[i]Vehk's left tit,[/i] Tylmaesa thought to themself, watching with grim fascination as they pushed toward the front of the formation, silently cursing the most favored of their long-gone living gods. They briefly cast a glance skyward to eye the sun-blotting arrows above, but their focus was quickly drawn to bolts of magicka streaking across the battlefield - an accursed pox in this situation, rendering the neat, armored lines of the Imperial Legion into little more than human cooking pots. Instantly, years of battlefield experience willed them to advance, somewhere, anywhere, weapons lingering at their hips to give the appearance of minimal threat. 

[i]Not today, prissy n'wah. Not today.[/i] They thought, quietly wishing the entirety of Alinor an existence blighted by agony. The sound of pained gurgling drew their eyes to a fallen Legionnaire, an arrow punched straight through his throat - as good as dead, unfortunately, and they had no desire to waste time trying to save a dead man andend up dead themselves. Worse, than the arrows and spells, perhaps, was the swirling cacaphony of conflicting orders. Most of which they assumed came from cowardly and confused officers, but a number of which, they surmised, were cleverly crafted illusions designed to sow further discord.

"Move, you worthless bastards! Stay bottle up and they'll cook you alive! We fight our way free, or we die like sick dogs!" They shouted, the Dunmer's low, bellowing voice cutting through some of the noise.

Some, they hoped - their squad's, perhaps - but Tylmaesa had little hope that a single cry would change the course of the battle. Still, their words certainly carried enough volume to be worth a try, even if far more important matters were at hand.

Wandering eyes eventually fell upon the advancing Legate, the warrior's own shouts dashing whole swathes of Altmer wretch upon the ground. Brief pangs of jealousy washed over them, and they even contemplated attempting to flee, rushing through the Altmer lines and burning out their legs in a fevered escape or attempt to surrender, but they were quickly reassured by the calming wisdom of divinity, a favored passage.

Sermon Sixteen, passages seven through eight.

"Nerevar said, 'I am afraid to become slipshod in my thinking.'

Vivec said, 'Reach heaven by violence then.'"

Its message was simple, and always true - to choose the path of weakness and complacency was to refuse divinity. To choose the raw violence of emotion, to choose to act - this was divine. This always was, and always would be, so wrote Saint Vehk, Warrior-Poet.

And so, a path was chosen. Flowing alongside all those who had the same though, Tylmaesa chose their twin blades as Nerevar chose his axe, for they knew that to stay still was to invite death, for they did not need steel armour and would not suffer its protection nor its weighty burden. They would fight as the Saint did - forging their own path ahead, moving with such violence as to approach the divine, perhaps some centuries in the future.

In the here and now, that meant advancing behind the Legate, weapons drawn. It meant dodging past wayward arrows, keeping an eye out for the filth that so deftly wore a false veneer of truth and nobility. She hated everything they represented - their clever duplicity, their assumed supremacy, their smug tyranny... But most of all, she hated that she could not simply obliterate them. At least, then, they carried the unexpected element of the claw-dance. 

Once more, their eyes were drawn from the legate, and to the wild storm of soldiers engaged in melee about him. They joined the loose ranks of Imperial soldiery, but not to hold in formation, no - instead, they were drawn to a low-ranking Altmer officer, engaged with one of their Imperial comrades in a duel. An opportunity, and a deadly one, but an opportunity nonetheless. They watched, transfixed and moving, as the Imperial Sergeant unwittingly exposed himself, receiving a slash to his leg in turn. They watched, still moving, as the Altmer raised their blade, ready to deliver the killing blow... And thanked the She-Who-Erases as the officer turned toward the towering Dunmer barelling toward her.

Sparks flew as her blade collided with Tylmaesa's, scraping away at the surface of the metal - not glass, she noted, but certainly moonstone. Lighter than theur steel, and hard enough to severely damage their blade given a few good strikes. Pulling backwards and to the side of a thrusting strike that narrowly sailed past their torso, they realized what a problem that was. A second jab immediately followed, and once again, they narrowly managed to move out of the way. Again, and again, the Altmer insisted on forcing the giant on the backfoot, and for all Tylmaesa's size, she was succeeding, as much as Tylmaesa attempted to meet her.

For long enough, Tylmaesa thought. Perhaps she thought they were a mage, trying to keep them on the backfoot to prebent the casting of spells - after all, what Dunmer would practice the Khajiiti arts? 

Finally, the officer brought down her blade in an attempt to slash open Tylmaesa's gut, and once again, she nearly succeeded. This time, though, Tylmaesa was prepared - a wild slash toward her face in preemptive retaliation fell short, but just as was intended. As it cut through the air, Tylmaesa thought back to their lessons of fire, of channelling aggressive movements into the most openly aggressive of elements. Their anger flowed into the weapon, washing the officer's open eyes with flame, instantly searing her beautiful eyes, her flawless Altmeri countenance. Tylmaesa was a mericful foe, however, and in the officer's screaming, howling confusion, a steel blade hacking at her neck quickly ended her life. One, two - Tylmaesa watched with satisfaction as the creature's head rolled to the side, limply toppling to the floor along with her body. Tylmaesa snatched the moonstone blade from her hand as she fell, shoving it into their belt... And continued to move, advancing with their comrades into the tide of Altmer filth.