The thundering drone that had filled the air intensified, and the dark shape descending from the clouds resolved into a terrifying spectacle. A massive winged creature emerged. Reddish-brown skin with a powerful build, his piercing eyes and prominent horns conveying ancient wisdom and predatory focus. His immense wings propel him with terrifying speed.
"Feels like Helgen, isn't it?" Ibnor commented.
It was Odahviing, and upon his back sat Harin, the Dragonborn, her red hair whipping in the wind, her emerald eyes blazing with determination.
WROOOOO!!!
Odahviing roared, a sound that shook the very stones beneath their feet, drowning out the panicked cries of the Thalmor. Like a living avalanche of scales and fury, he dove straight into the heart of the Thalmor formation.
The Thalmor army, previously an assemble of disciplined order, erupted into chaos. Soldiers scattered, their ranks dissolving as they looked up in terror at the approaching aerial assault. Magical wards shimmered and flickered, attempting to deflect the dragons' descent, but they were woefully inadequate.
Odahviing unleashed a torrent of flames, incinerating everything in its path. The air crackled with heat, and the ground turned to scorched earth. The dragon's breath tore through the Thalmor ranks. Explosions rocked the battlefield, sending plumes of smoke and dust billowing into the air. The Thalmor's magical defenses were overwhelmed, their soldiers caught in a deadly crossfire.
As Odahviing's flames consumed the front lines, Harin, with a fluid motion, leapt from his back. She landed lightly amidst the chaos, her emerald eyes scanning the battlefield. The Thalmor, already reeling from Odahviing's assault, turned their attention to the Dragonborn, their faces a mixture of fear and desperation.
"DUR NEH VIIR!!"
Wasting no time, Harin Shouted. The ground trembled, and a chilling wind swept across the battlefield. From a shimmering portal that tore open the fabric of reality, a skeletal dragon emerged. Durnehviir entered the battlefield with his spectral form. He spread his translucent wings, radiating an otherworldly aura with glowing eerie ligh replacing his eyes.
The Thalmor, already shaken by Odahviing's fiery assault, recoiled in terror at the sight of the undead dragon. Durnehviir, unbound by the limitations of flesh and blood, unleashed a torrent of soul-rending energy, his spectral breath tearing through the Thalmor ranks, leaving trails of ghostly frost in its wake. The very air seemed to chill, and the Thalmor soldiers were struck with a paralyzing fear.
Tullius and Rikke, witnessing the spectacle from their vantage point, watched in stunned silence. The sheer power of the dragons, and its ferocity were truly a sight to behold.
"Retreat!"
"No, stand your ground!"
"My ward is broken! Run!"
"Get out of my way!"
The Thalmor, their ranks shattered and their morale broken, were routed. They fled, their retreat turning into a panicked rout. The battlefield was littered with the dead and dying, the air thick with the smell of smoke and blood. Durnehviir's spectral form weaved through the chaotic battlefield, his ghostly energy wreaking havoc on the scattered remnants of the Thalmor army.
The battle for Solitude, the battle for Skyrim, had taken a decisive turn. With a subtle nod, Ibnor motioned towards the Thalmor, gesturing that the time for Ulfric to unleash his fury had arrived.
"Now, Ulfric," Ibnor said, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the din of battle. "They are yours."
A savage grin spreading across Ulfric's face.
"Stormcloaks! For Sovngarde!!!" He bellowed a command to his Stormcloaks.
They surged forward like a tide of steel and fury, crashing into the broken ranks of the Thalmor. The battle quickly turned into a massacre, the Stormcloaks' pent-up rage unleashed upon their fleeing foes.
Meanwhile, Ibnor, accompanied by a small contingent of King's Blade soldiers, made his way through the city towards the Blue Palace. The fighting had subsided within Solitude itself, the Imperial resistance crushed. The streets were eerily silent, littered with the debris of battle.
The Blue Palace stand tall ahead, its white stone walls give a different ambiance to the chaos that had engulfed the city. Ibnor and his escort entered the palace with a steady pace, their footsteps echoing through the grand halls. They made their way to the throne room, where Elisif the Fair, the Jarl of Solitude, awaited.
Elisif sat on her throne, her face pale but composed. She was surrounded by her court, their expressions a mixture of fear and resignation. Sybille Stentor, the court wizard, stood at her side, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Falk Firebeard, the steward, wrung his hands nervously.
Among the court, Ibnor noticed Erikur. The merchant's eyes widened slightly as he recognized Ibnor, a flicker of recognition and perhaps surprise crossing his face. Before Erikur could utter a word, Ibnor's gaze snapped to him. With a swift, almost imperceptible motion, Ibnor placed a finger to his lips, silencing the merchant. A smile played on Ibnor's lips, but his eyes held a cold, unwavering intensity.
"By the divines! It's really him! I better keep my mouth shut," Erikur thought, a cold sweat beading on his brow.
Elisif, though visibly nervous, attempted to maintain an air of regal composure.
"Lord Ibnor," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "you have taken Solitude. What are your intentions?"
Ibnor's gaze lingered on Elisif's face. He found himself momentarily lost in thought, struck by her undeniable beauty. Her pale skin, her delicate features, the quiet strength in her eyes – it was a sight that momentarily stole his breath. He inwardly thanked whatever deities that were listening, that Harin was not present. He shuddered to think of the accusations, and far worse, what would rain down upon him if she witnessed his momentary lapse.
General Tullius, standing near the back of the throne room, cleared his throat.
"Lord Ibnor," he said, his voice low but firm, "you spoke of offering terms to those who surrender. Let us not forget your own words, especially now."
He feared that Ibnor would lose his composure in the face of the beautiful Jarl. Ibnor snapped out of his reverie, a faint flush creeping up his neck and coloring his ears. He gave a small, almost imperceptible cough, his eyes flicking away from Elisif's.
"Ahem, yes, of course," he stammered, his eyes darting away from Elisif's. He quickly regained his composure, focusing on the matter at hand.
"King," he stated, his voice low and firm, the single word cutting through the room's silence.
A wave of confused murmurs rippled through the court. Elisif frowned, her brow furrowed, a picture of bewildered royalty.
"King?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine confusion. "What do you mean, 'King'?"
"It's King Ibnor of Dawnstar, not Lord," he said, the explanation clipped, almost dismissive, as if the confusion was a minor, irritating distraction.
"Jarl Elisif, as I stated before, I have no quarrel with the people of Solitude. My conflict lies with the Thalmor, and those who enable their presence in Skyrim."
"Very well, King Ibnor," Elisif said, her voice regaining a measure of its regal tone, though a hint of lingering confusion remained. "What, then, are your intentions?"
Ibnor met her gaze, his expression now completely composed.
"Solitude has been conquered," he stated, his voice echoing through the silent throne room. "You have two options."
The room held its breath, anticipation thick in the air.
"Solitude now belongs to the Stormcloaks," Ibnor continued, his words causing a stir of confusion among those present.
"I will not contest Ulfric's claim. Therefore, your first option is to remain here, in Solitude, and continue as Queen. However, Ulfric will demand your fealty."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.
"Your second option is to accompany me to Dawnstar. There, you will be under my protection. But," he added, his voice firm, "you will have to leave the people of Solitude to Ulfric's management."
General Tullius, his face flushed, stepped forward.
"King Ibnor," he began, his voice laced with disapproval, "such a proposition is… inappropriate. It is not your place to-"
Elisif's cheeks burned crimson, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and embarrassment.
Ibnor, catching the misunderstanding, raised his hands in a gesture of hurried denial.
"No, no, you misunderstand!" he exclaimed, a flicker of panic in his eyes. "I meant no such thing! I am merely offering her sanctuary, protection! Nothing more."
"I simply meant to provide her with a choice, a means of safety." He cleared his throat, his ears burning.
Ibnor immediately pushed his senses to their absolute limit, scanning the palace, the city, the very air itself. Once he confirmed Harin was nowhere near, he let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
"General Tullius," he hissed between his teeth, his voice laced with exasperation, widening his eyes, glaring at the man, "do you want me dead? Because that's a fantastic way to get me killed. Luckily, Harin is not here to hear your… assumptions."
The spectacle before her caused Elisif to let out a genuine laugh, the tension momentarily broken. Her impression of Ibnor shifted, a flicker of amusement and perhaps even a hint of warmth replacing the apprehension.
"King Ibnor," she asked, her voice now lighter, "in your opinion, which option should I choose?"
"The first," Ibnor replied without hesitation. "It is better for you, and for the people of Solitude. Ulfric seeks recognition, not wanton destruction. He will demand your fealty, yes, but he will not harm you. He needs Solitude, and its people, to solidify his claim as High King."
Elisif, a shrewd observer, picked up on the subtle nuances in his explanation.
"But," she interjected, her brow furrowed, "you and Ulfric… you will clash, will you not?"
Ibnor's expression remained neutral.
"That is a matter for the future," he replied, his voice carefully controlled.
"And if," Elisif pressed, "when that time comes, Ulfric demands Solitude to fight against you… what should we do?"
Ibnor smiled, a slow, almost knowing smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He gestured towards an empty chair near the throne, and with a casual air that belied the seriousness of the situation, he sat down.
"That," he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, "is where my plan comes in."
The scattered remnants of the Thalmor forces were no match for the Stormcloak onslaught. The battle, though fierce, was swift and decisive. The once-proud Thalmor army was reduced to scattered pockets of resistance, easily overwhelmed by the Stormcloaks' fury.
"Good. It's done," Galmar Stone-Fist declared, his voice gruff with satisfaction. He was treated with healing spell and healing potions just before they join the fray to attack the Thalmor.
"Well, I suppose some kind of speech is in order," Ulfric Stormcloak mused, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield.
"I'll go gather the men in the courtyard," Galmar said, turning to leave.
"And Elisif?" Ulfric asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
"Don't worry about that. She is here."
Ibnor's voice cut through the air, and Ulfric turned to see him approaching, Elisif at his side. She walked with a composed air, not seeming forced, which caused Ulfric to raise an eyebrow in surprise.
"And now, I present to you, Ulfric Stormcloak, hero of the people and liberator, High King of Skyrim!" Galmar, having gathered the Stormcloak soldiers, announced.
Ulfric stepped forward, his voice resonating across the courtyard.
"I am indeed Ulfric Stormcloak. And while many call us heroes, it is you, the people, who are the true heroes! You fought a dying Empire, sinking its claws into our land, trying to drag us down. You fought the Thalmor and their puppets, who would have us deny our gods and our heritage. You fought your kin, who didn't understand our cause, who weren't willing to pay the price of our freedom. But most importantly, you fought for Skyrim, for our right to fight our own battles, to return to our glory and traditions, to determine our own future!"
"Huzzah!" the soldiers roared in response.
"And it is for these reasons," Ulfric continued, "that I cannot accept the mantle of 'High King' until the Moot declares that title should adorn my shoulders."
"And what about Jarl Elisif?" a soldier called out.
"Yes, what about Lady Elisif?" Ulfric asked, turning his gaze to her.
"Will she put aside her personal hatred for me, and her misplaced love for the Emperor and his coin, so that the suffering of our people will end? Will she acknowledge that it is we Nords who will determine Skyrim's future? Will she swear fealty to me, so all may know that we are at peace, and a new day has dawned?"
"I do!" Elisif declared, her voice clear and firm.
"Then it is settled," Ulfric proclaimed. "The Jarl will continue to rule Solitude. I will garrison armies here to ward off Imperial attempts to reclaim the city. And in due time, the Moot will meet, and settle the claim to High King once and for all. There is much to do, and I need every able-bodied man and woman committed to rebuilding Skyrim. A great darkness is growing, and soon we will be called to fight it, on these shores or abroad. The Aldmeri Dominion may have defeated the Empire, but it has not defeated Skyrim!"
The soldiers erupted in cheers, their voices echoing through the city, a wave of triumphant sound washing over the courtyard. The air, still thick with the smell of smoke and the metallic tang of blood, vibrated with the raw energy of victory. The Stormcloaks, their faces flushed with adrenaline and pride, clapped each other on the back, their voices a cacophony of celebration.
Gradually, the cheers subsided, replaced by the more practical sounds of soldiers returning to their duties. Some began to secure the perimeter, others tended to the wounded, and still others began the grim task of clearing the battlefield.
Ibnor, with a quiet nod to the surrounding Stormcloaks, escorted Elisif back towards the Blue Palace. She walked with a newfound sense of resolve, her posture straighter, her gaze more focused. The brief exchange with Ulfric, and Ibnor's own counsel, had clearly shifted her perspective.
Ulfric returned to his command tent, pitched on the outskirts of the city. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and damp canvas. A map of Skyrim lay spread across a rough-hewn table, marked with strategic points and troop movements. Ulfric, his armor still bearing the marks of battle, turned to Galmar.
"The Imperials aren't going to leave us alone. They still have camps in the hills. They'll continue to strike out at us, whenever and wherever they can," Galmar warned.
"Oh, I know," Ulfric agreed.
"I'm not afraid of the remnants of the Legion. In time, they'll all give up and go home. What I fear is that the Thalmor have seen our victory here and will turn greater attention to our shores. We must be prepared to face them," Ulfric said.
"Aye," Galmar agreed.
"There will be peace for a time, during which we must rebuild Skyrim into the land it once was. Strong. Self-reliant. The center of mankind. Because getting rid of the Empire was only half the problem. And of course, we couldn't forget about Ibnor too. The emergence of this self proclaimed king has added problems into the mix. Soon, the elves will again seek to rule the world. We must ready ourselves to fight them before then. For it will be Skyrim that shall lead Tamriel in those dark days, when the fate of the world is finally determined."
"What's our next step, Ulfric?"
"First, we return to Windhelm, we have much to do."
Soon, Ulfric and Galmar left the city with some of their forces and returned to the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm.
Within the Thalmor embassy, Elenwen's meticulously arranged office is now no less chaotic than the battlefield. The table was shattered, papers were scattered , and the acrid scent of overturned incense filled the interior.
Her hands clenched, nails digging into her palms, and a surge of raw magical energy crackled around her, making the candlelight flicker wildly and the scattered papers dance in the air. Her usually flawless features were contorted with disbelief. She repeated the report, each word laced with incredulity.
"Not one but… two? They control two dragons?"
She paused, and inhaled deeply to recompose herself. Opening her beautiful eyes, her gaze fixed on a map of Skyrim, her fingers tracing the line of the White River.
"This… complication," she murmured, her voice laced with disdain, "was not anticipated."
Her second-in-command, Ondolemar, stood stiffly before her, his face a mask of carefully controlled anxiety.
"The reports are consistent, Ambassador. Two dragons, one of them… undead, according to the survivors. And the Dragonborn, of course, leading the charge."
"The Dragonborn," Elenwen repeated, her voice dripping with scorn. "That troublesome Nord. Always a thorn in our side. And now, she wields dragons. Just when we thought we had the situation in Skyrim contained."
"The Stormcloaks' victory is a significant setback," Ondolemar continued, his voice measured. "But the dragons… they change everything. The balance of power has shifted dramatically."
"Indeed," Elenwen agreed, her eyes narrowing. "This Ibnor, too. He has proven to be a far more capable adversary than we initially assessed. He orchestrated the fall of Solitude, and now he is allied with Ulfric. A dangerous combination."
"What are our next steps, Ambassador?" Ondolemar asked, his voice laced with urgency.
Elenwen turned away from the map, her gaze sweeping across the room, her expression hardening.
"This setback… it changes things. It changes everything." Elenwen paused, her gaze hardening. "The Dominion cannot afford to appear weak. We will adapt. We will counter. We will understand these… complications."
She looked at Ondolemar.
"Send word to our agents. Discreetly. We need to know everything about this Ibnor, and his influence over Ulfric. And find the Dragonborn. We must understand how she controls these dragons. Knowledge is our weapon now, Ondolemar. Not open war."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a near whisper.
"And," she added, her eyes narrowing, "emphasize to our agents that any information on this Ibnor, particularly his weaknesses, will be rewarded… generously. But discretion. Always discretion. And begin the process of… dispersing our resources and personnel to more… secure locations. We cannot risk a single, decisive blow."