The night sky is burning fire.
It causes fear, and uncertainty. I too, am afraid.
The fire only makes it worse. Illuminating hints of the evil that is to come, it hides the rest.
We are shrouded in darkness, knowing that something is coming, something is evil. We feel it in our bones.
Every moment that passes, the fire grows closer. Every moment that passes, we realize that we have done too little too late.
I myself, have decided to hide in the cellar.
Then we start to hear the whistling as it nears the land, bringing with it something that will change everything we knew.
I wait and pray.
When I come to, I can feel the choking dust, and cough. It burns my lungs. For a moment, I can only sit on my haunches and gasp for air. I’m lucky to have survived it seems. For the most part, my house is intact. I gingerly make my way up the stairs, as it’s no longer safe in my house. It could probably collapse at any moment, not to mention that the air is a breathing hazard. I suppose I should be thankful that I still have a level-headed mind, but my hands are too busy shaking.
And then knocking on my door. I breathe a sigh of relief, because that means that there are still ponies left.
Alive
So I inch the door open with my hooves, only to wish I didn’t, all because of what I see.
It’s Captain Drunkhoof. Everypony in the village swears he’s never actually been drunk though, so maybe it’s an unfortunate name. He’s outfitted too, with the works. A steel helmet, steel boots, steel barding, all somewhat worn and rusty. We haven’t needed that kind of thing for a while now, not since the great war a millennia ago, when Princess Celestia fought Nightmare Moon. It’s almost falling apart at the seams. But it’s also heavy, and he’s panting already. The sweat is slick on his coat.
However, the intended effect is achieved. He looks imposing. The boots make him taller, the barding makes him bulkier, and the helmet hides all but his eyes that stare out from the cold void. And I back away.
“You there, you’ve been conscripted into the militia. Congratulations.” He confirms my worst fears. But I can’t say no either, because I have family, and if I don’t step up, whatever is out there will destroy what’s left.
“Yes sir,” is my response, firm and clear.
“Excellent. Do you know where the barracks are?” he asks.
“Yes sir,” I repeat.
“Report there to get outfitted, then meet me at the gate,” he says.
So I trot off to the barracks to get equipment. As I walk along, I can hear the fearful mutterings of the townsfolk.
“Are we going to be okay?”
“What’s going on?”
“Mama, mama?”
“Is tomorrow going to come?”
“It’s the end of the world!”
All these statements echo the uncertainty that we feel. And then the foal starts to cry. All at once havoc breaks out. A stallion, probably a drunk one starts to scream at the mother to get that baby to shut up. More foals begin to cry, and more stallions, most likely the sires of said foals begin to berate the one that screamed first. And then there is a brawl. A couple of guards are forced to intervene.
But I walk on and ignore it. I don’t really want to get involved in a fight I’m unlikely to be able to stop, and there seem to be more pressing things if Drunkhoof is wearing that kind of armor. As I get closer to the building that I want, I can hear the angry shouting.
“Why can’t we get armor like the captains?” asked a stallion to the requisitions officer.
“As I’ve told you before, we don’t have enough. Senior personnel only,” replied the requisitions officer calmly.
“But he’s asking us to put down our lives here. Surely there’s something more than these rags,” complained the stallion.
The requisitions officer didn’t reply.
I went up. “Since the stallion over here can’t decide yet, can I get outfitted?”
Wordlessly, the requisitions officer hands me some cloth armor. I can see what the stallion was talking about, but I suppose it’s better than nothing.
“Weapon?” the officer asks.
“Dagger,” I say. I want something versatile.
What I get is a rusty thing that looks like it’s going to snap at any moment. I guess it’s time to go to the blacksmith. And there’s a long line when I get there. All sorts of things need sharpening, and not everypony knows how to do it, but I do, so I ask for a sharpening block, which the blacksmith happily lends, because he has so much work.
I sit there, grinding the sharpening stone against the edge of the blade.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Eventually it wears down to that tapered edge which is satisfactory. I also try to scrub off some of the rust, but not too much. A shiny blade can give one away, and I don’t really want that. I test it against my hoof, and it draws blood. I wipe off the blood. The blade is ready. I return the stone, and walk toward the gate. As I near, I hear the groans of pain from the injured, and I cringe a little. I still have no idea what I’m about to face, so I can’t help but feel nervous.
Then I see the line. It’s thin, bodies littered on the ground. Drunkhoof sees me and waves. I walk over to him.
“You’re just in time for the next wave,” he says. “Just do whatever you can.”
So I walk out the gates that have opened ominously, and join the line. Drunkhoof steps next to me. I almost expect some sort of inspirational speech, but he just stands there, vigilant.
So we wait.
Time passes, and it shows. The guard, conscripted suddenly as is, has a lack of discipline. They are scratching their backs. Weapons are littered on the ground, ponies tired of carrying them. If we were attacked right now, it would be a massacre.
Then we hear hoofsteps. The guards that once were lazing around pick up their weapons warily. We wait to see what it is that approaches.
It turns out it’s a lone wanderer, mysterious, and very much not an enemy. Inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief, happy that battle hasn’t started.
But in the shadows, something lurks. I see it.
“They’re coming,” I yell, trying to warn the captain. And then I see them in full, pony skeletons, white with age. They are all carrying weapons of some sort, and don’t look too friendly.
What happens amazes me. The wanderer turns around, crossbow in hand, and fires. Somehow, the bolts ricochet around, and in an instant, the first wave is decimated. More are coming, a lot more, though. The wanderer keeps firing. Soon, the first line manages to reach us, and we are hoof to hoof, stabbing and slicing and smashing, hoping that somehow, we can bring down these abominations. For the most part, I am unscathed, managing to dodge the furious assault of the skeletons. We all know we are buying time for the stranger to do her work.
As soon as the combat begins, it’s over. The newcomer is better than all of us combined. She’s a godsend. And then she says it.
“I seek the fallen star.”
Drunkhoof takes a while to think it over. I can tell he wants to order her to stand down and join the militia, but none of us could stop her, even if we wanted to.
“Alright, I’ve seen the way you fight. Maybe you can get to it, of all ponies. You should talk to Angel, in the local inn. She’d probably know something about it. Her uncle, Bookish studied that kind of thing,” replies Drunkhoof reluctantly.
And with that, she is gone, hidden with the shadows.
