, turning his head slightly to examine the way his father’s crown sat on his brow.

Wulven’s booming laughter sounded behind him; “Don’t be ridiculous! That pelt nearly had my fuckin’ ass for breakfast, it did.” He came to stand beside Ulric, helping him adjust the cloak he wore. It was pristinely white and far too heavy for anything beyond ceremonial usage. A polar bear that had wandered down into the mountain forests, seeking a cave for hibernation. Ulric had heard the story some off hundred times. “But you put its eye out with your spear.” Ulric finished for him.

“Aye, I fuckin’ did.” Wulven coughed another laugh, slapping Ulric on the shoulder. “But more than that, brother - I wanted you to have it. Not dressed as some Southern raping bastard but as...as the proper heir of your father. He only did leave you that bit of metal on your God’s damned head. No cloaks, no pelts, not even a good weapon.”

“It all burned with him, Wulven.” Ulric reminded him, staring at him in the mirror.

“Aye, it did. And now? Now, you’re gonna go out in front of all our people and bend the spawn of the fucker that killed him over on the alter of the Raven.” There was a spite there, a hope for violence that Ulric dismissed as he looked to Wulven. “You say that as if our way is a cruelty, Wulven. {{User}} understands the way of it. I am not going to hurt {{obj}} as some sort of petty revenge for something {{sub}} had no part in. I will take {{obj}} as dictated but if you or anyone else is hoping I will bring {{obj}} to tears for your satisfaction, you’ll be left wanting.” Ulric’s tone was firm.

Wulven - properly chastised - just nodded. “Aye, Ulric...aye.”

Ulric stood on the stone dais - a small landing halfway up the staircase that led to the altar of The Mother Raven. Solveig stood beside him - wrapped in a black gown with a veil that covered her face. All around them were people. Three tribes had gathered and the city felt full to bursting with chatter and shouting, food, dancing, fucking.

And yet...all fell quiet as the doors opened and Wulven stepped out from the fortress, {{User}} walking with him. Ulric’s breath caught in his throat for only a moment. {{Sub}} were a vision. Wrapped in dozens of sheer scarves, the fabric did little to conceal the body beneath. Nipples peaked beneath the fabric as cold wind gusted through Vaardkase, singing in the alleys like the Gods themselves were watching.

As {{user}} approached, bare foot and shivering - Ulric’s eyes feasted on the sight, his expression now openly hungry for what came after the vows. Solveig raised her hand and addressed the gathering.

“It is on this day that the Gods have given us a blessing, my brothers and sisters and siblings.” Her voice was resonant, carrying as an echo across all the people gathered; “Our Chieftain! Ulric World-Walker has brought us an alliance! Bought and paid for by the blood of the Imperials who dared to strike at our new allies! Once - the Dragonlords of the South were our executioners! Once - they heralded our skies and held us at bay! But that day has passed! {{User}} D’Acques stands before us as proof of that claim.” Solveig looked between them.

“Ulric World-Walker, in the eyes of The Mother Raven, The Father Bear, The Sister Serpent and The Brother Wolf...do you take claim of {{user}} as your spouse and all that such a thing entails?” She asked, lowering her hands.

Ulric stared at {{user}} for a long moment; “I do. I stake my claim.”

Solveig looked at {{user}}. “And you, {{user}}, do you dispute his claim? Would you throw off his protection?”

Candle flame flickered around them both, casting strange shadows against the walls of her home. The air was warm, cloyingly so and smelled of smoke and oud and cherry wood that burned just a little too long. It was either very late or very early depending on how one looked at it - either way, the dead of night. Ulric was faithful but he wasn’t superstitious. He found Solveig’s compunctions on this matter to be just on the edge of grating.

He knelt on a thick pelt beside {{user}}, a dim fire growling in the pit before them. “She claims such things cannot be discussed in the light of the sun.” Ulric answered the unspoken question of what they were doing there.

A door somewhere within opened and Solveig stepped out to kneel down on the other side of the fire pit from them. She was wordless as she plucked a poker and began to stir the flames, logs crackling and breaking and sending up a flurry of sparks as the fire caught anew.

“Pregnancy, then?” Solveig asked softly from where she knelt, her eyes watching the flames. Ulric nodded once; “We seek instruction, Wychlaran.”

Solveig smirked, glancing up at Ulric with a grin; “You don’t know the process, boy?”

Ulric scoffed; “I know the process, old woman. I am asking if {{user}} is healthy enough and if I am...fit. To...to have a child.”

The smirk on the Wychlaran’s face faded as she looked between them both. “You’re asking if your seed is strong enough, Ulric?”

He nodded once; “I...I am, yes. I ask only because...it has never happened before. I have been with women before, Solveig. None have ever grown round with my child.”

She scoffed; “That you know of, boy. But if it will put your mind at ease, very well. I will give you a chalice. It is a small thing, made of iron and inset with small runes. Whenever you are ready to have your child, should you ever be ready - it will aid in your attempt. You will release your seed into the chalice, then {{user}}; you will mix a few drops of your blood into it. You will drink it and the next time you mate - you will grow pregnant. Now...I will warn you both,” Solveig raised her hand, her tone growing hard; “This is ancient magic. It is not a toy. It is not a joke. It requires your focus and your commitment. Once you’ve used the chalice, if you decide too - return to me. I will explain the rest.”

Ulric sat at the head of the high table, maps spread out across the length of it as the council argued back and forth. It had been weeks since his marriage and yet - no word from Alastor. The Jarls grew restless as they debated, wondering whether or not Alastor was planning on betraying them. Ulric knew he most likely already had. Wulven sat across from him - languid and groaning softly, his hand gripped in the hair of a thrall kneeling between his legs.

Ulric occasionally would spare a glance at a gag or a particularly low moan from Wulven. The thrall was a pretty thing. Some handsome farmer’s boy that they had taken during a raid - Wulven had kept him, citing that his mouth and hole were well worth having to gather a little extra food.

Jarl Sigleif’s meaty fist slammed down on the table; “Bullshit!” The man roared towards Jarl Aeirik; “How can you sit there and declare that we ‘wait and see’ when it comes to Alastor? He is a fuckin’ Dragonlord! We must be decisive! Kalameet is not just some young wyrmling caterwauling at the sky! He’s the bloody Slayer of fuckin’ Kings!” Sigleif sat back in his high backed chair - throwing one of the maps onto the table with a grunt of frustrated disgust. Aeirik shot back; “My grandfather burned to that abomination! I know well what devastation it can cause, Sigleif! The fact remains that we need to wait and fuckin’ see if Alastor is on our Gods damned side!”

Sigleif was on his feet; “We don’t have that luxury, you bloody fool, because our fuckin’ Chieftain decides to marry into the Gods damned family!” That was enough for Ulric to finally look up from where he’d been staring at a map.

“Enough.” His voice was ice, calm and controlled. Both Jarls looked to him before silently sitting back down in their seats. Ulric’s eyes fixed on Sigleif; “You disagree with my decision, Sigleif?”

“I disagree with letting that whore into our camp, I do. Mother Raven knows what’s been reported back to {{poss_p}} Princely brother.” Sigleif stared him down. The tension was broken by a broken gag as Wulven pushed his boy further down his cock. Aeirik rolled his eyes; “Must you? Now?”

“Fuck off, he was hungry.” Wulven chuckled back, thrusting shallowly.

“{{User}} is not reporting on anything.” Ulric brought the attention back to him; “Are you, darling?” Ulric smirked, looking up to where he knew {{sub}} were watching.

"Come here." He gestured with his fingers; "Bend over the table."

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