The Age of Oppression
Polytheist
Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners
We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone.
For the age of oppression is now nearly done.
The City
Whiterun burned.
In the Wind District the Gildergreen groaned in the heat as the sap used to sustain it hissed and bled, leaving black stains on the bark; while Plains District was choked with movement as guardsmen and Imperial Legionnaires fought the surge of civilians running for their lives as, from their placement on the surrounding plains, catapults loosed their loads, streaking fiery comets into the mass of its defenders.
Ulfric Stormcloak had gotten tired of waiting and sought to end the back and forth of the Rebellion by launching an all-out offensive on the neutral Hold; aided by Hjalmar Dragonborn, the new Unblooded of the Stormcloaks.
Firelight glinted off his steel sword as he paused for a moment, steel-grey eyes surveying the city from beneath his horned iron helmet.
The Plains District was theirs, many of the Stormcloaks had revitalised themselves by looting both weapons and potions from Adrianne's stores at Warmaiden's and Arcadia's Cauldron respectively; a few spirited individuals had raided the Bannered Mare, smashing the door to pieces and helping themselves to the mead and ale.
"By Talos, now this is what I call a fight," Hjalmar turned around at the sound of the booming voice.
There in the full regalia of the Stormcloak command stood Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's second in command; his savage grin complimenting his bear helmet perfectly.
"By you appearance, I take it the Wind District has been taken."
"Of course," Galmar turned, beckoning Hjalmar to follow up the steps leading from the marketplace. "These pathetic milk drinkers don't have the right to call themselves Nords, not like us."
Hjalmar grunted, rather uncommittedly.
"Shame Jorrvaskr is locked up tighter than the legs of a Breton housewife," Galmar continued, "rather fancied myself a skyforged axe."
The Wind District was cluttered with the scars of battle; pieces of charred wood from the shattered awning mingled with the blood of the fallen.
Galmar approached the bodies of the dead Stormcloaks lain respectfully in the shadow of Talos' shrine, the priest Heimskr performing rituals over them; he was rather upbeat considering the recent destruction of his home by the Stormcloak bombardment.
"Take your rest in Sovngarde, Brothers," Galmar intoned over the bodies.
His next destination was the haphazard pile of Imperial soldiers and Whiterun guardsman; the majority of the casualties bearing Whiterun's yellow.
Galmar scowled down at the corpses. He cleared his throat before launching a projectile of spit and phlegm that landed somewhere among the bodies.
"Traitors to their own race," he spat before turning away.
Hjalmar frowned beneath his helmet at the desecration, for had they not bravely given their lives in defence of their homes? Did they not show both courage and honour by throwing themselves at the invader rather than fleeing? But he held his tongue, for despite his legendary status as the Last Dragonborn, he was only a lowly Unblooded in the Stormcloak army; there by grace of his abilities, lacking anything more than ceremonial authority.
The two Nords approached a gathering of Stormcloaks. One soldier broke off from the battalion; Hjalmar gave a nod of greeting as Ralof of Riverwood nodded in obeisance.
"Galmar Stone-Fist, Dragonborn," He gestured behind him. "The men are ready to take the Cloud District."
A bloodthirsty expression adorned Galmar's face.
"Well then," he cried as he raised his weapon above his head, "let's go kill some traitors!"
With a fierce bellow of a wordless battle cry, the Stormcloaks charged up the stairs towards Dragonsreach.
The dozen or so archers huddled behind the makeshift barricades did not stand a chance and soon the Stormcloaks stood before the barred door of Dragonsreach, having lost four, maybe five, men.
"Dragonborn," Galmar commanded, gesturing towards the door.
Hjalmar closed his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath.
"Fus...ro DAH!"
As though hit by a hurricane, the doors exploded inwards in a shower of splinters.
As the Stormcloaks poured into Dragonsreach they were met by the last of Whiterun's defenders.
Hjalmar found himself crossing blades with an Imperial in Legate armour. He parried the Imperial's strike, his riposte scratching the Legate's faceplate in a spattering of sparks, before weaving backwards to avoid the counter-attack; the steel scraping his scale armour.
"Zun...Haal!"
The Leagate's sword flew from his hand mid-swing.
Hjalmar struck before the Imperial recovered, his blade darting between the helmet and the breastplate, slicing through the tender flesh beneath. The Legate fell with a gargle; dead in moments.
But Hjalmar could not savour the victory for the Legate was immediately replace by Hrongar, the Jarl's brother; his face contorting in rage as he slashed with his greatsword, his anger fuelling a berserker's fury. Hjalmar felt himself lose ground to the onslaught. He dived under a swing in an attempt to gain some breathing room. Hrongar did not intend on giving any quarter and moved to close the gap.
"Krii...Aus!"
Hrongar stumbled, blood draining from his face as his armour began to corrode under the effects of the debilitating Shout.
Hjalmar leapt forward, driving his blade deep into Hrongar; where the neck met the shoulder. The steel torn deep into the flesh, through Hrongar's lung into his heart; he was dead by the next heartbeat.
Hjalmar's own heart thundered as he drew in a deep, ragged lungfuls of air in an attempt to calm his pulse and replenish after Shouting.
A cruel laughter snapped his attention back to his surroundings.
The defenders were all dead; the laughter had come from Galmar as he stood triumphant over the body of Caius, commander of the Whiterun Guard.
"Is that all you have Balgruuf?" He sneered at the armour clad Jarl, passing a judgemental eye over the corpses, obviously finding them wanting. "And where is your little Elf, eh? I thought that vile cur never left your side. Guess an Elf should never have been given a Nord's honour."
The Stormcloaks joined in with their commander's cold chuckle.
Balgruuf's expression hardened to mountain-stone, a white knuckled grip on his axe.
"Irileth is protecting something far more precious than my city."
Balgruuf stare passed over the invaders. When it reached Hjalmar his expression fell and, for a second, seemed to look almost double his age.
"You...Dragonborn, why would you betray Whiterun? Betray me?"
While he suppressed, with great difficulty, any outward reaction, those words pierced Hjalmar's heart with a thousand needles of ice.
"I..."
"Enough talk," Galmar cried as he thundered between the tables towards Balgruuf.
Although he managed to bring his axe up to block the blow, the impact of Galmar's bullrush sent Balgruuf staggering into his throne; his axe clattering to the floor.
Galmar sneered as his raised his axe.
"Ulfric sends his regards."
With one blow it was over.
Galmar and the rest of the Stormcloaks bellowed their victory before dispersing into the depths of Dragonsreach; the crash of glass and smashing of wood echoed as they raided the Jarl's home.
Hjalmar however stared at Balgruuf's pooling blood.
He did what he had to do. He needed Dragonsreach to capture Odahviing in order to find Alduin. Balgruuf had refused, so a new Jarl was needed.
He did what he had to do; if only that could make him feel better.