[i]17 Rain's Hand, Helgathe[/i]

Believing that this was very likely their last few moments on Mundus, the brave and ferocious Rebels fought without fear in their hearts. The frontline was subjected to relentless abuse and resistance from all sides, their focus rent between a sea of gold and a creature from darker depths. They lacked tactical support and the advantage of reinforcements stationed close by, but Kyne preserved them by installing sons and daughters at each critical juncture. At its peak, the battle took on three different fronts, each one tended to, if not led, by these children of the sky.

Thyra applied her fury to the fore, confident in her kinsman fighting at the rear against the monstrous crab. It was a heated battle made more intense by their tight proximity in the street, and the chore of patching up breaks in their defensive line. The remnant Guards were the first to fall. She could faintly make out their pleas above clatters of abandoned weaponry, and the cheers of their subduers. 

For a moment, the old her surfaced. Rather than feeling disgust at their lack of honour, a twinge of sympathy placed an enchantment upon her, reminiscent of the sky banners that made fools out of thousands of people. Good people who fell into complacency the way she did, believing conflict to be an outdated solution. It wore off as quickly as it came but she’d still have to cope with the thoughts dredged up afterwards. Seems the auroras took more than her free will. 

Cries rose from the execution and rolled off her back like a feeble breeze. The small number of spectators trapped within buildings nearby harboured hopes for an end to the battle, never mind the Occupation - never mind who won. Astonishingly, the Rebel frontline held out and turned back the Dwemer Guards and Redguard traitors to their post. Though the crab still ‘lived’, the invading force had been routed from the square. Victory was essentially theirs, and Thyra felt rowdy exaltations were in order.

“Run, milkdrinkers! Run back to your bitch-dog mothers!” the Nord woman jeered at their heels in mock pursuit. She turned back, laughing still, looking over the ones who hadn’t joined as they closed in on the still functioning crab. Steam gushed out of every wound, its thrashing fits had been reduced to a flail, and assaulting it was a lone warrior, venerated by a mass of cheering Rebels. They gathered around to seek a piece of the death-reaper, leaving Thyra with the few stragglers content to watch. At the sound of a sky-rending roar, its corpse surrendered a gentle hiss. Something wasn’t right, the Nord jumped away from his kill, and seconds after it became painfully clear when an explosion more devastating than cannonfire rocked the square. Sweeping across a wide radius, the debris it spat out were like bronze jaws riding a wave of thunder.

For the second time, that Oblivion-forsaken crab had knocked her on hindquarters - and in death, even! Thyra grunted, feeling more frustrated than in pain despite bleeding out against the building she was thrown into. She was in poor shape but doubly grateful for the steadfast bits of steel that still guarded her body. The right pauldron was dented beyond recognition and the left had been completely torn off, revealing the darkest shade her skin had ever been. Her chestplate was mostly intact, at the expense of her shield which now required treatments foreign for her Nordic knowledge if she was to ever use it in battle again. With a sigh, she whispered her gratitude to Kyne. She knew there was a high chance that their enemies would regroup and return, and in their weakened state, the Rebels had an ice wraith’s chance in Hammerfell to repeat that miracle of a victory.

Qara’Sion sat by an adjacent building, he was hard to miss being the same colour as a cat on fire. Laying her palms at either side, against two beams she was extremely lucky not to be impaled on, Thyra pushed herself up and forward. A blaze broke out above her knee whenever it moved or took weight. She didn’t bother looking down, it was damaged, that was all she needed to know with a Healer in clear sight. Struggling to keep an even pace, she limped up to him.

“You there, Cat,” she grimaced, “Fix.” She pointed at the pain above her knee, still refusing to look, as if there were a minor scrape and not a piece of Dwemer metal sticking out of it.