Ondolemar sighed as he looked out the window of his quarters. It was raining again. He had never really minded rain in the past but he had developed a particular revulsion to it since coming to Markarth. Rain used to be a sign of Spring, flowers and warm days ahead... not so here. It was a sickly gray and brought nothing with it except disease and an ever present chill. He was constantly soggy feeling and uncomfortable, none of which helped to relieve the sourness of mood that plagued him since arriving here.

Whenever he left the keep, he had to breathe through his handkerchief for several moments as there was a constant, lingering foul odor ofdampness that permeated nearly everything in this cursed place. After a particularly harsh rain such as today's, the smell of old wet stone and mildew could nearly choke you if you weren't accustomed to it. He still wasn't.

It had been three years, four months, three weeks and six days since he arrived in Markarth and nearly every second of it had been miserable.

The Altmer couldn't keep himself from scowling at his musings as he reached for his tea; one of the few luxuries afforded to him by the Dominion.

The warmth of the cup began spreading to his chilled fingers and instead of his usual pouting, Ondolemar found himself relaxing. He took these moments when they came as they were few and far between. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes in a momentary reprieve, breathing in the jasmine scented steam and allowed himself to daydream of home; a world of endless summer. He pictured green lushness dotted with orange and cherry blossom trees and for just a moment, he could smell the sweet grass of the softly rolling hills behind his estate. He breathed in again, reminiscing, and could almost feel the warm floral scented winds blowing along the coast as he sat reading near the open window of his study; beautiful azure waves crashing against the cliffs below.

He exhaled and the imagery faded, as it always did.

Opening his eyes to his rather lackluster stone surroundings, he took another sip of tea and the dull ache in his chest made him frown. There was no denying he missed his home terribly and this drab existence in Markarth was wearing on him.

Before he allowed himself to tread down the path of self-pity, Ondolemar straightened and resigned himself to the interminable tedium of paperwork. It was part of his current "duties" as he was now in charge of the Justiciars in Skyrim and was not out in the field often these days, much to his dismay. Such was the fate of a delegator.

He spent most of his days spying on Igmund, listening in on bits of whispered conversations from the various visitors to the keep, collecting reports from his subordinates and avoiding the Jarl's dogs. It was… well in a word, boring.

He began neatly penning a new monthly account of arrests for First Emissary Elenwen. They'd made roughly thirty-four arrests in the last month alone. It was a fair number but it was not enough to get him out of the city and back to the headquarters in Solitude.

Despite what some of the locals believed, he was more than aware that the Shrine to Talos still remained intact. As a matter of fact, upon his arrival, he had delayed in requesting it be closed since it had been easy bait for heretics ignorant of a Thalmor presence the city. As the months wore on, the trap became common knowledge and it was no longer useful. Apostasy was not something that came easy to such a stubborn race of man.

As ridiculous as it was, they were recently resorting to congregating in tombs or caves or anywhere they thought "hidden" from Justiciars determined to root them out. They were every bit as zealous about their continued worship as the Thalmor were about stopping it. It was a futile effort for their part, however. Humans were utterly terrible at subterfuge.

Regardless of his successes, the First Emissary was growing impatient and demanded that Igmund be held accountable for the shrine's continued existence in his city. Ondolemar had put in a request on the Thalmor's behalf to have it officially and publicly destroyed but the Jarl had only agreed to lock it for the time being. He felt removing the shrine completely would be viewed as provocation by Ulfric and more or less invite a Stormcloak attack on the city before it was properly prepared. Igmund also expressed a fear that it may also invite open rebellion in Markarth and with the constant threat of the Forsworn on their doorstep, he was trying to keep the city as stable as possible until the Imperial Army could send reinforcements.

Despite his irritation at his request being denied and the eventual backlash from Elenwen, Ondolemar had found it hard to argue with Igmund's logic and relayed the message to his superior. Naturally, Elenwen blamed him and was not satisfied, nor remotely convinced of Igmund's loyalty. It was a stalemate that had no end in sight and as punishment he was stuck here as the unlucky mediator until Igmund finally relented.

Ondolemar could only play the polite bureaucrat for so long and his impatience was beginning to show. Lately, his methods of "mediation" or "negotiation" were mostly Thalmor double speak for thinly veiled threats. It was a tactic that seemed fairly effective thus far and Igmund was already showing signs of caving. He knew is very presence was a reminder to Igmund that he was beneath the Thalmor boot, Talos shrine or not. There was a certain finesse to his method of coercion and at times, he rather enjoyed the politics. Seeing that scrawny Nord squirm was the only redeeming thing about this place of late.

Ondolemar wrapped up his report and put his quill back in the inkwell. He methodically folded the pages and neatly pressed his stamp in hot wax to seal it. He took one last sip of his tea before getting ready to make his rounds for the day.

He rose stiffly and walked to his wash basin, splashed water on his face, cleaned his teeth and out of habit, ran a comb over his short cropped hair. His lip curled in distaste. Another unfortunate side effect of living in a veritable stone swamp, he quickly discovered that his once long hair did notdo well in such conditions. He didn't want to think of the event that caused him to shear it but keeping it cut in a military style was both practical and economical for his current purpose. Of course, the hood and collar he wore negated any reason for him to worry over his hair now.

He mentally prepared himself for his role. The routine was important to most Altmer and even more so to those affiliated with the Thalmor.

He quickly shrugged his leather outer jacket on over his dark silk robes and straightened the fabric underneath. He glanced in the mirror, did a quick check for any wrinkles or specs of dust and then set about donning his leather gloves, flexing his fingers for a better fit. The cowl was last and he made sure it was placed "just so", shrouding all in shadow; except for the eyes which seemed as if they look into your soul and know it's most hidden secrets. Almost nothing was done without purpose in the Dominion. The entire uniform was picked to make them look taller, leaner and menacing. They were supposed to strike fear into the hearts of men and he looked his part.

Ondolemar swung open his door, his face falling into a natural scowl. He didn't even bother to pause as he snapped his fingers for his guards to follow. The young men knew better than to hesitate.

Sigrun couldn't be happier to leave the Silverblood Inn for the day. Between the obnoxious drunks, the harpy wife and the terrible bard, she couldn't see why anyone would choose to stay there. Who could actually sleep comfortably on stone bed?

Say nothing of the creepy innkeeper himself with his greasy hair and yellowed teeth, who had leered hungrily at her coinpurse when she first arrived. All in all, it had to be the worst 10 gold she'd spent in a while. It must be nice to be the only inn "sanctioned" as usable by the city's head family. The place reeked of the foul stench of corruption and it hadn't even taken Sigrun a full evening of listening to whispers to discern exactly where the trail led.

She grabbed an apple from one of the grocery stalls, tossed a coin to the vendor and headed towards Understone Keep. She pulled her fur hood up against the damp chill of the morning and began picking her away through the myriad of different people in the streets. Sigrun noticed the curious glances and heard the whispers. She quickly gathered that visitors were not a common occurrence here and she knew she was very likely being watched. Her curiosity was getting the better of her.

Keep moving. Do not get involved in this filth.

Resigning herself to her original purpose was not easy when there were so many more interesting things to get involved in.

For the task at hand, she unfortunately came bearing terms to the Jarl from Ulfric Stormcloak.

Sigrun the Dragon Eater, as she was now known, hadn't expected to be delivering threatening missives when she should be out… well, devouring the souls of dragons. She didn't particularly care for messenger duties or politics and frankly, unless you were a good friend or family, she wasn't keen on helping you unless there was good coin in it.

For some reason, people had assumed that she was some sort of hero since the calling of the Graybeards. Word got around quickly that she was Dragonborn and many had taken to asking her for help with the most mundane of tasks. It was like striking a gold mine suddenly, everyone wants something from you and because you have the means, you're somehow obliged to them. Yeah… no. She had sought to remedy that fallacy quickly. She helped when she felt the cause was worth it; otherwise, unless you had good coin to pay for her time, you were out of luck. She had no time for petty peasants or squabbling between nobles.

To that end, Ulfric Stormcloak was a thorn in her side despite agreeing with the cause. He was a very close and personal friend of her late father's and somewhere a couple of generations ago, their families had inter-married. He was some sort of 2nd cousin, though Sigrun couldn't have cared less how. He did not hesitate to use that to his advantage, however. Actually, now that she thought about it, there was very little Ulfric didn't use to his advantage when presented with the opportunity.

Talos was an intrinsic part of their culture and as a devout follower herself, Sigrun found Ulfric's banner raising against the Empire rather convenient as far as the timing went. While she could not deny Ulfric loved Skyrim, there always seemed to be something about him that lacked honor. She could never really pinpoint why she felt that way and it made following orders that much more difficult; especially since, what she dubbed, "The Helgen Incident".

Perhaps it was her half-Imperial mother's influence that shaped her opinion but Sigrun knew, deep down, that Ulfric's intentions had absolutely nothing to do with the freedom of Skyrim or Talos and a whole lot more to do with power grabbing. If he had his way, Skyrim would almost definitely be weaker if it managed to secede from the Empire.

Since her father fell in battle six months ago, as family tradition would have it, she was forced to get involved in the war effort as promised.

Despite her personal feelings and her general support of the Empire, it wasn't even a week later that she had pledged herself to the Stormcloaks. The "incident" that occurred at Helgen was a wound that would continue to fester and the irony of being "saved" by a dragon that day was not lost on her. The Nine had a sense of humor if nothing else.

Ulfric had seemed pleased, albeit surprised, she was still alive when she arrived back in Eastmarch a few weeks later.

Upon discovery of her being "Dragonborn", Ulfric felt it was a sign from Talos himself that he was meant to be High King. How he managed to equate the two was beyond her but she was indeed a powerful ally to have now, after all. It would seem he almost regretted his choice at Helgen as he wasted no time in making use of her. Who better to send to deliver a threat than the most powerful Nord Skyrim has known in generations? Being generally humble, Sigrun did not care for showmanship and this whole axe delivering with a missive left her feeling uncomfortable. She just wanted to be back home with her books and alchemy table.

Lost in her own musings, Sigrun was surprised to come upon the doors to the keep. After a long line of unnecessary questioning by the guards, she was finally permitted to enter.

A scout's habit betrayed her as her eyes quickly scanned the hall, assessing her surroundings. A niggling of intuition somewhere in the back of her mind made her pause in her ascent to the Jarl's throne room.

The feeling of dread bloomed. There was a heavy presence here and she could feel the weight of it settle around her nerves like lead. It was in the very air, thick and stifling. She gently grasped the amulet at her throat in a nervous habit and hid behind one of the large, stone columns. Sigrun stopped, her breath slowing instinctually to better listen. All she could hear was the constant whir and chug of Dwemer machinery punctuated every so often by a release of hot steam. She shook her head in frustration.

Too loud.

Trying to pinpoint the source of her sudden anxiety, she closed her eyes, focusing, trying to pick up snippets of human activity beneath the din. Her grip, now white-knuckled on her amulet, searching for reassurance that all was okay.

Somewhere above her, a dog barked. The echo loud and disruptive. Hungry.

Trusting in her gift, she honed in, centering on her surroundings. There were a few hushed voices whispering about the Hall of the Dead, a woman's rough laughing, someone sighing in exasperation and following shortly after, stiffly patrolling footsteps. She peered outward from the column and looked up toward the staircase. Nothing, save a few guards.

And yet…

Her brow furrowed, the feeling would not subside. Something out of the corner of her eye flashed and her skin pricked with the sudden awareness.

The whole place was dank and dark with the exception of a few dimly lit Dwemer lamps. Another curious flash caught her gaze. This time, Sigrun's eyes chased the shards of pale yellow rainbows dancing along the walls. Those silvery orbs narrowed and pinned the source of the reflections to a pair of tall elves wearing exquisitely polished golden-hued armor. The suffocating sensation threatened to swallow her as her gazed locked on the mage between them. Her lips curled in disgust. Thalmor.