I, Draugr Chapter 54

Since the day he died, he never once stepped foot within the halls of Sovngarde.

He watched that colossal hall from afar, sitting on the grass of the enormous fields around its floating island.

Even from here, he could hear the roars. The cheering. The brawls.

He imagined his Liege and sworn brothers and sisters among within those halls, and a satisfied smile spread across his face.

In life, he had been so bi-polar. So destructive. His mind was collapsing, wanting the best for his closest people, yet wanting to unleash chaos upon Nirn just so to remove the stain that Elven Races of Mer were.

One part wanted to die gloriously with his closest companions. With his liege.

Another wanted to die a horrid death, meant to unleash a disaster that could never be fixed. A hole punched through Reality, one that couldn't be sewn shut like in the Oblivion Crisis.

One that would allow a Daedric Prince that seeks nothing but absolute Destruction to walk freely upon all of Nirn with his armies, unstoppable by the weakened Races of Mer and Men.

It all would have been a pyrrhic victory for him. With the cost being far, far too great, but his damaged mind couldn't grasp it any longer.

He knew well why, too. He had delved too deep within Magic, discovered too much, seen far too many secrets, created things that shouldn't have graced Nirn for thousands of years.

His mind fractured, it fueled his rage. His madness. He started losing it, unable to see right from wrong, only what he wanted the most, and what he was willing to risk to achieve either.

In the end… In the end he was glad to have met that Skeleton. Despite it all, he was granted a decent death, and his mind now was finally healed. Whole.

His shoulders relax, the tightness on his face fades, and his eyes close in relief. He takes in a deep breath, breathing in the scent of the grassy plains around him, while listening to the distant and faint roaring laughter coming from the enormous halls of Sovngarde.

Now, at last, he could rest- A beer mug bounces off Ahzidal's skull, putting an end to his relaxed quiet.

His eyes open, staring at the large and empty mug of ale, the scent of the potent alcohol that was within it filling the air as it rolls across the grass.

Then the ground shakes, and a heavy grunt reaches Ahzidal's ears. His head turns, and his eyes widen at the sight of the towering Ysgramor sitting on the grass beside him.

The bearded giant stared at the distant hall with a smile on his face, his usually tense eyes now relaxed, void of the tension he carried for countless years.

"My liege…" Ahzidal whispers, stunned to see his lord beside him, out here in the endless plains of the afterlife. Such a place was not worthy of one such as Ysgramor, only the halls of Sovngarde were worthy of a Legend like him… And yet, "Why are you out here, my liege?"

The First Man doesn't answer instantly. Instead, his back arches as the titan takes in a slow and deep breath, "These fields remind me of my homeland." He whispers softly, releasing a long sigh filled with longing, "Before it was frozen over by that monster…"

Ahzidal's gaze falls, a shudder going down his very spine and Soul at that memory. They were already hidden away within the depths of Saarthal by then… And yet, even within that Pocket Dimension, they still felt it.

They still felt the horrifying might of that cloaked monster. That abomination that froze over an entire continent with laughable ease, felling some of the strongest Great Sages within seconds.

Even now, after countless Eras, the Magicka behind the Spell that monster had used had yet to run out. By Ahzidal's estimates, it won't run out for countless more Eras. It was nowhere near even half spent, after all.

"But to answer your question…" Ysgramor speaks once more, finally turning his head to stare at loyal friend and Enchanter, "It was because the halls of Sovngarde felt dull without you, my friend."

Ahzidal's face quivers, and his eyes screw shut, "You will get used to my absence, my lord." Opening his eyes, he turns his gaze to the nigh-endless fields, plains and mountains of the afterlife, and wonders if his child and wife were waiting for him somewhere out there. "I do not deserve to stand beside you any longer, especially in death."

Ysgramor merely hums, turning his gaze away as he does so, "Sad, because that's not what we think."

The Enchanter perks up and furrows his brows in confusion, "We?" He repeats, turning to look at his liege, then his eyes widen as he looks past the titan.

Walking over the hill, laughing and carrying barrels of mead and tables of food, were the five-hundred Atmoran Companions. Huge smiles on their faces, no longer carrying frozen armor and weapons, and no longer shells of their former selves.

"You've laughed and lived with us. Fought and bled with us. Drank and got drunk with us." A massive hand pats Ahzidal's shoulder, shaking him out of his stupor, "You're never getting rid of us, you old bastard."

The old Enchanter's lips twitch, "I believe we are way past being old, my liege."

"The one Nord that called me 'Ancient History' in Sovngarde still has to come back from wherever I punched him."

Ahzidal sighs, "Must you get in a fight everywhere you go, my lord?"

"Hey!" Ysgramor protests, pointing an accusing finger towards his approaching army, "They started the brawl this time, not me!… I just finished it."

"...I am surprised Sovngarde is still standing, then." Or that he hadn't felt some form of earthquake shake the Afterlife. Knowing his liege, he rarely holds back when punching someone.

And his punches tend to remove mountains.

Still… Ahzidal couldn't help but smile, for he genuinely felt at home. He didn't push back the Atmorans offering him drinks and food, slapping him on the back, partying and laughing.

He didn't try to escape, for he knew well that they will all chase after him across the Afterlife.

He thought that warriors like them deserved a death worthy of Sovngarde, but… Perhaps, deep down, they all just deserved each other.

Sovngarde was just a hall. Just a building.

The Companions were family. Brothers and sisters. A building shouldn't get between that.

"My liege…" Ahzidal turns to his greatest friend. To the titan that reshaped a whole Era. "A battle is coming, isn't it?"

Ysgramor grins, slamming his mug of ale down, body tensing with immense power, "I can feel it in my bones. So, let us party and feast while we can!"

The Enchanter smiles, "Has that Draugr found someone worthy of Wuuthrad already?"

Wuuthrad was far more than just a weapon. It was a Legacy, like the Word Walls left behind by great warriors who left their story behind together with all the Thu'um knowledge they acquired.

Wuuthrad was like that. But it didn't carry a simple Shout, for Ysgramor didn't feel right for a weapon to carry such a thing.

Instead, it carried something more. Something far greater.

"What do you say, old friend?" The First Man asks, offering his hand towards his shorter yet eternally loyal friend and companion. "Will you join me on the battlefield once more?"

The ancient Enchanter breathes in… Then smiles and takes the offered hand.

"Like the good old day."

Their hands shake, and the Companions cheer, their hot blood already eager for yet another grand battle.

For in Skyrim, a warrior hold a weapon close even in death.

~XXX~

Lord of Domination.

The schemer Prince.

Lord of Lies.

King of Rape.

The last was always a title I hated the most, but I always hated Molag Bal even more. His mere existence disgusted me, and I always avoided doing his quests each time I replayed the games.

And if I was aiming for the Platinum Trophy, then I'd keep his quest for last, so that then I could start over, without having nothing of his disgusting self within my inventory.

It was childish, but I just hated it. Hated him.

"Moggy!" I cheer, throwing my hands in the air as I hop and skip towards the edge of the island, staring out towards the sea. Mainly towards the pillar of blood-red light soaring into the skies.

Said pillar of Magic had the face of a certain Daedric Prince on it, his chilling gaze settling on me after a few moments, "Abomination-"

"Oh shut the fuck up already." I scoff, waving a hand towards him, "I don't wanna hear you prattle and moan and bitch, you ugly ass fucker." I look at his face, which… Ew. Goddamn. Inhuman, skeletal, and horned and without lips. He looks like an Angler Fish… But even they are more beautiful, "Goddamn, did the Void shit you out like that? Pretty sure you can change your looks, ya know? I advise you to do that, because… Damn."

"I can't physically throw up in my mouth, but I really want to." I sigh, then glance down where Harkon was floating in his Vampire Lord form. Wings spread, angry snarl on his horrid face, and a long jagged bloody greatsword in his grasp.

Molag Bal remains quiet, the only sound that I could hear was the roar of that pillar of Magicka. What exactly they are doing, I don't know… Nor do I really care.

"Unafraid of offending a God, and unafraid of making them your enemy…" Was that praise I hear in your voice? Also, he sounds like he just deep-throated a fat dick.

Which, knowing him, he might have.

I make a show of picking at my nose – with my middle finger, obviously – while humming, "What about it, buddy ol' pal? Is this about Sheogorath paying your dumbass a visit? If so… I owe him a wheel of the finest cheese."

I die a little inside each time a think of Sheogorath putting Molag Bal in a choke-hold. Mostly because of the laughter, and also because I want to bear witness to such a sight!

Molag Bal laughs, the sound shaking the very air, but I can hear the slight tinge of anger within it. What God takes pleasure in being humiliated by a mortal, after all?

He may be a patient schemer, but he has his own pride. Pride Sheogorath walked all over without a fucking care, because everyone is absolutely terrified of him.

"You would shine better beneath me." The Daedric Prince suddenly states, "Your uncontrollable nature, your very power to devour Existence itself to elevate yourself… They could be put to greater use, instead of being wasted in being a clown."

Hey, I am the best clown out there! Thus, my wondrous talents are totally not wasted! Nuh-uh!

The Lord of Lies, seeing my silence, presses forward, as if seeing the hesitation as temptation. He clearly doesn't know me one bit. "I am the Father of Undeath." He suddenly whispers, the blue eyes within that burning pillar of red glowing like the lure of an angler fish, leading fishes into a maw filled with sharp teeth, "I can gift you a body of flesh and blood back. You'll be able to feel, eat… Savor your women-"

A crack of thunder split the air, and the pillar of red popped like a balloon poked with a needle.

The phantom of Molag Bal within that pillar was smashed apart, and I hum as I lower my finger, "Now, see… That's where you fuck up." I point out, while faking a loud yawn, "My relationship with them doesn't hang around physical pleasure."

"I'm not you. You can't pull bitches for shit, so you resort to forcing yourself upon them. And when you can't do that, you have others sacrifice them to you. See how pathetic that is? That ain't Dominance, that's called being a pussy."

I turn, jabbing a finger towards a specific woman, "Because I sure as fuck know your ugly ass was never gonna be able to pull a Goth Baddie like Serana! Like, look at that!" Said Vampire beauty points a finger at herself, cheeks slightly flushed and gaze thoroughly amused.

I flick my gaze towards Aurelia, who had moved towards the portal leading to the Soul Cairn. It luckily is still active, the problem is that it requires an anchor, because the portal is a one-way trip.

But Aurelia had jabbed Dawnbreaker into the stone before the portal, turning it into an anchor that would allow them to return through a mere thought.

This was mainly thanks to Meridia, who knows our plan and was willing to assist us in destroying the Soul Cairn once everything is done.

"So, let us skip your quite lacking sales pitch and just release your angry baby skeever, yeah?" I faintly hear Serana burst out laughing far behind me for having called her father an 'angry baby skeever', because that is honestly what he is.

He is strong, I won't lie… But even Savos would have no trouble in killing him. Restoration Magic is just that powerful against these creatures, after all.

"You will rue this day, Abomination." Molag Bal promises, his hateful voice drifting across the air.

I just wave my hand dismissively, "I already do. I met your ugly ass, didn't I? Could've spared me that torture, you bitch." I scoff, then turn back towards the others, "Can you believe this dude?"

Deinmaar just shrugs, "Behind you, brother."

A sharp whistles reaches me together with a mad roar of fury, but I don't even turn around and just raise my hand, blocking the wild downward slash from Harkon's blade with my hand.

Then I turn to look at him, his horrid visage rippling with shock, confusion and budding fear when his powerful attack just… Did nothing. It didn't even crack the ground beneath my feet.

Mostly because it was already flooded with the vile darkness attached to me.

Now, with Harkon so close, I do what any sane person should do when standing before this idiot. I slap him in the face. Hard. Very, very fucking hard.

His whole body staggers to the left, teeth flying everywhere and jaw deforming from the force of my slap.

His gaze snaps back to me – while Serana is laughing her ass off behind me – and he just stares at me utterly baffled, as if to ask 'Did you seriously just slap me?!'

So I do it again.

Then I kick him between the nuts. Hard. So hard his feet lift off the ground.

My hand clenches around the greatsword, shattering the bloody blade into countless tiny little shard, before moving the free hand to grasp Harkon by the neck.

So I could start slapping him over and over again. "Who is a pathetic cuck? Who let his wife get fucked by a God and did jack-shit about it afterward? Who started worshiping said God after he became a cuck? Who is a pathetic father? Who is a fucking idiot? Who-"

I keep slapping him over and over and over again, each slap followed by a question that I know for a fact insults him a lot.

I'm pretty sure he is still wondering how he is losing… Or where his previous display of power went.

The idiot didn't even realize that Molag Bal already forsake him. He saw no chance for Harkon to win, so he withdrew everything he had before it could be devoured by me on Harkon's death.

He is a Champion of Molag Bal no longer. Just a slightly stronger Vampire Lord, but nothing that grand.

I kick him in the nuts again, for good measure, then another time just because his whimpers of pain are fun, before grabbing him by his hair and dragging him back to the group.

Serana was on the ground, holding her stomach and having trouble breathing, "Wanna kick him in the nuts?" I offer her, and she instantly recovers.

She doesn't so much as kick Harkon in the nuts, but jump and stomp on them with as much power she could put behind the stomp. The blow ended up bending Harkon like a lawn chair, much to my amusement.

"I thought he'd be stronger." Deinmaar muses, and I give him a quick pat, very happy to have the giant around. Things don't feel right without this honest goofball.

I shake my head, "He was never a threat. I just never went out of my way to kill him because of Serana." Said goth beauty perks up, "She is still entitled to at least one final talk with the twisted fuck. I know I'd want to have some final words with my father, if I knew I was going to lose him."

I look down at the greatest disappointment of a father this side of Tamriel, and resist the urge to kick his ribs in. His face was already a mangled mess, and he had turned back to his human form by now after the beating he was given.

Then I glance up, past the clouds. Keraunos, my Spear Spell, was still there, flying above like a satellite, giving me view of all the surroundings. It's how I grabbed Deinmaar out of the College and dropped him on Harkon.

Still, opening portals is quite taxing, even with my current reserves. Which is obvious, to be honest. Teleportation still doesn't exist here, and while Kara did theorize ways to make it happen, she did insist that the Magicka cost would be far too immense.

The greater the distance, the greater the cost.

I leave Keraunos where it is, and lower my gaze just as Aurelia's voice reaches us, "Guys, it's ready!" I grab Harkon and drag him across the cleanly cut rubble of his castle, and towards the large room that was Veronica's.

Right in the middle of it was a swirling mass of dark purple mist that went downward, floating steps made of bricks leading to the center of the portal

Dawnbreaker was stabbed into the stone, being the origin point of a radiant golden magic circle that stretched hooks into the portal, to make sure it couldn't be forcibly shut.

"Try not to linger too long." Meridia advises, her voice coming from the glowing Dawnbreaker, "The Ideal Masters won't notice anything for a while, so do what you must as quickly as possible."

I nod, and turn towards Aurelia, "Remember, call Durnehviir as soon as you are inside. If you get him on your side, you'll be able to reach Veronica instantly." Aurelia nods seriously, and releases Dawnbreaker just as the purple mist from the portal swells and rises.

Finally, I turn towards Serana, "Your mother will surely be quite paranoid and judgmental about seeing you there, and with company no less, so you'll have to somehow deal with that."

A light, vexed smile spreads across the woman's lips, "Oh, I know." She then pauses, before reaching behind her and taking off the Elder Scroll, "Here, think you can hold this? I'd rather not bring it within view of the Ideal Masters."

Ah, good idea. I grab it and send it back to her room by dropping it within a quickly expanding pool of darkness, "If things go south, I'll step in." I turn to Deinmaar, and he gives me a low nod of understanding. With him escorting the ladies, I can stay reassured that they'll be fine.

By dropping Lah's name, Durnehviir will side with us, the rest is up to Serana with dealing with her mother. Then bargaining – or threatening – the Ideal Masters with their freedom, or the destruction of the Soul Cairn.

Which will still happen, as it'll be an enormous jump in power for me, and that is always welcome.

Though I don't expect it to go smoothly…

"Be careful, yeah?" I tell the group as they advance towards the purple mist, and I watch carefully as they disappear within it.

I lean back, and Harkon whimpers as I roughly drop on his back to use him as a seat.

"What did you not tell them?" And Meridia suddenly speaks up, her ethereal voice drifting out of the glowing Dawnbreaker.

I honestly nearly screamed, because I didn't expect her to still be lingering around. Still… She is mad perceptive, huh?

With a hum, my gaze drifts towards the distance, a black patch drifting across the skies and keeping a watchful gaze towards the horizon.

"I doubt I am the only one coveting the Soul Cairn."

I can somehow feel it.

A rematch with the World-Eater is coming up.

~XXX~

A thousand men. That was all Balgruuf was going to bring for this battle. No more, no less.

All one-thousand armed with dragonscale and dragonbone gear, and nearly half of them being Enchanted beyond belief.

One thousand of the finest Companions and warriors Skyrim had to offer. From Imperials, to Stormcloaks, to outsiders that came to be part of History.

The best of the best, ready to die upon yet another battlefield stained by Undead raised by monsters who refused to accept that their Era was long over.

This time, the enemy had control of the battlefield. Their army was made of Undead, but was also largely unknown due to the mist and winds shrouding the area.

Mist and wind that would recede when approached by the scouts, as if mocking them to draw closer, to come battle an army they couldn't gauge.

But Balgruuf laughed at their pathetic attempt at psychological warfare. They were all hot-blooded Nords- As long as there was an army, they would gladly walk straight into it with smiles on their faces and weapons in their hands.

The army was ready, having one last feast and one last drink within view of the shrouded valley where the Undead Army and Dragon Priests were waiting for them.

"Can we expect Dragons to join the fray?" Ulfric questions within the privacy of the war tent that was set up, his own body clad in the thick bone-plates of the dragonbone armor.

The sight made Balgruuf suppress a full, roaring laugh. Ulfric had eagerly moved to join the battle, all to protect Skyrim, he said… But it was also so to run away from the punishment Elisif had forced upon him.

The big and powerful Ulfric, afraid of walking up High Hrothgar so to be judged by the Greybeards. Which… Fair, Balgruuf could understand the fear.

It didn't make it any less hilarious, though.

Hildr nods from her side of the table, flanked by Nereva, the Dunmer woman vouched by Leonidas, "You can always be sure Dragons are around when you fight a Dragon Priest. I just know not how many will stand against us."

Balgruuf strokes at his beard with a hum, "We have weapons of war that will assist us in bringing them down, in case they show themselves."

The red-haired woman nods, "I am confident I can shoot them down myself. The main problem are the Dragon Priests… Or at least, the one called Otar the Mad."

Just speaking that name drenched the room in a cold air. The unsealing of that monster shook all of Skyrim, his mad roar having been heard and felt deep within the very bones and Soul of anyone within the country.

Yet, despite knowing how powerful this Otar was, Balgruuf wasn't really afraid. He had expected Leonidas to protest when he was asked to not take part in the battle, but instead he had given them his full trust.

If a man such as Leonidas believed they could prevail, then any fear and doubt Balgruuf had was all but vanquished.

"We need to divide the high priority targets." Ulfric offers after a while, his lone remaining arm resting against his hip, "The army can cleave straight through the enemy Undead, thus we can focus on the Dragon Priests."

His gaze turns to the other member within the war tent, allowed in due to his great renown across all of Tamriel, "Me, Balgruuf and the Ebony Warrior can take on one of them" The towering Breton man nods, severe gaze on his face.

"I agree. The faster we take him down, the faster we can support the others." The Ebony Warrior states, voice deep and powerful. He was a humble man, and Balgruuf held a great deal of respect for a warrior like him.

"Nereva and Hildr can take on the other one." Hildr nods at Balgruuf's words, "I doubt Otar will join the fray instantly. He might only when his hand is forced."

Nereva hums softly, "If he moves sooner than we expect, I think I may be able to keep him distracted for a bit."

Knowing that Leonidas vouched for her, Balgruuf doesn't doubt the Dunmer's skill and power, "The we'll rely on you if that worst case scenario comes to pass."

Having spoken those words, his gaze turns to the weapon resting beside the table. Wuuthrad lay there, gleaming darkly, and seemingly calling for him, yearning to be used. To lead others into yet another grand battle.

"I can understand your hesitation, Jarl Balgruuf." The Ebony Warrior suddenly speaks, his gaze having softened up as the Jarl gives him his full attention, "Weapons such as that… They carry a history that make them heavier."

"Only arrogant fools would pick such a weapon up and use it without care of its history…" The dark skinned warrior nods with a smile, "The mere fact that you still believe yourself unworthy, is perhaps the very reason you should pick it up. So that you may become worthy of it."

Balgruuf's gaze once more fell on Wuuthrad, that giant black war-ax. All the other Jarls had swiftly stepped away, refusing to try and wield the weapon, to desecrate it with their touch.

Ulfric had placed his hand on it once, then swiftly declared himself unworthy of lifting it. Balgruuf still had to rest a hand on it.

Still, he takes in a deep breath and reaches out. His palm wraps around that gleaming black Ebony, and his hand soon clenches around it.

Wuuthrad leaves the ground with laughable ease, and soon comes to rest on Balgruuf's shoulder. It felt light, and pure, roaring strength flowed through the Jarl's limbs.

He didn't know if it was just a mental trick, or an Enchantment on the weapon, but he genuinely felt so much stronger and bigger. Like he was one of those legendary and towering Atmorans.

"Is it heavy?" Ulfric asks softly, "I didn't lift it… But it felt impossibly heavy."

Balgruuf lets out a slow breath, "Yeah… It is." Heavy on the mind. He could feel the duty to carry such a weapon properly being set on his shoulders, to be a paragon of everything Ysgramor stood for. "Yet, this might be a fraction of the weight Ysgramor carried."

His free hand snatched the helmet off the war table, and swiftly secured it around his head, "I believe we are ready to start. Let us finally clean this Undead stain out of Skyrim once and for all."

Ulfric grins and places his own helmet on, "I couldn't agree more."

The Ebony Warrior follows suit, quiet and overflowing with determination. No hesitation or fear within his movements, as if he'd welcome death upon a battlefield just like any other Nord would.

They walked out of the tent and into the camp where the army had been enjoying what might be their last meal, drink and joke.

They all embraced their wives in bed one last time, and left words to their kids in case they would not return. Balgruuf did too, for he knows that this wasn't like Krosis.

This battle was far deadlier, and far more dangerous. Far more important too.

Krosis shook their confidence, and they were saved by the Dragonborn and Leonidas… But they couldn't always rely on them. The Prophecy never stated that the Dragonborn had to carry everything.

"Pick up your weapons, you bastards!" The Jarl roars, stomping through the camp, his gaze flicking past the valley and towards the clouds of mist shrouding their enemies and the mountain chain ahead of them.

"Today, we either die, or we win! There is no retreat! No reinforcements! Just us hot-blooded sons of bitches!"

His army roars, weapons and shields raised high in the air, and falling into steps with him.

Ulfric and the Ebony warrior flank his left and his right, their steps heavy and filled with purpose as they advanced towards the dense mist.

"These bastards lost once to our Ancestors! And tonight, they shall lose again! To us!"

For he'll be damned if they'll allow these long dead fuckers to bring shame upon his bloodline and that of his man.

And that is when everything went to hell.

"FAAS."

The mist blows apart, fading away as if it was never there, and revealing the horrors beyond.

Tens of thousands of Undead stood before them. Burning blue eyes madly flicking towards them, hungry for their still living and untainted Souls.

Skeletons, Draugrs, Skeletal Dragons, Undead Beasts, Undead Hounds, Flesh Abominations, Undead Trolls, Undead Giants, Undead Mammoth's- So on and so forth, the army before them held it all.

"RU."

Any Adrenaline and courage was quenched by a bucket of frigid waters, and the whole army comes to a halt.

A dozen Dragons rise from the mountain peak, roaring and laughing down at them.

Down at the ants that they had feasted on for countless years.

"MAAR."

And far behind the army, sitting upon a throne of skulls and gripping two pale battle-axes wrapped in ghostly blue flames, was an Undead draped in bear skin and leather armor, his eyes a burning mad green.

Terror washes forth, and the army breaks instantly.

Balgruuf falters, trembling in the wake of that shout as his men scream behind him.

His gaze flickers skyward, and he watches as a bronze giant Dragon dives towards them, jaws open as if welcoming them within his stomach.

Death was coming.

A pathetic, cruel death.

One where they didn't change anything.

The army of Undead charges forth, the earth shaking beneath their rush, their foul Magical presence washing over them, dropping fuel upon the fire that was their fear. Their terror.

And then, Wuuthrad throbs within Balgruuf's grip, and his scared visage turns into a defiant snarl, his mouth opening to roar out Words he had never mastered.

"HUN-KAAL-ZOOR!"

It was a Call. One that reached the very halls of Sovngarde.

And a Titan answers the call with a roaring laugh, stomping past Balgruuf to intercept the falling bronze Dragon.

A devastating uppercut sends said Dragon flipping across the skies, but the Titan wasn't done as he leaps after it, reaching out to grab the wildly flapping tail of the beast… Before flipping around and hurling it down like a giant boulder, straight upon the charging army of Undead.

And just when the rest of the foul army was about to reach them, one ghostly figure after another rushed out from behind the living, all roaring. All laughing.

All cleaving straight through the charging army like they were but wet scrolls.

"Grit your fucking teeth, you pathetic descendants of mine!" The Titan that had felled the first Dragon roars, landing upon the corpse of the squashed beast and standing out upon it, "I, Ysgramor, did not father a bunch of pussies!"

The First Man stood in his complete glory, looking like an ethereal phantom, clad in his glorious armor, and lifting up a phantom of Wuuthrad high in the air.

The Five-Hundred Companions rushed forth, an unstoppable avalanche that met no resistance, for they never feared death in the first place.

And just like that, the effects of the Dismay Shout vanished like it was never there.

Pure adrenaline pumped through the veins of the Nords, who launched themselves forth like mad, feral skeevers, and screaming their lungs out.

Balgruuf led the charge, eyes overflowing with worship as he charged through the enemies, his gaze locked upon that Titan. A man he could only dream to become.

Ysgramor's gaze flicks towards Balgruuf, then to Wuuthrad, and the Atmoran grins, "So, you're the one that now wields Wuuthrad, eh? You worthy of it?"

Balgruuf shakes his head without hesitation, "I will never be."

The First Man throws his head back and laughs loudly, "Hah! Good! Of course, no one will ever be worthy of my Legacy!" Turning, the Titan sends a feral grin towards the now standing Otar, "But show me what you got, and don't disappoint me."

"Become someone so great that you'll never need Wuuthrad or us ever again."

With gritted teeth, Balgruuf nods resolutely. He watched as the First Man jumps off the Dragon corpse, shooting into the sky with a single leap.

Otar lifts his gaze, burning green flame glowing brightly as he spreads his arms wide, roaring like a mad beast.

The figures flanking him flied away, the two Dragon Priests shooting towards two different sides of the battlefield, knowing quite well that this was not a fight they were worthy of joining.

Laughing boisterously, Ysgramor falls down from the skies like a brilliant, ethereal comet, "Stand tall, Skyrim!"

The First Man hollers, hacking the spectral Wuuthrad down like a guillotine blade.

"For Ysgramor is with you!"

War-ax meets twin battle-axes in a clash of pure physical might.

The battlefield gives in, and a bottomless ravine is cleaved into the earth, splitting the battlefield in half.

On one half lands Ysgramor, still laughing, still grinning. Still as arrogant and as mighty as ever.

On the other lands Otar, the green flames making up his eyes flaring up to cover his head- Only for his gaze to suddenly snap towards the innocuous old man that had suddenly appeared beside him.

"Elder Arngeir!?" Ulfric's horrified shout echoes across the battlefield.

Otar moves, swinging one of his axes to decapitate the old man that had appeared beside him.

The old monk smiles and raises a finger, stopping the blade without any disturbace.

Before he sighs out softly.

"Fus-Ro-Dah."

The clouds vanished.

The earth was stripped of its grass.

The snow cloaking the mountain chain evaporated.

The very air fled.

And Otar's glowing green malevolent flames flickered momentarily before his body became a blur, smashing into his temple like a meteorite.

An immense wave of force tears the mountain asunder, disintegrating the peak, the temple, and whatever lay beyond, leaving behind just a smoldering and ruined cavity within the mountain chain.

Ysgramor whistles, holding a hand over his brows and narrowing his gaze towards the distance to try and spot where Otar had been launched.

Turning, Arngeir smiles kindly at the Atmoran, "Apologies, o' great Ysgramor. This old monk was tasked by the Sky to beat up an unruly child."

The First Man grunts out a loud laugh, "A Master of the Voice, eh? Been a while since I fought alongside one."

The old monk bows his head, "I will make sure to not get in your way."

"Hah! You better not! Show me what the Masters of the Voice of this Era can do!"

Thus, two old men turned to face an unsealed monster whose death was requested by a Divine.

While up above, flying high above the battlefield, a Dragon Priest hid himself.

While holding a large, sealed scroll within his grasp.

A.N. Decided to speed-rush the last chapters of Draugr.

Then do the same with Necromancer.

Though, I do feel that Necromancer has stolen the light of Draugr, since it doesn't get many reviews… Sadge.

Still, hope y'all enjoy this chappy!

Toodles!