Some flaming projectile streaked past, making Kendath dive to the side. An instant later he realized the missile hadn't been intended for him, but for the green dragon. As the green pranced happily off after Garthag, Kendath thought for one ethereal moment that he might survive the day... when...

Boom. It landed right back where it'd started, looking slightly worse for wear but a far cry from dead. Searing dragonfire columned from its throat. Reacting instinctively, Kendath dodged behind a boulder. The fire impacted the boulder with all the force of a thunderclap. White flames licked the rock, turning it molten, melting away at its edges. He cursed under his breath and scrambled away.

Boom. Again. The dragon leaped clear over the boulder and landed in front of him. It stretched open its jaws in a rictus of fury. Its throat contracted, the apparent premonition that some imbecile out there was about to be burned alive. Kendath winced.

Suddenly he felt himself jerked upwards. The ground dropped with heart-leaping abruptness. Wind and flames rushed past in a dizzying blur. Talons squeezed painfully around his wounded abdomen, and he nearly passed out. It was only when he glanced upwards and glimpsed a flash of bronze wings did he even begin to relax.

Pompous Renegade knight indeed - the one who'd just saved his life. Why did irony always seem to catch up with him?

Dawn's talons loosened just enough for him to climb out. The strain had him gagging up blood, but he swallowed it and grasped the rope Jhoran had tossed down. Without warning the bronze dragon swerved to the side. Kendath threw himself onto the madly swinging rope, trying not to look at the shrinking ground. He'd never been afraid of heights, but neither did he care to remind himself of the pitched battle a few hundred feet below him. Especially when his precarious grip on a piece of hemp was the one barrier between him and a fiery death.

Cheerful thoughts.

He felt along for the next knot, but found he didn't need to when Jhoran began pulling the rope up. At last, panting for breath, Kendath was hauled into the saddle. He instantly twisted around to look for the others - Merrin in particular. Nowhere in sight. And then it struck him. The final, ephemeral sight of her being dragged onto a Meiltha dragon. Merrin. The Cloud Crystal.

He seized Jhoran's shoulder. "We have to go back!" he shouted over the wind.

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Merrin found herself fighting tooth and nail, clawing at the Meiltha rider's grasp about her waist and half sobbing for breath. She couldn't seem to form a coherent series of thoughts, only disjointed flashes - Gods, no! Let one of them come - Wyvern - no! They'll know, they'll kill me - take Vryngard - the Crystal -

The Crystal! Merrin was so horrified to remember it that she momentarily stiffened, rigid, and knew that she must not let them have it, she must not. If it meant her death. Still grappling with the rider behind her as they rose skyward Merrin clawed it from her belt and flung the thing groundwards, not knowing where it landed or in whose hands, only praying that the Meiltha did not find it.

With a growl of annoyance the armored rider twisted her wrist up behind her, making Merrin cease struggling with a gasp, still half a sob, of pain. She tried once more, futilely, remembering the cold eyes of a Meiltha mage, manacles at her wrists - blue fire - blood-red sunrise - a cry tore from Merrin's throat and her wrist cracked audibly as she struggled.

She caught one glimpse of a bronze dragon - could that be Kendath astride it? - before the rider who grasped her broken wrist had evidently had enough. Merrin's world dissolved into nothingness, spine-chilling, paralyzing fear the only thing that followed her into a void of blackness.

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Edits: this post dose not exist

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Made by Lembas

[we've already got your entrance planned out, Anduril. just wait a bit longer.]

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(Hey! Are we dead here?)

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Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

((No, we're waiting for an individual by the name of Aerandir. *Hides the chainsaw* It's his turn ))

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Jhoran gave no indication that he'd heard - and very quickly Kendath saw the reason. Three Meiltha dragons, flying in wedge formation, converging in front of them. Their maws opened and inhaled. Dawn was plumetting into the trap at full speed. Little leeway to veer left or right - doomed to be incinerated in triple dragonfire -

Then Dawn did something utterly unexpected. He banked sideways in midair. Completely vertical, slicing through the smallish space between two columns of flame. Disoriented, his world having done an abrupt rotation, Kendath grabbed onto Jhoran's belt and flattened himself to the saddle as fire roared over his head. A jolt, then a horrendous ripping. Dawn had latched himself onto the leftmost Meiltha dragon, his talons tearing through scales and sinew. He detached himself with a paean of triumph and lifted away, clear out of the remaining two dragons' range.

The charred walls of Vryngard loomed before them.

Narrowly dodging a Renegade lightning bolt, Dawn circled over the city a few times before alighting in an open-air courtyard on the third tier. The courtyard was in chaos - wounded Renegade wyrms cycling in and out, healers in panic, authoritive mandates barked over the din... Flares of vermilion in the skies above crowned once pristine guard towers and crenellations. At this height they were safe from the arrows but not the fireballs from numerous Meiltha trebuchets. One of them blasted a chunk from the nearest guard tower an instant after Dawn touched ground.

Jhoran dismounted and dispatched a messenger for Commander Thorone and the council. They didn't have to wait long. Bloody and wearied, the Wing Commander marched in with a contingent of infantry. His gaze settled on Kendath for a brief instant, then swept the vicinity for Merrin. His eyes, now dark with the faintest hint of suspicion, flew back to Kendath.

"Where is she?"

"If I knew, Commander, she'd be with me," came the none too affable retort.

Thorone scowled. "We've no time for games. You obviously have much to say. Come." He spun on his heel and, scarlet cloak sweeping behind him, led the way into the fortress.

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The current state of Vryngard could only be described as utter mayhem. The entire Council and their dragons were clad in full battle regalia and half were immersed in the clash outside. Thorone himself looked as though he'd slept very little in the last twenty-four hours, and his crimson cloak was streaked with blood and grime. Once they were inside, however, it became apparent that however much he wanted to know what had happened on their journey back in time - and the reason for Merrin's absence - Kendath would not remain on his feet for very much longer.

A barked order and a harried-looking healer, looking tired herself, was rushing over to attend him. Thorone dropped briefly into a chair, tugging off his helmet to scrutinize Kendath intensely. "I have little time to spare," he said, running fingers through his sweat-damp hair and standing it on end. "The Council waits to hear your story, but that will keep for another time. When we are not immersed in battle. Merrin is not with you. Nor are your dragons."

-----

Merrin was back in time. Back two thousand years, back in a Meiltha camp after a day of battle. Back in an endless nightmare where everywhere she turned cold mages' eyes bored into her, wresting her very soul from her body. Merrin cried out again and again, shrank away, ran until she thought she would collapse - and still they were there, binding her hands, threatening to torture and kill her...

Then the sun rose and Merrin lay atop a blood-stained altar, the first crimson rays illuminating the blade of the dagger raised above her. She knew irrevocably the gods would save her - they would save her - but the dagger descended and still they did not, still there was nothing. It pierced her heart and everything dissolved in a wash of blinding pain until again she was running. Something was behind - she hardly knew what - but around every corner she saw a flash of black cloak just ahead. "Kendath," she sobbed aloud, calling for him to stop, to wait. When he turned she stumbled to a halt hardly able to stand only to find that when she met his eyes they were fire, blood-red in an empty face.

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Commander Thorone led them into a map room of sorts. The far one was comprised of a titanic map of Tyralon, cities and terrain painted to intricate detail. On the table was a clay model of Vryngard, with numbered clay squares to indicate the individual battalions. Studying it now, Kendath noted that both north and south gates had been breached. The pitched battle had nearly found its way to the second tier. His gaze shifted to a few small squares lined on the other side of the mountain. Small-scale foray behind the enemy lines?

Thorone's voice, two parts authoritative and one part impatient, tugged Kendath back to the present. Something about wanting to hear their story another time... why in the abyss had he bothered to come, then? Somehow he suspected that a caustic retort wouldn't rest well with the Commander at the moment, so he bit his tongue. Neither did he have the strength to argue. His adrenaline rush in the battle heat had staved off the pain, but now it returned tenfold with a surge of agony. Fighting nausea, he clutched his bloody abdomen and dropped himself into a chair.

"Dragons are dead," he stated tonelessly, through clenched teeth. "Meiltha captured Merrin and the Cloud Crystal, obtained through the wizard Garthag who is also captured. The Shadowers are the instigators of the dragons' decline. They took a Shard from the Celestial Eye. Ask that thrice-cursed Druid if you want a history lesson."

The healer hovered over him, instructing him to relax and lean back. She began tackling his wound with bandages and an earthen-hued unguent.

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Thorone found himself steadily crushing a miniature soldier, intended to represent a battalion, into dust in one large fist. Fighting not to express his frustration by throwing the nearest breakable object, he ran his fingers through his hair again, standing it on end. "You know the Meiltha," he found himself saying, staring at the model Vryngard before him as though if he looken long enough the answer would come. "Do they know who she is? What will they - ?"

A resounding crash and the sound of crumbling stone reached their ears. Thorone dropped the fragments of the miniature soldier on the table. "Gods grant we can hold," he said tightly. "I would that we had more Merrins."

A harried messenger skidded to a halt outside and he was gone, square jaw set in an expression of weary determination. The healer was busily unwinding a formidable amount of bandages. "You should be dead," she said sharply, looking ready to force him to relax.

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"So should you," Kendath returned automatically, his hand going halfway to his weapons belt. He took some satisfaction from the healer's already wrinkled face, which suddenly took on the appearance of a sunburnt radish. He almost chuckled. Almost.

The notion crossed his mind, and suddenly he felt an interesting urge to throw back his head and laugh. He could laugh, laugh at the irony of everything... how far they'd come, only to lose it again... how they'd longed for the safe haven of Vryngard, only to find it no safer than the Lost Battle...

"Are you all right?" the healer asked sharply. Only then did Kendath realize the mirthless grin across his face. The healer looked jumpy enough as it was, without having to deal with insane soldiers. Nonetheless she felt his forehead. "Your skin's burning - "

"Are you finished?" he snapped, grin dissipating. The bandage was wound tightly around his midsection, but the healer was still dabbing at dried blood with a wet cloth. She flicked him a single scowl that spoke volumes, and he learned to shut himself up. At long last she recapped the unguent and began rerolling the extra bandages.

And Kendath was out of the room before she could say I missed a spot! He was bent on single-minded purpose. First - armory, where he could find himself a new weapon. Second - dungeons. It was time to pay a visit to an old friend.

-----

"Another prisoner?" Warlord Gahst scowled as his raiding party returned from the bluffs. "What in this gods-forsaken plane took you so long anyway? A few Renegade foot soldiers. Investigate them, kill them. How hard is that?"

"We were delayed, sir," the dragonrider had his head respectfully bowed in apology. Behind him, his wounded dragon shook its sinuous neck. Blood sprayed in all directions. He indicated his dragon with a wince. "Renegade dogs called in auxiliary. They escaped, but we captured two."

His comrades stepped forward. Their dragons deposited two inert forms at Warlord Gahst's crimson sollerets. The officer's petulant gaze swept over both prisoners. He looked none too impressed. "A wizard and a girl. The wizard I can deal with, but the girl? Expendable fodder. What am I to do with her?"

To his credit, the first dragonrider retained his stoic pride - so much that Gahst was actually waxing curious. Despite his biting words, he knew his men were no fools.

"The girl, sir. She matches the description of the one our spies reported on. The 'chosen of the gods.'"

"So not even the fickle gods remain loyal to their own," Warlord Gahst mused. He removed his blood-crusted helm to scrutinize the girl's face more carefully. Indeed, she did match the descriptions. A certain Merrin, their spies had reported. Not a drop of blue blood. A peasant - chosen of the Renegade gods! An asinine choice. Those so-called gods were getting too soft for their own ornery hides. He nodded his approval. "Take her and the wizard to the prisoner tents. Our own mages will watch the wizard. And Ironlegs will deal with the girl."

Ironlegs. A name that invoked fear even in Meiltha hearts. The dragonriders saluted their officer and hauled the prisoners away.

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Merrin's dreams spiraled into disjointed images, flashes of unrelated events. She couldn't shake the sensation of being hunted, chased, but the pursuer was never the same thing twice and her efforts to escape were growing feebly insignificant. When in the midst of a strange world made up of blood-red sunrises and black-cloaked figures she collapsed to the ground, the rocks felt painfully real. She couldn't move her hands...one wrist was sending twinges of hot pain up her arm...her head ached horribly...

When Merrin's eyes flickered open she was completely disoriented for a moment until reality fully set in. Dragons overhead, dragons on the ground, armored figures everywhere - Merrin felt her heart freeze, petrified in absolute terror. Inadvertently she made a sound as her wrist twinged horribly, and was roughly hauled upright. No! This couldn't be happening, it couldn't, she was still dreaming. Wake up!

She twisted in an attempt to get free, lashing out with every available appendage. Oh gods, her wrist hurt. Merrin was abruptly jolted out of a fog by a wrench on said broken wrist that nearly made her sob in pain. No, she couldn't let them, she had to get out -

Abruptly she was falling, unable to catch herself with hands bound behind her. Merrin struggled to her knees and froze. The name Ironlegs rose to mind - had that been a dream? - but she hadn't envisioned it quite so literally. Afraid to look and see what might be attached to the pair of seemingly metal feet and shins before her Merrin clenched her teeth and kept trying to wake up.

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Rarely had Garthag rested so peacefully in his life all tough he was knocked unconscious, but at least it was a good rest, but the realization of where he was when he woke up wasn`t good at all. Tied up in the prisoner tents, being eyed by some other hooded figures, Meiltha mages no doubt.

"Oh saps"

Garthag uttered as he twisted his aching body and ordered it to sit, his leg was still burning like a thousand fires and these mages didn`t seem too friendly unless they thought they could convert him. Convert Garthag to the Meiltha cause? Ridiculous! Or well unless they were going the be on the winning side then Garthag might be actually intrigued in what they had to offer. Especially in dealing with Merrin they might require some aid and Garthag had been able to get to know her on some level all tough both of them were disgusted with each others.

Whatever the world offered or threw at Garthag there was only one thing he himself was dead certain about, he would only act selfishly.

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Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

Firelight glinted off merciless steel. The firelight traced the blade's single edge and curved along its tip. This falchion was no more ornate than the Meiltha one still hanging from Kendath's hip. The blacksmith's proud arsenal was displayed on the walls. The arsenal boasted many swords of more ostentatious design - silver hilts, crossguards shaped like a dragon's wings, gem-enstudded blades... Waste of coin. He couldn't afford them anyway. A sword was designed not for show, but for a single ruthless purpose: To kill.

Vryngard's marketplace was mostly empty save for carts shipping weapons and supplies out to the battlements. The blacksmith and his apprentices hadn't spared Kendath a second glance.

Kendath took the liberty of experimenting with the falchion, executing a few basic routines, slashing the blade through the air and feeling its balance and suppleness. Its one decoration - an emerald embedded in its pommel - flashed as he moved. The hue nearly matched Gyre's scales. Not that it mattered now. Like Demon, Gyre was lost to him. He had no more power than the lowliest dragonrider squire. Interesting concept - independence. Most of his life he'd never truly been alone, yet it took the loss of his bonded partner to realize it.

He'd never even felt the pain. But the emptiness would remain for eternity. Now all he had left was Merrin. She was, perhaps, the only reason he still clung on.

He gazed at the falchion's blade, imagined Meiltha blood running down in rivulets. He slid it back in its scabbard and, picking up a few extra daggers on the way, went to find the blacksmith. The blacksmith sold it to him for half its normal price, considering the battle raging outside. Kendath didn't discard his old falchion yet, instead belting the new one behind it, where it'd be concealed by a flick of his cloak.

With any luck, his former identity may aid him still.

Steeling himself for the confrontation, he headed for the dungeons.

-----

Alfryn was a dragonrider squire like any other. He was merciless and unsympathetic, but that was a given among Meiltha recruits. The world was a harsh place. This was the only way to survive. The weak were manipulated by higher powers. The strong molded their own fates.

But, also being a typical young man, he was rash and eager to prove himself. Thus when Warlord Gahst sent him with a summons to High General Ironlegs, commander of the Meiltha legions, he could hardly contain his grin. Ironlegs may have been respected among the veterans, but he was a legend to the squires. He'd never seen the man but had heard much about him, which only enhanced the effect. He was a demon, some said. Others claimed him to be a man with black wings, an angel fallen from the gods.

Nothing could have prepared him for the shock.

The High General was imposing, seven feet tall, but that was hardly a daunting feature compared to the sheer aura of power that surrounded him. Magic-user. And a puissant one at that. The rune-etched battle axe slung over his broad back was the most fantastic thing Alfryn had ever seen. That adamantine monster could fell dragons, so they said.

But it was neither his height nor his aura that most set him apart.

Could he truly be called a man? His torso was naked, openly vaunting his magnificent physique. From his back sprouted two vestigial wings reminiscent of a dragon's. His powerful legs were also like those of a dragon's, covered in silver scales from the waistline down. Silver scales that gleamed metallic in the firelight. Like iron.

His penetrating silver eyes impaled Alfryn. Impatience tinged his gravelly voice. "She is captured?"

Alfryn could only manage a squeak and a nod.

Ironlegs nodded and lashed his dragon's tail. "Excellent. Take me to her."

-----

She never interfered. No, the petty affairs of short-lived mortals were none of her concern. Of course, she'd been mortal once like the rest of them. But all that had changed eons ago. Ever since that night she sold her soul away.

She knew much. She saw far. She'd watched the birth of the Crystals. She'd once been one of their number - one of the Skyseekers - but that had changed as well. She was their enemy now... or what remained of them after all these millennia. Pathetic fools. And so she'd allied herself with the Shadowers. Allied herself. In essence, she'd begun the Shadower cult.

But no... she did not interfere. At least, she'd kept her vow for all these ages, though she'd itched to turn the tide of the Lost Battle, itched snatch the Shard for herself. Fundamentally she was a goddess, though she had no affiliation with the divine. Like darkness is to light, she was the night to Tiamat's vitality, though she was never among the first divine beings. Through the ages she'd risen.

Such was the meaning of ambition.

Now was almost the moment, she knew. Shadows were lengthening. The sands of time were shifting. Unknown, unnamed, she would make her entrance back into the folds of history. She sifted through the threads. Many events. Many names. Some stood out more than others. Her Sight took her beyond the confines of her humble abode, to a battle a mountain range away. A petty battle, simply a ripple in the river of time. Yet she saw it as a catalyst for the monumental events to come.

She knew his name. A mage robed in deceptive white, his own ambition as great as any mortal's could ever be. So she stretched forth her tendrils of thought, subtly reaching, gently grasping his mind. He fought her, deliberately or subconsciously she couldn't discern. He fought her formidably, for a mayfly.

He didn't stand a chance.

Her grasp on his mind was secure. Smiling as only she could smile, she sent forth her voice. "Hear me, Garthag... I have no cause to harm you unless you invite harm, you know...."

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There was a new presence, one that tried to get inside his head, trying to get trough his mental barrier that he had learned to create in order to guard his mind from attacks. But it buckled miserably after a short struggle for he was tired and had lost a part of him, he was almost like a living dead, but still clinging onto the rest what was left of him. Ambition was his highest goal until being drained, now he thirsted for revenge and being restored to his former self. Garthag relaxed as the voice spoke in his mind and smirked amusedly as he was assured that no harm would come to him, if he did not struggle, how typical.

Harm? What harm could I do anymore? Not much, but since you are insisting, I´ll be a good boy.... Who might I have the privilege of speaking to and what use might I be to you?

Garthag inquired with a hint of irony and intrigue.

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Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

Merrin drew her knees up to her chest and shivered despite the stifling heat. With so many dragons in one place and all disturbingly active as far as their innate firebreathing abilities went, she was surprised nothing had erupted into spontaneous flame. This train of thought kept her occupied for the few seconds she could manage to think of dragons without thinking of Wyvern. Then reality set her plummeting back to earth.

Even now reality felt like a numb fact not yet realized. Perhaps because Merrin couldn't quite accept it in its entirety - couldn't, or didn't want to? Wyvern was dead. Vryngard was under siege, and if the Meiltha found that Crystal...would it fall? Would it be Merrin's fault? In a panic she fought that thought down before it overwhelmed her. But there were a dozen others to take its place. Had everyone survived the clash with the Meiltha? Merrin almost smiled bitterly. Everyone. She could pretend otherwise, but everyone really meant Kendath. That thought was not entirely a wanted one, but more pleasant than the rest. Then the reason for Merrin's gut-wrenching fear fought its way to the foremost of her thoughts and drowned all else out.

What had almost happened twice, when she'd been a Meiltha captive? The first time - so long ago, it seemed - Merrin had no doubt that had her use not been discovered Demon and Jemx would have happily torn her apart. The second time she'd almost died. Third time lucky...? Somehow Merrin didn't think so. Did the Meiltha know who she was? What did it mean for her? What would they do to a chosen of the gods they hate...

That thought refused to be fought down. Merrin buried her face in her bound hands, ignoring the twinges in her wrist, and huddled miserably in the corner of the rough-made iron cage.

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