Tylmaesa, for all their faults, could scarcely remember a time they enjoyed more than this bloody art - the singing of blades, the whistling of arrows, the screams of the fallen foe... Together, it formed a symphony to their ears; a cacophony of awful noises that together became something beautiful, something that brought them all that much closer to reaching Heaven. 

Bliss, perhaps. 

Turning from their thoughts, Tylmaesa spent a handful of moments scanning the field ahead of them, and toward the stream of Altmeri s'wit swarming about the Legate like mindless Kwama drones to an invader marked by their Queen.  Truly, they wondered if the Altmer could be even be called people in such a state - did they lose their personhood when they thoughtlessly obeyed their orders? Was their dedication a thing to admire, especially in the face of how so many of their allies cowered behind their shields? Regardless, they were enemies to be slain. 

Now, unfortunately, was not the time for philosophical contemplations, they thought, advancing closer toward the Legate, the giant's graceful steps carrying them forward, into the mass of the gold-armored elves, desperately clawing for the glory of being the one to put a blade through the Legate's throat. Silently, Tylmaesa reached out, ignoring the sounds of arrows whistling past overhead. The Legate was capable - but he was only one man, and the foe were many. 

They wished there was more time to plan - to carefully select an enemy where a fallen foe would be the most beneficial, even to push their way to his front and help him force his way deeper into enemy lines... 

But there was none. 

If they dared allow a single second to pass, more drones would press about the Legate, surrounding him with so many blades that even he could not stop them all. 

And so, acting quickly, Tylmaesa simply charged at the first Altmer drone they saw in the Legate's vicinity, a shield-and-sword wielding soldier clad in gold. Grunt or sergeant or officer, Tylmaesa did not care, though the sheer bravado and glory-thirst they showed revealed the truth. A young soldier, unknowingly charging to their death. 

Tylmaesa moved as fast and their legs could carry them, pushing past the masses of soldiers engaged in savage melee with little thought to any of them. Arrows rained down from above, each threatening to spear them through - all the more reason to find cover. 

Finally, with mere feet separating them, the Altmer began to turn... 

And narrowly managed to bring their shield up in time to intercept the path of Tylmaesa's blow, a downward stab mere moments ago aimed for their vulnerable neck. 

Tylmaesa didn't follow through, instead taking a step backwards, bringing themself out of the smaller elf's reach. They were larger, and a large target, but their sheer size afforded them immense reach; reach enough that it was a simple matter to lay blow after blow upon the soldier's shield, hammering away so persistently as to force them to maintain a defensive posture, exhausting and waiting for them to make a fatal error. In the heat of battle, of course, there was little time for extended duels - most inevitably ended in less than a minute, and when the life of their commander was on the line... 

Sucking in a deep breath, Tylmaesa took a step forward, into the Altmer's reach. They slowed their next strike, hoping the Altmer would see it coming... 

And so it did. The blade lanced out for Tylmaesa's side, scraping against their skin, and Tylmaesa responded by ducking down, thrusting her own sword upward into the Altmer's armpit, thanking Mephala that their deception had succeeded. From their, it was a simple matter of kicking the Altmer's legs out from under them, and moving atop their body. Tylmaesa didn't waste time looking at them, even to grant them mercy, instead stomping on the soldier's open face, the first blow crushing their nose with a sickening crunch, the second denting their skull, the third opening it, and the second leaving it a smashed ruin like a rotting coconut. 

Panting and satisfied with their kill, Tylmaesa turned toward the Legate, eager for a chance to further hone their battle-craft in a brief, brutal duel. The Legate was overwhelmed. He couldn't handle the sheer volume of soldiers swarming about him, and so they-

And then, suddenly, there was naught but smashed armor and gory paste about him. Their comprehension of the Nord tongue aside, Tylmaesa needed only to see what happened to understand what she'd just witnessed, a smile spreading across their face. In but a fraction of a second, the overconfidence of the Altmer had turned to stunned confusion, the noise of shouting Nords ringing in Tylmaesa's ears. 

In this confusion, they found the perfect time to strike, snatching up a fallen grunt's shield. 

After a brief pause to collect themself, Tylmaesa broke into a lightning sprint, each step kicking up little clouds of dust, their previous prey's shield clutched tightly in their arm. Past the slower legionnaires and wounded Altmer they went, blood-red eyes scanning a fleeing wall of gold for the telltale signs of someone of more use than a grunt. Many of the higher-ranking officers had surely fled like the cowards they were, but for each twi that had given away to the instinct to flee, surely one would have simply frozen in place, hesitated in the face of the knowledge that such a certain victory had been turned into a rout by supposedly inferior beings. 

Shoving their way past a bloodthirsty legionnaire, Tylmaesa finally caught sight of what they'd hoped to see -- the glint of blue-green malachite glass among a sea of golden moonstone, the mark of one above the status of mere footsoldier. They didn't imagine any of the real commanders would have lingered for so long, but... 

It'd have to do. 

Sucking in a deep breath through their nostrils, the giant put all the energy they could into moving as fast as possible, momentarily struggling to catch up with the fleeing sergeant. Tylmaesa, though, was both faster and wearing even less armor, for what little weight glass and moonstone carried, but it was enough. Each great stride shrunk the divide between them, step by step, until Tylmaesa was forced to admit with a disappointed sigh that the badges of rank they saw were, indeed, merely those of a sergeant. Less valuable prey, but much safer prey, even if the challenge had evaporated the moment they began to route. 

Two dozen meters eventually turned into one dozen, one dozen into six meters, six into three, and still, the Altmer hadn't noticed the towering Dunmer barreling down on them. *Her*, Tylmaesa thought, numbly evaluating the running officer, noting the way they moved, the shape of their armor and the body beneath.. 

Three meters into one, and the muscles in Tylmaesa's legs tightened, spring-like, before they launched themselves at the Altmer, outstretched arms reaching for her torso. The moment they collected, the Altmer crumpled with a sharp gasp, brought down by the sheer weight on top of her, struggling to turn herself around from her position between Tylmaesa's powerfully muscled legs, straddling her waist. 

Tylmaesa wasted no time securing their prey, though. A heavy, closed-fisted blow to their forehead rung their skull like a bell, dropping their into unconsciousness before they had the chance to act. 

Grunting in frustration, Tylmaesa quickly worked the Altmer's helmet free, tearing free a strip of cloth to stuff into their open mouth, shield raised above their head all the while.