[ EU ] As Smaug flies overhead , razing Lake-Town to the ground , only one person can stop his wrath . The Dovahkiin readies for battle .

Well, 10 days late but I just saw this prompt and got a kick out of it. Here goes... 
 
 
 
 The walls of his room at the inn were thin, so he had no trouble hearing the roars of the dragon, the screams of the townfolk, the crash of falling buildings and the crackle of flame. All sounds he had heard countless times before. He finished the last of his sweet roll, and stood from his chair in the corner. 
 
 He had happened upon this town on a lake by sheer accident, having spent the last two weeks tracking Shadowmere over hill and dale until he found the horse idly nibbling at a bush, not a stone ’ s throw from where the bridge from this town connected to the shore. Daft hell-steed always took off at the slightest whiff of a bandit or wolf, and frankly the Dovahkiin figured his horse had killed as many, if not more, creatures than he had. Having finally located and secured his wayward mount, he had tiredly led Shadowmere across the bridge and into the town, slipping in quietly as there was some big sending-off party underway. His landlord had said something about dwarves and a mountain and a dragon – he frankly didn ’ t care. He wanted a place to sleep and eat; chasing that damned horse had been exhausting. But now his impromptu vacation had apparently run into a minor roadblock, in the form of the dragon outside that was incinerating the town at an impressive rate. 
 
 The Dovahkiin had long ago stopped being bothered by dragons. Hard to feel anything but annoyed by them at this point. Ditto trolls. And draugr. And wolves. And frost-spiders. Bears still gave him the heebie-jeebies, but that was beside the point. When you have lost track of how many of a particular lifeform you ’ ve killed, it becomes nothing more than a chore. Practiced hands fastened on his armor, forged from the rarest elements in the earth and imbued with souls of beings from another plane. He had taken it all off and stored it under his bed after he kept hearing the locals say how it made him resemble Sour-on, Sore-on, something like that. Some terrible evil warlord or something, these people seemed petrified just to whisper his name. The Dovahkiin had met a lot of terrible people too, beings claiming to be evil incarnate and impossible to kill. They all said that, right up until the point they got smashed in the face with a Daedric warhammer. It ’ s hard to be an evil bad-ass when a violent man with a dragon ’ s soul who can blast you off a cliff with his voice pulps your head like an overripe tomato. Maybe he ’ d go find, Sow-Ron or whatever-the-hell his name was, after he dealt with the damn dragon. 
 
 Donning his helmet, the Dovahkiin gave a little shimmy, settling everything into its comfortable, familiar place on his body. He had done this so many times; like a smithy sharpening an axe, it was all reflex and muscle memory at this point. He brought his hands up, and flexed them inside their armored gauntlets – in a blink fire engulfed his hands and wrists, though he felt no heat. He flexed them again, and they were swathed in icy wisps. A third time, and pure lightening crackled around his gauntlets. Because the only thing people were more scared off than a big, angry man in scary armor was a big, angry man in scary armor who was shooting fireballs and spikes of ice from his hands. Came in handy for starting campfires and cooling down drinks, though, even if it tended to frighten the natives. 
 
 He reached down and picked up his warhammer, the haft comfortable and familiar in his grip. As he brought it up, frost wreathed the hammer-head. He examined it for a second, watching the candlelight play over the metal. One of his better pieces. Another roar from the dragon interrupted his musings, and the Dovahkiin sighed. He wasn ’ t even going to bother using his bow this time, at this point a little hand-to-hand would get his blood pumping again. In the distance he heard Shadowmere screaming in the stables – that horse was more eager for a fight than a sabre-cat, and the Dovahkiin was half-tempted to just let the horse handle the dragon. He ’ d probably break out of the stable within in the next thirty seconds whether the Dovahkiin wanted him to or not. But no, that wasn ’ t a hero-y thing to do. Resting his warhammer on his shoulder, the Dovahkiin opened the door to his room, and stepped into the inferno. 

