Leir stepped on someone's face in order to keep moving forward. The dying elf underfoot was struggling to take its final breaths. Even when the soul knew it was dying, the body kept trying to maintain. At this point no one's footing was sure. If the man next to you fell wounded and was still lucid you tried to get in front of him. The rank behind would filter him back, over their heads and shoulders if need be, until a cleric could drag him from the fray.
But this one was dying. And he wore the other colors. So Leir just stepped on him the way he would any other stone and kept swinging. The pike was torn out of his left hand as it lodged firmly in a breast plate. Embedded in the metal with a pop. So his claws shot out.
Something bumped into his shoulder and he nearly lashed out with an elbow. But he felt paint on paint, the odd warmth of the shamans' work, even through the blood. one slight tug of his head got a look at the warrior. Iluvatar. They were shoulder to shoulder, pushing forward, giving ground only when it meant a quick resetting of their stances.
The claw shield caught a swordsman by the hand. With a mighty yank he stretched the arm out, crushed the metal bracer down into the wrist, and hacked it all off clean at the shoulder. Ramga's shock troop would have screamed louder, if the next blow hadn't gone straight through his jaw and out the back of his helmet.
That's when Leir felt something sharp and hard. He heard it, too, at nearly the same time; a whistle. And then his left leg gave out without asking. An arrow through the calf.