The Second Great War - An Elder Scrolls Fanfiction

Chapter 3: Skyrim

The Empire had collapsed. Such was its influence that its ripples were felt across every Province:

Morrowind was in complete and utter disarray. But this primarily came by Blackmarsh's armies finally beginning their march across their borders, bolstered by a number of Dominion ships which continually raided Morrowind's coastline.

High Rock risked rupturing into a thousand pieces as it had in times before, through political squabbling.

Hammerfell, fearing they would be targeted next, expelled all Dominion influence from their land. Often forcefully. And prepared for the worst; seeming to be the only Province doing such.

But it was none of these that the Dominion had their eyes on. It was to their north; to Skyrim. First would come the quelling of Bruma, and then the way to Skyrim would be open to all.

This operation would be led by a Dominion general with deep ties to the Thalmor: an Altmer by the name of Solinar. Lord Solinar.

Skyrim was chosen due to its Civil War. As surely, by now, its contenders would only be able to offer a symbolic response, at most.

Solinar marched on Bruma. His force was a mix of Dominion troops supplemented by those of Blackmarsh. He would not admit it, but the Dominion no longer had the strength to do that which they desired without aid from others.

Bruma came into view. The lines were drawn. And all hell was let loose. But Bruma stood. It stood when its stone burst asunder under Magicka. It stood when its gate fell. It stood. From house to house; street to street, the city stood. Until it could no more, and there, it died standing.

Skyrim was next. And it offered a freezing welcome.

A welcome given when a thin band of Nords, Stormcloaks, stood in a shield wall at the mouth of the Pale Pass. Their icy blue bear banners fluttered over them. They chanted like Daedra, mimicking the Thu'um though they did not have it.

Solinar felt as if an Ice Wraith slithered down his spine. "NOW!" He ordered his exhausted forces, almost as if to stop the unease on his spine. "A hundred Septims for each dead snowback!"

His forces charged but broke off the Nord shields like water on rock. The numbers of the golden horde counted for nothing when the mountains to either side of the Stormcloaks acted as their shield siblings.

The Stormcloaks needed not even to swing their axes. Instead, they simply awaited the cold and whining wind to send the spirits of their enemies to their chosen afterlife.

The cold-blooded Argonians had a particular struggle, but the same was said for all the other Dominion races; who much preferred the temperate temperatures of their homelands. Clearly, the will of Men had not yet been broken entirely.

Solinar ordered his forces to withdraw and set up camp, keeping a few dozen archers to fire on the Nords to keep them preoccupied. Solinar intended to rest his forces and to send word for more Altmer mages who would surely break the shield wall.

The mages arrived early the next morning, but the pale light revealed the Stormcloaks to be gone. Surely, they fled back to their families after truly realising what they were up against.

Solinar ordered an advance of all his forces, refusing to pack up his camp; assuming he would not need to for the little that lay left ahead. His arrogance was punished the moment he stepped into the Pass.

Arrows, boulders, rocks, and stones riveted Solinar's force. The objects fell from the peak of the Pass and other places far above Solinar's reach. The Dominion troops collapsed over one another to escape, and when they did, they found themselves at the foot of Falkreath Hold.

The roads were far too treacherous to set up camp. The goal for Solinar now was to take Falkreath and use it as a foothold for more Dominion forces to pass through.

Stone soon gave way to tall trees shrouded in a melancholic mist. But nought was thick enough for Solinar's sharp eyes to see the thatched tops of houses belonging to Falkreath. Only, once again, he was welcomed by Stormcloaks.

The very same which had held the Pass just the day before. Solinar nonchalantly called up his mages, "Burn them." He smirked.

The Stormcloaks were unflinching as the mages stood before them and readied their spells. All until, suddenly, an unknown group not belonging to the Nords charged out from the trees and surgically pierced straight through Solinar's forces, severing them in half. Legate Rikke led them.

For they were Legionnaires. Legionnaires of the Imperial Legion. And it was learned that the Stormcloaks were their brothers. United in a common cause against this new enemy. Against Solinar. The red and black banners of the Legion cracked in the wind alike Cyrodiil risen again. Solinar was stunned. His command failed.

The Stormcloaks lowered their shields and revealed the one that led them. The lieutenant of Ulfric Stormcloak himself: Galmar Stone-Fist. And with a smirk on his face that looked like he had stolen it straight from Solinar and placed it on his own.

"Whatcha say, lads?!" Galmar said. raising his mighty axe above his head, "How about we give these knife-eared milk drinkers a lesson they won't soon forget?!"

The Nords bellowed like beasts before breaking their ranks and charging headfirst into their enemy, bursting them open like a walnut against a hammer; delving so deep that it was not long until the Stormcloaks were fighting side by side and back to back with the Legionnaires.

The first half of the Dominion force was crushed and scattered, and the Stormcloaks and Legionnaires joined their banners in a shield wall and began to push the second half back.

Solinar called out and attempted to rally what was left of his to him, but was silenced when Galmar cut him in half from head to heel.

Panic erupted within the Solinar's ranks and they broke, fleeing back whence they came. Their terrified hollering was mockingly drowned out by the laughter of those who had defended the Pass with their rocks and arrows earlier, revealing themselves to be stoic Legionnaires and stout Stormcloaks.

Solinar's forces would not return, and Skyrim's defenders withdrew further into their concealment, readying again to strike; always.

The Dominion failed Skyrim's test. Something which surely would not have happened if its sons and daughters, both Stormcloak and Legionnaire, had not turned their swords away from one another and toward what really mattered.

But now, the golden eyes of the Dominion, so full of ire, turned west. To where the hammer fell. To where the sons of sand dwell.