Although I love the series, I don't own the world map I've placed my OCs in.
Okay, Here goes... Chapter 1, burning darkness:
Long, long ago; before the elves arrived in Alagaesia...
It was a dark and cloudless night. The moon shone brightly amongst a sky speckled with stars. An old, dwarven village sat encamped on the banks of the Hadarac desert, lulled still and quiet during the late hours of the night. The group of buildings were slightly age worn, a cluster of wattle and daub houses marked out by narrow dirt paths and sparse grassy yards.
A handful of guards were patrolling the area, keeping a cautious watch on their surroundings. A fluttering sound suspiciously akin to rustling leather caught their attention, at which they stiffened in surprise. Soon after, when nothing came of it, the guards shrugged off the uneventful circumstance and returned to their posts. As the group were busy chiding each other for the incident, a louder sound reached their ears...
A thunderous roar echoed through the plain and sent the sqaud into panic. This, along with the appearance of a sudden, bright light induced them into further hysterics. It was a few excruciating moments before one of them finally regained their senses to find assistance. As the first scout made his dash however, he was driven to the ground, engulfed in flames, rolling about in agony. He vainly tried to smother the fire by rolling it out, until his companions careened into him with large, wooden buckets filled with water, and dowsed the flames.
"FIRE!" came the shouts and screams from a myriad of throats. The fallen scout gazed upwards at his fellow guard and muttered hoarsely.
"Tell them, tell them now!" he lifted a soot covered hand and rested on his friend's shoulder, who it was, it was hard to discern in the gloom. His eyes flashed alarmingly.
"Go," he cried. "Now-" The guard spluttered mid-sentence as he was caught in a terrible coughing fit from the smoke and soot caught in his throat. The younger scout, whose arm was grabbed by the fallen companion, stared at his friend dumbly for a brief second. His eyes widened when he realised the implications of what was just said, and then bolted without a word.
The young dwarf dodged and weaved through the chaos that was once a quiet village. Squinting past the hazy smoke that hung heavy in the air, he could make out the smouldering remains of homes, broken bodies, and debris from other houses which looked like they had been torn apart. He grimaced, the taste of ash in his mouth didn't console him with the sobering sight of his ravaged town. On the ground, large trails on the uneven soil revealed more than ordinary dwellers, it showed claws.
A flying piece of driftwood missed the scout by inches. Terrified, he scurried past the confusion, glancing around to avoid more flying items when he collided with something hard. Stunned, he fell flat on his back with a thud, and stared at the column before his feet.
It was a large dark surface, interlinked, which shone like polished copper, flickerings reflected the smouldering flames around him. He coughed as a gush of ash filled air flew past him, ignoring the screams and shouts, and the crackle and hiss of flames. He sat abruptly when he focused on the base, which then rocked him to his foundations. On the dead and burnt grass before him, the column ended in claws. They were long, dark, and most importantly, super sharp. They were as thick as his wrist individually. Fear overtook the scout again as he stood up searching for a way to escape, but it was too late.
Lifting his head, the young scout met a dark iris staring back at him. It blinked once, patient and calm. The scout froze.
Out of nowhere he was brutally shoved aside as the main defence force of the town came sprinting across the dirt path, hollering for everyone to make room for them to come through. Bruised and dusty, the scout felt a shiver run down his spine as he remembered the eye he had caught glaring into him.
More thunderous roars filled the town, only accentuating the cacophany of terror striken screams emitted by the helpless townsfolk. Crashes and explosions were audible over this din, coming from the central point of action. Before too long, the scout was on his feet once again, darting around corners and jumping over debris with an athleticism only an experienced olympian could possibly match - although in this instance his matchlessness was fuelled primarily by fear.
A growl resounded behind him. He spun around and was confronted with a gaping maw filled with monstrously huge fangs. The breeze that met with him was hot and stale, which made him gag, queasy, but too frightened to move. The eyes behind the muzzle flashed angrily with hatred a split second before a globe of light came into vision between its teeth. The dwarf jumped as this dawned on him, fleeing the threat as a plume of amber came surging behind him. He ducked at the last moment before running again, his leather hide armour smoking as he darted to safety.
The central building of town loomed into view. Almost completely untouched by the onslaught, along with several others in the vicinity, it was by far the largest structure in the village. The meetings for the village officials were held here, in the massive stone and timber building on a slight rise of land. The scout darted towards it and urgently punched at the door repetitively, bellowing his arrival and purpose before charging inside.
Three older villagers paused and turned to face the newcomer. The first official, a grey haired knurlan, glared at him.
"Scout!" he barked. "Report!"
"Yessir!" Came the stammered reply as the junior stiffened to attention.
"Scout Heimdall reporting, sir!" Heimdall glanced nervously at his superiors' bored expressions before continuing.
"The town is in chaos sir." He began, "There were fires started and houses damaged-"
"Yes, we know that!" Cried the grey haired dwarf impatiently. "What happened? Report!" He bellowed, suddenly two steps away from the terrified scout, who flinched at the last word. He mustered his courage for a moment and then launched into a nervous explanation.
"You see, sirs," Heimdall mumbled anxiously. "There was a dragon-"
"What?!" The officials cried in unison.
"You didn't think that this part should be mentioned first?!" The grey haired superior exclaimed incredulously.
"Are you daft? These monsters will tear us apart if we don't do something fast!"
The superior clenched his fists tightly as he began to furiously pace the room, then paused and glanced at Heimdall.
"What are you still standing in here for?" he cried. "Go out there and help everyone get rid of them!"
The scout blanched at his instructions. He pivoted on his heel in about-face, after nodding respectfully to those in the room, and fled out the door, slamming it behind him.
The three officials stared after him in silence. The first official frowned, his expression darkening.
"Barzul!" He swore.
Heimdall's mind raced frantically as he made his way back to the scene of carnage. As he neared, the shouts grew louder and the smell of smoke assailed his senses. Heimdall coughed, eyes watering. He struggled to maintain a fast, even pace as he was challenged by panicked townsfolk, falling debris and the sweltering heat from the fires yet to be put out. Heimdall skidded to a stop, almost losing his balance, as he was confronted by a wall of people gathered at the eastern courtyard of town. Its only distinguishing feature, a statue of the town's founders, was a crumbled heap of rubble, almost unnoticable amongst the ash and soot, burnt timber and stone foundations. The well, several hundred metres away, was in the same condition, almost hard to spot in the gloom.
Heimdall pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring curses thrown at him as he went by. At the fore, there was a huge dragon on the ground, breathing heavily, smoke billowing forth through its nostrils. The dragon's lip curled back, revealing its teeth in what appeared to be a grimace. At its foreleg, a dark puddle stained the soil in what could only have been blood. Heimdall gasped in astonishment. He had never before witnessed a fallen dragon. As he was growing up, Heimdall was led to believe, like most other dwarves, that dragons were terrifyingly powerful creatures, practically impossible to take down. Yet here he was, staring at one of these monstrous legends, hurt and defeated. Even though it was right there in front of him, Heimdall could scarcely give credit to what he was seeing. Was this real?
Heimdall's musings were interrupted as a group of the town's defenders marched into view. One stood apart from the rest, head high, and held their stance with a measure of authority. The voice carried, clear and confident, through the crowds and soldiers, to the houses and buildings beyond.
"Get in position!" A male voice barked.
There was a shuffling of feet as the mass of bodies ahead shifted into their respectable places. They stood in neat rows, ten in each, three deep. Heimdall could make out some of them, their hands hovering over their belts, waiting for the right moment.
"Archers at the ready!" Bellowed the voice once again.
More movement rippled through the back row of the soldiers' ranks. They all, in unison, pulled out their stout bows and reached back to their leather hide quivers, hands hovering.
The dragon came into view further ahead. Heimdall could just barely see it. He doubted that those who were standing behind him could spot it at all. The dragon growled, furious and yet, cautious of its opponents. It edged closer, blinking twice before pausing again. The dragon tensed, anticipating a strike, or in Heimdall's view, preparing to strike those in front of it.
A loud shout echoed over their heads. Heimdall couldn't discern what it had said, or even what it meant for that matter. His curiosity was satisfied as he saw the two front rows of soldiers charge ahead, screaming their own battle cries. Metal rang in his ears and shone brightly as he witnessed them draw their swords of bronze. Half of the group swung their battle axes above their heads instead, and they closed the distance between themselves and their foe.
Before the group reached their target, another loud cry reverbrated through the streets. The row of archers left behind, in one swift movement, drew their bows and loosed a rain of arrows at the dragon. It hung in an arc before hitting the creature, which deflected most. Some of the arrows had become caught in between the dragon's heavy scales, and it howled in annoyance and pain.
The infantry caught up with the arrows. They spread about widely, darting to form a circle around their enemy. The soldiers scowled in absolute hatred, making their final charge to close the gap. Five were swept away briskly by the dragon's tail, knocking them back several metres into a large pile of scattered ash, timber and rubble. Only two survived the fall, their injuries preventing them from rejoining the fight with their comrades.
The fight carried on well into the early hours of morning. The last dragon had taken down half the force which had initially attacked it. Only a handful of these dwarves had survived. The others were still standing, although not without injury, some more so than others.
Heimdall, by this point, had incited the crowd to disperse. He had managed to have them organise their own system of putting out the remaining fires from the attack, as well as a search for any missing people. Most were then told to flee to the west side of town which, miraculously, had been left almost untouched.
In the midst of a pause between attacks, the dragon that remained suddenly unfurled its wings and shot up into the sky. The stunned soldiers stood there, mouths agape, as the archers loosed their last arrows in its wake. When it was no longer within range, they too lowered their bows and stood still, pondering.