4E 202, Ivarstead
Savos Aren
"So you are Rahgot…" Savos murmured, voice cutting through the din of war. His eyes took in the hulking Dragon Priest across the battlefield. The green mask strapped to his face, a massive claymore in hand.
Around them, chaos reigned. Draugr Deathlords and skeletal warriors clashed with the armies of Skyrim. Stormcloaks, Legionnaires, Companion, Vigilants, even scattered mages and mercenaries who had rallied to the fight.
It was a field where hundreds had already perished, the dead refilling their numbers as Rahgot raised a staff, the Soul Gem on the shaft glowing.
"Come, brothers! Let's show these dead forces the might of Skyrim!" Farkas rallied the others as he led a contingent of warriors, including Mjoll the Lioness and a few other companions into the draugr line.
"Zu'u koraav hi. (I recognize you)." The Dragon Priest's gaze fixed on Savos, twin orbs of blue flame flaring within the slits of his mask. "Kaal do Morokei. (Victor of Morokei.)"
Savos' lips twitched. "While I do not yet speak the dragon tongue, I suspect you're referencing something I'd rather not dwell on." He stated, the air around him vibrating from the sheer amount of magicka roiling off of him. "Come Dragon Priest, I shall see what a warrior of your calibre is capable of."
Lightning erupted from his palms, condensed into a single searing bolt that screamed across the field.
Rahgot met it head-on. He swung his massive claymore in a downward arc, cleaving the bolt clean in two. The severed energies carved into the mountainside, triggering a landslide that tumbled into the Draugr ranks below.
Then Rahgot was gone—no, he moved faster than Savos could track, the Dragon Priest appeared before him, claymore crashing downward.
Savos' crystalline ward blossomed in time, deflecting the blow, but the impact numbed his arm. His other hand tore open the fabric of Oblivion, and with a guttural command, two Dremora Lords surged forth.
Rahgot barely slowed. His free hand lashed out in a palm strike that slammed against Savos' chest. The shockwave detonated through his wards, hurling him across the ground as his feet caused fissures on the ground.
Blood seeped out of his mouth as Savos recovered. He grimaced in pain.
While Savos prided himself in being a Master in both Destruction and Conjuration, Alteration was by far his weakest school of magic. The most powerful flesh spell he could currently conjure was merely Ironflesh, and that shockwave broke it apart in one strike.
'Do not get close. I need to keep my distance from him.'
Looking up, the Dremora fared no better. Rahgot twirled his claymore, knocking aside one Daedric greatsword while backhanding the second warrior into the dirt. In another whirl, the green-masked priest bisected them both, banishing them in flashes of red flame.
His eyes turned back to Savos, the twin orbs of blue flame intensifying as they met his gaze.
Savos wiped blood from his chin and let out a laugh, bitter and exhilarated. "So this is the strength of a Dragon Priest warrior…"
He held both hands aloft as an intense lance of fire formed between his palms. "You have piqued my interest."
Power roiled off of his figure as Savos took the fight to the next level. He slammed the lance on the ground as chains of flame erupted outward, searing across the field and carving jagged trails into stone and soil alike.
Rahgot simply charged through, leaping skyward and shattering the ground to avoid the chains of flame. Up in the air, he breathed. "FUS RO DAH!"
The Thu'um tore the air apart. Savos braced behind a small, yet condensed ward, choosing to sacrifice size for thickness.
That choice had most likely saved his life as the blast hammered into it, rattling his bones. The shield cracked, but held.
At the same time, his left hand arose as a blizzard formed on his palm. A quick swipe of his fingers had a five foot thick dome of ice and snow forming and surrounding the Dragon Priest, caging him in place.
Rahgot whirled left and right to study his new 'prison', though Savos did not give him time to contemplate or strategize, for a gateway to Oblivion was opened once more as Six Dremora Lords answered his call.
With a single verbal command, all six rushed into the dome with savage roars and began clashing with the Dragon Priest in close combat.
He knew now of Rahgot's weakness. It was painfully obvious in hindsight.
The man had little resistance to magic, a warrior through and through. He was a mighty one, of that he had no doubt, but it seems the summoning of the undead army had not been by his hand, but rather the long, ugly staff that Rahgot had strapped to his back.
Throughout the fight, the man chose to dodge rather than defend against most of his offensive spells. That in itself was proof that unlike Morokei, who was capable of walking through even Expert Level spells unharmed, Rahgot shared none of the resistance to raw magicka as his brethren.
That would be his undoing.
And so he needed time, time to prepare his next spell. Master-Level Destruction spells were powerful, capable of shattering a mountain if need be.
However, their one weakness was the length of casting. A single spell required the wizard to call upon copious amounts of magicka and to channel it in an intricate manner. A single mistake could cause the magicka coils to overcharge, forever crippling that mage from ever manipulating magicka ever again.
The prison of ice and the Dremora Lords won't hold Rahgot for long, if the previous encounter was to be believed. Rahgot had butchered two of them like they were inexperienced Hold Guards.
It was a level of prowess Savos was ill equipped to deal with. At least, if he was playing fair.
Mages fought much differently than warriors after all. There was no such thing as a sense of honor or fairness in a battlefield such as this.
Savos pressed his palms together, finger to finger, channeling more magicka than most mortals could even imagine. The skies above darkened as storm clouds churned into existence. Sparks danced between his hands as the air screamed with static.
Of course, something as grand as this could never be done silently. His channeling of magic had instantly caught the attention of a few Draugr Deathlords, who broke through the lines of men and made to rush him.
Only for Ulfric Stormcloak to come rushing in, intercepting them "FUS RO DAH!"
The Deathlords scattered at the Thu'um, though they have yet to perish. Two werewolves descended then, Vilkas and Farkas, causing chaos among their number.
Legate Rikke, Delphine of the Blades, and Mjoll the Lioness formed on his back. Fighting tooth and nail and holding the line to shield him.
The sight reminded of his old comrades. Fellow mages who trusted him to watch their back and vice versa, only for Savos to betray that trust.
'Never again.'
The ice dome shattered in a violent explosion, Rahgot roaring as a shockwave erupted that sent the Dremora Lords back to Oblivion. He emerged, mask blazing with hate, claymore dripping with the essence of Daedra slain.
It was too late, for the storm was ready.
Savos uttered a singular word as the entire battlefield was suffused with electrical magicka. All across the battlefield, the command rang out that silenced all sounds.
"Fall."
The heavens answered.
A pillar of lightning, colossal and blinding, descended like the judgment of Aetherius itself. It swallowed Rahgot whole, his scream echoing as his body convulsed within the electric inferno. His silhouette flailed, weapon raised, but there was no resisting the wrath of the storm.
When it ended, silence followed.
Ash drifted to the ground where Rahgot had stood. Only three things remained: the green mask, the massive claymore, and the staff.
Rahgot, one of Alduin's chosen, was no more.
…
4E 202, Ivarstead
Gerron Ironbreaker
When they arrived back in Ivarstead, the battle was already over.
Vermithor crested above the village, beating his wings carefully as he floated above the battlefield.
Below, the fields and roads of the little town had been transformed into a war camp. Fires smoldered where spells had struck, and soldiers of both Legion and Stormcloak were moving side by side to clear the dead and tend to the wounded.
As Vermithor descended, cheers rose from the soldiers and townsfolk alike, echoing across the valley. Many had seen the battle high in the mountains, the flashes of fire and frost, the terrible shapes of dragons clawing at the sky. Most of all, they had seen Alduin retreat. That vision alone was enough to ignite hope in every soul.
As the dragon landed on a field outside the camp, the three riders dismounted. Waiting for them was Legate Rikke.
"Welcome back, Lady Kiera, Lady Serana, Lord Gerron," she saluted sharply. The Nord woman was worse for wear, her blonde hair matted with blood and dirt. But there was no hiding the shine of hope and satisfaction in her eyes. "The Emperor and Jarls are awaiting you in the main tent."
"Thank you, Legate," Kiera replied, nodding once before turning to her dragon. "Wait for us here, Vermithor."
The great bronze wyrm rumbled low in his throat, like the groaning of mountains, then lowered his head to rest.
The three of them followed Rikke. Gerron kept his eyes open as they walked.
Everywhere he looked, men and women who had been bitter enemies only months ago were now clasping arms, tending wounds together, or sharing waterskins. Stormcloaks passed food to weary Legionnaires, a Vigilant of Stendarr muttered prayers over a Dunmer warrior's gashes while a Nord guard kept watch beside him.
'They say once you fight beside a man, you become shield-siblings. Looking around… aye, I believe it.'
Still, the cost was heavy. Stretcher after stretcher passed him by. The Vigilants and a few wandering healers worked frantically with Restoration magic and healing salves, but there weren't enough spells to go around. Blood still soaked into the mud, and the air was thick with the cries of the injured.
Even then, vigilance was still present. Patrols and sentries were sent out as a few others were rebuilding their defenses. Palisades, watchtowers, smiths.
They reached the command tent in the heart of the camp, close to the city of Ivarstead itself. Outside, the numerous housecarls and bodyguards remained standing guard. Irileth, Commander Maro, Galmar, and Delphine gave them a passing nod.
A wide pavilion met them as they entered, with the banners of all nine holds as well as Imperial crests hanging on each post.
"I'm glad to see the three of you are alright." Balgruuf greeted, his arm in a splint. The Jarl's face was slightly pale from the pain, though they remained resolute.
"As am I," added Emperor Titus Mede, his sharp eyes falling on Kiera. Despite the grime of battle, he smiled. "It seems you have stepped into the shoes of a leader quite well."
"I try," Kiera chuckled, though Gerron could hear the weariness in her tone. She moved to Carcette. "Mother, how are you?"
"I'm quite alright," Keeper Carcette answered with a small smile, though her left arm hung stiff at her side. "Despite this hand, I'm still a capable warrior, you know."
"I know," Kiera said warmly.
Gerron broke the moment. "What are our losses?"
The question drew a heavy silence, then a sigh from Ulfric Stormcloak. "Of the soldiers… a little under two thousand," the Jarl of Windhelm said grimly. "Most fell when Rahgot first cut through our lines. The rest… when they were forced to fight their own comrades risen from the grave."
"Damned necromancers," spat Jarl Korir. "We were lucky the Archmage slew that Dragon Priest when he did, or we would all be bones by now."
"Jarls Siddgeir of Falkreath and Idgrod of Morthal perished in High Hrothgar." Jarl Elisif stated with regret. "Their bodies have been recovered and will be given a proper burial.
"Even so," said Titus Mede, lifting his chin, "this is a great victory. Five dragons slain, a Dragon Priest destroyed, and Alduin himself forced to retreat."
"With the death of Rahgot, the threat to Riften is broken." General Tullius continued as he gave Jarl Laila Law-Giver a nod. "If Jarl Laila can consolidate her Hold, we can perhaps root out Rahgot's threat fully. There are still many of the undead stationed in the tomb of Forelhost."
"About that, I have something to say." The Jarl of Riften suddenly rose, gaining the attention of the room. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of the moment, yet there was a strange resolve in her eyes.
"There is no hiding my failures," she said, her voice heavy. "I was weak. My people suffered for it. Riften burned because of me. The Rift deserves a Jarl stronger than I could ever be."
Gerron frowned, uncertain where she was going, until her gaze found his.
"Gerron Ironbreaker," she declared, her voice ringing louder now. "You are not only a warrior but a leader. I saw it myself in Shor's Stone. What was once a mining hamlet is now a thriving town—safe, prosperous, defended. Its walls stand stronger than Riften's ever did. Its guards are disciplined. Its people are proud. With Riften fallen, Shor's Stone has already become the true heart of the Rift."
Murmurs rippled through the tent. Gerron's eyes widened.
"You are a friend of the Dragonborn and a man respected by every Jarl here," Laila went on, looking around the circle. "With no High King in Skyrim, the succession of Jarlship falls onto the Jarls themselves. Both of my sons have perished in the fall of Riften. Therefore, I have no regrets in relinquishing my claim, and I name Gerron Ironbreaker the new Jarl of the Rift. Long may he reign."
Applause followed, not raucous, but steady and solemn. Balgruuf inclined his head. Ulfric gave a small grunt of approval. Even the Emperor nodded in respect.
Kiera clapped him on the back with a broad grin. Serana chuckled softly from behind him, her eyes glinting with amusement.
But Gerron?
He just sighed at all the new work that just got dropped in his lap.
'And here I thought I finally had time to tinker.' Still, a smile crept across his face. 'Then again, how many of my old plans are possible now, with a Jarl's title in my hand?'
At the very least, he thought, he could always dump the mountain of paperwork on Filnjar if it comes to it.
…
AN: Some people have fully sniped this idea of mine and for that I commend you. Gerron is now the Jarl of the Rift, with Shor's Stone replacing Riften as its new capital city.
Merit, strength, connections, all of this has a part to play in the politics of Skyrim. With the deaths of both her sons, she has no qualms in giving the responsibility to someone else, especially after practically losing everything in Riften.
She has no more lands, no wealth, nothing. Even her supposed 'bodyguards' that she brought to High Hrothgar aren't truly loyal to her and 'abandoned' her.
I have major plans that require Gerron to become a Jarl. I haven't forgotten his ambitions in making Shor's Stone into the next Imperial City.
Anyways, Savos beats down Rahgot. OP mages are so fun to write. You get to be creative with their abilities.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 73 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Cheers guys and see you next time!