He could barely hold his sword above the ground, the dirt and grim added to the pathetic state the sword rested in. Rust and other foul materials stained the unbalanced foul tool, improper position of arms. Fear rattled the mind of the soldier, fear of a beating by the sharp, yet flexible, stinging Willow-Wisp tree stick.
Earth Ponies were among the first breeds to advance in forms of metal, although the technological advancement came at a terrible cost with horrific outcomes. Mining. The mining process were for slaves only, mining was dangerous for many lives were lost in the tunnels of the mines. Some were lost forever, wandering the caves and tunnels—alone and scared.
Alakazam was a unicorn slave, young enough to still be suckling onto a mare’s tit when the foal was captured. A foal, still, purple fur like the finest of grapes and the pink eyes like soft velvet neatly made from the greatest of silk makers who would wove for no less than a Priest or the War-Chief or the King. Like many in his race, Alakazam lacked in physical strength and his age did not make it up for in knowledge.
Alakazam barely stood taller than his own shield, which was firmly held in his small left hoof. The engravement on the shield was the Earth Pony tribe King himself, Earth Crust the Elder, and was made of a byproduct of bronze. The full grown stallions and mares surrounding Alakazam’s shields were polished to a sheen, being made of pure copper.
As a slave, his horn was chipped off naturally to prevent magic happening—silently reforming the young colt into the life of impurity, but a life non-the-less. Not even ten years old and Alakazam holds soldier weapons that he barely stood taller than. Pity.
There’s no room for pity in the army.
A sharp ‘thwack’ to the head dazed the young foal’s senses; tears blurred his vision and made his nose burn raw with the warning of blood. Alakazam squealed and dropped his sword to hold his head protectively, earning himself ten more lashings that stung harshly even after the beating had stopped. Tears flew from his face freely as he sobbed, writhering.
He knew better than to beg for mercy, warriors don’t beg for mercy.
Add that to the list of bruises on Alakazam’s temple and head.
