Hello! Here is my story. Unfortunately, I ran out of time before Skyrim dropped (later tonight) but here is what I have--I'll add segments serially as I go

Hope you enjoy reading!
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Fires of Akavir

It was an uproar, a total uproar—But not the bad kind of uproar, the Emperor thought to himself—the day was joyous as the Emperor’s daughter was celebrating her birthday—citizens were out celebrating in the streets of Imperial City, ale was flowing, dancing and songs filled the air—the Princess’ processional rolled from street to street with onlookers filling the sides—the City Guard was doing its best holding people back but even they were strained—Bah, Emperor Yaro thought, this will take weeks to clean up! But . . . she’s having a fun day; she deserves a break from the royal tedium

From high up, Yaro’s perch along his castle’s wall allowed him to view the festivities beneath him—this was her day, he knew, and he didn’t want to detract from it by stealing away attention—he had planned to make an official announcement later in the day with his daughter at his side; with his people in front of him, that would suffice—even from up here, his daughter’s frantic waving and big smile could be seen amongst the myriad bright flowers adorning her carriage, the big horses dressed in their most regal wear

Part of him wished to be down among his people, to be with them rather than above them—but this was his destiny and despite the downsides, Yaro knew he had things pretty well

‘Excuse me, m’lord’ from behind him—Yaro turned to see Count Jathis, his defense minister standing there holding a scroll and looking somewhat nervous—‘This just arrived from Morrowind, from the Telvanni elders; it is somewhat . . . distressing’

Yaro would have none of this today—‘Distressing, Jathis? Really? Can it wait? I am enjoying my daughter’s parade, for the Nine’s sake!’

Jathis looked even more uncomfortable now but stammered out a reply—‘M’lord, just . . . please read it, sire,’ handing over the scroll and stepping back

Yaro sighed, eyebrows arched, and resigned himself to his duty—pleasure would have to wait—didn’t it always?

The official dispatch began as usual, in greeting according to the highest traditions of the Empire, of the Nine, and of the royal line—the letter stated raiders had been sighted along the coastline, landing and terrorizing various isolated settlements and sending residents into a panic—Yaro grimaced—there wasn’t much he could do except send blistering warnings to the local envoys in hopes they would post their own warnings, step up their local guards, and in turn demoralize the raiders—but Yaro knew the truth—raiders weren’t deterred by anything other than brute force; money spoke louder than words

‘Raiders! Pah! Filthy, immoral raiders,’ Yaro scoffed, ‘always willing to scare an easy coin from the populace—not to mention dealing with them draws forces away from legitimate threats to our land, such as. . . well, you know, Jathis. . .’

Jathis nodded quickly,’ The heartless Nords and troublesome Wood Elves, little buggers’

‘Indeed, Jathis, these groups are constantly fomenting rebellion and revolt, causing me endless heartache and my armies bloodshed when the only thing the Empire desires is a peaceful Empire!’ Yaro spat—‘Well, have the Telvanni increase seaborne patrols by two boats per region, the only thing we can do is try to squelch the raiders’ movement and catch them in the act’

Jathis nodded but didn’t say anything for a moment

Yaro glanced at him—‘Yes, Jathis? What else?’

Something down below had caught Jathis’ eye—‘M’lord, down on the street . . .’

Yaro turned downward—his daughter’s carriage had stopped, blocked by some sort of cart in front of it—the cart had toppled over, spilling its load of vegetables all over the cobblestones—the princess’s guards rushed over to deal with the incident

Suddenly Yaro caught sight of four dark-clad figures stealing up to his daughter’s carriage—they had swords drawn

Yaro shrieked, ‘JATHIS! My daughter! She’s under attack! What to, I don't, I can’t,' he stammered, 'go, do something! Help her now!’

Jathis tore his eyes away and rushed downstairs to street level, grabbing every guard he could on the way

Down on the street, three assassins were busily holding a perimeter around the carriage while the fourth jumped up inside, drawing the lacy curtains—now no one could see what was happening

Citizens screamed and ran, guards looked up at the disruption, drew their own swords, and ran at the attackers—they were promptly cut down by skillful strikes, their blood splashing on the pavement

Yaro was terrified; what could he do? He was not armed and he was way up here—he had to do something—looking around him, he spotted a large loose stone that had fallen out of the castle wall—the horrified Emperor lifted the rock high above his head and threw with all his might

Down came the rock, smashing in the middle of the street, right near one assassin

The assassin looked up

The Emperor looked down

He thought he could make out a slight grin on the dirty villain’s face although it was partially shrouded inside his hood; he couldn’t be sure but it made him even angrier—the villain twisted to strike down another onrushing guard, turned back up to the ruler of the land, made a rude hand gesture, and then went back about his work on the bloody street

Suddenly the assassin who had jumped inside the carriage was thrown out, backwards, bleeding profusely—he crumpled to the ground with a slash mark across his neck—Yaro’s daughter peeked out, holding a dripping ornate dagger in her hand—the other three rushed for the carriage but were stopped by a flurry of arrows let loose by bowmen who had just arrived—two assassins were cut down, multiple arrow wounds stopping their movement

The final assassin, the one who had disgraced the Emperor, grabbed a trinket from his robes, held it high, shouted something aloud, then with his sword literally drew in the air some foreign letters which seemed to alight like blood against the backdrop of gray walls and cobblestones—the letters hung there in the air, suspended with some sort of magic

The final attacker was finally cut down by a throng of Imperial swordsmen—he had not fought back; he simply stood there, arrogant, mocking, with his sword in the sky

Emperor Yaro saw Jathis now on the street with dozens of soldiers behind him, rapidly securing the area—the attacker’s bodies were double-checked, their weapons kicked away

As the bodies were being searched, a blue light arose from all four, enveloping the bodies and changing the physical aspect of them—guards staggered back, unsure of what was happening—the bodies actually shifted, changed out of the human forms they had previously inhabited into . . . humongous snakes?

Yaro couldn’t believe his eyes—he heard of snake-people legends before but to see them with his own eyes? Impossible—he rushed downstairs

Appearing on the street, the Emperor of Tamriel hurried over to the carriage to embrace his daughter, who was shaking and bloodstained—‘Are you hurt? Did they hurt you? You’re not bleeding are you? Please tell me you’re all right!’—he broke down

The princess shook her head, beginning to cry as well—‘Father, I didn’t know what . . . I just thought . . . I did what you taught me, oh, oh, who is this, why . . .?’

‘Oh my dear, I’m so glad you’re all right, we must be more careful after this, this cannot be allowed to happen again, ever,’ he eyed at Jathis, standing nearby, watching—‘You need to go with the Guard Captain now, my dear, you need to leave this place, he will take care of you, we will talk later, go!’—Yaro watched as the captain escorted the princess from the scene, escorted by dozens of guards surrounding them both, to the nearest safe tower

Yaro turned back to the ugly scene—he saw his defense minister seemingly transfixed by the blood-red writing still hanging in the air above the last assassin’s green-scaled corpse—‘Jathis . . . what is this thing…’

‘Sire, I don’t know for sure but if legend serves me correctly, it is a Tsaesci’

‘A what?’

‘A snake-man, sire, from the east,’ Jathis turned back to the bloody mess

Yaro shook his head—‘We have no snake-men in Tamriel, Jathis, certainly none in Morrowind or Black Marsh that I know of, and they are the east!’

‘No, sire, the far east, the real east…Akavir’

Yaro’s blood ran cold at that word—‘Akaviri…? Here? But we haven’t heard a thing from them in centuries!’

‘I know, sire, this is most troubling—judging from the methods used, it does seem like it was a potential assassination attempt, not of you, of course, but to an heir, which is close enough’

Yaro gaped—‘An assassination . . . of my daughter? But why? Why on Nirn would they do something like that? I know our nations are historical enemies but . . . just out of the blue like this?’

Jathis yelled to a guard—‘Bring me an Akaviri cipher, right now’—in under two minutes, the minister was holding his cipher—he carefully studied the floating writing, checking multiple times before scribbling the message down on the back of a document he had been carrying

‘What does it say?’ Yaro could barely speak

A crowd of guards and now civilians had gathered around the floating words, watching the defense minister translate the bitter omen—they, too, waited breathlessly

Jathis stopped writing slowly as the final word appeared—dozens of pairs of eyes peeked over his shoulders:

The time has come; your time has come; prepare, prepare, for we have prepared

Yaro stopped—his eyes froze in place—the horror of the words washed over him as their significance rolled in—Akaviri—that means . . .

This was going to be a problem

‘Mobilize the regiments’

It was getting late—the shop had closed several hours ago but there was still so much work to be done—Hoffstaff looked around him at his tools and fires—various projects lay around, waiting to be completed: pikes for the Count’s Second Battalion, shields for the Chorrol garrison, odds and ends for his fellow citizens of Bruma, even a few helmets for a battlemage’s private militia in far off Highrock—Hoffstaff reflected on that—his reputation was becoming quite well-known based on the number and size of contracts he was receiving—the plaque on the wall said it all: “Best Smith in Bruma, 5E267”—Hoffstaff grinned, I am pretty good aren’t I? Best to put the ego to bed, though, have to finish those pikes tomorrow

Hoffstaff swung by the brew keg on his way to bed—he was a Nord, after all, and with no wife to say otherwise, a Nord enjoys his brew—Yes we do, he thought contentedly, yes we do—sleep came easily, as his manual labor always tired him

Next morning Hoffstaff rose early and restarted his fires—he ate breakfast while waiting for the heat to rise, then popped outside to survey the empty street—it was another cold morning with a few snowflakes riding the air— A beautiful morning, he thought, A good Nord morning

Hoffstaff said hello to the city guards posted at the nearby gate—they responded professionally but respectfully—Hoffstaff’s reputation as a master smith preceded him, especially in his own city

A messenger scuttled past, shouting and waving a Black Horse Courier pamphlet in his left hand, advertising the news of the day—‘Emperor calls up regiments, Emperor calls up regiments, read all about it!’ the boy touted—Hoffstaff took a copy and read the headline—sure enough, Emperor Yaro had called up all standing regiments of the Imperial province, effectively mobilizing them—troops were to report to their duty centers within ten days—Hoffstaff read further, intrigued—the article said that the already deplorable relations with the distant and hostile nation of Akavir had grown worse and that war was threatening—Hoffstaff tried to remember something of Akavir—It’s off to the east, isn’t it? Across the ocean?

It took some effort reaching back several decades to his prior military service in the Emperor’s armies—Hoffstaff had seen service at several posts in Tamriel, across several provinces—he had hung his shield at forts in Black Marsh, Morrowind, Hammerfell, and his people’s ancestral home of Skyrim—Black Marsh, like Morrowind, faced Akavir to the east, he remembered . . . and despite the land being primeval and swampy, it would still be prime ground for invasion, a relatively easy prize, if that ever came—Morrowind, on the other hand, was largely rubble from the devastation caused ages prior in the Fourth Era—the northern region was still scarred wasteland from Red Mountain’s eruption but the eastern coast and southern plains remained largely habitable and settlements there had been fully rebuilt

Hoffstaff turned and went back inside, trying to remember what happened next—luckily, there were books for that—he picked up a history book from a shelf—paging through, he found what he was looking for—Ah yes, after nearly six centuries of occupation the Argonians became overstrained, their army deteriorated, and couldn’t hold onto their gains in Morrowind, the classic overreach—led by a mysterious figure arising out of the never-ending conflicts in Skyrim, a patchwork crusade of many races was created and met the Argonians in battle, decisively defeating them and pushing them back to their southern swamps

Morrowind now cleared, its refugees returning from the island of Solstheim, the triumphant crusade began to rebuild what was left of the Tamrielic Empire according to the wishes of its leader, first starting in the place where it all began, Cyrodiil—piece by piece, year by year, the crusade fanned out and subjugated the old provinces through a mixture of force and cunning, its battle cry, ‘Reconquer, Rebuild’—led by the ingenuity of their battle-hardened warrior (whose name had been curiously lost over time), the crusade secured borders, roads, and passes from hostile defenders, thereby garnering the support of the locals, as well as making shrewd negotiations with the various rulers of the former provinces to recognize Cyrodiil as the head of a new Empire—the crusade’s veiled offer was that what happened to Morrowind could just as easily happen to their lands—in the face of an aggressive army on their doorstep, the rulers readily agreed to join the fledgling Empire as vassals with the Imperials assuming the rule of protector against future incursions—the new Empire would adopt a stated goal of pursuing peace and prosperity together as one nation united

Empire now complete, the crusade disbanded, with soldiers who desired it joining the ranks of the new Imperial Army—the Fifth Era of Men had begun—the war hero became head of the newly reformed Elder Council and kingmaker, paving the way for the present line of royal Septims, of which Emperor Yaro was current occupant

That was over two hundred years ago, things sure have changed, Hoffstaff marveled—Now things are like they were in the old days, way back in the Third Era, hah! Same Empire and everything—some things never change—as for this thing with Akavir . . . let’s hope it’s just nerves

Checking the fire, Hoffstaff got to work on the pikes—he only had a few left and he had to finish the fittings before they could be shipped to whatever carpenter had contracted to fit the pole handles—as he worked his mind began to wander, from the current issues back to his youth in the mountains around Bruma—his people were the mighty Nords of Skyrim, tough and hardy like statuesque golems, able to withstand tremendous blows and capable of such ferocity as to make a grown man shiver—the Nords were indeed mighty warriors, as the Empire well knew—Hoffstaff had let his hair grow long, a carryover from his rebellious youth as well as a traditional symbol of independence among his people—it also represented a visual insult to the Empire, a sore reminder that the Nords were a conquered people and subject to the will of the Emperor

Absentmindedly Hoffstaff threw several pieces of wood in the stove, then as he was turning around, knocked a stack of wood into a set of jewelry he had been creating for some of his friend’s children—the pieces contacted several sticks of white hot iron that Hoffstaff had heating

The first explosive exothermic reaction in history ensued—burning fragments shot out in all directions at thousands of degrees

Hoffstaff staggered backwards, blinded, luckily escaping the fragments which would have burned right through his skin; a large metal net hanging over the anvil clanged loudly, catching many of the projectiles—a plume of smoke and steam erupted from the stove, splashing water from the cooling trough on the floor—the bellows coughed soot everywhere, blackening the air—the sound was deafening and the smith tripped on loose wood into the wall where he crumpled to the floorboards—several paper notices and permits by the door hung singed and smoldering; various weapons lay on the ground where they had clattered down—Hoffstaff opened his eyes in wonder at his wrecked and smoking shop

What in the world had happened?

An arrow whizzed by, striking the center of the wooden target board, dead on—Zeel smirked, nodded in admiration

“Not bad, do it again”

Another arrow, this time splitting the shaft of the previous one, dead on

“All right, showoff, everyone knows you’re the best shot in the Brotherhood”

A third arrow was nocked, stretched, and released, this time directly towards Zeel’s head—he snatched it out of the air with practiced ease and mild disgust

“That’s slop work for a week, my dear!”

The guilty archer, a beautiful female Wood Elf named Tyria, gasped innocently—“What?? Me? I don’t know what you’re talking about”

Zeel stamped his foot—“You will after a couple days of it, now get outta here”

Tyria retrieved her elegantly crafted green fletched arrows with a soft smile toward Zeel and glided out of the practice room

Zeel shook his head—That arrogant wench . . . she’s good but she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with

Zeel had been an officer in the Dark Brotherhood for several months until being promoted to the status of Listener, the highest post in the Guild, for exemplary loyalty and duty—it was his duty to visit the guild’s Night Mother, a quasi-deific being who culled the voids for information and potential leads for the guild to pursue—he had decided to retain his day-to-day job which entailed reading spy reports, news releases, military intercepts, and generating written orders to the guild’s assassins—because that’s what the Dark Brotherhood is, he reminded himself, we are a professional assassin’s guild . . . and we have fun with it, he smiled

The devious Listener currently had a dozen trained assassins and killers working under him, with several hundred more semi-anonymous informants providing reliable eyewitness accounting throughout the provinces—the exalted Night Mother actually determined who and what it was the Brotherhood exterminated—no orders were ever created without the consent or agreement of the Night Mother; it was her Guild and she ran the show—of course, Zeel knew he and the other officers actually ran the day-to-day show, the spit-and-polish work of the guild’s operations; obtaining supplies, recruiting talent, bribing officials, reading and researching the daily briefs from the Brotherhood’s widely-flung spy network—she technically ran the show, but who was being technical? Zeel was content with letting someone else make the kill decisions—his job kept him busy enough . . . for now

Zeel picked up a parchment from a scout in eastern Morrowind—the paper said citizens there were getting very uneasy—stories from fishermen and traders berthing there from travels to eastern lands, including the gigantic yet mysterious Akavir, said tension was rising on both coasts—the peasants on the Morrowind coast felt very weak and vulnerable, so far from the center of Imperial power and defense—they envied their fellow Dark Elven nobles of Telvanni descent, the powerful wizards who lived in grand, twisting towers of meandering plant growth, hundreds of feet high—these fortresses, as they basically were, were nearly impregnable to enemy action, especially when supported by the powerful Telvanni enchantments and magical defensive structures built to support the area

Unfortunately, the Telvanni were too few in number to protect everyone, especially since most of them were clustered together on their own island chain to the extreme northeast—a few Telvanni resided along the eastern mainland coast, however, with each major settlement having but one tower—it was to this tower that the local commoners would flee to should a major incursion arrive—but once everyone had fled . . . the rest of the fertile coast would be free and open to destruction—houses and shops would be burned, cattle would be slaughtered or taken as supplies by the invaders, any valuables would surely be looted and stolen—just like every other major armed incursion in history, Zeel reminded himself, pure barbarism—but hey, it’s war, what are you gonna do

Zeel sighed and decided he needed a break from paperwork

“Hey tell Kromak I’m going out for a ride, be back later,” he shouted

“You got it Z,” came the reply

The woods around Cheydinhal were gorgeous, thick and majestic, so easy to get lost in—but that’s half the fun, Zeel thought as his horse kicked into the turf, sending flowers and grass flying—he had left the main road behind long ago—his expertise as a scout and navigator filled him with confidence to always be able to find his way, no matter where, no matter what weather

The ride was refreshing . . . but Zeel had an ulterior motive—a few days prior he had scheduled to meet an informant out in the woods today—the meeting would happen privately with only the trees listening in—this informant was responsible for western Morrowind as well as the mountainous border between Cyrodiil and Morrowind—the Velothi Mountains, as well as the more southerly Valus Range, climbed to 10,000 feet and spanned the entire border between the two provinces—they were the singular landform that protected the Imperial capital from anything hostile of an easterly origin—unfortunately, Morrowind and Black Marsh, the two provinces to the east, were coastal provinces and did not share this luxury—Zeel’s informant was to report on news he had retrieved regarding events in the east

His horse hesitated, sensing something—Zeel looked sharply about, his keen eyes seeking movement in the darkening surroundings—a shadow emerged slightly from behind a trunk—Zeel wheeled his horse to face the figure and gave his challenge

“Sisters of light . . .”

“. . . bow to the dying day” came the coded, gravelly response

Zeel dismounted and walked over to his informant—they clasped hands but the informant did not take off his black hood, remaining fully hidden under its shroud as was custom in the Brotherhood, for secrecy’s sake—were this a trap, the by-laws stated, and the informant escaped, their true identity would never be known to authorities—what was required, however, in addition to the passcode, was to show the superior a pair of burned-in tattoos on the back of the biceps—this cemented the gathering was legitimate

“What news, scout?”

The informant breathed deeply before responding—then a gravelly hiss, making his reptilian race known despite the head covering—“Newss of the easst, Lissstener—Akavir grows restless, its rulers edgy, itss people hungry for conquesst and conflict—the Akaviri Conglomerate readies an army, a masssive field army for battle—it marshals at thiss very moment”

Zeel paled but mentally steadied himself—“. . . Do you know where this force is destined to travel, scout?”

Another deep breath in the chilly air—“Atmora remains neutral as always; Yokuda abandoned, Pyandonea issolated; there is but one place for thiss army to travel, Lissstener” the voice croaked

“Perhaps the Conglomerate is simply trying to intimidate some of its rebellious local islands, the ones who break away from time to time”

“No, Lissstener—thisss army is far too large, far too expensssive for such a trivial matter—such a thing would only require shrewd diplomacy, perhapss a well-placed assassination, no more—thisss is an army with one goal in mind: foreign conquesst”

Zeel looked past the informant to the eastern mountains rising ever sharply into the mists—the tops were snow-capped—he could not see beyond

“The only power left . . . is us”