[Out Of Character] First I was inspired by the weekly chronicle with the "The Lore of the Elder Sage" by Cashda, in that attempt of a "lorebook" and he definitively succeeded.
Here is my attempt oh something similar, either it's a lorebook or just a ranom book you'd find on the bridge between Castle Alessia and Sejanus Outpost.
The Ruby Throne - My Doubts
The light came up, Masser and Secunda both on their way down. The day was glorious. Way over 200 people lined outside Eastern Elswyr Gate, Altmer, Bosmer, Khajits, some Imperials, the occational Dunmer, Nord, Argonian, Redguard, Breton and Orsimer. It didn't matter where you are from, who you're parents were or what your true aim was. You were here and wouldn't point a blade at the man beside you. You were here for your own reason and it didn't matter for the Silvernar, The Green Lady or Queen Ayrenn.
This was a shining moment. What seemed like an instant later turned that up-side down. No one would have noticed if it was day or night, it was a grim and dark place to be indeed. A few lucky platoons have gotten off to Castle Brindle and Drakelowe Keep. I could hear faint reports of their advances to deeper territory and were making great progress.
Not this platoon. The four platoons who could take two castles was more my place to be, not this. While definitively underestimating the numbers, we could have been ten platoons in the area, located north-east of Castle Alessia, on a small bridge to Sejanus Outpost, in a grim, all-out-war of numbers. What seemed like an endless supply of Ebonheart Pact poured out of Alessia continuously. Our numbers were equally matched. Just as many running into the battle, we had people being carried out to the forward camp a short walk behind us.
War is often explained as dynamic and ever-changing battlefield. In the large scale is surely is, but this... This was static and futile. As soon as we made a push in, the Pact pushed back. For almost a day this same thing went back and fourth and got to the point were both sides had called in several trebuchets and ballistas, only to speed up the numbers of people going in as well as out. Screams of people on fire could be heard on both sides. The bodies were piling up.
A small push was made forwards, getting beyond the second watchtower of the small bridge. The Aldmeri roared. Soon after, their victorious war-cry turned to a cry in agony and twitching pain. No one had cleared the tower above and the Pact poured boiling oil over their heads. Four big cauldrons was enough. The inflicted couldn't do anything but block the path in uncontrollable pain.
Having heard only the captains reporting throughout the day, I had forgotten the voice of the Commander. Orders cracked out from his silence and the roof was cleared fast. The four Pact couldn't resist 20 Aldmeri, but they fulfilled their duty indeed.
I didn't strike a single kill that day and haven't since. I'd be eager to join a coordinated platoon and I'm ready any day. For now, there are too many head-less chickens running about and this is not for me. If I ever find what I seek, I don't know... Just screaming loud enough doesn't make you a commander fast enough. Hundreds of days later, I see the same battlefield with all the head-less chickens. It is what it is:
War never changes.