There wasn’t much in the way of peace and quiet as the battle raged on, some street urchins watching from alleyways, hidden behind barrels or crates. Most of the residents who were not too keen on joining their countrymen in the fray had run already, though the odd morbidly curious observer still stayed, watching from the windows above or simply just looking out from their window, being trapped inside by the chaos mere feet beyond their walls. Watching men and women die, guards cut down, rioters opened up. Blood soaked the ground in pools and tiny rivers sometimes meandered to join a stranger’s blood with another. In death, the life-force of guard and rioter intermingled. The stench of guts sliced open and baking in the sun, old black blood, sweat. The sound of metal on metal, screams of pain, of anger. 

All of these hit Francis at once as the spear pierced his side. The sharp pain of the metal pushing itself deeper in, the panic at the first moment, the fear-tinged anger the second as his eyes met the gritted-toothed Redguard holding the polearm, growling and pushing the blade deeper. It was only at that moment that Francis realized his stoneflesh had worn off. The sting of a cut on his arm returned to him, the pain of a gash on his thigh showed itself for the first time, both leaking crimson- and now this. It seemed longer than what had happened in reality, whole years it felt as Francis felt the familiar unbridled anger coupled with the very mortal want of not dying, his fingers grasping the haft of the spear, spittle spraying from his gritted teeth as he roared.

All victories are won in sacrifice, no matter how small or how devastating. Even the battle won with only three men lost on one’s own side has seen three families sonless. Many victories can only be won by raising the stakes to a height where your opponent either can not or will not reach. The tip of the spear had already entered Francis’s side. His closed fist, white knuckles wrapping around the haft. Although it was through no volition of his own, more the grips of hysteria setting in caused a grin to split Francis’s visage, a terrifying thing coupled with his ruddy robes and wild eyes, made all the more wild by the very hysteria that brought about the laugh. The chuckle, at first, then the laugh, but no joviality to it. A wild, shrieking thing that put fear and confusion into the Redguard’s face that soon turned to horror as Francis yanked the spear deeper in.

All victories are won in sacrifice.

Raise the stakes.

Hand over hand, shrieking laugh, wild eyes, keffiyeh hanging open but the shrieking laugh turned to only growling, strings of blood laced Francis’s chin, the tip of the spear finding the air again through Francis’s back. Gritting his teeth even tighter than he ever thought he could, adrenaline coursing through his veins and hysteria numbing him to all the world, a single-minded purpose replaced everything in his existence as he pulled the spearman closer. Finally, when they were nearly close enough for their eyelashes to brush past each other as they blinked, Francis growled something, “You…Y-You should have let…go!”

Francis near stared holes into the terrified eyes of the Redguard and wrapped his hands around the man’s neck. Mage’s fire, the fire that erupts from the palms of those gifted with magicka, is said to burn brighter and hotter than the average flame. The Redguard was finding out if it was true as his neck practically disintegrated beneath Francis’s choking grip. The spearman fell away from his weapon, heeding Francis’s advice if only a bit too late and Francis stumbled about on the battlefield. He thought this would finally be his end as he saw a particularly stout Redguard hefting an iron-hafted axe and walking to him with purpose.

Francis only sighed and dropped to his knees as the Redguard closed on him. His pounding footsteps were almost audible as he lowered his head, bloody drool falling from his lips as he let the sound of the battle and the haziness of blood loss take him to somewhere else. His life dribbled away from him in crimson as he fell over to lean on a wall, too tired to protest his impending death. Consciousness was slowly beginning to elude him as his eyes grew heavy, but in his last moments, he watched the man’s head snap forward, eyes bulging out of his skull and blood began to pour forth from his nostrils before his head snapped forward again, falling to his knees and then falling limp on his face. Standing over the Redguard was Vendel. Blood on his robes, long blonde hair disheveled and caked with old blood as with his beard. The Nord rose again with the hammer and brought it down hard into the helmet, already caved in. Heaving shoulders, bloody mane, and furious, animal eyes, Vendel cut an imposing figure on the battlefield.

“Don’t die yet, friend. The battle is almost won.” Vendel smiled, tired.

Francis only grinned before darkness fell.