Skathi had fought many a bandit, necromancer, undead and spider in Ustengrav. This ancient tomb held the final resting place of Jurgen Windcaller, and his horn. Her task was to retrieve this horn, despite the dangers.
This task had left her bloody and harsh. Her sword arm had proven unused to its role and failed to stop her foes' blades, which Lydia fortunately dealt with. Her bow arm was far more useful, striking down many an unsuspecting creature with a well place arrow. Still, she became drenched in gore from this ordeal and unhappy from the results.
What was worse was what wizards called this tomb home. The undesirable necromancers and conjurers of Tamriel called this place a good laboratory for their wretched machinations. They provided a burden for Skathi and her housecarl, resurrecting themselves the minute one fell to fight the intruders. They all fell, but it was a bloody and exhausting affair.
But finally, they came upon the central chamber which would surely hold Jurgen's Horn. The room held a bridge against a small body of water, pillars jutting out of the artificial lake to keep the ceiling. At the focus of the room, a sarcophagus lay watched by stone hawk gargoyles. And littering the ground were fallen undead Skathi, nor Lydia, never saw in their lives.
"Someone's been here," was all Skathi could conclude
Panicked, she bolted to the sarcophagus. If there were previous visitors, then whether the Horn was there or not was in question. Skathi threw open the ornate coffin and found the Horn was not there.
Resignation and relief were all she could feel to distract from her anger. While someone had stolen her prize, it meant training under the Greybeards was over. They would hopefully excommunicate her, and she could live alone again with no obligations again. Selfish, but only Skathi cared what Skathi wanted, so it was reasonable when you get down to it.
But out of her thoughts, she noticed a piece of paper in Jurgen's decayed hand. It could hardly be older as old as the coffin around it, as it was in perfect condition, save some stains. Reading it, it was clear it was written by the intruder.
It read, "Dragonborn.
I need to speak to you. Urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you.
A friend"
Skathi needed to think about this. "Who could do this?" she thought out loud.
"Probably the Companions," Lydia mused, "They are one of the only groups with the skill to do this without any obvious signs they were here."
"But what would they want with it?" her thane retorted, "They're a mercenary outfit, right? Who would hire them for this sort of thing?"
"A collector?" the housecarl speculated, "Maybe it had powers someone might want on their side."
"Maybe so, but this note implies intent," her thane retorted, "This is to draw my intention. Who wants my attention?"
"The Companions, but they could just ask while you were in Whiterun," Lydia dismissed, "One of the factions vying for the throne, but again, they could just ask you."
"Whoever left this here can't approach me directly," Skathi speculated, "They had limited time, they knew what my quest was and could get in and out without a trace." She continued, "Fuck whoever's doing this."
On that note, they left Ustengrav and road to the nearby town of Morthal for lodging. On the way there, Skathi was lost in thought. The question of how they could know what she was out there to do was stuck in her mind. Only she and Lydia knew what they were doing there, besides the Greybeards. Either her housecarl or one of the Greybeards were responsible for this and only one of the Greybeards can speak. They could probably write though.
When they finally reached Morthal, it was just as they left it. It was yet another town of straw roofs, but rivers permeated the ground to be connected by bridges. The hold this town held as capital, Hjaalmarch, had was a massive marsh. Swamps and sparse islands opened the way to this place to the Sea of Ghosts to the north. It was still small compared to the likes of Whiterun.
At what could be considered the jarl's longhouse, a crowd had gathered. Still a small place, it was only, say, half a dozen at most. Torches in hand, they called for the jarl's action on something, but it lacked enough context to understand what was going on. A house behind the hall Skathi could see was burned down, so maybe this town had an arsonist about.
Maybe she would check it out later, but she had to get settled it. She found her way to local inn and rented a room. One of the waitresses, Alva, put Skathi off with an aura she was uncertain of, but the outsider and her housecarl made it to their room. Now was the time to ask the big question.
"Lydia," Skathi inquired, "Are you hiding something?"
The housecarl narrowed her eyes. "I'm not sure what you mean," she stated.
"There are only six people who could've told someone about our quest," Skathi stated, "You are one of them." She continued, "Do you know who stole the Horn?"
Lydia sighed. "I was told to watch over you and report your goings on," she confessed.
"Why?" her thane asked with a bite, "Who is stole the Horn?"
"I won't say," her housecarl replied, "I don't think they would harm you." She sighed again, "They were my father's comrade in arms; for my family's honor, I can't tell you."
"Over your honor as my housecarl?" Skathi inquired.
"A Nord may forsake their jarl, king and cause if it's for their family," Lydia stated, "On my father's grave, I can't break faith my silence more than this."
Skathi frowned. "Fair enough," she remarked, "but you'll kill whoever this is if they raise swords against me."
"I will, my thane," Lydia nodded.
Skathi could hardly blame her housecarl's resolve. She felt a strong connection to family as well. She could recall small things about them, but they were strong as Skyrim's northern winds. Playing dress up with her sister, learning the art of trading with her father, grocery shopping with her mother. If she could go back to them, she could, but she could hardly remember where she came from.
All she could remember was blood.
Jeanne had never seen this many people in one place. The host she marched in was longer than the end of her sight. The Stormcloak warband marched to Whiterun with ten thousand strong. Their goal was to secure the hold, starting with the city, and confirmed whether the Jagged Crown was there or not, that the latter was unwritten. And this was the war beginning in earnest.
It all was terrifying. If Jeanne was going to die, it would be now. If she was to find glory in the war, it would be now. It would be a nine hours march to her death or victory. If she could make it that far and still have the strength to fight, she would truly be called a Stormcloak. It would give those bastards calling her fat something to chew on.
The soldiers ate a hardy breakfast beforehand. Bread, beef, stew and anything that would've gone stale or moldy in the storeroom if they left it there. This was so that they were well fed enough to make the journey. In truth, about a dozen had thrown up already. Jeanne wasn't one of them, but she did vomit in her mouth.
They passed many bandit camps and the like on their way. They might have been bandits or travelers or poachers, but the first was a fair assumption. They didn't dare try to fight the Stormcloaks in this concentration; no one was that mad. Some soldiers though decided to get some extra kills in while they were passing through. They returned in file as soon as their captain called them back, which was usually just after the bandits were dead.
As evening began, they could see Whiterun ahead of them. Jeanne took this as a sign there was no turning back. If she ran now, she would have broken her oath. Today, she would need to prove herself a warrior, a battlemage, or she would forever been remembered as a coward. She couldn't live being called a coward like it was an insult. Her uncle's family were the Cowards.
The warband rest in the fields before the city. To Jeanne's understanding, there was a dragon attack here that was fought by the Legion forces and Dragonborn. She could only assume they were enjoying fine food and wine and never had to fight again. I mean, that's how Jeanne would treat those who fought a dragon.
Once the troops were settled in, Galmar gave the order, "Engineers, get the catapults out!"
About a hundred soldiers groaned and picked themselves up. A dozen or so carts rolled up and the soldiers were on them as fast as possible. They picked up lumber and specially crafted metals and began constructing series of catapults. They took less than an hour to get set up.
Out from five special carts, they took rocks that looked as black as ebony stone. They were loaded into the catapults, lit ablaze, and at Galmar's command, launched into the city. Jeanne hoped no one died in such a nightmarish fashion, crushed by a rock and burned if you survived that. She hoped it was only for show but knew there was someone left to die under one of these.
Jeanne wandered off and found the two left of the original trio she met, Eoni and Mikaela. They were sharpening their blades and counting arrows.
"So," the unbloodied Breton spoke, "battle is upon us."
Mikaela nodded. "The war was always going to reach this point," she remarked, "The fact that no one believed it is a sign no one took this seriously."
Jeanne nodded. That wasn't something you could easily argue. "Why are you two join the Stormcloaks?" she asked.
Eoni was fast to answer. "I'm half-Nord," she explained, "and I feel far more connection with my father's people than my mother's. I want to fight for my brethren, though they're hardly grateful for my presence. How do you think I got my nickname?"
Mikaela answered next. "Any opportunity to oppose the Thalmor," she stated, "Once Skyrim is ours, we sail to sack the Summerset Isles."
That sounded weird. "I think we should focus on one war before we start another," Jeanne suggested. "Why did Ravani join?" she asked.
The pair seemed confused by the question. "I'm not sure I have an answer for that," Eoni admitted, "Ravani didn't tell me why. Not like I'm the sort to get an answer from someone like her."
Mikaela rolled her eyes at that. "Ravani did what she thought was right," she stated, "We all do. Now, she's our enemy."
That last remarked left the Redguard's mouth with venom dripping out. If Jeanne had to speculate, which she did, Ravani and Mikaela were close in some way. Ravani saying that she would never take a lover may have something to do with it, but they both seemed too distant from anyone around them to make a guess. Jeanne silently told herself not to assume every relationship was romantic or sexual and to leave it alone.
Eoni seemed quick to change the mood of the conversation. "Jeanne, do you wanna get some war paint done?" she asked.
"Alright," she replied.
The unbloodied Breton followed the half-elf to a tent on the side with an older soldier sat inside. He was crushing yolks and herbs together to make paints. He looked at Jeanne and sighed, though for what reason was mumbled beyond recognition. He picked up a jug that had seen much use it seemed, reached in and his hand came out with blue paint. Jeanne didn't protest as he used it to paint what she assumed was a two-pronged claw around her eye. Eoni seemed to approve.
Galmar's voice carried from the frontlines to the end of the camp as he summoned the troops to form up. Everyone packed in tight around the commander as he was stood upon a rock. They were ready to hear his orders.
"This is it, men!" he bellowed, "They say that our cause is false and that we are nothing more than thieves, thugs and murderers! But no! We are farmers! We are craftsmen! We are sons and daughters of shopkeepers, maid servants and soldiers! We are the sons and daughters of Skyrim! And we have come this far because our cause is true. Because we fight as one. And because our hearts are bursting with anger! What we do here today, we do for our country! For all the true Nords of Skyrim!
Whiterun's walls are tall, but they are old and crumbling, like the Empire whose Legion lines them. They've barricades to block us, but we'll tear through them and the Imperials behind them! Our objective is the drawbridge. If we can find a way to drop it, the city will be ours! Everyone on me. Let's show these Imperial milk drinkers what true Nords look like!"
And so, Jeanne followed the Stormcloaks into battle. May Mara have mercy on her, Julianos give her wisdom and Arkay guide her if she fell.
So, everything that came before had come to this. Ravani beheld Whiterun's long fields populated with the ten thousand warriors of the Stormcloak warband. They outnumbered the hold guard and Legionnaires by far, having only twenty-six thousand against them. But still, the walls gave them an advantage they would need like a blessing from whatever god the Legion worshipped.
In all honesty, Ravani wasn't keen on joining the Legion. Their occupation could be delightfully called draconic, with execution without trial and outrageous accommodations Skyrim's people had to make for them. Not to mention the bad blood between the Empire and Morrowind could be taken as the first sign that Tiber Septim's legacies was going extinct.
But still, the Stormcloaks couldn't be left opposed. They were squandering lives for the sake of something the wasn't even worth it. Granted, Ravani never worshipped any god, but they never did anything for her. Ulfric wanted a dream that wasn't worth the damn stupid decisions he made, and he was going to keep at it until he died, or reality was somehow going to change around him.
Either way, Skyrim didn't need this war; they needed to fight the dragons. Yes, dragons. Ravani was conflicted as to whether perpetuating this war was worth it if one dragon being left to its own devices or not. Now that a second dragon was spotted, there was no other answer but to steal the Jagged Crown. Ulfric couldn't waste any more time.
Of course, saying it should be done and doing it were different things. Ravani was going to fight this battle and make sure Ulfric was stopped here, no further.
The warband ran up the path to the gatehouse and their lack of experience was obvious. Their charge may frighten the defenders, but it wasn't wise to let their shields down like that. As such, Ravani could easily take a few out with arrows before they even remembered tactics. That's what you get for building a military without training.
It was easy to pick out prime targets. Officers tended to have those bear-head helms, which were about as useful to archers as painting them bright yellow in a swamp. Still, it didn't slow the warband's advance. She knew she had a problem with any authority, but she didn't think her case wasn't unique in a military setting. If the Stormcloaks lacked discipline, it would only be a matter of time before the Legion had the chance they needed.
Eventually, Ulfric's archers managed to pick off most of the soldiers on the battlements, so there was little to be done when they reached the first gate. Ravani bolted past the second gate, knowing the first battalion would fall soon. She took her place on the second set of battlements and prepared to exterminate Stormcloaks like roaches out of a bottle.
When the first gate broke, it was like setting dogs out of a shack twice too small for them. They flooded into the Legion phalanx and archers, costing them a hundred soldiers in two minutes. The Stormcloaks' lack of discipline was obvious and would cost them today and tomorrow.
But then there was someone Ravani would pay with her life for forgetting: Mikaela. She didn't know if the Redguard had any other names, but the sight of her on the battlefield, taking a route to the second gatehouse, made the Dunmer's blood run cold. Mikaela's skill with a blade and bow had always impressed Ravani and her single-minded approach to killing anyone that picked the "wrong" side of this war was frightening. She was the greatest deterrent to defection the Stormcloaks had.
Mikaela's dry loosing was going to cost her bow, but it cost the Legion six men before it broke. The Redguard bolted into the gate house and cut down several soldiers with her blade before locking eyes with Ravani. The Dunmer couldn't help but think this was personal for her, even if it wasn't directed at her fellow archer in any way.
"I didn't do it to slight you," she explained, "I did it for Skyrim."
Mikaela didn't answer that and charged Ravani. She tried to take the Dunmer's head off, but she and dodged enough blades in the streets of Windhelm for her reflex to save her, but not her helmet. Ravani took her dagger and jammed it into her opponent's stomach, but gods know if she even felt it. Her speed and strength were a terrifying reminder who was afraid of who.
Ravani was forced to abandon her dagger, but it was easily replaced with the archers behind the second gate spotting this situation and loosing a few arrows into the situation. She could dodge a few of them, but a few still hit her by what she could only assume on accident. Mikaela just took a shield from one of the fallen soldiers to keep her from the volley.
At this point, Ravani had the idea to throw her off. Mikaela may be a frightening sword master, but she was only one and the battalion behind her were many. If she could throw the Redguard behind the gatehouse, additional archers could take roost and keep the warband from getting through a little while longer, for there was little chance of fully stopping them here.
She charged her former shield sister with a sword in hand as the volley died down. Mikaela block her with the shield and bashed her to the edge, but she stayed in the gatehouse. Ravani practiced a trick she had developed and pulled herself over the shield to get at its bearer's rear. As Mikaela bashed the shield upwards into the gatehouse's roof, the Dunmer remembered who she had trained with. It wouldn't be easy to use any of her tricks against this woman.
Ravani fell next to the lever to open bridge. She had little she could do to combat the Redguard, but she could sabotage the bridge from opening. She took her dagger from Mikaela's side and stabbed the mechanism in an exposed area, hoping it would jam the bridge from opening and she snapped the handle off. Then she heard mechanism activate. She had made a mistake.
Mikaela threw her old shield sister out of the gatehouse and the gate opened as she fell, revealing the Stormcloaks awaiting the opportunity to strike. If the fall didn't hurt, Ravani surely new the meaning of pain as the warband charged the opposing Legionnaires and trampled her. The Dunmer wondered if this was some god's plan for her as the feet that were breaking her arms and legs met her face and everything went black.
The Stormcloaks had breached the defenses. They'd broken through the almost every gate and were almost through the last. But they weren't prepared for two battalions straight down their throat. Half of the first stood in the main road, the other half to the other rout and the last battalion held Dragonsreach. Though the Stormcloaks seemed endless, they were surely too weary to face the ambush.
At least, that was the most Rena could hope for. She was at the front, prepared to jump the invaders the minute they broke through. She knew their battle tactics were sloppy, fighting for their own glory above each other, but they could still do a lot of damage before the arrow or the blade cut them down. Even the untrained can slit the throat of a veteran.
But at the head of the battalion, Tribune Barsotti stood strong. She held her shield high, prepared to kill any who broke through the gate. Despite being an officer for this long, she had the bearing of a field commander who was ready for any enemy. Had she, or any soldier present, seen war or were they bracing for the horrors their mothers told them that their fathers denied?
Barsotti held her sword high. "Give them the glory of Sovngarde and we will all dine in Shor's Hall!" she cheered.
Sovngarde. Wasn't that what Nords believed awaited them after death? Rena believed it was an appeal to the locals in their ranks, an attempt to keep them together on the battlefield. Neither were Nords, but it seemed the right thing to say. She was unsure if anything else could motivate them to stay.
"Remember, men!" Ansgar shouted, "They fight for Skyrim, but we fight for all of Tamriel!"
Rena wasn't sure that was the right thing to say. If she had any time to think about it, she would pick apart every word, but the Stormcloaks were just on the gate. The load slams against wood gave the sound of a battering ram if anyone had to guess. After a banded log broke through the gate, it was all but certain. The battle was upon them.
The soldiers stood with bated breath. If their shields weren't raised before, they were now. Swords were drawn in anticipation. Archers nocked their bows, some pulling their string in the certainty they would find purchase soon. It was almost time to make war. And with the breaking of the gate, it was now.
And when the Stormcloaks broke through the gate, a spearman turned and tried to put his sword through Ansgar's throat. The captain deflected the blade easily and smashed his body with his mighty Zweihander. A Legionnaire had turned on his superior officer in the middle of battle.
But that was not the end of it. Maybe half the soldiers behind Ansgar threw their helms aside as the Stormcloaks reached the Imperial lines and joined them. And all of those that turned were Nords. Rena didn't even know if the ambush was being carried out as they were now down to two hundred Legionnaires, deserters standing right beside them.
Rena fought many of the traitors behind her, some of them she recognized as under her charge. Her first battle as a captain and she had to kill her own men. The first one that went down was hard, but every kill next was numbing. It was not a point of meeting a betrayal; it was surviving the battlefield. They stopped being her failures and started being enemies she needed to slay to survive.
At the gate was Ansgar, his mighty Zweihander cutting down many Stormcloaks with ease. Rena had seen its use in that ill-fated excursion into the Rift and it was just as powerful then as now. Their armor had little bearing on their coming death, whether by the blade's cut or the force of being thrown. Between this and the way he addressed the soldiers, it seemed he'd be better in this war if he was the only combatant. He soon would be.
But there were others that weren't so lucky. Barsotti was caught in the eye of the storm of Nords, heavy shields protecting her and other soldiers from the onslaught. Warhammers beat down on their defense and broke shields. Barsotti slew three but was tossed around by others. She was strong, but waning.
Rena tried to break through the chaos to stand with her tribune, but it was too little, too late. Behind Barsotti, one soldier took her by surprise and put a sword straight through a hole in her armor. She screamed in pain but withered out. Her strength left her, her face turned pale and she fell, dead.
Again, Rena's commander fell in battle. Again, the Legion was failing against the Stormcloaks. Again, Rena failed her duty in Whiterun hold. Her life was forfeit. If she didn't seize the day and win the battle, despite everything, she would let Arkay take her.
She cut through the chaos and the Stormcloak lines. It didn't matter what was ahead of her. She found the soldier that slew Barsotti still hover over her body. The soldier was a Breton with blue paint drawn around her eye like a child playing war. This child would face her vengeance.
The Legionnaire brought her sword down to cut this rebel down, but she wasn't like the others and caught it. When that didn't work, Rena bashed her shield against the Breton, throwing her into the smithy's workbench. The Imperial's boot would've smashed her neck if she hadn't bolted.
The Breton tumbled through the workplace, dodging the blade behind her with speed one wouldn't assume from her pudgy frame. She had lost her sword, but that was quickly understood to not be her only weapon. Out of her hand came a barrel of flame, only just blocked by Rena's shield. A battlemage wasn't to be underestimated.
Behind the Breton was a forge. Rena saw this as an opportunity if it was still burning. The Imperial bashed her shield forward and the Breton would've handled it well if the forge wasn't behind her. Its form tripped her, and she fell into the fire pit, only to find it cold. Perhaps the smithy saw the battle coming and put it out beforehand. Wise, but inopportune.
Catching her off guard, Rena felt a shield bash forward, into a gutter beside the shop. Her heavy armor combined with the stone floor made the fall even more painful. When she tried to raise herself up, she found the water was not an easy surface for a broken leg to find purchase. From the pain and a crack on the head, Rena lost consciousness.
Her last thought was, "May I not die in a gutter in Skyrim."
Jeanne had just narrowly avoided death by a Legion captain thanks to her shield brothers. She gave them a nod of acknowledgement for their actions, which they returned. She knew these soldiers were young and unused to war, but they knew to defend their comrades. If there were more like them, the Stormcloaks could overcome the Legion with just a hundred.
One of the soldiers began to try finding a way into the gutter to cut the captain's throat. Before he could find it, steel arms wrapped around his chest and pulled him back into a forced fall, crushing his head on the stone road. The assailant, a Khajiit in steel plate, threw the now dead body aside and raised his fist.
"These ones are fools for making war," he remarked.
The Khajiit began to fistfight the soldiers with swords and shields but not finding failure. Jeanne knew he was going to come after her when he had no one to fight and she bolted.
Jeanne found herself in the alleyways of Whiterun, where wounded soldiers dragged themselves to safety. Her presence there easily stuck out, as she was the only able bodied one among them. She may have been roughed up by the duel with the crazy Imperial, but she could still stand up.
What was worse is that civilians were here too. Men, women and children with a fear of the fires of war were staring at her, praying to every god worshipped not to kill them. Jeanne couldn't help but feel she had no right to be here. Not in this alley, not in Whiterun, not in Skyrim. This was someone's home. And she was burning it.
Another Stormcloak found his way here. He too was able-bodied. He looked around the wounded many, including the Legionnaires, and didn't share the same sympathy. He saw a cluster of Imperials and approached, sword in hand.
Jeanne prepared a fireball to slay him, shield-brother be damned, when a mighty blade came down and sliced into his chest clean. An older warrior in ornate and blood-stained armor approached the wounded and hiding. They didn't share the same fear as they did with the Stormcloaks. And he looked Jeanne with hardened eyes.
"Run," he growled like a wolf.
Jeanne bolted.
The Breton soon joined the waves of Stormcloaks marching through the streets. They gave her a shield and she picked up a sword from the fallen. Galmar was barking orders to maintain phalanx after the chaos from before. It worked, and when arrows fell onto comrades, their shield wall kept them alive.
They marched through the streets, moving up the stairs into the Wind District. The volleys were fierce, but they didn't cut the warriors down. The arrows stuck out of the shields like needles, for they were only just as impactful to a Stormcloak shield wall.
But when they got out of range of the Legion archers, the young warriors broke apart like pups and began searching for their own glory again. Jeanne frowned, knowing they just lost an advantage because of pride. Galmar tried to summon them back, but it was akin to herding cats and just as pointless. Jeanne could only hope they would see reason soon.
The sentiment was reinforced when the Legion archers began to reorganize on the steps to the Cloud District. The volleys began to fall again, this time strike targets faster and deadlier. Even if they tried to reform the shield wall, it would be futile. The arrows were striking warriors too fast for to rally the troops. They need to take out the archers.
Jeanne knew this. "Brothers and sisters in arms!" she ordered, "To the steps to Dragonsreach! We will have the archers' heads!"
She didn't check to see how many warriors followed her, but she knew it was enough to earn the attention of the archers. They began to volley around her specifically, but their arrows didn't halt her charge. She charged up the steps to the Cloud District and cut the head of the first Legionnaire in her path of his head.
Her rallied brethren cut through the Legionnaires like madmen. Jeanne knew that she could die here. She knew but chose to leave her life in Arkay's hands. Let him take her if she failed or claimed victory. She deserved it, but Galmar didn't seem to think so. His war hammer broke through and the rest of the warband was behind him as they charged through the gates of Dragonsreach.
What must have been a company, or more was held up in the keep. Their shields were raised, and their blades were pointed at the Stormcloaks. Stood tallest amongst them was a Dunmer, though she was far shorter than her shield-siblings.
"Halt!" she barked at the intruders, "In the name of the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater."
A Nord in steel plate and a circlet met the men. "It's a little late for that," he remarked, "don't you think?"
"Stay back, lord!" the Dunmer begged.
So, this was the Jarl. "I'll be damned if I let this rabble take my city without raising my own sword," he proclaimed, raising his sword.
"Protect the Jarl with your lives!" the Dunmer commanded.
Jeanne knew it would be a fast fight if she could get to the Jarl. She charged the frontlines and unleashed fire to frighten and burn a hole in their defenses. When the Dunmer tried to take her head off, the bloodied Breton cut through her leather armor and left a gash just under her chest, letting her fall in pain or worse.
The Jarl cried and brought his sword onto Jeanne. He must have missed, as she didn't feel the slice. He appearance frightened of her. She bashed him around with her blade, trying to pierce his armor, but fruitlessly. But there was a firepit in the court, so Jeanne pushed him into the flames and let her own cook him in his metal cage.
He screamed, "Enough! That's enough. I surrender, I surrender."
Galmar pulled Jeanne away as the hold guards collected their fallen Jarl. She would've let him burn. Did she even know that was wrong?
"Peace!" Balgruuf coughed, "Everyone stand down. That's an order. Stand down!"
"Balgruuf!" came an unfamiliar old voice. A wrinkled and tanned Nord stepped up the stairs to the court, Stormcloak warriors in tow.
"Vignar Gray-Mane!" Balgruuf growled as soon as he recognized the Nord, "Your family was noticeably absent from the walls. Now I know why. Wouldn't a dagger in the back have sufficed?"
"You think this is personal?" Vignar inquired as he moved past the burned Jarl, "The Empire has no place in Skyrim, not anymore. And you? You have no place in Whiterun anymore."
Balgruuf looked upon him with disdain. "A convenient position to hold now," he grimaced, "But mark my words, old man, in the days to come, Ulfric will spread his rebellion thin. And what then? We need the Empire, as much as it needs us. We Nords are the Empire! Our blood built it. Our blood sustains it! You of all people should know that."
Vignar looked disappointed in his kinsman. "If this was my Empire, I'd be able to worship whoever I damned well pleased. You wish to see an Empire without Talos? Without its soul? We should be fighting those witch-elves, not bending knee to them. The Emperor is nothing more than a puppet of the Thalmor. Skyrim needs a High King who will fight for her, and Whiterun needs a Jarl who will do the same."
"Tell me, Vignar," Balgruuf asked, "Was all this worth it? How many of those corpses lining our streets wear the faces of men who once called you friend? What about their families?"
It wasn't. Jeanne knew that. Did this man?
"Enough! Both of you!" Galmar spoke up, "There is a burning city out there that needs a government."
"He's right," Vignar agreed, "Galmar, come, let us restore order."
The hold guards began to escort the wounded Jarl and the Dunmer out of the keep. "This isn't over," he stated, "You hear me, you old fool?! This isn't over! You'll all come to regret this day"
And so, this battle was over. Whiterun was the Stormcloaks'. Jeanne should've felt pride or shame for her actions, but she didn't. She felt rather faint. Galmar came over to her with a shocked expression.
"By the Nine!" he gasped, "How are you still alive?"
Before Jeanne could even find an answer, everything went black for her. That answered his question.