WIP Wednesday - Cadmus' Harvest
This week I will share part of the opening scene of the Ulfric/Galmar Great War fic that sunk its teeth into me this weekend, and I mentioned in my response to this week's Sujamma Sundas. Still no real title, the working title is a reference to the myth of Cadmus sowing dragon's teeth.
Fandom: The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim (pre-game)
Genre(s): Romance/Adventure/Coming of Age
Main pairing: Ulfric Stormcloak/Galmar Stone-Fist
Summary: Galmar Stone-Fist has joined the Imperial Legion to fight the Thalmor with his best friend, Rikke. However, on the first day of training, an awkward young Nord joins the cohort. At first, Galmar assumes the secretive man who will only call himself "Ulfric" will wash out quickly: he has never held a sword and is so pious he even annoys Fort Amol's priest of Stendarr. So why does Galmar find himself so invested in Ulfric's success?
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The officer continued his inspection, sometimes demanding recruits hold out their hands, grip the staff and try to jerk it out of his hands, or cover one eye and tell him how many fingers he was holding up.
“How old are you, boy?” he asked one of the Orcs, a weedy fellow who was nearly as tall as Galmar.
“Seventeen, sir!” the Orc answered in the gravelly voice Galmar would have expected.
The officer raised his eyebrow again, looking the Orc up and down. “What if I said I don’t believe you?”
“I’d say you humans aren’t good at telling Orc ages...sir.”
“Really, is that so, recruit?” The officer started to move along the line again. The Orc’s shoulders relaxed, only to stiffen again when the officer turned back suddenly. “You know, you’re right, we humans aren’t that good at Orc ages. But you know who is?” Before the Orc could respond the officer grabbed the Orc’s braid and twisted his head around towards where a smith was sharpening a blade. “Lieutenant Agram!”
The smith looked up. She was also an Orc, and she looked quite unperturbed at the sight of the officer’s rough treatment of one of her kinsmen.
“This boy says he’s seventeen. What do you say to that?”
The smith let out a bray of laughter, shook her head, and bent back over the whetstone.
“No, really I’m—” the Orc’s gravelly voice broke into a falsetto squeak and he clapped his mouth shut, face flushing bronze.
“It was a good try lad,” there was laughter in the officer’s voice as the Legionnaires behind them stepped forward to shuffle the Orc off the same as the Breton woman. “Go back to your mother’s forge for a few more winters and grow some more hairs on your chin.”
