Blood Under The Ice

The following entry is taken from the journal of Veril Olano, a member of the Redoran Guard garrisoned at Raven Rock. Veril had fled to Windhelm after the events of the Red Year, before moving to Raven Rock at the start of the Stormcloak Rebellion. Veril was eventually killed at Ashfallow Citadel in an unknown assignment. This passage dates to Veril's time in Windhelm.

4E 201 29th of Morning Star. I am writing this aboard the Northern Maiden on my way to Raven Rock.

This place reeks of grey-skin filth!

Stone-Fist, the younger one. And just on time too. Moonlight had just begun to stream through my window. I had come to despise moonlight as of late, it was never silent. How I longed for silent moonlight, how the pale calm would shimmer off the tender walls of Ald-ruhn. But there was no chance of that. Here, the night's light brought only a thin, sharp cold that cut deep, and the drunken slurs of Rolff Stone-Fist.

Get out of our city, gray-skins! This is Nord land!

I went to the window at that point, pushing back the flimsy mess of planks that called itself a shutter and leaning out of the icy grey stone wall. I would have shouted something back, I'd been working on the perfect insult for days, maybe even challenged the n'wah to a duel. I doubt the bastard would be much in a fight. Skyrim may be a harsh land to live in, but the worst mountain Rolff had to face was one with a lot of steps.

You like living in this filthy slum, dark elves? Maybe you should go back to-

Rolff's rant was cut short, dropping his tankard, his suggested destination for us simply announced as a small yelp. A thin, wiry Dunmer had the Nord's right arm pinned behind his back, a small dagger at his thrice-damned throat. A small glow of triumph spread within me, and I became aware of other dark faces chuckling from small gaps in the cliff faces of the Grey Quarter. I even glanced Ambarys leaning in the doorway of the Cornerclub, smiling idly.

Where? Where shall we go Stone-Fist?

Any joy I had felt over the man's attack was extinguished then, replaced with a growing sense of dread as the young Dunmer's words hissed venomously through his teeth, the dagger digging slightly into the soft flesh of Rolff's throat. The big Nord seemed to grasp what was happening at that point, grunting slightly as he was forced to his knees. He spat into the snow.

You'll regret that, grey-skin scum. My brother is Galmar Stone-Fist, General to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. You make one more move and I can have the entire Windhelm guard burn this cursed skeever-hole to the ground!

A few heads retreated back into the walls then, those less rebellious souls, content to simply keep their heads down in exchange for tomorrow. I would have joined them if tonight had simply been another of Rolff's preachings.

My brothers are all around you, fetcher. One more word from you and I can have the entire quarter rip you limb from limb. Or perhaps, when the Legion comes to this infested pit, we'll organise a little confusion with the gates. Let them put your beloved Stormcloaks to the sword.

Ambarys laughed at that, turning back into the Cornerclub with a strange, bemused smile. There was something about him, something I never did quite pin down. I must have drifted into my thoughts then, because I suddenly found myself shaken back to reality by a drunken roar.

Rolff had gotten his right arm free, and was now wrestling the knife away from his throat with it, while his left was reaching up at the Dunmer's face. Thick, northern fingers grasped at those wide, red eyes as if they were going to tear them right out.

Skyrim belongs to the Nords!

The fingers plunged into the Dunmer's eyes, the blood flowing from them looking like the eyes themselves had melted down his face. The scream that erupted from my kinsman's lips was more piercing than Skyrim's cold, rattling from the very depth of his being. The dagger dropped to the stones, both grey hands scrabbling at the powerful grasp clasped around the Dark Elven face. For a moment, they stayed like that, Rolff on his knees, reaching up behind him as he touched at his throat with his free hand. It came away with a hint of blood. Rage exploded.

Morrowind. By Ysmir, go back to Morrowind or Oblivion take you!

The skinny Dunmer looked more like a thing than a he as the Nord stood and dragged him over to the nearest wall. By the time Rolff had finished smashing the poor wretch's head against the stones, all identity was gone. He was no longer even a 'filthy grey-skin'. He was just...grey. He almost blended into the streets themselves if not for the lifeblood draining in angular rivulets between the cobbles.

Disgusting

Rolff spat at the corpse, kicking some snow over the remains of a face. And like that, the atrocity was forgotten, frozen over.

The guards were particularly active in the Grey Quarter after that, since the brother of the General had narrowly escaped murder by an Imperial agent.

I packed my things and took the next ship the Raven Rock, attempting to leave Windhelm behind in body and mind.