Four Legends

A Painting in Words

Four thrones. Each a duplicate of the next, they regally stand in a row.

Four ponies. Each a legendary adventurer, they have fought long and hard to achieve their greatness.

Looking up at these thrones, the afternoon sunlight illuminates them, leaving everything else in darkness and shadow.

On the right sits the wielder of the legendary sword named Ordinary, a rough translation from his native tongue. His armor, frighteningly simple and black, thoroughly covers his body in thick plates. If he were to put on the helm, he would seem a Demon straight from Tartarus. Appropriate, since they were the ones who cut it in his honor from the walls of Hell itself. The Black Knight, he is called by many.

Instead, he looks normal. A tall young unicorn brown of coat, mane, tail, and eye. He is not young though, but rather one of the oldest ponies alive. A slight smile softens his intimidating presence as he observes from on high.

Ordinary rests in a plain, straight leather scabbard on his back, hiding its indestructible, impossibly black, and impossibly sharp blade. The scabbard is purely for formality, though: Ordinary cuts only what its wielder wishes.

Swords are not a weapon of ponies, and this holds true of Ordinary. Its hilt, looming over his left shoulder, is composed of a straight handle and cross-guard of mundane steel, although this steel casts shame on even the greatest steelmakers. The grip is bound in old, worn leather and a single nick mars the guard; a reminder of the encounter for which Ordinary was given its name.

Both pony and sword stand as an enigma: normal… and a mystery. One born and one forged, they came here, together, from a far off land. A land no pony or otherwise has ever heard of. Yet now they have settled here, far from their roots. Whatever roots they left.

Next to him sits a mare. A pillar casts half her throne into shadow, while the other half remains in sunlight. Her appearance, however, is neither brightened by the sun nor shrouded by the shadow. It is this mastery of the Dark and the Light that is why she is called the Herald of Hope.

She leans forward on her throne, clad in armor as thick as the stallion’s beside her. Her armor, forged from the light of a fallen star, is as golden and crystalline as she. Perhaps the only part of her appearance that is not gold or yellow is her eyes. They are a striking green, and only her supportive smile keeps them from being daunting.

One of her forehooves rests on her helm. Elegant and open, much as she, a single black gem sits upon its brow. This jewel is simply called End. By her hoof it was brought from the depths of the Abyss, where horrors from before time still slumber... and sometimes stir for a moment or two. Shifts that have driven even gods to madness. End brings echoes of these movements; it whispers of the forces of evil throughout the world.

Both pony and stone stand against evil. Born to darkness, they have fought their way to the light. Now they carry the light back in a great crusade. Words can shake the earth, but actions speak louder than words. Hope has returned.

A pegasus slumps in the third throne. At a glance she seems bored, one wingtip idly pivoting her gryphon greatsword without touching it, but her eyes watch more sharply than the greatest eagle. It is also not just any sword that she twirls, but rather East Wind. Her talent with wind and blade is how she earned her title as the first pony Wind Lord.

She does not look unusual for a pegasus: sky blue coat, straw mane and tail, and stormy grey eyes. She wears the traditional light armor of the pegasi, however, hers is wrought in the metal of the sky, mithril. Its silvery surface is clear for now, but when she is angered it reflects the Great Storm at the edge of the world, the only place where mithril can be found.

Long ago, the greatest swordsmith of the gryphons traveled to the Great Storm. He sought to create the greatest sword in the world from the sky metal. He failed, but the many swords he made in his attempt at perfection are now known as the Wind Swords. Even the least of the Wind Swords are far greater than any soldier could ever hope of owning. The greatest have power beyond even a warrior’s wildest dreams. Of those that are greatest there are four. The True Wind Swords, as they are named. North, South, East, and West.

Each has a long and eventful history, but it is East Wind that spins lazily in the sunlight, its incredible power merely sending flurries of dust motes whirling through the air, rather than hordes of warriors. It was East Wind that crossed the sword that became Ordinary, leaving the lonely dent. A gryphon wielded East Wind then. The gryphon did not survive. Many years after that momentous battle, East Wind laid, until it chose a new owner. For the first time, a pony. Now it fights alongside the strange sword it failed to defeat.

Both sword and pony stand together. Finally looking to sky instead of mountain, East Wind has found a Lord with unequaled skill. The innocent sleep safely as she stands guard. From the east, a new wind comes.

In the final throne lays a second pegasus. At a glance she seems normal, but a closer look reveals her wings are developed in a way unsuitable for flight. A thick book lays open before her, its pages well worn. She seems completely focused on it, occasionally flipping to a new page, but her shifting ears give away her true attentiveness. As her wing brushes down to turn the page once more, the shadows behind her throne roil and shift, faint hints of lightning and dim red glows. A glimpse of Armageddon, Ragnarok, Doomsday... it matters not the name. She is the Storm Caller. The final storm.

Her teal coat is topped by her aquamarine mane and tail, as if a gentle wave. Blue eyes that could divine a pony’s soul at a glance. But they are turned downwards, and do not flicker up. Unlike her peers, she wears no armor, nor any other clothes to mark her status. She does not need to. Thankfully, she is a warm, genial pony, and slow to anger. An oddity amongst those of her vocation.

Her -now ominous- book is more precisely a grimoire. A personal compilation of arcane and eldritch knowledge. It is old, but lovingly cared for. Any secrets it contains in its words, however, are hidden by the multiple, indecipherable, and alien languages it is written in. Despite that, through some invisible magic, she is quickly able to find any piece of knowledge contained within. Truly the tome of an archmage, and not to be trifled with.

Both pony and book stand strong. They are not bowed by that which should not be. Perhaps someday the world will be ready, but that is not this day. A storm looms. There will be no respite.

Four ponies. Each common, little different from anyone else. Each legendary, a champion successful far past mortal ken.

Four thrones. Each humble, little more than a chair. Each overwhelming, a tower of experience beyond reckoning.