Many of the formations had broken after the Redguard charge. Very few could blame them and after the display of the Dwemer crab blowing his comrades to pieces with some kind of invisible magic, Francis couldn’t count himself among those few. Francis himself was still a bit shocked from the display, only to be snapped out of it by Vendel. As he stared at the Nord’s chest at face-level, his large and heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder and shook him hard.

“Stop daydreaming about the dead before you join them, damn it! I don’t plan to see Sovngarde any time soon, Francis!” Vendel said, snapping to give attention to the Redguard soldiers behind him.

Francis watched as Vendel parried an attack from one, thrusting his big shield’s rim into the armpit of the Redguard’s sword-arm and pushing his big blade effortlessly through the Redguard’s throat. With a mighty roar, Vendel ripped the blade out through the side and caught the blade of the other Redguard. Francis was taken from the bloody view, not having seen his friend in such a light, and thrust into a skirmish of his own. The Redguard yelled something in Yoku and Francis stepped back, casting stoneflesh, not trusting in the strength of mere chainmail seeing what it couldn’t do against Vendel’s ferocity. The Redguard came in quick, eager to steal Francis’s life away from him. Francis let the curved blade glance off his own, the blade catching on the crossguard and Francis taking advantage of the bind.

Francis half-sworded, bringing his lead foot rearward and twisting, putting all his weight and force into a pommel strike to the Redguard’s head. The Redguard stumbled back, clutching his helmet and, still half-swording, Francis stuck the point of his sword through the Redguard’s neck. He brought the blade out with a spatter of blood and took a moment to observe how surprisingly much a human could bleed through a hole in the neck. He’d never been in battle so thick, more accustomed to small bar brawls at the biggest and most intense. Those could get violent but he never remembered a time where a machine like the crab was present at one. That would have risen the stakes considerably, the Breton thought. He saw a group of Khajiit and a slightly overweight Argonian attacking the crab, somehow able to dismantle one of the pipes on the thing.

He’d never seen such a machine in all his travels and the things he saw in Hammerfell took him by surprise. The thunder-staffs, these machines, gods-damned [i]Dwemer.[/i] He’d heard rumors from traders in the Iliac and corsairs come to Wayrest from distant travels but he never thought the whispers were true, just the gibbering of old sea captains or news distorted by distance and being passed on from too many mouths. This was definitely something to do, alright.

“Vendel!” Francis called, a bit taken aback to see his comrade in his current position.

The Nord was filling the cacophony of battle with his own deep and terrifying warcry as he kneeled with knees on the arms of a Redguard, rendering the man helpless at the hands of this terrible monster, hands enveloping his head. Francis’s mouth hung agape in astonishment at what muscle and strength could do, the Redguard slapping and clawing at the towering Nord before a sickening crack and a spray of blood added some color to Vendel’s face and chest. The Nord stood with heaving shoulders, seeking out his big sword and shield on the battlefield.

“Vendel!” Francis called again as Vendel found his weapons among the bodies around where he was fighting.

Francis rose an eyebrow, seeing that Vendel had brought an end to two more men in the span of time it took him to vanquish one foe, “What!” The Nord responded.
Francis only pointed to the crab, trying to recover from the attacks from the Khajiit and the peculiar Argonian. Vendel nodded, “We kill it!”

“We kill it!” Francis echoed a confirmation, conjuring a flame in his hands from what rudimentary skills he’d learned in the battlemage corps of the Camlorn army and letting loose a pillar of flame from his palm.

Vendel had sheathed his sword and grabbed a large Warhammer. It did not seem so large when it was wielded by Vendel. The crab turned to Francis and his pillar of fire, the Breton strafing so as to offer a harder target. Before the machine could lift its only working staff-arm up to fire, Vendel stepped in and swung the Warhammer in a devastating arc, catching the arm and damaging whatever mechanism it used to move the appendage. The staff still worked, it seemed and a crack filled the air. Francis felt a hard punch and stumbled onto his back, fumbling over himself with his hands and hearing Vendel’s roaring [i]NO[/i], followed by a series of ringing brought by metal pounding on metal. 

Meanwhile, he’d found a hole in his robes and ripped the fabric open to expose the shattered chainmail underneath. Despite the stoneflesh, some of the pieces of steel had embedded themselves into his skin not deep enough to be anything but an annoyance. The truly disconcerting part was the hole in his stomach. He knew if he didn’t find a healer, he’d die, but slowly and painfully, as with all gut wounds. His hands became less sure of themselves along with his legs as he struggled to get to his feet. Not having time to think, he hastily swung at a Redguard guardsman only to have his sword parried. The Redguard wasted no time in stepping in close, dropping his own sword and grabbing Francis’s own by the pommel and section of blade closest to the crossguard.

Twisting counter-clockwise, the Redguard disarmed Francis and took the Breton to the ground. Something said in Yoku before a dagger was taken into the Redguard’s hand and made to plunge into Francis’s neck. Francis blocked it with his forearms. The blade still sank towards his throat and Francis slightly whimpered, knowing the shock brought on by being wounded by the mysterious weapon the crab wielded was sapping his strength away. Francis heard the roar of Vendel a distance off and more clangs of metal. Francis remembered his friend’s words on his unwillingness to die here and something took hold in Francis as he took hold of the dagger’s long blade. Some form of wildness flooded into his eyes and an incomprehensible anger wrapped its fingers around his heart.

Francis gritted his teeth and squeezed the blade in his stonefleshed hand, slowly turning the point away from his neck and towards his shoulder. Francis snarled as the Redguard pushed down with all his strength- more than Francis’s. Francis made the sacrifice and let the dagger bury itself in his shoulder about what felt like an inch- a very painful inch- in. With a roar, Francis wrapped a hand around the Redguard’s throat and with his other stonefleshed hand, bludgeoned out a few of the man’s teeth and broke his jaw from the sound of it. The Redguard made some noise that was much less fierce than he was a moment ago as Francis rolled on top of him. With one hand holding his throat and head in place, he began bringing the bottom of his fist to pound the Redguard’s face not unlike a hammer.

A broken nose, lost front teeth, Francis had only seen a collapsed cheekbone once and Vendel had done it to the sailor in Wayrest, bloody eye and then silence. Francis crawled on all fours away from his kill, not used to ending a man so gorily. He looked at his hands, no longer that of a handsome and cunning duelist but now something akin to those grim-faced brigands he’d seen on the roads and in the taverns. Something not unlike Vendel. As much of a friend Vendel was, he was a beast, and Francis told himself he’d never wanted to be that. He’d let Vendel be that because someone needed to, someone needed to be the one who had the guts to kill like he did and not rely on rules and honor.

He surveyed the battlefield, watched guardsmen cleaving citizen, citizen cutting open guardsmen, fathers cradling bleeding sons and the same men being cut down. A citizen fumbling at his own gut-rope, trying to push it back into place. Francis noticed that there were no rules here, no chivalry, no sense of honor. Only violence and blood and death. Perhaps every time he’d taken on a job with, ‘it’s something to do,’ he’d not been taking anything seriously. He’d been insulting those with a cause they believed strongly enough in to die for. He’d been insulting the men and women dying around him. Francis looked at his hands again, fingers and palm coated in crimson, some not his own. This wasn’t a duel, that was for sure. This wasn’t roughing up an unsuspecting man for not paying someone their due, this wasn’t a Pas d’Armes in the road to Helgathe.

This was battle, not a fight, but a damned bloody battle and Francis grabbed the hilt of the dagger buried in his shoulder and ripped it free with a gritted-teethed growl. He reclaimed his sword from the ground and stepped with purpose towards a skirmish. He wasn’t going to die today, but he wasn’t going to run either. Not while Vendel wouldn’t and friends don’t abandon each other, he remembered the big Nord saying. Francis roared, catching another blade in his own in a bind and adding a little more crimson to his robes.