Flyte

(A/N: Finally! Gearing up to kick off!)

"C'mon you lot!" Crackshot screamed encouragement as the troops finally reached the distress beacon, all around the path were the dead and broken bodies of comrades and Darkhearts.

GO CRACKSHOT! I'LL HOLD THEM OFF! GET WORD TO THE REST OF THE ARMY!

Crackshot grimaced as his last moments with Nightshade played in his head, the colt cutting down Darkheart after Darkheart as he held the line.

"A scouting party vs. A whole enemy encampment." He muttered bitterly, their group had only been 30 when they stumbled across the thousands. It had been a slaughterhosue, most if not all the men had been killed, the few remaining had retreated to a Depression and were holding the encroaching things at bay with musket and small arms fire.

FAUST DAMMIT CRACKSHOT! GET YOUR ASS MOVING!

He lowered his head in shame. How could he leave him like that? With only a hoofull of men? How could he leave them like that?

"PUSH ON YOU MONGRELS!" He cried, half out of anger for himself, half out of fear.  The legion of stallions he was guiding came across the the cliff face just above the battlefield.

"Here! Stop here!" He motioned for them, whispering quietly to those closest to him. Instantly the surging waves of stallions and mares stopped and crouched low.

Crackshot himself inched up the bluff until he had a clear sight of the field below him. And what he saw made his jaw drop.

Graves

Thousands of them. As far as the eye could see. And a single dot in the middle.

(I'd suggest playing this now.)

With wonder in his eyes, Crackshot slid down the bluff until he himself was one amongst the graves.

He moved amongst them with wonder, each held an inscription. But in a different language. Something not even remotely Equestrian. But he understood them for some reason. He moved up to one, and the words seemed to shift on the stone itself.

Here lies Arthur Glow. The best blacksmith in Prance

Moving from grave to grave he gazed in awe. "Who could have done this?" He asked himself.

Shaking his head, he made his way over to the dot he had seen earlier. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a pony.

"Hey! You out there! Can you here me?" He asked waving his hoof, the figure got up and moved towards him.

"Hello! Do you know what happened-" he cut himself off as the telltale features of the dragon colt came into view. There was something different about him though.

"Nightshade! I thought you were dead! Hey what- Nightshade? Where are you going?" He asked the colt as Nightshade passed right through him.

Curiously, he followed the hybrid until they came upon an unmarked grave.

"What are you doing?" Continued Crackshot, this didn't seem like the colt he knew, not at all.

Nightshade turned to him and gave him a small smile before reaching a hoof up to his mouth. Even though his view was constricted, Crackshot saw the smatter of flame he produced.

"Seriously, what are you doing?" He questioned again, apprehension growing.

Nightshade merely placed his hoof on unmarked grave, and the strangest thing happened.

Crackshot watched in amazement as the grey flames raced along the exterior, they curved and banked oddly as they took shapes. Squares, rectangles, circles, lines. He watched in amazement as they formed words.

He turned to the colt and finally, something in him registered.

He was completely grey

From head to hoof, Nightshade had lost all color from his coat and mane. What was once a dark, almost brownie coat was now cloudy sky grey. The same went for his once emerald green mane.

"Nightshade. What happened here?" He asked gently.

The colt didn't reply, he merely kept his hoof on the gravestone even after the flames ceased to move. And even though he lowered his head.

Crackshot saw a single tear drip onto the black and burned ground.

Coming (hopefully) soon. Fyre