He was swept up in the throngs of war and emotion. His heart pounded in his ears, his hands were moist with sweat. In front of him, moving in such a slow state that it could only have been produced by his irrational mind, was Gendrick and the others. Behind him, was those that could not fight in close quarters. Inwardly he wondered who he should protect. 

[i]Everyone,[/i] was his gentle response. 

But he knew that wasn’t the priority. Trying to save everyone would lead to mistakes. His mistakes could lead to everyone's death. The decisions were back-breaking, if he was to survive, he needed to silence it all. So he focused on one thing; not letting any rats pass him. 

Nove’s gaze went dark, a dull copper in spite of his once-lively bronze.  His longsword was held at the ready as fleeing skavens started towards him. He raised his buckler in his other arm, prepared to guard if one or more had decided to strike at him. 

They rushed by and every time one came close to passing him, he engaged with above-average speed and strength. With every blow he struck, Nove would yell his victory beforehand. A battle-cry of sorts that echoed in his throat.