The scourged eagle

The clamor of merchants and the distant bray of camels still echoed, but a strange quiet began to ripple through the caravanserai. A hush fell as a lithe woman stepped into the flickering light of the campfire.   A deep indigo robe, embroidered with golden threads, draped her form, and a peacock feather earring gleamed in the twilight. Her face, olive-skinned with eyes as green and glittering as polished jade, framed a warm, inviting smile that brightened the night.   Still smiling, she settled down at the fire, her fingers gracefully brushing the strings of an old, worn oud. "Greetings, friends of the road," her voice began, a rich, honeyed melody. "My name is Lina Mi'khadir, and tonight, I´ll weave you a story of pride and fall: the tale of the Scourged Eagle. Listen close, children of the sand," she murmured, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper, drawing every ear to her.
A few patrons leaned forward, their own conversations suddenly forgotten. Among them, Kaelen, a stoic dragonborn with scales the color of old bronze, watched intently, alongside Ava, a wide-eyed halfling with an unruly head of curly brown hair, and Jasmine, a dark-skinned warrior whose greatsword leaned against a saddlebag. "For his downfall still whispers on the desert winds, a grim song of what happens when ambition takes wing without wisdom."   Long ago, when the sultanate was still young, there lived a mighty warrior, favored and beloved by the Kaharan people. His name was Hamar, but then most knew him only as "The Eagle of the West" and "The golden blade of the heavens." His blade was golden lightning, his mind sharp as a desert fox, and his riders, Asha'gar's Eagles, were legends themselves, striking on fiery horses like jinn-sent winds. Their campaigns were swift, overwhelming storms of calculated aggression. Each victory carved his name deeper into the scrolls of glory. Yet, with each triumph, each commendation, a dark flower bloomed upon his heart—the poison of pride. Jasmine's eyes narrowed, acknowledging the description of a formidable warrior.   Lina paused, her fingers touching her heart and playing a discordant chord on her oud. The sharp, jarring sound hung in the air. "His heart swelled with hubris, his ears sealed against the whispers of wisdom." "My strategies," Lina"s voice hardened, mimicking Hamar's arrogant tone as she swept a contemptuous hand, "are as unyielding as the desert, and my enemies all but dust before me!"
A ripple of unease stirred through the listeners. Ava shifted uncomfortably, while Kaelen’s scales seemed to darken, silent judgment in his ancient gaze.   Lina's voice shifted, becoming a low, cautionary hum, her eyes intent. "Then, word came of a rebellion—not of marauders or bandits, but from a hardy, quiet clan led by a man named Omar. He was a wise leader, whose great heart beat for his people first and foremost. But their lands had been scoured bare by long years of drought, leaving them unable to pay the Sultans tithe.
Omar, born of wind and desert, his skin sun-kissed and weathered, possessed dark eyes sharp as a peregrine's. He moved with the grace of a river reed and preferred the whisper of wind through his tent, the murmur of his camel herd and the laughter of his children."   "The Sultan, in a fit of anger, commanded Asha'gars Eagles to bring this tribe to heel," Lina continued, a slight shake of her head. "And while his advisors begged caution, Hamar, bent over his map, waved away such talk." His ring-heavy fingers dismissed Omar's painted figures, scattering them across the map.
"Desert rats!" he scoffed, his voice cracking like a whip. "Let them be crushed beneath my heel!" His advisors, their faces etched with concern, dared not contradict him. But the Eagle's word was law, his temper fierce as a sandstorm.
Jasmine's jaw tightened, a silent grimace acknowledging the folly.   Lina's voice deepened, her eyes sparkling as her story began to bloom. "Driven by grand delusion, Hamar led his legions straight into the shimmering, deceptive heart of the great desert.
Coarse dust coated their throats, the sun blazed down without mercy, each step sinking into the hungry sand. The air grew thick with horse sweat and unwashed wool, mingling with the faint scent of dry brush. He had envisioned a swift, glorious battle, already seeing himself parading through Al'Karih in triumph, and hearing the bards sing of another mighty victory."   Her voice tightened with grim intensity, her hands clenching. "There was no majestic clash, no open field of battle. Just a prolonged, agonizing dance of attrition under the relentless sun"s glare. The hot winds whipped sand, stinging their eyes. Asha'gars Eagles, once invincible, were ensnared in endless skirmishes against ghosts that melted into the dunes, their water skins emptying, the gurgle of last sips a desperate, hollow tale of things to come.
Their once tight formations unraveled, war cries turning hoarse with thirst and despair. Omar’s warriors, although fewer, fought with fierce, untamed ferocity, their knowledge of the land the deadlier weapon, their footfalls silent on shifting sand. Each strike was swift, precise, laying another foe to rest in the unforgiving sands." Ava's small hands gripped her knees, slightly leaning forward, her breath hitched with the intensity. "For days, then weeks, the conflict stretched on, a war where the Eagle battled only specters, suffocating dust, and the gnawing agony of thirst. Hamar struggled, trying to force open battle, but he never once met Omar on the field. In the end, his army crumbled, their banners torn, defeated by warriors forged of sand and shadows."   Lina"s voice rose slightly, her eyes swept across her audience, a flicker of empathy in their green depths. "When the wretched remnants of Hamar's once-mighty army limped back to Al'Karih, banners tattered, faces etched with defeat's dust, the stories began. Not whispers of glory, but harsh, bitter truths—the first seeds of the fall that follows all hubris.
The golden blade had been broken; the Eagle, once invincible, was no more. He returned a broken man, humiliated, his fine silks now dust-caked rags, his skin cracked and deep lines of defeat etched around his once-proud eyes."   "No one knew who first sang it, but on the very winds of his fall, a new, mocking song swept through the city. It echoed from bustling market stalls, drifted from forgotten back alleys, and filled the smoky taverns where his warriors once boasted of glory. This bard's song, "The Sand-Scourged Eagle!" became a mocking song that spread like wildfire, a grim lesson passed from lip to ear, etching Hamar's ruin forever into history." Kaelen nodded slowly, a deep appreciation in his eyes for the stark justice of the tale.   Lina's fingers found a final, resonant chord on her oud, its mournful notes lingering in the air. Her green eyes swept across her captivated audience. "And so, our story ends," she murmured, "a warning for all who would let pride blind them. The eagle flew too high, he learned too late... pride can seal the mightiest fate."