Stirrope was the most beautiful and untameable land that was or ever would be.

One only had to ask any Stirropean.

Yet it was a wild land. As the first ponies of Equestria, Zebrica, Aswa-Uma, the Frozen North and the Mysterious South had to contend with dangers and adversities to build their home, so too did Stirrope.

One of these, a near continental-wide threat, were the trolls.

The largest and most dangerous of the race of Fey that had populated the continent long before equines came into being. It was hard to believe that they were more closely related to Breezies than they were to any other monster of similar size and strength. While most of the Fey were either negotiable or dying out, trolls were neither.

They hated nothing more than sharing their territory and enjoyed nothing more than the flesh of four-hoofed beasts tearing apart in their hands and grinding to mush in their mouths. They were as tall as trees, strong as the base of a mountain and as fierce and cruel as a sea-storm.

One thing they weren’t, however, was particularly smart.

When ponies developed strategy in warfare in their struggle to make Stirrope their own, the trollkings fell one by one, driven to the mountains to the north where they’d always dwelt as the equine race took the hills and grasslands for their own.

Yet the trolls were persistent and always found a way to return like the bad smells they carried on them.

And driving them away once more fell to the duties of the knights of Stirrope.

Dousing their blades in oil and setting them afire, a tactic that would rend a troll’s flesh and char it to ash in moments, the knights of Stirrope galloped into the fray in gleaming armour and bright, vibrant banners. Behind them, their squires, yeoponies and steeds-at-arms would bring up the bulk of the army. Few had proper arms and armour, most of the time they made their own, but they charged nonetheless to protect their homes and families. For the knights, though strong and well-equipped, were few. Together they stood against the foe and charged over the rolling green plains to face the oncoming troll warhost lumbering down from the mountains.

Archduke Ballistix however, was rarely among them.

Ballistix was an archer. Many said he was the best in Farmany, perhaps in Stirrope. He wasn’t one to say it himself but if others said it, he wouldn’t argue. It fell to him to ensure the knights had firepower.

He was presently galloping a few feet to the side of the charging knights, his whisperwood bow floating beside him in his magical grasp, an arrow primed on the trolls.

They weren’t extensive in their Warhosts, rarely ever venturing in groups larger than a few dozen. But when they towered over any tree, even meagre numbers were enough to strike terror into the hearts of weaker folk.

Unfortunately for the trolls, Farmans were not weaker folk.

Nor were most other Stirropeans to Ballistix’s knowledge and when they got together, gods of all kinds help the poor fools despoiling land that wasn’t theirs.

Pulling hard on the bowstring, his magical capacity reaching its limit as the arrow sparked with hissing flames and blinding light. Letting it fly, it gave a screech as it cut through the air and landed dead centre between the eyes of the troll closest to the charging knights. As it struck, a blast of golden light and flames blasted through the troll’s head, disorientating his fellows as the charge of the knights of Farmany fell upon them.

Ballistix meanwhile took a pause, breathing deeply as his magic exhaustion was allowed to settle as his bannersteeds and kinsponies followed up, loosing quarrels at the foe.

The strategy was simplistic but effective. The knights would cut deep at the troll’s ankles, thighs or groins, bring them down to earth and have the militia pin them down as they took off the head.

At the front of the charge, three trolls were felled by the great, dazzling blade, Freudja, wielded by Farmany’s unifier. Fullemagne Morgenstern roared as his enemies fell, an inspiring sight in his ebony and brass armour and cloak of manticore fur, his gilded helm bearing great, gleaming wings behind the ears and the visor long and curved like the beak of the great eagle god of Farmany. Cutting his way through the wave of hulking monsters at break-neck speed, the cheers of his fellows went up like a thunderclap.

“Morgenstern! Oberfurst! Pferdlandersieg!”

“Panzerfaust!” came a mare’s roar as Fullemagne’s new wife, Wenda Panzerfaust of Traxony, followed her beloved into the fray, her mighty war-hammer rocketing up into a troll’s privates, swinging back as it fell to its knees with a squeal, spinning round its wielder’s head and smashing into the monster’s pain-stricken face. Husband and wife seemed to be in the middle of a some form of contest as they loudly racked up numbers with every strike.

‘At it again, I see.’ he gave a chuckle at the sight.

Ballistix maintained fire, his horn flaring as bolt after flaming bolt flew through the skies and embedded themselves in the trolls. As another oversized creature went down, one of his kinsponies gestured to him.

A glamorous mare of pink and fuchsia tone in coat and mane. One of the castle servants, a hoofmaiden. Her real name was Saubrot but she’d been allowed to change it to something more ‘princessly’ when her sister had been betrothed to one of his nephews. He couldn’t remember what she was calling herself now. His memory wasn’t what it used to be.

“Meister Archduke Von Armbrust” she began in her best ‘noble’ tone “Meister Breckhart Fray has located the Princess de Gilphin.”

“Ah, good. The wedding will proceed as planned. A first for our family.” Ballistix cricked his neck with a grunt and smiled “Where is she?”

“I...regret to inform you that she has been taken to the troll caves. At present there is only a gathering of Schurks guarding the cave but...it’s a large gathering.”

The old stallion’s face fell.

“The fool didn’t go in alone, did he?”

“No, Archduke. Meister Breckhart took with him three squires and around a dozen close friends with their own squires and some Jagers from the Guildhall, around five of them.”

“Thirty-three armed ponies? How many Schurks is he planning on finding?” Shaking his head, he turned to one of his castellans, a white whisperwood deer.

“Myrwuld. Lead in my stead. Cut off the trolls strikes before they land and protect the Oberfust at all costs.”

With a nod, the deer complied, leading the archers on while Ballistix followed the hoofmaiden into the troll caves in the uplands.

With a guttural shriek, the Schurk leapt at the pony it had hoped would be prey.

A moment later, it flew into the cave wall, its hideous head splattered into pieces by a well-swung mace.

“Seventeen!” Brekhart Fray Von Armbrust yelled over the cacophony of battle.

Schurks were little more than a nuisance in small groups but the troll caves were where they would use stealth, shock and numbers to their advantage. Huge-headed, bandy-limbed midget cousins of the trolls, possessed of the same bulbous noses, jagged tusks, furrowed brows and violent dispositions, Schurks were endemic to North-Western Stirrope and acted as slave labour for the trolls. With their giant overseers out of the cave, they’d been busy victimising prisoners until the knights of Stirrope interrupted their folly.

Lighting the way with torch and spell, the knights had found the meddlesome creatures swarming them in minutes, scrabbling at them with improvised weaponry or scratching at their faces with their bare hands.

Fortunately for Breckhart, Farman armour-craft was some of the best in the world.

His particular armour he had redecorated after a very successful monster-hunting brought him home a slain chimera that had been ravaging the nearby villages. He’d had the tiger’s fur worn made into a cloak, the goat’s head fashioned into a shoulder-plate and the snake skin wrapped into a belt and scabbard.

He’d fought the chimera tooth and hoof and brought it down after a long and gruelling battle.

These Schurks were nothing.

Behind him, his fellows were counting their kill-strikes as they cleared the cave of monsters. The less feverish Schurks made a run for it, scuttling into the crags, but the swarm was still thick. Like wading through muck or snow, Breckhart swung his mace side-to-side as the cave-beasts fell in droves.

A piercing shriek came from his left as one of the creatures leapt at him from the cave wall, pouncing at his face.

Falling to the ground, his plumed helmet came loose and clattered to the ground as Breckhart was beset upon by the packs. Quickly rising his forelegs to shield his face, Breckhart fought to get back on his hooves, swatting at his attackers wildly, shutting his eyes tightly.

The whistle and thump of well-aimed arrows rang in his ears as he opened his eyes. More than several of the Schurks had fallen to the quarrels, others were retreating.

Pawing around for his helmet, he found it being hoofed to him by a familiar figure. A green unicorn with a golden-blonde mane and sea-green eyes, like his own colours, but older, broader, possessed of a beard and a somewhat shaggier mane, his fur around his cheeks, neck and chest thicker and bristlier. He was holding the helmet out with a helpful hoof but an unimpressed smirk.

“I can’t leave you alone for a moment, can I?” the older stallion chuckled.

Replacing the helmet, Breckhart scoffed.

“I can hardly recall the last time you tried...father.”

Sighing, the two patted each other on the shoulder as Ballistix gestured down the cave. Behind them, the hoofmaiden formerly known as Saubrot served as another archer beside the ensemble.

“Come on, boy. Let’s find that bride of yours.”

Venturing further into the cave, father and son leading the way with bow and cudgel, his fellows behind insisting that Ballistix’s kills didn’t count as Breckhart’s, they came to a den, filled with the creatures along with something very different.

Ponies were within, trussed up with cord as the Schurks poked and beat them with sticks and stones. One of them, a mare, was kicking back at them, struggling as they tried to tie her back-hooves.

Catching sight of the intruders, the Schurks rushed forward but didn’t get far. Breckhart very graciously allowed his companions in, giving up a surge of easy kills, but even by then he was ahead by a good half-dozen.

Once the den had been cleared, the imprisoned mare, an elegant unicorn with a scarlet coat, a long, silky, primrose-pink mane and bright orange shadow over eyes of blue turned over and smiled behind a set of slight but noticeable bruises.

“Ah...Archduke Ballistix and his famously rangy son, I presume.” her accent was Bitalian, possessed of a sultry tone despite her breathlessness “I had planned for a more formal method of introduction. I suppose our wedding may be slightly delayed.”

“The fault is ours, my lady. We neglected to keep the path on the Coltics free of danger. Please accept our apologies.” Ballistix said as Breckhart propped her up and took a moment to look into her eyes.

“Princess Sellatura...Did they hurt you?”

Sellatura raised an eyebrow.

“Not severely, Signor Breckhart, but I must insist you undo my bonds. I’m in danger of chaffing...and I’d like to thank you properly.”

Cutting the cords with a knife, his fellows doing the same to the rest of the Princess’s entourage and helping them to their hooves, Breckhart was clutched by the shoulder of his bride-to-be as Princess Sellatura Gilphin of Malian drew him in for a long and deep kiss.

Ballistix rolled his eyes but secretly related. Times were he’d been where his son was now.

Though admittedly the roles had been somewhat reversed as his own wife loved to remind him.

The lovers pulled themselves apart at last.

“I admit...” Breckhart said breathlessly “I’m feeling a lot more comfortable about this arrangement.”

“I had heard tales of your courage, Signor Breckhart, though my father was ever the sceptic.” Sellatura purred “I confess, my family didn’t hold you in such high regard.”

“No? Well, that’s alright then, my family didn’t really hold you in such high regard but we need Malian’s wool. Isn’t that right, father?” Breckhart chuckled.

“No, boy. I need Malian’s wool. You need a sensible wife to keep you out of trouble.”

As Breckhart gave a sulk, Sellatura gave a lilting laugh.

“And I promise he shall have it, my father-to-be. But just for the next few nights...” she gave Breckhart’s mane a ruffle, her hoof curling under his chin “I’d like to see what trouble you can give me.” As the young stallion’s face flushed pink, Sellatura tilted her head to the entourage with a wry smile and cast her eye at the hoofmaiden formerly known as Saubrot.

“And perhaps I would enjoy getting to know my new ladies-in-waiting during this time. You, madam? What is your name?”

“M-me, Fraulein Sellatura? I am Alpenvelca. Maid of Stutegart Hall.”

The Malian mare’s mares eyes gleaming invitingly.

“Well, Alpenvelca. I would very much like it if you shared our bedchambers tonight.”

The pretty pink mare jumped.

“You mean...me...in the...with...” she blinked, stared at Sellatura’s smile and shrugged with a smile of her own.

“Ja, alright. Sounds fun.”

“Wonderful!” Breckhart brayed as he hoisted his fiancé into the air and kissed her roguishly as his fellows let up a cheer.

Ballistix rolled his eyes again.

‘Adlerverdammt! Do young ponies these days have any modesty?’

*

“You’re improving in the bedroom, I’ll say that.”

“How...did we get on this particular branch of conversation?”

Far off in distant Equestria, in the deep acres of the Everfree, a young couple passed through the woodland canopy on the gleaming white bridges that made up Elengar or Starwolf City as it would come to be known by Equestrians.

The couple were cervines, deer of the Wolfsong, sometimes referred to as Moon Deer or Night Deer.

The doe was a flash of black and white, the tips of her hairs as if dipped in silver and a pair of small grey antlers unlike most other doe species. Her mane was ginger and hung in a wild but vibrant flow down to her shoulders, shaking and dancing in the breeze. Her face was bright and cheerful, possessed of wide ebony eyes with long eyelashes, a splash of ruddy blush-like ginger-brown over both cheeks and a pair of slightly elongated canine teeth in her chirpy grin.

The stag, meanwhile, was quite different. Born into the Greathorn Seer Kings of the Misty Isles, lost to great calamities in ages past, he possessed enormous antlers near as long and wide as his own body as well as a shaggy chest of mahogany hair below a nape of silver and black streaks. His eyes were almond-shaped and grey in colour and his sable-black mane was arranged into locks trailing over his head and down his neck. His twitter-patterns, cervine equivalent of Cutie Marks, were a set of bronze stripes curling down each brow and over either side of his muzzle.

With very different appearances and personalities, there were many who wondered how they’d ended up together.

But Princess Dantalas and Prince Norsul, better known as Fallingleaf and Runningwind in the new tongue, had loved none as greatly and dearly as each other.

At his awkward question, Fallingleaf shrugged and answered nonchalantly.

“Just felt like bringing it up. Thought you’d be flattered.”

“I would’ve been if you’d said it...you know...in the bedroom...right after...”

“Yeah, but you were passed out and I’d fallen asleep.”

“Ouch!”

“Hey, you know I’m kidding.” Laughing, the doe reached up and ruffled her husband’s mane. Runningwind was quite a few heads taller than her kind and Fallingleaf had always been slightly short for an elk.

But Fallingleaf never felt small beside Runningwind.

With a playful ‘grr’, she nibbled at the Greathorn’s ear. The pair giggled.

“So...any plans for today?”

“Dawnwind needs help with the owlbears. They’ve gotten a bit antsy again. She says it’s something the Equestrians are up to.”

The stag sighed.

“There she goes again, always blaming the ponies.”

“Hey, everydeer’s still warming to them. And Dawnwind takes a long time to warm to anyone.” Fallingleaf shrugged.

“True enough.” Runningwind, Dawnwind’s younger brother, conceded to his wife’s point.

“I mean, at least it’s not as bad as the Whitetail saying they need to be scourged into the Badlands for daring to look upon the forest.” Fallingleaf gave a distasteful growl “They make me sick.”

As they neared the water towers underneath the botanical gardens, a shrill, furious shriek went up from below.

“GET ME OUT OF HERE, YOU DISGUSTING, DOG-PLOUGHING BARBARIANS!”

“Case in point.” The doe gave a sardonic chuckle as she took a small stairway down into a secluded and rather squalid area of the city’s exterior.

The cesspits. Though mostly comprising of plant-waste and peat, the smell of animal-waste was quite pungent. Fallingleaf, who tended to animals and ventured into battlefield, was no stranger to the stench. Runningwind less so but he nonetheless followed his wife down to find the source of the voice, coughing a couple of times.

“Good morning, your highness! Sleep well?”

Fallingleaf craned her neck forwards as she looked over on the walkway, an insolent grin on her face as she beheld a doe in the pits below.

When last she’d stood over the Wolfsong, Princess Damson, daughter of Lord Mallorn of the Whitetail Confederacy, had taken over the tribe beside her husband, Palestride, Fallingleaf’s traitorous, kin-slaying brother. Every hour under the sun and moon, she had strutted about with impunity in an ostentatious green and plum-pink dress with a high collar of lace and swan-feathers, more jewellery than one could count and, just for an extra insult, a cloak of white-wolf fur. Her mane had been a white-gold and bundled up between her ears in a net of amber beads with her eyes and lips painted and shaded with silver and gold, though all this finery rarely did anything to make her sadistic smirks and spiteful scowls any less venomous.

Now, having been ousted from power along with her husband, she wore nothing, her makeup had smudged untidily, her mane was a long, tangled mess and her once-regal figure was now trussed up with stinkweed root, sitting up to her shoulders in a thick sea of sewage, her face still caked with the stuff since Fallingleaf and Dawnwind chucked her in two days ago. Said face was now a picture of indignant rage, her piercing green eyes boring into Fallingleaf as she snarled.

“When my father and uncles get here, they’re going to make every single one of you misbegotten savages SCREAM FOR MERCY!”

“Yeah, last I checked, they’re still very busy with the Draconequui.” Runningwind said flatly “In fact, your father told your uncle that particular war was not to be neglected. Seems you’re stuck here for a little while longer, my lady.”

Damson gave a screech, flailing around like a worm stuck half-way in the soil.

“I am a Princess of the Whitetail Kingdoms! It’s heathenry to treat me like this!”

At this, Fallingleaf shot her a vindictive scowl.

“You’re getting exactly what you deserve for what you and the kin-slayer did to our tribe...what you did to Hazelmay!”

At this, Damson gave a sneer, giving her head a disdainful toss that would have looked haughty if it were cleaner.

“Your common little bed-maid should have been grateful she was worth our time!” she spat.

Runningwind, a normally-calm stag by nature, shot her a look of rage and disgust.

When Palestride returned from his exile with his new bride and Whitetail army in tow, the Wolfsong weakened and destitute after the Raptor War, he had demanded Fallingleaf be given to him for his sick pleasure. What obsessions he’d developed for his sister was something he was never clear on but though Cinderstone, Fallingleaf’s other brother who’d taken leadership of the Wolfsong, was prepared to surrender to save the tribe, he was not about to give up his only sister.

So Hazelmay, Fallingleaf’s hoof-maiden and life-long friend, had dyed her fur and posed as her Princess, subjecting herself to Palestride’s depravity and Damson’s spite to protect her dear companion.

Hazelmay had been recovering for the last few days, comforted by Cinderstone who had long held a certain fondness for her.

At this, Fallingleaf’s expression turned almost neutral.

Drawing a coy smirk, she flipped a lever behind one of the pillars on the walkway.

There was a sickening churn above as one of the hollow wooden pipes began shaking slightly.

Damson’s face paled as she glanced up with horror.

Runningwind joined the dots and precariously looked to his wife who was smiling menacingly at her captor.

“Think you’re clever, huh?” she leered.

The Whitetail princess gave an almighty shriek as the pipe expelled a vat’s-worth of compost directly upon her.

Runningwind was actually quite impressed with the accuracy.

By the time the pipe had emptied, Damson was shivering with dismay, one eye covered over by the muck that had piled high on her head like some towering wig, blades of grass and even some wilted flowers sticking out. Her mouth opened and shut as she gasped for air.

Fallingleaf sniggered, her face a picture of satisfaction.

“You sure don’t look too clever to me.” she took in the sight and sniffed “Ah, I think they were feeding the manticores today.”

As Damson began to let loose a string of profanity most unbecoming of a princess, the couple chose to let her do so in private, journeying back up the stairways through the city.

“When do you think the Whitetail’ll come to collect her?”

“A doe like her? I’ll be surprised if they don’t ask us to keep her. But Alder’s going to stop by to pay the ransom at some point. He can’t just storm the city, his armies have another war to contend with. He’ll give us what we ask. When that happens, the Mithril Towers will be rebuilt and the tribe will be restored to glory once again.”

Runningwind nodded. He’d shed no tears for the peril of the Whitetail, or the Pimpanimi to use the Wolfsong phrase, a word that had become synonymous with ‘tyrant’, ‘fool’, ‘mad-beast’, ‘braggart’ and various other defamatory titles and was one of the worst insults a Wolfsong could give or receive.

When the elk of the Misty Isles like the Greathorns, Bushhorns, Bowhorns and the gigantic Cervalceans fled their ruined home and came upon the shores of north-western Equestria, venturing into the forests, King Alder and his family had treated them like vermin, driving them away and barring them from the more liveable parts of the Everfree.

It was High Chieftain Fairfortune who’d granted the refugees safety and settlement into Wolfsong lands, marrying Princess Winterpearl of the Golden Shore-Deer and having with her three fawns, Cinderstone, Palestride and Fallingleaf.

And it was Fallingleaf who had, one fateful day, rescued the young Prince Runningwind from an Etten cave and brought him into the Wolfsong ruling family.

He had them to thank for everything he now possessed. And if the Whitetail spat on the Wolfsong tribe, Runningwind would spit back with venom.

“So you think Dawnwind won’t want you helping out this time?” Fallingleaf asked once back on the main bridges of Elengar.

Runningwind scoffed.

“My sister’s never trusted me with the dormice, let alone the owlbears. You’re twice the beastmaster I’ll ever be.”

“You’ve given me a lot of practice.” she chuckled, prompting him to do the same. Her mood turned sullen slowly.

“She says your dad’s been trying farsight. Further than he’s ever gone before.”

“Well, that’s where he gets his name, after all.”

“Yeah, but, you know what it can do to him...”

Runningwind sighed.

His father, Farseerer was known to be the greatest oracle among deer-kind. Espousing the idolism of warriors or princes, the Greathorns had always been led by oracles, high priests whose wisdom and focus into the future of the tribe was unequalled. This had sometimes caused chaos, as it could in any system of government. Farseerer himself had lost his parents to a mad king whom he had slain and deposed shortly after the destruction of the Misty Isles.

He had been there for his son and daughter often, a loving father and a wise king.

But recently, his mind had been troubled. Taking to his chambers most of the day, not wishing to be disturbed or distracted for any reason.

Runningwind knew the signs.

He was looking into the future...and it didn’t bode well.

*

A knight’s camp was a glorious sight in these times, spreading over leagues in the valley off the rocky shore. There were large, square tents for groups of soldiers, singular tents for knights and great pavilions for kings and lords. Banners and colours of all kinds blew in the wind as the sounds of revelry and merriment resonated across the valley in the early evening the call of nightingales. The black eagle of Morgenstern, spreading its wings over a golden field, flew in place in the centre of the camp.

To the west of it, the blue dolphin of Prance rose elegantly on its cream background and around all sides the flags of Stirrope’s kings, queens, ladies and lords joined the fray. The great Pardan tulip of blue, white, red and orange streaks; the wheat-gold, red-chested carthorse of Haustria; Ponhemia’s silver lion with the peacock’s tail; Menmark’s beautiful blue mare with the flowing white mane, cradling her snowy orb; the scarlet seagull-headed hippogriff of Pommelrania; the Lombarding narwhal over grassy fields; Furin’s shaggy golden bull with the third horn of a unicorn; and the white horseshoe on red the ponies of Blitzerland made their sigil.

All were making merry among themselves or with each other, praising or mocking each other. Feasting, drinking, fighting and frolicking, the ponies in the camps were enjoying the better parts of a knight’s life.

Ballistix gave a sigh, rolling his eyes. The freshly victorious were always at their most indulgent. He could smell the fires of feasts and the faint drone of music and dance.

Bloodied after battle and the first thing they wanted to do was forget about war.

Beside him, Breckhart in contrast gave an eager smile and raced down to join the festivities, carrying his new betrothed who, in turn, was carrying Saubrot, or Alpenvelca as she was calling herself. His fellows joined him swiftly, letting up a cheer and a set of bawdy songs.

The camp was also occupied by knights and soldiers all over Stirrope. Beside the Farmans were the Prench, Pardans, Haustrians, Ponhemians, Manish, Pommelranians, Lombardingians, Bliss, and Furinese gathered and made merry in their congregations. In the case of monster hunts or invasions from far-off, the ponies of Stirrope commonly put aside their differences to do battle with the year’s onslaught. Most Farmans regarded them with respect, particularly as many of the knights had in-laws in the foreign ranks.

Fullemagne Morgenstern was seated majestically in a makeshift throne of oak and cloth, the banner of the black eagle flying above his head. Beside him, Wenda Panzerfaust reclined over the arm of the throne, her hammer replaced by a large flagon she was waving above her, cheering on the name of Panzerfaust and all proud Traxons, already thoroughly drunk.

The lords, knights and militia of Farmany all took up the chant.

“Morgenstern!”

Beside them, the other noble houses replied with their own salutes.

“Dauphin! Blumenfall! Halmenhaus! Svalowitz! Snowbold! Orzelrod! Narvalo! Grimundo! Veillance!”

Ballistix couldn’t help but smile.

Unity was a glorious sight.

The king enjoyed his food and drink, Farman cuisine was hard not to enjoy after all, but he was neither a glutton nor a drunkard. He toasted with his fellows and sampled any dish recommended to him but he did so with a sense of temperance and humility that made him the able ruler he’d become.

Those around him were less measured. They drunk much and cheered loud. Some of the stallions were cavorting with the serving mares, some of the mares were cavorting with the serving-stallions, some were cavorting with each other. It mattered little. Stirropeans were wild in their triumphs, this was well-known.

Breckhart was no exception. Eagerly taking a jug of wine from the table, he took several great gulps, gasped in satisfaction and fell about the tablecloths with his giggling new wife before anypony could stop him,

A tapping of hoof came from Ballistix’s shoulder.

Turning, he looked upon another green-coated, golden-maned unicorn colt, smaller, thinner and altogether more temperate, dressed in a scholar’s gown.

His second son, Bradahorn.

“Father...” he said quietly and solemnly, as was his habit “Mother wants to see you. It’s Meister Tencendor, he’s been Halsening.”

“Has he improved?”

“I fear not. He does not see himself alive in the coming year.” Bradahorn said solemnly.

Ballistix’s eyes narrowed.

“He said the same thing last year...But I’ll see what the problem is.” Edging his way out of the celebrations, the old stallion found a secluded spot, lit up his horn and vanished beside Bradahorn in a bright citric-green flash of teleportation.

The city of Stutegart, capital of the Archduchy of Trabia was still in its early days yet it still looked remarkable to any visitor and welcoming to any local. Rows of stone houses with their thickly-thatched roofs surrounded the local businesses, many of them relatively new and small. But this was what made Stutegart an ideal living-space, it was open for opportunity. The city had become prosperous both through its Archduke Ballistix’s feats in battle and for its mastery over the horse-drawn cart, collecting details and assemblages from all over Stirrope and refining the cart to its peak, granting Farmany its edge in trade between its cities and outside its domain. And as such, with Stutegart plentiful and generous with its resources, competition and corruption was at an all-time low.

Ballistix could not hazard a guess at how long it would last but hoped it would endure as long as he was able to keep it so.

At Castle Armbrust, he and Bradahorn were greeted by a beloved face.

Archduchess Wyrthngild Fray, a tall, elegant and peerlessly graceful doe, white of coat with speckles of beige over her face, back and rump and a trailing tumble of wavy pale-gold mane.

The Frayar-Wold of the Whisperwood Forest were one of the few deer clans in Northern Stirrope that were prepared to resolve the contention with the ponies diplomatically. When the ponies of Stirrope began clearing the great forests to make room for their settlements, they unknowingly declared war on the cervine clans living within. Years of bitter fighting erupted as a result. Ballistix met Wyrthngild after being captured by her clan and made to explain himself. Wyrthngild had listened patiently and worked to end the conflict through balance of compromise and necessary tribute.

But deer were stubborn at the best of times, easy to anger and slow to forgive. Eventually, she was listened to but not before half the Gray Forest Clans and many noble pony houses had wiped themselves out in the bloody conflict over timber and terrain. Yet it was thanks to her the other half lived and the forests still stood, the deer and ponies having agreed to a compromise. Old wounds were slow to fade but her work had paid off. Both remnants were recovering in harmony.

Unlike the Equestrian deer, most Stirropean cervine females did not possess antlers, nor gave birth to fawns in mixed-parenthoods.

Folk said this was down to the thinning of the forests but seeing as it had never happened before or since, it was hard to determine.

Wyrthngild nonetheless cut a radiant figure and her walk was more akin to a gentle glide across the courtyard as she welcomed her husband with a smile, kissing him fondly.

Ballistix was a notoriously reserved stallion, his grimness the source of mirth to the commonly exuberant lords of Stirrope, but around his family, he was never in brighter spirits.

Now, however, his mind was more pressed than usual.

“My dear.” he returned the kiss, noticing Bradahorn shuffling awkwardly on his hooves, before asking.

“Where is Tencendor?”

“Where he normally is, my love. My sister keeps him stable but he’s been getting worse. He keeps saying he needs to talk to you. It’s of the utmost importance, he claims.”

The old stallion sighed.

“I’d better see him.”

The way up to the Halsening Chamber was a fairly long one but Ballistix enjoyed exercise whenever it presented itself. It helped him think. And since the Halsening Chamber had been converted into Tencendor’s bedroom, the long way up the stone spiral staircase allowed Ballistix to suitably prepare for meeting a stallion he normally did not relish speaking to.

Passing by sandy-yellow gossamer curtains on the way up, Ballistix gave a chuckle.

His wife and in-laws had been busy dressing up the castle.

Wyrsnlie, Wyrthngild’s younger sister, had constantly bemoaned the ‘cold, hard, unwelcome atmosphere’ of the typical Stirropean castle and had her fellow doe dress up the place in silks, jewellery and flowers.

On more than one occasion, Ballistix also found the odd bird or animal making home in the castle as well though that wasn’t part of the deal. Wyrthngild often had to have a word with Wyrsnlie whenever this occurred.

He met one of his guards who bowed and opened the door for him.

A small gathering of ponies and deer sat around a large bed upon which resided an ancient-looking pegasus with a burnt-umber-coloured coat, a long, shaggy mane and beard and a pair of piercing grey eyes. His body was gnarled and frail, huddled tightly under the embroidered blankets.

Decades past, Tencendor Van Strayf had been the High Priest of Adelar and had first called upon wars with the deer, the goats, the boars and the various other beasts of Stirrope to assert the dominance of the equine across the realms. When the Farmans perfected armour and their Prench and Caballero neighbours the blade, this had been seen as a fine idea by many. But violence was only met with greater violence and now, Tencendor was considered a pariah for having driven his kind into a long, bloody war.

Officially, however, he was a Trabian steed just as Ballistix was and the High Priest had fought beside Archduke Kriegshavic, Ballistix’s predecessor, and brought the Farmans much glory in the field of warfare. Regardless of how the war ended or even the point of it to begin with, Tencendor deserved some modicum of respect.

And regardless, he’d suffered enough. In the final battle Kriegshavic and the other disunited Farman warlords had fought against the deer, High Deerking Donar had brought the pegasi squadrons falling to the ground with a terrible storm-spell. Tencendor had been left crippled for life and had spent every year since a barely-moving shell of the proud pegasus warrior-sage he’d once been, his hooves constantly shaking, his breathing weak and dry, needing to be fed, clothed and changed like a newborn by the very deer he’d hoped to humble.

For a society that promoted the strong and able warrior and knight, ideals he’d headed himself, it was the ultimate punishment.

Determined to still do some good in Farmany, Tencendor had studied the art of Halsening, a Farman school of prophecy and prognostication open to both pegasi and earth ponies as well as unicorns, using alchemy, weather-patterns and powerful mental focus to see into potential futures. Unfortunately, Halsening had a detrimental affect on body and mind, eating away at the senses. But in his state, Tencendor had little interest in prolonging his life.

The musty smell of scrying pyres still lingered around the room, ceramic bowls on the desk filled with the burnt remains of horse-hair, river-reeds, blue silk, powdered eggshells and catfish roe, according to the recipe book.

Seated around the bed was Wyrsnlie, appearing a smaller. wider-eyed and slightly scruffier version of her sister, beside Bradahorn’s young wife, Lady Beneleia of Buxomberg, sapphire-coated, blonde-maned and famously well-endowed (Bradahorn often ridiculed for his seeming lack of interest in her in favour of his precious books) both wearing expressions of concern. Beneleia stood up and skipped over to Bradahorn with a giddy smile, hugging him warmly and rubbing her cheeks against his as was her custom, something Bradahorn found uncomfortable and degrading and something all around them found quite amusing.

All except Tencendor who had rarely ever found anything amusing in his life.

He let out a groan and barked.

“If you’ve all quite finished being blunderheads, I’d like to speak with the new colt! The rest of you, bick off!”

The ‘new colt’ was what he’d always called Ballistix as he’d done when the stallion had first taken up the mantle of Archduke of Trabia, a mark of derision. No matter how old Ballistix would grow, Tencendor would always know him as ‘new colt’ until his last day.

Sighing, Ballistix shooed away all those present, hung his bow, quiver, blade and helm by the doorway and sat down beside the cantankerous sage.

“How are you, Lord Tencendor?” he asked flatly.

Tencendor snorted.

“As if you bicking care.”

The unicorn scowled.

“I’d like to remind you, I had you treated in my home, given every care and aid a stallion of my position can provide.”

“So you did...But it wasn’t because you cared about me. It was because you saw it as the ‘honourable’ thing to do. If you weren’t so damned obsessed with a notion that can change like the wind in any stallion, you’d have left me to rot where I fell.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Not really.” he shrugged “I can’t remember giving you any reason to care.”

“Would you have done the same?”

“No boy.” Tencendor fixed him with a rheumy stare “Had I found you on the forest floor, broken and helpless as you found me...I’d have smashed your head in and put you out of your misery. And unless I was in a particularly good mood, I’d have used your shattered helm as a quark-pot.”

“Well, that’s nice to know.”

“All those nights of planting your face in cervine rump have softened you, Ballistix, in heart and head.” Tencendor’s tone grew poisonous “Kriegshavic wouldn’t let a stallion waste away in a broken body.”

“Kriegshavic and I were very different stallions. The past is gone. Present and future are more important for now.” Ballistix stood up, trying not to let Tencendor’s words get to him “I’ve been told you’ve been Halsening.”

“What of it?”

“You know what it’ll do to you.”

“Can’t come soon enough. And you’ll be glad of it when you hear what I have to say.”

“Well?”

The old pegasus grumbled.

“You may as well laugh at me now...You were right. The deer aren’t as savage as I said they were.”

“That’s....good to know but why do you say this now?”

The sage gave him another stare and answered.

“Because I have learned what that word truly means. I have looked into the fires of fate and have seen savagery...pure, bloody savagery” He turned his head towards his Archduke, his voice showing the closest Tencendor had ever shown to fear.

“I have seen death...For all of us. Every stallion, mare and foal, every male, female and child of the neighbour races, good and evil, wise or ignorant. I saw our soldiers and sorcerers die with blades broken in their grasp and magic fading in their hold. I heard our wives, mothers, sisters and daughters scream as they were taken, again and again and again, until there was nothing left but flesh and filth. I smelled the fires that took the lives of the newborns, tossed into the flames, their first true taste of pain also their last.” His breathing grew more forced than usual “I saw the end of our age and all others like it. I saw an age of chaos, an unstoppable nemesis, a raging storm of treachery, deceit, greed, cruelty, misery and unholy magic...”

He gripped Ballistix’s collar as he whispered.

“And it’s coming this way.”

Ballistix’s was quiet a moment as Tencendor fell back in back, coughing loudly..

“Coming...to Farmany?”

“Farmany, Prance, Caballera, Bitaly and all other states that think themselves our equals. Huh...These savages will make us equal...all equal in death...”

“But how? Why? Tirek? Grogar?”

“No. Not this time. They won’t come from the East. They’ll land on our shores and turn them red...from over the West.”

“The West?” The Archduke’s mind was boggling itself “You mean to tell me this threat set to swallow us all will come from...

“Equestria.”

He gave Tencendor a sceptic look.

“I remember you saying ‘Nothing of worth ever came out of Equestria and nothing of worth ever will’.”

“I was wrong. Mock me by all means.” Tencendor grumbled “It matters little. Your bow won’t help you. They’ll come to Stutegart, burn it to the ground and hang you from the walls with your guts on display and the floppy little twig your soft-headed cervine wife calls a wurst split in two and rammed up your nostrils.”

Ballistic ran his hoof over his mane in thought, sighing.

“Lovely. So...when does it happen?”

“It depends.”

“On what?” The unicorn’s ears pricked with hope as Tencendor gave him a glance.

“What season is it?”

“Autumn.”

“Next winter or spring then. All I know is that you didn’t look much older than you are now.”

Ballistix was quiet again, his face emotionless, weighing the scales in his mind.

“So everypony died?”

“Died or chained. They all certainly suffered.”

“Stirrope was laid to waste?”

“And after that, all lands beyond.”

“You, me, my family, my friends...”

“All turned to ash.”

Ballistix took a deep breath and cricked his neck.

Then he spoke.

“In that case, I take back what I said...Continue Halsening by all means.”

Tencendor fixed him with a suspicious glare as his ‘new colt’ looked older and bolder than ever.

“Because you were wrong.”

“I’m not blind yet, you little quark!” the old pegasus hissed “I know what I saw!”

“I believe you. But what you saw wasn’t what is meant to happen, only what could.”

“It doesn’t matter either way. The storm is unstoppable. The power of those quark-eating alicorns means nothing to this force, one that cannot be halted by mere magic. And when Equestria falls, the storm will spread until there’s nowhere else for it to touch.”

“Then it’s settled.” Ballistix reached for his helm, bow, quiver and blade “Look for me in the scrying flames, old steed.”

“Where the bick are you going?”

“Where do you think?”

“You’re not serious!”

“I am completely and utterly serious, Tencendor. If the greatest battle in history is about to take place...” Ballistic donned his helm “Then I will never have it said that an Armbrust wasn’t there that day. If all those I love, or even know, will die if I do not join this fight, I will not hesitate a moment.”

“It’s a fool’s errand, new colt, much as that suits you.” The sage snapped “The storm is unwavering, possessed of power one cannot comprehend. The chances of Equestria prevailing in any meaningful way are as meagre as one of their princesses running off with a bicking draconequus!”

“But there’s still a chance, however meagre. And that’s enough for me.”

“Are you mad or just stupid?!”

“Look at it this way, old steed.” Ballistix gave a wry smile “Supposing Equestria prevails, just suppose. Folk would forever say that Farmany was saved by Equestrians...What would you say to that?”

Tencendor was quiet a moment, a look of distaste on his ragged features, giving a slight shudder.

“To that I would say get your sorry deer-loving flank on the deck of the nearest ship and bicking well show them how to fight a war!”

Ballistix managed a chuckle.

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

*

“I said back in your pen, you big, feathery bastard!”

The immense owlbear’s holler was nearly drowned out by Fallingleaf’s bellow as she and Dawnwind herded the manic creatures to and fro, struggling to place them back in their grove.

A creature that was nearly twice the size of the average bear with a great feathery mane; long tuft-ears; wide, mesmerising eyes and a huge, bone-cracking beak, owlbears were no mean task for a beastmaster to deal with. Though Dawnwind was mostly used to it by now. Rattling her staff, the beads and bands giving off a powerful sound of rushing reeds, and thumping it on the ground or swinging it from side to side, she somehow managed to command them, calming them and prompting them slowly into the grove.

Fallingleaf, however, was a more conventional herder. She would cart an owlbear back into its enclosure once it had been wrestled to exhaustion.

Stumbling wildly, dazed and dismayed, the largest of the creatures consented to obey her.

As the owlbears surrounded her, Dawnwind swung her staff toward the grove entrance and made a sound, rolling her tongue round her lips and mimicking the owlbear’s call in a pitch she didn’t normally use, echoing across the woods.

“Waaaiiilooooooooooo-huk!”

After this, she made a series of ‘knock-knock’ sounds with her cheeks, imitating the clacking of their beaks.

Steadily, one by one, the owlbears headed home and lay down, disciplined.

Sighing in relief, Fallingleaf brushed her brow and smiled giddily.

“That was easy enough.” she said breathlessly “I don’t know how you do that thing with the animal-calls.”

“I’ll teach it to you one day.” Dawnwind chuckled to her sister-in-law “Just, for crying out loud, don’t try it during mating season. It...gives them the wrong idea.”

“Oh really?” the Wolfsong doe raised a brow.

“Yep. Getting mounted by a horny owlbear is not a great way to start a morning...so I’ve been told...” Dawnwind’s eyes darted side to side.

“Of course.” Fallingleaf sniggered “What do you think’s got them on edge?”

“Tch!” The beastmistress rolled her eyes “Everydeer’s thinking it, I’m just saying it. Nothing’s been the same since those crazy ponies got together and had some poor mare shoot a ‘winged unicorn’ out between her legs.”

“Yeah, well that may have had something to do with the Long Winter ending around that time.” Fallingleaf pointed out with a hint of smugness.

“Look lady, beasts of the earth can cope with winter or summer no matter how long it lasts. If they’re not coping with this, something else is up.”

“Well...I’m sure if its anything, Farseerer will know.” Fallingleaf’s face fell with concern “So...uh...how’s he been doing?”

Since the death of both her parents, Fallingleaf and Cinderstone had regarded Lord Farseerer and Lady Silversong of the Misty Isle as adopted parents, teaching them many arts and studies previously unknown to them and caring for them as well as any parent by blood.

Dawnwind sighed dismally.

“Well...he’s rarely ever seen anything good in his visions at the best of times. And if he’s more depressed than usual, I dread to imagine what he’s looking into.”

“You reckon we should have a look?”

“He doesn’t seem to want anydeer interrupting him.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

At this, the Greathorn gave the Wolfsong a wry smirk.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

Runningwind approached the scrying pool at a slow, steady pace, taking in the sight he never fully got used to. A stone stairway that led out into a silent courtyard where the scrying ceremonies were held.

The great Cilintir Histarcar, the Misthorn Mirror, his father, Farseerer used in his scrying, one of the few remaining pieces of the Greathorn heritage since they fled the Misty Isles. A small elevated bowl, forged from the Misty Isle’s sacred Nornwood, carvings of the rise and fall of the deer encircling the span of it. Water taken from the River Marillind, its parent now swallowed up by the sea, shimmered hypnotically in the pool.

Farseerer himself sat patiently on a marble bench. He was a huge stag, even for a Greathorn, with a dark-umber coat and a shaggy mane of slate-grey, twitter-patterns of red and white flames over his staring, silver eyes. Each of his mighty antlers spanned the length of a bed and, like many seers of his kind, Farseerer hung braids of flowers, herbs and fruits from them to use in his scrying (Or to nibble on whenever he was feeling peckish).

At the foot of the stairs that led down to the mirror, Runningwind’s mother greeted him with a serene smile.

Similar to Runningwind and Fallingleaf, Lady Silversong could not have looked less similar to her husband. She was a lithe and graceful Bowhorn Deer, her chestnut antlers growing out and upwards behind her head, her delicate face long and slender (A trait that earned her the nickname Ruscata or ‘Foxface’ among the Greathorn) Silversong was an albino, her eyes a splendorous magenta with fluttering lashes, but upon her ascension to Lady of the Misthorn, she had died her white mane in streaks of bright crimson and gold in memory of her lost kin, the Bowhorn famous for their vibrant red or blonde coats. As well as Lady of the Misthorn, Silversong carried the prestigious title of Tyalangeri, Lady of the Harp, the most skilled musician and songstress among the deer. On each cheek and between her brows were twitter-patterns shaped like a crescent coupled with a diamond.

Numerous kinsdeer and officials of the Wolfsong and Misthorn tribes were gathered, idly passing the time in their own way. Runningwind noticed his brother-in-law, Cinderstone, a dark grey stag with bright auburn cheeks, bronze-brown mane and silver antlers, crowned in mithril, sitting next to Hazelmay, his wife’s dainty hoof-maiden. They were playing a game for couples Silversong had taught them called ‘Thank You, Fair Songstress’ where the couple would sit opposite each other and the stag would close his eyes while the doe would whistle. The stag would then follow the whistle’s sound and try to kiss the doe on the lips or nose. Cinderstone seemed very good at the game though it was more than likely that was Hazelmay’s wish as she was barely keeping her muzzle more than an inch from his, not quite how the game was meant to be played.

Maintaining a stately, respectful manner as was proper around his father, he approached the Sage-King, knelt and spoke in the language of the Greathorn.

“Aiyal lautal nolmo Heru-Histacar, Atar-Harcantir.” This, roughly translated, meant ‘Greetings and praise upon the wise lord of the Greathorn, my father Farseerer.’

The old stag didn’t seem to notice his son until he was finished speaking, whereupon he stood, bowed his head and replied.

“Aiyal hantal valda Haryon-Histacar, Yon-Norsul.” This, in turn, meant ‘Greetings and thanks upon the worthy prince of the Greathorn, my son Runningwind.’ followed by his smile.

Runningwind returned it.

The traditional royal greeting of the Greathorn was considered ponderous by their Wolfsong guardians but it was a sacred tradition and would be preserved if their kind were to remember their heritage. The language of the Misty Deer, ‘Histari’ and the Wolfsong, ‘Gaurlir’, weren’t the same and the Greathorn’s ancient text and tongue would survive as long as they remembered it.

“Orya, Valya.” Farseerer commanded, literally ‘Rise, Skyflame’.

Skyflame had been the nickname both his parents and in-laws had given him, coupled with Fallingleaf’s nickname of ‘Elenya’ or ‘Starflame’.

“Father...” Runningwind said, standing “You sent for me. Has your scrying taken you to a brighter or darker future?”

Farseerer gave him a knowing look.

“Scrying is a path that always leads to a crossroads, child. One can find darkness and light in either, sometimes at the same time. It is like a crystal of many sides. Beautiful to imagine, astounding to behold and...difficult to understand. However...” his normally mild voice grew dark and foreboding “There can be no mistake. I have seen darkness, Norsul, I have seen the mithril towers shatter to dust, the forests choke on ash and flame and the doom that the deer have avoided again and again brought upon them without pity.”

“Where?! How?!” Runningwind started, looking around for a weapon.

“Keep calm, dear one.” Silversong said softly behind him. Her voice had something of a calming effect on anydeer.

Farseerer paused until he was certain his son had heeded the advice of his mother. He was, generally, a stag who took a long time to do anything.

“Norsul...” he began again “My predictions are...rarely ever particularly clear. Indeed it is for the best that scrying is so vague. A power that allows one to see into the future and determine how to manipulate it, for whatever end, is a dangerous thing indeed. However, one thing I can be clear on...something is happening close to home, in the plains and roads and crossings, where the Uncloven folk make their home.”

“The ponies...” Runningwind supposed “Equestria?”

“I believe so. Least, I know not of any Uncloven domain closer to home.”

“And...” Runningwind motioned with a forehoof “Anything else with clarity.”

“No great deal. However...” Farseerer murmured, facing the pool.

There was a pause.

“Father?”

“Hm? Oh sorry, I lost my trail of thought.” Farseerer shook his head, blinking sleepily “I must always remember to take that herbal draught after my scrying. I’m terribly woozy otherwise.”

Burying his frustration, Runningwind faced his father.

“Is there nothing that can be done?”

“Oh, there are many things that can be done, my son. Whether they will have the effect we need is another matter.”

Runningwind was losing patience.

“Father, what do we do? I need a straight answer!”

At this, Farseerer chuckled.

“Asking a seer for a straight answer is like asking a wolf to eat grass, young Norsul.” he placed a hoof on the wooden frame of the mirror “But if we are to protect our way of life here in the Everfree...Then we would protect those of others.”

“You mean...the Equestrians.”

“Aye.”

At this, Runningwind looked to Cinderstone who had torn himself away from his courting.

“How quickly can the Wolfsong muster?”

“Now, now, let’s not be hasty, my fawn.” Farseerer butted in before Cinderstone could answer “My predictions do not show the deer going to war. Indeed, I do not see that being wise.”

“But father, if there is a threat to the Wolfsong in Equestria, shouldn’t we fight it.”

“We should.” Farseerer drew himself up, looking a great deal more kingly than sagely, his voice booming and unwavering “However, if we were to take our battle-host to the reaches of Equestria while they are at this moment more jittery than the owlbears your sister and wife have been herding this afternoon then we shall cause more chaos than ever. As it stands, the cervine are not particularly well-trusted among the uncloven folk...or that well-liked.”

“Because of the Whitetail?”

Behind them came the sound of several deer loudly spitting.

“Aye.” The sage-king’s brow furrowed with disdain “Their transgressions have made the equine wary of our kind. The Pimpanimi fools despise the uncloven and what’s worse...they underestimate them. If they spur the uncloven into fury, they will not separate Whitetail from Wolfsong. King Nolder would have driven our kind into war. His son, Alder, would do the same if he had to chance and as for Aspen...” He made a growl of disapproval “Mists and Moon help the deer if that insane fawn takes the throne. I would sooner have your Thostaranel.”

Thostaranel was the nickname given to the captive Damson. It loosely translated to ‘Princess of the Land of Stench’.

“I see.” Runningwind thought on his father’s words “So...you would send...a group? To represent us? To work with the uncloven, to understand them?”

“Aye.”

“In that case, father...” Runningwind stood up and placed a forehoof over his chest in a stalwart gesture “I would like to head this mission.”

“Alright.”

There was a pause. Runningwind’s eyes glanced from side to side awkwardly.

“Uh...Aren’t you going to...argue?”

“No, no.” Farseerer chuckled “I have known you long enough to realise that only makes you more stubborn. And I can think of few better-suited warriors, provided the flaws you still possess can be made up for by those beside you, which I am sure they will be. And besides...” Farseerer peered through the shimmering surface “I have seen your return.”

The young stag raised an eyebrow.

“Right...So I leave...and come back?”

“Aye...As far as I can see.” Farseerer said flatly.

There was another pause. Many believed the quiet of the mirror’s garden was as a result of the awkwardness of the conversations held there.

“Right, well...” Runningwind cleared his throat “I shall make preparations to head out. Atar-Harcantir, Amil-Celebrelind, Hano-Yulondo,” He bowed to Farseerer, Silversong and Cinderstone and addressed them by their Misthorn title “I take my leave. I shall bring honour, glory and protection to the tribe.”

And he departed in the same, steady, respectful manner as he entered.

On an unseen (To their knowledge) knoll, two deer spying on the meeting turned to each other, glints of intrigue in their eyes.

“Well...you heard him.” Fallingleaf said to her sister-in-law “I’d better pack my things.”

“Hey...” Dawnwind held her shoulder and gave her a meaningful stare.

“You take care of my brother.

*

Her family would die at dawn.

But not her. Not yet.

Dvinius was not done with her.

Strictly speaking, her family were not hers by blood. In fact, she’d never met her parents or even knew if they were still alive. Her mother had been separated from her father on the podium of the slave auction and after she’d given birth, she’d been given away to a family friend of those who had bought her.

The filly had been born, raised and educated as a slave.

Yet never once had she truly let take that name to heart.

The New Hycarionites knew her as Ath-Lita, for her status as a courier slave, taking messages to and fro in the shortest time possible.

Yet she remembered her real name, written on a floral silk scarf her mother had left her.

Tseresa.

One day she’d find out what it meant. In this life or the next.

Freedom or death awaited her.

The guards at her shoulders had been planning on dragging her out her cell and down the corridors of the dungeons. Instead, to their surprise, she still possessed the strength to walk. Indeed, she managed it better than they.

Dvinius’s guards wore the most impractical helms that were all adorned by a foot-high statuette of himself standing on two-legs with his two sets of wings spanning out like axe-blades. Such was their weight that the guards often had to look directly up to keep their balance or be forced to drag their heads along the ground. Such had given rise to the belief that holding one’s head high in New Hycarion wasn’t just a figure of speech. One could have probably used the helms as better weaponry than most of what they were given.

Yet the guards did not wish to chance angering their Potentate Magnificence.

Tseresa, however, had done just that.

And she was not about to regret it.

The door to the interrogation chamber was opened and Dvinius looked up from his makeshift throne, a vindictive scowl on his face.

The guards saluted, unable to bow.

Tseresa simply returned his scowl.

The preening monarch held up a sheet of paper in front of her and barked.

“Sign it!”

Tseresa tilted her head to the side.

“What is it?”

“Just sign it! I command it!” Dvinius snapped.

“Not until I know what it is.”

The Potentate Magnificence bore his milky eyes into Tseresa’s but nonetheless conceded.

“It is a confession.”

“To what?”

“Your guilt, your defeat, your pleas for mercy and your admittance to the cowardice, greed, hatefulness and stupidity that all my enemies possess!”

At this Tseresa gave a derisive snort and replied curtly.

“Tell you what...You wrote it, you sign it.”

Dvinius shot out of his throne with bared-teeth fury and struck her in the face with his forehoof.

After a pause, he shook his forehoof, wincing, as Tseresa blinked.

It had been like taking a punch from a bread-roll.

She honestly felt like laughing.

Gesturing frantically, Dvinius signalled his guard, who reached out clumsily at the prisoner’s shoulders and shoved her to her knees. Still, Tseresa gave the Potentate Magnificence nothing but a look of contempt.

“Sign the damn paper, you filthy little nag!” he hissed again “You will before we’re done with you!”

“I’ll sign nothing for you to gloat over after I’m dead.” The mare said flatly “Put me on trial or murder me and face the consequences of both.”

“Oh, there will be no trial!” Dvinius squawked, his eyes twitching as he leered “I don’t need a trial to prove you guilty!”

He then drew back with a yelp as Tseresa spat in his eye with impressive accuracy and let loose.

“A song sung by every sick-minded brat with his flanks on a make-believe throne...which is what you are and what you should have stayed!” she yelled as the guards drew back with alarm while Dvinius backed into a corner with shock.

“I have watched your reign with fascination, Dvinius! It's been a revelation to me! I've never fully realised before how a massive ego, allied to miniscule talent and robbed of every shred of compassion, can destroy the future of an entire state! I've seen how frail is the structure of a civilisation before the onslaught of the tantrum of an angry little colt that won’t shut up until he gets his way!”

“Silence!” Dvinius screamed, shaking his head and hooves dementedly as the guards woke up and feebly shoved Tseresa to the floor. After a pause, the only sound being Dvinius’s seething, Tseresa looked up and shot him a smirk as she finished her piece.

“Yes... But I suppose you are not really the destroyer. That’s giving you too much credit. No, we must look elsewhere for that. Perhaps time itself brought the fall of Hycarion. You are merely the delinquency in its next generation, the outward and visible sign of its failure to produce a worthy inheritor! You're a lesson in history to me, Dvinius, proving that, above all, ponykind needs to know when to beat a spoiled foal!”

A dreadful silence hung over the room for at least a minute.

Then, with a high-pitched screech of rage, Dvinius dementedly threw himself forward as the guards hauled Tseresa up as he flailed his forehooves wildly at her face.

Still, she continued between punches, showing no sign of pain.

“You’re a joke, Dvinius!”

‘Punch!’

“A footnote in the history of failure!”

‘Punch!’

“And you punch like a sissy!”

“SHUT UUUUUUUUP!” Dvinius screamed as the guards threw her to the ground again, Tseresa rather wishing they’d make up their mind.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

The Potentate Magnificence fell against the throne, gasping for air and trying to hide his tears from his guards. His impotent fury spent, he bellowed orders to them.

“Take her away! Execute her at dawn with the others! After every refinement of torture! NOW!”

Saluting and making their way, with difficulty, out the low doorway, the guards took the prisoner back to her cell.

Once the doors slammed shut behind her, Tseresa fumbled about in the darkness, her hoof sliding along the walls until they found a stone slab smoother than the rest.

‘Freedom it is’ she thought with a smirk as she pressed her hoof against it.

With a quiet but rumbling growl of stone on stone, the cell itself lowered.

Down, down, down it went until at last, light greeted her eyes.

The orange glow of torches grew closer and closer until the ponies who held them stepped into view.

A mare and a stallion. The mare was a patchy-coated brown and beige pegasus and wore a dark-indigo cloak, while the stallion was chestnut-brown with a white stripe down his muzzle and wore a leaf-green cloak complete with a green hood.

Tseresa smiled and greeted them gratefully as they draped her in a plum-purple cloak.

“Naughty Dog.” she hugged the mare before doing the same to the stallion “Corn Cob.”

“Tseresa.” Corncob sighed “Good to have you with us. The whole team’s accounted for.”

“We’re ready.” Naughty Dog said with a determined smile “Grab what we need and let’s get moving.”

It had been the work of some several years to mine a tunnel system beneath the dungeons of New Hycarion. Those who were wrongfully imprisoned could be set free through a hidden lift-system in the cells and either ferried to safety or trained to in the guerrilla tactics mastered by the Recoloured Fellowship.

The resistance against Dvinius was alive and well, working completely without his knowledge (Many were uncertain if that said more about them or him) and now, with the arrival of the Warmonger, they had considered it time to make their move.

Their hidden base had housed a foundry, granary, training area, library and lounge.

Now all but the head chamber were completely emptied a vast gathering of dull-coated, bright-eyed ponies in vibrant cloaks waiting for the full assembly of their fellowship.

As Corncob, Naughty Dog and Tseresa entered, an enigmatic black-cloaked stallion in a brass, featureless mask showing only a mane streaked orange and white, held up a torch and spoke.

“Sisters and brothers.” he began “For years now, we have protected the innocent from the reign of the tyrant and his minions. I would like to think we’ve done well under the circumstances. But now, thanks to this ‘Warmonger’, what we’ve fought to achieve hangs in the balance. Equestria gave us hope. Now, when the founders of New Hycarion spoke of Princess Rememberly, they spoke of a mad queen that deserved to die, they spoke of the bravery of those who put a knife in her back. Something I often wondered though...Did anypony try to talk to her? Was the wit of our ancestors so dull that we drew blades before words in an instant?” he shook his head “I don’t want to live in a world where such a path is considered safe and sane. I think proof of the contrary is all around us.”

There was a murmur of agreement as he cast the torch towards a stone slab four of the cloaked fellows were moving aside. A vast underground expanse greeted them. Tunnels and walkways set out for miles.

A way into Equestria.

“I trust in Laurelore. I trust in the alicorns. I believe they are not abominations nor are they unfathomable deities...They are ponies just like us, with the eyes that will behold us and ears that will listen to our pleas.” He stepped down off his podium and walked took his first steps on the path.

“I go to Equestria. To protect the world we could find a new life within. Sisters and brothers...are you with me?”

As if in answer, the fellows turned and arranged themselves in single-file beside him.

‘Yes, Maxim...’ Tseresa whispered, trepidation thumping at their chests as the chill of the tunnel beyond cooled them like a spring breeze 'We are with you.'

Smiling behind the mask, Maxim the Legendbringer stared down the path, silently praying the scouting party, chiefly among them his brother, Fullmetal, and his forgemaster, Scipio, would report back with good news before the day was out.

“Onwards.” he murmured “For our future...our freedom...and our friendship.”

Author's Note

Hello everyone! Sweet Laurelore, this was a long one!
And yet its really more of an interlude.
In essence, it's a well-deserved cameo trip for my friends.
Not to worry, 6samuelb, plenty of Midnight Blade in the next chapter.
He and Gusty will be fighting Vampires and Samurai.
Tseresa is the OC Guest Star of my good friend Cherry-Lei, who's had a bit of a rough time thanks to a certain unpleasant individual who will not be named. Just know that what he did was incredibly out of order.
Her speech is based off Gallus's brutal verbal beat-down of Sejanus from I, Claudius, a series that, as a whole, is absolutely glorious!
Naughtydog is CuddleCutie's OC and Corncob is Senor Cornholio's OC.
The Recoloured Fellowship is based off the fanbase for Legendbringer's Fall of Starfleet, Rebirth of Friendship fic that I've been illustrating.

As you can see, Stirrope has a more 'Knights-in-Armour' theme to it than 'Magical Wizards'. A mix of ancient, Medieval and Renaissance.
Tencendor is the traditional name of Charlemagne's horse in the Matter Of France.
The deer, meanwhile, are based off Tolkien's elves. I actually downloaded a Quenya dictionary for their language.
I am that much of a bucking nerd!
Ten points to whoever finds the Labyrinth reference.

Music from Tartalo, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone PC, World of Warcraft and Lord of the Rings