A word of caution to those who do not particularly appreciate scenes of graphic violence: this chapter will contain more than a little of that, as well as a small amount of crude language. You have been warned.
That being said, to the rest of my less-squeamish readers, I hope you enjoy this chapter. (Also, I recommend you don't start the music until about just a little over halfway into the chapter. It ended up being far longer than expected.)
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The early morning mist cast an otherworldly gloom across the dull colored greenish-tan grass, contrasting greatly with the brighter colors of the slowly approaching dawn. Tangerine and lavender tinted the sky above the horizon, chasing away the dull bluish-grey, and the faint but persistent carnelian glow of the slowly rising sun returned some color to the dull-looking world the night created. The air was particularly heavy with the smell of recent rainfall and uncommonly damp earth, and at this time, only a few birds had resumed their daily melodies, though the insects made up for their absence with a slightly cacophonous din of their own. Drops of the previous night's rainfall still remained on several of the branches of the great hemlocks and other evergreens surrounding Falkreath Hold, as if their fronds were like hands, clutching at the droplets like pearls or some other valuable resource. It was a morning equal parts dreary and pleasant-though the guardsman posted out at the gate seemed to only be affected by its unpleasantness.
The young man in question was attempting to stamp out the slight chill that had been plaguing him since earlier that night, as the days were growing both shorter and colder as Frostfall approached, and it hadn't helped that the poor fellow had been duty-bound to stand out in the rain for a few hours too long. And, not only were his clothes damp and his muscles cramped, he found himself sorely in need of sleep, though his discomfort helped him evade that desire somewhat. Both uncomfortable and bored out of his mind, the guard had taken to observing a brightly hued grass-green grasshopper perched on one of the undercrossing beams of Falkreath's fortified bridge-gate, rubbing a leg against its forewings as it seemed to sense no signs of danger. It wasn't particularly interesting in any way, but it was more entertaining to watch than the unmoving road, so he watched it chirr idly, arms crossed as he leaned against the thick wooden post next to the gate. He knew his shift couldn't possibly be that much longer, and found himself growing more and more restless as time crawled along, eager to get indoors and get some much-needed sleep.
Suddenly, the cricket sprung from its perch as the sound of approaching footsteps reached the guardsman's ears. Standing to attention at once, he turned towards the sound, his mossy green eyes shining with relief upon seeing a similarly dressed individual moving towards him rather hurriedly. Judging by the unprofessionally disheveled state of their uniform and nervous gait, it was easy for him to guess just who had been sent to relieve him of watch duty. A tired smile flitted across his features as he greeted his rather incompetent friend, saying, "'Darich! About time you got your lazy arse out here. Wasn't sure how much longer I was going to be able to keep my eyes open. What kept you?"
"Sorry about that, Andor," the other guardsman replied somewhat sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck before continuing, "I think I overslept."
"That's an understatement," Andor replied with a good-natured laugh, raising a hand before Darich could apologize, "But it doesn't matter, honestly. I'm just glad you came at all. Else I might've fallen asleep out here, and then Eiláfr would've had my head for it."
"Honest, I think he would've gotten after us both, once he figured out someone else was supposed to be here. The man's obsession with order is concerning. But still, there's got to be something I can do to make up for this. I mean, I guess I could try to take the next watch a bit early, or something?"
Noting the none-too-eager expression on Darich's face despite his generous offer, Andor shook his head slightly, saying, "A trip to Dead Man's Drink tonight would be more than enough of an apology. I think we could both use a couple pints to stave off the damp chill of this lovely Hold," he responded, his tone growing somewhat sarcastic as he finished.
"I can absolutely manage that," Darich agreed eagerly, "My treat."
"I was hoping you'd say that. Anyways, I'd better go. Hope no savage beasts show up while I'm gone," Andor teased as he took his leave, already anticipating the relief a well-deserved rest would soon bring him.
As he ambled back towards the barracks, Andor removed his somewhat vision-restricting helm, allowing his curly, albeit somewhat tangled, ash-blond locks to tumble down to rest just below his shoulders. He tilted his head backwards slightly and lifted his shoulders in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension that had built up in his body during his shift as he walked, vertebrae cracking somewhat noisily as he did so. Letting out a relieved sigh, Andor's thoughts wandered back towards sleep, though he also found himself growing increasingly bored with how uniform his days had become. Ever since joining the Falkreath guard, his days had consisted of very little other than work, sleep, and uninteresting meals, with only the occasional drink. The promise of a drink with Darich later had to be the most exciting thing that had happened to him that week alone-perhaps even all month, not counting Jarl Siddgeir's somewhat entertaining alcohol-induced episode a fortnight prior. Gone were the days of trips out to the hot springs or futile attempts to capture and tame wolves that had amused him so much in his adolescence, and he was beginning to miss it. Nothing ever happened in Falkreath itself, and the general lack of variation and liveliness of the settlement was becoming a bit maddening to the young man. Even bandits seemed to have better things to do than attempt to sack a village whose greatest claim to fame was their cemetery-ruins would be far easier to loot, in most cases, and it was not as if there was anything of considerable value to take in the first place. The hold was just as dead as the inhabitants of their considerable burial grounds, as far as he was concerned, and even now, its citizens were little more than ghosts, largely forgotten even by their own province.
And, on the subject of ghosts, the youth thought to himself upon reaching the guards' rather humble quarters, pulling himself from his dissatisfied musing, it seems Haldor is up and about early again. Poor fellow. Can't even imagine what sort of horrors he's been through.
The individual in question was currently seated on a rough hewn chair that had been angled so that he was facing the rising sun, his gaunt, slightly-hollowed features and stringy, unwashed chestnut hair only accenting the dullness of his deep brown eyes and truly giving him the appearance of a dead man walking. Not surprising in the slightest, considering he had been one of the few survivors of the Forsworn occupation of Markarth. It was something they had asked him very little about, as initial attempts to gain any information from Haldor on the matter proved to be both unhelpful and highly unpleasant for him. Andor could not even imagine what he had lived through that left him this much of a passionless husk, and when comparing what happened to Markarth with the tediousness of Falkreath, he decided he would take the latter any day. Presently, the former Markarth guardsman was staring off listlessly into the distance, seeming both restless and void of purpose as he gazed at nothing in particular, almost as if transfixed by something Andor could not see.
The young man frowned at this, deciding it might be best to try and snap the troubled fellow out of, well, whatever was eating away at him at the moment. "Hey... You alright there?" He asked tentatively, attempting not to alarm the man as he walked over to him.
Haldor started at his query nevertheless, though relaxing visibly shortly after his eyes settled upon a familiar face. "I-Yeah," he said slowly, his gaze darting nervously back over towards the horizon before returning to the blond-haired Nord, "Just been thinking."
"Fine, then," Andor replied, an awkward silence settling between them until he added, "I'll be inside. Let me know if you need anything."
Just as he had pushed open the door to the barracks and was about to step inside, Haldor spoke suddenly and urgently, freezing the young man in his tracks, "Wait. Yes, there is something I'd like to ask you."
To Andor's confusion, Haldor had leapt to his feet, now looking intently off into the distance, suspicion and a sliver of fear visible in his once despondent, vacant-looking features. The blond raised an eyebrow at his actions, more than a little concerned for his comrade's sanity until Haldor spoke again. "If you would, look to the south. Notice anything unusual?"
Deciding there was no harm in humoring that request, he moved to stand next to Haldor, squinting slightly as he scanned the area in question for signs of anything remotely troublesome. Andor did not expect that he would find anything out of the ordinary, at first, so when his gaze settled on what appeared to be a cloud of smoke off in the distance, he rubbed at his eyes vigorously, believing what that he saw was merely a result of a lack of sleep. But when he reopened them, the haze had not vanished, and a perplexed frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah," he responded slowly, "The smoke?"
"So I'm not imagining it," Haldor mused, adding in a surprisingly insistent tone, "Unless I'm mistaken, Falkreath isn't dry enough to have forest fires. We should investigate."
"Agreed." Andor was a bit put off by having to postpone his much-needed rest yet again, but at the same time, he was incredibly curious-if not tentatively excited. Finally, something was happening in his sleepy little corner of the world, and he was going to the first to find out what it was.
The two guardsmen moved at an easy jog towards the steadily growing cloud of grey-black smoke, Andor replacing his helm with some reluctance as they drew closer to its source. They passed the post where Darich was supposed to be standing watch, and the blond noticed with some anxiety that his friend seemed to have left his post. Darich might be a bit irresponsible, but he wasn't a flake or a slacker. He must have gone off to investigate the fumes, too, Andor theorized, his eagerness now motivated somewhat by worry over his friend's well-being. I hope he hasn't done anything particularly stupid yet. Not without me, anyways.
They continued on in apprehensive silence for a few minutes, the tension in the air palpable as the smoke grew nearer to them, the forest seeming deceptively peaceful and undisturbed in contrast to the men's imaginings. Both of them were very much on edge, and, when a figure came hurtling out from the nearby woods, Haldor was an instant away from cutting them down, his hand halting only thanks to the familiarity of the individual's resulting cry of surprise. He lowered his weapon just as Andor realized that they were staring at a very out-of-breath Darich, his eyes wide with fear. The blond knew his friend to be one who did not scare easily, so seeing this made his gut twist with anxiety as he started to ask, "Theodarich, what's gotten into you? Why'd you leave your post-"
"I... I can't even begin to explain it... Just come on, both of you. You need to see this."
With that, he started back off into the woods at breakneck speed, and the other two found themselves forced to follow him at a similar pace, both fearing whatever it was they would soon see. Andor wove around tree trunks and thick, prickly undergrowth as he tried his utmost to keep up with his friend, and Haldor lagged only slightly behind, his inability to look after himself having taken a noticeable toll on his stamina. Despite their best efforts, Darich still managed to have a considerable lead, and they only managed to fully catch up with him when he finally came to a stop on a small, rocky ledge that jutted out from the considerably tall and forested hill. This shelf gave the three a relatively unrestricted view of the land and all its features-as well as its destruction. It was now that the young guardsman discovered the source of the smoke, as something, no, someone, was in the process of cutting a wide yet well-controlled swath through the thick, coniferous forests with a hungry looking blaze, a process that was rather suggestive of the involvement of some form of magic.
But the fires were the least of his worries.
Marching straight towards Falkreath was a force of a few hundred men, clearly armed and of malicious intent, and, from what Andor could tell, they were dressed in the traditional garb of Reachmen. The same Reachmen that Jarl Siddgeir had been content to ignore, even when informed they might be a threat. He had ignored his advisors, and no preparations had been made concerning the matter. And now, they were here. As things were now, Falkreath was practically at their mercy.
"Holy shit," Andor breathed, watching the Forsworn advance in horrified awe, finding himself unable to look away from their wanton destruction.
"No... Gods, not again!" The cry tore itself from Haldor's throat, and the blond looked over to see that a look of agonizing consternation wrack the dark-haired man, unconsciously raising a tightly clenched fist to his mouth as he gazed out at the quickly approaching foes, his eyes equal parts fury and despair, "I can't... They can't...!"
"Listen, there's still time," Andor amended quickly, not wanting to have to deal with older man having a breakdown on top of this new and unpleasant discovery, "We need to head back and warn everyone, now."
"Damn right we do," Darich replied vehemently, "I can't believe this! Siddgeir said they'd pass us by for Whiterun! Apparently, that's not at all the case! I'd like to see what the lazy bastard has to say for himself now."
"Don't you get it?" Haldor half muttered, half exclaimed, "You can't stop them. No one can. They're too powerful, and there are far too many of them coming for us even for the guard to be able to defeat. Falkreath is doomed. Don't you get it? We're all going to die!"
"Can you please not talk like that?" Darich responded, grimacing, "You sound hysterical, and don't you have more reason than anyone to want to stop this? Snap out of it and, for the love of Shor, try to be helpful for once in your life!"
That seemed to have an effect on the former Markarth guard. For the time being, he seemed to snap out of his terrified daze, as he seemed to finally regaining his composure, or, rather, what was left of it. Haldor squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before speaking. "You're right. I'm sorry. We should go."
Darich and Andor did not have to be told twice. Time passed in what was simultaneously a blur and an eternity before they stumbled back across the road into their Hold, and by the time they'd returned, it seemed that their absence had been noted. The Captain of the Guard, Eiláfr, was standing at the south gate, a thunderous look on his weathered, sun-damaged face as he regarded the three rapidly approaching guardsmen. Despite his deceptively grey hair and beard and somewhat grizzled appearance, he was a man of discipline and great strength, something time had not been given the ability to impede overmuch thanks to his iron will, though it had managed to shorten his temper considerably. He appeared to be on the verge of berating and condemning the absentees to Oblivion by the time he finally noticed their terrified expressions, and his scowl lessened ever so slightly as he regarded them suspiciously.
"And just what have you lot been up to?"
"We've spotted a large force of Forsworn troops headed north. Towards Falkreath. I estimate about two to three hundred of them were present. We need to assemble the rest of the guard," Haldor asserted before the other two could so much as think of forming a response, taking control of the situation with an unexpected determination about him.
From the change that had been instilled in Haldor, Eiláfr must have realized that something was terribly wrong, and his ire quickly faded into an annoyed sort of scepticism, "You're sure about this? If I find out that this is just some elaborate 'prank'-"
"It's not. Trust me. We saw them out there. There's not much time," Darich interrupted the older man, sounding less than amused by the accusation, "If we don't act now, they'll be upon us before we even have a plan of action."
Thankfully, it looked like that was explanation enough for Eiláfr. "In that case, I'll assemble the rest of the guard, and we'll meet at the garrison in roughly five minutes. In the meantime, I trust you can gather up all the civilians. I get the feeling we should have them evacuate the city... to avoid unnecessary casualties," he hesitated slightly, his frown deepening.
A chorus of yes, sir!'s came in response, and the three dispersed to carry out their respective tasks. They all felt ill at ease as they ruminated on what was to come, fear eating away at the corner of their consciousness despite their best efforts to extinguish it; they knew just what they were up against, and they were afraid.
~~~~~
"My thane, with all due respect, have you completely lost your mind? You're honestly going to stay here?" Rayya practically shouted at the imperial, who was currently in the process of donning their armor, exasperation and worry clear on her face as she continued, "You need to leave with everyone else. It's Siddgeir's job to deal with this threat, and it's high time you stopped standing in for him and trying to compensate for his poor leadership and management skills. And the people will need someone like you in the event that Falkreath does fall. Who will they be able to look to if you're-"
The imperial rolled her iron-grey eyes as she tugged on a steel-toed boot, cutting off her housecarl mid-rant, "That's why you'll be going with them. There's nobody here I trust more than you, Rayya. You're sensible, you're strong, you've got everything it takes to effectively take charge. You'd be just as good, if not better, of an authority figure than I'd ever be, and besides, the guards are going to need all the help they can get with this Forsworn invasion business. I'm going to be with them, and that's final."
The redguard let out a disbelieving, unamused laugh in response. "Do you honestly think I'd let you go out to fight alone? If so, you don't know me nearly well enough as you claim that you do, Naevia. I'll not let you throw yourself into a battle with the odds stacked against you, least of all without me. If I can't talk enough sense into you that you agree to leave with the other residents, I sure as all Oblivion am not going to leave you behind."
"I appreciate the sentiment, but I have to do this, and you have to go. Besides, I can hardly allow Titus to stay here. I'm sorry to have to ask this of you, but I need you to make sure he stays safe," the imperial stated, having finished donning her armor and beginning to plait her hair expertly and efficiently. Her tone was one that, to her dissatisfaction, Rayya knew all too well, one of unyielding stubbornness and resignation to whatever she was to face. It was one of her thane's greatest weaknesses, as well as a strength, although she feared it might be the former in this case.
"How do you know that he'll even agree to leave with me, especially once he knows you're staying behind? Wouldn't anyone want to stay and fight side by side with their sibling, rather than running off and leaving them to die? I'm not saying I wouldn't look after him for you, if you're really going to insist on doing this, but could you at least think of the impact your choice will have on him?"
That seemed to put a dent in Naevia's pig-headed resistance to Rayya's logical argument, her dedication to her 'honor-bound' duties seeming somewhat foolish as she wavered visibly in her resolve. "Leave it to you to bring things like that up..." She sighed, taking a few moments to compose an argument before replying, "Look, things probably aren't as bad as we were told. It's probably just a band of scouts, or something. I highly doubt there are hundreds advancing on us right now, but still, just to be safe, you both should leave. If there's even a chance we're outnumbered, I want you to be well on your way to Whiterun."
"But you might be-"
"I know. It's a risk I'm willing to take."
"But I'm not!"
"I... I know. I'm sorry," Naevia hesitated, seeming terribly conflicted as her hands dropped to her sides and she turned to face her dear companion, biting the side of her lip, "But things will be fine. I know it. Make sure the evacuation group heads to Whiterun, and as soon as I get this mess cleaned up I'll be there to fetch you myself. I promise."
It was clear Rayya didn't believe things would be anywhere near that simple, but she seemed to finally relent, replying with a tired, small-sounding, "You'd better. I'll be waiting."
The auburn-haired imperial relaxed visibly and her features brightened ever so slightly as her housecarl relented, seeming more than a bit relieved by her response. "Well, I should be off to find Eiláfr. Travel safe," she said just a bit too casually as she secured her sheathed steel gladius at her waist, her mouth set in a grim line in preparation for whatever she would soon be facing.
A painful silence stretched between them for a few moments, however, as both Rayya and Naevia found themselves unable to make the first move towards the exit of their shared residence. Then, overcome with emotion and a hint of desperation, the imperial moved towards her closest friend and enveloped her in a crushing embrace, knocking the redguard off balance for a few moments in her surprise. It did not take long for her to reciprocate the hug, however, and the two remained like this for a brief eternity, clinging to each other as tightly as they both held onto the hope that this would not be their last memory of one another.
They broke away reluctantly, the imperial's face hardening into an expressionless mask as she turned towards the door, steeling herself as much for her sake as well as that of the guardsmen she was going to be fighting alongside. She stepped out into the chaos of the evacuating citizens and militiamen, and all at once, it seemed to dissipate somewhat at her very appearance. She moved with purpose towards the guardhouse, where the majority of the young servicemen and women had already gathered, many of them appearing more than a bit anxious. Naevia's presence seemed to dispel some of their worries, and many faces brightened considerably at her approach-it became very apparent to her that they were waiting for her to do something, most likely in the form of issuing a speech or other form of encouragement.
She was not prepared to do something of that nature. But, like so many things she had accomplished in the recent past, she would have to endeavor once again to excel in the responsibilities of the one who really should be in charge. And it appeared that he had not yet bothered to exit his longhouse, despite likely being the first to know of this grim new development. Or, perhaps, he had abandoned the city himself already. With Siddgeir, it was difficult to tell whether he was a coward or just a prideful fool.
Naevia breathed in deeply, taking a few moments to gather her thoughts and plan out a structure for her subsequent speech beforehand. "My friends, comrades, and neighbors, I am well aware of what manner of threat we will be facing," She began, the words coming more naturally to her as she continued to speak, "And I speak sincerely when I say that I believe that we are likely to succeed in our defense of our homes. There is too much at stake for our families and livelihoods, as well as those of the rest of the residents of Skyrim, for us to allow these bloodthirsty, uncivilized rebels to advance any further. We have every advantage fighting on our own soil, and I find it hard to believe that they would not be exhausted by their trek from the Reach. There is more than a chance that we will win this day! Together, we can drive these hide-clad heathens away-and show the rest of Tamriel that Falkreath is not so easily cowed. Are you with me?" She finished, drawing her sword from its sheath and thrusting it into the air emphatically.
The small crowd that had gathered to hear her speak let out an affirmative, passionate roar in response, cheers and ardent exclamations of certain individuals managing to puncture the din. The imperial was relieved by such an overwhelmingly positive response, and began to feel slightly more optimistic herself as she watched the spirited outburst. Out of the corner of her eye, the imperial noticed the civilian group preparing to depart, a few guards going along to offer protection, and she was pleased to see that her housecarl had not come up with any last-minute plans to stay behind. However, going along with her much less willingly was her adolescent brother, who, unfortunately, seemed to have spotted her. His deep brown eyes shone with hurt and fear as his gaze locked with hers, and, despite Rayya's best efforts to keep a hold on one of his arms, he broke away, calling her name as he attempted to run towards her.
"Naevia!"
Though it just about broke her heart to do this, she turned her back on her brother and waded into the throng of green-clothed soldiers, purposefully ignoring his cries. She didn't have time to try and explain things to him herself. Anything she could say to him at this point, or not say, would only hurt him. She just barely heard him call for her a couple more times before he began to let out annoyed protests, letting her know the potential issue of having to tell him what she was about to do had passed. Letting out a barely audible sigh, she pushed the guilt and regret over her actions out of her mind, focusing entirely on tracking down Eiláfr, whom she hadn't spotted in the throng of now battle-ready guardsmen.
Thankfully, it did not take her long to find him, as the door to the Jarl's quarters banged open violently, the fuming captain of the guard storming out with all the ire of a dragon with wings bristling with arrows. She hastened to meet him as he moved towards the rest of his men, and upon noticing her approach, the greying swordsman called out exasperatedly, "The fool isn't budging from his damned throne. We'll see where that will get him once this blows over. If we both survive this mess, he's gonna have quite the time trying to hang onto his title with far more competent people around."
"Can't say his response surprises me," Naevia let out a humorless chuckle as she fell into step behind the seasoned fighter, "I trust that we'll be able to make do without his 'guidance', though. What's the plan?"
"We have a bit of an advantage over them, considering they won't expect us to be prepared. If we send some men to wait in the woods on either side of the main path, I don't doubt we can make a significant impact on the size of their forces, and will definitely take them by surprise. I'll put you in charge of those men, if you wouldn't object to that. Our main focus should be protecting the south gate, however. Ideally, if they are not allowed to break through, the city will sustain minimal to no damage. Archers will be stationed on the top of the wall and we have just enough people to make a solid wall of fighters around the entrance. If they can hold their ground after your group thins out the sheer numbers of the Forsworn, we may very well win this."
"I'd be glad to help any way I can."
"Good," Eiláfr responded, the hard lines of his face accentuated by his expression of authoritative concentration, "Take eleven men with you outside the gates. Station six of them to either the east or west, and join whichever side has one less fighter. I'm counting on you to make them hurt before they even reach our Hold."
"They won't even know what hit them," Naevia promised as she headed back towards the group of energized guardsmen, calling out assertively, "Hey! Eleven of you, come with me. We're going to get the drop on these Forsworn on their way here. We'll make them rue the day they tried to take our homes!"
A murmur of agreement came in reply as her volunteers stepped forward, coming to stand by her in a show of absolute solidarity. A ghost of a smile appeared on her face at their willing compliance, and, somewhat more quietly, she added, "It'll be a pleasure to fight alongside you all."
Together, the group of protectors and warriors set out for their respective positions, making haste to get there. Time would not wait for them. It had never been on their side to begin with.
~~~~~
The conifers were ablaze, the sounds of crackling wood and hungry flames punctuated only by the sounds of those fighting or dying within the depths of the nearby woods. It had only been a few minutes since the planned ambush had taken place. Things had gone relatively well at first. The men out in the forests had been holding their ground admirably against the first wave of Forsworn.
Then the Centurions arrived.
There were only two of them, but that was enough to tilt the odds vastly in the favor of the Forsworn. The guardsmen didn't stand a chance when the automatons joined the fight. Dwarven metal sliced through steel and iron effortlessly as they went after their respective targets, the terrified and agonized screams of men and women not yet prepared to die filling the air as they smashed and burned their victims, their movements causing the very earth to tremor in their wake.
Naevia had been struck dumb by their arrival, her blood turning to ice as she looked upon the technology these 'heathens' had at their disposal. Her sword felt useless, and her armor was little better than rags against these near indomitable giants. This is it. This is how I die, she caught herself thinking rather fatalistically as uncontrolled chaos erupted all around her. Disturbed by her loss of faith, the imperial forced herself to snap out of it, looking around the newly-made war zone she now stood in. Anger boiled within her as she realized she had been standing idly by as a heavily wounded guard was being chased down by one of the metallic monstrosities, and a newfound source of strength pushed her into a more aggressive mood. She had promises to keep, after all. "Stendarr guide me," she breathed uncertainly before proceeding to charge the nearest dwemeri construct.
She came at it from the side, severing the exposed wires on its hammer-shaped arm before it could smite a retreating guard. It turned, its hollow eyes landing on her and identifying her as a threat, and it hissed, almost as if in warning. Naevia anticipated the steam and bolted out of the way just as the construct released a concentrated stream of the stuff. The centurion started to turn to face her, and in response, she darted around it in an attempt to take out another limb from behind. It had anticipated this, however, and it swung its remaining arm as it turned to face her rapidly. It defied the laws of anatomy as its torso rotated with alarming speed, and its wickedly-sharp battle-axe connected with her midsection, slicing through her armor like a knife through butter. Unconsciously, she let out a tormented shriek that gave many a fighter pause as they heard it, the great force behind the blow sending her flying backwards.
When she hit the ground, Naevia Tacitallus landed in two different places, her torso and legs now quite separate from one another.
She had been near the last of her 'division' to fall, and those remaining had no desire to stay and fight when they discovered their champion dead.
Eiláfr had seemed to sense things were going badly for them, as he chose that moment to issue a command from his position on top of the southern wall. "Naevia's men! Fall back!"
A few battered-looking guardsmen were quick to respond to Eiláfr's command, scrambling to relative safety as they ran back towards their second line of defense, those wounded particularly badly intending to seek some solace within the near-abandoned city. However, they seemed to know they had merely delayed the inevitable, and the remaining guardians of the city did not seem optimistic about their chances, either.
Andor and his friend had chosen to stand beside one another upon being stationed in front of the gate, and the nord's heart clenched painfully within his chest as the sight of the woods he'd grown up playing in being turned into a battleground registered within his mind. He had wanted some excitement, but nothing like this. He cursed himself for ever being discontent with his lot in life.
"Andor?"
He was vaguely aware that Darich was attempting to speak with him, and managed a rather preoccupied and faint sound of acknowledgement.
"How in Oblivion do you think the Forsworn got those things?" His friend asked, "And is there any way we can even take them down?"
"I... I don't know," he replied slowly, watching their enemies advance towards them. His resolve hardened suddenly as hate towards the Reachmen blossomed within him, and he added, "But you can bet I'm going to do my damndest to keep them out of our city."
"So will I. We'll bring them all to their knees together, then?"
"Yeah. Together," Andor said, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards underneath his helm.
The Reachmen had gathered into something barely resembling an orderly formation, the two Centurions taking the lead. However, a third figure appeared from amidst the hazy inferno to join them, humanoid in figure but sporting sizable antlers. As they became separate from the gloom, the sun revealed the elk's skull mask obscuring their face from view and their intimidating, commanding stature. He was clothed in armor made of bones and metal melded together, the starkness of its color indicating he had yet to be particularly involved in the fight. He radiated an aura of otherworldly presence and power, and dread seeped into every fibre of Andor's being at the mere sight of this otherworldly individual. Flames billowed from between the fingers of one of his clenched fists, his other hand firmly gripping a sword that he pointed at the wall of intimidated guardsmen, shouting something back at the other daedra-worshipping rebels as he did so. They let out a fearsome cry in response, and all at once, they surged forwards towards their enemies.
Despite whatever terror they felt at the approach of the Forsworn horde, the Falkreath guard rushed to meet the invaders. Looters, pillagers, and scouts flowed forwards past their leader and the constructs, eager to break into the city, taunting their opponents and shouting only half-empty threats as they made their attack. Andor engaged with one of these individuals, one whose wild and overzealous thrusts and swings would be their end. Their carelessness led them to all but impale themselves on his blade up to the hilt. The young man watched them crumple in a mixture of horror and relief, swaying slightly at the sight of the odd light in the dying Forsworn's eyes. Bile rose in his throat as he slowly removed his sword from the now cooling cadaver, and he tried not to retch as blood gushed from the weeping, jagged tear in its chest. His breath came in quick, shaky gasps as he became fully aware of what had happened. This was his first time killing another human being, and he felt as if a piece of his humanity just died along with his foe.
"Andor!" Darich's cry was enough to snap the nord out of his daze, and almost instantly he realized why his friend had called out to him.
One of the centurions loomed above him. He stumbled backwards a few steps as it let out a great blast of steam, though he was unable to avoid being hit by the scalding, humid air. His skin blistered and reddened painfully under the heat, and he suddenly found it incredibly difficult to see. Terrified, he tripped over something-whether it was his own feet or the dead Forsworn, he couldn't tell-and fell to the ground, dropping his weapon as he blindly attempted to stand back up. There was a hiss and the sound of gears clanking, and something hit him with an unexpected amount of force, sending him sprawling several yards from where he'd fallen. He was shocked to find himself more or less unharmed, and that whatever had hit him had traveled along with him. Andor blinked rapidly, trying to regain his sight as whatever it was suddenly disentangled itself from him.
When he could see again, he saw Darich standing above him, chest heaving visibly as he offered him a hand. A relieved, shaky smile appeared on Andor's face as he accepted it, beginning to pull himself up just as he noticed the alarmed expression in his friend's eyes. A blossom of carmine appeared on the green cloth of Darich's cuirass at his midsection, and a few seconds later, a bright, golden-brown spike emerged from that spot. The young man's hand fell to his side and his mace clattered from his grasp as the centurion brought its arm back, leaving him to sink to his knees, clutching uselessly at the gaping wound.
"Theodarich! Gods, no!" Andor cried, tears springing to his eyes as his friend's lifeblood spilled out before him, feeling powerless to help him. He was on his feet at once and grabbed the dying guard by his shoulders, attempting to steady him, "Darich, please! This can't be happening! Don't... I couldn't bear it if..."
Darich attempted to say something in response, but promptly fell forwards into his kneeling friend's chest, his eyes rolling upwards as he lost consciousness. A wave of conflicting and overpowering emotions wracked Andor as he held his dying brother-in-arms, and he let out a cry of pure, raw, anguish. Regret, grief, and fury battled for dominance in his soul as he looked up at the Centurion, that was now moving an arm back with the intent of running him through as well. With some reluctance he let go of his friend, rising and quickly snatching up his sword. Rage blazed deep within his soul, and he forgot about all his minor injuries as he faced the metal fiend. With a fierce yell, he ran at the centurion and latched onto its broken arm, clambering up onto its shoulder. From there, he hacked and slashed at the exposed gears and metal plates making up the creatures' metallic ligaments and tendons, and while the steel of his sword chipped and dented from his ferocity, its shoulder began to fall apart.
The other guards seemed to notice his actions, and a rallying cheer went up amongst them as he broke into the creature's back, exposing the pulsing red core to the world. He ripped the sphere from its socket with great ferocity, and the Centurion deactivated instantly. Andor's hand was bleeding profusely from digging through moving gears, but he didn't care, as vengeance had been served, and the metal terrors could be defeated. He rose from the back of the ruined construct slowly but with purpose, tossing down the metal 'heart' and crushing it under his boot. With his half-ruined sword in hand, he started towards the fray once more.
Little did he know he had caught the attention of the elk-skulled man. The Forsworn champion stalked towards the unsuspecting guardsman like a predatory animal, the now rather dry ground underneath his feet catching fire with each footfall. With almost otherworldly speed, he lunged at Andor, a burning, vengeful ire visible in his eyes. The nord had no time to react as he was grabbed from behind, a startled yell beginning to escape him. It cut off quickly, however, as the Forsworn slit his throat in one clean, swift motion. They released their hold on Andor, and he crumpled to the ground, gasping painfully for breath. Before darkness overcame him, he caught a glimpse of his attacker, and the last thing he felt was fear as they approached him yet again.
With palpable disgust, the elk-skulled man kicked the cadaver out of his way, taking in the carnage he was surrounded by. Andor's death seemed to have impacted the remaining guardsmen, and, where just moments before they had rallied at his success, fear had set in once more-and it was more evident than before. He was displeased by the dent they'd put in his numbers, but he supposed it could not be helped, given some of his underlings' fanatical 'death or glory' philosophies. Nevertheless, there were only slightly under a dozen guards left, most of whom were archers stationed at the top of their meager fortifications. The corner of the forsworn commander's mouth twitched upwards as he made a gesture to the remaining centurion, and it moved forwards, moving at an alarming speed as it crashed into Falkreath's wooden walls.
The guardsmen cried out in alarm as the platforms they were standing on cracked and splintered under the centurion's attack. Many clung to the railing and supports desperately as the wooden planks underneath them gave way and sunk inwards, but most fell a painful distance to the ground below, where they were dealt with swiftly by the invaders. Eiláfr had been standing on the ramparts himself, and was one of the number who lost their footing. It happened so suddenly he couldn't think to react, and ended up landing on his side amidst the rubble of his Hold's last defense. He was badly bruised by this fall, but he seemed to have emerged from it relatively unharmed in comparison to what had happened to many of his men. Desperation and loathing fueling him, the older man got to his feet, picking up his battleaxe and steeling himself to face the swarm of incoming Forsworn. Though his side was most definitely losing, he was not about to go down without a fight. He took the lives of eight Reachmen before finally being done in by the centurion itself. It crushed him, and a couple injured forsworn troops, under its feet as it started into the town, now entirely unhindered by the fleeing remnants of Falkreath's protectors.
The elk-skulled man was one of the first to enter the city, though, unlike his underlings, he did not chase after the retreating guardsmen. They were not worthy of his attention, and there was still one important task for him to accomplish before the Hold truly belonged to the Reachmen-to him. He strode purposefully towards the Jarl's longhouse, his mind seeming to be entirely consumed by this one task. The masked conqueror grinned as he discovered that the Jarl's housecarl awaited him at the foot of the stairs to the great building. The defender appeared to be unnerved by the Reachman's appearance, but stood his ground, drawing his axe as he shouted, "Stop! In the name of the Jarl, you will not go any furth-"
He was cut down before he finished speaking, staining the wooden stairs underneath him a deep crimson. His killer did not bother to avoid stepping on him on his way up, his boots making an unpleasant sound as he crossed over the nord's cadaver.
The door was blasted from its hinges, flames spreading hungrily across its wooden surface as it clattered across the floor. Jarl Siddgeir started from his throne, surprise and terror warring on his face as he stared at the apparition-like being that had just intruded upon his home. His steward had left with the others; he would be facing this dangerous individual alone. The Jarl tried to keep his hands from shaking as he drew his ceremonial sword for the first time in months, knowing full well it likely would not do him any good. "You... you killed Helvard... What do you want with me?" He blurted as the Forsworn moved towards him menacingly, brandishing his weapon clumsily.
"I would think you know full well why I'm here, Siddgeir," the elk-skulled man replied evenly, "And really, I ought to thank you. You've made things so much easier for me than you could ever imagine."
Siddgeir let out an unpleasant sound that was somewhere between disgust and terror in response, and stumbled backwards as the reachman moved even closer. He was met with a roaring inferno, and let out a scream of agony as flames hungrily consumed his flesh and ornate robes. The former Jarl was reduced to a blackened, flaking cadaver within a matter of seconds, and even his circlet had not weathered the intense heat unchanged. The gold had softened considerably, and the decadent emeralds that had once sat upon his brow now slid down with the melted metal, glittering in the low light in such a way that they resembled tears.
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While Helvia's been slacking off and making new friends, the Forsworn have been hard at work. And they're making a great deal of progress, too, don't you think?
This is, by far, the longest... thing... I've ever written. I hope no other chapters in this fanfiction (save perhaps the last few) ever get this long again. And @MountainGreen, guess this chapter answers one of your questions, albeit in a rather detailed and roundabout way, haha.
I wanted to have more than one chapter finished by the time I posted this, but unfortunately, I was not able to-for reasons that are probably painfully obvious. I cannot in good faith promise regular updates, but hope the holiday season will provide me with more time in which I can make such a thing a tangible reality.
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QUESTIONS:
Question (From Underestimated_Nerd for Nightbrook): Secretly and quietly tell me what it would take to get you back into the mortal plane and back to Helvia. Do not, under any circumstances, tell Nocturnal.
Answer (By Nightbrook): It'd probably take the interference of another Daedric Prince. Or Nocturnal getting an... "idea". Both of those tend to have mixed results, however.
Question (From IMoozie for the crew): Do you know where all these questions are coming from? If not, how do you know about them in the first place?
Answer (By Helvia): I mean, we're receiving them by courier. Why we're able to answer them... Well, ya got me. By all accounts, it doesn't make sense.
Question (From BlakeK173 for Kha'Drazza): This one would like to know where you get all these scrolls.
Answer (By Kha'Drazza): Khajiit writes them herself! It is a most useful skill, though it is also one that not many seem to have in Skyrim.
Question (From ConflictedReader for Helvia): If you could trade Helgir's life for Nightbrook's, would you?
Answer (By Helvia): I don't think there are words in the Cyrodilic tongue to express how utterly depraved and disgusting that question is.
Question (From MountainGreen for Haldor): Are you okay? And where are you now?
Answer (By Haldor): I've been better. Damn the Forsworn and their ambitiousness. I just hope the folks back in the Hold were able to hold them off... I don't think I could forgive myself for leaving with the others if they didn't.
Question (From MountainGreen for Toralf): Did you get in or are you still in a bar trying to keep your balance? Also do you still think about helvia and do you wish to meet with her again?
Answer (By Toralf): I think you might want to check out "Companion", friend. There's not much of it written, but there's enough out to at least answer one of your questions.
Question (From BlackTintsMyWorld's Varyn (the Street Thief Extraordinaire) for Helvia): Do you ever think you'll meet Helgìr again?
Answer (By Helvia): Honestly? I'm not sure. Maybe. Perhaps the Dragonborn will require the assistance of the College at some time to defeat Alduin. I can only hope I'll be there if he does.
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If anyone has any more questions for anyone in Mage, feel free to ask them! If they've appeared in Mage at all, regardless of how long they were a part of the story, they're open to ask questions!
Well, as always, please do leave a vote and/or comment if you enjoyed the chapter, and see you next time! Good adventuring, dear readers!
-AA