Skyrim: A Sorcerer's Tale-Chapter 456 - LXXIV: Battle At Thorn Pass, A Storm Of Death

(General POV)

Valezar stewed within his own mind as he just stood atop a small rise, watching his kin throw themselves at the greyskins like maddened beasts. Only the most mentally strong managed to hold themselves back from simply throwing themselves forward but the insistence of the Hist grew with each Argonian slain.

A small part of his mind wept at the needless death, but the tormented creature forbidden from rest he had become only saw the inevitable end that would come once he had done his duty.

He almost relished at the idea of finally closing his eyes.

But he would have to earn it first, and as rivers of blood flowed, were transformed into death itself, and took lives by the thousands, he was given the permission to move.

The Histspeaker to his left startled as he took a step forward, the old woman looking as worn as he felt, and was left behind in a blur as he began running.

His kin, maddened as they were, stepped aside as he rushed past them, the sheer instinctual fear of him overpowering their maddened rage for a brief instant and thus saving their lives.

He was halfway to the front line when his rush ground to a halt and he felt the Hist roar in fury.

---

For the second time in this righteous reconquest, Almeril Faren found himself acting as the supporting pillar of an entire frontline, hundreds of his kinsmen fought, retreated, and were replaced while he remained, and kept killing.

His blade had been replaced thrice already, the weapons taken from the righteous dead even as the Hortator's blessings sputtered out and were reignited upon their surface.

His muscles tensed and another two Argonians fell before they could strike his winded kin, his battle cries giving them just enough courage to stand up and survive for one moment longer, long enough to strike once more, long enough to kill just. another. lizard.

He knew the end was coming, he had been fighting for hours now and even with his evergrowing strength under Boethiah's blessing the charging enemy was always fresh and rested while he was worn out and tired.

His armor was soaked in blood that already stuck to its joints and made movement difficult, and his weapons broke and cracked after striking bone one time too many.

He had accepted such a fate, and felt it good.

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But then, the air stilled.

The enemy warriors stopped their charge as something instinctual overtook their rabid minds and for a second an odd unnatural peace descended upon the battlefield.

He felt the air to his left stir and saw a familiar figure stroll by him in that same relaxed posture he had grown used to seeing.

All of that disappeared once the figure stepped past the Dunmer lines.

The Hortator's glowing eyes bore into the beasts standing against him, and then he spoke "FUUS RO DAH!"

And the skies were once more covered in blood.

-

The center of the Argonian army disappeared as a clear expanding line was simply turned into a pile of blood and flesh and bone, the fear-filled minds of the lizard men causing them all to contemplate fleeing before the Hist reasserted its authority and they began throwing themselves back at the enemy with an increased ferocity.

But sadly for them, their enemy was done playing.

The strike of unrelenting force was swiftly followed by another shout, and with a loud otherworldly hiss of Dovahzul a massive gout of flame lashed out at them, turning the lucky ones to ash in an instant and burning the unlucky to death.

Unsatisfied with just this, Reyvin rose his hand and summoned forth his burgeoning divinity, connecting to the ash and grasping upwards as a cloud of the cursed winds of Vvardenfell made itself known once more.

The Argonians faltered, suddenly feeling their energy sputtering and their natural regeneration dying out.

With each step he took, the cloud grew in size, and the weapons of the Argonians rose from the ground, joining with the curse and creating a blade storm within the ash storm, killing hundreds each second.

The sight of their enemy being turned to whimpering prey emboldened the Dunmer and soon a counter charge was called, following behind the storm of death that the Hortator had become.

But Reyvin paid no heed to the foolish choices of his subjects, his mind was focused on ending this war once and for all.

(Reyvin's POV)

Creating a self-replicating war magic was an idea I played around with ever since the Stormcloak rebellion began, but I always left the idea alone in the end, the dangers of something so difficult to control were rather self evident and I did not need that particular lesson in hubris in this life.

That all changed when I ascended and attained perfect control over fire and ash.

The curse of Vvardenfell bit at the Argonians, ripping their strength and vitality out of them only to fuel itself further and latch onto the next target. For each Argonian struck, another three of them were caught in its range and so it would continue until it went from being merely self-replicating to becoming truly self-sustaining.

If I were not able to control it that is.

Instead of unleashing something I would later regret, I felt each twitch of the Magicka and divinity woven into the spell as it killed and transformed and evolved, always pushing it forward but never letting it out of my grasp.

And as it evolved, so did my understanding.

The Hist was not magical in nature, it was purely biological in how it interacted with its creations and its 'mental' capabilities could in theory be understood with enough science involved.

Which is why each time the Winds of Vvardenfell ripped out a piece of an Argonian, it also ripped out the slightest trace of the Hist's near-infinite influence into the growing maelstrom... and right into my grasp.

The tree fuckers obviously noticed this, and I felt their connection flare in power instead of retreating, all of the influenced Argonians, and many of those who were previously resisting, suddenly rushing at me in an attempt to drown me in bodies.

All they ended up doing was drowning in their own blood.

My storm of blades, which at first merely cut into their bodies, was now set alight with my Aedric Magicka, searing their flesh and stopping them in their tracks even as hemomancy ignited their blood and turned their brave charge into a chain of fiery explosions.

None of them even managed to approach me as I destroyed unit after unit, not pausing once in my stride as I fought to ensure the people I now called my own would never be threatened by them ever again.

"How ridiculous." I muttered to myself even as I incinerated another group of salamander riders who thought they could end me.

The lantern on my hip I did not bother removing shook slightly as Dagoth Ur spoke 'It is in your blood descendant. Simply accept it.'

Ignoring the downright gleeful little fucker strapped to my belt I stopped strolling and began levitating, having reached the first frontline where even now a pile of bones acted as an impromptu wall that blocked my passage.

The Argonians beyond were already drained if their ability to fight but I did not let that bother me, and firestorms spread out in all directions before me, killing them indiscriminately and without mercy.

I would have contented myself with simply standing there and just letting them kill themselves on my by now nearly unstoppable storm of death but suddenly I felt numerous warnings from my foresight and without even bothering to twitch I rose my hand and turned all the bones under me into spikes of steel.

Nearly a hundred previously invisible assassins, empowered by the Hist and protected from magic with nearly respectable artifacts, found themselves impaled, gurgling in pain even as they continued futilely trying to drag themselves towards me.

Another wave of my hand removed their heads, an overcharged blade of wind more than sufficient to pass through what remained of their protections and ensure none of them would gain a cheeky second wind and try and backstab me at an opportune moment.

The enemy horde was emboldened by my 'distraction' and surged at me once more, and I felt it time to well and truly end this. Especially since I saw the final gambit of the Hist approaching at breakneck speed.

(General POV)

The Great Warchief of the An-Xileel felt the stares of his strike force on his back. His withdrawal was a decision he hated but it was also one he knew must be taken for a chance at victory.

He turned to the gathered Chieftains, Shamans, and champions, all of whom stared at him with looks of grim acceptance.

He was tempted to say something, to justify his actions and the deaths that followed, but he knew there was no use in such weak platitudes now, so all he did was raise his hammer and grip his axe, and step forward, trusting his actions to inspire what his words would not.

In the distance, the hateful wind reaped through his kin, and spewed tongues of flame that seemed to feed on their deaths.

What was once an attempt to drown the enemy in bodies had been turned around on its head and he knew that not a one had managed to reach their target in time to do anything.

And so he tugged at his connection to his patrons, and felt a tinge of vindictive glee as his proposal was accepted.

The surging assault battering at the winds of death parted, and his army moved to the flanks, charging around their initial target and now aiming to kill as many of the greyskins as they could before the curse took them.

Leaving his path forward open and without obstacle.

Once more he found himself sprinting forward, even as his kinsfolk did their best to follow.

He rushed into the cursed wind and felt it scratching at his protections like a ravenous beast that was barely contained outside the multitude of shields placed upon him.

The enemy Warchief came into sight and Valezar felt his heart beat with fury as his sprinting charge turned into a blur.

He did not hesitate as he neared his target, throwing himself forward and swinging at his target with all his might, only to be dodged with such offensive ease he might as well have been swinging at air.

A disturbingly familiar feeling indeed.

In the next instant, Valezar felt his hand disappear up to the shoulder as he twisted away from a deceptively light decapitating swing of the one-bladed sword which then took his leg as it extended into a glaive.

His limbs returned in a blink, but his armor remained where it was, useless as it had proven itself to be.

Valezar growled and threw himself back in the fight, once more feeling his attacks be deflected or dodged so easily he felt as if he was being played with.

His fury and shame once he realized his foe was still casting spells across the entire battlefield all the while practically ignoring him was such it gave him a heart attack for a split second.

The moment the rest of his attack force joined him however, he knew it was all over. Because the elf stopped playing around and gave them his full attention.

The Shamans readied their spells and the warriors rushed forth to do glorious battle.

It all ended in less than a minute.

The Shaman's shields, strongest amongst his kin save for the Histspeaker still protecting the camp, lasted for all of five seconds before shattering utterly, the casters meant to protect the warriors and give them a chance to strike being boiled alive for their trouble as their very magic was taken over.

Valezar himself was just as useless as they, as no matter how powerful he was he simply could not catch the enemy with his weapons. His brothers died around him and all he could do was try and strike at smoke.

There was even one moment where he felt like he had struck the enemy but the blow felt as if he was striking loose sand, and the lack of reaction from the supposedly squishy elf killed that hope in the cradle.

But it was all utterly useless in the end, and Valezar felt despair as ash clotted his wounds and his limbs refused to regrow, the influence of the Hist flailing uselessly from within his body as he struggled to even look up.

Finally, the elf's gaze met his own and he felt his skin crawl as he was given the barest glimpse into what he had attempted to kill. That thing was most certainly not an elf.

The thing tilted its head for a moment before seemingly recognizing him and chuckling to itself "Well..." It muttered "He is certainly going to be pissed."

Shaking its head, it let out a distinctly tired sigh before speaking "Sorry about this, kid. But a statement needs to be made." It looked away and shouted "KREIN AAR VOKUN!"

The shadows under the creature shifted and suddenly a massive beast appeared, one Valezar quickly recognized as a dragon if the rumors were true.

'He...' The Warchief felt all his will leave him 'He had a fucking dragon this entire time...'

"Thuri." The great beast bowed its head.

"Krein" The creature smiled under its crowned helm "Thank you for coming. Go ahead and kill the Argonians until they surrender."

"It would be a pleasure" The beast growled and flung itself into the skies, the noise of the battlefield swiftly joined by the dragon's dread shouts.

Valezar knew this meant the deaths of his kin "They will not surrender." He growled at the thing.

"Is that so?" The creature asked with amusement clear in its voice.

Valezar clutched at the last dregs of his defiance "It is so." He hissed.

It chuckled and rose an empty hand, opening an upward palm "We will see about that."

In an instant Valezar's instincts screamed at him to flee but all he could do was watch as the mist and storm around him was suddenly sucked into the open hand of the elf, coalescing into a deceptively simple looking marble of grey ash.

The elf shook its head... and crushed it.

Valezar's world became agony.

(Reyvin's POV)

The curse in my hand burst through the connection to the Hist I still held in my grasp, travelling across half a continent in an instant and detonating catastrophically in the distant horizon.

My sight could not quite tell me what happened but I could feel the Hist screaming in pain as part of their number began to die outright, the weaker trees no doubt suffering a sudden onset of ash storms as all moisture was sucked from the air to feed their new tormentor.

Scorch materialized on my shoulder and enlarged, grabbing onto the half-corpse of the Argonian leader and flying away, and I transformed the bone and metal under me into a comfy throne.

The battle was over, and all that was left was the cleanup.

----

(General POV)

Histspeaker Xelnara quivered as the massive dragon flanked by an honor guard of Dunmer strolled into the camp of what remained of the great army of Black Marsh, but the fear did not come from the beast that rent the cliffside asunder with a mere three words.

No, her terror was focused fully upon the rider that even now had the Hist screaming into her ear, practically begging her to seek a removal of the curse slowly overtaking their youngest.

The elf gave her one look and simply blinked into existence below his mount, looming over her with a casual ease permitted by his unusual height "So." The Hortator of Morrowind spoke with steel in his voice "How about that surrender?"

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

Surrender is such a heavy word

but I wouldn't mind you surrendering your stones to me

(and by that I mean gimme!)

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