Metalborn in Skyrim

The wind howled through the trees, rattling the wooden shutters of Edric's home. The village of Frostmere was quiet, save for the distant chirping of insects and the occasional creak of shifting timber. Edric sat near the hearth, absently whittling away at a block of wood, his thoughts on the coming harvest. The evening had been peaceful, the kind of quiet that made a man forget the troubles of the outside world.

Then the screaming began.

It started as a single, distant cry—cut short almost as soon as it rose. Edric stiffened, his knife pausing mid-carve. He turned to his wife, Rhea, who had been tending to their daughter near the cot.

"Stay inside," he whispered, his heart already pounding. He grabbed the wood axe from beside the fireplace and moved toward the door, pressing his ear against the worn wood. Heavy footfalls thundered outside, accompanied by guttural shouts and the unmistakable clash of steel.

A raid.

Edric barely had time to react before the door exploded inward, splinters flying as a figure barreled through. A Forsworn warrior, clad in ragged furs and painted in crimson war paint, stood in the ruined doorway. But something was wrong. His eyes glowed faintly red, and his muscles bulged unnaturally, veins pulsating with an eerie, molten hue.

Edric swung his axe on instinct, but the Forsworn caught the handle mid-air with terrifying ease. The raider grinned—a jagged, predatory smile—before wrenching the weapon from Edric's grasp and sending him sprawling to the ground with a brutal kick to the chest.

Rhea screamed, clutching their daughter to her chest. The Forsworn warrior advanced, his blade dripping with fresh blood.

"No," Edric rasped, scrambling for anything he could use as a weapon. His fingers found a broken chair leg, and he swung wildly at the warrior's knees. The blow connected, but the Forsworn barely flinched. He turned his gaze toward Edric, raising his blade for the killing strike.

An arrow thudded into the warrior's shoulder. He staggered back, letting out a snarl of rage. Edric barely had time to process the source of the shot before another villager, an older man named Thrain, appeared in the doorway, bow in hand.

"Get up, Edric!" Thrain shouted, loosing another arrow. The Forsworn roared and lunged at him, his speed unnatural. He moved faster than any man had a right to, closing the distance before Thrain could react. The raider's blade cut through part of the archer's side, and Thrain collapsed in a heap.

Edric wasted no more time. He grabbed Rhea's hand and pulled her toward the back of the house. "We have to go!"

Thrain, barely clinging to life, coughed and forced himself to his knees. He saw the Forsworn advancing toward Edric and Rhea and knew they wouldn't make it in time. Summoning every ounce of strength left in him, he staggered to his feet and bellowed, "Come on, you bastards! You want a fight? Then fight me!"

The Forsworn turned, momentarily forgetting their pursuit as they set upon Thrain instead. His sacrifice bought Edric and Rhea precious seconds.

They burst through the rear door, sprinting toward the forest near their house. All around them, homes burned, casting eerie shadows against the trees. More Forsworn moved through the village like demons, cutting down anyone who resisted. Their glowing eyes flickered in the darkness, their bodies moving with unnatural speed and strength.

Ahead, other villagers were fleeing into the woods, their terrified sobs mixing with the crackle of burning thatch. Edric pulled Rhea along, his legs aching, his breath ragged.

Then, another sound—a deep, guttural chanting. A towering figure stood atop a rock in the center of the village, arms raised to the sky. The High Hagraven. Her form was shrouded in darkness, and with every arcane word she spat, pulses of energy rippled outward.

She wasn't just chanting—she was casting.

One of the fleeing villagers, barely a few paces ahead of Edric, suddenly stiffened. His body jerked violently, then collapsed to the ground, unable to move. Paralyzing magic.

Edric felt the surge of dread as he realized what was happening. More villagers behind him faltered, their bodies locking up mid-stride as invisible tendrils of magic snared them. The High Hagraven was ensuring that none escaped.

"Don't stop," Edric gasped, pushing Rhea forward. "No matter what, keep moving!"

The Forsworn surged through the village like wolves, cutting down anyone who couldn't move in time. A woman's scream was cut short as a blade found her back. 

But Edric and Rhea kept running, slipping through the grasp of the Hagraven's magic range just in time. They reached the edge of the forest, ducking into the underbrush as chaos unfolded behind them.

The Forsworn had abandoned the pursuit, content with their gains. But Edric knew that whatever they were doing wasn't finished yet.

As the night stretched on, the screams of their village faded into the distance, leaving only the sound of the wind whispering through the trees. Frostmere was gone.

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The night air in Morthal was thick with mist, the swamps surrounding the town casting an eerie glow under the moonlight. The flickering torches along the wooden walkways did little to dispel the oppressive gloom, their weak light barely penetrating the thick fog rolling off the marsh. The distant croaking of frogs and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures only added to the uneasy stillness that settled over the town like a heavy shroud.

Inside Highmoon Hall, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone sat hunched in her throne, her aged eyes heavy with contemplation as the great wooden doors swung open with a low creak. The fire in the central brazier crackled, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls, as a soldier clad in the worn armor of Hjaalmarch's guard strode forward, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. His face was lined with exhaustion, his expression grim, and when he dropped to one knee before the Jarl, there was an urgency in his movements that did not go unnoticed.

"My Jarl," the soldier spoke in a hushed yet pressing tone, "we have reports of villagers disappearing from settlements south of the marshlands. At first, we believed they had fled due to the war, but we found... evidence."

Jarl Idgrod, her fingers tapping idly against the carved armrest of her throne, tilted her head slightly. "What kind of evidence?" she asked, her voice rasping with age but sharp as ever.

The soldier hesitated before reaching into his belt pouch and pulling forth a small, bloodstained scrap of cloth. The deep crimson against the pale linen stood stark under the firelight. "We found this near the banks of the Karth River, along with strange markings carved into the trees. A village not far from here was abandoned—doors ripped from their hinges, signs of a struggle… but no bodies. Just smears of blood leading into the wilderness."

A murmur of unease rippled through the gathered court. Morthal was no stranger to the unnatural, but this was different. The Jarl's expression darkened, her gnarled fingers tightening around the arms of her throne. "The Forsworn," she muttered, as if the very word carried weight. "They grow bold."

Her steward, an aging Nord with deep worry lines etched into his face, stepped closer. "My Jarl, if the Forsworn are moving this far north, they could threaten Morthal itself."

Idgrod narrowed her gaze. "I will not have my people stolen in the night. Send scouts to investigate immediately. If the Forsworn are responsible, they must be dealt with before they strike again."

The soldier bowed his head. "At once, my Jarl."

As he turned and hurried from the hall, the unsettling silence that followed left the Jarl deep in thought. This was not just another skirmish or minor raid. Something darker was at play, and she could feel it in her very bones.

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Meanwhile, in Solitude, high atop Castle Dour, Jarl Elisif the Fair stood in her grand chamber, staring at the map of Skyrim unfurled before her. The glow of the torches flickered against the cold stone walls, casting deep shadows that seemed to stretch ominously across the war table. Her advisors were gathered, their expressions ranging from concern to outright fury, while a grim-faced officer from the Imperial Legion stood at attention, awaiting permission to speak.

"Jarl Elisif," the officer began, his voice steady but urgent, "settlements north of Dragon Bridge have been raided. Farmers and their families have disappeared without a trace. We found remains at the edge of the forest—burnt offerings, bones arranged in strange symbols. The Forsworn are not just raiding; they're performing rituals."

A cold silence settled over the room, broken only by the distant tolling of a bell from the city below. Elisif's hands clenched the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening. "And the missing people?" she asked, her voice quieter but no less intense. "Do we know if they are alive?"

The officer hesitated. "We cannot say for certain, my Jarl. If they still live, they are being held deep within the Reach."

General Tullius, standing near the map with his arms crossed, let out a frustrated breath. "This is more than mere rebellion. If the Forsworn have turned to Daedric forces, they must be eradicated immediately." His voice was as sharp as steel, carrying the weight of command and battle-hardened experience.

Elisif turned her gaze toward him, her brows furrowing. "And yet, we have little means to act quickly. The war against the Stormcloaks has thinned our forces."

One of her advisors, an older woman with keen eyes, stepped forward. "With all due respect, Jarl Elisif, we cannot afford to let this escalate. If these rituals are tied to something far darker, if this is Daedric in nature, we must act now before their power spreads beyond the Reach."

Elisif sighed, weighing the decision in her mind. The civil war had drained Skyrim's resources, leaving little room for another front, but this was too great a threat to ignore. She met Tullius's gaze. "Can we spare the men?"

Tullius's expression was grim, but he nodded. "It will be difficult, but we must. If we wait, the cost will be greater."

Elisif's fingers drummed against the table before she straightened, her resolve hardening. "Then make it so. Gather a legion and send them to investigate. Find these people and stop whatever horror the Forsworn are conjuring."

Tullius inclined his head. "Consider it done."

As the orders were given and the chamber emptied of soldiers and advisors, a quiet understanding passed between those who remained. The Forsworn had waged war against the Nords before, but this was something else. This was no mere uprising.