The Skies Fell Then
The Hadarian Archipelago was, by adventuring standards, truly an untouched paradise of the world.
It was storm season. Spotty little monsoons swirled in eddies down the coast, bringing with them sheets of rain - they were there one hour, gone the next, leaving muddied jungles in their wake. For some, the constant rain may prove oppressive. For the land of Hadar, it was revitalizing; a splash of cold water on the face in a sleepy morning. The jungles were never more colorful, the coasts never more alive, than after warm monsoon rains.
White ocean gulls cried. Sweet salt bit at the tongue; a soft welcome to white sandy shores.
"Little friend of all the world" they called him - even in his adult years - in the playful tongue-in-cheek manner of the Allar. The Mu-Allar was unique in his dusky blue hide, and white feathers cascaded in a fluffy sheet across his back, down his chest, and pricked up on his elbows. The color contrast was striking - in the dwindling purple twilight, he could be seen for a mile.
Tonight, his white mane was damp with ocean water and laid in gentle respose across his scales. The scouting was casual - not much threatened them out here, in the rebuilt ruins of Hu'rallas-sa, the domain of Digmaan Zzrax; he had pacified his rivals long ago. The patrol was just an excuse for a romp on the sandy beach. In general, fraternal camaraderie was a true treat to behold, but with Allar it was enhanced by an endless reptilian energy - their carousing was rough, but fondly so. The conversation drifted from food to patrol schedules to cultural mischief understood only by the scaly folk.
The midnight-blue Allar paused and fell back briefly from his fellow scouts. His tail carved little dunes behind him, much like a great drake coiling through a Farradi desert. He spread his scaly, taloned toes in the warm sand. His nostrils flared - sea salt prickled at the back of his throat, carried inland by a coastal breeze. The moon was out now and he met its gaze with happiness in his heart - it was a good night.
A friend returned, brown scales, hailed him with an inquisitive raptor-bark; the blue Allar responded with a curt 'rhuk' and fell back in with the small pack. Their path curved playfully back towards the ocean.
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A thousand leagues away a war fleet cut through the sea. The ships parted the silent waters like a pod of sharks and vanished through a soupy mist; the only wake they left was the yawning of their yellow bow-lights in the fog.
For the white-feathered Mu-Allar, Regalia's victory was his chaos.
The sky was burning. Little bombs fell and they took the clouds with them. Hulking dreadnoughts led a battlegroup in the distance - they were spread in a great line across the horizon so as to bring their full broadsides to bear, coughing plumes of gunpowder smoke. The cannon explosions flashed through the battle-haze much like lightning in a thundercloud.
The distant cannonade became a brutal bombardment as it reached the beach, kicking up blood, sand, and limbs. Regalian boats - troop carriers all - landed behind a hastily-established perimeter and a small beachhead. The beach writhed like an anthill with armored men. A feral shriek split the air. The faces of the men fell to distress - they had time only to form a staggered defensive line before the Allarian vanguard slammed into them.
At the horde's rearguard, a white-feathered raptor screeched his battle-elation. His Digmaan was at the front of the line, twirling a jagged, bloodied axe with a relentless savagery. He swung in lofty arcs, carving red half-circles through the human shield wall. The air rattled with his blood-drunk roar and the eagerness carried like a ripple through the Allarian horde. The Digmaan's Eztlil Bloodguards - his elite personal unit - leapt eagerly into the melee, shredding those that tried to flee into the ranks of the men behind them - in every direction, men died in droves. Despite this, the Regalian landing force recovered its discipline, rallied to action by a colorfully adorned commander bellowing at the front, and drove back firmly against the enemy. Still, as the savage melee waged it tilted clearly in Allar favor. The front line of raptors shrieked its triumph.
Then, a screaming mortar round cut the Digmaan down and spread him across the bloody dune. For the barest, rawest moment, the Allarian lines stood shock-still. Then another volley fell with a low whine and a clatter of shrapnel, shredding the leaderless company of Eztlil Bloodguards. With that, the remaining commanders kicked their feathered heads back and screamed their grief: it was a keening reptilian despair, rising and falling like a mournful siren.
The first of the Allar began to rout. Even the squadron leaders, some of whom had already fallen back into the battle with wrath, largely recognized the futility of their cause and the mounting losses along their line. The Regalian marines advanced with brutal efficiency - their naval-borne munitions shattered whole Allarian companies in seconds, and their battle-captains directed their men towards the weakest spots in the Allar retreat.
The white-maned lizard fell back from the line with his remaining brethren, shock foremost on his mind - they were leaderless. For decades, they had trained under the stern, steady hand of the Digmaan - a father figure to all Mu-Allar in their pod, whose mentorship was highly regarded. Then, like that, these men took him. How could they stand against a force that swept away their warlord so casually? His reaction was of disbelief - his confidence, shattered.
The white-feathered Allar retreated from the beaches into the jungles, into the old stone outskirts of Therín'vӓlwë. The cannonade was at full pitch now; it thundered on the horizon. Solid metal shells ricocheted across rebuilt stonework and shattered even the rock pathways. In the eastern quadrant, some alchemical shells turned the district into a swirling firestorm. Reptilian cries of despair echoed through the streets as bombs dived. After each naval volley, a few more voices fell silent.
The midnight blue Allar, with a helpless, desperate coo wormed his way into a dusty nook. His heart was shattered. He sheltered beneath a felled building to wait out the storm.
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The next morning was a peaceful one despite the haze of shed blood. Regalian marines combed the shores for the dying and ended their lives quickly, efficiently. The Nelfin slaveships, seeing opportunity, cut through the debri-riddled waters with feral relish and landed on the shore-docks of the broken city. By the morning, the midnight blue Allar - and all those who still lived - was rounded up and put in chains.
Those who escaped the fate carried a brutal story with them to all those cities that hadn't yet been shelled. For each, the story began thus: "they came from over the horizon - the skies fell then."
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