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    Colonelscout312

    The Descendant of Tiber Septim.
    Nomad awoke with a sore head, chained up. He didn't recognize where he was. It appeared to be a ship.
    "Where am I?" Nomad asked. A guard wearing chitin armor approached him.
    "Be quiet." He said.
    "You're not a rebel." Nomad said, with a puzzled tone and look on his face. No one spoke for the rest of the journey, Nomad sat, wondering where they were going. When the ship docked the guard grabbed Nomad and pulled him along. Nomad could finally see where they were, Raven Rock. Nomad was brought to the dungeon and thrown in a cell.
    "Why do the people of Solstheim hold such hostility to me?" He asked, but no guard would grant him a response.

    __________________________

    Solstheim, An Hour Later
    Runsultare led an army of men through the wilds of solstheim. Raven Rock was in sight, they would attack it from the west. The army of Sondheim crept closer until they would be visible due to they're numbers. Runsultare jumped up and attacked. They wielded an array of swords, maces, spears, bow and arrows, and some magic. The first couple of guards were easy to kill for they were surprised, but the army soon composed itself to defend they're city. And so the battle began.
     

    Blitzz

    A Friendly Brit
    Captain Malmor sat upon his steed on the hilltop, glaring down at the once-great city of Mournhold. All he could see was the tainted banner of House Indoril suspended from every possible construct. It was a pitiful sight. Malmor shuddered, contemplating the War Room as Lord Drelin gave the orders to march on Mournhold. He had greatly overestimated the power of House Indoril. Their army was 2,000 strong at most. It would be a slaughter. He turned to face the army that stood behind him, expecting words of inspiration no doubt. He lifted the plating at the front of helmet, and began to speak in a loud, husky voice. "Sons of Morrowind! Today we fight to reclaim what is rightfully ours! We fight to bring honor to our name! We fight for the sake of our lands! We fight, for the Jagged Kingdom! The enemy will be fierce, but we will be fiercer! We will run the Tainted House from Mournhold, or we will give our lives trying!" He turned to face Mournhold once again, and lowered his helmet. "For death or glory!" he screamed. At this there was a tremendous roar from the men, the clanking of steel and iron, and a tremendous beat resounded around the mountains as the flag bearers hammered their banners against the stubborn earth. A horn sounded, and all at once the men rushed forward. The white stallions of the Moonriders burst forth, as powerful as machines. Malmor lowered his spear as he charged straight through the unwary ranks of House Indoril. Many were unarmed and unready. He impaled two on his spear, but a third swung low with a large, brutish looking sword and brought his might steed to the ground. He recovered quickly, rushing at the man and cutting him down with his curved sword. Suddenly, as he stood triumphantly over the body of his attacker, he felt a sharp pain in the small of his back. He fell to knees, involuntarily, and could feel the blood begin bubbling in his throat. He fell on his side. A Dunmer man, clad in black armor, stood ahead of him, laughing demonically. The last thing he saw was a knight bearing the banner of House Varys cleave the man in half, before the sweet release of death claimed him.

    ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

    It was late Spring. The mountains around Blacklight sang with the sounds of what primitive wildlife remained in the northern reaches of Morrowind. The great, black trees bowed in the wind, and the first signs of grass began to spring up through the barren ashlands of Blacklight. Drelin watched from his chambers. The Temple of the Tribunal was almost complete. It would be finished by the end of Summer, he was sure of it. His blood red trailed limp on the floor behind him as he paced the length of the room. It had been a prosperous season for the Jagged Empire, maybe the best they had yet seen. But now, in a time of great war and hostility, he had to decide where to go next. His thoughts were scattered at a violent pounding on his door. He would recognize that kind of knock anywhere. "Come in, Ovidel," he called. The door almost flew off of its hinges as a barbaric-looking Dunmer boy, reasonably young, strode into the room. "Tell me, Ovidel, why is it that every door you walk through almost breaks?" He stared at his son. He stood only a few inches taller. The boy had been growing quickly. "Forgive me, father. I come bearing news of our endeavors in the South." Drelin stared expectantly as the boy stood, awaiting his father's permission to speak. "Well?" said Drelin, mockingly. "We have successfully secured Mournhold. We have taken roughly 300 prisoners from House Indoril, including Captain Drayvis. We lost almost none. They were ill-prepared and outnumbered. It lasted just moments." Drelin was pleased with this news. Word of his success would surely spread like wildfire. "Order Captain Malmor to-" Drelin detected a grave look in the eyes of his son as he mentioned the old Captain's name, and stopped short. "What is it, Ovidel?" Ovidel stared at the ground, frightened to speak. "Speak, Ovidel!" Drelin was furious that his son would simply ignore him in this way. "Father... I'm afraid... Captain Malmor fell during the battle. He died a true hero's death, fighting to the very last." Drelin was stunned. Malmor was one of the best fighters he had ever known, and was his most trusted commander. He sat in a small chair in the corner. He thought Malmor was somewhat impossible to kill. "Leave me," said Drelin, feebly. His soon bowed, and left the room, letting out a pained sigh as he went.

    ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

    Drelin stood with the Council surveying the Empire map of Tamriel. He was pleased that the grey section that he used to represent his won Kingdom had grown in size, but he was concerned at the reports his expansive spy network was returning. According to the reports, North-East Skyrim belonged now to House Hledhren. And the envoy he had sent to Raven Rock had not yet returned any report, which admittedly did worry him. On another section of the table, Drelin was glad to see architectural plans for a new port town, to be built on the North-East tip of Mournhold, had been drawn out. He approved them and listened as the Council members lectured him with facts and statistics of the harvests, recruitment, construction, and all the other facts that he was not in the mood to pay any attention to. He dismissed the council and sat in silence. It was then that Ovidel approached from the entry, unnoticed until he was in Drelin's face. "Father. I want to prove myself. I am a skilled rider an warrior. Let me take Malmor's place as Captain of the Moonriders." Drelin chuckled. The chuckle turned into a great, bellowing laughter that filled the halls "No. You're not ready." Drelin stood, and could see instantly that Ovidel was hurt. "You are but a foolish child, unfit for leadership. I would sooner assign you as head chef in my kitchen than as Captain of my Moonriders." Ovidel lunged at Drelin. In one smooth motion, Drelin turned, hoisting Ovidel off of his feet and hurling him over the Council table. "You are too hasty, ill-tempered, inexperienced, and reckless." He looked down on Ovidel and laughed in the young Elf's face. "But you show courage, determination, and an eagerness to serve. That is why you will lessons with Master Barros, starting next week. He will teach you what it truly means to serve." Ovidel looked horrified. Barros had somewhat of a... reputation, for his disciplinary methods. Drelin waved away Ovidel's feeble protests, and chuckled to himself as he left the council chambers. It was barely noon, and Drelin had lots of unofficial business to attend to. He watched the great statues of heroes in the halls, as they stared down at him, seemingly in disgust, as he walked through the great halls of the Blacklight Palace. "One day," he thought to himself. "I will have my own statue in this hall. As will my sons, and my son's sons after them, and their sons after them." He watched the sun, high in the sky, glaring down at the city. He couldn't help but think to himself, that it was a new dawn for the Jagged Kingdom.
     

    Blackdoom59

    BATMAN!
    Turdas, 12th of Evening star5E 3 9:00 AM, The Red Wolf, Orsinium

    In the Council Room, everyone was going to their seats. Newly arrived, Shastta represented the New Yokudan Kingdom, now sharing the same banner with the Bloody Fang. Wrukaog was tired, he had to wake up early to greet his guest. Both the matters of military, public order and administration were too much for him. The clan was growing and so were his burdens. He raised his hand, without speaking. That gesture gave freedom of speech to the members of the council, whoever was to talk would have placed a matter on the table. And the first was Raymond, stepping forword in an orderly manner, as he took a scroll from his pocket.

    “Chief, I am sad to announce that winter has done us no good. This year, all the snowflakes could do was to settle down our crop production. As our navy increases in strength with the unification of the Yokudan Fleet, our fishermen harvested the cheapest only free source of food there is. The people are displeased by the way things turned out, there have been many semi-rebellions happening in the north, but Nakgu seems to take good care of the bretons. Lastly, our treasury is running low, you chose to use up most of our gold onto training more bretons and hiring mercenaries. I have to say...that is not the best choice of action.”

    Wrukaog sighed, then raised from his throne to explain himself. “We need more able soliders. The orcs alone cannot win wars against people that count their men by tens of thousands. The yokudans offer us eight hundred men, and five times as much if Hamerfell is no longer contested. The orcs are increasing by little, but the bretons from the north accepted to be abducted into our armies. At the moment, there is an equal number of bretons and orcs that fight for the Bloody Fang - and that troubles me greatly.”

    Raymond chuckled slightly, then spoke once more “Chief, the bretons aren’t stupid enough to undertake us. We should be focused on external matters” he tilted his head towards Luciena, who walked up, giving Raymond a playful wink. “Our spies report the Masterwings have fully conquered the Ashmiths, which brings them closer to our borders than ever before. They started hiring weaponmakers from all over the regions, and their men get hard training with each passing day.”

    Wrukaog grunted “That can’t be good…” he turned to a courier next to him “Send a letter to the Masterwings, tell them that we do not want to fight them, and send them merchants have to offer if they agree.” Luciena continued “To the East, the Hawkfields are getting butchered by the Forsworn. We can either help them, or watch them perish - for there is no way they will win.” Wrukaog shook his head in disagreement.

    Lasly, Shastta stepped forward, her arms crossed as a gust of wind entered the room, blowing away her long, black hair. “The Empire still stands, and it’s ruler sits there, with only the sands to separate us. When are we going to take action?”. Wrukaog walked up to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. “We are still trade partners and allies to the empire, and I’d rather avoid a war with them for as long as possible. Their men outnumber ours, but we can win if we use cunning.” She nodded, somewhat dissapointed.
    ----------------------------------------

    It was a warm morning in the orcish stronghold of Dushnikh Yal. There, former warchief Nakgu is waiting to meet his accomplices. The strongholds in Skyrim is where Nakgu hailed from, he was known as the best orc warrior in Skyrim. He never accepted that Malacath worship was thrown aside, as he grew up with it. He planned to change that, once he would became ruler over the Bloody Fang clan. The orcs from Dushnikh Yal sympathised Nakgu, although most orcs now saw him as week, a traitor, for not listening to Wrukaog. Nakgu no longer had his orcish-ebony plate armor, the armor that was bestowed upon the Warchief. He now wore a simple steel armor, with only the shoulders, gauntlets and boots, made from orichulum metal. He wore no helmet, his bald head was shining in the sun, and his long, black, thick beard trembled as the gust of wind flew upon the mountains of the Reach.

    “It’s been a long time since I last saw you, Nakgu.” said the chief of the stronghold. “Indeed it has. But I’m not here to stay, Grommash, I have duties as commander over the defences of the clan”
    Grommash raised an eyebrow “Then why do you come here? A small visit, to show you have not forgotten us, to show that you haven’t forgotten Malacath?" Nakgu frowned and tilted his head down “That also…” he made a brief pause “But I’m here for business, I must meet a dunmer, from Solstheim, regarding an alliance.” Grommash smiled and placed his hand upon Nakgu’s shoulder “Malacath guide you, Nakgu. Know that whatever happens, we will always be on your side!”

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

    Mirvyn’s feet were utterly numb from the great trek from their landing place in a small village outside of Solitude. Him and his guards had travelled through the thick, damp marshes of Hjaalmarch, as well as the treacherous cliffs and mountains of the Reach, and now, after two days of travelling, his boots were more or less destroyed, he moaned at each step, as did his archer escort the captain had granted him. But the giant Stalhrim-clad warrior had not spoken a single word since they had left Raven Rock, he showed no expression of fatigue or exhaustion, this was his element, this was where he belonged, out in the field, marching, killing any that came too close to the small escort.

    The odd convoy finally climbed the small hill, with a final effort, and the great Longhouse of the settlement could be seen in front of them. The vision glimmering, both from the heat emanating from the rocks, as well as from Mirvyn’s own exhaustion.
    “Azur’...” He stopped, and remembered their new patron, the change was difficult for some, still.
    “Thank Hermaeus, there it is! Hurry up, I cannot stand another second in these forsaken hills!” Thirlin’s Stalhrim warrior grunted amusedly at this, but other than that, naught could be heard, but the sound of birdsong and the wind, echoing through the hillside. Mirvyn imagined the comfort in resting his feet in a pool of water, once they reached the settlement.

    -----------------------------------------------------
    “Sir, the ash-skins are at the gates.” An orc said, before he stepped aside from the entrance to the Longhouse, and the dunmer stepped in.
    There were four of them, first was the man seeming in charge, dressed in a typical Dunmer garment, with a dark-green scarf hung around his neck, his back-slicked hair shining with sweat. Next were two archers, black longbows hung upon their backs, along with small quivers of iron arrows, clad in a mixture of leather and chainmail. And at last was the true attention-grabber of the escort, a massive Dunmer, clad in shining armour, looking as if it was the great ice of the North itself he clad him within, his blade and shield hung upon his back, both too made of the unmelting ice.
    Once again, the focus returned to the leader of the petty escort, as he reachedout with his arms in salutation to the Warchief.
    “Greetings, great Chief...Nakgu! We are honoured to meet your grace, truly.” Mirvyn bowed to the Warchief, and so did the two archers, but not the Stalhrim warrior.

    Nakgu raised from his chair upon hearing the news. “There you are Mirvyn! I’ve been expecting you! There’s no need for such formal pleasantries, we orcs are above those. Now, I expect you came up with a way of solving my little problem?”

    Mirvyn rose again, and smiled at the orc, they were truly not fit for the politics and such of the other races, a more simple people.
    “Yes, indeed I have. But before we can promise you our assistance in this, there are things our kingdom require back as well.” He said slyly, wondering if the news of the war had reached the other kingdoms of Tamriel yet. So far, nothing had occurred to truly catch the attention of the other rulers, but you never knew.

    “You are in war with clan War-Blade. My people from the strongholds there tell me, about the nords struggle in your war. They have to deal with your ships raiding the coastal settlements, as well as with the rebels raising in their cities. Your rulers are smart, you couldn’t have chose a better timing to start war. I have a little offer for you, that might help you on your battles, if you’re intrested.” he spoke while circling around the dunmer, confident of the words that came out of his mouth

    “And what is this you are offering, my Chief?” Mirvyn asked, curiosity ripe in his voice.

    “Two years ago, when the Bloody Fang clan rose to power, I convinced Wrukaog, our High Chief to start building a battleship. the Masterwings and the Parikhan could assault our coastal cities, and we had nothing to defend them. We needed influence on the seas. Now, the famed battleship is almost done, and I tell you, this ship is indestructible - 48 broadside cannons on each side, the largest naval ram you can find, and two ballistas in front. The hull is made from ebony and orichalcum ingots, making it’s defenses almost impenetrable” said Nakgu, his voice full of pride.

    “I am sure my King would be impressed, but how does this affect the Silvermoon?” It was hard to not use the words and titles deemed necessary of a politician, but the orcs believed in power more, and so he must comply with the situaiton.

    “Well, I have an idea of how this ship might work, but I need to be crowned High Chief for that. This ship will have no flag, and work as a pirate ship. It will raid other commercial ships and the coastal cities of Clan War blade, and whoever we desire, and bring back the loot to us. If you can make me High Chief, I assure you a part of that loot will go to your kingdom, and the nords will be too afraid to sail upon the Sea of Ghosts anymore. The ship will have orcs, bretons, redguards and elves on it, nobody would think, it belongs to The Bloody Fang. What do you say?” Nakgu spoke out. His initial plan was to harass the Pakhirm with the ship, making them more and more vulnerable. And when they were vulnerable enough, the Bloody Fang would have invaded Stros M’kai. But now a new purpose was found for the vessel.

    Mirvyn smiled at the proposal, and brought out a large document from the satchel flung over his shoulder. He lowered himself to his knees, and rolled out the parchment upon the floor between the Warchief and himself. Upon the parchment were odd symbols, and crude paintings of vast creatures, consuming trembling men, in the centre was the eye of Mora, his tentacles tempting other men toward the demons.
    For the orcs assistance in the attack upon Sondheim, my King has deemed this a viable solution to your… issue. Mirvyn smiled at the last part, looking up upon Nakgu.

    “What kind of sorcery is this? Those are daedric symbols!” Nakgu said, frightened by what he saw on the parchment.

    Mirvyn’s smile broadened. “This is the sort of sorcery that will make you the High Chief of Orsinium.” He gestured with his hand to the scroll.
    “This, is a summoning, of our lord Hermaeus Mora’s willing servant, a Lurker.”
    He rose, grabbed the scroll, rolled it up and handed it toward Nakgu.
    “Read it when the time is right, and it will do your bidding.” Mirvyn felt unnerved around sorcery as this, just as much as the Chief, but the feeling of power from wielding the favour of a Daedric lord upon your kingdom truly was a blessing.


    This could be better then I thought. If a deadric creature kills Wrukaog, it will work as a message, that Malacath is angry at our decisions. So I will be able to convert the Bloody Fang to Malacath wroship.
    Nakgu thought to himself upon reading the scroll.

    “This concludes our deal, Mirvyn . Tell your king that I’m working on the payment.” said Nakgu as he extanded his hand, reading his palm.

    Mirvyn smiled as he shook the orc's hand
    “Our thanks, High-chief.” He said, putting an ironic tone upon the title. The Orsimer in front of him was to become new ruler of the Orcs, with the thanks of Silvermoon Dunmer, Thirlin would surely appreciate having the Orcs as his friends, if the situation escalated within Skyrim. Nakgu spent the rest of his day at the stronghold, then took to White Haven, the city that stood as a border between the Masterwings and The Bloody Fang. His new post was to defend that city with all costs.
     

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