Arriving at Kagrenzel

4E 201, North of the Rift

Gerron Ironbreaker

The morning air was crisp, biting at his face as Gerron adjusted the strap of his breastplate. His breath fogged in the chill as he secured the last of his gear. He stood outside his forge, having just finished the last bit of preparation needed for the journey. The dawn was just breaking over the jagged peaks of the Velothi Mountains, casting pale orange light over Shor's Stone.

Gerron's armor gleamed in the sunlight — a new ebony breastplate and matching pauldrons, polished to a dark sheen. Beneath it was chainmail that went over the tunic he wore underneath. 

His bracers and greaves were forged from quality steel, lightweight yet sturdy. He had considered donning a full set of ebony, but he'd run short of the rare ore. Filnjar had promised that a fresh batch would be ready by the time he returned.

The unfinished Mercury Hammer sat against his back. At the moment, it was just a simple ebony warhammer — heavy and perfectly balanced — but Gerron had plans for it. If Kagrenzel yielded the resources he hoped for, it would become something greater.

He tightened the strap across his chest and glanced at his companion.

Grogmar stood nearby, adjusting the steel war axe at his hip. He was a tower of muscle beneath a newly forged full set of steel armor. A thick round shield was strapped to his back. His tusked mouth twisted into a lazy grin beneath his heavy brow.

[Image of Grogmar]

"You ready?" Gerron asked.

Grogmar snorted. "Been ready." He rolled his shoulders. "Honestly figured Filnjar would come by and try to talk you out of going by now."

"He already did," Gerron said. "The only reason he didn't make a fuss was because I told him that you'd be coming with since you owe me."

"That I do." Grogmar chuckled. "Guess I'll have to make sure you don't get yourself killed."

They set out from Shor's Stone, following the northern road that twisted through the pine forest. The road was a well travelled one, mainly due to it being the main route of land trade between Riften and Windhelm.

Gerron's plan was to stick by the road until they met with Shor's Watchtower. Once there, they could head west and go off-road to cut a straight path towards Kagrenzel, hiking up towards the mountain.

"I still don't know why you're so damn eager to go digging around in a Dwemer ruin," Grogmar said after a while.

"I have my reasons."

"Can't be about all the damn ebony we found, could it?"

"Partially." Gerron stated. "Let's just say I got a project in mind that needs something from there."

Grogmar gave him a sideways glance but didn't press.

They made good time, the path gradually sloping upward as the forest thinned and the peaks of the Velothi Mountains came into view. They were massive, being the border between Skyrim and Morrowind.

By midday, they reached the old watchtower.

It stood on a rise overlooking the path — a squat, weathered stone structure with a crumbling wall at its base. Gerron spotted the bodies immediately.

Stormcloaks soldiers lay sprawled in the dirt, blood staining the earth beneath them. Some had been dragged toward the base of the tower, leaving dark trails in the dirt. Their weapons were missing, their armor torn.

Grogmar grimaced. "That's… a lot of bodies."

Gerron crouched by one of the fallen men, brushing aside the long blond hair that had fallen across the man's face. He was young — barely twenty — with a deep slash across his throat. Gerron's jaw tightened as he scanned the other bodies.

"What a damn shame," Grogmar said. He stepped over a corpse and sniffed the air. "Think it was the Imperials?"

"It has to be." Gerron stood and surveyed the scene. "All the weapons are gone, along with missives and messages. Bandits don't care about military intelligence."

"Unless they were paid to."

Gerron frowned. "Could be. But who—"

A crow cawed from the top of the tower. Gerron's gaze sharpened.

"We need to keep moving," he said. "The smell will attract wolves — or worse."

"Agreed."

They left the watchtower behind, heading to the dirt path, ascending into the mountains. The road quickly vanished beneath the snow as the terrain turned rocky and uneven. Gerron's boots crunched through calf-high snow, the cold biting at his legs beneath the shins. His breath came faster as the altitude climbed.

Grogmar trudged ahead, his broad back cutting a path through the snow. 

"Are you sure about this?" Grogmar grunted. "Dwemer ruins are cursed, you know. Some say Kagrenzel's haunted."

"I'm not superstitious," Gerron said.

"No, but you're stubborn." Grogmar smirked over his shoulder. "Might as well be the same thing."

The path narrowed as they climbed higher. Jagged cliffs rose on either side, and the snow was getting thicker the higher they go. Gerron's hand drifted toward the hilt of his hammer more than once as he spotted movement in the rocks — the flash of pale fur, a pair of glowing eyes — but nothing attacked.

'Frost trolls, perhaps?' Gerron mused. 'At least they're not aggressive.'

They crested a ridge and saw it at last.

Kagrenzel's ruin was half-buried beneath the snow, a massive stone structure carved into the side of the mountain. A wide set of stone stairs led upward toward a broken gate, its metal frame twisted and broken. A mound of snow had gathered at the base, partially concealing the entrance.

Cold wind whistled through the jagged stones. Ancient Dwemer architecture was impressive. The lines, metallic inlays, and geometric patterns didn't show a single sign of rust, but merely broken in some places from the natural weathers that battered them day in and out.

Whatever steels and metals that the Dwemer had used to build, they were life changing.

"Doesn't look so bad," Grogmar said.

"Let's hope it stays that way."

Gerron adjusted his grip on his hammer. He stepped toward the entrance with slow and measured steps. Despite knowing that Dwarven architecture was solid, it was hard to not instinctively think that the whole thing would crash over their heads. 

Gerron approached the gate as Grogmar drew his axe and shield.

They exchanged a glance.

"Ready?" Gerron asked.

"Always."

They stepped through the gate.

…

Filnjar

"Bone-Breaker Ralof. It's good to see you again."

Filnjar raised a calloused hand, and Ralof clasped it in a firm shake, the grip strong and familiar. The Stormcloak officer gave a weary smile, but the lines of exhaustion on his face were hard to miss.

"Filnjar," Ralof greeted, his voice rough with fatigue. "It's been too long."

The blacksmith's sharp eyes scanned the group of Stormcloak soldiers behind him. Their uniforms were scuffed and stained with dirt, some bearing fresh scratches on their armor and clothing. Several of them looked like they had been in a fight recently, their movements sluggish with exhaustion.

"Did something happen?" Filnjar asked, crossing his arms. "You look like you've been through a warzone."

Ralof's frown deepened. He exhaled through his nose before answering. "Aye. We got ambushed on the road. Imperials managed to slip past our lines."

Filnjar's brow furrowed. "That ain't good news."

"No, it isn't." Ralof shook his head, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced. "After the whole debacle in Helgen, Jarl Ulfric's pushing things forward. We've learned the Imperials set up hidden camps all over Stormcloak territory. Can't let that stand."

Filnjar rubbed his chin. "Aye, I heard Helgen was wiped out. There's news that's even talking about dragons now. Madness."

Ralof shook his head. "It ain't madness, the dragon brought that fort to the ground. I saw it with my own eyes. Barely got out of there alive. So did another prisoner—a friend of mine. You'll be hearing about her soon enough, I wager."

Filnjar grunted. "Sounds like the start of something messy."

Ralof gave a tired chuckle. "That's war." His expression turned more serious. "For now, I need to bring a fresh supply of weapons to Stormblade Galmar. He's leading an operation to secure an artifact—something that might give Jarl Ulfric more legitimacy in his claim for the throne."

"An artifact?" Filnjar raised an eyebrow. "What kind of artifact?"

Ralof smirked. "That, my friend, is not for me to say."

Filnjar snorted. "Fair enough." He turned and gestured toward the forge. "You're in luck. My blacksmith finished the order a few days ago."

He disappeared inside, the familiar scent of burning coal and hot iron thick in the air. Filnjar made his way to the back, where neatly stacked rows of iron mail and freshly forged steel axes rested against the wall. He hefted one of the axes, feeling the weight of the finely crafted weapon, before carrying it outside.

Ralof took the axe and examined it, flipping it over in his hand. He then grabbed a piece of iron mail, giving the links a firm shake, testing their strength.

Filnjar smirked. An untrained eye would never be able to tell the difference between these and the usual stock. Filnjar knew the quality of the work would speak for itself once the weapons were tested in battle.

"They look good," Ralof finally said with a nod of approval. "Where's Gerron, by the way? I usually deal with him for business like this."

"He's out on some personal business," Filnjar replied smoothly. "Asked me to handle things while he's away. I agreed."

Ralof raised an eyebrow but didn't press the issue. "Very well." He turned and gestured to his men.

A few Stormcloak soldiers moved in immediately, hoisting the weapons and armor into crates before loading them onto the waiting wagon. The sounds of metal clanking against wood filled the air as they worked quickly, eager to be back on the road.

Ralof reached into his coin pouch and pulled out a heavy leather sack. "As promised, seven thousand septims for everything." He handed the bag over to Filnjar, who felt its weight before tucking it away.

"Much appreciated," Ralof continued. "Pass my thanks to Gerron when he returns."

"Aye, I will," Filnjar replied. 

As the wagon was secured and the Stormcloaks prepared to leave, Filnjar watched them with a quiet sigh. The war was escalating faster than anyone had expected, and now dragons are starting to be out and about. 

'What is the world coming into?'

…

AN: The Stormcloaks are technically not an official military, but a rebellion force. So their hierarchy doesn't adhere to regular military ranks. So I opted to give them titles that the Dragonborn receives in the game.

Unblooded → Basic recruit, untrained. Regular farmers and civilians.

Ice-Veins → Experienced or trained soldiers, mostly veterans that served in the Great War. They make up most of the Stormcloak armies. Ex. Thorald Gray-Mane.

Bone-Breaker → Squad leaders, equal to a Sergeant in most militaries. Leads squads anywhere between twenty to a hundred Stormcloaks. Ex. Ralof

Snow-Hammer → Heavily armored warriors who are considered to be the best warriors in the Stormcloaks. They're usually the ones who lead the charge during battles, pushing through shield walls and even entire Legions to make way for the main force.

Stormblade → The generals and leaders. Equivalent to the Legates of the legion. Leads battalions of Stormcloaks anywhere from two hundred to thousands. Ex. Galmar Stone-Fist.

Next chapter should be Kagrenzel itself, and then we'll see the Mercury Hammer in action.

As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 13 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!