Apotheosis of the Dwemer

by Pollardinator

The ancient Dwemer of Tamriel have been lost for centuries, wiped from existence after a failed attempt to create a power to rival the gods themselves. And yet, thousands of years later, the Last Dragonborn finds himself fighting in an apocalyptic war to end all wars as the golden armies of the Dwemer march to war against all creation and the forces of Man, Mer and Daedra alike...

12. Chapter 12- City on a Hill

The ride to Whiterun from Haafingar would normally have taken at least a week's journey at the fastest, and potentially almost two weeks on foot. But the pure white horses of the Snow Elves were fast and nimble, their slender forms unlike any other horses Lucius had seen in Skyrim, and they did it in barely half that time. Most of the horses he had seen here were the stocky draft horses of the Nords, and the powerful warhorses of the Imperial Legion. The mounts of the Snow Elves however were sleek and thin, almost fragile looking, but their feet carried himself and the two hundred Snow Elf warriors at his back over the plains of Skyrim so fast it seemed like they were merely floating above the grass.

Leaning into his saddle, Lucius casually cast a quick spell, letting a small orb of Candlelight hover above his head. The night had drawn in quickly and normally he would have wanted to rest for the night, but they were so close to Whiterun now. The Snow Elves had lit their own magical lights, all much larger and brighter than his. Lucius was no wizard and the only reason he knew the few spells he did was because of Serana's ruthless teaching and to stop him wasting so much money on healing potions.

To his left rode Gelebor and Prince Mirtil, the latter's cloak billowing out behind him in the wind, and behind them came the Snow Elf army. Two hundred warriors strong, every able bodied man and woman besides a skeleton crew left to defend the castle, the soldiers were resplendent in their white Ancient Falmer Armour, swords jangling in ornate sheathes at their sides as they held their silver lances, both elegant and deadly, at their sides, along with polished white shields and curved bows on their backs. He was surprised at the fact that they wore no helmets, merely small circlets of silver and moonstone that showed off their impressive white hair. Gelebor had explained it as the fact that the Snow Elves were very firm believers in the benefits of light troops and fast attacks and helmets merely obscured their view. Lucius could see they were a force to be reckoned with, despite their small numbers, but one thought still nagged at the back of his mind.

'What happens when they face an enemy who goes for their heads?'

As he thought this two Snow Elves came galloping back towards the column atop their own lightly armoured horses, part of the scouting group that Prince Mirtil had sent ahead.

The two scouts came alongside the three warriors at the head of the column, keeping pace with their fast steeds easily.

"Your majesty, Light of the Ice," The scout, a thin faced warrior with a slightly scared look in his eyes, said with a bow. "Whiterun is ahead. What are your orders?"

The prince glanced at Lucius briefly before saying simply.

"Well we shall ride straight to the Jarl's palace then. That's what you wanted isn't it Dragonborn?" he added, with the same amount of venom as before.

Gelebor frowned but his tone was polite and subservient. "Are you sure my lord? I don't know how the local Nords will take seeing a race that is supposed to be extinct."

"You worry far too much Knight-Paladin." The prince scoffed, and spurred his horse faster, the rest of the column thundering along the road behind him, and, as they crested the hill and looked out over the dark plain beyond, Whiterun was revealed, a mile in the distance.

The new capital of Skyrim sat atop a low hill, its three districts jostling for space behind the tall walls of stone and wood. The city was bathed in lit from countless torches and, as they rode on, Lucius could see the sprawl of elegant wooden houses, hundreds of them, spreading out over the vast city, their rooftops gleaming with yet more pinpricks of torchlight.

And, at the very top of the hill, surrounded by the long halls of the richest citizens and most powerful Thanes that formed the Cloud District, was Dragonsreach. Jarl Balgruff's castle was huge, towering above the city below, its stone towers and wooden roofs all bedecked with flags and pennants. And, from the tallest spire, Lucius could just see the huge form of a yellow flag, in its centre the horse crest of Whiterun Hold was lit up so it was visible for miles.

"Impressive," Prince Mirtil said flatly, before adding. "For a Nord city."

Biting back any comment, Lucius turned his attention to what lay outside the city's newly rebuilt walls. Whiterun was like a city within a city, as on the plain and foothills around it were the low forms of hundreds of tents and temporary structures, the lights of forges and braziers giving a soft glow to the countless tents and the figures that moved amongst them. As they came closer he could pick out the many colours of tents and the crests that crowned them. Many were the bright red of the Imperial Legion, but there was also the familiar yellow of Whiterun, the deep green of Markarth and the dark blue of Windhelm. There were even the colours of the smaller holds including a tiny row of five ice blue tents, marked by a single banner, from Winterhold.

"The armies of Skyrim are already gathering." Gelebor observed but Mirtil only laughed hollowly.

"It doesn't matter how many men and weapons they bring to bear. The Dwemer will sweep them from the field like wheat before a reaper."

Lucius sighed inwardly as he heard the Snow Prince's words. He would have liked to shout the arrogant Elf down, but in his heart he knew the prince was right. Unless something unexpected happened, he doubted that the armies of Skyrim, however brave and numerous they were, could hope to match the mechanised legions of the Dwemer.

By now they were reaching the edges of the vast military encampment, ringed by lines of anti-cavalry spikes made of sharpened stakes, groups of Whiterun Hold soldiers with spears and bows watching the perimeter.

As the Snow Elf column came clattering up to the 'gate' opening between the spikes, a squad of soldiers rushed out to bar their path with drawn swords.

"Stop right there Elf!" the leader shouted. "The city is under lockdown. You're lucky we didn't shoot you down for being Thalmor!"

Lucius saw the prince's hand going to the sword at his hip and he quickly moved to defuse the situation, riding between the Snow Elves and the guards, spreading his arms out wide in a gesture of friendship.

"Lower your weapons men," he said in a commanding tone. "I am Legate Lucius Arbitus of the Imperial Legion, Thane of Whiterun and Dragonborn of Akatosh. I wish to speak to the Jarl immediately."

Instantly the other soldiers lowered their swords, but the leader remained defiant.

"You may pass my Thane but these…Elves…"

"Are the last of the Snow Elves, come to pledge their aid to this war against the Dwemer."

For a second the guard paused, one hand raised, and Lucius imagined that behind the helmet that hid his face the man's mouth was open in complete shock and surprise.

"But…but the…" he spluttered and Prince Mirtil came forward, ignoring Lucius' concerned look as he leapt down from his horse and advanced towards the three guards.

"Yes…Nord," he said, rolling the word around its mouth as if it tasted foul. "I am a Snow Elf, the Snow Prince himself. And if you think that you and your slack jawed friends have any chance against an armoured Dwemer legion, then you are as stupid as your ancestors. I hope you aren't as murderous though," he added darkly. "Now, let us pass. Hopefully your Jarl will be more welcoming."

And with that he clambered back atop his horse and, giving the guard's mere seconds to move aside, rode up through the camp, Lucius and the Snow Elf column following behind. As they weaved their way through the series of camps on the narrow dirt road, groups of soldiers, squires, officers and camp followers came stumbling out to see the new arrivals, their faces set in almost identical expressions of shock and awe.

Lucius could understand their surprise. Snow Elves hadn't been seen in Skyrim since the time of Ysgramor and the colonisation of Tamriel by the Atmorans. The only other remnants of the once proud race, the twisted Falmer, were seen as little more than a subspecies of goblin. Few understood the true connection between the two very different groups, and only a tiny group of people, himself and Serana included, knew that pure Snow Elves still survived.

The column quickly trotted up the sloping foothills of Whiterun. On all sides Lucius marvelled at the newly rebuilt walls. The first time he had come to this city, after spending a few months in Riverwood and Falkreath, the city had been drab and the walls almost falling apart. Now the proud stone ramparts loomed up to over ten metres high, crowned with stout battlements and wooden spiked palisades and bedecked with yellow flags and bright torches. The once lichen and mould covered stone was now smooth quarried stone brick, giving the once drab defences a formidable look.

When they reached the main gate the Whiterun guards and Imperial soldiers standing by it quickly moved to open it, many of them recognising Lucius despite the fact he had replaced his distinctive Dragonbone armour with a stout set of leather armour and a large green cloak emblazoned with the ram's head of Markarth.

Acknowledging the soldiers' salutes with a respectful nod, Lucius led the Snow Elves into the city itself.

When he clattered up the main street of the Plains District, a wide avenue of cobbled stone with dozens of side streets branching off, he noticed that the large collection of blacksmith shops near the gate were all a hive of activity, even at this late hour, the clatter of steel and loud hiss of weapons being quenched in oil filled the air, along with a pall of grey smoke which rose above the dozens of wooden buildings that spread out over the largest of Whiterun's districts.

Lucius spied Adrienne Avennici, owner and main blacksmith of Warmaiden's, berating a group of half a dozen apprentices, her husband Ulbreth laughing from nearby as he carried a stack of steel swords to a large covered storage area filled with arms and armour. The Imperial blacksmith waved as Lucius rode past, trying not to stare at his companions before returning to her work. The streets around them were filled with Imperial soldiers and troops from every corner of Skyrim, many lining up to receive weaponry while labourers marched past with piles of wood and stone, evidently to add to the defences of the city. On all sides loomed the large forms of warehouses and trade workshops built from stout pines and wooden planks, crates and pallets filled with supplies visible through their open doors. In and out of them moved labourers and Imperial soldiers, hefting sacks and large boxes in a long chain of men heading towards the gates.

It took another five minutes at a slow trot to reach the main market, a circular square the size of Riverwood, the dozens of stalls all removed and replaced with a series of tents filled with supplies and crates of weaponry. Lucius could just see Belethor, the cranky owner of the biggest of the city's many general goods stores, halfway through an argument with a familiar looking Breton Legate, the two Breton men looking up as Lucius stopped beside them. The Prince brought his own mount to a halt and shouted out an order in their incomprehensible Elven tongue for the rest of the column to stop.

Legate Galliverie's eyes were wide as he approached Lucius, then his expression contorted into a frown, but his eyes were filled with relief and joy. "Where in Oblivion have you been? The troops from Winterhold managed to arrive before you and those sad little buggers were on a cramped little ship for almost a week!"

Lucius smiled as he replied, hearing the distinctive bellow of Eorland Gray-Mane echoing across the city from the Wind District as he did so, probably shouting at some poor group of apprentices. "I needed to…figure some things out." He said simply, his smile dying as he remembered the threats of the Daedra, and Gelebor telling him of how he had to stop them and the Dwemer from tearing each other, and Tamriel, apart.

"Well whatever you need to figure out you need to do it soon," The Legate said firmly. "Skyrim needs the Dragonborn. High King Balgruuf has been expecting you for a while now. Oh, and glad to see you brought some Snow Elves with you. I always wondered what they looked like."

The Dragonborn's eyes widened as the Legate began to walk away. "You're really that casual about a lost race coming back to Tamriel?"

"First it was the Dragons, then the Dwemer, now the Snow Elves are back. I wouldn't be surprised if the Ayelids turned up really. Strange things are afoot." The Legate called back over his shoulder as Lucius and the column sped on, past the lines of shops and houses towards the imposing gate to the Wind District.

Up ahead loomed the massive form of the restored Gildergreen tree. The giant tree seemed to glow slightly as they passed through the wide open square it dominated, and Lucius could just see the squat wooden form of the Companions mead hall Jorrvaskar behind a row of elegant wooden houses, the orange glow of the Skyforge just visible behind that.

When they reached the wide stone stairs that led up to the Cloud District, Mirtil raised a fist and the entire column halted. The Prince dismounted, along with Gelebor and Lucius.

Just as they were about to ascend the steps to Dragonsreach, dumbstruck Imperial and Nord soldiers looking on, Mirtil turned back to the waiting column of Snow Elf cavalry, his cloak whipping behind him.

"Jamar! I want you and five others with us every step of the way! I am not going into a Nord castle without some of the finest swordsmen in Tamriel at my back."

Lucius bit back a retort yet again, as they began to ascend the steep steps up to the high citadel of Whiterun.

000000

The vast great hall of Dragonsreach was alive with activity when Lucius and the Snow Elves arrived through the huge carved wooden doors at the front.

On all sides of the cavernous space groups of palace guards in polished mail and yellow surcoats stood by while here and there ran couriers and men with bundles of scrolls and papers. Lucius noticed a few groups of soldiers from each of the nine Holds also standing at the sides of the room, looking a bit lost.

But, as they walked up the main stairs, ignoring stares and whispered comments from palace staff and soldiers alike, Lucius finally got a view of the high table that the most powerful men and women in Skyrim sat around and talked of war.

The circular table was made of polished oak, with each of the Jarls sat around it along with various commanders and generals, both Imperial and from the Holds. The centre of the table was taken up by a large map of Skyrim covered with dozens of small coloured flags and hastily scribbled notes. All around the edges, from the burly form of Jarl Igmund of Markarth to the stern faced Jarl Merilis of Dawnstar, the leaders of Skyrim debated and talked amongst themselves, every so often an aide or messenger whispering in the ear of their lord or passing a scribbled note. And at the far end of the table was High King Balgruuf himself, the Jagged Crown, the Dragonbone and steel helm of the ancient High Kings of Skyrim, atop his long blonde hair, dressed in fine robes of red and gold. At his side was his new wife, Jarl Elisif of Solitude, a small thin faced young woman who looked almost like an innocent child compared to the hardened older men and women around the table. Lucius hadn't been surprised at hearing of the marriage between the two Jarls. It seemed a shrewd political move, and legitimised Balgruuf's claim to the throne after the crushing of Ulfric's rebellion. And, from what he had heard, the two of them were, surprisingly, very much in love, despite the pragmatic nature of their marriage. It was Elisif who noticed Lucius and his entourage first, standing up from her seat and calling out, her voice surprisingly firm and commanding.

"Dragonborn! My friends, Legate Lucius has arrived!"

Instantly every head in the room turned to look at him and Lucius felt a slight twinge of embarrassment. He never liked being singled out like this. But he still bowed regardless as Brunwulf Free-Winter, the grizzled old soldier and new Jarl of Windhelm, dressed in a deep blue set of robes, was the first to greet him properly, walking over to the embarrassed Imperial and shaking his hand firmly.

"It is good to see you again, Lucius," Brunwulf said with a smile, but there was sadness in his grey eyes. "I only wish that this meeting could have been under friendlier circumstances. Come, we will find a seat for you and-"

"Prince Mirtil of the Snow Elves. Last of his line and ruler of what remains of our once great kingdom. My companion is Knight Paladin Gelebor of the Chanty of Auri-El." The Snow Prince said in a low tone, but every person in the room was silenced at his words.

"Impossible!" shouted Jarl Igmund, his hand going to his sword hilt. "The only 'Snow Elves' are the accursed Falmer! And if you are their ruler, I would be doing all of Skyrim a service by taking that pale head from your scrawny shoulders!"

The Jarl drew his blade with a clatter of metal, and Lucius saw many of the other Jarl's hands go to their weapons, while various soldiers around the room drew their swords.

Then a familiar voice echoed across the room.

"Stop! Sheath your blades! Are you any better than our rage filled ancestors if you strike this Elf down?" Balgruuf said, his face a mask of rage as he walked out from the table and, along with Brunwulf Free-Winter, turned to look at the other Jarls. "You dare turn away a potential ally? If the Dragonborn is willing to trust this Elf to help us, so am I. Proventus! Get these men a place to sit at the table. We're going to need all the help we can get to face this new threat."

In seconds the Jarl's steward had called forth three servants, who quickly set up chairs for the new arrivals. Lucius quickly made his way to his seat, between Jarl Elisif and Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone of Morthal, the two women giving him polite nods as he sat down, Gelebor next to him, whilst Mirtil said something in his own language to the Snow Elf warriors with them, who all quickly moved to the far door as Mirtil sat down between Gelebor and Brunwulf. The old Nord dipped his head respectfully and, to Lucius' surprise, Mirtil returned the gesture, before Balgruuf returned to his own seat and cleared his throat.

"Now that our new arrivals are settled, can we return to business? I trust there will be no more objections to our Snow Elf friends? Now is not the time to ask questions about races returning and, so long as they fight for us, we should leave any questions and…personal grievances," he added with an aside look at Igmund ", at the door. Now, Commander Caius, how many troops do we currently have in Whiterun?"

The balding commander of Whiterun Hold's armies nodded, a fresh sheet of parchment in hand which he read from. "Including the recent group of Snow Elves Legate Lucius brought with him, and not including the column of ten thousand Solitude troops that is currently a few miles from the city gates, there are over sixty thousand regular men-at-arms and archers in the city. Markarth has pledged another five hundred crossbowmen to our cause, and Jarl Igmund informs me that they will arrive from the Reach in the next few days. Our native Whiterun light cavalry divisions are still training with Legate Erik's Imperial heavy cavalry near Rorikstead, but a messenger hawk was dispatched from there yesterday to inform us they are on their way."

"What about our specialised units?" Balgruuf asked, and Caius continued.

"The two hundred tribal Orc infantry and one hundred Giants are still quartered to the north of the city but todays combined training with our own troops seems to have gone well and I believe the Giants may prove an effective counter to the Centurion automatons of the Dwemer. As for other units, Jarl Siddgeir informs me that a column of newly constructed siege weaponry is being brought up from Falkreath. One hundred individual pieces, mainly catapults and rams, but at least ten trebuchets, with enough materials to construct another twenty pieces should the need arise. All things considered, the muster has gone exceedingly well."

"Have there been any problems so far?" Lucius asked, and Caius frowned, before nodding.

"It appears that some of our gracious lords have not committed as many men as they could…" he said with barely contained frustration, shooting a glare at Maven Black-Briar, the haughty Jarl of Riften. Maven appeared unmoved and shrugged, but then Balgruuf stood up, his voice firm as he spoke.

"Is this true Maven?"

"Not entirely, my lord." She said casually. "Riften sits barely fifty miles from the border with Morrowind. Should the Dwemer attack I will need as many troops as I can get to defend the border and the city."

At the Jarl's words Brunwulf laughed out loud, and, ignoring Maven's dark look, began to speak.

"I believe our esteemed friend is exaggerating, my lord. Windhelm is also close to the Morrowind border, closer actually, and I have still mustered all the provinces' troops except for my own city's garrison. I…"

"Really Brunwulf?" Maven shot back with a look of controlled anger on her face. "The walls of Windhelm are over twenty metres high! You sit upon one of the most defensible locations in Skyrim! Maybe if you run out of soldiers you could always release those Stormcloak prisoners you have beneath your keep?" she added with a slight smirk.

Lucius cringed at Maven's words. He knew that she was right, in a way. Himself and Brunwulf had kept a few hundred Stormcloak soldiers, those too committed to Ulfric's cause to return to their old lives, imprisoned beneath the Palace of the Kings, and it was almost a taboo subject to speak about them.

"Enough!" Balgruuf ordered, slamming a fist down on the table. "This bickering will get us nowhere. Maven, I expect another thousand troops to leave Riften as soon as possible and report here. If it comes down to it, your friends in the Ratway can always defend your city for you," He added with a slight smile, and a ripple of laughter from the other Jarls burst out until the High King raised a hand for silence. "Now, we should probably hear the story from the Dragonborn. We can discuss numbers and logistics any time. Personally I want to know where you disappeared to when you were leading the first of Jarl Igmund's troops here. And where did you find your new Snow Elf friends?"

Lucius nodded slowly as he stood up to speak, taking a deep breath as he looked at the Jarls and various commanders around the table, all looking on expectantly as he began to speak.

"I-I had a dream the night we camped in the Giant stronghold, a prophetic one," he added as some of the onlookers gave him confused looks. "I was approached by the Daedric Princes, all sixteen of them. They revealed to me that it was they who had imprisoned the Dwemer for thousands of years, tortured them and attempted to exact retribution for whatever strange experiments they were performing at Red Mountain."

At the mention of the Daedra many of the assembled men and women leaned in closer to hear Lucius continue, and he tried to fight off the waves of anxiety that coursed through him. He had never been a good public speaker.

"When I refused to help them, I was saved from their wrath by Akatosh himself, the Chief Divine, but the Daedra swore they would fight the Dwemer themselves, and wipe them from existence."

"Perfect!" shouted Jarl Igmund, slamming a hand down on the table to emphasise his point. "If the Daedra wish to fight the Dwemer, why don't we let them? Surely their metal automatons and fancy weapons are no match for all the horrors of Oblivion?"

"No!" Lucius replied, much louder than he wished to, and he quickly lowered his voice in respect. "When Akatosh spoke to me, he talked of the balance that must be maintained, between the realms of Oblivion and Mundus. We cannot let the Daedra destroy the Dwemer, or for the Dwemer to exact revenge for their imprisonment. You all remember the tales of the Oblivion Crisis? Then it was only one Daedric Prince making war on Tamriel. What kind of chaos and untold destruction will be inflicted on our world if we allow all sixteen of them to descend to this plane of existence? And what kind of chaos would allowing the Dwemer to destroy some of the most powerful beings in existence bring forth?"

But the Jarl of the Reach shook his head and frowned.

"I still don't understand your point Dragonborn. I can understand why not letting the Daedra destroy the Dwemer is good. Where would they stop after that? Destroying all of Tamriel? But why not just let the Dwemer wipe the Daedra off the face of existence? The Daedra have brought nothing but death and chaos to this world."

Lucius nodded. He could see the Jarl's point. But Akatosh had been adamant. And yet many of the people around the table now looked upon him as if he was speaking nonsense, and he sat back in his chair, knowing that he wouldn't be able to get through to them.

Suddenly there was the clatter of a door being slammed shut, and a voice rang out over the muttered comments from the assembled leaders, a piercing female voice with a faint Breton accent.

"My lords! The Dragonborn is right!"

As one every man and woman at the table turned to their right where the newcomer had just entered from the court wizards quarters. The new arrival was a Breton, dressed in the grey and white robes of a Vigilant of Stendaar, her face hard and unyielding but still good looking in the same manner of a Nordic shield-maiden. Her long brown hair was tied up in a tight bun and at her hip was a glass mace. Bowing towards the table, she gestured towards herself with hands sheathed in steel plate gauntlets.

"My name is Vigilant Arianna of the Vigilance of Stendaar, sent by the Vigilance from the newly rebuilt Hall of the Vigilant. I am sorry to disturb your meeting. I was merely meeting with the High King's court wizard when I heard the Dragonborn mentioning the balance of the world and the Daedra."

A few of the Jarls looked about to protest at this interruption but Balgruuf raised a hand.

"Speak, Vigilant." He said, firmly but not unkindly. "I trust your own knowledge on the Daedra includes this 'balance'."

Arianna nodded. "I have based my whole career as a Vigilant on not only understanding ways of fighting the Daedra, but also their role in the world and what exactly they are. Know thy enemy, I believe the phrase is. My lords, the Dragonborn speaks the truth," she added as she came to the table, taking a smooth stone from her pocket as she did so and placing it on the table.

"Look at that. It's nothing but a stone I found in the road on the way here. And yet it shows exactly the make-up of this world, this existence. You all see the stone I trust? Look closer. There is a shadow. Stop me if I'm going too fast…" she added with a slight grin as some of the Jarls looked on dumbfounded. "Our world is the same. On the one hand we have the light. We have the Divines, who represent order, justice and freedom. And yet on the other we have the darkness, the Daedra, chaos, tyranny and destruction. Neither can exist without the other. For what is the point of justice if there are no criminals to try? What is the point of destruction if there is no established order to destroy? Many members of my order delude themselves, say that the Daedra must be wiped from existence. And yet I know better. The Dragonborn speaks of a balance that must be maintained. He is right. There cannot be light if there is no shadow for it to chase away." she added but, noticing the still unsure faces of those around the table, continued.

"Look." She began, pointing at the map of Skyrim. "Let me break this down into something a bit simpler than the fate of all creation. Jarl Igmund, what would happen to Skyrim if you were to march on Morthal, burn it to the ground, and wipe that city off the map?"

The eyes of every person around the table seemed to all widen in shock simultaneously, and Jarl Idgrod looked both terrified and angered at Arianna's words. Even Lucius was slightly shocked at her words. The Vigilant had barely been there a few minutes and was already speaking directly to the Jarls as if they were schoolchildren. But Arianna ignored the astonished stares and only stared at Igmund, waiting for the headstrong Jarl's answer.

"Well…" the Jarl began. "Morthal is the base for the Watchmen of the Marsh. If I…wiped it out, then the monsters from the marshes, the Chaurus and the vampires, the Falmer tribes," he added with a slight glance at Prince Mirtil. "They would overrun the Hold, probably spread into the Pale and Whiterun Holds as well."

"See?" Arianna said with a smile. "And what if, say, Jarl Elisif was to invade the Reach and destroy Markarth?"

"Skyrim would lose most of its industry, its mines and its best blacksmiths. The material economy would grind to a halt." Igmund replied shortly, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world.

Lucius smiled. He could see his point was sinking in to the assembled Jarls and military commanders, and was glad that Arianna had turned up. The Vigilant nodded at him and he stood up and began to speak again. "If we lose the Daedra we lose the tenuous balance that keeps the world together. Much as in the same way that losing one Hold in Skyrim would bring chaos, even losing one of the Daedric Princes to the Dwemer would bring untold chaos to the world. I know it seems wrong but we have to be pragmatic here…"

As he said this Balgruuf, Elisif and Brunwulf all nodded, and Igmund began to speak.

"You speak the truth Dragonborn. If Akatosh himself told you this, who are we to disagree?"

A chorus of cheers ran around the table as Balgruuf stood up, raising a hand for calm.

"My friends." The High King said in a loud but even tone. "We Nords are a proud and honourable race. However for many years we have had a reputation as being as hard and, dare I say, outright inhospitable and cold, as the rocky crags of our homeland. The Snow Prince before us, the descendant of a race our ancestors attempted to destroy, is proof of how we Nords have not always been the heroes. Now is our chance to do that. For what is nobler than helping to keep the world from slipping into untold chaos. But now we can prove to the world we are not dumb brutes! Alongside our brothers in arms from the Empire, we will be-"

His last words were cut off as the main doors at the far end of the hall were thrown open and a messenger dressed in light Imperial armour sprinted in, pushing past the guards who tried to stop him before halting at the far end of the table, every eye in the room on him.

"My lords!" he shouted in-between deep breaths. He looked like he had run all the way from the camps outside the city. "A messenger hawk has arrived from Morrowind-from General Tullius!"

A collective intake of breath seemed to ripple across the various guards and scribes around the room, but most of the Jarls seemed to take the news in stunned silence. Nobody had heard from the general since the battle at Red Mountain, and Lucius was sure he had died.

"The Dwemer have advanced into Vvardenfell from Red Mountain. The information we received from Calcelmo of Markarth was right…" the messenger said, rushing his words as if the message couldn't wait another second. "The old veteran units have returned. The general mentioned Dwemer warriors led by a commander called Cuolec the Red."

"Cuolec the Red?!" shouted Prince Mirtil, kicking his seat out from under him as he stood up, his hand going to his sword as if the Dwemer was in the room with them. "Are you sure, soldier?"

"Yes I-"the messenger spluttered, not sure what to think of the pale white Elf before him but the prince cut him off.

"That…monster, butchered countless numbers of my brethren during the War of the Crag, back before their minds were entirely lost to the toxic fungus. We were right to come here. Maybe now my people can have revenge on the Dwemer." He added in a softer voice, one that sounded much more uncertain than his previous bluster and harsh words.

As the prince sat down the messenger breathed a noticeable sigh of relief before he continued.

"The general has taken the few remains of the Fifth Legion and is heading for the mainland."

"Then there is no time to lose." Balgruuf said with a grim frown. "We need our troops ready as soon as possible. Proventus! Send a message to Legate Fasendil and his troops on the border. Tell him we are sending aid. I will have a force of five thousand men at arms and five hundred archers on their way to both of the main passes to Morrowind within the hour. Tell them to set up palisades and dig trenches along the roads to slow any enemy advance. We need to fortify the border before the Dwemer arrive."

The High King's steward bowed before hurrying out, grabbing a quill and parchment off a nearby scribe.

"As for you soldier." Balgruuf said in a softer tone. "Get yourself back to the camps. I will be sending another messenger shortly."

As the soldier turned to leave, the High King picked up a bottle of Black-Briar mead from the table and threw it to the weary messenger, who caught it and bowed.

"For your trouble, lad." Balgruuf said simply. "It's never easy being the bearer of bad news."

The messenger ran out of the room, a broad grin on his face, and the High King turned back to the assembled leaders, sighing deeply.

"Now we must turn to-"

Just as he began speaking the main doors were hauled open again and the patter of light feet on polished floorboards filled the air. The High King sighed again, taking the proffered parchment from the new messenger and opening it out.

Lucius saw the Balgruuf's eyes widen slightly and knew instantly that this was more bad news.

The High King shook his head and let the parchment fall to the table as he spoke again, any previous mirth replaced by a grim and cold acceptance of whatever the message had said.

"My friends. We have just received word from Imperial scouts in southern Morrowind. Lord Naarfiin has been sighted at the head of an army of sixty thousand Dominion troops and twenty thousand Argonian soldiers from the heart of Black Marsh. They are marching through Imperial lands as we speak."

He paused for a second, letting the meaning of his words sink in before he said grimly.

"Make no mistake. The Thalmor have returned, and they're not going away lightly this time."