<i>What must it be like to be that dragon rider? Not only born a member of the dominant sex with that virility between his legs, but a noble lord too, with another massive, much more fearsome dragon between those armored thighs. The sight of that creature - straight out of folk legends - had Brigid shaken up real bad: its roar might have ripped up her eardrums, and she felt its fiery breath singing her face even though she stood two blocks away. Brigid couldn't wrap her head around the idea of one person wielding that much power. How insignificant must such a war be to him? Another day, another settlement crossed off the map. Eastborne, a bustling city with a beating heart, nothing but another piece on the chessboard. To be knocked over, its existence wiped off the land in another morning's work...</i><br/><br/>"Get moving girl!" Brigid lurched forward from a hard kick to her backside. With arms bound snugly behind her back, she lost her balance and stumbled to the rocky path. A sharp hot pain and a warm stickiness on her left cheek meant it must be split open. She was tugged to her feet by her hair, the squire using her blonde locks like a lasso. A push to her back, a harsh order to pick up her pace. She continued on to what they called the internment camp.<br/><br/><i>From far off the sounds of continued but scattered fighting within the city walls reached Brigid. She was by no means well-versed on matters of warfare and siege defense, but she knew a lost cause when she saw one. Against and army and a dragon like that, Isn't resistance a practice in futility? But when she thinks about it... going out on her feet and her own terms does sound a lick more dignified than this.  This is the worst: being lead to slaughter like some farm animal.</i><br/><br/>"Stop dallying!" Another crash of a boot against her derriere rocked her hips. But this time she managed to stay on her feet. She shot a venomous look over her shoulder. That was all she could do, with her mouth gagged and hands securely bound.<br/><br/><i>Alas, Brigid, along with other former Eastborne residents trudging along the road to the internment camp, had no means to fight back. A mature and functioning society meant that not everyone had to be a warrior or a mage - for the city to run there had to be cooks and merchants, barkeeps and barmaids, healers and herbalists. When the city falls to the might of conquerors, the citizens become collateral. The history books will record whatever number of soldiers who fell defending Eastborne. But there wouldn't be a number attributed <i>for civilians</i>. Just defenseless peoples forgotten to the annals of history, there to be killed, raped, enslaved to the conquerors' whims.</i><br/><br/>And with that thought, Brigid found herself arriving at the internment camp. She instantly recognized it as the short knoll outside the city where a farmers' market used to be set up on weekends. It was a delightful place. One could smell the fresh produce from the sea and the soil from half a mile away. Lively bartering voices mingled with vendors calling out the bargains on offer. Children running amok amongst the stalls, pestering their parents for money for treats. Local amateur pantomime troupes would perform for the families. But now as Brigid's eyes swept across the hilltop she saw nothing but suffering. Mothers calling for their children. Children calling for their mothers. Crying, screaming, and weeping filled the air. Under her bare feet Brigid saw blood trampled into the soil. This... this is what the dragon rider has wrought upon these innocent people. Just because this chess piece on his board called Eastborne wasn't much to his liking.