As far as Princess Celestia was concerned, the words ‘Cat’ and ‘Altruism’ were to never be found in the same vicinity. She held no delusions of genuine magnanimity on behalf of the Kaiser of Vorosh. If there was one thing she knew about Cats, it was that they were only ever concerned over things that affected them – ergo, they saw a threat to themselves in the form of Gho-Zrah, and were merely offering help in the hopes of stopping the monster before it decided to pay them a visit.

Personal convictions also had a part to play, if she were being honest; from the start she’d seen what the Cats could be capable of should they ever unite under a single banner. When the Manx River Confederacy had been formed some eighty years ago, she’d been beside herself; she could not allow her fears to become a reality, and she was quick to prop up the only other regional power that could potentially counter the growing confederacy – the Serval Republic.

In retrospect, she understood that by being so public in her support of the Republic, she’d made a marked impression on the Cats and their allies. After all, it was no secret that the Felines could hold a grudge. But to this day, she felt justified in providing economic assistance and material aide to the Republic – their belief in freedom and peace through understanding were in stark contrast to the regimented systems of autocracy and war-mongering that the Cats of Vorosh were so fond of.

All things considered, it had been more than a financial blow to Equestria when the Serval Republic collapsed under the military might of Vorosh; with a now truly unified Cat Empire, she'd practically seen the flames of war and devastation that would be wrought against her kingdom as the Cats undoubtedly set their sights on the ones they blamed for the Unification Wars. It had been no small miracle that her diplomats had managed to avert such a calamity; a line was drawn in the sand (literally), and it had been agreed upon by both parties to mind their own affairs – a decision she’d come to regret in due time.

During the Diamond Dog incursion of fifty year prior, she had seen what the Cats were more than willing to do in order to achieve their goals. She’d seen how eagerly they’d brought such things as poison gas and caustic chemicals to bear – how methodically they’d gunned down both soldiers and civilians. It had terrified her how easily they’d taken to using violence to solve their issues, and she held no doubts that such horrors could be leveled at her people just as easily, should the Cats ever feel the inkling of doing so.

She was so certain of a coming war that she’d built a string of fortifications upon her kingdom’s western border, nearly doubled the size of her guard, and devised contingency plans for an inevitable war of attrition. She’d even opened up a new curriculum on magical offense. In the end, none of it mattered. How ironic that Voroshian troops would march on the nation’s capital without firing a single shot… Still, misgivings aside, she held out hope. Hope that Kaiser Patzschwelt would hold true to his word – that he would not turn out to be like his father.

And so it was under that hope that she found herself walking towards the Canterlot Train Depot, intent on welcoming the Cats upon their arrival. Apparently she was not alone in that regard, as she was surprised to see so many of her citizens lining up to see first-hand their supposed saviors. In the distance, she could hear the mournful wailing of a steam-engine’s whistle as it made its way ever closer. The crowds around her began to move in excitement – most of them had likely never even seen a Cat before. She wondered if any of them understood what the coming days would hold…

The train was nearing its final destination, and the men of the Voroshian Expeditionary Force grew increasingly restless as the great freighter slowly decelerated on its final approach. What would it be like when they stepped off their cars and into the heart of the Pferdsreich? Were the streets covered in gold and precious stones as the stories they’d heard claimed? Was it true what they said about the Pferdlanders knowing nothing of hardship or war – that they all lived in lavish houses and were not for want of anything? Such an idea was strange to many of them who had grown up in a land plagued by brutal winters and surrounded on all sides by jealous enemies.

For the recently demoted Bubbi Plüschaar, it was less a matter of conjecture and more the memory of the stories his father had passed down to him over the years. For the longest time Oscar Plüschaar had been a merchant and tradesman of some acumen, and had crossed the Großwüste on many an occasion in his trade. Every time he returned he would always come bearing fantastic stories of brick-built cities so full of life and activity, of how most ponies stood twice the height of a cat, and of how those ponies seemed content to live their lives in peace and harmony.

His father had also mentioned, in great detail, how backwards and superstitious the ponies acted at times. He spoke at large of how magic played a role in their lives on an almost daily basis. His father always commented on how vast the Pferdsreich was as well – how in some regions, all one could see for as far as the eye could gaze were farmlands and orchards. To a young kitten who had grown up amidst looming factories and cluttered city streets, such images would ignite young Bubbi’s imagination for years to come.

But the one thing that never seemed to cease in amazing his father was how ponies seemed to think and act as a group; while a pony on its own was a rather clever and thoroughly intelligent creature, his father held that, in groups, the ponies seemed to eschew their individuality in both action and thought in favor of some sort of herd mentality. His father had ultimately held a rather high opinion of the Pferdlanders… His mother, on the other hand, held an entirely different (and rather more commonplace) opinion.

As far as she was concerned, ponies were akin to a disease – one that needed to be expunged less it spread beyond control. Hailing from a rather prominent Junker family, Missy Von Streicht Plüschaar had grown up hearing the stories of how so many of her kin had fallen in the Unification Wars; struck down by Republican weapons – weapons made from the material and financial resources given by Equestria. It was just one of a long line of differences between his parents – something that always made dinner conversations most interesting.

For his part, Bubbi was ambivalent towards the whole Pony issue. He felt no sense of love for them as his father had, yet neither did he hold them in contempt as his mother did – if he were honest with himself, he just didn’t particularly care all that much about them. That being said, he was much more concerned about getting the hell off this train! Nineteen hour of being jostled and stuffed within a noisy metal boxcar and he’d begun to feel a little stir-crazy.

And he wasn’t alone. Along the entire train his sentiment was being shared – from the rank-and-file to the gold-braided officers. There was also a malaise of tenseness choking the air – most of these soldiers had never been outside their homeland, and they were now deep in the heart of a land belonging to a people they’d been taught to fear and loathe. The shrill cry of the locomotive’s whistle sent a jolt of electricity through everyone who heard it. They had arrived…

The sun was high in the mid-morning sky, and the people of Canterlot grew increasingly excited. Visitors from a far and distant land had come to aid them in their darkest hour. For all the talk and stories that were told, surprisingly very little was actually known about the Cats – their tendency to keep to themselves and the distance one had to travel in order to even see one lent to them an air of exotic mystery. Ponies of all ages and backgrounds had come to share in the once-in-a-lifetime spectacle that was about to commence.

In the distance, they could see the gleaming black steam engine (so different from their own) as it made its final approach – a steady stream of billowing, dark steam seeming to cover it like a cowl. Wheels screamed and metal groaned as the colossal engine slowed to a grinding halt; hissing jets of steam casting an ominous shroud before dissipating into the temperate morning air.

Collectively taking a few steps back, the crowd of ponies stared in awe at the seemingly endless train of enclosed cars and ironclad compartments. As if from thin air there appeared dozens of small, overall clad creatures, obscured by the smoke and steam as they ran along the various cars, manning the breaks and yelling back and forth towards one another in a strange language that was gruff to the ear but struck the mind as being no-nonsense and efficient.

With a rattling din, the door of the first-most car (replete with silver etchings and an array of antennae) slowly slid open, a set of steps unfurling in the process. From those steps descended what could only have been a Cat – its whiskered face obscured underneath a metal helmet and its furry body concealed beneath a grey trench jacket. In its paws was clasped a strange and menacing object – one of the Cats’ famed rifles, if one were to take a guess. As its tiny boot covered paws finally met the ground, it was soon followed by another, similarly dressed Cat. In just a few seconds, a half dozen of them had taken position on either side of the doorway.

As one they presented arms as another cat began to make its way down the steps. This one was markedly different, dressed in a khaki-brown field jacket and black straight-legged trousers. On his head was a black-billed cap with a bright red cockade and golden braid, and on his shoulders were a set of silver-braided patches bearing the image of a triad of diamonds lined above a laurel wreath. As the well-dressed Cat’s polished black boots hit the ground, he was followed closely by an enormous, hulking lizard, its height nearly equal to that of a pony.

The final Cat to descend the steps was of an altogether different sort. Where those before held an aura of carefully maintained discipline about them, this Cat evoked a sense of humble grace and poised intellect. His dress was also equally distinct; a fine black silk dress-jacket and pressed white undercoat, an elegant bow-tie and golden piping, it came across as very official and rather posh. With a murmur, the crowd of on-looking ponies seemed to part of its own accord as their beloved ruler, Princess Celestia, approached the furry outsiders…

Oberst Mittens had expected many things. He’d expected animosity, even fear. He’d expected to only be met with a small delegation that would tersely welcome his men and point him to the direction they needed to go. What he hadn’t counted upon was a massive crowd of Pferdlanders who appeared eager to greet the arrival of his men with an amount of enthusiasm that startled him. It was all rather confusing, to say the least. As he’d stepped off the radio-car and onto foreign soil, he was assaulted with all manner of sights and sounds so alien to him.

The sudden, instinctual urge to bolt back towards the car was quickly stifled by the reassuring presence of Kujeck, whose solid stature and level breathing quickly calmed Mittens’ frantic thoughts. Internally pulling himself together, the Oberst gave a nod to his honor guard, allowing them to be at ease. Turning back, he was quick to catch the attention of Minister Claws Von Schlauhirn as he carefully set foot upon terra firma. In a soft, confidential voice, the Oberst inquired, “I assume that you would wish to establish intercourse with whoever has been sent to correspond with us, correct?”

With a grateful smile, the Minister of the Interior responded, “Yes, I believe that was in the job description when I signed up for this little excursion.” With a smirk, the Oberst was set to respond when a subtle shift in the noise of the crowds brought his attention back to the forefront. He was only momentarily surprised when he caught sight, not of some minor official, but of the last remaining ruler of the Pferdsreich herself standing before him. He was quick to contain the glaring frown that threatened to manifest itself upon his face.

For her part, the Solar Sovereign of Equestria gave no hint of what she might have felt, and instead began speaking in a dignified, if rather archaic, form of Voroshi. “I welcome you,” she began, “with an open and humble heart, into my kingdom.” Casting a confused glance towards Claws, Oberst Mittens tersely remarked, “Her form is good, but I can hardly understand a damn thing she says.” Celestia, likewise had trouble following what the officer had spoken – it would seem the dialect she had used was no longer in vogue with the Cats of Vorosh.

It would appear that already things were at an impasse. But there was a good chance that she could still communicate with them in her own language, so she began again, this time saying, “As the sovereign ruler of my people, I extend my hand to you in welcome – Equestria is forever thankful for your assistance in its time of need.” Again, the Oberst turned and gave an imploring look to the red furred feline who she assumed was the government liaison she’d been told would intercede on his kingdom’s behalf.

Catching the Oberst’s queue, Minister Von Schlauhirn stepped forwards and (with surprisingly fluent Pferdsprecht) responded, saying “On behalf of the Empire, I accept your invitation – the Kaiser also wishes to extend his deepest condolences on the loss of your sister.” While Celestia didn’t believe a word of it, she played the part well in replying, “My sincerest thanks go to the Kaiser’s kind words.” With that out of the way, she promptly declared, “I have taken the liberty of providing the necessary accommodations for your men, I hope you do not mind.”

Strangely enough, instead of responding to her, the Imperial delegate turned towards the commanding officer and began speaking in their native tongue. “She claims that accommodations for the men have already been set – whether this means that she has set for us a designated area, or whether we are to take room and board amidst the city is unclear.” Oberst Mittens was clear in his response – “Tell her that she must give us unfettered access to the southern quarter of this city to allow for proper deployment; as for boarding, we’ll accept whatever provisions she has made, though they may be subject to review in the future.”

With a flabbergasted look of shock, Claws all but shouted, “I can’t relay that too her!” “Why not?” inquired Mittens. The Interior Minister stumbled over his words in reply, saying – “W-well… it’s not prudent in the least – one can’t simply demand things of their host; if I told her that it would likely be an affront to her good graces, and from there things might escalate!” It was Oberleutnant Ghresht who spoke next, “He has a point, Mittens – we are here to help them, not start an international incident.”

With an indignant chuff the Oberst rubbed his head as he rephrased himself, “Then tell her that we respectfully ask that she give us the southern quarter… and I suppose we ought to thank her for allowing the men room and board.” It was not an easy thing for him to say, but if it got him what he wanted, then he was more than willing to swallow his pride for at least a few minutes. When Claws Von Schlauhirn merely stood there gawping at him, the Oberst heatedly exclaimed, “Well, go on then – tell her what we need!”

Shaking his red-furred head in disbelief, Minister Von Schlauhirn reluctantly turned back to the now thoroughly lost Princess. It was obvious that she only vaguely understood anything that had been said, and in a way, Claws was extremely thankful for that. Regardless, he relayed the Colonel’s message, saying “On behalf of the Colonel and his men, I extend our gratitude to you for your considerations… however; the Colonel respectfully requests that you might allow him full access and military control of your capital city’s southern quarter.”

This set off all sorts of alarms in the Alicorn’s head as she reflexively asked, “What on earth for?” The Minister of the Interior was swift in defusing any potential situation; a lifetime of political maneuvering and a quick wit brought to bear as he demurely explains, “Please understand, your eminence – the Colonel requires room in which to deploy the assets sent to your aid; the southern sectors of this city are vital to the defense of the capital as a whole, considering that the monster now approaches from the south.” Realizing that the Princess still held some reservations, Claws fell upon his bureaucratic training, taking on a more heavy-handed approach.

“You must know,” he began, “that when this thing arrives, we must have a firm position from which to deploy; artillery must have open line of sight to be effective, and our Battlewagens require open space with which to maneuver.” As he said this, hundreds upon hundreds of Feline soldiers began the slow and meticulous process of disembarking – the cacophony of a thousand foreign voices and the clanging of machinery were an ample distraction. To compensate, Claws Von Schlauhirn was forced to raise his voice several decibels so that he could remain heard over the noise.

For his part, Oberst Mittens motioned for Oberleutnant Ghresht to go and oversee his men as they deployed. While he’d much rather do it himself, he understood that his presence and weight of word were needed to see these negotiations through to an accord. All around them, Ponies of all facets of life marveled at so many strange and outlandish creatures and the otherworldly machines they carried about them. Several of them (all appearing to have some sort of governmental function if the garb they wore were any indication) were focused intently upon the Interior Minister as he spoke further.

“There is also the matter,” he continued, “of the articles of requisition made in the ‘Verminstrauser Contract’; ten-thousand rifles to be used at your discretion, four hundred leased artillery pieces with the proper crew to begin the training of volunteer forces, and a substantial amount of auxiliary equipment to allow for fabrication of munitions – all of which are to be supplied via the southern quarter’s warehousing district.” The implication was subtle, but there – ‘allow the Reich to set up shop, or the materials would be withheld.’

While Celestia was no stranger to political strong-arming, she found it rather disconcerting that a creature half her height and an eighth of her weight would attempt it with such a straight face and with so blasé a tone. But before one of her advisers could attempt to sputter out some sort of reprieve, the regal Alicorn gave her concession, saying “I understand; you can tell the Colonel that he may use the Old Quarter’s ‘Fir Ridge’[1] in whatever way he see fit – however, I would request that in the spirit of cooperation, one of my own advisers be attached to his staff.”

With a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, Claws was more than willing to accept her terms, and said as much before turning to the Oberst who looked rather expectantly at him. With a tone that left no room for argument, Claws Von Schlauhirn explained, “You have the southern portion of the city, but in return she insists that one of her ministers is made a member of your general staff.” With a gob smacked look of outrage, Oberst Mittens was vehement in responding, all but shouting out, “Absolutely not - I’ll not have some high-browed ungulate interfering in my operations!”

With a thin-lipped glare, the Minister of the Interior seemingly grew some semblance of a spine as he tersely retorted, “This is not up for debate, Herr Oberst; my orders are to insure that things transition smoothly between you and the Pferdsreich, and if all that is required to make this work is some ‘high-browed ungulate’, then I consider it a success… unless, of course, you’d like to take it up with the Reichskanzler?”

As Mittens visibly paled at such a prospect, Claws was less than confidant in his own claims; while the Chancellor had been explicit on what the Interior Minister was supposed to do, he had been less forthcoming on what that actually entailed… However, it would appear that it didn’t matter, as Oberst Mittens duteously (if not somewhat begrudgingly) complied, saying “Very well; but seeing as I cannot comprehend anything that he might say, I hardly see what good it would do any of them.”

The both of them were startled by a new voice (tempered with age and tinged with a distinctive edge), that spoke from behind them, saying, “That won’t be a problem, gentlemen.” Turning around, the two Felines were surprised to see a wizened old grey pony with a thin unruly mane standing less than a meter from them. However, they were even more shocked to realize that this old horse had spoken in clear and concise Voroshi!

Noting their expressions, the pony preemptively began by extending his hoof in greeting whilst saying, “Allow me to introduce myself – my name is Lingua Franca, and I represent her Majesty’s Foreign Correspondence Corps; it is my understanding that we will be working closely together in the coming days.” While Claws awkwardly shook the old pony’s (relatively) massive hoof, Oberst Mittens remained less than cordial. With a scowl that could sour milk, he asked, “I suppose you are meant to relay every little word I might say to your dread sovereign?”

It took all of Claws Von Schlauhirn’s will to not palm his face in embarrassed exasperation at the Oberst’s antics – suddenly, a frozen death in the northern reaches didn’t sound quite so bad. Instead, the Minister of the Interior attempted to steer the conversation towards a new direction. “You must forgive the Oberst – he is merely concerned that you might try and interdict his authority in the field, but you and I both understand that that is not the case, is it?” Claws prayed to God that it wasn’t.

A look of genuine understanding crossed Lingua Franca’s face before he replied to them both, “You’d be correct – my job is actually to insure that a framework is in place to allow for future friendly relations between our two kingdoms; I’ve no real understanding of how warfare is committed, and thus I am more than happy to leave it in your very capable hands, Herr Oberst.” With a sniff, Mittens quietly muttered, “Then it would appear that my presence here is no longer needed.” Before he took his leave, though, the Oberst brusquely relayed, “There will be a briefing in approximately six hours – you are welcome to attend it, should you feel the need.”

While Lingua Franca clearly knew that the Colonel’s invitation was less than sincere, he also saw an opportunity to work towards an understanding. With all the practiced humility of a seasoned diplomat, the old grey stallion replied, “Of course – where will it be held?” Casting his hazel green eyes to the side, the Oberst grumbled, “That has yet to be determined; I’ll have someone come and fetch you when the time comes.” With that said and done, Oberst Mittens Von Fleischtauben straightened his uniform before turning about and marching towards the milling mass of felines…

The city was immense! That was the first thing that entered Hauptgefreiter[2] Remi Tschescher’s mind as he walked the streets of Kanterlotte. Turning to his friend, Red Sky, he asked, “Have you ever seen a city this big before?” As the massive Bison[3] slowly walked alongside the young Cat, he took a minute to survey the magnificent buildings that spanned on either side of them before saying, “No.” Looking back towards the large SFk-15[4] artillery piece that his bovine compatriot was towing, little Remi asked, “It’s not too heavy, is it?” Slowly looking back over his broad shoulders, the dark-haired Bison once again replied, “No.”

Looking down at the map he’d been given at the depot, Remi once more began in earnest to try and decipher just where exactly he and Red Sky were. His grasp of the pony language was limited to a few words and phrases that had been taught to him by a friend on the train ride over, so he was finding it rather difficult to find their destination. Casting a sidelong gaze towards his companion, Remi nervously hoped that the Bison didn’t realize that he’d gotten them lost… again.

Passing another group of soldiers going the opposite direction, Remi momentarily got their attention before asking, “Do any of you know where we can get to Sunny Street from here?” A bespectacled Manx pointed towards a particular side venue as he responded, “I think I saw a sign with that name down that alleyway, but I can’t be too sure.” Thanking them for their time, Hauptgefreiter Tschescher turned once more to his friend… only to find that Red Sky was already several meters up ahead of him; he’d not stopped at all.

Quickly catching up to the great bull, Remi exclaimed, “I think we need to go down that alley.” As he said this, he pointed in the same direction that the friendly Manx had directed him towards. Lethargically looking in the direction the young Cat was pointing; Red Sky gave a brief sniff, before saying, “Okay.” The two of them made their way down the alley’s gentle slope. An indeterminate amount of time later, and soon enough the great cobbled streets gave way to dirt paths, then ultimately to grassy sod.

And there, before them, was the battery. Already, there were at least a dozen fifteen centimeter guns set up, a score of munitions wagons were also in place – their payload of polished brass shells gleamed under the morning sun. With a smile, the young Hauptgefreiter exclaimed, “We’re here!” Red Sky expressed a similar sentiment with a grunt. Carefully, Red Sky parked the artillery piece next to one of its mates; Remi quickly assisting in unhitching the contraption form the Bison’s harness.

They spent the next few minutes lining up the gun’s sights and insuring that it was fastened in place. When that was done the young Cat quickly began to grow bored. While Red Sky was content to graze upon a patch of grass and relax in the shade with a few other Bison, Remi felt the near physical urge to explore this new and exciting place. Quickly deciding as such, he called out to his bovine friend, saying, “I’m going to have a look around in the city, Red Sky, I’ll see you later!” By the time Red Sky could form a response, the little Feline was long gone…

A group of young foals were galloping in full down the broad market venue, giggling amongst themselves as they played some sort of game that held little rhyme or reason to the group of soldiers that observed them. Numbering little more than a dozen, the group was a strange sight to many a passerby, often turning heads on more than one occasion. They were loud, often laughing and talking with one another in their indecipherable language, and on more than one occasion it seemed that they openly stared at others.

Case in point, as the gaggle of giggling children ran to-and-fro across the cobblestone square; the mixed bunch of soldiers outright stared in abject fascination. Amongst their number was none other than Oberstabsfeldwebel Hermann Kühn and Hauptmann Spitzer of the First Panzergrenadier Company. The two of them alone made for quite the sight. Turning to his surly friend, Hermann genuinely asked, “Do you have any idea what sort of game they’re playing?” True to form, Spitzer’s frown only deepened as he cryptically answered, “I didn’t play much as a child.”

Rolling his eyes, the enormous Maine Coon heaved an equally large sigh of exasperation as he declared, “That’s a shame; it sure looks like they’re having a great deal of fun.” One of their companions, a Ferret with a Funker cap joined in on the conversation, saying “There don’t seem to be any sort of rules for conduct – do you suppose they make them up as they go along?” Hauptmann Spitzer was cynical in his response as he replied, “Who knows what goes through the minds of Pferdlanders – they’ve seldom ever made any sense to me.”

A long-haired Persian to his right chuckled as he supplied, “The way you talk, Herr Hauptman, one would think you weren’t a Pferdlander yourself.” A look of mild disgust only briefly flashed across the warhorse’s face before he loathe-fully retorted, “Ja… sometimes I wonder if I was ever really one to begin with.” His mood was only slightly lightened when Hermann rested a genuinely friendly paw upon his neck, saying, “If it’s any consolation, my friend, I’ve always viewed you as just being a very ugly Cat.”

The group burst into an uproar of laughter, with even the often sullen Hauptmann letting loose a chuckle. Such a commotion caught the attention of dozens upon dozens of nearby Ponies, who could only stare in mildly apprehensive confusion. As the band of soldiers quieted down, Hermann Kühn asked a question that had been growing upon everyone’s mind – “Where do you suppose we might go to find some decent food around here?”

It was, naturally, the Gila Monster in their group (an Unteroffizier by the name of Trubek Kchobe) that provided the answer; “According to this pamphlet, there’s some sort of multi-ethnic restaurant a few blocks to the east of here.” One of the other NCO’s, a Calico with a notched ear, was quick to point out, “It says you need a reservation, you fat headed glutton.” Seemingly taking no offense from the insult, the bulky reptile simply countered by saying, “Then we go in and inform them that we have a reservation.”

This genuinely garnered a laugh from Hauptmann Spitzer, who actually found the idea of forcing their way into the restaurant highly entertaining. When the others offered him a questioning look, he merely smirked as he declared, “That’s actually not a bad idea – Pferdlanders are obsequious by nature; aggressive persuasion should be able to convince them of anything.” When no one raised an objection to the notion, it was quickly decided that they would do just that.

But as they began to make their way down the venue, one of the frolicking foals chose that moment to run across a particularly slick portion of the cobbled pavement, tumbling into a pile of lanky legs and frazzled hair – squealing in both fear and excitement (something that was universal to all children it would seem) as he rolled into the crowd of foreign soldiers. His movement was brought to halt as he crashed into the leg of Hauptmann Spitzer, whose leather-bound hipposandals[5] firmly gripped the ground and prevented him from falling likewise.

Fixing the disoriented young colt with a glare, the russet haired Destrier exclaimed, “Pass auf, wo du gehst, Sie Gör!”[6] Naturally, the poor boy couldn’t understand a word of Voroshi, but he could see that this rather large and imposing Pony was yelling at him for what happened. Quickly shaking the dust out of his coat, the colt bowed his head as he hurriedly proclaimed, “Sorry – sorry about that, mister!” As if by magic, all the anger and hostility Spitzer held towards the boy seemed to melt away – replaced instead by an apathy that left him feeling even more isolated than he already was.

Having given his apology, the boy quickly ran back towards his friends, only looking back once – a twinkle of fascination in his eyes. For their own part, the group of foreigners was content to ignore the incident and head along their way. “If we hurry,” announced Trubeck, “we should be able to get there in time before the lunch hour crush.” With a growl, the Calico (Feldwebel Echert Löwe, as his name turned out to be) threatened, “I swear, Trubeck, that if you try and order Manticore I’m going to have you digging ditches for a month.” Again, the Gila Monster was unoffended as he riposted, “It won’t harm anyone if I just ask.” Hauptmann Spitzer merely rolled his eyes…

To say that Princess Celestia was distressed was like saying that water is wet – a grossly oversimplified understatement. It had not even been half a day and already her capital had been overrun with foreign troops. She’d quickly received various and sundry complaints from among the aristocracy as well as many a commoner. They ranged from public disturbance to outright vandalism, and to be honest she just couldn’t muster up the will to deal with all of them right now.

While the outside world considered her to still be in mourning, it was generally assumed that she had found a modicum of peace; enough so that she could now perform her duties as the sole ruler of Equestria without losing pace. The reality was vastly different. Known only to a select few, today had been the first time since her sister’s death that she’d actually set foot outside of her private quarters. It had taken every last ounce of will for her to retain some measure of calm in front of the Voroshian Colonel and his Envoy – she could not have afforded to appear as anything other than a strong and confident leader.

By the time she’d returned to the castle, she was a gibbering mess of sobbing tears. She’d only just gotten her sister back from a thousand years of exile, only to have her taken away in seconds – forever out of reach in death’s embrace. The unfairness of it all seemed a capricious joke to her. She’d left her more than able ministers to the task of performing the daily functions of her kingdom’s affairs. The only part of her duties she still partook of was the raising of the sun – a tradition she’d upheld for so many millennia that she’d long since forgotten why she did it in the first place.

Other than that, she was barely content to even exist – her misery only compounded by the knowledge that the creature that had murdered her sister seemed set to wipe her people from existence. Gho’Zra… She’d never known such hate as what possessed that beast’s blackened heart, and she would be lying if she said that she wanted to try and understand it. It was readily apparent that whatever drove the monster was beyond any form of comprehension to such a lesser being as herself.

There was a notion that she’d never once pondered upon. Her immortality coupled with her wisdom and power had long ago risen her to the status of a near godlike being amongst her people, and somewhere along the way, she had somehow fallen into believing that herself. But now she could clearly feel her own vulnerability as she considered the unearthly might that seemingly coursed through Gho’Zra’s very soul. She felt true fear every time she recalled what she’d experienced in that chamber.

But worst of all, in her most tragic hour, she’d actually made a plea to the devil. She had fallen so low as to consort with Discord of all beings in an attempt to exact revenge upon the monstrosity that had done so much to harm both her and her people. It was also on that very day that she fell unto despair – for it was from Discord that she learned the true extent of Gho’Zra’s horror. She had called the Draconequis to her private study and implored him to help her. When he had refused, she’d nearly gone into a rage, threatening to banish him from both existence and eternity.

When she had calmed down enough, he’d actually surprised her with how serious he had been as he tried to explain just exactly what it was she was up against. “This thing is outside of the realm of both magic and possibility – it represents an anathematic dichotomy to everything that both you and I represent.” “It is physically impossible for something like Gho-Zrah to exist, and thus beyond my ability to comprehend, let alone manipulate – Chaos requires probability, but probability itself is dictated by possibility; do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

She had understood all too well what it meant – the beast was outside of the realm from which chaos could manifest. In other words, Discord was literally powerless against such an anomaly as Gho’Zra. Likewise, he had explained why it was that she could not possibly stop the monster herself. “The thing about magic is that while it is all pervasive in its scope, it is also a multifaceted and often perfidious aspect of nature.” “Magic has many levels, and each level holds unto itself some aspect that is counter to any other level.”

“The magic of Gho-Zrah is something more primal than what either of us would understand it to be; I'd scarcely consider it actual magic – it’s something more akin to the primordial matter of Nature itself… an Old Magic, if you will.” And that had struck her harder than anything else – the very life-force of the cosmos had manifested into the form of an indestructible beast that was dead set on destroying everything around it. That had been the last day of hope for her. It had also been the last day that anyone ever saw Discord again – he’d seemingly disappeared from the face of the earth.

And so now, weeks later, she was once more in her study contemplating the end of everything. It was in this light that she reviewed once more the note that had arrived to her last night, written by a doctor in Ponyville, his hurried scrawling nearly indecipherable. It only added to the grimness of the situation; in effect, Rainbow Dash, one of the Elements of Harmony, was in a comatose state of near death, and it was likely linked to the sudden disappearance of the once bustling metropolis of Cloudsdale.

Naturally, she’d sent the best medical technicians in the entire kingdom to lend aid where it was needed, but with the looming reality of impending destruction ever rising, the notion of hope began to fade away before her very eyes. She could only hope that her decision to seek aid from Vorosh had been the right one; she’d long ago given up hope for herself…

The Jardin de L'abondance was renowned as one of the finest restaurants in all of the world, a place where the best in the industry practiced their culinary craft. It was also an architectural masterpiece, built in the classic Old Point[7] style and covered on all sides in wide expanses of crystalline glass! The earthy red tones of its solid Red Wood frame, the off-white ballroom style flooring, and ocher hued leather upholstered seats set a tone of relaxing calm meant to instill a since of ease in patrons.

The radiant clear glass of the ceiling and walls captured the essence of the sky at all times of the day, from the cool calm of the morning sunrise, to the high-spiritedness of noon, to the spiritual bloom of evening, all the way to the romantic haze of the starry night sky. Staffed by the most professional attendants that money could afford, and host to an international selection of the world’s finest cuisine, ‘L’Jardin’ was the pinnacle expression of what Equestria had to offer in terms of culture.

It went without saying that the group soldiers who approached this awe-inspiring palace were beginning to have second thoughts. Strangely enough, it was Spitzer who spoke first, saying “I don’t remember that being here.” Hermann weakly offered, “Well, it’s been – what – twenty-some-odd years since you’d last been here?” The Destrier Pony never answered; instead, it was Trubek who blatantly put it forth in saying, “I don’t think this is the kind of place we can just barge in on…” From behind the heavy-set reptile, Feldwebel Löwe gave a deadpanned quip, saying “What gave you that idea?”

If most of them had their doubts, none of them seemed willing to quit while they were ahead, because the building was only looming larger before them as they slowly made their way ever forwards. Before any of them could realize what had happened, they were standing before the maître d'hôtel, a finely dressed, dark blue stallion whose mane was immaculately cross-combed into a distinguished panache. Oddly enough, he didn’t appear to be at all surprised by their arrival. With a hesitant mumble, Hermann inquired (in a halting, broken rendition of Pferdsprecht), “Um… You will be, uh – you are to be giving us maybe the-uh… the ‘advance booking’- the reservation – um, please- Yes?”

Instead of the outraged denial they had been expecting, the maître d'hôtel instead gave a warm (albeit slightly nervous) smile before answering them, “Right this way; please follow me to your table.” Catching the gist of his statement, the motley band of soldiers quickly followed him, weaving through table after table, many of them filled with lavishly dressed (and visibly disgruntled) Ponies, many of whom found it rather outrageous that, while they had to wait weeks in advance and pay excessive amounts of money to get into this establishment, a group of foreign ruffians – slavish brutes and whiskered fiends, no less – were permitted in with no charge and paraded through the room like royalty.

It made even less sense to the men in question, who followed their guide with a growing sense of unease. However, that sense of apprehension was quickly dispelled as they turned a corner, revealing a lavishly set table where there sat already a half-dozen other members of the Expeditionary Force. And there, sitting next to his ever-present adjunct, was none other than Oberst Mitten Von Flieschtauben himself, dressed up in a luxurious black and white dinner jacket, casually conversing with his men.

Catching sight of the newest arrivals, the Oberst arose from his seat and with an uncharacteristically open smile, he extended his hand to them and exclaimed in a loud and boisterous voice that carried across the entire restaurant, “Ah Meine Herren, bitte kommen Sie - kommen Sie - kommen Sie - setzen Sie sich hinsetzen!”[8] Catching sight of Oberstabsfeldwebel Kühn, the Oberst was also quick to exclaim, “Hermann, mein Freund, kommen und sich neben mir!”[9]

As the group took their seats, the Oberst turned once more to Oberleutnant Ghresht as he inquired, “Tell me again where the debriefing is being held – it’s such an odd sounding place, and I would dare to say that I struggle remembering it.” With his ever present smirk, the large Gila Monster replied in his wet, crackling voice, “It’s called the So-Lar-Ee-Tay-Nee-It; its where the Pferdlanders hold their Solstice Festival – big ugly statue of some sort stands in the middle of it – you won’t miss it, trust me.” With a sigh, Mittens opined, “How you ever manage to memorize these things is truly beyond me – simply astounding.”

Elsewhere at the table, one Hauptgefreiter Remi Tschescher still sat in amazement of how he’d somehow wound up dining with the Oberst Mittens. Not thirty minutes ago he’d been merely minding his own business, observing in astonishment the many tall and imposing structures that lined the streets of Canterlot, when he’d all but physically run into the Colonel by pure accident! Instead of the most severe dressing down that he’d expected to ever experience in his life, he was, of all things, personally invited to come dine with the Oberst and a few other officers who were with him!

Remi was not one to hold any delusions of grandeur – he wasn’t altogether that bright, and he most certainly wasn’t as good at his job as others might be. Lord above only knew how he’d passed the entrance exam into the Gunnery School in Kratzenhaus[10]. If anything, he didn’t even consider himself to be that good of a soldier! But here he was, sitting at the same table as the legendary Hero of the Kaproß Run, and what was more, personally invited by said hero! He must have been smiling, because the Ferret who chose to set across from him raised a brow before inquiring, “Good day so far?”

In response, all he could offer was, “I’m just excited to be here is all.” That seemed to be enough of an answer for the Ferret as he went back to perusing his menu. Which reminded Remi; he’d yet to actually figure out what exactly he wanted to order. He wasn’t the only one either – many of the others found the Equestrian text of the menus to be near indecipherable, with one of them (an old Siamese cat with a patch over his left eye that barely concealed the horrendous mass of scar tissue that was his eye socket) complaining as much.

Luckily, there were a few who’d taken a course or two in foreign languages, and they were more than willing to help their comrades in figuring out what to eat. Chief amongst them was Hauptmann Spitzer, who at the moment was contemplating the Okra and Chickpea Tagine. And fortunately for him, it just so happened to coincide that a waitress (a thin, mauve colored mare with a rather fetching saffron vest) chose that very moment to take their orders.

With a bright smile that Spitzer found rather annoying, the chirpy mare exclaimed, “Hi – my name is Cilantro, and it looks like I get to be your waitress this afternoon; have you all decided on what you’d like to order, or do you need a little more time?” Shockingly, it was Oberleutnant Kujek Ghresht who spoke up, and in unerringly fluid Pferdsprecht. Pointing to the Oberst, he began in saying, “He will be having the Bourbon Glazed Salmon with the Kabinett Riesling, and I would like the Pheasant Cacciatore with a Pinot Noir for myself.”

Over the course of six or seven minutes, Cilantro took up orders from around the table (thanks in no small part from the translational aide of Kujek, Sptizer and a few others); Hermann was keen upon trying the Bacon-wrapped, Blue Cornmeal Breaded Catfish with a side of Sauvignon Blanc, while Remi and a few others were more comfortable trying something a little less exotic in the form of Venison Tenderloin, replete with a Blackberry Sauce and complimented with a Spätlese Riesling.

Others were more daring with their selections. Echert decided to live richly and ordered the Smoked Beef Tongue alongside a Red Merlot; Trubeck had been disappointed at the lack of Manitcore on the menu, but quickly settled for the Coppa with Fennel and Pistachio instead, with an Aligoté for his drink. Someone even ordered Grilled Txipirones with a bottle of Chacolí! Spitzer, for his part, stuck with the Tagine, and requested a glass of Apfelwein along with it. As for the rest, it seemed they were more content to order the lunch special of Chicken Karahi with White Zinfandel.

As the waitress took up their menus, she all but chirped, “Okay then, You’re orders should be ready for you in about twenty minutes – if you need anything else, feel free to ask any of the staff here at ‘L’Jardin’, and we’ll be more than happy to assist you!” As she turned to leave, it took all of Hauptmann Spitzer’s self-control not to throw something at her. Noticing his comrade’s foul mood, Hermann leaned towards him and asked, “Why so cross, friend?” With a sneer, the dark Destrier muttered, “Her optimistic disposition infuriates me on a primal level; where does she get off, being so happy?”

This garnered a laugh from the most unlikely of places – Oberst Mittens. Shaking his head in amusement, the Oberst exclaimed, “You always were of a foul temper, Herr Ross; most of these Pferdlanders have likely struggled with nothing worse than a bad day or two in their entire lives – the complacency of a life spent in relative ease has left them with a brighter outlook on things than either you or I could possibly possess.” Spitzer’s mood only seemed to darken at this.

“While we’re on that matter,” pressed Hermann, “I’ve actually never fully understood where your animosity towards your own people comes from; I mean, none of us here are fond of Ponies, and many of us outright dislike them… but you seem to actually hate them with a passion I’ve seldom ever seen.” A derisive snort and escaped the ex-patriot Pony’s flared nostrils as he sharply relied, “Let’s just say that I’ve never seen eye-to-eye with any of my fellow Equines and leave it at that.” That seemed a good enough answer for all of those present, as the conversation quickly broke down into multiple discussions on varying topics.

By the time the food finally arrived, they party had grown particularly famished and with great eagerness they partook in a manner of eating that would greatly disturb those patrons of the establishment who possessed weaker constitutions, and outright horrify those poor souls who couldn’t bear to contemplate the consumption of flesh or those who practiced it. Needless to say, it was doubtful that any of the soldiers cared what the Pferdlanders thought of them…

The forest stretched far into the horizon, and even with the bright noon-day sun casting its radiance down upon its verdant greenery, there was almost a sense of all consuming darkness emanating from within the great expanse of trees. None of that particularly mattered to the beast that trampled said timbers underfoot. Gho’Zra had little to fear from much of anything, it would seem. A lifetime ago, perhaps… Back then, there were others much more fearsome than he. But they were all gone – taken by time and gone to the soil.

He had taken to a slow, almost luxuriant pace; casual strides that spoke neither of hesitance nor determination. For once, he almost felt content to merely exist. But it was only a temporary illusion, brought about by the idleness of isolation that the Everfree seemed to instill. In the far distance loomed a lone mountain, it’s once jagged peaks smoothed over by time and the elements. That was his destination – his ultimate destiny, it would seem. Had he always felt so tired before? No – no, he was certain that the fatigue he felt was a new development; it felt as if the many eons he’d slept through had chosen only now to creep upon his ancient form.

Time seemed to hold no meaning amidst the never ending expanse of forest; even the passing sun did little to alleviate this feeling… If one were to consider it, time likewise ceased in having any meaning to the lumbering titan that slowly made its way across the green expanse. His near trance-like march was suddenly broken by, of all things, the panicked cries of a flock of birds – their shrilling calls momentarily sparking something deep inside of him. Stopping mid-stride, he slowly turned to the amorphous black cloud of feathered wings and noisome keens.

As the flock raced into the western skies, Gho’Zra watched and wondered at the wrenching hollowness that resided in his breast. For in that cacophonous mass of shrieking caws, he could have sworn he could hear a familiar call he’d not heard since the days of his youth… but by the time such a thought had registered, it had already disappeared, forever to be cast under the doubt of a mind and soul too hopeful to realize that it sought phantoms long since passed. With a shake of his gargantuan head, the colossal saurian turned both his mind and eyes towards the north…

The day had started poorly for Ghur’Tcha. He’d awoken in a screaming fit in the early hours of darkest morning, visions of his brother, Xa’Tchee, still behind his eyelids. He could not find rest after that, and had instead taken to walking aimlessly amidst the vaulted halls of the Palace, content to let his mind wander to places far away. His thoughts eventually turned, as they often did these days, to Twilight Sparkle and the things she’d shown him. The memory still sent a chill down his spine. Naturally, he could not think of the Princess without his mind turning to Gho’Zra.

There was another thought that set him on edge. Nightmares of his brother and the men of the Happy Dragon No.7 aside, he’d often wondered if perhaps his mission to warn the world had only made things that much worse. Had he not foretold of the coming of Chu’Maq’Tahl’s Child, would the Lunar Princess still be living? Had he, in his attempt to save the people of Equestria, inadvertently set the stage for their ultimate undoing? These thoughts would continue to torment him for hours to come.

K'Umetk had told him before that to ponder on the ‘what-If’s’ of life was to only invite misery into one’s mind. The young Chameleon now fully understood what his elder friend meant. It had been the great commotion that took place beneath the early morning’s light what had finally shaken him from his self-reflections. There was a colony of Cats living on the island of Chu’Peq, not too far from where he’d grown up. He remembered how they often kept to themselves, rarely ever coming into contact with others outside of their own.

It had been common knowledge to most of the inhabitants of the Chameleonic Islands that the Cats were a race of mighty warriors from a great kingdom across the sea. Less often spoke of was the tale of how and why they’d come to the islands in the first place, and even less spoken of Chu’Peq’s original inhabitants – a group Chameleon’s who had welcomed a clan of migrant Diamond Dogs to live amongst them for near seven generations. As he’d watched the cats unload their great and terrifying machines of war this morning, he could easily see in his mind’s eye what more than likely happened on Chu’Peq some five decades past.

He’d only just managed to stay out from underfoot of the milling tide of soldiers, and was quick to make himself scarce – seeing so many weapons and warriors left him feeling rather uncomfortable. The entire reason he’d come to the train station in the first place was so that he might travel again to Ponyville; he’d wanted so desperately to talk with Twilight once more – she had instantly understood the nightmares that had been plaguing him unceasingly, and her words of wisdom and encouragement had done much good to soothe his soul… With the coming of the Cats, he could not see making such a journey for the foreseeable future.

He now found himself sitting upon an ebony bench amidst the palatial gardens. The late afternoon sun, though warm and pleasant upon his skin, did little to alleviate the cold haunted chill that gripped his soul. A bird sang its trilling call somewhere overhead – Ghur’Tcha envied it for its blissful ignorance. His sullen thoughts were only momentarily dispersed by the clacking report of a shuffling cane which now approached him from behind.

He did not need to look back to see who it was that had disturbed his dark reflections. It was only as old K’Umetk finally took a seat of rest beside him that the troubled young Chameleon finally turned and looked. K’Umetk calmly observed the young man in silence – his single sharp and wizened eye seemed to stare directly into Ghur’Tcha’s soul. Minutes would pass before the quiet was broken by the old man – “You are troubled, Ghur’Tcha,” he began, “more so than usual… what burdens your mind so greatly that you would eschew food and rest in favor of despair?”

Visions of a churning glass tank filled with nightmarish scenes of death entered the young reptiles mind. How greatly he wished to tell the captain of what he saw – how fierce was the burden of it all upon his heart to know that such evil could be had… but he could not – would not – betray the oath of secrecy he’d given to Twilight Sparkle upon that day, in the darkened room that so personified her mournful madness. He couldn’t possibly abuse the trust of the only other being in the world that understood and felt exactly as he did.

So, instead, he put forth a false smile and replied, “It’s nothing, Captain – only nightmares that plague my sleep.” K’Umetk’s frown spoke enough; he understood that there was more to it than what his young friend was letting on, but he would not press the boy – Ghur’Tcha had suffered much in so short a span and the old Chameleon knew that only time could salve his aching spirit. The two of them turned to look out at the lush grounds of the garden. A soft wind whispered into their ears as it gently rustled the swaying tendrils of the willow trees. A rain of slender leaves drifted through the air before coming rest upon the glassy surface of the garden’s pond.

Watching the once tranquil glassy waters as they began to ripple and collide across themselves, Ghur’Tcha finally asked, “K’umetk… if… if you could change fate… if you had the ability to prevent a great tragedy before it could ever occur, even if it meant committing something unspeakable, would you do it?” The wind seemingly died, the air growing silent, as if to contemplate the question. Closing his eyes in thought, the older Chameleon took a slow, deep breath before he once more opened them to look upon his troubled young friend.

With a voice that suddenly sounded so very old and weary, K’Umetk answered, “A child is born into the world with no thought of the misfortunes that will one day befall it… It is only as tragedy unfolds before us that we begin to see with greater clarity our lives and how we spend them.” He paused to collect his thoughts; the weight of his words carried true despite the silence. “A man is formed out of his hardships; it is through times of great unrest that we find our potential – our strength to stand defiant before the future…” A distant look passed his eyes as he spoke these words.

The water of the pond had finally calmed itself, order and tranquility once more manifested through its mirrored surface. KUmetk’s body seemed to grow older by the second as he finally continued, “But… I would be lying if I said that I would not change fate if I could.” A grim smile passed his withered lips as he finished, “If I were able to stay the hand of fate, to turn aside the misfortunes of life, I would do so with all that I had within me… even at the expense of the experiences that would make me who and what I am.” As K’Umetk turned once more to look out upon the castle gardens, Ghur’Tcha meditated upon all that had been said…

The evening sun struck the sky in a kaleidoscope of red and gold, pink and blue – It would not be long until it disappeared altogether behind the horizon. This had always been the favorite time of day for Panzerkommandant Siegfried Stoßauge. It reminded him of his mother. She’d always enjoyed the colors of the evening sky as they subtly shifted ever darker until at last the calm of midnight blues encompassed the whole of the heavens, revealing their starry splendor.

As it now stood, the sun had set in such a way that it seemingly sat atop the spiraled pinnacle of the Solaritaniot, the cities venerated solstice marker – its crystalline lattice catching the evening rays in such a way as to turn the normally clear monolith into a brilliant pillar of incarnadine refulgence. It was truly an awe-inspiring spectacle, if he were to be honest with himself. Turning his eyes away from the vivid monument, his attention turned once more to the largest consortium of officers he’d ever witnessed in his life, all of whom were there for the express purpose of finding out just what exactly they were expected to do.

Everywhere he looked, there were markings and insignia giving claim to ranks ranging from Feldwebel to such lofty positions as Oberstleutnant[11]. Numbering less than a hundred men in total, it was through them that order and discipline were enforced – the framework upon which the army was built. He himself was keenly aware of his own place within that framework; his rank of Panzerkommandant, while little more than an over glorified Feldwebel, meant that he was responsible for the lives of some two to three dozen men and as many as four Sturmwagens. There were others like him amongst this group, many of whom he was very well acquainted with.

One such acquaintance actually stood next to him as they waited for Oberst Mittens to arrive and begin the briefing – a dark, long haired, short-faced Himalayan by the name of Zimo Metzger, who had graduated from the same class as Siegfried nearly a decade ago. The two had always gotten along very well, and they had often met during off time for the express purpose of enjoying each others company. With any luck, they’d be working together in this latest conflict. They have been having a rather pleasant conversation, one of a myriad of discussions that had been silently exchanged for the past fifteen minutes.

It all came to a swift and sudden halt the minute the man in charge of the entire operation finally made his presence known. With a purposeful stride, (and accompanied by the ubiquitous Gila Monster that seemed to shadow him wherever he went) Oberst Mittens Von Flieschtauben called the crowd to order. “Before we start this briefing,” he began, “I’d like to acknowledge the fact that we are joined this evening by a representative of the Pferdsreich.”

That, at least, explained the rather curious presence of the old grey horse who had been keeping a respectful distance from the assembled group; Lingua Franca had been more than content to merely observe the various Felines, Ferrets, Amphibians and Reptiles as they interacted with one another in a manner that both fascinated and terrified him. Next to him stood the Minister of the Interior, Claws Von Schlauhirn, who had been just as equally content to merely sit there and absorb the warmth of the setting sun.

Rubbing his paws together, the Oberst once more caught everyone’s attention as he exclaimed, “Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?” With a flourish of his hands, Mittens motioned for a couple of well-pressed Ferrets. With rapid steps, they hurriedly presented a set of graphs and maps hanging from a rolling frame that silently rattled as its well-worn wheels scuffed across the granite pavilion that surrounded the monument. Dismissing them with a nod, the Oberst quickly pointed to a topographical chart with all manner of marking and numerations; at its center was a clear depiction of the capital city of Canterlot.

“This is our ultimate objective,” he declared, “the defense of the surrounding mountainside, and the preservation of the city, if at all possible.” A sense of unease manifested amongst the crowd at this – no one wanted to contemplate what failure entailed. Turning to another map (this one showing a map of the Equestrian Empire, a set of red lines drawn from the lower south-eastern coastline and all but bisecting its way to the north, coming to a halt just short of the Everfree Forest), The Oberst continued, “Our target was last spotted entering the Everfree, here, some forty-six hours prior.”

“Statistical and topographical information have lead our analysts to project, with a high degree of certainty, that 'Q' will emerge here,” at this he pointed to a spot on the map a few inches to the left of a small red dot, before continuing, “some fourteen kilometers west of a small town by the name of ‘Ponyville’.” While the name was rather unoriginal, the position of the town struck those who understood logistics as being extremely strategic in its placement, straddling, as it did, a major river system, and having direct access via rail line to the capital.

As if to acknowledge such thoughts, Oberst Mittens expounded, “Barring that the target continues on the projected course, the only other viable way to the capital would be through the sloping foothills near which this small town is situated – that being said, there will be a small detachment of the thirty-second Leichteinfanteriebatallion[12] as well as elements of the Erste Panzergrenadiers in place to keep watch.” Turning to a small roster diagram, the Colonel seemed to come to some sort of internal decision before turning once more to the crowd of officers.

“Since I’d rather not be caught surprised by something the size of a mountain, I feel it prudent to also station half a dozen units from the thirteenth Sturmwagenabteilung.” This caught a few of the more senior officers off guard, as it seemed rather excessive to send so many machines to guard such a small little hamlet. However, being the senior ranking member of the assembly meant that none would dare question him over what was, technically, his decision alone to make.

Going on, Mittens explained the designated placement of several key artillery batteries, both in and around the capital city, along with a general plan to coordinate a large-scale operation that implemented an experimental combined arms approach. The hope was that, by using the artillery as a support screen, the Sturmwagens might get within a close enough range to bring their full firepower to use. Infantry would act as a buffer force, meant to distract and hopefully lure the target away from the capital and towards a series of minefields that, at the moment of the debriefing, were currently being laid.

Should the target be successfully coerced into the trap, they would have enough room to bring the Expedition Force’s heaviest ordinances (a gigantic trio of eighty centimeter railway guns that were quickly being assembled on a special track just a kilometer northeast of Canterlot) to bear down upon it. “In the event that this somehow fails to kill it,” he continued, “the RWV[13] has given the authorization to utilize T-300 shells.”[14] The temperature seemingly dropped a few degrees as a collective chill of terror ran up the spine of every single officer present. Even Claws Von Schlauhirn had to suppress a shudder, and he understood the implications less so than they. The only one who failed to realize what the Oberst meant was Lingua Franca.

Noticing the looks of absolute horror he was receiving, Oberst Mittens’ countenance visibly darkened as he grimly asserted, “Needless to say, it would be in everyone’s best interest that we kill this thing before it ever comes to that.” Even as the Oberst went on to discuss the topic of regional designation, the sense of dread never fully lifted from the air. It would fail to dissipate even as the briefing was brought to a close, the last dying rays of the setting sun seemed, if anything, a grim portent of the future…

The Ponyville General Hospital was the last place anyone would have expected to see such a diverse (not to mention, rather famous) group of mares. But the five of them were there for a very important reason – their friend had been entered into the intensive care wing some twenty-four hours prior and in the case of one of them, her brother as well. The sight that met them as they entered the small, sterile white room was that of Rainbow Dash, still at rest and looking far worse than any of them could have fathomed.

By her side, and equally as asleep, sat the pensive red form of Big Macintosh, who had not left the Pegasus’ side at all since bringing her in. With a familial gentility, Applejack approached her sleeping brother and lightly shook him into wakefulness. When he finally registered the guests, he could only muster an exhausted smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The next hour was spent in quiet conversation, the six of them brought together through a common bond with one they loved.

Even Twilight Sparkle (who had not been seen by any of them for near on a month) had come to pay her respects. The dark rings under her sunken eye testified to a month of inner turmoil, one wracked by bouts of grief and anger, if any of them were to guess; one did not lose someone so close and not come away scarred. Still, she had found it within herself to visit alongside the others, and for a time everything seemed almost as it once had been – there was smiling and laughter, talk of the past and of the future.

But by hours end it was time to depart; back to their homes and to the reality of life as it now was. All gave final farewell to both Rainbow and Macintosh before they slowly headed out the door. Applejack gave her reassurances that all was well at the farm, inviting her brother to stay and further attend to the mare he loved. He greatly appreciated her understanding. The last one to leave, however, was Twilight; turning once more to Macintosh, she spoke in a heavy-hearted tone, “Take care of her Macintosh… take care of her and never let her go.” A silent nod was all he could muster, but it was enough. Slowly, Twilight Sparkle closed the door…

[1] Situated at the southern edge of Canterlot, the Fir Ridge represents the actual apex of the mountain upon which the city stands. Its name is derived from the fact that, historically, there had once been a grove of Fir Trees that grew there and nowhere else on the mountain.
[2] A term used to denote a specialist above the rank of Private but beneath the rank of a Lance Corporal, a Hauptgefreiter is more often associated with Artillery divisions, where they take on the role of fire team captains.
[3] While similar to their eastern cousins, the Bison who live on the western half of the continent have taken to integrating into the predominant society of their range – the Cats of Vorosh. Prized for their strength and endurance, as well as for their ferocity in battle, the Bison employed under the banner of Vorosh are used to tow ordinance, clear obstacles, evacuate the wounded and even as shock troops, where their sheer size and weight of momentum make for a terrifying spectacle when charging towards the front.
[4] The Schwere Feldkanone 15 (SFk-15) is the standard workhorse artillery piece used by the Empire of Vorosh. With a bore of 150 millimeters, it has proven time and time again to be both an effective field cannon and a fantastic general purpose gun.
[5] A Hipposandal is roughly analogous to a horseshoe, utilizing rawhide leather fastened together with bronze clasps and fitted with a pair of backward facing tines. It differs from a horseshoe in that it physically covers the entire hoof like a boot, and provides better traction on rough terrain. It is also cheaper and easier to maintain on the go.
[6] Literally translates to “Watch where you are going, you brat.”
[7] A traditional Pangolian construction technique, the “Old Point” style places heavy emphasis on the use of a highly angular post-and-lintel type construction, allowing for an unusual abundance of free interior space. It has become highly popular within recent years.
[8] Roughly translates to “Ah, Gentlemen, please, come – come – come, come sit; sit down!”
[9] Roughly translates to “Hermann, my friend, come and sit beside me.”
[10] Located in the southern regions of the empire, Kratzenhaus has long been synonymous with the concept of Artillery thanks in part to the Schmautgin School of Gunnery, the finest establishment of its kind in the world.
[11] Roughly equivalent the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, an Oberstleutnant acts as a lieutenant to the Oberst (the highest ranking officer on the field), carrying out his orders, and issuing orders of their own in order to insure that the Oberst’s orders are carried out.
[12] Literally meaning Light Infantry Battalion, the Leichteinfanteriebatallion is a holdover from a previous era. Originally used as skirmishers who harassed heavier gauged soldiers, the Light Infantry Battalions are nowadays used as a type of specialized scouting force; Equipped with bolt-action rifles, they are not equipped to actively participate on the front, and are more suited to guard detail and guerrilla warfare. Trained to utilize reconnaissance in order to attack enemy weak points and strategic locations behind enemy lines, the Leichteinfanteriebatallions have become quite adept at hit and run combat. They are being slowly phased out in favor of the more modern Ranger Battalions.
[13] Roughly translated to mean ‘Imperial Weaponry Management Board’, the Reichswaffenverwaltung (RWV) is responsible for the dissemination of both arms and ammunition to the Imperial Army. The Board is also responsible for authorizing the utilization of weaponry designated grade five and above (Chemical Gas, Nerve Agents, Biological Toxins, etc.)
[14] A grade five weapon, T-300 is represented chemically as O-Pinacolyl methylphosphonofluoridate, but it is more commonly known as Soman – a highly toxic and incredibly lethal organophosphate nerve agent. It is a volatile, corrosive, and colorless liquid that interferes with neurotransmission, effectively shutting down the ability of autonomous muscle functions. Victims of Soman literally die of asphyxiation – their lungs no longer capable of working as they begin to fill with fluids. Death can occur from prolonged contact through skin or through the inhalation of its aerated form. If immediately treated, the only side effects are often only permanent neurological damage. The Cats of Vorosh have only used Soman on three occasions, all of which occurred during the Diamond Dog War. There is a great amount of controversy inside the empire of Vorosh over its use – with the majority feeling that it is an altogether abhorrent weapon. There is a very real fear of it in the public mind, due to an incident during the war in which a shift in the prevailing winds pushed a cloud of Soman gas into the Voroshian lines. Over 2000 Cats died in the incident now known as the ‘Sleeper’s Field Tragedy’.

Author's Note

Well, here's the final chapter of the third act. We're getting closer to the climax. I'm actually fairly surprised with myself. It didn't take me nearly as long as I thought it would.
Things are also going to get a little longer in regards to the overall length of the coming chapters - there are so many points to tie in, and should it all go accordingly, I'll have the next chapter up some time in December. If not, expect it to occur next year; I am currently becoming increasingly busy as of late; my responsibility are soon enough going to include 'Fatherhood'.
Until next time then, yes?

On a final note, I would like to point out that I would like some form of feedback to gauge how I am doing.

Auf Wiedersehen!