Winterhold, Skyrim 5th of Sun’s Height Sacharen-Regev, Tsaesci Imperial Battlemage ---- The cold in this land was nothing she have seen. It seems like the very air froze solid with each gush of wind. The town known as Winterhold stood in the distance, a collection of small buildings and a large castle. There was a disaster here in the near past, the waves and currents told her a story of their own. From the very essence of the sea, Sacharen felt its anger, its long withheld desire to swallow up the land. Today, she would let the sea have its desire. “The goblin souls are ready,” a lesser battlemage reported. “Our devices are fully charged.” “And we shall begin!” Sacharen announced, her voice magically channeled and magnified to the rest of the fleet. The mages gathered their power, some into devices located on various vessels, while others pour their magicka into the sea. The waves tumbled and cried, it rushed to heights that were naturally impossible. The waves reared its head toward the shore, and at a blazing speed, crushed into the town. Sacharen herself had another target, the castle. It sat atop a narrow spike of land, connected by a thinly held bridge. She felt energy of magicka seeping through its walls, the presence of mages. The castle must be a wizard’s palace, which made it a priority target. At her fingers’ command, bright flashes descended from the sky. Lighting bolts broke through the snowstorm and hurled themselves at the castle. A tower was first hit, causing it to disintegrate into dust. The large courtyard was next, followed by a side hall and finally, the bridge. Despite her bombardment, the castle, and its foundation stood. But it was merely a beaten shell, with half of its main structure and bridge destroyed. Exhausted from her casting, Sacharen decided to stop bombarding the castle, as the current damage would be sufficient to kill all those who reside within. Other mages were equally as tired, as their waves had fully buried the town, making all buildings part of the seafloor. Her job was done, there were no more life on land, no more cry for help. --- 6th of Sun’s Height --- It surprised her that [i]The Buzkiran[/i], the Kamal flagship, sat at the mouth of the river. The giant ship, built with wood in its core and layered with adamantium on its hull, apparently could not maneuver up the White River. Most of its canons and targeting crystals were transferred to smaller vessels, which were currently engaged upstream. “Lady Sacharen,” a Kamal sailor notified the sorceress. “Commander Hakkeam ordered your mages and fleet back to Solstheim, he will soon take the city of Windhelm.” --- Windhelm, Skyrim 6th of Sun’s Height Hakkeam --- They arrived here two days ago. The Kamal corvettes made short work of local vessels, in a flurry of smoke, shells and lighting, all Nordic ships were destroyed. After that, the Kamal forces landed on the opposite shore of Windhelm, where they setup cannons, catapults and ballistas among the farms. The siege was continuous, waves after waves of munitions slammed into the walls and the city itself. However, they could not just charge at its front gate. Hakkeam knew the bridge was a perfect killzone, even if they could successfully cross, breaking through the gates and subduing the city would be a challenge of their own. Therefore, they hoped to break the defenders’ will in a war of attrition. The Kamals made their way around the city, where they captured a mill to the west, a fort called Morvunskar, a small town called Kynesgrove and an abandoned outpost near Morrowind’s border. The locals put up fierce, but short lived resistance. The Nords fought with vigor, but they were weak, under-equipped and poorly trained. Many of them did not even seem to be soldiers from a standing army, instead, they were simply militia fighters and guards. Therefore, the casualties were heavily disproportional, with a few dozen Kamal bodies stored in decorated caskets and hundreds of dead Nords pilled up into a miniature mountain. Although most of the enemies fought to their death, some were cowardly enough, or perhaps, intelligent enough, to surrender. In front of Hakkeam right now was a small of group of Nord militia fighters, a group of young men wearing mismatching iron and hide armor. “You!” Hakkeam pointed to the oldest looking man. He was also also equipped with the best gear, a steel cuirass with matching gauntlets and boots. The Kamal was poorly versed in Tamrielic, but a few words would serve more than well. “Talk!” “Never!” the Nord defied, “Skyrim belongs to the Nor-” Enraged, Hakkeam punted the Nord’s head with his adamantium boot. Metal slammed into skull with a sickening sound, blowing open a large dent on the side of the Nord’s head, where crushed brain matters started to leak out. “Anyone else?” The Kamal questioned in anger, readying his boot for the next captive. “Please! I’ll talk!” another Nord, a teenager with high pitched voice pleaded. He was barely armored, with only a worn hide cuirass and a pair of beaten leather boots. “The High King left days ago, Windhelm is low on supplies, the Jarl is desperate for -” “Good,” Hakkeam waved for two Kamal soldiers to his side, where one released the young man and another one handed him a letter. “Deliver to Jarl, and run away.” The letter called for a duel, if the Jarl wins, Kamal forces will withdraw, if he loses, Windhelm shall surrender. --- An hour later --- True to his words, the Jarl appeared in front of the gates. The man was clad in steel plates, wielding an axe and a shield. Hakkeam also drew his weapons, adamantium warhammer in his right hand, Champion’s Crudgel in his left. He calmy walked down the bridge, on the opposite side, the Jarl charged in full sprint. Near the center, few meters toward the south, two warriors met face-to-face. The Jarl was first to attack, his axe swung and shield bashed. His attacks were parried by Hakkeam, whose dual warhammers provided ample coverage against attacks. In retaliation, the adamantium warhammer was first to connect, it simply broke the shield into pieces and found its mark right in the Nord’s torso. The man’s ribcage was broken, and the organs contained inside were shattered. The Jarl fell to the ground, clutching his ribs and coughing up blood. When he looked back up, the Champion’s Crudgel was coming down. “No!” he cried out in desperation. The Crudgel made contact with steel armor, at that instant, all three elements danced across the plates. First, the Jarl was frozen solid in ice. Second, a orange explosion tore his frozen body to bits. At last, electricity weaved through, disintegrating whatever remained into fine dust. The entire battlefield fell silent for an instant, then suddenly, the gates of Windhelm flew open. A young man was leading a group of blue chain-mail armored guards, he shouted several Nordic battlecries before leading the charge. Hakkeam only heard a two words, “avenge” and “Sovrngarde”, but no matter what they said, Windhelm just sealed its fate by opening their gates. “These savages want a fight!” Hakkeam looked back as he rallied his men. “We’ll give them a fight! Do not stop until Windhelm is ours! Forward!” --- 7th of Sun’s Height --- The city was in ruins, buildings lied in smoldering husks and bodies littered the ground. As with all previous battles, the overwhelming majority of these bodies were Nords, with Kamal casualties already evacuated. The remaining citizens was thrown into the eastern sections, into slums the locals called the “Grey Quarters”. Most of the cities food were also shipped into the Grey Quarters, as Kamals found them quite unappetizing. Finally, all entrances into the Quarters were constantly guarded by summoned atornachs and detachments of Kamal soldiers. Nord corpses, numbering in the thousands, were simply dumped into the river, where they flowed downstream into the Sea of Ghosts. They did not deserve proper burials, Hakkeam thought, and what harm could possibly come by discarding corpses into the ocean?