Chapter One: An Unlikely Meeting
Gharrok Broken-Blade lay in the fresh powder snow, waiting for the signal. If the Intel from their spies was correct, a Thalmor escort would be passing through here at any minute. Gharrok was the only son of House Broken-Blade. Born and raised in Skyrim, he was there when Ulfric Stormcloak raised his banner in rebellion against the Empire. The young Nord had proven himself a capable warrior, and helped form the Nightblades: one of the best recon and ambush teams of the Stormcloak Rebels. If there was an Imperial or Thalmor convoy that could be stolen, they were there. If their shield-brothers and sisters were in trouble, the Nightblades would resupply them and reinforce.
"Chilly morning," A man said next to him. Ralof, one of Gharrok's closest friends, shivered as the snow continues to petal down. "Hope they arrive so, else my body freeze.
"You're just soft from spending all your time down south." Gharrok replied. He'd spend his youth climbing up Seven Thousand Steps with his father, delivering supplies to the Greybeards, and occasionally taking lessons in history in diplomacy. "Riverwood has had you a soft man."
"Say's the man with the tinier muscles than a goblin!" Their spies had told them that a large supply wagon heading to Whiterun was passing by Korvanjund, a shipment belonging to the Dominion. Gharrok heard a quick two-whistled tone, indicating that something was coming. The young Nords halted their banter and buried themselves deeper into the undergrowth. Gharrok hugged his cloak closer for concealment, and warmth. Despite his bragging, it was pretty damn cold.
His breathing was very light, with large gaps in between. There had been more than one occasion where an ambush had failed due to a sneeze, or someone's foggy breath being seen. As far as they had been told, there were going to be three wagons, with not that many guards, and so the plan was simple: Archers were hiding behind rocks and trees nearby. They would jump out, shoot as many as they could while the rest of the Nightblades charged in and took the remaining people. If it was possible, take home casualties, otherwise burn them and return the bones with their amulets and rings. An eerie five note song was whistled. Their target was approaching.
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Gharrok unsheathed his war axe, Icefang. Originally his father's, this axe was one of the few things he had that reminded him of home. "Talos, I pray for your guidance," he mumbled, praying to the legitimate Divine. "I ask that my feet be fast and my aim true. I live serving you, and if I die here today, may they sing Songs of me in Sovengarde…" There was another whistle song. Four long, low notes. That was the signal to count to ten, and then attack…
Ten…This is for Ulfric…Nine…Skyrim belongs to the Nords…Eight…This is for my family…Seven…They will songs of me in the afterlife!...Six…My little sister will know what it's like not to live in fear! Five…The Broken-Blade name will live on forever by my actions…Four…My village will be safe because of my struggles…Three…All off Skyrim will be free…Two…This is OUR homeland! One… AND WE WILL FIGHT FOR OUR FREEDOM! Gharrok heard the twang of the first arrows being loosed as he burst from the snow, throwing of his cloak and picking up his shield.
"Skyrim belongs to the Nords!" He bellowed, charging onto the road and into the Thalmor swords…
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Gharrok charged straight at a Justiciar and a swordsman. The mage reeled back and fell dead to the ground, choking on an arrow. Magic robes were no match for steel arrows! The Nord blocked a strike with his shield and sidestepped the swordsman, before burying his axe into his side. Gharrok had been killing Elves and the Empire's soldiers for almost a year now, he knew all the weak points in Elvish Armour
To finish his victim off he punched him with his shield with such force it broke his neck. The front most wagon, driven by a scraggy Breton, charged ahead, desperate to escape. Gharrok had planned for this, and a Nordic battlemage, a rare sight since the Thirty Years War, as most of them had died in Cyrodiil, summoned flame atronach. The flaming, demonic woman barred the way, scaring the already terrified horses by setting the road ablaze. This Nightblades fought on, but there were many more elves than anticipated. Gharrok had planned for ten or twelve, but this was more than double that. He took a moment to drink a healing potion when his friend slumped down next to him, taking cover from the Elven archers.
"Drinking on the job? I'm disappointed," the Nord joked.
"Funny Ralof," Gharrok mumbled. "Got a slash to the arm, need this. What about you?" Ralof didn't answer, rather bracing for a frost atronach lumbering towards them. It brought down both of it's mighty arms to skewer them, but Ralof was ready, cleaving through the magical ice with his battleaxe.
"Now, before it regenerates!"
The pair moved in synchronization, like petals flowing down a stream. Gharrok rolled underneath the atronach's retaliation, trying to bludgeon him with its now shortened arms.
When fighting a frost atronach, you can easily outmaneuver it. His father had always taught him. Get behind it and go for the joints between each limb, then destroy the core.
Gharrok did just that. The icy hinges between the huge body and limbs were no harder than sinew, and Icefang, true to her name, bit through them as if they were no harder than a skeever's tail. With only it's huge body still moving, Ralof buried his weapon into the monster's head, and the atronach dissipated back into whatever realm of Oblivion it came from. Ralof gave a curt nod and rushed back into the fray. Gharrok took a quick breath, right before a spike of ice shattered into the wagon, only inches from his face.
"Hey, watch where you're-!" Gharrok couldn't finish his sentence, as his eyes were bewitched by the sorceress that cast at him…
