Location: Capital City of Lars – Day 1 to Day 3 of Bombardment
The sky had turned gray before the first shell even landed.
Not from clouds—but from dust.
By the time the first thunderous blast echoed across the valley, a thick haze had already begun to settle over the capital. The golden towers of Lars, once proud and tall, were slowly swallowed by smoke and soot.
From the east, west, and south hills, human artillery units had encircled the city in full. Thousands of horses had dragged heavy wagons for days, pulling crates of shells and primitive—but deadly—artillery pieces, each one painstakingly hand-loaded and aimed under the cold gaze of watchful commanders.
As planned, the assault began with a single flare—red and silent—fired into the night sky by General Elisabeth herself.
Within seconds, the horizon erupted.
Lines of artillery fire lit up like firestorms. The roar was not one sound, but hundreds layered into each other—thunder and iron, death and judgment, screaming forward in arcs that stretched across the air like shooting stars. And then, one by one, the city began to die.
Staggered Shifts – Relentless Shelling
The bombardment never paused. Not once.
As one team finished a barrage, another immediately stepped in. Soldiers worked in rotations, twelve-hour shifts with six men per gun. Powder-stained hands swapped places with blistered ones. Medics treated burns and crushed fingers without ceremony. They bled from their ears but said nothing.
Some men wore rags over their mouths to block the dust. Others had already gone deaf, lips moving silently, following orders by hand signal alone.
Batteries were surrounded by riflemen in the treelines, defensive squads ensuring no demi-human scouts or saboteurs got near.
Otto's engineers brought up spare barrels when one got too hot, using tongs and grease to swap them in place. The smell of oil and black powder seeped into every piece of clothing. Crows circled the hills. They knew the sound of feasting.
Inside Lars, hell fell from the sky in iron waves.
Temples, barracks, taverns, homes—it made no difference. One building at a time, the city crumbled. The domed roofs caved. The ancient stone walls, carved with runes meant for blessing and protection, offered no defense against modern war.
Demi-humans screamed in every direction—beastkin, lizardfolk, even centaurs—all trying to drag wounded comrades to cover that didn't exist.
Entire neighborhoods vanished under hammering shellfire. The marketplace was hit directly on Day 2, turning what was once a center of life into a crater of fire and body parts. Horses ran wild through the smoke, their riders dead or burning. Mothers clawed through rubble. Priests collapsed beneath shattered pews.
And still, the shells came.
Even at night, the artillery didn't stop. Torches and oil-lamps helped crews see the markings on their crates. Officers barked orders through megaphones, hoarse from three days of screaming. The only true silence came between reloads—a dreadful pause, filled with wind and faint cries—before the next salvo shattered it again.
Deep in the Great Temple of Larrak, General Jvermy sat in silence.
The walls around him, dozens of meters (Feet) underground, shook every few minutes. Each distant impact sent a puff of dust from the ceiling. Candles flickered. Runes on the walls pulsed faintly with warding light, but they were old. Dimming.
"Still nothing?" he asked a trembling aide.
The beastkin servant shook her head. "No messages, General. No reinforcements. No replies."
He stared at the shrine in front of him—a statue of the goddess Larrak, her hands outstretched, her stone face cracked by years of disuse and now shuddering from nearby impacts.
"How many are left in the city?"
"We… don't know. But thousands have died."
Jvermy rose slowly, adjusting the torn cape on his shoulders. "Then we will hold this place until the very end. If the humans want our gods… they will have to step over our dead to reach them."
The aide did not respond.
Another boom. Closer. The temple's walls vibrated.