"And so it had been foretold by the Elder Scrolls, that 30 years after the defeat of the dragons, a nation of men shall rise to challenge age old empires and remake Tamriel in their vision. Not through infernal magic or the machinations of Daedra- but through their own gods of science and technology.
I see faceless golden men spilling blood in the most ancient cities. I see great armies of men spitting fire and metal, as their faces and hearts burn with hatred. I see an empire already in its death throes, finally succumbing to the unending tide of steel and fury that will bring the new order.
Many will resist them. Many will try to defend the old order of the world.
And they will fail. These men will bring even the most ancient and powerful races to heel.
So it has been foretold by the Elder Scrolls."
- Imperial Scholar Ozymandias Parmenion, during the Dragon Crisis, 4E 201
4E 231
Port of Lillandril, northwest Summerset Isles
It was mid spring in Summerset. Normally, this was a time for harvests to be restarted and for the merchants of the Altmer port cities to busy themselves with the influx of trading vessels from mainland Tamriel.
Instead, in the late morning, the elves of this particular port city saw something that made many scratch their heads and point in wonder at the horizon.
It was what could only be described as a vast armada of ships of varying size. But they were unlike any ships any elves or Imperial visitors to the city had ever seen. Most of them were huge- dwarfing even the mightiest ships of the Imperial Navy and merchant fleets. They were sleek, with the warm rays of the sun reflecting off the iron and steel plating that lined the sides of the ships. Most the vessels had two or three masts, but the sails were not propelling these giants forward.
Instead, a pair of large paddle wheels on either side churned the crystal clear waters, with an iron smokestack belching out noxious fumes. Each ship was powered by this method and each churned relentlessly forward. And each of these great ships flew a flag of sky blue, with a golden sword through a golden cog in the middle, with this symbol flanked by curved grain bundles on either side.
This was the flag of the Rynn Commonwealth.
This was the flag of the nation that would change Tamriel forever.
At the time, many stood in wonder of the mysterious ships that neatly lined up a few hundred yards from the docks and dropped anchor. The Thalmor garrison at Lillandril did not know what to do next. No one had come off from the ships and their intentions were not made clear.
The military leaders of the garrison were debating sending out a boat with an emissary to the fleet when at approximately 12:04 PM, when most of the people in the city were sitting down for a midday meal, the mortars aboard three of the ships fired.
The first shell landed in a busy plaza where over a hundred elves were gathered to eat. The shell killed 56 outright and wounded 80.
By 12:30, the city of glass and stone was ablaze.
The city's governor sent a courier on the fastest mount he could find to the Aldmeri Dominion capital of Alinor with a simple dispatch:
"They've done it.
The Rynn have attacked. We need help.
Auri-El protect us all."
Aboard the steamship Dawn Hammer
1:00 PM
Rynn sailors stripped down to the waist ran back and forth across the mortar deck. Superiors barked orders and enlisted men furiously loaded and reloaded the pair of bronze mortars that rained death on the elves of Lillandril.
Further up the ship, the men and women of the 88th Commonwealth Infantry Battalion emerged from below decks, where they had spent over two weeks sailing from the naval port of Novongarde back home in the Commonwealth. They were all dressed in their standard battle dresses- long coats that covered a good portion of the front as well as the back of each soldier and ended with an upside down V cut around the boots, with heavy canvas trousers protecting their legs. Each coat had a light chain mail woven into it, enough to barely block a sword or arrow. The troopers wore their thin gloves and had their round helmet and mask combo, which covered up to the nose. Every regiment had their uniform dyed the agreed upon regimental colors. For the 88th, the colors were a deep royal blue for the main color and golden for the trim.
Each trooper carried a brand new rifle, a new breech-loading model to replace the muzzle loaders. Built just for this occasion. This long rifle was known as the Type 6 and offered numerous advantages to the earlier muzzle loaders. Smokeless powder, solid cartridges, quick and easy reloads, just to name a few.
The Rynn were the first to utilize firearms in all of Nirn's history. And they had quickly learned how to use them and use them well.
To complement their rifle, each man carried 40 .303 caliber bullets. Their Type 6s could only hold a single bullet at a time, so each trooper was taught how to shoot quickly, accurately, and how to keep the fire up. Reloading was very simple- just pull down the lever, take out the spent cartridge, toss it away, push in a new one, and push the lever back up. So easy, an elf could figure it out.
Each man carried a bayonet and combat knife. The bayonet was a stubby knife in its own right, but was designed for slipping onto the bayonet lug at the end of the rifle. Now the combat knife was a different story. Thick and heavy, the knife was composed of steel alloy and mass produced in the Commonwealth war factories. That was not to say the quality was poor. Far from it. The blade was thick, wide, about six and a half inches long, and ended in a tanto style point. There was a long handguard, with one end of it curving over the user's knuckles and a comfortable grip to ensure maximum ease of use in combat. The knife was designed for prying into enemy armor. Especially elven armor. Each trooper wished they could be issued one of the fancy five round pistols, but those were for officers only.
Right on cue, their commanding officer emerged from below deck. He wore a single breasted coat with a high collar, pins of rank clearly visible on his chest, collar, and high peaked officer's cap. His trousers were crisp and well pleated. Like his men, his uniform was blue and gold. He was very easy to spot on the battlefield- which was the idea.
His name was Adrian Arnaldus, or more properly, Lieutenant Colonel Arnaldus. Unlike everyone under his command, he was not a Rynn native. He was born in the far away province of Skyrim. His mother was a native Nord, while his father, who he described as simply "a hero," was an Imperial originally from Cyrodiil, but settled in Skyrim for whatever reason. Adrian was a tall man, who towered over most of the other officers. He was lean, but strong, something not evident when one looked at him. His hair was black, just like both of his parents', but he shared his mother's dazzling green eyes. They were the most noticeable features on his gaunt face, which always held an expression of grim seriousness and never betrayed emotions of any kind. As for a hairstyle, he always kept it close cut- he did not want any possible distractions in battle. He was renowned for keeping his cool in the most adverse of battles. On his hip rested a unique sheathed sword, the only thing on his uniform not regulation. The sword was not the standard issue double edged, tapered officer's sword. It had a long, thin blade made out the finest steel many have seen. The handguard and pommel were composed of actual dragon bones. Adrian called the sword "Dragonbane" and stated "it was a gift from my father. Given to me before I went out into the world. It protected him many times and he told me that it should do the same for me."
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," he said with a curt nod in the general direction of the two hundred troopers assembled before him.
"You all know why we are assembled here. That I am sure of."
He turned to face out to the burning elven city. A grin crept across his face as he took in the beautiful carnage.
He turned back to his men. "We are here to bring war on the elves!"
The troopers shouted their agreement and Adrian waited for them to calm before speaking again.
"In a few minutes, we will all be boarding the landing crafts and storm landing zone prime." He nodded at the white sand beach near the docks.
"From there, the 88th is tasked to take and hold the main archives building and take anything that looks important. Once we're done with that, we burn the place to the ground. Any questions?"
There were none. Everyone just wanted to get out there.
Adrian checked his pocket watch. It was time to begin the landing.
"88th - it's time to go."
The troopers did not need further encouragement. They all quickly marched to the waiting landing crafts hanging by chains off the port side of the Dawn. Once everyone was situated, pneumatically operated chains hissed out air and the crafts descended (less than gently) into the water.
It is unclear where the events leading up to the Rynn invasion began. But ask any Commonwealth citizen and they will tell you the story of the day that still burns in the minds of every citizen.
It was on a cool day in 4E 131, one hundred years ago. In the bustling capital city of Dracka, at the very top of the High Mage's Council towers, ten of the finest Rynn wizards stood in a perfectly round circle, hands outstretched and chanting arcane words in unison. Uncanny energies flowed around their hands and danced before their very eyes. These men were conducting a bizarre, unholy ritual to make a permanent connection with the realm of Oblivion.
It was an idea seeded in the minds of the Rynn nobility by agents of the Aldmeri Dominion. It was a show of good will, really. The elves promised the Rynn that completing this ritual would give the Rynn a highly potent source of magic energy. One that could not be found naturally anywhere in the world.
No one found it suspicious when the elves cleared their embassy a day before the ritual began.
No one found it suspicious when every elf in Rynn was recalled back home on order of the Dominion in the days leading up to the ritual.
At 4:00 PM, a massive explosion destroyed the mage's tower and four city blocks surrounding it. This explosion unleashed a massive wave of deadly energy that destroyed some, spared others at random. This wave reached most of Rynn and caused 2/3 of the population to simply cease to exist.
The following months were times of chaos, hardship, and increased cynicism amongst the survivors. Their supposed allies- both elven and men, spurred them. The small nation was forced to sustain itself with its shattered infrastructure and devastated lands.
Rynn would have collapsed had it not been for Arthur Mikroth. He was an inventor and engineer by trade in a society that constantly quested for better and better forms of magic. He introduced machines that ensured maximum yields from the remaining farmlands, vehicles that would allow faster movement across the scarred landscape, and weapons that allowed the remaining Rynn soldiers to secure their borders against raider incursions.
It took decades but Rynn had recovered and reunited under the banner of the Commonwealth. To ensure that the disaster that dogged the Rynn for decades was never repeated, the first act of the Commonwealth was to ban the practice of magic and magical items entirely.
And no one argued. It was technology that saved them from destruction. It was magic that nearly ended them.
By the time of the Dragon Crisis, the Commonwealth was the only nation on Tamriel that was truly industrialized. Electric lights lit the paved streets of Dracka, factories worked day and night to mass produce goods, and the army drilled its troops with firearms and cannons. At sea, steam powered ships prowled the waters around Rynn and destroyed any challengers.
No other nation paid them mind. The Dominion was too arrogant to believe the Rynn could come back from the brink so quickly and the Empire had other matters at hand.
Ever since the disaster, every single man, woman, and child in Rynn was united by one feeling.
Hatred. Bitter, resentful hatred for the Dominion. And by extent, all Altmer.
It was they who first convinced the mages to undertake the forbidden ritual. It was they who spurned their requests for aid and laughed at their suffering.
Hatred was channeled into a feverous call to arms across all echelons of Rynn society. For decades, the Commonwealth's newly built factories churned out war material to arm the swelling ranks of the Commonwealth Army. For years, tacticians and strategists drew up plans for the perfect invasion of the Summerset Isles. But even then, generations of soldiers came and went without ever leaving the Commonwealth.
And the Rynn were just itching to spill elf blood. Even immediately after the disaster, the writers and orators of Rynn would disseminate words full of wrath and contempt to the crowds of exasperated survivors.
A consensus was reached. The Altmer were stupid, dirty, brutish, and violent. They were no better than animals.
"And like an invasive pest, the 'high elves' as they call themselves in their endless arrogance, must be exterminated," wrote noted statesman Jesen Ivorstock.
The propaganda machine of the Commonwealth was a powerful beast that could always churn out something to whip the people into a fervor or make them swell with national pride or a sense of superiority.
Following the disaster in Dracka, it became clear that the only people that would be helping the Rynn would be themselves. Humans. Humans that were pushed to the brink, but would rebound anyway. Philosophers and scholars in the years to come would come to a similar thought whenever they penned a treatise- that men were superior to the elves.
Who founded and ruled the greatest empire in the history of Tamriel? Humans.
Who suffered countless setbacks, wars, and crisis', and yet always rebounded while the elves stumbled around praying to ancient gods and pandering around dusty spell tomes? Humans.
And despite the doings of the Dominion, which race remained numerous and dominant across Tamriel? Humans.
It was obvious, it seemed to the Rynn. Humanity's destiny was to bring all the world to heel. To conquer all before them and remake the world in their vision.
But the humans of Tamriel were factitious and still clung to their ancient alliances or antiquated magic.
The conquest of the Dominion would be the first step. The first step towards a glorious new order that the Commonwealth would usher in.
As an officer in the Commonwealth Army, Adrian felt personally responsible for ensuring success in the upcoming invasion and safeguarding the lives of his troopers.
No, he was not going to try to seize this city all on his own. He and his men would do their part to the best of their abilities.
And kill every elf that gets in our way, he thought to himself as he leaned forward to keep ocean spray out of his eyes. Adrian had his hands on the hilt of his sword. He could not wait to finally get a chance to punish the Altmer for their crimes against mankind- and for the crimes against his family.
He peered over the sides of his landing craft to gaze at the awesome sight of nearly 400 landing craft beginning to depart for their designated landing zones. Each was packed, depending on the size and purpose, with an upward of 100 men each.
The white sand beach that was his landing group's target came into view. He could barely make out the forms of elven troops forming up on the seawall with bows and ballista.
Soon, each craft came to the landing zones. They were forced to drop their landing ramps down into the shallowest part of the water they could manage to fit into without becoming stuck. The ramp dropped, splashing water that soaked the boots and trousers of troops in the front.
The archers and ballistae opened fire. Most of the projectiles fell short. Those that made it usually hit empty air or sea where a soldier had been standing just moments before.
Adrian gripped his sword and drew it. With his left hand, he reached for the dark leather holster where his pistol was kept. He closed his hand around the polished wood grip and drew it in a single, fluid motion. He pulled back the charging handle at the top of pistol, just below the sights. He took a moment to check the magazine situated in front of the trigger guard and confirmed he had a full load of five .45 caliber rounds.
He raised his sword over his head. Turning to his men, he shouted over the din of the landing "88th! We come here to fight! Don't let me down!"
He was one of the first people onto the beach. Now, fireballs hurled from the hands of Thalmor mages joined the volleys of arrows and ballista. The magic flames were slow and imprecise, but could wipe out a whole squad in an instant.
Adrian raised his sword again and pointed it forward as half ran, half trudged through the foamy surf.
"In the name of the Commonwealth, in the name of all mankind- ADVANCE!" he shouted at the top of his lungs as the troops following in his wake roared in approval.
The Rynn troopers made their way to shore and onto relatively dry ground as projectiles rained around them. The elven defenders were readjusting their trajectory and began to score hits. Adrian saw several of his men fall to arrows hitting vulnerable parts of their body.
They've trained their whole lives and traveled thousands of miles for this only to get cut down on the beach, he thought to himself.
He waved Dragonbane over his head. "Double time it to that ridge! We need to get out of the line of fire!" he shouted.
The troopers scrambled to the relative safety of a nearby low ridge that offered just enough cover to keep them out of the archer fire. Dozens of troops hugged the dirt wall, knees drawn up and cradling their rifles.
Adrian looked out at the beach in dismay at the sight of a few hundred dead bodies from different units, all fallen in the initial assault forward. But, there were no wounded left behind and Adrian saw more than a few troopers dragging or carrying wounded comrades to cover. Other armies may leave their wounded behind, but the Rynn knew they had to take care of their own.
Close to 6,000 troopers had been dispatched to landing zone prime. There were secondary, tertiary, quaternary landing zones and each had a force of 2,000, 1,500, and 500 dispatched to storm the beaches. At prime, a total of 18 units had been fielded, with the 88th being one of the smaller units.
Under Adrian's tactical and military leadership, the 88th had been promoted from a frontline assault unit to smaller, specialized unit. Their jobs involved being deployed away from the main assault to attack special targets. The mission today was to seize the archives building, but in theory, the 88th should have been deployed with the other specialized units at landing zone quaternary. But, Commander-General Errol Zigus had other ideas today.
Adrian looked around to see the other units close by. He could tell units on sight most of the time by looking at the colors of their uniforms or any non-regulation symbols or items some units adapted. During the rush to cover, each unit had stayed together enough to make the beach look like a mural of colors- some bright and boisterous, others dull and muted.
Immediately to the right of him, Adrian could see the steel grey and black of the 13th Assault Infantry, known colloquially as "the Sword Breakers," so called because they were the textbook assault unit- run in, sustain casualties, and destroy any opposition up close and personal. They had the most troops present and would certainly be doing most of the street to street fighting.
To his left was the antithesis of the 13th. He could see a line of purple coats with a white stripe diagonal across the back. These the 4th Infantry, also known as "the Royals," a unit of superbly disciplined and drilled troops who were experts at infantry maneuvers and defense. No doubt their objective today was to take hold of critical location and hold it against counterattacks. As if that would be a challenge for them.
With an audible huffing, Aldo Eckstrom, the radiographer of Adrian's command squad, took his place in cover next to Adrian. In each unit, troops were broken up into 10-12 man squads. The commanding officer had a specialized command squad at their disposal- the members of which were handpicked by the commander and usually carried out specific roles integral to commanding and managing the unit.
Eckstrom wiped sweat away from his forehead, but even then it poured into the man's icy blue eyes and flecked his thick beard, which was still partly visible even with the half mask he wore. Carrying the heavy wireless pack along with all his gear was no easy task.
Adrian tapped him on the shoulder.
"Wire the Dawn for me, Eckstrom," he commanded.
"Yes, sir," he replied as he (gratefully) took the wireless off his back and put it on the ground. He fiddled with dials and handed Adrian the handset.
"This is Lieutenant-Colonel Arnaldus. We are pinned down on the beach and we need your guns to target the seawall where the elves are positioned. There's no way we can move forward without being cut down," he said over the din of explosions and shouts.
Back on the Dawn Hammer, the radio operator relayed the message to the gunnery crew on deck.
The chief gunnery officer heeded the request without hesitation. Withdrawing a mathematical instrument and spyglass from his satchel, he walked to the edge of the deck and did a few calculations in his head.
He then put away his delicate instruments and barked a few orders to the crew. The gunnery crew adjusted their trajectories and powder loads. The guns fired an instant later. The whole process, from message received to firing, took five minutes.
Adrian covered his ears as he saw a pair of flaming projectiles streak overhead. Not even five seconds later, the mortars hit their mark.
The seawall and almost every elf atop it was obliterated. Those that were not vaporized by the blast fell to their deaths or were hit by flying debris. From his position, Adrian saw a charred leg with shreds of armor still attached to it flutter down to the beach. As the dust began to settle, Adrian and his fellow officers ordered their men forward. With assorted battle cries, they surged over cover and bolted up the stone staircases leading up from the beach or up the newly created ramps formed from rubble.
A small contingent of men stayed behind to help the wounded, many of whom insisted on joining their fellows despite arrows sticking out of their chests and limbs.
Ganmon Jorius, an Altmer warrior, coughed heavily as he struggled to regain his footing. Whatever weapons these humans were using, they were certainly powerful.
He grabbed his sword and regrouped with the remaining Altmer still alive near the wall. Most of the archers were dead and the wall could no longer be a defendable position. His superior shouted that they would have to hold the humans here for as long as possible.
As Ganmon joined his fellow warriors in a neat formation, he thought how hard can that be?
Each elf drew their sword and shield, if they had one. The remainder either conjured up a spell of their choosing or clenched a fist in anticipation. He could hear the ugly shouts of the human invaders as they surged up the stairs. His grip tightened on the elven sword in his hand. He could not wait to plunge it into the soft flesh of these men who dared strike at his home.
He saw the first of them make it to the top and rush forward, but they stopped short and waited for their comrades to join them. Once the invaders were assembled, they only seemed to have a slight numerical advantage over the elves, but certainly did not seem to have any other edge. They seemed lightly armored for a battle and carried primitive wooden weapons- probably some type of spear.
A tall human stepped in front of a large group of invaders and shouted something in his language while waving his slightly curved sword.
"Firing lines!" Adrian shouted to his troopers. The other Rynn units around him followed suit. The troopers had practiced this every day since they were teenagers. Now, it was time to put the training to the test.
Each squad formed up together. Half of the troops dropped down into a crouch and aimed their rifles forward while the rest remained standing up and aimed forward as well. The final image was thousands of perfectly formed lines, all aiming at the elves in unison.
"Hold your fire until I order!" Adrian shouted.
His superior gave the order to advance. Ganmon was in the second row of warriors, but desperately wished to be in the front of the action.
The elven warriors started out walking at a steady pace, but quickly advanced in a full on sprint towards the attackers. Each and every one of them wanted to destroy these damn humans who had attacked their ancient city.
"Steady now!" Adrian said.
The elves were only a hundred feet from the humans. The forward rows of the formation readied their swords for attack.
"Who are you to attack my home, my people?" Ganmon shouted toward the humans. "You will regret coming here!"
"FIRE!" Adrian bellowed with a downward slash of his sword.
The crouched ranks opened fire, the first shots any of them have taken at real, life elven targets.
As they reloaded, the standing ranks fired. As the standing ranks reloaded, the crouched ranks fired and so on. This technique, while simple, would keep a wall of gunfire going as long as possible.
His troopers were the first to open fire and the other units soon followed his lead.
As Ganmon raised his sword above his head for a downward swing, the top of his head exploded as a bullet punched through his forehead. His lifeless body fell straight down, tripping the warrior behind him.
The human's weapons unleashed destruction on the elven ranks. Scores fell in the first two volleys. Scores more fell as the humans kept up the fire.
Adrian raised his pistol up and fired randomly into the attacking elves. They were still advancing, even though hundreds had fallen dead or wounded in a matter of seconds. The elven counterattack was shattered in minutes. Confronted by these new weapons of war unlike anything they had ever seen, the elves began to turn and run.
Bullets punched through the ornate elven breastplates, destroying armor that had existed for centuries and had been passed down for generations. Helmets provided no protection as bullets hit their targets in their exposed faces or just passed through the thin metal.
Elven armor was good against deflecting swords or arrows. The Rynn guns carried much more force and impact than the strongest sword or bow could hope to deliver.
In a total of eight minutes, 3/4 of the elven defenders were dead or dying. The Rynn had cut through them like a farmer cuts down grain with a scythe. The remaining elves had dropped their weapons and were trying to run away. Many were cut down as they stumbled over the dead and wounded and the few that did escape told a horrific tale of bizarre weapons that spat out fire and grey smoke and how their proud warriors were hit by invisible projectiles that stopped them dead in their tracks as if they had just run headfirst into a stone wall.
The Rynn lost exactly zero men in the opening skirmish. Adrian reloaded his pistol and ordered everyone to stand back up and move forward.
"Fix bayonets," he added as he executed a wounded Altmer with a pistol shot to the head.
The Rynn troopers moved forward in a disorganized fashion that vaguely resembled a line, stepping over the broken bodies of their opponents as they moved into the city proper. Any wounded elf was promptly put out of their misery with a bayonet thrust to the neck or chest. The ammo was reserved for Altmer still standing. Occasionally, a trooper would bend over to pick up a discarded sword, dagger, or trinket that struck their fancy and slip it into their belt or pockets.
And so, the Rynn turned their eyes to the burning city.
