Private 6E 1147, Sun's Dusk

[Mr.Self Destruct]

When I open my eyes, the sun is shining.

It is a warm morning in the Colovian Highlands, the first in many months. Spring has come, and the sun washes over the land. Warming the trees and grass back to their green and urging the flowers from the soil. My home sits upon a hill overlooking a river, recently thawed from the frozen cold of winter and now flowing freely. My beautiful children play in the yard, my son and my daughter. From the shade of the porch is my wife, perfect in every way. Her eyes iridescent shades of blue and her blonde hair long and flowing. She looks at me, she smiles.

Claude is roused from his sleep by a sharp jolt of the wagon, and for a moment he forgets who and where he is. However, he is quick to remember. He is Claude Taylor, legionary for the Rourke Empire. There is no home waiting for him, no wife or children. It's a dream he has from time to time, a dream he longs for to be true. On either side of him are others, but Claude is the only above the age of 17. He is a man among boys, who, like him, were expected to kill and die for the Empire.

The wagon is surrounded by muddy fields and dead trees, pockmarked with craters left from shells. Other wagons, which are pulled by sickly and emaciated horses, rumble by. Soldiers who had arrived before march alongside the wagons, their faces hallow and brooding. Claude has seen this once before, and although he is more experienced than the others with him he is still afraid. Deathly afraid of what lies before them.

They are near the Western Front, and the boys in the wagon tremble with anxiety. Claude reserves himself, trying to hide it. He clenches the battered, wooden frame of his rifle tightly. Holding it tight to his chest and trying to steady his breathing. Trenches, barbed wire, and bodies begin to appear. The sight of a rotting corpse causes the boy sitting next to Claude to begin vomiting over the edge of the cart. "I-I need to go back I can't--" The boy was hysterical, vomit staining his uniform and face. And then, from the air, there was a piercing howl. Growing louder and more shrill by the second. "Shells! Get down!" There was a flash of white, and then all went black.

When Claude opens his eyes, he's face down in the mud beside the road. The wagon got a direct hit, and what's left of it; and the other troops, has been blown apart in a twisted and smoldering heap of rubble and limbs. Although his ears are ringing, he can hear shots and shouting. Booms and screams. He takes hold of his rifle and begins crawling towards a nearby trench as airplanes roar overhead and soldiers run by, firing their rifles as they go.

He clambers inside the muddy trench and lets himself fall. His ears are still ringing and his entire body is stiff and numb. He's shaking terribly, and thoughts and senses are coming in like shards of glass. He struggles to hold onto his rifle as more shells go off. The battle has begun.

 

[OriginOfAbsolution]

A long, slow breath escaped the girl's lips as she aligned the scope's crosshairs with a dark head of closely-cropped hair in the distance. Base of the skull... perfect. Azalyn's lip curled slightly at the thought, and she felt the muscles of her right forefinger begin to tense. "Boom." She whispered.

She did not pull the trigger, and the distant figure walked away, returning to the trench from where he had come. Untroubled, the Bosmer girl shifted her weapon slightly, searching for a new target. Before she can find one, she was distracted by a harsh, deep voice above her head.

"What in Oblivion do you think you're doing, Elf?"

Azalyn did not remove her eye from her scope. "Practicing my aim." She replied casually. And it was true. She just happened to be practicing on the Imperial soldiers in the trench beside theirs. It was nice to imagine blowing each and every one of their worthless heads off, wondering which of them had had a hand in her brother's disappearance. Not that it mattered -- she hated all of them regardless, just like she loathed the Aldmeri Dominion. The Dominion had stolen her father from her, and now the Imperials had taken her brother. They were all scum, all monsters. At least she'd be able to make some of them pay.

Distracted by her thoughts, Azalyn was suddenly snapped back to the present as her rifle was wrenched from her grasp. She glared up, annoyed at the man towering over her. It had been bad enough having to resort to working for the damn Imperials. Having to deal with the likes of Sergeant Klyne day in and day out was the icing on the cake. He was a snide, arrogant, racist bastard -- even moreso than the other Imperials she'd met since arriving in Cyrodiil.


"Oh, come on. You didn't think I'd really do it." Azalyn rolled her eyes at him. This would be the first battle she would ever face. She should have been scared spitless. Instead, she felt strangely calm, though certainly annoyed -- almost to the point of amusement. Huh. Maybe Sarge is good for something after all.

"Give me one reason to think otherwise." He spat back at her, his mouth a hard thin line. "I don't care what the higher-ups have to say. I don't care how good of a shot you are. I don't like you, Elf."

Azalyn's face fell. "Really? And I thought we were finally getting along so well." Her voice dripped with sarcasm as she ripped the gun from his grasp.

Whatever Klyne's retort was supposed to be, Azalyn did not hear it. The air was suddenly filled with a deafening roar and, just a few yards away, the bodies began to fly. Azalyn immediately threw herself to the muddy ground, covering her head. Beside her, the Sergeant did the same. All around them was total chaos as men from the passing carriages dove into the trenches and others begin opening fire on the approaching enemy.

Klyne gave Azalyn a hard look. "Just watch where you point that thing." He growled before ducking down into a half-crawl, half-crouch and heading off to join his men. Then he was gone -- and the young Bosmer was alone.

For a fleeting moment, she couldn't help but wonder if Zale ever felt this same rush of fear and uncertainty flow through his veins in the midst of battle. I guess this is it... Gods give me strength. Azalyn tried to steady her breathing as she carefully lifted her rifle to her shoulder once more and peeked over the edge of the trench at the battlefield.

This time, her aim doesn't come so easily.

 

[Mr.Self Destruct]

(Sorry, couldn't resist another post! )

Claude swallowed, his heart was beating so hard and fast it felt as if it might burst through his chest. Further down the trench were a few others. Judging by how filthy their uniforms were and how fatigued and tired they looked Claude figured they had been on the front for some time. They were also fighting, not curled up and shaking like one man was beside them; whom Claude immediately recognized from the carriage. "On your feet, maggot!" One of the grizzled men yelled, yanking the boy up from his collar and shoving his rifle back into his arms.

The boy's head was immediately blasted apart as he stood, spraying the veteran with gore and bits of skull as the body crumpled to the floor. The sight sickened Claude, and he felt a knot tightening in his stomach as blood began to pool around the stump that was once the boy's head. "Gods damn it!" The veteran yelled, returning to his firing position. Claude shook away the sight of the killing and made his way over to the group, fixing a bayonet to his rifle as he went.
Claude was no stranger to how war worked in this age. He propped himself against the wall of the trench beside the others and began firing at the distant shapes of enemy soldiers. Shells shrieked and screamed through the air, high above them, airplanes were engaged in dogfights. An Imperial plane was caught in a gust of enemy fire and the plane began to plummet. Smoke and fire engulfed it, and the plane spiraled out of control. Tearing through the sky above Claude's trench before colliding with the ground ahead and exploding in a burst of fire.

 

[Skyrimosity]

Thomas Arnhem and his division of troops were assigned to reinforcing a trench, reported to be a risk of collapsing to enemy soldiers due to low morale and newer recruits. The division was a very small branch, hardly enough to hold off a large enemy attack. The rest of the Provincial Army staying behind in a reserve, awaiting the possibility of a major disaster among the Imperial Army. A plane spiraled down and crashed in a ball of fire about 300 meters ahead.

200 meters later. Gunfire began to burst nearby as the thirty some men began to run toward the trench. Thomas began to burst into a full sprint at the trench, hoping to cover the last 100 meters WITHOUT dying a horrible death.

As the gunshots surrounded them all, the twenty-five remaining men (who had gotten lucky the other soldiers had been focused on the newer recruits in the trench) scurried into the trenches. They took up positions and began firing their rifles, increasing the Firepower of the Empire's Trench toward the Aldmeri Trench. Thomas saw the crazy scene and tried to make order of it. Beside him, a young Imperial soldier looked a bit worried and fearful of death. Amateur Thomas thought as he fired his rifle at the enemy trench.

The firing appeared like it'd take hours possibly even days, and the Breton was not all too sure if the men would hold up. Still, his job was to shoot not to think, so he just aimed at the other trench and shot, more times than was ever worth counting.

 

[Duon]

Caeder sat against the wall of the mud and blood soaked trench grasping the stock of his infantry rifle; eyes fixed tightly shut as he used the brief reprieve from fighting to get some much needed rest, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. The days all blurred together in the heat of battle and chances like this were few and far between. As roar of engines filled the skies and the trench shook slightly with the rumble of distant shelling Caeder awoke slowly opening his eyes, flexing his fingers around the stock of his rifle he let out a sigh as the pneumatics in his right arm stuck slightly with what he could only assume to be a fine mix of trench mud and human blood. Going to slow my reflexes he thought to himself leaning the scoped rifle against the wall next to him, stretching his arms above his head working the kinks out of his muscles and the pneumatic servo’s controlling his auto-mail arm.

“Who am I fighting for again?” Caeder whispered to himself staring around at the pile of dead elves fanning out from the spot he lay. “Oh that’s right… Rourke” He scoffed in distaste for the man, getting to his feet as the shells grew closer and the black dots of bombers flying high overhead appeared in the distance. Walking over to one of the dispatched elves from the night before; Caeder pulled his Katana out of the dead man's back, avoiding the young elves cold dead stare as he cleaned the razor sharp blade on his uniform. Standing with his back against the dirt trench he stuck the glinting blade above the trench line, examining the front reflected in this mirror like image of the blade.

“plops…” He spat as the blade reflected the outlines of a small tank convoy creeping over the horizon; during the night’s engagement Caeder had broken from the company he’d been assigned, driven by adrenaline he pursued a group of fleeing stragglers far into no man’s land. He had found the group and wiped them out but was pinned down throughout the night by shelling. Sheathing his katana and picking up his rifle Caeder made his way to the worn slanted ladder, tossing his rifle strap over his shoulder he took hold of the first ladder rung. “Gods hide my ass.” Caeder spoke in a snide tone, ascending the ladder and taking off at a run back towards the Imperial trenches.

Shells whizzing overhead Caeder ran like the wind switching his steps as a machine gun lit up from the opposite end of no man’s land; they saw me he cursed to himself picking up his pace leaping over a fresh bomb crater as shells rained down on his position, breaking for the far side of the trench line Caeder was blown backwards by a direct shelling blowing him into another large bomb crater. Getting back to his feet and shaking off the dust as his ears rang, Caeder pulled himself out of the crater continuing his mad dash back toward the Imperial trenches before the gunners could get sighted back in. Approaching the safety of his own trenches. “fluffing amateurs!” Caeder cursed loudly as a burst of gunfire hit the ground next to him fired from his own side, causing him to nearly fall before catching his footing and clearing the last few yards to cover.

Diving into the trench and sliding down the wall and letting out a sigh of relief; looking around at the confused soldiers, several of which had been watching his antics through their scopes. “Anyone have a cantine?” He asked nonchalantly pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his coat; lighting one of the bent smokes and taking a long drag as a hit plane spiraled down to earth outside the trench, exploding into a fireball as debris flew overhead. Nothing quite like war he thought with a snide pessimistic smirk.

 

[Melee]

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG. ...BANG.

The metal vehicle holding the 'prisoners' was cold, and the temperature transferred to the young Wood Elf's hands as she pounded relentlessly on the wall separating the group from the driver. A small slot in the wall quickly opened with short clang, revealing an angry and tired eye on the other side. "I thought I told yah twenty minutes ago to quit chyor damn hammerin' on the damn wall! It isn't makin' yor case any better, yah know."

The trouble making Elf in question, a young woman named Fen, rolled her eyes and sauntered back to her seat, as well as she could in what was an incredibly overcrowded metal wagon with a canvas tarp thrown over the bars. This made her saunter more of an extended fall, one that fortunately ended with her landing in her previously occupied seat.

Fen's wrists had started to become sore, and the minor throbbing from the large metal police cuffs were temporarily taking her mind off of the ever increasing noises of guns, bombs, and general warfare taking place. Why she had thought coming to Cyrodiil was such a good idea instead of finding somewhere else in Valenwood, she would never know.

A particularly close shell exploded, rocking the wagon and sending people tumbling over each other into a haphazard heap. Cursing was heard from the front of the vehicle, as well as vehement comments on why this envoy was even traveling this close to the current battlefield. But then, this wagon was just full of prisoners and criminals. Why would it matter if they were blown up by a stray shell or not?

Just as the sounds of the ongoing battle reached deafening levels, a mortar shell struck the ground close enough to the caravan that it was launched into the air, doors flying wide open upon impact with the muddy ground below. People flew in all directions; some were hurt, some were completely fine, and then there were still others who weren't so lucky.

Fen happened to consider herself to be one of the luckier individuals; and by lucky, she meant being alive and not writhing in pain on the ground, unable to move. If she were, her fate would have been sealed. But as it happened, she was still able to get around, although she found she had sustained numerous injuries. Blood seemed to be everywhere, and she wasn't sure what was hers and what wasn't. Her head and left arm were both bleeding profusely as she staggered away from the site of the explosion. Well, if there's one thing to be thankful for, Fen mused as she gritted her teeth and made her way toward a nearby trench, it's that my hair is too short to be in my eyes. If I could get my goggles down I'd be golden, but I'm not concerned with those at the moment.

Her legs and lungs were beginning to burn from the acrid smoke and thick gunpowder lingering in the air, causing her eyes to water and coughs to wrack her body. Finally reaching a trench, Fen threw herself over the side, taking deep breaths to try and alleviate the burning sensation. Looking around through watery eyes, her stomach somersaulted as her eyes gazed at what were clearly Imperial soldiers, some staring right back at her. Among all the terrified faces was a man smoking a cigarette, strangely out of place in this trench even with his weaponry.

Attempting to scurry away, Fen grabbed one of her pistols from her belt, holding it in her hands that were still cuffed together at the wrists. She pointed it toward the soldiers, scowling and ready to flee if she had to. While she wasn't ready to go down without a fight, her amber eyes showed how terrified she truly was at that moment.

 

[Geel-Kajin]

The sky.

It was a fearsome umber, streaked white with flashes of gunfire. Columns of gray smoke rose as messages to the heavens above, heralding the arrival of more souls to Sovngarde.

Geel wasn't quite sure what Sovngarde was; A ghost, a graveyard? Merely heard in the whispered breaths of the old and dying, no longer fearing of persecution. Perhaps, in times long ago, it was something of importance. Geel often wondered how much lurked within the past, buried by the war, chaos and tyranny.

Now is not time to ponder. The terrors of reality await me, and I will only be bound by troubles of the present.

The sky.

It was a symphony of confusion, with shrieks of pain being it's thunderous chorus. Cries of the wounded reached the ears of the Argonian below, his brow creased from the agony he has heard.

Geel thought of the battle to come; Would today be his last, and he perish in the onslaught like the rest? His mage's robe rested heavy on his shoulders, bearing the burden of his doubts. He usually saved it for special occasions: air pollution, smog. But today would be the most "special" of them all; the occasion of war.

I must not falter. The sounds of battle greet me, and I will meet it with dignity.

The sky.

It was a maelstorm of disaster, infused with smells of rot and fire. Charred flesh and gunpowder singed his nose and gills, his breathing labored in the bitter air.

Geel left the "fodder" quarters, afraid. The area was named after the men who lived in it, destined to die for the upper ranks, food for the enemy. A distance from the battered tents, he saw the trenches, and in those trenches he knew they fought.

These trenches hold my life, and they shall be my protective savior-or final coffin.

The sky.

The Argonian walked beneath that crimson sky, to meet his fate under it's great gaze.
That sky that used to be blue.

 

[OriginOfAbsolution]

The world was spinning. Or at least, that’s how it felt. Azalyn’s eyes fluttered as she
groaned softly in pain, her ears ringing softly under the constant clamor of shouts and
gunfire. She closed her eyes again for a few precious moments, willing her head to stop
pounding. It didn’t. What had happened? She struggled to remember.

After several clumsy misses and limb-shots, followed by many panicked minutes under
cover as a plane crashed into fiery ruins nearby, the young bosmer had finally been
able to calm herself down enough to get the shot she’d been waiting for -- two shots,
actually. One right after the other. The enemies’ bodies fell quickly and silently, and
Azalyn had watched with amazement and a queer sense of excitement as the two
bodies slipped out of sight, back into the muddy trench from where they had come.

It was not the first time the girl had killed (though she could count the number of lives
she’d taken on just one hand... up until now) but never like this. Not in the middle of a
war. The first four times had been in self-defense. But isn't that what this is? They're
shooting at me. She reasoned. I'm just shooting back.

A small part of her should have felt guilty, she supposed. But every guilty thought that
entered her head was immediately erased by a second, stronger voice of reason. Yes,
she hated the Dominion. But she hated the Imperials too, and here she was, fighting for
them. But this isn't for them. It's for me. For Zale. I need to learn the truth. Well, surely
there were others out there like her brother -- who wanted no part in these silly wars and
were simply fighting because they had no choice. Did they really deserve to die? They
knew what they were getting into. Just like he did...

Perhaps it was these thoughts that had distracted her, or maybe it was her stubborn
insistence on getting in that third shot. Whatever it was, she had failed to notice
whatever it was they had fired at her. She remembered a deafening explosion, perhaps
a flash of light (or had she simply imagined it?) and the next thing she knew, she was
lying facedown on the bottom of the trench, her head pounding, her ears ringing, and
the lacerations across her neck, face, and upper arms bleeding profusely. How long had
she been blacked out? A few minutes, at least. But not long.

Her rifle lay several feet away in a puddle of mud. Still slightly delirious, she crawled
toward it and wrapped her fingers around it tightly. Azalyn lifted the dirty, mud-caked
fingers of her free hand to the old and dented Imperial helmet on her head. She
gave it a soft knock with her fist, her lip curling slightly into a smile. When Klyne had
begrudgingly offered it to her that morning, she’d scoffed at the rusty old thing, and
refused to put it on. As soon as the first shots started flying, she’d donned it eagerly.
And boy, was she grateful that she had.

Azalyn was suddenly snapped back to the present by the sound of heavy gunfire and
shouting behind her. She glanced back, and saw that the fighting seemed to have
intensified further down the trench. I've gotta get away... At least til my head clears...

The girl crawled in the opposite direction of the gunfire, sliding along the slick muddy
ground. As she neared some of the other Imperial soldiers ahead of her, the space
became more cramped and she mustered up the strength to lift herself into a crouching
position, creeping as swiftly and silently as she could down the line. Azalyn searched
desperately for a safe, uncrowded spot to rest, if only for a few minutes.

Instead, she came across a rather peculiar sight up ahead. A petite, female elven figure
stood several yards away, pointing a pistol at a shocked-looking group of Imperial
soldiers. How did one those bastards make it all the way out here? Are there more
of them? Azalyn thought, as she lifted her rifle to her shoulder with slightly unsteady
hands.

A part of her wanted to simply wait and see how many of the Imperial scum her fellow
bosmer could kill before they subdued her. A part of her even felt a strange sense of
kinship with this woman (which was the very reason she appreciated being able to snipe
from too far away to fully recognize the races of those she shot down.)

But Azalyn hoped that taking down this enemy before she could claim any lives would
be the chance she’d been waiting for. A true test to prove her “loyalty” to the Imperials.
Perhaps she could even convince them to let her become a true member of their ranks,
not just a hired mercenary. Then maybe she’d get her chance find out all she needed
to know. She could finally find Zale... and take her revenge on those responsible for
whatever fate befell him.

But as she looked through the scope of her rifle and prepared to take the shot, it
occurred to the girl that something was not quite right. This wood elf woman was
wearing civilian clothing, just like she was, not the usual uniform of the Aldmeri
Dominion. Another merc? A spy? Then she saw the bindings on the girl’s wrists.
A prisoner. Azalyn immediately thought of her brother, and felt a bizarre wave of
sympathy for this unknown woman. She couldn't do it.

Azalyn lowered her rifle, curious, and instead decided to hang back, unseen, and watch
the scene unfold. But who do I root for? Her or them?

 

[Mr.Self Destruct]

For every enemy soldier felled, it seemed as if two more took their place. Claude kept up the firing, emptying clips at anything that moved. Any vague shape visible through the twisted barbed wire and fog. The shelling did not falter, and at every moment a rumbling explosion that sent chunks of earth and bodies flying went off. Claude gritted his teeth and tucked back into cover as a gust of bullets whizzed by his face by mere inches. It was then, taking cover, did he notice the Bosmer girl pointing a pistol at him.

She wasn't in uniform, and didn't strike Claude as the mercenary type. She had caught him with his pants down, his life in her hands. Any sudden movement would surely end with Claude face down, riddled with holes. The others behind him had not yet noticed her, or so it seemed. And so, staring right back at her, he merely shook his head. No, don't. The message was clear.

"Enemy Airships! Up high!" The panicked yelp made Claude reel around, the sky was specked with dark blobs and shapes. Aldmeri zepplins, airships feared gravely by Legionaries. Claude's eyes widened with fear, he had only heard stories about their destructive capabilities.

There was a sudden, eerie calm before hell rained from the sky.

The bombs and shells being dumped off the ships came in droves, the ground beneath Claude rumbled violently as the earth before him was reduced to craters. The explosions went off in every direction, and Claude found himself surrounded by smoke and fire. "Down! Stay down!" Claude hit the dirt, covering his head with his arms and huddling against the trench wall.

When he stood, the sun was not shining. Everything around him was burning, engulfed by ravenous flames. Parts of the trench had been obliterated, the men beside him were gone. The sounds of inhumane screaming ringing through the air made him turn. Flailing his limbs madly and engulfed in flames was one of the men from earlier. The smell of burning flesh crept into Claude's nostrils, and the sight of the man's skin and flesh becoming black and charred made him sick.

If there was a hell, this was it.

 

[Melee]

Sudden quiet periods were always the most terrifying parts of battles. The most battle hardened soldiers could train themselves, after a great deal of time, to block the gut wrenching screams of fatally wounded comrades scattered across the battlefield. But silence, the eerie, uncommon absence of sound held the most terrifying aspect of war one could imagine; the unknown.

Fen believed her current terror couldn't get any worse until everything went quiet and still. Her eyes, still wide with fear, were locked onto the only soldiers staring back at her. One was quite young, pleading at Fen with his own eyes, as he shook his head to convey the message that she should not shoot at him. For some reason, maybe because of her fear, her confusion, whatever it may have been, she lowered her pistol, only slightly. The moment she did, the alarm and anxiety that overcame her face were incredibly visible. Her amber eyes flickered between the two men, and then flew up to look at the sky as bombs began raining down on top of them.

She was unsure of how fire and explosions were coming from the sky, but before Fen could react to what was happening around her, she was thrown through the air and slammed into the ground a fair distance away from where she had been before. Someone close yelled something about staying down, something she didn't need telling twice.

The air around Fen was thick with smoke and dirt, wracking her body with coughs yet again as she huddled against the edge of the trench. She looked down at her trembling hands as if they were foreign extensions of her body she had never seen before, covered in dirt, ash, and worst of all, blood. Just beyond them, she could see another huddled mass beside her, a young man doing his best to protect himself by wrapping his arms over his neck and head.

It was the man who had silently deterred her from shooting her pistol. How had he done it? Right now, Fen couldn't afford to have that questioned answered. Her eyes traveled down from her hands to the large, bulky bindings that were still clamped onto her wrists. Until these were removed, there was no hope that she could even fathom surviving the current onslaught.

Reaching out to the man with both of her arms, Fen grabbed his arm and shook him, silently praying with every fiber of her being that she wasn't trying to coax a reaction out of a dead man. When he raised his head wildly and his eyes became locked on hers, Fen's stomach dropped. When she was this close to him, there was no denying that he was an Imperial, surely one who would shoot her before doing anything else. But what other option did she have at the moment?

Attempting to put all of those fears in the back of her mind for the moment, Fen thrust her quivering hands at him, holding metal cuffs toward him. The look on her face was desperate with fear, and although she would have been ashamed to admit it at any other time, she was sure that tears were beginning to leave streaks on her dirtied and bloodied face. "Please!" Fen cried hopelessly, "Help me!"

 

[Skyrimosity]

An order to get down came from nearby. Enemy airships had gotten nearly right above the trench. Thomas practically threw his body into the ground, hugging it as his friend and as his savior. He tucked his head under his chest and covered his neck with his hands. The ground began shaking violently, flaming flesh filling the nostrils of the living. Thomas only now realized he had been crawling for some reason. When it was all over, he stood up. Many men were being burned.

Thomas looked around at the remnants of the remaining in the trench. There weren't many. Thomas ran up to a young Imperial and a nearby Elf. The enemy in the opposite trench had stopped firing. A charge was coming. "Come on! We have to retreat before they kill us all! We can worry about who is going to kill who later, right now those Aldmeri scum will kill anyone standing here!" Thomas motioned them to leave the trench.

 

[OriginOfAbsolution]

As it turned out, it didn't matter who Azalyn rooted for. The next thing she knew, she was plunged yet again into utter chaos. The airships from above began raining destruction upon them, and the air was thick with smoke, debris, and the sound of screams. There wasn't enough time to find cover, or even cry out. Frantic, she tucked herself into a fetal position and squeezed her eyes shut as tight as she could, praying for it all to end.

A few agonizing minutes later, it did. Her head and ears were still ringing as she struggled to open her eyes, blinking up at the smoke-filled sky. "Unngh..." She tried to speak, to even sit up from where she lay on the ground, but found she was unable to do so. Suddenly, a harsh, burning sting throbbed on her left leg, and she glanced down to see that one of the reinforcing wooden beams from the side of the trench had been smashed to bits, and a rather large chunk of it had come to rest across the lower half of her body.

Parts of it were still smoldering, and small section of the fiery rubble had landed directly on her thigh, burning through the fabric of her pants and into the skin below. Crying out in shock and pain, the unpleasant rush of adrenaline gave her enough strength to push away the hunk of wood and stare down at the bubbling red flesh of her upper thigh. The wound couldn't have been more than 3 inches wide, but the pain was excruciating.

Grimacing with pain, Azalyn struggled to her feet, only to fall back to her knees almost immediately. Between the pain in her leg and the fogginess in her head, even finding even footing was a challenge. But she couldn't say there. She had to fight through it. Come, on... Man-up, Az. The young elf could almost hear her brother's voice, teasing her just like he always did back home. Somehow, that gave her enough strength to lift herself yet again from the ground.

Reaching for the muddy wall for support and still clutching tightly to her rifle (which she now used as a sort of walking stick), Azalyn made her way down the trench with slow, shaky steps. Her brown eyes scanned through the thick smoke, looking for some sign of life and trying (and failing) to ignore the death and destruction around her. Then she saw them -- moving figures up ahead, right where she had watched the frightened bosmer aim her pistol mere minutes before. Could the elf and the Imperial have made it through?

Surprised that she was not the lone survivor, Azalyn stumbled toward them, her breaths coming rapidly. Sure enough there they were -- the bosmer and the Imperial from earlier. With them was a young Breton, who seemed to be motioning toward them frantically. "Come on! We have to retreat before they kill us all! We can worry about who is going to kill who later, right now those Aldmeri scum will kill anyone standing here!"

Azalyn had a horrible feeling he was right. But what could they do? How would they escape? Her brain was far too muddled at the moment to think of a solution... or to care about abruptly barging into the strangers' conversation. "And how do you suppose we get out of here?" She asked him as she drew closer, her voice slightly choked by all the smoke around them. "They've got us trapped like rats!"

Her thigh throbbed as Azalyn glanced miserably at the bodies that lay around her. A soft sigh escaped her lips, and she couldn't decide whether she wanted to vomit or laugh or cry. Maybe all three. Gods help us. We are so screwed.

 

[Mr.Self Destruct]

Stumbling through the thick smoke was the Bosmer, the same one who had her pistol pointed at Claude. Her arms were covered with burns, she was visibly in pain and she had definitely gotten it worse off than he had. Claude immediately withdrew his revolver from it's holster and clicked back the hammer, pointing it directly at her. He knew that she had, at one point, intended or had thoughts of intending to kill him. And although not shooting her was by no means out of the question, Claude wasn't shying away from being the aggressor here.

But when she came closer and he saw her eyes, beginning to tear and pleading for help, he couldn't help but alleviate his stance and lower his aim a bit. Claude hadn't been this close to an Elf for many years, and the thought that she could be a foreigner; not like the others in the tenements, unsettled him. He knew very little of the outside cultures aside from what was sold off as fear-mongering propaganda. It came as a relief to find that she spoke the same language. "Please!" she cried hopelessly, "Help me!" She raised her arms, showing heavy iron wrist clamps that Claude had not seen before. So now he had two options, to finish this escaped prisoner and enemy of the state... or free her.

"Hold still." Claude said, hands shaking as he gestured for her to hold her wrists apart so that the chain was drawn out. Claude held the muzzle of his pistol against the iron links and fired once, severing her bounds. His heart was beating hard against his ribs, and he felt a gut-wrenching knot tighten in his stomach. This was treason, punishable by imprisonment or death. He knew that if he had been seen, Claude's life would take an ugly turn for the worst. So why had he done it? Was it the right thing to do? Who's to say she wouldn't stab him in the back given the chance?

He stepped back, feeling sickened by what he had gotten himself into. "Go, leave and--" "Come on! We have to retreat before they kill us all! We can worry about who is going to kill who later, right now those Aldmeri scum will kill anyone standing here!" Claude's heart skipped a beat, and his eyes widened with terror as another soldier barked out orders from behind him. Had he seen him freeing the girl? No, he thought. He mustn't have. He would've said something, shot me even. He swallowed, nodding as he approached them.

The man was right, the Aldmeri troops would be upon them soon to mop up any stragglers. Through the blackened smoke and burning fires Claude could see them marching through the fields; rifles poised and bayonets gleaming. "And how do you suppose we get out of here?" Claude reeled around, finding himself looking at another Elf. She was injured, her thigh visibly mangled. "They've got us trapped like rats!" Claude didn't have time to worry about who she was and why she was here, they needed to act quickly. "Everyone, lie down and don't move." He said, getting down to the dirt in such a position that implied he was dead.

 

[Skyrimosity]

Thomas hadn't realized that the trench was inescapable until the Elf had said something. Before that, he was in so much disbelief, he even thought he saw a young Imperial freeing an enemy. Wild... crazy hallucinations. Brought about by some sort of chemical in the air no doubt. He had managed to convince himself he hadn't seen the prisoner get freed and yet at the same time, he assured to himself that it had happened. At least, he managed to convince himself that he could lie enough that he hadn't seen the prisoner freed. In this Society... that was often just enough.

The young Imperial told them all to lie down and don't move. Right... Playing dead. That should trick those Elves. They can barely tell the difference between the breathing and the dead when it comes to us humans. Thomas pulled out his knife. He carefully but quickly applied a series of quick cuts to areas of his face and hands that wouldn't be a serious cause of major bleeding. He lay down on the ground, blood on his cuts, dirt covering his body. He looked at the others in the trench, wondering if they'd be the last thing he'd ever see. A tear almost in his eye, he closed his eyes and began to breathe lightly through his nose. He only hoped the plan would work.

It is funny. I never realized how much I wanted to live until I am so close to death. Life is full of ironies, isn't it? Another funny thing is that just a few years ago the Argonians were the absolute worst creatures ever to be made by the Divines. How quickly that has changed. Oh please, let them think me dead. If I fool these few elves, I will do something with my life. I will try to end all this endless suffering we face under Emperor Rourke. If only... if only...

 

[Geel-Kajin]

Geel had barely taken his first step before he too was engulfed in the chaos around. A shell whistled towards the trench ahead, biting deep into the earth.

One second. One insignificant second, and the world was an inferno.

The deafening explosions, the glaring sparks of metal on metal- Geel's head spun in pain, and his heart wished it all to stop, to cease the noise and ghastly light. Vision blurred til a mere speck of sight remained, and his ears heard naught but the promise of death.

In that moment of insanity, the madness itself took form in Geel's mind, and he saw it as a beast upon the battlefield. Turning it's great ugly head, it regarded him with eyes of fire and ash. Upturned earth and wrecked tanks were it's body, bullets and bombs it's fearsome teeth. It smiled at him, all-knowing.

Then Geel knew his days were numbered.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ugh...
The Argonian's eyes cracked open, taking in the scenes of devastation. No doubt he had been knocked unconscious by the blast. He was facing upwards in the mud, body numbed and covered with earth. The sky was a storm of smoke, grim and grave. However, his eyes picked up a curious sign within this bleak sight- No longer did flashes of light dot the sky, nor speckles of projectiles. Logically, that meant that the war in this area had ceased, with one side having emerged the definite victor.

Judging from how poorly he himself had performed, it was unlikely that they had won. Geel winced, turning his aching head to one side to observe his surroundings. It took great effort on his part, but the he clinged so desperately to life that he would give up. Getting up to date was crucial to survival, no matter how slim it may be.

The first thing he saw was the trench ahead. A tangle of barbed wire lay strewn at either side of the structure, charred black from the explosion. Taking care to avoid looking at the mass of bodies nearest the blast site, he scanned the trench for any sign of life. To his surprise, he caught sight of a sliver of movement not too far from the bodies. Impossible, at that distance from the blast site they should be torn to shreds, unconscious at the minimum. How can they sill be moving?

Even then, they will be friend, not foe. Survival is all, and their well-being will not distract my vigilance.

Geel's body was not responding to his will, so he had no choice but to keep looking from his vulnerable position. In the distance, he saw movement behind clouds of dust and dirt, the silhouettes making the shape of men. Beams of light shone from the shadows of their hands, scouting the grounds ahead.

Dammit, an Aldmeri search party, here to flush out the rest of the survivors. If only I can move!

He tried to stand up, body protesting in pain. A jolt of white hot pain sped up his spine, and he resisted the urge to shout in pain. Gasping, he crashed back to the floor. Geel's breath was short and ragged from the struggle, teeth gritted in exertion. Determined, he tried once again- Only to find that his body had lost all feelings.

The beams of the torches were sweeping nearer now, closing in on his location. He willed his hands to move and pick himself up, but they merely twitched and shivered. It was as if his body were not his own, and he could only observe the situation getting graver. Geel couldn't take it anymore, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no chance of escape- his limbs felt disconnected and limp, and the search party were bound to find him. Would this be the end?

Wracked with pain, he turned to the skies for help.

 

[Duon]

Eyes slowly fluttering open as he regained consciousness Caeder stared into the cold blank eyes of the fat Imperial whose corpse he’d taken refuge under at the call of incoming airships. Pushing the large soldier off his chest he sat up. Fumbling the broken cigarette and tossing it aside he zipped up the high collar of his coat, making it into a makeshift facemask to ease the thick black gunpowder laden smoke and the smell of seared flesh that accompanied it.

Quickly checking himself for injuries he found to his relief his human shield had done its job, while blood caked his uniform he’d escaped the wrath of the hellfire’s, only suffering a minor blow to the side of the head. Ears ringing louder then temple bells; Caeder’s eyes continued to survey the carnage, his mind searching for his next course of action. He had seen the devastating powers of the airships before but never so up close and personal. Madmen he thought watching as soldiers; no young boys, withered around him praying only death would take them sooner.

“This isn’t battle; there is no honor in this warfare…” Caeder mumbled to himself extending the 9inch blade from the wrist of his artificial arm; severing the spine of the mortally injured soldier closest to him, giving him the release his cries of agony begged for. Retracting the dagger and getting to his feet Caeder pulled his rifle from the trenches muck, cleaning the action as he watched several others emerge from the flames alive. Standing with his back to the trench wall he peaked out over the flaming hell=scape looking for whatever was coming next.

Nearly leaping out of his skin as he heard the pistol shot behind him Caeder turned to see a Imperial freeing a Elf from chains, a snide grin spreading over his face distracting him from the peril of the moment as he knew what punishments could befall the man for his act of generosity. Caeder knew only too well what punishments awaited those that disobeyed the Empire. Making his way toward the back of the trench Caeder thought only about survival as he searched for a way off the battlefield “fluff this!” he cursed into the muffling fabric of his mask, eying the tree line and preparing to make a break for it.

Putting his hand on the first rung of the ladder Caeder froze with the call of incoming search parties; knowing they would see him as soon as his head broke over the line he watched as all chances of escape disappeared before him. "Everyone, lie down and don't move." “Play dead that’s your plan?” He nearly laughed to himself before realizing he could come up with nothing better. Turning and walking back over to the fat imperial from earlier; laying on the ground and hoisting the corpse on top of him with a labored heave, remaining completely still as the sounds of boots trudging in the mud grew closer and closer.

 

[Mr.Self Destruct]

Claude clung to the dirt, face down in the mud. He was uncomfortable, yet he dared not move in fear of being discovered. In the distance he saw shadows and shapes moving about, orders being barked, torches cutting through the darkness. "No! Wait!" A shot rang out, silencing a discovered Legionary's pleas for mercy. Claude could hear them drawing closer, heavy boots thudding and slapping against the wet mud. The jostling of rifles and equipment. "Spread out, kill all who live." The Elf's voice was cold and methodical, his men silently and quickly obeying.


One of them hopped into the trench, and Claude's heart skipped a beat. He forced his eyes shut, left only to guess what fate would befall him. The Elf was searching, his eyes trained on the bodies sprawled about like a hound. In the distance, another shot rang out. Followed by another, and another. They were quickly zoning in on the survivors, and Claude feared he'd be next.

The Elf was upon Claude, standing right above him. Claude could sense his presence, hear his labored breaths as he struggled to breathe through the smog and smoke. Suddenly, Claude was rolled onto his back by the Elf's boot. This is it. Claude thought to himself, heart drumming against his chest. He felt the Elf jab his side with the rifle. He knows. And just as it began to feel like Claude's heart would burst from his chest, a shout rang out.

"Artemis! Hurry it up down there, we need to move!" The cry came from atop the trench, and Claude heard the Elf scramble out of the trench. Claude waited for a moment, laying perfectly still until he slowly opened his eyes. Then, trying to make the least noise possible, he turned over onto his stomach and raised himself to a crouch. It was time to go.

 

[Skyrimosity]

Thomas could easily hear the Aldmeri search party killing survivors and checking every body. The young Imperial who had decided they should play dead was just about to be found out when, by a stroke of a luck, the search party had to move off. Thomas heard them walking away through his keen hearing. He then heard a nearby man shift from his back to a low crouch. Opening an eye to look around, he whispered to the Imperial "How do you think we should escape" as he began looking around for more enemies.

 

[Geel-Kajin]

They were going.

They left the vicinity, crawling back into the dust and obscurity. They came as quick as they went. and soon he could hear their footsteps retreating into the murk. Going, going. Gone.

The sudden absence of noise from the search party allowed a phrase to slip into his ears. "How do you think we should escape." Startled, he craned his head to look. It was true! Other men were staggering out of the trench, having somehow survived the shell. They seemed to be whispering to each other, crouching half-hidden in the earth.

Suddenly, Geel realized this was his only chance for survival. He would never make it out on his own, not in his current state. Trying to stand, he groaned in pain, his body wracked with trembling numbness. But there was no other choice. If I do not get up, they will leave me.

"Gagh!" A strangled noise escaped his throat, the throat of a man bent on living. One hand anchored itself into the dirt, supporting his weight. Then that arm pushed himself shakily off the ground. His vision gave way in exhaustion of that minor movement, sending him into a nauseous moment of darkness. The ground was so tempting; to fall upon it's surface and sleep away the suffering. But he knew that if he gave in to slumber, he would never wake up again.

He was on his knees now, his toes digging into the earth, tail providing the balance he needed. With a final puff, he got on his feet. One step, two steps. Slowly, he learned the process of walking again, and made his way towards the rest of the survivors.

 

[Mr.Self Destruct]

"How do you think we should escape" Claude's eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. Thalmor troops were marching by in droves, overhead a squadron of planes screamed through the sky. "Quietly, and fast." He replied, moving further along the trench. Claude quickly froze as a troop hopped the gap a few meters away, had he even glanced towards them they would be dead... or wishing they were dead.

"They're moving further inland, no doubt they're mobilizing to take Kvatch." Claude said as they continued moving. Claude was scared, he'd never been in a situation like this. He'd heard only horror stories about Thalmor POW camps, and he had seen firsthand the barbarity of the Argonian deathcamps; images which would stick to him for the rest of his life. "Gagh!" The choked cry made Claude freeze in his tracks, he turned, and to his dismay he saw a figure stumbling straight towards them.

Claude's heart skipped a beat, He's going to blow our cover! Claude thought as the figure stumbled closer and closer, drawing much attention to itself. Do something! His mind was screaming in his head, his heart batting against his chest. He felt the weight of the pistol in his hands, and he disturbed himself as the thought of shooting down this man became a viable option. Claude couldn't bring himself to do that, it'd draw more attention anyways, but he needed to do something.
Claude bounded out of the trench, sprinting full speed toward the figure and taking hold of the scruff of his shirt without so much as a glance to his face. Claude pulled with all of his force, dragging him to the trench as quickly as his strength allowed. Claude's lungs screamed and burned in his chest as he panted heavily, still taking in what he had just done. He wiped away the froth gathering on his lip and looked up at the newcomer. An Argonian, the first he had seen since the last war.