(General POV, Forsworn camp)
The tall Reachman Warchief withered under his mother's... no, his priestess' glare "WHY IS THE DAMNED WITCH NOT DEAD YET!?" She screeched as only one so blessed can.
"Mo-" He tried but a growl interrupted him "Great one" he corrected pleadingly "the metal machine is too powerful, and counting the witch we stand no chance of breaching their defenses." He knelt on the ground and prostrated himself "Please send some of your students with us, my brothers are not yet strong enough to fight against such might!"
He could taste the derision in the Hagraven's wheezing growl "Too weak are you? Is this what the men of our kingdom have become? WEAKLINGS?!"
He dug his head deeper into the ground "Please, you know of the strength that they can wield." he pleaded.
"No." The blessed one denied him "I will not risk the priesthood because you are too afraid! They must be ready for when the false King arrives."
He held back a growl of frustration, but couldn't stop the question on his lips as he looked up "Is the reward of the golden elves so tempting that our brothers must die?"
As expected a heavy slap followed as he was launched onto the ground by the much smaller Hagraven "Fool! You dare doubt US? Your guides to the gods?!"
"Never!" He stammered as he picked himself up "I just wish a glimpse of your enlightenment."
"We-" His mother suddenly stilled and with widened eyes looked at the enemy fort.
Not even a moment later she summoned three great earthen walls and a green shield of magic in front of her, at that same time the accursed sound of the metal killer resounded once again.
It was as if time itself slowed as the Warchief watched a great bolt, made of the same metal as the machine that fired it, pierce through the walls one by one, his heart hammered in outrage as the tip reached the wall of magic... and cracked it like a thin sheet of ice.
The next instant his mother lay impaled into the ground, wheezing in pain and clawing at the weapon. He knew she would live, the blessed were far tougher than mere mortals after all... that was until the bolt started glowing with cursed red writings.
Following his honed instincts he threw himself as far away as possible and looked up just in time to see an explosion of crimson lightning consume his mother, leaving not a single feather.
A deathly silence spread through the camp as everyone looked aghast at what happened, and then the devastated wails of the young Warchief pierced everyone's ears as the tall Reachman attempted to find anything left of his mother.
His sorrow turned to fury as he failed to find even ashes, taking a deep breath he stood up and marched deeper into the camp, his sisters would not deny him his vengeance even if he had to blaspheme against the Great Mother to get it.
(Reyvin's POV)
"Aaaaand Gaterasher test two is complete!" I whooped like a child on a sugar high.
"Bloody hells lad" The Thane gaping at the sight of the explosion barked "That was incredible!"
I raise my nose "I knew the moment I finished crafting that particular bolt it would go on to do great things."
A guffaw is his response "You speak as if it were your child!"
"And what a glorious child it was!" I smile wistfully, a beat of pleasant silence later I see a commotion begin to rise at the enemy camp "It seems they are responding as expected, have your men prepare for a tougher battle, they will pull no punches in what follows."
"Aye, no need to tell me twice lad." He nods and walks off.
And not a minute later I am proven right as a force far larger than they sent previously begins the charge without any preamble. I look them over and sense a glare from behind the line, the big one seems rather pissed...
I didn't kill his lover, did I?
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The first attack was a lighter one, the more green forces once again throwing themselves at us in a frenzied charge, and with expected results.
Some managed to get up onto the walls, but the well rested Nords ripped them apart so quickly one might think they were made of water and not flesh.
As I feared, this time the attack didn't stop. There was no retreating, no stop to the fighting, the enemy reinforcements were constant and relentless. It seems they no longer cared for casualties, and that suited my plans perfectly.
Soon Briarhearts started climbing above the walls, practically jumping over the sharpened tips that served as the fence, and with fire in one hand and steel in the other they started proving themselves a great nuisance.
The usual Nordic warrior could hold one off on his own, but most of 'my' force wasn't made up of warriors and a good dozen had already fallen when I decided that enough was enough and ended the fools with concentrated lightning to the back of the head.
An enraged yell made me look to the gatehouse, only to see an idiot throwing himself at my animonculus in some misguided attempt to destroy it. One mental command later and Gatecrasher jerked itself out of the way with incredible speed and simply stepped onto the now prone Biarheart, killing him with its sheer weight.
The attack went on for hours, I was even forced to conserve Magicka at one point as it was far more useful for healing than killing the barbarians I could simply cut apart. So that is what I did, repeatedly, and for hours on end. I lost count of how many I bisected after about thirty and how many fools impaled themselves on my staff thinking I was a weakling just because I was a mage.
Even Gatecrasher was forced to stop firing on account of depleted ammo, I still wasn't going to waste bolts on these twats even if it cost me sweat and blood.
As I cleared yet another group of the increasingly tougher opponents my third eye warned me of incoming danger, I step to the side just in time to evade an ice spear and turn around to see that the Nords around me were dead, and I had been isolated by a group of what looked to be three witches and the big-ass Briarheart.
I tilt my crowned head to the side and ask "I was wondering when you cowards would show your faces, so many of your own thrown away and yet you learn so little."
The Briarheart growls as his hand tightens around his elven axe, no doubt gifted by my Aldmeri friends "You will pay for your blasphemy!"
I pause for a moment "Ah! You mean the Hag?" A cruel smile worms its way onto my face "Do not worry my blasphemy is only at its infancy." I clear my throat before the dumbfounded witches, obviously confused at my nonchalance "I do hereby solemnly swear that no filthy worshiper of Namira will leave this place alive, and if I have my way..." my drawl becomes an enraged yell "HER TEMPLES WILL BURN ALONGISDE HER DISGUSTING FOLLOWERS!" my voice booms with hints of thu'um as I cast a windcloak and launch myself at one of the witches.
(General pov)
As the black-robed witch launches itself at them the sisterhood work in tandem to twist the wood in his way, forcing him to dodge to the side, the Warchief doesn't hesitate and starts pursuing him in melee, forcing him to both parry his attacks and dodge the spells.
Unfortunately for the sisterhood the damned witch seems to know exactly when an attack is going to land, moving almost lazily to evade their powerful magic "How droll." his imposing voice resonates with boredom "I was expecting competence, but all I got was a group of mere adepts" as he twists out of the way of yet another axe swing and kicks the Warchief in the leg he shrugs "I guess I shouldn't have killed the filthy hag then, might have actually been a challenge."
The three sisters share an enraged look and nod, taking out potions and quickly downing them and witch practiced ease they start launching all three elements of destruction while surrounding him, suddenly getting serious the witch starts erecting wards far stronger than what their mother ever achieved, blocking most of the spells and evading the rest.
A hint of worry seems to appear in the witch's mind as he starts carefully evading as much as he can and sending spells back, though thankfully for the sisters their wards are enough to if not outright save them at least give them the time to evade and continue with their assault.
The skirmish seems to be dragging on suspiciously long, and their suspicions are confirmed as a group of five armored Nords burst through their rear guard and start rushing at them. The Warchief reacts quickly and after commanding his sisters to focus on the witch he charges at the warriors fighting them all at once.
For almost ten minutes the exchange continues, a ward here, a spell there, a sudden spear thrown, but the sisters seem to share a mind and the witch sees all so not one manages to hurt the other, and yet the witch had battled throughout the day and his Magicka was waning, forcing him to once again conserve his strength.
Just as Reyvin is about to choose drastic measures from what was turning from an entertaining exchange to pure tedium, the Warchief returns, covered in blood, and attempts to help his sisters by casting frostbite with both hands to at least slow their enemy down.
And then, as if orchestrated on purpose, the witch stills at a specific spot and allows the frostbite to hit him head on... only for his robes to shimmer and seemingly absorb the magic.
The masked face turned to the Warlord and the witch bobbed his head "Why thank you for that" and with twist and a loud hiss of "Tiid" he launched a firebolt straight at one of the sister's faces.
The spell moved fast, far faster than ever before, and there was no time for her to react. Her head burst in flames as she screamed in her final moments of agony.
As the Forsworn were stunned by the development the witch quickly summoned a blue potion and downed it in a gulp, they could hear his derisive sneer as he mock-bowed "Shall we continue this dance?"
"RAAAAAGH!" the Briarheart threw himself at the filthy witch with all his might, but once again he merely shifted out of the way while spearing his other sister who was stunned from the sudden loss of connection.
She too died in fiery agony.
No longer paying any attention to the massive yet useless warrior, the witch approached his last sister with slow and deliberate steps, she pushed herself against the wall of a tower in fear, trying desperately to summon up her magic yet failing miserably.
The Warlord was desperate, his grief only rivaled by his desire to save the last of his family, once again he charged, and once again the witch stilled.
He hoped his enemy finally made a mistake, a misstep as his axe sang to the bastards neck...
Only to hear a faint whisper "Feim"
And find his axe buried in his sister's chest.
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Alternate title: Fuck this guy in particular.
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