Navare
Savage Spirit
The End's Secrets
The skies burn a fierce red as hellfire descends upon Tamriel, dragons roaming the skies.
Werewolves have lost the ability to change at will, becoming mindless beasts,
While the dead lie restless in their graves.
Daedra march the provinces, slaying and destroying all before them;
And though heroes rise to the challenge, all thus far have fallen, even the mighty Dragonborn,
Becoming nothing more, than a mindless, undead, puppet.
Is this the end for Tamriel and all her people? Or will a hero rise to the challenge?
The year is 4E 220. All of Tamriel has fallen to the might of the Daedra, the Empire which had overcome the mighty Stormcloaks only 12 years ago, once again brought to its knees, while the Aedra have all but vanished. The Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin and Miraak, lies in a grave, rotting away like so many countless others who have fallen at the unrelenting force of the Daedra. The guilds of Skyrim quickly fell apart, the members disbanding in hope of survival, or just for a little more time with their precious loved ones. Rumours persist of a safe haven, where the summerset isles still stand, the Aldmeri Dominion refusing to fall, even when pushed onto its last legs. Though few sailors still provide transport from cities such as Anvil, any hope of surviving seems to lie with making your way to the Isles. Unless of course, somebody, or somebodies, would rather try and stop the daedra? But with no heroes left, who will rise to the challenge?And the worst part? They say the daedra don’t actually kill you, but they take your soul. You become nothing more than a conduit of power, living out an eternity of agonizing pain.
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The sun beat down on the central town of Skyrim, Whiterun, as birds sang in the air, smoke rising from Adrianne Avenicci’s forge as she stood outside her little shop, back to one of the wooden posts which supported the roof. On the other side stood the guard’s barracks, where the town guard resided. Moving up the city one could see the market bustling with people as they went about their daily business, Ysolda coming across as a bargain hunter and keen tradeswoman as always. Belethor’s shop resided nearby, where Ruran had heard rumours of his sister being for sale. Next to that, Arcadia’s Cauldron. The woman often misdiagnosed him with a case of the rattles, but she was a decent woman nevertheless. Beyond that stood the Bannered Mare, the most popular place of gathering in Whiterun before the stairs leading to the Cloud District. Wouldn’t Nazeem be proud of him, reaching this point. And there was the might Jorrvaskr, home of the mighty Companions. Rumours persisted of them being filthy wolves, though as said, it was just a rumour. Meanwhile Heimskr continued to preach, still believing Talos to be a god.
Then, the mighty Dragonsreach. The pinnacle of Whiterun, the Jarl’s very own home. A magnificent building which could be seen miles away stood proud above everything else, almost touching the clouds. The very doors were massive in size. Ruran pushed them open as he made his way inside, walking towards the fire which burned in the centre, the tables running down either side covered in silver cutlery.
As he reached the Jarl’s chair he simply took a seat, looking down on what was once Jarl Balgruuf’s mighty town, before he opened his eyes. Everything he had described was what the town used to be. On his way up here he had not noticed another living soul (He figured he may as well count himself among the living nowadays, he had yet to go feral like most vampires). Only a few daedra, vampires, werewolves, and a few draugr, some of which lay lifeless on the ground, while others he quite simply put to the ground. There was also one other creature he could not identify. Though they appeared human their body was shrivelled and weak, and their eyes were a pure white. They spoke and acted like mortals, but craved death and carnage. Strange, but there were not many. Adrianne Avenicci’s forge had burned out long ago, and the guard barracks on the opposite side had all but been destroyed. The market lay in ruins, wood and rubble scattered everywhere, whatever food there once was now scavenged as people tried to survive. Jorrvaskr was no longer home to the mighty companions, nor was it home to wolves. Instead, skeevers and spiders roamed the place, making it their own. How the mighty had fallen in these hard times. Howls still persisted in the air however, wolves mating and fighting, no longer able to control their primal urges.
Ruran’s gaze jumped to the central fire which he had lit, its warmth burning him, distracting him from the pain in the back of his throat. His lust for blood had not been quenched in so long, and he craved the sustenance more than anything. But no, he could not think about. For now he needed to think about his next move; the town of Whiterun was far from the stronghold the rumours had claimed. It was like every other damned place on the continent. Nothing but rubble, a mess. He wondered if others had heard of this supposed safe haven. Considering he had nothing better to do he could certainly stay in the remnants of the city for a few days. Perhaps some fresh blood might just make an appearance.