» Fri May 27, 2011 6:41 am
The Battle of Bruma
as recorded by the bard St. Ivesie LXXXIX
The sun peered over the Valus Mountain peaks, bathing the town of Bruma in a warm glow. Crowds lined the streets of Bruma waiting silently, as still as the icicles on the roof of Olav's Tap'n'Tack. Suddenly, through the silence, a great roar of applause echoed down from the chapel to the city's southern gate like a great wave crashing against the shore, and reverberating back from whence it came. A procession of guards from every corner of Cyrodiil, bearing the insignias and emblems of every count in the land began to march towards the gate. At the head of it was the Great Martin Septim. To his left stood Jauffre, the very grandmaster of the blades himself, and the Captain of the Bruma guard, Burd. To his right, was the Hero of Kvatch. The Hero'*The ink on the page smudges and is rendered illegible* Following the hero, was a squadron of some of the finest blades ever to grace Bruma's streets. Their armor polished to a reflective shine, any trace of apprehension or fear was hidden behind a visage of silent pride and focus. The crowd threw flowers and shouted with praise and admiration towards the men, fathers, and sons whom marched on to their graves for some, fame for others, but all for glory. They passed through the doors, and on to war. As the gates shut, the crowd's joy seemed to evaporate, and all was as still as the icicles once again.
Upon a knoll overlooking the battlefield, Martin addressed his troops like the emperor he was. "Soldiers of Cyrodiil! The Empire will stand or fall by what we do here today! Will we let the daedra do to Bruma what they did to Kvatch? Will We let them burn our homes? Will we let them kill our families? No! We take our stand here, today, for the whole of Cyrodiil! We must hold fast until the Hero of Kvatch can destroy their Great Gate. We must Kill whatever comes out of that gate! Soldiers of Cyrodiil, do you stand with me?"
"For Leyawiin!"
"For Bruma!"
"For Anvil!"
"Never forget Kvatch!"
"For Chorrol!"
"Skingrad!"
"For Cheydinhal!"
"For the Emperor!"
The army was thrown into a passionistic rage, and grabbed their bows, an arrow, and each pulled his string taught. The Blades unsheathed their Akiviri katanas, The Hero of Kvatch *the text smudges again*, and Martin brings out his longsword, and his horse heels with the rage boiling in every man on that knoll. The morning sky turned dark. A red hue began to take the place of the beautiful blue protection of Magnus, and in its stead, smoke began to billow out of Oblivion, resonating its light until the snow turned into a vibrant pink. Ash began to fall from the sky, melting the snow beneath to form a heavy slush that now covered the soldiers' boots. In a flash of light, two obsidian pillars began to sprout from the earth, scorching the bedrock, and evaporating the snow. The two menacing pillars then began to grow towards eachother, and then converge in a pulsating heat that sent a shock to the core of Bruma. The space under the malevolent arch began to change and contort into a view of the Deadlands. Through the portal fire blanketed the landscape, and pools of lava surrounded a lone island whose only distinguishible feature was a menacing tower piercing into the smoke scoured sky.
All was quiet. The silence was deafening. It was then that the next gate arose, slightly to the south of the previous. The silence grew louder and heavier. The arch had now formed, and the island behind this gate was significantly smaller, yet it had several towers, each standing with a horrifying presence. It was then, that several daedra began to climb through these terrible portals, defying all the attempts of the aedra to keep the land safe from such things, desecrating the land with their footsteps. Some of the archers let loose their arrows, and pinned the daedra to the ground where they stood. Unphased, they continued to pour out, like gophers climbing out of a hole that was filled with water at its other end. The remaining guards let loose their arrows, but, by now, their numbers had grown to the degree in which they could not be fended off with mere arrows. A third pair of pillars shot out of the ground as the first of the Cyrodiilic pikemen charged forth to meet the daedra head on.
As the two forces met, the men in both lines were crushed by those behind them. Each line, thrusting, slashing, ripping, biting their way at the other. Burd was in the center of this frenzy, his claymore stained a deep sanguine from the blood of his enemies had just cleaved the head from a dremora about to finish a terrified youngster from Cheydinhal. "You okay, boy?" asked the Nord. "You're too young to be here... in this."
"I merely want to do my part, sir!" exclaimed the boy as he reached his feet, grabbed his longsword, and turned to cut a scamp in two. Blood covered his face from being in the putrid slush that flooded the ground, but it was his blood that came from his arm, when a daedroth ripped it out of its socket and kicked his lifeless corpse to the ground. Burd charged it, and thrust his claymore through the beasts crocodillic maw and parted the being from jaw to leg in one downward slice. Moving forward, he readied his blade again, and finished the bisection with one chop down its sellion and snout. Pushing through the daedra, surrounded by corpses of both fallen friends and fiends, he heard a cry to his right and saw Martin leading a regiment of calvalry, slaughtering the daedra from horseback. His succour arrived too late, however, for as he looked to see Martin, a bolt of lightning hit him in his chest, sending him soaring back into his comrades leaving him laying betwixt the daedroth and the lad from Cheydinhal. His body cooked and burned, Burd took the boy's remaining hand and whispered, "And you have, son... and so have I." He laid his head back into the river of blood, and watched the sky drift out into the hell he knew he'd never see again.
On the other side of the battlefield, Jauffre was leading the legion of blades against a pack of clannfear and atronachs. His blade continually striking true as each of the beasts fell, cut after cut. As the last of the daedra fell, the Legion looked for their next targets. It was then that the gates began to dissappear, and all movement stopped. The earth quaked, and lava spewed from the bases of the two massive pillars that began to rise from the ground. Blood began to drip from them like rain drips from a statue. Towering over the battlefield, the pillars converged into a great arch with such a stillness that the icicles on Olav's shattered from the momentary peace. The deathly visage of a great, molten maw began to pierce the smoke and fire that lay behind the gate, and moved ever forward with horiffic clangs and ticks. Jauffre could see the faint features of The Hero of Kvatch passing into that hell, and knew that the mission would be successful.
He continued to fight valiantly, slashing through bone, metal, scale, and skin. His blades slowly began to fall one by one until it was only Jauffre and five other blades. The daedra's numbers had all but depleted when he caught sight of Martin. His horse slain, he was cornered by a Dremora Lord in front of the Great Gate itself. He wore full daedric armor, and wielded a greataxe, and was about to end all of Tamriel's hopes in one decisive slash if it weren't for Jauffre. He slashed through the haft to the demon's axe, saving Martin, but exposing himself to a counterattack. The lord turned and plunged the sharp remainder of the haft into the Breton's leg, and was about to finish him, but his head was cleaved from his shoulders by Martin's longsword. Jauffre lay on the ground, wounded and semi-conscious. Looking into the gate, he saw the machine about to overtake his and Martin's position. Realizing that there was no way out for him he pleaded for Martin to leave him, and continue to fight. Martin replied, "I can't. You have to come with m--
Jauffre summoned the last of his energy to shove Martin back to safety as the gate suddenly collapsed upon the siege crawler, causing it to crash down to the ground. Barrelling for stability, the great machine of destruction clambered forward in a vain attempt to destroy the city that had eluded destruction on this day. It's efforts, however, did send it's forward most bulk to land upon Jauffre's lower body, pinning him to the ground. In a beam of light, the Hero of Kvatch emerged and saw the carnage left in the wake of the battle. Blood flowed freely through the now melted snow, covering the bodies of all sides. The last of the daedra had been slain. The sky cleared of its red hue, and a rain began to fall from the Heavens, washing away the blood from the battlefield. It was a cold rain. It mourned the loss of so much life over such a small item. Both the Hero and Martin rushed to Jauffre's side to provide him any aid, but he had already perished. Many huzzahs were shouted among the victorious, and celebration ensued. However, Martin turned to the Hero of Kvatch and said to him in the soberest of tones. "We have got the stone, but at too high of a cost. We lost many friends today. We must retrieve the Amulet of Kings, and stop this invasion."
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So maybe not a half-hour, but don't tell me that there wasn't a climactic battle in Oblivion. You just have to use your imagination a little bit. My opinion on large scale battles doesn't change. (And yes the first time I played the battle of Bruma, Burd was killed from a lightning strike near a cheydinhal guard before the great gate opened. Also, the siege engine did fall on Jauffre as I closed the gate. Yes it did kill him. I laughed and cried at the same time.)