A\N: I do not own Naruto or The Elder Scrolls. Obviously.
Beta: Duesal Bladesinger. But Ekusukallybaaand AlmostElectric checked it out, too.
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The door opened slowly, letting the freezing air from outside enter in the inn's common room.
A tall figure donning a hooded cape and sporting a long walking staff entered, and closed the door behind him, shivering for the cold.
It was a small building, this inn. Little more than a house turned rest stop for any travellers who crossed the road that cut through the Hjaalmarch.
The man—he was clearly a man since there was a beard attached to the chin that peeked through the hood—knew he could have travelled further before the sun set, but he was tired. He was still a day from crossing the Karth River and arriving at Solitude, and he wanted to rest on a warm bed for once.
He quickly scanned the inn, and was surprised to see that he was the only customer there.
The innkeeper was a woman in her thirties, probably the late half. Pretty, but he was not in the mood.
He saluted her with a gesture of his hand and she seemed to relax a bit. She had actually seemed afraid of his presence.
It was only expected, given the tattered weapons and armour dangling from his belt were visible from under his half-cape: a simple dagger that he carried as a last resort weapon and as a tool, and his trusted axe.
Not exactly a visitor that inspired tranquillity in a lone woman.
He decided to ignore her. Maybe that would calm her down. With long strides, he reached the burning hearth placed in the middle of the room. He left his backpack fall on the floor, placed his staff besides it and pulled a seat closer to him and sat there, enjoying the warm fire. After a few minutes, he started feeling much better.
A Nord that hated the cold. Funny.
He finally spoke to the woman, lowering his hood. She gazed for just a second on his blue eyes, her gaze roaming across the scars that ran over his right cheek, starting from his cheekbone.
A little souvenir left to him by a close encounter with a hagraven.
"Something hot, please. And mead," he added. "I can pay."
The woman nodded hesitantly and went into the kitchen to fetch a meal for her customer. Why was she so nervous? He hadn't threatened her, right?
She returned soon, carrying a tray with a full mug, a loaf of bread and a steaming bowl of soup. Apple and cabbage, by the smell.
Why did she look so afraid?
He thanked her and took the tray from her hands. She returned behind the counter and observed him from time to time.
He still hadn't touched his meal.
Why did she seem so afraid?
He took the mead. The sweet alcohol was erupting from it. He lifted the mug, foretasting it. It was his favourite beverage, after all.
He stopped when he saw the woman expression.
Why was she so afraid?
Wait.
What was this smell?
He putted down the mug, looking at it.
Yes, she was very afraid, now.
"This is a trap, isn't it?" he sighed.
The innkeeper's eyes widened. It that was all he needed.
He rose from his seat. The mug fell down.
The woman escaped to the kitchen, screaming for help.
He ran after her. She was reaching for a knife. He didn't give her a chance.
With a jump, he grabbed her and pinned her on the wall, keeping her firm in place with his arms.
"Poison. Deadly. Rare. Not your idea," he hissed. It wasn't a question.
The woman seemed on the point of pissing herself. She managed to nod.
"Who did this?"
"You know who," she said, starting to cry.
Yes, he knew who. But if they were able to plan something like this, in a random tavern he was just passing through, that would mean...
That would mean that they had been following him for days. Weeks, even.
But that was not possible. His journey to Solitude had been a secret, and he had travelled for days in the wilderness, avoiding villages and cities and stopping only in their hideouts.
How could it be—
He widened his eyes in realization. Someone had betrayed them. Someone had betrayed the Blades.
Faint noises of metal rustling could be heard, coming from somewhere outside of the inn.
He sighed again, closing his eyes. Then slowly, gently, he let go of the woman.
She immediately fell on the ground, sobbing, her head lowered.
"How many?"
"Too many," replied the innkeeper quickly. "Even for you."
He undid the lace of his mantle. It would hinder him in the impending fight.
"We'll see. Hide," he said to the sobbing woman, leaving the kitchen. He left his mantle on the counter, and paid for his uneaten meal.
What a waste of mead.
The blond man grabbed his staff, and extracted a colored vial from one of his pouches. Opening it with only one hand, he swallowed the foul liquid in a single gulp.
As he tossed the empty phial away, he could already feel the fortifying effect of the potion in his body.
He opened the door and left the inn.
Thalmor.
Dozens of them.
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Our Hero, our Hero, claims a warrior's heart...
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As he ordered to his mer to surround the entrance of the inn, Ederion knew something had gone wrong.
If the stupid woman who they had coerced into playing the role of the innkeeper hadn't called them yet, then their target had suspected something. Probably he had killed her; she was expendable after all.
That's what Ederion would have done, in his target's place.
Ederion counted among the younger Justiciar present in Skyrim, but he was one of the more cunning and dangerous. When he was offered this mission, he accepted without a second thought.
Should he complete it successfully, it would be a great boost to his career.
Following their target in the wilderness without being detected while leading so many soldiers had been a difficult task, but he had been able to do it.
He was the best of the best, after all.
The various elves had barely finished to get in position, that the door to the wooden shed opened.
His soldiers tensed immediately. A shield wall was raised, spears were pointed towards the entrance, and arrows were nocked.
A man left the building, walking like he was just going for a stroll.
Whispers started among the ranks. Even if the soldiers under his command were not all veterans, they weren't green either. But they all had heard the stories of the Dragonborn.
The sworn enemy of the Aldmeri Dominion, and of the Thalmor especially.
The warrior who had slain dragons, men and mer alike during Skyrim's Civil War.
The right hand of the gods-damned Blades' leader.
The boogieman that the elven mothers had started using for scaring their children, so that they would eat all the soup at dinner.
In the eyes of his mer, the man out there was a legend.
Ederion was just looking at the man, instead. A fool, weak man that looked a little more than a tattered vagrant, with a scarred face, an old armour and a walking stick.
True, he was the Dovahkiin, but he was getting older now. The man had passed his physical peak at least ten years ago, and with time he would just grow weaker and die.
But still, it was always best to tie up loose ends. After all, he had proven quite a threat in the past, and he could possibly keep being one for decades.
The Justiciar was sure that almost all the man's biggest achievement were just exaggerations. Tales overstated by the bards that seemed to infest this forsaken barbarian country, the most dangerous thing about the man standing before them wasn't his battle prowess: it was his reputation.
He and his few companions represented the single greatest resistance the Aldmeri Dominion had to face since before the Great War, and that would not be tolerated anymore.
He raised his hand, ready to give the signal for the archers. Today, the Dragonborn's legend would come to an end.
But as he was savoring the idea of turning the man to a pincushion with only a gesture of his hand, when something that he had never expected happened, which made him hesitate.
The man let go of his staff, which fell on the frozen ground. He remained there, unmoving, looking at the company of soldiers in front of him.
Then, slowly, he raised his open palms and placed them behind his head.
Murmurs could be heard among the mer once again, but this time they were caused by shock and surprise.
The Dragonborn was surrendering.
Ederion smirked, signaling to the archers to stand down.
The man knew he could not win here. Not against this many trained soldiers.
Ederion's mind was abuzz. If he could manage to take that man alive… as his prisoner and back to Alinor in chains…
The glory… he could already feel it.
No.
No, the Dragonborn was too dangerous to be just kept prisoner, and executed into the capital's main plaza.
But the glory could still be his.
After all, what was the difference between taking prisoner one of the greatest enemies of the Dominion, and bringing back his head instead?
He advanced towards the surrendering man, slowly extracting the sword. The man was just standing there, looking at the ground. Ederion came closer.
He was going to be the one who did it, he was going to be the slayer of the Dragonborn!
"Conrad Harissen," he spoke, full of righteous glee. "By the authority given to me from the Thalmor, for the crime of being a Talos worshipper, and for your multiple aggressions against the Aldmeri Dominion, I condemn you to—"
"FUS—"
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I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes...
With a voice wielding power of the ancient nord art
Believe, believe the Dragonborn comes...
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"—RO DAH!" he shouted, watching the Justiciar soar through the air and finally slam against the shields of the Thalmor soldiers with a stupefied expression plastered on his face.
Sucker.
Too bad the elf hadn't hit one of those spears.
Conrad quickly knelt, grabbing his fallen staff and avoiding the few arrows that the archers who weren't completely shocked had managed to shoot.
He'd better find a solution for them. Fast.
Raising his right hand, he quickly channelled his power, moving his fingers through the necessary phases. Flames flickered between them, caressing his palm.
Various fireballs departed from his extended hand, exploding on the Thalmor's shield wall. This resulted in dozens of pained screams, a few dead soldiers, and smoke.
Lots and lots of smoke which blocked the archers' line of fire, giving him a few seconds to formulate a strategy.
Running away was not an option. The terrain around the inn was almost completely composed of snowed plains. The salt marshes of the region were too far, and he would have an hard time losing such a force among them. If he wasn't killed by the archers while he made a run for it.
Levitation was not an option either because he would have just made himself a flying target, instead of a running one.
To fight was the only choice he had.
To annihilate was his only option.
As arrows sailed over his head, he kept moving, still half-crouched.
With precise movements of his free hand, he twisted the very fabric of reality for a brief moment, summoning an ally from a different plane of existence. A being made of flames, its form vaguely feminine, materialized besides him. It was hovering a foot above the ground, looking at Conrad with anticipation, waiting for its master's instructions.
"Kill the archers!" Conrad yelled. The atronach departed immediately, unleashing a jet of flaming fury against the soldiers.
Conjuring the daedra after that volley of fireballs had taken its toll on his magicka reserves,he could already feel the effects of the potion, refilling his spent mystical energy steadily.
Getting up, he used the few recuperated energies to weave a defensive barrier around his body. Once the protection was set, he sprinted towards the Thalmor's barely-visible lines, taking his axe from his belt.
He emerged from the smoke, right in front of an Altmer who clumsy attempted to stab him with his spear. A simple spin, and the charging Dragonborn knocked the weapon away with his staff, driving the blade of his axe deep inside the elf's unprotected neck.
The soldier died almost instantly, and with a twist of his right hand he freed the weapon, sending the corpse slamming into his comrades' ranks.
He pressed on, breaking the skull of a shocked Thalmor with another swing, splitting his helm in two. He did a hastened pirouette to side-step the lunge of his enraged companion, while channelling his power into his staff, shooting an hail of lighting into the spearmen—err, spearmer.
They fell, fuming from the joints of their armours, still twitching even after their death by electrocution.
The confusion among the Thalmor soldiers was bloody hilarious.
Too bad it didn't last for long.
Conrad ducked, feeling a broadsword cutting the air above him, where his head had been a split-second ago. He lunged the sturdy oaken staff in the middle of the warrior's legs, and twisted, tripping him and making him fall on the ground on his back.
Before the elf could even try to get up, Conrad had already brutally struck his chest with his axe three times.
"Is this all you've got?!" he questioned as he dislodged the weapon from the fallen's rib cage, grinning at the golden-plated soldiers that were surrounding him.
The response he received was an arrow that would have hit him in the chest, hadn't it been stopped by the magical protection around him. A faint flash of light, and the projectile bounced harmlessly on the ground.
Apparently, the flame atronach was not doing such a great job at distracting the lot of them, since there were so many.
He couldn't afford to stay in the open, but the middle of a melee, even the Thalmor would not risk to hit one of their own.
With a mighty battle cry, he charged his enemies, that were waiting for him not far away, spears raised.
He waited until the last instant, then he shouted again. The blast of the Unrelenting Force opened a wide hole in the middle of their ranks, sending the soldiers in the front flying backwards as the others staggered to maintain their footing.
Running directly among the prone Thalmor, stepping on them, he quickly hit the dirt with his staff one, two, three, four times.
Each time the end of the staff struck the ground, a different elemental rune was created on the spot. He had barely the time to outrun them as they exploded one after another, triggered by the movements of the dazed warriors.
As flames, bursts of cold, discharges of electricity and rocks blasted out of the very ground beneath him, he lunged forward, without looking back.
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It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes
Beware, beware the Dragonborn comes...
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A loud explosion, or maybe a series of explosion in close succession, was the first thing he heard clearly when he was able to breathe normally again.
Ederion had been almost knocked out from the impact against the soldiers under his command, and was suffering from aches on his whole back.
Groaning in pain—something that ashamed him greatly—he rolled on his flank, trying to get a better footing.
He looked around. He had lost his sword during his unexpected flight, and he hated being unarmed in a dangerous situation.
But his blade was not what he found, searching around from where he was laying.
What he saw instead was a man that had just slaughtered a good third of his soldiers.
How was this possible? Was it that difficult for those incompetents fools to kill a simple human?!
He should have ordered to bring him down with multiple volleys of arrows.
The Justiciar felt someone grabbing his arm, and pulling him up. Sparing it a glance, he recognized one of his trusted battlemages.
"Don't touch me!" he shouted as he slapped away the armored hand. "And go to kill that lowborn bastard!"
Instead of joining the melee, setting him on fire or wasting him with bolts of lighting, the battlemages looked at each other, hesitantly.
"Forgive me, my lord. But shouldn't we try to eliminate the target w—"
"Just DO IT!" he snapped, almost frothing in his frustration. "DO IT, DO IT DO IT!"
Intimidated by his sudden explosion, the elite spellcasters unsheathed their weapons and jogged towards the battle, spilling out in a fan formation. Their march was a solid line of metal and magic, ready to destroy the enemy.
"AND SOMEBODY DESTROY THAT DAEDRA," Ederion ordered, not really caring about them anymore. "I WANT THOSE ARCHERS READY!"
He was on the point of ordering someone, no matter who, to fetch his weapon, when he heard it.
A cry of pain, from the fight. And not an elven one.
Snapping his head in the direction of the combat, he saw that the Dragonborn had been wounded, a slash had struck true in his arm, in spite of the armour the man was wearing.
Now he was staggering, his staff lost, swinging his axe to keep the lancers at bay while walking backwards. Crimson rivulets were clearly visible on his wounded limb.
Ederion smiled.
No matter how formidable the man was, he was still just a man, a man fighting a great number of trained soldiers.
Victory would be his.
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For the darkness has passed
And the legend yet grows
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"Fuck off, you murdering BASTARDS!" Conrad yelled, as he killed another Thalmor with a crude blow of his weapon.
The last jab had shattered his magical protection, and the spear's sharp end had left a deep gash on his forearm, causing him to let go of his staff. The limb felt so heavy, after the wound he had received, but he was still able to move it, and clench a fist.
Which was good.
The fact that he was surrounded, and he had lost momentum… that was not good. The trick with the four runes had cost him almost all his magicka reserves, so frying the pansy elves was out of question.
The effect of the potion he had he had drunk before leaving the inn was almost over, and it wasn't replenishing his magical energies like before.
He fumbled on his pouches, the blood on his palm rendering the leather slippery.
An elven warrior, noticing his lapse of concentration, lunged towards him, spear pointed at Conrad's belly.
He side-stepped, batting the polearm away with the blunt part of the axe. The spear's point hit the ground, piercing it, and he kicked the Altmer with all his strength in the groin.
As the elf's face contorted in a pained expression, as knelt, gasping for air. Conrad finished him with an horizontal slash aimed to the mer's cheek, and finally retrieved another vial from his pouch.
It was one of his weakest potions, though. In his haste, as he stumbled with his pouches, he had opened the wrong one.
Well, beggars couldn't be choosers.
He swallowed the potion in a single, short swill, just in time to notice another incoming attacker, charging at him and yelling like a madman.
He wouldn't be able to dodge, this time, so he reacted reflexively.
He threw his axe, that plunged its head completely into the elf's chest, breaking the armour. The Altmer just stared at it with a stupefied expression, before finally collapsing.
"Come on, let's rush him now!" someone among the Thalmor lines said. "He's unarmed!"
"Unarmed my ASS!" he cussed at them, gnashing his teeth while unsheathing his dagger with his left hand.
Seeing that his defense was only a glorified steel knife, they charged in unison.
Idiots.
Conrad went to meet their assault, dagger ready while he raised his free hand in the air. He could feel his inner power, feeble as it was after too much usage.
He called upon it, and a sword appeared in his hand, conjured in the same way he had summoned the atronach. The newly created blade descended, and daedric metal met moonstone.
Moonstone lost, and elven blood splattered on Conrad's metal breastplate.
The retribution for this latest kill was not late to come.
He tightened his grip on the two weapons, and he moved, like a whirlwind, dodging, parrying and redirecting the incoming strikes. The few ones he couldn't, he had to count on his armour to protect him.
Conrad didn't restrict himself to idle defense. He moved the sword in wide, powerful swings, while stabbing quickly with the shorter blade every time he saw an opening.
More and more Thalmor fell under them.
Two spearmer tried to attack him from both sides at the same time, but he just averted their thrusts with a simple turn of his body and rotating his sword.
They collided with each other, losing balance. The daedric blade beheaded the first, while the dagger punctured the second's lungs.
He freed the shorter blade with a strong pull, doing a low sweep with the conjured weapon at the height of another elf's legs, cutting deep. The warrior fell, wailing in pain.
Conrad helped ease his pain, with the courtesy of a a dagger in his eye socket. As he wrested the weapon from there, he could hear a squelching noise.
"Come on now!" he taunted. "Who's ne—"
He wasn't able to finish his question, since a fire bolt exploded on his torso, sending him back, sprayed on the ground. The center of his breastplate had become almost red-hot, and his beard had been singed.
It hurt like Oblivion.
Who was the asshole he had to kill, now?
He forced himself to stand, and saw the asshole, and his battle brethren.
An entire squadron of battlemages.
It had been years since the last time he had fought a squadron of battlemages.
He grinned, finally on his feet.
"TIID KLO UL!"
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You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come...
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Ederion could barely believe his own eyes.
A part of him started to realize why the songs portrayed the Dragonborn as someone able to do such amazing feats, and he had to see on his own the human's battle prowess.
The Nord had made short work of everyone who had tried to bring him down so far.
But now...now it looked like he was not even trying, and he was cutting them down like a sickle through weed.
He moved at an unnatural speed, none of his movements seemed to be wasted, and each swing of his weapons slayed a elf.
It was then, when the last of the spearmer fell and their single enemy started to kill the battlemages with ease, that Ederion understood.
That was not a man.
It was a monster.
And he had to be dealt as such.
He looked through the surviving archers. There were still quite a lot of them, but they weren't able to deal with a simple fire atronach.
Pathetic.
Walking towards them, he snatched a bow from the hands of the first he reached. Without stopping, he took an arrow from the second.
In a single, fluid motion, he nocked the arrow and released the string.
The projectile pierced the flaming daedra's neck, who shrieked in pain, losing quickly physical consistency and finally disappearing.
He tossed rudely the weapon to the archer he took it from, not really caring if the mer caught it or not.
He had to prepare his trap, and quickly.
"Listen to my orders now, and prepare, we'll have only one chance!" Ederion yelled at the stupefied bowmer. "I don't care how many of you have died! KILL the motherfucker!"
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Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin
Naal ok zin los vahriin
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Parry, deflect, thrust in the stomach.
Slowing time itself with that dragon shout and exploiting the openings that normally he would not be able to see could be interpreted like cheating from others, or playing dirty.
Side-step, hack, stab in the neck.
Which was fine for Conrad. He had learned decades ago that there was no 'honorable combat', especially against an higher number of opponents.
Feint, slash, puncture liver.
And being able to dodge with ease the incoming spells of the battlemages he was butchering was a pretty nifty bonus. No matter how slow the time flowed, flames and ice shards still hurt if they touched you.
Slice, thrust, sink both blades into an armored chest, watch as it erupts with blood.
Turning slightly, Conrad saw one elf going for his head, warhammer raised and ready to strike.
At the worst possible moment, time chose to start flowing normally again.
Conrad swore.
He barely avoided having his head smashed in, but the weapon managed to impact with his shoulder instead.
The blow was enough to make him stagger, desperately grasping for some semblance of balance.
The battlemage didn't lose the chance. Moving on his flank, he slammed a second blow, harder than the previous, straight into Conrad's back.
Conrad fell to his knees, gasping for air and barely able to hold his weapons.
He felt the steps of the heavily-plated spellcasters behind him come to a stop. The Thalmor was probably raising the hammer again, this time for a finishing blow.
Was this the way all the dragons he had slain felt, before the end?
He felt despair claw at his soul.
Was this how his journey would come to an end? Killed by a no-name servant of his enemies, on a snowy field littered with bodies?
Well, this was a surefire way to the gates of Sovngarde. Again, and this time forever.
At least there would be mead there.
He heard a slight scrape on the snow behind him. The Thalmor had shifted his position to land better hit.
It was coming.
No.
No.
He wouldn't die like this. He refused to die like this!
He stabbed blindly behind him, hoping for the best. A pained groan was his answer.
Conrad had no clue what he managed to hit, but he didn't give a damn. He twisted the blade and pulled.
The action was rewarded by the sensation of warm blood spraying his hand, and by a loud, metallic thud.
Only two battlemages left, a few feet from him.
As he got on his feet, the two Altmer looked at each other. They nodded, and started to circle him from different directions, charging offensive spells
He would not be able to reach one of them without being hit by the other's magic.
But he could try.
He lunged forward, running on the snow and reading his right arm for a killing swing.
That was the moment when the daedric sword dispelled, having reached the limit of its existence.
There was no time to conjure another weapon, so he had to improvise.
Closing his right hand in a fist, he punched the battlemage in the face. The opening in the helm was wide enough, but he had probably broke his pinkie because of the contact with the solid metal that framed the mer's face.
It really hurt, and he cried in a mix of rage and pain. He was satisfied to have broken the Altmer's nose, though.
The battlemage faltered, dazed by the blow.
Conrad could feel the other one, feel as the magic hummed in the air. He was a short distance away, finishing his spell.
Grabbing the dazed Altmer's neck, so hard that he was choking him, Conrad turned, pushing the elf into the path of the deadly magic.
Ice shards stabbed the mer, and he fell to the ground.
The last of the battlemages was not long in joining his bretheren past the void when Conrad's dagger soared into the air and buried itself in his eye.
Lucky shot.
Turning around, Conrad realized that he was standing alone in the middle of the bodies, in the open, with no weapons, and standing right in front of the remaining archers.
Almost twenty of them, and their arrows were already knocked and aimed at him.
Stupid daedra, it only had one job!
But there was no time for that.
The Justiciar gave an order.
The bows shot.
Conrad raised his left arm, once again calling upon his power.
He hadn't enough magicka or time to create a protective barrier like before, so he opted for the next best thing.
A shield, a daedric one, appeared already strapped to his forearm.
He had no magicka left, and his mind was slightly foggy as a result. Still, he was able to raise the shield to protect his head and chest from the incoming arrows.
The projectiles bounced off the hard metal surface, becoming virtually useless as they lost their momentum.
Too bad the shield couldn't protect his legs.
One hit his left leg, but it was the right that had it worse, and various arrows snaked their way into his muscle and bone.
Screaming in anguish, he fell on his side.
The Thalmor were cheering, especially the Justiciar
So, this was how he was going to die? What a joke! The great and almighty Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin World-Eater, brought down by an arrow to the knee.
Pathetic.
They were coming.
He had maybe one shout at disposal, two if he strained his throat.
Unable to move. No weapons. No magicka left. Bleeding from the wounds...
Aye, he was screwed.
Unless he used that shout.
The one he hated using. Mostly because the place from which he called that power from gave him the creeps.
But when the alternative was having your body paraded through the Aldmeri Dominion as some elf's trophy...
He saw the Justiciar picking up a discared sword from the ground and looking at him like if his head was the best thing the he had ever seen.
Conrad's rage erupted, and his dragon blood sang.
"DUR NEH VIIR!"
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Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal
Ahrk fin norok paal graan
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That morning, as he marched in the snowy region, at the head of his soldiers, Ederion was expecting an easy task.
Collect body of a deadly poisoned man, a criminal, bring him home, and claim the glory.
Then, said man had left the tavern, and started his single-handed slaughter.
And Ederion had got frustrated.
So he had sacrificed more and more soldiers, but nothing worked.
His frustration had deepened.
He had even been tossed away by one of those shouts! Humiliated in front of his own soldiers!
Screw that, he was FURIOUS!
And FINALLY, the Dragonborn was hit with a volley of arrows. As it should have been from the very beginning.
As he had saw the fallen warrior gasping on the ground, he had started to move closer, willing to give the final blow himself.
Then, there was another of those gods-damned shouts.
A black and purple sphere of ethereal flames swirled in front of the Dragonborn's prone form.
Then, the stench of death and putrefaction.
And then, Ederion and his bowmer were staring at a dragon.
The Justiciar was speechless, shocked beyond belief.
The plan was fucked.
Some of the archers screamed and made a run for it, mad with terror.
This, unfortunately for them, caught the dragon's attention.
With a beat of leathery wings and a foul miasma, the massive creature was on them.
That was the last straw.
All the remaining elves, all but Ederion, started running, trying to escape the dragon's wrath.
Ederion had failed.
He had put his reputation on the line with this mission, taking with him an entire company of trained soldiers and even a battlemage squadron.
And now none of them would make it back alive.
There was no way in Mundus that he would be able to survive to the thing that was soaring in the sky, freezing the fleeing soldiers with his breath, or assaulting them on the ground.
He heard the sound of bones breaking, of armour and organs squelching as a one thing under the creature's jaws.
No way he would survive the summoned dragon.
Wait.
Summoned?
The dragon… it was a summoned creature!
Summoned creatures followed some rules, ways how the magic that conjured them worked.
For example, unless a ritual or something else was used, the summoning would not be permanent.
And if the summoner was killed, the conjuring spell would cease, and the creature would disappear.
He turned immediately to the still prone form of Conrad Harissen.
Tightening his grip on the sword, he charged.
He was going to survive this!
The glory could still be his!
"DIE!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, as his blade descended on the man.
There was a metal clang as the sword clashed against the daedric shield littered with arrows.
How dared the bastard defend himself?!
"DIE! DIE! DIE! DIEEE!" Ederion shouted like a madman, striking with all his strength each time he yelled the word.
And each time, the shield would save the Dragonborn's worthless life.
Snarling, Ederion kicked the wounds on the man's legs.
The pained howl that followed his action made him smile inwardly.
With a sweep of the sword, followed by another powerful kick, he was able to rip the shield out of the Dragonborn's grasp.
The daedric item disappeared, having lost contact with its summoner's body.
He raised the long blade, the tip pointed down, ready to descend on the man's heart.
It was over.
His assurance was betrayed when the man punched him in the groin. Hard.
He fell down besides the man, moaning in pain.
His sword fell, and a pair of strong hands went for his neck.
Ederion struggled, escaping from the Nord's attempted grab.
And received another punch, this time in the left kidney.
He retaliated with a kick on the man's right leg.
They were now grappling, wrestling, punching, kicking and rolling over each other, screaming in pain, rage and frustration.
Finally, Ederion was able to overcome the wounded man, and reach for the sword.
Without getting up, he tried to slit the man's throat with it, almost succeeding.
Almost.
The Nord was actually stopping the blade with his own hands!
Growling like a beast, Ederion applied all his weight on the sword. As the edge started to deeply cut his palms, the Dragonborn hissed.
Then his azure eyes met Ederion's golden ones.
"Yol," the man said, in a non-human voice. His eyes made something strange, and Ederion hesitated in front of the strange phenomenon.
"Toor," the Dragonborn continued. Small embers left the man's mouth.
The azure yes...Ederion could see it clearly now. They had become slitted.
Like those of a dragon.
The man's mouth opened again. A bright similar to the one of a furnace was visible at the end of his throat.
"SHUL!"
Ederion's head was lambed by flames hot as a dragon's breath, his brain cooked almost instantly.
He never saw the human pushing his corpse away.
He never saw the Dragonborn reaching for the pained neck, strained because he had used too many shouts in quick succession. Or how he extracted a big, red vial out of one of those pouches and tried to drink it.
And he never saw the Dragonborn fall unconscious for the wounds he had suffered, potion still in hand, bleeding in the now red snow.
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Fod nust hon zindro zaan
Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal
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In the world contained in the depths of the Shinigami's stomach, a lonely white-cloaked figure stirred inside the ruined tower he used as a hiding place.
He could feel a new presence in this terrible realm, and it wasn't one of its terrible denizens.
Who had just arrived in this wasteland dominated by the dead and lost souls?
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A\N: And that's all for the second chapter!
You just met Conrad, the Dragonborn of this story. What do you think of him?
Please review!