Of Gods and Man - Wallace's Gambit Ch.9

No sooner than they had risen and brushed the sleep from their eyes did the group rush towards the dragons that had ferried them thus far. Toren'domir had his epiphany and was so certain that they even skipped breakfast, instead clutching onto the scales of their companions as they raced into the wind, chasing the falling star that was pointed out to them.
"This way!"
Toren shouted, pointing beyond the forests and mountains to a large expanse of dry, arid desert, and yet as they flew upwards, they saw no sign of what they were looking for. No crater, no disturbance in the dunes, not even a slight puff of smoke from the calamity. Perplexingly, it seemed undisturbed.
"Wither to now, mine friend?" Alanishaudalin queried, flapping their wings as they settled in the air.
"I...am unsure. Let's go down and see if we can see anything?"
Slowly they descended, though as they did, the air around them shimmered, and they penetrated what seemed like a bubble, but before they could marvel at what had occurred, they had to face what lie before them, and that was a giant ballista bolt that lunged through the sky, launched directly at them. With a deft roll to the right, nearly tossing its rider, Alanishaudalin avoided the spear like tip that was lunging directly towards its sternum, yet was not able to avoid it in its entirety. A tear had formed among the fabric of the sapphire blue wing, indicative of a shot not entirely wasted, unbalancing the Dragon and sending it slowly falling towards the dunes below. Its landing was anything but graceful, and with its face sliding into the ground, it sent a spray of sand on either side, and caused Toren'domir to tumble over its neck and into the awaiting army below.

A bit of relief rolled down his shoulders as he spotted not an Orc army awaiting him, but rather his fellow Elves and kinsmen. His arms thrust themselves immediately out, attempting to dissuade the drawn swords and bowstrings, shouting,
"Wait! We are friendly! Do not attack! Three more are coming!"
"Hold your fire!"
Shouted a voice with authority that stepped past the pointed weapons. He was clad in worn, yet still somewhat regal, elven armor, with hair matted, beset by sand and turmoil, and a steely gaze that told stories of the sacrifices he had made thus far.
"I am captain Gelathorn. Who are you?"
"I am Toren'Domir, hailing from Eshalian."
Skepticism wore on the commander's brow.
"Eshalian was destroyed some time ago."
Three smaller dragons landed, kneeling to let their riders climb free. After checking over his shoulder to see they had all arrived, Toren'domir called out,
"Senera, show them your badge."
His sister, Senera, served on the city watch, protecting it from Orc and beast alike, and the symbol of the Great Eagle was kept as a token upon her right breast. After unhooking it from her clothes and holding it up, the commander's tight-knit brow softened.

"So it seems. What news do you have?"
"I'm afraid of little good. We were chasing a falling star that should have landed close by?"
The man shook his head,
"We were heading there as well. There is no star, but we did find this pillar."
The two marched down and into the crater formed from the impact, Thystle quick to follow, duty bound to serve his master. From the center jutted a foreign artifact, carved with runes they had never seen before. Like smoke from a chimney, whispy shimmers emerged from the top in a nearly invisible beam, drawing Toren's view ever upwards and to the outpour above. It seemed to be forming a dome of sorts and after a few seconds of piecing it all together, he spoke his contemplations aloud.
"Is that what's creating the illusion that's hiding everyone here?"
"We believe so. We rallied together to try and take a stand against the nightmare that's been terrorizing the skies. Unfortunately we only had two ballista bullets left."

by KKS

"Then I guess we're going to have to make this last one count."

Toren'domir spoke with confidence, rubbing his hands together with all the gusto of someone eager to get down to work.
"So what's the plan?"
A question posed as the three began to walk across the sands, the commander pointing to the dunes,
"We will angle the ballista using these hills and then pierce the hide of the fiend, bringing it down at which point we'll all rush in and stab at it with the spite and fire in our veins. Archers will loose what arrows we have, and any magic will be directed to keeping the creature grounded and vulnerable."
Despite the confidence Gelathorn wore with his matter-of-fact, considered tone, his walking mate seemed unconvinced, pausing for a moment to look at Thystle with a gaze that read read utter disbelief at what he was hearing. In short order, he voiced his concerns with near panic,
"There was an attempt to take down Hoarmin and we had an army well over thrice this size! We didn't even faze the beast...We may as well have not existed. There was no stopping the monster!"
He was aghast with the thought of facing a similar, equally unwinnable battle, only halting in his tirade when his Florian servant placed a hand atop his shoulder as if to say 'That's enough.' Even Gelathorn had stopped in his march, turning to face Toren'domir with the look of a broken, grizzled veteran. His gaze was unwavering and after a brief silence, he replied, his tone rife with battered conviction.
"Well, this isn't Hoarmin, and we don't have any better ideas. We've been away from our home or comfort for months now and food grows as scarce as good rest. Several of my men have been captured or killed by marauding Orcs. At best we can begin to turn the tides. At worse, maybe we can find peace in death."
His stare pierced into Toren'domir's soul, daring him to come up with a better plan that wasn't the previous notion of running away and defending what they could. They had done that for so long. This was their breaking point and that look, equal points desperation and determination, sent shivers down his spine. There was nothing more that could be said. The time for talk was over. The men were rallied and informed, and the Dragons consulted for additional plans in the coming day. That night, the camp was somber, and despite a sizeable troop, few words spoken. Many sharpened their blades, others fashioned arrowheads from whatever mesa stone they could splinter, though most closed their eyes and said what were likely to be their last words.
Like church bells heralding the pious, the morning sun crested over the vista.

It was time.