4E 202, Shor's Stone
Ulfric Stormcloak
Snow fell from the sky.
It wasn't the harsh, blinding blizzards he was used to back in Windhelm, but something quieter. Softer. A slow, drifting fall that blanketed the world in white.
It would have been a peaceful sight, one Ulfric would enjoy seeing if not for what waited beyond the horizon.
He stood upon the battlements, his fur-lined cloak stirring faintly in the cold wind. Around him, the Stormcloaks formed in disciplined ranks, archers spaced evenly along the walls, crossbowmen braced behind crenellations, every man and woman armed and ready.
Beside him stood Galmar, along with the rest of his battleguard that had swelled into ten. Three had fallen of the original six, and Ulfric had replaced them with warriors who had proven themselves during the Siege of Bthardamz.
Ulfric's gaze remained fixed on the distant skyline, where the pale grey of morning met the jagged peaks of the Velothi Mountains.
"Is this what you expected the end of the world would look like, old friend?" Ulfric asked.
Galmar snorted.
"It hasn't ended yet," he said gruffly. "But no. Thought it'd look worse than this."
Ulfric gave a lowly chuckle. "Indeed. To see all of Skyrim united truly is a blessing. Perhaps we might even survive the battle to come yet."
"You won't die." Galmar said resolutely. "Not on my watch."
"A statement I'd believe if our enemies were regular men." Ulfric shook his head. "Things are quite different with dragons."
Galmar just grunted in reply as a sudden fierce wind came from nowhere.
Ulfric narrowed his eyes as he looked up, dark clouds began crawling across the sky like ink spilled upon parchment. Lightning flickered behind them, jagged veins of white-blue that pulsed with quiet menace.
They gathered unnaturally fast, too quick to be natural. Just as the lightning grew more erratic, a chorus of thirty voices rose together as one from all over the city.
"LOK VAH KOOR!"
The shout rolled across the city like thunder. And just as quickly as the storm had formed, it was gone.
The clouds dispersed as the sky cleared.
Ulfric exhaled slowly. The new Voices were certainly better than expected, for that was a shout that not even Ulfric was capable of learning.
The sight of all this reminded him back to when it all began, when Windhelm was beset by Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm. Yet that was an entire city's garrison against one dragon, and they barely survived. What they're facing now is beyond that.
It didn't take long for a dark shape to be visible, beginning as a distant, shifting mass against the sky. Like a massive flock of birds, coming at them in the hundreds.
Only for those birds to grow larger and larger as they flew closer and reveal themselves to be dragons.
"By the Nine…" someone whispered nearby.
"How are we meant to fight that…?"
The men and women around him murmured with disbelief at the sight. Truly, Ulfric was almost the same way.
It was hard to not be cowed by the presence of such creatures. Ulfric surmised that he would've been the same had this happened two years ago. But he, like many others, have grown used to such sights.
After all, Ulfric had killed them. Had seen them die by his own hand. The dragons were not gods, that much was true. He refused to bow and cower at the mere sight of them.
As the swarm drew closer, Ulfric mused that their initial counts were correct. Roughly seventy dragons were flying at them from all directions.
Over half of them were as large as Caraxes, if not bigger. Their scales shimmered in countless hues—blue, crimson, black, silver, ash-grey, even sickly yellow.
At the very front of them all were three of the largest dragons Ulfric had ever seen. Their presence was dominant in a way that was hard to describe. Alduin was indistinguishable with scales black as the void, eyes burning like embers in a dying world.
To one side was Odahviing, with his crimson scales, and the other had to be Durnehviir, the other Kruziik said during the council to have joined Alduin's side. Death made flesh, if his rotten scales were to be believed.
Ulfric's jaw tightened. 'So it begins.'
Messengers rushed along the walls, relaying orders from section to section. Voices barked commands, banners shifted, formations adjusted.
Below and across the battlements, the magicka turrets awakened. Blue light surged upward through carved channels in the stone, feeding into the mounted constructs manned by teams of Shor's Guard.
"We finally get to see what these 'turrets' can do," one of the Snow Hammers muttered, earning the nods of many Stormcloaks within hearing range.
Ulfric allowed himself a faint smirk. A new line of siege weapons created by the Dragonslayer himself was bound to be glorious.
The first volley came from the long-range ballistae, launching their deadly missiles from more than six hundred yards away. Massive bolts screamed through the air, cutting across the distance toward the approaching dragons.
Some struck true, felling the dragons and tearing through them. But most merely swerved and dodged out of the way,
It was in the five hundred yards range did the magicka turrets begin to loose their bolts, orbs of condensed magicka streaked upward—brilliant electric blue spheres moving faster than an arrow, trailing arcs of energy behind them.
Ulfric and the men saw one of those orbs hit one of the smaller dragons mid-flight, and blew its innards apart as it became nothing more than a heap of smoke.
Seeing the death of their kin, the dragons retaliated, numerous Thu'um erupting from their maws that met the wave of magicka orbs through beams of fire, ice, and lightning.
They collided with the incoming barrage, dispersing much of it in violent explosions of magic and force.
Though not all, as Ulfric could see a handful more of dragons being shot down from the skies, their bodies covered in smoke. A large cheer erupted from the men, as even Ulfric felt a flicker of satisfaction.
The dragons began spreading out then, flying in a mix of upward, downward, and diagonal directions.
Ulfric's voice cut through the din. as he saw the few that were coming for his section on the wall.
"Nock!"
The Stormcloaks obeyed instantly, arrows drawn, crossbows raised.
"Draw!"
The tension built as the sharp sound of creaking strings erupted, Galmar pulling on his own dragonbone bow, as did Ulfric.
Breaths held as the dragons grew closer and closer, until Ulfric could see their eyes, their teeth, the fire building in their throats.
The men were tense, but discipline won. They waited and waited, until Ulfric gave the order. 'Not yet. Just a little bit closer.'
Then it came, a roar from above as the dragonborn and her dragon descended from the skies.
"JOOR ZAH FRUL!"
The shout crashed across the battlefield. The very air seemed to bend.
More than twenty dragons faltered mid-flight—wings seizing, bodies dragged downward as if the sky itself rejected them.
Ulfric saw his chance. "Loose!"
Arrows darkened the sky. Ballistae thundered again as the grounded dragons were met with a storm of steel—bolts slamming into flesh, wings, and any other weakness they had identified.
Some died quickly with tens of arrows puncturing their eye sockets, others endured as their scales deflected most of the blows. Arrows snapped or skittered away, only a few finding purchase between the ridges.
"Nock! Draw! Loose!"
Again and again, another wave of arrows felling three more before they could recover. Then, the dragons rose and retaliated.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!"
"FUS RO DAH!"
"FO KRAH DIIN!"
Flames, frost, and even shockwaves erupted from each of their maw that washed over the curtain walls of the city.
And yet they held.
A shimmering barrier flared into existence, hugging the walls like a second skin. The Thu'um broke against it, splintering into harmless bursts of magic.
The Dragonslayer had shared that magical defenses and wards were enchanted into the walls when it was first built. Aided with some extra embellishment by the mages of the College, they became a powerful defense against the many Thu'um of the dragons.
Though it wouldn't last. The impact still sent tremors reigning across the battlements as Ulfric staggered slightly, boots grinding against stone.
"Focus!" he roared. "Nock your strings and loose them at will! Focus on their eyes and wings!"
With the dragons forced to the ground outside the walls, they were less of a problem to the ones still flying.
Kiera had done her best, but she was only one person and could not ground all seventy by herself. Even now, the single shout was all she could do before the true battle began.
Kiera and Alduin, clashing in the heavens.
Even from here, Ulfric could see it—the Bronze Fury weaving through the sky, the World-Eater answering with a shout that rang like thunder, nearly deafening him.
Ulfric staggered once more, shook the ringing from his head and looked up. Only to see a shadow falling right for him.
His eyes widened as fire gathered in a dragon's maw, growing bigger by the second.
His body was wrenched down and pulled behind a parapet by Galmar as flame roared overhead. Screams followed as the fire breath washed over tens of people as Ulfric felt the heat on his skin and the smell of burning flesh.
Ulfric gritted his teeth. The dragon swept past, climbing back into the sky.
"Damn it all," he growled, pushing himself up.
"Told you I wouldn't let you die." Galmar quipped as he got back up as well as they called for their lines to reform.
That was when a thunderous earthquake erupted. A deep, violent tremor that rippled through the city.
Ulfric's head snapped toward the southeastern gate, only to see it shatter to pieces in a deafening roar, the massive gate collapsing in a shower of debris and dust.
Both Ulfric and Galmar fell as they hit the stone hard. More than a dozen of his men fell to their deaths as they tumbled down the eighty feet walls.
"...What in Talos' name happened?!"
Ulfric got up blearily, only for a stormcloak soldier to shout. "Jarl Ulfric, look!"
He followed the soldier's pointed finger, to see reality itself seemed to tear open.
Swirling portals ripped to existence—dozens of them—both outside the walls and within the city's outer districts.
From those portals, draugr began climbing out. They clawed their way into the world in droves, weapons already in hand, eyes burning with cold purpose. Some with the same bluish hues he'd seen many times before, the rest glowing with an intense violet flame.
…
4E 202, Shor's Stone
Morokei
Morokei had lived for many, many years.
Long enough for time itself to lose meaning.
Eras had come and gone like passing seasons, their triumphs and tragedies reduced to little more than echoes in his memory. Empires had risen in fire and fallen to ash, their names whispered by history and then forgotten.
He remembered the Snow Elves—proud, radiant, and cruel in equal measure. He had watched as they drove the first men from their homes, their gleaming cities shining like beacons across the north.
And he had watched their fall.
The return of the Atmorans, the tide of vengeance that swept across Skyrim, drowning the Falmer in blood and fire, forcing the remnants of their kind into the depths of darkness, into slavery beneath the Dwemer.
And he was there, when the Dragons came. Not as conquerors, but as gods.
Slowly, surely, they claimed the whole of Tamriel under their rule, their might undisputed, all spearheaded by the power of the Kruziik.
Morokei had been nothing then. Just an observer, standing at the edges of greatness, seeing the birth and fall of figures blessed by Nirn.
Ysgramor, the First Man, whose strength broke armies and whose will carved a homeland from blood.
Miraak, his fellow priest, who became something more—the First Dragonborn, whose Voice alone could sunder the earth.
Many more came after, and Morokei had watched them all from afar, waiting. Until the day came the dragons offered him power.
He remembered that moment with perfect clarity. For the first time in his long, wandering existence, his life was given meaning, and he accepted without hesitation.
He became a Dragon Priest, learned the Dragon Tongue, each word a fragment of creation itself. He bent it to his will, shaping reality through sound and intent.
He learned to use magic, something he realized came naturally to him. Where others studied, struggled, and failed, he understood. Oh with time and effort, but he understood.
From a mere observer to an architect, who had helped shape and refine the dragon's dominion.
Under his guidance, more priests were brought into the fold, among them Nahkriin, whose strength would one day rival even the greatest among them.
The Dragon Cult had flourished, its rule unchallenged…only for everything he had worked hard for to come crashing down. The Dragonwar and Dragonrend.
Blasphemy made Voice. The mortals had learned to defy, and so the dragons fell and the priests dwindled in number,
The World-Eater himself, cast adrift through time.
Everything Morokei had helped build…collapsed.
Then he met him.
Aren, his jailor. The man who imprisoned him and would become Archmage, his old friend.
Morokei's mind lingered there, just for a moment. Labyrinthian. Silence. A near eternity of waiting.
When Krosis had freed him, Morokei had intended to seek Aren, to finish what time had interrupted. But Alduin had called, and Morokei was nothing but a dutiful servant.
His hollow gaze lifted toward the city before him, Shor's Stone, they called it.
Impressive.
The walls shimmered faintly under the assault of dragonfire and Thu'um, their enchantments holding firm against forces that would have reduced lesser fortresses to ruin.
Morokei tilted his head slightly.
Curious.
Whoever had crafted such wards possessed knowledge worth noting. Perhaps, had circumstances been different, he would have sought them out.
But that was not his purpose today. Alduin had given him a task, and Morokei would fulfill it.
The Staff of Magnus rose in his hand as thin strands of energy lashed outward, piercing the hearts of ten wandering mages they had taken for this day. Their magicka were ripped free, drawn violently into the staff, funneled upward toward the glowing orb at its head.
Each body turned to bony husks, but he cared nothing for them as the air around him began to groan with magical strain.
The staff dimmed. Then, release.
A titanic, blinding, white beam lanced forward, striking the southeastern gate with catastrophic force. The steel-reinforced doors, along with the portcullis behind them, ceased to exist in a heartbeat.
Where once stood a barrier remained only a ruin, a gaping wound in the city's defenses.
It was just in time, for Lord Durnehviir shouted to the heavens. "DIIL QOTH ZAAM!"
Purple portals swirled into existence by the dozen as draugr began crawling out in droves. Thousands upon thousands, who charged towards the city.
A figure stepped in from beside him, clad entirely in ancient nordic armor. His malachite mask fused to his helm, crowned by twin dragonbone horns. In his grasp rested a greataxe massive enough to split men in half with a single blow.
Madness radiated from him like heat from a forge.
"Otar, lead the legions. Find their leaders, and crush them." He ordered their most quarrelsome brother, but considered by many to be the most fearsome warrior of their order.
"Rinik Pruzah."(Very well).
Otar surged forward, the ground cracking beneath his steps as he charged toward the broken gate, draugr rallying behind him in a tide of death.
Morokei then turned to Krosis, who remained silent and deathly still by his side. "Destroy their siege engines," Morokei instructed. "Bathe this city in a new winter."
Krosis inclined his head once, his single remaining hand clutching his staff as he began floating a few inches above ground. Then, he shot forward, an aura of chill radiating from his body.
Morokei faced the city once more, and began to walk.
Draugr rushed past him on all sides, pouring through the breach, flooding toward the defenders. Arrows rained down in response, bolts tearing through rotting flesh, cutting down dozens with every volley.
Morokei could see the mortals scurrying atop the walls like rats, desperately moving in panic from the destruction of their gate. It did not matter how many draugr they killed, for there were always more to come.
The moment he approached, an arrow came for him. Then another, before dozens more followed in their wake.
He was not bothered, for every arrow that touched his form turned to ashes near instantly, falling harmlessly to the snow at his feet.
It was the power of his mask, his own creation. A refined expression of the Ashen Curse, utilized for absolute defense. Many said it was a mockery of a Daedric principle made manifest through Draconic mastery.
Perhaps they were right, for what was a Prince in the face of the World-Eater?
This feat was what earned him the right to call himself the most powerful mage of their order, one that had earned even Alduin's respect.
Which was why his purpose was clear.
This battle was not about destruction, the city is not their objective. Walls can be reforged, and armies raised anew.
But leadership, that was fragile. As long as such hope existed, mortals would always flock and rise behind their banner.
But remove it, and everything would collapse.
His gaze lifted toward the heart of the city, a towering spire of black ebony steel rose up high.
'An appropriate first target.'
Unimpeded and untouched, Morokei continued to walk.
…
AN: And the Final Battle begins with a bang. Let me tell you, this chapter was hard to make. I don't know what it is about large scale fight scenes that keep kicking me in the arse, but it's doing it and I'm not happy.
I hope I managed to paint the initial chaos of this entire battle satisfactorily (is that a word? I think it is). This whole sequence of the Battle of Shor's Stone is gonna be a doozy, so I hope you guys bear with me.
I'm gonna do my best to put emphasis on the important scenes and not just do retellings of people die, dragons die kind of thing. It's going to be a challenge, but one I'm excited to tackle.
We also get the first POV of Morokei, which is fun. He'll probably be the main POV of the villain side of things (which is something I always like to do during big battles like this). It was Calixto back in the Hall of Vigilants, Ancano in the College, Alduin in High Hrothgar, Mankar in the Night of Convergence, and now Morokei in the Battle for Shor's Stone.
Only Castle Volkihar and the Siege of Bthardamz lacked a proper villain POV, which I did deliberately.
12 advanced chapters are available on my P-word. Chapter 130 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
For free users, you can get two chapters ahead! Just sign up as a free member and get up to chapter 120!
Cheers lads.