It was the Age of Dragons, long before we had left every-day civilization for the monastery. Long before this land was free. Close to here had stood a city - strong, prosperous, fortified. The dragons insisted on it being named Quethsegol, but the mortals inhabiting the city had since its foundation called it Cothshold. Easier to pronounce, a local had told us, his accent thick with the local dialect, with its strong dwarven characteristics. Cothshold was rich - trading with the dwarven holds was a lucrative and risk-free endeavor, and even though taxed at a high and effective rate, there was enough profit for the citizens to live a comfortable life within the walls. This flood of taxated gold had of course gone straight to the provincial administration in Vel-Arynth. In exchange for the exorbitant tax on the trade, Cothshold was exempt from other taxations. Whereas other cities had to provide the capital with a portion of their harvest, Cothshold was allowed to keep what it produced. Seeing as the surrounding land was exceptionally rocky and poor in good soil, it could barely produce enough harvest to nourish its citizens, but the wealth in their pockets made sure they ate plenty, and more exotically, than even those in Vel-Arynth.
This was until the great famine. Through some whimsy of the gods, the crops had failed. For several years, the fields stood empty, rotten husks of wheat and barley barely stretching a few inches above ground. The livestock dwindled quickly, those not slaughtered instead starving away in brown fields. The formerly barely present governor of Quethsegol, the Arcane Prefect Galvatorix, had seen fit to disregard his provincial duties the year before the first year of famine, and barely anyone had seen him since. His lax control of the city was a mixed blessing. Word from Vel-Arynth came, bearing a command of half of the produce of the already strained farmers. Seeing as no produce could be bought from any outside source, this would surely have led to starvation in the city. That is, if the trading guilds had not stepped up in the absence of centralized draconic command. With Galvatorix gone, the guilds launched an impressive scheme of bribery, forgery, creative book-keeping and strong-arming against any power seeking to examine just how much of Cothsholds produce actually left the confines of the city.
For years, the guilds strong influence worked. The wealth of Cothshold gave the guilds efficient tendrils into the finest of meetings, and with the right cajoling the people of Cothshold led a bearable life in face of the famine. What little surplus could be gathered due to strict rationing was sent to subsidize the less fortunate towns in the vicinity, creating future prospects for the guilds and solidifying resilience among the folks of the vicinity. This luck ran out. A wrong number in a declaration sent a zealous treasurer into a investigation, that finally exposed Cothsholds maneuver. The provincial capital had been made aware, and in lieu of Galvatorix dispensing justice, the provincial governor, a gigantic blue dragon by the name Mavnanth, seemed to see fit to dole it out herself. A sizable host massed in Vel-Arynth, and not even the maneuvering of the guilds was enough to dissuade the authority from acting upon what they saw as a flagrant breach of Cothsholds subservience.
The massing of troops in Vel-Arynth and what Cothshold had done spread like wildfire. The amassing draconic host Mavnanth commanded was an impressive show of force, but not undefeatable, and the coin of Cothshold was substantial. Word went out to the most battletested mercenaries reachable, and many answered the call. A strong and disciplined core was forming. The news of this led to a mass rising and the coming days seemed to show just how much the dragons had underestimated the simmering discontent under the surface of the province. Several of the towns that had been subsidized with Cotsholdian grain had the majority of their townsfolk go to arms and join the defense. One of the main trading partners of Cothshold, the dwarven hold Dur'Khazun, sent a strong contingent of dwarven warriors, intent on making sure the trade would continue. Several nobles of the area, seemingly fed up with doing the dragons biddings joined with their hosts, and then there were the stragglers, the ones not directly affected by the conflict but drawn by the pureness and justice of its purpose. A band of warriors from the other side of the mountains, a group of bandits from deep in the woods, a group of wizards fed up with the policies of the dragons, even a creature of the fey intent on making good on a foolish promise made by one of the enemies commanders - people like us.
It was truly a perfect day. One of those blessed late-spring wonders, where the sky is clear and blue, and the forests filled with bright green. The flags of the camp - all of different colors, different creeds, were hanging limp on their poles. Former-us walked along one of the paths of the camp. In this life we were tall. Strong. A solidly made sword at our hip. An elf had walked beside us. A friend. Aeglin. The camp was just stirring to life.
It had been a few days since former-us had arrived. The word had spread quickly across the province, as it tends to do when the population has been ground to the bone with toil, with no end in sight. Cothshold had been the shining beacon for many of the people now flocking to its banner, feeding their family or those of their close friends. Former-us had not been very affected by the famine. This life had been one of battle, of glory, of long rides on the roads of the province, of just battle against the brigands and thieves that had grown so usual during this time of famine. Tavern-owners were more than happy to feed and pay us, and the village elders of the province lauded our arrivals and showered us with gifts when we ensured them of their trade routes being open once more.
The cause of Cothshold seemed just. The invisible clawed hand of the dragons was not hard to feel when moving through society. The people craved freedom, an admirable yearning. So here we were.
Everyone in the camp felt the tension in the air. The enemy had been sighted by the scouts not even 2 miles away, the banners of the imperial legions clearly waving in the wind. The battle would stand today, and former-us knew that this was a battle Cothshold stood to win.
*FOR NOTE - my memory grows weak here. I will leave a section untouched, for you to fill in when this part returns to us.*
Calamity. Screams. Faint smells of ash on the wind. We sat atop our horse, behind a treeline on a hill, Aeglin on his steed right next to us. "Ghalver's boys are holding nicely. Never would have imagined that, seeing as they partook quite heavily yesterday" Aeglin said, referring to the vast amounts of alcohol the mercenaries currently presenting an unbreakable shieldwall against an imperial legion had consumed last night. We laughed. "I'd presume it's that exact liquour giving them that courage down there. They've almost single-handidly broken down two companies of the legion." we said, rolling back our shoulders. Just behind the mercenaries, a small group of eccentrics produced lights, and occasionally a bright streak of orange, creating large holes in the center of the imperial legions ranks. Both us and Aeglin were aware that this light talk was just to try and keep the panic contained. Our heavily armed band of cavalry was waiting on the order to doff our cloaks and ride into the side of the imperial reinforcements who were slowly making their way forward. The trap would be sprung, and the legions would be surrounded. The imperial legions had tried to do this very tactic, but had been thwarted by a small disciplined group of local farmers that had grown up in these very woods, and had descended upon the clueless imperial troops. They did not even manage to send a runner back to their camp, and were surely waiting for their own cavalry charge by now. Instead, they would be met by lances pointed towards them, and their flanks being suddenly overrun with drilled peasants mixed with battle-hardened mercenaries. The true flame of freedom would be lit here today, and this would be a slaughter.
The leader of our band, Ironpelt - a large, redhaired woman, nodded at us, and then at the dwarves behind us. The dwarves had mounted ballistas and prepared a wall of archers that would take our places in the treeline and pelt the legion with arrows and ballista bolts. It was time for us to end this. A sudden colorful explosion in the midst of the reinforcing legion, centered on a certain commander, was our cue. A quick swipe to doff, and a fistbump with Aeglin, and we rode down the hill.
The horse strained, almost eager, the lance firmly grasped, the armor softly clanking. We were perfectly placed, the legion would not have time to turn and face us before we ran them down. But then, something caught our eye. Instead of the organized march of peasants and mercenaries against the other flanks, what emerged from the other treelines was a few, panicked soldiers. None of them armored in the mercenaries colors. One fell flat out of the treeline across from us, a barely discernable green armor behind him. Koelors boys. The horse under us carried us ever closer.
The occasional fireball from the wizards stopped. Until they didn't. A streak to our right. A new sun momentarily lit up, but not in the legion. It struck in the middle of Ghalver's group, leaving cinders.
Any living creature has basic instincts telling it to live, to eat, to fuck and to drink. The first one made itself known. Our seconds felt like hours. It became increasingly clear that this was exactly where Mavnanth wanted us to be. "FUCK, PIVOT RIGHT, NOW!!!!" Ironpelt bellowed over the wind. A quick look confirmed her target was now the group of wizards, seemingly having turned against us. At that moment, she, and several others of the charging band, was suddenly filled with arrows, slumping over. Seconds became hours again. The arrows were pretty. Dwarven arrows always were. They made everything with such care, such precision.
The riderless horses were ungovernable, and our tight formation was now a death trap. Our eyes darted to Aeglin, signaling him to halt his horse with us to try and break out of the stampede. His eyes met ours, and then a ballista bolt pierced him and his horse, the ground becoming a fulcrum to send the pair flying. Our eyes on the legion. They had turned, their spears facing those of us that remained. They had been prepared. They always had been. We rode into the spears, lance in hand, greeting unescapable death as an old friend. He is, after all. Pain is temporary. This existence, forever. We left that coil sure of one thing. The flame was lit, and the time of the dragons was at an end. It was only a matter of Time.