Chapter Text
It had been months since Ragnar’s victory in Sovngarde, and Skyrim had changed quite a bit since. The Northmost country of Tamriel had experienced a time of unprecedented peace since Ragnar’s victory as he took it upon himself to oversee the talks between the Stormcloaks and Imperials, making sure no interference took place or that neither side forgot the real threat lurking to the south.
The Thalmor themselves had become less active and far less vocal than they had in the time before Ragnar’s victory. His actions in the Jerral Mountains against the Fist did not go unnoticed and as such the Elves made sure not to cause any waves.
They had made a powerful enemy in Ragnar Blackclaw, and through the deaths of Gallar, Brutas and Malavus, they had learned he was not a threat that could be easily killed. Whatever the case, Ragnar kept his senses about him, never knowing when the Thalmor would try again.
He knew they would not let the death of Malavus slide. Eventually, one day they would try to take their vengeance, for he had proved the leader of the fist right to be afraid of him.
But despite Ragnar’s victory, Skyrim remained a volatile place, filled with monsters, swarmed by bandits, criminals, and threats to the people. But now, Skyrim had its hero, a legendary warrior with the power of the Dragons at his beck and call.
Not all the Dragons however bent to Ragnar’s will. Despite being named the new Thuri of the Dov, he was still a mortal Nord, and many Dragons refused to obey him. Many that followed Alduin’s rule scoffed at the idea of bowing to a mortal and would go their own ways, continuing to attack settlements and whenever they could, try to kill the Dragonborn.
Yes, Ragnar still had enemies on the prowl.
Between fighting rogue Dragons and defending the people of Skyrim, Ragnar also continued his search for Aisha. His childhood friend and daughter of his Redguard Uncle Hasim.
When Hasim found what had happened to his daughter, falling in with the Dark Brotherhood, Ragnar swore he would bring her back, that he would not allow her to stain her soul any further with the group of murderous Assassins.
Whenever Ragnar could, he would look for clues, leads, anything that could lead him to Aisha.
As the months passed, Ragnar found himself falling into a new habit. He was not the mercenary he once was, no longer moving from job to job in search of coin, no he had gained a new purpose as the Hero of Skyrim.
It was his duty to protect his homeland and the innocents that called it home.
Not a duty that fate or destiny chose, but one he chose for himself.
It seemed all was right in Skyrim.
If not for an emerging threat, waiting in the darkness.
Far to the North, the first signs of this threat were already beginning to show.
…
…
The Hall of the Vigilant, the headquarters of the Vigilants of Stendarr, a grand stone fortress built into the side of the very mountain. The Daedra hunters had gathered in their dozens, armed to the teeth and ready to take the fight to the Darkness in the name of the god of Mercy.
Down a snowy path lay the main gates of the mighty hall, made from cold rolled steel and always guarded by at least two elite Daedra hunters, no one went to the hall without the Vigilant’s say so.
Stood at the main gates of the hall stood two heavily armoured Vigilants. Their robes flapping in the high winds around their thick steel plate, their highly trained eyes peering through the slits of their hooded helmets.
Both carried a Warhammer, blessed by Stendarr to bring his judgment against the foul forces of darkness.
The two guards watched as the cold wind blew before them, the storm had only been getting worse but the defenders of Nirn did not relent in their duties. Just behind them in the hall, dozens of Daedra hunters like them rested and prepared for whatever the dawn would bring.
That was when they saw something approaching in the storm.
A shape was coming towards them.
As it got closer, they could pick out details, humanoid, a flowing cloak, and the faint rattle of chains with every heavy footstep.
Hefting up their Warhammers, the Vigilants prepared to do what was necessary.
“Halt!! In the name of Stendarr, identify yourself!” one of the Vigilants commanded.
The figure simply kept approaching, the shifting of armour plates becoming louder as well as the faint rattling of chains.
“I said Halt!!” the Vigilant shouted louder this time, gripping his Warhammer tightly.
But the closer the figure approached, the larger its aura of intimidation grew, as details of the mysterious figure became clearer.
This…man…stood taller than any man either of the Vigilants had ever seen, if not for the fact he was clad in plate armour as black as midnight he could be mistaken for a giant. The one arm that was not hidden by his cloak was massive and clad in a claw-tipped gauntlet with chains wrapped around the forearm section.
The faint glow of his eyes pierced through their souls.
Those eyes…like…glittering orbs of purest gold…but burning like the coals of the deepest pits of Oblivion.
It made these hardened Daedra hunters tremble to their core as he approached, the snow crunching beneath his feet with every heavy footstep.
But fear or not, the Vigilants would not falter.
“For the last time…HALT IN THE NAME OF…” the Vigilant began until he felt an armoured hand wrap around his head.
In the blink of an eye, the figure had closed the distance of over 20 feet and wrapped its massive hand around the Vigilant’s head. Due to the blaring wind, they hadn’t heard the words of power that left the mysterious man’s lips.
*CRUNCH!!*
The steel of the Vigilant’s helmet gave way like it were made of paper and crushed the head inside like it were a freshly laid egg. Blood sprayed from the slits of his helmet as his brains were rendered into mush.
The second Vigilant was frozen in place, the quick succession of such brutal violence taking the breath from his lungs as his body trembled.
What…what just…
The second Vigilant felt his heart stop when he saw those bright golden eyes, glaring into his soul with burning intensity. Those eyes…those were not the eyes of a normal man, not even the eyes of a killer…those were the eyes of someone who had seen the worst horrors reality had to offer and did not flinch.
What…in the name of all the gods had those eyes seen?
The man looked like a warrior, his face was littered with scars, his hair a tone of black that was so dark it seemed unnatural. His chin framed with a full black beard that framed the scowl on his face.
This was not a man to trifle with.
The second Vigilant didn’t feel like a deer being looked upon by a bear, he felt like an ant being glared at by a Dragon.
In a blur of movement, the second Vigilant felt the massive hand of the mystery man wrapped around his throat as he was held up almost three feet from the ground. The Vigilant’s Warhammer dropped to the ground as his hands grasped at the thick wrist of his attacker.
The grip was iron tight, enough to crush wood, stone, even steel, and the Vigilant could tell this man wasn’t even squeezing yet.
The Daedra hunter only managed to get one final word from out of his lips as he choked.
“…W…Who…”
*CRACK!!*
The Vigilant’s body went limp as his neck was snapped like a twig.
Dropping the Vigilant’s body to the snow, the man looked down on the two corpses. They were far from the first ones he had made, and they would be far from the last. With a roll of his neck, the half-giant let out a sigh that turned to steam in the cold air around him.
Using his single exposed arm, the titanic warrior slammed his fist into the gate, breaking the cold rolled steel like it was brittle wood.
Reaching to his cloaked side, the man grasped hold of the sword sheathed at his side, slowly he unsheathed the blade, inch by inch of blackened steel was unveiled as he drew a long curved Akaviri styled sword.
The dreaded Ebony Blade of Mephala.
A two-handed Daedric sword that he wielded like it was one-handed.
With the Daedric weapon in hand, the man cracked his neck from side to side, prepared to enact what he had been sent here to do.
The one thing he did best…slaughter.
This man…was not a regular man.
He had seen battles the two dead men could scarcely dream of. They didn’t know just how out of their league they were when they rose their weapons to him.
He was not a regular man, he was a legend to some, a nightmare to many others, a demon of mortal flesh and blood that had managed to survive the eras through his sheer will, determination, and boundless rage.
He was a man who had been denied the release he once sought, denied the resting place besides those he loved. A man doomed to walk the soil of Nirn until it crumbled beneath him.
He had been given many names over the ages.
The fury of Atmora.
The Blasphemous claw.
The Dread of the far north.
The Scourge of the Snow Elves.
Ysgramor’s Executioner.
He was the progenitor of a bloodline that had given birth to the great hero whose name was only recently shouted from the throat of the world.
He was the most dangerous creature in the world.
He was Gunmar Blackclaw.
And he had returned to his homeland.
TO BE CONTINUED IN: THE BLOOD OF BLACKCLAW