(Reyvin's POV)
The silence stretched quite far as the poor fuckers were not sure if they should continue gaping or grab their weapons. They wouldn't of course, none were quite so stupid as to charge a currently peaceful dragon no matter the supposed glory they could get out of it.
'They look like a bunch of fish.' Scorch cackles as he regenerates into existence.
'That and Balgruuf looks like he is about to get grey hairs a decade earlier.' I give an apologetic look to the man to which he just palms his face.
Completely uncaring for the very concept of awkwardness, Krein lowers his head towards Torygg, startling the shit out of his guards and even Harald, only to speak instead of shouting as many of them feared "So this is the one who would lead the Nords of this age?" He asks no one in particular and turns to me "You were correct in your words Thuri, he may not be mighty but the air of a leader clings to him tightly."
Torygg, bless his heart, blinks in surprise "Thank you?" He manages before turning to me with a forced glare "Reyvin. Explain."
Chuckling at the sheer incredulity the poor man was radiating I point at him "Torygg, Kreinaarvokun." Then at the dragon "Krein, High King Torygg of Skyrim."
His eye twitches, both of us knowing damn well that wasn't what he asked "My thanks for the introduction."
I duck lightly, letting a small piece of debris fly over my head as a half amused half annoyed Minthara approaches us "Need I remind you that the city is still very much filled with undead?" She completely ignores Akulakhan's threatening stare as if he wasn't even there.
"Undead hunting is a national sport at this point" I wave her off and before she can retort I add "But yes, we really should be dealing with Ulfric's idiocy instead of sharing tales." I pause "How is the traitorous cunt by the way?"
Another familiar voice answers instead of Torygg "He is dead."
Skirnir Stormcloak looked half relieved half devastated as he stared me down with false fearlessness. Instead of whatever he was expecting I just grinned at that "Finally got sick of your father's shit, eh?" He blanches "Good on you kid."
"Kid?" He mutters but is smart enough not to ask, especially after a few housecarls subtly shake their heads.
"Anyway, the grumpy soul muncher is right." I turn back to Torygg, ignoring Minthara's annoyed stare "We should deal with the undead quickly and then I can explain to you in great detail why I can have a dragon and you cannot."
He gives me a blank stare but doesn't contest my words and just as I am about to fly off and start butchering the walking dead, a unit of legionaries accompanied by a force of Bretons marches out one of the many ruined streets, a limping General Tullius at their head.
And of course they fail to miss Krein's massive self and prepare for a fight.
This is going to happen a lot today, isn't it?
'The fuck did you think?' Scorch deadpans.
(General POV)
Men and women garbed in all kinds of different armor stood shoulder to shoulder as another wave of undead attempted to overrun them. At their head and in the center of the formation stood a bald old Nord, cutting down zombie after zombie with an aged looking legion blade.
Legionaries, Stormcloaks and those bearing no insignia all united against the insult to all that was sacred in front of them, all of them needing the slightest prodding from their silently appointed leader to realize that now was not the time for the petty squabbles of the rebellion.
Brunwulf Free-Winter smashed yet another zombie with his shield, splattering its head all over its fellows and bellowed out a "PUSH!" the shieldwall to his left and right striking out and taking another difficult step as they kept pressing their way to the vast city graveyard and its Hall of the Dead.
Many of the rebels and armed citizens were driven to a near-berserk rage as numerous skeletons and Draugr started stepping out of the venerated hall and the realization they may be fighting their defiled ancestors started to sink in.
Still, they could only manage so much, as even when whatever foul magic had risen the dead had blessedly stopped, they were still very much outnumbered by the massive horde still bursting from their burial grounds, their numbers seemingly as endless as their endurance.
"Let not a single one of them through!" Free-Winter bellowed once more "Protect your homes and your families!" The battle cry, even if directed at those from Windhelm galvanized even the legionaries, and the battle line held that much more firmly.
The battle line did indeed hold firm... for a while at least. For while the undead needed no air in their lungs to keep moving, nor did they care about their muscles growing tired the same could not be said about their mortal opponents, and soon, even the the war veterans started growing tired and the living were forced to give ground.
That was until the air shimmered and large figures dressed in legionary armor started appearing in the undead lines, cutting swathes in their ranks with reckless abandon only to disappear into a flash of purple as they were overwhelmed and 'slain'.
Soon the source of these 'legionaries' made itself known and from the east hundreds of actual soldiers started emerging and quickly replacing their beleaguered fellows, the undead getting pushed back into the Hall of the Dead in mere minutes as the fresh troops and their magical support made quick work of the now disturbed mass of the horde.
Seating himself on an unbroken crate, Brunwulf Free-Winter let out a long breath of relief, not that his respite would last for long as he was soon approached by a group of his fellow Nords, the most recognizable of whom was the King's own Steward, Falk Firebeard.
"Steward." The old man inclines his head, too tired to look up.
"Free-Winter." His old acquaintance nods back "I hear it is you who we have to thank for holding the line."
"Aye." Even while tired, he still puffs out his chest in pride "Me and mine were planning on remaining neutral till the end of it all" He pauses and shakes his head "No one expected undead to get involved though, know anything about that?"
"Mere rumors for now." Falk answers neutrally, pointedly looking to the side where a bunch of soldiers and nobles were listening in.
"Ah." Brunwulf nods and promptly shuts up.
"So that was your plan?" A boisterous voice rings out, tinged with the obvious echo of a full faced helmet "Wait the whole battle out and reap the rewards?"
Free-Winter looks up to its source and raises an eyebrow at the sight, a man clad in the best plate armor money could by, carrying a shield which could have been mistaken for a board if not for the obvious enchantments placed upon it and an equally expensive looking hammer leaned on his shoulder.
The short Nord wearing Winterhold insignia and the Imperial wearing Battlemage garb that were standing next to the armored figure both facepalm while many of the others are far less forgiving and outright glare at him.
"What is your name child?" Brunwulf asks with only mild contempt.
"Hemming Black-Briar." He proclaims with pride "Heir to Riften."
Brunwulf wanted to rip the arrogant youth a new one, but the viscera covering his weapon and armor did buy him at least some respect so he merely scoffed "Of course the Black-Briar would consider the honorless option the preferred one, how is Maven these days by the way?"
"Busy with her rightful position of course." Hemming, either oblivious or uncaring, says immediately.
Before things could descend further the group is approached by a bloodied Legate Rikke, she does not wait for anyone to acknowledge her presence as she speaks "The undead have been pushed back underground, they are still trying to get out but the entrance is narrow enough that we could hold them off indefinitely."
"That is terribly inefficient." The up and until now silent man of Winterhold mutters.
The Legate turns to him "I am aware, Thane. Do you have another suggestion?"
Before he can answer a distant explosion of golden fire draws everyone's eyes. Rikke blinks the light from her eyes and looks back to the short Thane only to find him pointing in the direction of the explosion, as if that explained everything.
And it did, for Rikke let out a long sigh but a moment later and muttered "I will send a runner."
(Reyvin's POV)
Leaving Minthara to help the locals clear the market out from any remaining zombies, I fly over to the graveyard, the thousand or so warriors standing guard there quickly clearing a place for me to land just next to Falk and a bunch of others.
"What is the situation?" I do not even greet them as I step off Scorch and tell him to go and block the exit of the hall with his fire.
Instead of Falk answering, it is Thorfinn who speaks up "Hall is filled with undead, would be stupid to have the men trudge through it."
I turn to Tiberius and give him a curious look.
"Too tired." He simply shakes his head "One more potion and I am out."
"Alright." I say slowly and look to the burial hall, slowly raising my hand an feeling the air heat up almost in anticipation.
"Wait!" A bald old man I quickly recognize as Brunwulf Free-Winter rushes up to stop me.
"What?" I grit out, irritated at the delay in glorious incineration.
"Were you truly about to burn the entire Hall of the Dead?" He asks almost disbelieving.
I cover my face with my hand, breathe in, exhale ever so slowly, and look to the man "Did you, or did you not notice the literal horde of undead attempting to murder you and all of your close and distant kin?"
His eyes tell me he understands but he still presses "The tales of your prowess have reached even Windhelm, Flame-Tongue, I am sure you are capable of ending the undead without destroying our sacred halls?"
"Really, flattery?" I deadpan to which he simply shrugs as if to say 'hey if it works it works' "Fine..." I sigh before quickly adding "I am still burning the bodies though."
He nods immediately.
Honestly if he asked me to 'spare' them I'd probably advise Torygg against his appointment just out of sheer damn irritation.
'That and the blind idealism.' Scorch points out.
'I can be petty without good reason, thank you very much.'
Cracking my knuckles and then my neck, much to the discomfort of a few of the warriors present, I look to the burial hall, raise my hand, and snap my fingers.
(General POV)
The Court Mage simply disappears from everyone's sight, only the slightest sound of cracking air telling them that anything happened at all. They were not left wondering for long though, as soon the sounds of maddened cackling followed by explosions of bright gold started coming from below them, seemingly ignoring the physical barrier completely.
Some of the warriors could even swear the distant grunting of the undead turned almost fearful, but that was impossible... right?
The few Dremora Tiberius could still keep summoned slowly stepping away from the entrance told them all they needed to know about that.
Free-Winter slowly turned to Falk Firebeard and asked, his voice slightly disbelieving and mostly just fearful "Ulfric wanted us to fight that?"
The ever-serious Steward of Solitude's face twisted into what one could charitably describe as a smug smirk "If news are to be believed, one should not accuse Ulfric of intelligence."
Many of the Stormcloaks kept shivering with each detonation of magic happening bellow them. If Ulfric's death didn't convince them to lay down their arms, then this certainly did.
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