They had finally reached the tipping point in this battle. Between the flanking force of Nords and Senche cavalry, and the magically charged Aldmeri frontline, the momentum had shifted firmly against the Daedra. Against a normal army, the presence of massive Daedra like Ogrims, Daedroth, and Xivilai could demolish standard formations, but Teroiah had sent one of her elite units for the critical job of pushing through the mountain pass, and the lycans, of course, had werecreatures that could stop even the massive Daedra in their tracks. The Daedric commanders, while fearsome, were not tacticians. Once they no longer had numbers, they simply shouted at their warriors to fight harder…and to the last.

Indeed, although each army had worked ahead of time to mentally prepare their soldiers for a fight against Daedra, they were quite unlike any foe they had fought before. For mortal armies, the basic instinct of self-preservation made battles end long before the last warrior was dead. When defeat seemed assured, armies would rout, retreat, or surrender. Right now, at the front, Meesei was at the spearhead of the Dominion lines. She alternated between storms of lightning, dispelling chains when the enemy showed a hint of magical defenses, or simply tearing apart whatever Daedra happened to be in front of her with her claws. For the army around her, with Sabine to restore them, their magical endurance seemed limitless. By the time spears or swords reached them, most of the Daedra in front of them were scarred and crippled by spellfire, or simply electrocuted. 

The rest of Meesei’s pack did eventually emerge from the tower, after clearing it themselves, though they did not have much time to reach the frontline by that point. The Dominion soldiers’ advance was steady and unstoppable, while the lycans had moved around behind the Daedra, slaughtering the archers and mages that had few warriors around them to protect them in melee. Hjergir himself had taken on his werewolf form. He had taken his fair share of injuries, staining his white fur red with blood, though he did not seem to be slowed in the slightest by them. Even by lycan standards, he was a brutal warrior. An Ogrim had counter-charged into the Nords, trampling two under its weight, and with a simple, massive punch, broke both the wooden shield of a third Nord, and the arm holding it. Before it could do any more damage, Hjergir pounced on its back, hooking his claws into its flesh on the front, while stabbing the claws on his feet into its back. While the Daedra was struggling to reach up and grab the werewolf, Hjergir repeatedly ripped and tore chunks of meat and fat from around the area of the Ogrim’s neck. He tore apart, and even devoured parts of the Ogrim while it was still alive. He was ferocious enough that one could be forgiven for mistaking him for a feral. 

Ultimately, when the Dominion and Nordic forces did meet, it was when the last of the Daedra had been slain between them. It was a victory, and a firm display of the skill of the soldiers they had with them, but it was still not a victory that Meesei, or any of the commanders, could be particularly comfortable with. They had maintained a strong momentum against a numerically superior force, and even once that momentum had been stalled, they had managed to successfully react and maintain their advantage. But, they had still taken losses. Dead Nords, Altmer and one Senche lay on the ground behind them, along with injured soldiers that needed to be tended to if they wanted to avoid more deaths. The casualties they suffered would be considered light by any conventional measure, but they had only just [i]begun[/i] their push through the mountain pass. They had only taken one of the watchtowers. If they had to keep fighting like this, even light losses would eventually wear them down until they did not have enough soldiers to push on to their final destination.