Purple Skiesby Leafed TimberwolfChaptersSerio's StoryThe Black PalaceSev'illah Cela RisingSerio's StoryAuthor's Note You, dearest reader, might have never heard the term 'Southron'. It means 'southern', and it is used in this context to define those living south of, and those areas south of, the Badlands. These are the counterparts of the real-world Latin countries. Some believe that what lies south of Equestria is the land of the zebras. I bring forward the notion that this is not likely, as the zebra lands are 'far away', and Equestria is meant to represent, to some degree, the Unites States nation. 'Manehattan'? So here you will see puns using the parts of a horse, and other horse related things - in Spanish! Serio's Story On a warm summer evening in the Southron city of Nova Cresta, Mexihock, - a charming little town with colonial buildings that gained a coppery color at sunset - bell tolls signaled the eighth hour, and the end of practice in the ‘Universal Ocelote’ dojo. The plaza, as the dojo was in the center of town, was soon covered with the usual crowd of ponies wanting to arrive home before sundown. Meanwhile, doves parted as an older stallion made his way to the Universal, but he did so - so slowly and with such an aura of amusement around him, onlookers who did not recognize him wondered what he found so new, though wiser youths found they appreciated the stallion’s pleased look of fulfillment. He tipped his hat, as the orange sun was at the end of the road and sending its last rays directly at him. However, not everyone felt the need to behave calmly. In the Dojo, not everyone had left. The dojo was a two-story building, in the corner intersection of two perpendicular streets, wide with a curved front wall. Beyond the heavy, wooden front door was the reception area, with some chairs, then the training area, with a padded floor and a mirror-covered wall, and, at the end of the back wall were stairs leading up and a door that led to a kitchen, with another door that led to a large garden. The garden’s grass was as green as could be, and the walls - ten meters long - were covered with green vines with red flowers, and there were plenty of citrus fruit trees. Four foals remained in, but one could not wait to see his teacher out of sight. He leaped of the roof, landed on a windowsill and busted out of the room. “He’s gone! Maestro Fernando’s gone! Come out!” Three others emerged out of various rooms. One was a short, husky, blue colt earth pony of a kinder nature, one was a green filly earth pony with odd habits, and the other was also a filly, but a light yellow unicorn of a colder nature. And of course, there was also the red pegasus who had made the whole plan of staying behind hidden in the unused second-story of the building. None of the others had wanted to stay, for a variety of reasons, the girls were going to have their own sleepover, but the red pegasus, Salvador, had convinced each one individually that he or she was the only one who did not want to stay, and had thus pressured them all into staying. “This is a terrible idea!” cried Benito, the blue earth colt. “I have no idea why I agreed to this, you don’t even have any food. This isn’t even close to the sleepovers I know!” The four of them headed down the stairs. “Benito,” began the pegasus. “calm yourself… there’s plenty food in the kitchen, I'm sure. Besides, this place is better than my house.” “I for one agree,” said Montserrat, the yellow unicorn, with a measure disdain. “your house is a dump. And I hope I'm not wasting my time here.” “I think it’s very cute how you’re trying to make it sound like you’re not happy to be here with us.” Salvador responded. “On the contrary!” Montserrat suddenly gripped Magally, the green earth pony, in a tight hug. “I'm more than happy to have some girl time with Magpie! Isn’t right Magally?” “Um, yes yes.” Magally said, trying to regain her balance. “But let’s not argue guys, were a team, and the competition is Sunday.” “No one is arguing, Magally.” said Salvador softly. “Right, Montserrat?” “Absolutely not.” She let go of Magally and shot him a glare. “However, if you try anything out of line today, I’ll make sure this little scheme of yours blows up so hard in your face that you will be looking for your snout in Lleguascalientes! Now,” she took everyone in with a look. “Let’s do something rather fun for a change. Show me the old photo album you said you found.” They reached the end of the stairs. “Oh with pleasure. But first let me find something else. Why don’t you two head to the garden?” he said, referring to Montserrat and Magally, when he noticed they weren’t around him, only Benito. Looking up, he noticed Montserrat had stopped to look at herself in the mirror that was halfway-down the stairs. “Do I look quite pretty, Magpie?” she asked while taking a hoof through the top of her orange mane. “Like right now?” “Precisely right now.” “Does it matter if you look pretty?” Magally asked with a raised brow. “Oh you should learn a bit from me. It matters because I AM pretty.” “Hurry down already!” yelled Salvador. Magally discretely pointed at him with her green eyes. “Maybe you should ask someone else if you look pretty...” brow raise, brow raise. “Ugh Magally!” Montserrat spat, as her cheeks slightly changed to a warmer color. “I swear by the Pure Lady I have zero idea what you mean!” she turned away from the mirror and thundered down the stairs. “It’s not like there isn’t a wall covered in mirror down here.” Benito added. “They were too far Beni.” She muttered under her breath as she passed him. “Come Benito!” roared Salvador as he gave him a hard slap on his withers. “Let me show you the food you oh-so clamored for.” They headed to the kitchen as the girls went outside. “You just looked at yourself in a mirror.” Magally’s voice was heard. “Ah! But only my head! Come! Don’t shy away from the mirror, you are very, and naturally, pretty too.” “Aww thank yo-” * “Ugh! Girl talk, am I right?” Salvador said as he shut the door to the kitchen. “They are very strange.” agreed Benito. “Remember in first grade when they hated each other?” Salvador kept looking through the small rectangular window in the door. Beni looked through as well, but only saw Montserrat. “Salvador?” “Yea.” “Salvador!” “What!?” he spat. “The food, dude!” “Oh, correcto. Light up a candle.” He headed over to the kitchen pantry. “Ta-da!” Benito looked on. In dismay. “Are you kidding me!?” Salvador, who hadn’t really looked, looked. “Oh.” “There's like only potatoes here!” “Potatoes?” “Potatoes!” “Maybe they’re sweet potatoes. Hey look, there are some... eight bananas.” “Wha-none of these are sleepover foods! See?!" he held out a potato. "What did I tell you?!” “Calm down,” Salvador said with a smile. “we can eat this. It's just as good. And healthier.” “Smart hind, do you want to eat raw potatoes?” Benito said with skepticism. “Oh you say it like it’s a big deal, we’ll just cook all of these.” “The bananas too?” Benito said, not so much incredulous as he was unwilling. “Yes them too.” “You’ll burn them.” He said defiantly. “Remember what Maestro Fernando said about having an open mind? You can cook bananas. After you cook them they are called fried bananas. It’s like hard bananaey caramel.” Salvador said, matter-o-factly. "Oh, you're the one to speak of open minds but," Benito began to warm up to the idea. “won’t the peels give us indigestion?” “You don’t eat the peel!” He hoof-palmed his forehead. “Look, just-just take these outside, I need to look for the small grill and the fire starter rocks.” “What?! Are you insane?” “What?! Benito, what?!” “You can’t play with fire, especially not in this place!” “Did you take your anxiety powder this morning?” “That’s not funny.” “Just-just go outside!” Salvador said as he pushed him out the door to the garden. “Jeez, do girls call these ‘guy talk’? Blast.” He closed the door behind Benito. * “Hi Lili, I'm sorry I hadn’t talked to you today, I was really busy.” Magally told Lili, the lemon tree, or Citrus Limon. “But I’ll be here until morning.” Lili the lemon tree rustled. Magally was puzzled, she tilted her head. “What do you mean?” Lili the lemon tree rustled. Magally’s eyes widened. “Guys!” “Magpie, are you talking to plants again?” Montserrat asked. “Guys, we should go.” Magally fidgeted. “Lili says someone’s gona show up.” “Come sit, Magpie. Lili probably needs more sugar and what not.” “I-I… but she says Maestro Seri-” The night had fallen and Salvador appeared on the garden with a small grill full of charcoals, and the old photo album. “Ok now, time for scary stories of ooooold, uuuuuu.” A large fire erupted to life with a spark, which became smaller almost instantly since the charcoals hadn’t turned into a firebed yet. Montserrat, who was leaning on a lawn chair, magically yanked the old album from his hooves and opened it. Magally, sitting next to her leaned in, as did Benito. “Uuu, let’s see what this is about.” The first page had old pictures of a familiar young stallion in an outlandish and feathery costume. “Is that…?” Benito wondered. “Why, yes it is!” Montserrat nodded. The next had pictures of the city. The pictures of the vibrant city changed into those of ruins, when the city was occupied by the dark creatures of the netherrealms, long long ago. In fact, few pictures of that time existed, and those had to be the most any of them had ever seen in one place. After some fourteen pictures, a new set came. One of the same young stallion, but with the golden armor of the Equestrian Royal Guard, and surrounded by some smiling guards as well. Salvador’s expression broke and fell. “Mictlan! What the hey is he doing with those idiot Equestrians? I always thought he was a proud Southron.” Salvador spat. “Ugh, here we go again.” Montserrat rolled her eyes. “Salvador!” Magally shoved him. “You’d do good if you stopped having such prejudices. You have never even met an Equestrain!” “I don’t need to meet one. They are so immoral I'm surprised you’d defend them! You’re a Southron. Don’t take the side that’s against us, especially when we are about to beat some this weekend!” “Salvador, calm down.” Said Beni. “You always get so riled up when Equestria comes up, besides, we are not beating anyone. We are having a tournament, were we might go against a team that is from Equestria, with whom we might have a good competition against, and Pure Lady willing, win against.” The fire began burning steadily. “Well I am beating any Equestrain that they put me up against. And I say beat as in ‘beat down’. Look at them,” he pointed at the picture, as everyone got increasingly irritated with another of his outbursts of anger. “do you think whatever Equestrian that manages to win against us won’t gloat his head off? That’s how those equines are.” “You’re not making us sound any better.” Magally pressed. “Enough you two.” shouted Beni. “I thought we were all here to have a good time before the competition. Not to argue about regions and nationalities!” “I was just trying to say, Benito.” Salvador said, trying to recover his composure. “That there is no sense in having such respect for the adversary.” “Ah! I hate when you get like this!” Argued Magally. “What about having some appreciation and love for your fellow horse and showing understanding for a different culture? And respect! Although I don’t know if I should be surprised to hear this from someone who failed Civics class, oh by her Pureness you’d also fail Catechism if they gave grades!” “Don’t be a hippie Ma-” “Guys, let’s not let a picture make us descend into insults! This is so trivial!” Montserrat said. “As Magpie said earlier, we are a team.” “Well Montserrat,” continued Salvador, who stood tall as if indignated. “I was only saying what I was thinking-” “That’s the problem with you!” said a new voice. “You kids hear ‘you’ll understand when you’re older’ but that has always been such cow crap, what we should say is ‘you’ll understand because you’ll be older’,” said the stallion who we saw earlier walking towards the dojo. He threw his hat aside, having had its hatfull of sunshine already, and with a beat of his wings got in front of the smaller Salvador. “You say what you think because you’re neither smart enough to say ‘I say what I know’ nor wise enough to know why you shouldn’t say ‘what you think’. You act like a complete idiot and dishonor your predecessors who gave their lives to evacuate the city during the Dark Times. A true stallion knows when to talk and knows what he is talking about, and you know neither!” he yelled. “Maestro Serio! I swear I didn’t know - I thought, I-” Everypony was shocked to see him, that is everypony except Magally who had learned Maestro Serio sometimes came to the garden at night from Lili, the lemon tree. “I don’t know why I am more disappointed.” His chest rose. His orange wings looked massive in comparison to the shrinking colt, and he bore his big green eyes into him. “Because you thought it was a good idea to start a fire in my garden, or because of what you’ve been saying! You do realize Equestrains helped free the very city you take for granted? I never take these streets I walk for granted, a lot was done to rescue this city!” “The fire is com-” Maestro Serio took the hose and sprayed a patch of grass, and dragged the small grill to the patch. “You should all be resting for Sunday.” “But it’s Friday.” Said Benito. “I didn’t ask you what day it was.” “Well, Magpie was gona have a sleepover with me, but we came here because Salvador said he had found old treasures and that he had marshmallows.” Said Montserrat. “Which he didn’t.” said Benito. “That’s right, throw me under the carriage.” Muttered Salvador. “What are these treasures you’re talking about?” Asked Maestro Serio. “This.” Montserrat floated the album to him. “Where’s your Maestro, Maestro Fernando? Where is he?” he asked with a hint of irritation, Fernando was after all, his prodige, and Fernando’s was, disappointingly, Salvador. “Um… he left.” Serio placed a hoof on his heart. “And you all hid here!?” “Yes.” “Oh!” Serio exclaimed once he opened the album. “I haven’t seen this in some years! These were taken more than thirty years ago, when I was on my twenties. So many things have happened since…” his ears perked up. “Is this what you were yelling about?!” he spat, Salvador shrunk even more. “You were pissing on my memories is that what you were doing!? Then by the Pure Lady, I don’t think you deserve to go to the tournament, if you think for a second you are even worthy of putting your presence with theirs’ in the same sentence!” “Not theirs!” he took a pose of indignation once more. “But Equestrians, I mean, Southrons have a rich history of having an abundance of every noble quality that comes with conflict.” “Oh, have you held a spear, a sword, or a bow?” “I can figh-” “Have you ever been in an army, have you ever been shot by a magic bolt? Have you fired a harquebus? Have you ever seen the horrors you think you know so well? Not only that, have you ever understood your opponent?” “No…” Maestro Serio raised his front hooves. “Then you’re wrong on this opinion you seem to still ty to defend! Simple as that.” He leaned closer to him. “Learn.” He turned to Benito. “Benito, bring the potatoes and peel the bananas, the rest of you bring the chairs over here, take a seat, and I’ll tell you the story of these pictures, would you all like that?” “Yes!” Magally nodded. “Yes.” Benito answered. “Yes…” Muttered Salvador. “Outstanding! Come hear, my friends. My story begins many years ago, but it doesn’t begin in Equestria, or with me. Or with Equines for that matter. The Black PalaceAs the sun sets, an equine skeleton lies in the sand, warning anyone that would stumble upon it to not go any further into the Corvejonaloa Desert. Dr. Mari Ethol, once a passionate researcher rather than a medical doctor, had not always been so dead. She had great appreciation for the resilient creatures of the Mexihockan deserts, so much in fact that she decided to venture bravely, or foolhardily, into the center of the Corvejonaloa - against the advice of her more superstitious Southron colleagues. ‘Cursed!’ She had once laughed. She had done so for reason. She believed to have discovered a whole new sentient specie, news that were received with stunned silence, not because of the implications, but because she had said ‘in the Black Palace’ at the end. Looking beyond the noble remains of Dr. Ethol, one would not describe the Corvejonaloa as a sand box. The desert starts as a barren stretch of sand and mountains, which after considerable distance, drops into a semi-circular cliff. Inside said canyon, after a consider drop, the desert becomes a giant forest of shrubs, giant cacti and rocks, that at its center is as tall as the canyon walls and becomes progressively scarcer and scarcer - until it reaches the sliver of water that is the sea of Cortesia, after a considerable amount of thorns. That is the Black Palace, where almost nopony dares enter, and the place tribesponies consider to be the entrance to the underworld. Their art, the culture of the area, depicts what some might call ‘grotesque beings’ of many sizes, sharp fangs, glowing eyes and strange limbs riddled with holes in this place. Equines punished by the gods? Demons then? - Many wonder. The beach, where the ‘Black Palace’ ends, is a collection of mangroves surrounded by sharp rocks. In the middle of this poor lake-like area surrounded by rocks lies one small isle. In such lands only the strong survive. For the Black Palace is as large and as vast as a city, as is the desert around it, and there is ample room for conflict. Hidden from Equestrain eyes, hidden from Southron eyes, blazing blue eyes moved through the briars. These eyes had seen a comet streaking through the heavens and a devastating fire burn down the easterly hive towers. These eyes belonged to ‘changelings’. These were divine signs of future victory and conquest… to the Sev’illah Cela. The Sev’illah Cela welcomed these signs and sprang into action with little hesitation. The clan had lived in exile in the Netemachili, the storm-swept isle covered in prickly pears near the mangrove beach for almost a decade. They had faded into the isle’s mists and their former glory had been almost forgotten, but after seeing the signs they had all realized the same thing: It was time to reveal themselves, and to retake their rightful place. The Cela were savage. Zealous. The Black Palace clans had much to fear. In order to understand the manner of the clans peculiar to the Black Palace one must understand their history, and language. Their language, phonetic - not written, is a mixture of clicks, chirps, and long vowel sounds, which give origin to words like ‘Sev’illah Cela’ and the hated ‘Arua’illah Lekl’. The latter clan, ‘The Land Masters of the Hills clan’ roughly translated, had once been the masters of the Sev’illah Cela. The Sev’illah, ‘The Warriors of the Mountains clan’, as legend goes, had come from the northern mountains, looking for a permanent home. In exchange for a place to live the Arua’illah used them as hired warriors and workers. However, as prosperity blessed the Sev’illah and they began to expand on their own thanks to their frightening skills, the Arua’illah decided to rally their allies, one of which were the Enao’illah Arrtiss - owners of the now burned down hive towers in the east -, and subjugate the new generation of Sev’illah permanently, convinced they would learn their place swiftly. On the contrary, the Cela were humiliated, and their blood boiled for a fight. In an attempt to convince their vassal’s future generations that their relationship was fatherly, the Arua’illah gave their princess to them, which the Cela priests skinned and offered to their sun-god: Tonatlaa. This angered the Lekl, who planned on retaliating furiously with all they had, until they found out the Cela had fled to the Netemechili. The name Sev’illah began to be chirped with constant worry. They have left the isle, all where sure. As everywhere else, speculation and rumors preceded conflict much like thunder precedes lightning. The rumors and speculations were clear: The Cela are coming for revenge. Some cackled, while others fled deeper into the Black Palace in response. Now we arrive to a field were vague anxiety hovered over a large crowd of changeling creatures, particular in how they were naturally stronger and bigger, they had three forward-facing horns, their shells were thicker, and their heads bore a hard, boney neck frill. In short, the Arua’illah Lekl were built to ram in a fight, for they were more brawn than brains. They were accompanied by the now-homeless Enao’illah, clad in light wooden armor, the smaller but numerous, desperate, changeling rabble - similar to the ones an Equestrian would now be well acquainted with - readied for the thankless task of ridding the Black Palace of the Sev’illah Cela, whom they had never encountered before. It was no rumor though, then and there, that the Cela where on their way. It was a certainty. The Lekl swiveled their heavy heads and stretched their limbs, they believed their brawn would beat the Cela back to their rock and in time they would once again be their servants, however a dark, smoky doubt lingered in their small brains. The Sev’illah had always fought in smaller numbers than whomever they went against, and they won; they had not been seen in action in a while - So is the legend that fighting them is a horror, true? The field was a clearing out of a dense forest, and the Arua’illah’s side was surprisingly covered in fragrant yellow flowers. A small cheer went up the Lekl. Their leader had arrived. Ipnikeri was ruthless, decisive, and had been dead for five years. He had come, not to lead his clan as a terrifying undead lich, but because his withered corpse had been hauled out of his ceremonial pit, placed on a platform made with woven palm leaves and set in a meditative-looking position. He was carried by a fiercely loyal bodyguard, and he would speak through his shamen. Once they had heard of his arrival the Lekl gained another reason to believe in victory: their leader had come to lead them from beyond. Upon seeing this, a young Cave Changeling left the skirmishers in the forest and flew back to the advancing army. He was a slender creature, young, with milky eyes and a body that could make its own light in the lower torso. His flight gave evidence of his need to stay in low light, and a resolution particular to those who have been accustomed to danger ever since their more younger, fragile states. Having flown over numerous clan warriors, some armed with wooden spears, spiked clubs, and maquahuitl clubs - some of the skirmishers were armed with long cacti, actually -, he lighted down in front of the clan lord’s bodyguard. “E aanerr emnem aea sev tallana, Kyat Perfeyadous!” although, it would make more sense to say he said, in a language we understand: “I bring news about the enemy army, Lord Perfeyadous!” “Ah! It’s you Luciferin!” cried the lord of the Sev’illah Cela as he stepped forward. He was like other Cela changelings, except he sported an open-faced helm that resembled a gaping axolotl, which looks like a fatter, flatter version of the salamander, with six long sapphire-blue feathers. The Cela, or mountain, changelings were longer than the normal changeling, had four horns, four wings - one of Perfeyadous’s was battered -, four eyes - two of which were smaller and to the sides of the head -, and an iridescent shell. However, they possessed a unique and unmatched ability. Oh, and they were also cannibals, another reason many clans considered them unsavory. “What has changed that you yourself came to tell me?” “Kyat Perfeyadous, Ipnikeri is leading them!” “Ha!” he laughed so heartily he hopped. “A corpse!” he turned to his bodyguard and to the Cela around him. ‘Rejoice Cela! The enemy is being led by a corpse!” There was a short, but clear cheer. “My Kyat, they seemed in good spirits, the Lekl.” pressed Luciferin. “And so are we.” Perfeyadous made a sweep with his foreleg, encompassing many in front and behind. “And I think we have been blessed. Now we won’t only win, but we will strike a blow so harsh once I topple over Ipnikeri’s dead body and step on it until it turns to dust that the Arua’illah will beg for peace.” He smiled. “Axul,” he told one of his guards. “send word to commander Ale’kal that the vanguard’s priority will be to reach Ipnickeri, and that I will see him shortly.” “Yes my Kyat.” He responded, and flew off. “Luciferin,” continued Perfeyadous. “I’ve known you since you were smaller than my hoof, so tell me, what troubles you?” Perfayadous had indeed almost raised Luciferin. He was his prodigy, the one he was never able to have - a sad story that is still unclear, as to why he never had an offspring legend says he was left heartbroken after his first love perished -, even though he was not a Cela changeling. Of all the Sev’illah Cela, Luciferin had the name that was hardest to say. His origins were quite curios. He had been found ‘in a hollow metallic place’ in the desert, next to a weird fat deer and a rock that kept repeating something that sounded like ‘conitanis luciferin, conitanis luciferin, conitanis luciferin.’ Or at least, it is said, that was what Perfeyedous had been able to sound out when he had heard the strange tongue coming from the ‘rock’. He took ‘Conitanis Luciferin Cela’ in his forelegs. Luciferin had been in some battles, but as a message runner, and had never shown cowardice. “That is a large army.” “It is.” In the warfare of the Black Palace, the Sev'illah Cela believed that morphing in battle into the enemy, or someone special to the enemy, or anything other than a mountain changeling, was extremely dishonorable. The Lekl, in turn, were quite proud of their natural strength, so they rearly morphed in battle. Some of their brightest moments in conflict did involve taunting their opponents into charging them by morphing into them and then running them down under their weight. Their strategy was the same, have the Enao'illah hold them up as long as they could, then charge through when the Cela's numbers were thickest. “Ah, you do know me to well. It’s true, the Lekl don’t concern me in the least! I can’t wait to see them cry in terror, but what does bother me is the… additions my Kyat has made to this force.” Luciferin looked around to see if who he was referring to was near. “I doubt the commitment of Sychopis and his band…” Sychopis, in turn, was one of the changelings who lived in the cliff hives. He was tall, his limbs were skinny, his eyes were noticeably wide, his wings were tremendously big and his hooves looked almost clawed. He, and his followers, which numbered around four hundred and thirty, had adopted the outrageous idea of polytheism, and very violent sacrifice. Perfeyadous nodded. “He’ll do his part, now you must do yours. Now go see to it that everyone is aware of who is leading the enemy’s army, and confirm that Ale’kal’s teams are ready.” He said in a way that left no room to question. “Yes, my Kyat.” Luciferin bowed, and flew off. What worried him was not the battle, but what would happen after it, he did not understand it, but he believed cave changelings had an refined senses when it came to danger. As far as he knew, it had to do with Sychopis and his ilk. Something was coming. Surely they would march on and burn down the hill fortress of Aura'icalan. He pushed his anxieties from his mind, for now at least. "Awake the Xicuruata!" yelled the lord, raising another cheer. In their mythology, the Xicuruata was what they called the ahuizotl creature, their war god and the implacable beast that drowned anything that threatened it. * Ale'kal was a great example of the early glory days of Sev'illah Cela. Born in the hive of 'Topoch Ico', a still prospering hive on the tail-like peak of a small but long mountain in the shape of a bump, surrounded by a narrow valley on which mineral water flows-on the mountains, he was born to a soldier family and learned as much as a Cela changeling could learn about anything, and dedicated to what would be called 'hive architecture' after his drone service. Many considered him to be funny, for a Cela changeling. It was in his late teens when Topoch Ico was attacked by an enemy clan. At the time, there were none of the generals loyal to Perfeyadous, but merely a garrison of mixed talents, as it is recorded. In what seemed like an easy victory, and an assured massacre against a seemingly leaderless army, the enemy clan attacked. Ale'kal stepped in, declared himself commander, named some strong and charismatic Sev'illahs as his subordinates, paid others to fight with food, and led the Cela to a glorious and incredible victory that in turn decimated the enemy clan’s ability to protect their home in the desert - which was sacked. He immediately gained the attention of Perfeyadous because of his fluid strategies and strong likability. It was decided that his talents were being wasted in the rank and file drones of 'Fortress' Topoch Ico, and he was made general of the north. Of the Cela army marching to meet the Lekl, three groups were considered special, and had been placed under Ale’kal. As the entire army was symbolically the embodiment of their ahuizotl god, each team was thought as a symbolic part of the ahuizotl. The coyotes - the claws, the scorpions - the teeth, and the iguanas - the tail. The members of each one had an open-faced helm that looked like their respective animal agape. The scorpions were great spear throwers, the iguanas were, curiously, very fast runners, and the coyotes were part of the priests of the mountain god Coiet, who knew how to rip out a heart cleanly with obsidian blades. The iguanas had brought one hundred and twenty of their fighters, the scorpions one hundred and eighty, and the coyotes one hundred. “Luciferin!” Ale’kal jumped. “Come praise the sun before sunrise with me, brother! I can already taste the victory!” Luciferin had spread the word as well as he could, so he made sure all was ready as best he could too. “Ale’kal, good to see you in high spirits! Are the three teams ready?” “Yes, I was heading to see Kyat Perfeyadous just know, the battle is upon us, so I recommend you get ready, spread the word.” “Wait, I think, since the battle is not far ahead, tell me, what will role will Sychopis and his lot have?” “Ah yes… them. I recommended they stayed in the back, but Sychopis seems to be getting a tighter grip on our Kyat every day. I’ll thank Tonatlaan when this battle is done, surely a victory will get our Kyat out of his gloom, and out of the need for Sychopis and his god.” Luciferin hopped closer. “Ale’kal, you’re my friend, tell me our numbers and theirs, really, I mean, those who are going to fight.” Ale’kal scratched his side. “Well… you are our Kyat’s kid after all, so by what we’ve gathered from the skirmishers is that there are around three thousand two hundred Enao’illah warband, and two thousand six hundred Arua’illah royals.” “That’s five thousand eight hundred.” “And then some.” “Minus those who aren’t fighting, we have seven hundred here, and twelve brigades of one hundred and forty Cela, plus Sychopis’s canyoners: we have two thousand eight hundred, plus skirmishers.” “Very small difference.” Luciferin nodded. Ale’kal smacked him on the withers. “Yes. Nothing new. Are you concerned?” “Agaist Enao’illahs? Ha!” Luciferin laughed nervously. “Well let’s get going then, our Kyat, oh and glory, awaits.” The two changelings went on, neither of them knowing what awaited in the near future, further from home. For now they only saw one thing: what laid immediately ahead of them. Related to that, their enemy didn't know what awaited them either. Sev'illah Cela RisingMuch has been said already about the why the Arua’illah believed to have the advantage, now let us turn to the Sev’illah, impetuous and possessed by the bloated god of war. A conch bellowed, catching the attention of those in the flowery side of the field. The field itself was slightly raised, enough for each changeling to see over the head of the one in front of him; the Lekl changelings holding up their dead leader stood on the highest point. They saw none other than Lord Perfeyadous emerge out of the forest afront his army, a scene comparable to what it would look like to trip on an ant hill and watching the numberless ants emerge slowly out of the dirt. The clearing between them must’ve been something like two hundred meters long, slightly more than two football fields. The mountain changelings were said to possess loud, carrying voices, but even so, no one seemed to have a louder voice than the Cela Lord. He raised the obsidian-tipped spear he held tightly with the grooves of his foreleg. “Today we will fight as our forefathers did, in the mountains against those who sought to enslave us. Bite them! We will triumph, and add unforgettable glory to the name of our clan! The time approaches... Make ready!” Loud, shrilling cheers erupted in the thousands. Confidence was infected even to those in the far back who had not heard him. A conch bellowed twice. A slight breeze blew away from the Sev’illah and towards the other force, cooling the hot backs of the changelings and bringing forth the smell of vegetation. After this, the field was quite quiet, enough for the field’s insects’ ugly music to be heard, until the marching sound of hoovesteps replaced it. The teeth of the ahuizotl, the spear throwers, advanced past their lord, all one hundred and eighty, and stopped. These clanschangelings were a cut above the average warrior, and were often the lynchpin of their lord’s battle strategy. The presence of the Cela Scorpions in the line of battle was plenty to raise the hearts of all those around them, making their determination to resist the heavy blows of their enemies dauntless. Perfeyadous knew they would hold, and had based his strategy around that fact. They were slightly more armored than the Enao’illah Arrtiss, they wore armor vests made of braided jute and hardened with brine, their helmets - since the scorpion is a small creature and one can’t say they can be ‘agape’ - looked like a big scorpion with its tail raised and with little claws coming out of the sides, and their spears were tipped with a scorpion venom that stiffened the muscles and made them feel heavy. Each one carried plenty of spears, one they fought with, and the others they threw with a tool known to the Southron ponies as the ‘atlatl’. The factors which led the three groups to acquire such an exalted position within their clan’s warriors were hard to define: training and skill played their part, but spiritual and physical endurance were highly praised. It was thought that if the normal Cela kept fighting like a good changeling, even when the tide of battle was against him, their heroes had to be able to accomplish much more miraculous feats. Like charging into the thousands successfully. A lucky few carried such strength within, while the others emulated them because of their example. Such colorful words raise questions of the possibility of their prowess. The mountain changelings’ fangs weren’t any sharper, nor their body any hardier, than the even the Arrtiss changelings’. What actually made them any more special, and their advantages any more advantageous, was their special ability, mentioned earlier. Two thousand plus Sev’illah Cela stretched their napes, spread their wings, filled their lungs and let out a shrill cry. Again. And again. And again. And again. IIIIIIIAAAAAAAUUUUUUU! The small Enao’illah, who made the front of the opposing force, gripped their spears tighter and skittered closer to a buddy here and there. The Sev’illah let out another shrill cry, and one more. The air around each one became greasy, like a hot summer-day's haze. They began flapping their wings so quickly as to make them disappear in one’s vision, and the haze, which did not affect them, shifted and turned in an odd spectacle of swirling art, and it surged forward - aided by the breeze. The Arrtiss looked at each other, so did some of the Lekl. Soon the mist would pass them, ever so slowly. With another blow of the conch, the ahuizotl’s teeth advanced in a fast pace to get close enough to throw their spears, just as the mist reached the Enao’illah changelings. It felt, indeed, like a mist or light rain. Their noses began to burn. Their eyes itched a little. Meanwhile, Luciferin came to stand next to Lord Perfeyadous, as he had requested, carrying something that also lifted the spirits of the clanschangelings: the Sev’illah Cela banner, made with amate paper, depicting a blue sky and a white, four-peaked mountain. Some of the warriors were painted with these colors, sky blue and white, and some of the youths even strapped poles to their barrels that had strips of these colors tied to them. Luciferin had become accustomed to the mist under his training with Perfeyadous, at least to were its effects were incredibly lessened, still, he covered his snout with a cloth he had wrapped around him all the way to his withers. Their banner, or so he believed, was wrapped in leafs. “The standard, Luciferin.” Perfeyadous held out a pole for all behind him to see, which he would slide through the middle of the banner. What happened next made Luciferin feel a chill up his spine, for the banner, their standard, was not there. In its place, this banner was dark green with a four-leafed, white clover. There was no cheer. “My-my Kyat?” It was they symbol of Sychopis and his ilk, or more specifically, their wild religion. “We are winning today, my child.” He responded quietly. Luciferin swallowed. He looked around, the Cela standard did appear with the capable Axul, but he felt it would be wiser to remain silent. The ahuizotl’s teeth hoped, their spears sailed through the air like arrows. The Battle of Calara – meaning flowery - Field had begun. The Enao’illah would not charge, the Sev’illah were close, but not close enough to consider giving up their defensive pose in their slightly raised ground - highest point of which was occupied by the Arua’illah. The ones in front of the Cela Scorpions must’ve seen something similar to what one would see looking up in a storm. Some tried to dodge. Their noses and eyes burned with more intersity. Some tried to ‘dance’ their way off the spears’ path as they rubbed their eyes. Some put up their forelegs in the hopes that the shaft would not go through a hole. Some succeeded. Others were struck in their softer areas, then tried to palp the frighteningly cold-feeling sting off. Other more unlucky ones were caught around their necks and fell over dead after spewing a mixture of chunky red and white fluids. The idea of how quickly death seemed to come to those unfortunate few disturbed those standing next to them, no matter how brave they believed themselves to be. Those alive but struck began feeling weighted down and cold. Some brave little Arrtiss decided to brake formation to charge them, but these few were quickly brought down in a hideous spectacle. Their bodies were unable to roll properly because of the spears sprouting out of their bodies. So they concluded the best course of action was to avoid the projectiles, as the alternative was running away towards the Arua’illah. An Arrtis further back rose and rallied his comrades, for it was clear to all watching: their resolve was shaken. The balance between their fear of the Arua’illah and their fear toward death was becoming upset; what did not completely throw it over was the knowledge that they were the force superior in numbers. The front group of Enao’illah, each group a hundred or so, as the Sev’illah could see each one clearly, looked scarce, as did the group next to them. As their spears ran out, something worse began happening to the Enao’illah, all of them, not just the ones at the front, for the special ability of the Sev’illah was not only to make eyes water. Two separate conch bellows signaled the ahuizotl’s claws and the rest of the Cela forward. The Arrtiss’s hearts began racing. Dark thoughts overwhelmed their minds. They shook their heads. They rubbed their eyes. They gasped. Some began fearing they wouldn’t be able to hold their composure. The conch bellowed thrice consecutively. The Sev’illah’s shrill cried rung out once more. And they charged as they yelled. The Enao’illah charged as well. The battle lines collided. The Arrtiss looked exemplary brave. As if as one, they rose on their hindlegs, spears pointed forward, and poured onto whatever group of Cela they had in front. If they could catch a Cela off guard, they could stab him in multiple places and bring him down. The Enao’illah’s reality broke apart, this happened to the ones at the front first. The sound of silence took over their ears, until it popped into whispers seeming to come from all around them. Erratic false signals had flooded their hearing. Their eyes, now speckled with dark splotches, fogged up. However, their vision returned quite quickly, as if fog had lifted. They opened their eyes to see, not what they knew should’ve been there. What they saw seemed to be filtered through red water. Black figures with steaming silhouettes came towards them. They were around them. Their eyes looked like seething coals. Sound became like livid ash, except for the whispers that came from nowhere. No mountain changeling had ever experienced the effects of their own mist, but they believe that what happens to others is that they look through the eyes of Xicuruata, the ahuiztol blood-thirsty war god, and hear his voice. So, the Enao'illah were introduced and the Arua’illah reminded of what made mountain changelings special: Their ability to secrete a grave hallucinogen. His opponent's spear pointed forward, a Cela warrior simply smacked it aside, then thrusted his own spear forward. Dodge and thrust, dodge and thrust. Gurgle and the color red. Another Cela stopped a charging Arrtiss by taking stabs at his hooves, then taking a stab toward the neck. By then another Cela had rushed past the Arrtiss, stricken him with his spear in the snout, and continued forward, allowing the first Cela to finish him off. The Cela’s charge was as devastating as had been expected. They lunged forward and speared through whoever was in front. Little fountains of blood appeared here and there, and they grass became pockmarked in thick red smudges. None had it worse than the Arrtiss at the center, as expected. With their reflexes heavily hindered, and pitted against the agile Cela, their numbers began to dwindle. One of the Cela Scorpions was particularly quick; he had speared through one, parried, speared through another to the left, hoped back, thrusted his spear towards another’s hooves making him jump back, and flown towards him with blinding speed, and speared his jaw through - another Arrtiss emerged from the right, but, before he knew it, he had a Cela biting down on his snout, snarling. The Arua’illah’s strategy began to fall, and it fell like dominos. The Arrtiss in the back became affected like their comrades at the front were, but they, now in the chaos of fighting, lost track of which smoky figure was friend or foe, and which sound was a cry for help or bloodthirst. They could not make sense of anything behind or around them, for it was shrouded in shadows and ominous whispers, and they could make little sense of what was before them. One by one, they began to accidentally attack their friends, and more and more followed in their confused and violent wake. Two more signals from a conch rose above the shifting cries in the battle. The ahuizotl’s claws charged above the battle line, towards the Arua’illah line, along with Perfeyadous and his bodyguard. From the left, with the Cela warriors, Ale’kal blew on the conch once more. “Fooooowaaaaaaard!” The Enao’illah were no longer a concern, for they had begun to break. Those able to flee considered what they wanted, to live, and they fled one by one, until they began spiriting and flying out of the battle in groups. Those still thrashing about behind enemy lines would be finished by the skirmishers. Some with giant cacti. The conch bellowed once more. From the back right of the Cela army, the canyon changelings flew forward, their snouts covered as best as they could. Meanwhile, the Enao’illah realized they were losing ground. They turned around to look at the shaman near Ipnickeri. His body was lowered, and the shaman leaned ceremoniously to place his ear slit near the corpse’s mouth. He yelled with his foreleg pointed forward. The Arua’illah needed nothing else, they charged. As their heavy hooves stomped the flowers under them, they realized a peculiarity in the air. Their noses began to burn. Their eyes itched a little. They gripped their obsidian knifes harder, determined to power through. Cela sprang into the air, hitting the ground galloping and meeting them with spears. Fighting a hill changeling was like fighting a boar, hard, but nothing impossible. They charged through, ramming into whomever they had in front and slashing away. A Cela had to suffer seeing his friend being knocked off his hooves after a Lekl collided headfirst into his chest, trampled his face while he still stood, and stabbed him in the barrel. Another was able to ram into a Cela, gut him, then grab onto another’s spear, tackle him and hack away at his withers before he was brought down by two spears to the barrel. They were very successful against the canyon changelings, a Cela later claimed to have witness a Lekl ram into one, beat his jaw bloody, then break another’s spear after which he grabbed onto is neck, which he also broke but not before he had been speared, yet he continued on his rampage. He hacked away at another canyon changeling until a spear went through his neck - thanks to a screaming canyoner. Even though they lacked experience, the canyon changelings joyously went on surehoofed, keeping close, their spirits carried by religious fervor. Soon the canyon changelings’ reformed a spear wall, which hundreds of Lekl tried to break, only to fall under it. Where the Lekl did not fare well was where they had begun to lose ground and where the Cela had advanced the fastest: the center. In the brief moments were the battle seemed even, the ahuizotl's claws flew undaunted over the main line of fighting. The Coyote Cela warriors were armed with the macauhuitl, a club edged with obsidian blades: a weapon that could hack through plates considerably well, they were alos the only warriors to use shields, not out of tradition, but out of lack of resources. Their shields were emblazoned with symbols and colorful feathers to strike the Lekl in the face with. One of the Coyote Cela punted a Lekl in the head as he charged, the Lekl then rose on his hind legs and struck him the snout but he quickly hacked at his foreleg, swung up, and drove down the obsidian blades completely through his neck, cutting the Lekl’s head off in a mess. He also ruined one side of the weapon. Pefeyadous, though having reached half his life, was quite adapt in fighting. He always went for the face, it was said, with his spear held high above his withers. He was easily recognizable, and he showed every warrior that fantasied on killing the Lord of the Cela that he was quite wrong, and that he would not live to tell he had fought him. Many Lekl would blink and rub their burning eyes, only to find that the Cela would give them no such luxury. Suddenly the Cela seemed to be everywhere, splotched with red. Luciferin was quite nimble, he had already dodged more than a dozen charged and even taken down a hooffull of enemies. The Arua’illah began losing their grip on their senses. Perhaps it would be appropriate to say the last thing they remembered was seeing Lord Perfeyadous make his bodyguard haul hind to catch up to him. He flyhopped his way over enemies, completely disregarding them, to reach the dead lord. Now in the middle of the fight to keep the Arua’illah steady, Ipnickeri’s bodyguard had also charged. Perfeyadous eyes were said to have looked obsessed at that moment. Luciferin struggled to fly over the enemies slashing at him. It happened very quickly. Perfeyadous landed, rose on his hind legs, and let out a shrill yell as he beat his spear against his chest. Ipnickeri’s guards flinched. He charged. One of them left the group and attacked the Cela Lord, but he, in turn, speared his face through, jumped over his withers, lunged at the dead lord, and pulled on the platform. Luciferin sprinted. He was breathing hard. He arrived just in time to push off a Lekl guard lunging at his lord. The dead lord fell off the platform and Perfeyadous began stomping on his head with morbid joy as he yelled and screeched. Crack The remaining guards were left eye-wide as it became clear that the putrid, thick-black, seeping remains of their leader would protect them no more, or had never protected them at all. So, these 'bravest' Lekl guards turned tail, fled for their lives, without so much as bothering with Luciferin. Seeing this, the hundreds of Arua’illah changelings around lost their resolve. By this point, however, those not fighting behind them were clustered, custered behind their falling comrades, unable to charge anywhere. They began to hear things. They began to see things. Those fighting quickly fell, unable to orient themselves. Those behind them lost track of who was friend and foe. Resolve was lost, as was clarity, and the battle. A Lekl rammed into his buddy and slashed wildly. He fought back. Those around them pounced at each other. Those further back realized the only way out was to flee. The conch bellowed five times, signaling the final blow of the Sev’illah army. The ahuizotl’s tail, the Cela Iguanas, charged from the back left, opening another front and throwing the Lekl into further confusion. Soon, what remained of the Arua’illah Lekl army found itself on full retreat. When no one was left fighting against the Cela, that was completely sure of whom they were fighting, the conch bellowed six times. A cheer finally rose from the Cela. Jubilant, they punched the air before them and chanted. Looking back all the field’s flowers had been trampled, and only rows and waves of bodies decorated the field. Perfeyadous raised their standard. “Come my brothers! Let us enjoy the sweet juice of the rarest fruit: victory!” Curiously, it would be worth mentioning that whoever survived the Cela’s mist was left with a mango taste in their throat afterwards. And so, the Battle of Calara Field ended: with the Sev’illah Cela hunting down and capturing whoever they could before they where too far away. This was a grand sport to them. In the end, more than three thousand six hundred of the Arua’illah’s force perished, with around eight hundred and seventy of the allied forces of the Sev’illah having layed down their lives for the Cela cause - most of Sychopi’s forces included. * Now we find a still bloody Ale’kal, a clean Luciferin and Perfeyadous on a hill, surrounded in vegetation arranged for them to sit on comfortably, with a large fire burning in the distance. The sun is beginning to set. “These are the best news I've heard since Topoch Ico declared it was still Cela territory. I almost can’t believe news of our victory traveled so far so quickly.” Ale’kal marveled. “The cliff clans will be great allies against the interior clans, not to mention what we will be able to do now that the mountain clans have joined as well. Never in the history of the Black Palace has an entire race declared themselves part of a clan.” “So will we allow all the mountain changelings to join the Sev’illah Cela?” asked Luciferin. “Of course we will!” Ale’kal exclaimed with enthusiasm. “The news of all the mountain changelings united under one banner alone will make the interior clans use the name Cela to scare naughty younglings into obeying!” “This is the start of a new era.” said Perfeyadous. “The misery our brothers are forced to live in will be no more! No longer will clans pay tribute to the central clans of the Black Palace. We will rule.” “Absolutely.” said a new voice. Luciferin frowned. “My Kyat,” Sychopis bowed. "I have even greater news." “Greater than all the mountain changelings joining the Cela? I highly doubt that.” Spat Luciferin. “What is it?” Sychopis looked past Luciferin now. “Many of your subjects wish to convert now, after your glorious victory, my Kyat.” He bowed once more. Luciferin turned to look at Lord Perfeyadous so quickly, Sychopis felt it correct to add to his previous statement. “They seem quite taken, my Kyat. Surely this is an important day for us my Kyat, it has been full of Mother’s blessings.” Mother, Luciferin thought bitterly. Mother, the god. Pah. “Excelent.” Perfeyadous rose. Luciferin started, he turned to look at Ale’kal, who looked immediately away. “Mother gave us victory today, Luciferin.” Sychopis grinned. Luciferin opened his mouth to speak, but he cut him off swiftly. “Is that not true, my Kyat”? "Yes… I had a dream, my brothers.” he said addressing the general and Luciferin. “I was thirsty, alone in the desert, but here was nothing than barren sand for miles. Suddenly a bush covered in dew appeared before me. Mother’s voice then spoke to me, and she told me that if I flew her banner today, she would give me the Black Place. So, I woke.” He stood now next to Sychopis, who was slightly taller. “Truth is my brothers, I saw my own father mutilate himself to get our gods’ help before we fled to the Tenemachili when I was young. Defeat after defeat, the gods seemed to have forgotten about my father. He even... cut off a piece of his tongue. He died... later you know I ordered that poor princess skinned, all to make sure they would hear my family once more... but what did I end up having to do? Drag my clan to a piss hole to live in safely, that's what!" he roared. "And for fourteen years we remained in the isle. It wasn’t until Sychopis showed me the truth that a comet streaked through the skies.” “But my Kyat,” Luciferin blurted out. “Tonatlaan sur-” “Tonatlaan is dead! Dead!” Perfayadous yelled furiously. “Where was Tonatlaan when my father could no longer talk to me? When we were in exile? Where?!” Indeed, shortly after Perfeyadous's father Toni'rrivadous Cela, died of an infection, Luciferin shrank. Perfeyadous had hardly ever yelled at him. Ale’kal froze. “The old gods have had their time. I have seen the truth. All the souls in the Black Palace will be saved, and even you will be compelled to kneel before Mother in time.” Sychopis smiled. “My Kyat,” Ale’kal rose. “I beg you forgive me, but I haven’t eaten since before the battle, and I am starving, surely Luciferin is too, and we must check on the moral of the Cela. Plus, I keep thinking of how brave the Enao’illah were, and it makes me even hungrier.” “You’re not eating some of the Lekl, are you?” Sychopis said as he wrinkled his nose. “Of course not the Lekl.” Perfeyadous nodded. Ale’kal nodded back “Come Luciferin.” Both turned to leave. “Oh, what’s the matter with me?” Sychopis gasped in untrue shock. “I haven’t even said the best news yet.” “What, Sychopis?” Luciferin spat back. “Mother has sent us another sign, from beyond the desert.” “Nothing crosses the desert.” “Not something, but someone, and she did.” “She?” Perfeyadous asked. “Mother has called us today to go beyond what any clan has gone, in her name. She has sent us a leader to follow.” “Follow to what?” “To a place that will bring us closer to her... For this, she has sent us…” he made a sweeping gesture with his foreleg. “... A queen.” If there was something every changeling in the Black Place knew, it was that there were no royal changeling types. Not since the times of the old gods. Luciferin mouth went agape for a second, and for a second he looked at Sychopis and looked as if he was about to growl and bare his fangs. Ale’kal shook his head. “My Kyat, we will go eat now. Come Luciferin, come!” He grabbed Luciferin by the withers and dragged him down the hill with him. “Nothing crosses the desert. Nothing crosses the desert.” Luciferin kept muttering. “No… Nothing crosses the desert." he cried. "No one can cross the desert!”
Serio's StoryAuthor's Note You, dearest reader, might have never heard the term 'Southron'. It means 'southern', and it is used in this context to define those living south of, and those areas south of, the Badlands. These are the counterparts of the real-world Latin countries. Some believe that what lies south of Equestria is the land of the zebras. I bring forward the notion that this is not likely, as the zebra lands are 'far away', and Equestria is meant to represent, to some degree, the Unites States nation. 'Manehattan'? So here you will see puns using the parts of a horse, and other horse related things - in Spanish! Serio's Story On a warm summer evening in the Southron city of Nova Cresta, Mexihock, - a charming little town with colonial buildings that gained a coppery color at sunset - bell tolls signaled the eighth hour, and the end of practice in the ‘Universal Ocelote’ dojo. The plaza, as the dojo was in the center of town, was soon covered with the usual crowd of ponies wanting to arrive home before sundown. Meanwhile, doves parted as an older stallion made his way to the Universal, but he did so - so slowly and with such an aura of amusement around him, onlookers who did not recognize him wondered what he found so new, though wiser youths found they appreciated the stallion’s pleased look of fulfillment. He tipped his hat, as the orange sun was at the end of the road and sending its last rays directly at him. However, not everyone felt the need to behave calmly. In the Dojo, not everyone had left. The dojo was a two-story building, in the corner intersection of two perpendicular streets, wide with a curved front wall. Beyond the heavy, wooden front door was the reception area, with some chairs, then the training area, with a padded floor and a mirror-covered wall, and, at the end of the back wall were stairs leading up and a door that led to a kitchen, with another door that led to a large garden. The garden’s grass was as green as could be, and the walls - ten meters long - were covered with green vines with red flowers, and there were plenty of citrus fruit trees. Four foals remained in, but one could not wait to see his teacher out of sight. He leaped of the roof, landed on a windowsill and busted out of the room. “He’s gone! Maestro Fernando’s gone! Come out!” Three others emerged out of various rooms. One was a short, husky, blue colt earth pony of a kinder nature, one was a green filly earth pony with odd habits, and the other was also a filly, but a light yellow unicorn of a colder nature. And of course, there was also the red pegasus who had made the whole plan of staying behind hidden in the unused second-story of the building. None of the others had wanted to stay, for a variety of reasons, the girls were going to have their own sleepover, but the red pegasus, Salvador, had convinced each one individually that he or she was the only one who did not want to stay, and had thus pressured them all into staying. “This is a terrible idea!” cried Benito, the blue earth colt. “I have no idea why I agreed to this, you don’t even have any food. This isn’t even close to the sleepovers I know!” The four of them headed down the stairs. “Benito,” began the pegasus. “calm yourself… there’s plenty food in the kitchen, I'm sure. Besides, this place is better than my house.” “I for one agree,” said Montserrat, the yellow unicorn, with a measure disdain. “your house is a dump. And I hope I'm not wasting my time here.” “I think it’s very cute how you’re trying to make it sound like you’re not happy to be here with us.” Salvador responded. “On the contrary!” Montserrat suddenly gripped Magally, the green earth pony, in a tight hug. “I'm more than happy to have some girl time with Magpie! Isn’t right Magally?” “Um, yes yes.” Magally said, trying to regain her balance. “But let’s not argue guys, were a team, and the competition is Sunday.” “No one is arguing, Magally.” said Salvador softly. “Right, Montserrat?” “Absolutely not.” She let go of Magally and shot him a glare. “However, if you try anything out of line today, I’ll make sure this little scheme of yours blows up so hard in your face that you will be looking for your snout in Lleguascalientes! Now,” she took everyone in with a look. “Let’s do something rather fun for a change. Show me the old photo album you said you found.” They reached the end of the stairs. “Oh with pleasure. But first let me find something else. Why don’t you two head to the garden?” he said, referring to Montserrat and Magally, when he noticed they weren’t around him, only Benito. Looking up, he noticed Montserrat had stopped to look at herself in the mirror that was halfway-down the stairs. “Do I look quite pretty, Magpie?” she asked while taking a hoof through the top of her orange mane. “Like right now?” “Precisely right now.” “Does it matter if you look pretty?” Magally asked with a raised brow. “Oh you should learn a bit from me. It matters because I AM pretty.” “Hurry down already!” yelled Salvador. Magally discretely pointed at him with her green eyes. “Maybe you should ask someone else if you look pretty...” brow raise, brow raise. “Ugh Magally!” Montserrat spat, as her cheeks slightly changed to a warmer color. “I swear by the Pure Lady I have zero idea what you mean!” she turned away from the mirror and thundered down the stairs. “It’s not like there isn’t a wall covered in mirror down here.” Benito added. “They were too far Beni.” She muttered under her breath as she passed him. “Come Benito!” roared Salvador as he gave him a hard slap on his withers. “Let me show you the food you oh-so clamored for.” They headed to the kitchen as the girls went outside. “You just looked at yourself in a mirror.” Magally’s voice was heard. “Ah! But only my head! Come! Don’t shy away from the mirror, you are very, and naturally, pretty too.” “Aww thank yo-” * “Ugh! Girl talk, am I right?” Salvador said as he shut the door to the kitchen. “They are very strange.” agreed Benito. “Remember in first grade when they hated each other?” Salvador kept looking through the small rectangular window in the door. Beni looked through as well, but only saw Montserrat. “Salvador?” “Yea.” “Salvador!” “What!?” he spat. “The food, dude!” “Oh, correcto. Light up a candle.” He headed over to the kitchen pantry. “Ta-da!” Benito looked on. In dismay. “Are you kidding me!?” Salvador, who hadn’t really looked, looked. “Oh.” “There's like only potatoes here!” “Potatoes?” “Potatoes!” “Maybe they’re sweet potatoes. Hey look, there are some... eight bananas.” “Wha-none of these are sleepover foods! See?!" he held out a potato. "What did I tell you?!” “Calm down,” Salvador said with a smile. “we can eat this. It's just as good. And healthier.” “Smart hind, do you want to eat raw potatoes?” Benito said with skepticism. “Oh you say it like it’s a big deal, we’ll just cook all of these.” “The bananas too?” Benito said, not so much incredulous as he was unwilling. “Yes them too.” “You’ll burn them.” He said defiantly. “Remember what Maestro Fernando said about having an open mind? You can cook bananas. After you cook them they are called fried bananas. It’s like hard bananaey caramel.” Salvador said, matter-o-factly. "Oh, you're the one to speak of open minds but," Benito began to warm up to the idea. “won’t the peels give us indigestion?” “You don’t eat the peel!” He hoof-palmed his forehead. “Look, just-just take these outside, I need to look for the small grill and the fire starter rocks.” “What?! Are you insane?” “What?! Benito, what?!” “You can’t play with fire, especially not in this place!” “Did you take your anxiety powder this morning?” “That’s not funny.” “Just-just go outside!” Salvador said as he pushed him out the door to the garden. “Jeez, do girls call these ‘guy talk’? Blast.” He closed the door behind Benito. * “Hi Lili, I'm sorry I hadn’t talked to you today, I was really busy.” Magally told Lili, the lemon tree, or Citrus Limon. “But I’ll be here until morning.” Lili the lemon tree rustled. Magally was puzzled, she tilted her head. “What do you mean?” Lili the lemon tree rustled. Magally’s eyes widened. “Guys!” “Magpie, are you talking to plants again?” Montserrat asked. “Guys, we should go.” Magally fidgeted. “Lili says someone’s gona show up.” “Come sit, Magpie. Lili probably needs more sugar and what not.” “I-I… but she says Maestro Seri-” The night had fallen and Salvador appeared on the garden with a small grill full of charcoals, and the old photo album. “Ok now, time for scary stories of ooooold, uuuuuu.” A large fire erupted to life with a spark, which became smaller almost instantly since the charcoals hadn’t turned into a firebed yet. Montserrat, who was leaning on a lawn chair, magically yanked the old album from his hooves and opened it. Magally, sitting next to her leaned in, as did Benito. “Uuu, let’s see what this is about.” The first page had old pictures of a familiar young stallion in an outlandish and feathery costume. “Is that…?” Benito wondered. “Why, yes it is!” Montserrat nodded. The next had pictures of the city. The pictures of the vibrant city changed into those of ruins, when the city was occupied by the dark creatures of the netherrealms, long long ago. In fact, few pictures of that time existed, and those had to be the most any of them had ever seen in one place. After some fourteen pictures, a new set came. One of the same young stallion, but with the golden armor of the Equestrian Royal Guard, and surrounded by some smiling guards as well. Salvador’s expression broke and fell. “Mictlan! What the hey is he doing with those idiot Equestrians? I always thought he was a proud Southron.” Salvador spat. “Ugh, here we go again.” Montserrat rolled her eyes. “Salvador!” Magally shoved him. “You’d do good if you stopped having such prejudices. You have never even met an Equestrain!” “I don’t need to meet one. They are so immoral I'm surprised you’d defend them! You’re a Southron. Don’t take the side that’s against us, especially when we are about to beat some this weekend!” “Salvador, calm down.” Said Beni. “You always get so riled up when Equestria comes up, besides, we are not beating anyone. We are having a tournament, were we might go against a team that is from Equestria, with whom we might have a good competition against, and Pure Lady willing, win against.” The fire began burning steadily. “Well I am beating any Equestrain that they put me up against. And I say beat as in ‘beat down’. Look at them,” he pointed at the picture, as everyone got increasingly irritated with another of his outbursts of anger. “do you think whatever Equestrian that manages to win against us won’t gloat his head off? That’s how those equines are.” “You’re not making us sound any better.” Magally pressed. “Enough you two.” shouted Beni. “I thought we were all here to have a good time before the competition. Not to argue about regions and nationalities!” “I was just trying to say, Benito.” Salvador said, trying to recover his composure. “That there is no sense in having such respect for the adversary.” “Ah! I hate when you get like this!” Argued Magally. “What about having some appreciation and love for your fellow horse and showing understanding for a different culture? And respect! Although I don’t know if I should be surprised to hear this from someone who failed Civics class, oh by her Pureness you’d also fail Catechism if they gave grades!” “Don’t be a hippie Ma-” “Guys, let’s not let a picture make us descend into insults! This is so trivial!” Montserrat said. “As Magpie said earlier, we are a team.” “Well Montserrat,” continued Salvador, who stood tall as if indignated. “I was only saying what I was thinking-” “That’s the problem with you!” said a new voice. “You kids hear ‘you’ll understand when you’re older’ but that has always been such cow crap, what we should say is ‘you’ll understand because you’ll be older’,” said the stallion who we saw earlier walking towards the dojo. He threw his hat aside, having had its hatfull of sunshine already, and with a beat of his wings got in front of the smaller Salvador. “You say what you think because you’re neither smart enough to say ‘I say what I know’ nor wise enough to know why you shouldn’t say ‘what you think’. You act like a complete idiot and dishonor your predecessors who gave their lives to evacuate the city during the Dark Times. A true stallion knows when to talk and knows what he is talking about, and you know neither!” he yelled. “Maestro Serio! I swear I didn’t know - I thought, I-” Everypony was shocked to see him, that is everypony except Magally who had learned Maestro Serio sometimes came to the garden at night from Lili, the lemon tree. “I don’t know why I am more disappointed.” His chest rose. His orange wings looked massive in comparison to the shrinking colt, and he bore his big green eyes into him. “Because you thought it was a good idea to start a fire in my garden, or because of what you’ve been saying! You do realize Equestrains helped free the very city you take for granted? I never take these streets I walk for granted, a lot was done to rescue this city!” “The fire is com-” Maestro Serio took the hose and sprayed a patch of grass, and dragged the small grill to the patch. “You should all be resting for Sunday.” “But it’s Friday.” Said Benito. “I didn’t ask you what day it was.” “Well, Magpie was gona have a sleepover with me, but we came here because Salvador said he had found old treasures and that he had marshmallows.” Said Montserrat. “Which he didn’t.” said Benito. “That’s right, throw me under the carriage.” Muttered Salvador. “What are these treasures you’re talking about?” Asked Maestro Serio. “This.” Montserrat floated the album to him. “Where’s your Maestro, Maestro Fernando? Where is he?” he asked with a hint of irritation, Fernando was after all, his prodige, and Fernando’s was, disappointingly, Salvador. “Um… he left.” Serio placed a hoof on his heart. “And you all hid here!?” “Yes.” “Oh!” Serio exclaimed once he opened the album. “I haven’t seen this in some years! These were taken more than thirty years ago, when I was on my twenties. So many things have happened since…” his ears perked up. “Is this what you were yelling about?!” he spat, Salvador shrunk even more. “You were pissing on my memories is that what you were doing!? Then by the Pure Lady, I don’t think you deserve to go to the tournament, if you think for a second you are even worthy of putting your presence with theirs’ in the same sentence!” “Not theirs!” he took a pose of indignation once more. “But Equestrians, I mean, Southrons have a rich history of having an abundance of every noble quality that comes with conflict.” “Oh, have you held a spear, a sword, or a bow?” “I can figh-” “Have you ever been in an army, have you ever been shot by a magic bolt? Have you fired a harquebus? Have you ever seen the horrors you think you know so well? Not only that, have you ever understood your opponent?” “No…” Maestro Serio raised his front hooves. “Then you’re wrong on this opinion you seem to still ty to defend! Simple as that.” He leaned closer to him. “Learn.” He turned to Benito. “Benito, bring the potatoes and peel the bananas, the rest of you bring the chairs over here, take a seat, and I’ll tell you the story of these pictures, would you all like that?” “Yes!” Magally nodded. “Yes.” Benito answered. “Yes…” Muttered Salvador. “Outstanding! Come hear, my friends. My story begins many years ago, but it doesn’t begin in Equestria, or with me. Or with Equines for that matter.
The Black PalaceAs the sun sets, an equine skeleton lies in the sand, warning anyone that would stumble upon it to not go any further into the Corvejonaloa Desert. Dr. Mari Ethol, once a passionate researcher rather than a medical doctor, had not always been so dead. She had great appreciation for the resilient creatures of the Mexihockan deserts, so much in fact that she decided to venture bravely, or foolhardily, into the center of the Corvejonaloa - against the advice of her more superstitious Southron colleagues. ‘Cursed!’ She had once laughed. She had done so for reason. She believed to have discovered a whole new sentient specie, news that were received with stunned silence, not because of the implications, but because she had said ‘in the Black Palace’ at the end. Looking beyond the noble remains of Dr. Ethol, one would not describe the Corvejonaloa as a sand box. The desert starts as a barren stretch of sand and mountains, which after considerable distance, drops into a semi-circular cliff. Inside said canyon, after a consider drop, the desert becomes a giant forest of shrubs, giant cacti and rocks, that at its center is as tall as the canyon walls and becomes progressively scarcer and scarcer - until it reaches the sliver of water that is the sea of Cortesia, after a considerable amount of thorns. That is the Black Palace, where almost nopony dares enter, and the place tribesponies consider to be the entrance to the underworld. Their art, the culture of the area, depicts what some might call ‘grotesque beings’ of many sizes, sharp fangs, glowing eyes and strange limbs riddled with holes in this place. Equines punished by the gods? Demons then? - Many wonder. The beach, where the ‘Black Palace’ ends, is a collection of mangroves surrounded by sharp rocks. In the middle of this poor lake-like area surrounded by rocks lies one small isle. In such lands only the strong survive. For the Black Palace is as large and as vast as a city, as is the desert around it, and there is ample room for conflict. Hidden from Equestrain eyes, hidden from Southron eyes, blazing blue eyes moved through the briars. These eyes had seen a comet streaking through the heavens and a devastating fire burn down the easterly hive towers. These eyes belonged to ‘changelings’. These were divine signs of future victory and conquest… to the Sev’illah Cela. The Sev’illah Cela welcomed these signs and sprang into action with little hesitation. The clan had lived in exile in the Netemachili, the storm-swept isle covered in prickly pears near the mangrove beach for almost a decade. They had faded into the isle’s mists and their former glory had been almost forgotten, but after seeing the signs they had all realized the same thing: It was time to reveal themselves, and to retake their rightful place. The Cela were savage. Zealous. The Black Palace clans had much to fear. In order to understand the manner of the clans peculiar to the Black Palace one must understand their history, and language. Their language, phonetic - not written, is a mixture of clicks, chirps, and long vowel sounds, which give origin to words like ‘Sev’illah Cela’ and the hated ‘Arua’illah Lekl’. The latter clan, ‘The Land Masters of the Hills clan’ roughly translated, had once been the masters of the Sev’illah Cela. The Sev’illah, ‘The Warriors of the Mountains clan’, as legend goes, had come from the northern mountains, looking for a permanent home. In exchange for a place to live the Arua’illah used them as hired warriors and workers. However, as prosperity blessed the Sev’illah and they began to expand on their own thanks to their frightening skills, the Arua’illah decided to rally their allies, one of which were the Enao’illah Arrtiss - owners of the now burned down hive towers in the east -, and subjugate the new generation of Sev’illah permanently, convinced they would learn their place swiftly. On the contrary, the Cela were humiliated, and their blood boiled for a fight. In an attempt to convince their vassal’s future generations that their relationship was fatherly, the Arua’illah gave their princess to them, which the Cela priests skinned and offered to their sun-god: Tonatlaa. This angered the Lekl, who planned on retaliating furiously with all they had, until they found out the Cela had fled to the Netemechili. The name Sev’illah began to be chirped with constant worry. They have left the isle, all where sure. As everywhere else, speculation and rumors preceded conflict much like thunder precedes lightning. The rumors and speculations were clear: The Cela are coming for revenge. Some cackled, while others fled deeper into the Black Palace in response. Now we arrive to a field were vague anxiety hovered over a large crowd of changeling creatures, particular in how they were naturally stronger and bigger, they had three forward-facing horns, their shells were thicker, and their heads bore a hard, boney neck frill. In short, the Arua’illah Lekl were built to ram in a fight, for they were more brawn than brains. They were accompanied by the now-homeless Enao’illah, clad in light wooden armor, the smaller but numerous, desperate, changeling rabble - similar to the ones an Equestrian would now be well acquainted with - readied for the thankless task of ridding the Black Palace of the Sev’illah Cela, whom they had never encountered before. It was no rumor though, then and there, that the Cela where on their way. It was a certainty. The Lekl swiveled their heavy heads and stretched their limbs, they believed their brawn would beat the Cela back to their rock and in time they would once again be their servants, however a dark, smoky doubt lingered in their small brains. The Sev’illah had always fought in smaller numbers than whomever they went against, and they won; they had not been seen in action in a while - So is the legend that fighting them is a horror, true? The field was a clearing out of a dense forest, and the Arua’illah’s side was surprisingly covered in fragrant yellow flowers. A small cheer went up the Lekl. Their leader had arrived. Ipnikeri was ruthless, decisive, and had been dead for five years. He had come, not to lead his clan as a terrifying undead lich, but because his withered corpse had been hauled out of his ceremonial pit, placed on a platform made with woven palm leaves and set in a meditative-looking position. He was carried by a fiercely loyal bodyguard, and he would speak through his shamen. Once they had heard of his arrival the Lekl gained another reason to believe in victory: their leader had come to lead them from beyond. Upon seeing this, a young Cave Changeling left the skirmishers in the forest and flew back to the advancing army. He was a slender creature, young, with milky eyes and a body that could make its own light in the lower torso. His flight gave evidence of his need to stay in low light, and a resolution particular to those who have been accustomed to danger ever since their more younger, fragile states. Having flown over numerous clan warriors, some armed with wooden spears, spiked clubs, and maquahuitl clubs - some of the skirmishers were armed with long cacti, actually -, he lighted down in front of the clan lord’s bodyguard. “E aanerr emnem aea sev tallana, Kyat Perfeyadous!” although, it would make more sense to say he said, in a language we understand: “I bring news about the enemy army, Lord Perfeyadous!” “Ah! It’s you Luciferin!” cried the lord of the Sev’illah Cela as he stepped forward. He was like other Cela changelings, except he sported an open-faced helm that resembled a gaping axolotl, which looks like a fatter, flatter version of the salamander, with six long sapphire-blue feathers. The Cela, or mountain, changelings were longer than the normal changeling, had four horns, four wings - one of Perfeyadous’s was battered -, four eyes - two of which were smaller and to the sides of the head -, and an iridescent shell. However, they possessed a unique and unmatched ability. Oh, and they were also cannibals, another reason many clans considered them unsavory. “What has changed that you yourself came to tell me?” “Kyat Perfeyadous, Ipnikeri is leading them!” “Ha!” he laughed so heartily he hopped. “A corpse!” he turned to his bodyguard and to the Cela around him. ‘Rejoice Cela! The enemy is being led by a corpse!” There was a short, but clear cheer. “My Kyat, they seemed in good spirits, the Lekl.” pressed Luciferin. “And so are we.” Perfeyadous made a sweep with his foreleg, encompassing many in front and behind. “And I think we have been blessed. Now we won’t only win, but we will strike a blow so harsh once I topple over Ipnikeri’s dead body and step on it until it turns to dust that the Arua’illah will beg for peace.” He smiled. “Axul,” he told one of his guards. “send word to commander Ale’kal that the vanguard’s priority will be to reach Ipnickeri, and that I will see him shortly.” “Yes my Kyat.” He responded, and flew off. “Luciferin,” continued Perfeyadous. “I’ve known you since you were smaller than my hoof, so tell me, what troubles you?” Perfayadous had indeed almost raised Luciferin. He was his prodigy, the one he was never able to have - a sad story that is still unclear, as to why he never had an offspring legend says he was left heartbroken after his first love perished -, even though he was not a Cela changeling. Of all the Sev’illah Cela, Luciferin had the name that was hardest to say. His origins were quite curios. He had been found ‘in a hollow metallic place’ in the desert, next to a weird fat deer and a rock that kept repeating something that sounded like ‘conitanis luciferin, conitanis luciferin, conitanis luciferin.’ Or at least, it is said, that was what Perfeyedous had been able to sound out when he had heard the strange tongue coming from the ‘rock’. He took ‘Conitanis Luciferin Cela’ in his forelegs. Luciferin had been in some battles, but as a message runner, and had never shown cowardice. “That is a large army.” “It is.” In the warfare of the Black Palace, the Sev'illah Cela believed that morphing in battle into the enemy, or someone special to the enemy, or anything other than a mountain changeling, was extremely dishonorable. The Lekl, in turn, were quite proud of their natural strength, so they rearly morphed in battle. Some of their brightest moments in conflict did involve taunting their opponents into charging them by morphing into them and then running them down under their weight. Their strategy was the same, have the Enao'illah hold them up as long as they could, then charge through when the Cela's numbers were thickest. “Ah, you do know me to well. It’s true, the Lekl don’t concern me in the least! I can’t wait to see them cry in terror, but what does bother me is the… additions my Kyat has made to this force.” Luciferin looked around to see if who he was referring to was near. “I doubt the commitment of Sychopis and his band…” Sychopis, in turn, was one of the changelings who lived in the cliff hives. He was tall, his limbs were skinny, his eyes were noticeably wide, his wings were tremendously big and his hooves looked almost clawed. He, and his followers, which numbered around four hundred and thirty, had adopted the outrageous idea of polytheism, and very violent sacrifice. Perfeyadous nodded. “He’ll do his part, now you must do yours. Now go see to it that everyone is aware of who is leading the enemy’s army, and confirm that Ale’kal’s teams are ready.” He said in a way that left no room to question. “Yes, my Kyat.” Luciferin bowed, and flew off. What worried him was not the battle, but what would happen after it, he did not understand it, but he believed cave changelings had an refined senses when it came to danger. As far as he knew, it had to do with Sychopis and his ilk. Something was coming. Surely they would march on and burn down the hill fortress of Aura'icalan. He pushed his anxieties from his mind, for now at least. "Awake the Xicuruata!" yelled the lord, raising another cheer. In their mythology, the Xicuruata was what they called the ahuizotl creature, their war god and the implacable beast that drowned anything that threatened it. * Ale'kal was a great example of the early glory days of Sev'illah Cela. Born in the hive of 'Topoch Ico', a still prospering hive on the tail-like peak of a small but long mountain in the shape of a bump, surrounded by a narrow valley on which mineral water flows-on the mountains, he was born to a soldier family and learned as much as a Cela changeling could learn about anything, and dedicated to what would be called 'hive architecture' after his drone service. Many considered him to be funny, for a Cela changeling. It was in his late teens when Topoch Ico was attacked by an enemy clan. At the time, there were none of the generals loyal to Perfeyadous, but merely a garrison of mixed talents, as it is recorded. In what seemed like an easy victory, and an assured massacre against a seemingly leaderless army, the enemy clan attacked. Ale'kal stepped in, declared himself commander, named some strong and charismatic Sev'illahs as his subordinates, paid others to fight with food, and led the Cela to a glorious and incredible victory that in turn decimated the enemy clan’s ability to protect their home in the desert - which was sacked. He immediately gained the attention of Perfeyadous because of his fluid strategies and strong likability. It was decided that his talents were being wasted in the rank and file drones of 'Fortress' Topoch Ico, and he was made general of the north. Of the Cela army marching to meet the Lekl, three groups were considered special, and had been placed under Ale’kal. As the entire army was symbolically the embodiment of their ahuizotl god, each team was thought as a symbolic part of the ahuizotl. The coyotes - the claws, the scorpions - the teeth, and the iguanas - the tail. The members of each one had an open-faced helm that looked like their respective animal agape. The scorpions were great spear throwers, the iguanas were, curiously, very fast runners, and the coyotes were part of the priests of the mountain god Coiet, who knew how to rip out a heart cleanly with obsidian blades. The iguanas had brought one hundred and twenty of their fighters, the scorpions one hundred and eighty, and the coyotes one hundred. “Luciferin!” Ale’kal jumped. “Come praise the sun before sunrise with me, brother! I can already taste the victory!” Luciferin had spread the word as well as he could, so he made sure all was ready as best he could too. “Ale’kal, good to see you in high spirits! Are the three teams ready?” “Yes, I was heading to see Kyat Perfeyadous just know, the battle is upon us, so I recommend you get ready, spread the word.” “Wait, I think, since the battle is not far ahead, tell me, what will role will Sychopis and his lot have?” “Ah yes… them. I recommended they stayed in the back, but Sychopis seems to be getting a tighter grip on our Kyat every day. I’ll thank Tonatlaan when this battle is done, surely a victory will get our Kyat out of his gloom, and out of the need for Sychopis and his god.” Luciferin hopped closer. “Ale’kal, you’re my friend, tell me our numbers and theirs, really, I mean, those who are going to fight.” Ale’kal scratched his side. “Well… you are our Kyat’s kid after all, so by what we’ve gathered from the skirmishers is that there are around three thousand two hundred Enao’illah warband, and two thousand six hundred Arua’illah royals.” “That’s five thousand eight hundred.” “And then some.” “Minus those who aren’t fighting, we have seven hundred here, and twelve brigades of one hundred and forty Cela, plus Sychopis’s canyoners: we have two thousand eight hundred, plus skirmishers.” “Very small difference.” Luciferin nodded. Ale’kal smacked him on the withers. “Yes. Nothing new. Are you concerned?” “Agaist Enao’illahs? Ha!” Luciferin laughed nervously. “Well let’s get going then, our Kyat, oh and glory, awaits.” The two changelings went on, neither of them knowing what awaited in the near future, further from home. For now they only saw one thing: what laid immediately ahead of them. Related to that, their enemy didn't know what awaited them either.
Sev'illah Cela RisingMuch has been said already about the why the Arua’illah believed to have the advantage, now let us turn to the Sev’illah, impetuous and possessed by the bloated god of war. A conch bellowed, catching the attention of those in the flowery side of the field. The field itself was slightly raised, enough for each changeling to see over the head of the one in front of him; the Lekl changelings holding up their dead leader stood on the highest point. They saw none other than Lord Perfeyadous emerge out of the forest afront his army, a scene comparable to what it would look like to trip on an ant hill and watching the numberless ants emerge slowly out of the dirt. The clearing between them must’ve been something like two hundred meters long, slightly more than two football fields. The mountain changelings were said to possess loud, carrying voices, but even so, no one seemed to have a louder voice than the Cela Lord. He raised the obsidian-tipped spear he held tightly with the grooves of his foreleg. “Today we will fight as our forefathers did, in the mountains against those who sought to enslave us. Bite them! We will triumph, and add unforgettable glory to the name of our clan! The time approaches... Make ready!” Loud, shrilling cheers erupted in the thousands. Confidence was infected even to those in the far back who had not heard him. A conch bellowed twice. A slight breeze blew away from the Sev’illah and towards the other force, cooling the hot backs of the changelings and bringing forth the smell of vegetation. After this, the field was quite quiet, enough for the field’s insects’ ugly music to be heard, until the marching sound of hoovesteps replaced it. The teeth of the ahuizotl, the spear throwers, advanced past their lord, all one hundred and eighty, and stopped. These clanschangelings were a cut above the average warrior, and were often the lynchpin of their lord’s battle strategy. The presence of the Cela Scorpions in the line of battle was plenty to raise the hearts of all those around them, making their determination to resist the heavy blows of their enemies dauntless. Perfeyadous knew they would hold, and had based his strategy around that fact. They were slightly more armored than the Enao’illah Arrtiss, they wore armor vests made of braided jute and hardened with brine, their helmets - since the scorpion is a small creature and one can’t say they can be ‘agape’ - looked like a big scorpion with its tail raised and with little claws coming out of the sides, and their spears were tipped with a scorpion venom that stiffened the muscles and made them feel heavy. Each one carried plenty of spears, one they fought with, and the others they threw with a tool known to the Southron ponies as the ‘atlatl’. The factors which led the three groups to acquire such an exalted position within their clan’s warriors were hard to define: training and skill played their part, but spiritual and physical endurance were highly praised. It was thought that if the normal Cela kept fighting like a good changeling, even when the tide of battle was against him, their heroes had to be able to accomplish much more miraculous feats. Like charging into the thousands successfully. A lucky few carried such strength within, while the others emulated them because of their example. Such colorful words raise questions of the possibility of their prowess. The mountain changelings’ fangs weren’t any sharper, nor their body any hardier, than the even the Arrtiss changelings’. What actually made them any more special, and their advantages any more advantageous, was their special ability, mentioned earlier. Two thousand plus Sev’illah Cela stretched their napes, spread their wings, filled their lungs and let out a shrill cry. Again. And again. And again. And again. IIIIIIIAAAAAAAUUUUUUU! The small Enao’illah, who made the front of the opposing force, gripped their spears tighter and skittered closer to a buddy here and there. The Sev’illah let out another shrill cry, and one more. The air around each one became greasy, like a hot summer-day's haze. They began flapping their wings so quickly as to make them disappear in one’s vision, and the haze, which did not affect them, shifted and turned in an odd spectacle of swirling art, and it surged forward - aided by the breeze. The Arrtiss looked at each other, so did some of the Lekl. Soon the mist would pass them, ever so slowly. With another blow of the conch, the ahuizotl’s teeth advanced in a fast pace to get close enough to throw their spears, just as the mist reached the Enao’illah changelings. It felt, indeed, like a mist or light rain. Their noses began to burn. Their eyes itched a little. Meanwhile, Luciferin came to stand next to Lord Perfeyadous, as he had requested, carrying something that also lifted the spirits of the clanschangelings: the Sev’illah Cela banner, made with amate paper, depicting a blue sky and a white, four-peaked mountain. Some of the warriors were painted with these colors, sky blue and white, and some of the youths even strapped poles to their barrels that had strips of these colors tied to them. Luciferin had become accustomed to the mist under his training with Perfeyadous, at least to were its effects were incredibly lessened, still, he covered his snout with a cloth he had wrapped around him all the way to his withers. Their banner, or so he believed, was wrapped in leafs. “The standard, Luciferin.” Perfeyadous held out a pole for all behind him to see, which he would slide through the middle of the banner. What happened next made Luciferin feel a chill up his spine, for the banner, their standard, was not there. In its place, this banner was dark green with a four-leafed, white clover. There was no cheer. “My-my Kyat?” It was they symbol of Sychopis and his ilk, or more specifically, their wild religion. “We are winning today, my child.” He responded quietly. Luciferin swallowed. He looked around, the Cela standard did appear with the capable Axul, but he felt it would be wiser to remain silent. The ahuizotl’s teeth hoped, their spears sailed through the air like arrows. The Battle of Calara – meaning flowery - Field had begun. The Enao’illah would not charge, the Sev’illah were close, but not close enough to consider giving up their defensive pose in their slightly raised ground - highest point of which was occupied by the Arua’illah. The ones in front of the Cela Scorpions must’ve seen something similar to what one would see looking up in a storm. Some tried to dodge. Their noses and eyes burned with more intersity. Some tried to ‘dance’ their way off the spears’ path as they rubbed their eyes. Some put up their forelegs in the hopes that the shaft would not go through a hole. Some succeeded. Others were struck in their softer areas, then tried to palp the frighteningly cold-feeling sting off. Other more unlucky ones were caught around their necks and fell over dead after spewing a mixture of chunky red and white fluids. The idea of how quickly death seemed to come to those unfortunate few disturbed those standing next to them, no matter how brave they believed themselves to be. Those alive but struck began feeling weighted down and cold. Some brave little Arrtiss decided to brake formation to charge them, but these few were quickly brought down in a hideous spectacle. Their bodies were unable to roll properly because of the spears sprouting out of their bodies. So they concluded the best course of action was to avoid the projectiles, as the alternative was running away towards the Arua’illah. An Arrtis further back rose and rallied his comrades, for it was clear to all watching: their resolve was shaken. The balance between their fear of the Arua’illah and their fear toward death was becoming upset; what did not completely throw it over was the knowledge that they were the force superior in numbers. The front group of Enao’illah, each group a hundred or so, as the Sev’illah could see each one clearly, looked scarce, as did the group next to them. As their spears ran out, something worse began happening to the Enao’illah, all of them, not just the ones at the front, for the special ability of the Sev’illah was not only to make eyes water. Two separate conch bellows signaled the ahuizotl’s claws and the rest of the Cela forward. The Arrtiss’s hearts began racing. Dark thoughts overwhelmed their minds. They shook their heads. They rubbed their eyes. They gasped. Some began fearing they wouldn’t be able to hold their composure. The conch bellowed thrice consecutively. The Sev’illah’s shrill cried rung out once more. And they charged as they yelled. The Enao’illah charged as well. The battle lines collided. The Arrtiss looked exemplary brave. As if as one, they rose on their hindlegs, spears pointed forward, and poured onto whatever group of Cela they had in front. If they could catch a Cela off guard, they could stab him in multiple places and bring him down. The Enao’illah’s reality broke apart, this happened to the ones at the front first. The sound of silence took over their ears, until it popped into whispers seeming to come from all around them. Erratic false signals had flooded their hearing. Their eyes, now speckled with dark splotches, fogged up. However, their vision returned quite quickly, as if fog had lifted. They opened their eyes to see, not what they knew should’ve been there. What they saw seemed to be filtered through red water. Black figures with steaming silhouettes came towards them. They were around them. Their eyes looked like seething coals. Sound became like livid ash, except for the whispers that came from nowhere. No mountain changeling had ever experienced the effects of their own mist, but they believe that what happens to others is that they look through the eyes of Xicuruata, the ahuiztol blood-thirsty war god, and hear his voice. So, the Enao'illah were introduced and the Arua’illah reminded of what made mountain changelings special: Their ability to secrete a grave hallucinogen. His opponent's spear pointed forward, a Cela warrior simply smacked it aside, then thrusted his own spear forward. Dodge and thrust, dodge and thrust. Gurgle and the color red. Another Cela stopped a charging Arrtiss by taking stabs at his hooves, then taking a stab toward the neck. By then another Cela had rushed past the Arrtiss, stricken him with his spear in the snout, and continued forward, allowing the first Cela to finish him off. The Cela’s charge was as devastating as had been expected. They lunged forward and speared through whoever was in front. Little fountains of blood appeared here and there, and they grass became pockmarked in thick red smudges. None had it worse than the Arrtiss at the center, as expected. With their reflexes heavily hindered, and pitted against the agile Cela, their numbers began to dwindle. One of the Cela Scorpions was particularly quick; he had speared through one, parried, speared through another to the left, hoped back, thrusted his spear towards another’s hooves making him jump back, and flown towards him with blinding speed, and speared his jaw through - another Arrtiss emerged from the right, but, before he knew it, he had a Cela biting down on his snout, snarling. The Arua’illah’s strategy began to fall, and it fell like dominos. The Arrtiss in the back became affected like their comrades at the front were, but they, now in the chaos of fighting, lost track of which smoky figure was friend or foe, and which sound was a cry for help or bloodthirst. They could not make sense of anything behind or around them, for it was shrouded in shadows and ominous whispers, and they could make little sense of what was before them. One by one, they began to accidentally attack their friends, and more and more followed in their confused and violent wake. Two more signals from a conch rose above the shifting cries in the battle. The ahuizotl’s claws charged above the battle line, towards the Arua’illah line, along with Perfeyadous and his bodyguard. From the left, with the Cela warriors, Ale’kal blew on the conch once more. “Fooooowaaaaaaard!” The Enao’illah were no longer a concern, for they had begun to break. Those able to flee considered what they wanted, to live, and they fled one by one, until they began spiriting and flying out of the battle in groups. Those still thrashing about behind enemy lines would be finished by the skirmishers. Some with giant cacti. The conch bellowed once more. From the back right of the Cela army, the canyon changelings flew forward, their snouts covered as best as they could. Meanwhile, the Enao’illah realized they were losing ground. They turned around to look at the shaman near Ipnickeri. His body was lowered, and the shaman leaned ceremoniously to place his ear slit near the corpse’s mouth. He yelled with his foreleg pointed forward. The Arua’illah needed nothing else, they charged. As their heavy hooves stomped the flowers under them, they realized a peculiarity in the air. Their noses began to burn. Their eyes itched a little. They gripped their obsidian knifes harder, determined to power through. Cela sprang into the air, hitting the ground galloping and meeting them with spears. Fighting a hill changeling was like fighting a boar, hard, but nothing impossible. They charged through, ramming into whomever they had in front and slashing away. A Cela had to suffer seeing his friend being knocked off his hooves after a Lekl collided headfirst into his chest, trampled his face while he still stood, and stabbed him in the barrel. Another was able to ram into a Cela, gut him, then grab onto another’s spear, tackle him and hack away at his withers before he was brought down by two spears to the barrel. They were very successful against the canyon changelings, a Cela later claimed to have witness a Lekl ram into one, beat his jaw bloody, then break another’s spear after which he grabbed onto is neck, which he also broke but not before he had been speared, yet he continued on his rampage. He hacked away at another canyon changeling until a spear went through his neck - thanks to a screaming canyoner. Even though they lacked experience, the canyon changelings joyously went on surehoofed, keeping close, their spirits carried by religious fervor. Soon the canyon changelings’ reformed a spear wall, which hundreds of Lekl tried to break, only to fall under it. Where the Lekl did not fare well was where they had begun to lose ground and where the Cela had advanced the fastest: the center. In the brief moments were the battle seemed even, the ahuizotl's claws flew undaunted over the main line of fighting. The Coyote Cela warriors were armed with the macauhuitl, a club edged with obsidian blades: a weapon that could hack through plates considerably well, they were alos the only warriors to use shields, not out of tradition, but out of lack of resources. Their shields were emblazoned with symbols and colorful feathers to strike the Lekl in the face with. One of the Coyote Cela punted a Lekl in the head as he charged, the Lekl then rose on his hind legs and struck him the snout but he quickly hacked at his foreleg, swung up, and drove down the obsidian blades completely through his neck, cutting the Lekl’s head off in a mess. He also ruined one side of the weapon. Pefeyadous, though having reached half his life, was quite adapt in fighting. He always went for the face, it was said, with his spear held high above his withers. He was easily recognizable, and he showed every warrior that fantasied on killing the Lord of the Cela that he was quite wrong, and that he would not live to tell he had fought him. Many Lekl would blink and rub their burning eyes, only to find that the Cela would give them no such luxury. Suddenly the Cela seemed to be everywhere, splotched with red. Luciferin was quite nimble, he had already dodged more than a dozen charged and even taken down a hooffull of enemies. The Arua’illah began losing their grip on their senses. Perhaps it would be appropriate to say the last thing they remembered was seeing Lord Perfeyadous make his bodyguard haul hind to catch up to him. He flyhopped his way over enemies, completely disregarding them, to reach the dead lord. Now in the middle of the fight to keep the Arua’illah steady, Ipnickeri’s bodyguard had also charged. Perfeyadous eyes were said to have looked obsessed at that moment. Luciferin struggled to fly over the enemies slashing at him. It happened very quickly. Perfeyadous landed, rose on his hind legs, and let out a shrill yell as he beat his spear against his chest. Ipnickeri’s guards flinched. He charged. One of them left the group and attacked the Cela Lord, but he, in turn, speared his face through, jumped over his withers, lunged at the dead lord, and pulled on the platform. Luciferin sprinted. He was breathing hard. He arrived just in time to push off a Lekl guard lunging at his lord. The dead lord fell off the platform and Perfeyadous began stomping on his head with morbid joy as he yelled and screeched. Crack The remaining guards were left eye-wide as it became clear that the putrid, thick-black, seeping remains of their leader would protect them no more, or had never protected them at all. So, these 'bravest' Lekl guards turned tail, fled for their lives, without so much as bothering with Luciferin. Seeing this, the hundreds of Arua’illah changelings around lost their resolve. By this point, however, those not fighting behind them were clustered, custered behind their falling comrades, unable to charge anywhere. They began to hear things. They began to see things. Those fighting quickly fell, unable to orient themselves. Those behind them lost track of who was friend and foe. Resolve was lost, as was clarity, and the battle. A Lekl rammed into his buddy and slashed wildly. He fought back. Those around them pounced at each other. Those further back realized the only way out was to flee. The conch bellowed five times, signaling the final blow of the Sev’illah army. The ahuizotl’s tail, the Cela Iguanas, charged from the back left, opening another front and throwing the Lekl into further confusion. Soon, what remained of the Arua’illah Lekl army found itself on full retreat. When no one was left fighting against the Cela, that was completely sure of whom they were fighting, the conch bellowed six times. A cheer finally rose from the Cela. Jubilant, they punched the air before them and chanted. Looking back all the field’s flowers had been trampled, and only rows and waves of bodies decorated the field. Perfeyadous raised their standard. “Come my brothers! Let us enjoy the sweet juice of the rarest fruit: victory!” Curiously, it would be worth mentioning that whoever survived the Cela’s mist was left with a mango taste in their throat afterwards. And so, the Battle of Calara Field ended: with the Sev’illah Cela hunting down and capturing whoever they could before they where too far away. This was a grand sport to them. In the end, more than three thousand six hundred of the Arua’illah’s force perished, with around eight hundred and seventy of the allied forces of the Sev’illah having layed down their lives for the Cela cause - most of Sychopi’s forces included. * Now we find a still bloody Ale’kal, a clean Luciferin and Perfeyadous on a hill, surrounded in vegetation arranged for them to sit on comfortably, with a large fire burning in the distance. The sun is beginning to set. “These are the best news I've heard since Topoch Ico declared it was still Cela territory. I almost can’t believe news of our victory traveled so far so quickly.” Ale’kal marveled. “The cliff clans will be great allies against the interior clans, not to mention what we will be able to do now that the mountain clans have joined as well. Never in the history of the Black Palace has an entire race declared themselves part of a clan.” “So will we allow all the mountain changelings to join the Sev’illah Cela?” asked Luciferin. “Of course we will!” Ale’kal exclaimed with enthusiasm. “The news of all the mountain changelings united under one banner alone will make the interior clans use the name Cela to scare naughty younglings into obeying!” “This is the start of a new era.” said Perfeyadous. “The misery our brothers are forced to live in will be no more! No longer will clans pay tribute to the central clans of the Black Palace. We will rule.” “Absolutely.” said a new voice. Luciferin frowned. “My Kyat,” Sychopis bowed. "I have even greater news." “Greater than all the mountain changelings joining the Cela? I highly doubt that.” Spat Luciferin. “What is it?” Sychopis looked past Luciferin now. “Many of your subjects wish to convert now, after your glorious victory, my Kyat.” He bowed once more. Luciferin turned to look at Lord Perfeyadous so quickly, Sychopis felt it correct to add to his previous statement. “They seem quite taken, my Kyat. Surely this is an important day for us my Kyat, it has been full of Mother’s blessings.” Mother, Luciferin thought bitterly. Mother, the god. Pah. “Excelent.” Perfeyadous rose. Luciferin started, he turned to look at Ale’kal, who looked immediately away. “Mother gave us victory today, Luciferin.” Sychopis grinned. Luciferin opened his mouth to speak, but he cut him off swiftly. “Is that not true, my Kyat”? "Yes… I had a dream, my brothers.” he said addressing the general and Luciferin. “I was thirsty, alone in the desert, but here was nothing than barren sand for miles. Suddenly a bush covered in dew appeared before me. Mother’s voice then spoke to me, and she told me that if I flew her banner today, she would give me the Black Place. So, I woke.” He stood now next to Sychopis, who was slightly taller. “Truth is my brothers, I saw my own father mutilate himself to get our gods’ help before we fled to the Tenemachili when I was young. Defeat after defeat, the gods seemed to have forgotten about my father. He even... cut off a piece of his tongue. He died... later you know I ordered that poor princess skinned, all to make sure they would hear my family once more... but what did I end up having to do? Drag my clan to a piss hole to live in safely, that's what!" he roared. "And for fourteen years we remained in the isle. It wasn’t until Sychopis showed me the truth that a comet streaked through the skies.” “But my Kyat,” Luciferin blurted out. “Tonatlaan sur-” “Tonatlaan is dead! Dead!” Perfayadous yelled furiously. “Where was Tonatlaan when my father could no longer talk to me? When we were in exile? Where?!” Indeed, shortly after Perfeyadous's father Toni'rrivadous Cela, died of an infection, Luciferin shrank. Perfeyadous had hardly ever yelled at him. Ale’kal froze. “The old gods have had their time. I have seen the truth. All the souls in the Black Palace will be saved, and even you will be compelled to kneel before Mother in time.” Sychopis smiled. “My Kyat,” Ale’kal rose. “I beg you forgive me, but I haven’t eaten since before the battle, and I am starving, surely Luciferin is too, and we must check on the moral of the Cela. Plus, I keep thinking of how brave the Enao’illah were, and it makes me even hungrier.” “You’re not eating some of the Lekl, are you?” Sychopis said as he wrinkled his nose. “Of course not the Lekl.” Perfeyadous nodded. Ale’kal nodded back “Come Luciferin.” Both turned to leave. “Oh, what’s the matter with me?” Sychopis gasped in untrue shock. “I haven’t even said the best news yet.” “What, Sychopis?” Luciferin spat back. “Mother has sent us another sign, from beyond the desert.” “Nothing crosses the desert.” “Not something, but someone, and she did.” “She?” Perfeyadous asked. “Mother has called us today to go beyond what any clan has gone, in her name. She has sent us a leader to follow.” “Follow to what?” “To a place that will bring us closer to her... For this, she has sent us…” he made a sweeping gesture with his foreleg. “... A queen.” If there was something every changeling in the Black Place knew, it was that there were no royal changeling types. Not since the times of the old gods. Luciferin mouth went agape for a second, and for a second he looked at Sychopis and looked as if he was about to growl and bare his fangs. Ale’kal shook his head. “My Kyat, we will go eat now. Come Luciferin, come!” He grabbed Luciferin by the withers and dragged him down the hill with him. “Nothing crosses the desert. Nothing crosses the desert.” Luciferin kept muttering. “No… Nothing crosses the desert." he cried. "No one can cross the desert!”
