The incline leading to Whiterun’s city gates, already a disorderly path along crumbling crenellations, was now truly a revolting mess. The broken bodies of Stormcloak rebels and Imperial loyalists alike filled the fractures between flagstones with precious lifeblood, ultimately flowing its way into brooks that had sparkled so brightly for this geographic and economic heart of Skyrim. The sun spared no delay in turning its face and hiding behind a mountainous horizon; such vile violence would no longer receive the light of its visage.
Ulfric Stormcloak’s army had been fully routed by noonday, and the emboldened defenders rallied inside to celebrate soon after. Their merry voices mixed with song to echo throughout the streets, spilling over the battlements and passing unheard through the ears of the fallen. Once the last rays of red were blotted from the night sky, even those hollow bodies would depart-- either into the hallowed underground hall of Arkay’s nocturnal priests if they wore “Empire” red, or should they be clad in “Sons of Skyrim” indigo, through the bellies of the wilderness’ savage scavengers.
Of all the living and the dead amidst Whiterun, only the Altmer battle-mage named Arye Azuron remained present... for he more than anyone else bore the blame for this day’s bloodshed.
