UreReode was just a hatchling when they came from the sky, blasting apart the clouds and bringing with them the falling of the stars and the crashing of the heavens. This world was never prepared or built for such intrusion, the Great Cycle was never intended to account for aliens from beyond the void wanting to claim the land as their own.
He had seen the first descent, looking upon the blazing streaks of fire as they carried down the first metal mountains to the surface — that verdant, once beautiful, sacred land. The mountains opened themselves beneath the sky that had been perversely scarred by the storm they had created, and the so-called “Humans” poured forth from the gaping maws. They soon decided that the world then, by virtue of their presence, belonged to them. 
The Dacyirii had attempted to commune with their boisterous guests, treating them with caution, but open arms. Those who had tried to parley were gunned down on the spot under the pretense of being savage beasts; monsters, even. It was then, when UreReode witnessed the mindless slaughter of his entire hatchery that it became clear to him that the Humans left a lot to be desired in the mastery of their own minds, their own morality. The Dacyirii were not the true monsters here. 
His kind fell into disarray in the weeks that followed, and a peaceful life of harmony was stolen from him and replaced by one of fear, fleeing, killing, and war. They were dark days, but because of the greed of one race from far, far away, UreReode and many like him grew not to be one with the Suns and Stars and Moons and Trees, but to be killers as cold and ruthless as those who drove them to their new life, simply in the name of survival. 

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CANTON/ASM, they called their land. The Dacyirii called it by it’s true name, AæklAkldrReode, The North Mountains. But Humans were stubborn in their ways, they assumed themselves the ultimate authority in every aspect of their existence. However, UreReode and his Dacyirii hunters watching the pathetic creatures drivel on about their lives in some alien tongue proved their true ignorance. They were hidden among the shadows, between the darkest of shapes cast by the titanic trees and the incandescent light cascading through the gaps in the canopy. The contrast was enough to obscure them from the limited visual capacity of these invaders; and they knew their home better than this cancerous race from above ever could. The silent flight of an arrow marked the start of the skirmish, striking a human in the eyeball and decimating his head instantly, his death throes acting as the war call of the hunters hidden from view. Some Humans ran like startled sheep, and some tried to fight; but they were fragile behind their moving metal boxes and walls, behind their mysterious armour and magical stringless bows. They were flesh and skin and bone, substances well suited to be rent by the Dacyirii’s mighty weapons. The night was long and filled with blood, the air thick with the screams of Humans and the death-calls of his own, those brave Dacyirii who would become immortalised in their sacrifice, martyrs for freedom and peace. The echoes could be heard across the valley, and the suns rose red that morning. 
UreReode could not count the number that died that night: of his own, or of the Humans, but he knew the forest and the mountains would claim their bodies as the endless turning of the Great Cycle dictated. They had to, there had to have been harmony behind the madness, he had to sternly believe that there was a reason for any of this if he were to keep the Dacyirii hopeful for a future of their own. He knew the Humans were too advanced to keep fighting, despite all their shortcomings. He [i]knew[/i] that no numbers could win them this struggle in the end. For every human killed, ten more would appear in their place, with the same foul sorcery wielded by the fallen. 
The mountain air did not clear his mind, the endless sky and howling wind did not make him feel alive like it always did. Hope was fading, and the light of the Dacyirii faded with it. There was only one chance for the world to be what it should have been, a prospect so maddeningly improbable that it has never yet been achieved in all the history of his species. The clans would have to unite, come together and look at what matters most to them. Else everything that makes Dacyira special will fade.