Fall, 1332

Alone again, Mera returned to his cavern high up on Mt Rubinox, carrying a crate straight from the victory celebrations at Tassure-on-the-Neva. Tired, nursing his partially lamed arm, a bit haunted by the sufferings he had witnessed in the war, the dragon set the crate down and stared into the familiar darkness.

Back home. Three years on the field was far too long. Back to relaxing like the good old days…
Mera sighed, suddenly feeling the pangs of loneliness. After decades of bachelorhood and two years of camaraderie with friends, subordinates and comrades, he was suddenly uncomfortable with the emptiness of his cave. It just wasn't quite enough anymore. Things were too quiet around here. He shuffled uneasily.

Maybe I should go look for a girl dragon…

Mera turned his attention back to the crate, containing a large barrel with a smaller barrel tied to it. He removed the barrels, and snapped off the smaller, empty barrel. The larger barrel sloshed with the heavy momentum of a full container.

Pilsner. Enough beer to supply Stanton for a year, imported from Pihm and worth a king’s fortune. The greatest alcohol in the world they said- satisfying, but potent stuff.

Don’t drink too much, they said.

Eh. Whatever. The dragon cracked the lid off the larger barrel, and pouring out a good five gallons of its contents into the smaller barrel, raised it like a mug and took a deep gulp.

Hmm…very hoppy...nice stuff…

Suddenly the dragon winced. The ache in his head suddenly amplified a dozen-fold, and the shock forced him into a minute’s pause. The ache in his arm however went completely numb. When he recovered Mera found that he was not alone. Wispy spirits began appearing out of thin air, increasing in number as they crowded around the dragon.

Mera looked at the barrel he was holding.

Shit this was strong stuff.

Arrayed before him were hundreds of spectral figures covering the entirety of the cavernous room-innumerable humans and Other Men, as well as a scattering of others: duergar, sabine, minotaur, cyno, satyr, pixie, troll, gryphon, dragon. With a start Mera realized that they were all of the people that he had encountered in his travels who had fallen in the Great War. Gremenal was there, mysterious as ever, Martin in his calculating silence, Glib perpetually in a wry mood, Thergamorth with his simple friendliness-all had joined the ranks of the dead.

The ghosts stood silently, whether by ability or design the spirits simply stared. Were they accusing him of misdeeds? Were they here to celebrate with him? Mera didn't know, and after a minute of scanning the sea of figures he decided that they were simply here to be remembered. So many in such a short period of time. For a second the pain of emptiness filled Mera; so many comrades he would never meet again.

But the dead were gone, leaving everyone else to continue on. Slowly the specters started fading away again. As they did, the dragon raised his barrel in a final toast to the departed:

*For all my friends, comrades and opponents, who I had the pleasure of fighting with or against, may you find peace and comfort in whatever place you have gone. For everyone that I had unfairly harmed, I can only offer this toast to you as amends. *

And with that, Meratezatgh, the Stanton Dragon, Lord of the Southern Ranges, imbibed until the barrel ran dry.

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The Mountain Goats-Quito

Courtesy of  theroguez