A/N: I'm baaaaaaaack. *ducks tomatoes* Tough crowd.

Ahem. So, been a long time, huh? Sorry for the delay – got bogged down in work and other projects. Also, I'm lazy. That too.

BTW, I need some help. A good chunk of the reason for my absence was that I was trying to play Skyrim to get some knowledge of the setting.

A task I, unfortunately, failed to do. I hate that game. Hate it. Love the universe it's based on, certainly, else I wouldn't bother writing this, but I hate the game itself. It's too damn immersive and huge. Oblivion was bad enough, what with me spending thirty hours playing and not even taking the Amulet of Kings to Jauffre. Skyrim's even worse.

So, here's my problem. I need a beta-reader. Not for checking my spelling and/or grammar, mind you, which I can do by myself, but to inform me about Skyrim through conversations, where I ask about places my story will be going to. Anyone up for it?

Anywho, time to start the 5th chapter.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The Iron Hide mercenaries were some of the best in the business for a reason. The reason, of course, being Hellas.

Hellas' origins were a mystery. No one really knew where the Witch had come from, what her lineage was – nothing. All they knew was that she was an oddity, being a Redguard who specialized in magic, and that she was fiercely devoted to the mercenaries she led.

Her name first came to prominence in the hunt for the Bandit King Gorak. Where other mercenary bands who had taken the commission either failed and perished or defaulted and were hunted down, the Iron Hide mercenaries accomplished the mission in question, presenting the head of the Bandit King to the then High King Istlod.

It was a tale fit for legend, that, and one that bards took great glee in recounting. The travails of the mercenaries, as they hunted from trail to trail, ever vigilant and ever seeking, were favorites to hear about. Their mighty clash against the forces of the Bandit King, who had plagued the lands of Skyrim for decades, was an event worthy of song.

And through it all, Hellas' name resounded. Hellas, who kept the spirits of her men up throughout the way. Hellas, who so captivated and inspired her men, that they willingly followed her to the feared Gorak's camp. Hellas, whose trickery and cunning allowed the much smaller band of mercenaries to annihilate the far larger force of bandits, whose mind concocted the plan that divided the bandits at the end – that Hellas, who was at the top of the mercenary scene in Skyrim, whose name was known by everyone in the business, who inspired equal parts fear and awe. It was that Hellas who delivered the final blow to the towering Bandit King, that Hellas whose actions scattered the bandits forevermore.

That Hellas … who was currently snoring out loud in her tent.

Bjorn's hand twitched, aching to put an end to those snores. He might have been warming to his job as a mercenary over the years; he might have started to consider the other mercenaries his brothers in arms due to their treatment of him and the affection and camaraderie they showed, but Hellas? He could hardly resist gutting her where she now slept.

He tried to pretend that this had nothing to do with her incredibly annoying sleeping habits.

"Ah, captain's tired again, huh?" His fellow mercenary, Fenrir stated, rubbing his eyes. "Joy. Looks like there's no sleep to be had tonight."

"Why does she never believe us when we tell her she snores?" Bjorn complained. "By Ysmir, you'd think her caterwauling would leave some evidence behind."

"It's an act of the Divines, Bjorn." Fenrir snorted. "Nothing else can explain it. Who knows, maybe Talos himself 'blessed' her with this ability so that all of us would stay alert at night."

"Or maybe Talos had nothing to do with it," Bjorn said, mutinously. "I think the only one who 'blessed' her with this ability is herself. Hellas always did like making sure we were always alert."

Fenrir laughed. "Aye, I think it works nicely with her own desires, doesn't it? Keeps us on our toes, and her on her back."

There was a moment of silence as Bjorn just stared at Fenrir.

"… That came out wrong." Fenrir protested. "I would never- She's … not snoring."

Fenrir paled as an arm draped across him, and he felt a warm cheek touch his own.

"I like to be on my back, then, do I Fenrir?" A voice purred.

"A-Ah, I didn't mean it, Hellas-"

"Of course you didn't. After all, if you did …" Her voice seeped into him from his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

"… I'd never be just yours, would I?" She whispered and walked away, leaving him frozen where she'd left him.

Blushing under the raucous laughter and hooting of the band, Fenrir was nonetheless smiling widely. Bjorn knew why, bitter as the thought seemed.

After all, why be embarrassed in front of your comrades in arms, your brothers in blood? Why feel the sting of shame when your leader, a caring, beautiful woman you respect, sheds the distance between you?

The feeling of camaraderie burned him, day after day. It was hard to hold onto his anger and hate when his enemies refused to be worthy of his scorn and contempt. While his hate for Hellas still smoldered from time to time, ignited again and again by his constant separation from his home … he'd long since lost his animosity with the mercenaries themselves.

They were too friendly, too apologetic about their actions. He knew it wasn't their idea, and it was easy to see why they followed them considering how important Hellas was to them. He could understand, which only rankled more.

Watching the scene from a distance, Bjorn was suddenly startled out of his thoughts by a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Bjorn!" A beautiful voice sounded. "Come, join us. Gloominess will get you nothing, after all."

He turned to the voice, belonging to that of a beautiful Nord with the classic blue eyes and blonde hair. A bow and quiver on her back, wearing leather armor and with her hair in a braid, she represented the ideal warrior woman the Nords respected.

Pity she was something of a coward.

"Aye, Astrid." He said, trying to stop a smile from forming on his face at the timid beauty's courage in coming to get him. He could see the looks she gave him from time to time, knew what was on her mind. And despite the hate he felt from Hellas, he found he could not bring himself to hate Astrid the same way.

He ignored the treacherous part of his mind that was whispering, even then.

If hate was so hard to form, then … why not join them?

XXXXX

They caught up to Ulfric by the next day.

The path to Windhelm was long, after all, and while Ulfric had had a head start, he'd been traveling from Solitude. They'd ensured that they'd be able to intercept him and his supporters half-way through their journey.

The plan was simple, if efficient. Calculate their route, set up a trap on a cliff above the pass and ambush Ulfric and his supporters as they passed through. Take them down swiftly and silently – no need to get into a pitched battle. Hellas' magical ability combined with Bjorn's absurd volume of magicka would ensure a quick, devastating demise – if the archers didn't manage it in the first place. The plan was fool-proof.

Or so they thought. They had missed a few things in their arrogance and complacency, however.

They had missed the fact that Ulfric had quite a few supporters. Supporters who would be sure to warn him of a famous mercenary company coming after his head.

XXXXX

The battle was relatively short, and devastating.

Their trap had been turned around them, the ambushers becoming the ambushed. Their positions relayed through Ulfric's spies, they came under fire from the same tactics that they'd planned to use.

The first volley alone wiped out nearly a quarter of the band, as the archers in Ulfric's retinue targeted the less armored members of the company. As the people around them dropped like flies, Bjorn could just make out Hellas' eyes widening in absolute and unrepressed fury.

And then the world went to hell.

Bjorn knew Hellas was a capable combat mage. Indeed, from what he'd heard, she was likely one of the best mages when it came to combat in the world, and the best in Skyrim. He'd known, faintly, that if it came to a fight between them, he'd likely lose handily.

He hadn't quite understood what that really meant, however, until he saw her really cut loose.

Hellas did not have the insane amount of magicka he did. What she did have, was experience, a mind-boggling amount of natural talent, an amazing ability to manipulate magicka, and a creative bent that had seen use numerous times before.

Two spells. That's all it took. One to target, extrapolating from the attack to the attacker. The other to strike – an Incinerate spell, focused into a tiny ball, expending far less magicka for similar levels of damage if directed well.

Fire hot enough to cut through ebony exploded out from her form in a shower of orange marbles, each of which homed in on the archers and tore through their head.

Over 50 people died in an instant.

As the soldiers traveling with Ulfric were thrown into disarray at the sudden death of their comrades, the mercs of the Iron Hide rallied themselves, and counter-attacked.

What was to be a simple and efficient slaughter turned into a two-sided bloodbath, as the Iron Hide mercs and Ulfric's supporters clashed.

Bjorn ignored all that, however. He had a clear target in sight, someone who he needed to kill, the sight of whom filled him with an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

All his comrades. All his friends. Felled by one man's orders, fighting for their lives based on one man's decision.

Ulfric Stormcloak. You won't live past this day.

XXXXX

Ulfric Stormcloak watched the ensuing battle dispassionately, focusing on commanding his forces and alert for any sudden attacks of opportunity or changes in the tide of battle.

As he yelled out orders to his soldiers-("Five Fighter Formation! Defend and attack, switch between your approaches with your shields!"), he stewed at the gall of these mercenaries. To attempt to assassinate a Jarl of Skyrim, on the orders of the Legion no doubt. He wondered when their betrayal would ever end – if it ever would.

Death was too good for these traitors. Not like the High King …

He regretted his actions, somewhat. Perhaps a peaceful resolution might have been possible, but with the empire so entrenched in Solitude, with their influence so great, what hope could he have had to influence Torygg? No, the only option had been what he'd chosen – prove that the Empire did not have the strength it once had. Prove that Torygg was unfit to be the High King, that the High King must be more powerful than that, that the High King must not be a puppet of the Empire. It was not Torygg's fault, really – he could not resist the empire with his will and strength. But he was a necessary sacrifice all the same, and Ulfric had done the deed in the way that maintained both their honor – in a duel to the death, the way it was among Nords.

Right now, however, he had no thought for all that. All he felt was rage at another of the Empire's betrayals, at their cowardice, in sending a well-known mercenary company like the Iron Hide mercenaries to assassinate him. He hadn't believed they would sink quite so low, act with such cowardice. It was clear he needed to stop underestimating the Empire's capacity for underhandedness.

Weak, crumbling, and yet they persisted in performing the bidding of the Thalmor. Damn Empire – failing to protect their citizens, they instead chose to oppress them.

His thoughts were just there in the background, however, as he focused on the battle in front of him. As he used his impressive swordplay and combat experience to handle the few opponents that approached him, he noticed an orange glow out of the corner of his eye.

Quickly dispatching his latest opponent, he turned in that direction and managed a quick "Fus!" as the orb of condensed fire shot at him like an arrow.

XXXXX

Bjorn had moved quickly, intending to take out the Jarl and hence cut off the problems facing the mercenaries at the root. He'd fired a quick fire spell, extremely powerful and magicka intensive, but possessing a rather short, almost negligible area of effect – there was no way he was going to jeopardize the lives of his comrades still fighting Ulfric after all. Immediately after firing the spell, he'd blurred in Ulfric's direction, covering the almost 100 feet between them in slightly less than a second.

He'd still been too slow, however. The moment the orb of fire had shot towards the man, a single shout of "Fus!" echoed throughout the battlefield. The orb of fire was violently dispersed by the force, and Bjorn's charge was arrested as the force of the shout sent him flying and the flames of the spell right back at him.

He collapsed at the edge of the cliff, gravely wounded by his own attack and the force of the shout. As he struggled to get up, he could see Ulfric swinging his sword at him, the coup de grace to their battle.

He was interrupted, however, when an arrow ripped through his palm, causing his sword to drop. As he hissed in pain, a bolt of lightning came out of nowhere and struck him, blasting him off his feet and dropping him back up the cliff, where he lay insensate.

"Bjorn!" Hellas called out to him, out of breath from the expenditure of magicka involved in her first attack and in the lightning bolt she'd sent. Astrid walked alongside her, shaking at the intensity of the battle but willing to fight by the side of her comrades all the same. "Are you alright?" Hellas asked, concerned. "Fit to fight?"

"Aye," he muttered wincing. "I'm fine." He tried getting to his feet, and fell down again, his head dizzy from the sudden and startling motions he'd gone through upon being flung down the cliff. "Well, maybe not."

"Stay down, then. We'll handle-"

"Hellas!"

Fenrir's scream, warning them all, came a bit too late. Their attention on Bjorn, the two women had failed to notice Ulfric slowly rising.

Looking down on them, on his own soldiers and the mercenaries who were winning, Ulfric's patience shattered. With a mighty shout, he cut loose.

"Fus Ro Dah!"

The cliff shattered.

The immense, absurd amount of force that emerged from the shout – a force strong enough to reduce castles to ruin – emerged from his mouth, aimed below at his targets.

The three of them could only look on in horror before they were hurtled forward at awesome speeds, smashing into the cliff at the other side. At the same time, the people who were fighting on the cliff fared no better.

Bjorn's last sight was of Ulfric's triumphant face, as he hit the cliff wall at high speeds. He was barely conscious enough to realize that Hellas would hit it head-first, before the world went black.

XXXXX

A/N: So. For those who were perhaps wondering if the Elder Scrolls side was underrepresented … yeah. There are quite a few combat monsters even in that setting – and I can assure you that while the game did not present it that way, Alduin in my story will be presented as something capable of wiping out all life in the world. He'll be akin to the Juubi in power, if not greater.