The first few hours Dovinnius slept were nothing shy of hellish. Cold sweats had overcome him, and only through this miracle had he chanced upon waking up just in time to see the first explosion of bright green light, casting a terrifying glow over the whole of Fort Darkmoth. Without hesitation he clambered from his bunk, still groggy and half-asleep, and began slipping his feet into the boots he'd left beside his bed. Everyone else around him seemed to have their own general plan of counter-reaction. Many of the 'soldiers' hid under their bunks or assembled their gear in a slow manner to avoid having to face combat. My hunches are always right.

Finally having climbed into his cuirass and tightening the straps of his pauldrons, Dovinnius set off down the narrow walk-way of the barracks, pushing through half-dressed soldiers and scrambling peasants who'd decided the barracks would suffice as a decent hiding place. His only goal at this point was to find Bartolome. "Out of my way." He barked as a young spearman ran into him and got a decent shove to the side by the sheer momentum of Dovinnius' pace. "You maggots should be preparing for battle! Not cowering in here like some school-girls. Where's the set of stones you were born with?" he asked, now halted in movement, his eyes glaring around the room. The men around him all gazed wide-eyed, shaking with fear not from Dovinnius' booming encouragment, but from the sound of arrows tinkering and tapping wildly off the stone walls.

It was of some relief to Dovinnius when he finally continued his search for Bartolome, to see that one of his spearman and the recruit under his command had been at his side the entire time. "Where's Orith? Is he still waking?" Dovinnius asked, looking around the barracks for the young Dunmer spearman under his command.
"He fell during the first barrage. I'm sorry Dovinnius. He was on his way to the granary to help with the packing. When he didn't return I went to look for him. I'd left the barracks just after the first volley and spotted him sitting near the well. He was already dead when I got to him." Isriil said with a frown. Dovinnius felt his nostrils flare and his eyes moisten with what he hadn't felt in years. Pure sorrow. He'd fought beside Orith since the first day he arrived at Fort Darkmoth. The Dunmer had survived countless raids, bandit attacks, passing Dominion troops, even the infamous food poisoning that claimed many of the soldiers lives a few years back. To think he could be stopped by a single arrow that it's shooter hadn't even seen make contact. A blind kill.

This drove Dovinnius insane with anger. His temples throbbed and the blueish veins along his knuckles protruded. His face had turned red and his skin became hotter than the fires of Oblivion. "We need to get out of here. We're fish in a bucket."

"Thankee kindly sir" The peasant smiled as the final barrel was loaded onto the cart. Custer nooded in acknowledgement, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Indeed, butter was the last of his concerns; and he wouldn't of helped the man had he not been ordered to do so. His mind was purely fixated on the biting cold of night, and the sense of impending doom he couldn't help but feel.

There was a crash. Splinters flew across the cracked pavement as the barrel essentially exploded in a vile mess, its fatty contents spilling off the cart and onto the floor. The old peasant shriked and jumped back.

It was a watchman from the battlements , struck in eye by a broadhead arrow. He had fallen from above and landed on the barrel, blood bubbling from his face and mixing with the yellow butter...forming a vile orange-brown colour. Penforths mouth was agape with sheer terror, his eyes ablaze with pure fear. His suspicions had come true, and only one thought was racing through his mind.

No....no. Not now, this cant be happening. It cant be true...

He burst into sprint, trying desperately to push through the legions of screaming peasants and workers. His age had made him weaker then the other soldiers however, and it took all of his strength to battle his way through the panicked horde towards the stair leading to the battlements. Beads of sweat pured from his face, his lungs felt as if someone had shovelled hot smoking coals into them, and his mouth was dry with fright.

No, this cant be possible. The orders shouldn't of arrived late....they couldn't of.

He scrambled desperately up onto the watchboards of the battlement, the danger of such a position completely blocked from his mind. A green flash illuminated the fort for a few moments...almost blinding the old man. His eyes unluckily adjusted before the light faded back into the night however, and it was then...in that light; that he saw the true horror of the odds the fort faced.

Eyes flashing in the darkness. Many many eyes...and each one brooding with a foul hatred and a lust for slaughter.

Many would die on this night.

With arrows raining all around, Arvan shuddered at the thought of having to run across the open courtyard. As he glanced around, he could see no adequate cover in the courtyard, glancing across, he could see that the closest building to his location was the Chapel of the Nine. He knew if they were to stage any resistance they would need time to act a plan, and at the moment, with their back to the archers, time was exactly what they didn't have. "Right," He said, motioning to the young Legionnaire. "On my mark, my run like the Skyrim mountain winds for that chapel, you understand?" The legionnaire nodded silently, a face of despair building up on him as he tried to bottle his emotions of fear. Arvan peeked round the corner at the Chapel, and gulped hard. He looked at the legionnaire. "1." He glanced back at the chapel. "2." He stood up. "3." He ran like hell.

As he sped across the courtyard, arrows thudded into the ground near him, but he did not notice them; his thoughts were focused solely on the Chapel. As he closed on the entrance, his hastened his run and had to slide along the ground to stop himself while turning into the entrance passage. He slammed his back into the wall, and slid down onto his backside, panting like a dog. Suddenly, Arvan's heart sank as he remembered the solider. He peered around the corner, expecting the worst. The young man lay on the ground, an arrow protruding from his back. His eyes were filled with tears and his face was a picture of pain. He cried for his mother as the blood seeped into the sand. Arvan pulled himself us. So far, his life had been a failure, wasted on drugs and laziness. But now he was going to do something decent.

He ran across the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the man. With every ounce of strength remaining, he hauled the man to his feet and, pulling him over his shoulder, stumbled back toward the Chapel, where a man, presumably awoken by the commotion, stood looking perplexed. Arvan bundled past him and into the main room of the temple. "HEALER!" He yelled. "GET THIS MAN A HEALER!" Arvan layed the body down on the floor. Physically and emotionally drained, he fell to the floor. Just then, a legionnaire sped into the room, presumably he too had run across the courtyard.

"You there!" He said after pausing for breath. "Are you fit?"
Arvan got up and wiped the dirt from his cuirass. "Just about."
"Good, because were going to fight and we need every man we can get."

So this is it he thought. He nodded, in an understanding manner rather than a joyous one. "Fine," He said, pulling out his dagger. "But i need a bigger sword."

Farin - on the walls

The fire crackled heartily, warming the cold stone of the turret's floor. Farin was especially glad of it tonight, he hadn't moved from his place atop the fort for hours, long enough for the Legionaries to finish their packing and for the night watch to begin. If he stood up and looked over the paraqet, Farin knew he would see the lights of various torches and the glints of armour as soldiers patrolled the walls. There was even another man who'd invaded his tower; an Imperial, Attilus – young by elf standards but Farin judged the man to be at about the same stage of life as he was, just nearing his prime. He wasn't a very talkative he just stood, vigilant and staring out into the night. Farin didn't really know what difference it made, the fire would ruin his night vision. He was probably just putting on a show incase his sergeant, or someone else who cared showed up.

Farin didn't really mind however, he was happy enough to sit quietly before the fire and read 'til the storm stopped. His current read was a rather and interesting one, an Altmeri novel written during the time of the first Dominion. Of course, it was almost solely composed of arrogant high elf propaganda, as was most Dominion literature although the plot was reasonably well told and gave a pretty good idea of life at the time. It was always good to know one's enemies.

The first thing Farin knew of the attack was the arrow that hammered through Attilus' throat, sending the Imperial plummeting to his death over the paraqet, onto the roof of the main barracks below. Farin, already sitting below the line flattened himself against the floor as, with a crack from somewhere in the fort, a hail of arrows began to rain down on the night watchmen. Guilt was gnawing at him as he frantically tried to get to the trap door that would take him downstairs without being shot.
Attilus must have made a nice target, standing there all lit up by the fire. Dammit, he might've seen them! All my fault, should've know; safety before comfort...
drawing his sabre which, thankfully he'd thought to bring with him, Farin levered open the hatch, trying hard to keep as much of his body as possible below the paraqet as he dived down the ladder onto the staircase leading towards the barracks. The legionaries had already received the alert it seemed and several armed and semi dressed soldiers pushed past him as he made his way down.

A hand slammed into his shoulder and Farin turned sharply, nearly slicing the arm off of the legionnaire.
“You, you're armed get out there you bastard!”

Farin stared into the grim determination of the man's eyes for a second, the soldier was bleeding, half his ear had been taken by what looked like a glancing blow from an arrow, and there was a second, a bodkin with all but the head snapped off, buried in his arm through the chainmail covering the left bicep. He looked experienced, a sergeant possibly, probably one of those outside at the start of the attack. His face creased up to shout again.

“What are you staring at coward, get out there!”

The burly man shoved Farin towards the flow of soldiers moving cautiously out onto the wall. He followed, at the end of the stream of crouching men, trying hard to listen to the shouting of officers above the din of arrows. He crawled along, keeping very low, right now death meant sticking your head above the paraqet.

Arvan paused, waiting in the doorway beside the Legionnaire. They were waiting for the next volley. Once it had been fired there would be a small gap untill the next one, which could be just enough time to get to the main building, which was directly opposite the chapel. Arvan was beginning to think that the elves had stopped firing when another burst of light filled up the sky and a hail of arrows came down upon the courtyard. "NOW!" Yelled the man and the two of them sped across the courtyard. They only just made it, arrows thudding into the sandy ground as they leapt through the main building doors. All around were Legionaries, presumably waiting to attack.

"Go downstairs and get yourself a weapon," said the imperial in a gruff voice. "Meet us back up here as soon as possible. Go!"
Arvan nodded and hurried down the poorly lit stair to the armoury, underestimating their steepness and nearly tripping up. When he had regained his footing and his heart had stopped thudding, he made his way down and into the armoury. The barracks had been chaos, but the armoury was empty save for one man behind the weapons counter, who Arvan did not recognise, but he presumed he worked in the armoury. He seemed to be in the process of packing weapons into a crate for the retreat.
"What on earth is going on up there!?" He asked. He was old and obviously a little perplexed.
"The fort is under attack," He said with a grim face. The man looked shocked. "We need every man we can get, so i have been called out. I need a sword." The man still looked shocked. Obviously he was totally oblivious to the threat. Poor man, he thought to himself, i doubt he'll make it. But as sorry as he felt, there was no time for dallying, and he was growing impatient with the man. "I said i need a sword. Now!" The man snapped out of his daydream and passed Arvan a broadsword.
"You'll need these too, your not protected enough." Said the man, passing him an imperial shield. He nodded to the man and made his way up the steps.

He met up with the legionnaire at the front of the barracks, which led onto the main building. All around, soldiers were hustling and bustling. The fort was chaos. There was no organisation and everyone was in panic. A throbbing pain split into Arvans head, lasting only a few seconds but hurting like a dagger strike. Arvan knew this was from the skooma. Only a few hours and already it was getting to him. He tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere when a large man Arvan recognised as Dovinnius came barging through. He had a conversation with one of his men before turning angry and red. Clearly there was bad news. Then he bellowed something.
"We need to get out of here! We're fish in a bucket!"

As much Arvan dreaded going out and facing the enemy, he knew enough about military tactics to know that simply sitting here, the enemy had them pinned down. He moved towards the door, awaiting orders to move out.

Fort Darkmoth, Battlements

Artois cursed loudly, trying to find a way to the stairs after having been blinded by the flash of light. It wasn't that the light was incredibly bright, but with his eyes accustomed to the darkness of night and the occasional dim torch it was too bright. Now he'd be as good as blind until his eyes got accustomed to the dark again... Of course, given that the Dominion wouldn't shoot any more flashy arrows at them.

As the fort descended into chaos, ropes with grappling hooks were thrown up on the southern wall. Artois, being on the eastern wall, had little idea until he hard Junius yell something about assembling there; the knight-errant had quite the voice, as was fit for an officer of the Imperial Legion. As the battle shifted there, however, it could be noticed that the arrowfire was getting less intensive everywhere else; either the Dominion had decided to throw everyone on the southern wall -which'd make little sense, as they outnumbered them and could've gained the advantage by attacking from everywhere- or this was part of their plan.

In fact Artois probably knew what plan; he had taken part in the war against the Dominion right before the treaty of Anvil. Once, when the Dominion stormed a town, they left a gap open through which Artois was lucky enough to flee with a handful of others; when the others tried following, hoping to have found a safe escape route, they were butchered by the Dominion troops waiting in ambush. If this was the same deal, then the first to flee would be the ones who'd save themselves from the horrors that were yet to come.

Blinking, Artois made out a figure next to him; with some difficulty he recognized the man as Custer Pensforth, an old logistics officer. Of course he would've preffered someone else for what he was about to ask of him, but the man was fairly reliable, if slow.

"Pensforth!" Yelling as the noise picked up south of them; the Dominion was beginning the assault. "You know where the stairs are, I can't see a bloody thing... I'll need your help, we get to the stairs and then you go and gather anyone reliable you can find and get them to the chapel! Don't get too many, and by the Nine,don't let them get near the southern wall despite what the commander's just yelled!"

Darkmoth

The assortments of men rushed to the southern wall, the familiar commands of the Knight Errant poured easily enough through the barracks door. Bartolome watched many of the men run out the door into arrow fire to combat the enemy scaling the south wall. The enemy was closer than Bartolome wanted them to be.

Arvan, the jail keeper, looked more lost than a colovian in the west gash, for use of a term the dunmer might understand. What looked like a newly acquired sword and shield with more aged clothing and armor. The man was going to fight, Bartolome had been in charged of escorting prisoners down to the dungeon and on some ocassions assisted Arvan.

" Arvan!!!!" Waving his arms frantically. Bartolome was going to include this man in his plot. Arvan, while never being as competant with a sword as Cyrus or Daniel, he was a very smart elf. The group of nine men would become ten, and a group that large not doing anything productive would be subject to orders. Bartolome had to come up with a plan.

If the enemy was attacking the south walls that meant they were focusing at that point. The arrow fire had been coming from all directions so no doubt they had the fort surrounded at one point. Bartolome and Dovinnius's men were too close to the southern wall.

Wounded men lay in the bunks nearest the door there were only six of them but the healers were at the Chapel and without help these men would bleed to death. " Dovinnius!" Bartolome turned, hoping the Dunmeri jailer would get the message. " Dovinnius, we need to move to the Chapel, if we stay here we'll be forced to fight, and if we fight now we're dead. We can take these wounded men. If Arvan comes there will be ten of us. My men will move the wounded, you give us cover with your shields. Do you agree? I need you on this!".

Arvan rushed out onto the wall, arrows zooming over his head. An arrow thudded into the skull of the man in front of him. He gulped, but he was determined to have a go at this. Just then, he heard a voice behind him, calling his name. Arvan swivelled round to see a man staring at him. The man soon turned away to call someone else, but Arvan glimpsed his face: it was Bartolome. Arvan was puzzled; Bartolome was a legion trooper, and one of the best fighters in the fort. What business, could he possibly have with Arvan? But he couldn't ignore orders, and he turned around. Immediately one of the Legion captains raised his sword to Arvan.

"Running away are you, coward?" He spat, an arrow whistling past.
"NO! I have orders to turn back!" Arvan had better things to do than talk to this man.
"Oh really," His voice disbelieving. "And who gave you these orders?"
"Bartolome! He just called for me!"
The man glanced back. "Get a move on then."

Arvan didn't bother nodding to the captain, he simply edged past him and made his way across the wall. Most of the wall was taken up by soldiers, with only a small strip to the side by the open wall was free. His vertigo made him feel sick and his feet felt weird as he tried to stop himself peering over the drop, as he prayed that he wouldn't slip. After what seemed like an era, he reached Bartolome at the end of the wall.

"Sir," He said, standing to attention while pressing himself up against a wall to avoid the hail of arrows. He wasn't a legionnaire but he was a member of the legion and he knew enough about respect in the ranks. "You called for me sir?"

Custers mind was numbed with terror. The sheer chaos of the battle was like another world to him, a nightmarish world. Indeed, he had fought before alongside fellow soldiers against all manner of foes; but tonight was different. This was no battle. It was a slaughter. Most folk were bunched up in the courtyard and couldnt get past each other, falling to the arrows like fish in a barrel. Blood and bodies lay crudely strewn across the floor, Custer had never seen anything quite like it in his time in the legion.

A voice brought him back into the reality of the situation, and luckily so. He had been in a blank daze and surely would of fallen victim to either sword or broadhead if he hadn't snapped out of it. He recognised the voice instantly and turned to Artois in acknowledgement, trying to attempt a salute.

"Indeed sir! Just follow the wall 'till it meets at the corner with the northern battlement and you'll find a staircase at the end...follow my lead if you like because I'll be heading down there anyway!"

His voice was raw with shouting, so with a quick salute he crouched down and began shuffling towards the stair. He didn't exactly know what Artois might of meant by "anyone reliable", but he figured a man that still had a sword and was indeed alive would be a step in the right direction. He had just hoped that being ordered to the chapel was a right move. Lots of men within the fort were religious, peasant and solider alike...and if too many had already run to the chapel when the chaos began, it would be a easy kill for the enemy.

Without the sound of Bartolome's voice, it was unlikely Dovinnius would've rattled himself out of the tunnel-vision train of thought he had at gaining vengeance. He turned to face the young Imperial and nodded in approval. "Aiy. Isriil, Loviticus, and I will provide cover as we cross the courtyard. We'll need to move with haste or I'll shields will crumble under the bombardment. Whenever we've gathered enough to move we'll wait for the next pause in their attack. If the enemy scales the walls and attempts to route us continue on through to the chapel. There's no purpose in pausing and putting more lives at risk. Now, lets prepare to move Bartolome."

OOC: Not sure but is the south wall the part in between the Main Building and the Granary?

IC:

Farus continued his crawl, trying to inch closer to the nearby tower to find better cover and regain his senses. More arrows clinked off the walls around him, and many sailed just a few feet above him, though he knew it was near impossible to be hit from his angle. He was still uncomfortable as he inched further and further, expecting an arrow to plunge into his back at any second or even for the unknown enemy to scale the walls and find his prone form lying on the stone.

As he was within a bodies length of the tower entrance he heard a shout from the wall opposite of his position, and heard the call for the men to gather at the south wall. By the Gods, they are coming up! thought Farus, and he drew his sword completely and crawled on his knees the short way to the tower that connected the east wall and the north wall. He stood up in the doorway, sword clutched against his briast as he peeked nervously out of the entrance watching in terror as many men crawled on the ground, arrows deep in their bodies as they struggled to get out of the hail of wood and steel.

His heart pounded in his chest as he stood frozen in place, unsure of whether to go and join at the south wall, or whether to just stay hidden in the safe tower, away from the pain and death. The ladder seemed much more preferable to the young man, though he did notice the arrows had lessened , if only a little, and he dared to peek his head out further.

Clink!

His sword flew from his hands and over the wall into the courtyard, and the arrow deflected in Farus' leg, causing him to cry out in alarm as he dove back into the safe tower. He wasn't hurt, but his heart raced all the faster and he felt a warm sensation around his groin, and soon noticed he was standing in a smelling liquid.

"What the....." he said to himself, and looked around to see if anyone was around to see him. He realized that this was his first actually combat situation, and the fact that men were dying all around him had literally frightened the piss out of him, as he attempted to sweep the pool of liquid away with his booted foot. He didn't want to even try to find his blade, and he doubted he would be effective with it anyways if it came down to it. But still, it did give him s feeling of protection....

He went through the opposite door, ending up on the north wall, and poked his head out again, looking down to the ground. Sure enough his blade was lying on the ground, right at the junction of the two wall. There weren't any stairs on the north wall, and as much as he didn't want to go back on the east wall, he knew he couldn't remain on the walls anymore. Gathering his breath, and muttering a prayer to whatever god might be listening, he tore out through the doorway, and dove to his stomach, winding himself slightly but seeing the stairs were not far.

He saw a man, a superior in rank, Artois de Metz he recalled, near the stairs and he made his way towards him.

"Sir, what's going on?" he shouted. He kept his head low as he waited for a response.

OOC: In my posts by the southern wall I meant the one between the main building and the chapel; dunno if you all were thinking something else. Should've specified sooner, my fault.

IC: Fort Darkmoth

"We're under attack by the bloody Dominion, that's what's going on!" Artois yelled, trying not to let his voice be drowned out by the chaos of battle. Battle was picking up in the south; if he were to make his escape with some group, gathering people better went fast. He looked at the young man before him critically. Farus was barely an advlt, why they'd stationed someone like him was beyond the Agent.

Still, he's here and that gives him an advantage over the ones battering at Bosmeri heads on the wall...

"C'mon mate; Farus, wasn't it? I'll need you! Just try not to fall behind or get sweeped away to the southern wall, no matter what the command is! If we do get separated, head to the Chapel and I'll meet you and some others there! Whatever you do, don't get on that bloody wall or I'll be the last one to speak to you! If anyone says anything, just tell them you're under my orders to get to the Chapel!"

Without waiting to see if Farus had heard him Artois hurried off towards the stair, not paying much attention to Pensforth after getting down. There was no point in tracking the man; he'd told him to get to the Chapel and trusted a veteran like him would stick to the orders, even though the aged man was now on the rocky road to uselessness. Still, anyone who could carry something and had some limbs left could be useful if Artois was to truly lead a group to escape the hellhole, and Custer could even keep a track of their supplies, vital if they were to last until Ein Meirvale and not just eat it all up when they got really hungry.

With such thoughts swirling in his head Artois nearly rolled down the quite steep stone stairs; it was difficult to see in the dark, even with all the torchlight around, and concentration was a problem as well as he hadn't slept in some time. Great, as if I didn't have trouble enough without having to keep extra attention on not breaking my neck accidentally... Curse this night!