The Great War

Editor's notes: This is a fantasy story of Tamriel, from the Elder Scrolls universe. This is non-canon and should be regarded as such. The following story will tie into some bits of lore that you might now, but will not be regarded by Bethesda or the Loremasters as canon as this is completely fictional.

This story I am about to tell you is ancient; its whispers are heard through time and throughout every province lives a little bit of it. Feasting on the minds of all who hears it and devours their fantasy to feed itself and live on. Spreading forever. This is merely a legend, a scrap: a piece of that story, and trust me when I say, that all will be revealed in due time.

It begins a long time ago in the Heartland of the Empire, Cyrodiil. In the wake of the tall White-Gold Tower, which is the centre of Cyrodiil and the entire Empire, on an island of pure magic. In the Prison District in a dungeon, a dark prison where a prisoner has been chained to the wall, beaten time and time again. This prisoner is merely a humble person, who no one has ever really cared about till this day. For it is this day he becomes relevant.

Now, I know what you might say. Who is this prisoner and why is he relevant; what has happened up to this point? And so on... Listen carefully now, and keep a watchful ear, for this is what happens before...

Long ago Cyrodiil was filled with ancient elves and magic beyond imagination; their sole purpose was to enslave and ensnare the humans; bind them to a place where they should work till they fell to their knees in despair and were finally laid to rest in the most disrespectful manner because the ancient elves - the Ayleids - were, in their own terms, beyond humans and the mortal beings of this plane of existence. They were immortal and wise beyond others. Then came Alessia and her slave rebellion. With the assistance of a being beyond this realm - the Crusader - Alessia succeeded in her endeavour and rightfully claimed the Throne of the World. The centre of Cyrodiil, the Seat of Sundered Kings; The White-Gold Tower. To this day, it is her bloodline that continues to rule the Empire which she created. All in happiness and propulsion until this story begins...

In the darkest corner of the prison lay the Prisoner in chains when the various bells start sounding. For centuries the bells have not sounded, and it was only to be so if Cyrodiil or the Empire was in chaos or on the verge of battle within the Heartland. This cold day, which would become known as "The Coldest Day" the rising Aldmeri Dominion sent an envoy to the Imperial Heartland with an ultimatum. The Empire declined and not hours later, the Dominion walked beyond the borders of the neighbouring provinces; Valenwood and Elsweyr. They had come with one purpose: To seize the power of the Empire, to control Tamriel and they would rather die than face failure. It was the 30th of Frostfall in the one-hundredth seventy-first year of the Fourth Era. A day the Empire would not soon forget...the start of the Great War.

As the bells started to sound and the war was immediately declared official, the Imperial City began to barricade itself and its citizens. The Elder Council - the seat of members just ranking below the Emperor - sent out envoys to the counties of Cyrodiil requesting they sent all troops; every man able to fight, to the Imperial City to fight the Dominion. Bruma, Cheydinhal, Chorrol and Skingrad immediately took positions around the Imperial City. They focused on the South-Western flank for they knew that was the only place the Dominion could come from. In the Imperial City, the entirety of the Prison, its prisoners and all able men were called to the Temple District - for they should set aside their hatred for one another, decline the rules they had broken, the oaths they had abandoned and fight for a tomorrow, an Empire: and they did. All who were summoned gathered round. The Guards in their heavy Palace Armor, the Sixth Legion of Cyrodiil, the Prisoners in armour from the barracks and the common folk also donned the armour of the Imperial City. The Emperor, the Elder Council and all rode out the gates of the Imperial City - the Fleets of the Empire set sail out to flank the Dominion. The prisoner from the Imperial City had made his way up to Bruma and disappeared beyond the Border of Skyrim. In the harbour of The Imperial City, a ship, "The Septim" it was called: The finest and most respected vessel to ever sail the seas took the front and set sail through the Rumare River leading eighteen vessels.

County Bruma, the northernmost county of Cyrodiil, had sent envoys to the Border of the neighbouring Province of Skyrim. They rode on horseback with never-before-seen speed: Throughout the province, they spread. From the Cloud District in Whiterun Hold to the Thieves Guild of Riften and from the capital Solitude to the top of the World - High Hrothgar. Wherever they went, all in their way heard them and their plea. The "Garrison of Skyrim" was immediately formed and within two days they marched from Whiterun. All Holds of Skyrim gathered under one. The Greybeards of High Hrothgar declined to assist and they were outcasts from that day and on. That they would rather sit atop their peak and sing lullabies to the stars than to assist Tamriel, the Empire and Skyrim on their darkest day. All Holds heard it, the Companions of Whiterun, the Thieves of Riften, the farmers of Falkreath, and all respect was lost that day.

It did not take them many hours to cross the border of Skyrim and into Cyrodiil where more troops were garrisoned. At their descent from the Jerall Mountains, they sent a small legion to Cloud Ruler Temple - the Blades that are sworn to protect the Emperor reside there - to be stationed and to protect the Akaviri Temple by all means.
Upon reaching the clear-view of Bruma, they could look down into the Heartland, the Imperial City.

Millions of troops, Imperial and Dominion were miles away from each other. Imperial forts were occupied by its troops and more stationed than ever. The troops had never seen such an army against another. It was a true spectacle.

Upon their arrival to the Imperial City, the Battle had already begun. Thousands of blades clinging, shields bashing and screams of agony and anger lead the way. Rain and heavy clouds covered the skies above Cyrodiil and whirlwind storms were seen to appear, bashing the oncoming forces of the Dominion away. Some also claim to have seen a mysterious shape in the sky, a flying lizard shouting in an ancient and long-forgotten language. As it spoke, thousands upon thousands of Dominion forces were slain and flung back. (Some scholars claim it was a dragon, but they had been extinct for millenia).

In the early dawn of the third day, all troops still sleeping were awoken by immense thunder from the North. The ever-lasting skies above the Jerall Mountains were flung back with immense force. It spread fast throughout Cyrodiil and all soldiers, both Imperial and Dominion looked up and were amazed. After the clouds were wiped clean off the skies an immense shockwave hit Cyrodiil. Thundering like a storm so loud that it shattered all the windows in the province.

The Blades of Cloud Ruler Temple organized themselves and with the legion at their disposition, they made their way to the border of Skyrim where they were met by a small legion of troops, the Greybeards and a soldier in prison-wear. Many accounts of the Blades tell, that "He walked in front of them as their leader and they followed Him as slaves. Nothing, not a gust of wind could come close to Him". And they slowly made their way down to the battle. From the soldier's point of view, they could see no one. But they heard them. For as they came ever closer, the words of an ancient Nord language were heard - the Shout. The troops of Skyrim rallied and retreated toward the shouting. Was it the Greybeards or someone, something more powerful? They simply had to know.

In Bruma, the prisoner commanded His legion to run into battle without hesitation, and as He shouted up toward the sky a dragon appeared and landed in front. The soldiers were, of course, scared. He jumped up and rode the dragon into battle. The battle was lost and the Imperial City was sacked. The Empire surrendered and gave into the now more demanding ultimatum. They lived so that they could fight another day, but at what cost?

And the rest, you know, is history. Many tales tell of this warrior. He was not seen or heard from since. Other tales tell that He was captured and imprisoned, others lean more toward the Divine side, that He was an envoy of the Gods and was sent to Tamriel to save them - but again, the battle was lost.

Scraps of legend do pop up every now and again, you just need to listen carefully. The wind carries not only scent but whispers of tales you dare not believe, it is your job to listen to them and forward them to the rest of us. They give one thing: hope.

Hope that you and I may see the light of day from this Aldmeri prison cell. Hope that we may feel the gust of wind blowing in our faces, that the light of day may shine upon us again and hope, that we may hear the commotion and shouting of the Imperial City, or what remains of it. My days are numbered, but yours are not.

It is your job to preach my word, tell them what they wish to believe and preach about me and my achievements. Polish them however you want. A dragon? Why not. It makes it more unbelievable. Hope is the best we can have in this dark cell. Hope. Lives. On.

(then all turned dark, and you wake up in a ruined ship on the cost of Hammerfell.) Was it a dream or reality; was it merely a story or was there truth to it? Hope is all you got.