It not that is wasn't grand and glorious. It's not that there weren't heroics. Banners snapped proudly in the wind - stout fighters fought to the last drop, friends or former enemies fought back to back. There were moments of undiluted grandeur. Moments that would have become legend.

If only there had been any survivors.

But the sheer weight of numbers made it all moot. It was a long, desperate, hopeless struggle. A fight, not to win or survive, but to stay alive as long as possible - kill as many bugs as possible - before the inevitable.

The frenzied, chittering, clawing, biting, slashing mass could not be held back.

Perhaps with greater numbers, better preparation, maintainance of the wall and it's equipment, things might have been different. But as it was, the struggle was one-sided and doomed. The best and the brightest of an entire generation - cut to ribbons, buried under the enormity of the enemy onslaught, presumably eaten down to the bone, and left in the sun to dry and wither.

Through this doomed struggle, one group of men fight with desperation to reach the stables, in the hopes of being able to outpace the invaders. To mount a defence elsewhere.

Lead by a kuzumian lieutenant, they charge headlong through the various enemies that - for one reason or another - have wound up on the other side of the wall. Even as the defenders on said wall are failing, dying, they cut and bludgeon their way towards the horses.