Note - This story is completed, though any plans to continue it (as in a sequel) are indefinably moot, due to my disatisfaction with pacing and character development. Enjoy.
Fire burst out from the sweaty palms of the Nordic behemoth. The dead stumbled towards him, bellowing cheap imitations of his honed thu'um. As their axes swung through the air, his body swiveled backwards to avoid their range. Even without the retaliation he could bring forth the dragur were doomed. His senses were drowned with a smell of rotting flesh that wavered around the beasts like a dragon in a city. Despite his obvious advantage, he decided to end the battle then and there.
With the voices of his ancestors behind him, he shouted the now familiar phrase: "FUS RO DAH!"
The gust of unrelenting force seemed to blow the two apart like an explosion. The two undead went flying away, tumbling over the edges of the temple. Recovering his balance, he began to walk forward. He looked over the edge of the drop-off beside the stairs, and realized how high up the temple reached.
This hero was no regular hero. Just over a year ago, he discovered he was the foretold Dragonborn. Though he had accomplished more along the way, such as joining the Companions and taking charge of the College of Winterhold, his life for much of the past year had been spent scouring Skyrim for Words of Power in order to prepare for the fight against Alduin, the world-eater.
He gazed back. The temple of Skuldafn lay in shambles, littered with the carcasses of dragurs and two dragons. The sun was setting over the mountains back west, and as he breathed in the fumes of the world, he felt that it was for someone…
Shaking off the feelings of death, he continued upward along the outdoor stairs. He stumbled as the staircase edge collapsed beneath him. It was merely a small section of the steps, so he was fine, though he silently cursed the ancients, Nords and Dwermer alike. He had faced death on far too many occasions in those accursed crypts.
As he made his way up the final stairs, he found himself at the base of a large, flat arena-like platform. Around it was the open air, allowing a potential enemy to be forced off the side, much like the dragurs earlier. He focused his attention towards the center of the temple peak, and saw the column of light bursting through the stone. A floating figure was in front of the portal, with his back to the Dovahkiin. The sky, blackened, almost began to swirl with what seemed like anticipation. The figure, seeming to sense the hero, turned.
The Dragonborn's fist tightened as he saw what it was. He had faced them. The undead remnants of the dragon's allies: the Dragon Priests. Before him stood Nahkriin.
Nahkriin hissed, and the hero proclaimed, "Meet your demise, Lord of Death, for your kind have fallen to me, Michel Reynald, before. You shall not be the last."
In response, the foe raised his staff and lightning roared from the tip. The Dovahkiin raised a ward, shattering the spell where it stood. Moving his feet like a swordsman, Michel circled the Dragon Priest, launching balls of fire towards him. Much like what happened to him, the enemy deflected all of the flames with ease.
As Nahkriin sired a Master Spell, Michel darted behind a stone pillar on the edge of the platform. Fire jetted beside him, separated by the pillar. Michel cursed the enemy. He could defeat most warriors with ease, though mages occasionally gave him difficulty, due to their ability to block spells. Quickly attempting to analyze the situation, his eyes darted to his dagger and his bow. He had never been one for stealth, having quickly reported the Thieves' Guild when they had approached him, but held onto a dagger just in case. He retrieved his bow, and held an arrow in hand.
Attempting to see his enemy, he peered around the pillar.
Nothing. Nahkriin was gone.
Michel turned around, attempting to gain a view left of the pillar. In the instant he turned Nahkriin took hold of Michel's undershirt, peeking out from atop his armor-plate. The skeletal hand dug into his chest and a chain of lightning burst into him.
Acting out of instinct, the bow fell from his hand and the now free palm burst into a ray of golden magicka, continuously healing him. He tightened his right hand around the arrow and thrust his arm forward into the foe's chest. It plunged through him, only stopping when Michel's palm hit the beast's chest. An echo of screams travelled through Skuldafn.
Michel took the opportunity of Nahkriin's weakness, and reached for his dagger. He yanked it from his belt loop, and sank it into the Dragon Priest's face. As he howled in agony, the mask shattered and body began to disintegrate.
The Dragonborn exhaled. He gathered himself and approached the portal, still glowing in anticipation of him entering. Once he was sure he had prepared himself, with potions and enchantments ready, he walked forward.
Winds circled around him as the world turned white.
Suddenly, he hit the ground against a dirty plain of stone. Sand circled around him and the ground against his cheek vibrated every moment in a roar of explosions. As he stood up, pellets began to whiz by him and he dove for cover.
Over the ledge to his right a grey wall of stone that spanned the course of the river far below. As screams and explosions bellowed from every direction, his mind began to twirl. Surely this land of Oblivion could not be Sovngarde!
He turned back to see warriors battling across the field of rock. Everything seemed different. The stone was the most clear-cut construction he had seen. Even the White Gold Tower had points where stone stuck out, yet this was only damaged by acts of war. And the weapons they possessed were swords of black that spat bullets of fire. The armor was different based on the armies, with one being men of tan suits he didn't recognize, and the other being men that resembled Imperials to an extent.
From around the corner of an outpost, one of the Imperial-like men spotted him, and began to charge forward, machete rose. Michel reacted quickly, thrusting his hands forward to unleash fire to the man. Though as he did this the man continued… for no fire came.
The sword slashed towards Michel, and he quickly side-stepped out of its reach. His hand spun in a circle as he grasped his dagger and plunged it into the back of the enemies' neck.
Reacting to the gunfire from behind him, he dove towards cover, near the tan soldiers. Despite his escape from the metal men, he saw the tan-armored soldiers surround him, their weapons pointed at him.
Michel's head was on a swivel, attempting to locate the officer of the squad through some form of distinction in his armor. When he was spotted, Michel opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.
The officer pointed his weapon to Michel and screamed, "Weapon down and hands behind yer' head, asshole!"
The Dragonborn immediately complied, afraid of the new weapons only slightly. He was more curious than anything else, and wished to learn what was happening from the man.
"Who the hell are you, scrub?!" the officer yelled, pulling Michel behind cover as his men got back to fighting the war. Michel observed that the man was rather curious about his armor and arrows.
"Michel Reynold, son of Talos' Legion and the Dragonborn," he told the man. "And you?"
The man had a grizzly beard and a toothpick between his teeth. His ears curved backwards, and almost seemed to twitch when he spoke. "Name's Jaytom Rogers. Was 'er commander 'round the Hub durin' the raids back in '74. Now, I don' know what this 'ole Legion talk is about, but you better be shittin' me if it's 'bout them bastards," he spit, pointing at the enemy.
Michel turned to look back, and shook his head.
Jaytom nodded and asked, "Where you from, boy?"
"My mother hails from High Rock, though my father is a Nord of Skyrim," he answered.
"Well look alive, boy," the officer told him. "Yer' in the Mojave now, future territory of the NCR."
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