[IC] The Elder Scrolls: Before the Great War

[Crimson Flame]

Auron’s eyes narrowed as the twin Frost Atronachs formed in front of them. It wasn’t the size of them that was the surprising part. It was the fact that they had formed into duplicates of Arnvidr, and Kiffar. Auron’s smirked. “A creative thesis, I’ll give her that.”

Auron sprang into action. He ducked under the Atronach’s that looked like Arnvidr’s swing. Auron retaliated with a slash across its midsection, sending shards of ice flying. He muttered an incantation, sending a Lightning Bolt surging through the creature’s chest.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brigit trying to make a run for it. “She’s running!” Auron called out. “Typical… Can someone stop her?!”

[Lunamaria Hawke]

Sylruna Velaryn

Sylruna watched with professional interest as Brigit's Frost Atronachs transformed into replicas of her companions. As a mage herself, she had to admire the technical achievement - though the application left much to be desired. The crystalline copies might share their companions' forms, but they lacked the warmth of life that made them who they were.

"An interesting technique," she called out, her crimson eyes gleaming as she gathered her magic. "But ice has one fundamental weakness..."

Fire erupted from her hands in a concentrated stream, the flames so hot they appeared almost white at their core. She directed the inferno at the ice-Arnvidr's legs, aiming to destabilize its base while avoiding any risk to her actual companions. The magical flames caught the sunlight, creating prismatic reflections off the melting ice construct.

As Auron engaged the construct from the front, Sylruna circled to maintain her angle of attack, her midnight blue robes swirling around her. The runes on her clothing pulsed with power as she drew more magicka into her next spell. "And unlike real scholars," she added with grim humor, "these copies won't learn from their mistakes!"

She pivoted as Brigit attempted to flee, preparing another spell. This time she launched a series of precise fireballs, not at Brigit directly, but at the ground ahead of her, creating a barrier of flames to help cut off her escape route. The heat from her spells caused the summer air to shimmer and distort, adding to the chaos of the battlefield.

"Your research methodology could use some peer review!" she called out, her silver-white braids gleaming in the reflected firelight as she prepared another destructive spell. "Perhaps we should start by testing your theories about ice against my expertise in fire!"

[WSilversun]

The Gold Road

Kiffar had been busy, while the other employed clever strategies and bandied words, turning bandits into babies. Those few who had been foolish enough to charge him head on, and foolishly brave enough not to flee soon after, were methodically bruised, bloodied, and broken by the Cathay-Raht, their weapons turned against them and limbs bent very firmly in wrong directions. He was busy wresting the axe from the hands of the most stubborn of the bunch when the atronachs were brought into play. Seeing one bear his own shape, Kiffar could have wept with glee for the challenge presented. With a harsh yank, he tore the axe from the Bandit's fingers, the man practically forgotten in his excitement. He spared him only enough thought more for a headbutt that produced such a meaty crack, it may well haunt the nightmares of the others for days to come. It was certainly enough to make the man go limp, ragdolling to the ground as Kiffar turned, stolen axe in hand, to face the frosty replica of himself while it lumbered closer.

"You have given Kiffar a present, and it is not even his nameday! Kiffar has fought many things, but he has never fought Kiffar!"

As fire rained down from the treeline, lashing out at the copy of Arndvir and blocking the mage woman's retreat, Kiffar turned his toothy grin towards the source, waving his new axe overhead.

"Do not hurt this one! Kiffar wants the challenge, yes yes!"

Then, a clash of giants. There was an audible crack as Kiffar and the atronach charged into one another, and it was unclear whether the sound was bone or ice. For a long moment, they strained against each other, shoulder to shoulder, frost slowly spreading along the real Kiffar's fur from the point of contact. Neither could gain much ground, never more than a step, given and taken- until, at least, Kiffar suddenly dropped his center of mass, abandoning the contest of strength to instead loop an arm under his icy copy's legs, heaving it up onto his shoulders with a roar. Frozen limbs creaked, flailing, before he turned over the other direction to slam the thing's head into the road.

Against a fleshy mortal target, it would have been a deathblow, and probably put their head in their chest cavity. Atronachs were made of sterner stuff, however. The cobbles cracked, and fractures raced along the thing's head and chest, but it lived still. Kiffar came down at it with the axe, splitting the air with a thrum, only to be stopped cold and sent stumbling back by a brutal blast of frost magic, a stream that hit like a hammer and spread rime over Kiffar's arms and chest, forcing him to guard his face with the axe. It slowed him, and the chill cut deep, giving the atronach time to regain its feet as Kiffar fought to break the shell of frost on his joints, straining and snarling. He broke loose, scattering chips of icy shell all around, just in time to take a hammering fist to the gut, sending him back a few more feet, almost to the wagon.

It wasn't pain, though, that twisted his expression. It was disappointment. The creature was strong, true, and durable- it's strikes hurt, it's frost burned him, and it survived much... But it was not him, as he had first believed. It was without grace, without technique, without the feral, frenzied glee in battle that Kiffar could embody. It was but a crude reflection. He sighed heavily, tail drooping as he ducked under the atronach's next strike, twisting sharply at the waist to drive his free hand into its side brutally. It had no liver, of course, but ice still cracked, chips still fell away.

Another powerful, flailing strike from the creation. Kiffar took this one against his elbow, parrying it off to the side, and returned with the axe, an upward cleave that split ice like wood, and sent the thing's arm spinning away, cleanly removed. His disappointment only grew as another stream of frost came in reply. Painful. Slowing... But not debilitating. This time, when he broke the shell and it came for him again, he dipped to the side, and brought the axe down in a cleave that would have split a man from head to groin. It bit only chest deep in the atronach, but it was enough. The creation shuddered, cracked, and went inert, to slowly melt away as the day went on.

Kiffar left the axe in its chest, limping towards the wagon and taking a seat on its bench. He was badly frostbitten, but seemed otherwise okay... Save, perhaps, that he appeared to be pouting.

"Stupid mage-woman... Kiffar wanted to fight Kiffar, not a normal frost-man..."

Oh... Oh dear. Not only was he wounded, but it seemed all the joy had been sapped from the enormous cat. He'd completely lost interest in the fight- cleaning up what remained of the enemy force would be left up to the others while he pouted.

[Carantathraiel]

The fighting had begun, Sindri could hear that clearly enough through the scattered trees. She glanced to her right and sidestepped a tree, ensuring her way was clear and she could move unnoticed as she moved toward the next fighter. Most of them appeared to have given up their bows and instead unsheathed melee weapons to attack more directly. Still, Sindri crept.
Then she noticed the mer following her, and Sindri paused long enough to give her a questioning look. A secret turn-cloak, come to assassinate the witchling in the first of their combat? Sindri would not at all be surprised, and instantly allowed her magic to flow through to her fingertips in preparation for a fight.
But the female merely signalled to Sindri to be quiet and sneak, and the Reachwoman felt disappointed. No shit was the first tangible thought to cross her mind, and Sindri dispelled her magic as she turned away and continued on. She wouldn’t hold it against the female; perhaps she was not used to creeping through the woods, mountains, and rivers that made up the wildlands. She wore Redguard clothing, which implied to Sindri she spent much time in the fertile deserts west of here. She was perhaps out of her comfort zone.
Or, perhaps the Altmer in her needed to be in control, give orders. Regardless of the reason, Sindri continued on, creeping through the trees on silent feet.

Another sound met her ears; the summoning of something large, and Sindri’s head snapped toward where the fight was, where her new companions were. Abandoning her course, the Reachwoman veered right and weaved toward the sound of atronachs! A flicker of excitement shot through the witch like lightning, to see summoning magic that was fully formed and combative! And more, appeared to be taking different shapes!
But a motion to her left caught her attention, and Sindri felt herself be pulled back out of the clouds and to the ground. The mage who had summoned the atronachs was fleeing. Sindri pivoted yet again, ready to give chase whilst she debated on summoning more roots to secure the woman in place. A not so great idea, as surely the mage would just burn away her roots and flee, leaving them to deal with the dangerous and spreading fire.
Before Sindri could come to a decision on how to stop the mage, a wall of fire erupted before her. Huh. Sindri thought shortly. Not what she’d have done, but apparently it was quite effective.

“I would not move if I were you.” Sindri said to the mage as she stalked closer, her skirts dragging on a stone as she stepped over it. “You’ve several mages who are now quite annoyed for the trouble you’ve caused. A khajiit who is looking for a fight and is large enough to snap your spine like a twig. And an argonian I am quite sure would do criminal harm to you and not blink an eye.”
Sindri gave her a cold grin. “You’re outnumbered. Next move you make had better be in surrender or more than one of us will strike you with paralytic spells. Think your poor beating heart can handle that much?”

[swordandpens]

Do'Zabka

---

Do’Zabka jogged down the Orange Road, smirking as he thought back to his training days; he never thought he would be running for his former commanding officer again, but the world had a weird way of bringing people back together. Though, he supposed, he was running for Confessor Elessenia moreso than him. She had seemed like a busy person when they met, and Do’Zabka took care to absorb the information quickly so she could get on her way. It seemed this “Hidden Militia” was a disparate group of people, and he had been sent to back them up on their mission. He questioned the collection and mix of people, but perhaps that’s what the Empire needed.
He stopped his jog and introspection when he heard the sounds of combat and magic up ahead, breaking into a manageable sprint across the paved road. He wasn’t sure what spells were being cast, but he hoped they were coming from his comrades. Do’Zabka pushed his pace as much as he would allow, getting closer and closer. Finally, he spotted a wagon with a large Khajiit in it and what seemed to be a mostly-finished battle going on a little ways ahead, with a lot of bandits laying on the ground.
Do’Zabka slowed his pace a bit, taking deep breaths. While he could probably leave it to his new friends, it never hurt to be safe; numbers counted, after all. As he passed the wagon, he stifled surprise at the realization of the person in it. The size of the Cathay-raht Khajiit, the vibrant orange coat, and the face pointed to only one person: Kiffar the Unbound. Having heard the rumors, no doubt diluted through word of mouth and what he assumed was a lot of exaggeration, he didn’t know the full situation of the Mane’s assassination and thus tried to reserve his judgement. At the very least, he thought, that tragedy didn’t fall solely on Kiffar’s shoulders.
“Warm sands, Kiffar,” Do’Zabka spoke a greeting in Ta’agra to the giant before heading off into the battle. An Altmer man stood nearby, around as tall as he was, and the Khajiit nearly stopped in his tracks. But quickly realizing his back was turned to the wagon, he surmised that this high elf was on their side. Further on, a Nord (perhaps a Reachwoman?) and Dunmer were closing in on a robed mage, whose escape route had been blocked by a wall of fire. At the sight of the dark elf woman, Cassius’ dying face and the slaughter of the Dunmer archer who had killed him flashed in his mind, and he couldn’t stop a small scowl from forming towards her. Regret filled him as he did, which he pushed down for later as he refocused himself.
He moved towards the first bandit he could see, a Nord with a greatsword, who saw him coming as well and prepared to make a wide overhead swing. But Do'Zabka closed the distance and threw a piercing punch with his right at the man’s armpit before sending his left to the Nord's face. The man let out a grunt and barely caught himself from falling. The Khajiit quickly sent out a kick to the man’s abdomen and sidestepped the falling greatsword, pouncing on the prone warrior and knocking him out cold with a punch. Do’Zabka breathed and cycled his energy through his body, revitalizing it as he prepared for his next opponent.