The Eastern Campaigns

Armored hooves pounded down the cobbled street, sending Prench citizens scattering out of the galloping pegasus’ path. A cloak the color of sand flapped in the wind, revealing a suit of strategically spiked armor in the legionnaire style beneath. An electric yellow mane and tail, and a coat of ash-grey, matted with sweat and the grime of many leagues, and electric yellow eyes were fixated on the distant goal ahead.

The pegasus wove his way around the stalls of the marketplace, dodging around flower vases and the artistic fountains that dotted the path to the docks, not caring about the chaos he was leaving in his wake. More than a few citizens could not help but watch him go by, no doubt wondering what a captain of Roam’s Legions was doing so far from home, and what could bring him here in such a wrath.

Elsewhere, hooves in gilded comforters rested on the deck of a royal vessel; a grand ship-of-the-line, made for battle as much as the comfort of its passenger. Said passenger had arrived in a frenzy, babbling that he was being chased by a demon of some kind, and had ordered the captain to set emergency speed back to the distant homeland across the sea. Perplexed, the captain and crew had obeyed, the ship’s unicorns calling upon a strong wind and manipulating the tide and currents to speed the ship up immensely.

Barreling through the streets, the pegasus was getting ever closer to the docks, a wild grin on his face. He had been chasing after his mark for almost a year now, and was finally about to get what he sought after: vengeance, a blood debt to be repaid for cowardice and betrayal. Just a little longer now, just a little longer.

Now that they were just passing the final marker of the harbor, the passenger was finally relaxing, feeling safe for the first time in what felt like a year. “Captain,” he said to the poor unicorn who had to keep close to him for the duration of the trip, “when we have left Prench waters, I’d prefer it if you summoned a royal airship direct from Canterlot to pick me up. You will not mention what happened earlier to anyone, not even Admiral Blue Steel. Is that understood?”

The captain gritted his teeth at the passenger’s grating voice, but answered, “Yes, your highness. I’ll see that your wishes are all tended to.”

The passenger smiled. “Excellent. Now, if you could bring me a bottle of your best wine? From your personal stores, of course.” The captain gritted his teeth again. This was going to be a long trip, and dealing with the Prince was going to test his patience more than any storm ever had.

Back on the docks, the pegasus had finally reached the area he knew where his target would be running to. But as he pushed his way past some sailors, and reached the end of the pier, he saw something missing. Something that should have been there no matter how much of a lead his target had on him.

There was no ship, just empty water, and when he ran to the edge to get a better view, he saw the terrible truth. Vanishing just over the horizon were the masts of an Equestrian Royal Navy ship-of-the-line, distinguishable by its white sails with the sun and moon printed on them, and the banner that flew on it. The personal banner of his quarry; a gilded compass rose.

For a good five minutes the pegasus just watched, dumbfounded, as the ship vanished over the edge of the world. And when it was gone from all view and reach, he tilted back his head and unleashed a scream of such rage, such anguish, that every pony and griffon in the area scattered out of fear. And on that distant vessel, a certain royal ever so faintly heard it, and smiled in contentment.

The temple of Sleipnir was, while smaller than its sister in Mareis, still a beautiful old thing. Carved marble depicting the beauties of nature, tall slender columns of the corinthian order, stained glass windows with the image of Sleipnir himself, and old and well loved gardens tended to by the clerics. Inside a few candles burned, but most of the light came from the windows. It was silent, with mostly only the clerics and the odd worshiper walking the polished tiles. At the far end of the main chamber was an altar, over which loomed a statue of the Great Horse himself.

The silence was abruptly ended when the clank of armor and the clatter of metal-shod hooves began. In from the afternoon light walked the pegasus, head hanging low and tears threatening to fall to the floor. Without a word he walked over to one of the pews closest to the altar but far to the side, and dropped into it, his armor making quite a racket in the process. Slowly, he lowered his cloak’s hood and removed his helmet, letting his mane flop free and set the cover aside. He didn’t notice that, gradually, the clerics were edging away from him.

All but one felt brave enough to approach the warrior. A younger member of their order swallowed in what was nothing short of fear as his older peer sat down next to the dangerous looking pegasus. The stallion was aged, wrinkled and slightly worn in places. His coat was a dulled gold, and his mane a lighter blue shade. He removed his own mock crown - gold with an onyx rim set all the way around it - and placed it next to the pegasus’ helmet.

“What do you seek here, child?” he asked without fear in Itallion. “Why do you enter this sanctum of the Great Horse in such a weary state?” The pegasus looked up, saw who spoke to him, and gave a respectful nod, eyes filled with tears waiting to fall out.

“Father, I come seeking forgiveness. I have failed in my task to bring a traitor, a coward, to justice. Even now he sails away over the ocean beyond my reach.” His voice and accent marked him as Itallion without question to the elderly cleric. “Now my friends, my allies… those I shed blood beside for over twenty years are dead and will see no vengeance.” He rubbed at his eyes, muttering, “I wonder if they’ll ever forgive me?”

Gently, warily, the priest laid a wrinkled hoof over the younger stallion’s own, smiling gently as he spoke. “No hatred is eternal, child. Some day, we must all learn to let go of the fires we cherish.”

“Yes, I suppose we must. No, I know we must. I saw many I knew cut down in that campaign. But me, her… the coward left us both in our hour of need. Now, only he and I remain from that conflict. The Eastern Campaigns.” Shaking his head, the warrior turned to face the cleric properly eye-to-eye. “Look at me, Father. Do these look like the eyes of someone who can let go easily? Because of him I lost the one friend who had managed to survive as long as I did. Can I be forgiven for holding such a hatred in me? By her, by Sleipnir… Father? Is something wrong?”

The old stallion tore his wide-eyed gaze from the pegasus’ own. “No,” he answered. “Everything is just fine.” He looked back, oddly more hesitant this time. “Yes, you can be forgiven. Sleipnir holds nothing against one such as yourself. Do not despair that you are unable to find the source of your hatred, but instead… look back, and see that you are still a good pony on the inside.” He placed a golden hoof on the warrior’s shoulder. “You held onto those friendships for a very long time, and this hatred is but a small part of that time. Be at peace with the knowledge that those twenty years of friendship will never turn their backs upon you, and that your friends are sailing towards Distant Shores as we speak.”

The old stallion’s words were the final blow to the flood gates, and the soldier finally burst into tears, sobbing quietly and rocking side to side a little. He still had concern for the cleric’s strange distress as well, but nonetheless he nodded once he had had enough. “Again Father, you are right. I don’t know if I can ever let go of the hatred, but I think I can let it drift to the far edge of my being with the memories of old to fill in the gap. Thank you for your words, Father. They are comforting to be sure. I will remember them, but I need more than words before I’ll be able to move on. ”

The pegasus stood, retrieving his helmet and replacing it on his head. “Now it’s time for me to face the consequences of my failure. This will be my last chance to introduce myself like this, so I’ll cherish it: My name is Black Thunder, Captain of the Imperial Legions of Roam, Eastern Legion. Last of the heroes of the Eastern Campaigns. Thank you for your words, Father…?”

“Golden Brand,” the old cleric replied. “Father Golden Brand.”

“Father Golden Brand. I will try to remember that. Again, thank you for your words. Long life and peace to you.” With that, Black Thunder turned once more and exited the temple, leaving in his wake a trail of terrified clerics and worshippers. Father Golden Brand watched the warrior leave, felt the unnatural sense of fear begin to recede, and started towards his chambers. He had a letter to write.

If there was a place worthy of being called a “greasy spoon”, it was the Greasy Spoon tavern, a two story affair with the stereotypical tavern layout. With an added...special touch. In an attempt to copy the cooking style of deep south Equestria, the owners fried nearly everything, even the flowers. The whole place stank of vegetable oil, and you had to get used to it if you chose to eat there. If you were with the Red Diamond Mercenary Guild, however, you had no choice.

One such pony was Black Thunder, ex Captain of a legion of Roamian forces, now a mere grunt for the guild. And all in the record time of one and a half months at that. Nursing a drink he was sure had been fried somehow, he looked around the dimly lit common room every now and then.

The job board was empty, and he and every other member of the guild was hoping that any moment now someone would come in and post a job request. Until then you just had to sit in the company of your fellow fighters and get over the cloying smell. Well, except the pegasus. He sat alone, though not by choice. Everyone in the room was making an effort to avoid him, though from fear or unintended intimidation on his part he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t even look anyone but the guild-master in the eye while talking to them, and even the aforementioned boss couldn’t do it for more than a minute.

So there he sat, waiting, and thinking back on how he had fallen so far. It had been so fast in a way. A week of flying top speed to the nearest outpost and the moment he had reported in, he was informed that he was to be discharged dishonorably. The reason? Cowardice and failure in the line of duty....