Rise.

The West Wall went first, took the hardest hit. The oat and soy fields burned fast. Six soldiers dead, fifteen wounded. Shouting all around. Blood on all the floors. "Louts! They come from the South!"
The shout was repeated through all the hallways, all the corridors, across courtyards and into all the nooks and crannies of the compound. The walls blasted commands, alarm beacons rang in low tones, and Wolfes rushed through the hallways, silky-looking armor over their chests and weapons slung over their shoulders.

In the infirmary, Marik was alert at the first sound of the alarm, raising himself up in the bed, gRóaning a bit as he did so, but already energetic, angry and determined to destroy. His eyes were sharp, pupils small, Róan noticed, as he moved to get out of the way. He pushed Róan back with one hand.
"Róan, get into the room with Medin. I'll get you guarded, you'll both be safe. If it lasts very much longer, I'll leave word for Euan and Blaszni to both come to you - STAY TOGETHER at all costs, do you understand me? Stay with your guards and stay away from any of the exterior walls." Marik was dressed by now, ready to run.
"I'm going now, Róan. Stay here. I love you."
And like a flash, Marik was gone, running through, barking orders and demanding answers in Wolfish, Russian, and English, and Róan was begin escorted back into Medin's room by a guard.

Medin's eyes were wide, panicky.
"What's happening?" his voice was still not above a whisper.
"We're under attack." Róan was staring strangely out of the glass of the infirmary room, trying to gather more information from the environment. All announcements had switched into Wolfish for now, only occasional ones in Russian and English warning humans and children to move into the interior compound walls.
Medin was trying to get up, but Róan put a hand on his chest to hold him back down.
"Stay. You are not well."
Medin looked frightened.
"Marik has sent us guards. We are safe here. Lay where you are and try to stay calm. It's just a minor attack." Six wolfes armed with long staff-looking weapons dashed past. Róan bit his lip. "It'll be over before you know it."
Medin looked at Róan, eyes still wide, and silently, he obeyed.

Marik cut his way into battle, scy swinging, weapons set and ready to deliver the killing blow. Louts had run down the border guards, pushed somehow into the West fields, and near six hundred Wolfes ran out to meet them. Marik, a first-taster, made his way through the thickness of bodies, the moving mass, enduring hot blood and itching fur and the smell of smoke and violence, pushing always, ever closer to the edge, searching out his own enemy amongst the line. Louts never attacked from a distance. They loved to linger nearby, to see their targets for themselves. Marik killed two of them in his first line, swinging his scy bodily through one's shoulder, embedding it in the torso of another. He felt alive. He vaulted a rush on the left side, deceived right but then charged and caught the second kill unprepared. The sky was red with evening light. Marik charged again. They would finish before the night.

~:~

The assault on the compound was fast, but brutal. Louts lacked in strategy, but excelled in force of attack. Long shot whitefire cannons burned through golden grass, laid black tracks through field and treeline and ended in charred stone walls. Marik was walking with his team, surveying the damage. Rage burned like fire through his soul. His compound had been attacked - not taken entirely, of course; still breathing unconsumed, but struck and burned. They would pay for this mistake. The Louts would pay dearly for this mistake. He would cut their stomachs open and let them bleed out alive. He would tie them to their own burning cannons. He would rend them, bone from blood, until he'd had enough of hearing them scream. He would make them suffer.

Marik wiped his weapon clean, touched one hand to his neck which was still aching, sent his heart up to the evening sky, and went in to report for further instructions.

~:~

Elsewhere, Blaszni was sitting with two servants, all of them tucked silently into a little corner of his bedroom, quiet and still, like his mate had told him, waiting for the deep thrumming of weapons and the boom slam of fire strikes to end. Time passed, more than Blaszni thought would, before slowly, it subsided. He felt the heavy breathing of the boy to his left, prodded them both to their feet. Together, they went into the living room, listened for the sounds of safety. Eventually, they heard voices in the hallway, then announcements telling them that all was well, the Louts had been driven back and there were few wounded, fewer still dead. The three of them breathed relief, began to think of what they'd like to have for dinner. On the announcements, they began to read the infirmary list.

It wasn't real. He wasn't awake, he couldn't be - he must be dreaming. It felt like a dream; a terrible terrible dream like the ones where he was falling and could get no purchase, could make no good ground or find fingerholds anywhere. The world was slipping away beneath him. Dorano's name had been read aloud. Was he dead? Wounded? Missing? Blaszni began to feel like he was tilting sideways. Dorano's name had been read aloud. What did that mean? The servants were prodding him, giving him worried instructions and exchanging frightened looks, but he didn't know what to do or what to tell them or even where to go to find out if his husband, his love, his mate, his Dorano, was lying in the infirmary dead or alive. He closed his eyes and felt the slipping down begin. He let himself fall.

In the black, Dorano met him and for a moment, Blaszni though that maybe it meant that he was dead, Blaz was dead, and now they spoke again in the way that only the dead could, without constraint of time, place, or expectation. Then he felt fear and realized he must be only sleeping. He reached out to touch Dorano's face. It rippled beneath his touch, faded then reappeared. He sobbed inside. What did it mean? Nothing was clear. Why was he in this place? With only the black above and below him and no Dorano to make it right. He wondered what old Antrizil would have to tell him when he crossed the river. He reached again and now the apparition opened its mouth, tried to speak to him - to warn him, maybe? - and then it was gone, quick as if it had never been at all, and Blaszni wondered why he had let himself fall.

He woke up in the infirmary, in a bed next to Dorano's body. He screamed, and Dorano opened his eyes. They were black with blood, blinking unseeing out at him. Blaszni screamed again.

~:~