Fire. All he saw was fire. It was everywhere. The hills, the few trees that could take root, the ground itself seemed to be bathed in fire, and it burned with an intensity beyond what he could comprehend. It was not normal fire, of the ken that could be managed, created, and harnessed by man to his benefit. No, it was dragon fire. The kind that razed cities to the ground, remade once verdant fields and plains into ash choked hellscapes in mere minutes, killing all it touched with an efficiency and brutality only the divine could outmatch. It was all around him. He couldn't escape. Nothing he could do would save him. He saw the bodies of those that followed him into battle, those loyal to his family and the coin they were promised, now charred, blackened corpses, their melted armor fused to the skin, their faces contorted into expressions of pure agony, made into stone with rigor mortis. Nothing he could have envisioned and done could have prepared him for such slaughter, such devastation. It astounded him.
A noise garners his attention, drawing his eyes to the night sky, colored with the fire that surrounded him so that it became more akin to day, with the only indication of it being night is the moon, hanging low into the sky, its light smothered by the flames of death and suffering. A shape, large and indomitable, flitted across the canvas of stars, a noise analogous to those demons of his childhood night terrors soon followed. His heart clenched with instinctual terror, but his mind was still reeling, too far gone for it to concern itself with self preservation when there was nothing but death to look forward to. The shape soon came closer, taking form as the fire illuminated its frame to him, landing on an outcrop that used to be a grain silo, now reduced to rubble and blackened stone. Umber colored scales gleamed in the light, ancient and battle-scarred, a wall of impenetrable steel that no blade could hope to pierce. A pair of swept-back horns framed the head of the beast, its yellow eyes were piercing, holding an intelligent yet malicious gaze wherever it looked. He was in awe of the beast, and loathed it at the same time. What astounded him is when its jaws, filled with strong, terrifying fangs, moved, and words soon followed.
"My Thuri, are you well?"
He looked around, noticing that there was no one else on the battlefield, now a mass grave, and saw that the dragon was looking down somewhat. Following its gaze, he soon found a man, garbed in masterfully crafted segmented plate armor, marred with warping and punctures, standing with an arm clutching his side, ruby blood coating the fingers. The crested helm raised to look at the dragon, the dancing flames highlighting the man's imperial features and tanned skin upon a visage marred with scars and weariness.
"I'm fine, Mirmulnir. How does the legion fare?"
The legion, those soldiers who bore a wreathed dragon upon a black field as their heraldry, those armored butchers who slaughtered those most dear with contemptible ease. Oh how he loathed them.
Was this their leader?
If so, he wanted to charge forward and take the bastard's head for himself, but the force of nature that was a dragon halted such thoughts where they were.
"They are well, Thuri. The one you call Tullius has agreed to a truce. I believe that he saw our capabilities, and was overwhelmed by the sight, coming to his senses and seeing reason," the dragon replied, pride coloring his words.
A sigh, one of weariness and lament, escaped the man.
"It was a mistake, one made in the heat of the moment. I never intended for this to happen, and now, the people of Skyrim will see me as a bloodthirsty tyrant, hellbent on burning their cities to the ground, and enslaving their children and loved ones."
The dragon looked upon its charge with something akin to displeasure.
"It is unbecoming of someone of your station and power to care about the needs of your enemies. They should submit if they desire peace and prosperity. In resisting the offer to join your Imperium, they color themselves in the banners of your enemies, and should be excised as such."
"I will have to rule them once those who defy me are no longer a concern, and I'd rather them not see me as a tyrannical despot!"
"The people will think of you as they will. You can't hope to change that in your lifetime, Thuri. What you can change is how many lives you will spend in order to achieve your goals. The soldiers under your purview are powerful, but few, and will be needed to garrison the territory you now control. If you can achieve your ends without a pitched battle, without any losses to your own forces, then do so. But if this is unattainable, then show your enemies no quarter, for they seek to deny you what is rightfully yours," Mirmulnir responded. "Let this be a precedent to all who think to oppose you. This is what will become of them if they reject your birthright. Fear is a wonderful motivator, Thuri."
"But loyalty, true loyalty, is what I desire. I need the people of Skyrim to see that I am the better alternative, and join me willingly, instead of at sword point with fear driving their actions."
The dragon chuffed in frustration.
"Then I suggest that you parlay with the next city you besiege, and explain to them why your Imperium is the better alternative than this Empire or the Stormcloaks you so despise."
The two had their attention drawn to the figure, who now stood, as they slowly made their way closer, the man's frame shaking with rage and impotent fury.
"You think to rule us when all is said and done, when you have slaughtered the last soldier, deposed the last defiant jarl, and claimed Skyrim for yourself. But hear this, oh tyrant of foreign birth. You will fail. The people of Skyrim will never submit to a monster, who wantonly slaughters and pillages their kith and kin, while parading in the mask of a savior. You wretched thing of ambition and hypocrisy! May your reign be plagued with troubles and crisis, and may you never know peace so long as you live!"
The man moved to continue, more insults and curses upon his tongue, but was bathed in a torrent of fire, a scream of pure agony ripped from the burning nord's throat, then silence, the ashes of the man swept away in the flames. Mirmulnir huffed in satisfaction.
"Impudent mortal. I still cannot fathom why you allow them to speak such slander."
"I'd rather not be seen as a cruel tyrant. If I silence a voice against me, it only validates what they claim. Those who silence their critics fear what kernel of truth, however small it may be, resides within the morass of lies and slander."
Mirmulnir snorted at the logic, but decided to not argue any further, knowing his Thuri would only respond in a similar manner no matter the soundness of his arguments. His lord was one of contradictions, and refused to accept it. He wishes to be a paragon, but acts as the conqueror. He is merely acting according to his nature, which Mirmulnir sees nothing wrong with. Why deny what you are? It is only natural that dragons rule, dominating those around them and brutally dealing with rivals and usurpers, and for Mirmulnir, Imperius is a dragon in all but name.
He was able to subdue multiple dov, keep them in line, and defeat his former thuri in combat. He helped him, of course, but to establish dominance over the favored, the eldest. It only strengthened his resolve to serve him. The words of power have worn off by now, same for his kin, but they continued to serve, for there was no better alternative. Alduin was short sighted, wanting the destruction of the world, seeing it as his birthright, and while he wanted to punish the mortals for rising against their true masters, this was the best way to go about it without bathing the world in hellfire, leaving nothing but ash to rule over. Besides, he would submit to no other, for there was no one who could match his master's power and thu'um.
"Have the men move in to secure the hold when the fires burn out. Look for survivors. Offer them food, drink and medical aid if necessary. Hopefully it will improve our image somewhat. And as for Tullius' offer, I would meet with him personally to discuss terms."
Mirmulnir bowed his head in acknowledgement and took off into the night sky, roaring as he did so, the sound echoing loudly across the empty battlefield. Imperius watched him go, yawning and beginning the long trek back to his camp. As he moved past the burning corpses, he looked at the wound gained from Aela, when she turned into that monstrous lycan in broad daylight and mangled his arm. The healing potions helped dull the pain and speed up the healing process, but it would never erase the scars, nor the curse that she had unwittingly given him.
It has affected him greatly, rendering him unable to get a good night's sleep ever since. He hasn't been at his best since then either. Sleep was, obviously, a fairly important thing when one was attempting to be their best, and not getting a restful night's sleep was a hindrance to that. It mattered especially to him, as he was in charge of the conquest of Tamriel for divine's sake! It is prudent, nay an imperative that he be at his best, for it would shame those under his banner if he weren't. He needed to frequent Ysgrammor's grave to rid himself of the curse, and he would be back to full strength. But now, his thoughts were focused on Tullius, and the truce he was calling for.
He would meet with him, but he would ensure that the terms favored his Imperium over the Empire, as he held the more powerful position and should be able to dictate most of the terms. He would acquiesce to a few of Tullius' demands, out of respect for the man he sacrificed himself for in his old life, and for the hardworking, steadfast and pragmatic man he knew now, but he would not leave those under his charge wanting just to satisfy a treaty, no matter how much it would benefit him in doing so.
He fumbled with a pouch at his belt, and pulled out a small healing potion, downing the substance, and returning the empty container to the pouch in one smooth motion, one that spoke of much familiarity, bordering on muscle memory. It would keep him stable until he got to a medicos, who would be better able to administer aid with their menagerie of healing and stamina potions, along with basic healing spells. He unfortunately wasn't proficient in wielding magic, in offense or defense, or in any way for that matter. He had spent his life as a smith, a soldier, and a leader of men, and as a dragonborn. A mage wasn't his calling, but the logistical advantages of having healers within an army intrigued him enough to suggest the integration of those with magical abilities into the medicos corps of the legions to Tullius in his first life. It was met with some skepticism, especially from Tullius, who only accepted it after he gave demonstrations of these healers in action during the rebellion and saw that they were beneficial to the imperial war effort.
He had made no such suggestions to the current Tullius, as Imperius wanted every advantage available to him in the event that he would have to wage war against Tullius, hopefully this would change in the coming months, and kept this within his own legion organization, and it has worked wonders. Many a man, who surely would have met his end in any other force, was saved by the magics and potions of the medicos corps and returned to the fighting within short order. He had entertained the idea of battle mages, as the high elves do, but disregarded such an idea as soon as he had thought of it. Once he had a secured base of operations, preferably a province in size so he could have some breathing room, then maybe he could experiment with integrating such formations into the legions, but until that happened, he would settle for the medicos healers he already has. And after this latest battle, he would need every last one of them, for it was an especially brutal one.
The enemy had built fortifications designed to slow his legion down, raised parapets and walls that allowed their archers to cut down his legionaries in droves, and had hired engineers, both imperial and freelance, to build defensive siege engines, catapults and trebuchets, with a moat of tar before the city entrance, to deny him long enough to retreat into the inner city and the mines.
He had assaulted such fortifications three times, and each time they pushed in, gaining ground at a cost, with cohorts taking such casualties as to render them combat ineffective. They were moved back to the camp, out of sight of the foe, and replaced with fresh cohorts ready for battle. But he had taken too long, the fortifications requiring time to destroy or overrun, the private soldiers hired by the hold equipped with the best their forges could produce had taken too long to kill, time given to the enemy so that they could prepare, and he had forgotten one variable during the assault.
Tullius and his legion were marching on their position, and the siege hadn't succeeded yet.
He was forced to reposition most of his army to meet the incoming imperials, leaving a handful of cohorts to keep the soldiers of Markarth occupied and contained. He had called Mirmulnir, to act as a show of force, to make the imperials stand down, without actually intending to use him. He had to, as the bulk of Markarth's soldiers, three thousand in number, forced their way through the cohorts, routing them and had charged in headlong against the rear of his army.
He was caught between two foes, and had to make a choice, so he did. He had ordered Mirmulnir to utterly destroy the forces of Markarth in their entirety, and the dragon had followed his instructions to the letter, turning large swathes of men into ash and melted suits of armor, cooking men alive inside the armor that was supposed to protect them, creating a wall of dragon fire between Imperius' legion and the forces of Markarth. No arrow, sword or battleaxe could pierce his hide, and he took full advantage of such a boon, descending into the masses of men akin and slaughtering them like a starving wolf amongst lambs, a force of destruction no one could stand against.
It had taken seven hours to breach the outer defenses and enter the inner city, killing at least fifteen hundred mercenaries and hold guards. It only took Mirmulnir thirty minutes to slaughter three thousand men-at-arms, and such an act had startled Tullius, who had observed such slaughter in shocked silence. When it had concluded, when the battlefield was empty of the clamor of battle, slaughter and the wails of the dying, Tullius had approached Imperius under the flag of peace, and had proposed a meeting to discuss a truce to be brokered.
He sighed as he reached the camp, greeting legionnaires as they saluted him, making his way to his personal tent at the center of the makeshift fort his men had constructed. It was a bloody day, and he needed rest, though he knew before he even laid down he wouldn't get it.