4E 201, Windhelm
Galmar Stone-fist
The heavy doors to the Palace of the Kings shut behind them with a finality that matched the weight of the crown in Galmar's hands. Snow clung to their boots, melting on the stone floor as they stepped inside the long hall.
Banners of blue and brown swayed gently from the rafters, depicting the imagery of the bear. The symbol that Ulfric had taken for the Stormcloaks.
Galmar marched at the front, Ralof at his side, the prized artifact nestled securely under one arm—the Jagged Crown. The very thought of it stirred something ancient in his blood, a long-slumbering pride that reached back to the days of Ysgramor and the Five Hundred Companions.
Ulfric turned from the hearth as they entered his war room, flanked by a pair of guards in heavy Stormcloak armor. He took a long moment to eye the object Galmar set upon the oaken table between them.
"So this is the famed Jagged Crown," the Jarl of Windhelm muttered. He leaned in, "Much uglier than I expected."
Galmar scowled. "Ulfric!" he barked, his voice a low growl. In the quiet sanctum of the war room, away from the eyes of the court, he could speak to the Jarl plainly.
Ulfric waved him off. "Relax, Galmar. Everyone in this room is someone I trust implicitly. I don't need to mince words with you or Ralof."
"That doesn't mean you have to speak like some milk-drinker from Cyrodiil," Galmar grumbled, crossing his thick arms over his chest.
Ulfric let out a soft chuckle, but his gaze turned thoughtful as it lingered on the ancient crown. Blackened iron, dragonbone and gold, forged long before the Empire ever stretched its greedy hands over Skyrim. The Jagged Crown was ugly, aye—but it was ugly with history.
Galmar's mind drifted back to Korvanjund, to the endless halls of his ancestors who have long since passed. What began as a cautious delve quickly turned into a meat grinder. A bloody siege against wave after wave of draugr, as though the very tomb itself sought to defend its master's remains.
He had not expected to face a Deathlord—yet there it was, roaring in that cursed dragon tongue that shattered stone and sent men flying. The corpse of Old King Borgas no doubt. It took nearly a dozen of their strongest fighters just to bring the beast down.
Sixteen men dead. Another twenty injured beyond fighting. The number still had him grimacing.
But it could have been worse. Should have been worse.
Though they had lost sixteen men, and a further twenty were injured. That was much less casualties than he expected.
He glanced at Ralof then, brow furrowing. "Your men fought well," Galmar said aloud. "And their gear held up far better than I expected. Even the Deathlord couldn't cleave through their armor like it should've."
Ralof nodded, a spark of pride gleaming in his tired eyes. "That armor came from a smith in Shor's Stone. The man's name is Gerron. Quiet, humble, but his work—by the Divines—it saved lives. We would've lost twice the men without it."
Ulfric raised a brow. "The fight for freedom would benefit from all the talented sons of Skyrim," he said. "Go to Shor's Stone. See if you can convince this Gerron to aid the war effort. We'll need craftsmen like him when the Empire marches again."
Ralof slammed a fist to his chest. "It will be done, my Jarl."
Galmar grunted his approval. In war, the sword was only as good as the hand that forged it. If this Gerron was half the smith he had proven to be, they'd need him soon enough.
Ulfric turned his gaze back to Ralof. "And what of the Vigilant?" he asked. "The one at Helgen. Do you know where she is now?"
Galmar remained quiet, listening closely. Ulfric had mentioned her once already—a Breton woman, and a Vigilant of Stendarr no less. Galmar remembered the name vaguely, but not the details. From what he'd heard, she played no small part in the survival of the Stormcloaks during the dragon's assault in Helgen.
Ralof straightened. "Her name is Kiera Fendalyn, my Jarl. Last I heard, my sister, Gerdur, sent word to Jarl Balgruuf asking for help. Riverwood is defenseless. Kiera volunteered to deliver the message. I don't know if she's made it to Whiterun yet."
Ulfric nodded. "Very well. Send word if you hear any more of her travels."
Ralof bowed, recognizing the clear dismissal. Soft steps echoed through the room as Ralof made his exit.
Galmar tilted his head. "What's that about?" he asked once the younger man was out of earshot.
Ulfric's eyes returned to the flickering flames of the hearth, shadows dancing across his face. "The Vigilant," he murmured. "This Kiera… she reminded me of a faction we've ignored for too long."
Galmar frowned. "The Vigilants of Stendarr?"
Ulfric nodded slowly. "They're true worshippers of the Nine Divines. Not Imperial lapdogs nor are they blind zealots. If anyone in this land should be furious with the White-Gold Concordat's desecration of Talos, it is them."
Galmar grunted. "Maybe. But they've always been more concerned with daedra and witches than politics."
"Even so," Ulfric replied, "if they can be reminded of what's at stake—Skyrim, our faith, our future—then perhaps they'll see reason. We could use allies who fight not for coin or country, but for the gods themselves."
The idea was… unusual. Galmar was many things, but a diplomat wasn't one of them. Still, he trusted Ulfric's instincts. If the Vigilants could be swayed…
"I can send a small force to the Hall of Vigilants," Galmar said. "Enough to show respect without looking desperate. Maybe they'll listen."
Ulfric gave a single, measured nod. "Do so."
Galmar returned the gesture. "It'll be done."
Outside the walls of Windhelm, the cold winds of Skyrim howled like wolves on the hunt. And deep within them, the first stirrings of war began to take shape.
…
4E 201, Redwater Den
Gerron Ironbreaker
The back door of the den led to a series of winding caves, damp and reeking of blood, rot, and even more skooma fumes.
Gerron Ironbreaker stepped over the crumpled body of a Bosmer vampire, its face caved in by a brutal swing of his hammer. Behind him was a trail of dead vampires stretched far through the crypt.
At first, many had tried to use their Vampiric Charm or Vampiric Seduction spells to turn him into their thrall the moment they noticed his strength. But Zenithar's Champion meant that none of it would work.
Gerron had relished the confusion on their pale faces before turning their skulls into pulp.
The initial chamber had been a sleeping den, with coffins stacked along the walls as well as a few weapons racks and treasure chests that were adorned with personal items.
Gerron had ransacked the place without remorse, looting nearly nine thousand septims in gold and valuables. Their drug trade had lined their pockets well—but it was all his now.
After experiencing that ambush back in the den, he opted to just rush the vampires to not give them time in readying their spells. Those that he couldn't reach were decimated using the crossbow version of his Mercury Hammer. The modified weapon sent glowing bolts that exploded on contact, reducing undead flesh to ash.
Further in, he stumbled into what seemed like a makeshift laboratory. The air reeked of burnt herbs and skooma. Bottles, vials, and beakers cluttered the room messily, with many liquids bubbling in their respective containers.
The moment he arrived he had to quickly duck from a spike of ice that impacted the stone wall beside his head.
The explosion sent miniature shards of ice stabbing his face, which was luckily protected by his ebony helmet. Gerron lunged forward and brought his hammer in a wide arc. The blow met a vampire mid-spell, crushing his ribcage like splintered wood.
A thrall tried to grapple him from the side in a foolish attempt to rid him of his hammer. Gerron gave the vampire a glance of pity, then ripped the weapon free and brought it around in a vicious sweep, sending the body tumbling like a ragdoll.
Then, a burly Nord vampire leapt onto Gerron from behind, locking him in a vice-like bear hug. Another of the vampires took the chance to bullcharge him from the front, brandishing his fangs in an attempt to take a bite of his neck.
Growling, Gerron summoned every bit of strength granted to him by the Battle Smith perk and slammed his head back. A loud gong echoed to the cavern as his ebony helm broke the vampire's nose with a satisfying crunch. The brute reeled.
His left hand then thundered forward, catching the neck of the other vampire before slamming him down to the ground. Gerron planted a boot on the vampire's throat, holding him in place, and twisted, his warhammer flashing like through the air.
In a loud boom, the weapon met flesh and released massive sparks of lightning on impact. The Nord vampire was hurled backward into an alchemy table, exploding glass and strange chemicals in a burst of colors and flame.
With defeated enemies all around him, Gerron cracked his neck as a grin appeared on his face. 'This is fun.'
He gathered the alchemical ingredients he could find—soul husks, vampire dust, corrupted nirnroot, skooma vials—his mind immediately swarming with ideas and recipes. He stuffed them into his storage space and pressed forward.
Soon, he arrived in a cavern larger than the rest.
Massive stone spires jutted from the ground like claws, and stalactites threatened from the ceiling. In the center lay a blood-red pool, thick and viscous as if fresh from a hundred throats.
Beside it knelt a figure—tall and lean.
Long white hair cascaded down his back. He wore blackened leather armor that shimmered with subtle enchantments. When he turned, Gerron saw a face that once might have belonged to a noble Imperial, now twisted—ashen, gaunt, and hungry. His eyes glowed crimson. On his side was a steel axe, covered in similar enchantments as his armor.
Beside him was a pack of four death hounds, vampiric dogs with bites as cold as the grave.
Gerron knew instinctively that the vampire in front of him was different from the others he had faced.
"Venarus, I assume?" Gerron asked, stepping forward.
Venarus didn't show any outward reply to his question, remaining to kneel by the pool. The four hounds around him stood up as they bared their fangs towards Gerron.
"Do you know what this place is, warrior?" Venarus questioned.
Gerron shrugged. "A pit where trash like you nest, maybe?"
Venarus smiled—thin and cold. "This is the Redwater Spring. It is...a gift. A revelation. A salvation. For centuries, our kind has fed on blood, addicted to mortals' vitality. I sought to break that dependency. To purify us."
Gerron raised an eyebrow, not knowing where this was going.
"After much research, this place gave me the answer." Venarus picked up a small chalice from beside him and filled it with the liquid from the pool. "The bloodspring gave me power. There were certain side effects that remain even now...but soon, I will rise above them."
Gerron leveled the Mercury Hammer. "Yeah? Did any one of those side effects include death?"
Venarus finally turned towards him, sneering. "You will never understand what it meanest to—"
Gerron switched forms and opened fire.
Continuous bursts of pure magicka were launched towards Venarus. Even when obscured by the smoke, Gerron continued firing in that direction.
He could hear the wrangled sounds of the Death Hounds getting decimated. By the time the smoke cleared, the spring lay shattered, its red contents spilling unceremoniously across the stone floor.
Venarus reappeared meters away, a few burns on his body but nothing too serious. He gazed at the broken spring with horror on his face. That horror morphed to unbridled anger.
"YOU CRETIN!" Venarus screamed, eyes wide with fury. He downed the chalice's blood in one swift gulp. Instantly, the muscles beneath his armor swelled as magic pulsed violently from his hands.
Gerron fired another blast. But Venarus moved—fast. Blindingly fast.
He sprinted along the cave walls, running parallel to the floor with his axe in hand. Each blast missed by a hair. Gerron barely had time to switch forms before Venarus arrived.
Gerron's hammer met enchanted axe. Sparks exploded between them.
They locked in a contest of strength. Gerron's raw might and superior weapon began to push Venarus back—until the vampire leapt away and raised both hands.
A storm of frost magic erupted from his palms as a wall of ice surged toward Gerron. He ducked behind a rocky pillar as the wave engulfed the space, frost spreading like a plague across the cavern.
When it subsided, Venarus was gone.
His head swerved left and right, yet Gerron couldn't spot Venarus anywhere. That was when a white-hot pain emerged as a blade of ice pierced through the gap in his side armor.
Gerron snarled in pain, twisting just in time to swing his hammer behind him. It connected—hard. Venarus was forced out of invisibility, skidding back across the floor.
Gerron hissed as he yanked the ice dagger free, his hand burning from the cold. Blood ran down his flank, hot and thick.
Venarus vanished again, an act that annoyed Gerron to no end. Gerron slowed his breath as he focused and listened. The dripping of water from the stalactites echoed across the caverns.
That was when a small–nearly inaudible–sound of a step emanated from the side.
He roared and slammed the hammer down. The thrusters on the back of the Mercury Hammer ignited, launching the strike into the ground like a meteor. Lightning exploded outward from the impact, shaking the entire cavern and sending rubble everywhere as stalactites fell from the ceiling.
Venarus was flung from his invisibility, stunned. Gerron was on him in a heartbeat. A hard swing folded Venarus from the impact, sending him flying back. Gerron didn't give him a chance to recover as he immediately rushed forward and slammed his hammer down to Venarus' chest, caving in his ribcage.
Venarus gasped, yet his wounds were already healing. He lifted his hands as a beam of freezing wind struck Gerron. Frost spread across his arms and chest. He felt his fingers begin to numb.
Gerron ignored them and pressed forward.
He roared, a deep and primal roar, and brought the hammer down again.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Each impact sent vibrations across the cave as more and more of the stalactites fell and broke. The stone floor buckled beneath the blows.
Venarus' body twisted unnaturally under the relentless impacts, trying to regenerate—but Gerron didn't let up.
He crushed bones, organs, and limbs. Again and again. Until the red-eyed monster was nothing more than a twitching pile of gore.
He stood over the remains, steam rising from his breath, his armor coated in blood and frost.
Gerron exhaled, shoulders heaving.
"How's that? Damn bloodsucking son of a bitch."
…
AN: The civil war is cooking up. It's mostly gonna develop in the background, as a sense of how the world is moving while Gerron and Kiera do their things.
Also Gerron's name is starting to spread as a smith. Even regular armor and weapons could be life saving in the hands of a capable smith.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Around 4-10 chapters are available depending on the tier, and chapter 19 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up TeemVizzle on the site and you'll find me.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!