Dragonborn Superiority || Somehow they returned.

Captured

Fifty years after the Dragonborn returned from supposed extinction, the capital city of Midterra is no longer called Goldspire. The banners of the old royal line have been ripped down and burned. In their place hang heavy crimson and obsidian standards, emblazoned with a stylized dragon’s skull crowned in iron. The city has a new name now, spoken with equal parts fear and hatred by its original inhabitants: Drakemarch. For the people of Midterra, life under Dragonborn rule is an unending march of patrols, curfews, and shouted commands in guttural Draconic. For the Dragonborn, this city is only the first stone in the foundation of a new empire.

You are one of the conquered.

Dragged from your home when the Dragonborn stormed the city, you were processed like cargo—lined up, inspected by cold, slit-pupiled gazes, assigned a number, then pushed into the machine of occupation. Your name, your history, your status… all of it means nothing to the new regime. What matters now is what you can do, how you can be used, and whether you will break. Drakemarch is divided into brutal, orderly districts: the towering Draconic Palace looming over the city like a clawed hand; the Great Furnaces belching smoke and flame; the tightly controlled Port District where ships are inspected at spearpoint; and the cramped residential tiers where the conquered are penned in and watched. Every street is patrolled by Dragonborn War-Caste soldiers—towering, scaled figures whose armor creaks and whose claws click on stone as they pass.

You have been assigned to labor service under Dragonborn oversight. The conditions are harsh; mistakes are not tolerated. You work under armed guards who speak to you in broken Common or bark orders in Draconic, expecting instant obedience whether you understand or not. The old Midterran laws no longer exist. Dragonborn law is simple: obey or suffer.

Rumors circulate among the workers: Some whisper of a resistance hidden in the Undercity tunnels, sabotaging supply lines and smuggling people out from under Dragonborn noses. Others claim the War Chief himself, Vex’thraxar the Reclamation, has arrived in Drakemarch to personally oversee the next phase of conquest. Still others say that anyone who defies Dragonborn rule is made into a spectacular example, on display in the main square as a warning.

Today, something is different. The guards seem tense. Patrols have doubled around your work site. A Dragonborn officer, flanked by armored War-Caste elites, strides through the area, inspecting workers with a predator’s focus. You can feel the whole district holding its breath.

Perhaps an escape is being planned. Perhaps an execution is about to happen. Perhaps a spark is about to land in dry tinder. You are in chains of one kind or another—iron, obligation, fear. But chains can be broken, twisted… or used. This is where your story begins: as a captive in the heart of Drakemarch, under the unblinking gaze of Dragonborn conquerors who believe your kind exist only to serve or die.

Resistance

Goldspire is gone. The shining capital of Midterra, once famed for its golden-topped spires and bustling trade, is now called Drakemarch—a name that tastes like ash and iron in the mouths of those who remember what it used to be. Dragonborn standards hang from every tower. Dragonborn patrols march through every district. The heartbeat of the city has changed from laughter and commerce to the steady cadence of boots, barked commands, and the clink of chains. On the surface, the occupation appears absolute. The Dragonborn War-Caste rules through raw strength and intimidation, supported by a network of collaborators, informants, and puppet administrators. Curfews are enforced with brutal efficiency. Weapons are banned for non-Dragonborn. Religious gatherings are monitored or outlawed. Public squares display reminders of what happens to those who defy the new order.

Beneath the surface, however, Midterra is not yet broken. In the cramped, forgotten tunnels and cisterns beneath Drakemarch—the Undercity—resistance cells work in the dark. Messages are passed in coded phrases scrawled in chalk and washed away by morning. Information travels through carefully constructed chains of trust. Supply caches, stolen weapons, forged permits, and false identity papers circulate hand to hand, never staying in one place for long.

You are one of the resistance. Maybe you were once a soldier in Midterra's army, a street urchin who knows every alley by heart, a former palace servant with knowledge of the old corridors, or simply a citizen who lost too much to stay silent. The resistance does not care about your past rank. It cares about your resolve, your usefulness, and your ability to stay alive.

Tonight, you have been given a mission.

A coded message reached your cell: Dragonborn supply caravans are moving to the city at irregular hours, escorted by heavily armed patrols. Something valuable is being transferred between the Great Furnaces, the Draconic Palace, and the Port District. Some believe it is a new weapon. Others whisper it might be an artifact from the Dragonborn’s ancient empire or a prisoner too important to be left unguarded.

Your orders are simple on parchment, complicated in reality:Identify, disrupt... survive.

Above your head, the city groans under occupation. In the streets, human and other non-Dragonborn citizens keep their heads down, hoping to avoid notice. In the shadows, Dragonborn informants listen for careless words. And somewhere in the towering heights of the repurposed royal palace, War Chief Karthanax the Unbroken is said to oversee the conquest of Midterra personally, plotting further expansion into the rest of the land. Your cell leader gave you a final warning: “Do not underestimate them. They are not just brutes with scales. They are disciplined, patient, and they believe the world belongs to them by right. We survive by being smarter, not louder.”

You emerge from the tunnels into a back alley as the sun dips low and patrol lanterns begin to flicker to life. Drakemarch is a conquered city....

Reluctant Collaborator

When the Dragonborn banners first rose over Goldspire, you told yourself it would pass. Conquerors come and go. Kingdoms rise and fall. You had a trade, a craft, a position that depended on stability, not heroics. You were not a soldier; you were a merchant, a clerk, a scribe, an architect, a healer—someone whose strength lay in skill, not steel. Resistance, you thought, was for those who had nothing left to lose.

Then Goldspire became Drakemarch, and the occupation did not pass. New laws arrived in the form of barked orders. Your guild, office, or place of work was “reorganized” under Dragonborn administration. Permits, inspections, and quotas appeared where none existed before. Dragonborn overseers began to appear in offices and counting houses, armor creaking as they leaned over ledgers they could barely read, demanding explanations in heavily accented Common. You adapted, because the alternative was ruin or worse.

When Dragonborn officials required someone who understood Midterra's trade routes, tax codes, or city infrastructure, someone who could make sense of the old systems they were trying to bend to their will, your name surfaced. You were summoned—no, compelled—to serve as an advisor, administrator, or specialist under the new regime.

Refusal was not an option. Now, you walk a knife’s edge every day.

You sign documents that reroute grain shipments away from hungry districts because a Dragonborn garrison needs to be fed first. You complete reports knowing they will be used to tighten control. You witness quiet acts of cruelty that are not technically “your responsibility,” and then go home, exhausted, telling yourself that if you were not there, someone worse would be. You tell yourself that your presence moderates the worst impulses. That you are buying time. That, maybe, you are keeping your family, neighbors, or community safer by cooperating. Recently, however, the lie has become harder to maintain. A Dragonborn officer has taken a particular interest in you. Perhaps Marthak, the brutal military commander of Drakemarch, sees you as a particularly useful tool. Perhaps another official in merchant or forge caste sees your potential. They have begun to involve you in more sensitive matters—security plans, lists of suspected agitators, proposed relocations of “troublesome” populations.

And now, the choice you have been dreading has arrived. You have been given a document and told to prepare it for implementation: a restructuring plan that will displace entire neighborhoods, forcing thousands into harsher labor districts “for efficiency and control.” You understand exactly what this will do. You also understand what refusing, hesitating, or sabotaging it could cost you. At the same time, you have been quietly approached—perhaps through a coded note, a whispered warning, or a familiar face on a late-night street—by someone connected to the resistance. They know who you are. They know what you have access to. They offer you a chance: “Help us. Feed us information. Slow them down. You’re in the room where decisions are made. Use that.”

You are trapped between two jaws of the same vice: Aid or sabotage... Drakemarch watches you.

One of Them

You are Dragonborn.

This fact has defined every moment of your existence. Your scales shimmer with the colors of your bloodline—gold, crimson, silver, or purple—each hue a marker of your place in the hierarchy of your people. Your horns, your tail, your claws, your voice rumbling with subsonic power: all of these mark you as superior to the lesser races that now cower beneath Dragonborn rule.

You were born into the restored civilization 50 years ago, or you have lived through the resurrection and rebuilding yourself. Either way, you know only one truth: the Dragonborn are meant to rule. The world is your inheritance, stolen by jealous gods and lesser races, and now being reclaimed. The Divine Judgment was an injustice. The curse that nearly destroyed your people was unjust. But your species has proven its superiority by surviving, by rebuilding, and by now conquering once again. War Chief Karthanax leads you to glory. He commands armies that no other civilization can match. And you are part of this great ascendancy.

You are part of his conquering elite. You were in the first wave that breached Silverspire’s walls. You remember the screams, the clash of steel on scale, the moment Midterran knights realized their weapons barely scratched you. You fight close to the War Chief himself, part of the inner circle that leads from the front when intimidation alone does not suffice. You have been given a district, a fortress, or a key facility to control—mines, foundries, or the labor yards where conquered populations toil, choice still lingers.. You are a force to be reckoned with. The lesser races of Midterra have learned this quickly.

And now you stand at your chamber, on the edges of Drakemarch, staring at the envelope from the War-Chief himself, offering you an audience to assign you to take control of a fortress, or a labor camp... Or remain his elite soldier... Scheduled tomorrow.

At dawn, the horns sound across Drakemarch.

You are summoned to the War Hall. Maps of Midterra and the wider continent cover the main table, weighted with daggers and carved dragon‑tokens marking troop positions. The one and only, Karthanax, stands at the head. The mighty ascendant smirking as he sees one of his elite men arrive.

He doesn't speak, no. He instead gestures to the maps laid across the table, letting you, only you, choose your path. Either claim territory for yourself or embark on another gory battle. Both sounded very... enticing.

Karthanax's gaze fixes on you for a long moment. He finally opens his majestic mouth and speaks. “This is your last chance,” he says, voice a rumble like distant thunder. “Choose, my ascendant. Keep showing vermin their righteous place, or settle down. Should you fight on, I shall make you ascend beyond your current rank. It will be an honor for you to be allowed to rise above my elite, and be your War-Chief's right hand.”

His gaze pierces you, he knows your choice.

"Say it."

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