There was no less chaos surrounding the Legate than there had been elsewhere in the skirmish. The Thalmor force had their sights clearly set on him, and the reasons why were clear - even to a militarily ignorant Drelas. They were to assassinate a key component of the Legion's arsenal in the Imperial counter-insurgence. What they did not expect, however, was the Legate's insistence to remain alive.

And seemingly, not the Voice he commanded either.

Drelas was keeping a wary eye on his surroundings, his crimson gems darting left and right, his sword and shield raised and ready for an encroaching Altmer footsoldier. And yet to his surprise, none came, though the Dunmer did not go looking for a fight eagerly. As he anxiously waited, a booming and glottal roar shook his bones, and the entire world seemed to quiver. He had witnessed the source of the sound in his peripheral, but his mind could barely comprehend what he had seen. The Thu'um! No wonder those of the Dragonblood were so feared, and no wonder that the rivers of destiny bended to their will.

That draconic sentence somehow turned the tide of the battle. The Thalmor decided that they had caused enough carnage to be worth their current losses and so their leadership pulled back. If only mundane words could hold such power. Drelas watched as his comrades gave chase, butchering the Mer who were not quick enough or aware enough to flee. The Dark Elf felt no such urge, there was enough blood on the snow already, and he did not feel a zeal nor passion to the countless avenge nameless Imperial grunts that had predictably been slaughtered hours into their arrival into this grim North.

Instead, he inspected the wound on his leg once more as the pain had reignited. It did indeed seem like just a flesh wound, but a wound all the same. He glanced around for any nearby medic or healer, but struggled to identify one. Fatigue came over him in a rush, and so he slumped on the frosty ground beneath him, his sword stabbing into the ground to support a tired lean and his shield still over his arm. He took a few deep breaths and tried not to process the event of the past few minutes too much.

Was this just the first of many battles? How many lives did he have left? For it was surely by divine intervention that he was still able to see his steamy breath in front of him. That, or sheer dumb luck, which would hardly last forever.

Drelas just knew that he needed to find a way out of his service. It was just a matter of an opportunity presenting itself...