Chapter 1 – Echoes of Thunder
The sky was an open wound above the earth. Dark clouds, heavy as lead, swirled slowly over the broken horizon of the Border Princes. There were no stars, no moon, no sign of benevolent gods. Only the wind, thick with the metallic scent of centuries of spilled blood, and the distant rumble of drums heralding yet another senseless conflict.
At the top of a nameless hill, the air split with a soundless crack. As if the world itself held its breath for a second, a figure materialized amidst amber light and twisting wind. She landed on her feet, with the grace of someone who had trained a thousand lifetimes to do so with perfect precision.
Serit opened her eyes. The environment was hostile, unknown… real. Her cloak fluttered in the wind, tempered with materials from a distant world, and her sacred adamantine staff rested across her back. Her white fur trembled with the breeze. She felt her chi vibrating around her, but the plane lacked the harmonious frequencies of the First World or the venomous chaos of the Abyss. It was… cruder. Simpler. Older.
This isn't Golarion. Nor an intermediate plane...Her vulpine gaze scanned the hill, then the valley. Everything in this world reeked of glorified death.
She tensed. Not out of fear, but habit. A kitsune never lets her guard down in unknown lands.
A few meters downhill, at the valley's base, the air shattered again. This time, no light beam appeared—only a deep, dense sound, like the wingbeat of a waking dragon.
The figure emerged from a portal tearing through reality itself. Tall. Powerful. A mass of controlled strength in human form, clad in black armor adorned with Daedric runes, and a gaze as imposing as the dragons he had slain. He walked with the weight of someone who doesn't seek battles… but never avoids them.
Serit watched him closely, not from my world. That much is clear. Her instincts, honed through countless wars, didn't scream danger… but they did whisper caution. As if the very air between them begged for restraint.
Lorgar stopped when he noticed her. His gaze, firm and composed, locked with hers. Neither spoke.
And then—the roar.
"WAAAGH!"
The ground trembled. From beyond a line of hills, dozens of orcs charged, armed with rusted axes, crude blades, and a brutality that needed no strategy. The drums thundered, and grotesque warhorns spewed out monstrous notes.
Serit didn't smile. She simply leaned forward slightly, adopting her martial stance. An aura of blue energy began to surround her like warm mist.
Lorgar sighed, unsheathing his sword with a clean motion. The Daedric steel sang in the air, drinking what little light remained.
There was no conversation. -Only movement.
The first orc, a hulking brute in makeshift plate armor, raised his axe at Serit, shrieking his war cry.
In the blink of an eye, she was no longer there.
She appeared at his side with an agile spin, her staff glowing as it cut through the air. The impact was sharp. A snapped backbone. The body dropped like a sack of flour.
"One," Serit murmured.
Meanwhile, on the other flank, Lorgar wielded his sword as if it were an extension of his will. A cross-cut sent two orcs sprawling, their blood vaporizing on contact with the black blade.
"Fus Ro Dah," he roared, and the world itself answered.
The shockwave obliterated an entire enemy line. Some were flung into the air. Others were simply… pulverized into a fine red mist.
The battle turned into a whirlwind. Serit danced among the orcs—every strike elegant, precise. Her body moved like a frenzied river: never in straight lines, never where expected. It was clear she had fought in hundreds of battles—perhaps more.
Lorgar, on the other hand, was unstoppable. Imposing. A wall of steel and ancient magic. He summoned a firestorm that turned a boy-sized orc to ashes, froze a shaman with a flick of his fingers, and when a giant brute tried to ram him, he stopped him with a single hand before impaling him with an ice spike.
In less than five minutes, silence returned. Green bodies littered the land. Some still standing fled. The rest were shattered, reduced to bone and shredded flesh.
Serit wiped a speck of blood from her cheek with the back of her glove.
"Is it always like this here, or did we arrive during peak hours?"
Lorgar didn't reply right away. He sheathed his sword. Then spoke, as if every word held its proper weight.
"Lorgar. Dovahkiin. Last Dragonborn. Archmage of Winterhold. Dragonslayer. Master of the Voice. Warrior of the Circle."
Serit raised an eyebrow.
"…Quite the introduction. If I had a hat, I'd tip it."
Their eyes met again. This time, with recognition. No explanations needed. Warriors, from different worlds, with stories only another veteran could understand.
Serit stepped forward and extended her hand.
"Serit. Knight-Commander of the Fifth Crusade. Monk of the Silent Star School. Living legend… though that's relative."
Lorgar studied her a moment longer before accepting the handshake. Firm. Direct.
"You're not from this world," he said.
She shook her head. "Neither are you."
Silence returned. But it didn't last.
On the horizon, another column of smoke rose. More screams. More drums. More war.
Serit sighed and glanced at the corpse-littered field.
"Let's check that out first, then we talk. Sound good, big guy?"
Lorgar narrowed his eyes for a moment. He had just defeated Alduin… and now he was neck-deep in another mess.
"Sounds good... Serit."
And so, a duo was forged—one that would make the very foundations of the Old World tremble, like they hadn't since the days of Sigmar.