Fantasy Tamriel: The Great War

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


A sickening creak was heard before it turned into a deafening moan. Dead Man's Drink was on the verge of complete destruction, as the roof above Drawald and the unknown enemy collapsed entirely. Quickly casting an alteration spell, Iriene focused any magical energy in her entire being on holding the debris above the two.


Iriene's necromatic spellcast proved fruitful, as Drawald's fallen comrades motioned themselves disturbingly towards the hulking enemy. Though Drawald's former brothers were undead, their Nord strength still remained completely intact as they pulled the dangerous warrior off their former brother. With a deafening roar, Drawald swung with a mighty force towards the enemy's throat. Hearing his final cry of bravery accompanied with a heavy swing with a force that cut through the air, Iriene slightly smiled almost victoriously as she continued to focus her magic on holding the falling roof.


In the back of her mind the bastard elf already realized that she would certainly perish underneath the wreckage that was about to fall above her. All along she knew she couldn't let another soul from the tavern be harmed. Even if it was a rude Nord that she had to forcefully persuade with magic, Iriene could still buy him enough time to escape the hell she created. The Altmer mage never did deserve anyone's mercy but her own. She made her final choice to sacrifice herself instead of harming another soul.

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Dead Man's Drink


11pm

Accompanied by fire, the cold music of steel rang through the tavern. Urlnach gasped as Bertha crunched through plated mail, sending a spray of hot blood from the wound. His ribs were crushed, his lungs punctured, and his mouth was overflowing with sticky red. If he survived the blow... it was unlikely he would make it through the flames.


The structure was coming down around those still left within, and from the far room a familiar scream was heard. The guard. Still shaken, he was unable to leave his room, and without help, he was now burning to death.


The other patrons inside had noticed something in all of the chaos, the cellar was left temporarily unscathed. Rallying together, several huddling locals made their way to the stairs leading down, in a desperate attempt to survive. In their way however, was a locked door leading to the outside.


Not far from this exit lay a choking man, who's throat had just been pierced with an arrow which came from the graveyard. He lay dying, unable to move. One bloodied Rogue, passed out from exertion, was being dragged by Bar-Shei who was also pulling with him one of the wounded assailants. They too were heading toward the graveyard.


At the gates however, stood Nebia and the remaining men. She cocked her head and with eyes closed took a deep breath. "He's gone." she whispered. "Our target. They killed him." She spun, angrily. "Whoever this group are, it seems they came here for the same information we did. And they have it. If not, why would they kill him?"


Straddling her horse, she beckoned to her companions and made off to the West. "We need to tell the master what happened here... she'll know what to do."


They were gone.

 

[Brinie]

Drawald Wynfled





His opponents blood splattered against his own plate mail as axe met flesh, Bertha had swung true. Drawald let out a guttural war cry the instant that his axe carved through the man's body. The battle was truly one worthy of song, he admired his work for a moment before he realized he was still in the center of an inferno caused by that damned mage. Drawald sent one last look at his fallen allies, and sent them his best wishes. May they find peace in the afterlife.


The fire was roaring now, and his escape was blocked off by rubble. With his axe still in hand, he raised it and carved through the weakened wall, as flames started to singe his skin. He turned around and took one look at the altmer mage who laid helpless in the fire of her own creation. For using the bodies of his allies as tools, he knew that she deserved to die. But, what he also knew is that he would have been dead by now if it weren't for her. He never asked for her help, and his pride prevented him from owing a debt to a dead altmer.


Drawald turned around, and walked back in to the flaming building like a lunatic. The smoke that emitted from the fire clogged his lungs and he found it difficult to breath. Drawald walked over to the woman, and wrapped her arm around his shoulder, he used his own arm to support her. Slowly, he trenched closer and closer to the exit he created. The tavern was crumbling, even faster now. A chunk of the structure fell from above and landed on top of Drawald's shoulder, he nearly fell to his knees, but the sturdy nord kept on.


He approached the makeshift exit slowly, as his vision started to become blurry. His body was finally beginning to waver. Drawald tackled the exit he created with his remaining energy mightily, finally landing on the cold earthy floor. He fell flat on his chest instantly. Pausing, he slowly turned himself on his back and began frantically coughing. Men weren't meant to walk through fire. Several new fresh burns pained his already scarred body and he found himself unable to properly breath for a moment.

 

[JR McCormick]

Fenrir


Above him, the stars twinkled playfully behind a canopy of thick cloud. His eyes flicked open for a moment, and wavered with the strain of it. He was outside, and the cool soil surrounding his body seemed full of motion. The stars too, seemed mobile. Putting one hand on the dirt, his fingers combed through leaves of grass effortlessly. Everything was in its right place. He was the one moving.


He noticed then, a gloved hand on his scruff, dragging his limp body from the inferno. "The fire," he remembered. "What happened?" his lips moved with the thought, but whether he spoke it was another question entirely. Memory seemed to flood back with painful stabbing flashes. Emotion filled his belly at the sight of two gruff forearms infront of his face. His attacker, he recalled then. Had he killed the man? The taste of iron and blood filled his mouth, though dry now and even less pleasant. Perhaps he hadn't won, after all. Maybe they had captured him and this saviour was the enemy. His heart jolted, and the blood pumped ferociously through his weak body. He had to escape. Who knew what they would do to him, or who they thought he was.


In one rabid moment, he raised his hand to the stranger and grabbed whatever morsel of cloth that hung free. His fingers gripped the fur, and tugged as he tried helplessly to pull the man from his feet. Baring his teeth, he bit down on the hand that pulled him. The texture was... unknown to him. Beneath fur and cloth was a tough exterior that made Fenrir question his action. If he had broken skin, he could not say, but in that moment he felt scared and ashamed.


"Argonian..." he mustered, "Argonian, is that you?"


Awaiting the reply, his grip loosened, and eyes fell to another body in the lizards tow. He recognised the face, though it appeared beaten and bloody.


The attacker.


Fenrir wrestled drastically to free himself, and with primal instinct alone, dove toward the other man. His hands pulled at the limp body and fists made soft thuds as he attempted to rouse him.


"Wake up you bastard! WAKE UP AND TRY THAT AGAIN! I'LL TEAR THAT FUCKING HEAD FROM YOUR SHOULDERS YOU.... you.... y...."


Without permission, his hands grew weak and flopped lazily. In but a moments passing, Fenrir's body once again belonged to Bar-Shei.

 

[Naps]

Brahiel Duskgrass





In the freezing graveyard where it's residents did not stir was one other who was nearly as still as the stone he lie against. The bleeding had all but stopped, yet something ailed the Mer with far greater pain. In his hands was a fresh chunk of ear meat. It would never be the same even if magic could mend the wound. His mind was in a weakened state, but something urged him to act. Like a ravenous beast he devoured his own flesh. Brahiel stood and gathered his equipment. He was no longer tormented by the loss and walked from the grave to the burning tavern. Seeing the Argonian, he only nodded to him before moving on. The sound of coughing lured Brahiel to the man who had destroyed his ear. Brahiel was savage in his attack as he attempted a deathblow by pulling the arrow from the man's throat. He would let the arrowhead hook into flesh as he tried to force it the opposite way it had entered. "I'll have your flesh soon enough."


With the man's death far closer, Brahiel took note of sounds coming from beyond a door. He approached it and heard banging and coughing from the other side. It came to him in an instant; the patrons from the tavern were trapped beyond the door. He pulled and pushed at the handle to no avail. Realizing it was locked, he quickly unsheathed his knife and felt for a lockpick. Searching his pouches he only found broken picks. He had moved far too roughly breaking a good many of them. Finding only two, he slowed his breathing as he began to focus on unlocking the door. He had so few tries, but there was always the possibility of forcing the lock. He doubted he had the strength to break down the door, but the locking mechanism was not such a weak thing either. The first pick broke with a snapping sound. Brahiel concentrated becoming oblivious to all else. "Last chance..."

 

[Anaxial]

Watching the world before him, the argonian drew ragged breaths as his arms screamed for release, visibly trembling from dragging the two away from the buildings, if he could sweat, he'd be drenched right about now. The burning tavern was easily 100 yards away now and he began to feel a stir in his hands. He was about to greet his awoken ally but the cold air had died his mouth and his voice failed him. He stopped dragging the two and smacked his lips, trying to find his voice. Befire he could speak however a sharp pain shot up his arm and immediately he released the Nord, wrenching his arm free of the Nord's jaws.


A few words you could assume we're less than polite were shouted out in Saxhleel, the Argonian native language. "Ack! Calm down! It is only Bar-Shei!" He shouted, giving the Nord a smile when he was recognized. He rubbed his hand and chuckled off the pain. "Seems these scales are good for something after all! " he said examining the hands, not so much as a chipped scale.


In his attending of his hand, he had let the Rogue go and before the argonian could blink, he was thrashing at the old enemy. Acting quickly, Bar-Shei grabbed the Rogue by his shoulders and tossed him back, away from his target.


"Stop! Old fight is old fight. Killing him will not change what's happened." Bar-Shei said, standing guard over the still unconscious prisoner. He knelt down by the Nord and put a hand on his good shoulder, his voice calm, like a father talking to a son. "I was taught a very valuable lesson by a very wise man." He explained. "Acts of good are not always wise, and acts of evil are not always foolish, but regardless, we shall always strive to be good." Taking note that the Nord had probably fallen unconscious again but he kept talking anyways. "How else can we expect anything to change?" His voice was solemn, a quiet whisper, and his eyes scanned the dirt.


He patted the Nord on his shoulder and proceeded to unlace, or cut the straps of the Nord's pauldron. He used a dagger looted from the unconscious stranger to slice off bits of his fur outer layer and fashioned a quick makeshift bandage to apply to the wounded Rogue's wound.

 

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


Before she lost consciousness, Iriene's last moments of staying awake were shadowed by a large man walking towards her. Like a faceless entity whose intents were covered in the fading blur in the bastard elf's eyes, she couldn't tell what this dark figure of death was going to do to her. Stab her in the heart with a sword? Decapitate her head with an axe? Or simply watch her burn alive? She couldn't tell anymore. She was going to die.


Unexpectedly, Iriene awoke alive next to her previous temporary companion, Drawald. Quickly noticing the burns across his body, it was obvious that he had rescued her from the disaster she created. "But why... you damned fool." Iriene choked under her breath. Bitter ashes began to rise in the air as remnants of the fire continued to stay alive.


"We should get further away from this place before you fatally choke on your Nord pride. Let me help you up." The bastard elf swiftly moved towards the heroic man who struggled to breath. If Drawald was going to actually survive the fire his body conquered, he was going to need some untainted Skyrim air. Though Iriene was a measly spell-caster compared to a tough-built warrior, the Altmer's tall stature assisted her in aiding the Nord to his feet. Whether he wanted to stand or not, Iriene was going to need his help.


"I can't carry you like a lady. Lean some of your weight on me and help me move you." Iriene calmly demanded. Thanks to Drawald, she could survive another day.

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Graveyard


11.15pm

Thick smoke rose from the crumbling tavern. Dancing and swaying in the night wind. One peculiar elf stood still as a statue, gently turning his final pick in a vein effort to free the patrons within. That same smoke filled his lungs, and scratched at his eyes. The silent evening rang sharply, as the lock clicked open and several people came running out. Offering their thanks to the Bosmer.


The farther side played host to an Altmer woman, taking the weight from a large Nord as the two progressed slowly toward the graveyard.


Close by, amidst the memorial stones and patches thick with weed, lay a wounded rogue and a helpful Argonian. The reptile was busy patching his comrade when a scuffling noise appeared. Their captive was on his knees, and diving for a stray piece of sharp rock. Rising, he gave an ominous grin to the night sky and opened his own throat.


Hot blood sprayed from the opening as his body slumped to the soil, and screams rang out from the local folk.


Upon investigation, a crudely scratched letter could be seen adorning the corpse's forehead.


It read...


V

 

[Brinie]

Drawald Wynfled





Drawald allowed the pointy eared woman to support him, he did not have the energy left in him to argue. He made an incoherent grumble underneath his breath and simply walked along with her, hoping to get far away from the crumbling tavern. He was surprised to see the rogue nord from earlier was still alive, and even more surprised to see the argonian was still kicking. He half-expected to step in to his corpse on his way out of the tavern. Drawald cleared his throat out before speaking, "You two are in one piece th-?"


His sentence was cut short by the stranger relieving himself of his own life. Had they captured a prisoner? As a soldier, he knew the importance of not telling the enemy the plans of his allies should he be captured. But, as loyal as he was to the stormcloak cause, he would never take his own life just to keep his lips shut. That sort of dedication seemed almost unnatural. His eyes flew upwards to avoid the open neck wound, and when they did Drawald notice the strange inscription on the man's forehead.


"V?" He questioned, attempting to bring attention to it. He pondered if that man had willingly killed himself, or if it was some sort of fail-safe spell that a mage put on him. In his head, he began recanting names, trying to put a face to the initial. Was it the altmer, or the imperials? "Why did these folk attack us? I doubt they were bandits, it was clear to me that they were searching for something, but what?" The nord questioned.

 

[JR McCormick]

Fenrir


The sound of ripping skin filled the night. And it wasn't quick, like the slick motion of a sharp dagger. It was slow, and crooked... and it had taken effort. A chill crept along his spine, and reached its fingers to the tip of his head. Fenrir was still weak, by all accounts, but the sound brought his eyes to opening and his stomach to rolling. The blood sprayed in all directions... and the man was smiling as it rained around him. "Why is he..." he began to think, before mentally correcting himself. "Why was he so desperate to keep his mouth shut?"


The thought bounced around his head while eying the corpse. He was visibly shocked, like most others around him, but that scraped insignia took more of his attention than the open throat. Even behind the bruised and cracked skin from their brawl, it was clear.


V.


"Argonian..." he began, to the reptile man patching up his shoulder. "How old is that mark?" He was curious to know if this was some new fangled cult... or something much older. It was obvious the sign had been scratched, rather than burned or inked. He pondered then on the evenings events. Those people were hunting something in that town, he knew. This was not some random attack, nor raid. There was purpose in their arrival.


A burst of energy filled him, as he choked and attempted to rouse the attention of those around him.


"The guard!" he coughed. "We need to question the guard!" Turning his head, he peered through the small crowd in search of the Bosmer with no luck. "Argonian... we need to find the guard. The Bosmer had him in the tavern. You need to find them."


With that he tried to rise, but his shoulder ached and sent him to falling. Swearing, he leaned against the gravestone and breathed slowly. It was clear then, that the glass inside was causing more damage than even he was aware of.


It needed to come out.

 

[Naps]

Brahiel Duskgrass


The sound was oh so satisfying as the lock came undone and the door swung opened. In that moment the smoke that he breathed like air finally took hold. As the patrons rushed out from the cellar he could only cough at them in reply. Thanks were given but not appreciated by the Mer. He followed after the dispersing survivors in an attempt to evade the burning tavern smoke. Each step was solid, but all that had happened finally came down upon. His lungs burned as he continued to cough away the smoke inside. His eyes could scarce see beyond five steps. His arms were like a taut bowstring, stiff and movable only by force. And lastly his missing ear, the thought of it was enough for him to shed tears through his already watering eyes. As he reached a safe distance from the tavern he shoved his hands into the snow and rubbed at them furiously. The dirt and ash were slowly brushed away. Brahiel chewed on a few scales, regretting having devoured so many before. Melting the snow in his hand he washed his face and cleaned his eyes. His sight returned Brahiel laid eyes upon the fallen enemy he left to die. Surely the man was dead, but the most important part of the fight was still to come.


Just like dressing a kill, he cut away at the corpses clothing and removed any armor that blocked his way. The flesh exposed Brahiel gave a short prayer to Y'ffre and a solemn silence to Namira. The feast at the end of the battle was about to begin. Like a ravenous beast he tore into the body drinking the warm blood and relishing in the raw meat. It only took so long for him to sate his appetite, the elk from before still filled a part of his stomach. Cutting into the body with his knife he made sure to save the best cuts of meat and store them separate from the elk meat. Brahiel wished to finish the whole of the body, but time was not in his favor. The guard's final request stirred from the recesses of the Mer's mind. Speaking in soft tone to himself Brahiel pondered on the words, "The bastion to the north, I wonder if he meant Shriekwind... Not a place I'd want to go to any time soon..."





Brahiel cleaned himself up, but his actions had taken time. Surely some wandering eyes had watched the whole of the event. He did not hide his devotion to the Green Pact or his adherence to the strict rites. Still, seeing the ritual was far different than simply hearing about it. Brahiel was somewhat rejuvenated from his meal, but it was late and all would need rest at some point. He brought his body to a standing position and lazily walked back to the graveyard. The others from before had gone that way. If he had to, he would prefer to rest in their company.

 

[Anaxial]

Having been dressing Fenrir's wounds, Bar-Shei was unaware of the stirring enemy behind him. One should thank the Hist that he turned the stone on himself rather than the Argonian. Still, it was accompanied by the rough tearing of flesh and the chilling hiss of blood as it spray from the body in force before the pressure reduced. It was enough to make the lizard cringe.


Looking over his should at the steam rising from the warm blood that now coated the snow and dead eyes of the mysterious assailant. Even Imperial Agents would simply endure torture until they could escape, this was clearly the works of a cult of sorts, the branding made it only more clear. Bar-Shei had little time to process the information though, as others seemed to be emerging from the myriad of smoke and fire that was once a Tavern. He didn't look, he didn't want to see another corpse and so the Argonian focused himself on repairing the Rogue. To the words that addressed him, he merely shook his head 'no' and fumbled to fix Fenrir.


The glass indeed needed to be removed and so removed it would be. Bar-Shei bundled some of the rags he'd made around the glass and gripped the shard with his scaled hands, hopefully they'd be enough to keep him from suffering any serious cut.


"This might hurt." Bar-Shei said quietly before pulling the shard out and tossing I aside in one swift motion. Immediately he pressed down HARD on the open wound left by the glass and proceeded to tie the bandage tight around him arm and shoulder. So tight that infact only made it more difficult to move his arm if he dared try. Bar-Shei smiled at his work and gave th Rogue a pat on his good shoulder.


"Good as new! Bar-Shei would be excellent doctor." He said standing up and turning around shivering at the sight of the body so close. "This one doesn't know what 'V' could be. Even if we wanted to pursue the assailants... Bar-Shei fears the trail runs cold here."

 

[Mousie]

Iriene Stormore


Supporting the weight of a Nord warrior was no easy feat, but Iriene proved to be capable enough for the most part. She could definitely feel Drawald increase his effort in standing; Something attributed to his Nord pride, no doubt. And though it was no victory for them, especially since most of the destruction was caused by the bastard elf herself, Iriene felt a little bit accomplished in her multiple murders. Killing was her specialty in the Great War, after all.


Arriving at the graveyard alongside the Nord seemed too bizarre on its own. Like a sabertooth and an bear, walking alongside each other through life and death. A grim way to see her Nord companion, but it made sense in a way. Being previously affiliated with the Thalmor definitely made Iriene unwelcomed to Falkreath's sacred place of resting. Especially since many of the graves were fresh; A definite reminder of the possibility that Iriene was the cause of the fresh slain souls.


Among the many rows of tombstone lied a freshly-dead man whose throat had been crudely ripped open. Iriene quickly noticed the "V" symbol marked on his forehead. Any connection she tried to make in that moment only left her more confused. "What kind of man would want to brutally slit their throat for?" Iriene pointed out the obvious in a voice just as clueless as the rest of the others.


But the bastard elf knew right away that the cause had to have been magic. The only loyalty that could've caused a man to commit suicide in the way he did was caused by magic. And the symbol on his forehead reminded Iriene of something, but the exhausted Elf still remained neutral about the ordeal.

 

[Dungeon Master]

Falkreath


Graveyard


11.30

The locals of Falkreath had taken their freedom greedily from Brahiel. Running into the night air, and searching for loved ones in an attempt to satisfy their worry. Singed fathers held children and wives, while sobbing families mourned their dead and unaccounted.


Tired and confused, the group find themselves re aquatinted around a freshly bloodied corpse in the graveyard, and though they remain relatively unscathed, their actions in Falkreath have placed a metaphorical bounty over their heads. Nebia and the remaining members of her raiding party will not give up so easily, on finding those that lost her prey.