From the North

Throm Scar-Hand,

The Snow Elves’ forces have been broke, but there are still forces of resistance scattered throughout the land. We have recently learned of one that is merely a day’s trip away from your current position. Do what you have to do.

Harald Hand-Free, Windhelm

The letter he had received a couple of days before repeated itself over and over. The Elves had been defeated. No longer would they threaten the Nord people, unless the resistance groups were allowed to rebuild and retaliate. For the sake of his future family, he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let that happen.

“General, we can’t breach the inner halls!” A man, a soldier under his command, brought his attention back to the present. His brothers- and sisters-in-arms scurried about under the cold lighted sun that reflected beautifully of the snow, eager to serve the army of the High King. Before him there was one of their ancient burial sites from the time of Ysgrammor. That these Elves dared to invoke the wrath of their people even more said much about their desperation.

Throm nodded to the soldier. He’d hate to do this in the tomb of what could be his ancestors, but it would be more honorable to let the Elves die in battle than from starvation; the power of the Thu’um would sing through the stone halls.

Through the outer entrance he walked and looked at the bodies as he passed by them. Most of them were old and partially mummified, still with pieces of armor and in the hands folded on their chest they held a weapon. Weapons and armor of the same make he himself had. Draugr, most people called them. The ones who rose from their grave anyway; these seemed docile.

There were a few bodies of tall men and women with snow-white skin and pointed ears. The Snow Elves. Most of them had fresh wounds. Courageous warriors who had defended the retreat of their kin from a superior force. If there was any fairness to be had, he expected to meet great numbers of these Snow Elves in Shor’s Hall of Valor, where they could learn to know each other without the past getting in the way. Ever since Saarthal, their people, Elf and Nord alike, had been faced with an endless circle of retaliation. If Ysgrammor hadn’t taken the path of vengeance, or the Elves hadn’t sacked Saarthal in the first place…

“Sir, you got my message?” a woman with a bow by her side asked as he approached her and a group of warriors with her. “You are ready to tear this gate down with your Voice?”

“Yes,” Throm looked at the obstacle: A metal gate forged by the masters of their craft, impervious to any attempt by Human or Elf strength to force open. But he did not wield Human or Elven strength. He wielded the Thu’um, the power of Kyne and her mighty Winds.

“Fus… Ro Dah!”

The whole room shook as he unleashed the Shout, and the gate that had barred their progress landed on the other side of the hall it had protected. The Nord warriors rushed in to greet the Elves who dared to stay behind. This was no real battle, it was a slaughter.

When the Elves still could defend themselves and strike back, it was different. They fought soldiers and mages, people trained for war. Now they fought makeshift resistance groups, and soon, if Lord Harald had his way, they would hunt down the women and children that might have survived. When that time came, he would have to do so without Throm.

While the other Nords ran through to the next chamber, Throm noted that there was a small, almost invisible, staircase. He wondered if he should get someone to follow him, in case of an ambush, when he went in there… No, he should be fine. It would take more than a few Elves to kill a Tongue.

The staircase itself went up in a long spiral, but far too soon he could see the end of it. It led to what would once have been a large treasure room, but now it was only occupied by a single Elf who knelt before a makeshift shrine to Auriel. He heard him whisper “give me strength”. A swift motion rush would end the Elf’s life before he would be able to react. Throm’s battleaxe felt a lot lighter in his hands at that thought.

“To your feet, lad,” the Nord said. “No one should have to die without a chance to defend themselves.”

At best the Elf had a type of leather armor, maybe even just a thick robe, and a short sword. For his sake, Throm hoped he had been trained in magic. And he quickly showed that he was; a fireball flew in Throm’s direction as soon as he turned around, but alas it was to no effect.

The Nord had whispered “Feim” in case he tried something. As the spell hit his chest, he felt neither the heat nor the impact. The Elf tried it again with no more luck that the first time. A smile spread across the general’s face. The heat of battle allowed him to let the troubles of this world go, if only for a moment.

The pummel of his axe found itself in the chest of the mage and sent him to his back. Fire and lightning shot in all directions, except in that of the general. The Elf rolled to the side as the axe came down upon him and turned invisible.

“A real trickster, this one,” the Nord mumbled to himself. No matter. Invisibility had never posed a challenge to a Tongue. “Laas!”

A red outline of the Elf appeared at his left, headed in his direction. Gotcha. With the handle of the axe, he parried the strike from the elven blade.

“Krii!” Throm shouted as the red mass was replaced by the real parson. A feint purple light spread across his veins, before they faded. His doom was spoken, literally. “Yol Toor Shul!”

The Nord’s fire was met by a ward. Behind it one could see the Elf sweat and fall to his knees, before the spell broke

down. What was left of the shout didn’t kill him, but he was cast to the ground once more. This time he didn’t even try to move.

“What is your name, lad?” the General asked.

“V- Valindil.”

“Then rise, Valindil, your battle is not over yet.”

“I- I can barely stand,” the Elf panted heavily. Burn marks had taken hold of his face and clothes, and his blade had landed out of his reach. “Why would you mock me like this?”

“Mocking you?” Throm shook his head. “You have fought as bravely as I could expect of any Nord. You deserve to die as a warrior should: On his feet.”

When Valindil heard this, he rolled over to all four and slowly got up. He almost fell over in the process, but turned to the Nord with acceptance. And a scroll of paper in his hand.

“Yol…”

The Elf held it up and started to speak something in the elven tongue.

**

“Good night, dear sister,” Luna said as she passed by Celestia on the way to the balcony. The night had grown late and the white Alicorn had decided it was time to rest. Luna didn’t mind though. The night was lovely, even when enjoyed alone.

Once outside she glanced in the direction of Ponyville. Twilight, one of the few friends she had, had insisted on returning after her crowning ceremony. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened since then.

Her thoughts were quickly driven out of her head. In the corner of her eye, Luna saw a part of the Everfree Forest go up in flames. She had to do something before it got out of control.

**

“… Toor Shul!” The trees in front of Throm was set ablaze. Trees? What dark magic had that Elf unleashed? He was not in Skyrim, that was for certain. This time of year, all of Skyrim was covered in snow, yet here there was nothing to be found.

“Playing tricks on my mind are you?” he said loudly, but no answer came. This is what he got from giving the Elf a chance to die honorably. Fine, if Valindil wanted to play that game, he was more than happy to oblige.

“Strun Bah Qo!”

**

“By Nightmare Moon, what was that?” Luna asked herself. She hadn’t been able to even call her guards to deal with the fire, before a shockwave spread from the same place.

“Princess!” her guards came flying as fast as they could. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I…” she felt her mouth was left open. From nowhere storm clouds started to form over the forest. Flashes of lightning and the drums of thunder filled the air. This was no natural storm.

**

The skies above him darkened and the rain started to fall. So it wasn’t an illusion. But then, where was he? Valenwood? Cyrodiil? Throm had no idea. Wherever it was, he had to be careful. With the storm shout, everything in miles radius would know something had arrived.

“Hmm,” he said to himself. “What should I do?”

The options seemed limited. He didn’t know the area and he was in a thick forest; if he started to walk about, he would surely get lost. If he stayed here something would sooner or later come and look for whatever had caused, but if it were Elves…

“Halt, by Royal Decree!” two voices from behind said in unison. That was a lot faster than expected. Too fast. Throm turned around.

Two… creatures stood, dressed in dark armor, and stared at him. The closest thing he had seen to their like was horses, but these hardly looked like the ones of Skyrim. And they talked. This was had to be the work of a Daedric Prince. He was trapped in a realm of Oblivion.