In the aftermath of all this, with all the bodies surrounding them, as if the Iberian wall of shields were a dam against a halted tide, the survivors stood winded but invigorated. Their commander, the young Centurion, was momentarily preoccupied in putting some of the mortally wounded enemies out of their misery. Those that did not surrender and became victims of the grenade's shrapnel and the stings of whatever erupted from the sand. Even with the slight limp that plagued his pace for the moment, he still marched with discipline, amidst the scattering scorpions that provided his former namesake.
When he did return to the Emir's formation, he took note of the fleeting commotion that was otherwise disguised by cheering soldiers who felt they deserved this victory, or perhaps merely happy they could live to tell tales of it. But he just found himself to be curious of all that he'd seen transpire. Having prepared to die in the field, cut down by a horde and yet survive through the intervention of something he could not understand, of course the natural human tendency was to question. "Did you do this?" Seth questioned the Emir's daughter, not seeming angered by what might have been the workings of alien artifacts. No, that was very much a tendency of a past that was now long behind him, forsaken as were the sacrifices of the men under his command and himself.
Noticing the fact that their commander had relocated, the surviving Iberians lined up in formation around his new position, not feeling the need to celebrate when there was still work to be done set out before them, and most certainly not when the Centurion seemed to be engaged in something important. They bore silent witness to whatever might transpire next.
