Fara completed her survey of Daelin, seeing he was lucky ? the bullet fired from above had punched through his right biceps then his left thigh. But the wounds were rather clean, without broken bones or severed arteries.

Fara dropped her pack, fishing out the flask holding her moonshine along with a pair of stockings. She brought the flask to the optio's lips. "You've burned through a good pile of luck with that one. The bastard holed your arm and leg, but missed the bones and arteries. Take a good drink, you're going to need it."

While Daelin was busy with the flask she pulled out one of her knives to cut trough the clothes, baring the wound. Then gave him her forkette to bite. "Bite that, its going to hurt.". She poured the last of the moonshine on the two wounds, before using the stockings as bandages. Not exactly a first rate job, but it would be enough to prevent him from dying of the blood loss. "That's not pretty, but it should keep you alive until the doc can do it properly."

Only after she was done did Fara pay some attention to what was happening around her. She could hear Artois yelling something in the local dialect. Picking only a few words, something about Cyrodill then Anticlere. What the hell is he telling them ? That's damn long-winded for a call to surrender. Let's hope he manages to get them out so we won't have to do it the hard way. But I don't plan on making it harder for me than I have to...

While waiting for the result of Artois's speech, Fara started working on her plan. She pulled out the kettle from her pack, then made a quick dash to grab the closest anticleran powder and shot, carefully keeping out of sight from the tavern's windows.

Artois

For a moment, Artois didn't hear anything from the tavern but hushed voices talking to each other, too silent for him to really understand what were they telling each other. Some voices were a bit more heated than others and the musketeer guessed that the militiamen were arguing about their further course of action. Hopefully they'd fall for his trick and he'd get them out of the tavern. The rank-and-file militia probably had no idea what was going on, but a group of prisoners could be useful... However, he hoped to spare the militia holed up in the house from the painful experience of being a prisoner of the Imperial Legion.

Finally a voice yelled out from the tavern and Artois could smile in triumph. "Are we safe to go? Will the tyrants not just shoot us down as we run? Where are they, friend?" That's bloody right, fall for my trick. It'll save your skin you bastards. Taking a few more moments to fake the officer he was pretending to be to crawl over to the tavern and look around, he scratched at the wall a bit to fake a wounded man slumping next to it. Very slowly and careful not to make any noise, he then started to inch to the side, reaching the corner of the tavern eventually. Hopefully, they won't look out the window for fear of being shot.

"The bastards shot me... But most of the pigs are further away; you should be able to escape before they can shoot you... But leaving your guns behind is a risk you'll have to take - they're too heavy for you to flee with them! Most of our lads are up north in the peach orchard... Run there through the right of the tavern and you should be fine!" Slowly he began reloading his musket, trying his best not to make too much noise. After a moment he realized something and, in a weaker voice, added: "Forget about me, I've done my part for Anticlere! Flee to fight another day! Find our men and tell them what happened..."

Purposely inhaling some of the smoke from the final shot of his, Artois threw a coughing fit to add to the impression of a dying man. He was begining to think about slipping in the letter he had found earlier and telling the militiamen to deliver it to the poor woman, however it struck him that there was a chance someone knew the man who actually wrote the letter and then his play would've been in vain. Still coughing he let his back slip down the wall. Come on you bloody idiots... Do what I say and you'll get out with your skin still on you! Come on...

Daenlin shouted and cursed in Bosmeri. The rough treatment and the alcohol exacerbated his pain, and caused him to grit his pointed teeth to stop from screaming. He closed his eyes as Fara looked over him. More shots came from inside the tavern along with more heated voices as the rest of the black coated musketeers began to cross the road and pursue the enemy into the peach orchard beyond.

A distant hammering thump echoed over the field, before the sound like a heavy barrel being rolled across an attic floor tore overhead. It was the first ranging shot from a battery of Imperial artillery stationed back around the nameless village. A second and third shot announced the presence of the full battery. The iron balls slammed indiscriminately into the stone walls of the town of Fontdale that separated the Akavirs from Talos' own.

Everywhere a cyrodiilic eye could see the Bretic militia was running in droves away from the fight. Imperials in Black and green coats were on their heels keeping up a constant fire, or driving pikes into their backs. There were however, still some bastions of resistance. Thick smoke ringed the village of Fontdale, and the crossroads tavern.

"Turn on the tavern! keep up a good fire on those windows, don't let them peek a head out!" Ottus shouted the order as the charge began to slow down, it's main raison d'etre having been accomplished.

"I can't believe it...can't goddamned believe it! After all those years of service without a scratch and I get hit by some damned militia on the fringe of the world." Daenlin complained through gritted teeth. The initial shock of the pain had worn away by now, and he was more controlled, less panicked. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the cool stone wall on the exterior of the farmhouse. The windows and doors were only at the front and back, while the sides had none. For the moment he was safe, but he know that unless the bleeding was stopped soon he'd slip from consciousness and maybe even from life itself. "Fara, take over...I can't do anything more as is..." The fire inside was slackening though as the imperial fire was increasing. Pullets drove chunks from the door frame, shattered the few remaining pains of glass, and sent sharp pieces of stone in all directions. Inside there was more heated bretic voices before a squeaking hinge could be heard from those close enough.

The defenders inside were fleeing out the back door.

Having found what she needed Fara backed to the tavern's wall. Crawling on her hand and knees as it seemed the whole company was now shooting at the tavern, following the captain's order. They shouldn't miss it at that range, but one stroke of bad luck is all it would take... While on the way she could hear Artois still yelling in bretic, seemingly answering to a shouted question form inside.

She sat down next to Daenlin, her back to the tavern's wall again. A look at his wounds showed the bandages were holding on, stopping most of the bleeding. Which convinced her to use another magical trick learned in Valenwood. With a muttered prayer to Yffre she called forth a spark of power, pouring it into the arm's entry wound. Bringing in a minute amount of healing and more importantly clotting the blood soaking the bandage. While it was a far cry from healing the wound, it further reduced what bleeding remained. She repeated the operation on the exit side of the wound, then on the leg.

She almost laughed at Daenlin's command to take charge. "There's not much to take over. With just me and Artois against a tavernful of anticlerans, the odds aren't good. Even if we could reach an entry without biting a few bullets from our own side. Maybe from the rear, but it will still be two versus a tavern... I'd better make my equalizer..."

She immediately went to prepare said 'equalizer'. She filled the kettle with the powder and shot she had recovered from the anticleran's rout, before tightly binding the lid closed. Then she ripped a strip of cloth, traced a line of powder on it before rolling it on itself, crating a makeshift match. Which was pushed into the kettle's beak and held in place with some more rope. Creating an passable imitation of a grenade.

She was about done when she heard a door opening at the tavern's back. It sounded as if the anticlerans had finally understood they were about to be surrounded. Maybe the gunshots falling on the city had conviced them that their position couldn't be held for long. Maybe Artois's speech had worked. No matter what, Fara grabbed back her musket and frantically started reloading it. Maybe they were moving to clear the tavern's side. And even if they weren't she had no qualms about shooting at their back to hasten their retreat. Routed ennemis can be rallied. Dead ones can only be buried...

[upping things a bit]

Now that she heard the Anticlerans leaving, and had reloaded her mucket, Fara moved closer to d'Artois, prodding him into action "Hey, I don't know what you've told them, but it worked. Now help me to make sure they don't change their minds."

She pointed at one of the discarded blunderbusses, apparently primed and ready to fire when his owner had dediced it ws time to leave the ditch he was sheltering in. "Take that, it won't kill them, but there's nothing like getting stung with shot ot speed them away. After that we'll check the tavern to make sure nobody's holed up there to play stupid hero tricks like shooting the captain."

Artois

Although his face remained blank and his eyes didn't go up from his musket that was being reloaded while Fara was talking, Artois was in fact contemplating introducing the common Bretic fist to the suddenly very bossy Bosmer's face. Yada yada yada. If you freaks live for hundreds of years and accomplish the same as us it doesn't mean everyone else is as bad as learning fast as you bloody mer are... Like I've never participated in the capture of a bloody building before. Or fired a blunderbuss... I'd be more careful with throwing quasi-orders into peoples' faces like that. Being the only female around has some downsides. He didn't like taking orders; much less from an elf that also happened to be a woman. His experiences with Altmeri weren't the best and he was quick to form the oppinion all elves were like that.

Being done with reloading, Artois leaned his musket against the wall and slowly lifted up, murmuring 'yes milady' with a hint of a sour smile on his face. Seemingly not in too much of a hurry the musketeer made his way to the blunderbuss, picking it up. He took a moment to inspect the weapon; it seemed quite old but was obviously still working, else why would it be here. Taking a bit longer than was probably neccessary to aim, finally he fired in the general direction of the militia who seemed to be fleeing. Hopefully, they had bought his act and were now fleeing, imagining to be doing that under orders from a dead or dying officer who, in fact, didn't even exist. Sure, Artois hoped one day he could maybe become an officer for real, but he was in the wrong army.

Not looking to see if he had done any harm to anyone, Artois dropped the gun, climbed out of the ditch and, again without much hurry to his step, made his way back to Fara.

The next few minutes were hell to Nathan, as he followed the small group to the tavern, crouching as much as possible as he made his way to the small building. Shots cracked all around him, and he could hear a few near misses whiz by his head, or punch into the earth only inches next to him.

Following the lead of the only woman in the group, he made a desperate, zig-zagging run to the tavern wall, his musket flailing wildly and his sword banging into his hip, hindering him slightly as more shots buzzed by. He heard a rip, but didn't contemplate it as he saw the wall only twenty feet away, the smoke hanging lazily over the area made it hard for him to tell though. IN the back of his mind he thought he heard someone yell for a medic of the Optio, but as with the rip it didn't register fully.

He was now running slightly parallel to the wall, though he didn't understand how, and he made a desperate leap to the wall, hoping to cover the last ten feet with it. He was rocketed forwards however, as a loud metallic pang echoed through the air around him, grating into his ears leaving them ringing as he landed hard and without grace face first into the solid ground below him. He lay quite still, but only for the few seconds it took him to realize he was -- unfortunately -- still slive, and he forced himself up and propped himself against the wall. His head pounded, and it was like somebody had turned down the volume of the battle around him, as he could hear virtually nothing besides a dull ringing.

Looking down, he saw his pant leg was what had ripped, and blood was trickling out from a scraqe of a wound, most likely from a near miss of a musket ball. As his hearing slowly started coming back, he began to register what was happening around him, as he saw Daenlin several feet away, in obvious pain, and Artois and the Bosmer girl talking about something, and he could see nearby white-shirted forms running the opposite direction. It was happening everywhere, and he watched as Artois fired a large, clumsy looking gun into the crowd of fleeing men before returning back.

Nathan didn't really want to move, as his head pounded, but he removed his helmet, and saw a small dent, at the very top, where another near "miss" had saved his life. An inch lower and the shot would not have riccocheted off his helmet, but merely penetrated it.... and him. Looking down at his musket, he realized he still had not fired that shot, and looking around he felt ashamed of himself.

Im no hero. The Optio is hurt, and it looks like those two did most of the work on this place. I was only good for getting shot and knocked down. He thought, trying to stand up, but only strapping his helmet around his bag, thinking he would try to pound that dent out later with a rock or something, as he made his way over to the Bosmer and Artois.

He put on a fake facade, and asked, "What the hell happened?". It was then he realized he should have shot his ball into the air or something beforehand, to make it seem like he had done more then hide. His leg stung a little, but looking at Daenlin on the ground, he felt he was more than fortunate to only have a little scraqe, though his head did pound, and his ears still rang from the clanging of his metal helmet.

Just so everyone knows, we're about to jump forward in time a day or two soon, so if there was anything you had wanted to do around this town go ahead and finish it up.

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The crackling of musketry slowed and eventually stopped. In it's place came the thundering of hooves as The long absent Imperial cavalry arrived. The men, armored as those from a previous age moved in a swarm across the battlefield, swords high or pistols low. Praxux Ottus shook his head in disapproval as the horseman rode deep into the running men, cutting bloody swaths and leaving shattered bodies in their wake. Those who had so recently fled the tavern were caught in the open and butchered by the towering horseman.

He stood to look around, bodies were strewn everywhere, most of them were still alive and groaned in pain. The living were searching the dead for plunder, though most found little to none. In the town a house was burning and the town's bell was ringing it's frantic alarm. The bretons who had stayed hidden in cellars during the fight were now forming a hasty bucket brigade. Here and there in the line a green coated Akavir could be seen, pitching in.

"Centurion Ottus, You'd better come have a look at the Optio...He's wounded." Musketeer Caepio said as he walked up, his face painted in worry. Praxus covered the ground in a heartbeat and arrived at the small group. Daenlin sat wincing in pain and holding his wounds. Blood was seeping through.

"Where are our healers? It's alright Daenlin, just a scratch, We'll get you fixed up in a hurry." Ottus turned and bellowed "We need a surgeon! Surgeon!"

"I'll be alright, I can walk..." The bosmer said through gritted teeth.

"No you won't, no just stay right here, and we'll have a healer up in no time."

Fara observed with some irritation as d'Artois went leisurely to picking the blunderbuss and firing it, with an attitude which clearly told 'I don't give a rat's fart about what you just told me'. But kept her temper under control. First because she wasn't an easily angered sort. And second because maybe he hadn't noticed Daenlin's wound and order. She couldn't remember if it had been told in cyrrodilic or bosmeri. Not matter what, pissing of one of the few translators around was a bad idea in her book, even if she barely knew him.

She took a deep breath to calm down "Let's get the thing start on a better footing... d'Artois that's right." Hesitating a bit before remembering the man's name. "Maybe you've missed it in the gunfire and smoke, but the optio's down with a mean wound and he named me to take the job." Her tone clearly indicating she wasn't thrilled with the idea.

"Maybe I've overdone the bossy bit. Probably shooting guys from where you're born in the back isn't your idea of a good day. Certainly you know the drill. But we'd better make sure they've all left that tavern before the captain shows up and asks why it takes us so long."

She was interrupted by the arrival of another solider asking about what was going and, and summed up it for him "We've been ordered to clear the tavern. The optio's down with a wound and dropped the ball on me. As DeConvant's nowhere to be seen I'll take you in as his official replacement."

She was interrupted again by the rumble of heavy cavalry moving. As she looked around she quickly spotted their colors "No sweat they're ours." Her smile of satisfaction turned to a grimace as they moved through the routed anticlerans like a scythe through a field. Slaughtering mens they could have easily herded into capture. Fara spat at her feet with disgust. "Ten to one they they'll count the kills and go all around prancing about how they won the day on account of how many they killed. When all they've done is mopping what we've broken for them. They call themselves knights, but all I see is butchers in fancy armors.". She shook her head "But enough with foul mood. We've a tavern to check."

Artois

"It's 'Artois', de Metz is my last name." Cramping in this correctiong, Artois was about to respond how yes, he had seen the Optio go down and no, he didn't hear him appoint her the head of this 'operation' because it's the same deal as with her not knowing what he told the militia, so it'd be nice on the tree-huggers' part to inform people when something like that happened and not presume everyone spoke their wildish tongue, however the appearance of the cavalry prevented that.

He wasn't worried they weren't theirs - for one the Centurion wouldn't be running for the tavern if this was the enemy they'd need to face down, and of course there was the matter of a lack of commands and the fact they were armoured like Legion cavalry. No, what worried him was the behaviour of the snotty pricks. In a brief moment they managed to turn his favour for Anticlere into a complete disaster, cutting down the fleeing militia. Even though he couldn't hear the shouts and slashes very well, the noises drowned out everything else - Fara speaking only registered as something buzzing far off in the distance.

Slowly, Artois' face turned gray, the usual Bretic pale being replaced by something that reminded of the glop they dared call 'porridge' in the Legion. Perhaps it wouldn't have hit him so hard if he hadn't foolishly congratulated himself for saving their lives, while his actions resulted in an even worse death. Most likely they aren't even dead yet... Just the bloody cavalrymen are too lazy to finish the poor bastards off, so they'll have to wait 'till Mara ends it.

For a moment the musketeer simply stood there, oblivious to the presence of two other people right next to him. All that he could see were the handful of militia, dying in filth, their blood mixing with mud. Though Artois couldn't clearly see the militiamen thanks to distance and gunpowder smoke that was beginning to thin out, his imagination made up for what he couldn't see - it looked as if one of the unfortunate souls was trying to crawl forward, stopping several inches after and giving in to convulsions. Clenching his teeth tighter, Artois didn't notice that he was gripping the musket so strong his knuckles were turning white.

Before his eyes, a sleepy Anticlerian village rose up, the calm summer morning disturbed by the weeping of widows who lost their husbands to the war. The fields were empty, all the farmers dead, swallowed up by the war... However, after a few moments the village began to fade, instead replaced again by the gurgling of men dead or dying, wailing of horses and the smell of gunpowder in the air.

"...We've a tavern to check."

Pulled out of the reach of his wild imagination, Artois finally turned around and nodded to those words, his face still gray. The expression was still blank, but it was quite obvious that something was going on in the musketeer. The past few days were stressful, true, but usually his stress manifested with him being quite a jerk to those surrounding him that he didn't have to respect for fear of whipping; since he normally kept to himself and didn't like to be disturbed too much by random drunk soldiers, many presumed that was his natural state.

Of course, the episode with daydreaming a village in the middle of a battle wasn't quite usual for him. Even though his face was slowly beginning to regain colour, inside Artois was still worried - was he going crazy? No, surely not... Probably just battle stress. Heard it can play trick with your bloody mind confusing itself, so that's interesting...

Fara didn't share Artois rather extreme reaction to the butchery in front of them but noticed it. Showing her one good side of being her sort of unattached drifter. As he finally reacted to her words, she patted him on a shoulder, her voice softer than usual. "If there's still someone breathing inside I'd rather have you to help than that DeConvant bastard. Prisoner's no fun but it beats dead. Come on. But we'll go for the front door. I'd hate it if one of our own saw a motion inside and shot me."

While moving to the tavern's door, she spotted the fancy hat that had been her aiming point. Next to it was laying the officer's corpse. The bullet didn't strike him straight to the hearth, but close enough as to make no difference. Two things drawed her eyes like magnets : the man's drawn saber, a long, slightly curved blade of fine steel, and the magelock pistol thrust through his belt. After a second of hesitation, Fara knelt next to the man, opening his sword belt to recover the sheath, hanging it to her shoulder. Not only would the saber be of a far better quality than her standard issue short sword, but it would help with her lack of reach. And I will probably be allowed to keep it. The pistol's too good for that...

Fara moved to the closest window, sticking to the wall to stay out of sight, using hand signs to tell Artois to follow her. Now that gunfire had almost ceased her sensitive ears were an asset again. She didn't hear much, only painful moans and shallow breathes. It seemed that nobody in the tavern's main room was still able to fight. Unwilling to wait for too long, Fara assured her grip on the saber's hilt, feeling the weapon's perfect balance, holding a grin. Now that's a blade, not a somewhat sharpened lump of steel. Then she jumped in through the window, which no longer had nay glass.

Her sudden entry turned useless as a quick survey showed nobody standing. She could count six person in the large room. Three lying in a pool of blood and three others laying on blankets on the floor, between the back wall and the tavern's big chimney. Seeing that neither of them was in any sort of shape for fighting ? one unconscious, the other with a bandaged head and eyes, the last one with his right arm in splinters and bandages. Seeing the man's frightened reaction she sheathed her weapon. A 'I won't kill you' message that didn't need any translation.
She turned to face Artois. "Tell them they're as safe as I can possibly do and that once our wounded are taken care of we'll get them a healer. Oh and repeat it aloud next to the stairs, asking whoever might be there to come down. I've had my share of death and then some today."

OOC: Complete and utter crap I know, but lately I've been feeling horribly uninspired to write anything.

IC: Artois

His face nearly normal, Artois looked around the tavern. Wounded all around; it seemed they would't be meeting any resistance; all the men previously capable of fighting were now dead or dying, these ones were probably carried over to the tavern so they could be treated in safety. Most of them would probably die, since the Legion didn't have a huge number of healers and they'll probably be occupied with treating their wounded. To go and tell them that wouldn't be too bloody smart of me though. So let's get them to play along with 'we'll save you'.

"Don't worry, we won't stab you or shoot you. In fact we'll try and get you a healer; just stay put, don't try anything stupid and try not to die from bloodloss. Is there anyone upstairs?" Raising his voice, Artois looked at the staircase. "If there's anyone up there better come down and make it easier on us!"

OOC: Yea, PFA I agree, I've been both busy and unmotivated lately. Thanks for the bump, but we're going to skip forward in time three days or so now.

20 miles south of Anticlere city. 26 Sun's Height. 3am
The myriad of glowing embers glowed a dull red in the field as the Imperial army woke from an uncomfortable sleep to greet the coming day. The past few days had been filled with a grueling rolling fight that took both armies up the corpse strewn path of the Anticlere pike. The overall theme of the campaign had been constant battle. The whitecoats of the republic had put up stiff resistance, and each town, each farmhouse, each crossroads had been the sight of sharp and violent conflict. Yet the overall Anticlere army remained elusive. It was as if they knew just when the Imperials were about to outflank them, or force them to stand.

Thats when they withdrew to safety and further marching.

Yesterday had been filled with a hot action around a flooded field. The raised causeway that the whitecoats formed behind was like a wall, and the glutenous muck infront stuck the imperials like glue to be shot down in their hundreds before they could even get close to the enemy. Now, the overall imperial commander, Marcus Cinncinatus was planning a pre-dawn attack to finally pin the Republican army and crush it under the sheer weight of the Legions.

Praxus Ottus shivered from fatigue. He always shivered when he had to wake up this early. Even though the days were hot here, the night had grown surprisingly cold, and the centurion say crosslegged next to the dying embers of last nights campfire. He was chewing on a hard biscuit, along with a canteen of wine. All around him the men of Talos' own moved around quietly, eating cold breakfast and grumbling over the order that fires couldn't be relit.

"Don't you think that with an army this size, catching the whites off their guard will be impossible? I mean, I understand if they asked this of a small group...but an army?" Antoine Velaine grumbled quietly to himself. His eyes were half closed and he too, like most of the musketeers were huddled around the small warmth of the embers. The nights cold still hadn't been shaken off, and the dew had settled in enough to make everyone uncomfortable.

"Anything is better than another yesterday..."Caepio said sullenly. The men of Ottus' sleeve of shot had been spared the violence, simply by the grace of being in reserve. The 14th Akavir bore the brunt of the slaughter, they being the leading unit in line. Galerius shuddered at the thought of seeing the green coated men stuck fast in waist deep mud, panicking under a murderous fire that flayed the water. Many died stuck fast, standing straight up, like a gruesome harvest of souls planted for the day of judgment.

"So Fara, I got word back from battalion yesterday...Daenlin was able to get to a surgeon fairly quickly. He's recovering in a field hospital and should back back on line within the week. Luck bastard even got a restoration healer instead of an alchemist or one of those amateur butchers." Ottus said softly. Even though they were separated by rank and race, Ottus called the short bosmer optio a friend.

"Course he did...he's an Optio...all you lot get better treatment than us poor infantry." Velaine sneered before continuing to bretic to Artois. "Lucky bastard officers could get a ball to the head and would get the grace of a good restoration healer. Not us, no, dear me no. Just wouldn't be right if the masses got good care. We could stub a toe and you could expect to loose the whole leg."


Ottus looked angrily at Antoine Velaine, well aware that he was being mocked, but too tired and hungry to care to fight back. He simply took a pull on his canteen and let the wine dull his discomfort.

Fara awoke and stretched to remove the night's stiffness. Hugh...I feel like a zombie being raised from it's grave. Fancy plans be damned. But at least it beats yesterday's inept slaughter. Couldn't that frigging general think of something more elaborate than 'rush straight at the most defensible in ten miles and hope they'll run out of bullets before I run out of warm bodies'. Bleh. At least my luck holds out, we're not amongst the poor svckers sent to die in the muck.

It had been a row of busy days indeed. After the tavern had been cleared, Fara had managed to slip the girl back to the village they had passed first. Not where she had come from, but out of the combat and as safe as could be. I have my faults, but letting pigs like DeConvant get their paws on her... She shuddered at the thought. Not that I expect to win popularity contests about it, but at least they don't hate my guts

She pulled herself out of her thoughts to sample a breakfast of buttered bread and honey ? she had shamelessly helped herself in the tavern's kitchen. Even if the bread was a bit stale, it remained way better than hardtack

Hearing the captain speak to her about Daenlin, Fara felt relieved. Thought they could not be considered back-slapping buddies, the optio was a friend. A welcome breath from home. "Well, at least we've Lorenzo. He's quite good at the patching up game. If we're going for repeat of yesterday's show we'll need him badly. Who got that bright idea by the way ? Back home in Valenwood bashing you head on a tree trunk like that is a mark of lunacy, not manliness."

She paused, realizing her mouth once again would get her in trouble, but rather than apologizing detailed her opinion. "I mean, it was obvious they were entrenched, why the hell were the Akaviri sent straight into the muck. There wasn't the slightest attempt to attack on firmer ground, or to try placing gun to take them under enfilade fire. Sure we bosmer are savages who don't know a thing about proper civilized warfare, but if had my word, I wouldn't have rushed straight into a deathtrap hoping to have more warm bodies than they have bullets. I'd try to find a better place to attack, and if I couldn't find one I'd have gathered the sneakiest guys and mages I could get my hands on. And sent them to blow up their powder supplies and slice as many officer's throats as they could before attacking."