Dunny shook himself, trying to ease the tension in his neck. He’d stood guard at the western gate for three extra hours as Ulfric struggled to capture their dinner. Eventually Dunny caught sight of a ragged character limping towards him. A thin trickle of blood ran behind the man.

“Ulfric?” The man made no reply. Dunny tightened his grip on his spear. He hadn’t become a guard to fight anyone. A couple of coins and a roof over his head was enough. Not enough to actually fight anyone though. “Ulfric? Did you get hurt?”

The man lifted a heretic’s grin and let loose a wild screech before charging. Dunny tried to remember his instructions as a bony hand reach for him. It didn’t find him. It didn’t find anything— as the man let out a surprised whoof of air. He pitched forward and fell into the mud at Dunny’s feet. A red fletched arrow rose out of his back. Dunny tracked the path to a frowning Ulfric.

“… is that actually you, Ulfric?”

“As luck would have it, boy, yes, it is,” he took a rough breath. “That pig fuck jumped me in the woods. Didn’t know the castoffs had made it through winter. Wish they didn’t.” Dunny looked down at the frayed supplicants robe. The faded ash smeared onto the man’s skinny arms. Dunny had never seen one in person before. A supplicant of Mulden. The last God of the shadows. He shivered even thinking the name.

“Think there are any more?”

“Hard to say. Hope not. But I won’t say no to killing more.” Ulfric’s bow had seen more live shots than most— not that he talked about it.