Writing this because I can, and bored. Will probably stay as one-shot or not depending on my mood.
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As the cataclysmic War in Heaven reached its apocalyptic crescendo, the mighty Empire of Caledonia—forged in flame, tempered by godsfall—was cast adrift into another world. Torn from their realm in the final hours of divine conquest, the empire's armies, war machines, and sorcerer-kings found themselves on alien soil beneath foreign stars.
This was not a land of titanic foes or celestial adversaries. No—this world was one of backroom whispers and poisoned cups. A realm where lords plotted like cowards, and the blood of the lowborn soaked the ground in games waged by those born in marble halls. Magic had faded into myth, dragons lay dead, and ancient power slept beneath the surface—waiting.
To the lords and ladies of this world, the Empire of Caledonia appeared as an enigma. A distant storm upon the horizon. To some, salvation. To others, annihilation.
But to Caledonia, this world was nothing new.
A shattered land of fragile alliances and rotting monarchies, ripe for the taking. They had faced gods and killed them. They had faced oblivion and spat in its face. What was a realm of scheming nobles and half-dead kings to a nation that had walked in the corpse-light of fallen pantheons?
Now, they stand upon the edge of conquest once more.
But even in this new world, shadows stir. Forgotten gods dream in the deep places of the earth. Prophecies whisper of doom cloaked in golden flame. And those who call themselves kings will soon learn what true empire means.
Will Caledonia be humbled, lost among foreign thrones and petty wars?
Or will it rise once more—draped in crimson banners, wreathed in black fire—to challenge the heavens once again?
His rule was harsh, yet unwavering. He understood his duty and pursued it with relentless determination. The people feared him, yet they knew he was the only force standing between them and utter annihilation.
When the gods deemed humanity unworthy and unleashed monsters to cull them, a lone figure stood against the tide—Valtherion, the bulwark upon which civilization rested.
He ruled with an iron fist, not out of cruelty, but necessity. In such desperate times, there was no room for weakness. The people had no choice but to follow, and while his rule was cold, it was undeniable that he knew what was best for his realm. His strength of arms was legendary, one of the many reasons his followers remained fiercely loyal—willing to fight, to die, for his cause.
But then came the Great Transference. A revelation that shook the world to its core. This new land had no gods—or at least, none like those they had known. Divine presence existed, but so faintly that it may as well have perished long ago.
Yet Valtherion did not allow complacency to take root. His armies were mighty, forged through countless battles against the wrath of the divine, but he had not come this far only to be undone by arrogance. His first command was clear—his forces were to guard the borders and prepare for the worst.
After all, there would always be fools who sought to test the strength of an army that had once defied the will of gods.
Harlon Pyke stood at the bow of his ship, eyes narrowed toward the horizon. Before him stretched a land that should not exist—new, raw, and shrouded in lingering mist. A place that had not been there mere days before, only revealed after the earth had groaned and trembled, and the fog had finally lifted.
Magic, perhaps? The thought lingered in his mind, but he dismissed it with a sneer. Magic had died with the dragons. That was the old truth. And Harlon cared little for dead truths.
What mattered were the spoils. Gold. Grain. Flesh. Whether or not people lived there was a secondary concern. His gut told him the land held bounty, and his gut had never steered him wrong.
"I see something!"
The shout came from the crow's nest, snapping Harlon to attention. He raised his spyglass, a smile creeping across his bearded face. There, nestled by the coast, stood a village—modest, green, and unaware. Greenlander stock, no doubt. He could almost hear the screams already.
"Looks like meat's back on the menu, boys!"
Laughter erupted from the deck, coarse and eager. The oars bit the water with renewed fury, the longships surging forward like hungry wolves. More vessels followed, eager to sink their teeth into whatever this strange land had to offer.
The landing was swift. The Ironborn leapt into the surf, boots splashing as they stormed toward the village. Blades were drawn. Anticipation thrummed in the air.
But when they reached the edge of the settlement… silence.
No resistance. No cries. No smoke. Only abandoned carts, meals half-eaten, and doorways swinging in the wind. A village alive moments ago now eerily still.
Something was wrong.
Harlon advanced through the village with careful steps, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His men followed behind, blades drawn, eyes scanning every shadow. The silence was oppressive—unnatural. Even the caw of gulls seemed to have abandoned this place.
It was too quiet. Too clean. Too… empty.
He had ordered a full sweep. Every shack, every storage hut, every cellar. Yet, not a single soul was found. No corpses. No signs of struggle. Just the ghost of a village that had been bustling only moments before.
How?
The question pulsed in Harlon's mind, mirrored in the furrowed brows and wary glances of the other reavers. Even in a well-planned evacuation, there would have been stragglers—elders, children, livestock. But here, there was nothing. No footprints in the mud. No discarded belongings. Just absence.
"...Magic?"
The word left Harlon's mouth in a hushed murmur, meant for no one but himself. But in the deathly stillness, even whispers carried like thunder. The nearby raiders stiffened, casting uneasy glances toward one another. The mere suggestion of sorcery turned bravado into apprehension.
That unease calcified into dread when they heard it—slow, deliberate footsteps echoing from the northern edge of the village. A rhythm too perfect. Too steady. Not the shambling panic of fleeing villagers… but the march of something purposeful.
"Get in formation, you louts!" Harlon barked, his voice sharp as steel. The Ironborn scrambled to obey, forming a loose shield wall. But their eyes betrayed them—wide, uncertain, searching the mist ahead for whatever came their way.
And from the fog, something stirred.
Soon enough their adversaries showed themselves—figures draped in black and gold, clad in armor not forged by any known blacksmith's hand. Their presence was not heralded by trumpets nor song, but by the hush of dread and awe that swept through the gathered Ironborn.
At their head stood a giant, towering above mortals like a demigod wrought of metal and silence. He stood like a monument to war—towering, brutal, and carved from nightmares. His armor, jagged and darkened like forged obsidian, wrapped around his muscular form like the hide of a beast, each plate edged in menace. Chains and ebony cloth draped across his waist and shoulders, swaying with every movement like the banners of a battlefield long forgotten.
A monstrous helm crowned his head, its iron visage shaped like a snarling beast with sharp ridges and blood-red plumes that flowed like fire behind him. Only his eyes were visible—burning with a fury that spoke of countless wars and untold wrath.
Gripped in his gauntleted hand was a titanic battle axe, wickedly designed with serrated edges and a savage hook that looked like it could tear through both armor and soul. The weapon wasn't just a tool—it was an extension of his fury, etched with dark runes and the scars of a thousand battles.
He bore no sigil, no banner of allegiance—only the aura of carnage. Wherever he walked, silence followed. For even the bravest warriors knew: this was no mere man.
This was a butcher of gods. A reaper forged in the crucible of endless war.
Around him marched his knights—lesser in stature, yet no less imposing in presence. Compared to the Ironborn, they were like day and night—utterly different in every aspect, down to the finest detail.
The giant of a man stepped forward, removing his helmet with a measured, deliberate motion. Beneath the ornate metal was a face as handsome as it was cold. His emerald eyes swept over the Ironborn, one by one, each glance piercing, each gaze a silent judgment. Fear crept into the hearts of the reavers.
"Surrender," the man commanded, his voice a deep, resonant timbre that left no room for doubt. "Lest you incur the wrath of His Majesty—Valtherion."
Confusion was the Ironborn's first response. But that uncertainty quickly gave way to fury. They shouted curses—vile, meaningless words the giant didn't even bother to acknowledge. Empty threats, barked like mad dogs with no teeth.
With a weary sigh, the towering warrior slid his helmet back over his head, the metal locking into place with finality. Reaching behind him, he drew his weapon—a colossal two-handed axe, crafted for one of his size and strength. The very sight of it seemed to steal the breath from the onlookers.
Realizing that diplomacy had failed, he raised his left arm—a silent command. His knights moved with precision, forming a disciplined wall of steel and resolve.
The Ironborn, meanwhile, threw aside all semblance of order. Driven by rage, they charged like beasts, a howling storm of fury and steel. They crashed into the defenders with reckless abandon.
But the line held.
It was like watching a tidal wave crash against an unyielding cliff. The Ironborn's strength and fury meant nothing against an army that had once withstood the wrath of gods and their abominable creations.
With a single, silent gesture—his left hand cutting through the air—the giant issued the signal. The counterattack came swift and merciless.
Their movements were flawless, almost mechanical. What should have been a blood-soaked brawl became a grim ballet—precise, efficient, and horrifyingly beautiful. The disciplined warriors turned the chaos into art, and the Ironborn were nothing more than red-streaked brushstrokes across a battlefield canvas.
At the center of it all was the giant himself—less a man and more a force of nature. A calamity in armor.
Each swing of his axe cleaved through flesh and steel alike. Warriors were split in two, hurled through the air like ragdolls, their cries ending in silence. No one he struck rose again.
And when the storm finally passed, only a handful remained. Bloodied, trembling, and on their knees—survivors in name only. Their defiance shattered, they begged for mercy from the very man they had cursed.
"You," the man growled, voice low and cold as grave soil. He raised his axe, its blood-slick edge catching the gray light, and leveled it toward one of the broken survivors. "Crawl back to your master. Tell him this: the Empire of Caledonia suffers no raiders. Come again, and your bones will decorate the shores you once called home. There will be no mercy, only ruin."
Then he turned away, already done with them.
The survivors didn't wait. They fled—tripping, scrambling, choking on their own terror as they ran for the boats that brought them to this cursed place. Their howls echoed across the wet earth, half-choked sobs and frantic prayers to gods who had clearly abandoned them.
The giant watched, silent and still, as they vanished into the fog like vermin.
This was no victory. It was a warning.
And His Majesty would not be pleased that a warning had even been necessary.
Valtherion is the very embodiment of divine might made manifest—a towering figure wreathed in crackling stormlight, his mere presence a herald of fury and glory. His physique is nothing short of godlike—broad-chested and muscular, carved as if by the hand of a master sculptor, every sinew exuding the raw power of a warrior-king. He wears radiant golden armor, intricately forged and etched with the lion insignia of his empire, glowing with a celestial sheen that pulses like a heartbeat of war.
Over his shoulders drapes a fur-lined cloak, black as a moonless night. His face, stern and noble, is framed by a mane of wild, dark hair. His gaze is fierce—unyielding and regal, with eyes that burn with the fire of unwavering purpose.
In his right hand he held the legendary sword Var Thalion, the Judgement of Gods, a colossal weapon wrought from divine metal, inscribed with sacred runes. The sword radiates blinding power with every movement, each swing capable of shattering bone, steel, and spirit alike.
Valtherion stands not as a mere man, but as a storm-crowned god of war and unification—a living myth, a symbol of hope for the faithful and dread for his foes.
Now, he sat upon his throne—silent, composed, and commanding—his presence casting a long shadow across the grand hall. Before him knelt his right hand, the ever-loyal Arthas, delivering his report of what had transpired mere hours after the Great Transference.
"So," Valtherion began, his voice low and edged with amusement, "these… Ironborn saw one of our coastal villages and thought it wise to strike first, ask questions never?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty," Arthas responded, his tone steady. "I had hoped to interrogate a few after the battle. But they proved far weaker than I had anticipated—both in arms and in spirit."
Valtherion chuckled, the sound like distant thunder echoing off stone. It came as no surprise to him that the Ironborn had faltered. That they had broken before Arthas. Terror, after all, was a natural response to the man. Especially for those unaccustomed to his stature… or the way he fought.
They hadn't faced warriors. They had faced calamity given form.
"Was erachtet Ihr als einen würdigen Vorschlag für unseren nächsten Schritt, Arthas?" (What do you consider a worthy proposal for our next move, Arthas?)
"Ich tät wohl vorschlagen, dass wir achtgeben, was diese Räuber im Schilde führen, Eure Majestät. Obgleich sie als umherziehende Gesindel erscheinen mögen, so sind sie doch wohlgerüstet – ungleich dem gewöhnlichen Gesindel, dem wir vor dem Kriege der Himmel einst begegneten."(I would propose that we see what these reavers do, Your Majesty. While they seem like roving bands of raiders, they're actually well armed unlike the typical bandits or raiders we often see before the War in Heaven.)
"Then we shall do just that, Arthas. You are dismissed."
Arthas bowed low, the clink of his armor echoing through the silent chamber as he turned and departed the throne room. Valtherion remained seated for a moment longer, cloaked in the heavy quiet, lost in contemplation beneath the towering banners of his dominion.
But soon, even the stillness could not bind him. Rising from his throne, the Emperor moved with purpose toward his private sanctum. There, within the austere confines of his office, lay the burdens of rulership—missives, intelligence reports, and the many minor crises that demanded his steady hand.
Though to some his calm might seem like arrogance, Valtherion knew better. His confidence was forged not in pride, but in certainty. He had seen the Ironborn with his own eyes—through the magic of scrying, and through the words of Arthas, his trusted right hand man.
Their lands were bleak, barren, and unworthy. Jagged coasts, salt-choked soil, and winds that howled like mourning spirits. A place where crops failed and ambition rotted, leaving only a culture of reaving and bloodletting—a desperate people clinging to the fetid corpse of the so-called Old Way.
He scoffed.
"Lords," they called themselves. Yet they ruled like brigands and pirates, grasping at crowns with bloodstained hands but no understanding of the burden they bore.
His fingers tapped against the armrest of his seat in slow, deliberate rhythm—each tap the toll of a silent war drum. Valtherion's mind was already reaching forward, shaping the path ahead. The Ironborn would come again. That much was certain.
But when they did… there would be no parley, no warning, no second chances.
Only fire. Only steel. Only ash.
It was five weeks later when the scouts returned with word of sails—black as a starless night—swarming the northern sea like vultures scenting carrion. A host of Ironborn. Dozens of longships, war-galleys, and tide-broken hulks refitted for slaughter. There was no shock in the throne room that day. The Ironborn's intent had been seen through long before they set their course. Valtherion had expected this.
He cast a glance to his side. Arthas stood tall and unflinching like a statue wrought from ice and steel. The Emperor gave a single nod. That was enough. Arthas bowed and left without a word, his dark cloak trailing behind him like a shadow torn from his soul.
Only one remained beside the throne now.
Althariel.
The Supreme Sorcerer of the Empire. The one whispered of in a dozen dying tongues as the Calamity Witch. Her long robes shimmered with runes that pulsed like slumbering stars, and her eyes held storms in their depths. She spoke, her voice a velvet whisper that could cut like razors if she willed it.
"It unfolds as you foresaw, Your Majesty," she said. "The Ironborn—simple minds driven by salt and blood. Predictable. They believe vengeance to be their right."
"They will find only ash and ruin," Valtherion replied coldly. "Ready the High Circle. I want the ley-lines bound and the skies torn open before the first oars reach our shore."
"As you command," she said, bowing with a cruel smile curling her lips. "The Iron Islands shall burn."
Valtherion turned from the balcony then, his mantle sweeping behind him like a tide of darkness. The storm was coming—but it was not from the sea.
It would come from the sky.
