. This story is a fan-fiction of MLP:FiM. I don't own any of it. It belongs to Hasbro, etc, etc.
Don't sue. Seriously. That would be so uncouth.
The First Steps
*1600 years since the Princess of the Night's banishment*
The smell of winter and smoke from fires permeated through the air of the small town of Coltchester. The town was like any in Equestria, small and cozy and just a few miles outside of a bigger city. In this instance, it was Trottingham. In fact, a young stallion on the farm just outside of Coltchester was planning to go into Trottingham this morning. His family owed the largest vegetable farm in Coltchester and he was outside of his home, loading his family's cart with their goods.
Irish Cream (often picked on in his earlier years for such a feminine name, or at least until he introduced the bully's face to his hoof) picked up another pumpkin between his teeth and loaded it into his cart. He was going into the city of Trottingham to sell the pumpkins at market for the gold his family needed to get through the winter. Especially since grandmother had fallen ill.
“Heads up brother!” shouted a colt's childish voice. Irish looked up and squinted at the bright morning sun as he slowly became aware that something was flying towards him.
'SPLAT!' went the squash as it hit his face, its juices running down the sides of his head, making his rough ebony coat messy. He pulled the ruined vegetable off and glared at his little brother. He was rolling on the ground and laughing so happily that Irish couldn't be angry at him for too long. Still, he couldn't let his brother get away with something like that. His eyes eased over to the cart filled with pumpkins. Surely one of the smaller ones wouldn't be missed?
Irish snuck over to his brother while he wiped the tears away from his eyes.
“You should have seen the look on your face brother!” said Shining Star with mirth. “Brother?”
“Heads up little brother!” Irish said as he dropped the pumpkin on his brother's head. His younger brother's horn cut into the pumpkin and encased his head.
“Ghh Mhh Aahh Hrrr!” shouted Shining while Irish laughed hysterically. Shining stood up and started running around the field of the farm, quite like a chicken with its head cut off. His muffled squeals of panic brought Irish to laugh more and more, until Shining ran head first into the small wooden fence that protected the field from devious pests. The pumpkin exploded as he collided with the wood. He gasped deeply and Irish laughed at the oozy orange pumpkin guts on his brother's light blue mane. His dark brown coat was likewise covered.
“That twasn't funny Irish!”
“What wasn't funny about a whelp running around like scared foal?” Irish said wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.
Shining Star punched Irish in a brotherly manner. Irish punched him back and smiled broadly. Shining Star glared at him, and then smiled back. Both laughed at each other’s vegetable-covered faces. Then Shining gave Irish a big hug.
“Don't be too long brother. Come home before nightfall.” he said, his face buried in his elder brother's mane of shocking green. Irish smiled at his younger brother. Sometimes it was easy to forget he was still a kid; he didn't even have his cutie mark yet. What made them even closer was that they had both lost their parents at an early age, shortly after Shining was born. His parents had fallen ill to the deathly bit-bonic plague, but by the grace of Celestia nopony else in their family had gotten it.
But that didn't comfort Irish too much. Shining may have been too little to have known his parents, but that didn't mean he and Irish missed them every day. Luckily, they had been taken in by their grandparents. They raised the two colts as if they were their own. Only now, their grandmother had fallen ill and they needed all the money they could get from the harvest to afford medicine for grandmother and make it through the winter.
Irish hugged him back. “I won't tarry. Take care of Grandfather and Grandmother while I am gone.”
“I will.”
Irish let go of the embrace and walked over to the cart. He put on his family's ancient yoke. Irish remembered when he was young, when the yoke was heavy and hard to maneuver in. Now it was comfortable and light as a feather. He shouldered it with pride and pleasure and hooked it up to the cart. He started the long ten mile walk to Trottingham and he left the perimeter of the farm when he heard his brother's voice again.
“Irish!”
Irish stopped in place and glanced back to his kin.
“Bring me back something!”
Irish snorted and continued down the long road. He passed through the town of Coltchester, earning many a 'good day' and 'Hail, Irish!' from his friends and townsponies he knew. He smiled and waved back to all of them, but strove on dedicatedly. He passed out of the town of wooden buildings and straw-thatched roofs and continued on the hilly rough road to Trottingham.
After a few miles of hills and then flat terrain, Irish started to get bored. So he did what he always did when he was bored; thought of new inventions. He first found he had a nack for creating things when he was a small colt. On the farm one winter, one of the chicken house's doors became damaged beyond repair. His grandfather tried to fix it by himself, but he was no carpenter, and the family couldn't afford to hire one. He tried to help his grandfather in any way he could, but the problem was with the door's hinges, something out of the realm of fixing for both his grandfather and he. So, he sat down in his and Shining's room one day and started to think of some way to fix the door. After sometime he ran out to the small barn and grabbed a long length of rope, a small hoofdrill for putting up fences, and wood. He raced back out to the chicken house and went to work.
“Irish, what in the name of Celestia are you doing?” asked his elderly grandfather from the door of the farmhouse.
Irish smiled at him and spoke. “I'm fixing the door grandfather.”
His grandfather raised his eyebrow, but did not stop him. He winced as Irish drilled a hole into the wooden door and deftly laced the rope through the hole. He tied it into a knot and tied the other end to a plank of wood. Then Irish stood back and threw the door and rope over a tree branch. It sailed over and Irish caught it in his mouth. He put it down where it was originally ad it hung there, as the wood worked as a counterweight. He stood back and poked the door. It didn't move. Then he touched the piece of wood lightly, and the door rose upwards, before gently sinking back down to where it had come from. Irish smiled at his grandfather who looked at him with approval and pride. Even if it was a small creation, he felt amazing! Not only had he helped his family doing something, but it was something fun! He felt a shiver of warmth run down his spine.
“Irish, look at your flank!” his grandfather pointed.
Irish looked to his flank to see a wooden cog. He jumped into the air in joy. He had got his cutie mark!
Irish smiled at the memory as he kept walking, but now he was thinking up something a little more complicated than a door. He thought to the future, next spring to be exact, and of all the work he would have to do. Tilling the dirt was an ordeal in itself with the family's rusty plow, but planting the seeds was even worse. Irish wanted to make something that would spread the seeds behind the plow as he pulled it, but how to create such a thing? Obviously it would have to durable and able to move along with the plow, but that meant metal working; his family couldn't afford metal implements now! So could it be made of wood? Maybe, but the bigger problem lied in it moving and spreading seeds at the same time......
Irish wiped the thoughts of inventions from his mind as he smelled a change in the air. The smell of roasting food and spices made his head whip up to peer at the large wall in the distance. Irish smiled. He was here.
Trottingham was one of the major trading centers of the southeastern pony cities. In fact, a road ran straight from Trottingham to Canterlot. Because of all this trading, Trottingham was rich enough to be made of stone and called a city. The large white marble walls rose high above Irish's head, but did not block the view of the large towers of the Imperial barracks. There, Solar Guards that were trained in Canterlot stayed to upkeep the peace and protect the lands and town around Trottingham.
Irish smiled as he walked over the drawbridge into the town and stone-paved roads. He went straight down the main road until he reached the center of Trottingham. The center was filled with shouting ponies and smells of delicious food. There were also a lot of ponies going through the stands and purchasing whatever they choose. Irish sighed happily and came to the noisy circle. He set up his cart next to a gem vendor and cleared his voice.
“PUMPKINS! PUMPKINS! GET THY PUMPKINS FOR NIGHTMARE NIGHT! OR PERHAPS FOR A DELICIOUS PIE?! WHO CARES! PUMPKINS FOR SALE!!! SQUASHES TOO! BEST SQUASHES IN ALL OF EQUESTRIA!!!” he belted out, attracting attentions with his loud and deep voice. A pony came up and bought a smaller pumpkin and a squash. He haggled on the price with Irish for a bit, but then they came down to a deal of five bits. Irish put them into the bit-bag around his neck and started advertizing again with his voice. It would be a long day...............
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“In the merry month o' may, From me home I started,
Left the girls o' home, nearly broken hearted,
Saluted father dear, kissed me darlin' mother.”
Irish sang in the growing twilight. The cart was empty, but more importantly, it was light. So was Irish's heart. His bit-bag jingled as he marched and sang. Close to closing time, a rich pony had come to his cart and bought all of the rest of the pumpkins for a large Nightmare Night party he was going to throw. He didn't even try to squabble about the price, he just placed a bulging bit-bag on the cart and had his servants take the pumpkins. Irish's eyes bulged as he counted out the bits and put them into his own bit-bag. He left Trottingham with a bounce in his step and decided to sing a traveling song his grandfather had taught him the very first time he went to market.
“Drank a pint o' beer, my grief and tears to smother,
Then off to reap the corn, and leave where I was born,
I cut a chew o' blackthorn, to banish ghosts that pester!” He belted, going up another familiar hill. Only the tallest hill, and then he was home!
In a brand new pair of brogues, I rattled o'er the bogs!
Frightenin' all the dogs, on the rocky road to Coltch.....”
Irish's voice got stuck in his throat as he saw a column of pitch black smoke, as he climbed the hill in a panic. His apprehension built as he climbed.
“Could they just be burning leaves?” he hoped with all his heart. However, his heart seemed to stop when he crested the hill.
He saw all of Coltchester, or more of what was left of it, from his perch. The buildings were smashed inward and most were burning. The wooden fence that kept most ferocious beasts out of the town was smashed and burning. Irish swung his head back and forth quickly, scanning for anypony. He saw nopony as he looked, and he hoped that they had all escaped. Then he saw his farm. Even from this far away, he could see the barn was burning.
Irish sprinted down the hill at full speed, tripping and skidding down the hill when his cart caught up to him. He fell in a tumble, but quickly bucked the cart off of himself and unhitching his yoke from it, all in the same buck. He got up, adrenaline and fear running running through his veins with every hoofstep through the ruined town. He looked through the wreckage of the town, seeing collapsed homes and long gouge marks in the earth. Fires flickered at each thatched roof and the smell of thick, meaty smoke made Irish stop in his tracks. He sniffed at the air and found the smell was coming from a burning building. He tenaciously stepped towards the home and could see the second floor had collapsed into the first, but there was a large hole in the wooden jumble. Irish saw a pony sitting at a table face down.
“Oy! Get outta there! It's burning!” he called, running closer to the house. When he came closer, he could see that it wouldn't do any good; the pony was covered in blood from having a leg removed. Not to mention the other two that sat with her at the table were nothing but burnt corpses.
Irish threw up all over the ground. He wiped the vomit from his face and felt tears come to his face. Who and why would anypony do something like this?
“Home.” he thought between sobs. He sprinted towards the farm, tears running across his face as he ran. He sprinted faster and faster into the growing darkness towards his home. He entered the farm and the first thing he could see and feel was the magnitude of fire that came from the barn. Irish looked at his beloved barn and felt a depression clench his heart, but then he saw his home and almost died.
The small, one story home had its roof crushed in. Luckily, none of the building was on fire. Irish dashed around it looking through the wreckage for any sign of his family.
“Grandfather!”
“Shining Star!”
“Grandmother!”
The shouts went unanswered, and Irish started to shake. He didn't know where they were, he was alone again, eveypony was dead..... He fell to his knees and sobbed, covering his head. Part of the building fell inwards, just making him feel worse.
“Irish.....” said a tired voice.
Irish looked up through teary eyes. The sound wasn't the building falling in; it was part of it falling away. Irish got up and raced to the older pony with a sad smile on his face, which slowly faded as he saw the condition his grandfather was in. The elderly pony's hind legs were both gone and he lay on his back, the blood pooling around his hips. Irish bent down and cradled the pony in his hooves.
“Grandfather....” Irish cried into the pony's gray mane.
“Shhhsh boy, you must listen to me.”
Irish wiped his eyes. “What happened to Grandmother and Shining?”
His grandfather just shook his head. The sad gleam in his eyes told Irish all he needed to know. Irish broke into sobbing.
“Listen boy!” he screamed at Irish. “I do not have much time! We were attacked by a group of dragons. They were led by a strange creature with impossible powers! All I know is that the creature had said that the dragons were from the Misty Mountains.”
Irish's grandfather grasped his face with both hooves. There were tears in his eyes. “Your grandmother and I, we both knew we didn't have much time left.....but your brother! They took him too early! Please Irish, avenge him!!!”
Irish sobbed and nodded his head.
“Please, when I pass, place my body on the house and set it aflame. Your grandmother and brother were inside when it fell. We will meet the gods together. More importantly though, go out to the southern field. You know of the stump that we never move?”
“The one that always makes it a pain in the flank to plant during spring?” Irish asked.
His grandfather gave a sad laugh. “Yes my grandson. Go to it and dig on its northern side. You will find two things. They were to be your and your brother's inheritance from your father when the time came, but now they will serve you well.”
“You're not making any sense...”
“Shhs. It will all make sense in time.” Irish's grandfather took in a broken breath. “It is my time to leave from this world. I hear the gods calling....”
Irish's tears fell like a fountain. He squeezed his grandfather's hoof between his. “Please, grandfather, no...”
His grandfather smiled up at him. “It is not my choice grandson.” he said sadly. “Irish, know that you were always loved. Seek our justice, but do not let hate consume you.....” His chest heaved one last time, and he was gone. Irish's eyes grew wide.
“Grandfather? Grandfather. Grandfather! GRANDFATHER!!! ARRAGGHHH!!!”
Irish's scream of pain and anguish could be heard for miles.
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Later in the night, Irish sat far from his home with his front hooves holding his back. Tears streamed down his face as his eyes reflected the blaze that was once his home. He did as his grandfather asked, putting his mutilated corpse onto the home. Then he went into the small forest close to his home and found enough branches to do what he knew he must. He banded them together and lit them from the barn. He tossed them into what was once his home, and sat back and watched the flame grow.
As the fires grew stronger, so did his sadness. For hours he sat there and cried, but when the full moon was at its apex, his sadness evolved into something more; the biting beast that rarely touches a ponies soul, anger and hatred. Whenever he thought of the beasts that had done this to his town, his home, and his loved ones, he knew he would kill them.
With a scowl on his face, he stood up and walked through the forest to the southern field. He spotted the old stump, once familiar and a good spot to relax after a hard day's planting, but now a checkpoint that would shape his life forever.
The stump had once been an old ash tree that had died the very year he and his brother had come to live with his grandparents. Irish remembered sitting with his grandmother and new-born brother as he watched his grandfather hack away at the tree. When it started to fall, his cheerful grandmother led him in a playful shout of “timber!!!” He remembered her happy face and the feeling he got when he saw that his grandfather had chopped down the giant of a tree; that he was invincibly strong and could never be beaten. He snarled grimly at his childhood memories. His grandparents weren't invincible. If they were, he wouldn't be here right now.
He walked through the field of squash and came up to the pale white ash stump. He knew which side was north and he started to paw at the ground. He did so unenthusiastically, his mind being elsewhere, but an hour of the pawing later had made quite the hole. He stared into the dark hole, disgust growing on his face. Why had his grandfather send him here? Whatever this “inheritance” was, it didn't look like it was there. Irish let the anger in his body build up, and he unleashed it in a digging frenzy.
Stupid dirt!
Stupid dark!
Stupid death!
Bucking dragons! ARGHHHHH!
“CLANK!” when his hooves when they bounced off of something round and metallic.
“What?” Irish said aloud. He brushed off the metal thing and moved back so he could see it in the moon light. Whatever it was, it was a dark black, with golden rims. Irish reached in and tried to pull it out with his hooves to no avail. Next, he tried his mouth, but it wouldn't budge. He brushed it off and he realized that it went on. He dug in a curious frenzy around it, and found out it was a chest. He loosened the dirt around its sides and pulled at it with all his might. It popped from the earth and Irish went tumbling. He righted himself and pushed the heavy chest off of his midsection. He took a few deep breaths and just stared at the chest.
It indeed was colored onyx and gold and it had intricate designs on its sides. He traced the curves in the onyx sections of the chest as they curled and intertwined in the moonlight. He then raised his hoof to the golden latch that signified the separation of lid and box. He undid it and opened it up.
At first, it looked like there was nothing inside. But then Irish squinted and reached inside. He found out that it wasn't the chest that was heavy but its contents. From out of the box, he pulled a large and heavy metal circle. He inspected it in the night and his suspicions were true. It was a dense metal shield. On the inside, it was shiny silver, but it was obviously tarnished on the outside. It was a midnight black on the outside, but Irish could still see the pattern engraved onto it. Five timberwolves bit into each other’s tails, their legs and claws intertwined to make a spiraling pattern into the middle. Irish admired the craftsponyship and felt the thick leather straps on the inside of the shield. He couldn't resist the urge. He slipped it over his left hoof and it felt oddly comfortable there. However, he felt something cold and metallic touching his leg from the inside of the shield. He curiously prodded the inside and felt a handle with smaller straps on it from inside the shield. He pulled on it and the object came loose.
In his right hoof he held a hoof-ax. The ax matched the shield in every way, from the way that the head of the ax was blackened, to the way it felt oddly comfortable in his hoof. However, it was much lighter than the shield and seemed to cut the air around it with its sharpness. Irish slipped this on too, tightening the straps with his teeth and he stood on all fours. He walked over to the edge of the field and looked into the small forest that separated the field from his home.
In the moonlight, he took a few deep breaths and stood perfectly still, his eyes closed. Then he opened them and attacked. The trees in front of him stood no chance. He struck with the ax, raised the shield at invisible blows, and bashed the trees senseless with the shield. He ducked under a fake sword swing, bucking out with one hoof as he pivoted and sliced into a tree with the ax. It was stuck in the tree, so he raised the shield against the imaginary mace that came crashing down toward him. He bashed at the mace right before it impacted against him and he lifted the ax out of the tree, bringing it down in a deadly arc. It cut through his imaginary enemy, but there was one left.
He turned to the field as he imagined a large nasty looking dragon landing in it. It let out a bloodcurdling roar that only Irish could hear. Irish felt his blood boil. This was the thing that had killed everything he loved. The least he could do is return the favor. Irish roared just as ferociously and rushed at the imaginary beast. He swung wildly in the air and closed his eyes, clenching his teeth.
“ARRRAGGHH!” he screamed before tears started to burn through his eyelids. He fell down to the ground and sobbed again. He felt as if there was nothing in this world that would make him happy again. His depression sunk him into the ground and he let his sadness consume himself. He opened his eyes and looked at the dark ground as his tears wetted the dirt. Was there even a reason to live anymore? He looked at the ax strapped to his hoof and brought it up to his neck. Just one small move of the hoof......
He brought the ax down and sighed. No. This wasn't how he would die. He wouldn't take the coward's way out. He remembered his last talk with his grandfather and rose off the ground. His eyes and heart steeled as the thought about what he must do.
To the Misty Mountains he would travel. He had enough money to hire a guide from today's sales and now he had the tools to finish the monsters that took his home and his world from him. Irish put the ax back into its spot above the hoofstraps and walked back to his home.
He took one last look at the funeral pyre that was once his home, and then looked no more. He left the farm without looking back.
He traveled through the destroyed town and looked around, reminiscing numbly. Over here, where he once broke a store window with Nimbus, over there where he had his first kiss, and back at that space between the crumbling homes was where he hid when they had played hide-and-seek as children. He walked out of the town without looking back, the fire in his eyes growing stronger with each step. He stopped at his overturned cart and untied a length of rope off of the part which connected to his yoke. He took off the shield and laced the rope through the hoofstraps. Then he put the shield over his head and let it rest on his back.
He took a deep breath and then started his slow walk to Trottingham. There was no need to rush. He never had to hurry so he could help with sowing seeds or harvesting crops again. He was only focused on one thing; cold and brutal revenge.
And it would come.
With all the anger and might of the gods.
This story is a fan-fiction of MLP:FiM. I don't own any of it. It belongs to Hasbro, etc, etc.
Don't sue. Seriously. That would be so uncouth.
The Road Less Traveled
Irish's determination and anger smoldered in him as he slowly walked the path to Trottingham. With his father's shield and ax in tow, he walked through the night, slowly watching the moon and the ever present Mare in the Moon travel across the sky until it reached the horizon. The chill of the pre-dawn hours did nothing to cool his anger. Even sitting outside of Trottingham as the sun rose and the drawbridge lowered did little to calm him, even if it did leave him time to be alone with his thoughts. Perhaps what confused him and angered him the most was his grandfather's dying words. Seek his family's revenge, but do not let hate consume him? How was it possible to do both?!? Irish hissed at the thought, but turned and looked at the drawbridge as it finally came to a rest and he walked into Trottingham, not entirely sure what to do. He walked around the city in the early morning and eventually found himself back at the center of the city, where he had sold his wares just a day before and innumerable times before. He laid down on the edge of the fountain in the very center of the town center and looked into the brightening sky.
“What next grandfather? I have collected my father's weapons, but what am I to do next?” he whispered to himself as the morning sun started to warm his coat. He closed his eyes as Celestia's sun got brighter and brighter, hurting his eyes. He slowly realized he was falling asleep when it was too late, and he drifted off into a hard and confused nap.
“Oy you. Wake up. Yeh can't sleep there.” said a stern voice as Irish was prodded and poked by something. Irish woke up groggily, looking up into the evening sky at the silhouette that had woken him.
“I'll push yeh into the fountain if yeh don't move, colt.” said the voice as Irish was poked harder by the metallic pole. Irish opened his eyes gingerly, raising a leg to block the evening sun from his eyes. Luckily, there was a large pony-shaped silhouette to help shade his sight.
“I told yeh to get up.” said the silhouette again while poking him with the same pole a little more forcefully. Irish rubbed his eyes as he was helped to his hooves and found himself face to face with Constable Corcoran, one of the Constables that often patrolled Trottingham square.
“Don’ I know yeh?” he said as he gave Irish a befuddled look. However, his face changed suspicious to appreciative when he saw the round shield on Irish’s back. He whistled happily in acknowledgement.
“Now why is a member of the Hunters sleeping in the streets?” He asked as he eyed the shield. “Don’ yeh know where the guild house is?”
Irish was completely confused. “What now?”
“Yeh must be overly tired from yeh last job. Follow me, I’ll escort yeh to the house.” The constable said as he walked ahead of Irish.
“Sir, I think you have mistaken…” Irish stuttered out as he was led through the city.
“Don’ yeh be tryin’ tah get outta me sight! Last time I let one o’ yer comrades alone in the city, all ‘e did was raise hell! I’m gonna escort yeh to yer guild house and yer gonna stay there all night!”
“But…”
“None of yer silver-tongued talk! Be quiet or I’ll arrest ya!”the constable finished with absoluteness in his voice. Irish realized that arguing with the officer would just get him into even more trouble, so he followed after the constable past the rows of stone and brick apartments of Trottingham. The evening sun slowly kissed the horizon as the pair walked through the city, the constable focused on leading the “Hunter” back to his guild house, while Irish was enamored by the city. It was true that he had seen the apartments and other opulent buildings of polished marble and sturdy brick from his short travels to the city square, but he had never walked among the city and he found he had much to see. As they walked, Irish became aware that the apartments were getting higher towards the center of Trottingham and they absorbed the light from the setting sun, making the streets unnaturally dark before the sun had set. Irish felt a shiver go down his spine and he found a new respect for the constable that was leading him.
“’Ere we are. Now get inside and no ruckus causing tonight!” the constable said as they approached a tall building stuck between two apartment buildings. It was the same height as its neighbor buildings, but instead of being made out of brick and marble, it was made out of an alluring black stone that was the same color as Irish’s shield and axe. Even stranger, it was sunk in, leaving space in the front for a gate and spiked fence.
“Sir, I really…” Irish started.
“GET IN THERE! I DON’ WANT NO TROUBLE FROM YOU TONIGHT, YEH HEAR?!?” the constable roared as he shoved him through the gate and up to the large door of shiny metal. Irish’s face was inches away from the large ornate door knocker, which he was surprised to find had the same insignia of four timber wolves on it, before the door swung open, surprising both he and the constable.
“What’s all this then?” asked a refined pony. His mane was stark white, but his coat was a deep gold, including his wings that were tucked sharply to his sides. His electric blue eyes darted over the constable and Irish, before coming to rest on Irish’s shield with a shocking intensity.
“Now Constable Corcoran, why would you be treating one of my Hunters like this? Aren’t we all friends?” the pegasus asked in a silky voice.
“I know yeh game Empty Quiver, and I’m not playin’ it. I remember what happened last time yeh Hunters were out past dark.” The constable replied with a growl.
“Alright, alright constable,” Empty Quiver replied in an acquiescing tone. “I just hope you remember who has kept your job much easier.” He said with a quick bite to his words before throwing a hoof over Irish’s shoulders and pulling him into the guild house very brotherly-like. That is until the door closed.
While the building looked narrow on the outside, the corridor was just a few steps into a vast dining room with stairs on either side leading up into different corridors filled with doors. As the door shut behind the two, the pegasi shoved Irish down the corridor and into the dining room full of chattering and eating ponies, all Hunters.
“Look at what we have here.” Empty Quiver shouted to all the ponies, making all of them turn their heads to the sound and sight of Irish. “Somepony has found themselves a set of our weapons and thinks they can just come into our guild!” he continued with an angry tone. Irish sunk low to the ground as he felt dozens of eyes fall onto him. Even though he was fairly big for his age and was armed, he saw plenty of older ponies who were covered in scars, and more importantly, old and young, the Hunters looked angry.
“I…I was brought here by mistake.” Irish stuttered out, instinctively letting the shield slide down towards his left hoof.
“That’s right!” shouted a grizzled and grayed earth pony that stood up from one of the tables. He was one of the ponies covered in scars and one of his ears was gone. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the shield. “Who did you steal that from?”
“These are mine!” Irish shouted, his voice quivering.
The old pony walked towards the end of the table he was sitting at and grabbed a bottle of mead in his teeth. “If they are yours, then you should be able to defend yourself at least!” he said as he smashed the bottle on the table and rushed at Irish with the jagged shards.
Irish was able to strap the shield on just as the pony jabbed the bottle at him and he quickly blocked the attack, hearing the rest of the bottle shatter against the hard metal shield. Irish let go of a baited breath and was quickly swept off of his hooves. The elder pony had used the attack to the shield to block Irish’s sight, and quickly swept his hooves out from under him, pinning him to the ground.
“Get me a chair and some rope!” the pony shouted to his fellow Hunters as he and Irish struggled. Irish was eventually over whelmed by the other Hunters who joined the squabble and his shield and ax within it were taken from him as he was restrained to a chair. Irish struggled against the ropes as the elder pony paced in front of him.
“Empty Quiver.” He said aloud to the pegasi behind Irish. “Go get your brother.”
“Got it One-Ear.” The pegasi replied as he flew up one of the stairs and disappeared down a corridor.
One-Ear walked up to Irish and tilted the chair he was restrained in backwards. “If it was up to me,” he said sinisterly, “I would tear the answers out of you…but our leader might want to be here to watch first.”
Irish gulped as he felt hot tears of panic brim at the corners of his eyes. He wanted to go home. But then it hit him: he didn’t have a home anymore. He let the tears fall down his face as he looked back at the grizzled pony with a look colder than one thousand winters.
“Do what you must.” Irish said with such fury that it surprised One-Ear and himself.
“What do you want One-Ear! Waking me up from my nap like this is just plain rude…” said a sleepy voice from above the two. Both One-Ear and Irish looked towards the proprietor of the voice and One-Ear quickly backed away from Irish and saluted to the unseen leader.
“Your brother caught this intruder. He had armaments of a Master Hunter. Stolen probably.” One-Ear deftly explained.
“Really?” said the voice, which now had a tone of intrigue in it. “Well, might as well find out the truth…”
Irish gulped and readied himself for extreme torture, but fell with the chair to the ground as a large orange eye appeared in front of him, from above his head.
“Jumpy, isn’t he?” the voice said.
“I don’t think anypony is ever calm around you, brother.” said Empty Quiver.
“Pish-posh, tartar sauce!” replied the manic voice as it came closer to Irish. That was when he saw the crazy leader of the Hunters.
He looked almost exactly like Empty Quiver except for a few major differences. The first thing that struck Irish was his relaxed wings that flittered as he walked towards the fallen Irish. Next, were his coat and mane colors. His coat was a deep, sleek purple and his mane of white was nothing like Empty Quiver’s. While Empty Quiver’s fell around his face like a lion’s mane, his brother’s stuck up in different directions and seemed to pulse with electricity. Last of all, were the pegaus’s eyes. One was orange and one was green, yet both revealed the inner fire of pony.
The pegasus stood over Irish and looked at him in confusion from different angles and places around him before a smile spread across his face and his eyes brightened. He quickly pulled Irish and the chair up back to their original positions.
“That’s better!” he said as he took to the air and floated upside down, inches from Irish’s face. “I’m called Anord Alainn! Now what are you called?”
“I’m Irish Cream.” Irish replied, eliciting some snickers from the crowd of Hunters.
“Ooo, I like that!” Anord Alainn replied energetically. “Hey One-Ear, cut him loose.”
“But sir, we don’t even…” One-Ear protested.
“One-Ear…” Anord admonished.
“Sorry sir.” One-Ear replied with a frown. He quickly pulled a knife off of one of the tables and walked up to Irish and cut him free from the chair, but not without a fierce scowl towards Irish. Irish returned the scowl with one of his own. However, their petty fighting was cut short as Anord found Irish’s shield and pulled the axe out of it, knowing exactly where it was hidden. He swung it around deftly with only one strap on his hoof and had the shield on his other hoof. He twirled the axe around for a little bit longer before his eyes grew wide and he shouted, bringing the axe down upon one of the dining tables. The axe whistled through the air and cut through the sturdy wooden table like butter.
“Now where did you find these, Irish Cream?” the leader of the Hunters asked.
“They were my father’s.” Irish replied, his eyes wide at the now halved table.
“What? That’s preposterous!” Empty Quiver shouted.
“No…it’s not.” One-Ear said sullenly, surprising Irish. “Your father was Iron Wolf…Only now do I see the resemblance.” He said with amazement.
“Are you sure One-Ear?” Anord asked.
“Those weapons should speak for me. Look at the shield. It glows with a black light. And the axe feels light in your hoof, but heavy when it hit something. I know because I was there when they were made for him by Quicksilver’s grandmother.” He said looking at Irish with a new-found respect.
“But my father’s name was Night Star; he was a common farmer, not some…adventurer!” Irish cried in disbelief.
“I always knew he retired because he was getting married, but never would I think to say he changed his name.” One-Ear shook his head in bewilderment. “Your mother was Milk Cream, right?”
“Y…Yes.” Irish stuttered.
One-Ear nodded. “That was Iron’s wife.”
“No, this can’t be true.” Irish said as he started to feel faint. How had his father hid all of this from him and his brother? But then again, his father and mother never had really spoken of their past, nor were they able to, thanks to their premature deaths.
“Well, it seems there is only one way to test this truth.” Anord said as he loosened the armaments from his legs and carried them over to Irish. “QUICKSILVER!” he shouted as he held the shield and axe before Irish.
“WHAT?” shouted a filly’s voice from the crowd before there was a loud pop and she appeared in front of Irish with an apple in her mouth. It hovered in the air as she took a large bite out of it and looked Irish up and down. Her mane was braided silver and her coat and horn were all a dusky gray, like that of a thunderhead. However, her ruby eyes showed that she was more than capable of fighting.
“Could you see if these really were Iron Wolf’s?” Anord asked while hoofing them armaments over to Quicksilver. She picked them up in her telekinetic grasp and looked them over while finishing her apple with one large bite.
“I’ll be in the smithy.” She said before disappearing in a shimmer of red magic.
“Now that we know who you are,” Anord said turning to Irish Cream. “Why were you in the city brandishing your father’s arms?”
Irish’s gaze turned black for a moment and he noticed that both Anord and One-Ear saw the change in him. “Coltchester is no more.” Irish said with tempered fury. “It was ravaged by dragons. My family was killed, but before my grandfather died he told me where to find my father’s weapons and where the dragons came from.” He said, making the crowd of Hunters go quiet from the dire news.
“I was mistakenly taken here by that constable when he saw the shield. I was just resting in the city before I headed out to the Misty Mountains to settle this.” Irish said solemnly.
Many Hunters broke out into laughter, until they saw Irish’s face.
“Boy, a pony alone cannot even defeat one dragon! It would be suicide to fight even one alone!” One-Ear said to him in a bewildered voice.
“I will not let the memories of my loved ones, of my friends and family, die in vain. They will receive the vengeance their souls clamor for.” Irish replied, sending chills down many a Hunter’s spine.
“Ok, enough of this.” Anord said, holding himself and shivering slightly. “We will talk of this in the morning, but for now you will stay with us! Hey Fender! Play us some tunes!” Anord called out to some Hunter. Soon smiles broke out among the Hunters as one of them, presumably Fender, grabbed an acoustic guitar and started playing it. Next, some other pony joined in on the song with a fiddle. Next, some drums, then a flute, then a harmonica, and then a lyre. Soon there were so many different instruments playing that it at first sounded like a cacophony, until one mare stood up on a table and started leading the song with her singing. The Hunters smiled at the music, some singing along, others dancing, and a few others starting a few play-fights. And yet, there was one pony who sat amongst the fun with mixed feelings. Half of him smiled at the music and wanted to join in, but there was another half, a pain ridden half that wanted to go to the smithy, take his weapons, and march out of there.
“You know,” said an elderly voice from beside him. “When we were young, your father and I, we would get into all sorts of trouble and scuffles. He was a great stallion your father was. But the thing I remember most about him was that he could sometimes be brash.” said One-Ear as he put a gentle hoof on Irish’s shoulder. “So, I know what you are thinking about right now. But believe me; your choices will look different in the light of day. For now, just stay here with us. Argue with me all you want, but it is the right decision.”
Irish stared blankly at the Hunters, the guild of adventure ponies that were renowned across Equestria as the toughest and bravest of all explorers and adventurers, and wondered what was becoming of his life, or even if he had a life left. His home was gone, as were everypony he had ever cared about, but these ponies of the guild shed light on a side of his family he never knew. Was he staying here because of that? Or was it because of One-Ear’s words? Whichever it was, he felt gnawing apprehension and tension in the pit of his stomach.
“Could you show me to a room?” Irish asked quietly, his voice about to giveaway to all his conflicting emotions. One-Ear nodded knowingly and led the torn pony up the stairs and into an unused room. As One-Ear left, Irish quickly fell onto the bed and fell into a fleeting sleep conquered by dragons and images of loved ones lost.
