17 Rain's Hand, Helgathe
And the Riot rages on...
Not many leather-clad skirmishers chose to take on a fast-moving Nord covered in steel, but despite their dwindling presence beyond the bind, there were always a few daredevils seeking the nectar good warriors thrived on - a challenge. In her, they found one worthy of Tsun’s attention. That’s if Sovngarde were open to mutant-worshipping heathens who were spat out by a country that killed itself to escape them. Perhaps that was too harsh a judgement, Skyrim, as well, had been founded through conquest and expansion.
The dome of silver on her arm dealt blows not unlike a stone bludgeon. Her arm was well trained to withstand the abuse, it could extend and retract, travelling with the blows or bracing against them. They were exceeded thrice over in speed by an axe that never knew rest, enacting a blood hunt that was as unrelenting as it was brutal. The parts of an axe not normally used, were assigned functions, and the parts most utilized, were done so in creative ways. She conveyed an intimate knowledge of its curves; the heel that formed a third first; the pointed chin which, at times, was both arrow and spear; the curl of a deadly smile that had kissed many necks and hearts.
Two paces before her delivery of an almost nonchalant chop to a woman’s neck, Thyra was kneeling over a man and hammering the pommel into his forehead. By his side lay the blade he had pulled from the chest of a rebel fighter, and as Thyra lay eyes upon its crimson coat, anger swelled within her heart, for she knew it belonged to a fellow Son of Skyrim. His forehead collapsed, and the hole joined with his eye sockets and was made wider. With a slight flinch, she yanked her axe from the wench’s windpipe and swiftly pushed on.
Through gaps in the crowd, Thyra could see the cat at work, both hands held over two prone bodies, exuding beams of light one could almost feel. It was an enriching glow that was tender on the eyes, despite its brightness. Thyra gave a small smile without knowing or meaning to, as her mind slipped into memories pre-dating the Auroras. She had felt that light before, it was an energy sanctified by the caster’s selfless act, something Qara’Sion was now performing. Shadows formed between his brows, the struggle was clear.
At her far right, the Dwemer crab waged an inner battle against whatever effects the Khajiit had thrown at it. New problems grew to replace those that were removed; guards jumped in when it retreated, barring any attacks on it as it fled. Then in a twist of irony and misfortune, they were crushed as it shied away from new threats at the rear. Within those chaotic few seconds, no one knew how to come within striking distance without dying. Thyra was willing to try.
A hint of concern was all it took to stay her hand a moment longer, chewing her bottom lip, she rolled her eyes and turned to check up on the sunset-coloured Khajiit. He hadn’t fled, hadn’t turned himself invisible, or into a braver version of himself. His back faced her and his head was turned sideways, mirroring the posture of the juggernaut he spoke up at. Thyra felt her eyes widen, her head cocked backwards, and the axe almost slip from her fingers, as a pang of disbelief gripped at her. For one who has been mistaken for a large man, herself, it should not come as a surprise that a fellow Nord exceeds such norms. But it did, and she had probably stared longer than what was considered appropriate. The cat’s safety was assured, Nine be praised, and may she forever loathe herself for caring.
Mind trickery was foul, however, its effectiveness in evening out the odds could not be ignored. Running into the fray, Thyra pushed her allies ahead and pulled men by their collars into position, pointing out the way to go. Their first task was an easy one. While the creature was spooked, the guards stumbled to avoid its path and were easily impaled on rebel spears, if not clipped by swords swooping in. Roaring with battle-glee, Thyra swung three wide strikes at a swordwoman’s right side, feigned overhead, then spun around to hit the left side of her ribcage. The guard listed, sword arm flying to her open wound, then stumbled over on a knee. Thyra nudged the woman upright with her shield, and put all her might into the fatal blow that almost halved her skull like a golden walnut.
To make use of the minute, they needed to impede the crab’s movement before the spell wore off. Thyra whistled loudly, calling to the nearest two-hander handy, a familiar face that looked more certain of his warhammer than he originally was.
“Take out the legs, make it kneel,” her lips formed a sneer around that last word. There was so much hatred in her eyes, she could feel flames building a wall where tears once threatened to jump. She twirled her axe and looked to the opposite flank, at the ranged units continually prodding the beast with bolts and arrows, drawing its damaged staff away from the phalanx slowly approaching its front. Thyra wanted to feel that tube shudder then yield below her axe. The young two-hander gathered three men on his way, as instructed they concentrated on its two hind legs, taking turns at striking the joints and pulling away. When the spell wore off, its vigour returned, and often it would threaten to turn on the blunt force team but be stopped halfway by a bundle of spears suddenly assaulting its chassis. The three teams alternated, and Thyra kept an eye on the staff between stints at the front line, slashing at the guard resistance that met them there.
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