4E 201, Western Watchtower
Gerron Ironbreaker
When the rust dragon started to break apart into orange, blue, and white lights, Gerron found himself mesmerized just like everyone else. But he wasn't a man to remain spellbound for long.
Especially when he realized the opportunity when everyone, including the dragon, was entranced by whatever was happening.
When he saw the gold dragon hovering near the Western Watchtower, he had an idea. A mad and dangerous one, but an idea nonetheless. He tapped Farkas and Vilkas on the shoulders before gesturing to the tower and pointing at the dragon.
They got the idea immediately and grinned, pulling Skjor and Aela into the plan before they all slunk in the tower, passing by the terrified survivor who refused to leave the safety of the tower's stone walls, and ascended up the six-story structure.
From the top, they could hear the dragon speaking as well as the collective murmurs of the other guards. Something about dragonborn as well as shouts about the dragon wanting to escape.
Well they couldn't allow that, could they?
They peeked over the tower's edge, Mirmulnir hovering just fifty feet away. That's a jump he knew he could make, but he wasn't so sure about the Companions.
"Can you make that jump?" He asked.
To his surprise, it was Aela who seemed most excited. "Oh yes. It seems it is now time for us to show this dragon our true might."
And before his eyes, the four Companions shifted.
Flesh split into fur. Joints cracked, realigning. Their forms stretched until they stood taller, broader, faster into lupine monsters of war. Snouts extended with rows of sharp teeth, claws grew like daggers, and a deep, guttural growl resonated from each of their chests.
Gerron's grin turned wild.
"Oh, now this is gonna be fun."
In perfect synchronicity, the four werewolves lunged, hurtling through the air with predatory grace. They landed atop Mirmulnir's back, snarling and tearing into flesh, claws and fangs digging deep. The dragon shrieked, flailing in the sky.
Gerron raced back to the opposite end of the tower to give himself some sprinting room. He got down into a sprinter's four-point start. His muscles tensed, exhaling once, then he exploded forward, shooting across the tower and leaping off the edge.
The tower vanished beneath him. He soared—eighty feet above the ground, the wind roaring past his ears. He drew the Mercury Hammer mid-flight, and just before he landed, its twin thrusters exploded as sparks emanated from the head.
He slammed down between Mirmulnir's wings with enough force to bend solid steel.
The impact sent a thunderous boom across the plains. Blue arcs of energy danced across the dragon's scales.
Mirmulnir howled as he—as well as Gerron and the werewolves—began to fall. The dragon was incapable of flying with his wings injured as such. When they crashed, it felt to Gerron as if every bone in his body was rattled when he was flung from Mirmulnir's back and tossed across the ground. He bounced twice before skidding to a stop.
Despite the pain, he refused to remain idle. He forced himself to his feet—immensely glad that the Mercury Hammer remained tight in his grip—and faced Mirmulnir as the dragon was beginning to pick itself up.
A brief glance told him that the werewolves were all fine as they all began surrounding the dragon in a pentagram formation. They had landed outside the cage of fire the two dragons had created around the watchtower, which meant they were cut off from the others.
This was their fight alone now.
And by the gods, Gerron relished it.
With a war cry that split the air, Gerron charged. The werewolves howled and joined him.
Mirmulnir's head lunged forward, its maw gaping wide and aimed straight for Gerron. The Nord dove low, sliding under the snapping teeth, and brought his hammer in a brutal arc up into the dragon's throat. The power behind it enough to crack the dragon's scales and draw blood.
The dragon shrieked and retaliated.
Its tail whipped around and slammed into Farkas, hurling the massive werewolf into a boulder. Skjor leapt onto its back, claws raking along the side of Mirmulnir's face, aiming for the one remaining eye, but was shaken off before he could do so, falling into the ground beneath the dragon.
Vilkas and Aela tore at his legs, but one was slapped away by a tail while the other was smacked away by a wing. Gerron went close once more and slammed his hammer upon one of its hind legs, crushing the toes beneath.
The scream from the dragon was music to his ears. Mirmulnir leapt into the air with the strength of his one leg alone, before crashing back onto the ground. Gerron had to scramble to avoid getting squashed, but the whining of a wolf had him look to see Skjor trapped beneath Mirmulnir's colossal weight. Before Gerron could stop it, there was a sickening crunch as Skjor's ribs were crushed beneath its weight.
The other three wolves let out howls before rushing the dragon with renewed energy. Gerron felt the same way, as he rushed forth with them.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!"
Gerron rolled to the side to avoid the river of fire that emerged from his mouth. Farkas and Aela, who were among the ones at the very front, got bathed in the breath of fire that painted the lands around them in flames.
They whimpered and rolled on the ground to stifle the flames that marred their skin. It was successful to a degree, until they were forced back onto their human form. Unconscious and injured, but alive.
The dragon rose again, leaping once more into the air before crashing back down. It slammed to the ground with its entire mass, sending a quake so fierce the earth shook beneath them.
The quake made both Gerron and Vilkas stagger, which allowed Mirmulnir to lash out with its tail. Vilkas was the first to get hit, which gave Gerron enough time to bring up his hammer up in time to block, but the impact numbed his arms to the elbow and hurled him like a ragdoll.
He was flung pretty far. When his armored body hit the ground, he could feel the breath getting knocked from his lungs. He shook his hands to get rid of the numbness. He tried searching for the Mercury Hammer, but couldn't find it. It must've been knocked clean from his hands.
The consecutive tremors running through the ground—growing stronger with each seismic shake—warned Gerron that Mirmulnir was barreling towards him.
Biting back a curse, Gerron rolled back to his feet and saw the dragon rapidly approaching, its gaping maw wide open. It was planning on swallowing Gerron whole.
Gerron didn't have his hammer, didn't have a single magic spell to his name. What he did have was his hands.
With a defiant snarl, Gerron planted his feet. He drew back his right fist, funneling every ounce of strength the Battle Smith perk could muster into his arm.
Then he unleashed it in a massive uppercut that connected right beneath Mirmulnir's lower jaw. The dragon's mouth snapped shut, and its head jerked skyward.
He followed suit with another sharp jab to where the dragon's liver should be—not that he knew much about dragon anatomy—and finished it with a kick that slammed down to Mirmulnir's injured leg.
He jumped then—grabbed the horns at the back of Mirmulnir's head, planted a foot against the base of the dragon's head—and pulled.
Mirmulnir began thrashing his head left and right to try and dislodge him. Bursts of fire began spewing from his mouth. But Gerron remained still as he kept a death grip on the dragon's horns. He swallowed down the nausea that appeared from the constant movement and just kept pulling.
In panic, Mirmulnir launched upward, then fell back like a tower of stone, trying to crush him beneath its bulk. Gerron, once he realized what the dragon wanted to do, could only brace himself for the inevitable. Mirmulnir slammed Gerron to the ground, flattening him between the rocky ground and dragon body.
His ebony armor was the only reason he wasn't killed instantly, but Gerron nearly blacked out then and there. He bit into his own tongue to let the pain keep himself conscious. Blood started to flow from his clenched teeth, but it kept him awake and aware.
Despite the pain of nearly being crushed alive, Gerron continued to pull, even when it felt like his back would break and his arms would tear.
"NO!" Mirmulnir screamed.
With one final roar of defiance, Gerron wrenched the creature's head sideways—
—and with a wet, horrific snap, the dragon's neck twisted where it should not.
The beast fell still. So did Gerron.
The silence was deafening.
He couldn't move and everything hurt.
The dragon's eye, dim and fading, stared at him.
"You…are Kril, brave," it rasped. "You might not be dovah…but you are…a worthy enemy."
And with that, Mirmulnir died.
"Fucking hell," Gerron wheezed.
"Gerron!"
He spotted Kiera, Irileth, and the rest of the Whiterun guard running towards him.
"That was incredible!" Kiera said before she noticed his current state. "You're hurt!"
She immediately cast Healing Hands on him, and Gerron couldn't withhold the sigh of relief as the cool sensation of the restoration magic washed over him. That, aided with the Ring of Restoration he has on his finger, should mean his injuries would heal sooner or later.
"Thanks."
Around them, the guards murmured in disbelief.
"He killed a dragon… with his bare hands."
"Talos, what a mad bastard…"
"That's how Nords do it."
That was when Mirmulnir's flesh started to dissolve. Gerron made sure to study it as much as he can with the observation aspect of his System. As the lights once more began rushing towards Kiera, he understood the process well enough.
She was consuming the dragon's soul. Its very essence was devoured by the dragonborn sitting in proximity with it.
Gerron was a proud nord, and he understood enough the meaning of having a dragonborn at his side.
Just wait for it, it should come about in three…two..one…
The skies quivered as a massive voice thundered across all of Skyrim.
"DOV AH KIIN!"
Gerron looked to the heavens and smiled.
"There it is."
…
AN: Gerron being the badass he is, beats down Mirmulnir with his fists without even using the gloves of the pugilist.
I have always considered Mirmulnir to be one of the weaker dragons. After all, they were the gateway that kickstarted the whole campaign by introducing the dragonborn to the first dragon fight.
Rest assured that the creatures are far from weak. It's just that their overall power level are as varied as there are many dragons in the sky. After all, these two only used the fire breath and the lightning breath shout from the plethora of shouts there are in existence.
Can you imagine what it's like to fight a dragon who has mastered Slow Time or Whirlwind Sprint? Hell I tell you.
Also, RIP Skjor. You're gonna be missed buddy.
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