4E 202, Southeastern Battlefield
Gerron Ironbreaker
Gerron hadn't had the chance to fight a Dragon Priest before.
He'd heard the stories all his life, in inns and taverns, by the road, told by travellers by the campfire.
"In days of old, when dragons ruled the earth, there lived mortal men who worshipped the beasts as gods. These Dragon Priests are long since dead… but something has awakened them from their ancient slumber."
Alduin had dragged them from the grave, raised their souls to his service once more.
Gerron had always been elsewhere in the previous encounters. Rahgot, Hevnoraak, Krosis. He had never personally seen one up close.
Now that he had, standing across from Volsung on a field of utter chaos, he realized the stories had been painfully accurate.
Volsung hovered several inches above the ground, wrapped in spectral Daedric armor that burned away at its edges into thin, ghostly vapor. The twin blue flames behind the Corundum mask shone even brighter as their gaze met once more.
According to Kiera, Dragon Priests varied wildly in strength.
Vokun, it seemed, was among the lowest of the totem pole. Volsung and Krosis, from what they can tell, are among the stronger ones.
But of course, Morokei, the one currently imprisoned in Labyrinthian was said to be the most powerful mage of them all.
It was both very interesting and dread inducing. Gerron had seen plenty of mages in his life. Serana, Savos, the other professors of the College. Morokei was said to trump them all in terms of skill and power.
That was the kind of prowess he was very interested in seeing.
But until then, he needs to focus on the current predicament, which is Volsung.
Hundreds of bound weapons rained from the sky towards him like a deadly storm.
Spectral swords, axes, maces, spears, all conjured and hurled downward. His biceps strained as Gerron swung his hammer, the earth cracking beneath his feet. A titanic shockwave of wind and lightning blasted outward, obliterating every conjured weapon in a single sweeping burst.
Volsung did not flinch. The blue fire of his gaze narrowed.
"Mun se heim mahfaeraak." (Bearer of the Forge Eternal).
The priest's voice was like three voices layered on top of one another. One human, one spectral, one inhumanly deep.
Volsung floated forward, studying him, blue flames flickering.
"Dreh hi krif?" (Why do you fight?)
To Gerron, all the words that came out were in an ancient language he didn't speak, didn't understand, and didn't care to.
The Artificer System allowed him to read Draconic script. It was the thing he had used to create a lot of his enchantments, Arcanic being the most powerful and the one with the most potential.
But its spoken language? Complete gibberish to him.
Gerron just grinned, rolling his shoulders. "Whatever it is you just said, I hope you're ready."
After all, Gerron's focus had been on one thing and one thing only.
[Mask of Volsung]
'One of the Nine. Worn by the greatest Dragon Priests. Artifacts that defy time, bear enchantments beyond mortal craft. Indestructible. Immutable. Each mask a symbol of power and identity.
The Mask of Volsung grants its bearer a complete ward over the body, a shield strong enough to protect the user from the mightiest of blows.'
Most mages share the same weakness. Their bodies were fragile. Their physical strength was weak. But this mask erased that weakness.
Gerron moved, quicker than the eye can see. One moment he stood twenty feet away. The next he was beside Volsung, hammer arcing down.
Volsung was hurled through the air, the cracking thunder of impact echoing across the battlefield. Something broke—a rib? Armor? The ground? Gerron couldn't tell.
But Volsung recovered mid-air, floating upright again.
"Dein hin in! (Protect your master!)" Volsung screeched.
The Dremora that he had dominated surged forward. The Lords in blackened armor and their greatswords answered his call. Clannfears scuttled over the corpses, screeching. Four Frost Atronachs lumbered behind them, charging through.
One Clannfear lunged at Gerron, jaws wide. His hammer smashed through its skull, sending brain matter across the snow.
Another loomed behind him and rammed its horned head into his back. Gerron staggered, stumbling for half a step, before turning and backhanding the monster with his armored gauntlet with such force that its neck snapped and its body crumpled into the ground.
It was then that he turned to see four frost atronach's lumbering towards him. Gerron let out a breath through his nose, preparing himself.
Fighting a Master Conjurer means resolving to fight a horde of conjured creatures at the same time. Gerron cracked his neck, preparing himself for a long fight.
Just as he lifted his hammer, clenching his hands on the shaft, the Frost Atronachs were suddenly blasted into pieces and exploded into shards of ice.
Dragonbone arrows, glowing with runes, tore through their torsos.
Captain Renly sprinted across the battlefield with the rest of the Shor's Guards behind him, black cloaks fluttering, dragonbone bows drawn.
"My Jarl!" Renly stated as they arrived behind him. "We are with you till the end!"
Gerron grinned and nodded. "Then let's end this!"
The Shor's Guard crashed into Volsung's forces like a wave of blades and fury. Around them, the Legions fought with them as the battle spilled across the landscape.
Draugr rushed forth, spilling from the snow. The Dremora slaughtered through the lines of the legionnaires to reach them. Atronachs marching through newly summoned portals.
Gerron didn't let them off. He was a missile of steel as he was the spearhead that pierced through the lines of Volsung's forces.
Renly was beside him at every moment, firing arrow after arrow, each finding a skull, a heart, a glowing orb of a Daedra's core.
The Shor's Guard flanked Gerron himself, interlocking their shields to maintain the momentum, their swords cutting down draugr left and right.
Yet every creature slain was replaced by two more. They were a mere seven people trying to breach through an army.
And it didn't take long for the consequences to finally happen.
A draugr deathlord swung its ancient greataxe, and one of the members, a nord named Hjormund, managed to block it with his shield. But a Dremora Kynereeve impaled him from behind.
Andris Fire-Hand, a Breton woman of the Shor's Guard, set three draugr ablaze with a fireball. Only for a Dremora Lord to walk through the conflagration, seize her by the neck, and break it with a loud snap.
Bera Ice-Veins fought like a demon with her twin shortswords, cutting down three Clannfears before a frost atronach pierced her stomach with a spike of ice.
One after another, the Shor's Guard died as the snow beneath Gerron turned red. The charge were left to Gerron, Renly, and a dwindling handful of men. Though their distance to Volsung narrowed more and more by the second.
A dremora cleaved off Mindral's arm as the Dunmer man fought on with just his left hand, screaming curses. Before a second blade pierced his chest.
Rotha the Kind, an elderly wood elf, had her throat cut as four draugr wights piled on her falling corpse and continued to hack onto her body.
As they were in the last stretch, Renly was the only one who remained.
He stood beside Gerron, panting and covered in blood — none of it his own. His bow had long been discarded in the snow. He wielded a dragonbone shortsword in each hand.
"It's been an honor to serve, my Jarl." He said, voice hoarse.
Renly charged forward, carving through a pair of Dremora Kynereeve's as the shortswords pierced through each of their chests.
At the same time, the Daedra's blade burst through Renly's stomach, lifting him off the ground.
Both Kynreeve's vanished as they were forcibly sent back to Oblivion as Gerron charged through.
Renly fell to his knees, his body crashing to the snow.
A sound tore out of Gerron's throat. A primal roar that shook the battlefield. His vision reddened.
He dismissed his hammer. Fire and lightning crackled around him as he reached behind his back and drew the Spellbreaker Sword, a blade designed to annihilate magicka at its core.
Volsung turned towards him, in the midst of casting another spell. Gerron didn't give him that chance.
A single step, the earth shattering underneath him as Gerron swung. The magic in the mask reacted instinctively, a golden ward forming around the priest like a second skin.
The Spellbreaker hit the ward and shattered it like glass. The spectral Daedric armor evaporated in an instant as Gerron's sword continued through, cleaving from Volsung's shoulder down to his waist.
Blue flames sputtered behind the mask as his body split apart. His body exploded into ash and ember as the mask tumbled free and dropped into the snow with a plop.
Just like that.
Gerron stood over the ruins of the priest, chest heaving, the Spellbreaker blade glowing faintly in the cold air.
Volsung was dead.
…
AN: A shorter chapter, but a necessary one. Gerron finally takes out Volsung, but the casualties of such were not small.
Captain Renly and the entirety of the Shor's Guard he brought here had perished.
This chapter was a bit darker than what I usually write about with a lot of people dying in a gruesome manner, so I'm not sure how good it ended up being. But anyways, hope you guys enjoyed it.
Sorry for how late this turned out to be. A lot happened this past week, though I'll try to quicken the updates in the next week to make up for it.
More chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 89 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Cheers guys and see you next time!