This story is designed to make you weep, make you cheer, and make you wallow in despair when you least expect it. But, most of all, it is designed to teach me how to write once more. If I have been successful in anything, I hope it is to make you want to read all the more.

Enjoy the first of mine in many years.

To Conquer - Prologue


When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world,

When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped,

When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles,

When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls,

When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding,

The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.

There was a prophecy once, carved with ancient hands into the walls of a fortress now crumbling beneath a mountain, that spoke of Nirn's demise and ruin. There will be a beast, blackened in ash and blood, that will reign the world with the might of his jaw and the cry from his throat. Those who would defy him would writhe in fire. Those who would not would still share the same fate. The land would break, and those who called it home would break along with it.

None cared, of course. There was nothing to concern themselves with. For, if the prophecy was true at all, there would come the Dovahkiin. The man who would smite the great fiery beasts in which reigned the skies would conquer the world back. There was nothing to fear; nothing to prepare for. Life would continue on, peacefully and contently. The crops would grow. The birds would sing. All will return as it once had. There was nothing for the races of Nirn to fear.

How fickle prophecies are, in the end.

Alduin came indeed. And with him, the world crumbled. The forests burned, the deserts desecrated, and the kingdoms shattered.

When the world ended, it was swift.

Skyrim was most unlucky; they were first to see Alduin-the first dragon in all senses. He emerged first from Helgen. A beast of the night, as black as soot and the darkest of shadows. No one knew how he came to be, or how he was there. He burned the village to the ground, its wood still smoldering when the rest of Skyrim met its end. Riverwood came after; there was no warning to save a single soul from that beast. Still hungering, still thirsty for the blood of men, the World Eater saw Whiterun. The great Dragonsreach, home of the proudest of Nords, fared no better than the rest.

Then, Skyrim met its end when Alduin's brethren emerged from the ground, ash and roots and mud still clinging to their scales as they sucked in their first breaths and then flew above. They found the strongholds, the cities, the homes, and there they saw only a feast laid out for them. The Stormcloak rebels fell, drowning in ash, as did the Imperial soldiers. The Civil War was lost to the hall of Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius. Instead, it was replaced with the terror of the winged creatures. In a fortnight, the frozen tundra was bathed in the screams of the Nords.

By the time the rest of Tamriel received word from Skyrim, given in hastened scribblings and panicked words-by the time the Imperial legion sent for more men to assist Solitude, by the time the Altmeri Dominion sent agents of their own, it was already too late. The strongholds were ruined. The cities were burned to the ground. The homes, once so filled with the laughter of children, the song of drunken patrons, and the crackling of fireplaces, were utterly silent. All that was left were the bodies-piles upon piles upon piles, all quiet and cold in the snow.

For a moment, Tamriel went still in shock, for Skyrim was now the land of the dead.

Cyrodiil was next to collapse; the bravery of the Imperials was no equal to Alduin's morbid lust for destruction. The Black Marsh followed. It too fell swiftly. Morrowind's defeat was faster than most; the devastation of Red Year had yet to pass. Hammerfell came next, and with it High Rock. Elsweyr's defenses were admirable, but crumbled like all the rest.

At last stood Valenwood and the Summerset Isles. The ancient elves, stubborn in pride, rallied for one final, hopeless battle in a nameless plain in Cyrodiil. Armed with bows and swords, magic burning from their fingertips, and dressed for battle, they stood and defied the dragons with their combined might.

They failed. The survivors were either devoured for those who were too slow or sent scuttering back, hiding in a forest too thick for the dragons to carve through or even burn, and there they stayed until they rotted into nothing. With their defeat, it was the end of the End.

Alduin had won.

The world turned to ash by the dragon fire, and the sky morphed into the blackened smoke of the broken world. Those most unfortunate to survive were enslaved by the ariel beasts, to serve as their livestock or their entertainment. Uncanny creatures, which had always remained hidden in the depths of the earth, stepped foot into the open and were free to roam the gaping world. With their presence, stragglers, rebels against the dragons, or simply survivors were more easily discovered - and punished - for their failure to submit. Those who escaped such horrors were left with their own. The plains were vacant and cold. There was little plant life or clear rivers, smothered so deeply in the debris of what was lost, nothing grew pleasantly. Food, or at least what could grow, was foul, corrupted by the soil of desecrated lands. Supplies were impossible. What little grew green remained belonged to the dragons; and they hoarded it. Gold became as worthless as dirt. Weapons and blankets a man would murder for. And murder they did. Often the dragons needn't rely on themselves or their allies to ruin their opposers; they ruined themselves in an effort to exist. Soon, there was little left.

All that remained untouched was the sea, too wrought with its own beasts to concern itself with the ways of the dry land. Those who lingered wept, dwelling in the hells of the enemy. And throughout the morn of fire and a solid whip, the people of Nirn would remember only one thing:

The Dragonborn never came.

Alduin had won.