Like all other phooka, I was born from a malignant dragon’s egg, but not just any dragon – a Titan Dragon - one of the seven species of Fire Titan. From the depths of the Nether the Fire Titans created the races of fire: drakes (dragons), phooka, basilisk, changelings, goblins, balrogs, and the many Stone Skins (trolls, diamond dogs, and gargoyles). Due to apparent disfigurement the many Stone Skins - I among them - were cast out from the fire brood (such was the case with changelings, and goblins). Because of this disownment, our kinds were thankfully not involved in the era of time that came to be known as the Kindling of New Fire - a crude translation from an unwritten language. The actual meaning is much more involving and elegant… whatever.

The Kindling of New Fire involved a dispute between the Younglings - called ‘underlings’ by the Titans (a nomenclature which still stands today as a grievous insult to all draconic kind) - and the Titans, or Adults. Likewise, the Younglings called the Adults by a phonetically indescribable name; which roughly translates to ‘old farts’. Exactly how the conflict began is debatable, but it probably was an overzealous pissing contest.

Basically the First Drakes, and basilisks slayed the Titan Dragons. In the resulting power void the victors laid waste to the Earth fighting among each other... go figure. This was by no means a sudden occurrence. After my birth, the slayings lasted for roughly 300 years, and the infighting for another 700. In total, this Era of Tartarus lasted for one thousand years. I could expound upon this, but it’s really just a bunch of whom-killing-who stuff, with no end in sight – all the while I just tried my best not to get indiscriminately killed.

During this time of attrition I kept my head down the best I could. I moved from place to place; only coming out during the day to avoid the drakes whom enjoyed basking in the sun. It was during this time of hardship that I took to my first home - the Valley of Ents. This particular setting would eventually be the location of Equestria’s capital, Canterlot, some 16,200 years later.

At the base of two mountain ranges, in the glen that stands there, was a luscious garden. I had stumbled upon it after a hostile encounter with a clan of Stone Skins. Wounded and dying, I collapsed in the fields just South of where Canterlot now stands.

At first, I thought I was most certainly going to die. Laying there, strewn across those amber blades of grass, I was bleeding to death. I had managed to kill every last one of those bastard dogs. Really, they attacked me for no apparent reason. You know how diamond dogs are. They don't like your face so they jump you? Anyway, I was just laying there on my back looking at the sky. I decided I'd admire how beautiful it was in my final moments. Just as death was about to close the door on me, a large shadow appeared above me. My sight was fading, so I couldn't tell who it was.

I said something along the lines of, "Your too late. I'm already dying."

And then a soft yet commanding voice replayed with the strangest notion, "Too late? I'd hardly say so. You're still alive, aren't you?"

"Then make it quick and painless please?" I begged.

"Oh little one. I'm here to help you."

"Oh, thanks." and with that I blacked out. I probably should have said something more appreciative, but then again, I was losing consciousness.

It was there, on that open field of undulating grass, that Father Tree found me. Alone and dying, the First Ent did not see the savage vagrant that I truly was. He didn't see the uncontrollable inferno of desire for mischief that I harbor - simply Father saw something else. Despite my retched form. My unctuous spiny black coat, blood red eyes, snarled snout, crooked tail, and my hideous claws; that old bastard took me in. Maybe that old bucker just didn't want a dead body on his hands, but, honestly, he was a pure soul.

Having had a miserable existence eking it out among the Fire Brood, and upon seeing my horrible condition, the noble Ents adopted me as one of their own. The valley was sheltered from the Kindling, and it was there I learned my third tongue, Ent (the first being Titan, and the second Ancient Drake). The Ents taught me forest magic, the likes of which have been lost to the ages, save for me. The majestic spirits of the forests also taught me how to live off the land, and be self sufficient.

Most importantly, these righteous creatures educated me in what was then, just history. In the sacred valley, I learned of the ages even before the colossus, the times when the gods where born and the universe began to unfurl. The knowledge confided in me by the Ancient Ones of the Forest is beyond comprehension of all proceeding times. I will not write of it loosely. Private trust is needed for me to give it.

As a young phooka, I was mischievous as ever. Skipping through the Ancient Forest - which was to be called the Everfree Forest by the Fays, or Fairy Ponies, latter on - I enjoyed complete freedom for about 800 years. I lived day by day, and I can recollect few specific instances of this period. It was true euphoria compared to my existence before stumbling upon the valley. A great release of freedom swept over me, and just like the rest of the valleys inhabitants, I was completely blind to happenings outside the shelter of the two mountains. I had forgotten that reality was slowly encroaching. Nothing pure can last forever.

I will explain later what happened to the forest I knew so long ago. Events that transpired forever tarnished the beauty of the Everfree, and made its current condition unfitting of its current name.

Basking in the sunlight, swimming in the cool waters, and sweet talking local nymphs occupied this period of Adolescent Freedom. It is a time that I reflect fondly upon, because after this time, my whole outlook on life would change drastically. The world moves on with or without you. I neglected this fact of life, trying to repress my former sorrows, but my futile actions would only make the sudden transition into adulthood much worse. Like the splash of scalding water, reality would return and sweep over me. Ages of agony were lurking in my future then.

But before my schism from the realm of euphoria, there were past-times to be enjoyed. I was particularly fond of entertaining the local Naiads, or water nymphs. However treacherous they where in love, they where excellent in bed. I remember this one time I almost drowned getting this one...

And that's enough of that...

Beyond the redolent, carnal misadventures of my youth, there was a darker force lurking in the background. After its fruition, I would no longer give my allegiance to anyone other them myself. This period of self imposed isolation would continue indefinitely.

Now enters Sharowdon, The Lord of Goblins and Changelings.

Sharowdon was the horror of horrors. Never did a more terrifying thing tramp upon the world. So massive was he, the beast could have taken me in single fore claw and crushed me in a one brief squeeze. With a gaping throat that could swallow a river, his vicious maw brought only fire and carnage. When he came, his plated iron scales rattled like bones against a grind stone. With gale force, his wings beat like hammers. The wake of their blast could demolish buildings, and level forests. The First Drake's dingy scales were only a shade lighter than black, with a purple hue of dried blood stained round the raised, spiny edgings. His big red eyes pierced the souls of the living, and I’m scared to say the dead as well. When he approached upon the ground or by the sky, the Earth and air below him shook and trembled, fearing his presence. His claws would scrape the bare rock like files on slate. He shifted and shook, commanding his body with petrifying barbarity.

Sharowdon thumped and bumped, and made your heart jump. Whenever the silence was broken, it was him. When you feared he was just around a corner, he was there. The shadow overhead in this sky, he was coming. But far worse than his mere presence, his fire, and that unctuous breath he breathed, was his bellows. Oh how I loathed, downright abhorred them. That morbid monstrosity produced a war cry louder than thunder clap. It was louder than the beginning of existence. When the beast cried out, his shout shook beasts to the core. It made my heart thump in my side, and my throat swell with fear. My eyes rolled back, and my breath grew dry as the desert. Petrified like stone, one would become, and those unfortunate enough to be caught in his gaze were massacred.

Even today, his harsh hollers haunt me. It was the dreaded anticipation of his coming. A fretful, fearful imagination makes terrible things absolutely abysmal. Sharowdon sent hell hounds back to Tartarus, and Gods fleeing back to sanctuary in the heavens. To this day, I have no doubt as to that his brood so willfully and capably slaughtered the Fire Titans, their parents. The contemporary hearsay, back then, regarded Sharowdon as a mild drake, among other things! Sól have mercy!

For the remaining 200 years, of my second 1000 year epoch, The Valley, my home, was cast into Sharowdon's retched silhouette. His watchful, wrathful, inferno red eyes watched the valley relentlessly. The sky clouded with soot, the waters rancid with sulfur, and the nymphs in hiding – something had to be done.

Of course, you’re probably thinking I saved the day, right? Wrong!

Are you kidding me? You should have seen this guy!

Sharowdon was all like, “Boosh! Bwoom! I will deprive all who oppose me, muwhahaha!”

And everypony was all like, “Run away!”

No way in Tartarus would I have confronted him, let alone look at him for extended periods! Heck, even the Ents suggest I go into hiding with them!

So that’s how it happened – me, the Ents, and some innocent nymphs all stuck in a cramped, confined cave…

Wait. What? Oh hell, no! I know exactly what you're thinking... and it’s not like that... at least I don't think it was? Anyway! Back to the issue at hand.

The inhabitants of the valley when into hiding for about 200 years. The blight of Sharowdon upon the land was unyielding. He turned the grand paradise into a forlorn wasteland. For me, it was back to eking it out. Suicide crossed my mind may times. I guess it was just primitive instinct to not let go, and keep on living. Gradually the Ents grew weaker away from the sun and many of the nymphs when into hibernation. It was at this critical time, the valley need saving. The luster of the valleys beauty had been drained. Trees and vegetation withered and shriveled, as the rivers ran foul - reeking of disease and pestilence. Thick, unctuous smog rose from the smoldering valley and billowed into the atmosphere, blotting out the Sun like a massive canopy of death.

In the Final Sanctum, Father Tree, before he went into slumber, spoke to me. What he said is forever etched into my memory. One of the few people I've dared call a friend said, "There is no more light in the land, I fear. 'Tis a sad thing for it [life] to have ended here," and with that, the monolith of living wood drifted into a deep slumber. The whisper of phrase echoed in the dark, as his luminous eyes faded in brilliance, looking only then to last rest. The ent's powerful frame coalesced with the dank cavern hallow. His movements ceased, and he merged with time - frozen and immobile - he and his companions lay therein today, never to return to the living world.

Go now to Sól, great Father Tree. You're life's burden is gone, it's time to move on...

Normally creatures of few words, the Ents spoke only when necessary; despite that, I doubt there was much of anything to say. If Sharowdon was not killed, everything in the valley would perish. Even Sharowdon himself would fall victim to his own affliction - an awful irony - the Paradox of Tyrants, contradicting those whom blindly seek self annihilation. All hope seemed lost. It was then, I had an urge to join Father Tree in the Great Beyond; a slow, ravenous death was unappealing to me.

I went out onto the valley overlook, near the caverns mouth. Peering over the cliff's edge, I looked into the space below with thoughts of suicide racing. My mind was clustered, and disheartened. Just as I made up my mind, when I had become resolute of killing myself, it happened.

Fate intervened.

There had been rumors of an army led by a strapping young warrior. Savage in appearance, yet gentle, and graceful to others, save all whom wish unwarranted harm upon the innocent; his army was said to march towards the Valley.

On that spectacular day, just as the light of life began to fade from the Valley; when all hope seemed lost - from the North they came. The greatest heroes of all time, led by the one named Aelius. Offspring of the Wind Titans, he, much like his comrades, was a greater gryphon (as opposed to lesser, mortal gryphons).

Aelius, the warrior of ages, wielded one of the seven magical swords - said to have been forged by fire giants and enchanted by goddess Sól. Massive in stature, Aelius was the largest and strongest of his kind. He was easily capable of shattering boulders, and bending rivers. As for his glorious weapon, the great sword gave off a golden aura produced by its embellished hilt. A most magnificent weapon, forged from adamant and furnished with marble taproot, the sword was an equal spectacle to behold; and it was with that hammer of woe which Aelius would confront his final adversary.

Aelius led on, in front of six hundred dazzling gryphons (and a few blessed hippogryphs), flying to confront the evil horde and its master.

Like a piercing beam in the dark, hope flooded in. A great cloud, soaring like lightning, the blades of the Righteous Army whirled through the air with a sound ten times louder than thunder's boom. The swarm of feathers descended upon the opposing masses, and cut deep into their ranks. Deeper, and deeper they drove. Inward, towards the fire the mad beasts flew. Steel rein, and forces clashed. I dare say there hasn't been a greater battle since.

Into the Valley of Death, rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Brigade of Light!" screeched Aelius. No soldier replied to the command. No soldier knew why, all they knew was to do or die. Enemies to right of them, enemies to left of them, enemies in front of them. The noble army boldly rode and well, into the jaws of death. Into the mouth of hell, rode the six hundred.

When did their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the valley wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

Fire shot from the Earth, killing friend and foe. Sharowdon’s rage split the ground in two. Aelius' sword fell enemies in droves, passing through-and-through, like wind in open air. Boulders charged down from the mountain tops and the peaks swayed against the rising Sun of morning. The commotion was so awesome, it awoke all whom slumbered in surrounding lands, miles and miles away. The swarm of bodies was immense and all encompassing. An awful Armageddon of aggression, there was no regression, only battle. No lull, or pause occurred. The entire conflict was a single motion of death that arduously dragged on.

From my perch above the Valley of Death, I witness a battle to end all battles.

Horrendous, like a mass of swarming ants and flies, the emulation played out in the valley below. Terrified, I found myself transfixed upon the carnage. Unable to look away, a sick fascination drove me to watch. The fighting lasted for several more days, during which period I barley slept - neglecting respite entirely. Little by little the opposing forces slowly dwindled. One-by-one each forces' dynamos, their best warriors, where succeeded by death's cold grasp. Finally, there were only two combatants left – retched Sharowdon and noble Aelius. Tarnished and worn, the opposing forces contested for two more days anon.

On the final day of battle, Aelius was dealt a fatal blow by the accursed Dragon of Woe. There, our hero lay, bleeding on the rocks, his sword broken in two, and armor torn away; anticipating the coup de grace! Nearly biting my claws off in dread, I looked on as Sharowdon made his final approach. Strewn moribund upon the mountainside, the noble one stared into his demise with unmoved visage. The reaping dragon stood erect, his hind claws gripping the loser in disgrace. He tossed the gryphon round, teasing the warrior with quietus.

You’ll never believe what I did then.

Just as Sharowdon was about to deliver the final blow, he let out a vicious bellow of arrogant victory. It was then, it happened. Without warning, a massive slab of rock from the mountain, disturbed by Sharowdon’s overzealous war cry, toppled down and smothered him to death. A tsunami of stone with relentless power, its impact shook the entire valley. The evil beast had no time to react. He was crushed instantly, and that accursed inferno was doused from his evil eyes once and for all.

It was then I did the unexpected.

I really am the hero.

Silence fell upon the valley. Despite the sweet smell of death, the dusk air was still, and crisp. Aelius lay dying, as his final Sun set over the ruined valley. I made my way down the mountain. Upon reaching his contorted form, I simply stared, and said nothing. His feathers, white as the driven snow, where stained red in blood. Burned, and cut deep, the majestic gryphon turned his head one last time to look at me. He laid like a painted beast, upon a painted mountain.

I was to be the last living being Aelius saw with his deep, majestic blue eyes – a pure soul, just like Father Tree. As the gryphon’s immortal life drained from his expression, he spoke not a word. While his breaths grew few, and faint; we continued to gaze into each other's souls. For an eternity, it lasted. A trance like state - so unreal, yet vivid all the same. Finally, the creature's head slowly drooped back over the edge of his final perch. His eyes rolled back in the sockets, as they closed for the last time. I stood alone confounded by internal reflection, unbelieving of the sight before me.

I’m ashamed to say, I felt no guilt. I actually thought, “Better him than me.” My own thoughts astounded the better portions of my consciousness. How could I think such a terrible thing? How could I produce that brutal and dark honestly when confronted by the terrible carnage of the good?

It was after Aelius’ death I began to cry aloud. I never knew Aelius, greatest warrior of all time. I had little personal feeling for his death… my sorrows felt for something else entirely. Personally saddened; cognizant and ashamed that I hadn't the slightest sympathy for Aelius - let alone any of his fellow soldiers slain. Had I already convinced myself of his death? Was that the reason, or was it something else entirely? My question of sorrow went unanswered. Despite deep reflection, I could not stay in the Valley much longer. It was then and there I made my decision.

On that rocky outcropping, I left the noble warrior's remains to rot - it would have been damning with faint praise to have buried one among thousands. Without saying goodbye to Father Tree, without a word to any soul, I migrated South towards the Kingdom of the Changelings. I don't know why I didn't give a farewell. Maybe I was too deep in sorrow, and couldn't stand it. Perhaps I was ashamed of my powerlessness?

Whichever the case, goodbyes have always been difficult for me.

I have forever paled to understand exactly what transpired. Regardless, from that point forward, I would shy from others. I would know not friendship, but isolation. Again, my personage slipped into despondency. I fell into a deep well, filled with chilling water. Dark, inky black waters - which I am far too accustomed to.

Perhaps I could have saved the hero?

Author's Note

It's a work in progress. This portion of the story is a bit... stale, but I promise you it gets better. I will pursue writing the rest of the story none the less.