IdeasGuy
patreon
Power Corrupts: Unexpected Extremes (ch.48)
🕑 Added 2020-09-26 15:17:57 +0000 UTCA few days passed, but it felt like weeks as we made the preparations for the invasion. A few days of watching the city struggle to pull itself together as an invading army marched. Scouts reported that the Forsworn were finally on the move after a massive celebration and a funeral for their dead king. The tension in the city was so thick you could cut it with a knife.
The few remaining citizens looked haunted and grim. Like they were starting to regret their choice to stay when they could be traveling across Skyrim and having a great time. They walked around the city, making last-minute preparations as if the executioner's axe was going to fall upon them at any moment. And their despair and regret weren’t completely unfounded.
Two-thirds of the city had left. Tens of thousands of people. Putting us worryingly close in terms of numbers. But, more than that, there had been a string of murders via Babette as she killed spies and traitors, which spurned some to desert, and their desertion spurned more to flee for the hills.
Now that the army was coming our way, those that stayed… regretted staying. Dibella did what she could, and the Jarl tried to reclaim his previous authority, but a sense of hopelessness seemed to settle heavily on the city.
"Are you certain that this will work?" Jarl Ingram asked, trying to stand tall but there was exhaustion weighing him down. He hadn't slept since he returned, but unlike me, he actually needed sleep. He directed the question at me, his tired, bloodshot eyes desperate for a sliver of hope.
I had absolutely no clue if this was going to work. If I was wrong, then everyone was dead. Except for me. And maybe Babette. But no matter what I said or what I did, people were going to die. It was just a question of how many. It was just… the number of people that died could be determined by the words that came out of my mouth.
"It'll work," I said, my voice reverberating in the small room. Dibella didn't comment on the possible lie. Nor did any of the guards or attendants. It had to work. If it didn't then thousands of people were going to die.
Jarl Ingram nodded, looking reassured and that twisted my guts into knots. He bought that bullshit answer and was reassured by it. "Splitting our strength now is a risky maneuver," he said, not for the first time.
"It's the best way," I spoke up for my strategy. "The spies have scampered back to the Forsworn with the information that we wanted. And like it or not, the tunnel is there already."
He nodded tiredly, "Aye. The die has been cast. But to think that there would be a tunnel to the city all these years…" he made it sound like that it was his fault. But it wasn't.
Markarth was the tip of the iceberg when it came to the Dwemer ruin. There was a sprawling labyrinth below. A labyrinth that was untouched except for the Dwemer automatons and the Falmer. For thousands of years, they fought and warred below without anyone being the wiser.
Until I found a tunnel that connected the lands beyond the walls to the Dwemer Museum located inside the city. And in my excitement, I rushed to the keep and told the Jarl that I had discovered a tunnel that led outside of the city gate so we could attempt to send a force through then hit the Forsworn in the back. Two of the men that had been nearby when I made that announcement were nowhere to be seen the next day.
“The wall is one hell of a deterrent. On the walls, one man is worth ten of theirs. Pushing through the Dwemer ruins is risky, but it’s less likely to end in a complete bloodbath for the Forsworn. So, they’ll take the bait,” I said, really, really, really hoping that I wasn’t lying. Because the Forsworn, by now, they had to know that someone would stroll up to take it. Probably Ulfric again.
“They don’t have the numbers to repel assault after assault, so they’ll want to preserve as many lives as possible,” I continued, hoping that someone here would believe the bullshit spewing from my mouth. And they did. The Jarl nodded along, the guards appeared less certain that they were about to die and the servants stopped looking so scared. “So, if it were me, then I would send a sizable force through the tunnel while the main force ties up the wall. Their best of the best. They’ll plan to bust through the tunnel, hit the wall on both sides, and the city will be theirs.”
“Except you’ll be in the tunnel,” Jarl Ingram said, standing up. A sword was in his hand. A generic looking sword. The Sword of Markarth, my third badge of office. I… had no clue what was so special about it. And I really should just ask, but I already had two weapons of office so it felt like it was way too late to just bite the bullet. Not to mention that I didn’t want to wreck the mood.
I nodded, standing tall. With my Ebony Mail on, I knew I cut an imposing figure. Daunting, powerful, and immovable. Instead of trying to scare the enemy with my size, I was hoping to inspire some hope or something. I wanted the people in Markarth to look at me and think ‘yeah, we got this’ rather than the crushing despair that they carried. “Except I’ll be in the tunnel,” I confirmed as the Jarl stepped forward.
Fighting ten thousand people at once just wasn’t in the cards. With enough time, with enough stamina potions and the occasional health potion, I would win. I was certain of it. I would never lose to anyone weaker than me -- that was my build. But that wasn’t enough in a battle like this. The Forsworn weren’t only fighting me, they were fighting all of Markarth. So, I had to put them in a position that they were fighting only me.
“You’ve already earned your title of Thane,” Jarl Ingram spoke before he passed the sword to me. “And it is my greatest shame that I have no higher honor to give you."
"I'm not doing this to be honored," I responded. The Jarl hesitated, and I realized I probably threw off a speech he had planned. My bad. But, he smiled lightly, almost as if he had somehow expected that answer.
"Never the less, you will be. So survive," Jarl Ingram ordered with as much authority as he could muster. I swallowed a response that I hadn't exactly intended on dying, but I figured I should give him his moment.
Dibella nodded, "Hestia would be really sad if you died, so you better make sure you win." She pointed out, using the concern she'd learned about against me. That was just cruel. I simply nodded in response as I took in a deep breath.
I could feel everyone's hopes being pinned on me. The plan was simple -- the Forsworn send their elite force into the ruins, I kill them, then I lead a force through the tunnels to hit them in the rear. With a few other anti-siege measures, we would win.
The weight was a heavy one. But if I faltered at a city then I had no hope of saving the world.
"I'm off," I informed shortly, figuring that it would serve as my goodbye. I offered a small bow before I walked out of the keep, feeling everyone's eyes on me as I left. It was a bit lackluster, but it would do since I would be seeing them all again shortly. I turned to take a familiar path, heading towards the entrance to the deeper levels of the ruin that resided underfoot.
As I walked, I saw Babette. There was a thoroughly annoyed expression on her face, and her red dress was covered with a leather apron while her hands were covered in various stains. She glared at me the entire time I walked up, but before she could speak, a confession left me. "I thought you'd be long gone by now," I admitted.
That only increased her obvious displeasure as she sat on a stone railing, her legs idly swinging back and forth. "I was promised to lurk in your shadow, Thane of Whiterun, Falkreath, and Markarth, so I shall lurk by your side. But, I will admit, that using me to craft potions was not what I expected to be doing," she admitted.
I shrugged, "Can you say it's a poor use of your talents?" Like the game, Babette was a master of alchemy. Potions were broken in this setting. While, like all good things, the good potions had rare ingredients requirements, Babette was able to improvise.
Potions of healing and stamina were passed around -- as many as Babette had been able to make. And thanks to the Alchemy shop that we had raided and the Falmer ears I procured, Babette was able to make Philters of True Shot for the archers on the wall. It just took a couple of days of nonstop working.
Babette nodded, "I suppose I cannot. Though, I must ask how much of this was planned." She tilted her head at me, and, with her, it was all too easy to know what she meant.
"I think you're overestimating me if you think I could somehow arrange this entire mess," I pointed out. And she accepted that answer easily.
"I see. Improvisation, then. You do a good job of it -- pretending to be the hero that will save the day," she said, giving me a smile that betrayed her razor-sharp fangs.
"Thanks. If you'll excuse me, I have to go save the day," I ended the conversation curtly before continuing on. I heard Babette giggling as I walked off, my lips twisting into a frown that was thankfully hidden by my helmet. Now I was second-guessing myself. I wasn't heroic. Not in the Superman way of doing good for goodness sake, and that's what I considered a Hero, capital H.
I was helping them for me just as much as I was helping them for their sake. Reputation, exp, and so on. Calling myself a hero when I had clear ulterior motives left a bad taste in my mouth. But it also wasn't like I didn't like it. I was strolling into town and saving the day, and it would be a flat out lie to say that I didn't sort of like the gratitude shown towards me.
Pushing open the Dwemer Museum door, I walked inside. The place was filled with Dwemer artifacts -- from broken automatons to scraps of Dwemer metal, with everything in between accounted for. And protected behind display cases to prevent theft.
Dwemer ruins were dangerous. Increasingly so. There were reasons why people could live in Markarth for thousands of years and never once had they explored the ruins below them -- simply put, Dwemer ruins were a really effective way of committing suicide for most people. Despite the mountains of wealth to be found in the ruins, it wasn't a tantalizing enough prospect to temp most people into entering.
It was like knowing where El Dorado was but no one ever entered the city of gold because death was that certain.
"Ah, you, the large one, yes -- You're entering the ruins of Nchuand-Zel again?" Calcelmo questioned as he looked up. He was an Altmer, but he was noticeably older than Nenya. His short hair was stark white while wrinkles gathered around his golden eyes. Others could be found on his pale gold skin, and given that Altmer lived around a thousand years on average… he had been around the block a couple of times.
He also displayed a single-mindedness to researching the Dwemer that not only had he not been aware that we were going to be attacked by the Forsworn, he hadn't known about the raging party above either.
"I am. I'll bring back what I can, but I'll be a little busy with the whole 'repelling an invasion' thing, Calcelmo," I pointed out as I walked through the museum, making the old man scoff.
He shook his head in distaste, "Barbarians always get in the way of progress. Once you're done with them, I'll buy whatever maps you make along with whatever artifacts you find." That managed to get a sly grin out of me. The sheer certainty that I could repel them.
"I'll be sure to pick up plenty while I'm down there," I said, waving goodbye as I headed towards the back of the Museum. There were signs of work being done -- at some point, over thousands of years, a door had been hidden, sealed over by shifted rock. Once it had been cleared out, it revealed a sizable door made of Dwemer metal.
I pushed it open to reveal Dwemer ruins. It was always odd walking into them -- it felt like I was walking into something truly ancient. A place that was here long before me and it would be here long after me. A place with so much history and so many mysteries, gone and forgotten about. The gray stone was cleaner than it should be, the metal inlaid in the walls was polished to a shine.
The only filth that had accumulated over thousands of years were the dust and smudges that happened in the last few months when the excavation began. But, even those faded as I continued downward, taking me deeper into the mountain. Signs of fighting made themselves known, mostly from the various expeditions to poke at the ruins, but there were a few from me when automatons attempted to reclaim the area.
Walking through a long hallway, I pushed open another door to reveal the ruins of Nchuand-Zel. The game couldn’t do it justice. It was a sprawling metropolis deep within the mountain -- a city equal or greater to any modern city like New York or LA. It was made of bronze-colored metal and grey stone, lampposts illuminating the empty roads and pathways that went above them. Because what the Dwemer did was build down, just as humans built up. It was my second time seeing it, but the sight stole my breath away.
It was a true lost city frozen in time.
I eyed the long pathway that led to the door -- it was fairly big, more of a highway than anything. A dozen men could walk on it shoulder to shoulder without worrying about falling off. The pathway was connected to a central spire that connected various other pathways. The door behind me closed with an echoing thump that rang out across the silent city. I reached over my shoulder and grabbed my sword, a still nameless weapon. I should probably give it one. Before someone else did.
And there I waited. In the suffocatingly quiet city, I could make out every sound. Every creak, every scuff as something moved in the city below and every thump. I gripped my weapon tighter as my thoughts drifted, wondering if the battle had already started above. Wondering if it would have just been better to keep the tunnel a secret…
But the number of spies that the Forsworn had was disturbing. Babette had killed a dozen, and she proved it with evidence that was further supported with metaknowledge. Simply put, keeping the ploy a secret wasn’t a possibility. But crushing the force they sent in, then using the tunnel would be something that they didn’t see coming.
Then I heard it. The quiet sounds echoed in the empty city and they slowly grew louder. The sounds of marching. Then of fighting. Now that I was back underground, much like the Dungeon, one of my Perks called Sonar could be used again. I honed in on the sounds, determining their position and number.
“Ah…” I muttered, realizing that the Forsworn had likely hit a Falmer encampment or a Dwemer automaton. Because of it, I could hear their curses, their weapons being used, their feet hitting the ground… “I might have underestimated how many they would send,” I realized as the small elite team was replaced with hundreds. Possibly a thousand.
Now that I thought about it, that probably made sense. If they were expecting us to send a force through, then they would need to combat through it. Shit, I should have thought about that.
I stood my ground, undeterred by their numbers until I saw the first hints of their presence. Through the city below, following the same ridge path that I had found and somewhat made, I saw torchlights revealing marching men. The Forsworn were dressed in furs, leaving most of their bodies bare, and carried weapons of bone, wood, and rock instead of steel.
Each wore a helmet with antlers embedded into it… and each had a fresh wound on their chest.
“Ah, shit,” I muttered, looking at the steady stream of Forsworn Briarhearts. Much like the Deathlords, I recognized them. The Forsworn's chosen warriors. The ones that sacrificed their humanity, and their lives, to become spirits of vengeance through some ritual involving Hagravens. They cut out their hearts and replaced them with Briar Hearts, empowering them.
I glanced behind me, then at the stream of Forsworn marching forward. Easily hundreds of them. This was kinda bad.
“Don’t have a choice,” I muttered to myself as I walked back as I gripped my weapon. I eyed the elaborate entrance that marked where I came in -- detailed stonework and vivid imagery. And, with a single swipe of my sword accompanied with an explosive strike, I wiped it all away. The sound of falling stone echoed out as the entranceway collapsed, tons of stone falling down. Enough that I had worried for a split second that I had started a chain reaction, but I hadn’t. I just thoroughly buried the back entrance to the city.
Turning around, walking through the cloud of dust, my footsteps were lost in the horde of dozens, hundreds, surging forward to squeeze through the rubble. As I stepped through, I saw them rushing forward -- with their skull helms and the pure fury etched into their faces that were illuminated by fire, I had to admit, that was a daunting sight.
Even still, I launched myself forward, my sword wreathed in fire, and slashed the first of the horde in half. The stench of burnt flesh and flash-evaporated blood filled my nose, my blade shifting in my hand as I sliced through another before the first hit the ground. The wall of bodies hit me then, washing over me like a river. And that was what I was afraid of.
More bodies dropped to the ground, their useless weapons bouncing off my armor, but for every five that I killed, three rushed past me with a single-minded focus to start tearing at the collapsed tunnel.
Gritting my teeth, I pivoted, turning to the side of the walkway. Putting my blade level, I darted forward and crashed into the wall of Forsworn. The walkway was wide, but with the simple action, I knocked off over a dozen Briarhearts, sending them sprawling into the city below. Weapons beat at my back, stone blades breaking, so they used their fists instead.
They clawed at me, desperately trying to tear through my armor, pulling and pushing me in every direction. The fact that I noticed it at all betrayed that they were strong. That they were more than human. Shifting my grip, I pivoted, slashing through a half dozen of them at once before I fell upon the Forsworn. There were no words to be said as I hacked and slashed at them, but it felt like for every one that I killed a dozen more would take their place.
I was winning, but it felt like I was losing.
Gritting my teeth, I raised my blade up as I activated Explosive Strike on the ground underneath me. The stone walkway crumpled like glass, letting me jump towards the relay station. As hundreds of Forsworn fell to their deaths, I sailed forward. In doing so I made a target of myself, I learned as a fireball slammed into my chest. I flew through it, the heat washing over me, cooking me in my armor.
But it wasn’t as bad as running through fire at the War Game.
Landing on a Forsworn, bones crushing underfoot and blood soaking my boots, I lashed out with fist and sword. More fire washed over me, whoever was firing it was uncaring of friendly fire. Bodies came undone -- bone shattered and blood-soaked me and the ground while others were severed. They spilled from the relay station, little more than a tower a couple dozen feet wide all the way around.
The stench of burning flesh and hair along with the heavy scent of iron from blood seemed to clog my nose. My sword still flashed down, butchering through the Forsworn who simply threw themselves at me with mindless resolve. It was never clear if the Forsworn were just undead beasts, or there were still people. But, either way, it didn’t matter.
A memory of the War Game surfaced of a similar scene. Of standing at the doorway and letting the Soma familia crash into me. How the blood had soaked me down to the bone. Despite everything, as I continued to push through the Forsworn, I found myself grateful for one thing. There wasn’t any screaming. There wasn’t the stench of shit and terror as they died.
I was thankful for that. I could just swing my sword and kill them. So, I did. I swung my sword again and again and again until everything before me was dead.
My sword plunged through the chest of a smallish man, and he simply lunged forward to claw at me. I watched him for a moment, countless bodies lying dead around me. It was impossible to tell how long I had been at it, but it felt like ages. And given that I don’t think they had it in them to run, I had got them all.
“We… take… our… home… back!” The Briarheart swore, clawing at me as he beat bloody fists against my chest, impaling himself down to the hilt on my sword, buried in his chest. There was so much hate in his voice that it was chilling, his glare stared through me like he could see through me and the mountain of stone to see the city of Markarth. The sheer amount of venom didn’t suit his face and build at all.
I slashed my sword to the side, cutting through him. He fell to the ground, writhing as if he was demanding that his body obey his command to crawl towards the city. But it couldn’t. Undead or not, his body went still as death claimed him, his hate-filled words echoing in my ears as silence once again filled the Dwemer city.
“It’s way too late for me to feel guilt now,” I told myself, looking at the bodies that I had created. What ifs tugged at my attention -- what if I had spared the King in Rags? What if I had tried to talk things out? What if, what if, what if, what if, what if I had done things differently. It was stupid. And pointless. And I didn’t think it would bother me as much as it was until I was looking at hundreds of corpses piled up.
The answer? Things wouldn’t have gone how I wanted them to. No matter what I said, this was always going to happen. You can’t undo centuries of bad blood with a handful of words by some idiot who didn’t know what he was talking about.
So, I had a choice to pick a side.
And I made it.
With blood squelching in my boots, I walked forward, following the path that I had found days prior. The plan was a bust -- I had to seal the tunnel, so we wouldn’t be able to swing out and hit them in the rear. But, with just me, I could offer one hell of a diversion to help divide up their attention.
Given that I now knew that they wouldn’t run, I just had to park myself in the center of their army and kill.
Pulling a potion from my inventory, I tasted the familiar flavors of health and stamina potions as I caught a glimpse of sunlight some minutes later. Stepping back into the light, I looked around for some encampment or anything, but there was nothing. So they just sent them in and went to attack the city. Fair enough.
Walking back in the direction of the city, I heard the sounds of battle before I saw it. There were screams echoing through the mountainous terrain, and given that Forsworn didn’t scream, that meant it could only be coming from the citizens of Markarth. Taking in a deep breath, I sprinted forward, blasting through the mountain trails to loop back towards the city.
Visualizing a large group of people was difficult. Especially when you didn’t have references. But, as I rounded a corner to look down at the chaos below, I realized just how daunting it could be fighting ten thousand people… or more. The Forsworn seemed to fill the space before the stalwart walls of Markarth. There was some semblance of order with the archers in position to fire back at those on the walls. The rest hung back in a massive blob around some sort of platform.
There were so many of them. Maybe ten thousand people just looked bigger than I thought it would, but I had trouble believing that. It looked like there were… fifteen thousand? Maybe twenty? Or, for all I knew, there were a hundred thousand.
“Doesn't matter,” I reminded myself as my feet started moving again. As I ran, I looked at the wall -- there were a few grappling hooks tossed onto the walls, but it didn’t look like anyone had managed to make it up yet. Arrows flew between the two forces, and people died on both sides. More than that, there were spells being tossed around. Lightning, spikes of ice and fire. They washed over the walls and the Forsworn.
My gaze shifted to the platform, and there I saw the Hagravens. There were four of them, hunched over and ugly while they wore half-rotted leather and feathers. Magic visibly swirled around them, and the skies themselves seem to darken above. Whatever they were doing, it had to be stopped. So, I guess I knew my destination.
Thanks to Feather Step, the first Forsworn had no clue what hit him before I cut through him. But I maintained my momentum, crouching low as I sprinted and slammed through the Forsworn army.
There weren’t words to describe feeling a body break when you slammed into it. Just shattering like glass, only to be trampled underfoot as I continued to run forward. More blood soaked my armor -- I could only think to describe myself as a car driving through a crowd. It inspired a sickening sense of awe, at what I was capable of.
It was then that the Hagravens took notice of me, shifting their attention from their magic to watch me carve a straight line towards them. They must have done something because all of a sudden the Forsworn near them surged forward to break my momentum, trying to act as a wall of sorts to stop me in my tracks. Sparks flew above the Hagravens as their magics condensed into a pitch-black ball.
Just looking at it was enough to scare the shit out of me, so I dodged. Coming to a skidding stop, I pivoted as I cut my way through a wall of flesh. Forsworn jumped on me, trying to tie me down while others attempted to grab hold of my legs to trip me up. They didn’t manage that, but I slowed a dangerous amount. A sense of dread filled me, warning of danger.
Reacting instantly, I tensed and jumped as high as I could. The Forsworn weighed me down, but the adrenaline in my veins was enough to make up the difference. Looking down, I saw a black blur of cackling lightning race underneath. Everything it touched was obliterated -- it would have been nice if it had deleted everything it touched, but it was like a hammer just tore through the area.
Blood splashed, bodies were torn to pieces -- it was a scene right out of hell. My stomach lurched at the sight as a guy that had been gripping my leg let go since everything below his chest was gone. I landed alongside him, blood splashing up to coat my legs in bloody mud. My gaze shifted towards the Hagravens to see them screeching. But, more importantly, I saw the pathway that they had opened up for me.
I sprinted forward and the Hagravens responded, just as the Forsworn tried to close the gap. A lightning bolt struck me in the chest and it felt like I had just been kicked by a horse while every muscle went tense. But, even still, I kept running. A fireball was next, and it felt like I was being cooked alive. My skin burned, my lungs felt like they were filled with fire and my sweat turned into steam.
I kept running. I accepted the pain and kept moving, forcing my legs to obey. A bitter chill washed over me next as I neared, and it was so cold that it burned worse than being on fire. But, I kept running.
Jumping up to the platform, a snarl was etched into my face as I repaired the pain. A Hagraven summoned a Ward to protect itself, but my blade punctured it as I landed, skewering it. Wrenching my blade to the side, I bisected it before continuing on. One leveled a staff at me, washing me in flames, but in doing so it left itself open. My sword tore through its chest, killing it and that left only two others.
Grabbing the staff as it fell, I turned it onto a Hagraven that turned to flee only to be cooked alive. And they proved far less resistant than me. The other fired back when I turned the staff on it, sending a blast of frost to meet the torrent of flames. Steam filled the air, and I used it to my advantage.
Leaping up, I dodged another blast of frost and lightning. When I landed, I made sure to crush the Hagraven’s skull under my foot. It felt like stepping on an egg.
The Forsworn knew the moment that they were dead. At once, they screamed their hate and wrath into the air. I felt my bones rattle from the force of it, the sound pounding against my eardrums. I swallowed thickly, sparing a glance through the mist towards the sun that hung directly overhead, savoring the brief moment of peace. Because beyond the screams of hate, I heard the sound of thunderous running as thousands of Forsworn seemed to sprint directly towards me.
The first threw themselves over onto the platform, their faces twisted into a mask of hate as they bared their weapons at me. I killed them just as fast as they came, my blade effortlessly cutting through flesh and bone like it was hardly there. Their bodies were pushed forward by the thousands of others attempting to get their pound of flesh from me. I hacked and slashed at them, performing the act almost mindlessly.
Within moments, the platform was buried in corpses, forcing me to fight on top of them. I had my plan -- plant myself in the middle of the army and kill. And kill. And keep killing until every enemy was dead. My blade moved in a blur, slicing through Forsworn, their bodies falling where they stood. Despite my blade cauterizing the wounds, the weight of the army pressing down on them made the stench of blood nearly overwhelming.
The Forsworn hammered at me, crawling over each other to attack me -- they shoved daggers into the joints of my armor but bone and wood was no match against ebony. So they tore at my armor in an attempt to tear it off of me so that their attacks would do more damage. Only for them to be hacked into pieces by me and then trampled by their allies.
My sword arm hacked and slashed and carved lines of gore through the Forsworn, keeping them at bay as the pile of bodies continued to grow underneath us. I used my fists, my feet -- anything to kill them faster. And, slowly, the mist dissipated underneath the harsh midday sun so it didn’t take long for me to see what I was up against.
I stood at the center of the army, and every single one of them was turned in my direction. They had completely forgotten about the wall. Despite the distance, I saw Jarl Ingram on the wall, half covered in blood. I could see his face, and I knew what he was about to do. So, I gave him the universal gesture to stop as I slaughtered the Forsworn.
In the end, people were going to die no matter what. The Forsworn… every one of them was a Brairheart. Every one of them was undead. Unless they had some specialized camp or something… they had just committed cultural suicide in the name of revenge.
I had made my choice. I had picked my side. So, it was up to me to follow through. I chose the lives in Markarth over the lives of the Forsworn. And with the death of the Hagravens, something important had changed -- their attention was solely on me. In a fight like this? This I could win.
The sun moved overhead as time passed, relentlessly beating down on me as I hacked, slashed, kicked, and punched the Forsworn. The pile beneath me grew to disgusting proportions, more than once it shifted and collapsed when it grew too narrow with me at the top. Arrows pinged off my armor from those that used a bow, I used the Forsworn as shields for whatever spells were thrown my way, and for those that chose to climb the mountain, I killed without mercy.
It was like standing at the top of an anthill. Bellow was a mass of moving bodies, of Forsworn that cared nothing about their own lives so long as they got their shot at me. Given the sheer amount of hate I was getting, I’m guessing that there was some kind of final order from the Hagravens to kill me for killing them. It made the most sense.
My arm began to ache, then the rest of my body, my throat dried up but I didn’t stop. I threw myself into the mindless task of hacking and slashing. Of just creating more bodies to stand on. Their faces became blurs, all of them wearing the same expression of utter rage, completely undeterred by having to climb up a small hill of their comrades.
Then that small hill became a big hill as the hours ticked by. I heard the alert that I had leveled up a couple of times, and my attention strayed to wonder if I should be so careless about gaining exp while my stats hadn’t improved much. But thinking soon faded away until my head was filled with absolutely nothing as I butchered everyone that came my way. My sword arm ached, the muscles burning so intensely it was the most pain I had suffered so far since coming to Skyrim.
Then a Perk, Second Wind, kicked in and I was fine to continue to turn corpses into ground meat.
Despite my earlier order, the Jarl opened the gates, and people flooded through when they felt that the tide had turned. Some Forsworn put up a token effort against them, but most of them were focused solely on me.
The constant surge of bodies slowly began to dwindle, like a faucet being closed until not even a trickle remained. Just the occasional drip.
I watched as the last three Forsworn crawled up the mountain. The sky was dark, but the sun hadn’t quite made its descent behind the horizon. I was caked in blood and gore, standing at the peak of the mountain as I waited for the final three challengers. The mountain had grown wide enough that they could walk up, and so they ran.
My blade caught one at the arm, cutting through it while it sliced through his neck as well. Reversing my grip, I pivoted and sliced another in half. The third rushed behind me, so I continued the momentum as I clenched my fist. It caught him in the side of his head, and much like I had threatened Babette, his head was reduced to a mist.
His body fell, another body on the mountain. I looked down at it for a moment, a hollow feeling in my chest. The battle was over. I had won.
Slowly, I sat down on the mountain of corpses I created, the stench absolutely horrid. I peeled off my helmet and turned my attention to the setting sun. In the direction of Hestia as for the first time so far, snow began to fall from the sky.
“I want to go home.”
Comments
zane
im not seeing a problem here...
Douglas Karr
If hebgoes to konosuba then a lot of nobles and assholes are going to die
Eldar Zecore
I feel really bad for Jericho now to be honest. The whole reason he came to Skyrim was to de-stress after the shit-show that was the War Games and dungeon crawl, maybe slay a few dragons. Things just keep getting more and more out of hand though. He leaves to go settle some mining rights and while his back is turned Hestia gives practically all of the Princes and Divines the ability/idea to incarnate onto the mortal plane (becoming the Tenth Divine in the process). Then Talos shows up and suddenly he needs to gain support to become the Jarl of Helgen. Next, in the process of becoming the Thane of Falkreath he unintentionally breaks the line of succession and puts the people of Falkreath at risk of starvation for the Winter. While trying to fix that problem, he walks into a city-wide orgy, saves the Jarl, and then is pretty much forced to establish himself as a literal One Man Army. Honestly pity the man, he deserves a Hentia world or at least one where he doesn't need to feel bad about killing things. He deserves to go to KonoSuba
Pope Yoda I
I was thinking that people would just start calling him, "That Fucking Guy," as both a name and a description. "Hey, did you hear that that fucking guy left another pile of dead bodies?" "What, that's the third time this week! That fucking guy!"
Jokarun
They might start calling him the Mountain now. Mountain of corpses.
Pope Yoda I
On the bright side, once Babette passes on exactly what the fuck went down here, the Dark Brotherhood is NEVER going to risk crossing the MC.
Hrathen
Do you feel like a Hero now, Jericho?
Apokalyps117
Goddamn, dude. What a chapter.
D. Quinn
Other than that I liked the chapter, just had to suspend my disbelief. :P
D. Quinn
I can't see the Forsworn having enough briarhearts to make every single forsworn a revenant, maybe a couple hundred at the high end, simply due to how friggin rare briarheart is in the games.
Dre'
Holy hell, that was awesome. This seems like one of those moments that will seem totally unbelievable to all who hear about it. I'm not even sure if the survivors of markarth would celebrate in telling the story or just be grim faced describing a massacre.
araconos
Im imagining the scene from meet the medic, as heavy slowly climbs up a hill of corpses that simply cannot do anything against him. The main issue, as jericho said, was that he couldnt kill them all if they focused on the city. But as it turns out, turning your entire army into undead makes dor a crippling weak point. Songs will be sung of this day in Skyrim. Jericho the Thrice-Thane, the Bane of Forsworn. Glorious songs that bards will repeat in crowded taverns. And under their breath, people will speak of a monster who stood against thousands, who sat atop a hill of corpses and watched the sun set. Jericho, the Massacre. The Thresher. The monster.
Garend
It was epic, then he had to open his mouth and utterly ruin the moment.
