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Lightning, brilliant and blue, burst forward from the tip of the staff. The sparks blinded and seared the scorpions, keeping the beasts away so Ehsan could face the remainder. It required an almost constant use of the magics that the Altmer had been worked into the wood.

As he drove back two more of the scorpions, Valsiore could feel the wood under his sweat-slicked palms weaken. The runes he had engraved along the staff had lost their luster, no longer glowing when he called forth the lightning bolts. Not far into the future, quite possibly even during this battle, the enchantment would finally give out, leaving him with what would then be akin to a fresh cut branch.

There were of course the gems in his satchel that was over his shoulder. Three precious, jet blacked gems that he regarded as his war trophies. Any one of them would recharge his weapon and let him burn his way through the remaining scorpions that stood between him and the ship’s crew, but to recharge would take time.

He flung a fireball into the mandibles of a charging arachnid. It scorched the flesh, causing the creature to scream and hurry backward. Valsiore had a few seconds to catch his breath.

No, he decided. He didn’t have the time to even remove the soul gem from his bag.

A handful of sailors were cutting their way through the scorpions, ahead of the rest. At their head was a khajiit mage, keeping a number of the beasts at bay with sword and spell. A bit of mercy this cruel world, they looked like they would make it to Valsiore and Ehsan. Perhaps this wasn’t their death sentence after all.

Another flurry of lightning bolts, a fireball at a tail, and a quickly cast Fear at a scorpion that had gotten too close for comfort. Meanwhile, Ehsan dug his scimitar into one scorpion’s thorax, then sliced off the tail of a second, sending it scurrying.

By the Eight, the two groups actually managed to meet.

The khajiit, fur coated with blood, skipped the introductions. “It’s safer by the ship. Try not to die and make our efforts meaningless.”

“Noted!” The Altmer yelled, hurrying behind a line of several men who held particularly large weapons.

“We make it back to the line and we’re out of danger. The beasts are starting to be driven back.” She told them.

“I can help us return to the line,” the Altmer said, feeling safer now that he was in a group that he did not represent half of.

Now that he was not forced to constantly keep the scorpions at bay, Valsiore was able to finally alter his tactics. He had used much of Storm of Alinor's magic in order to conserve his energy, keeping him fresh for when he had met the sailors. He could throw fireballs just as well as the next man (or cat woman), but he had a few other skills up his sleeve, ones that were a bit more unconventional.

His first target was a younger sailor, a boy of nineteen, holding on to a cutlass with a shaking hand. Somewhere during the fight the right side of his head had been badly scratched, and it looked like he had lost an ear. The boy looked quickly from foe to foe, unable to focus. If he didn’t rally his thoughts, he’d have a scorpion’s tail through his pretty red tunic in no time.

Valsiore placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Courage my friend,” he said, willing the sailor to fight. It took a moment for the outside force to cloud the boy’s judgment, for his hands to stop shaking and his mind to focus only on victory. Thoughts of defeat and death were pushed to the side, an illusion of definite victory placed at the forefront of his mind.

Resolute, the sailor stepped forward.

Damn the brave and inspiring speeches that military commanders gave, Valsiore could do the same with a bit of magic and a touch. Perception was everything, and he’d make damned sure that the group of sailors he now found himself with truly believed that they could cut their way back to the safety of the ship and its crew.

The Altmer’s gaze was drawn to several dead bodies. He stepped over corpses that had been impaled and ripped apart by the Hammerfell beasts. The majorities were unrecognizable; a mixture of torn organs and cut flesh, but a handful still retained their rough shape.

Failing his little ‘inspiring push’, he did have a backup plan.

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