Part 1

Bright orange and black light beamed through the thin membranis tissue of his eyelids, forcing them to open. A few seconds were spent lying motionless, to ponder and work through the nights dreams. He had always wondered if the bloody nightmares that claimed his sleep meant something. Still, he closed his eyes and exhaled calmly. Bless Shezarr. I live another day.
As he began to sit up, feeling every tendon and muscle in his body ache and strain from the previous days battle, a thought raced across him. When will the death and corruption end? How much longer must he pain and hurt to bring justice to Morrowind. Last week he cleared a den of Necromancers in Senchal. A few days ago he led a group of shackled outlaws to their death. Last night he fought vigorously to protect Ald ruhn from a band of sleepers and dreamers. "It's unwavering..." he finally deduced. Once on his feet, the task of getting dressed painted yet another grimace of pain across aged face. A patch of skin on his knuckles was missing. A large gash across his forehead throbbed consistently. His feet were rough and appeared nibbled and long forgotten, as if the need to tend to them had long passed.

The moans of the ported silt strider echoed in the hallowed out stone walls of Fort Buckmoth. In every chamber a different soul clambered from their bed and quickly dressed themselves to spend most of their day patrolling the endless mass of ash and blight. Settled dust was soon worked up as Isrill hastened himself, fumbling through the drawers of his quarters to find the tunic and leggings he usually wore under his cuirass and pauldrons. Having been promoted to a respectable rank long ago, it was up to Isriil to choose which peices of armor he found most bothersome. Greaves. He had given up on them long ago, after finding his mobility was restricted in them during his first few years as a trooper. Now, however, as a lieutenent of the guard, the greaves could be better used to protect an unfortunate subordinate.

Breakfast was as distasteful and lackluster as any other day. But still, it gave him energy to accomplish even the trivial tasks. Soon after forcing down the kwama eggs and nix hound steaks, Isriil found himself seated before Raesa Pullia, listening half-mindedly to her Sixth House rant. "We need to send a party as soon as possible." she said, eyeing every possible candidate. "I've spoken to Imsin and she's given me permission to head this mission."
It was at this instant that Isriil realized Raesa's gaze was upon him. "Captain Saccius, I'd like you to lead the men."
His heart sank in utter disappointment. "But Captain, I was just in Senchal nearly a week ago. My armor needs repaired, " he said, pointing to a large chip in his pauldrons, "my men are exhausted, and provisions for my unit are deminishing. General Imsin just added an entire unit to my division so I've got too much to deal with, sir."
Raesa gave Isriil a hard stare before turning to Lieutenent Esatvion.

That night he lie still in his filthy bed, his eyes focused on a beetle scurrying across the ceiling above him. The air around him was stagnant and bitter, from months of poor hygene. The sun had completely tucked itself behind the cover of Azura's dark kiss. Silence. Not the peaceful silence of a household remaining quiet for a sleeping infant, or the eerie silence of a battlefield dotted with fresh corpses. No, this silence held treachery. Behind it lurked, under the cover of night, was an evil, layed back on it's paws, ready to pounce like a tiger youngling.

With the first volley of crudely smithed arrows, the loss was great and so unsuspected, callamity and disorder swallowed the entirety of Fort Buckmoth. Isriil found himself no longer lying on his ill-kempt cot, but standing along the crushed walls, shouting orders or hollow encouragement. For unpeace such as this was far too common and claimed the Imperials life long ago.
"Hold the walls! Poor the cauldrons! Cover your backs!" No particular order went to waste it seemed. It was unclear who the enemy was, but their attack remained consistent. Within two hours, the castle, no longer a monument to Imperial craftsmenship, lay in ruins.

Isriil rose with a jerk, a heavy coat of sweat trickling down his chest and back. Another gleam from the morning face poured through the narrow slit of his bedroom window. It was a mockery by the gods. Such potential wasted on dim-witted bravado.

(I'm gonna give it a rest for tonight. I'm tired...)

Why not just wait?