Here is the first battle of Skyrim for the Vampires. IF you want a sneak peek at how the statigies for fighting the various areas in Skyrim, I would highly advise you check out Shadiversity and his YouTube channel, he did a series on the castles of Skyrim and Elder Scrolls buildings and their realistic/defensive merits. -Cloaked Writer
~Middas, 20th of Mid Year, Northwatch Keep, North-Eastern Skyrim Coast, 4E 203~
Dominus leaned over the stolen map of Skyrim, seized from an imperial encampment within Haafingar.
All around him in Northwatch Keep the sounds of industry and the growls of Draugr filled the frigid night air.
The fort had been abandoned after a large group of Stormcloak sympathizers had sacked it in order to retrieve one of their own, before disappearing within the ranks of the Stormcloaks. While it neatly kept the Volkihar Court away from the messy affair, he had been certain to garrison it before Elenwen ever caught wind of the incident.
Lesser Draugr; undead too weak or inexperienced in the art of war. Minor cooks, squires, and shield brothers in their finite lives now served a greater cause in death: labor.
Sparks flew as the undead warriors sharpened blades with that crimson glow in their eyes, weak and brittle skeletons carrying crates of ingots and tanning large swaths of leather for armor and weapons. Three of the Acolites had been designated to Hestla to aid her in overseeing the creation and distribution of weapons to the new army.
Dominus sat within a stolen tent from the same imperial camp, safely within the shade, yet able to observe the comings and goings of the fortress. Thralls were dressed in the Elven armor of the armory, and were to be posted along the walls as decoys, in case bandits came snooping about with the misguided rumor that the fort was empty.
He wrenched his mind from the walls.
Focus, man! Wars are not won with distracted rulers. he reminded himself.
He traced a lazy line from Solitude to each of the cities in turn, his finger digging into the paper slightly and leaving a crease to mark his presence. Solitude, Markarth, Falkreath, Whiterun, Riften, Windhelm, Winterhold, Dawnstar, Markarth… All would fall soon.
All of the crypts of Skyrim had been painstakingly emptied, the forces marshaled in massive temples or barrows within the hold, under the command of a lesser Lord or Acolyte. He knew Ortholf was personally leading the force to seize Whiterun, despite Garan's frequent warnings against his placement to the position.
Dominus smiled.
The Draugr were loyal to him and to him alone. There was no force that the old Warrior could try that could ever break his hold over the army.
He tapped his finger heavily upon the emblem of the Horse upon the center of the province.
Whiterun was the center, and by far one of the largest holds of them all. It had mountains, plains, woodlands, snowcovered tundra, ore, and limitless potential as the crossroad of trade. Whichever side controlled Whiterun, controlled the province. There would be the formality of destroying the opposition, but the writing on the wall would have already been set in stone.
And he was determined to have the writing on the wall favor him.
His humble home within the city was now playing host to nearly a half dozen men, with a dozen more kicking about in the local tavern, with a substantial amount of gold in order to ensure they did not raise eyebrows by not paying for food and lodging.
As it was in nearly every major city in the province.
Honeyside hosted a dozen Thralls easily, with more trickling into the city through the convenient passage to the docks and entering the Bee and Barb, with a considerable number now residing in the Ragged Flagon in Riften, and similar actions in Windhelm.
All the pieces were in place.
All he needed now, was for his Chamberlain to report.
If he were to trounce the Empire, he needed to ensure that they knew the blow was coming, if he was to be allys to them.
He did not truly hate the Empire; he desired power. Such mortal nations were below his interests. However, it was a nation ruled by vampires, and he could ill afford a war with his own kind. If their blessing assured, and their legions likely to be significantly withdrawn, he would remove all of the other members in the war, and be the sole faction in the province.
Not a moment too soon, a courier was reported to be speaking to one of the Thralls, who had… persuaded him to give up the note.
He opened it with eager hands;
My Lord, the Elder Council, and the Order give their blessing. They accept your terms as of the 16th of Mid Year. Commence at your convenience.
-Garan Marethi
He could not stop the smile that crept upon his face. He had done it. It was time, to make his move.
He clicked his fingers together, and a petty Draugr knelt at his side.
"Send word to the troops at Volskygge, to make their way to the peaks above Solitude on the Seventh of Sun's Height. They will commence with the plan as scheduled."
It growled in acknowledgment, before marching off to seize a sword before making its journey.
Dominus then set to work. It was an easy task, to duplicate a message multiple times if your quill was sharp enough.
"Thrall!" Dominus called when he had finished his orders to the various Hordes across Skyrim.
One of the Elven armored men materialized at the Dark Elf's side.
"Yes, My Lord?"
"Is that Courier still around?"
"Aye, My Lord. He just left after being assured the message entered your hands. Shall we shoot him down?"
"No. Bring him to me."
It had hardly been five minutes before the wide eyed wisp of a man was dragged by both arms into the fort, gasping at the undead soldiers crafting weapons of war.
A simple bite, and he was his.
"I have messages I need you to deliver, with the utmost haste. You will run until your heart bursts if you must. You will rest only at night. Deliver these to their owners, immediately."
"Yes, My Lord."
~Loredas, 7th of Sun's Height, Mountains of Solitude, Haafingar, 4E 203~
Dominus was smug, as he peered down at the city below him through the twilight hours of the night.
Such a proud little thing, the heart of the Imperial Legion. The art and majesty of the Imperial Heartland and the ties it represented, yet with the Northern flair of the Nords and their boastfully primitive styles of building.
Dominus could not help but equate it to a work of stained glass.
Wondrous. Divine, even, when the light would catch it in the morning and when people looked upon it from afar. However, it was also similar to a stained glass window in strength; a few rocks could damage it.
Taverns sang songs of the Tongues, saving the people of Skyrim of the doom of Alduin in Two Hundred Two, but none would sing of the Chorus of the Lords.
Their Thu'um echoed from the mountains, and he was sure the noise would reach the ears of the Greybeards of High Hrothgar, as the Avalanche of great stones barreled down the mountain to batter the city defences and level the Castle Dour.
A fireball was cast into the air by one of the Thralls, and the battle was begun.
Well, more like the clean up.
The guards were gone. The Citizens, in their confusion, barred their doors and fled to their basements, or chanced a dash for the Dour, or for the Blue Palace.
The Draugr had their orders, as did the Acolyte Marshal Commander: Slay the guards, capture the Palace and the Imperial Leadership, but leave the people unharmed. The Draugr were to be deployed in combat-only areas, dispatching the remnants of the Barracks and the pitiful resistance that the Captain of the guard was attempting in the markets.
Dominus rode down upon the black of Arvak, the dark horse trotting slowly as he was flanked by several deathlords. Their dark chant of triumph and respect echoing above the sounds or ringing swords and gasping flames.
"Lingrah lahney Drog Konahrik! Lingrah lahney Drog Konahrik!"
Long live lord Konahrik.
He had given them that name in earnest when he raised them; he doubted their guttural voices could even pronounce his name in the first place, but it was still an intimidating title nonetheless. He rode out amongst the dwindling battle, the swirling ashes, and unto the Blue Palace. He dismounted, and raised his cudgel in a silent signal. The Deathlords and scattered Overlords converged on his position; his honor guard had assembled. And with the guards in place, he marched for the door.
It was a quick victory. The Draugr simply lurched forward upon the terrified Nords, their ebony weapons and sharpened rusted blades pierced their mail and padding, ending the lives if the guards with deep groans as they soiled themselves in their last breaths of life..
Thankfully, only three had to die before the Palace surrendered.
The Housecarl was the worst.
Howling some horrid war-cry, he lunged forward to attack Dominus directly. A nearby Overlord made quick work with his Ebony Axe, severing the fiery head from it's shoulders.
"Dominus, I am disappointed." Elisif said with a huff as she was pulled from her bed by the heavily armored undead.
"To think you defeated Potema, only to enact her plan yourself. You are unworthy of the title of Thane; nay, you are a stain upon the noble name of Dragonborn!"
"Oh, my dear, Potema was a fool. It was the great vision of a necromancer that gave the idea to a Solitude ruled by the Undead…" He flashed a fanged grin.
"But it took a Vampire to get it done."
And with that, he pounced.
With the Jarl as his Thrall, the city could return to peace. The remaining guards were enthralled, and the citizens were placed under a brief tenure of Martial Law. A new Court was established, largely of Warrior Thralls as Bodyguards, yet the Court mage would remain.
Dominus had given her a wry smile after feeding upon the last of the guards.
"Don't think that just because you are a Vampire that I will let you off the hook. You are as much a pawn in all of this as the Thralls. However, prove your worth, and there may be a place for you within our ranks, Sybille."
The Breton Vampire smiled wryly.
"I will keep that in mind. In the meantime, there is a city on fire that needs a government, and unless your Draugr can use frost magic as well as they can push stones, then it would be best if they left the city, majesty." the Breton said with the only amount of disrespect that would be tolerated by the Dunmer.
"Of course. Please keep in mind, you will be under watch while the changes are under way. Loose ends and all of that."
She sighed.
"I expected as much. If it is an issue, I spend my time mostly conducting my experiments and draining the life of the prisoners in the keep, not that it matters to your work."
"Regardless, you will be under a close eye. The guards now all are loyal to me. The Draugr more so. And the night itself has ears that would make my pointed lobes curl. Keep your nose clean - very clean - and there may be a place for you as the ruler of Solitude."
The Dunmer gestured to one of his Deathlords, who sheathed his weapon and stood beside the female Vampire.
"Until we meet again." he said lightly.
He strode from the Blue Palace, and down the city walk. And as he walked, he could not help but feel saddened by the destruction that was so necessary for the good of his people, and for the people of Skyrim.
Restless Draugr and Draugr Scourges cast spells of ice and summoned Frost Atronachs to fish people out of the rubble, and the priests; regretfully dragged out of bed in the middle of the night and under intense guard, cast spells of healing and recovery on the injured.
The populous was largely intact; the damage had largely been directed towards the Castle Dour and the military barracks - and an accidental bonus was the destruction of the Thalmor Headquarters.
Unfortunately, a mortal celebration was underway in the tavern; either the remembrance of a passed family member, or the ascension of a family member into a new year of age, it did not matter.
What mattered was that the building had been smashed by the rockfall.
He cast his spells, utilizing his resistance to flames to enter the burning building and rescue the people.
Only two were dead, the rest suffering from major burns.
It was not ideal, but again, it was necessary.
He would spend the rest of his time enthralling the people of the City to his will. They would all be loyal to him, and they would go about their lives as planned.
The fishermen would fish. The Hunters would hunt. The Bards will play and the drunkards will shout.
But they would do so by his will. They will continue, under his control. Vampires will be able to walk the city streets, and never again fear the wrath of a Mortal Torch.
It would take time. Hell, it would take the greater part of Winter, if not into Spring. But by 204, Skyrim would be theirs.
Skyrim, would be his.
The rumors he would sow would cause desertion, which would only further his chances. The Imperials, so proud, yet so careless. The Camps would either be deserted, or they would band together in The Reach, or Hjaalmarch. Regardless, the Dragon would soon be gone from the face of Skyrim.
Now, to fight the Bear.
Dominus smiled slightly, wondering how best to deal with the Bear of Markarth.
Open Combat? A direct Challenge? An assassin's blade?
Dominus smiled lightly, the thought bringing back memories, of how he turned the Dark Brotherhood.
An assassin's blade...
~Fredas, 14th of Mid Year, The Pale, Dawnstar Sanctuary, 4E 203~
Dominus entered the sanctuary like a ghost, the Blade of Woe gripped tightly in his hand.
He knew what he had to do.
Cicero's blood was vividly sweet; the pain in the neck of the blade's incision bringing a smile to his face as he relaxed into the Void.
"Goodbye, Mother..." he whispered quietly.
He drained him dry, before lifting the body from its bed and carrying it from the front door.
He undressed the body, leaving him naked as he neatly folded the clothes in a pile beside the corpse, as he set about his butchery, severing the fingers one by one and binding them together with string.
CuSith stood by, waiting patiently.
He swallowed the fingers whole, but the forearms thankfully gave Dominus more time to cut.
Grumbling slightly, he reached into his pack and removed a Forsworn Sword, a gift from an admiring Forsworn damsel.
This was a weapon meant to sever limbs.
after popping the arms from their sockets and gifting them to the demonic Deathound, he set to work on the legs.
After spending half a minute contemplating how best to approach the situation, he resolved to simply break the legs of the Jester at the knee caps and sever them that way. A little brutal, but alas, such is life.
After gifting the Dog his second calf, Dominus stood and stretched, taking the time to gather the cleaned bones and bury them in the course, gravely earth.
He had no doubt that the bones would be dug up by some scavenging Wolf searching for scraps, but at least the murder would be covered.
At CuSith's wet chewing grew louder, he turned to see that the deathound had moved on to feat upon the dead Jester's gut, ripping the intenstines out like sausage links and chewing noisily upon them.
Dominus sighed lighty, before returning to the sanctuary. He still had work to do.
The initiates were interesting; the female with an enchatingly herbal aftertaste to her blood, likely some sort of poison or toxic plant she was ingesting to grant her immunity. The male, however, had a slightly greasy taste to his blood, suggesting that he engaged in lavish foods while away from the sanctuary.
Nazir smelled of ink and of his yellowing papers, yet tasted surpsingly ordinary.
With that, the sanctuary was his. They were his.
They were not Thralls, however. They were Vampires. And in order to convince these beings to go along willingly, they would need some sort of excuse, some sort of scape-goat to blame the death of the Jester, the one most loyal to the Night Mother.
CuSith was finished with his disgusting meal, and the bones were burried.
Dominus then hacked the clothes apart with his blade, and strewed them around the entrance of the sanctuary.
"Time for you to go return to the castle." he whispered, petting the decaying snout as he lifted the now shredded hat of the dead jester.
He then turned to the black door, and took a deep breath.
He held no ill will towards the Jester; he had enjoyed his company, by all accounts. However, the death of honored friends would be a necessary loss to further the cause.
Dominus shook his head, with a sadness threatening to battle with the sense of indignation rising up within him.
Sacrificing those close to you for the betterment of the group? Now he was thinking like Harkon.
He lifted the hat, the tears beginning to flow. They were allowed to fall freely, but he was unsure if they were false, or genuine.
The Jester would be the last of those to die within his sphere of influence.
And with that, he kicked open the black door, rousing all within, and declared with a thundering bellow of rage and emotion, that Cicero was dead.
Dawnstar paid heavily as the scapegoat; the story was that a trio of guards had seen him, and ambushed him in the night as he left to use the rest room. The lack of a body was not an issue; CuSith's paw prints sowed the seed of wolves cleaning up the mess.
But from the ashes of Cicero, and from the mournful rage as the Dark Brotherhood descended upon the town of Dawnstar, Dominus knew that they would once again be changed.
No longer would the Dark Brotherhood live in the shadows of the backwaters, living in the cold and dank. Such days were behind them.
The Brotherhood was dead, they all knew it as they feasted upon the blood of the guards in the night of pure and utter murder, going house to house, killing all of the people within.
A new day dawned, and the Crimson Scars were born.
Aaaaand Solitude has Fallen to the Vampires. The Imperial back has been broken, and the scattered Legates are ruined. All that remains is breaking the Bear... -Cloaked Writer
