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Warchief - A Short Story

Discussion in 'Skyrim Fan Fiction' started by Viarco Strong-Head, Jan 23, 2017.

  1. Viarco Strong-Head

    Viarco Strong-Head By Azura, By Azura, By AzuUURUURAUURAARA

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    I've had this for a while and I thought I'd post this, just a little something I put together for a creative writing class I was in last semester, right before things started getting crazy life-wise. I may or may not have written this in the span of 2 days, as well as taken some SERIOUS lore liberties, so if there's discrepancies I apologize, but I hope you like it!


    Following the events of Skyrim’s civil war, and the subsequent peace agreement that came as a result, the Aldmeri Dominion struck just when the nation seemed to be at peace, when the Dovahkiin ended the threat of the dragons. In the midst of the ensuing conflict, the Dominion targeted the Orc Strongholds, who had all grown in population a considerable amount at this point, in an effort to get them to bend their knee and fight alongside the High Elves; those who refused were put to the sword.


    Chief Gularzob’s stronghold, Largashbur, refused.


    ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


    I never could see what the Nords of the Rift saw in that Black-Briar Mead of theirs. Every bottle I’d tasted was the same kind of bitter; I was thankful that it seemed to become an acquired taste after about my 9th round. Drinking myself into a disoriented stupor would be the best state to remain in for a chief that had just condemned his tribe to death by the Thalmor’s sword. Not that we wouldn’t face a similar outcome whether we agreed to join them or not.


    It was by way of courier they made their proposition, along with a few guards. The letter was from some Dominion high-up, “Alcelfin” or something. We’d received word from the other strongholds that they’d be coming, and I think it was Dushnikh Yal that had submitted to them already. I wasn’t sure whether to think of them as cowards or not; they were still my brothers in an unfamiliar land. Our brothers. I know they want the best for Orsimer well-being just as much as I and the other chiefs do.


    How the other strongholds responded, I wasn’t sure as of yet. Though I knew that, unless Malacath himself would be intervening on our behalf here, there was only one way it could go against a gargantuan force like the Dominion; mead and solitude can only do so much for one trying to forget something, though, and this was no different.


    I made it to around my 12th bottle when I began to hear shouting. Before I could go out to survey what was happening, Ogol hurriedly opened the door. His stoic mentality didn’t even falter during our strife with the giants, back when Yamarz was chief, and the grave look on his face told me exactly what was going on.


    “Chief Gularzob, they’re...they’re here.”


    I exhaled deeply. When the Thalmor wanted to conquer something, they came with about 200 more soldiers than usually necessary; and I couldn’t lie, I admired that. It’s just a bit less appealing when you’re on the receiving end.


    And just as I’d expected, I walked out of the longhouse to see nothing but golden armor and black robes standing around our walls; the colors of the Dominion army. That man from days earlier, Alcelfin, stood as the figurehead of this force, clad in the pristine armor of (what I’d presume to be) an officer. The cocky smirk I’ve grown all too accustomed to with these High Elves was certainly there across his face as he gripped the greatsword on his back, looking directly at me with an unflinchingly pompous gaze.


    “The death of your tribe lies on the horizon, Gularzob...and you thought that was fitting attire for the occasion?” In this, I suppose he was referencing the pelts I wore around my waist; I’d worn it ever since I could remember, and while I typically would be wearing armor more suiting of a chieftain as well, I took pride in it.


    “An Orc takes pride in where he comes from, and the foes of all kinds he’s bested, including beasts. I’m sure you wouldn’t know about that, though, you milk-drinking gold-skin.”


    Alcelfin emitted a hearty laugh at my saying this, crossing his arms. “Such ferocity from the man standing with death’s scythe at his throat.” He looked to either side of me, where Ogol, Atub, and the others joined me, brandishing weapons of their own. “And I’ll give you one chance to stay that scythe. Agree to the terms on fighting the Nords, and I and my troops will go right back from where we came from.”


    My tribesmen looked to me. I saw it in all their eyes; they weren’t going the way of Dushnikh Yal. They intended to be known to Malacath as warriors, as defenders of what was theirs. And although I’d spent the majority of my time lately regretting it...I think I was too.


    Tightening my hand around my axe, I stared Alcelfin down. “A Nord saved this tribe before. I’d much rather see your head on a pike than one of theirs.”


    The elf’s smile faded quickly. “So be it.” He whirled around to face his troops, and outstretched his hands once again, and with a deafening cry of attack, the Dominion charged.


    It had been a long time since I had been in a bona-fide battle, and I’m sure my tribesmen were similarly rusty. This didn’t stop us from giving them a fight to remember, though; elf after elf fell to the steel of my axe. I was just swinging at any flash of gold I saw, and it proved to be effective.


    Alcelfin began participating a ways into the battle, and just as I swung at him he stopped me with his greatsword. We stared at each other down as we stood; and as the blurs that were racing around me began to become humanoid again, I could see my tribesmen. I was proud of them, truly, the way they were mowing down the Thalmor soldiers; it was almost just as instant, though, when they started to fall. Swords being ran through them, arrows of pinpoint accuracy bringing them to the ground...and all Alcelfin was doing was smiling.


    “You fool, Gularzob. None can defy the Aldmeri Dominion!”


    With a push of his greatsword, I was staggered to the ground. As Alcelfin attempted a definitive, executing swing, I was prepared to accept it; just as I had been before. And when time stopped, I almost thought I’d died already, but then I heard a voice.


    “Fight.”


    I’d never heard it before, but I immediately recognized it was Malacath. I could feel an ethereal kind of strength entered into my hands, as my axe immediately halted Alcelfin’s blade. I wrenched the greatsword from his hands, and I stood up, meeting the elf’s gaze. The grin that came from seeing his terrified expression was almost instinctive.


    “D--Demon…” he muttered, but before he could say anything else, he collapsed to the ground at the hands of my axe. My vision was overtaken with red, but the gold of the Thalmor’s armor still shone in the daylight; and I couldn’t lie, I felt almost joyous.


    One by one, the elves began to fall like dominoes. You could ask any warrior what their favorite feeling on the battlefield is, and they’d likely answer with being feared. Being the juggernaut that haunts nightmares, the wearer of the armor stained from their foes’ blood. I don’t know what Malacath put upon me, but from the terror I’d begun inflicting into these gold-skins, it was as if I’d become the Daedric Prince himself; and I never felt more at home.


    It was an archer that ended up landing a hit first. A well-placed arrow just before I removed his head got me in the collarbone, and I fell to one knee. My axe had essentially become an extension of my own arm at this moment, so I could still dispatch whatever Elf fancied himself to be my executioner, even with the hurt position I was in. When another arrow struck me in my wrist, though, my faithful weapon clattered to the ground; and I fell on my back as another punctured my chest.


    A soldier brandishing an elven-smithed battleaxe stood over me; must’ve been one of the other officers, the way the others fell in around him. He must have said something pertaining to how great the Dominion is and how much of a fool I was, but I couldn’t hear him. My hearing was going in and out at this point…


    ...but I could’ve sworn I heard lightning right then. Instead of a bolt, though, it sounded like...like words?


    “Fus, ro DAH!!!”


    My would-be executioner was sent hurtling away into one of the walls of the stronghold, and I couldn’t help but smile from where I lay still. The Dragonborn, friend to our tribe, had come; and it appeared to be with a mix of Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers at his back, as well. I had to hand it to the Nords, they knew how to swing some blades.


    I watched the elves desperately try to fend off the Nordic onslaught they were now faced with, until my vision started blurring. The arrows had gone pretty deep into me, and I was sure the one in my chest had gotten to my heart; or at least, an important artery of some kind. Regardless, I knew what was happening.


    The voice came back. Malacath.


    “Rest now. You’ll be joining your tribesmen soon, Gularzob.”


    I’d never expected death to be as tranquil as it was at that moment. Here I’d been, drinking my sorrows away in bottles of mead...when I didn’t even realize how truly satisfied I’d be with how my little book ends. I fell in the heat of battle, with the heart of a pure, proud Orsimer; and I took solace in that fact, whether I’d be remembered or not. I didn’t do what I did for the approval and awe of onlookers; the only one I was doing it for saw all he needed to see.


    “Sleep now…”


    Sleep...sleep. Yes, that sounds good.


    “...my Warchief.”


    Warchief. I like that.



     
    #1 Viarco Strong-Head, Jan 23, 2017
    Last edited: Jan 23, 2017

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