Sagax flinched slightly when his argonian friend shook him awake, having fallen into a slight stupor after realizing that the man he tried to carry to safety had died before even getting to the shore. "Yeah. Yeah, gotta get going..." He slowly rose to his feet, still somewhat winded from his escapade, and readjusted his hood which had become lopsided during the skirmish moments before. He glanced back down at his deceased comrade, and noticed he carried the distinct figure of a nord warrior, with the weathered face of a man who had seen years of war. Sagax admittedly did not know the intricacies of it all, but he still knew the basics of nordic beliefs. He shortly prayed two prayers: to Arkay for his comrade's peaceful rest, and one wishing him honorable entry to Sovngarde, which Sagax understood to be the great hall of heroes that those nords who prove their mettle pass on to when they die. He wanted to give the man a proper burial, but he knew that there was no time for such a thing. He hoped that the dead would be given their rites after the battle ahead. 

Sagax carried on, walking straight-backed along the side of the ram, slightly closer than before. He recognized his previous cowardice, and sought to make up for it by sticking close to the main force nearest the siege weapon. He still held on tightly to the hilt of his blade, but he was much more focused, breathing as calmly as possible. Sagax was still nervous, of course, but he wasn't letting it get the better of him. He simply kept marching with the rest of the group when unlucky mercenaries got caught by Forsworn traps, keeping his own eyes low to the ground to make sure he didn't become one of them. The Forsworn didn't set traps to disable, they set them to kill, and Sagax knew that stopping to check every casualty was pointless. Not that there was anything to check with the poor bastard that stepped on a rune.

Sagax kept his pace up with the rest of the group, stopping as they did when they finally reached the redoubt. He watched several Forsworn come to greet the company, and drew his sword. This would be the night that his blade would first taste the blood of men, and where Sagax knew he would inevitably take his first human life. He flourished his blade gracefully, hoping to seem intimidating to the attackers. He had decided that no one would move him from the ram, nor would these Reachmen ever lay a hand on it. It was hard to look tough with his small frame, but maybe, Sagax thought, he could use that to his advantage. It's easy to look over the little guy, isn't it? Not many would assume the 'little guy' would dash to the side of you as you swing down at him and jab you in the ribs with a shortsword. Especially not the Forsworn that now lay gurgling at Sagax's feet. 

"Shit...!" Sagax gasped. He didn't even mean to do kill the man. He didn't even realize what he did until after he saw his foe crumple at his heel, he acted so quickly. Something in him decided that it was the best course of action. He felt something primal, something that he hadn't experienced before, at least not in the way he was experiencing it at that moment. Deep down he felt immense guilt over cutting down the Reachman, but all that was buried by his survival instinct. He gripped his sword and struggled to pull it out, only getting it back after planting his boot firmly against the man's side. The blood that splattered his face and arms made him nauseous, and his stomach churned. Good thing for Sagax that there wasn't really much in him to vomit. 

Fighting back his sickness, he glared at the fallen Forsworn's allies, who seemed to be almost as surprised as Sagax was to find their brother in arms cut down. "Well!? You going to just stand there, you troll-faced madmen!? I'll SLAUGHTER EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!" Or so he said. Sagax hoped to see the Reachmen turn tail and retreat, as his words were all a facade. He didn't want to kill any one else, but he regretfully knew that he most likely would have to.