The High Elf commander stood rigidly atop a sun-baked rocky rise, golden eyes narrowed and scanning the endless dunes stretching before him like waves of molten gold. The scorching sunlight reflected off his pristine, gold-embroidered uniform, the impeccable fabric defying the oppressive dust and relentless heat. Every intricate detail, from the finely stitched emblems to the elegant trim, symbolized the order, authority, and unyielding pride he represented.
Arrayed neatly around him, twenty elite elven soldiers stood in flawless formation, their polished, mirror-bright armor gleaming defiantly under the merciless Hammerfell sun. Each soldier maintained an unwavering stance, spears held at precise angles, swords sheathed neatly at their hips, an embodiment of disciplined elegance. Their disciplined stillness and calm confidence sharply contrasted with the harshness of the barren landscape.
Yet, despite their impressive presence, a subtle unease began creeping into the commander's expression, disturbing his carefully cultivated composure. The scheduled return of his scouts—three swift-footed Wood Elves, masters of stealth and speed, accompanied by one shadowy, agile Khajiit—was overdue. Each passing moment of silence felt heavier, thickening into an oppressive tension that hung ominously over the contingent.
Suddenly, a vicious, high-pitched whistle sliced through the stifling quiet, shattering the fragile tranquility. The commander barely had time to turn his head before his lead mage jolted violently, limbs twitching uncontrollably, eyes bulging in shocked disbelief. An arrow had struck him, hurtling through his chest with a speed and power that defied reason, tearing through the mage's ribcage, erupting from his back in a horrific spray of blood, shattered bone fragments, and shredded robes.
The mage's body collapsed heavily to the sand, limbs twisted grotesquely, the brutal impact scattering vibrant crimson droplets across the stark white sand, staining it like an artist's careless brushstroke.
"That's impossible," the commander whispered in stunned disbelief, his voice barely audible, eyes wide with shock and confusion. His disciplined mind momentarily froze, gripped by the surreal, violent image unfolding before him.
Before he could gather himself to issue another order, a second arrow hissed through the air with vicious precision, crashing into his remaining mage. The projectile punched violently through polished armor, splintering bones audibly as it ruptured through the elf's chest, sending a gruesome, wet explosion of gore outwards. Blood and viscera splattered across nearby soldiers, painting their pristine armor and faces in grim testament to the sudden brutality of the attack.
Panic surged violently within the commander's chest, his throat constricting painfully. Heart hammering against his ribcage, he summoned every ounce of authority he could muster, his voice hoarse but sharp with urgency as he barked desperately:
"Earth walls, now!"
The surviving mages scrambled frantically, voices trembling as they hurriedly chanted incantations. The ground beneath their feet shuddered violently, sending ripples through the sand as walls of rock and earth surged upward, desperately forming protective barriers. Soldiers scattered chaotically, diving behind the rough fortifications, eyes wide and panicked, the structured grace of their earlier formation utterly shattered.
Relentlessly, arrows continued to rain from above, mercilessly precise, striking elves with ruthless efficiency. Each projectile found its mark, slicing through armor with sickening ease, sending bodies collapsing heavily into the sand. The chilling screams of agony filled the air, blending with the frantic shouts of desperate soldiers. Blood darkened the sand in widening pools, each fallen elf a grim testament to the deadly precision of their unseen attackers.
Within moments, the once-disciplined contingent was reduced to a scattered, desperate handful, survivors trembling behind their rapidly deteriorating cover. Then, abruptly, silence returned—heavy, oppressive, and suffocating. Only the ragged, labored breathing of the wounded and dying lingered, punctuated by low moans of suffering.
From the haze of dust and swirling sand emerged two imposing figures, walking deliberately and confidently through the carnage they had wrought. The first was adorned in a menacing boar mask, towering above even the tallest of the elves. His heavily muscled body was encased in thick, blood-smeared armor, and he wielded a colossal battle-axe that dripped fresh gore, its blade scarred from countless brutal battles. Beside him strode another fearsome figure, equally massive and intimidating, wearing a terrifying rhino mask. Powerful muscles bulged beneath his armor, rippling visibly with each deliberate step. He gripped an enormous war hammer, its head grotesquely coated with dried blood and fragments of bone.
The surviving elves barely had a moment to register their approaching doom before the masked warriors lunged forward with ferocious brutality. The boar-masked Orc unleashed a savage, guttural roar, swinging his axe in a sweeping arc that tore through armor, cleaved flesh, and shattered bone. Limbs were severed instantly, bodies collapsing in sprays of crimson, staining the sands vividly beneath their feet. Beside him, the rhino-masked Orc charged mercilessly, wielding his war hammer with devastating force. Each swing crushed through armor effortlessly, pulverizing bones and sending elves sprawling into the sands, their bodies grotesquely twisted and broken. Within mere moments, the brutal efficiency of the masked warriors left nothing but devastation and silence in their wake.
From another direction, a one-armed figure wearing a hawk mask surged forward with startling swiftness. His movements were precise and lethal, each step measured yet devastatingly effective. Drawing his blade with remarkable fluidity, he swiftly dismantled two elven warriors. The first strike neatly disarmed his opponent, sending the elf's weapon spinning uselessly into the sand. The follow-up attack was brutally precise, the blade slipping effortlessly through gaps in armor, finding vital organs and sending the elf collapsing in a choking gasp of agony. Another elf desperately prepared a counterattack, eyes wild with panic, but the one-armed warrior calmly sheathed his sword, then extended his hand with ruthless purpose. Lightning erupted from his fingertips, crackling viciously through the air, engulfing two elves in searing agony. Their screams cut off abruptly, their bodies charred and smoking.
Suddenly, from the shadows emerged a lithe figure, a woman adorned in an elegant fox mask. Her movements were mesmerizingly graceful yet lethally precise. Her blade became a shimmering blur of silver, each strike calculated and perfect, effortlessly slicing through throats, silencing dying gasps and leaving nothing but stillness and blood pooling silently into the sands.
The High Elf commander watched, rooted in horrified fascination, as his soldiers fell one by one, their disciplined ranks shattered in moments, the pristine sands now stained deep crimson with their lifeblood. Each anguished cry abruptly silenced, each life extinguished with cold, brutal efficiency.
Soon, only he remained, body shaking uncontrollably yet still defiantly gripping his sword. Gritting his teeth, desperation and fury mingling in his eyes, he summoned every last shred of magical strength. His fingers crackled fiercely with building power. As he released the devastating spell, the rhino-masked Orc swiftly raised an enormous shield, absorbing the magical blast with a deafening, thunderous crash that reverberated through the dunes.
Before the commander could recover, the Orc surged forward with unstoppable momentum, smashing the heavy shield viciously into his face. The impact shattered bone and cartilage instantly, spraying blood across his vision as his nose crumbled in a sickening, wet crunch. Staggering backward, disoriented and blinded by pain, the commander's sword slipped uselessly from numb fingers.
The rhino-masked warrior seized his arms, gripping them mercilessly, and twisted with brutal strength. The sharp, unmistakable sound of breaking bones echoed through the desert, and the commander collapsed to his knees, an agonized scream tearing from his throat. His broken limbs dangled grotesquely, useless at his sides.
The masked warriors loomed silently over him, their unfeeling gaze pitiless and cold beneath the harsh, unforgiving sun, offering no mercy, no quarter, only brutal finality.
They stopped short.
The High Elf commander strained his ears, listening intently to deliberate footsteps approaching through the blood-soaked sand. Eyes blazing with zealous pride for his Altmer heritage, he drew himself up defiantly, chin lifted high with an arrogance tempered by generations of perceived superiority. His meticulously polished golden armor shone harshly under the merciless sun, mocking the chaos and carnage around him, a gleaming symbol of his unwavering belief in elven dominance.
The two orcs, grim and foreboding behind their grotesque masks, stood as silent sentinels, their formidable weapons still dripping with fresh elven blood. Disdain curled the commander's lip as he regarded their brutish forms.
"Kill me," he hissed, voice dripping with contemptuous certainty, "and a thousand more will rise to replace me. I am merely a single droplet in the inevitable tide. Hammerfell's submission is providence itself."
Without response, the orcs silently stepped apart, revealing another figure approaching steadily from behind them. The newcomer wore an intricately carved dragon mask, its detailed visage emanating a cold and unsettling authority. The commander's sneer deepened as the masked figure came closer, his presence radiating quiet, lethal menace.
"Providence?" the masked figure's voice was a soft, measured whisper that carried clearly, layered thickly with underlying threat. "The only providence available to you now is the chance to reveal where your next shipment is headed."
A defiant, almost triumphant smirk twisted the commander's lips. With his arms broken and useless, he uttered a rapid, whispered incantation, activating a hidden magical rune inscribed directly onto his chest beneath the armor. The spell ignited violently within him, a burst of destructive magical energy surging inward, instantly crushing his heart. Pain flared excruciatingly yet briefly across his features. His eyes widened in shock, then rapidly dimmed, life slipping away. He collapsed heavily into the bloodied sand, his final, frozen expression etched in bitter defiance and grim satisfaction.
The dragon-masked figure regarded the fallen commander impassively, a faint sigh escaping from beneath his mask. "Well," he murmured dryly, shoulders rolling slightly in mild irritation, "that was unnecessarily theatrical. No matter—there are always more elves to question."
"Oi, I know you said there were other elves, but we only caught this kitty," called a gruff voice from behind.
Two figures stepped forward from behind a nearby dune, their large, muscular frames silhouetted against the glaring sunlight. They wore blood-smeared armor, faces obscured by starkly intimidating Anbu masks—one a fierce bear, the other a snarling lynx. Even in his terrified state, the Khajiit's sharp eyes recognized their similar broad-shouldered physiques and confident stances, clearly marking them as father and son. He had never before seen such masks.
"The elves didn't make it," the younger Nord continued, chuckling grimly beneath his lynx mask. "But we're pretty sure this kitty might talk."
The Khajiit scout, fur matted with blood and sand, struggled vainly against the tight restraints binding his wrists. His heart pounded furiously, yellow eyes wide with barely-contained panic. Khajiit was swift, stealthy, meant to vanish and escape—not to be caught, bound, and helpless beneath the merciless Hammerfell sun.
The two Nords hauled him roughly before the dragon-masked figure, whose silent, commanding presence filled the Khajiit with further terror. He had never heard or seen anything like these masked warriors before; their presence alone radiated danger and death.
He swallowed hard, ears flattened back in instinctive submission, body trembling uncontrollably despite his efforts at composure. Every muscle ached fiercely, and each shallow breath burned in his chest. The masked warriors' impassive stares were unreadable, their silence terrifying.
"Please," the Khajiit rasped desperately, voice breaking as he glanced up at the dragon mask, eyes pleading. "Khajiit can help… Khajiit knows things…"
The dragon-masked figure leaned slightly forward, voice quiet and filled with chilling menace. "Then speak, Khajiit. Tell me everything."