Private (DoD) The Darkest of Days

[The_Madgod]

The Dragons have returned...​

The only one who can kill them, dead...​

They now rule the world...​

Now the choice is yours...​

Will you fight them...​

Or will you join them?​

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Recruiting link​

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The Dragonborn is a being of almost godly power. This man, a Nord by the name of Erik Stonebeard, fought his way through hordes of dragons into Sovngarde. He fought against Alduin the World-Eater along with three Nordic heroes. He fought bravely, nearly killing the dragon in his weakened state. The fight lasted three days. On the third, and final, day, it looked as if Erik would win. Alduin was forced to the ground, and the Nord had only to drop his hammer. But then, Alduin bit into his leg, knocking him to the ground. He crushed the Dragonborn, and devoured the souls of everyone in Shors great hall. The world appeared to be at an end.​

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The dragons took over Skyrim. They spread to Morrowind, the already weakened province surrendering easily. From there, they established a new nation. A Dragon nation. They took over High Rock and Cyrodill next, dissolving the Imperials. The Aldmeri Dominion tried to strike a deal, handing over Elsewyr and Valenwood in exchange for their own freedom. Those two provinces revolted, weakening the Dominion . The Dragons swooped in for an easy victory. Black Marsh and Hammerfell created an alliance. They lasted longer, but the dragons eventually cut off all routes between the two and took Black Marsh. Hammerfell remains largely independant, now the seat of the Organized Resistance, a group spread all over Tamriel. The dragons then took over the remaining pieces of land between Tamriel and Yokuda. Next, they went for the remaining Atmoran Nords, who surrendered easily. Three of them became new Dragon Priests. Thraas quickly gave in, and in exchange the dragons made their leader a Dragon Priest. Pyandonea quickly followed. Now the Dragons have sent most of their troops to fight in Akavir. The king of the Thousand Monkey Isles gave in, becoming a Dragon Priest. ​

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Skyrim is mostly free of oppresion currently, due to the dragons attacking Akavir, but it won't last long. This small respite has given the rebellion the ability to fight back. You can join one of 5 groups: The Organized Resistance, an army ruled by the leaders of Hammerfell, Black Marsh and Orsinium that has spread across Tamriel. The Greybeards and their students, a group of old priests who teach their followers the Way of the Voice in order to combat the Dragons. They are led by Paarthunax, Alduins ex-lieutenant, the Dragon who first taught mortals how to shout. The Blades, a group of Dragon hunters led by Esbern and Delphine, great warriors. They are sworn enemies of both the Dragons and the Greybeards, due to the fact that they are led by a Dragon. The Stormcloaks, an army that once tried to take Skyrim for the Nords. They believe that anyone who is not a Nord should be removed from Skyrim, including the Dragons. They are enemies of the Organized Resistance as well as the Dragons. You can even become a Dragon Cultist yourself, taking orders from the Dragon Priests and doing their bidding on Nirn. Finally, you can be a freelancer, serving no one but yourself. You side with whoever you damn well please, Dragons, Stormcloaks, the highest bidder. Now, get out their and enter Skyrim, in...​

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The Darkest of Days​

 

[Morganatic]

Murzuth gra-Den-Sul sits, waits, watches.

Magnus crests above the disc of Nirn, bathing the Old Kingdom in Skyrim in a weary, anaemic light. As the Enumerations of Anu-i-el fleetingly play across her mind, she looks at the world, thinking how tired it looks, how thin the threads holding things together have got. Mortalkind has survived so much, she thinks, endured the torments of Oblivion, of their own petty little squabbling wars, of usurper Tribunals and sacreligious god-stealing Dwemer. And now, this - is this the end?

She doesn't have much by way of answer, and it's hard to deny that the past five years have felt like the end times. Old orders lie shattered, the bastard children of Auriel set up vulgar dictatorships and monuments to their own vainglory in their ashes. Her Prince is absent, silent save for the slightest echoes, echoes of echoes, carried on dreams and through the waters of Oblivion, and leaving her the lonely prophet of the lonely god. The world feels like it's tearing itself apart.

But it doesn't have to be this way.

In these dark times, faith may be all she has, but, by Order's hand, that's all she'll need. Was not her master cast out, exiled from his own mind and forced to watch his Perfect Isles rot around him? Jyggalag did not give up, not even then - his inexorable spirit and indomitable strength led him to shrug off the fetters placed upon him by his vile Daedric cousins, and walk again amongst his people. Even in defeat - even banished by the Champion of Cyrodil, the Madgod's catspaw, Jyggalag was victorious, freed from the cycle of death and rebirth, free to break out into the pellucid waters of Oblivion, and free, one day, to return.

It's an example Murzuth follows, a source of hope and inspiration in these dark times of draconic rule. In Order there is perfection, and such perfection is invincible, immortal, incorruptible. She will follow her master's lead, walking like him, spreading his Word and rallying his (witting or unwitting) troops, until he - and they, and Nirn itself - walks like her. She will take on the mantle of her master, and in doing so, return Order to a disordered world.

But that will take time. Alliances will need to be formed, independents suborned into the greater plan, initial strikes carried out to strike terror into the hearts of the jumped-up lizards and their turncoat servants. There is work to be done.

And so, Murzuth stirs from her eyrie, a campsite above Old Hroldan, and greets the sun as it rises. Her Robes of Order - mildewed, creased, a little frayed for having been interred for so long in the bowels of her travelling pack - shine in the morning light, gleaming with a crystalline perfection not wholly of this world, and, overcome by the returning glory of it, by the wild defiance of openly wearing her vestments for the first time in years, she throws her head back and laughs with a wild, fierce joy. She points in the direction of the World-Eater's roosting place, and calls out a challenge.

'Enjoy it while you can, Time-Child! Your reign ends soon! AE KALAK ALTADOON MUNDUS AE KALAK!'

And with that, she calms, slowly bringing herself under control, still radiant with joy, piety, and a shock of argent magicka that limns her head like a halo. Staff in hand, she begins clambering down the mountain, hoping to meet the others of the various Resistances and set her plans in motion.

 

[MR-WIKI-96]

Balfring had just finished walking the 7000 steps that led to High Hrothgar. Balfring was cold, tired and frustrated, but his determination has seen him through. I did it, I'm here. Thought Balfring as he gives a sigh of relief. Balfring was only 17 and most his age would have collapsed at those steps, but Balfring pushed through and is now in the view of the epic fort known as High Hrothgar. There it is, High Hrothgar now to learn the way of the voice and end this war. Balfring clenches his hand into a fist and kisses the ring on his index finger and utters to himself This is for you Uncle. Balfring walks to the entrance of High Hrothgar seeing a couple of dragons circling the peak of the mountain. After Alduin won 5 years ago, the truth about the greybeards being lead by a rebel dragon shocked the world, now most people don't trust them more than ever. The greybeards are our only hope, why can't people realise that? Balfring gave a frustrated look and quickened his pace. Balfring used all his strength to open the heavy iron doors that lead into the fortress. After all those steps, trying to open these doors was like that time I tried to the pull the gigantic tusk of that dead mammoth when I was 10. Balfring walked in to see a massive room with an old man in robes meditating in the middle. Hello...are you one of the greybeards? Asked Balfring, showing hesitation in his voice. Balfring all of a suddenly felt intimidated by them, and they haven't even spoken to him yet. Your presence here tells me that you want to learn the way of the voice, correct? Asked the old man. Balfring stood frozen there, shaked by nerves. What am I doing standing here being silent? He isn't going to shout me to pieces, he doesn't know me! Balfring bucked up and replies. Yes, sir I am. The old man stands up, Balfring gets a little nervous at him rising up so he backs up a small step. Good, my name is Arngeir follow me and I will introduce you to the other greybeards who are teaching the other students. Arngeir starts walking to the door with Balfring feeling a little calmer, but has gained a puzzled look. Other students? There are others who share my thoughts on the war? Balfring started to follow Arngeir with great curiosity. Arngeir reached an iron door and then opened to reveal a huge snowy courtyard. But before Balfring could admire it he saw three other people like Arngeir teaching what appears to be four students. Balfring looks at Arngeir with amazement and before Balfring could say anything, Arngeir says, Welcome to the way of the voice.

 

[The_Madgod]

Fireballs fell from the sky. Black shapes flew above the carnage, spewing fire on the unsuspecting mortals. A black-scaled Argonian sat atop one of the winged shapes. A Dragon. He laughed as he cast spells down on the puny figures beneath him. The dragon landed and he stepped off of it. He walked up to a woman, a Nord, with long blond hair and pale skin. She wore a circlet and beautiful royal clothes. She sat on a throne in a magnificent palace, which was missing its' entire face, and was guarded by seventeen mortal guards. The Argonian drew an ebony blade and walke dup to her. The guards formed a protective shield around her. The Argonian just laughed and said, "Mah Gol Sahlo!" The guards fell to the ground, knocked out by the reptillian figures words. The Argonian put his sword up to the womans throat and said, "Jarl Elisif. I see you're looking fine today. We're here to take your position for Alduin." She opened her mouth to reply, but the Argonian just laughed and pushed his sword forward, puncturing her throat and coming out of the back of her neck. Air escaped through her open mouth and she looked at him, staring, her eyes asking, "Why?" He put his leg up to her torso and pushed, pulling his sword out. He wiped it on her clothes and walked back through the flaming wreckage of Solitude. "Ha ha ha! Yol Toor Shul!", shouted the Argonian as a single warrior stood in his way. His words turned to fire in the air, burning the warrior to a crisp. He climbed back on the dragon, using his knobby skin as handholds. Once at the top, the dragon took off. They flew through the air, wreaking havoc on the city. The second Age of Dragons had begun.

The same Argonian laughed evilly. He flailed around, saying things like, "Die, die, die!", and, "Puny mortals!" He sat up in his bed and yawned. "What a great dream.", he said. He was in a circular room, painted black and dark red. In it there were weapon racks, bookshelves and mannequins, as well as a single large bed. The mannequins and weapon racks were covered in all kinds of rare armor and tools. The bookshelves held the rarest and most interesting of tomes, and the bed was made of the finest Khajiiti fabrics. "Ven Drun Wah.", said the lizard sleepily. He yawned as his Dragon Priest robes and enchanted ebony armor flew onto his bed. He put the ebony armor on first, and then slipped his Dragon Priest robes over it. He walked up to a special display stand and pulled a mask from it. The Dragon Priest mask known as Konahrik. He smirked as he put it on. "I'm now one of the most powerful beings on Nirn!", he said gleefully, "I can't believe it. Oh, who am I kidding, I knew I would be eventually!" He walked out of a door and into a stairwell, leading down from his luxurious room at the top of his tower. He walked down to the bottom, planning out his day in his head. "First, I'll speak with Vyrthur. I do hope he becomes a Dragon Priest as well. Then, I'll murder some random rebels. Finally, to top it all of, I'll have a nice chat with Alduin about the plans to invade Akavir. Sounds about right!", he thought to himself as he walked down to the kitchen.

Two Breton chefs had heard their master say, "Ven Drun Wah.", meaning that he was up. They began to work extra hard, trying to finish his breakfast before he made his way to the dining room. They were working on a difficult recipe that had only recently been discovered, one made by ancient Lilmothiian chefs. It required nightshade, the horn of a Dremora, jazbay grapes, Pyandonean sea-serpent steak and Akaviri wildflower extract. First, you would squeeze the juices of the grapes into a pot along with the wildflower extract. You fill the pot with three cups of water and let it boil for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, you would grind up the Dremora horn and the stalk of the grapes and put it in a cup. You mix in the nightshade with a pestle. Then, you cook the sea-serpent until it turns golden. Then you douse it with the liquid and pour the ground up powder on it, then put it back in the oven for ten minutes. He also wanted a sweetroll. They heard their bosses footsteps and began to work faster, putting the remaining decorations on the meal and taking the sweetroll out of the oven. They placed it on the table, along with soem spiced wine, and bowed, waiting for their master to arrive. The Argonian walked down the stairs and sat in his chair. He tasted it and said, "This is delectable. Faas Ru Maar." The two chefs were suddenly struck with great terror and ran out of the room, leaving the Argonian in peace. He laughed and conjued up a Cliff Racer to drink.

The Argonian walked out the front door of what was once the Blue Palace, but had been converted into his new tower. He walked through the streets, now home to Dragon Loyalists. A dragon flew down and landed in front of him. Alduin. "Serves-His-Lord. I trust you are enjoying your gifts?", said Alduin slowly and very, very loudly. "Of course, my friend. What are you here for?", asked Serves-His-Lord. "I need you to help quell the rebellion. I'm giving you control over all our forces in northern Tamriel. Use that power well. Destroy the rebellion while we destroy the Tsaesci.", said the pitch black dragon. The Argonian thought it over and said, "I know just what to do. You've put your trust in the right hands, Alduin." The Dragon took to the skies at this remark and flew off in the direction of his capitol, Skuldafn. Serves thought, "Finally, I have an army. For now it seems best if I continue to serve that fool Alduin, but if I get an opportunity to take over, I well. First target... The Stormcloaks. They aren't exactly very powerful anymore. I should get advice from the Madgod. His shrine is very nearby, and he's so far sided with us." He walked back to what was once the Blue Palace and entered what was once the Pelagius Wing, and had now been turned into a shrine of Sheogorath.

 

[Mini Mongo]

Geran stared upon the land of Skyrim, his Guild were tired, the Dragons were almost the Leaders of Nirn, but the Guild remained Freelancers, serving no one.
It was a cold night, the Guild still slept, many of his men dead from attacks from the Resistance they were weakened, their only chance of survival was to serve Alduin, to be his army. Geran sighed, a Guild member next to him as suddenly a scream echoed in the Mountain.
Geran un-sheathed his Greatsword, along with his Guild members following him they ran to their scout outpost, to see all three of them dead.
Geran walked to the members as suddenly 10 Resistance members jumped from the trees, surrounding them he prepared, looking upon the men deciding how to kill them all.
The Resistance had been at War with the Witchers since day one, merely because of the fact Geran refused to serve them, and the Resistance wouldn't let them serve Alduin and so were set out on destroying them.
The Blades took no notice to him, merely ignoring them, they were to obsessed with destroying the Dragons, and the Stormcloaks feared the Witchers more than the Dragons due to their previous 'Dealings' with one another.

A Resistance member charged at Geran, he dodged the attack as the men swung his war-hammer down merely hitting the ground Geran once stood on.
In a split second he countered swinging his blade up, cutting through the mans neck as his lifeless body dropped, thudding on the ground.
The others stood for a moment, not reacting before 3 of them charged at Geran, and 2 towards his Guild members.
The men war no armor, perhaps hide, but no true defense, Geran wore Leather and his Guild member wore great Ebony Chainmail, able to block any sword.
The two men striked at the Guild man, merely reflecting their blades against his heavy armor he kicked one man on the shin making him fall to the ground as the other man charged striking him at the cheek.
He was stunned for a moment before he quickly countered, his great war-hammer breaking the mans legs as he smashed through them, and lifted his hammer making one more strike to his Stomach, the mere force killing him the other man tackled him to the ground but Geran managed to kick him of as he battled the 3 men.
Geran then ducked then jumped up, his blade cutting through the middle of the man as his friend hit Geran with the hilt of his sword, the hilt hurt Geran as he fell to his knee's.
The Resistance members raised his blade as the other guild man swung his war hammer connecting with his face, him falling dead.

With 3 dead, the other 7 charged at the Guild man, killing him within seconds, all their blades hitting him, fracturing his skull.
Geran took advantage of this time as he swung his blade from the left, penetrating a mans neck, then swinging it to the right connecting with the other mans neck, both fell dead to the ground.
The other 5 stopped and charged at Geran, he was dead...........but suddenly a barrage of arrows head to the Resistance members, Geran dropping to the floor as all the arrows went into the men's skulls, legs and bodies.
They all dropped, lifeless. Geran checked over checking the dead as one grabbed him by the leg and bit him, Geran kicked the man off and hit him with the hilt of his Greatsword, turning around and decapitating him.
Luckily, Geran managed not to get hit, if his Guild members hadn't shot the men, he would surely be dead.
He approached the Guild men and woman, smiling as they saluted him.
He thanked them all as they merely stood, and began to rid of the dead, taking up outpost at the dead scouts location.

Geran walked into the Guild hall, the men stood awaiting his speech.
''Men and woman of this fine Guild, we among with others still live, the Dragons invasion has not sent them to us. They leave us alive, their is a reason behind that. The Resistance want us dead, once again a reason must be behind this.
I believe Alduin wishes us to live, in the hope we shall join him, and we shall do exactly that. Though such a things sounds suicidal, their is a reason behind such a decision, we will be close to Alduin. 100 of us stand, ready to fight for with whoever we wish, we are Freelancers, no side among us.
Tomorrow we shall head to Alduin, and serve him until all that stands between him and his invasion is petty Freelancers, I plan on saving such men.
We will be his ground army, we will recruit other freelancers, and destroy the Resistance with his help. No more hiding, no more time being spent constantly on guard, we will be protected. What do you say?''
Some of the Guild members stood their, saying nothing until a man shouted ''I shall never serve that bastard! Geran you are a fool, and will die one!'' the man shouted as he charged at Geran.
Gerans bodyguard and trusty servant striked at him at the legs, as two other men took him to the jail.
''Who else wishes to attack me then?! You fools, I could kill you all, serve Alduin with me!''

The members once again said nothing, until suddenly they let out a huge cheer and shouting among eachover ''We will follow you to the end!''
Geran smiled and took himself to his room, relaxing as he thought about what the world used to be.
Peace, contracts and fighting undead, that was the world they did live in.
Death, betrayal and the world eater invading, that was the world they do live in.
In such days one must make a choice, join the winning side, or die fighting with the lossing side.
Currently, the Dragons force were winning, invading lands, and Geran would help, but when the time came that they were starting to lose, the Guild would desert and join the Stormcloaks.
In fact, they would join anyone, they seeked mere survival, not choosing sides, such things did not bother Geran, why die for no reason?
Geran only served Meridia, the Patron of his guild, and he would live until she demanded a action, but until then him and the Guild seeked only safety, and survival.
He closed his eyes, and drifted into the land of the dreams.

After a long night he awoke, tired and frustrated he opened the windows in his room and walked to his mannequin, putting on his leather armor and putting his hood over his head.
He stretched his muscles rolling his shoulder back and rubbed his eyes, then unlocked his door to see a few Guild members heading towards the Dining room.
He followed them as they saluted him, all of them arriving into the Dining room, the Guild took their seats as they opened their satchels digging into their food.
Geran sat at the back farthest corner, where one of his greatest Witchers sat, digging into their food.
He opened his Satchel and took out a piece of bread, butter and a nice mead.
He buttered his bread and opened his mead, taking a sip from his mead.
Today he had to be very careful, he was going to approach Alduin himself, and though Meridia protected him, what really worried Geran was how would he get out?
Geran finished up his food and placed the remainders in his Satchel, walking to his room he had to be ready for a battle.

He prayed to Meridia at first, and felt a surge of power go through him, this was perhaps the second time this had happened, and the second time Geran felt closer to his great Patron Meridia.
His eyes turned into a bright white color, a very weird effect but scared opponents, it made him look like a demon of some sort.
Then he put on pure white warpaint in a celtic style, some covering his left eye then leaving his right uncovered.
He finally put on a ripped looking cloak over his leather armor, pitch black with weird tribal markings covered in white all over his armor.
His leather armor was also pitch black, the white tribal markings and dark armor made him look fearsome, along with the white eyes and warpaint he truly was known as a Demon, and as such was respect.
He felt a energy around him, it was like a shield, unable for anything to attack him he smile as the thought, showing yet again a weird feature.
His Nordic teeth were.......sharp and pointed, like Vampires fangs.
''You are my Saint child, you shall not die while I grant you such unholy powers.'' Meridia whispered to his mind.

Prepared for what he was about to do he gathered the guild and went on his horse, a lovely white steed, half Cyrodiilic and half of Skyrim nature this horse was tough and fast.
He painted the horse in black tribal markings, the rest of his guild were wearing their finest armor, his higher ranks with Ebony and lower with Iron and Steel, they were a force to be reckoned with.
They marched down the hill, many of the scouts saluting them as they passed them, Geran smiling to the men, they said nothing to him after that.
After days of traveling they finally reached the borders of Skyrim and Morrowind, were the entire Guild caught site of a large Draugr ruin called Skuldafn.
This was the Capital of Alduins Empire, and Geran could not simply walk in, a large amount of Cultist and Dragons stood guard, staring at them.
''Servants of Alduin, I come to aid you in your course of Invasion! Will you accept such a proposal! I have over 100 men that I command, and Meridia's protection! What say you men and woman of the World eater!''
Geran was ready for whatever answer he might get, he knew of their power.

 

[cazzer14]

Garrus pushed through the dingy, dirt ridden tent and shielded his eyes from the intense sunlight that greeted his emerald eyes. Hustling and rushed bustling of the frantic, almost panicked manner of the other soldiers and tradesmen met his ears with equal severity and discomfort. These men, these nameless faces, were now his comrades, his brothers and sisters in arms. Times of fear were often accompanied by times of improvised companionship, tightly knitted resistances forming to combat the darkness.

This resistance was an example. The Organised Resistance. A band of warriors, farmers, thieves, barkeeps, soldiers, sailors, merchants. Men, Mer, Beast and Orc from various backgrounds and occupation grouping together to combat the evil that has so desecrated the land of Mortals, stained and ruined Tamriel, chained her in tyrannous bounds. The evil from the skies. The Dragons.

The winged beasts found little worthy opposition when they came, fires blazing from the dark, smoke-ridden skies above, burning men, women, children in their charring, decimating flames. The so-named Dragonborn was supposedly the only defence the Mortals had, and he hadn't returned from, what the rumours stated, Sovngarde, where destiny had him fight the Dragon-God, the World-Eater himself, Alduin, and ultimately defeat him.

Destiny lied. Prophecy deceived, gave false hope. The Dragonborn had not stopped Alduin, he hadn't been the saviour of mortalkind the stories and legends had foretold. He had failed. And now all of Tamriel, all of Nirn was to suffer for it. Skyrim was first to succumb to the Dragon's onslaught, crushing the weakened Stormcloak and Imperial forces that had time to react. Then Morrowind, followed by High Rock and Cyrodiil, the Imperial armies burned under the Dragon's breath, the screams of the soldiers echoing across the entirety of Tamriel.

Then, came the massacre of the Aldmeri Dominon, those who had defeated the mighty Empire were easily destroyed by the increasingly efficient armada of Dragons. Hammerfell was the only nation that remained, the allied Black Marsh weakened and Orsinium holding out, sieged by the Dragons. Soon, the winged invaders averted their focus to continents away from Tamriel, and largely succeeded in capturing the other distant lands. Atmora, Thrass, and Pyandonea all fell to the Dragons, unprepared and unalbe to fend off the attack, and most gave up, surrendered their freedom.

Now the majority of the Dragons left for Akavir, their forces needed to successfully conquer such a battle-hardened, large land. If there was any time for repression, it was now. Hammerfell sent out invitation to pockets of resistance around Tamriel, calling for an alliance to overthrow the remaining Dragons, to take back the land that belonged to the mortal races, not these winged slavers. Black Marsh and Orsinium accepted, and so the Organised Resistance was formed, and will seize Tamriel from the Dragon's harsh grip, or die trying.

Garrus took a good, long look at the campsite. Hidden under the forests of Falkreath, the canopies providing cover from any swooping aerial Dragon scouts above, this was the frontline, the outpost that would start the rebellion, re-ignite hope in the hearts of the defeated. Men hurried to get menial tasks done, repairing and sharpening weapons, carrying provisions to the tents of officers. They were all scared. Garrus was scared. They were but a fraction of Tamriel's population, whole organised armies had fallen under the Dragon's initial conquering. This resistance, on paper, stood less of a chance, significantly so.

And yet here they were, perhaps blinded by the veil of hope, but ready for rebellion nevertheless. Garrus crossed his arms, pondering whether this resistance was strong enough to actually challenge the remaining Dragons. While their numbers were a lot less, they were still dragons, and Garrus hoped that the fire and desire to be free in their hearts would drive them to victory, that they would burn with a flame brighter than that of the Dragons. He simply hoped that everyone was ready. They needed to be.

His thinking was interrupted by an exclamation of "Hey! Garrus!", to which he subsequently turned toward the source of the voice. A middle aged, experienced burly man was half walking, half jogging towards him, the most gormless grin on his face, one of pure optimism and joy. Strange in these harsh times, but that's just the type of person he was.

"Bromar. Good to see you" Garrus replies to the stout fellow, holding out a hand for shaking, his other still in the would-be crossed position. Bromar Stone-Shoulders shook it vigorously, as if he was trying to wrech Garrus' wrist from its socket. He managed to pull it away before the blood stopped circulating.

"Still pouting like you were the gaffer, I see. AHAHAHA!" He paused momentarily to wipe the back of his hairy hand on his nose, a thin layer of snot clinging to the hairs. "Shame there isn't no decent whores around, eh? You'd think they'd want troops' ..*ahem*... 'morale' high before this kicks off, wouldn't ya?" Garrus had to chuckle at the comment. Bromar was an obnixious, bellowing pig of a man. But still a good one. He had done more than his fair share in battle, and even killed a man whilst his hands were bound using his shoulders, hence the suffix at the end of his given name.

"Seriously, Bromar, is that all you think about? I swear, you've become addicted to wenches ever since you've become too fluff ugly to actually pick up decent women anymore." This was followed by a imitating bellow of Bromar's signature type. Before the big man could reply, Garrus was called by another voice to his left. One of Captain Jykir, a good friend of Garrus', ever since a scenario involving mead, angry men and cheese. He was beckoning him to go into the tent the Captain had come out of. The War tent, where things were planned and strategies were formed. His invitation to it meant only one thing;

Something was about to go down.

 

[The_Madgod]

Odahviing​

Odahviing sat atop a craggy spire in the World-Eaters Eyrie. He watched as slaves, both willing and unwilling, rebuilt the temple. "Hahahah! Tiid Fus Viing!", shouted the orange dragon. The slaves began to work twice as fast, some dying from over-exertion. Ohdaviing just sat and watched, eating any dead slaves, and someitmes living ones. He watched slaves build the great temple of Alduin the World-Eater around the portal to Sovngarde, he watched them build the councilroom of the Dragon Priests. He watched them build Alduins throne and the city where there loyalists would live. All the time he just laughed at the puny mortals. He noticed an army approaching the gates. "What fun! More mortal snacks! Hon Gut Thu'um!", shouted the dragon. His hearing became much more powerful, allowing him to listen in on the armies conversations. They appeared to be here to join the dragons! What an odd surprise. Ohdaviing quickly flew down to watch the sentries greet them... Or eat them. Either would be fine with him, as long as they saved some scraps. Odahviing did love ebony armor, and some of the mortals appeared to be wearing some.

(Sorry for the short post things have been going on here and I wanted them to just show major details, like the layout of the capitol and what the dragons think of Geran and his small army.)

 

[Morganatic]

Murzuth gra-Den-Sul is not, to the consternation and dismay of Bromar and the other members of the Organised Resistance, a decent whore. She's not a whore, which rather nixes the whole drinking-and-whoring plan in the bud to begin with, but even if she were, the Orsimer woman who arrives in the camp around midday could hardly be called 'decent'. She has just spent the past thirty hours in a forced march from Hroldan and Markarth Hold, fording streams, wading hip-deep through bogs, and cutting her way through pine forests, and is not a pretty sight to behold, or, Divines preserve us all, to smell. Swathed in stained robes, which are not tattered, but perhaps 'tattering', she seems like nothing more than another camp follower here to beat out more crude iron swords for the Resistance.

And yet, she carries with her a certain air, a certain sense of contemplative majesty and stillness. It's not just the crackling halo of near-invisible power that still plays over her head and shoulders, although that certainly helps, but rather the way that she moves. As if she's walking into a wind that no-one but she can feel, following a path through space that's just a little bit more geometrically perfect than a natural being should, that follows straight lines through space with unerring certainty, and to Dagon with anything that gets in her way. Today, it seems, she has followed those lines, drawn in whisper and rumour among the dissidents circles of Tamriel, to the Resistance Camp, to a certain tent in particular.

The guards were easy to circumvent - for all the brave ferocity of these Cyro-Nordic fighters, this resistance camp seemed to survive more by virtue of its being hidden, rather than on the integrity of its perimeter. She shrugs in mild annoyance as she sees the lanky Imperial she's been searching for disappear inside an important looking general's tent, but settles for the next best thing - scaring the living daylights out of his companion, by silently stalking up behind him and addressing him in what (for her, anyway) passes for a clear, ringing voice.

'Brother Bromar, is it? Yes, yes I think that's it. You are the friend of the Artifex GARUS AE DYUS DAR, I believe?'

The strange Orsimer woman shakes her head, as if trying to clear something from her head, then looks back up at the Nordic warrior with gleaming, slightly bloodshot eyees.

'I'm sorry; Murzuth gra-Den-Sul, at your service, and at the service of the Resistance. I believe that your colleague and I will have rather a lot to talk about, especially regarding our common enemy.'

She extends a single hand in greeting. It's no more appetising than the rest of her - more claw than hand, with skin flaking off to reveal something hard and silvery. Doesn't look overly contagious, but still not very healthy.

 

[Snoball]

"The moons combined could never compare to your beauty, right here in this moment."

Both moons were magnificently shimmering, slightly above the crystal waters of the lake, which reflected their angelic rays in all their glory. Zane is clasping his wife's hand gently into his, as they sit side-by-side on the soft grass of the lake's shore. His eldest daughter, Ari, is laying on her stomach next to her mother's side, while his younger daughter, Vivi, is sitting on her father's lap. The shore they were sitting in, or the location they are at is a mystery, but at moments like these, the world's end could be less of an issue. They just sat there, enjoying the stars' illumination of the night sky, not a worry or fear came to any of their minds, you could even call this state of mind, paradise. His wife looked at him. "Love, regardless of what happens from here, promise me we'll remain a family, now and always." Zane looked back at his loving wife with the grandest of smiles, one of which no happiness could even compare. "Now and always my sweet, now and-" Before he could finish responding to his spouse, a thunderous roar could be heard from the distance, it was almost like an explosion of raw anger and ferocity, all packed into one huge mass of noise. In seconds, a monstrous dragon was hovering over the lake. It let out another massive roar, as the once beautiful sky behind it became blood red, and the clouds spiraled wildly into it. The lake was now dried up, the fish within it now gasping for what little water was left. Zane looked back at his wife and daughters to see that they were nowhere to be found. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stand up to defend himself. The dragon's beating red eyes stared him down, focused and blood-thirsty. It opened its mouth once more to speak with him. "GET UP! GET UP, MAGGOT!" He tried and he tried, Zane couldn't find the strength to pick himself up. "DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME, MORTAL? I SAID..."

"...GET UP!" Zane woke up with a tremendous headache and in a deep sweat, something that was rare due to the bitter cold temperatures that plagued Skyrim. He looked up to see his commanding officer, Galmar Stone-Fist, pacing around the tent he was sleeping in. Zane quickly pushed the empty mead bottles off his bed, the same bottles that surrounded him while he slept. "Good, you're finally awake." "Wh...Where are we? What happened? The confused Nord held his head as his apparent headache got a bit worse. "Don't you remember anything, soldier? We're a few miles away from Windhelm. We were on our way from the Pale's camp to report back from checking up on Dawnstar's current state. It wasn't pretty, damn dragons got in the way of our escape route as well. Lost quite a few brave souls back there. Luckily, you passed out after we barely escaped the ambush. Jarl Ulfric is currently waiting in Windhelm for us to report back to him." Zane was shocked, he didn't remember a thing about this, but just looked around the campsite to see wounded and dying comrades being tended to, knowing the carnage must have been much worse than he had expected. Though he was still a little dizzy, he sat up from his bed and packed his remaining supplies. They stayed a bit longer to help tend to the fallen soldiers, eventually making their way into town.

Though most of the city had been ravaged by the rampaging dragons, the Palace of the Kings still managed to stay in one piece somehow. Galmar walked up to Ulfric who had been sitting in his throne, explaining to him the status of the other "former" Stormcloak holds. Ulfric then ordered Galmar to wait in the planning room, so he could have a quick word with the amnesia-stricken swordsman. "Nice work out there, soldier. According to Galmar, you helped our men survive the onslaught brought on by those damned beasts." Zane payed him a cheesy smile. "It was nothing, Jarl Ulfric. Not the kind of story you'd tell your grand-kids about. Hell, even if they asked, I probably wouldn't remember." Zane told him jokingly. Ulfric lightly grinned, but his tone changed a bit with the next statement. "Just don't let it get it to your head, lad. As a Stormcloak, you need to prove now more than ever that we are truly the greatest fighting force Skyrim has ever known. Though as weak as we may be at the moment, our hearts burn brighter than ever, and no other man, elf, beast, OR dragon will take our rightful home from us. So hurry on to the next room, most of the dragons have traveled off to seize Akavir, now is as opportune as ever to plan our next move. Concluding his small speech, Zane nodded and reached for another bottle of mead. "And next time, don't sleep on the job." Zane let out a small laugh, now a little drunk again. "Heh, I'll remember that Ulfie... as long as you tell Galmar not to scare the crap out of me the next time I do "fall asleep". Thanks to his sword arm, Ulfric learned to tolerate his child-like behavior at times, knowing well that he could get focused as soon as the time was right. They went into the room to strategize on what steps they would be taking next.

 

[Phenomenal TJ]

News of the Dragonborn's defeat at Sovngarde spread like wildfire all across Skyrim, passing from ear to ear, the battle changing more and more at each telling, until the events were lost to a romanticized, dramatic telling of man versus beast, the most primal of fights.

Titus Draconis heard the news of the hero's fall shortly after returning from an excursion. Covered with blood and sporting a filthy pelt who's smell identified it as that of a troll, as pointed out by one of the many Orc chieftains gathered around the fire.

Tossing the pelt to the ground, Titus laid down his shield and took off his chest plate, examining it for any scratches or dents, finding a small scratch, he motioned for a young Orcish woman to take it, and with an understanding nod she did as much, whisking away the dark dragonscale armor to be patched.

"Why so glum mates? Never eaten troll before?" Titus said with a joking smile as he laid a parcel of meat near the fire. Noticing that no one was smiling, he redacted his statement in short time. "Be calm lads, it's elk."

The eldest and wisest Orc Chieftan cut the young warrior a silencing glance, standing up to inform him of what had happened.

"Blood-Kin, you know the story of the Dragonborn, correct?" Gurak gro'Bol asked of him in a loud, yet calm voice.

Titus threw the Orc a questioning glance, but nodded.

"We got news from the rest of The Resistance that the Dragonborn's story has reached it's final chapter."

"I can see by your sunny disposition that it wasn't a happy ending? No, don't tell me, let me guess, what you're telling me is that this Dragonborn, had a single job to do. One thing, that's it, and failed to do it, and now we're left picking up the pieces and rebuilding this damnable world?"

At the young man's brazen talk, the elders gathered around the fire sadly shook their heads. Had they been wrong to trust the outsider who only seemed intent on making a name for himself, no matter the cost of life to friend or foe? He had proven to be the toughest warrior among them, handily beating all opponents thrown in his way, including the legendary Giant Skalrog.

"Human, have you fought a dragon in combat before?" Gurak asked Titus quietly.

"Never, but I'd die for the chance to." Answered the brash young fighter. "Think of it, what better way to immortalize our names than by destroying the scourge of the world? You've all heard the story's of old. Olaf himself captured one of the beasts in Whiterun's Dragonsreach. Maybe it's just me, but killing one seems a hell of a lot easier than capturing one."

As the two seasoned warriors stared into each other's eyes the silence was broken by a young Redguard, coming to the fire, out of breath, sweating and shaking from his head to his toes. Immediately the Chieftans and warriors gathered around the fire were on their feet, ready to meet whatever threat the boy brought news of.

The young man looked scared, but managed to utter out a four word sentence that stopped the entire group dead in their tracks. "The....priests....are....back." the boy then simply collapsed from exhaustion and a young warrior was called to take him to the makeshift shelter they had built against the mountain.

Titus, allowing his attitude to dim his intelligence was the first to speak. "Priests? The boy is scared of priests? Were they praying too loudly for his ears?"

Gurak once again directed his words at the arrogant swordsman. "You fool. We're not speaking of Priests of Kynareth, or even the followers of Molag Bol here. The boy speaks of the Dragon Priests. If they've returned it can only mean one thing - Alduin is attempting to force all of the land to bow to his will. We cannot let that happen. Men, go. Now. Eat, sleep, for tomorrow we move at dawn. Titus, with me for a moment."

As the men shuffled off to their shelters, looking already beaten in a war that was surely soon to come, Titus sat by the fire, Gurak doing likewise next to his rather hotheaded friend.

"Titus, this war cannot be won without you. You are the finest fighting man in all of Tamriel, but you fear nothing. That will be your downfall."

"Fear has no place on the battlefield, friend."

"You're wrong, son, fear allows one to be cautious, fear is not the equivalent of weakness, it is the equivalent of intelligence. Intelligence and strategy are the only way to win the war that is to come. For, we cannot beat the dragons with brute strength, much as we'd like to allow ourselves to believe that we can beat them in that manner."

Titus' smile left his face, but he said nothing to the elder warrior.

"Look at those men, preparing for the last peaceful night of their lives. They're not all like us, you know. Some are meant to do much more than to fight and to die. You and are are prisoners to the warriors path, we know this, fighting was our beginning and so shall it be our end. At one time I'd of said that we were destined to dine in the mead halls of Sovngarde itself, but as it seems, our adversary has taken it upon himself to devour all souls there. Think on it, my friend."

Garuk walked to his improvised longhouse, leaving Titus to feed the fire one last time before going to the Orc female to check on his armor.

 

[MR-WIKI-96]

Balfring has just started his training in the way of the voice. Balfring couldn't believe that he was getting trained by the same people who trained the great Tiber Septim and the Dragonborn! Thinking about the Dragonborn gets Balfring down, but he realizes that this is definitely not the time to be depressed. Now then we shall teach you the most basic of Thu'ums, Fus. Ro. Dah, says Arngeir as he addresses the students. Wait, I've of heard of that shout. I heard it coming from outside of Windhelm when I was 12! Thought Balfring as he gains a nostalgic memory from the past. This shout can push enemies away to great distances. Some of the students felt awe, while some felt delight. But Balfring only felt determination. He was not interested in using it for his own gain, he only wanted peace through all of Nirn. Borri shall show you Fus. Do not expect to master the shout within an hour, some people have trouble mastering only first word. Borri walked up to what seems to be a wooden target. FUS! Shouted Borri as the first word of the mighty shout makes the wooden target wobble a little, but not doing enough damage. Wow! spoke Balfring as he gets astonished by only a mere word. That was only a word. When all three words come together, the shout can be powerful and unstoppable. Said Arngeir as he nods towards Borri. Borri was one of the three other Greybeards. Balfring always wonders why they don't say much. Now then, let us begin.

Come on! Come on why can't I do it! Balfring thought as he starts to get frustrated. It has been a few hours and everyone apart from Balfring have nearly mastered the first word. FUS! Balfring shouted but the wooden target wouldn't even move like Borri's one did a few hours ago. You have to focus on the word, focus your mind on the word, clear your mind, then shout. FUS! But still nothing, Balfring felt disheartened by this. Come on Balfring, you didn't come all this way to be told that you can't shout! Balfring thought as he was gettting mockery from the other students. Come on, he can't do it, let him leave! What's the point of him being here if he can't shout! Balfring was looking at the door that leads to the way out. Maybe I should leave, I can't do this. Who am I kidding, I thought I could stop this war...but I'm only a kid. Balfring put his head down in shame. Arngeir waited patiently for another try, but he even he was starting to doubt Balfring's ability. I have failed my uncle, my parents and even the dragonborn, if I can't do one measly word! Balfring had a small tear roll down his right cheek. No! I can't let Alduin win. He caused this, he caused my uncle to die! Balfring lifted his head up enraged by thought of Alduin. I think that you should prob- FUS RO DAH! A mighty shout came out of Balfring and shattered the Wooden target to pieces, it was a Thu'um worthy of even the dragonborn. Balfring was thrown back by the shout and gained a shocked look on his face. What did I do, how did I do that!? The Greybeards and the students had an astonished look on their faces. Balfring thinks that he is in trouble until Arngeir walks up to him and says, Come with me young one. Balfring starts to follow Arngeir to a gate that led up to the peak of the mountain. I didn't mean that, I-I-was only emotional and angry, wait, could that be the reason I shouted like that. My past pain and anger was a part of that shout? Balfring starts to get nervous and even starts to breath heavily. Whatever happens will be up this hill and Balfring will find out soon.

Balfring reaches the top of the mountain and see's all of Skyrim, but this wasn't a view of awe. This was a view of fire and hell reigning down on the cities of Skyrim. It is Alduin's reign. Arngeir moves to the middle of peak by a wall with strange markings on it. Wait isn't this where the greybeard's dragon li- But before he could finish the sentence in his head, Arngeir gives a big shout PAAR THU NAX! Balfring was confused by this shout, but before he could question it, a dragon soared from the clouds like a fired arrow and then swoops down towards Arngeir and Balfring. Balfring tried to take a few steps back but fell into the snow. Oh my god it's coming at us! Balfring was frozen with fear as he looked in awe at the majestic beast. You called for me Arngeir, Zaan Hon. Balfring looked in great awe at the dragon. It was the first time he had seen a dragon that wasn't going to kill him. Yes, this boy has a powerful talent with the Thu'um, although his emotions and anger let the Thu'um control him. I see, Fah Koogan, I will teach him to control it, Fus Ok Ro. Thank you Paarthunax, says Arngeir as he walks back down the mountain. Wait, I'm going to be taught by a dragon? Balfring stands back up, realizing that he still has a chance to stop this war.

 

[The_Madgod]

Durnehviir​

​

​

A dark, decaying, winged figure flew over an arid black landscape. The figure flew over decaying spires and buildings topped with glowing crystals, he flew over rotting black paths, he flew over ancient temples tended to by the undead, he flew over arcane purple pools and fissures with souls escaping from them. The figure landed, his great clawed foot crushing an ethereal figure. He bit down on a glowing ball of light and crushed his foot down harder on the lost soul beneath him. The figure opened up a decaying mouth lined with rows of teeth and laughed, a deep, raspy laugh. It walked up to an ancient keep with a large ethereal wall around it. "Hello, Valerica! I trust you're doing well?", said the figure as he walked up to a vampiric woman behind the wall. She replied with, "Get away from me, Dragon." "Now, now. I'm not going to hurt you. Unless you release your forcefield.", replied Durnehviir. He laughed once more and began to chat with her. "Would you like to know what is going on in the outside world?", said the Dragon. Valerica walked through a large double door behind her. Durnehviir flew up back into the air and surveyed his land once more. In truth, the last soul had come three years before. He knew the Dragonborn failed and that the dragons had taken most of Tamriel, but aside from that nothing.​

 

[Mini Mongo]

Geran stared as a few Sentries walked to Geran, a Dragon flew over the wall with a Dragon Priest riding it, the Priest smiled as he talked to his Dragon before Geran let out his first word to the Sentry.
''I am Lord Geran, slayer of Undead scum, the saint of Meridia and the Master of this mighty army. Each one has took the unbreakable contract, shouting to never argue with my decision and follow my everyone command, or die.
We wish to serve the Cultists, and I wish to speak with your Master........Alduin.''
The last word made Geran shiver, a cold breeze going down his spine, what was Geran doing?
No, he knew what he was doing, and he wasn't going to go back, he regained his strength standing higher among the rest of the Guild.
Some mere Cultists of the Dragons army stared at Geran, clearly they knew him, but they said nothing and merely stood proud, an army of much more power could charge killing all Geran's army.
A man dressed in Ebony armor approached Geran, standing next to him, another going to Geran's left, it was clear they were Jaygue and Cyrus, to very good friends of Geran.

Cyrus went close to Geran, talking quietly ''Geran, what's your plan? If that bloody Dragon comes down and attacks us, all are men will die.''
Geran tiled his head facing Cyrus ''My plan? fluff knows I'm just going with whatever comes to mind.''
He smiled, Cyrus keeping a rather serious face for a moment, before Jaygue and Cyrus both let out a smile.
A man approached, it was a Dragon priest, he dismounted from his Dragon and walked towards Geran, perhaps 5 foot away from him.
The Priest spoke slowly, a weird tone with him ''Lord Geran you say? Their is no Lord here scum, only Alduin is a Lord, no one else. Address yourself again!'' his last words were full of rage and anger, Jaygue and Cyrus gripped their blades ready to slice into this Priest.
''I did you pathetic man, you think you are of more importance to me? If i'm of no use. KILL ME!''
The Priest then charged as he un-sheathed a small dagger, but before managing to kill him Cyrus and Jaygue managed to cut down the man, the Dragon he rode began to march, anger filled his eyes.

Before the Dragon made his way to Geran a dark figure flew in the air......it was Alduin.
Geran's eyes shot with fear for a moment, the entire army feared this beast, but Geran would not let this Dragon get to him, and he remained still, pride within him.
The Dragon came crushing down onto the Ground, everyone stumbling for a moment before Alduin began to speak.
Truly the stories were true, this Dragon was the most fierce and evil thing on Nirn.
''Lord Geran...........I am Lord Alduin, the world eat and master of the Dragons. And your superior'' Alduin spoke calmly compared to the Priest, which was rather surprising compared to how evil this creature was.
''Lord Alduin, I have come with an army, able bodied and ready to serve my every command. And I to serve yours. Sorry about the Priest, the man charged, murder in his eyes.''
Alduin remained silent for a moment before eating the dead corpse of the Dragon Priest ''Pah, another casualty in war. Tell you what Geran, prove your might, and your armies. And then I shall decide whether to kill you or not.''

Before Geran replied Alduin flew up, with another Dragon charging to them, it was the Priests Dragon.
The Mighty beast swung it's tail as Geran and Cyrus ducked to the ground, Jaygue did not react fast enough and the huge tail knocked the man to the ground.
Geran would look over him in a moment, for now him and Cyrus had a more urgent matter to deal with.
As the Dragons tail swung over the air above both Cyrus and Geran they stood, releasing both of theirs sword and crushing it down onto the Dragons tail.
The Dragon roared as it swung it's tail again, this time weaker it hit Geran, as Cyrus ducked.
The swing only managed to stumble Geran, he was alot more lucky than Jaygue, and Geran knew how tough that son of a bitch was.
Once again they both swung their blades, making the wound in the Dragons tail even more deep.
The Dragon then resorted to shouting, as it let out a huge fireball, Geran and Cyrus only just dodging it.
Geran felt as the heat surged past Geran, it was a killing blow, and that was proved as the ball of flame hit a Guild member that stood watching, his skin burning as he ran around careless screaming in pain.

Geran then ran to the Dragon as he let his blade into the creatures mouth, the Dragon took advantage to that as he sent his mouth down on the Blade cutting it in half.
To his distress the blades half went into the Dragons gum, it yelped in pain as Cyrus stabbed his blade into the Dragons eyes.
They were doing surprisingly good, until their luck completely changed.
The Dragon bit into Geran, swinging his body as he laid, it's teeth sinking farther into him.
The Dragon kept on swinging Geran until the soul of him left his body, the Dragon chucking the lifeless body into a few Guild members, them falling pushing the body of them before realizing who it was.
Anger surged through Cyrus and the entire Guild as all the men suddenly charged, the Dragon managed to kill a few but was overrun.
Some men jumped onto the Dragon, digging their blades into him, others merely swinging their blades randomly. Until finally a final scream filled the air as the Dragons body dropped, a few men crushed from the land as the men stood striking at it's under belly.

The Guild members let out a mighty war-cry, but fell silent as an entire army began charging at them, they were to all fall now.
Cyrus stood high, clenching his fists as he prepared to die, Alduin merely watching from the walls of the Ruin.
But then, everyone stopped and stared............Geran stood, his body gaining life, even Alduin was shocked.
He stood, cuts and wounds all over him as blood dripped down his body. His face was filled with Anger as he picked up his Greatsword, stumbling towards Cyrus and stood in a defensive position, this was impossible ''Cyrus, kill them all!'' he raised his blade as he charged into the men, the Guild behind him before some of them fell and others stumbled, Alduin landing in the middle of the battlefield, the cultists bowing to him instantly.
''Stop!'' Alduin yelled, very mountains shaking and men held their ears, the shout was crazily loud as he began to speak once more ''Geran, you have proved yourself. Follow me, your I shall have you all killed, your army shall now join the others.''

Everyone was shocked, but instantly did as told, the Guild members joining the army, as Cyrus asked ''Are you sure about this?'' Geran merely calmly replying ''Certain.''
Geran followed Alduin without question as Cyrus picked up Jaygue with another Guild member, making their way to join the army of Cultists.
They finally arrived with the Cultists, many looked like they were going to kill the Guild members anyway, but they wouldn't dare betray Alduin.
Geran finally arrived at a courtyard, three Ancient Dragons stood their in waiting, as Alduin joined them.
Geran was in a weird decision, he had three very powerful Dragons and the world eater facing him, a mere mortal.

They spoke to themselves in Dragon tongue, Geran was unable to translate.​

''I Siiv Daar mortal, Rok proved himself Ahrk managed Wah Krii Gein Do us. Dreh Ni Krii him yet, Rok Fent be Gein do my Warlords. Nuz after Faal War, Krii him.'' Alduin said, clearly in Dragon tongue, the Dragons merely nodding in agreement.​

''Join the army mortal.'' Alduin said, Geran merely walked out as he made his way to join the camp.​

Geran made his way to camp, joining his Guild members, sitting next to Cyrus as Jaygue as he admired his location.​

 

[Morganatic]

Two hundred miles westwards. Karthwasten. Twilight.

The Man in Grey looks down at the orders that Muruzth gave him, and looks up to check the description against the land before him. Her writing is not very comprehensible - letters so straight and inhumanly angular they've lost their sense as words, becoming mere collections of mathematical lines and sigils - but the sketch she's given him doesn't lie. He lines up the crag with the giant, sickly oak, with the thin column of smoke, and with the 'jit stood up there looking back at him, and begins to climb towards Peryite's Shrine.

Find the priest. Find the stone. Separate the two. By force if necessary.

He checks his knife - a coral-like shard grown from a splinter taken from the arm of the Prophet herself, and slathered with pungent antiseptic oils - a gesture he's repeated hundreds of times since it was entrusted to him - and makes sure that it's stowed under his coat, but within easy reach. He's never killed before, never taken another's life in rage or cold-blooded hatred - but it's all been explained to him, by the Prophet herself, what he must do, how it fits into greater Schemes and plans, and, bit by bit, his fear has been itemised and taken away from him. Murzuth never liked him, that much was clear, but perhaps by carrying out this mission well, he might win her approval, and thus that of the Prince! Oh, to think of it ... but that would be to pre-empt the labours they both demanded of him. The Man carefully makes sure both hands are in plain sight, waits until he is thirty paces away, before hailing the cultist.

'From one follower of Order to a follower of Ordered, brother, I greet you! In the name of The Daedric Prince, I greet you! In the name of the Viral Homogeneity, I greet you!'

Kesh looks quizzically at him. He's the lone priest of a cult that, even among Daedra worshippers, is not known for its stable, well-balanced followers, and is used to dealing with the odd necrotising beggar approaching him and his Prince, seeking favours. But this man strikes him as different - a lot cleaner, for a start, well-equipped for travel, and doing his best to put Kesh at his ease. Plus, there's that odd way that he speaks, circles round the subject - what could he mean? Ah well, perhaps he can be converted, and even if not, he will be diverting to talk to for a while.

'Ja'braton is far away from home in the Highest Rock. Has no buboes, warts, sores, scabs, parasites - that can be seen under all his warm clothes, at any rate. This is not your home, Khajit thinks. But sit a while - perhaps, after ja'braton spends some time by the fireside, drinks a little tea, imbibes a little sugar ... perhaps it might become his home?'

The Man in Grey manages to stifle an exquisite shudder at the prospect, the skills gathered from years as a broker and deal-maker resurfacing to mask his true thoughts. He nods, and comes approaches a few more steps in this dance of mutual appraisal, assiduously donning a mask of wounded pious pride.

'Good sir, my Khajit brother! Surely you would not deny a co-religionist the honour of sitting with you a while, learning on pilgrimage from such an illustrious shrine, from such a worthy monument to our Lord's name?'

OK, that one was a bit thin. Kesh looks around himself, to check that the blasted tree, blasted heath and meagre alchemist's station haven't been spirited away to be replaced with, say, the White-Gold Tower. They haven't, but by the time that he turns back, the Man in Grey is within ten paces already. It's a toss-up in the Khajit's mind whether or not this man means to kill him, and whether or not he should loose his own spell first, but he errs on the side of friendliness. In times like this, bandits have either joined the damn resistance or gone south to offer fealty to the children of Alkosh, and anyone coming to seek him out in particular must have something in mind, or truly seek his spiritual direction. Very well, he thinks, eyeing the pot of putrefying mammoth-flesh he keeps in a pot downwind of the crag. Let's see about spiritual direction.

The ensuing night is a trial for the Man in Grey, on so many levels.

Worst of all is the heresy - to sit peaceably beside a devotee of a treacher Prince and listen to him spout so many insipid homilies about order - as if he understood Order! - and the role that disease and hardship had to play in improving this world and making sure only the strong survive, and so on, and so on, and so on. The Man in Grey knows the truth behind those words, and remembers how the cavalling runt of a Prince betrayed Lord Jyggalag back in the times of creation. Strong always conquer the weak - really? He keeps his bloodlust under control - just barely - and manages not to stab or throttle the mangy cat and overturn his pathetic little shrine. Not just yet, at any rate.

By contrast, the poisons and contagions he is offered, and must imbibe to keep up appearances, are nothing. On their own merits, though, they are yet another tribulation to be endured in the name of the Prince of Order. He can feel the microscopic animalcules at work within his body, a sickly heat in his gut, lining his airways, seeping into his blood and rendering soft tissue and organs to degenerate primordial slurry. He'll be lucky to live that long after this, he knows, but he should live long enough. Silently, he performs unknowable manipulations and Enumerations on the Principle of Order that lies within his breast, forcing Towers and perfections upon his body in a hard-fought battle to deny sickness and degeneration a foothold in his flesh, but he's only a novice, and, try as Murzuth might, she's always had trouble imparting such a numinous and subtle Truth to the faithful. Besides, he needs to let a little of the unhealthy flush of sickness enter his cheeks, or even this wretch of a priest will begin to realise that something's up.

And finally, there's the need to actually carry out his mission. Murzuth wasn't even sure if the stone would be here, if there even was one keyed to this site, and had to teach the Man in Grey how to look for these things. By elevating his eyes to the Heavens-in-this-World, to what she called the CHI MUNDUS, he can just about pick out the strands of magicka and the distortions in the time-Nirn continuity that artefacts like the target tended to exert. Not knowing how much this Kesh was skilled in the Art, he snatches glimpses where he can, casting his astral vision over the 'jit's camp while it's off cooking up another course of foulness. The Man in Grey is fairly sure that he can see what he needs, or something very much like it, but it's not as simple as simply grabbing it and running - this needs to be done subtly.

As the night draws on, and the Talos' bitter breath rushes down off the Jeralls, he draws closer to the Khajit seeking warmth, until the two are almost pressed together like lovers, a truly sickening feeling. It's not a fear of sexual contact - he's a man of the world, he's not inexperienced, knows these things can happen. It's not a fear of the other's non-human physiology - for all that he mistrusts the 'jit, he recognises that it's an irrational fear, and knows that all can be transfigured into perfect beings by the Touch of Order. It's simply a sense of horror at being so close to one of the enemy that repels him so. To share food, air, warmth, with a servant of the one of the demonic powers who almost killed his Lord - and not to go to righteous war - is too much.

And so, the Man in Grey acts. His Enumerations have kept him rather more alert than he should be, given the quantity of tainted moon sugar and spoiled sujamma he's just imbibed, and senses honed beyond the bounds of strict sanity can detect the tiny slurs and lapses of attention that indicate that even the Priest of Peryite is beginning to suffer the influence of his own medicine. He's rambling through some interminable parable, and with a smile, the Man realises that he hasn't been listening to a word Kesh has said for at least half an hour. With one swift motion, he draws the splinter-knife, reverses its grip in his hand, and plunges it deep into the cultist's ribs. Kesh's eyes widen, begin to close as blood-loss rapidly drains away his vital spirit - and then jolt wide open again, returned to full awareness by ... something. He tries to speak, to call out, to ask what's happening, to beg - if not for mercy, then at least for explanation - but suddenly the Man in Grey is very close, his finger on the Khajit's lipless mouth.

'Ssh, Kesh, ssh. It's alright now. No need to worry, no need to scream, to cry out. You should be proud. You've served a purpose few could hope to, a greater Purpose, a sentient Purpose of pure Order and love and life and light ... oh, I would give nearly anything to be in your position right now. I suppose that in some way, you have served your master Peryite this night, but the larger part of your service by far will now be to the Prince of Order. Jyggalag thanks you, thanks you for your kind, generous gift of the Stone that you've so wonderfully kept for him all these years.

Don't worry about the knife, that's just a little gift of his for you, far too small for your service, I know, but see it as a key to greater gifts, should you wish to claim them. Through the living crystal of his flesh, and of his prophet, your Tower is maintained; you shall not die, not sleep, not suffer fatigue, while he is in your breast. If you have faith in him, then walk; if you wish to stay in the service of your base master, stay where you are, bleed out, starve to death in the coming weaks. My Prince is a kind Prince, and only wishes the best for those whose lives he masters.'

Carefully checking to ensure that the void-knife won't come loose from the 'jit's chest any time soon, the Man in Grey saunters over to the cultists pack, patting it down for traps and hidden sigils before opening it up and rifling through it. As he reaches the bottom, his hand comes upon something hard and smooth, which he withdraws, grinning. He holds a small sun in his hand, shining with a fiery glow from beyond this world, the edges and corners of the sphere reaching across transliminal geometries and outside the mundane world. At present it is marked with the sign of the Taskmaster, his sigil, his charge - but words, symbols, glyphs are petty things, only fleeting pale imitations of the grander realities that lay behind them. They can be erased, repurposed, like the Atronach-Golems of Old Veloth, and put to better purposes.

The Man in Grey smiles, and, wrapping up the Sigil Stone in a heavy oilcloth, stows it in his pack.

She will be pleased.

 

[cazzer14]

Garrus followed the Captain into the large tent, and his nose was met with the smell of contained grass and mud, earthly smells, the smells of the trenches. Several other officers were gathered around a worn wooden table bearing a strategic marked map of the province of Skyrim, notes scribbled on the edges and markers placed on locations of tactical importance and received reconnaissance.

Many scouts and couriers had perished on their journeys, their bodies found singed into the dirt, bearing a message embedded in the earth, a message of warning from the deceased's slayers, and so intelligence of the Dragons was blurry at best. Missions and assignments were headed into with little to no knowledge of hostilities, and going into operations blind was dangerous, extremely dangerous, but it wasn't like there was much choice, the men had to go into the unknown with only the light of their hearts to illuminate the way, and it had to be enough.

The veterans surrounding the table gave Garrus and Jykir an acknowledging glance, before cracking down to business. General Okh-Lur spoke first, and gave a briefing of the soon to be initiated mission:

"Gentlemen. We have received reports that there is a nearby camp to the North. A slave camp. Scouts approximate about 50 to 100 men and women there, labouring under the overseeing of a Dragon, and several cultists. Those men could come in handy, essential to our cause, so orders have been given to extract them. A party will leave tonight for the camp, plan A is to sneak in there, get the men and get out without getting spotted.

Now, plan A's are notorious for going to plops almost immediately, so we'll send an entire platoon to rescue the slaves, quietly or through assault, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that we extract those slaves with minimal losses, understand? The party will leave at 2100 hours. Captain Jykir, Lieutenant Surphius and Garrus will lead the platoon. You'll need to pick your men. Any questions?"

A slave camp. One of many, no doubt, dotted around the lands of Tamriel, men and women forced to do menial labour for their cruel overlords, who had no rights, no freedom or privilages whilst under the talons of their new masters. They would happily jump at the chance of retribution and rebellion, a chance that the Resistance would give them, tonight. In his speech, Okh-Lur left out an important detail, where exactly the camp was, and Garrus would address this.
"Where exactly is the camp?, 'North' could be anywhere from here to Dawnstar" the General pulled a self-disappointed face, showing that he knew he shouldn't have forgot such an essential point. "Ah, yes. I apologise. It's what used to be Half-Moon Mill. It's been converted into a slave encampment that produces weapons of steel for the Dragon's willing mortal servants. You should be able to see the lights in the dark, according to the scout reports." The General let a long pause that would've been silent were it not for the noise of the activity outside. With no further questions asked, he continued. "If there's nothing else, then you'd best prepare. Dismissed."
With that last word, everyone in the tent eased up a little, and the three allocated leaders leaked out of the canvas. With a loud, authoritativeness in his voice, Jykir shouted out to the entire encampment;

"Alright! Everyone from Alik'r and Frostbite regiments, pack your things, be ready for 2100 hours, we're playing rescue party, that's right, heroes for the day, so get a move on! Let's go!"

About a quarter of the men and women at the camp began to hurry to either their personal tents, or to finish whatever task they were doing. Suddenly, the ambience of the camp upped in volume and intensity, as nerves were in the air. It was the first tour of combat for many, the first time they've had out there and fight, and a certain innocence was in the eyes of the rookies that would soon be extinguished by the experience of war, one that couldn't be replaced.

Garrus noticed a female Orc conversing with Bromar, and so he went over and approached them. She held out a hand to Bromar after giving him a few words, but before his friend could respond Garrus asked;

"Who are you? I haven't seen your face, and you're definitely not one of us, judging by the smell, we might be living in the mud, but we're not that bad." Garrus paused for a minute, contemplating possibilities of who this Orcish woman could be. "Look, if you're an assassin or something, just get whatever you're here to do over with because we're very busy right now."

He caught sight of the Orc's face as she turned to face him. She looked battered, tired, but still ready for more tests of her already tested capabilities. And whilst she seemed to reek and aura of exhaustion and fatigue, (amongst other things), she also gave one of calmness, and earnestness for yet more challenge, like a masochistic receiver of the worst that life had to offer. She also gave the impression of a strange sense of dignity and deserved pride, a sense that seemed alien to a roughed up Orc, clad in worn robes, decorated with stains of varying degrees of derogatory substances. Curious, Garrus thought to himself. Curious indeed.

 

[Mini Mongo]

The following morning Geran awoke, he surveyed his area, he was still in the Camp. He couldn't remember what happened yesterday, his vision was blurred and last nights memory was rather hazy, all he remembers is some bastard knocking him on the forehead, then bang he's back awake.
Looking at the sun it appeared to be around 7am, Geran usually awoke early in the morning, such was because of not only him being a early riser, but that he's only really known fighting, and such things require being up before your enemy, getting the first strike is almost vital.
What he does remember is that he needed to meet up with Alduin again, he would check the courtyard first, if not Alduin would probably scare Geran plopsless.
Geran stood up, walking out of the tent, he stretched and was fairly surprised to see almost nobody awake, until he heard some rather loud shouting, he looked to his right and saw a few Cultists training, getting discipline was key for a great soldier. Geran knew much of such things.

The fresh air of the morning was cold, breezing against Geran's face, it awakened him, he turned to see a small fire, Cyrus and another woman around it.
''Over here Geran.'' Cyrus said, he looked very tired, the woman looked wide awake though, probably had been awake for some time.
Geran walked over as he sat on the cold snow, it was freezing, considering Geran was only wearing very light clothing, but he was a Nord and could at least cope with it for a while.
He felt more sorry for Cyrus though, a Redguard wasn't born for cold weather, but boiling weather, even though he pretty much grew up with Geran, it wasn't in his blood.
The woman appeared to be a Nord like Geran, no surprise as this was the Nords homeland. Skyrim, a incredibly freezing place, bathed in blood and cleaned with death. Normal stuff for a Nord.
''How long you been awake Cyrus, you look fluffed.'' Geran asked.
''Not long mate, this weather got me up, along with those bloody soldier boys!'' Cyrus replied, this was a pretty normal conversation for Bandits in the morning, you can't imagine conversations when their drunk.

Geran looked over the woman, she was rather pretty. A couple thoughts entered Geran's mind but you can't blame him, he hadn't felt a woman's warm hands for a long time, his last time was probably around 17.
Luckily for him he had lost his demonic look over the night, so he appeared alot more handsome compared to yesterday. I mean I don't think this Nordic woman would be up for spending a night with a Demonic looking man, bound in bloody warfare, and capable of some of the most harsh things.
They both exchanged looks for some times, Cyrus was absorbed in cooking his stew, to look up and find Geran having the look of a 'hungry' man.
''Oh come on Geran, it's the morning, wait till later man. Besides, is it even aloud for you to lay with a woman? Being a worshiper of Meridia and all.''
''No mate, it is not. Now hurry up with that stew, I'm freezing my arse of here.'' They both spoke as if the woman was not their, listening to the conversation, more of their Bandit like behavior.

It had been almost an age since Geran had served in a Bandit clan, and when he last did, he had slaughtered them all, and before that he deserted them.
Then spending years in a mine wasn't exactly good for keeping sane, Cyrus was lucky compared to him, only being blamed for murder of a Bandit Chieftain wasn't much compared to what had happened to Geran.
But honestly the one Geran felt for most, if you could feel sorry for such a man was Jaygue, Geran can't even man up to ask him what happened, but it much be very bad considering his behavior.
Dead men are more active compared to him.
After say 5 minutes Cyrus broke the silence that was in their little circle, so to say.
''Stews done, tuck in.'' Cyrus first grabbed a small bowl and a spoon, dishing out his stew and began to tuck into it.
Geran was next, doing the exact same things, managing to spill some of the stew, no one really cared.
The woman didn't take anything, and meaning went to her tent, right next to the fire and grabbed some nice looking bread, adding some cheese to top it off.

The stew was okay, not much taste to tell really, just plain old tomato, nice enough for Geran and Cyrus though.
After he ate he left ''I'll be back in abit mate, see you.'' he winked at the woman and walked into his tent as he began to dress into his leather armor, putting his satchel around him like a belt.
His mind drifted as he tightened his armor, boots and belt, he thought about the old Guild H.Q.
When it was first made it was lovely, after they had been attacked by waves of the Resistance it lost such a look, looked more warhardy.
Geran never really know why the Resistance attacked him, probably because of food, shelter and weapons, but they weren't ruthless bandits and murderers, just people with a cause.
It was mad how such a........ neutral area could turn to plops in a matter of days, but Geran couldn't blame the Dragonborn for falling, I mean he weren't a man able to shout, let alone slay Dragons and absorbed their souls.
Their probably was some bastards out their, moaning about it all, but if their so good, they can sort out this problem, or die.

Geran finished tightening his straps and walked out the tent, just Cyrus was their now, he approached him ''Wheres that woman gone mate?''
Cyrus looked puzzled, looking around and replied ''Sorry, what woman?''
Geran joined Cyrus in the puzzled look ''A woman, she was right their! Right their mate!'' he said, as pointed constantly where the woman sat.
''Sorry Geran, no one was their. Perhaps your in need of some rest, or someone to keep you company tonight.'' he winked and began to tuck into his stew again.
Perhaps Geran was in need or some rest or Company, but he could of swore someone was their.
He stopped standing their pointlessly and went out to the Courtyard, the same Ancient Dragons and Alduin were still their, doing nothing.
''Geran, I have a task for you. A slave camp is in need of some reinforcements, theirs 87 slaves their and only one Dragon, along with some Cultists. You and your men need to reinforce the place, if attacked, kill all the slaves. No questions ask, now go.''
Geran did exactly that and merely walked out, a cold hearted order but they were orders none the less, he gathered all his Witchers, a few of them not eating an after half an hour or so they were already making their way to camp. Accompanied by a high ranking Cultist, to act as their guide.

It took a few hours but they finally arrived, this place was a mine. around 100 men and woman were doing hard laboring, mining for anything, from steel to bones of the ancient Dragons of old.
It was a tough site to see, but no one deserted from Geran, after all their were on a unbreakable oath to both Geran and Meridia. Apart from of course Cyrus and Jaygue, who were incredibly loyal anyway.
Geran and the Witchers took camp, not in the mine but on the edge, able to look down at the poor souls, a Dragon sat their, burning some miners, a few Cultists to.
The hole small army sat, silently as they ate, drank and slept.
Geran did the same, setting up a nice tent as he laid his head down, closing his eyes, and drifting into the land of dreams.

 

[The_Madgod]

Serves-His-Lord paced up and down his bedroom. He thought about what he was going to do about the Organized Resistance. They had sent a part of their new associates, the Brotherhood of Witchers, to reinforce a slave camp, leaving the area around Skuldafn less defended. With more of the army far away, the resistance may see fit to attack Skuldafn, before all of the defenses were put into place. He got very nervous, walking around and having a million things fly through his head at once. "Hahdrim Dreh!", shouted the Argonian. His mind became clear agaqin, allowing him to think. He decided to take soldiers from Atmora and northern Tamriel and send them to the Skuldafn area, discouraging rebels. "Good...", said Serves-His-Lord as he fell into a chair. "Sir? We've found an Organized Resistance camp! Please don't kill me!", squeaked a young Imperial courier. "Hahaha! I won't kill you! Iiss Slen Nus!", said the Argonian as he took the boys letter. "Oh, good. We've discovered a relatively under-defended camp and I got a new ice sculpture!", said Serves-His-Lord in a jolly manner.

Serves finished reading the details of the letter. He called in a servant to put the frozen Imperial in his courtyard, and to cast an ice spell on him so he wouldn't melt for at least a few days. Serves donned his armor and his robes and walked out of his door, using a telekineses spell to get his scepter. He walked out to his yard and shouted, "Viing Du Fo!" A roar echoed across what was once Solitudes residential district. A large Frost Dragon landed at the Dragon Priest and bowed his head. He lowered a wing to the ground like a ramp and Serves walke dup it to his back. He sat on the Dragons neck and said, "Viing-Du-Fo, I need to head to the Jaar Aar camp in Morthal. Now, fly!" The Dragon took to the air, spewing fireballs at any mortals they encountered.

Viing-Du-Fo circled around the slave camp, watching as these Witchers filed into the sentry positions. The Frost Dragon landed a little ways off, by an old cabin that had been turned into one of Alduins many secret bases of operations. Serves-His-Lord jumped off the dragon and watched as he fle wback towards Skuldafn. Serves walked into the cabin and pulled the old back against the wall, revealing an ancient Nede style door. He turned the five dials to Dragon, Whale, Wolf, Dragon, Mudcrab. He then placed a stone Dragon Claw into the keyhole and watched as all the dials turned to Owl. The door opened, revealing a wooden trap door. The Argonian inserted a rusty old key and revealed a magical barrier. Serves casted a special spell on it, openinign the way to a large underground cavern. The Argonian dropped down and saw Draugr lining the walls pull out torches and use Yol on them. Serves-His-Lord walked through an old hallway, each step causing more Draugr to either light their torches or extinguish them. The last room was an old war room, with a tactical map written in Dragon Language and a small bedroom setup. Serves kicked off his boots and layed in the bed, pulling the map over him so he could strategize in peace. "Yol!", shouted the Argonian. His fire breath hit a small torch hanging ffrom the roof, setting it on fire. All of the Draugr extinguished their flames and stood their. One Deathlord closed a stone door seperating the war room from the rest of the dungeon.

Serves-His-Lord had finally come up with a plan. He would send half of the troops in the slave camp down to the resistance camp, taking them by surprise. Then he would have the resident Dragon distract the invaders while the men that remained at the camp attacked. Finally, once the camp was secured, the other soldiers would eliminate the foolish invaders. "Foolproof! Now I just have to find this, "Geran", guy. I'll tell him the plan and send him on his way.", said the Argonian as he levitated his way out of the cave. Levitation was a mostly lost art, though some Dunmer monks still practiced it, as did the Dragon Priests. Serves walked into the camp, donning the mask of Konahrik as he walked. A Dragon fell to the ground and bowed, as did all of the cultists. Some of the Witchers recognized his position and bowed as well, though most stood watching their leader. The Warlord of Alduin approached Geran the Scarred. "Geran, priest of Meridia, I have a task for you.", said the Argonian. He relayed his plans to the man, then waited for a response. If it was anything other than, "Of course, m'lord.", then Serves intended to blast the mans head off. He readied a spell of Firebolt, hoping that the man said something like, "I only take orders form Alduin." What a laugh that would be, a cult of about twenty loyal soldiers, a Dragon and a Dragon Priest versus about 100-200 undead hunters and a man blessed by Meridia.

 

[Morganatic]

As Garrus stares Murzuth up and down, the Priestess stares right back, taking the Imperial's measure. Watchful, that was what she saw in him. Penetrating at least the first of the many veils of dirt and lies and misdirection she'd flung up, peering out from beneath a hood that hid him from the world, but did not hide the world from him. Would he have what it took, when the time was right? She would see. Her eyes travel to the weapons and works of artifice by his side, and she is a little more pleased by what she sees there - he certainly has a good mind and the grace, quickness, and cunning to use it, and in him lay some spark of what her scriptures called DYUS, or Mytheria - the spirit of curiosity and learning, of figuring things out for oneself rather than learning them whole cloth from divinity. It is a mantle he wears well, and will wear better in the war to come.

'Do not put stock in appearances, son of Cyrod, I most certainly am with you. Or you with me. Suffice to say that we both which the bastard spawn of Akatosh dead, and anything that hurts them helps both of us. Murzuth gra-Den-Sul, Priest of Order.'

She holds out a hand in greeting, curling the fingers in a subtle mudra of friendship and alliance.

'There is more that I would wish to discuss with you, Artifex Garrus of High Rock, you in particular, but for now, let us set that aside. I am come to offer the blessing and terrible sanction of my Lord to your cause, and in joining you offer what thaumaturgy and battle-magic I have. Alone we are weak, prey to the Dovah, to be picked off at leisure, sticks to snap in the breeze - but together, we might be strong, unbreakable, a spear in the side of Alduin and his heretic lickspittles.

I admit that what I have to offer you is a little Daedric in nature, but you are not squeamish, are you, Garrus? The Masters of Oblivion do not like to see their people, their world, suffer under the claw of dragonkind any more than the Eight and One Aedra do. They stretch out their hand, seeking to protect their world that they embody, and send their servants-angels to aid their mortal children. I serve a Prince whose sorrow is great at the current state of affairs, and wishes to restore the world from this fallen state. So, I am not an assassin, but, I hope, a would-be redeemer, carried upon her own net of wind-borne news and support. May I join my forces to yours?'

Murzuth cocks her head at the mercenary war-leader, and, with a snap of her fingers, draws her staff - not there one moment, there the next, a weather-beaten shard of crystal six feet in length, but whose gleaming surface seems to be reflecting something more than the watery twilight in the camp. She whips off something approaching a salute, an acknowledgement, and then, finally taking note of Garrus' wrinkling nose, goes off behind a tree to change out of her clothes and into something more appropriate to the servant of Jyggalag here on Tamriel.

When she returns, she's changed. Still not resplendent, but the inner glow, the ALT DVE CHIM that rests clings to her like a shroud is clearer, less hidden by mud and dirt, and focused . Her vestments are faded, darned, and patched many times, and the strange silver pectorals and ritual shards that hang from them are dented and a little tarnished, but more fitting of her dignity as a priest. Projecting this aspect to the world is clearly taking a lot out of the woman - fever-sweat beads on her forehead as she walks - but it pays to make a good first impression.

While her old disguise as an itinerant healer was mostly a convenient ruse to travel where she wanted without being hassled or obstructed, it was never a pretence - Murzuth is an accomplished journeymen of the arts of flesh and sinew - has had to be over the years - and she puts it to work now. Eyebrows are raised at the strangely-attired orc wandering about the camp, especially at her outlandish way of speaking and her casual use of magicka, but practitioners of the healing arts are ever beloved of soldiers, and so the odd Priest quickly enamours herself among the soldiers (at the expense of eternal enmity from the Priests of Mara, but she can live with that), healing minor wounds and conferring minor blessings upon those who are about to enter the fray. She never directly tells the thankful soldiers who she serves, but only tells them to 'be Perfect', and that, if they keep 'Order and Stillness' in their hearts and minds, not even the depredations of dragonkind and their corrupted speech-combat will be able to deny them their courage; she tells them that she will accompany them into the fray, and if she, a weakling healer, can stand up to them, then any of them can too. It is, for the most part, empty words, and both she and they know it, but within their breast a subtle fire is started, sparks that, if stoked and tended, might blossom into faith and worship. Her ministry to the men and women of the Resistance can only be hidden ministry, for the moment, but it's something.

Her duties of preaching done, she continues to walk round the camp's fringes, in the gathering dark, seeing the brave men and women of Alik'r and Frostbite companies girding themselves for war. A broad grin splits her face when she sees what they're wearing, their ragtag grey clothing and gear, hastily camouflaged and adulterated from the bright colours of Hammerfell and Black Marsh into shades a little more appropriate for lying low in Skyrim. The Grey March, and she marches with them.

Thank you, Lord Jyggalag, for this sign.

 

[Phenomenal TJ]

In the early morning fog, Titus Draconis dressed the same way he did every day, carefully examining his armor and weaponry for any and all imperfections that could prove potentially fatal, something he had learned years ago when a sword had deflected off of a chink in his armor and nearly slit his throat open.

His ebony sword felt good in his hand, it was a weighty sword, but bit with lethality that could rival that of a dragon's claws, when wielded by a man built like himself. Staring at the sword, he contemplated the many men that had met their end at the tip of it's blade. Their faces flew before his eyes, they were drinking and eating in the great halls of Sovngarde, beckoning him to join them as a brother.

He shook away the thought of them, and continued his ritual. Slipping into his dragonscale armor, he remembered the battle that had made this hard to get item possible. It was near Solitude, a dragon had attacked the carriage of Elisif the Fair, Jarl of Solitude. Thinking only of proving himself against such a monumental foe he had sprung into action, his sword made quick work of the dragon's vulnerable wings, ripping them to shreds and making it impossible for the beast to take to the air.

After that, it had simply been a matter of avoiding the bone crushing tale and flames spouting from the creatures mouth, when the creature caught on to the ploy used by the warrior it started snapping with jaws powerful enough to crush stone. It was during one such attempt at swallowing the man whole that Titus had seen his opportunity, taking a running leap, he found himself on the creature's neck, and using all his might he began hacking away at the scaly skin of the beast, until finally the creature writhed and breathed no more.

Jarl Elisif had been so grateful that she ordered her finest armorer's to scavenge the tough plates from the dragon's hide and fashion a formidable coat of arms for her hero of the day.

Sliding his twin daggers into his boot and waistband respectively, he grabbed his helm and shield and headed out the door.

Gurak gro'Bol met the man by the door to his longhouse. With a grim look to his friend, he signed and said "You know where we must go, correct?"

Titus looked puzzled, thinking back to their previous conversation he knew that his answer would be wrong, but he said what he felt, "Directly to Alduin's camp."

Gurak sadly shook his head. "No, that would be utter suicide. This is not a war that can be won with brute force, you forget what we've spoken about so soon. No, to win this, we're going to need allies, Ulfric Stormcloak is still alive by all reports, he's bound to have some men willing to assist."

Titus snorted. "Ulfric Stormcloak has only ever been concerned with what's in Ulfric Stormcloak's best interest. He has no altruistic motive behind his actions, he doesn't care for the land, nor the people of Skyrim. He'll be of no use to us."

"Agreed. But, you may have to stay your tongue, in case we do in fact need to call upon the Jarl of Windhelm. The other option is to make the climb of the 7,000 Steps to High Hrothgar. The Greybeard's are the penultimate knowledge on dragons and their kin, they helped teach the Dragonborn in the way of the Voice."

"I'm not interested in talking the dragon's to death, old friend."

Garuk chuckled. "Nor am I, and knowing you, you would rip yourself to pieces attempting to use the Voice. That's not the plan. We need knowledge, not power from the Greybeard's. Word around the Resistance is that they've been taking in some proteges, students if you will."

Titus looked at the older man, "And what makes you believe the Greybeard's will so willingly give their student's a path to certain death with us?"

Contemplating the point his ally had made Garuk grimly replied "The Greybeard's know the score. They know there's no other option. Men will fight, and countless men will die. There can be no other way."

Getting a starry eyed gaze in his eyes, Titus responded boldy, "Indeed. They'll be talking about this war for hundreds of years, those that fight and die in it will be remembered forever. Are the men ready to head to High Hrothgar?"

Garuk nodded, and the two warriors strode to their horses. Titus rode point, leading the seasoned warriors. He did a quick head count, "Twenty-eight. We've lost twelve men since this journey started, and we haven't even seen a real battlefield."

The group rode out, making their way across the desolate wasteland they saw in front of them. The once beautiful Skyrim landscape had been ravaged by war, and charred remains of farmhouses and mills could be seen in the distance.

After a few hours of riding towards the mountain who's peak holds the domain of the Greybeard's Titus heard voices ahead. Signaling to the men to stop and to be quiet. Dismounting his steed, he slowly made his way into a position where he could catch a view of the clearing, and those in it.

Parting the thick brush his eyes fell upon a group of eight men, five were seated by a makeshift fire, three appeared to be standing guard at strategic points around the camp. Listening closely, he could hear bits and pieces of their conversation.

"and he just...killed him. Right there, snapped him in half with his jaws."
"That's why I'm glad we fight for Alduin, and not against him."
"These rebels and non-believes don't stand a chance."

Titus crept back to where he had left his men, and filled them in on the situation at hand. These men could not live. He knew not what their purpose or mission was, and likewise, he cared not. They were the enemy and they would die on this day.

Motioning for four archers and three swordsmen to come with him, he quietly told the archers to get into position and to ready their bows. Knowing the men well, he knew they would pick their targets wisely and dispatch the sentries and one of the men seated by the fire.

Nodding at the swordsmen, he unsheathed his own sword, and waited for the first arrow to find it's mark.

 

[Mini Mongo]

Geran listened to Serves-his-Lord as he explained his plan, sure it was good but Alduin had directly ordered for him to stay here and guard the camp, they needed reinforcements, this place was going to be attacked soon.
''A very good plan Serves-his-Lord, I shall send half of my Witchers to the camp, while I stay here. I must say, you are a great tactian. I hope we fight in a battle as allies in the future, I shall group my men and send half of them off to the camp. I can add on to such a foolproof plan, as I will have 50 men remaining here with me, I shall create a ambush. 25 of my men shall do as you ordered as I create a ambush, flanking them from the right, this shall be a huge surprise and lower their numbers greatly. Please excuse me''

Geran then made his way to the camp, his 100 Witchers awaiting to here what Serves-his-Lord had said.
He stood in front of the men, making himself obvious ''Men, are great Dragon Priest Serves-his-Lord has came up with a great plan. While half of are numbers stay here another half shall attack one of the Resistances main camps.
This will cause great harm to them as most of their numbers will be attacking this camp, their will be around 20 men at the camp, take them out, sack the place and get out of their.''
Geran then ordered the men who were attacking the resistance camp to get prepared, which they did instantly.

He began speaking to the men who were to defend the mine ''Boys, I'm gonna sort out a ambush. 25 of you will be flanking and ambushing the party of attackers, as the other 25 defend. Now the attackers don't know are numbers, so we should have the element of surprise.''
He then walked to a group of strong looking men, and some brilliant archers, sword-masters and two handed attackers, hand picking them.
He approached Cyrus ''Mate, you'll be leading the attack on the resistance camp, don't fluff this up.'' he said bluntly, putting his arm around him before catching eye of Jaygue, who appeared to be preparing to attack.
''No Jaygue, your staying here with me, I need you to lead the other half of the group as I lead the ambush okay?''

Jaygue said nothing, still preparing, but for defending, putting on some heavy ebony armor.
He gathered the rest of the 25 men as the Guild members attacking the camp left with Cyrus.
Jaygue then took his 25 men down to the mine, they stared at the miners, no pity in their eyes though, they were serving Alduin now, not the Empire.

Geran found a nice area to ambush, some long grass and a couple of trees were say 2 minutes away from the actual Camp, this would give them enough space to be hidden, then charge at the enemy when they here combat, striking them from both sides.
A great advantage in battle, the flanks and element of surprise could change the tides, this was Geran's battle to win, but he was sure that the Resistance would have their victory.

Geran and the Witchers made their way to the designated area, they went prone, as low as they could as they waited for the small army of Resistance to come.
Their would probably be say 100-200 of them attacking, and around 20-50 at the camp, Cyrus would win the battle at camp, but Geran would be in for a tough battle, luckily Serves-his-Lord, the Dragon and the cultists would provide extra backbone, evening the numbers even more.

Annoyingly Geran had not been blessed, so he wasn't just another man in this battle today, he would have his chance in the future though.
Years of training and fighting would serve him well today, he was in for a tough fight.
''Be ready boys, were in for some tough plops, keep each over safe. And if anyone's gonna die today, let it be the cultists, let them attack first alright?''
They all nodded, not saying a word as they prepared for the fight to start, the army would be in their location soon.