EaW: From Front to Front - The Great Warby Warpony72Chapters1007 pt 11007 pt 21008 pt 11008 pt 2A Feathisian Engagement1009 pt 1Calling Vanhoover1010 pt 1Die Kleine SäuberungCalling Griffenheim1011 pt 1On the Edge pt 2: HeroOn the Edge pt 3: ZealA Prayer for the LostWar Has Changed1011 pt 2Winter War Stories pt 1Winter War Stories pt 21012 pt 1The GraduationAdelart OffensiveBloody Blackthorn1012 pt 2The Mountain Stirs1012 pt 3A Matter of Faith1012 pt 41012 pt 51012 pt 6Dream a Little DreamLove, Death and MagicDer Kaiser's Lebenstag1012 pt 7Iron SkyWelcome to the JungleThe Trial pt 1The Trial pt 2Dream a Little Dream IIBlack Harvest pt 1Black Harvest pt 21012 pt 8The Middenheim GalaDream a Little Dream IIIA Nightly Conference pt 1A Nightly Conference pt 2Return of the KingDream a Little Dream IVRed WednesdayWhen In Ost-GriffoniaLest We ForgetIn the NewsThe Fall of Cloudbury1012 pt 91012 pt 10GötterdämmerungThe Meeting1009 pt 21010 pt 2On the Edge pt 1: Darkness1007 pt 1Sent March 21, 1007 Dear Cyril, First, let me express condolences for the death of your Emperor. I only heard the news after I'd just gotten off the boat in Manehattan. Your homeland and mine haven’t had the best of relations in history, but I understand Grover V did his best with a bad plate, and genuinely cared for his subjects. I’m sure you’re devastated. On a brighter note, Equestria is such a marvelous place. I’ve never seen a land so bright and lit up. I’ve only seen Manehattan and the countryside, but so far it's unlike anything back in Griffonia. I’m writing this on the train, but I’ll be sure to send it once I stop at the end. Should give me a day or two to get it written up. I keep thinking about our conversation before we said goodbye, in Rottendedam. I know it was literally the only thing we said to each other, but it still sticks in my head regardless. I find that, despite having just met you a week or so ago, I miss you already. Strange, isn’t it? Wishing you well, -Paige Sent April 16th, 1007 Paige, Thanks for your words. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel about the Emperor’s death. He’s such a distant figure on the throne, sometimes it's hard to relate. The whole Empire mourns, however. The Empire’s in chaos right now. The Regency Council is doing their best to hold things together, but from what I hear Griffenheim’s become a political shit pile. The Archon and the Duchess of Strawberry are having it out, and apparently they’re giving high-level commoners the vote alongside nobles in the palace. Things must be more desperate than even I thought. Every griff's trying to take what they can, sometimes I wonder if anyone’s trying to save it. Sunstriker Clan broke ranks with us as soon as word of the Emperor's death got out. Let’s hope those traitors are the last. I’ve been assigned to the ‘Synovial’ division, a panzer testing unit. It's strange to jump from infantry tactics to panzer, much more technical. They’re running us on these new prototypes, something called an ‘LI-1’. Not too sure how it differs from the old Airbenders I see parked in the yards here, but from what I hear it's supposed to be the end result of study with the Changelings. I will say, it's nice to be inside of something instead of trekking across muddy fields. They’re talking about big changes to come. I don’t know how I feel about that. Some news of your home, in case you were wondering and the newspapers out there hadn’t updated you yet. Chancellor River Swirl won your election. I wouldn’t even have known if I hadn’t been watching the papers. You kind of opened my eyes to the wider world, and now I’m not sure I can go back from that now. I think back on our talk too. Rottendedam was just a few weeks ago, but I miss you too. Writing this feels like the only thing left that’s normal these days. I remembered something you said last time while I was out on the town. I’m sending a few fliers from the university of Griffenheim in this envelope, stuff about a lecture on theoretical enchantments. I know it's not the newspapers you were all about, but I hope some of the more intellectual terms would give you a challenge to learn. Maybe not. I’ll write again when I can. -Cyril Sent May 9th, 1007 Dear Cyril, Thank you so much for the fliers. It's fascinating to read about the university’s curriculum in a different language. Herzlandisch was always a challenge for me, so you’ve provided me with plenty of entertainment. Though, I’m afraid I already know most of what they have to offer me. I’m settled in to the university. It's a wounderous place, full of bright minds. I don’t know what I expected, but I’m surrounded by prodigies who are even younger than I am. I’m suddenly so nervous. Classes are supposed to start soon, and then I can get a measure of myself, I suppose. I've been studying like mad in the meantime. The library is plenty well-stocked with far more advanced technical tomes and scrolls than I had imagined. I found out something fascinating while I was here. Apparently there's a healthy population of batponies in Equestria, though you’d probably know them better as thestrals. There haven’t been thestrals in the Riverlands since, well, ever. Or at least, it's not well covered. My roommate Gloaming Bright is one, but she’s not eager to open up. I think she’s a bit defensive. There’s not many other thestrals here, if any. I want to say I understand her situation, given I’m the only Riverpony here I know of, but somehow I think it's not the same. It's interesting what you’re describing. I’m not much into mechanical engineering myself, but I do know Changelings have some of the best technical knowledge in the world. That’s going to be some top quality machinery you’re in, if it had their input. Are you sure you’re allowed to talk about military hardware like that? Its later. I started this letter earlier, but I stopped for a while. I knew I'd miss home, but I didn't think it would be this bad already. I haven’t even heard from my parents yet. Or my other friends. Just you so far. Thank you, Cyril. Sincerely, -Paige Sent May 28th, 1007 Paige, I’ve heard about thestrals before, but they were always stories, just a legend about creatures of the night come to snatch bad chicks from their beds. I had no idea they were real. That’s a little unnerving. If half the tales about them are true, you need to watch yourself. I have no idea why Equestria would let such creatures into their academies. Just watch yourself around them. The tension is getting worse over here. As well as our problems at home, Longsword just broke into a civil war a few weeks back. You probably read about it in the news. Could be that’s why mail from your home is having trouble getting through. Still, can’t say no one saw it coming. Only so long you can push creatures around, ponies or griffons, before somecreature snaps. I’ll tell you what I’ve read up on from the Riverlands. Apparently, after the coup Lake City installed some Prince. So much for democracy. I don’t know much about the underlying history there aside from what public school taught me, and that was still a bit lacking. Apparently there’s some other tensions going on in the east, so much so that the Order of Hellquill actually starting building a grand fortification project, something called the ‘Ostwall’. I don’t know much aside from what I’ve been briefed, and that didn’t tell us too much either. You’re average Imperial grunt isn’t very smart. A lot of us can’t even read. Most of us enlisted either out of family pride or because there aren’t many options outside of the elite merchant and scholar families. It's just kind of our fate. One more thing, you probably haven’t heard but the Reformistan has been suppressed in the east. Apparently, they stopped being very popular in the Griffkrieg Basin. Most of us are saying good riddance. They have a bad rap here too, rest assured. A few of them came west from the fighting in Longsword and the purges in Hellquill. From what I heard, they were shot. On that subject, I got a letter from my uncle. Apparently, the MfÖS saw me as a risk and were about to bring me in for questioning before he intervened. So I’m sorry if I have to be a bit more vague in the future. But I can tell you one thing; whatever is happening in Griffenheim, in the Imperial palace, its seems like High Kommand is getting ready for something serious. That prototype I mentioned we were field testing before? We’re getting more of them, a lot more. Our training regime has gotten more serious. We’re trained on all stations, but Sergeant Hellseig seems to think I have a thing for the 3.7 cm, which is a delight to fire on the range. We’re getting issued new arms out of the reserves, and I’m seeing more recruits coming out of the Crona training camps than were even in my cycle. More and more planes are flying overhead, and they’ve even got this new light bomber called a ‘Griefvogel’. The Luftstreitkräfte have to be happy about that, I imagine. Imperial Guard training was intense, but it seems they’re overhauling our combat capabilities something fierce. Someone knows something, and the more I’m seeing a buildup, the more worried I get. Stay safe, okay? -Cyril Sent June 22nd, 1007 Dear Cyril, A bit more cheer before I go into the grim news. Yesterday was a festival known as the Summer Sun Celebration. I didn’t know much about it, but I got a recommendation to go into Canterlot from one of my classmates, so I stretched my wings for a bit. You’d love the countryside, I think. Nothing but green forests and small towns as far as the eye could see. Reminds me of home. Gloaming didn’t come with, which I suppose makes sense as a creature of the night not wanting to celebrate the sun. Still, she seems like she could really use some cheer. She’s into her studies harder than I am. Canterlot is about the prettiest place you’ve ever seen, and I’m not talking grand or large or anything like that. Griffenheim has size on this place, but Canterlot is gorgeous. That’s not a word I use often either. The whole city is made of white walls and boulevards, ornamental lightposts and archways, gardens and fountains. Its seems as if this city was built from the ground up to be as beautiful as possible, even the manufacturing plants which have their smokestacks piped underground to keep the sky as blue as possible. From an architectural standpoint, it had to have been done by magic. No other method comes out this clean. The ponies had the place decorated from roof to street, every building. Strings of lights, sun lamps, pictures of the sunrise. A local school apparently had every colt and filly draw pictures of Celestia and they had all of these all over the place. Carnival games, shows, fireworks. It went all night, and I honestly lost track of the time until morning. Now I warn you to keep an open mind about this next part. They gathered us all in front of the castle, where Princess Celestia actually put on a demonstration of raising the sun. I know what you’re going to say, but it's a proven fact that she has command over the sun, not Boreas. She’s not my ruler either, but the evidence has shown that if she is unable to, the sun doesn’t move without her. I didn’t stick around long after sunrise anyways, since I had a flight back, but I heard the celebration went on the rest of the day as well. I’m all for a late-nighter every once in a while, but I had too much to get back to. I heard of another affair up north called the Crystal Fair. I was told its a lot like the Summer Sun Celebration, but in the Crystal Empire. While it sounds like fun, I was too late to buy tickets to that one. Besides, my studies are already keeping me busy. Perhaps I'll read about it when it happens. Bound to be a newspaper article about it if it's such a big deal. Okay, now the grim news. The story about Longsword hit the papers the other day. Good riddance indeed. The Reformistan are monsters. I’m actually relieved even the Empire thinks so. The attitude about the fight back here is concern for the ponies, but I’m worried about the implications. Its sounds like East Griffonia is heading for a bad time. I don’t know if you still hear about Prywhen these days, I’m certain that’s old news. But before I left, there was a lot of ponies worried about what the end of that fight would mean for the region. I had heard about the Princely Restoration in Jezerograd. Grand Prince Heavenly Snow is the name of the latest legitimate heir to the throne. It’s honestly just a bunch of military minds who want to use a figurehead monarch to fix their problems. Lake City was never a very straight democracy, and this just proves it. Not that that’s a real issue. Half of the Riverlands are monarchies of some kind. I’m just concerned what else they’re going to pull in the name of past glory. You mentioned your uncle in your last letter, but I’ve never heard you talk much about your parents. What’s the rest of your family like? I told you about my parents, but I didn’t mention my brother Brook Runner. He’s a businessstallion working in Coltovac, with a position in the shipping industry. I say ‘businessstallion’ but he sees himself as a bit of a river pirate, even though he’s not a criminal. That I know of, anyway. I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea about thestrals. Gloaming’s the only one I’ve spent a lot of time around, and she doesn’t seem anything like the old stories. She eats fruit, not blood, she doesn’t terrify anyone. Honestly, she really gets picked on herself, just for being a thestral. Maybe the world’s been a bit too hard on them. Gloaming certainly just wants to be left alone. I’ll do some reading on this, I feel like we may only have half the story here. You asked me to stay safe, but from what it sounds like you’re in a lot more danger than I am out here. There’s all kinds of outcomes I can think of for that and none of them are good. Whatever happens with you needing to keep quiet, I understand. I just hope you don’t get into something that’s too much to handle. I’d hate to lose my penpal after we’ve just gotten started. Sincerely, -Paige Sent July 16th, 1007 Dear Paige, I’ll ignore the religious debate you just brought up, since I know that’s not what you’re getting at and I’m not a very fervent temple goer anyway. All these festivals and fairs in Canterlot. It sounds like Fastnacht, which is essentially like the Summer Sun Festival except with less sun-raising demigods and more drinking. The high point is Rosenmontag, where a grand parade is put on to drive evil spirits out of the home with merriment. You just missed it in Rottendedam. A shame too. Feathisians love Fastnacht, especially Weiberfastnacht. The Thursday before Fastnacht, we set out a grand feast for the community, and eat our fill to prepare for the festival. I missed the last one myself, not all of us got the opportunity to go home for the holidays. We had some good beer to make up for it, though. Canterlot sounds unreal. Like, literally unreal. No industrialized society can make a city look that nice. It all turns into ugly towers and city blocks, no matter how hard they try. Suppose that’s the benefit of Pegasi weather control and unicorn magic. My family is a bit of a hard subject. My father was a soldier in the Reichsarmee, military police. He inherited a lot of the chaos and disorder in the Empire left over from the Kemerskai Meuterei. One day, he was shot during a riot in Romau, and my mother was left with me and my younger sister, Sophie. My mother did her best, but there was only so much a millworker could do to feed two chicks. I enlisted as soon as I could, so now there’s more money and fewer beaks to fill at home. But my mother didn’t agree. She didn’t want me to be swallowed up by the same chaos that took my father. Uncle August promised her he’d watch out for me. He’s the one who got me into the panzerwaffe, so he’s holding true to his word. Your brother sounds like a smuggler, Paige. I’m not even joking here, you need to ask him. I’ll bet you twenty bits. I’m not saying I’m absolutely right about thestrals. Not saying I'm wrong either. Most of what I know is from old legends. But you seem to be interacting with them more than I ever will. I just want to point out that reputations come from somewhere. Be careful around them, that’s all. I don’t know if its war. I just know that things are getting bad out here. Word from Longsword is getting worse, and I hear plenty of officers are grumbling about intervention. I looked into Prywhen like you asked, and it's not much better either. Refugees are travelling hundreds of miles to get nowhere, really. I also found out that there’s been a hold order on all mail coming west, given the state of things. No safe route, apparently. So if you still haven’t heard from your family, I am sorry. With all the violence in the east, postal lines are all messed up. I got my claws on a newspaper about the Riverlands Hoofball Cup. I’m not sure if you’re into that sport, but I decided to send it west. I also bought a book for you called Of Things That Never Happened. I didn’t read it myself, a lot of the words are too advanced for me. But I thought you might like it, and it's another way to practice your Herzlandisch, so I got you a copy. I can’t imagine what it’s like at that school. The only time I’ve been to a university was to visit Uncle August and that time I stopped by Griffenheim University. It's so far beyond me- (the next part is scratched out with several lines) Equestria sounds like a nice place. I don’t know if I’ll ever see a land like that. It just seems like Griffonia is doomed to war and chaos and grim circumstance. I want to come visit next time I can, but with training ongoing right now, I don’t know if I’ll ever get the leave for it. This next part I’m writing from my panzer, Ludmilla. Testing is ongoing. They’re drilling us as much as they are testing the tanks. Now we’ve got artillery panzers, flakpanzers, panzerjager. They’ve turned this into a major training and development field. New stuff at home too. They’ve done an overhaul of industrial production in Griffenheim, and Sophie says they changed teachers at her school. She’s a lot more into her classes now. My mother is happy, and so am I. Maybe the Empire’s not going to war. Maybe we’re just taking precautions. The Emperor’s death threw a lot of us for a loop. Maybe that’s what it took for things to change. A huge crisis. The Regency Council’s definitely trying, for all the issues they’re apparently having. The newspapers aren’t divulging much, but the military rumor machine is running full tilt. We’ve been saying how much we miss each other. If I can score some leave when you’re on break, where would you want to meet? I don’t know that I can afford a boat trip to Equestria on a zoldat’s salary, but I can get back to Rottendedam. How about it? First chance we get, beer and pretzels back by the harbor? I’ll buy. Yours, -Cyril Sent August 14th, 1007 Dear Cyril, I am so sorry this took so long to send! Your letter didn’t get to me until the beginning of the month, and then I got so bogged down with my classes. It took me forever to write you a response. I loved the book. It's a little thin on plot, and the author seems like he’s putting too much of himself into the character sometimes, but the internal turmoil and dialogue were stellar. You really should give it a try, it's not as bad as you think. Though, given its about a Republican agent, I think your superiors might frown on that. So I got you the newest Daring Do book! ‘Daring Do and the Forbidden City of Clouds’. I’m a big fan of the series, and I didn’t know if you read it. Sorry it's not in Herzlandisch. I don’t know if they published it in anything but Equestrian yet. I finally heard back from my family. I was so worried about them when you told me about the mail holdup, I sprang for a dragon to send a notice. Imagine my surprise when I got a reply the next day! They’re fine, thank Gods, just worried since they had learned their mail wasn’t getting through. News of the wars out there has the while Riverlands on alert. Apparently Prince Heavenly Snow has been making a lot of firebrand speeches against griffons, socialists, socialist griffons, you get the picture. He’s apparently not willing to let ancient history go, and Lake City is behind him on that. The context is a bit much to get into here, but I recommend you check it out in a library if you can get to one. If you’re interested. Gloaming’s finally started opening up. We have Advanced History of Arcana class together, so we’ve been study buddies a little bit. According to her, thestrals have been suffering the same sort of distrust you’ve been having, through stories and their strange appearances. It's actually really heart-breaking, but a lot of thestrals live in the jungles and hinterlands. Ponies don’t like them, and she’s had to deal with that her whole life. I’m not going to call you close-minded, but I’d really appreciate it if you try to look at this with a bit more open perspective. I started looking into it, and I found a charity group that’s trying to raise thestral awareness. I’m thinking of joining up. This is the same kind of issue ponies in East Griffonia are facing, and I know plenty of those who were personally affected by that kind of mistreatment. It's nice to hear more about your family. I’m sorry about your father, and my heart goes out to your mother and sister. It sounds like your family has been through quite a bit. I hope you’re not going to war either. With everything that's happening, the last thing Griffonia needs is more chaos, and I don’t want you in the line of fire. Rottendedam sounds great. I know you said you don’t know when you’ll next get leave, but let’s hope it’ll be around my holiday break. I have most of December and part of January off. I know it seems like a ways off, but I’ll be taking my midterms before then, so the pressure will be off me and that’ll hopefully be enough time for things to calm down back east, enough you can get out to Feathisia. Now it just seems like forever to wait. A few months turned into an eternity. Sincerely, -Paige PS. And I apparently owe you twenty bits. Please find enclosed. Sent Sept 8, 1007 Dear Paige, I always feel like my letters are packed full of more bad news than yours ever are. I hope this doesn’t continue being a trend, not that I’m wishing any misfortune on you. It's my turn to apologize for taking so long. We were out on maneuvers in Hellheim, practicing battle tactics with infantry and panzers combined. A Changeling actually gave us a lecture on revolutionary panzer strategy and combat lessons. Made me feel like I was learning something worthwhile at last. I heard, and so will you soon. The Prywhen fight is over. The communists won. I understand that doesn’t carry the same sense of dread for you as it does for me, but it could really still be a problem. Word is the Empire might blast through Blackrock to intervene. Then again, there’s no movement south. They haven’t pulled any of us out of training. I’ve been sorted into a new unit. We’re not Imperial Guard anymore. From the briefing we received from Field Marshal Bronzetail, we’re regular Reichsarmee now, us and a bunch of divisions. I’m getting transferred out of the Synovial division and into the 3rd Panzer Division. Apparently the Regency Council made the decision after the Archon insisted on a reorganization of Imperial forces. This is big. Those panzers I mentioned before (let’s not give the censor a reason to start cutting) are much better than we thought. We’re riding in better versions now, and we know what we're doing. Sergeant Hellseig has me permanently assigned on the gun. The battalion are my circle of friends now, and Ludmilla the 2nd is our trusted chariot. It's a unique bond, almost like family. I’m not labeling all thestrals as bad or anything. I just haven’t had much reason to trust-(the rest of the sentence is scratched out). I’m just gonna drop it. You have your reasons, and I’m okay with that, honest. I’m trying to read the book, but it's slow going. I’m not so good with Equestrian. I have to find the words that are close enough in Herzlandisch, and then look over the whole sentence again. By the time of this letter, I haven’t even finished the first chapter. Its a bit frustrating, but I'm keeping at it. More units, more gear. Word is, we’ll be getting AA guns supporting us. No neighboring army has a decent air force until you get to Aquileia. Which means these are meant to kill Knights. That thought always leaves a bad taste in my beak. End of the year is a ways off. Lucky me, that’s when High Kommand gets charitable with leave. Rottendedam it is then. Once we get a day, I'll wait for you in the harbor. Then I'll take you out for dinner like I should have six months ago. Can’t wait. No, seriously. I’m sick of waiting. -Cyril Author's Note I had originally wanted to write each chapter pertaining to a year in game, but I found that this one dragged on a little, and I wasn't even halfway through my desired letters! So, you'll be getting a few of the years as part 1 and 2, especially as the action picks up later. Given everything that can happen in game, I'm sure you all can guess how many ways this can all go. 1007 pt 2Sent September 23rd, 1007 Dear Cyril, I met one of the Princesses today! Actually spoke to her face to face! Shook hooves even! Apparently, Princess Luna wanted to come tour the university in order to see how some new educational reforms are shaping up, a new budget got passed. Anyway, I was in my Theoretical Magicks class when she stepped in to look us over. She’s so tall, I almost didn’t believe it! I saw Princess Celestia before, but there was nopony nearby for me to judge the scale next to her. Luna stood head and withers above anypony else, and she was so beautiful and regal! She’s the one this university is named after, and she came around and shook hooves with- (Several lines underneath are scratched out furiously) I should just start a new letter. I have never- (More scratches, just for the next sentence) You know me, Cyril. I’m not one given to celebrity worship, and the Princesses are not my sovereigns. But I swear when Princess Luna entered the lecture hall today, my mind went for a trip. I don’t know if this is all alicorns, but maybe this is why they inspire such fervent loyalty. Gloaming’s still going on about it. Apparently Princess Luna went out of her way to find the only thestral on campus. It’s good to see her laughing and smiling. I know you're more of a traditional mind, but I hope I can bring you around on thestrals. It’s really not fair what they’re going through out here. Did you know a large portion of thestrals on Equus are forced into frontier neighborhoods? The southern jungles are full of thestral villages and tribes. There’s even Nightmare Moon cults out here. Think of them like the Sunstriker Clan berserkers the Empire has so much trouble with. They’re not bad ponies, they keep to themselves. I just feel like there’s more we can do to help them. I wish you could understand. Midterms are coming up in a few weeks. I might not get back to you for awhile. Want to start my university career out strong, and that means getting good grades on these exams. Every day is extra assignments and every night is study hall. I’ve got a crystal matrice model I’m behind on and two essays I can barely start. Gloaming just seems to rock the whole thing. I don’t know how she does it, but she makes me feel like a little filly. I’m glad she’s here to help me. You’re part of the reason I can’t focus, by the way. I can’t help but worry for you too, with all the violence and disorder out east. I know you can’t give me much but sweeping details, so I did a little reading at the Ponybucks coffee shop. They’ve got a lot of newspapers there, and one of them had an article on the ‘Griffonian Kaiserreich’s Militant Resurgence.’ Apparently, ponies are saying that the Emperor’s death set off a chain of dominos. It was mostly somepony bashing your Regency Council about jingoism and what happens when the values of Harmony are rejected. Personally, if this is what an Equestrian pro-Harmonist has to say about the opposition, I’m not inclined to join his party. But it told me of the stark lack of information around here. It’s just surface details. Photos of military parades in Griffenheim, Imperial Knights training with swords, planes overhead. But they’re all selected shots. This journalpony isn’t the only one railing against your nation. So, while I understand you needing to be vague, can you tell me anyway? I know so little aside from textbooks from when I was back in Rijekograd. And you’ve opened up to me about the army and your family. But what’s home to you? I figure that, and trying to figure out that Daring Do book, might be enough to keep you occupied while I’m up to my wings in schoolwork. Wouldn’t want you getting bored, now would we? Yours, ~Paige P.S: I saw a little bistro in Rottendedam when I was there. It really caught my eye but it seemed too much for me by myself. I can’t remember the name, but I know I can point it out to you when I see it. Dinner sounds amazing, I’m counting the days with bated breath. Sent October 18, 1007 Dear Paige, Its started calming down around here. They’re not trying so hard to run us into the ground, gives us a bit of downtime, so it's a good time to take it slow and focus on this letter. It's also a great time to tell you about my crewmates, and what’s happening here. Ludmilla the 2nd is an LI-2 Ausf D light panzer. I’m allowed to say that now its been declassified, but expect stuff to get censored anyway. Our Changeling instructor (the name is cut out) walked us through her operation practically while she was being designed during the prototype phase. We may as well have had a hand in making the improvements. She carries a 3.7 cm main cannon, which I am the proud operator of. So far as I hear, a lot of this trial and error is being recorded by the Changelings and sent back to their homeland, so while we get a lot out of their designs, I can’t help but feel like we’re just the test rats. Sergeant Alrich Hellsieg is our panzer kommandant. He’s a veteran of the failed revolution. When he was an infantryman, a bullet turned his kneecap to powder. Now he has a severe limp, but he makes up for it by spitting insults and invectives at us all day long on how terrible we are. He’s an excellent leader, and all the abuse he heaps on us makes us better at the end of the day. Well, that’s what I try to tell myself, at least. Lance Korporal Hans Bluetalon is our driver. He’s been in a few years as well, so he’s a griff to go to when you have questions. The problem is, he takes his ‘big-brother’ attitude a bit too far at times. We’re both learning the same thing at the same time and he keeps going on about how much more experienced on panzers he is. Which can be a bit annoying. Zoldater Erika Grimquill is our new radiogriff and loader. In the last model panzer we didn’t have enough room for one, but the newer variant put another seat in. She mans the wireless set and loads my 3.7 cm. For a radiogriff, she’s a bit of a loudbeak and she’s got a pretty nasty attitude at times. Always flares her wings, looking for a fight. But we did learn that her mother sold out to the Republicans up north, and even now works for the Skynavians. We’ve been informed by MfÖS to keep an eye on her as a potential security risk. So that may have to do with her attitude. Which I’m not too happy about. All this backstabbing and mistrust is exactly what got us to our current political crisis in the first place. My regiment is the 41st Panzergrenadiers. We are responsible for assaulting enemy fortifications and rendering them null for infantry to move up and occupy the area. We’re being trained in ‘wolfpack’ tactics to take on enemy forts in companies to break up enemy fire. No word on anti-panzer tactics yet however. Apparently enemy panzers are not being seen as a factor yet. You asked about my home, and I have two answers for you. Right now, the Reichsarmee is my home, and while I can’t say which base I’m posted up at, I can tell you a bit what it's like. We’re usually up early morning for calisthenics at sunrise. Pushups, stretches, ground laps and flight sprints. This is just for an hour, but it's good to get exercise in before we’re crammed into the panzers. The rest of the day mostly goes how I imagine the film reels and stories might portray it; training all day, classes and equipment maintenance. But where an infantrygriff just takes care of his kit and that’s it, we’re panzergriffs. We have to look out for Ludmilla, and right now the officers are breathing down our necks for perfection. I have to memorize every moving part on the panzer, how to change a track and how to drive the tank and spot for a gunner. They fitted a machine gun onto the turret, but so far that’s just for Sergeant Helseig. It may sound boring to you, but there’s something to be had from the stability, the knowledge that this routine is going to be the same tomorrow. It helps, y’know? No stress about your work versus home, buying food or paying bills. After the nobles take their piece and the Empire skims tax off the top, what’s in your pocket usually stays there. It’s not too terrible. I mean, aside from the prospect of war, that is. But my home is in the outskirts of Griffenheim. My mother Margrit lives there with Sophie, and she says she has no intent to leave. I grew up in a small apartment on the Industrie side, facing towards Crona. The outer districts are much bigger than the city proper, almost like cities in themselves. My mother’s worked at a steelmill since my father died. Before that, she was going to school to become a teacher herself, but she always says you have to put reality first. I always felt sad that she had to give up her dream to take care of us, but she’s never made us feel terrible about it. Sophie’s in primary school right now. She was barely a hatchling when Father died, and she doesn’t remember anything about him. Maybe that’s why she’s always the happier one of us all. Industrie was always a hard place to live. It’s mostly factories and wharfs. Material gets hauled in from the countryside and turned into workable products here. The river is always full of gunk and it's dangerous to even touch, so no one dares to drink it. Accidents happen all the time in Industrie, and some of the street gangs even operate in the open. The only roads that are actually paved there are the important ones, the ones the nobles care about and finance. Otherwise, it's mostly muddy slosh. My father and uncle enlisted to get out. Uncle August got the attention of a general, and was promoted for it. My father meanwhile kept managing riots and disorderly soldiers until the day he died. Just goes to show how difficult it is to get out of this life. That’s why I send back whatever I can to mother. Make it easier so she doesn’t kill herself at the mill. And I think I’m getting it, I really think I’m changing things for her. Mother doesn’t know I’m writing you. Not that she dislikes ponies, I’m just not sure what she’d think about (several words are scratched out) whatever this is. She has enough to worry about, I’d rather not (several more words are scratched out) Forget it. Griffenheim proper isn’t bad. It’s tall towers and open boulevards. A lot of the buildings make you think you’re still in the age of castles and swords, but that’s the point. It carries a lot of culture in its stones, and we’re proud of that. Oktoberfest was a few weeks back, but I didn’t get leave for that either. It’s basically a week long drinking binge across the country and the end of September. Its lost prominence in the outer territories. I know it's practically illegal in Wingbardy. But we got an extra ration of beer back at base and a night off, so it wasn’t all bad. I still remember the beers we drank in the harbor in Rottendedam. I can’t drink beer anymore without smelling the sea breeze. So, I blame you for my lack of focus too. Anyway. Go into the Imperial City today, and everyone’s getting ready for Geheimisnacht, where we dress in fierce costumes and do mock battles to scare off evil spirits. Its a night of magic, so the occasional wayward ghost or ghoul isn’t unusual. The last time an actual monster came to Geheimistag was a century ago, I think. That’s more an issue in the countryside. But we dress up anyway, and decorate the buildings with skulls and strands of lights. We carve pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns like ponies do, and set them outside as our loyal sentries. The temples get a lot of traffic too, griffins coming in to try and say a prayer to Boreas and Arcturius, though this is also the time of year that Maar worshippers cause havoc. But last time I was in Griffenheim on leave was a few days ago, and the attitude was good. The markets are full of pumpkin beer, pumpkin pies, spiced sausages, caramel apples. Music playing all day in the squares. Candlemakers are working overtime to produce this year. With electric lamps becoming more common, business is falling for them. Everygriff keeps congratulating me for being a zoldaten. I even had a few chicks ask if they could get a ride on a panzer. The autumn air feels good. It’s a different atmosphere in the Empire than it was a few months back. The countryside’s leaves have mostly changed colors, and it's getting colder. We’ll likely start seeing snow by early November. There’s a few farms and small towns near the base we travel through a lot on maneuvers. They like us there. Military means griffons to sell food and drink to on the way. Better than the rations waiting back in the canteen on base, for sure. But they’ve collected the autumn harvest I’ve never heard you go on about any famous figures before. I’ve heard of Princess Luna of course. But it must be another thing entirely to meet her face to face. I suppose that would be as if Archon Eros himself toured our base. I know for a fact that would cause a huge stir. I may not be a frequent temple-goer, but a lot of Imperial soldiers come from religious families. That, and the more veteran among us say you wind up doing a lot of praying one way or another. So is alicorn the term for a pony with horn and wings both? Are all alicorns demigods? Can anypony just become one, or are they considered a separate tribe like pegasi and unicorns? Look, Paige. I’ve got nothing with -you- trying to do more for thestrals, but I don’t know anything about them aside from what I’ve heard. It's a little hard for me to have (the words ‘knowledge’ ‘wisdom’ and ‘ambivalence’ are all scratched out) perspective on them. I’m not saying don’t be her friend, I just don’t want you hurt because one of the old stories winds up being true. That’s all. I already asked to drop it. Please? I feel like we’re not quite going to see eye to eye on this. You wouldn’t be at that school if you hadn’t earned it. So be proud. If you feel like (somegriff is crossed out) somepony else has gotten ahead of you, use that to push yourself to be better. Rise to their level. I know it's easy for me to speak of here while you do everything you listed off in your letter, but I just know you’re going to do amazing. Look where you’re at, Paige. You’ve already got a (foot is crossed out) hoof in the door. It doesn’t matter how good (everygriff is crossed out) everypony else is. Just you. And just so I’m caught up, what is a matrice? Back again, later. I took my time with this letter, so I’m writing it over the course of a week. I’ve seen the journalists you wrote about. They show up to our bases in the public areas, they’re in Griffenheim and up at the palace. They’re taking photos of what they want, writing what they want. Equestria doesn’t have a good opinion of us, same as your country. A lot of creatures have the same idea. It seems no matter what, we’re always the bad-griffs. I don’t take it personally. But if the newspapers are that skewed out there, I’ll get some local papers here and send them to you. I can’t promise they’re any more honest, but maybe between the lies and the propaganda you’ll find some truth. I’ve been working on this letter a while, and it seems like long enough. Hopefully, if I send it tomorrow with the post it’ll reach you after exams, so you’re not as distracted. Any idea when you’ll get the results back? By the way, I’m on chapter 3 now. I’m sure we can find that bistro. The harborfront is all about serving the sailors coming and going and the dockworkers, so a lot of bars and eateries are out in the port. Let’s just not meet the same way we did last time. I’m not sure my pride could take another hit like that. -Cyril Sent November 13th, 1007 Dear Cyril, Midterms are finally over, thank the Gods, Princesses, whatever you want to thank. Nothing but week of grinding studies, tests and endless lectures. Your letter showed up exactly when I needed it to, right as I was finished last week. Finals for the year aren’t until May, so I’ve got until then to prepare and panic. Okay, matrices. Hmm. Okay, let me see if I can explain like this; a matrix is a series of numbers or of patterns that are internal to the subject, and are what give it form. For my assignment, I had to assemble a series of arcane patterns together to create a small magic crystal, which inside can hold arcane power. It's a relatively new but very exciting field of study, and my professors hope it can help catapult us to the next level of magic study by allowing it to be collected and store like an electric battery or a tank of gasoline. Imagine, refined crystals that can be manufactured to hold power. A future with no batteries, no oil, no diminishing fossil fuels. Just magic crystals, perfectly natural and replenishable. It's still a long way off, and we may never get there, but the possibility is so amazing it astounds me that I get to work with this. I obviously can’t create the arcane power in the crystal myself, but luckily I don’t need to so long as I can get a unicorn to charge it. It’s good to hear you have family and friends to lean on. From your grim letters, I was almost afraid you didn’t have anyone else in your life. I know your family may not approve, but I hope that in time I can get them to like me. At the very least, I wouldn’t mind meeting your mother and sister one day. I know it probably won’t be for a few years down the road if we’re lucky enough to still be (underneath several scratches, the word ‘together’ is barely legible) talking at that time. Your uncle, well...I get the feeling he wouldn’t like me much either. I’ve heard of Oktoberfest and Geheimenstag before. The first one is still popular with other griffons out east, I used to see the Griffon Quarter in Rijekograd bringing out casks and kegs into the middle of the street and just drinking for days straight. I’m sorry you missed out. But Geheimenstag sounds like an Equestrian holiday out they call Nightmare Night. I was caught a little unprepared when on the 31st everypony just showed up in costume. If I heard correctly, the costumes serve a similar purpose to yours, but these are meant to scare off Nightmare Moon specifically. Or, they were. Apparently Princess Luna turned that tradition around a few years back. Truthfully I’m not sure what they dress up for now. But good news! The group I volunteered for, the Batpony Acceptance Team (“Go BATty for Equality!”), got word that Princess Luna is setting up new reforms to grant equal rights to thestrals with Celestia’s backing! I’m sorry you don’t see eye to eye with me on this. Maybe I can change your mind eventually. But I spent all of yesterday handing out fliers and pamphlets to everypony in the quad. Gloaming’s not too thrilled about the announcement. She seems to think this is a short-lived publicity campaign, and the only one she trusts out of all this is Princess Luna herself. That makes me sad as well. I thought I’d been getting through to her, but I’m afraid now she just sees me as hopping on a fad bandwagon that won’t get anything done. I’m a little iffy about visiting Griffenheim itself. I’ve always heard such nasty things about it. Then again, you can’t call Riverponies the most unbiased creatures in the world. But if they’ll let me in, I could do it to visit where you grew up. There’s as many good stories as there are bad. I know its huge, but we don’t have to tour the whole place. Industrie sounds like such a rough place to grow up. I can see what you meant about the army being the only way to escape. How’s an average worker supposed to afford to leave on that salary? (rhetorical question, sorry). End of the year’s finally coming up. With midterms over, it’s mostly just review lectures and final assignments to turn in for the semester until the end of December. I’ll get my results before Hearth’s Warming break, so I can at least get the anxiety of how bad I flopped out of my system. Also, word back from my parents; they’re not -eager- that I’m talking to you, but they’re not telling me to burn all the letters and issue you a hate note either. So, hopefully, good news. My brother though, sent me a surprise; enough bits to cover a trip to Rottendedam, a little bit of fun out there, and the trip back! And here I was thinking I’d have to eat ramen noodles the rest of my stay here. I can’t wait to see you. Just another month, and so far, it’s all getting (The following writing is more rushed, almost scribbled out) Cyril, I had to send this letter out to you today. It's all over the news, King Sombra just reemerged in the Crystal Empire. Gods, that sentence feels like it has no impact written out. I don’t know how and the news isn’t saying. But the border is not far from here, and by the time you get this letter I may not get another chance. The most I’ve got is that Crystal loyalists went through some kind of ritual to resurrect him, and most of the army has mutinied with him. The royal family is on the run and the Equestrian National Guard is all over Luna Nova, heading north. The Guard commander told everypony to stay calm, but be ready to evacuate at anytime. So far the headmaster is telling all the students to go back to business as normal. I guess it's one thing to live with a former enemy over the border, but its another for a war to break out nearby. I’m really worried now. The National Guard set up a camp just outside the school. There’s Royal Army recruiters and MPs all over the place. I can hear planes flying overhead all the time. All pegasus students have been told not to fly outside the gymnasium so they can keep the skies clear. Okay, maybe I’m scared instead of just worried. Sombra’s got a dark reputation, and the last time he returned, the Princesses and the Elements were barely able to stop him. Now, he’s apparently got an army and the Crystal City right off the bat. I don’t know what else is being done to stop him. But I just hope it gets rolling soon. Cyril (the rest of the sentence is scratched out) What do I do? (The following is much calmer, written almost like normal) Sincerely, -Paige Sent December 1st, 1007 Dear Paige, I can’t believe this happened. This whole time we were expecting I’d be the one at risk. I’ve heard stories of King Sombra, and none of them anything but terrifying. Most of them are spooky shit we tell around the campfire to scare everygriff. We got the news just after you sent your letter (so, before I got it. Means I’ve had a few weeks to process). None of the officers treated it like a big deal, and I guess to them it really wasn’t, but the newspapers are going ballistic over it. Thought you'd want to hear, though its likely in the papers too; Duchess Eagleclaw was named Regent and Protector of the Emperor last night. The announcement was made to the army at large today. The Archon and half the Regency Council are furious. It seems huge, but I guess its a bit overshadowed but what happening over there. I don’t know what Equestria’s defenses are like. But given what I’ve heard, it's not encouraging. Apparently, the Royal Army’s been a bit lax from the Long Peace. I hear there hasn’t been a large-scale conflict since Stalliongrad seceded, and they’ve gotten used to having all their problems solved by the Princesses and the Elements. I wish I was there to help you. Or that you were here, out of the way. But we have to accept the situation, and put faith in Equestria’s army to end the fight quick. Word here is that New Mareland just sent an expeditionary force across to you. So, hopefully, this will be enough to hold the line while the Princesses get off their ass and do something about it. Look, I’m sorry if I’m scaring you. We may be freaking out about this too early. Equestria hasn’t been invaded yet, and there’s nothing saying any invasion won’t be stopped before it gets to you. But the commander and your headmaster are right. You have to stay calm. Keep an emergency bag by the door at all times, full of everything you need. If you can’t leave yet, then at least make sure you’re ready to go at all times. I just looked in an atlas. Luna Nova’s right in the way of a march south to Canterlot. If it comes to it, you’ll be evacuated for sure. Don’t worry about it. Keep sending me your letters if you can. I’m not going to be able to walk you out of danger, but I can at least tell you what to prepare for. Surviving a war is a different game than lasting through a riot or a barfight. Okay, Reichsarmee survival training, real fast. Thank Arcturius for those endless lectures. Here we go. If you’re forced to evacuate, stay with the convoy, no matter what. If you find yourself out on the road without military protection or a clear place to go, keep heading the opposite direction of the front if you know where it is. Try to stay out of big cities and away from harbors, they’ll be jampacked with refugees and a clear target for the enemy. Like me, you can fly, so travel light and stay off the roads. Fly at night if you can help it. Good places to escape to are forests and mountains, where you can wait for friendly help. Whatever happens, do -not- surrender for your safety. The enemy will broadcast deals and assurances. Trust me, you’re better off in a refugee center than a POW camp. I don’t know what else to tell you. Everything else we’ve been told is all about getting back to a unit to rejoin the fight. You’re not a trained zoldaten, so that part of the lectures isn’t helpful. I need you to send me a letter back as soon as you can about what’s happening out there. Now -I’m- worried -you’re- going to get caught up. Okay, I went back and read this letter again. If it's been a few weeks and Sombra hasn’t invaded yet, then we’re probably not going to see shadowponies storming over the horizon. Besides, by the time this letter reaches you, the whole situation’s probably changed. If you haven’t been forced to leave yet, then we’ve both overreacted. The papers are hilariously treating this like a backwoods affair. Like when Nova Griffonia marched into the Frontier back in September. As if an evil sorcerer king returning from the dead a second time and instantly launching a coup isn’t a cause for immediate concern. But believe me, I’m concerned. For you. And a bit for the Equestrians, too. Tell me you’re safe. -Cyril Sent December 23nd, 1007 Dear Cyril, I’m okay. We’re all okay. For the most part from what I’ve heard, Sombra’s Legions have turned west instead of south. Crystal units loyal to Cadence and Equestria are making a fighting retreat, trying to get out of to Equestrian lines. But the Royal Army’s stopped. They’re not advancing yet. I can’t tell you why. Long range holiday break’s been suspended. The army’s worried about traffic on the roadways. Thank you for all the advice, Cyril. I packed a bag with all those bits, some cold-weather clothes and a few maps. I don’t know where I’d go. I know you said to avoid big cities and harbors, but that’s my way home. I’m pretty sure I can’t fly across to Haukland, even with the minimum. I’m having trouble writing. Everypony’s kind of...muted I guess. All the energy on campus is gone. With the war just up north, we’re all just sort of waiting I guess. The recruiters are still here, though. There’s a line of ponies outside the booth everyday, either talking to the recruiters or signing up. All the holiday cheer has gone from the school. Even the BAT has kinda toned down. Now we just put up posters. But last night was the Winter Moon Celebration. Last night I listened to a broadcast over the radio. Princess Luna herself in Manehattan lit up the night sky under the Winter Moon and said we all have to stand together. Ponies, thestrals, everypony. It was apparently a huge turnout. I know I’m a bit more verbose when I write. I guess now my mind’s elsewhere. But Luna’s words last night really hit me. Gloaming went and enlisted. Gave up her education to go and sign up. I’m proud of her, I really am. She leaves next month for training. But between what she did, what the Princess said and what you’ve been saying, I’ve been thinking. I’m not at risk of being drafted here. I’m a foreigner. But if I go and volunteer, I’m sure they’ll overlook that. I’m stuck in the middle of this dilemma. I worked so hard to get this scholarship and I love this school. But I can’t sit by while other ponies are signing up. I’ve heard all the stories around Sombra. The rumors are flying. And with it so close, I can’t ignore it. So do I sign up and go fight for a country that’s not mine, or do I wait for that fight to come south to me? I want your input, but at the very least, I think I’m going to go talk to a recruiter tomorrow. I’m not going to sign up yet, but I want to do something. I’ve never been good about just sitting around. I mean, maybe you’re right. This whole thing could just blow over and never come south. I could just keep up my classes and never get anywhere near a shadowpony Legion. Gods, I wish you were here. Yours, -Paige P.S: Sorry I can’t make it to dinner. Author's Note And there you have it folks. The second half of the year 1007. I can't promise a steady update schedule. Due to the nature of my job, my own schedule tends to bounce around a lot, so as a result I may have periods where I feverishly update like a madman, and others where time is scarce. But keep up the input, both good and bad, let me know what you like, what you don't like, and I'll get back to you guys as quick as I can. 1008 pt 1Sent January 13th, 1008 Paige, I killed a griff today. (The above writing is shakey, but the below is calm and ordinary, as if some time has passed between the two) It’s all falling apart. I know you’re dealing with a lot over there, but things haven’t been so simple here either. Two weeks ago, half of the Regency Council walked out with Archon Eros. Its official. They’ve seceded. I don’t know the particulars, and lately I don’t exactly trust the newspapers, but apparently Duchess Eagleclaw and the Archon had it out, hard. Rumors say it got so bad that Knights from the Order of the White Lion and the Tower and Sword were squaring off with the Knights of Arcturius. The Barkginian Guard themselves almost got into it. Now, the southern part of the Empire’s gone. We really are falling apart here. A week ago, Aquileia had another revolution. Another one. Which means there’s now another civil war raging over the border. Longsword’s just ended. Prywhen’s finally stopped. Now we’ve got one more war in Griffonia. Its insanity here. There’s been riots all over the loyal Empire. Police can’t stop it. The Landwehr and the Imperial Guard can’t stop it. Chaos all over. So they called us in. They called in panzers to man roadblocks against angry civilians. It’s that bad. Or somegriff was that crazy. We were ordered to (the location has been clipped out). It’s a town not far from Vinnin, within spitting distance of Griffenheim, so what happens there affects this place immediately. Griffons were freaking out about the secession, rioting in the streets, vandalizing and looting. Seems like the chaos was about to end, and now this. But we were to restore order. And that’s what we did. I was told not to use the cannon unless I absolutely had to. So instead Sergeant Hellseig hands me his sidearm, shows me how to use it and then two mags. He tells me if it comes to it, don’t hesitate. Bold words for a griff on an MG. We set up Ludmilla at this checkpoint with a unit of military police soldiers, with me and Grimquill posted outside, waiting. But the crowd comes down the lane, males and females both, young as teens and even a few older ones in the crowd. They don’t feel like that have a direction or a target. Just burning whatever they can because they’re angry and scared. The lieutenant in command yells something at them, I think it was an order to stop, I don't remember, but the crowd keeps coming. He has the troopers fire warning shots over their heads, no good. Finally, he has Hellseig fire a burst to get their attention. They throw smoke grenades. Nothing. They’re still pouring on. We start getting debris thrown at us, incendiary bombs against the tank and the barricade. I heard a shot in the crowd. I knew it was about to get bad. So the lieutenant orders the troopers to fire a volley into the crowd. (The writing above is shaky, but below it seems to stabilize, as if calm once more.) The Karabiner Kralle 06 is a 7.65mm rifle. Those rounds are based off hunting ammunition. The MG90 is the same caliber. So imagine what damage thirty rounds did at once on a bunch of ordinary griffons. A bunch of them fell. The rest of the crowd swarmed the troopers. Grimquill and I held our fire. We didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t the enemy we’d been trained to fight. This wasn’t a bunch of Republican shock troops or Aquileian fusiliers or Riverpony troops. This was a bunch of civilians who were just confused, angry and scared. One griffon broke from the brawl, made for the tank. Just an ordinary Griff. Middle aged, probably a factory worker. I hesitated. Hellseig ordered me to fire. So I squared up and squeezed the trigger. (Once more, the text appears to be jagged, shakey. The next whole line is scratched out. The writing then appears to clear up.) This isn’t what I signed up for. But I wasn’t about to go out like my father. (There is a visible space in the paragraphs, and the ink appears to follow a fold, as if the letter was folded up for a time before being resumed) Maybe I shouldn’t have written that. Especially with your situation right now. The barracks are quiet now. Everygriff’s too on edge about what happened. Sergeant Hellseig says it doesn’t get easier. You just get more used to it. I’m not sure I want to. If you still haven’t enlisted by the time you get this message, I’d recommend you hold off. I know that seems a bit off coming from me, of all creatures. But I enlisted to get out of Industrie. You still have your education. Equestria isn’t completely committed yet, and in the barest most heartless expression, it's not your country. You’ve got a lot of opportunities there. Of course, if you do volunteer I’d of course be very proud of you. And worried for you. If things are getting bad over here, I shudder to think of how the war’s developing there. The papers still only publish the barest facts, but I think that’s more because we’ve got so much going on closer to home. How’s the university? I am of course hoping it’s alright for the time being. Everygriff’s eyes are tracking the Empire as we slowly fall apart. The Regent Duchess has ordered a full mobilization of the Kaiserliche’s military force. I’ve been told we’re getting new panzers that just went through final testing from the Synovial division, something called a (the name is clipped out), but I’d personally like to stay on Ludmilla the 2nd as long as I can. We’ve been paired off with the 31st Heavy Panzer Brigade, which has an entire battalion of Beak landships, so we’ve got some heavy armor between us and whoever wants to take on the Loyal Empire. Mother is worried, of course. This is the same sort of chaos my father was killed in. I’m not sure Sophie understands what’s going on. She seems just as cheerful as ever, keeps asking me the next time I’m going to come home. I wish I had a definite answer for her, but it doesn’t look like it’ll be anytime soon. Don’t worry about dinner. I wasn’t going to be able to make it myself. Besides, it's a bit old-fashioned. What about one of those picture shows? They have a theatre in Rottendedam where they run them, but I don’t know what kind of selection they have, if any. Though I hear it's all Applewood films anyway. Talonsburg Studios hasn’t done anything the last few years but make propaganda pieces. -Cyril Sent January 29th, 1008 Dear Cyril, The university’s been bombed, a few times. I think Sombra’s troops figured out the Guard was using it as a staging ground. They didn’t do much, mostly aiming for the Army troops forming up and heading north. But one of the wings was hit. No students have died yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Plenty of injuries. They’re talking about evacuating the school down south. Equestria’s fully into it now. I hear all the propaganda about going to save the Crystal Empire. Evil shadow magic. Destroying the Crystal hordes. This is… not what I expected. I decided against enlisting. Talked with a few recruiters, though. Army and RAF. That was a mistake, they chase me down whenever they get a chance. At first it was that foreign volunteers weren’t being taken quite yet. Now apparently that’s been cleared up. Classes are going as best they can, when you have to keep running to a bomb shelter every other day. The Crystal War (newspapers are just so good at coming up with catchy names, aren’t they?) has thrown a bender in everything. So many students enlisted. Others went home, or transferred to a different school. All my classes are missing somepony. But you’re right. I came here for a reason. I want to at least finish up my first year. Maybe then I can sign up and come back on this new education bill the recruiters are going on about. I don’t want to talk about the war anymore. That’s terrible, what happened to you! I honestly don’t know what to say or how to start. I’ve been caught in the middle of riots before, but I’ve never seen somepony get killed for it. And killing is another thing altogether. If there’s anything I can say, from what little I have heard of this, I can say a few things that might help you be put at ease. You did your job. You stood a roadblock, and these griffons were mad and scared enough that they charged a tank. It doesn’t sound like there was any good way that was going to end. At that point, it was you or him. None of this might help. I’m not there, and I wasn’t in that situation. You’re a good soldier, Cyril. You followed orders and did what you were supposed to in a bad situation. I know if might not help. But at least I want you to know I don’t think less of you for it. I know you’re having trouble with the Daring Do book you’re on, but I sent you another one. Daring Do and the Marked Thief of Marapore. It’s one of my favorites. I always wanted to travel to exotic places myself. Equestria is the furthest I’ve ever been. Not quite so exotic, though. Maybe to the southern jungles out here, or someday all the way to Zebrica if I’m lucky. Though I hear there’s some issues in Abyssinia between the locals and the Wingbardy garrison. Maybe Maregypt or Hippogriffia would be a safer option. The Empire doesn’t have any overseas garrisons left, do they? I miss you. Hard to believe it's been so long since we started writing. Talk about missed chances. I’m making the most of this, though. My family’s worried, of course. My father goes up and down the wall about demanding I come home, my mother tells me he doesn’t mean it and my brother says if need be he can see about ‘smuggling’ me out. I also got messages from a few of my friends back home in Rijekograd. I never thought myself a social butterfly, but now it's odd to go so long without hearing from them all. And it's not that many letters either. Still. It's nice to know they all care so much for me. A movie sounds just fine. I never saw many of them myself. But with you, I’m happy to. After that, we can go for drinks if you like, though I know beer to you is more of a novelty drink. Sort of like soda pop. Yours, -Paige P.S: the censors appear to be getting more diligent. Just warning you. P.P.S: I paid a dragon to get this message over to you, extra quick. You sounded like you needed somepony to talk to. Sent February 7, 1008 Dear Paige, Thanks. You may not think you saying anything does much, but it’s amazing to have the support. I feel much better between what you and Mother have to say. Which is, amazingly, pretty similar. The riots have settled down. Enough that they’re not sending anymore panzers out there, at least. The Empire’s still in a shambles. They say the southern provinces have united into a ‘Holy League.’ Apparently Baron Leer of Angriver is determined to ‘return the Empire to the faithful’. So, things aren’t ever going to completely settle down. I’m glad to hear you’re okay. I know that’s a bit of a tenuous thing with bombers overhead. But From what I hear, Equestria’s supposed to have a pretty large air force. Hopefully they’ll have the issue taken care of soon. No, no frontier posts left. Unless Nova Griffonia comes back into the fold, I think I’m going to be staying here. Shame really. Wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. Keep up the schooling as long as you can. The first year, at least for sure. But remember what I said; it's not your country. And you worked hard for that scholarship. I went to temple today. I know that doesn’t seem like such a big thing, but I haven’t been to temple much since I was little. My mother stopped going after my father died. Definitely haven’t gone seeking guidance from the gods. I know you’re not very religious yourself, so I’ll keep it short. But there were a lot of soldiers there doing the same thing as me. Ever since the Archon walked out, temple has been a bit of an uneasy issue. But now, it can’t be helped. So I went and listened to the service, prayed for guidance. Then we sang what I think might be my new favorite temple song, ‘Der Morgen Kommt’. I doubt you’ve heard it, and I don’t think there’s many other translations, so it's good you’re fluent. Its all about steeling your heart through darkness, for holding on to your faith will see you through to the better dawn. That one hit me on a personal level, given what’s happening to you, me, and the rest of the world. That’s what we have to do, Paige. Just hold on and hold out for that dawn to come. I haven’t told you, I’m getting better at Equestrian. I’m almost done with the first book you sent. I love it, and I’m happy you sent this one too. I know it's way too long to read a novel like this, but I’m kind of learning a new language too and I don’t get much downtime lately. I dug around a little, though, and I found you a new story you might like. Der Drache Krieg. Its an old novel about a group of knights from Vedina who have to hold out when the kingdom comes under attack by a horde of dragons. A bit dated, but I figure you might like a story about knights and chivalry. I liked it a lot. Just warning you, it hasn’t aged well. You don’t talk about your friends in the Riverlands much. Then again, I suppose I haven’t asked much. I guess it never occured to me you had a social life back home. Thank you for taking such time to be concerned for me. I needed it. But the rest of the crew has been there too. We’re all there for each other after what happened. I am touched that even in your current situation, you still find time to worry for a griff on the other side of the world. But I fear it won’t be over any time soon. With Aquileia falling apart and now the Holy League rising up, things are looking to only get worse here. Beer is a fact of life here. As soon as I turned sixteen, I was drinking it with dinner. Sophie complains that she doesn’t get any yet, but she will one day. And sooner than I like. But mother is adamant that she does not get any until she’s sixteen, and not one day younger. Soda is the novelty here. It's actually not that common, usually only found in import shops and at fairs and carnivals. If you want to start figuring out griffon beer with me, we’re going to need to set aside a whole day so you can figure out your drink. Everygriff has one, and you do too. That one beer that just has to be yours above all others. But we can do some of that after the movie. So what we’ve got so far is a movie, drinks for a bit and then dinner? Or should we actually organize the whole night once we get together again? Sincerely, -Cyril P.S: thanks for the heads up on the censors. Uncle August had a talk with me about it too. Sent March 11th, 1008 Dear Paige, It's been a little over a month since I’ve heard from you. I don’t know what’s happening over there. The papers say some of Sombra’s Legions broke out further east, and that Trotsylvania fell. Looks like Equestria has been well and truly invaded after all. It’s been quiet here. The political wildfire is still raging, but fewer riots have been breaking out. We’re more focused on training, coordination and equipment. They issued us a shotgun and some pistols for the panzer, for close defense they say. Bluetalon got the shotgun as our driver, and he’s not letting it go. Shit-eating grin and all. I was issued a P01. Good pistol. Like the one Sergeant Hellseig gave me. Gods, I need better material to write about. I spoke to my mother. Finally told her I’ve been talking to you. She unsurprisingly did not approve. She asked what the ‘nature’ of our relationship was. I wasn’t sure what to tell her, so I said we were just friends. She settled down after that. But it got me wondering, and I wanted to ask you before I read too much into what we’re doing. So here it is; what are we doing? I mean, we’re separated by an ocean, national borders and now a war. Are we just friends, or are we trying to be something else through just letters? I don’t know. I’ve told you more about me and my life than anygriff else. But the distance does bring it into question, doesn’t it? Maybe it's the lack of response getting to me. I shouldn’t send this letter, just wait until you get back to me. Well, I'm still writing. Call me crazy. Am I being crazy? I want you to tell me I'm reading into this thing between us too much. I visited Uncle August. He couldn’t tell me much, and the censors would take what was there. But I think it's somewhat safe over here, for now. He also said he’s read a few of our letters, to make sure we don’t trip the censors again. He’s of a similar mindset to my mother, says we shouldn’t let this get too serious. I really want your feedback on all this, Paige. I was thinking about us going out to Rottendedam again. If we can help it, we should take a whole day. Get started in the morning and explore the sights before we get to all the things we want to do. Gods, this letter is a mess. Just a bunch of idle scribbles. But I'm sending it unedited. Guess we’ll both have to live with the result, since every other time I try to start over it comes out worse, if that’s possible. Please tell me you’re okay. -Cyril Sent March 26th, 1008 Dear Cyril, I’m sorry to have worried you so much. I’m fine, but we had a brief incident where a few bombing missions came too close for comfort. It hit the school proper, and I know we had a few students die. But it looks like they were aiming for the recruiting stations. That was only the start though. The army lost several soldiers off in the woods, mauled. I didn’t get a good look myself, but everypony says it was gruesome. They organized a mission to go take care of what they thought were commandos that had parachuted in behind enemy lines. Turns out, they were some kind of umbrum. Magical attack beasts unleashed in the forest. That’s all I got from the rumors. Gloaming got blamed for it. The other students started insisting she was working for Sombra, and must have summoned the shadowponies here. Utter idiocy, of course. But she’s still withdrawn. Whatever little sliver of personality I got out of her before the war started is gone again. When the mail came in, I got both of your letters at the same time. I’m glad you’re doing okay, though it sounds like politics aren’t. I’ve been a bit isolated here. They’re still talking about evacuating the school, but honestly I don’t see the point. No one can concentrate on finals. I’ll have to transfer to a new school, and I don’t even know if my scholarship is going to be honored elsewhere. Seems you’ve had a bit of a religious awakening, I guess. No you’re right. I’ve never been one to believe in faith and deities. We’ve proven that ultra-powerful beings exists right here, so why worship those we can’t see? That’s not a challenge by the way, I’m just explaining. Anyway, if you’ve found your faith to get through, I don’t mind. No worries from me. And I listened to the song. It’s quite beautiful. I can see why you took such guidance from it. I understand your mother and uncle come from a traditional mindset. It doesn’t sound like they dislike you talking to me, so much as anything going further. And I have to say I think that’s incredibly bigoted of them. I know griffon pony couples aren’t common, but who’s to say that it's any of their business? We never really defined us, did we? I know it's tricky, and maybe we’ve both been sidestepping around what -this- is. Always expecting we could pick up the discussion in person later. I like you, a lot. I really do. And from what I can tell, you like me too. We’ve been talking about dinner and stepping it up to movies, drinks and now a whole day together at some unspecified date. We’ve flirted, we’ve assumed and we’ve avoided the topic. But now, I guess it's out there. Please, don’t take this the wrong way. But given what’s happening in the world around us and the distance between you and I, I don’t think we’re in any shape to explore whatever this is between us. I still consider you a good friend, and I want to keep writing you. And maybe, just maybe, we can finally figure out what this is when things clear up. I’m so sorry. Yours, -Paige Sent May 12, 1008 Paige, I guess what you’re saying makes sense. With everything going on and letters getting interrupted every so often, trying to (the rest of the line is scratched out). Okay. New topic. Aquileia finally finished its revolution. The 2nd Republic was declared. I honestly don’t know what to think about a nation that has to build itself by overthrowing its monarch. All I know is that Feathisia is moving troops to the border of Skyfall and Griefwald. There’s talk about Imperial intervention. I don’t know what that means either. Uncle August won’t tell me, and Sergeant Hellseig just says waiting and seeing is our only real choice. I finished the Cloud City Daring Do book. I really enjoyed it, once I got a handle on the language. Tartarus, I went back and reread it once I could better understand it. A lot more made sense. I started on the Marapore book. Do you like the one I sent you? You know, you’re talking about finals, but you never told me about those midterms you made such a big deal about a few months ago. Actually, you haven’t really talked about your classes much at all. Hope that’s all still going well for you. Can’t be easy to support an advanced education with bombs going off and magic creatures in the woods. Say hi to Gloaming for me. Tell her I’m sorry she’s so unfairly mistreated. I heard the Changelings invaded Olenia. That’s not a fight that’ll last long, mark my words. It seems like the last two years have just been full of all kinds of insanity, on both continents. I know you said Equestria is peaceful and I’m sure it's a beautiful place like you mentioned, but it sounds like that age is about to come to an end, especially if Sombra’s Legions are giving the Royal Army the fight the papers say they are. I don’t know what to do aside from tell you to take care of yourself, and try to do what you think is right. My mother and uncle are old-fashioned, yes. There’s a lot of griffs who still tell the stories warning of barbaric Riverponies. Longsword and Hellquill wouldn’t be wasting time on the Ostwall if they didn’t. I agree it's xenophobic, but I’m used to it. I’m sure griffons aren’t well liked back east either. I also agree that’s the understatement of this century. But Longsword’s managing to make it work with ponies in their lands, and you know about the dogs of Bronzehill. So maybe there’s hope. (Another line is scratched out) Sorry. I know you said to leave it (more words scratched out). Right. Keep in touch. Hopefully things will get better sooner or later. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent June 1st, 1008 Dear Cyril, You were right about Olenia. The Changelings stormed over the mountains. Vaverfront fell yesterday. It won’t be long now. I agree with you that I’m wary about Aquileia. They call themselves a harmonic democracy, but at the end of the day they did summarily execute their king and commit to a bloody civil war. Vérany and his supporters are a bit of a grey area over here. The school used to have a pro-Republic club on campus, but they’ve lost enough members to army recruitment and transfers that they couldn’t keep together. I know it means something completely different to you than a set of political morales, but you have to remember I come from a republic. My view on democracy is a little skewed. You were right. Reading about a tale of chivalry and knights and dragons was a welcome change of pace. No politics for a bit, no connections to the real world, no impending wars or invasions. Just an old story about knights rescuing damsels in distress. You’re right, it is a bit outdated. But I think the fact it was so different from today was what made it enjoyable. (The words ‘You don’t have to be awkward, Cyril’ are crossed out with a single neat line.) Okay, sorry. I meant you don’t have to tiptoe around. We can still be like before, we just have to wait before we really start talking about us again. I didn’t mean to make things awkward, but I fear that my trying to set down some (boundaries is scratched out) precautions may have made this a bit...odd. Okay, i’m moving on. I think I’ve made my point. My midterm results came back months ago. Mostly B’s though I did get an A in Theoretical Magicks. Finals are coming up, and I honestly don’t feel ready. I just stumbled on a few of our letters from last year. So much has changed. We have a bit too, I think. Just a bit more sad. A bit more serious. Let’s hope things can change again. They’re finally evacuating the school. Canterlot University is full up, so they’re taking us to the University of Hoofington. I don’t want to leave, but they say it's not safe. I don’t know what I’ll do after finals. Maybe that’s a discussion for the next letter. Missing you. Hoping we can get back to how we were when we started writing. Yours, -Paige Author's Note Okay, so in my game year 1008 wound up being rather uneventful. So I mostly focused on our estranged couple themselves. I'm aware a new update for the Empire is incoming to the game, but thankfully from what I've read it won't change too much for the story. Still, let's see what happens! Keep up the feedback folks! Let me know what you think and how it's going for you! See you on the flipside! Expect part 2 soon! 1008 pt 2Sent June 17 1008 Paige, I hope I got the address right. Hoofington University General Dorm. Hope this gets to you. I wish I’d been wrong. The newspapers are saying the Changelings swarmed Sakara yesterday. Everydeer in the defense is dead and the King finally gave up Hjortland. While I might say it was a lost cause since the beginning, it still makes me nervous as Tartarus. The Changelings occupy the second largest land area on Equus now. I know you haven’t met any Changelings yet yourself, but let me tell you most of them are single-minded sociopaths, with a bit of love for violence. I know the Empire had a Changeling mission here, but that doesn’t make us allies. Most griffs I know are pretty offput by them, but a lot of them like them enough that they stayed as long as they did. I know you’re pretty occupied between the move, the war and finals, but I just want you to stay aware of how dangerous they are, especially now with Olenia’s resources in their mandibles. Okay, less politics. I’m just worried about you. Given our last conversation, I can only hope that things are getting better for you. The newspapers finally decided to treat the Crystal War as a major event, though its still being largely described as ‘Equestria walking into its own backyard’. So now you know the general Griffonian attitude over here. Fewer politics. Life’s mostly gone back to normal in the Herzland. No more riots, no more chaos. All good for me, means I have to get put on riot duty less. We’ve gone back to training. The worst came down after all. Ludmilla the 2nd is gone, replaced by something called a LP-2 ‘Calico’ panzer (don’t ask me about the name, apparently the Gryphus South Continent Company invested some idols in the development with the Changelings). It's completely different from her predecessor. Different layout. Her engine is more powerful, and her armor is thicker. Totally different from Ludmilla, not that that’s always a good thing. The whole 41st is getting our LI’s replaced by these new systems, with promises for more equipment in the future. We decided on a name. ‘Zola’ is what we’ll call her. Sergeant Hellseig himself painted it on the 4 cm’s barrel. Bluetalon keeps going on about how easy she is to drive, while Grimquill does nothing but bitch up and down the wall like back on Ludmilla. At the end of the day, this is still a good panzer. We’re lucky to have her. Training continues, though now we think its war preparation. More infantry units keep coming into the Crona Training Fields. The 41st has been put into the 8th Korps, under Uncle August. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a coincidence. Something big is going down in the Empire, but I couldn’t tell you what it is. I saw Mother and Sophie the other day. She’s happy we’re mostly just shuffling around, like any mother would be. Sophie asked about my job, and I told her it's mostly just sitting around right now. She doesn’t know about the riot in (the location is clipped out). Mother didn’t tell her. And I’m not going to either. Industrie feels like it's changing. Apparently a new group called the Industrierat is making reforms to the district. Worker safety is increasing, minimum wage is going up, paved roads are being installed everywhere and modern machines are being enforced on the factories. While I’m happy that the neighborhood is changing for the better, I’m mostly happy for my mother. I’ve always been worried she had the more dangerous occupation of the two of us. Now she’s safer and the district is improving (apparently the local police had it out with a few streetgangs in some brutal crackdowns) I can worry a little less. All in all, things are going back to the way they were. And honestly, I’m happy for that. Means there’s hope, right? Let me know I got the address right. I get the feeling I’d go insane if I couldn’t talk to you anymore. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent July 5th, 1008 Dear Cyril, I’m fine. You got the address correct, though I wouldn’t advise you keep it. I got your letter during finals week, so I’m done here in Hoofington. Until they decide to let students back into Luna Nova, my scholarships is kind of up in the air. Though, I can likely leave a forwarding address. This week, there was a tragedy. An ammunition ship in New Mareland detonate in a huge accident. Commonwealth troops are supposed to be landing in Manehattan to join the fight, and apparently the wartime preparations triggered some real issues overseas. It’s all been frontpage news. It's finally given me the push I needed. My first year is over. Finals are up. And ponies are dying. So, despite what you told me and my parents’ wishes, I finally made up my mind. I enlisted in the Royal Air Force yesterday. I’m not in yet, I have to go for a physical check and then training after that. I’ve thought long and hard about this, Cyril. You should know this better than anypony or griff. You enlisted to escape your home, but I can’t sit by with nothing to do here and watch others go fight (the next words are scratched out) and die for my safety. My recruiter said I’ll be in the bomber forces. Apparently they’re being rapidly expanded, and they need crewponies for the aircraft. Sombra’s air force is apparently small, so that’s the safest place I can think of to be. New Wellington modern bomber craft are replacing old Wheatleys, so they need more crew for bigger planes. This isn’t something I can just ignore. I’ve been directly impacted by this. Sombra’s a menace to the whole continent. He needs to be stopped. By the time you read this, I'll likely be off to training. They’re apparently moving replacements to the front as quick as they can. Gloaming coming with. She enlisted the same time I did, though she signed up for the Army Pegasi Corps. They’re giving her grief about being a thestral, so the Air Force wouldn’t take her. I wish BAT was still around, but anti-thestral sentiment is even worse here in the south. Hoofington’s got a bad taste for thestrals, likely from proximity. Not even Princess Luna's reforms are changing that very quickly. I already sent messages to my parents. They’ll likely disapprove. Too bad it takes six to eight weeks to get mail to the River Republic from southern Equestria. I haven’t given up on academics, don’t worry. Sometimes, things just take priority. “Left to its own circumstances, the world will stagnate and decay, never changing or moving forward. It is only by introducing strife and challenge that life, society and knowledge evolve.” -Conrad Dawkclaw Save a beer for me? Yours, -Paige Sent July 27th, 1008 Paige, I don’t know what you were thinking. I never said I would stand in the way of you enlisting, I just wanted to make sure you weren't jumping (the word ‘claws’ is scratched out here) hooves first into something you weren’t ready for. While I can’t say I approve of the air service (pilots are mostly nobles in the Kaiserliche Luftstreitkräfte, so to Tartarus with those assholes) I am of course proud of you enlisting. Though separated by an ocean, race and nations, we both set to something greater than ourselves. And you volunteered to actually go fight. I just did it for the paycheck. I don’t know much about pony military doctrine, or Royal Air Force training. But if it's anything like Imperial Guard training, it’ll be intense. There will be times where you want to give up and walk away from this stupid endeavor. But you have to stick it out. When I enlisted, my Uncle August said something to me, and while the words have faded a little over the years (I I know, it wasn’t that long ago to begin with) I still remember the intent behind it. Seeing as how you’re about to go to war, I feel I should share them with you. “You are about to embark on one of the greatest journeys of your life. In our short time, there is little greater one can do aside from volunteer to serve something bigger than themselves. You will be tested, you will be scarred and you will be forced to question everything you know. You may suffer. You may die. But by the end, you will stand head and shoulders above those around you, knowing what you now know, having seen what you’ve seen. You have put yourself on the line, and come what may you have become one of the few to have started down the road of heroes. Stand tall, stand strong, stand faithful and you will come out the other side.” Again, I may not be remembering his words exactly, but I’m confident I got close enough to his intent. I hope I either catch you before you leave Hoofington or early enough in your training to have this message make a difference. You’ve become my best friend simply through our letters, and I want to be there for you, no matter the difference. And to me, that means every day counts. You may not be the only one going to war soon. From what I hear filtering down, apparently the remaining Regency Council is full of hot debate. After the Holy League broke away, they started expanding their military efforts by a massive amount. There’s rumors that the Regent Duchess Eagleclaw is pressing for a reintegration of all loyal territories. This would mean, of course, that the nobles remaining would lose direct control over their lands, their private armies and a large portion of their incomes. From what I hear, the biggest opponent is Grand Duke Gerlach, who states (and I’m just relaying rumor here) that he doesn’t want all his hard work and reforms to go out the window with Griffenheim’s rule. So, on top of facing a war to reclaim our wayward southern neighbors, we may be facing war with our ‘loyal’ provinces. I love the Empire, I do. But some days, it honestly feels like we’re too busy fighting each other than the ones that truly threaten us. I finished the book. Both of them. Surprise! I wanted to let you know a few letters ago, but I decided to double down. Practice, memorization and a little bit of guesswork. I love these books. They’re my prize possessions now, and I’m looking into finding a book store when I next get a weekend pass. I want to get the other novels in the Daring Do series, and if I take what idols I have left after helping my mother and putting into savings from this month, I might have enough to get one or two. I make two idols a day, and I’ve gotten better with math since I joined the Panzerkorps. Keep writing, if they let you. If I can’t talk to you, I’m going to miss you something fierce, and its way too easy for our letters to get delayed already. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent August 25th, 1008 Dear Cyril, Unfortunately, you didn’t catch me in time. Lucky you, that forwarding address I left worked just fine. I’ve been shipped off to the Cloudsdale Flight School. Apparently even if you’re a pegasus and even if you’re in a bomber some constant still apply. The registration process took less time than I thought, they did a one day health check and a one week background investigation. I was off to training July 20th, so if it makes you feel better I was gone even before you had a chance to send the letter. Its free time in the barracks right now. I’m not going through pilot training myself, being just a low-end crewpony. The real pilots are all officers who go through months of flight school, though apparently the course differs for earth ponies and unicorns. Right now, it's mostly memorization of terms and physical exercise. The training sergeants are fierce, constantly on the lookout for weakness in ‘the crop’. They keep stating that if we’re not up for the job, Sombra’s umbrals will swallow us up. I learned the hard way its best not to ask questions or point out faults in logic. I wasn’t very physically active before I enlisted. I know now that was a mistake. Flying sprints, no-wing dashes, weight training. Its intense, and I’m hurting in places I didn’t even know I had. I keep getting told this is light compared to what infantryponies get, and it honestly makes me glad I didn’t join the army (no offense intended). I’m tired. Different day. Free time is short, I don’t have the endless hours I used to. Hard to go on sometimes. Lectures most of the day on the functions of the bomber, general maintenance, emergency procedures. They say it's (eight is scratched out) six more weeks of this. Meaning by the time you get a reply to me, I’m likely to be gone. So I set up a PO box in Cloudsdale, where all my mail goes these days, address included here. I’ll start sending forwarding addresses to it. I wanted to say thank you for the inspiring words. And tell your Uncle August he makes very good speeches. Almost like its out of a history book of, oh say, famous Imperial generals. (wink wink). Secret’s safe with me. Though I am worried about a possible Imperial civil war too. Given the balance of power over there, you have enough to worry about without fighting each other. Wingbardy’s militarization going unchecked means they could conquer the whole south before the Empire responds, not to say what the Republic and Aquileia will do (before you say anything, don’t forget that I'm not a fan of ‘democracy by force’). My parents are, of course, worried. They’re over the shock now. They just want me to stay safe, keep my head down, not take any risks. Can’t say I blame them. With what they keep telling us here, I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake. I could really die with this. We did bombsight lectures today. And machine gun range training. It's a lot harder than it looks, to be honest. I suppose I’m lucky it's mounted, and I don’t really have to carry it. We all did horrible, of course. More pushups, more sprints. The way they talk to us, it sounds like nopony in the squadron can do anything right. I’m trying my best, Cyril. But it's just as weary as it sounds. They give us news from the war. Apparently, Equestrian forces are within sight of the Crystal City. But losses are high. According to news, over a hundred thousand dead, wounded or captured. Commonwealth and Crystal Loyalist units are on the ground with us. The enemy is relentless. Apparently there’s no way to discern between Sombra’s followers and their mind-controlled Legionnaires. The Crystal air corps knows they’re outnumbered, so they tripled down on flak and shadow spells. We’re being told more air crew casualties are being inflicted by magic than actual fighter craft. That doesn’t make me feel much better about it. From what I hear, this war could be over before I even go on my first combat mission. But then again, isn’t that what they all say? I get the feeling it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better. My recommendation for the next one is Daring Do and the Eternal Flower. I know it sounds a little...well, flowery. But if you liked the other two, you’re going to love this one. Any recommendations for me? I might only get a few days’ leave before I ship out. And thank you, Cyril. For everything. Yours, -Paige Sent September 16th, 1008 Dear Paige, Sounds like my timing was off. If it's only six weeks left, and it takes four weeks on average for a message to cross the sea, then I won’t get another chance to talk to you in training. And for that I’m sorry. We’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. The separation is amazingly horrible. I don’t know much about aerial combat. I see Imperial planes flying overhead all the time, more and more and more of them. Fighters, bombers, CAS craft, transport planes. They fly farther and faster than any griffon strapped for combat. They fire bullets and drop bombs or griffons. That’s the extent of my knowledge on air combat. Listen, something occurred to me. Since it takes so much longer for letters to get from Equestria to the River Republic, I was wondering if maybe we could exchange our parent’s addresses. I can send letters to your folks for updates, and I’m fairly certain you’d want to prove yourself to my mother, change her mind in a way that I can’t. This is an idea that’s been bouncing around in my head for a while, but now you’re in the service it means you’ll be facing even worse mail delays, so I figured them having someone on this continent to let them know you’re okay would help out. Plus, Sophie’s started asking questions about you. She’ll be thrilled to have a penpal. You officially know more about the Crystal War than I do. Newspapers are still going on about it being trivial affairs an entire world away, though given what’s happened here at home I don’t suppose I can blame anygriff for thinking that. Uncle August wrote me again. He can’t exactly call me into his command post to speak. That could be seen as favoritism. But he said he’s proud of what I’m doing, and I told him some more about you. He’s impressed that you enlisted, though as a proud Reichsarmee griff he is, like me, disappointed you chose the easy branch. But word from him is to give it your best, and give them a few pieces for him. I got the book you recommended. Turns out it has a Herzlandisch version after all. But I got it in Equestrian. I knew you’d be disappointed if I took the easy way out, and this way nogriff else will want to steal it. Grimquill keeps calling me a sucker for taking the time to learn the language, but Hellseig approves, I can tell. Word came down from the kaptein. The 41st is going through new tactics and maneuvers. Again. Apparently, we’re expected to be getting new vehicles again, and they’re testing ideas for something called a ‘medium’ panzer. It's supposed to move like Zola but hit almost as hard as a Beak tank. But they’re still in development, so I’m expecting it’ll be a while before we even use them. Which makes what we’re doing here feel kind of pointless, but I haven’t gotten answers from my kommandants before. I don’t expect any now. I’ve been thinking about applying for mail order classes from Griffenheim University. I never gave any serious thought to going, always thought I was too dumb. But after our conversations and what I’ve learned from you and my time in service, maybe I have a shot. I was thinking perhaps something in mechanical engineering. Industrial expansion is booming over here, might be a good way to look into the future. Thank you for giving me the confidence I needed to even think about trying. Although, given everything, I may have to wait until next year before I apply. Something new from me this time. There’s a book in the package for you called ‘Der Schwarzwald’. This one I know only comes in Herzlandisch. It's a thriller novel I read a few years ago, a bit more contemporary. It's about some hikers lost up north who stumble upon a dark secret in the frozen woods. The author apparently spent some time with the Arcturian Order, and her experiences up on the Dread Peninsula inspired her writing. I hope you enjoy it. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent September 28th, 1008 Dear Paige, I know you probably haven’t gotten my last letter yet, but by my reckoning you should be graduating from training any day now. I know this will probably not arrive until afterwards, but on this day especially I still felt the need to write another letter. Congratulations. Welcome to the service. We may be separated by national flag and, Boreas’ sake, branch of service. But the fact is, you’ve put your best foot forward and taken the step to being a soldier like me. You didn’t have to, and a lot of people tried to talk you out of it. You’re one of a kind amongst crowds, and given everything else you can do and what you’ve been through, it just makes you unique. Paige, you’re amazing. The things you can do and what you’re capable of just by wishing it outstrips anything I’ve ever seen in anyone else. You’ve conquered the schoolroom, travelled the world, fought to correct what you saw was a critical wrong, and now stepped forward to go to war. You, Paige, are truly one of a kind. Now go give ‘em hell. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent October 13th, 1008 Dear Cyril, I finally got your letters, and managed to get a reply of my own back. Thank you for the novel, the message of encouragement, the word from your uncle, everything. Gods, you’re incredible. I did graduate from bomber training. You’re currently writing Aircrewmare Turner, Royal Air Force, 16th Bomber Squadron. They’ve stationed me up north, as part of a Halifax crew. A bit different from what they got me ready for. I’m stationed at an airbase that I can’t talk about, classified and all that. But you’re used to that too, aren’t you? Then again, they army boys can’t really understand much unless its in picture form. I’m really no good at the whole interservice trash-talk thing, am I? I haven’t flown any combat missions yet. They’re massing aircraft to get ready for the next offensive. Our troops are pressing the Crystal City, hard. But Sombra’s throwing up everything he can to keep us out. It’s getting ugly on the ground. We could be sent in anyday now to support. Life in the service isn’t what I imagined. After I got off the plane, they shuffled us away into these dingy barracks that looked like they hadn’t been used in twenty years, and we’ve sort of just been sitting around ever since. I’ve met the rest of my aircrew, a bit of an odd bunch. We’ve been poking around the plane since we got here, doing maintenance and learning what we can. But this is a new crew, fresh out of training, on a new aircraft, literally just out of the factory. I’ve got a bad feeling about all of that. There’s not much more I can talk about. I love the book so far, and I’m so delighted to hear you talk about trying to apply for school. You have a lot of potential, Cyril. You just need to figure out how to use it, and your experience on machinery would be invaluable in the industrial market. Things are changing, a lot. It's the right time to learn a new trade. Speaking of learning, I got back the results of my finals at last. Mostly B’s and a C, but I’ve been so busy with training and distracted by the state of the world I honestly just forgot about it for a time. Well, more accurately, I kind of stopped caring. But now, we’re set to launch at any time. And now all the things I’ve done over my life have come back to me and made me question what I’ve done. I know we said we’d wait until things calmed down before we started talking about the nature of our possible relationship, but given the fact that either of us could die at any time lately, maybe we should at least start? I’ve inserted my parents’ address on a separate slip. They’ve lived at that address the past twenty years, its not changing anytime soon. I’m already drafting a letter to your mother as we speak with the address of your home. It's a little more difficult than trying to talk to you, because I know you’re less likely to judge me so harshly. Don’t feel you’re under the same pressure when talking to my family, they’re not so traditional. I am having more trouble writing your sister. I’m not sure what to tell her and what to leave out. So I’m doing my best to talk to her like anypony else. No special treatment, no politics. I really want to make a good impression on them both. Now that I’m here at a base, I understand what you meant about the boredom. We’re waiting for word to take off at any time now, but meanwhile we have nothing else to do but the routine, day after day. How have you survived years of this so far? Eagerly waiting, -Paige Sent November 1st, 1008 Dear Paige, First, congratulations for you. I always knew you’d make it, and I’m immensely proud of you. Don’t worry about the trash talk. It’ll come naturally as you come to hate/love the groundpounders. Your father hasn’t sent a message, but your mother is pleasant enough. She was a little confused about the nature of our talks, so I told her we were penpals the last year or so. She’s worried about you, but I told her you’re alright and that we’d been in touch. If you’re writing my mother, do me a favor and don’t call -her- close minded or talk to her about thestral rights. She’s not going to be too loving of that. Don’t worry about Sophie. She’s a smart girl, she knows how the world works even if she doesn’t let on. I think it's better that she does that. The boredom does get to you. We get by over here with cardgames, worship study (wouldn’t recommend it, you get the diehards in there yelling over everygriff else) and, when we’ve been way too long without something to do, practical jokes. Bluetalon filled my cap with whipped cream the other day right before formation, so I got him back by forging a letter saying he won a contest and got a thousand bits. Should have seen him, he was gushing about leaving us ‘suckers’ behind and moving on. So in the middle of writing a letter trying to resign, he gets a letter from his banker at home saying he had a grand total of thirty bits. Now he’s trying to figure out who got him so good. But I’ll never tell. Paige, about that other topic. Are you sure you want to open that can of worms again? I know what you’re saying, but we’re treading into some dangerous territory there. Now we’re both in, the odds of us getting leave the exact same time are even slimmer. I like you, I do. I really like you. But I don’t want us laying out plans we’re never going to get to or, even worse, coming to hate each other over not being able to fulfill. I just want to make sure you know what we’re getting into. Sincerely, Cyril Sent December 1st, 1008 Dear Cyril, We went on our first bombing mission. They scrambled us and said it was time, we were hitting the Crystal City. I was bombardier. We got set up for a night raid, so to obscure ground batteries. The whole time we were getting ready I was shaking like a leaf in a storm. I thought ‘this is it. We’re going up.’ Once we got off the tarmac, it was cold. Like stupid cold. We went up higher than any other flight I’ve ever been on. Higher than I’ve ever flown with just my wings. We flew up so high, we needed oxygen masks. It was dark inside. Felt darker than even outside. I sat in the bombsight, so I could see the ground. Well, towards it. Because most of what I saw was darkness and snow. There were forty of us, flying in one direction in formation with Blenheim escorts. You could look out the windows and see the lights one either side, stretched out. The only color in an otherwise pitch black sky. We flew like this for a few hours. I lost track of time and I think I even fell asleep. Nopony talked much. We just huddled tight in our leather jackets and tried not to think about what waited for us. The next thing I know, there’s light everywhere. Flashes and bangs and stars exploding around us. I look through the bombsight and see lights all over the ground. We reached the front and I didn’t even realize it. As we fly through the flak, I remember my heart pounding out of my chest so hard, I felt like my ribs were going to crack. Everytime a shell burst nearby, I swore my teeth rattled. I saw a plane die. She got hit by a shell in her number 2 engine, and when she slewed off with her wing on fire it broke off. She spun in below the clouds and that was it. Another one was struck by a spell I recognized even in blackness; a bolt of death. It blew out her cockpit. The crew never had a chance. We were over the target when I was given the greenlight. That meant I had eight seconds to spot and aim at the target. I want to say I hit it, I do. But in the darkness, with flak and spells bursting all around, I think the best I can say is that I hit the city, at least. Thirteen thousand pounds of ordnance, and I have no idea where it went. But I dropped it. The bomber lifted up. And we started back. That’s when the Gladiators attacked. Biplanes they might have been, but even biplanes are enough to catch up to heavy bombers. Whoever said the Crystal air corps was starved out was out of his gourd, because they smoked two of us before we even saw them. The Blenheims peeled off to deal with them, and I could hear the turret gunners hammering away. All I could do was sit there and hope we weren’t next. When we set down, I went to my bunk and passed out on the way down. I was so exhausted just from the sheer terror I felt of going in. We were honestly only in the fight for about twenty minutes. The rest of it was just getting there. But when I saw what happened to our bomber, I felt sick all over again. There was a hole, not two hooves over from my bombsight, punched straight through. Turns out, we lost nine bombers last night. And I don’t even know if I did any good. (There is a fold, a few scratched out words and a smudge of something.) I’m okay now. We went out to the bar near base and got drunk. They’re telling us the raid was a success, but I can’t think how. We were supposed to be targeting factories, and those are pretty big. So if the army’s telling us we got it, I’ll take the satisfaction. But I don’t know that it was worth sixty-three ponies. I got word back from your mother. She doesn’t like me, but she was polite about it. Thinks I’m this Riverlands hussy who’s trying to seduce her son into debauchery and perversion. Oh, she didn’t say it like that, but her words made it abundantly clear. Sophie’s a delight though. Very articulate for a chick. She has good penmanship. My father will come around. He’s a little wary of this whole affair is all. Yes. I really want to start talking about us again. Last night made me realize that in the end all we’ve got is what we do now. Your future and mine may be extremely short. We may not be face to face, but we’ll know we’ve got each other. So, how about it? Ready to leap into this whole long-distance romance thing with both eyes closed and no idea what underneath? Yours, -Paige Sent December 20th, 1008 Dear Paige, When I got your letter, I took the next night to go to the nearest tavern, ordered some schnapps and gave you and your comrades a toast. What you described sounds harrowing to the extreme, and I never imagined air combat to be so intense. I’m tracking (the Crystal War is scratched out by two solid lines) your war as best I can from over here. Nothing about your raid, but fighting has moved inside the Crystal City’s outskirts. The western front has Sombra’s reinforcements cut off by Loyalist forces. Commonwealth tanks were the first to breach the outer walls. We might just be seeing the beginning of the end here. Fingers crossed. My mother is a bit abrasive at times. She’s a single mother living in a crime-infested, poverty stricken neighborhood while her son is off in the army all the time. She doesn’t warm up to things quickly at all. As for Sophie, I’m very proud of her. She’s going to go off and do great things when she grows up. Okay. Then just so you know before we get into this thing, I’ve wanted to take you out for months. I know we talked about it a bit, but I mean I really wanted to. Not just as a ‘oh we’ll go have dinner’. You mean a lot to me, Paige. I’m just trying not to ruin that. The winter over here feels a bit somber. Politics being what they are, the year being what its been and now I’m reading about you fighting a war half the world away. It’ll almost be two years since we saw each other, you know that? Come March. And I’m having trouble dealing with that. I wish I could see you again. Throw my arms around you. And I’d find a way to make sure you were never more than four hours away from me at all times. That may seem a bit possessive, but I figure ‘fuck it. We’ve spent enough time apart.’ In the envelope, you’ll find my Medal of Arcturius, from temple. You need it more than I do right now. Keep it close. And I’ll always be right beside you. In the meantime, I’ll keep thinking about that day we finally see each other again. I know ponies kiss, but it's a little different for griffons. No lips, you see. So instead, imagine me gently rubbing my face against yours, cheek to cheek. The winter might be cold, and you might feel alone up there in that bomber of yours, but so long as you keep me with you, I’ll always be there. We don’t have a Hearth’s Warming Day like you do. But what we do have is Mondstille, where we gather friends and family and other loved ones close, spend time together, drink, make merry and sing songs together as we bring in the new year. Sometimes we’ll exchange gifts, but I think griffons are a mite too selfish and greedy to make that a tradition. So this New Years’, look up in the sky and just imagine me looking at the same thing. If I seem a little emotional and overly sappy, it could largely be that every time I’ve sat down to write, I’ve taken a few shots of liquid courage. I miss you. Yours, -Cyril Author's Note So this closes out the year 1008. But if you all remember, year 1009 is where things really start getting intense. So stay tuned, lend me your feedback and hopefully I can keep up this momentum I'm on thus far! Still got 9 years to go, after all! A Feathisian EngagementJanuary 2nd, 1009 ALB The Imperial Palace Griffenheim, Herzland One feature the city of Griffenheim had was that it had been designed for capacity. With the immense size of the Empire at its height, the capital of course had to be built to match it. The city was easily the largest on the continent, only rivaled by Romau itself, and the center of this was the truly enormous Imperial Palace at its heart. This had been shown during the sendoff the Empire held for the Changeling mission a few months ago, or the Imperial Banquet last year in which those traitors hadn’t attended. But she dropped such negative thoughts, pulling her fine cloak closer as she looked out over Griffenheim at night. The smokestacks of Industrie were visible in the far distance, and she could still see the Griffking River bisecting the city, dividing the upper district from the lower ones. Quite a glorious sight, and she felt her breast fill with a sense of pride knowing that it was her hard work that had wrangled the Regency into actually making the changes necessary to bringing the Empire back to glory. Duchess Gabriela Eagleclaw heard a knocking at the heavy wooden door behind her, the one leading out onto the landing she currently occupied. Her bodyguard, not one of her knights from Readewetter but a pair of soldiers from the Imperial Guard (it was thought to show less favoritism to use Guardsgriffs instead of Strawberry's knights), glanced at each other before readying their MP14 ‘Specht’ submachine guns. One cracked the door open, speaking quietly to whoever had knocked before he looked over at the Duchess. “Your Grace,” the soldier said, holding the door in a way that his body would have to be moved if he was to abruptly be shot, allowing her a second to respond. “The Grand Duke is here, ma’am.” “Admit him,” the pink griffon replied, turning to look back out at the city. “I’ve been expecting him.” The Guardsgriff stood aside, allowing Grand Duke Gerlach IV Weijermars to step through, his black and yellow enchanted plate glinting in the flickering light from the electric lantern on either side of the door. Behind him, his own bodyguards awaited, a pair of Ducal Guards in similar knight’s plating, swords at their sides and pistols on hips. The Grand Duke shivered lightly as he stepped out into the brisque winter night air, breath billowing in clouds from his beak. “I swear, I only just arrived and I seem to have forgotten how cold it was out here,” he stated, tugging his own cloak closer. He glanced up at the lamps, an eyebrow raised. “Last time I was here, those were still oil lanterns. Somegriff sprung for an upgrade.” “It was time,” Gabriela said from the rail, drawing Gerlach’s eye. She saw his grey feathers fluff slightly under his collar and around his plumage before he quickly managed to flatten them out, and smiled to herself while he couldn’t see. “There’s been a lot of change in the Empire as of late.” “Yes. And not all of it good unfortunately,” Gerlach replied. Normally known as ‘the Silent’ for his calm demeanor, Gerlach also had a way of being blunt and polite at the same time that few monarchs or nobles could do or cared to do. He approached, halting just out of wings’ reach from her. “You look beautiful tonight,” he commented idly, all trace of his tension gone as he smiled towards her once more. Schooling her features, she turned towards him, her cloak held closed tightly as she appeared to inspect him with cold indifference. “Are you here to talk business, or simply to play the game of flattery? I assumed from your telegram it was the former.” “Actually, its funny you mention those together,” Gerlach said, his smirk having yet to fade. “Since they are one and the same.” Gabriela scrutinized the Grand Duke closely, noting that, while his demeanor appeared quite calm and collected, he twitched slightly under her gaze, his own eyes flickering over her shoulder occasionally. She nodded to her Guards. “Leave us.” The soldiers looked to each other uneasily, SMGs still held at the ready over their chests before they moved slowly to the door, glancing back at her. She understood, of course. The Imperial Guard’s duties were to defend Griffenheim and the Herzland, handpicked from the best the Landwehr and Reichsarmee had to offer. They were utterly devoted to her safety. Willingly stepping away was something that sat ill at ease with them. The Ducal Guards looked to their sovereign, who nodded as well, grateful for the momentary distraction. The knights took their leave as well, their features more schooled but clearly just as awkward about leaving the Grand Duke here without protection, going to stand in the hallway to stare at the Guardsgriffs. The heavy wooden door scraped shut with a thud, dislodging a bit of snow from the stones over it. As soon as they were alone, Gabriela relaxed slightly, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding before smiling over at the Grand Duke warmly. “Gerlach,” she said, beckoning him over. “It’s been a while since we’ve been alone like this.” “It has,” he replied, stepping to join her at the stone railing. “Gods know we can’t exactly rendezvous with the Council everywhere.” They watched Griffenheim for some time, listening to the thrum of automobiles and late night industry. On the river, a barge blew its horn, and the clatter of late-night tavern goers echoed out of every district, almost discernible even here. The spirit of Mondstille was still strong in the air, and would carry on likely until the end of the month. It was difficult to not find excuses to get together, drink and make merry, and this was one of the few holidays where nobles and commoners shared an equal level of celebration. Upstate manors were just as festively lit and active as riverside tenements, uniting Imperial society on a level scarce enough in the Herzland. “You’ve been busy,” Gerlach commented, glancing her way before he looked back at the skyline. In the distance, a cluster of griffons flew by, likely rebellious youths enjoying the winter air before the polizei chased them down. Flying over the imperial city at night was dangerous, and therefore illegal. The shadows flitted over modern electric streetlights, past cable cars and automobiles in the streets. Higher overhead, a handful of Imperial Guardairplanes soared by, fighters running patrol screens. Though a small patrol, that small handful represented a good portion of his own air force back in Feathisia, and he felt a small stab of jealousy. “It was time to bring the Empire into the modern age,” she said. “My cousin was a compassionate griff...but he was no visionary.” Likely due to the fact that his illness occupied a large portion of his attention, but the obvious went unsaid. “Oh, is that what you are?” Gerlach asked instead. “A visionary, come to save the Empire from itself?” “I’ve done a damn good job so far,” Gabriela defended, only half serious in her offense. This was an old topic between them, though when it was out on the Council floor he often pointed to the seeming double standard of allowing merchant princes and clergy into the Council, but refusing to grant written rights to common griffons in the Empire. She had argued back that the balance of power needed to be maintained, and so on and so forth. But the heat and venom were saved for the chamber, in front of the rest of the Regency. Here, by themselves, such topics were often handled much more airily. “Oh yes, damn good job losing half the Empire,” Gerlach teased, though he was cautious with his tone. The Holy League was the reason the Guard were flying night patrols over the city. The reason for the massive buildup in the Reichsarmee. Troops had been called down from Bronzkreuz, the fantical dog regiments helping to reinforce the Herzland. The Barkginian Guard were busy guarding their five year old charge as he slept, and Imperial generals had wanted more of the ecstatically loyal shock troops standing by for what they saw as the inevitable. “Why are you here, Gerlach?” Gabriela asked, her tone still polite, but bearing the faint edge of ice in her voice. He realized he had indeed crossed a line, and quickly moved to secure her affection and attention once more. “Can I not simply steal away to spend time with the love of my life?” he questioned, reaching up and taking her claw in his, squeezing lightly. She looked back at him, smiling briefly to show she wasn’t quite so irate with him before she looked back over the city once again. “You could, though I am a fool for accepting. I have a train to catch tomorrow to Oldwingburg. The Statthalter wanted to speak with me about the Pythagorean Academy.” “Which is why I wanted to ask you out here under the midnight sky, my love,” Gerlach stated, sweeping his other claw across the sky. Gabriela fixed him with an exasperated smile. “It is two in the morning, Gerlach.” “Bah, details!” the Grand Duke shot back, waving a claw in front of his beak dismissively. “My train was late. The point is, I am here because I heard a small rumor that you are planning to expand the Empire’s power.” “The rumor should not have been passed, I said it in confidence to my nephew. Besides which, whether or not it is true, it is not an expansion if the Empire is merely taking back what already belongs to us.” “So it is true, then? You seek to end the autonomy of the vassals?” Gabriela fixed him with an actual glare of exasperation now, sighing and rubbing her beak tiredly. “The Heartlands need to be united, now more than ever. With this rebel alliance in the south and the revolutionaries building themselves up in Cloudbury, our enemies will not wait for us to recover naturally. How long until Aquileia tries their luck? Or Wingbardy?” At the mention of the southern kingdom, both she and Gerlach grimaced. Prime Minister in name only, Giulio Beakolini was a loudbeaked braggart who made fiery speeches from the podium, having effectively sidelined his king and annihilated the communists in his nation. But nogriff could deny that in the short time since he’d seized parliament, he’d effectively reversed Wingbardy’s economic ruin, and was building the kingdom into an industrial giant off their newly found bounty of oil. It was only a matter of time until his armies matched his amibition. But after that, Gerlach began nodding. “I know. And on a level, I agree.” She blinked in shock, studying her lover carefully. In the Council chamber, he had publicly accused her of using Imperial unity as an excuse to cushion her own power by stripping it from the vassals at gunpoint, citing the fact that Feathisia was a constitutional monarchy, and the Empire and absolute one. Fights had broken out, and political deadlock was looming. But now, it was more than mere suggestion. Now, it was starting to look like unity at the end of a bayonet was the only way. So to hear him suddenly agree with her, even in private, was a little startling to the Duchess Regent. Gerlach continued. “There are reforms you are making that are working. And there are reforms I am making that are equally working. But the truth is on the wall. Alone, we are but a pack of sheep ready for slaughter. There are far graver things in the world than loss of face.” He sighed, studying her closely. “I have heard from the north.” “The Order?” Gabriela asked quietly, to which the Grand Duke nodded. “What news?” “Headmaster Torygg’s death goes much further than we had expected,” he said. “At first we had suspected Greneclyfian interference. But William Steel Beak disagreed. Now he thinks the Dread League had something to do with it.” “The dead?” Another nod. “So in the face of rebels, traitors, revolutionaries, breakaways and warlords, we have a looming apocalypse to contain. Wonderful.” she huffed, all her contentment and holiday spirit gone, replaced by a grim fatalism. There was no way the Empire was ready for the Dread League if they rose again. “The Empire needs unity. We must put aside all of our previous conflicts and focus on what matters.” Here, Gerlach took the claw he clutched, raising it and her other claw up to grasp them both, much to her surprise. “Which is why I must ask, Gabriela Eagleclaw, love of my life and possibly the most amazing woman I have ever met,” to this, her feathers ruffled unintentionally, both embarrassed, flattered and now anticipating his next words. Gerlach went onto one knee, holding her claws up in his own mailed gauntlets to her utter amazement. “Marry me, Gabriela?” he asked, smiling as his own feathers ruffled, his apprehension written all over his beak and the rest of his body. “Be my wife and complete me. We unite the Empire together and save Griffonia.” “Is that all?” she quipped off the cuff before she clamped her beak shut, feathers now practically sticking out from her skin. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything, and he watched her with hope in his eyes, claws still tightly clutching hers. “What about the Regency?” she asked quietly. “The Council will never accept you over me. Not after everything we’ve been through to this point.” “I looked it up in the Imperial archives,” he shot back confidently. “The Regent has the ability to name a co-Regent. Split authority down the middle. The two share power, and responsibility. I can stand across from you in the chamber as I always have and speak for the moderates, while you can remain as the traditionalist and speak for the nobles. By Tartarus, they may even come to see you as their defender against me.” Gerlach chuckled at the thought. “So all that talk about the Empire stampeding over your reforms? All your hard work?” “There is no reason we cannot work it out together. I have every confidence that the reforms the Ducal Party have proposed can be integrated to what the Regency Council is planning. We can compare, and plan what is best for the Empire’s future.” He grinned up at her. “And you get a navy.” “I get the Ducal Fleet?” she asked, a little more excited than she’d meant to be. When Skyfall had rebelled, they had taken most of the Kasierliche Marine with them. The ships remaining had formed under Feathisian command. Certainly no true match for the battleship armada Skyfall commanded, but something was better than nothing, and she’d dreamed of eventually taking over those ships and expanding them into a true navy again. “Better,” he countered. “I have a new battleship under construction in Rottendedam. The most modern one in Griffonia. Cutting edge technology, the biggest guns in the fleet. She’ll be finished in July, I’ve been told, and named on her commission.” “And what, pray tell, were you planning to name her?” she asked teasingly, not letting him win her over quite yet. His smile, so wide before, tightened as he looked up at her, taking a breath before replying “I was hoping she might earn the name KMS Gabriela. Perhaps we could even have the wedding on her deck.” They were both silent for a few moments, her gawking at him in awe and delight, and him clutching her claws even tighter, awaiting her answer with bated breath. Finally, she gently pulled her claws back, taking his face and lifting him up, confused as he stood. She gently preened against him, her cheek against his, still smiling as she stood back to look up at him. “Give me some time?” she asked quietly. His expression was visibly crestfallen. He looked almost crushed, to which she hurriedly put his fears to rest. “Just the night! I can give you an answer in the morn. I just need to consider...everything.” “Ah,” Gerlach managed, frowning in concern. Not so much crushed now as much as very, very confused. “Then...before you leave?” “Yes!” she replied hurriedly, then her eyes widened. “To answer! I mean,” she laughed nervously, clearing her throat as she smoothed her feathers down. He cleared his own throat as well, trying to straighten his features. “Well, yes, of course.” “Do you have guest chambers already?” “No, I came straight here,” he replied, straightening his armor as he tried to look everywhere but at her. “Take the ones you had last time. I’ll see to it that everything's arranged. And...and I’ll see you at breakfast.” He looked up at her now, taking a deep breath as he tried to contain himself, nodding sharply in reply. “Yes...of course. Thank you, Gabri-...Your Grace.” He bowed his head, moving towards the door before he paused, turning back to her again, all knightly demeanor and discipline. “Apologies. May I be dismissed to my chambers?” “Yes,” she replied quietly, pulling her cloak tighter, suddenly missing his claws in hers. He nodded back, taking the handle on the door and pulling it open. Just as he was about to step back into the warmth of the tower, she suddenly called out “Gerlach!” He paused, the door wide open, his knights looking over to him as the Guardsgriffs did as well. Two servants were moving down the hallway, a pony and a dog attending to the tapestries and a flower vase, and despite knowing better they also looked over towards the noise. She steeled herself, staring him dead in the eye as she declared “I love you.” He was stunned. She knew exactly what saying those words in front of everygriff else meant. Slowly, a small smile stretched across his beak. “Then you know what answer I want to hear,” he replied. Now, slower and without taking his eyes off of her on the snowy landing, he pulled the door shut. In the morning, in that same hallway, she gave him exactly the answer he wanted. Author's Note So I came up with this earlier today while I was out grocery shopping, of all things. Decided to get it uploaded before work, to make sure I got it out before I lost time. I understand it changes a few details from the game, but a few of those were details I think needed to be changed to begin with. Regardless, give me your likes, your dislikes, your feedback! And I'll see you on the flipside, everyone! 1009 pt 1Sent January 15th, 1009 Dear Cyril, They keep sending us out. Again and again and again. Sometimes a night raid, sometimes a day one. I almost prefer the daytime ones like what the Wellington squadrons do, because I can at least see my target. The Crystal City’s become overgrown with King Sombra’s corruptive dark magic, or at least that’s what they tell us it is. Just looks like a bunch of black, jagged mess from up there. Doesn’t matter what’s been pasting them, there’s always columns of troops filing through towards the front. But in the daytime, the flak can target better. And the fighters can see you coming. Since we started these bombing campaigns a month and a half ago, 16th Bomber Squadron has lost 73 bombers and 23 escorts fighters. That’s absurd losses at 7 ponies a bomber. I haven’t been on a daytime raid in two weeks. We don’t lose as many at night. But the most embarrassing part is that about twenty of those losses are from crash landings on return. Our airfields get iced over, our pilots are too green. We’re almost killing ourselves as fast as the enemy is. I’m afraid to try and make friends here. Seems as soon as I get to know somepony, they get killed in another raid. Makes me wonder when I’m going to be part of that statistic. I swear, if they ask me to climb in that bomber again, I will bash my face in on that instrument panel. (The ink is slightly smeared above, but is nice and neat again underneath) Thanks for the toast. I got your letter at a bad time, just after a raid. I’ve been told by my base captain to stop publishing losses so the enemy can’t figure out how effective they’ve been. Which doesn’t make sense to me since they’re not in a position to intercept my mail, but that’s the military for you. I hope we’re in the end. Based on how things are going on the homefront in Equestria, the public isn’t taking this well. Apparently, there’s accusations of incompetence in the ranks, which is what other ponies are insisting is the reason for the heavy losses. I say, if terrible leadership is the reason my friends are dying like flies up here, maybe it's time for a change. Then again, I don’t really like the pacifists and defeatists either. These newspaper articles make it sound like the whole offensive’s on the verge of collapse, with mountains of pony corpses. They just piss me off. I got your medal, and your drunk holiday cheer. I’ve been thinking of you a lot as the new year changed over. It helps pass the time. On New Year's, we had a party in one of the bomber hangars. Drinks, music, hazing. I opted out after a while, took a walk around the airfield. It's cold here. We’re based outside of Whinnyapolis, far from the fighting. Before, you could hear the artillery from the fighting, see the explosions on the horizon. Now it's far too quiet. But I like to think that, when I was looking up at the sky that night, you were too. I wear your medal under my fatigues, next to my tags. It digs into my chest when we go on night raids. I don’t mind. The rest of me is numb from the cold up there. The sensation keeps me grounded so to speak. Military culture is very different from back home. I’m sure you’re used to the way it works, but it's still a bit strange to me. They call me ‘Scholar’ out here. I get a little brainy when I'm drunk, and so far as I can tell I’ve got the best education of most ponies here, even the lieutenant who pilots my crate. I try not to talk about it if I can help it, it's a little embarrassing. Roughhousing is considered fine, suffering is the order of the day and we joke about each other getting knocked out of the air on a regular basis. Like accepting our inevitable death is the only way to push forward. I can’t imagine what goes on in infantry units. I know the distance is...intense. It makes talking a little hard. But try to get back to me as soon as you can. Our mail’s not as badly snarled up as further up north, and I’m glad for that. Yours, -Paige PS: I don’t care if you can’t kiss me. I can still kiss you. Sent February 9th, 1009 Dear Paige, A bit of a new development here. Might not mean much to you, but it’s big news out here. The Imperial Regent Duchess Eagleclaw and the Grand Duke Gerlach of Feathisia are engaged. I’m not usually invested in the personal affairs of nobles, but this is huge news. The whole Reichsarmee was told about it, it's in the papers, everything. It means Feathisia is willingly binding itself to the Empire, joining at the hip. It means after all the insanity that’s happened here, the Empire’s largest province is returning peacefully. What did we always say? Hold out and maybe things would get better. We were right, Paige. Mother wrote me back. She says she’s not a fan of you, but she approves of how you want to apply yourself. Whatever you said, you made an impression on her. Don’t let her attitude get you too much, she’s like that with everygriff. Once you show her what you’re capable of, I’ve no doubt you’ll win her over. Your mother wrote me again too. She asked if I told you to go and enlist, and I insisted I of course hadn’t. Good news is, she believed me. I’m not used to that, really. She told me a little about her work with clocks, and asked about my life in the Reichsarmee. I told her a little bit, but obviously not as much as you. I’m waiting on her response now, but I keep getting the sneaking suspicion she knows about us. My mother will insist, but that doesn’t mean she thinks she’s correct. Yours on the other claw seems to keep her suspicions to herself but drops hints. That all sounds horrifying. I know that of the two of us, we expected I would be the one to face war first. But you were thrown into it with little in the way of preparation. Did you have any thoughts about the future? What will you do when your service is up? Go back to school? Enlist in the River Republic Air Force? Hopefully come out to Rottendedam? Let’s hope the -next- year gives plenty of chance to (there is a space, a few letters and something scratched out). Nevermind. Everytime we make plans, they keep getting trashed. Let’s just focus on what we have to do now, and let it fall into place. But I do know you have something called Hearts and Hooves Day in Equestria. Again, not your own custom, but they’ll be celebrating regardless. So I sent a package of Strawberry chocolates. Hope you like them, this cost more than a few idols out of my check. On top of that I also sent a pack of my Bronzland cigarettes. I don’t know if you smoke, but even if you don’t, you can trade them. Just filling time over here. Feels like we’re waiting for something. Not quite sure what, but given the choices, it can’t be good. Also, I like the implications of that PS. I will store that information away for later. Yours, -Cyril Sent March 1st, 1009 Dear Cyril, Thank you for the chocolates. They came at just the right time, which was after everypony gouged everypony else for what they had. Your package arrived late enough I managed to avoid all that and eat in peace. I do smoke, now at least. Turns out I'm not so above it all. This will help me save a few bits. Cigarettes are so expensive in Equestria. The last month wasn’t so bad. I think they finally knocked down enough of Sombra’s defenses, we had an easier time of it. We’re doing bombing missions around the clock again, though we lose the occasional bomber and crew so it's not all roses. It's easier now, to fly into the storm of flak and magic. Our target is still the Crystal City. Seems like everytime we bomb a factory or defensive emplacement to Tartarus, they figure out a way to get it built back up again. Those groundpounders need to find Sombra’s spellcasters and kill them already. I’m having bad dreams. At least during “Blitz Season” as they called it, I was too damn tired to dream. Now, I’m having trouble sleeping at all. I can’t even remember what they’re about, for the most part. Just come in the night and gone, and I’m left a shivering wreck until dawn. The base was attacked by umbrals again. At least our MPs were more prepared than the Guard troops back at the school. Gods, that seems like forever ago, doesn’t it? Shadow creatures are a bit difficult to defend against, but we’ve got a Unicorn detachment here. The airbases is protected by a barrier shield, so we’re the closest to safe we can get. Still don’t mind sentries with bigger guns than me. I don’t know what I’ll do after the war. There’s some ponies who have been here since the start and they all seem like they have it figured out. I’ve only been in a few months and I keep telling myself I'll pick up where I left off, but I’m not sure. School is important, and I don’t want to give up a career in theoretical Arcana, but that seems an eternity away now. Everypony else can’t shut up about what they’ll do when they get home, but I don’t even want to think about it. Too stuck in the now, I suppose. It's good to hear about the engagement. I understand the implications of a noble marriage like this. I also know you’re a fervent patriot, so this is good news for you. Good to finally see some stability in the Herzland after so much chaos. If nothing else, I’m happy your mother won’t have to risk you going to war. Or me having to worry either. I’m already stressed enough about you in peacetime. Pulled out your first letter to me, for old times’ sake. I miss us being that enthusiastic. Do me a favor, go buy some beer and pretzels and just enjoy it for me? As a stand in for me actually being there. Hopefully by the time your next response gets back, they’ll have grounded me for a while. Bombers have to break down eventually. Wouldn't mind a break. Yours, -Paige Sent March 23rd, 1009 Dear Paige, I am glad to hear you are in better spirits, though not completely out of danger. I can’t help but imagine you trapped in some freezing aluminum can, off to meet your death at a moment’s notice. I suppose that’s the same with me, but at least Zola’s made of steel. Turns out it's not all good news over here. The council of Griefenmarsch made a public statement about the Regent’s engagement. Erebus Whiteplume called it ‘a plot to take over the Empire’. It's all over the newspaper. We’re facing -another- split. With what little is left of the Reichspakt, I wonder if the Empire’s just going to dissolve after all. They’re ringing the mobilization again, except now we’re getting sent west. If you don’t hear from me for a bit, its likely because I’m going to be switching bases and all that. We’re loading Zola up on a train while the rest of us get in the back of a truck. We’re leaving tomorrow. I mentioned the umbrals to my Uncle. He seemed like he already knew about them. Mentioned how those are the result of ‘powerful dark magic’. Apparently they’re not just apparitions, or spirits, they’re actually summoned beings. Terrifying to think that there’s a creature out there that just exists like that. He was cryptic in his letter, but mentions something about ‘up north’. Not sure what he entirely means by that, but he said he couldn’t really be specific. You’ve got an emergency crew weapon, right? I’d recommend carrying it around if you can, especially if you’re at risk like this. If your bad dreams are affecting you like this, don’t you have someone to talk to over there? A base doctor, a preacher (they’re good to talk to, even if you don’t believe), something? Can’t let your senses dull, that’s how soldiers get killed. I pulled out your first letter too. Went and got that beer and pretzels. I honestly couldn’t finish them. Take care of yourself, Paige. You sound like you’re in rough shape over there. Keep fighting, and let’s hope that little bit more you can do will end this fight that much faster. Yours, -Cyril Sent April 19th, 1009 Starting to think I should have gone Royal Navy. At least then it would be warm, and out to sea where you’re protected by layers of armor plating. Travel the world, visit exotic ports. Like Zebrica. I’d have made a damn good carrier pilot. The umbral attacks have stopped for the most part. News from the front says they’re appearing mostly in the Crystal City. Sombra must be desperate. We’re grounded for now. Apparently the fighting is -inside- the factories now, and the Army captured the last enemy airfield. Nothing left for us to do but wait. I don’t mind. Rotating off active is a blessing. Weeks without a single flight mission. Just down to maintenance, exercises, lectures and free time. I meant to tell you, I finished your book some time ago. The old one about the dragons. I liked it. It’s very simple and direct. You don’t need to worry about who the good guys and bad guys are, it's a bunch of knights fighting off a bunch of marauding dragons. Not too far outside of something that might happen today. I dug out some of my old textbooks from my locker (yes, I brought them). Now I’ve had a break, I'm reminded of why I got into arcana in the first place. All the formulae, the experiments. I stayed up all night on accident reviewing my notes and making adjustments. It was wonderful. Like picking up an old hobby after not practising for so long with it. This is what I’m meant to do. I managed to get a few older published scientific journals through my base captain. When she asked what I wanted them for, I mentioned my previous schooling. She laughed and told me I’d made a huge mistake enlisting. But she got them for me. The Equestrian military has a school for veterans bill. After the war’s over, and it's looking to finally be over soon, I’ll use that. Luna Nova’s reopening soon. My scholarship may be forfeit, but on the RAF’s bits, I can go without worrying about losing funding. After months of not knowing, I have a direction to go. I know where I’m going to end up. Now it's looking like my crew won’t die as likely, I should tell you about them, like you did with your comrades. We’re a bit of a mixed bag, being that most of us enlisted after the war broke out. Our bomber is named “Northern Headache”. She’s got a picture of a bomb cracking the Crystal City wide open. So, I told you I’m the bombardier, but I’m just one of seven on our Halifax. There’s Lieutenant Silver Rush, our pilot. He was formerly in the Wonderbolt reserves before the war broke out, but when they called for pilots, he requested a transfer over to Bomber Command. He’s pretty easy-going and laid-back, but incredibly calm under pressure. Grease Goose is our co-pilot and flight engineer. She says she used to be an automobile mechanic in Baltimare before the war, and according to her she enlisted the second she heard King Sombra had returned. She always seems overworked, but then she always manages to keep the bomber going despite appearing to always have too much on her hooves. May be its her Unicorn magic. Firefly is our navigator. He’s a bit of a nervous wreck. Apparently he was a teacher in Tall Tale, and enlisted due to somepony insulting his lack of backbone. He keeps talking about wanting to get out as soon as he can, and is the loudest complainer when things go wrong. Sweet Static is our radiomare. Real chatty type, absorbs just about everything without even trying. I don’t know how she does it, but that pony is able to hear the most garbled message through the worst static you can imagine. She gets a bit of relief from her post with her own machine gun station, and she absolutely loves her job. She’s the one I hang out with back at base, and we go drinking together all the time. Then there’s the meat heads, as we refer to them, but they man our guns and keep us safe, for the most part. Billy Bell, but we just call him ‘Dumb-Bell’. Really not so smart, and all he does is brag all the time. Apparently the RAF was the best thing for him, but I hear a rumor he flunked out of flight school. Score came with Dumb-Bell. He doesn’t talk much, but those two pegasi are thick as thieves, always together in schemes and bars. I’m not sure he’s as dumb as we think, but then he’s friends with Dumb-Bell, so there’s that. We’re a pretty mixed bag, like you’d expect. Pegasi, Unicorns and Earth Ponies from all over. But we’ve been flying together since the beginning. We drink together, bicker, play games during off-hours and make fun of the other air crews. We’ve been lucky that nopony on the Headache has been killed, because we know of other crews who’ve lost members to flak or bullets. I love these characters. Don’t know what I’d do without them. I needed this break. To write you, to get my head straight. They’ll be sending us back in, and soon. But the past two weeks I’ve been given are a blessing. I miss you all over again, now I’ve had the opportunity to dump all my other tension and worry. I’ve told Static about you, and ‘somehow’ it leaked to the rest of the crew, so they make fun of me when I go off alone for a while to write you. They say crude things like I’m writing you some filthy clop. Dirty stuff like that. I’m sorry to hear about the tensions back home. It seems the Empire really can’t catch a break. But the newspapers are doing the same thing as usual. What little they say about it is so heavily opinionated I’m not sure what the facts are anymore. That’s why I rely on you so much, cause I know you’re not BSing me, and I hate muddled facts. I want to say things will go back to normal after all this. But we both know they won’t. We’re both different people in the time we started writing. The world’s been hard on us. But I’m starting to feel more like I was before I enlisted. And that gives me hope for tomorrow. Especially when it comes to you and me. Missing you greatly, -Paige Sent May 11, 1009 Dear Paige, I’m glad to hear you got a break. We all need one, and I was getting worried with how your letters started to sound. I’m all for you going back to school. You have marvelous potential, and not using it would be a massive waste. Now you’ll have a term of service under your belt as well, as it were. Out here, that would get you into any school a commoner could apply to, without a doubt. Some news about your home, by the way. Apparently, there’s been a bit of a shakeup. Some sort of dispute over railroads in Deponya led to Lake City marching troops in and more or less occupying the territory. The River Republic is furious, and they dispatched troops to the border but Diamond Mountain backed up Lake City with Ironpaw battalions. For now, it looks like both sides are standing down, but lines are being drawn. The east isn’t looking much calmer than the west right now. Less politics. It’s good to hear about your crew. From what it sounds like, after all you’ve been through, you all must be really close. I look at my own crew sort of the same. We haven’t been through the gauntlet yet like you have, but we’ve been working and training together for years now. We’re essentially a disfunctional family. Hellseig is the overworked father, Bluetalon the quirky and outgoing kid, Grimquill the bitchy and troublesome kid, and I'm the calm, unremarkable middle child. We do everything together too. We finished the move west. We’re posted near the Marsch’s border. I look south and I can see the peasant troops down there, digging trenchlines and setting up fortifications. Erebus hasn’t declared his secession, and the Empire hasn’t labeled him a traitor, so I don’t know what we’re all doing here. The 41st got paired up with a division from Bronzehill, the 19th Sturmdivisone. These dogs make our clerics and preachers look like pretenders. Every morning its worship to the gods, thanks given to the Emperor Grover VI and Emperors past. They have their own vanguard units that wear these gasmasks and heavy armor. I’m told they expect sixty percent casualties from these forward elements. Fantical madness. I’d always heard Imperial Diamond Dogs were loyal to a fault, but these hounds are practically frothing at the mouth for a fight. Compared to them our panzergrenadiers look like stoic professionals, and those griffs would cause a riot for kicks. The Feathisians are glad to see us, though. We rolled into the town of (the name is clipped out by a censor), and they even rolled the ducal flag down to hang the Imperial flag above it for us. Drinks, food and other stuff have come our way. I think these griffons are hoping for unification same as we are. We went out drinking with the rest of the kompanie last night, and they were practically shoving beer, hamburgers and sausages at us, sandwiches and chocolates. Plenty of soldiers went home with a girl on each claw, and I think I even saw Grimquill strolling off with a companion, though she denies it today through her hangover. I must tell you, I got an offer but I of course turned the woman down. I believe I’m already spoken for. Your war is almost over. And that’s great. But at least yours is uncomplicated. You’re literally fighting a dark sorcerer who enslaved his people. Nothing to question about that. But I’m being asked to fight griffins who, up until recently, had been Imperials themselves. I don’t know how I feel about that, but I look back to Griffenheim. If they were considered the outlier, and the rest of the territories were coming to ‘bring her back’ to the fold, would I fight for the Imperial City? I think yes, and I think I understand these traitors a little more. But they -are- still traitors, loyalty to home notwithstanding. I can’t wait for things to go back to normal. When the Empire is whole again, you’re back in school and I’m bored as Tartarus, sitting around doing maintenance and gunnery exercises. I don’t know when that might be, but it’ll be a damn sight better than what’s going on right now with the insanity in the world. One last thing; they say the Ducal Fleet is preparing to resurrect the Kaiserliche Marine. There’s been rumors of new shipyards coming online in Rottendedam. A couple of Imperial soldiers have been joking about taking back Nova Griffonia or even looking into colonies in Zebrica. Remember you asked about exotic postings? The way things have been going, maybe we’ll look into getting some overseas territories in the next few years. Get to travelling after all. Missing you too, -Cyril Sent May 28, 1009 It’s over. They announced yesterday that the Crystal City was finally taken. Princess Cadence’s flag is flying again. Nopony knows where King Sombra’s gone, but his mind control’s broken. Most of the Crystal Legionnaires have surrendered, gladly. There’s only his loyalists left, and there’s not nearly enough of them left to keep up the fight. The army’s flushing them out of the Heights to the northeast. We’ve been stood down. With the Crystal City retaken, there’s no more structures to bomb, and you can’t use Halifaxes on troop formations. The Wellingtons are flying hunter-killer missions now to snuff out the last of Sombra’s supporters, but we’ve been given weekend leave by the base commander. And it feels so good to go further than Whinnyapolis. I’m going to Manehattan again for the weekend. It’s where I first came to this country, and the closest link I can get to you. Equestria fought long and hard for this, and I’m going to take advantage of however long they give me. If that means all I can do is stand on the pier all night and think about you, I’ll take it. I’ll wait to write you again until after I come back, which shouldn’t be too long. That way I at least know I got my letter out to you first. I’m also planning to stop by bookstores, see what I can get that we’d both like reading as well as what educational materials they’ve got. If I’m going back to school, I have to get ready. I think I’ll get some novels from Dr. Hoofing. His statements on theoretical magic origins are inspiring. Shame about his disability. Static’s giving me grief over my softness, but I can tell its not serious. She’s got a coltfriend and family in Vanhoover she’s going to go visit. But she knows I’m all alone out here. She offered to come east with me, but I told her no. This is the first long-range leave we’ve been given since we rotated into combat. I’m not robbing her family of that for my own sense of loneliness. So, just how much female attention do you have to fight off, then? Don’t take that line seriously, I’m teasing. I’m glad you told me. Means I have to worry less. Letters from my parents finally got through. My mother likes you, a lot. Thinks you’re “responsible and loyal”. I’m not sure whether to laugh at that or correct her. My father blames you for me enlisting, so that may be why he’s not writing you back. My brother wants to meet you, strangest of all. Given his line of work, he may be able to see you sooner than I can. That just makes me a bit sad. Luna Nova’s not taking any applications yet, I learned. So I sent a letter of inquiry to Hoofington U. I was fairly impressed with their campus when I was there. Hopefully they’ll take me once I get out. I’m not a fan of imperialism of any sort. Nova Griffonia is one thing. But I’m not sure I like your support of just ‘taking’ overseas territories. Those are living, breathing creatures too. You’ll literally just be kicking in the door to take what you want. You’re on the edge of going to war, too. How can you be okay with that, Cyril? You’re worrying me a little. Yours, -Paige Author's Note And that's the first part of the year 1009 uploaded! Keep up the input guys! My writing is very unscheduled and sometimes I have to do a bit of it from work, so I rely on you guys giving me feedback and pointing out my errors to catch inconsistencies and the like. I give it my best in editing, but the more eyes on target, the more likely I am to catch things! In the meantime, enjoy, comment and I'll see you in the next chapter! Calling VanhooverJanuary 1st, 1010 Vanhoover, Equestria “Mmmf...hello?” “Sweet Static?” “Yeah, that’s me. Who’s this?” “Operator, TR&T telephone services. I have a long distance call incoming from Hoofington. Would you like to accept and agree to the fees associated with this call?” “It’s one in the morning, lady. Who in Tartarus is calling from Hoofington at one AM?” “I believe the name of the caller is one Paige Turner, from Hoofington University.” “...yeah, go ahead.” “One moment please…” “Uh huh…” …… “*click* Static?” “Turner, sweetie, as much as I love hearing from you, don’t you think you’re pushing it? I seriously came in from a pretty big bender at the Vet’s Hall over here. It’s gotta be about the same time for...are you crying?” “*snff* Static...I bucked up.” “...okay. Like in a money sort of way, or a-” “I don’t even know what the hay happened! Okay, so I went out for dinner with Solid a few weeks back because we’d been working hard on my project and Winter Break was coming up, so we decided to celebrate because we didn’t know when we’d get another chance! Well, I don’t know how, but we went from the diner to a bar and we started knocking back cider and beer, and he starts coming on to me and I don’t know what the bloody buck is happening but the longer it goes, the more he starts to make sense-” “Turner.” “And he says how I haven’t seen Cyril in -years- and why should it be wrong that I try to find some comfort close to home, and it's not even like he’s -really- my coltfriend because we don’t know when we’re going to see each other again! And I know I shouldn’t have done it but I just kept drinking and drinking and Solid starts making all kinds of sense and I got angry and hurt and more alone than ever-” “Turner!” “And then Solid recommends we go back to the dorms and he can help me not feel alone anymore and-” “PAIGE!” “...yes?” “Okay, one. Slow down. I’m still a bit drunk and you literally woke me up. Two, I got most of what you’re saying, so don’t repeat it. Did you sleep with him?” “...Cyril or Solid?” “What? Why would I-” “I don’t know, I’m freaking out over here!” “Okay, uh...either one?” “No.” “No what?” “I mean yes.” “I’m gonna fly down there and strangle you with the phone cable if you don’t start making sense, Paige.” “Sorry Static...no to Cyril. Yes to Solid.” “Okay, Paige. Yeah, you bucked up.” “I know.” “Then why are you calling me at 1 am on New Years’ long distance?” “Well, after I send Solid away, I felt so guilty...I stewed in it a few days, tried to reason it all out, get back to my studies. But I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t think. Then Cyril’s latest letter came in and I couldn’t even open it for a while. But then I did, and he was telling me about this blizzard that blew in where he’s stationed, and how he was part of this rescue effort. You know...just being Him. He-” “Yeah, I get it. You’ve already told me, he’s an amazing griff. Trust me, you’ve been over how wonderful he is. Go on.” “Oh, right. Well. Anyway. I thought about leaving it be and just acting like nothing happened. Playing it off. Handling it.” “Okay, yeah. You could. Probably wouldn’t ever...wait, thought? You tell him already?” “I sent a reply…” “Okay. And what did you tell him?” “Everything.” “...when did you send the letter?” “Two weeks ago...I thought about just telling him everything was fine. But Static...he almost mentioned kids.” “...wow. Wait, how do you -almost- mention kids in letter form?” “He scratched it out and tried to act like he never said anything, but it doesn’t take an idiot to see where he was going. He can’t just rewrite a whole letter over there, no time or money. You know how it was.” “If it was anything like what we went through, he would have had nothing -but- time.” “Well he’s a tanker, it's different. Anyway...I started thinking, and getting emotional and feeling like I betrayed him...so I wrote him back. And I told the truth.” “Okay. When did you do this, again?” “About two weeks ago, I said.” “Then why the buck are you calling me at 1 am on New Years’! I remind you, you -still- haven’t answered that!” “...” “Paige? Shit, look hon. I never...I didn’t meant to snap.” “...I’m just...so lonely. He’s not here. And I’m all by myself here.” “Paige...look, you want the truth?” “...yeah?” “Until something changes, you’re gonna -be- alone here. You two went in separate directions, and circumstances drove you apart. So there’s a choice you gotta make here; either you hold out, accept you won’t see him until this whole war and chaos thing on Griffonia blows over and take the consequences. Or, give up and move on to closer opportunities.” “That’s a really shitty choice.” “Yeah, well unless you wanna apply to Griffenheim’s education system where they can’t teach you jack about magic, that’s what you got. You either sleep in the bed you made, or you go get a new one.” “...gods, you’re awful at peptalks.” “Might be why my show doesn’t get many listeners.” “...should I call back later?” “Yes. Please. Do that. And next time, -you’re- picking up the bill, sweetie.” “Heh. Okay. Deal.” Author's Note Hey all! I know what you're thinking, and I'm sorry I'm leaving you guys hanging, but the next update is still a few days out thanks to some circumstances in my life right now, which means I may not have the time to post that I want. Fear not, this is just a delay of a few days. But then this idea popped into my head, so I decided to give it a shot. So keep reading, and stick around! If I'm lucky, I'll get the time and focus I'm hoping for, and you'll get your actual update like I want! 1010 pt 1Sent January 2nd, 1010 Dear Cyril, I don’t know why I’m writing this. I haven’t got a letter from you yet, which means one of two things. Either A) your reply hasn’t reached me yet. Or B) you’re just that pissed at me. If it’s either case, I’m sorry for bothering you. I know we didn’t talk for Mondstille Day, Hearth’s Warming Eve or New Year’s. Kinda wish we at least had a phone line we could share. Might solve a lot of things. Look, I’m at risk of just rambling awkwardly. And I know that’s not what you want right now. I just wanted to tell you I still care for you, very deeply. I’m sorry I screwed up. I called up Static and she gave me the worst lecture I’ve ever heard. I went and got drunk again after all this, just to sleep. I just want to hear from you again. Still Yours, -Paige Sent January 15th, 1010 Paige, I have thought long and hard about what to say here. I realize we’ve got a strange relationship going on. We live so far from each other, it takes a month before we hear a response either way. We haven’t seen each other in years. So I get being lonely. That doesn’t make this okay. Still. You didn’t have to tell me. You could’ve gotten away with it without consequence and I’d have never known. That does tell me you’ve got good intents. But it seems like it’s your judgement that’s poor. I need a bit of time. We’ve both got a lot going on. Just give me a while to reply. Otherwise, I don’t know what else to say. My mother doesn’t know. And she’s not going to know. I forgive you. One time. -Cyril Sent February 12th, 1010 Paige, Okay. I think I’m ready to talk again. Thanks for the breathing room. Given everything that’s happened, we may need to back off a little with the relationship talk. I’m not saying that I want to end whatever we’ve got, but let’s face it. We’ll always be missing each other. And until we meet again, it’s going to be awkward. So easing up may be a good idea? I’m home again. Griffenheim hasn’t changed all that much since I went west. Industrie has, though. The whole district’s up and moving. The factories are in full swing, construction and expansion are ongoing. New roads everywhere across the district, paved roads for the big hauler trucks everywhere now. New faces too, ponies and dogs and griffons moving in from the countryside and off the frontiers to come to the Imperial City. I swear to Boreas I even saw a few zebras. There’s some new boats in the Griffking, rumor is they’re using unicorns and enchanted filters to tackle the pollution. I’ll believe the Griffking clear when I spot seaponies in it though. I got to my neighborhood, and all our neighbors came bustling out to welcome back the ‘war hero’. That was just a bit awkward. I had to return home in my Reichsarmee uniform, regulations and all, so I couldn’t just avoid them. They asked me a bunch of questions, like how many griffs I’d killed, what kind of guns I got to shoot and what medals I’d won. Everygriff offered me a beer. Took me an hour to get home from the station, that’s usually a ten minute walk. I’m reminded of how you were ‘welcomed’ by the Equestrians when you went back into the cities. Different experiences here, for sure. Mother’s just glad I’m alive. I’ll be staying with her a few weeks, so I’m letting her fuss over me and baby me. Sophie peppered me with questions about the war at first, but now she’s stopped since I keep refusing to go into detail with her. I think she understands. It’s nice, feeling cared for again after all that time freezing in Greifenmarsch. It’s still snowing here, of course, but Industrie tends to warm you up. Traffic and factory fumes do that. But at least I’m not huddled behind the tank trying to warm up in the exhaust. I went to a new cinema in Industrie with Sophie. We saw a new film just recently released within the last few months. Apparently, somegriff came up with the idea of a film detective named Rikard Talony, a hard-boiled detective in Rottendedam who fights the Cosa Nostra and other criminal elements while being harassed by the corrupt police department. It was good fun, Sophie loved it. Over the top, and I swear Rikard never did anything more than sneer and growl over his Specht gun while blasting down mobsters left and right. You should watch it, if they’re showing it there. Uncle August wanted to speak with me. I can’t go into detail about it, but he mentioned something about the Holy League. I think this year might be it. When we finally take action. You and me, we’re both aware of what happens in that case. I knew the Month Long War wouldn’t be it, but so soon after...I guess I just assumed I’d have more time until my next fight. But it's kinda just my speculation. A bad feeling in the gut. You know the kind. I’ll go see him on my last day of leave. When it's all back to business. I just want to enjoy a few more quiet days. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Come to think of it, I don’t know where I’m going either. Send your next letter to my home, Mother will make sure it gets to me after that. Let’s see where the future goes. -Cyril February 28, 1010 Oh my goodness thank thank thank you! I am so sorry and I swear on every god in every pantheon I will not put you through something like this again! I decided to take the time I wasn’t getting letters from you to re-evaluate my life. Solid’s not in it anymore, thank Celestia. I see him in class, but we’re no longer working together. He lost his tutor, but I lost my lab tech, so looks like my thesis will have to wait. I did try and contact my old friends from Luna Nova. Most of them I never knew their addresses to. Gloaming gave me hers way back, but according to her parents, she went north with the Army last year and never came back. The military just sent back the Royal Alicorn Cross. Apparently there wasn’t much left to recover. As I lacked anypony else to talk to, I called up Static again. She’s working as a radiomare in Vanhoover, so she’s a bit set up. Turns out her coltfriend cheated on her while she was gone, so we’re two independant mares against the world. I’m going to fly up to her over the weekend, take some time to figure out what a normal life is again. My parents are glad I’m back in school. My father was never happy about me enlisting, much less about me being in the Equestrian forces. He doesn’t like western ponies much. Thinks they’re too idealistic and stuck in their own fantasy land. He may have a point. Mother asks about you. A lot. And far too many awkward questions, especially with...what happened. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about it. So far as she knows, you and I are taking a break. The vote issue presses on. Apparently there’s an election arranged for later on this year. I got a letter in my mailbox about it. I’m a citizen now, who knew? Apparently both the republicans and the monarchists are looking to snap up veteran votes as quick as they can. I stopped by a Vet Hall in Hoofington. It’s turned into a political craphouse there, with republicans even going so far as to talk succession under the Coltumbia Party. Then there’s the monarchist vets looking to defend the Princesses. And then there’s the moderate crowd, trying to find some sort of compromise. It's a mess. I don’t think I’m going to go back to a Vet Hall for a while. Maybe things are less politically charged in Vanhoover. I picked up a nightjob as a clerk. It’s not much, but working a typewriter all night pays the bills that the Vets Bill won’t. I work with a few thestrals here, and they all look at me like I’m the odd one out which is ironic in a way. Its strange, I wasn’t in the service very long but -this- feels like the charade, like I’m just going through the motions. I’m hoping it goes away. I don’t like this unnatural feeling. This sensation that its all an act that I’m playing out. That being back to a normal life is just me waiting for the next big thing as I bounce from place to place. I don’t know anymore. I’d heard about Rikard Talony. I’m afraid that out here, there’s too much Daring Do loyalty to accept another action hero in ponies’ hearts. Besides, Hoofington doesn’t much like outsiders, so unless they do an Equestrian version, I don’t think they’ll be showing a Herzlander film. I’m interested, though. I have to come back to the continent one day, so maybe it’ll be in time to see any sequels that have come out, and there will be some. The papers are already saying Rikard Talony’s becoming popular enough on the screen that even nobles are asking for film viewings. Trust me, it’ll be big. Your mother wrote me again. Apparently, she’s noticed a change in you. She’s worried. I didn’t tell her what happened. Just talked about what you told me of Greifenmarsch. I don’t think she’ll be entirely convinced. Listen, I know you wanted to take it slow and not really look over where ‘we’ are, but I don’t know if we quite have the luxury of that. It’s been a few months by the time you get this letter. We don’t get face to face conversations to ask questions or talk things out. I’m not asking you to take me back, mind, body and soul after what I did. But I do miss telling you how much I wish you were here. I miss planning our dinner in Rottendedam. I miss thinking about where we’d go in the future. I miss you, Cyril. Even what we had, limited by letters, is so terribly important to me that without it I’ve been sad and lonely. I bucked up. I know that. But I want to make it up to you. Still Yours, -Paige (Inside the package with the letter is a pack of chocolates with a note reading “Happy Hearts and Hooves Day. You sent one last year, I felt it only right to get you one this year. ~Paige”) Sent March 17, 1010 Paige, They sent me back a few weeks ago. Our new posting is at a site known as Castle Krallestein, out here in Osnabeak. It’s an old castle whose family has died out, so the Empire is taking the estate and turning it into a military operations center. The 41st is part of the new military response force stationed here for the time being. The Empire’s looking to turn it into the most fortified site on Griffonia outside of the Imperial Palace. They’re talking about putting some top-secret work in here, so I can’t describe it much more than that, though something tells me I might not want to know. What I can say is that this garrison is enormous. The castle has its own dedicated security force, and on top of that there’s a Landwehr detachment manning the defense guns, the AA and emplaced artillery. Couple that with the panzers we’ve got, and it's looking like they’re shaping this place into a major hardpoint. But it's Osnabeak. That’s what confuses me. We’re right smack dab in the middle of friendly territory, days away from any hostile border. They’re talking about military and scientific minds coming together here. You mentioned somegriff named Daklaw I think. Is he an important scientist? Because I heard his name while we were setting up here. He’s apparently running the whole place now. Well, him and a bunch of military bigwigs like General Dawnclaw, General Silverplume and General Grimclaw, those sorts. They’re legends of the old guard here. Oh, I got promoted. Yeah. Me. Imagine that. Apparently for my work in Greifenmarsch I’ve been given the rank of Vise-Korporal and the Imperial Service Bar. It’s not much, just a junior rank up, a pay raise and a small decoration. But it means a lot to me. I’m here because of my father. It's good to see that I’m finally making him proud in the afterlife. Everygriff congratulated me. Sergeant Hellseig says I deserve it. Bluetalon broke out some of his contraband hooch for a toast. Even Grimquill was tolerable for a while. My kompanie decided to hold a small party. All a bit much for a Vise-Korporal promotion, but I suppose we need as much cheer as we can get. So, surprise of all surprises, we got a detachment of Knights in black armour from the east. And before you ask, not Longsword. These ‘Black Knights’ (suppose that explains the armor) wore the badge of Hellquill and some odd looking griffon head symbol with crosses on its sides. It seems Longsword and Hellquill put aside their differences and formed a union on the frontier. But it gets worse. They declared themselves to be part of something called the Integralists. They were formerly an order under the command of the Reformisten. Apparently, these jackasses took on the mantle of Blackloaks after they purged the ‘hardliners’ from their ranks. Now they’re all about spreading griffon culture to all races under the Empire. And here’s the kicker; they swear by ‘the Black King Wingfried.’ I don’t know what to think. I thought these murderers were gone, now I see what’s basically their next generation walking around Krallestein like they never abandoned the Empire. Nogriff’s happy to see them. Not us Panzerkorps or the grenadiers, not the security troopers, not Landwehr, not the other knights. It’s just a whole heap of bad news. Don’t worry about mother. We talked about this, remember? She’s not going to know about what happened. That’s best for everyone, trust me. As for you and me, well. I gave you a second chance, Paige. I’m not entirely comfortable talking about us as a couple again, not yet. I can’t stop you from wanting to discuss it. I want us to be together, I do. I miss talking to you about us too. You are one of my only real emotional outlets here. And I need that. I’m just not sure I can do it yet. I’m sorry. Sincerely, -Cyril P.S.: thanks for the chocolates. (A package attached to the envelope opens to reveal a small tin full of cookies. Inside is another note: “Pfeffernuesse from Sophie. She baked them while I was there. Mother insisted I send them along. I didn’t object too hard. -Cyril”) Sent April 1st, 1010 Dear Cyril, I sent a letter thanking your sister for the cookies. They were delicious. I looked up the recipe for pfefferneusse, and I’m impressed. She’s got a gift, for sure. The news about these Knights from a unified Hellquill really bothers me. You told me the Reformisten was purged. So why is Wingfried still alive? I know you’re not able to answer. But at least I can take heart that they’re still hated over there. Maybe it won’t be long before your Regency orders Hellquill be reclaimed. I’m sure you can understand why every Riverpony would want that. Just stay on your guard. If they learn you’ve been (several words are scratched out here) talking with a Riverpony, you might be in trouble. I don’t think the MfÖS would sell you out if they hadn’t by now. Having an uncle as a general has its perks, I guess. Do you mean Conrad Dawkclaw? He’s one of the greatest scientific minds in Griffonia! Do you mean to tell me he’s at the site you’re stationed? I know you can’t actually speak to him for me, but if you could at least tell if he’s on the verge of some breakthrough, and maybe I can eventually get an autograph? Congratulations on your promotion! First step is always the hardest. I told you that you had potential, and I’m glad to see somegriff else sees it too. You’re too hard on yourself Cyril. Remember, you wanted to go to school too? What kind of program for vets does Griffeinheim have? Speaking of school, finals are coming up again. I have now reached a happy medium. I feel appropriately confident and appropriately anxious at the same time. I joined a study group for advanced arcana, but I’m afraid I’m still struggling in advanced trigonometry. With everything that’s happened, I want to try to keep at least a B average (it's been a rough semester after all) but my trig score might drag me down. And I need trigonometry for my crystal work. Let’s see...okay, so you know I’ve been able to form energy crystals on my own with unicorn magic assisting me? Well, trigonometry is the math of measuring triangles, and essential to calculating striations and patterns in a crystal matrix. So I -need- this class to pass the higher levels of advanced theoretical arcana. Otherwise it's just going to be me suffering, and I’m already at a disadvantage. Everypony else in the class is a unicorn, so I’m kind of going in with half a deck here. So...wish me luck. Solid came back. Says he’s not doing well now and needs my help to pass exams. I sent that loser packing. Literally. I took everything he left in my lab and dumped it right on his desk. I don’t need a manipulator like that around who takes advantage of drunk mares. Small bit of revenge on my part. Maybe a bit on yours too. I told him to look up Griffonian honor. Went right over his head that ‘Griffonian honor’ means you get the right to shoot him on the spot for his attempt on...well, your woman. Anyway, I had a private laugh at that. It's fine if you don’t want to talk about us. I understand how awkward I’ve made things. Just know that, if and when you are, I’ll be here. Yours, -Paige Sent April 23rd, 1010 Dear Paige, Something is wrong. I can feel it. They issued new weapons today. An entire convoy brought dozens of crates down last night. Now the panzergrenadiers have been issued new rifles, (in technical terms, the Selbstlader M-09 “Gerund” battle rifle according to the labels and the officers) and new Krahe maschinenpistole. We were given the Krahe too, for all of us to have as crew weapons. Bluetalon stuck with his shotgun, but the rest of us now have new arms to take care of. So now I have a rapid fire assault weapon loaded into a rack next to my station and a pistol on my hip. Suppose those panzers we lost in Oldwingburg spooked High Kommand enough to try and change things. Good. At least good griffs died for something. Still, I don’t like it. New gear always means kommand is getting ready for something big. At least I get to go hit the range. That’s always fun. We’re also being brought up to full combat load. Maintenance is being prioritized, and the magazines opened to let us load live fire shells. I’ve seen the Knights and the Sturmtruppen carrying some kind of new rifle as well. Something that glows. But nogriff is allowed to talk about them, and I’m not allowed to get close. They’ve brought in some kind of new panzer as well. Not many. We’re told these are brand new, so they’re ‘support panzers’. The Arcturien Mkpfw I, designated the ‘Stahlschild.’ According to the briefs, it's supposed to be cheap and fast enough to keep up with us, but heavy enough to support the grenadiers in urban combat. The 41st has got maybe (the word here is clipped out) of them. All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not going to be fighting in towns if I can help it. Leave that to the Beaks and these new panzers. Don’t bring that unicorn up again, please. I’d rather just forget he exists. Unless you kicked the crap out of him, I don’t want to hear it. And I wouldn’t shoot him. Well (the next few words are scratched out). Maybe in the leg. You’ll get those exams. And the (several words are scratched out) trig stuff. I have (the word ‘faith’ is gently scratched out) confidence. You’re the smartest person I know, Paige. Pony or griffon. You’ve got this. Went on leave to Rottendedam this weekend. Out of all the cities in the Empire I’ve seen, Rottendedam has grown the most aside from Griffenheim. Streetcars, telephone cables, new housing at the harbor for all these creatures immigrating on the ‘Opendeurbelid Act’ (I picked up some Feathisian from a griff in the regiment. I’ve been practicing). And, wouldn’t you know it. Touring the city, I came right back to the harbor. And, I couldn’t help but go back. I know I said I wanted to leave aside all the talk about us, but I wanted to mention that I did go back. I found our table, overlooking the bay. There was a battleship there instead of a cruiser this time. I think it was the KMS Gabriela, but I’m not sure. I ordered beer and pretzels. Then I just watched the water the rest of the night, drinking and snacking. I’m glad the other griffs in the platoon went elsewhere. I don’t think I would have been the most polite of company. Just give me time. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent May 20th, 1010 Dear Cyril, I promise you won’t hear about Solid ever again. He’s gone, and after this semester even I won’t have to deal with him. Leg shots are perfectly fine. Encouraged, even. Thank you for you words. I always count yours as the most important for motivation. My father just goes on about me being gone and asking when I’m going to come back, and I feel like most of my subjects are a little too abstract for my mother. My brother is apparently in a Bakaran prison right now. I suppose that was inevitable. But their letters take even longer than yours. And you get what I’m talking about, at least in the general sense. I always keep your encouragement in mind when I’m studying. I like putting your medal where I can see it. Reminds me that what I’m doing is important. So many students here lack focus. But if I want to work in arcana, I need to learn more than anypony else, even unicorns. If the Empire is anything like Equestria, the new gear rolls out when action does. Sad fact of life. I’m just hoping you won’t need it. But given what’s happened in the past and where you are, I think we’re both kidding ourselves. You’re a good soldier, Cyril. I know you and your crew can get the job done. And, more importantly, come back alive. The election crisis goes on, if you must know. A crowd gathered in front of Hoofington City Hall, protesting against the princesses. Then a bunch of monarchists got into it with them. Then the police. Even the university can’t escape it, bunch of students yelling about topics like “freedom of vote”, “citizens’ rights” and “liberty”, acting like they’re so highly educated. We’ve even got communist supporters here on campus. I’m taking more and more of my weekends up north with Static. Sometimes, she comes to visit me. It’s helping out a lot to be with somepony that understands what we went through together. Says she sometimes misses the war, if you can believe it. Funny, some nights so do I. But she’s a welcome help. I never mentioned, but as a unicorn she can help me with my project again. Having to wait to only do it every weekend or so is grating, but I think it’s helped me focus. Helps keep me from getting distracted from work, studying. Static’s fun. I know I said we were good friends before, but now with us doing more together outside the Air Force, she’s lots of fun. Her radio show is called ‘No HS’, and it's a radio talk piece. She had to start doing ads in order to pay for the studio, but it lets her say her piece. Veteran radio is very much underrepresented, and she gets letters from all across Equestria to answer. If you can believe it, Vanhoover’s even more charged than Hooftington. Up north, it’s pretty heavily seated in the republican camp, even the socialist one. Static hates it, keeps talking about moving out. We’re thinking about getting a place together in Hoofington. Works out for both of us. About the Rottendedam thing, its okay if you went back. I wish I could go back to Manehattan, but that’s not possible over a weekend. I hope you saved some of those pretzels for me. There’s a naval base nearby called Fort Mourn. I visited there one time, watched the subhunters out on maneuvers. It wasn’t the same, but the salt air reminded me of Rottendedam. And you. Take whatever time you need. Given how long its been and how long we’ve got, best we have our heads straight as we can before we meet again. Stay Safe. Promise me. -Paige. Sent May 26th, 1010 Paige, It’s happened again. Word just came down. They’re sending us to the panzers. Negotiations broke down between the League and the Empire. There’s going to be no reintegration. It’s war. I’m already seeing the bombers flying south, poor bastards. We’re being mobilized, as well as the rest of the force stationed here in Krallestein. Word is that Uncle August has been given operational command again. We’re to head southeast starting tomorrow. The castle train depot can’t handle this many armored vehicles. We’ve orders to make for Reinsfeld in the morning, the closest city with a railhead that can accomodate us. Within a week we’re supposed to be at the front. We’ll be right into the fight. We’re ready. Or, that’s what we keep telling ourselves. This fight has been a long time coming. Hellseig’s not taking any chances. He’s got Bluetalon scrounging for whatever he can find to increase our odds. Zola’s got some new armor plating bolted on. Non-regulation of course, but if it keeps us alive, I’m not complaining. We moved everything we own into her. Your picture is back over my gunsight. The books you sent me are under my gunner’s seat. Your letters I keep in a satchel. It’s been six months. Time I set the record straight. We’re going to war. That changes things. I’m never going to forget what happened, Paige. But I think I’m ready to move on, and right now I don’t want any kind of bad air to remain between us. Keep in contact with mother and Sophie. You know how the mail gets. All kinds of snarled up in the rear lines. So I’m dropping this letter in the Castle mailbox now, before we go into the chaos. You likely won’t hear from me for some time. Keep up your studies. Good luck on your finals. Static is a good influence on you, let her help. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Yours (again), -Cyril (The following is an attachment, a secondary letter folded up into the envelope. The penmanship is neat, and the stationary reads as from the 8th Heer, Reichsarmee) To Miss Paige Turner, While we have never met or corresponded, I have kept a close watch on your words to my nephew, as part of the favor to my sister. I failed Cyril’s father, and the least I can do is make sure he stays as safe as he can. Know this; I have been monitoring your correspondence closely. I know what happened, and I have remained silent about it. But now Cyril goes to war, I feel the time is no better to send you a notice. If you betray him again before he dies, I will personally find you and make sure you atone for what you have done. I will bring you back to Griffenheim myself, and you can explain to his mother, face to beak. I will be watching. The censors will intervene again if I order it. Do not respond to this message. Say nothing to Cyril. -August Duskwing Sent June 12th, 1010 Dear Cyril, We always knew this could happen. I suppose I was getting hopeful it might not. Peaceful reintegration would mean I got to see you sooner, or at least increase my chances. I wish you the best as you go to war. Keep your head down, and return to us all safe. If we’re going to do this long distance relationship again, I feel we’re missing out on some things we’ve never discussed. Face to face couples have the chance to talk things out like we can’t, and we’ve been talking for years. Static recommended I try to start things back at the beginning (she says I have a habit of over complicating things) and honestly, I think something simple to focus on will help you, too. So, I ask you three questions about yourself, and then you ask me. Simple, right? Favorite color? Mine is purple. It’s an elegant color, really. I can’t get over it. Favorite music? While I will always love the string quartets back home in Rijekograd, I have grown attached to something out here called electronica. Simply put, it’s a type of synthetic music using various sounds effects. I like to listen to it while I work on my crystal with Static. Place you want to visit? Now I’m actually in Equestria, and given everything with us, I’m a bit drawn between Rottendedam and actually getting to that date we keep planning, and Griffenheim. You always talk so highly of it, and I didn’t see much when I took the train from the east. Everything’s normal out here again. Boring, really. Static came south to visit and we started looking into properties for rent. She’s looking to restart her radio station in Hoofington, thinks she’ll get better reception that way. I personally agree, though she might get fired up over the Coltumbia party here. Apparently, the oil magnate Rockefeller has been funding the republican party, and I don’t like how political she gets over this stuff. At least she’ll be well received in the Vet Halls. Finals week will be done and over with by the time you get this letter, and then that’s two years done for me. I’m hoping to get a bachelor’s soon, and then I can apply for a position at an arcane lab. That would be amazing to work in magic development while finishing up school. I want to aim for my doctorate, but that’s so far down the road. I decided to answer your sister with my own baking. It’s been years since I tried it, but I made some decent medenjaci for her. Static liked them so much, I had to make a whole new batch! Maybe I’ll get back into baking to pass the time between semesters when I’m not busy with work. I hope Sophie and Margot like them too. I’ve got your picture in a frame on my nightstand. I know if I leave it in my saddlebag, I’ll lose the stupid thing. I wouldn’t mind another when you can get the opportunity. I’ll try to be your source of normal while you go to the front. With everything that can happen out there, I know you need it. Come back to me, okay? One day. Yours (gladly), -Paige PS: you have a good family. They watch out for you. Sent June 29th, 1010 6/9/10 Dear Paige, Back to war as expected. It’s a lot like Greifenmarsch. The Holy League don’t have a lot of panzers, but they’re making up for it a lot better than the Peasants ever did. More professional troops, panzer-zerstörer guns and even the Knights of Arcturius. The 41st hasn’t gotten stuck in yet, but we’re following the advance towards Yale. I don’t feel bad about that part, because the Sturmtruppen assaulting Romau have got a rough one ahead of them. I’d rather head for Greenback personally, rather than take on the Archon’s own in another city fight. 6/14/10 Paige, The summer rains are on again. Trucks and tanks sometimes get bogged in the mud, but it’s not as bad as I expected. Better roads here, better fields. Yale’s rich, so they know how to handle infrastructure. We had a small scrap with some infantry. The Yale truppen scattered once the panzers took to the field, but a company from Angriever stood their ground, died to the last griff. Those griffons concern me. They’re supposed to be some of the Archon’s most loyal soldiers. How do you get fanatics to surrender when they consider you a heretic? Pushing southeast. The main fight’s still ahead of us. I’m okay with taking our time getting there. 6/21/10 Dear Paige, We keep pushing, and the League keeps pulling back. But not without cost. It’s a fighting withdrawal, we think. They can’t hold against us, so they fight long enough to stop us and then pull back. Lines of wounded Imperials heading back to the field hospitals. We passed by a kompanie from the 6th Panzer. They were pretty beaten up. Apparently they rolled right into an ambush with PzWs and landmines. Once they stopped to fight the infantry and clear the mines, the enemy pulled back and arty hammered them. We’re taking the 6th’s place for now. We’re not as armor heavy, no Beak’s and only a few Stahlschilds. Most of our force is Calicos like Zola, with some knights from the Order of the Carmine Shield. But if we keep the panzergrenadiers safe, they’ll handle the fights ahead of us. I keep thinking back to what you said about going to school. I know I told you that I would if time permits, but so far it’s been nothing but training, preparation to fight, and now actual war. My fear is that, if I do come back alive from this, it’ll be so late in my life when I’m able to go to school, won’t be a point. 6/24/10 Paige, We got into a scrap with the Yale troops we’re chasing. Turns out, they’ve got panzers after all. We engaged outside the town of Mortome. Yale troops barricaded the place with traitor Knights backing them up. The panzergrenadiers and Knights dismounted, and we moved to flush out the enemy when we start taking fire from the woods. Turns out, the local Yale forces dug them in, with logs to act like trenches. We lost three before we took out the enemy. Four Yale panzers, old Airbender models. But damn did they do damage. I got one. Felt good. Marked it on the turret. First panzer kill of my career. 6/28/10 Got your letter. Dunno when I’ll get another chance for a photo. I’d give my right arm for ‘boring’ though. It’s gotta be better than this crap. Whatever your finals, I know you did great. No other possibilities with you. Keep on pushing towards that degree. I know you’ll get there some day. I wouldn’t mind some baking. Sophie will love it. What is medenjaci, anyway? I’ve got the chance to answer your questions. Okay, favorite color: green. But dark green, like pine needles. Music: jazz, both high energy and blues. We’ve got new numbers on Reichsheer Radio every day, straight out of Griffenheim. It really took off a few years back, and I love it. Place to visit: Rottendedam for me too. Wouldn’t mind some more time at home with mother and Sophie. Hoofington would be worth it to see you there. Always wanted to visit Zebrica, explore the ‘mysterious dark south’. Maybe the Boer colonies, or the Zebrides. Okay, for you: favorite book? Gotta be ‘Daring Do and the Lost Valley’. Honestly, I’m all up for a good monster-killing story, so the one sells it for me with all the thunder lizards she runs into. Favorite food? I know ponies are a little limited. But I’m always a fan of a good schnitzel. And finally favorite flower? This one might surprise you, but I decided to think outside the box a little. I like Feathisian tulips. Ever since I visited Rottendedam and saw those gardens they have, it just got me. The petals, the smell. I wouldn’t mind a garden of my own wherever I settle down. We met the enemy again today, in full battle. A Feathisian regiment tried to dislodge them and wound up getting a bit fucked up, so we were sent to save them. The League griffs were dug into a series of trenches, with guns and knights defending them. I don’t know how long we slogged through that field, but I can see why we’re slowed so much. They used the same flying infantry firebomb tactic that the Peasants did. I was hoping that wouldn’t catch on, but now we’re calling them ‘Angriever cocktails’, so I suppose they’re becoming more known. From what I can tell by the uniforms, it was more Yale troopers backed by Angriever soldiers. I saw another uniform I didn’t recognize. It definitely wasn’t Imperial, but it had the pins stripped. These griffons didn’t want to be recognized. I don’t like that. 6th Panzer is moving up again. We’re following behind. Here’s hoping we just clean up whatever they leave for us. General Dawnfeather’s Sturmtruppen broke through the defensive ring, and are advancing towards Romau. We’ll likely have the city under siege soon. But 8th Army is continuing southwards, towards Greenback, and then Angriever. That’s the plan the officers keep spouting, at least. More news of the Black Knights. Apparently, King Wingfried is going to be decorated. Katerin troops tried pushing east into Longsword for a flank, and Hellquillian troops destroyed them, stopped cold. So word is he’s coming to Griffenheim. The whole thing flares my wings, it really does. Nogriff in the Reichsarmee trusts them. For good gods-damned reason. We’re winning, I think. The advance isn’t as fast as back in Greifenmarsch, but we -are- moving forward. Here’s hoping it doesn’t keep costing as much as it is for just scraps of land, though. Word back from mother. She’s concerned, of course. Not just for me. Apparently, the Katerin front has stalled out. She says a lot of griffons are talking about evacuating Griffenheim just in case, but the Regency keeps issuing statements that the Imperial Guard will never let the traitors have the city. Still. Griffenheim has been bombed a few times. I almost want mother and Sophie to get out. I’ve seen what happens when a city is bombed. But I don’t want to worry them anymore than they already are. There’s panic in the Imperial City. Militias are forming too. Word is, General Dawnclaw is on his way back with some of his Sturmtruppen. No chance any land force can take Griffenheim. But I don’t want to see what happens if they try. Uncle August will watch out for them. He’ll know better than I would if they need to go. Keep up your boring life. I need it right now to stay sane. Yours, -Cyril Sent July 22nd, 1010 Dear Cyril, Finals came and went. I think my head was somewhere else. It wasn’t hard, I just had trouble focusing. Summer vacation right now, and I don’t have much outside of work and my crystal project. All my friends from school are either at home or out on vacation. I’m starting to feel like I might be slightly boring. The newspapers are finally reporting on the war out there. They’re calling it the ‘Herzland War’. Plenty of journalists declaring it to be the ‘final gasps of a dying empire about to demolish itself.’ I hate the media out here. I told Static about what you said on the front, about the truth out there, and she said it over her radio show. She started getting hatemail for talking positively about the Empire. She can’t wait to move out of that place. I can’t believe they’re decorating that monster. I know I’ve been a bit quiet on your leadership, but this is seriously the most bucked up thing. He and his followers are responsible for a massive amount of pony suffering, but just because he comes back to the Empire declaring himself a changed griff, it's all supposed to be okay? I’m not okay with this, and I’m glad to hear the Imperial military isn’t either. (several words are furiously scratched out) I am glad to hear you and your crew are alright. Your experience in this war is so different compared to what I went through. The constant grind forward, stuck in the mud and struggling for every inch. Thank ‘Zola’ for keeping you alive. I wouldn’t ever consider myself aggressive under most means, but given the fact you’re stuck in against these guys, all I can say is keep knocking them down and keep your head in the panzer. I looked in an atlas at the Empire. You’re right, Katerin is rather close to Griffenheim. If the Princess’ forces were able to bomb it already, your mother might be right to try and get out. Though you’re right, your uncle would certainly keep her safe. I haven’t heard back from her or Sophie. I’m worried too, trust me. Medenjaci is a kind of honey spice cookie, or cake. Depends on what you use for the base and how large you make them. I like making cookies, though. Then you can scoop them up for a snack later. Static found a place, a nice cheap apartment near the campus. I know I get free university housing, but she can’t move out here without help, and I make enough bits to contribute. Plus, I can always apply for housing aid for educational purposes. We’re supposed to go through a series of meetings with officeponies to discuss rent, appeal for housing and other things tomorrow. Hooves crossed, right? Favorite book. You always have to pull a hard one, don’t you? Okay, I have to say my favorite book would have to be the ‘Senke nad Rijekom’ series (‘Shadows Over Rijekograd,’ but don’t let the name fool you). It’s a political thriller series about the tumultuous nature of Riverlands politics. It covers the formation of the River Coalition and the early years. There was a lot of backstabbing and border tensions in those days. We were so busy fighting each other, we almost fell apart again. It doesn’t paint a flattering picture of the Griffonian Empire either, which I kind of had to unlearn as I grew up. To us, the Empire is still the big scary boogeypony, even after it fell apart. But for the most part, the series is a good historical narrative. And, unfortunately, it also shows how our politics today became so messed up. Socialists, republicans, monarchists, all at each others’ throats. A pity we never learned from those days. Favorite food is definitely truffels over creamy pasta. It’s simply to die for, and I can never get enough. It’s expensive though, so I don’t get it very often. If you can order it sometime, do so. It speaks for itself. Favorite flower? You are weird, you know that? I’ve never thought about it. Purple anenome. My mother has a garden in the yard, and her favorite part of it is the Riverlands Purple Anenome in the center. They’re beautiful flowers. When I was a filly, I used to hide under the flowers in the garden, and I remember the Anenome smelled so nice. Maybe that’s why purple’s my favorite color? Suddenly, it's getting tough to come up with more questions. I suppose it's different through letters. Oh, here’s one; hobbies. You can’t be a soldier all day, right? What do you do when you’re not at “work” in your panzer? You know about me, with my novels. But I also used to do crafts. When I was a filly in school, I made little statues out of popsicle sticks and glitter. I used to do a bit of scrapbooking too. Then school kind of took over my life and I dropped it for a bit. Maybe I’ll pick it back up. Childhood. We haven’t mentioned much about when we were younger. I know you told me a little bit about growing up in Industrie, but do you have anything more than that? I was always the smart foal in school, like advanced smart, so I wound up moved forward two whole grades. Got a little awkward during physical education when I was flying with teenagers and I could barely flap my wings. My parents had to take that over for a while, so guess how many times I wound up throwing myself off the slide, the window, whatever high point I could find? I lost my baby teeth early, for certain. This one is Static’s suggestion. It’s going to be a bit hard for us both. What is your biggest fear? That one’s tough for me. Before the Crystal War, I used to be afraid of never being able to fly again. I love flying so much, I can’t ever imagine not being able to use my wings again and just stuck on the ground. But nowadays, I’m kind of perpetually afraid of losing you all over on Griffonia and I wouldn’t even know it until a month later. My parents, you, your mother, Sophie. Imagine if you thought everything was going fine until just one day a letter shows up and tells you they’ve all been gone and you never even would have known otherwise. Okay, that’s a grim way to end this. But Static says we need to get the tough ones out of the way first. So I’ll keep it in there. I’m watching the news as best I can. I know it's mostly shit, but I like to think it helps me keep track of you in between. There’s word of ‘scuffles’ in the Herzlands, but aside from them saying there’s action in Yale and Katerin, it's a bit vague. They mention the Battle of Ruhr River and the Katerin Siege like everypony’s supposed to know where that is. So keep writing me, Cyril. Because if you tell me what you’re doing, I can watch you. I’ve got Mortome pinned on my map. I know you left it behind already, but I just point an arrow at Greenback and hope. And maybe pray a little. Tell no one. I’ve got your notes, by the way. If you’re going to turn this into a workable log, they need to be preserved properly. So I’ll add your letters to them. We’ll have your autobiography a best seller in no time. A good, nice, long one. Now I think I’m looking for excuses not to end this letter. Let’s keep hoping this is it. That after this, the quiet we’re looking for lets us see each other. I know we’ve said that before. We need to keep saying it. Can’t lose hope. Yours, -Paige Author's Note 1010 is underway, and the Herzland Wars are on! Thank you guys for sticking with me thus far and your feedback thus far, I'm really pleased to have a fanbase (?) to inspire me. Also, for those of you who play the game, I am combining events from a submod I am part of called Project Tartarus, which looks to reform Wingfried and the Reformisten. If you notice any odd discrepancies, it is the unfortunate result of me attempting to merge old and new information together into a workable narrative, so I rely on your feeback even more to make sure I keep it flowing like its supposed to! Once again, like if you like, comment if you want, and follow if you want more! I've been overwhelmed by your guys' positive attention, and its the fuel that keeps me chugging! Anything that needs to be corrected will be, and I'm always up for discussions! See you guys later, enjoy now! Die Kleine SäuberungAuthor's Note A quick note to readers before you begin! Yes, I know this is another interlude, but two reasons for this break in pattern; 1) I've been extremely busy as of late, and my writing has been getting sloppy as a result, so a few of my readers came together and came up with a plot for this event, which 2) happens in between letters! Never fear, we will be returning to Paige and Cyril after this! Also, this chapter features many small twists introduced by the submod Operation: Tartarus. For those of you who play, and are now interested, don't hesitate to look it up! Many thanks to my beta readers Emperor Wingfried and Nagerleral, who fed me pieces from other writers as well as their own work to make this chapter possible while I was far too preoccupied myself! Die Kleine Säuberung July 1st, 1010 Rimau-Griffenheim Rail Line Leutnant-General Ferdinand Dawnclaw sat in one of the many seats of his personal train car, watching the countryside he knew so well roll by. From the windows of the train, he could see several of the small villages and hamlets that surrounded Griffenheim, the capital of the Griffonian Empire. And the seat of the Regency council. Dawnclaw frowned, and put his right talon on his forehead in a thinking pose. The Regency Council. He snorted. The damn nobles couldn’t keep the Empire together the first time, and what did that cause, in 978? Now everygriff was wondering what had gone wrong when the war with Greifenmarschen and now with the Holy League happened. He knew what had happened both times, of course. The Revolution. He was still a teenage griffon back then, a sick albino trying to figure out his place in the world. Waiting to be ordained as a priest for the Church of Arcturius – it was position he would have gone into if wasn’t for what…happened. He respected Archon Proteus, and he still did, even with the war against the Holy League. Kemerskai, that damned traitor (along with the Nobles and the other Archons) was probably one of the biggest causes of all the poverty, conflict and misery Griffonia suffered today. Perhaps it was a calling, he thought. That all the death, destruction and battles of the Revolution was the motivation that made him leave his Arcturian priesthood training and instead join the Reichsarmee. On the other claw, the consequences of the war against the Holy League he could hear right now, see right now. The sounds of the train masked them somewhat, but it was hard to ignore the fighter planes in the sky, patrolling for any Holy League aircraft. There were also several small craters near the railway line, and he could even see a destroyed house. To the south, he knew lines of wounded griffons were being rushed to field hospitals, wings broken, bleeding out. Many would not last the night. Dawnclaw once again snorted. Griffons were dying, on the field and in the cities, because the Nobles and the Archons couldn’t keep the Empire together, instead engaging in petty fighting for what remained of it. Then, he made his decision. No more. If it was necessary for a third party to step in with force to save the Empire, he was determined to do it. Ferdinand stood up from his seat, and opened the door that led to the rest of the train, to the car that held most of his most loyal guards and officers. July 13th, 1010 Griffenheim, the Imperial Palace “Where is Grover?” Gabriela’s face screwed up, clearing her throat as she and her husband descended the stairs. The air in the palace could not be any different to that fateful night he proposed. The plush carpeting under their talons and paws muffled their steps, and the stone walls were alight with electric lamps displaying the ancient tapestries, paintings and portraits of kaisers, nobles, archons and various scenes of glory and wondrous landscapes. The palace was looking much better under her care (their care, she reminded herself for the hundredth time) and she noticed both its defenders and its staff moved with more defined purpose these days, motivated by the Empire’s resurgence. Well, more motivated than some. “He didn’t feel like coming out. This time, I let him stay,” she replied, turning down the hall that would lead them to the Council Chamber, four Knights from the Ducal Guard falling in on all corners for their protection. Before she could proceed, a claw gently took her shoulder, pulling her to a halt. She knew what she would find behind her, and was not surprised to see Gerlach watching her carefully, an eyebrow raised. She huffed in irritation. “Do you find something interesting, Husband?” “Only that you would allow our young charge to duck out on this. You normally ignore his reluctance and seat him on the throne for all occasions. What was it you said…’getting him used to unpleasant tasks?’” “Don’t try me, Gerlach. I’m not in the mood.” He blinked in surprise. “You’re really bothered about this.” “You’re not?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought one as bound to the laws of chivalry as you would be -deeply- disturbed by what the Reformisten has done.” “I never said I wasn’t,” he countered, glancing over one armored shoulder at a group of ministers passing on the level below, chatting quietly having not noticed the Regents above them. His wings flared slightly, and she realized his anxiety existed, but was buried deep. That armor, she’d learned, wasn’t just physical. Once the ministers were gone, he took a deep breath, his wings settling against his back once more. “But whatever the reasoning, Conrad Silvertalon mended ranks with them willingly. And we know how hard he and the soldiers of Longsword fought to bring down Pallas.” Count Pallas Dusktalon had ruled the Longsword territories for some time, and had taken the worst aspects of the Reformisten ideology to heart, committing crimes not even Hellquill would resort to, sanctioning actual genocide in their attempts to stamp out the ponies of the Griffking Basin area. When he had ordered one too many purges, both the regular army and a socialist uprising took him down, and the civil war had not been pretty by all accounts. The Count’s fate had been to rot in the custody of his own army before they escorted him north to face the same knightley Grandmaster he had claimed to serve, only to be sentenced with a summary rifle volley. “That doesn’t mean anything. Wingfried could have forced him with military intimidation.” “Did you ever -meet- Silvertalon? The griff could take a bullet and not blink. Besides, he -handed- Pallas back to Wingfried, and they shot him. There’s something else going on here, Gabriela. Why else would Grandmaster Cyrod step back?” Urlach ap Cyrod, an infamous traditionalist and Empire supporter, had taken over when Siegfried Trappenfeld had retired from the position of Grandmaster, ruling over the knights of the northeast frontier. It had been his decision to start hunting down the Blackcloaks of the Reformisten, though it appears that Wingfried had convinced the Grandmaster to integrate the moderates, and to also make the unified territory formally known as ‘Hellsword’ out of the frontier on the Riverlands border. Gabriela scoffed. “Just because Silvertalon and Cyrod follow him doesn’t mean he’s suddenly a saint,” she hissed. “You honestly expect me to believe he had no idea his griffs were murdering thousands in the foothills? Ponies or griffons, makes no difference in the end. Butchers are butchers. Even if he never ordered the purges, he had to know it was happening. And I will -not- expose Grover to such a griffon who stands by and lets his soldiers commit such atrocities.” “Speaking of committing atrocities,” said a nearby voice, much deeper than Gerlach’s. The two turned to see Captain Benito standing there patiently, his white armored helm held calmly under one arm. Descended from Bronze dogs who had settled up north, Benito was the commander of the Barkginian Guard, the Kaiser’s personal bodyguards. Considered the best soldiers in the Empire, they had guarded Grover V with their lives, averting several assassination attempts and Republican agents. In the end, the one enemy they could not fight had taken the Kaiser, a black day for the Guard. Benito shifted, his armor clattering quietly. The Captain of the Guard was accustomed to their outbursts, but today of all days, he was visibly uneasy. “Your Graces, if you continue to argue out here on the steps, I may need to set up a perimeter, lest our guests think a brawl has broken out.” Then again, Captain Benito certainly had no reservations speaking his mind. Loyal as he was, he considered it his duty to make sure his charges didn’t embarrass themselves. For this reason only, he had made his opinion known to every noble around Kaiser Grover V, including some high ranking generals. He glanced between the two of them, his annoyance and disappointment written across his muzzle. “Watch yourself, Captain. You still speak to your Regents,” Gabriela said curtly, but they all knew it was with little heat. Out here in the open, if she was seen openly taking criticism from a mere Captain, even the Kaiser’s bodyguard, it would do poorly for her image. So regardless of Benito’s job, she had to audibly rebuke him. Benito rolled his eyes but simply came to attention, nodding crisply. “Yes, milady. I merely came to inform you, Your Graces, that your guests are arriving, as has the Regency Council. They are awaiting you in the Chamber.” “Our thanks, Captain,” Gerlach replied smoothly, gently taking his wife by the shoulder. “I assume you are taking up your post?” “My place is with the Kaiser as always, Your Grand Grace,” Benito replied matter of factly, as if there could be no other truth. “But I must warn you...General Dawnclaw has also arrived. He’s already gotten into an argument with General Speer.” Gabriela grimaced anew. “What does he want? Bad enough he’s got his gas mask goons stamping around, now he has to pick fights?” “He insists on being in the Chamber, for security. He feels we need to keep a close eye on Wingfried.” “He’s not the only one,” she muttered, and they both caught on to her double meaning. As if summoned by the conversation, a pair of Stormtroopers from Dawnclaw’s detachment strolled down the hall below them silently. They were dressed as other Sturmdivisione soldiers were, clad in dark blue trench coats, black helms and gas masks, but those who had come with Dawnclaw felt less like Imperial soldiers, and more like the General’s own. They were spread around the palace, and at first the Nobles had been glad for the extra protection after the scare of the Katerin bombers. Gabriela hadn’t been worried herself, but the rest of the Council had panicked, and insisted Dawnclaw stay with his griffs, despite the need for troops on the League Front to the south. That had been days ago, and every time the Regents saw these soldiers or the General, they regretted it more and more. The two Stormtroopers strolled (almost stalked really) by, never deviating or looking around, though with those masks you never knew. As soon as they were out of sight, Benito sighed, shaking his head. “Personally, I say let him go back with his truppen. Let them keep fighting for Romau, do something useful.” “Hang on now,” Gerlach intervened. “What, are we going to start keeping generals out of the Chamber now? The Kaiser’s already absent, we can’t just tell military commanders to leave because they’re unpleasant.” “No, we’re going to keep Dawnclaw out because he’s a tax-evader, a political meddler, definitely an Archon supporter, -and- a generally very unpleasant griff.” Leutnant-General Dawnclaw represented a lot of things wrong with the Imperial General Staff. As well as being corrupt, tied to politics and blatantly disrespectful of the Council, he had arisen to Oberst-Leutnant via suspicious circumstances in 1004, when he had been ‘battlefield promoted’ during a skirmish with Republican troops. Seeing as how the commander who had awarded him said promotion had turned up dead in the snow before anygriff could confirm, many remained suspicious of the true circumstances of that day. As such, his subsequent climb up the ladder to general the past six years had been watched with suspicion, and had not turned up good news. Not to mention, the griff was an albino, and always seemed to wear a smirk that caused discomfort to many around him. Many of the rumors surrounding him may have only been that, rumors, but his blatant gathering of toadie officers, personal wealth, and loyal soldiers were certainly enough for MfÖS to label him a significant risk. Gerlach sighed, relenting to the point. Nogriff liked Dawnclaw, to an even greater degree than Wingfried, who at least had a cause other than personal power. “Fine. We’ll dismiss Dawnclaw. He goes back to the front today. I don’t think even Katerin is crazy enough to sacrifice more troops for Griffenheim anyways.” The Council Chamber was circular in construction, with benches reaching high into the far corners, wrapping around in two half-moons to ring around the podiums in the center, where the speakers would debate or present topics of national interest. Three thrones were set at the head of the Chamber, one taller than the other two, which were moderate and humble and had been moved forward to a lower step than the Kaiser’s seat. The room was massive, partially to allow anxious griffs to take flight when agitated but also to accommodate the titanic size of the Regency Council, which in its day had sized almost a thousand nobles, ministers and clergygriffs. While today that number only reached six-hundred, it had been padded by the agreement to let influential commoners into the Regency as well. Wealthy business leaders, political advocates and those members of certain government offices who, despite their work, were denied from the vote for their common blood. These were the best in their fields of politics and economics, and while many of them were from well-off families, the fact that they had not been part of the Old Guard as it were had meant they were long closed off despite their wealth and influence. No longer. Griffons, dogs, ponies, who would they let in next was the question whispered behind corners. Commoners now. Military next? Minotaurs? Zebras? The chatter went on and on. As the two Regents entered the chamber, buzzing and full of the low energy of hundreds of creatures conversing, they were met by two griffons quietly discussing something near the entrance. Both looked up immediately as the Regents and their guards entered, glancing to each other once they saw who had come in. They were familiar to the Grand Duke and Duchess of course. Major-General Cornello Galluzzo was commander of the Imperial Spezial Kommando Korps, and was in charge of developing a symmetric and atypical warfare with the Reich Militärakadamie in Vinnin and the Reichsarmee training grounds in Crona. While others on the general staff had scoffed had his theories and methods, Galluzzo’s work reforming the Gebirgsjager was legendary, and had gained him the support of influential commanders such as General Silverplume. With the backing he’d received, he was now pioneering tactics in amphibious warfare and what he called “aerial insertion” tactics. Hard, stoic and not given to kowtowing to anyone, Galluzzo had the attitude of a grizzled outdoorsgriff more than a hard-willed Kommando officer. His companion was Ela Grimwing. Unlike Galluzzo, with his cap and pins and clearly military demeanor, she had no sign of her true station. She wore a simple suit, dark brown with a red shirt, a pair of goggles strapped to her forehead as if she’d forgotten they were there. When she spoke, it was often at high speed and energy, with smiles and laughter sprinkled in. But her appearance was a deception. This was the head of the Ministrierium für Öffentliche Sicherheit, the Empire’s espionage center and secret police established by the Regency to keep order across the Empire. Everygriff knew who they were, and feared their agents. They censored letters, gathered intelligence on enemy activity and (most terrifyingly of all) kept tabs on ‘citizens of interest’. Both Gabriela and Gerlach had learned that meant a wide array of details, and methods to control those griffons under observation. For example, General Anicetus Mudbeak, the commander of the Imperial Guard, was a good, loyal soldier. But the unfortunate combination of a disappointing career and an opium addiction picked up after sustaining injuries during the Revolution in 978 had turned him into a nervous, depressed wreck. While his military skills were still intact, he avoided other griffons like the plague, and it was obvious he was waiting to retire so he could disappear from society. Grimwing’s solution to securing his loyalty? Quietly slip him packets of opium to keep his addiction under control, thus ensuring nogriff could persuade him away with drugs. Galluzzo glanced back to Grimwing before bowing to the Regents. “Your Graces,” he said stiffly before he rose, adjusting the beret he wore. Knowing he was a griff of few words, and clearly seeing he was trying to leave respectfully, Gerlach nodded in reply, allowing the general his leave. They'd find out just what the disagreement was about later. Grimwing, meanwhile, simply beamed at Gabriela, executing a short and rather sloppy bow before she excitedly launched into her statement. “My Lady, you’re going to love what I’ve been digging up!” Given that Gabriela Eagleclaw and Ela Grimwing were thick as thieves, it was little surprise that the Duchess grinned back, setting a claw on Grimwing’s shoulder to calm the secret agency chief. “Is it urgent, or can it wait until after the ceremony?” Grimwing’s faced screwed up in thought for a moment before she simply shrugged. “Well, I’ve been doing digging mostly on Wingfried and his officers. So its relevant. But I also have stuff on Dawnclaw, Duskwing and a few tips from out of the Riverlands.” This perked up both Gabriela and Gerlach. Not one given to intimidation and force, Gerlach relied on a quiet network of merchants, traders, ship captains and travellers to get his information from abroad, so whatever Gabriela’s methods turned up were always laid over the data he’d acquired, however distasteful he found the methods used. Gerlach nodded. “I think we have time for the first one. Seeing how we’ll be giving him a medal and all.” Gabriela shot him a venomous glare, and he shrugged. She had to get over this, honestly. Grimwing didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice. “Okay, so Archon Hephaestus mentioned to me that Wingfried and the Reformisten had a shady past not too long ago during one of our talks.” That, of course, was code for her grilling the poor griff to get incriminating information out of him. Puppet or no, the Archon of Eyr they had elevated had still enjoyed a good relationship with the other Archons and the rest of they clergy before half of them had turned traitor and gone south with the Holy League. This meant Hephaestus I, Archon of Eyr, had been forced to work twice as hard to ensure his innocence was believed. “So I started looking into what Wingfrid was doing -after- he took power. Everygriff focuses on what he was doing before. And you know what? Turns out -he- was the one who convinced Silvertalon and Cyrod to purge the Blackcloaks.” “So the leader of the Reformisten decided it was time to smash the bad eggs,” Gerlach noted quietly, eyes on the crowd as they continued filtering in and filling the stands. Not long now. They had to speed this up. He made a claw gesture, and fortunately Grimwing caught on. “So, ever since then Hellquill was focused on building the Frontier to both resist eastern attack and set up for settlers to move into towns. Apparently, Wingfried starts arguing with Grandmaster Cyrod about pony rights and this new “Integralist” idea. Thing is, anygriff in his ranks disagrees, they wind up having a small ‘accident’ or disappearing. So something changed his mentality compared to what we’ve seen the past few years. A lot of griffs think Hellquill is bound for civil war too. Then, Silvertalon hands Palles over to them. After its all said and done, they welcome the general in as a war hero. Talks move to integration. Thing is, none of them can agree on what to do, they’re all so different in the mentality. But eventually, Silvertalon and Wingfried convince Cyrod that protecting Griffonian culture is the most important thing at all cost. Apparently, they found a few ponies that assimilated so well, you wouldn’t even know they weren’t griffons.” “To the point, Grimwing,” Gabriela stated, realizing the time limitation as well. They both looked to where the stands were now beginning to fill with ministers and representatives. At this point, they were beginning to draw eyes. “Right, the point,” Grimwing concluded, claws raised. “From what my agents tell me, and believe me they worked HARD to get this. You can’t bribe those Hellquill guys for some reason...anyway, -something- happened to change Wingfried’s whole mentality. How else do you go from the second-string leader of an extremist movement to suddenly purging your organization -of those- extremists and becoming king of the east?” “That’s all you’ve got? That -something- has changed?” Gabriela gawked, not quite understanding how her chief of intelligence had led them down this path just to end in such an anti-climax. Grimwing pondered, then shrugged, looking unsure. Gerlach sighed, taking Gabriela’s shoulder and tugging her forward so the speaker of the Council could announce their entrance. “We might be missing something in the context of the rest of your information. We’ll listen to the rest of it after this, alright?” “But what about Dawnclaw?” Grimwing asked, looking a bit concerned as her Regents moved towards their seats. “Please, knowing him he’s probably sulking on his train all the way back to Rimau by now. Dawnclaw’s the army’s problem now.” The Imperial Guardsgriff unfortunate enough to be posted defending the palace armory lay to the side, his throat sliced with such precision and savage strength that he was nearly decapitated. His partner lay further down the hall, her neck snapped and twisted. Capable and loyal they may have been, they were no comparison to battle-hardened veterans. There should have been double the number of guards here, but the other two had been pulled to keep watch on the Council Chamber and the treacherous Reformisten within. A mistake they’d surely pay for. The armory door lay open, and inside came the sounds of cabinets and crates being wrenched open, ammunition spilling out and metal sliding smoothly on metal. They weren’t taking any chances. Machine guns, shotguns and SMGs were quickly being handed out, loaded swiftly and then passed back down the line, stick grenades taken up and tucked into satchels, pistols in holsters, battle rifles loaded and tipped with bayonets. When they had first arrived, they’d been forced to give up their heavier armaments in the interest of ‘security’. But now, they’d get this one single chance to strike, and they were seizing it with both claws. “Sir,” says one to him quietly. “We just got word. The Kaiser’s not in the Council Chamber.” “Dammit,” the leader grunts, glancing around. “Dammit! Gods-dammit! We need to do this -now-.” “Sir, strike teams are moving into position. Should I recall-” “Absolutely not. Split off killteams. We’ll search every inch of this palace if we have to, but we need to act fast. Clear the halls. Once the first shots are fired, they’ll seal him up in the most fortified bunker they’ve got and wait us out after.” “But sir, to search the whole palace we’ll need to split the strike force almost in half.” “Please, Major. I think we’re more than ready to deal with a few Guardsgriffs.” The leader hefted another piece from the weapon rack. It was large, inelegant and heavy. It wasn’t ideal, but he’d have armored soldiers to deal with. He grabbed a belt of rounds, feeding them into the machine gun. “Give me two. I’ll take the Kaiser’s room.” “Aye, sir.” Gerlach and Gabriela seated themselves in their Regency thrones. In normal times, after Grover took the throne, these would be removed and they would take their seats in the Council as the rulers of Feathisia and Strawberry respectively. But now, they were above the Regency, at the head of the room. For the next decade, that is. Many Regents had attempted to hold onto their power once their Emperor came of age, some more successful than others. The fact that the Grover line remained unbroken spoke of how those attempts had fared. Gerlach glanced to Gabriela, who smiled back before the two faced forward, faces set and ready. All eyes in the Chamber were focused on them, but Gerlach took note of his surroundings. The light filtering in through the stained glass window behind him, the empty podiums, the sea of faces before him, the Knights of the Order of the White Lion standing sentry at all entrances, their faces obscured by their leonine helms. They’d been here dozens of times, and yet being sat in front of all these griffs intimidated him far more than consulting his own Parliament in Feathisia ever had. Gabriela was more comfortable in these circumstances, she’d practically grown up in the palace with Grover V. Fortunately, his reputation for silent fairness came in handy here, and he largely let her handle the talking most days. To prove his silent point, Gabriela straightened up. The small gesture may not have meant much, but any buzz in the crowd that remained died as she gathered herself to speak. She did indeed have quite a presence in a room. “Send them in,” she called out simply. A moment later, and the doors at the end of the chamber opened, admitting a squad of Imperial Guardsgriffs, their spiked black pickelhaube shining in the chamber’s light, their Specht guns held at the ready as they cleared the room for a moment, parting to allow their charges in. Behind them came a smaller party than Gerlach was expecting, only three individuals surrounded by four personnel in black uniforms. The armed guards and guests had been stripped of everything save their pistols, and all they had left afterwards was their black uniforms. Of true interest, especially to Gerlach, was that two of these soldiers were of all things unicorn ponies, one a mare, her coat a mint green and an Imperial C78 holstered at her belt and the other a stallion with a coat black as his uniform. Wingfried held the center of course, the Black King of the East as they were calling him. His face was stoic, hardly a feather out of place as he approached, eyes locked dead on the Duke and Duchess ahead as he stepped around the podium towards the chairs that had been left for him. Beside him was Conrad Silvertalon, the Hero of Longsword. His scarred visage suggested a long life of war and strife. Though expressionless, Silvertalon proved not quite as unflappable, eyes moving and head tilting slightly to take in the grandeur of the chamber. His cap still bore the rose of the Longswordian Army, though his grey uniform had been handed in for a black one with appropriate pins and insignias. On Wingfried’s other side was a white griffon that Gerlach didn’t quite recognize, with purple plumage, and red eyes that hinted at some far deeper purpose than suggested. Most disconcerting of all, upon closer inspection Gerlach realized that the white griffon had something even more disturbing. He lacked any wings! He looked to Gabriela, who seemed nonplussed by the deformity. Perhaps Gerlach was getting too ahead of himself. Rumors of those unfortunate to be born as demigryphs persisted, but it was fairly uncommon, almost to the point of it being an old wives’ tale. Still, perhaps this griff only suffered an unfortunate accident, was all. The trio moved to the chairs set out for them before the Duke and Duchess as their guards took up position behind them, all looking to the two Regents. Gerlach, upon realizing his wife was content to leave their guests standing, gestured with a claw for them to sit. The three Reformisten officials did so without preamble, watching the thrones quietly. The chamber was now silent as a tomb, as everygriff, pony and dog watched carefully, those in the front leaning as far as they could forward and those in back standing to get the best angle, a few anxious wings flaring but not daring to take off. “King Wingfried von Katerinburg,” Gabriela started, folding her claws before her. “You have been asked to this Council to be congratulated for the valor you and your soldiers have shown in meeting the Holy League on the field of battle. For your stalwart efforts, we thank you.” Wingfried nodded, his head descending to his chest before returning. “I am honored. Thank -you-, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice low and smooth, not what was expected of a frontier dictator. “In particular, you yourself were personally mentioned many times participating in the field of battle. I believe there was one about using a satchel charge on a Katerin panzer?” “We were hard pressed, Your Grace. As you know, the Reformisten does not possess our own panzerkorps. My knights were forced to give ground under assault. I was simply doing what had to be done. Lacking Imperial resources, we had to rely on our skill at arms instead.” Gabriela twitched, her talons tightening. Gerlach recognized the slight as well as she had. A subtle point to the Black King. “Well,” the Duchess continued, her voice only just strained a hair above normal. “A true testament to your fighting prowess then. And we are here to show our appreciation.” “Is that so, Your Grace?” Wingfried asked, an eyebrow moving a centimeter up. “Then why does this feel more like a trial than an award ceremony?” Straight to the point, Gerlach mused. Wingfried didn’t have the markings of a true political animal anyway, and bandying around was likely not his way. He decided to take a risk and defuse this potential situation before it got out of claw. Immediately, all the Reformisten officers turned to look at him, and he once more found himself looking into the demigryph’s unnatural red eyes. Lucky him, he’d prepared for that, and his experience in politics came back to him once more. “We’re trying to get a better measure of you, Lord Wingfried. You do carry a reputation, after all.” “King. Wingfried,” the demigryph corrected coolly. “He -was- coronated as one, after all.” Gerlach raised an eyebrow, considering the white-feathered griff carefully, inspecting as best he could. He’d always considered himself a good judge of character, able to spot telling characteristics from a single glance. It had helped him in being a Regent, since he had to be the more approachable half of the two where Gabriela was firm and uncompromising. This white griffon gave him the same chills that General Dawnclaw did, while those eyes told of the same hidden intelligence as Grimwing. But the unnatural air didn’t stop there. He swore he could almost taste arcane power in the air, something he’d picked up from meeting unicorns from the west. “And you are?” Gabriela asked, her voice curt and her body tense, one claw on her armrest, talons dug into the wood with her firm grip. Her smile was all superficial, and she stared at the demigryph with the air of one sizing up a target for a strike. “Grand Inquisitor Erlinger,” Wingfried stated. “My trusted head of internal security. Without him, we would not have been nearly so successful hunting down our Blackcloak problem.” “Well,” Gerlach cut in smoothly. “Herr Inquisitor. We are of course glad to have an Imperial territory such as Hellsword return to us. The loss of the frontier was a tragic one.” “And should never have occurred,” Erlinger agreed, nodding. “It was a short-sighted error in judgement that we have come to atone for.” “And we appreciate such loyalty,” Gerlach responded. Gabriela herself nodded, her intense expression still etched across her face as she continued glancing between the three. On that, Gerlach and Gabriela could both agree on. With so many provinces rebelling and split away, those that willingly returned were rare and certainly could not be turned away, making this current situation even more complicated. “We are merely making sure that what we get is the genuine article. With all the news from the east, you cannot blame our caution.” “If you mistrust our loyalty, need I only state that we came to you, Your Grace,” Wingfried stated. “If you mistrust our motivations, I only need to indicate our thorough purges and how we dealt with the Count. He and several officers in Longsword took our dedication to protecting griffon culture too far. Fortunately, they are now dead, as they deserve.” “So that’s your reasoning?” Gabriela scoffed, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Your followers and confederates took it too far? Not you?” “Well Your Grace...aside from a Count having far more political sway than a knight, there’s a bit more to it than just a change of heart,” Wingfried replied. Gerlach could have sworn he saw the smallest of smiles on his beak. Before Wingfried could go into the details of his miraculous transformation, the double doors leading into the chamber flew open, drawing dozens of eyes at the sound, including Gerlach and Gabriela’s. The Regency was in session, only the most critical of news was supposed to allow interruption. But the Imperial Guardsgriffs outside the doors were supposed to halt any intrusions. None of these were happening. Instead, griffons in blue trenchcoats and gasmasks, wielding battle rifles, SMGs and machine guns charged in. Over their heads, Gerlach could not see any Guards attempting to stop them. Something was wrong. “Get down!” he ordered, throwing himself over at Gabriela. As he did this, the side entrances flew open as well, and as the Knights posted there moved to intercept whoever had rudely entered, gunshots rang out. Knights and Guardsgriffs died where they stood, only a few able to retaliate in surprise. The entire exchange only lasted a split second. One Stormtrooper officer blew a Guardsgriff’s head off with his pistol before pointing towards the thrones. “There! Kill them!” Pandemonium broke out in the Council Chamber. Griffons either fled from the armed troopers or tried to force their way past to the doors. Those unfortunate enough to get in the way of a Stormtrooper were swiftly cut down by barking rifles and the rat-tat-tat of automatic weapons. The Guards and Knights remaining finally responded, attempting to fire back but blocked several times by the fleeing crowd. A bullet rang off Gerlach’s plate, and he knew that if he had not thrown himself in front of his wife, the round would have ended her life. He shielded her as best he could, looking down at her face in concern. Like always, she was immediately over her fear and shock, instead trying to peer past his arm to gauge the situation. “Are you alright?” he asked, half-yelling over the chaos of screaming and gunfire behind him. She nodded, frowning as she heard more bullets ricocheting off the Grand Duke’s plate armor. “Get us to cover, you oaf!” she snapped. “You’re not invincible!” He pulled her over behind the throne as more pullets chased after them. The Council Chamber had turned into a battlefield, the bodies of dead Councilors, Guards, Knights and Stormtroopers littering the floor, splinters and chunks of wood everywhere in splashed puddles of blood on both hardwood floor and elegant rug. “It must be Wingfried!” she hollered. “That treacherous snake!” “While he’s in the line of fire? I don’t think so!” Gerlach yelled back. “Those are Dawnclaw’s griffs!” “Isn’t he supposed to be gone?” “I suppose he decided to stick around!” the Grand Duke snarked back. He reached under Gabriela’s throne, tearing up the secret compartment she had installed and pulling out the twin P01 pistols, checking both chambers to ensure they were loaded before handing her one and peeking out with the other. Before he could act, a Dawnclaw Stormtrooper, this one an officer by his peaked cap and major’s pins, looked over in his direction and spotted him, calling for his soldiers as he raised his Gerund rifle. Gerlach ducked only just in time, hearing the first shot blast through the wood of the seat before the second buzzed by. PING! The Gerund rifle had a unique en-bloc clip system, where when the last shot in the eight round capacity was fired, it ejected the clip up into the air. This sound was infamously tied to the rifle, and Gerlach’s ears perked up immediately upon realizing the Stormtrooper officer had just fired his last shot. Gerlach was up on his feet immediately, leveling his pistol to bring the cursing major in his sights when the griff’s head suddenly exploded in a spray of blood and brain matter, falling to the floor. Gerlach blinked, unsure of what had just happened before Wingfried stepped into his view, brandishing an older C78 pistol, the infamous broomhandle weapon. The would-be assassin dealt with, the Black King approached the huddling Regents, gesturing a few Imperial Guardsgriffs over. “Your Grace! You are unharmed?” “For now!” Gerlach replied. Now able to get a free shot, Gabriela rose up next to him, squeezing off careful pairs as if she were back on the range. She’d always put in more pistol time than he had, and right now the Grand Duke was pleased for it. “Where is Kaiser Grover?” Wingfried demanded over the noise. Gabriela visibly flinched. “His room!” Gerlach shook a claw to reassure her, firing a round into the scuffle, more to do something than because he thought he could hit something. “Benito would never let anything happen to him! We have time!” A grenade detonated nearby, sending several Guardsgriffs and a Knight flying. “Less every second!” Wingfried called back. “Come! We must find him!” If the Council Chamber had turned into a battlefield, the halls had become a close quarters nightmare. Spread out as they’d been, the skirmishes that broke out between the Loyalist forces and Dawnclaw’s troops were in isolated pockets, individual struggles to take and hold a part of the palace. A shootout would be won, only for the victors to be gunned down by another group from their own battle. Order had broken down. But it wasn't a complete disaster for the Loyalists. They had secured both the entrance hall and Grand ballroom as well as another palace arsenal, handing out their own heavy weapons. Now it was a matter of maneuver and attrition, Knights swamping through storms of fire to close with entrenched Stormtroopers, Imperial Guardsgriffs clustering around choke points to hold safe passages for evac and Dawnclaw’s griffs resorting to using explosives to close off hallways as they tried to form a working perimeter. Having emerged from the corpse-strewn Council Chamber, Gerlach and Gabriela, now joined by their bodyguards, moved into the hallway towards the Grand staircase, only to run into a barricade made from tipped over furniture, Guardsgriffs firing up at the next landing. With them was General Anicetus Mudbeak, normally a wreck of a griff, firing his weapon blindly while howling out orders. Beside him were General Silvertalon, snapping off precision shots with a Gerund battle rifle, Ela Grimwing with a Krahe SMG and Grand Inquisitor Erlinger, who held a C78 but appeared to not be using it. Instead, as the Regents approached, his red eyes glowed crimson, and two Stormtroopers on the landing above were surrounded by a similarly colored aura. Their rifles snapped up and they lurched towards each other, firing at the same time and blowing each other away. “What are you, a mage?” Gerlach yelled over the storm, his face in awe. Griffon magic was long proven impossible, a part of nature inaccessible to the race as a whole aside from the enchanters who used captured magic energy to work their craft. But Erlinger merely laughed, the glow gone from his eyes. “Ask the Barrodians, Your Grace! Even I am unsure what I am.” “I’m good at asking questions!” Grimwing piped up, the machine pistol rattling in her claw as she sprayed the landing above. “Could I interest you in a ‘talk’ when this is over?” Erlinger laughed again. “My dear, many have tried. Most do not remain intact.” “Oh I LIKE you!” the secret police chief replied, grinning. “FOCUS!” barked the Duchess, having traded her pistol for a fallen Barkginian Guard’s shotgun, racking the pump and blowing a Stormtrooper’s masked head off. “We need to reach Grover! At all cost!” An MMG began stuttering above them, carving out wood, feathers and flesh on the Loyalists below. “The enemy holds this staircase and many others, Your Grace!” Mudbeak hollered, fumbling his next reload. “I’ve sent griffs to fly up the outside and breach from above!” “Where’s the army?!” Gabriela howled, thumbing shells into her weapon as she shook off one of her Ducal Guards trying to pull her out of the line of fire. “Word from the city! Galluzzo’s sending a battalion of Fallschirmjager from the 82nd! We’re expecting them in forty minutes!” “Forty minutes?!” she snapped, picking up a fallen clawful of brass casings and chucking them at the general, who clumsily tried to block the rain of metal. “Forty minutes?! All it takes to kill a child is a second, Mudbeak!” She whipped around to Gerlach, who was carefully reloading his pistol again. He saw the fire in her eyes and knew, for a fact, there’d be no stopping her. He nodded back, then turned, pointing to the Ducal Guards and several other Loyalists nearby. “Alright! You, you, you and you! We’re assaulting this staircase! You’re coming with us! Erlinger, cause as much disruption in their line as you can! Grimwing!” “Smoke out!” she cried, lobbying the mentioned explosive as far as she could. White clouds immediately began billowing out from the canister, and Gerlach nodded before wheeling back to face their soldiers, all of whom were checking their magazines and bracing for the suicidal charge. “Follow us, Loyal Griffs of the Empire! For the Regent! For the Empire! FÜR DEN KAISER!” “FÜR DEN KAISER!” came the return, and the motley force attacked as one, charging up the stairs or taking flight, soaring over the balcony. Duchess Gabriela led these, her shotgun booming. Below, Erlinger glanced around, a frown on his face as he realized something. “King Wingfried?” Then, after a moment, the Inquisitor smiled in realization. General Ferdinand Dawnclaw stood before the entrance of the Child-Kaiser’s room, the bullet-ridden corpses of the fanatically loyal Barkginian Guards lay where they’d fallen, the machine gun he’d hosed the hallway down with smoking and empty on the floor. He knew what he had to do, the terrible act that he would commit to secure his power. The Kaiser had no real authority, he was merely a figurehead, a pawn to be used by the various political factions that infested the rotting corpse of the Once-Great Empire. The Generals, the Nobles, the Archons and more. All of them whispering in the boy’s ear, guiding him this way and that, gaining his puppeted voice to give themselves legitimacy. The child had to be removed if the Empire was to survive. And yet, he found himself unable to open the door, something deep in the back of his mind preventing him from doing so. Would this unforgivable act really be worth it? Absently, he could still hear the shots ring out, his stormtroopers pounding down the halls bolting doors and sealing entrances to hold off the Imperial Guard, the Barkginian Guard, the Knights of both the White Lions and the Black Knights, the nobles’ own various bodyguards, by Arcturius it felt like the whole Empire was coming down on them. They were badly outnumbered here, and while he had control of this section of the palace for now, it would not last forever. Committing such an act would surely anger the entire Empire. Even the gods themselves would despise him for his actions. Was taking…-saving- the Empire truly worth it? Would it be worth the weight of such an evil act? He struggled with himself for a minute, and every second that passed by, he felt as if a noose was tightening around his neck. Finally, after what felt like hours to the self-proclaimed “Lord Protector” of the Empire, he made up his mind. As he reached for the door, a small part of him prayed for forgiveness. A larger part salivated at the thought of the power he would soon possess. He paused, his claw about to grasp the ornate knob. Dawnclaw’s ear twitched, and he slowly turned back. Had he missed one of Benito’s dogs? No, the Kaiser’s chambers had been protected by a half-dozen Barkginian Guards, and his soldiers had cut this area off from reinforcements. He took a half-step away from the door, leveling his revolver and slowly thumbing back the hammer, eyes narrowed. For a moment, all he could hear was the background gunfire of the struggle in progress, the yells of wounded griffons and howl of dogs as fighting raged through the halls of the palace. His Sturmtruppen would prevail, he knew. But something else had him on edge. He could have sworn he’d heard… Wingfried swung out from behind the statue when Dawnclaw scanned the opposite direction. For a split second, the two were staring each other down a thirty foot hallway, pistols up and ready, moving in to the kill. Dawnclaw fired first, his bullet soaring past Wingfried’s head and impacting in the stone wall behind the king. Wingfried fired next, but his first shot was also a miss, blowing the head off another statue nearby in a shower of stone and dust. Dawnclaw fired again, this round coming close and taking a piece of Wingfried’s coat with it. Wingfried’s next bullet, the last in his current magazine, finally landed in the rogue general’s chest. Dawnclaw coughed, hacking up a globule of blood as he looked down, his shaking claw moving from where he’d automatically clapped it to. His talons were crimson and sticky and wet, and his vest was already soaking through. “No…” the general whimpered, grunting as he refused to accept the reality in front of him, struggling for the door to the Kaiser’s room in one final, last ditch effort to accomplish his task. “No! Not like this! I was chosen by the Gods!” his talon scrabbles on the doorknob, trying to find purchase and maybe, just maybe save himself. He heard boots behind him on the carpeted floor as Wingfried slowly advanced, stepping over the bodies of the dog Guards in his way. Dawnclaw tried one more time, lunging for the knob before flopping to the floor in a bloody, undignified heap, loose feathers flying. He toes over and tried to raise his revolver, only to find his arm too weak. Instead, the claw holding the weapon fell aside, slippery talons unable to grip it. “Dammit, it’s my destiny!” he howled, still unwilling to accept his fate. After reaching the spot where the treasonous general lay drowning in his own blood the Black King reloaded his weapon and leveled it to Ferdinand's head before saying, “Your destiny did not account for me,” as he unceremoniously pulled the trigger. He wasn’t prepared for the silence that followed. Having fought his way through the battle below, his ears still rang. The final shot after all the bellowing, shooting and blood rushing through his skull still seemed to hold in the air. Among all the corpses, loyal and traitor, Wingfried stood alone, staring down his gunsight at Dawnclaw’s ruined head, the blood splattered over the Kaiser’s bedroom door. He paused a moment, taking in the scene before he slowly turned the pistol over, inspecting it before his eyes flitted up to the door itself. Dawnclaw had not yet entered. There was still a chance, though, that a stray round had pierced the wood. Slowly, he moved for the door. Given he was still underage, the young Kaiser still slept in his childhood room. The old Kaiser’s grander quarters sat empty, unused. They would do so until Grover VI was older, and things normalized. The door swung open to reveal a child’s room, one of an heir apparent of course but still a child. A box full of toys sat off to one side, a low table with chairs in the middle with a play tea set. A low bookshelf with children's books and a few for older ones, as Grover VI had shown potential in scholarly pursuits. A four-poster bed graced the center, where the finest sheets were laid out and made by the servants. But the room was dark. No Child-Kaiser inside. He was surprised. Maybe Grover was hiding under the bed, or in the closet. He paused, listening closely. No sound. Wait. That wasn’t true. He turned, stepping back into the hallway. There, again. A sniffle. Muffled, but present. He moved down the hall, ears perked, pistol up in case any of Dawnclaw’s other traitors came rushing in. He paused, listening closer. One of the servants, maybe? They must have fled to escape the carnage. But he reached the end of the hallway, peering around the corner. Nothing. He should be right on top of the noise, but he couldn’t see anygriff, and there were no doors nearby for a creature to be hiding. Then he looked down. He stood over the body of a Barkginian Guard, white armor and sturdy helmet prominent in the dark hallway. A puddle of blood leaked into the carpet. The Guard had been shot in the back. But this dog had been at the end of the hallway. He would have been the furthest from Dawnclaw when the General and his goons had opened fire. Why had he not turned to return fire? And then he saw a small ripple in the blood, just up under the muzzle. And heard the whimper again. Immediately, he holstered the pistol, claws grabbing at the dog’s armor. He was a big one alright, but Wingfried was strong from years as a Knight of Hellquill. He hefted, and as the helmet came away, the body of Captain Benito finally rolled over. Underneath, feathers and clothes all askew, covered in the blood of the dog who had saved his life, was Kaiser Grover VI. A sniffling wreck, clearly having been sobbing under his protector while trying to remain silent lest Dawnclaw find him and kill him. The boy stared up at Wingfried, eyes wide and claws clasped over his beak as he frantically tried to inch away. At a different time, Wingfried might have found himself ridiculing the child for crying and showing such weakness from one of such high station. Another time, he may have just left the boy to his tears. Time had changed Wingfried, changed Hellquill too. Lowering himself down to comfort the young Kaiser he spoke softly to him. "You are safe now, Your Excellency. Its okay. Everything will be okay now." Grover still shook, glancing from Wingfried to Dawnclaw’s corpse and back again, blinking as if trying to clear his eyes. Wingfried took the chance, gently grasping the Kaiser’s shoulder. For a moment, the boy calmed, his shaking pausing. A clatter rang out behind them, startling the boy as the king looked back. An entire entourage poured out of the stairwell, into the hallway. Barkginian Guards, Imperial Guardsgriffs, Ducal Guards and Knights of the White Lion, surging up like a battered, bleeding tide. At the head was Conrad Silvertalon, his cap missing and his face smeared in blood as he lowered his rifle, confused at the scene before him. “Your Highness?” he asked, more to work it out in his head than to ask a question. Behind him, several of the Black Knights accompanying him moved to secure the hallway, pausing at the carnage of the scene. Wingfried pointed to Benito. “I believe the Captain yet lives. He put himself between the Kaiser and Dawnclaw’s bullets.” “I need a medic up here!” Silvertalon, ever the soldier, hollered back down the hall, finally able to react. Several Barkginian Guards immediately moved, dragging their captain up and hauling him away for treatment. The dog soldiers paused, looking cautiously on as Wingfried comforted the child, unsure if they should intervene or not. “Is it over?” Grover asked quietly, head turning away from all his loyal soldiers around him back to Wingfried. The Black King looked to Silvertalon, who shrugged but nodded. More or less done, then. The coup had failed. He turned back to the Child-Kaiser. “Yes. There will be some left to flush out, but they must know by now their leader is dead.” “Sir,” Conrad warned quietly. “The Regents are coming. They know we have him.” Wingfried nodded, standing and holstering his pistol, offering a claw to Grover. The boy appeared to be recovering himself, as he only needed a second to take the offer, pulling up as his wings fluttered, stretching out after being pinned under Benito’s bulk. “Why?” Grover asked quietly, his gaze turning back to Dawnclaw. “Why did he do all this? I did nothing wrong.” “Because you represent strength. A strength he never possessed, but craved terribly,” Wingfried explained. “You are the Kaiser, Your Excellency. One day, you will lead griffonkind to our future.” “Am -I- strong?” Grover asked quietly, looking up to Wingfried. Judging by the noise from the stairs, he would only have a few more moments to speak with the Kaiser, before he was whisked away to safety. He considered his words carefully before squeezing Grover’s shoulder. “No,” he answered honestly. “You are still a child. A boy, unfamiliar with the world. But…” He knelt down, looking the Kaiser in his watery eyes as Wingfried removed his cap. “You have the potential to become the most powerful griff on the continent. Perhaps even the world. You will command great armies, millions of creatures’ souls and the destiny of the world. On that day, you will be strong. But for now, you must survive.” With that, the dam of tears young Grover had been holding back finally burst, and he threw his arms around his savior, burying his face in Wingfried’s feathers and sobbing. Though a little caught off guard, the Black King cleared his throat, recovered and reached up, gently patting Grover on the back, letting the Kaiser vent his emotions. Finally, fighting through the parting crowd, Gabriela and Gerlach broke through from the staircase, wings flared wide in agitation. Upon seeing Grover safe and sound, Gabriela's fury evaporated, and she dropped her gun as with one powerful stroke of her wings she cleared the king hallway and landed next to the two of them. “Grover!” she cried, arms outstretched. Relaxing his grip, the Black King released the Kaiser, taking a half step back, his wings fluttering in apprehension. Still overcome, Grover immediately latched onto his aunt and cried into her neck as she cradled him like he was her own child. She looked up at Wingfried, her expression unreadable as she comforted her nephew. Then, after a moment, she appeared to make a decision, and nodded silently before she returned to shushing Grover gently, stroking his fuzzy plumage gently. A claw fell on Wingfried's shoulder as Grand Duke Gerlach stepped up next to him. “In the nick of time. Thank you, Wingfried. We cannot thank you enough.” “I did what I had to,” the blue griffon replied, his face impassive. “For the Empire.” “Yes, indeed…” Gerlach appeared lost in thought for a moment, watching his wife and young Kaiser with intensity before glancing around at the hallway, packed with soldiers and Imperial officers, watching the event carefully, many of them looking awkward in the bloody hall, watching several powerful figures in such an emotional state. Then, as if inspired, the Grand Duke turned back. “King Wingfried von Katerinburg, of the Hellsword Territories. We brought you here to both decorate you and judge your intentions. Though this incident was unfortunate, it allowed you an opportunity to prove your mettle, and your loyalty. I am ashamed to say a mere medal is not enough to reflect our appreciation for the tremendous act of rescuing not only the Kaiser, but the Captain of the Barkginian Guard, and perhaps the Empire itself. Here and now before these witnesses, as a reward for your actions abroad and at home, I name you Lord Protector of the Kaiserreich.” The entire hallway was stunned. Duchess Gabriela stared up at her husband, flabbergasted, while Grover (who had recovered) sniffled and watched on, eyes flitting back and forth between the adults, all of them trying to understand what was happening. Fortunately, Wingfried seemed the first to comprehend, and he bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Grace. This is a great honor.” “Don’t be too pleased yet,” Gerlach quipped, smirking a bit. “This is a great responsibility. I’m putting under your charge the former Imperial territories to the east and south. This war against the League will end, and soon. And when it does, our eyes will turn west. Must turn west. Our enemies will come for us. Soon. But I need eyes on the east. Cyanolisia has already fallen. Prywhen is in the communists’ claws. Blackrock is...well, you know. But we can still save all of these.” He raised an eyebrow. “You understand what I’m charging you with.” Wingfried nodded without hesitation, the cap back on his blue plumage. “Yes, Your Grand Grace.” “Then go. Gather your griffs. I’ll contact you with the plans. In the meantime, we need to fix...well, this.” He gestured to the ruination they were standing in, wincing as his eyes set on Dawnclaw again. “It’s just more proof we need to clear our own ranks first. Then the League.” He looked to Gabriela, who looked displeased, but still had said nothing, eyes flitting from Gerlach to Wingfried to Silvertalon. In her arms, Grover watched Wingfried carefully, his blue eyes wide and fixated. Suddenly a little uneasy, Wingfried bowed once more. “Your Excellency.” He began to turn away, pausing to look back at Grover one last time. “Remember...survive. There will be many more trials ahead.” And with that, the Black King, now Lord Protector of the Griffonian Empire, gathered his Black Knights and set out. There was no time to waste, after all. Operation Tartarus was about to begin. The Celestial Sea Mayday, mayday. This is SS Sunny Hauler. We’re drastically off-course, our navigation equipment is malfunctioning and the fog is preventing us from seeing the stars. According to our charts, we should be in the middle of the ocean, but we’re seeing reefs and rocks coming out of the water. Last known coordinates were two-five degrees north, negative seven-one degrees east. We’ve seen shapes moving in the water, suspect sea serpents in the area. Any station receiving, please respond. I say again, we are- Wait...is that...singing? What is… (The voice gets quieter, as if the sender has moved away from the radio but forgotten he’s set something on the ‘Talk’ button) Thorn, what in Celestia’s tits is that?...That noise?...The singing? Island? What island? We’re in the middle of the ocean you bucking idiot. Wha-...wait, I think I see it... Tirek’s balls...shit, get us away from there! Hard to starboard, hard to- Thorn, what in Tartarus are you- (The radio squeals before falling silent) Calling GriffenheimAuthor's Note Yes, I know I said I'd be returning to letter form for a bit longer, and that was the origianl intent. But when an idea digs itself into your head and you don't even have to fight to write it all down, you know that idea was meant to be written. And that's what happened here. Enjoy, everyone. I'll be taking a small break to attend to some real life issues, but you can expect the next chapter by the beginning of the next month. As always, leave me your thoughts, problems, questions, any errors I made, and have a wonderful Thanksgiving season. Calling Griffenheim December 31st, 1010 Industrie District, Griffenheim Griffenheim on New Year’s Eve. The city still hadn’t stopped its celebrations, despite the war having ended over a month ago. On the day it had all finished, grand parades had rolled down Griffenheim’s majestic boulevards, troops returning home in orderly fashion, freshly pressed uniforms glittering with new decorations, knights in their enchanted plates with blank, faceless armored visors and panzers of all three classes lumbering through with gun barrels raised high. A large part of these celebrations had been the Reformisten. Before, they had entered the city as pariahs. After the Treaty of Griffing, with the news gone public about who had saved the Kaiser and what had happened to turn Katerin loyal once more, they were heroes. Wingfried himself had been stoic in the back of his staff car, watching the lines of griffons that had turned up to cheer him and his marching soldiers on, offering flowers, food and drink from the crowd to confused Reformisten troopers. He leaned forwards to a black unicorn seated with him, and a dark-brown griffon both in the uniforms of high level officers. “Now, my friends: Operation Tartarus awaits.” The infamous phrase was taken by the Reformisten propaganda department, and printed on posters and banners wherever the Black Knights went. Now, the banners remained. Soldiers still went out in uniform to be given free food, drink and even nightly companionship. They were heroes of the Empire. Valiant warriors who had annihilated the traitors in what had to be one of the most important battles in the Empire’s history. Banners of Generalfeldmarschall Bronzetail, the new face of the Reichsarmee hung next to those of Wingfried, the Black King of Hellsword. Propaganda posters of Fallschimjager descending from the sky onto a cowering and unprepared Archon Eros went up right next to recruiting posters of mighty panzers crushing all in their path and other posters of powerful artillery guns thundering over the heads of proud ranks of Imperial Grenadiers. Snow covered the streets, and the frosty winds tugged at these posters as the lone griff staggered past, trying his best to keep footing. Most of the folk in the district were in the bars and their homes, watching the clock and counting down for the new year. A better year, they knew. For now the Herzlands were reunited, loyal Imperial governors watching these former breakaways. The spirit of Mondstille persisted as well, strands of pine and strings of garland hanging next to silver ornaments on walls and storefronts. Packages and gifts had already been exchanged, and for once the typical greedy griffon mindset in the Empire was not fixed towards what to gain next. He moved up the stairs, feeling the cold biting through the artificial warmth the alcohol had provided, as well as his ratty scarf and old coat. But he merely shivered, brushing the frost from his shoulder and fluttering his wings as he finally reached the door, a beaten and worn old thing whose green paint had long faded like the district had. His key slid home after two or three tries, and he swung the door in, fighting the gusts as he strode through and firmly shut it, so quick the candles only briefly fluttered in the harsh wind. He took a moment to contemplate the tiny flames, bright eyes sunken into his black-feathered face. Then he sighed, tugging off his cap, scarf and coat, stomping his rear legs to get the snow off his boots. He’d have to take those off too. “Cyril?” called a voice from the kitchen. “Is that you?” “Ja, Mutter,” he called back, feeling his speech slur a little and fighting it as best he could. “You’re home early,” Margot’s voice continued, hopeful. Perhaps her son had decided spending time with family was the more important venture here, instead of drinking with his army buddies on this important night, such as he’d done Monstille Eve. Sadly, and with a little bit of loathing and shame in his heart, he broke her of that notion. “That Grenadier from the other night was there. Started back up again. The bartender threw us both out.” “Oh, Cyril. You didn’t break anything this time, did you?” Her disappointed and downcast tone told him all he needed to know as he moved into the living room. “Just a bottle. Over her head.” “Cyril!” And there she was, in the doorway to the kitchen. Margot Duskwing was a force to behold in herself. Her feathers were black as her son and brother, though streaks of grey were beginning to form around her ears and eyes, evidence of the years of hardship she’d been subject to since Stefan had been killed. As per tradition, she had retaken her maiden name upon her husband’s death, though with how busy she was these days with the house and taking care of Sophie while her son was away, no one was under any illusions of her chances to find another griff to fill her life. Now, she was covered in flour on her apron from baking, and she glared furiously at her half-drunk troublemaker son, heartbreak replaced fully by righteous anger. Arms crossed over her chest, talons clacking as they rubbed together. Cyril, hardened vet that he was, wilted before her, glancing down behind his mother. Ten year old Sophie peered through the gap, trying to see what was going on as her wide eyes glanced between her brother and mother. She more resembled her father Stefan, grey feathers around a white face. She knew better than to say anything during these exchanges, but the look on her face told of a thousand questions she wanted to voice. Cyril felt his defenses crumble, even before either said anything more. The alcohol-induced fighting spirit he had channeled on the problematic soldier in the bar was spent. Sergeant Hellseig had ordered him home instead of going out bar-hopping as many vets were tonight. That had already taken the wind out of his sails, and now seeing how his mother and sister were looking upon him, hurt and disappointed, robbed him of it entirely. “Cyril, you’re out of control!” Margot snapped, literally clacking her beak as her wings flared a moment. “Every night, you’re out drinking away your pay and getting in fights and breaking things in public! You’re almost never home for dinner, and when we see you during the day you’re hungover half the time! It’s disgraceful!” “I know, Mutter,” Cyril replied weakly, but he knew now the boiler was fired up the only way she would stop was if all the steam was let out. And she proceeded to for almost a half-hour, berating her son for his sloppy appearance, his terrible behaviour as of late, irresponsible habits. It got to the point where Sophie awkwardly went back to the bakin the kitchen. That hurt the most. The fact that little Sophie, who had for so long idolized her big brother, was so used to him getting chewed out she went to go do something else without voicing a single word. It broke his heart, but then again Cyril knew he was responsible for all this. And then both Margot and Cyril crossed the line. “If your father were here, he would hang his head in SHAME!” Cyril flinched. His mother never talked about his father like that. It had always only been how much she missed Stefan, how proud he would have been. Never like this. He saw the realization on her face, the awkwardness, heard the apology coming. But his fight reared its ugly head. Before she could say what he knew she would, he bit first. “Well, I’m sure he would! But he’s NOT here!” Silence. It hung in the cold house for several moments as mother and son gaped at each other, unbelieving of what they had both said. This was the worst it had ever been between them. Even when Cyril had first returned home, broken and disheartened, their outbursts hadn’t reached this kind of hurt. Margot broke first, turning away and sighing as she returned to the kitchen, the curtain separating it from the living room falling into place. Too late, Cyril raised a claw to try and catch her, say something to her, anything. But she was gone before he had fully reached out. Alone again. In the dark living room. Hearing the raucous sounds of a New Years’ party downstairs through the floorboards. The only lights were the ones leaking through the thin curtains from the street and the face of the radio set in the corner, accidentally left on and caught between stations, burbling static. Groaning, he stepped over to the set, contemplating turning it off and just going to bed. But something made him reach up, adjusting the tuner and volume dials until he heard music playing clearly. Once that came in, he flopped onto the couch, closing his eyes and leaning his head back as he waited. He knew this song. We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away So will you please say hello To the folks that I know Tell them I won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singing this song We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Til the blue skies Drive the dark clouds far away So will you please say hello To the folks that I know Tell them it won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singin' this song We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day He grunted as the song came to a close, knowing exactly why he had listened to this song in particular, eyes still closed. “Happy New Year, Paige,” he muttered as a faster paced, more upbeat holiday song came onto the set. Just as he had been the three years previous, he sat alone on New Years’ Eve, efforts to reunite with her thwarted to an almost comically sick degree. Did the universe simply hate him this much? Or was it interference by some divine being? He knew he had really lost it if he believed that Princess Celestia or the goddess Eyr really wanted to fuck up his love life. Maybe it was a sick joke by Discord or Maar. That made more sense. Or was his luck really just that bad? The radio set crackled with static, and he frowned, bringing his heavy head around and blinking in the dark, staring at the set. Interference? Must have been from the snow. But the white noise continued, battling the radio station as the dials on the display twitched back and forth, the radio experiencing some anomaly. He leaned forward, puzzled and out of his element. Despite his lack of knowledge, he reached out, a talon pausing as he tried to figure out what to do. Then, with a thunderclap and a flash of blue light, his world disappeared. Cyril howled, cursed and squawked in shock as he tumbled headfirst into the bulky radio set, almost knocking it over but instead bouncing off the wall. He threw a claw over his face, wishing he had his sidearm that was still safely locked up back in the regimental armory. But after a moment, the glow lessened, and he blinked as his vision began to return. “It worked!” called a voice, echoing and shrill in his ears as he tried to place it. The flanging exclamation was strange, almost impossible to discern with all the background noise. But also, somehow, familiar. “Cyril! Are you there?” And then, after a moment. “Oh. Shit. Oh shit! Cyril, are you okay?” Confused and not believing his ears, Cyril lowered his claw. The bright light, it turned out, had only ebbed, not disappeared. Instead, the blue glow was softer, emanating from a spectral form in the middle of the room. This apparition appeared to be made of dancing blue-white motes, dancing inside of a set of boundaries. He took a few seconds to comprehend what he was seeing as his eyes traced the outline, drawing a shape in his brain. It appeared quadrupedal, with wings that flared out in either aggression or worry. It had a tail, and a head that he tried to place as he stared at it. Was it an illusion? Then it took a step towards him. “Cyril?” it asked softly, in that quiet ghostly echo. The voice had normalized, for the most part. Not so much warping or distortion, though it still did every few syllables. And he suddenly placed the rest of the pieces. “Paige?” he half-whispered, almost unbelieving. He had to be drunker than he thought. There was no way this was real. “Cyril,” she replied, and he swore he could see a wide smile on her muzzle. “Holy shit, it worked.” He stood, still unbelieving what was happening. Behind her, the curtain to the kitchen flew open as Margot, brandishing a meat cleaver, literally flew into the living room wings wide and talons out, ready for whatever had dared make the mistake of intruding into the Duskwing household. Then she stopped, staring in abject stupefaction at the glowing form of Paige Turner, standing in the living room. Behind her, Sophie poked her beak out nervously to see what the noise was, then ducked back into the kitchen, eyes wide in terror. He stepped closer, looking her up and down. She was silent a moment, letting him absorb what was happening, her starry expression difficult to make out but definitely beaming with pride and barely contained glee. Any trace of alcohol in his system had been blasted out, replaced by stone-cold sobriety as he gawked, moving around her to take it all in. Finally, she couldn’t resist. “What do you think? Not bad, eh?” The image then turned, facing something off towards the wall. “Say hi, Static!” After a moment of silence, Paige turned back. “She says ‘hi’. We’ve got her to thank for casting this in the first place.” “This is unicorn magic?” Cyril asked, stunned. Behind him, Margot covered herself in the holy gesture out of habit, eyes just as wide as Cyril’s, the forgotten meat cleaver hanging limply in her claw. “Of a sort,” Paige replied, her accented voice warping briefly before returning to its echoes again. “I took a standard message spell and er...boosted it a fair bit.” “What? How?” If what she said was true, she had taken a fairly simple and standard spell, something even griffons knew about and replicated with magic crystals from time to time, and amplified its range by over five thousand percent! She was literally transmitting him from the other side of the world! “My thesis,” she answered proudly. “I decided to take a wild hunch of mine and run with it. And, well...it worked!” She gushed, and he could almost make out her bright eyes, beaming at her accomplishment. “The crystal…” he whispered. “You used the crystal to boost the spell?” “I’ll admit, it was a bit of a long shot,” she replied, shrugging as her wings fluttered and laid back against her flanks. His eyes followed the motion, and then he gave in to the temptation, reaching out and trying to rest a claw on her cheek. To his sharp though not complete surprise, his talons went through, his claw tingling as the dancing lights began to gather around the intruding limb. He pulled back sharply, and the lights returned to Paige’s ghostly form. She hung her head in sheepish defeat as she sadly admitted “But no spell in existence can help me teleport all the way to you. Sorry.” He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as his brain finally caught up to his eyes. “You’re...you’re here!” “In the spectral flesh!” she declared proudly, then stopped to ponder on that. “Or, is it ectoplasmic flesh? Then again, it's not flesh at all, more a manifestation of arcane energy-” “Paige?” he gently interrupted her. To her credit, she heard him immediately, lifting her head and tilting it to show she was listening. “How long is this good for?” Her ears drooped, and he knew it was bad news. “Not long...maybe five minutes. I tried to time it so I’d show right when the New Year was going to pass over there. Did I get it?” Cyril glanced over at the old, worn clock above the fireplace. Even he hadn’t been aware of what time it was, but sure enough there were only four more minutes until midnight. He nodded, dumbly, still trying to wrap his head around the concept. “Ja…just on the nose,” he looked back over to her, frowning. “You couldn’t have tried this before?” Here she looked a little taken aback, but pressed on after a moment. “I didn’t know it would work before. I’m not a unicorn. And a message spell is, at best, able to cover a continent. I had, maybe, one shot at this. Reaching Griffenheim took...well. All of the energy I had in the crystal.” That was SEVERAL years of charging and stabilization efforts, gone. She had burned all that work for five minutes of talking with him. He was stunned as the full implications of that finally hit him. “But...your thesis?” She waved a hoof in the air, the lights dancing around and leaving small contrails in her wake. “I’ve still got, what? Two years before I need to finish that. Besides, I can get it all back. Just gotta get multiple unicorns to submit to extensive charging sessions while I make sure it doesn’t overwhelm the spell framework.” She shuffled awkwardly, scratching her mane with a hoof. “How hard could that be?” “But-” he clamped his beak shut as his eye saw the hand on the clock twitch. Three minutes until midnight! And here he was, standing around like an idiot asking questions that wouldn’t matter soon. With that realization dumping cold water on his mind, he knew he had to act fast. “Paige,” he started, gesturing behind her. The apparition turned her head, her magic vision landing on a still frozen Margot. But Cyril rushed over to his mother, gently pushing her forward. “Paige, this is my mother, Margot. Mutter, this is Paige.” The two were silent as they studied each other. Paige, at least, had the benefit of not being forced to try and perceive details about a magical illusion, but she at least gave Margot the chance to recover. Finally, Margot leaned over to her son. “I thought her mane would be longer.” Indeed, while Paige had let it grow out since her days in the RAF, it was much shorter than when they had first met, her bangs barely to her jawline. Paige recovered quickly, smiling and nodding. “An honor and a pleasure to meet you, Frau Duskwing,” she said in her accented Herzlandisch. “I am sorry I cannot shake your claw. A strange first meeting, I know.” Margot recovered, clearing her throat and tucking the cleaver away. “Think nothing of it, dear. These are strange times after all.” Paige’s ‘eyes’ traced down behind them both, and she leaned down, smiling as the two griffons looked back to see that Sophie had gotten her courage together to step out from the kitchen, gawking up at the spell ghost. “And this little cutie -must- be Sophie! My Gods, she’s such a pretty little thing!” Paige waved a hoof, grinning. “Hello there Dragi! Don’t be shy! It’s me, Paige! Your penpal!” Cautiously, Sophie stepped forward, once more using her mother as a hiding spot as she looked up and said “H-hallo Fraulein Paige.” Paige actually -squealed-, prancing in place. “She’s adorable!” Down below them, Cyril could hear the party beginning to gather up, and glanced at the clock. Two minutes left. “Paige?” She looked over to him, smiling and happy. “Why this? Why now? After all these years and everything with...well, us.” Her smile faded, and she studied his face for a long second, so long he almost glanced at the clock to make sure she wasn’t just about to disappear. Her ghostly wings rustled. “I had to try,” she said, so quiet and so warped he almost missed the whisper. “When I got your letter and saw what had happened. I couldn’t stand the thought of you here. Alone. Trapped. Hurt. I know it's not much. And I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to try again. But I get to see you. Talk to you.” She reached up, about to stroke his face before remembering that he wasn’t there either. “You look so tired.” She leaned over, and with careful motions gently put her muzzle against the side of his beak. He felt the tingling as his feathers and skin met the arcane energy, and for a moment he swore he could almost feel an actual warmth of her coat, hear her soft breathing as she kissed him. He leaned in a little, turning his face to run his cheek along her manifested one, gently preening her image, the tingling spreading down his neck. Below, their moment was spoiled as the party-goers began chanting the countdown from twenty. They’d have, at best, a minute after the countdown finished. He pulled back, so happy to have had this opportunity, but so sad it had to end, and so soon. He wouldn’t get another chance, and who knew when they’d physically see each other? So, he took it. “I love you, Paige.” She paused, watching him carefully, almost examining him. No, she wasn’t examining. She was shocked. It was a little difficult to tell in her starry gaze, but he finally realized he had pulled a fast one on her, and for a moment his heart sank in terror. Was she about to tell him- But then she snorted. “You’re no fun! Isn’t there a time-honored tradition where I spend months weaseling it out of you while your male pride prevents you from saying it until one of us is in mortal peril?” He chortled, disbelieving her response before he laughed as well, mostly at the sheer absurdity of the statement as any humor in her voice. “Not-not this time,” he said as he got his laughs under control. “Sorry to kill your fun.” TEN! She stopped laughing, watching him carefully, a decision being made behind her eyes that he could see, even when her manifestation warbled and warped. They were almost out of time. Nine! “I love you too, Cyril.” She said it quietly, softly. They only had this moment, these bare seconds before the cold barrier of separation would come slamming back down between them, and they were forced back to the lonely life of waiting an entire month for any word from each other. Eight! Everything would change now. Or would it? At the end of the day, they would still be split by an ocean and two continents, and who knew how many wars in between? Seven! “Hey,” Paige said quietly, seeing the look on his face. He blinked in surprise, focusing on her again. Six! She smiled, and in that briefest of moments, he swore he could physically see her there, his memories of the harbor and the photo he still carried. “It’s not goodbye,” she insisted. Five! “Not until we want it to be.” She reached up again, and her hoof seemed to melt slightly into his jaw. He ignored the tingling, instinctively trying to press into her. Four! “It’s, ‘until next time.’ As long as we keep saying that.” Three! “Then it’ll never be goodbye.” Two! “Until next time, then.” He muttered, staring down at her and cursing how unfair the world was. The gods had brought her so close, so DAMN CLOSE. This was a mockery, an insult, dangling in front of him what he desired most and could never have. And judging from the look in her starry eyes, she was feeling the same kind of hurt. One! “Love you,” she said, quieter than ever. Happy New Year! “Love you too,” he whispered back. They both braced, watching each other carefully as the clock began ringing quietly, the party downstairs breaking out in cheers as the year officially rolled over to 1011 ALB. January 1st. But she didn’t fade. Not yet. After another moment, they both let out breaths they hadn't realized they’d been holding. Paige turned, looking back at Margot (who nodded) and waving towards Sophie, who braved emerging from behind her mother to wave back, smiling as well. Paige turned back, about to say something more. That’s when the front door, which Cyril realized belatedly he had forgotten to lock, flew open in a blast of wind, snow and panzer crew. “Duskwing! Gelukkig nieuwjaar!” Truppen Eihol called, the Feathisian driver clearly more than a little drunk as the griff stumbled in the door. “Sit down ‘fore you hurt yerself, you lout!” Spotsley snapped, stumbling under Eihol’s weight before roughly depositing him on the bench in the entry hall. “Duskwing! I swear to fuckin’ gods if you don’t come get this daftie, I’m leavin’ his arse in your hall!” “Calm down,” Sergeant Hellseig said quietly, pushing past the two arguing soldiers. “Before you two become even more of a disgrace.” But it was Long Haul, the Reformisten pony loader, who made it through first. Words died on his lips as, with wide eyes, he took in the magically projected form of the pegasus, who was just as stunned to come face to face with him too. For a moment, the two of them simply grappled with their confusion and inability to process what they were seeing. And then, in a gently fading light and a gentle breeze, Paige’s image began to fade. Sensing her end, she glanced down at herself before sharply up at Cyril, trying to say one more thing. But before the words could manifest themselves, her form broke up, and the motes of light blew past, over Cyril who automatically reached out to try and catch her. Of course, by the time the lights made contact with his feathers, not even the sensation of them bouncing off him remained as his final connection with her faded at last. “Recalled to duty?” Sergeant Hellseig nodded, leaning against the table as he fiddled with the cap in his hand. “Leutnant came to the bar with the news after you left. The 41st is shipping back to the camp in two days’ time. We’ve all been cleared of suspicion.” Cyril leaned against the couch, looking over the sergeant’s shoulder at his mother and sister in the kitchen, slicing up the cake they had been baking as Eihol drunkenly tried to take a piece while Spotsley reprimanded the drunken driver, making sure to properly give him his slice and not stab himself with his fork. “Where are we going?” Cyril asked, now glancing between Hellseig and Haul. The pony hadn’t said anything about the apparition he’d witnessed, and that was fine by Cyril. The less he had to explain to everygriff, the simpler it would be. “The Frontier,” Hellseig replied, seemingly not noticing or not caring about the tense looks the gunner and loader shared, likely chalking it up to the disagreements they’d had since they had been paired up. “The Reformisten brought Lushi back into the fold. Now the anchluss is complete and the Herzlands are reunited, King Wingfried is taking his Black Knights south. Towards Prywhen and Blackrock. Given they have no panzers of their own, we’re part of the Imperial Expeditionary Korps assisting them.” The communist republic had taken down the infamous bandit queen while the Herzland Wars had raged, so attacking into Blackrock was going through republic territory. Any idiot could see where this pattern was going. After Prywhen and Blackrock, the Empire would be eager to retake the jewel of the south, Cyanolisia. Or, in this case, the Friestaat. After that, the rest of the south could be seized at leisure. “So, we just ended one war to start another?” Cyril asked quietly. Hellseig winced, but Haul remained steadfast. “Operation Tartarus has been in the planning stages since the Reformisten existed. It was going to be launched whether the Empire was there or not,” the Earth pony said matter of factly. “But with Imperial panzers, grenadiers and aircraft behind the Reformisten, what was thought to take a considerable amount of time and resources could be accomplished in less than a year. And with the Landwehr holding seized territory, we worry less about pacification and more on winning the battles.” “That positive about your chances of success, are you?” Cyril quipped sarcastically. Taking the southeast in a year? Insanity. Just walking that far was an endeavour in itself, much less fighting for it. “I think Asterion and Sicameon have something to say about that.” Haul shrugged. “Those are the optimistic projections from the briefing. Even I shall admit, it will likely take slightly longer than the Geheimstadt is predicting. But it will still be extremely rapid.” “And how do you happen to know so much, Haul? Last I checked, I outranked you.” Cyril cocked an eyebrow. Surprisingly, the pony snickered, a small smile on his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Duskwing.” “In any case,” Hellseig interjected. “We have our orders. The Empire wants to focus on Aquileia. Which means the Reformisten takes the lead in the east one way or another. We’re there to blow up anything they can’t. Simple, easy mission.” A few minutes later, Hellseig was satisfied his gunner knew the objective, moving towards the kitchen to slap some sense into his drunk driver and foul-mouthed radiohound, noting that Margot Duskwing was on the verge of taking up her knife again. Left alone with Haul, Cyril contemplated simply turning on the radio and relaxing on the couch. “Was that her?” Cyril looked at Haul flatly, the two watching each other carefully. With a small, measured reaction, Cyril slowly nodded. Haul nodded in response, seemingly deep in thought. “She must care for you deeply, to go to such lengths.” Cyril didn’t answer. Just stared back. But the loader understood, sighing as he rose and trotting off towards the kitchen too. He’d be missed. In a moment, the rest of the crew would demand he come over to share in the New Year festivities with them. But for now, Cyril leaned back, listening to the quiet buzz of the radio and stared out the window at the snowy streets of Griffenheim. Then smiled, at last. 1011 pt 1Sent January 2nd, 1011 Dear Paige, Happy New Year. I meant to tell you that when you made your ‘visit’. Sophie won’t stop talking about it. She keeps asking me questions that I can’t answer about magic, how it works, all that noise. Honestly, I understand just enough to comprehend -how- you did it, so I can’t really tell her how you shouldn’t have been able to and how it -doesn’t- make sense. More news of a military nature; we’re cleared of suspicion. Sergeant Hellseig told us the 41st has been recalled after MfÖS finished their investigation. Which means now I get to return to camp, get back on Sabine and actually get back to the business of doing my job. Mother and Sophie are safe now. It’s a New Year’s miracle. But now the bad news. We’ve been called up again. Apparently there’s something going on to the east called Operation: Tartarus. The Reformisten are spearheading it, and all I’m allowed to say is that they’re requesting panzer support. That means us in the 41st. I can’t say much, you know the way things go. But word is now that Lushi is flying the flag of the Empire again, its a certain rogue nation gone the way of civil war recently. I know that doesn’t narrow it down, but a lot of secrecy’s going into this operation. We’re being deployed eastwards. Once we reach (the location has been clipped by a censor), we’re to spend a month or so training with the Reformisten so they can get their heads around combined arms tactics with panzers. From what I hear, they’ve already got Imperial advisors on the ground, but no armor of their own. That’s where the Empire comes in. We go in with a few other panzer regiments and an infantry division or two, some aircraft loaned to the Reformisten and a whole lot of suppression forces behind us. That’s the plan, at least. I’ve been told not to think about this as a war, not like what happened with the Holy League. The Grenzwald Territories aren’t supposed to be capable of that sort of coordination or advanced resistance. But you and I know better. We’ll see. Thank you, by the way. I know how much it means to have done what you did, using up the crystal’s energy like that. I don’t know much about magic and how it works, but I know you’ve been working on that thing since we met. I didn’t get the chance to say all that when we ‘talked’. It means more than I could ever say that you gave that up just for a few minutes. So. Remember Haul? My new Reformisten loader? Turns out, he caught sight of you that night. I don’t know if it’s somehow illegal or not, but so far as I can tell, he hasn’t ratted on us. Which kind of surprised me. He did mention how much effort you must have gone through to send that message. I don’t know what to think about it. I’ll keep an eye on him. Less worried they’ll freak over the use of magic thing. More worried they’ll see me talking to a ‘Harmonist’ as a problem. Political agendas are always an issue here with the Republic still sniffing at our claws. You know what? With the end of the war and everything happening over here, I completely forgot our three questions thing going on. So, in light of everything that’s happened, I’m hereby resurrecting it. Question one: Birthday. This is a bit of a free one. You still haven’t told me, and I’d like to know ahead of time so I can send a letter, and a gift. I may not make many idols, but what I set aside for myself is just spent on booze and other little shit at this point. I can put it to much better use for you, especially on your birthday. After all, I have three years to make up for at this point. Two: what kind of language would you want to learn next? I know you’re fluent in a couple more tongues than I am. So what’s next to learn? I think I might go Wingbardian, given all the ‘mercenaries’ we keep running into. Maybe Aquileian (kind of a weird complex on that. We’re encouraged to learn it so we can be useful in the field but nogriff wants to because of the whole ‘Republican/Harmonist suspicion’ sort of thing). Kind of sad that I’m looking at this by what’ll be useful for the next war, but you know everything happening over here on that. Anyway. Three: do you have an idol in your life? Like, anypony or anygriff you look up to? I know you’ve always been drawn to science and magic types. You spoke highly of your meeting with Princess Luna, and you seem to know more about the scientists in Griffonia than I ever thought to ask. But who do you get inspired by? I’ve always got my father to look up to. My mother is a great source of strength. And the stories of heroes out here are good inspiration. But with everything happening, I’ve been really looking to Uncle August for motivation. He wrote me again after everything that happened. We don’t talk much these days, to his regret. But he told me it would be alright. Turns out, he was the one who arranged my transfer to the east. A whole division sent east for my own sake. To ‘get my head on straight’ he said. I’m thankful he’s looking out for me. I’m also a little glad I don’t have any cousins. You asked me a question some time ago, and I’ve had time to think it over. And given what happened the other night, and what’s happening in the world, I feel maybe I have the chance to tell you what conclusion I came to. I answered this my last letter, but I was too bitter about it. I wasn’t thinking, and I said a few insensitive things. Yes. If we had the chance, and we were happy, I would want to try and make a family with you. I’m not sure how much success we’d have. But if we are ever handed the chance, I’d be an idiot not to try if you wanted to. Someday, when we’re ready. I know we’ll not see each other until we can get face to face again. But I’m looking forward to that with renewed eagerness, however long it takes. Love, ~Cyril Sent January 28th Dear Cyril, First off, I’m glad you’re doing better. You certainly didn’t wait long to write. I’m glad to hear that. I wasn’t sure who does what after making the equivalent of a magical telephone call. So, your Reformisten comrade is...interesting. I’m a little unsettled by his discretion. Part of me wants to believe the pony in him is just letting us have this. The other part thinks he hasn’t sold you out to his ‘buddies’ because he’s waiting until the right moment. I don’t know. He isn’t natural, if you ask me. Joining an organization like that. And from what you told me of his Cutie Mark. I don’t think there’s a single pony between Equestria and even the Riverlands with a mark meant for war. Field Marshal Lipzig would be our best candidate for that (dedicated his whole life to the Republican Army), and he certainly doesn’t have it. If Marks are able to be shaped into war instruments too, I’m afraid of what that could mean. Just keep an eye on Haul. I don’t trust him, and neither should you. Maybe I’m getting overly paranoid. You’re closest to the situation. You know what to do. You’ve always been good at that. First of all, Happy Hearts and Hooves Day. If I’m right, this letter will get to you just before (or just after). It would mean the world to me to say it. Enjoy the attached cookies! I sent a bag to your mother and Sophie. Made them myself, with Static’s help. Static says hi. Second, your question about my birthday doesn’t count, since that was something we were planning to discuss before. But I’ll grant you this information out of my own grace and kindness regardless. May 15th. My birthday is May 15, so if you plan to get me a happy birthday letter and a gift, I’d recommend you start soon. Remember, I like purple. Though, on second thought, I know what I really want. Shame that I can’t have it. University is still going, as it does. Midterms were kind of a blur, but I’m still plodding along. Well, I say plodding. I’ve been trying to keep up my high-level classes while balancing my job at the office, but it's a bit difficult. Before the RAF, I was more flexible with my time. Now, it grates me when I’m awake at night. It’s an annoying thing I wish I could drop. I was in for only a year. But the Reserves keeps me in the habit, so the night shift is terrible for my health. Heard back from my parents, wishing me happy holidays. They’ve mellowed out. My father will never like me being in Equestria, and my mother will always be so passive about it all. But they’re coming around to me being gone so long. No word from my brother yet. Starting to wonder if something bad happened to him in...well, you know where. No way to tell until he comes up for air, I suppose. Brook’s always been good at getting out of trouble. He has to, with how talented he is at getting -into- trouble. So, I know you’re burning for my answers to your two other questions. Language to learn next. Well, I’ve done Herzlandisch, my own mother tongue, Equestrian, a little bit of Aquileian myself, a bit of a few others here and there. I even picked up a bit of Bison, but don’t ask me to carry on a conversation with a buffalo. They’re very protective of their culture. So I’d have to say the next language I’d want to learn might be Greneclyfian. I’ve been hearing they’re getting more involved back east, and if or when I ever go back it might be of good benefit to be able to speak to the Changelings. I assume they’ll have a greater role with the Riverlands. It’s kind of sad, to hear the distrust and discrimination they’ve faced, all because they’re shapeshifters, different creatures coming from strange lands that nopony understands. It’s a lot like the thestrals out here in Equestria. But from what I’m reading, the situation’s turned around at home for the Changelings too. Good. Next, idol. Well, that is a tough one. I’ve tried to expand my horizons for so long, I haven’t focused on one for a big amount of time. Ooh, except for one. Morgend Longpaw. If you haven’t heard of him, that’s okay. Even among the scientific community he’s a bit of a recluse, and somewhat of a pariah. The theories he’s proposed are not widely accepted but he refuses to renege, so the Griffonian scientific community has made it difficult for him to get any legitimacy. Firstly, he’s been forced to take over the family business in Flowena, so that’s not going to get him many fans. But I’ve loved his work, because it really inspired my own. He’s currently the leading theorist in renewable crystal energy being implemented on a wide scale in things such as automobiles and city power plants. Sound familiar? Well, in Morgend’s case, he has happened to infuriate the oil and coal barons of Griffonia while also refusing to back down under pressure from other Griffonian scientists. There’s been a lot of controversy around him. There’s even been attempts on his life, his family. But he inspired me to start looking into crystals. I always wanted to do magic of some kind, but here was my way in. Someone else who wasn’t a unicorn, who could work with magic anyway. How could I stay away from that? Word is he even has a prototype for his design, and it uses a little something called ambient charge enchanting. Can you imagine that? A crystal that recharges itself from the magic in the air? No unicorns or anything like that needed? Just put it down somewhere with magical energy and leave it alone. Okay, so since you’re going to war, again, I’ll ask the three questions -before- I start worrying about you all over again. I know you said it's not the same, but I’m not going to stop fretting over here. See, there I go stressing out when I said I wouldn’t. Okay, question one: dream job. Let’s say, for one reason or another, rather than stay in the army or even rather than ever enlisting in the first place, you decided to do something else. What would that be? I think you can already guess mine, from everything up until now. The topic of magic crystals used in industrial applications and power substitutes is a brand new frontier, and I want to be at the forefront of that discovery. It’s one of the few schools of magic I can pursue, since I’m not a unicorn. But what about you? You’re great with machines, and I know you’ve never had a chance for higher schooling, but you’ve got a natural gift, Cyril. You should do something with it! Next: have you had any accomplishments you’re particularly proud of? You’ve done a lot with your life, and there’s got to be something you look back fondly on. I know you’re full of doubt, so let me tell you what I’m proud of; you took the problem of feeding your family the second it came up, you love your sister to death, you’re incredibly respectful of your mother, loyal to the Empire regardless of the crap they keep throwing at you. You always have your morals and ideals, you stick to doing the right thing. Cyril, there are so many things you’ve done I’m proud of, and love you all the more for. C’mon, pull one thing out for me? I’m proud of the fact that I’m here, in Equestria, doing what everypony told me was impossible; learning magic. True, I’m no longer at Luna Nova, but I’m on the way despite what they all thought of me. Take that, Professor Slide! Okay, last one; would you ever want to be famous? Have your name on marquees and newspapers, be recognized wherever you went and have whole countries talking about you? I’m not one of those glory types myself, but I must admit that after talking about Longpaw, the idea of being in the headlines is a bit alluring. Though, maybe not butting heads with the scientific community. The need for bodyguards. Family being harassed. Death threats. Maybe not. Okay, the part where I worry over you. I already told you I’m concerned. You survived the Herzland Wars, don’t go getting blown up by some communist landmine, okay? If you die after everything that’s been thrown at you, after what we both went through with this long-distance relationship the past three years, I will kill you myself. Seriously, though. Stay safe. We both know the worst things can happen at the flip of a riverbit. I don’t want to lose you after coming so close to getting you back. Keep your eyes open, head on a swivel. And come back to me. Love, ~Paige Sent February 19th Dear Paige, I’m glad your letter came in today. They’re putting our panzers on the trains next week, destination; eastwards. (I’ve started figuring out what specific information the censors are looking to clip. Victory at last) I’ve got everything packed up, and we’re getting one more weekend of leave before we hit the Grenzwald. I would take it at home in Griffenheim, but by the time I get there by train or wing I’d have to get ready to come right back out again. So me and the lads are planning to hit the town tonight, get some beers as a kompanie. I pity the pubs we choose to pillage; they don’t stand a chance once a military unit on leave gets underway. We’ve got a few Bronzehill units here with us at this location which shall not be named. Apparently they’ve been entrusted with marching north and putting down the Sunstriker berserkers. Serves them right. Those Maar cultists are nothing but murderous anarchists. From all news, every free Bronzehill division is going north. They’ve got a pretty impressive set of all-dog air wings assembled too from what I hear. Good luck to them, they’re the best suited for the task. Spotsley wants to go with, I can see it. But she hasn’t said a word about leaving. Complains about not being sent in, of course, but never asks to be transferred. You got the math pretty close, by the way. I know Hearts and Hooves Day passed for you already, and I appreciate the cookies. They’re quite tasty, and the rest of the crew thinks so too (bunch of thieving vultures). I bought you some Flowenan chocolates, managed to hide them long enough to wait for your letter. So it’ll be a little late, but I hope you appreciate the gesture at least. About Haul: I don’t really trust him either. The rest of the crew is a bit offput by him, but he’s professional enough and does his job with no issue. We can put up with some ultranationalist preaching for a job well done. Doesn’t mean I trust he won’t eventually sell me out to MfOS or the Geheimstaat, but I at least know I can do my job too. By the way; is this your way of saying pony culture is the only good one out there? I’m kidding. May 15. Purple. Got it. Let’s hope I get the math right too. Dream job? Honestly, I never had much chance to do anything but work in the factory until I got old enough to enlist. Then the idea of moving on to something else never occured to me. I’ve never had a dream job, I’ve just always wanted to do what I can where I’m at. I suppose, if I was ever not shooting the Empire’s enemies, I might want to go into fixing automobiles. After you pointed out to me that my role here gives me good knowledge of machines, I talked to a few mechanics in the motor pool. It's not a dream job by any stretch, but it is something I could do in peacetime. Accomplishments I’m proud of. I don’t know about that. I’ve done a lot in my life. I’m not sure I’m proud of any of it. It always seems to come with some drawback to rob it of any integrity it used to have. The closest I could come to thinking of something I hold with pride is Sophie. She’s only ten, but she’s already got a sharp mind, and it seems like she’s going to go down the right path when she grows up. I’m already proud of her and what she’s getting set up to do, and I know I had a part in helping her learn those lessons., Do I want to be famous? No. I don’t want that kind of attention. I can live my life without griffons watching me in the papers or on the television. It’s odd. Ever since I spoke to you face to face in my house, you’ve been on my mind more and more, but the ache of you not being here has gotten worse too. As if with how close we got I could almost feel you there, and the fact I was that close and still so far from you makes me feel cheated. Don’t feel bad. I don’t regret what you did. Just wish I was there even more now. Okay, questions for you. Let’s say you get a million bits in the mail. No strings attached, like a prize or an inheritance or something. It’s a lot of funds, I will admit. If I got a fortune like that, I don’t know what I’d do with it myself. Maybe buy Mother a better house, closer to the Imperial District. After that, maybe invest or buy shares? I’d have to find out how the stock market works before I do that. It’s got numbers, right? Favorite festival or holiday? I’ve got to tell you, I don’t know much about pony traditions, and I know less about Equestrian ones than Riverpony ones. But mine would of course have to be Geheimesnacht. I think we had this conversation years back. The idea that the magic of the past seeps into the world around us is so intriguing to me, even if it does bring unsettled spirits with it. Of course, there’s also Imperial Day. The marches, the songs, the cookwagons in the streets. Anygriff with even a shred of patriotism in their veins has got to feel their heart swell at the sights, sounds and smells. Mind, they both come with beer and a day off. That might have something to do with it. Final question: what’s the most beautiful place you’ve ever visited? I know this one is a bit subjective, but you’ve been all across Griffonia and now over to Equestria. Something has to have stuck with you from all that. For me, I remember when I was in Griefenmarschen. Not the best of memories, but we were out on anti-partisan patrol during the occupation one night (overkill? Maybe, but we weren’t taking chances). We were on our way back when dawn came up over the horizon. Now, the panzer column was going through a valley, so when the sun came up over the hills and spilled down, it was like a golden curtain falling on the snow. I haven’t seen anything else like that before or since. I’ll try to stay in contact as best I can out east. We’ll be using the Reichsarmee mail train, and I would prefer that over whatever frontier system has to be rigged up, as unreliable as you know it is. Let’s hope for once our cynicism is unfounded. Keep up your studies. I know you have it in you to do this. Just a few years of suffering to go, after all. Remember, put my unit on the envelope instead of my address to get the letter sent to my position. Otherwise, it’ll go home to Mother. Just a reminder. Love, ~Cyril (The letter is attached to a package of chocolates from Flowena, which carry quite a hefty price tag on them.) Sent March 14 Dear Cyril, I am sorry to have to watch you go to war again. Well, read about it. The Herzland War is only just over, and now they’re asking you to go follow a bunch of mad knights to conquer in the name of ‘imperial glory’. Big surprise there. Empires will be empires. But it doesn’t make it easier on you, me, your mother, your sister or your uncle. Still, no point complaining, I guess. I’ve only just realized how much I already said that part. But I’m allowed to worry about my buckfriend. Thank you so much for the chocolates. They were delicious, but that was quite an expensive gift! You didn’t have to do that. I don’t care they were late either. You got them to me, and that’s all that matters. I just want you to stay on your toes. The Reformisten may be playing the whole ‘reformed’ bit nowadays, but you can’t completely alter an organization without parts of it remaining. Anypony that willingly associates with what they once stood for, especially one from Longsword, I’d bet is brainwashed. Or worse. Moving on. School is still plugging onwards. I’m past the point where the excitement has worn off. Now, I’m just trying to get through and earn a degree so I can maybe stop for a few years and do some actual work. Static’s radio show is getting more popular, but she’s too political for me to listen to everyday. Still, she’s gotten a small following from the Southrons (their word for themselves, apparently) who believe the Royal government is ignoring the signs around the world. First she started about the fixed articles in the papers keeping ponies from knowing about what was really going on in Griffonia, but now apparently there’s some word from up north about trouble in the Wastes. And apparently the army is doing nothing about it. So a bunch of these ‘survivalist’ ponies have started using Static as sort of their sounding horn to pass news out. She does it, of course. They pay bits for her to read flyers, and we’re hard up for what we can get for rent and food. Oh, right. I lost my job. Apparently, a thestral can do my work better and with more ‘energy.’ So they hired one. Ironic, really. There are some days I think going back to the military isn’t a bad idea. Also, I know you were only joking about it, but I do feel I have to point out; no pony culture in the world has the foundation of taking things from others by force. Which is kind of how half or more of the griffon nations do things. Okay, question time. We’re getting good at these, aren’t we? Favourite holiday. It has a complicated name in Rijekan, but in Equestrian it translates roughly to Ancestor’s Day. Basically, we remember our ancestors (surprise), what they did in life and how they lived. Great-grandparents, granduncle, some more distant relatives, you get the idea. It’s a saying back home, that you really die two times – first in the body and later when you’re forgotten. It's a big thing in the Republic, and in most of the Riverlands really, though I do know the Deponyan and Ponaidhean ponies have their spirit worship, so it winds up being a different affair for them. Though lately spending time here in Equestria I’ve really gotten involved with Hearths’ Warming Eve and Hearts and Hooves Day. You know about H&H Day, but the first one’s got more history to it. The Equestrians celebrate the union of the Pegasus, Earth Pony and Unicorn tribes that formed the country; so the holiday is meant as a celebration of friendship and harmony. Though since I’m not Equestrian I can’t really celebrate that part (from a cultural point of view) you can see how the story permeates into the wider attitude the ponies here have. I know my letters have focused on some of the bad parts, and it’s soured a bit with the recent world events, but you can’t believe how friendly Equestrian ponies are, at least compared to home. If you are walking down a street, expect somepony to say ‘hi’ to you with a smile randomly or ask how you’re doing. It's really nice, especially compared to what you or I are used to back east. Now, what I would do with a million riverbits? That’s more difficult. I would definitely send some back to my family in Rijekograd, but even then it leaves me with a lot of money. Really, like the amount, there’s a million things I could spend it on. Though, with Morgend’s theory, I would really like to spend it on research dealing with renewable crystal energy. If you think about it, the return benefits of it succeeding easily surpasses the million bits; it would be way, way more than that, and I’d never have to worry about securing funds for myself after. Favorite place? That’s a bit easy. So, basically, when I was a filly we went to visit some relatives in the northeast, near the border with Nimbusia. It's a really mountainous region, with a lot of forests as well. Now when I think about it, it's similar to your story: the last day before we left, I woke up at dawn and went to the window, which faced over the valley. I saw the sun rising up over the mountains and just spilling down to light up the whole place, letting the trees cast long shadows across the landscape. That whole scene stuck with me, to this day. It's gets better when you realize that this part of the world is one of the first to see dawn, so I was one of the first creatures on the entire planet to see the new day. It's nice when you think about it that way. Okay, three from me. First of all, is there anything you do to reduce your stress? I understand you drink and hang out and don’t have much else when you’re out in the field, no real time for hobbies, but you’ve got to do something to pass the time, live with the army life. You know I love my music and sinking into my studies, but every once in a while, Static and I take a night and go to the cinema. It doesn’t even matter what the picture is, just as long as we get out. Then we go for drinks after. But what about you? Question two: wardrobe accessories. Not to say any pony or griff needs clothes, but sometimes there’s that something you just can’t live without. Since I’m letting my mane grow out again, I’ve found it gets a little awkward to groom, so I’ve started braiding it. Not quite an accessory, but I always make sure to start my morning with the brush and a few hair ties. Twenty minutes later, braided mane. And I get you wear a uniform, but there’s got to be something else you just can’t go out without, right? Third: drinks. I know what your favorite beer is, but is that your absolute favorite? Mine is strawberry milkshakes. It’s so odd, in the Riverlands you don’t find milkshakes all that often, but with how much Equestria loves ice cream, I can find a parlor on almost every corner. I don’t know what I’ll do when I go home. I understand your issues with the mail system. Though I do have to say it seems to be getting a bit more efficient. Obviously you can’t tell me where you’re going, but if it’s where I think it is, you’ll be closer to home than I’ve been in years. A bit ironic. And it makes me homesick and missing you all over again. Do me a favor; I know you and my father don’t get along, but try writing them again. It takes so long for my letters to reach them, I just want them to know I’m doing okay and thinking about them. It’s a lot less time for you to write, and you only have to go over once border, whereas I have a whole ocean to write across. And besides, I want you guys to get better. Find something you can relate to, even if it’s a little thing. Otherwise, this barrier between you two is never going to get better, and we’re going to be in for a rough ride. At least try. I can understand if it doesn’t work out anyway, but at least you’ll have made the attempt. For me? Don’t ask about my brother, by the way. Love, ~Paige Sent April 12th Dear Paige, First, Happy Birthday. I know it’s still a month off, but I know I won’t get another chance to say it before, and I’m tired of writing about events after the fact. I couldn’t get you much out here in the middle of I can’t tell you where’s-ville, but I know you always love a good read, so I picked up a local storybook on myths and legends, “Raganų Istorijos”, which I’ve been told roughly translates to “Witch Stories.” Have fun with the language, I can barely read the title. Gives you a twofer, a new language to figure out and a book to go with it. What I -can- tell you about was our short stay in Hellsword. As it turns out, the target we were moving towards has not yet had its rail network set up to the Imperial standard gauge (though from what I’m seeing, the whole thing needs to be ripped up and replaced regardless). So we offloaded in Visaginas to move southwards. Traveling with us we have several battalions of Reformisten soldiers, who had to march most of the countryside due to bad roads and lacking trucks. First off, the thing that got me was just how overwhelmingly the pony population outnumbers griffs out here. Aside from you and Haul, I’ve only seen a few in my time. And on some level, I knew this was pony country (Visagina was the center of the pony socialist uprising during the civil war). But I’ve never seen this many in one place. For every one griffon I saw in the city, there had to be a dozen ponies, but strangely the force we travelled with were mostly griffs. As you might have expected, there was propaganda everywhere, even more than in the Empire. Posters and banners and some kind of police with those special badges, ponies and griffs shouting Wingfried and the Emperor’s name all over the place or going “Angriff”, a lot of saluting and the Reformisten flag flying under the Imperial one. It’s actually really disconcerting. Oddly though, it didn’t seem like they were miserable about it all. So they’re doing this hot-stepping either out of passive fear or they actively believe this crap. Maybe both. The roads we went down in the panzers seemed just like anything back in the Empire. Markets were bustling, shops were open, colts and fillies chased after our vehicles pestering us about the panzers over the noise. They seemed happy, though I suppose I’m a poor judge. A few even came out with Imperial banners, started waving them. That’s...probably the friendliest greeting I’ve gotten when we rolled through a place. I’m not saying I like it. The amount of conditioning is evident, and these ponies are okay with just letting a bunch of griffs rule over them who just a few years ago were committed to their very genocide. Wingfried be damned, who’s to say someone worse doesn’t take power when he dies? We went south from there. The terrain is hilly, mountainous in some places. Their railroads might not be very good, but their roads are pretty well taken care of. Even the dirt ones. Every once in a while, we passed a militia watch station, and behind said station are a set of gallows. They’re usually bedecked with the rotten corpses of griffons marked as traitors, either hardline Blackcloaks or Pallas’ followers. Little more than dried skin over bones inside scraps of uniforms by now. But they apparently keep changing the signs, replacing the paint or the old wood. Someone wants everypony and everygriff to remember this. We passed one, just like any other, and Haul out on the turret getting some air, he points to one and said “That’s Pallas Duskwing.” Just put out to rot like the rest. The sheer amount of control the Reformisten exert on their lands kind of answers my question of just how everygriff and pony here seems so happy. Not sure they’re really given a choice otherwise. At least the Reformisten troops are decently drilled. The non-Knights are well-trained. They apparently use a similar structure to the Reichsarmee, calling themselves the Ostheer. These pony troopers don’t stick around long to chat, they mostly come look at Sabine and then take off when we try to ask them questions. But while their officers will talk with us, we don’t like doing it for long. They’re like Haul, continuing to go on about the purity of Imperial culture, the benevolence of King Wingfried and the filth that is communism. While I agree with the last one, the fact they can all pull a lecture out of their ass is equal parts annoying and worrying. ‘Angriff’ indeed. I’m a bit separated from the rest of Imperial news, but I did hear something that caught my ear. I don’t know if you’re aware, but rumor is that there’s some rumblings coming out of the Changeling Lands. Something that’s got Uncle August and the rest of High Kommand getting nervous. By the time this reaches you, it may be too late. Or it could wind up being nothing. If it's leaked down to the lower ranks, even out here, it must be something important, though. I know everygriff says the Changelings are our friends, and that’s still the official story. But recently, every time I’ve seen Changeling troops at Imperial bases, there’s always been this tension. We’d always eat at separate tables, drill in separate yards, practice with different weapons. All that comradery and cooperation from years ago is gone. Something happened between the Changeling mission and High Kommand. I don’t know myself. Call it a weird feeling. Like there’s this gap between us now. You’re closest to the trouble. Stay alert. I don’t know that there’s much more I can do for you from here. I’ll write your dad again. Not sure what to say to him. I get that this rift needs to be addressed, but if he doesn’t like me now, I’m not sure what to say to change his mind. We don’t exactly have much in common to discuss. As you well know. Not to mention it's a little tricky getting mail to the Riverlands through the Refromisten mail network. Questions, then. Stress reduction is a bit of an odd one. You were air force, so you may not be aware of just what the front liners do to keep the edge off. I’ll avoid the utter stupidity to keep it tolerable, but we like target shooting cans with our sidearms, playing cards and placing bets on the sports teams we can listen to over the radio. It’s all gambled on, of course. No griff goes into a competition without something to gain, and bragging rights don’t mean much when you’re stuck with each other for weeks on end. Eihol makes a small fortune betting on the automobile races in the paper. Amazing. This one made me laugh. Then scratch my head. Paige, Mein Leibe, I have worn civilian clothes I think maybe a dozen times or so in the past month. I don’t get much time to accessorize. Although, if I had to take a stab I might say my panzer goggles. We all wear them to protect our eyes in Sabine. I’ve always got my eye on the gunsight, so when Eihol takes us into a dip, I can at least not go blind. And then outside I’ve gotten so accustomed to them I just wear them around my neck everywhere I go. Habit, I suppose. Same with my coveralls, really. Though, on the few times I do go out, I have this blue hat. Nothing special. I picked it up from a cheap clothing stall. But I’m used to headgear. So that hat goes with me everywhere when I’m back home in Griffenheim. I put a pin with the logo of the Reichsarmee panzerwaffen in it. Little things, I suppose. Well, you know I like my beers. Braufenweisen especially. But I do enjoy a good soda pop. Peach flavored, if I can get it. I told you some time ago that it’s a novelty out here. Doesn’t mean we don’t like it. So if I can get a day in a civilian town, I’ll spare a day where there’s no coffee or beer and look for a fruit-flavored pop. Brand doesn’t matter, as long as they’ve got the flavor. Three for you right back, then. It’s getting difficult to think these up. We say again for the fifth time. And yet, we somehow keep doing it. Do you miss your time in the military? I know you’re still in the Air Force reserves, and you had plenty of bad memories, but from what you wrote, it changed a lot of things for you. Might there have been something you remember fondly, at least? I don’t know what I’d do outside the Reichsarmee, as we’ve addressed before. And your input has really got me starting to think about looking into something I can fall back on. Can’t be in a panzer forever, right? Second, Equestria or the River Republic? Not in a which is better sense, but where do you see yourself settling down? I know Rijekograd is where you grew up and your parents live there, but you seem to be having a great time in Equestria. No shame in staying where you like. I’ve been across the Empire, and now I’m wandering land she used to own, and will again soon. I don’t know where I’m going myself right now. Finally, and this one might seem a bit awkward, but you’ve got Spotsley to thank for this one. Turns out she’s a fan of those trashy romance novellas. Anyway; if we do wind up having kids one day, how do you think they’d turn out? I know this one’s a bit sensitive because of what we had spoken of before a few letters back, but I guess we can’t afford to step around things in a letter-relationship. And, I didn’t have anything better, really. Personally, I (several sentence starts are scribbled out, smudged, wiped and written into the crease, as if the writer had folded up the letter a few times before continuing to write). I just hope it all winds up okay. Hybridization’s apparently difficult enough. Four limbs, two eyes, one head. Everything fine. After that, doesn’t matter. Okay, are you being serious with that one? Need I point out Nimbusia? Lake City? Deponya? Even your River Republic’s princess fell trying to conquer Wittenland (cracked open a history book not too long ago). And Griffonian culture has far more to it than martial prowess. There’s honor to code, chivalry, drive to accomplish. Ponies are creative and cooperative, I’ll give them that, but there’s no reason to ignore the parts of our cultures either one of us dislike. Love, ~Cyril Another slip of paper was in the same envelope, and written in a different ink, with a different writing style, were the simple words “YOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY. OTHERS ARE READING. THIS IS HELLSWORD NOW. WILL WATCH OUT, SEE WHAT I CAN DO. -LH” Sent May 9th Dear Cyril, I have to pick up on your power of observation. Our unit’s been put on alert, which is disturbing because I haven’t flown anything in over a year now. My pilot’s license is a bit out of currency. They won’t tell us what’s going on, and the news appears to be blindingly oblivious. The only clear enemy on the continent is the Changelings, so if ponies can’t put the pieces together we kind of deserve to be taken by surprise. Apparently, we’re to report for ‘maneuvers’ near Mariposa. Which is a miracle for me since I have yet to find another job. I could use the extra pay, rent’s coming due. Between what Static and I will make together, we should be able to pay it. I just hope it won’t be for too long. I’d hate to have to clear my school backlog. First, some good news. I ran into somepony at class today; another thestral that served up north in the Army during the Crystal War. Turns out he was using the same idea as I was, take the money for school after service and use it quick as possible. His name is Hills in Shadow (I think he’s from one of the tribes in the southeast) and he apparently served in Gloaming’s unit. You remember her? We had some good talks about our time in the north. Turned out, to my surprise, she really missed me before she got killed. Talked about me a lot to the unit, which surprised me because she wasn’t much for conversation when I knew her. I don’t even think we hung out a lot outside of study. But I haven’t thought much on her the past year. I feel awful for that. And now to hear she actually thought really highly of me? I considered us friends, but now I’ll never get the chance to have spent more time, done more with her. And I don’t have a lot of friends left. (The next line has a few scribbles, as if the author made several attempts to write something, but gave up and moved on.) Second, some bad news. I know you’re busy being the mighty hammer of the Empire (only half sarcastic there) so I wanted to report a few things happening at home you may not be aware of. Mostly because it doesn’t mean much to anypony so far away from it and also so you know what to keep an eye on when you get back. Which you will. Anyway. Apparently, there was a bit of stirring in March. Remember that business in 1009, when Lake City and Diamond Mountain almost started a war over Deponya? Well, Heavenly Snow and Lake City have formally left the River Coalition. I kind of saw this coming, with what my parents have been telling me about back home. The River Republic, Bakara and Wittenland have been making strong attempts to unite the region. A series of economic reforms and pacts got signed, railroads built, trade concessions etc. Boring politics you only need to know the gist of. My mother knows how much I like hearing the details (and I know you don’t). All you need to know is that the eastern half of the Coalition wants to draw all the Riverlands together and form a stronger nation, perhaps even a truly united one. While the western half, which is Lake City, Deponya and Diamond Mountain, keep protesting loss of independence. So, with all this going on, of course that’s when socialists in Bakara and the Republic want to start kicking up trouble, right? So keep in mind all of this is happening back in March. Yesterday I see in the news that the Coalition’s been broken. The Principality officially left. And with them, they took Diamond Mountain and Deponya. And as you’ve pointed out, the Empire is getting stronger (so is a greater threat to all the Riverlands according to the paranoid politicians in charge). There’s no way the River Coalition and the new East Griffonian Co-Prosperity Sphere (seriously) are going to leave things alone. So watch yourself. I want to go home. It sounds like things are getting serious back there, between socialist uprisings in Bakara and the shit with Lake City. I’m worried about my parents. My father wants to stay, stubborn ass that he is. But my mother says she’s looking into the possibility of leaving. Where to, she’s not sure. But neither of them want to get caught in this. I’d send them some bits (the exchange rate is good with all the crashes and whatnot) but I don’t have anything. At this point, I’m already committed here, and I can’t leave without formally being released. Which means I can’t do a damn thing. I know that doesn’t affect you much. Just felt like getting it out. Nopony here would get it either. Except Static, but you know how she is when it comes to politics. Listen, I’ve been giving it some thought. Both before and after I got your letter. I’m sorry. The pressure I put on you about kids so long ago wasn’t fair. And after your last letter and how it really must have been hard for you to think it over, I just wanted to take that pressure off. I know the odds of hybridization. And I would love for nothing more than to look forward to that possibility. But I know what we’re thousands of miles apart, have been for years. And making you face what’s been on my mind isn’t fair. While it's sweet that you’re getting worried too, I’m okay. Really. Step 1: get face to beak meeting. Step 2: plan for future. I promise, I’ll stop jumping ahead. I’ve got my bags packed and waiting by the door. As I write, Static’s closing down her station. Tonight’s the last night we’ve got before we head to the depot. I almost feel like taking a few drinks, but we’ve got to be up early. But I had to take this time to sit down and write to you. Funny thing is, I got your last letter a few days ago. But if I hadn’t, I would have written anyway. Then we’d have another letter in circulation. Wouldn’t that be ridiculous? But I didn’t want to miss my chance to say something. I can’t help but feel like we’re getting close to something here, the world on edge like it is. Everywhere is getting more and more chaotic, like it's all building up to something. I almost feel like, if I don’t write you now when I’ve got the chance, I’ll regret it. Call it a bad feeling, or maybe your sense for danger at long distances is rubbing off on me. I’ll take the latter, personally. Especially if it's literal. (A few small scrapes, as if the author was considering scratching out the last line) Wow, that was terrible. Segue to questions and answers so I can actually pretend I got something done with this letter. For your first question, I find it ironic since I’m being mobilized short notice. Guess we’re in the same boat. But yeah. More than I realized, I missed a few things. The job security, for one. Two lost jobs and a month of unemployment later and I do miss the sense that I at least could keep hold of something. The food was...not good. Quarters were free I guess. And it was amazing to fly airplanes. Until, y’know, the whole battle thing. I know you’re a lot more accustomed to that. Makes my term in uniform seem like a foal playing dress up. I’ll be okay playing Airmare for a little while. Take a break from city life. River Republic. Hooves down. I like Equestria, I do. It’s calm and quiet, everypony here is nice. Aside from a -small- case of evil invasion, it’s peaceful. But it’s -too- nice. I know that seems a bit odd to say, but I really can’t take the whole “friendship” angle that keeps getting heaped on. It’s nice to cooperate and all, but we both know reality, and ignoring the rest of the world doesn’t mean you’re a paradise in comparison. My family aside, I need to live somewhere that’s in touch with how the world really is. This one technically doesn’t count either, since I answered it earlier. But I think I have an idea. I gave it a bit of thought when I wanted to apologize for the pressure. But here goes. I still remember your face. Every detail. My eyes would be good with your feathers, I think. A muzzle would make things a bit more comfortable. But claws and talons would let them interact with the world. Wings, of course. Then we could all fly together. Your stubbornness. My artistic flair. They’d never give up on anything in life. That’s the kind of thing I’d want for our children, should we ever succeed. But we do have a few more steps in between to accomplish, don’t we? Three for you then. What do you remember of your father? You talk about your mother all the time, but you seem really hesitant to mention anything more about him. Stefan, was it? I understand it is painful to think of him. I just want to know more about you and your family. Your mother doesn’t speak much about him either. I think his loss might have been too much for her. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. My father, Stern Vigil, has been a river worker since he was a foal. I told you my grandfather served in the Deponyan Royal Army, but my father didn’t want anything to do with that. So he moved east to get away from the Empire and settled down in the Republic after he met my mother, Poppy Banks. I know you’ve written him, and you know he’s a bit intense. I thought that might bring you two together, given how like him your mother is. I’m sorry that hasn’t been the case. I know he’s harsh and judgemental, but he does it because he cares. His father died for a kingdom that barely paid their family back. He doesn’t look well at armies or the Empire for either of that. He tells me all the time he can’t look out for me if I’m across the world, and my brother’s already run off with the criminal lifestyle. I know I disappoint him, but I also know I make him proud. He just has a hard time saying it. Mother has always tried to mediate between us, and her job’s not easy through letters. Now he’s got all the trouble back home, I’m worried he’ll be too focused on Brook and I to keep his eye on what’s happening there. Do you keep touch with friends? You mention you’ve been moved through a few units, and you go drinking with your comrades. As well as the ones from Industrie you probably see when you go home. Ever since I left the Riverlands, my friends in Rijekograd have been writing me less and less. Now I’m losing touch with my Equestrian friends from Luna Nova. All I seem to have left is Static, a few ponies from my RAF days and the friends I have in Hoofington. And I’m worried that, when I move on somewhere else, I’ll lose touch with everypony there too. More and more, I come to value your letters as my only permanent source of conversation (aside from Static, though some days she’s so dry and sarcastic I just leave her alone). Finally, to change up the tone a little and make things somewhat cheerier, what’s the most daring thing you’ve done? Aside from what you’ve been through in the army, you mentioned having a pretty wild childhood in Griffenheim. And children, whether foals or chicks, always dare each other to do stupid, intense things. For me, I remember this time when my friends and I found this series of caves. Nopony knew where they went, and we didn’t even know they were so close to home. We were fascinated to see what was inside, but so scared to even try it. So, I went first. And got lost. The place was practically a honeycomb inside. I got out eventually, but let me tell you, I wasn’t too smart when I charged in cause I wanted to impress my friends. I still remember those deep, dark caverns. Beautiful, but I was terrified the whole time that I’d found the lair of a dragon or something. Obviously, I got out, but those caves have stuck with me the whole time. I’ve never just thrown caution to the wind like that again. Always look things over, always have a plan, my father says. And I’ve stuck to that ever since. Well, tried to at least. Now’s my usual time to say I miss you. Things are getting more and more tense on both our ends. You back at war already and me still unemployed and struggling. Still haven’t heard back from the EEA (Equestrian Education Association) about my scholarship. If I could at least get them to help me with some things like bills and rent, it would be a lot easier. But military education only covers tuition, not food and board. The decision to move out of the dorms may have not been a good one, but if I go back I lose Static as a roommate. But don’t worry about me. There’s nothing for you to do, so there’s no point in you freaking out too. I always have a plan. Right now, that’s to report for these exercises and rack up a bit more reserve pay for rent. But you’re the one at very real risk of getting killed, not me. So do me a favor; don’t go sticking your head out for some communist sniper to take it off. If you die, I’ll fly over to Griffonia and dig you up just so I can bitch you out myself. Love, ~Paige P.S.: In case you’ve forgotten, I still have your medal. Keep it close to my heart. I’ll be carrying it everyday on these maneuvers. (Inside is a photograph of Paige, in her RAF fatigues. From the background, it appears this was taken in her apartment. Her smile is wide and energetic still, wings flared excitedly, her photo of Cyril held up so the camera can see it. Flipping it over, the writing on the back reads “To Cyril, Now you have one too. -Paige”) Sent June 14th Dear Paige, I’m finally allowed to speak on our destination and what I’ve been up to with details, though I’m pretty sure you figured out where we’ve been going. We’re in Prywhen now, heading south towards Cyanolisia. The 41st Panzergrenadiers’ main objective is to beat Beakolini to the border before Wingbardy absorbs the entire south, like he did with Falcor. Like he’s doing now with Sicameon. It’s not dramatic to say on my part, but we’ve been rolling through the Griffonian Liberation Army like a knife through ancient scroll paper. The communists don’t have any panzers of their own, and with the Reformisten and their Knights backing us, I’m reminded pretty firmly of Griefenmarsch. It’s not a good memory. Everyday it’s the same thing. Wake up, move on enemy positions, overwhelm them, move on. The GLA griffs don’t even have a sufficient amount of artillery, no panzers, no airplanes. The Reformisten troops and Grenadiers we have with us are our only limiting factor. These militia fighters seem so...tired, I guess. The city fights aren’t even really fights anymore, and a lot of these towns barely deserve the name. We’re fighting an enemy with his wings clipped and a claw behind his back. I’m sitting behind thick centimeters of steel armor plate with an MG and a cannon, and the most they seem to have is hand grenades and the occasional artillery piece. The only upside? A lot of them are choosing to surrender. More and more each day. Good. Less for me to have to mow down. We’ve all had to soften our approach here. At first, it was slaughter all resistance inside a town. We weren’t taking many prisoners then. Now, as more griffs are just giving up, the Reformisten are moving to the propaganda campaign. They keep going on about “integralism” and restoration of Imperial glory. Given what I’ve seen here, it's not like the revolution did them much good. We’ve started escorting food convoys recently. These griffs are so thin. A lot of them are giving up now they understand we’re willing to feed them. I’ve heard most of our POW camps are turning into aide stations. Landwehr, Reformisten, Reichsarmee. We’re doing more garrisoning than fighting lately. Only the harcore GLA communist fanatics are really holding out. They’re getting thinner by the day. Imperial and Hellsword divisions are moving east from Blackrock. Apparently, the bandits there didn’t put up much better fight. They’re coming towards our lines to join up and catch the GLA forces in a vice. And behind us, behind both thrusts, comes the Landwehr. More and more occupation forces. If it keeps up like this, we’ll be to Cyanolisia before month’s end. Faster if negotiations with Gryphus are successful. From all accounts, we might be able to convince them to return to the Imperial banner without a fight. I don’t know how much you know about Gryphus, but they have two very powerful political forces down there controlling the Free Towns (what, you thought the Free Towns were actually in charge?); the first is the Militärorden der Brüder vom Herzlandisch Haus der Heiligen Opinicus. You might have heard of them simply as the Order of Opinicus. Long story short, they’re a bunch of crusader nuts left over from Grover II’s days. Bringing them back in would be a huge source of local griffpower. I know they’ve apparently become very vocal about carrying on their crusade. Well, now they can purge to their murderous hearts’ content without starting a civil war in Gryphus. The second I know you’ve heard about. De Gryphusische Südkontinent-Gesellschaft. The Southern Continent Company is notorious, and securing their trade networks and spreading their assets out over the Empire again would mean huge things back home (not to mention their huge Landsknechte army). Apparently, King Wingfried and Grand Duke Gerlach are negotiating with the Grandmaster and Governor-Executive, and the news the officers are telling us sounds promising. One more Imperial territory returned, one more war avoided. Don’t ask about Griffonstone. Apparently we’re staring over gunsights with Wingbardy. Nogriff wants to start that war. Less politics. Most of what I’m getting is from the Reformisten, the newspapers and the officers, so you know at least half of it is bullshit. I don’t want to keep going on about war stuff with you anyway. Much better things to talk about. The way this war has been going has given me time to think. I have a few of your letters here, and I’ve been looking through them a lot. Rereading them. I’ve got your photo taped over my gunsight. I’m back to you stuck on the brain. The hills make me think of you, talking about your home in Rijekograd. I roll into a town and I think about how you’d want to try and help all these griffs out of their suffering. I talk to Reformisten soldiers and I can’t help but remember your warnings (Haul had a talk with me, by the way. Apparently he’s trying to make sure we understand at both ends how to not draw attention). I see Imperial planes overhead and can’t help but think of you. You’ve literally wormed your way into my head at this point, and refused to leave. I can’t say I mind too terribly. I miss you. But it's the better kind of missing you now, instead of just being bitter about being so far apart. I’m getting hope back that we’ll have our chance after all. This war won’t last much longer. The frontier is falling faster than the Black Knights or High Kommand predicted. Nogriff is really happy with this farce of a war. Spotsley keeps track of the northern campaign. The Sunstriker Front has bogged down. Bronzehill’s troops are refusing to back down, but Sunstriker’s not giving an inch either. I can tell it’s getting to her. But she doesn’t ever want to talk about it. I’m worried about her. There’s something else going on there she isn’t telling us. Sergeant Hellseig is just as enigmatic as ever. Eihol’s kind of getting quiet. Dipping into his drinks more. We’re watching him as best we can. Seems the only one whose spirits are up is Haul. He’s in a chipper mood. Goes on and on about the same old rhetoric. Bringing prosperity to the land, restoring the Empire through Operation Tartarus. I think he just likes being with his ‘people’ again. Much as the Reformisten say they’re on our side, they feel like a separate nation. They claim they’re here to restore the Empire, but they shout Wingfried’s name a lot. They don’t really seem to declare any victories for the Kaiser. They’re invaluable as combat troops, and the Vollstrecker don’t seem to have a problem with them. They certainly have a loyal following. But I’m not alone in thinking the sooner we finish here, the better. My father was a good griff. It’s been a long time. And it is still painful. But we’ve been honest with each other. Nothing hidden, nothing obscured. I know everything about you. You deserve to know everything about me. Stefan Amberquill was a career soldier. He gave his life for the Empire. He was always proud to serve, and he told me he would be proud of me when I served. He purposefully avoided going to the akadamie so he could stay in the field with his troops, rather than be stuffed in an office. This was long before the reforms I went through. It was a different time, after the Revolution. He was a bit absent, true. Sophie hardly remembers anything about him. My fondest memories were of him coming home. He’d be tired, but he was already ready to catch me when I flew at him. He never shouted, never got angry. He was stern when he disciplined, but never over the top. Mother said he was the best thing to happen to her. And then, one day, he didn’t come home. Instead there was a Reichsarmee leutnant at the door, cap off and looking awkward. Just like that. He never got to see me enlist. He never saw Sophie start flying. And I never got to see him at his best. Just taken away by some rioter in Romau. I never want to go to that city as long as I live. My old friends are like yours. We drifted apart. I still have a few comrades I hear from in the Imperial Guard, back before I joined the panzerwaffe. I have a few from other kompanies I talk to. But the ones in my unit, I -know- but I’m not...close with. It's like you’ve said. We’re so afraid of losing each other, we try not to form bonds too deep. We’re all brothers and sisters here, and we’d die for each other. But nogriff really talks much about home. Just a little bit of small talk here and there. It’s different between panzer crews. Infantry squads. That’s where the real brotherhood is. My friends at home are either in the army too or they’ve settled into their own lives. I see them every once in a while. We chat. But I don’t send letters to them. Not nearly as much as I do you. The most daring thing I’ve done. Well, you hit that nail on the head. Before I had to become ‘responsible’ there was this one time. Back when Industrie was still its half-deserted state when I was a kid, we hosted this ‘gang war’ on our city block. We wound up getting really close to the Imperial quarter, and then the contest became about who was brave enough to try and fly towards the palace. There we are, a bunch of dumb idiot kids standing on top of a factory at the waterfront. We keep trying to fly out towards the palace over the Griffking, only to lose our nerve and turn back. Finally, I just say fuck it and glide out as far as I can...I lost control at the end, smashed into the outer wall and flew back as fast as I could. After that, the Guard finally caught on to us and we scattered. But still. Good memories of a simpler time. I think I’d like to take a break from the questions. Just for a few letters. It’s been a good way to get to know each other. But I think we’re both struggling for them, both questions and answers. I’d rather talk about what’s going on in your life right now anyway. Just for a bit. Be careful, Paige. I know these are just training maneuvers. But this is all very strange to me. Nothing feels right about what you’re telling me, what Uncle August isn’t telling me, what the brass is saying. Just stay prepared. I’m just a lowly Korporal. But even I can smell an army on the march. And I don’t know if it's Equestria’s or someone else's. Stay safe. I love you. ~Cyril Sent July 10th Dear Cyril, Something’s happening. I can tell. The officers don’t want to talk about it, and communication outside the base has been restricted. We’ve been put on constant alerts. Recon squads go out all hours of the day and then they’re confined to quarters for days after. I don’t know how much longer before I can’t send mail. You were right. There’s more than just our squadron here. A LOT more. Mariposa’s military complex is packed full of air squadrons, army divisions, royal guard, mages, tanks. Thing is, most of them are reservists and National Guard. I talked with a few ponies from other units, and they say the same story. We’re supposed to be here for war games, at the order of Royal Army Command and Princess Luna herself. But so far as I can tell, no mock battles have happened anywhere. We’ve been here for weeks, apparently just training and stockpiling equipment. I’ve been assigned to a Blenheim, #83. Apparently, taking a crash course in map reading is enough to qualify me for navigator, because I’m running dual duty. It’s this strange heavy-fighter/light bomber mixup. I’m not sure the RAF is really sure what they want it to be. Static is with us as radio mare, and we’ve got a new pilot assigned us. Solar Ace, Flight Lieutenant. He’s an okay sort, one of those stiff upper lip types you hear about from the RAF. Yes, they exist. Fortunately, I was never assigned one of them except as an instructor. But the thing is, he’s professional military, full-time. They never just mash half-qualified crews together in the same flights, much less the same planes. We’ve been briefed on Changeling weapon systems. And honestly, what they’ve got in the sky outclasses us by a wide margin. These planes are sharp, advanced, lethal. And from what we’re being told (and I’m not allowed to relay) they’ve got a bucking lot of them. But most of this is speculation, from recon reports the brass keeps censoring. They’re hiding something and only giving us the barebones. I really feel like I’m being jerked around here. It’s like I’m back in the Crystal War again. We wait up every night after exercises, listening for the alerts, trying to pick out something other than our own birds. We’ve got CAP flying all night, every night over the base, and the AA perimeter is always manned. This doesn’t feel like an exercise. This feels like we’re expecting an invasion. The ground units are dispersed between here and Vanhoover, and MPs are checking everypony’s papers everyday. They keep talking about tightening security measures, and at first that didn’t make sense. Until I remembered that Changelings can shapeshift (in my defense, it only took me a few seconds to remind myself). Now I don’t know who to trust, or what to say to anypony. Which is likely what the bugs want. Cyril, something bad is coming. This may be my last letter for a while. I’m sorry we never got that time to spend together. I’m sorry that Solid ever happened. I’m sorry I had to stick it out here in Equestria. I should have come back to you. I’m actually really scared, Cyril. And my biggest fear is that I’m going to lose my only way of talking to you. That this -is- going to turn into another war, and I’m not going to hear from you again. I get that I’m just rambling through nerves down here, but I honestly have nothing else to do. Radios are confiscated, telephones are only available to officers and there’s buck all to do here on base that we haven’t done a hundred times already now. We’re not allowed to go into town, and all I brought with me to read are textbooks and that Longsword story book you bought me (nice pictures, but I’m still piecing the language together). I get stuck in my head when I get stressed out, and when I get stuck in that loop, everything appears to get so much worse. I’m starting to wonder if I may be getting anxiety attacks. I don’t know anymore. Write me back. Now. The second you finish this letter. I don’t care what the buck you’re doing, get me a reply. Don’t leave me alone out here. Please. Love, ~Paige On the Edge pt 2: HeroJuly 11, 1011 0114 hours Fort Ord Royal Army Base, Mariposa 33rd Air Reserve Wing Past midnight on a Royal Army post normally meant silence. Gear and vehicles shut away and personnel resting their heads for the night, MPs and patrol sentries out on duty at gates and doors, attempting to stay awake. But tonight, like across the northern Equestrian border, Fort Ord was lit, alert and ready. Ponies constantly rushed back and forth between barracks and offices, delivering reports and showing up to late night duties. Planes touched down on the runway, parked just long enough for a refuel, a maintenance check and swap of pilots. Fort Ord alone played host to five-hundred Spitfire fighters, with dozens of bombing craft and several assorted ground attack wings. But it was only one of two air bases in the north, with the other in Vanhoover serving an even smaller air host. Princess Luna’s preparations had given them a fighting chance, and little else. Their odds were still grim at best. She sat at one of the picnic tables in one of the grassy break areas, quietly watching the runway and airfield. From here, she could just spot her craft, #83. Where before during the Crystal War, a Blenheim had looked big and fearsome, after watching what was filling the sky to the northwest it looked clunky and fragile, not at all fierce like a warfighting machine. Not like the aerial apex predators the Changelings flew, the Silver Slayers as some of the pilots who had witnessed their astounding speed and maneuverability had dubbed them. If the Changeling craft were like sharks, the Equestrian aircraft seemed more like whales. The metaphor was chilling. Beside her, Static leaned over, nudging her navigator/bombardier. “Hey. Snap out of it.” Paige blinked, looking back to Static as the latter used her magic to pluck the smoldering cigarette from her lips, blowing out a cloud into the air. The two had been passing the smoke back and forth the past hour, trying to figure out how to relax enough to finally go to sleep. They couldn’t. Recon flights were buzzing overhead on a regular basis, and the constant rumble of tanks and trucks overlapping the plane engines meant there was no way to pretend that the possibility of the war they knew was coming was remote. Because, at best, it was inevitable. On one hoof, it might take some time to arrive, allowing the Royal Army the time it needed to actually fully mobilize and organize. On the other, the level of activity suggested it was imminent, within the next few nights for sure. Not many were getting the level of rest they needed until they collapsed from exhaustion Paige didn’t reply at first, just extending a wing and carefully taking the smoke back from Static, wedged between feathers as she pulled it back, taking a drag of her own, the red coal tip flaring in the night. “When the hell did it all get so bucked up?” she finally asked, looking off at a squad of infantry troopers hustling by, rifles slung over a shoulder as they trotted in formation. “A year ago, our biggest worry was making rent.” “Technically, it still is,” Static quipped, magically stealing the cigarette back as Paige blew out a cloud of smoke. “We just put it on hold until we get back.” “I had my studies,” Paige continued, ignoring her sarcastic crewmare. “You had the radio. Things were getting better.” “C’mon, we all saw this coming,” Static pointed out. “When the Changelings took Olenia and nopony did anything about it, the invitations were sent. Even Cyril could see what was happening, and he’s halfway round the world.” Paige simply sighed, opting not to retake the smoke when Static levitated it in her direction. “I guess you’re right. Wonder if they would have come after us if Equestria had been better prepared.” “Oh yeah, they would have,” Static replied, and Paige frowned over at the red unicorn. “You weren’t here when they invaded the first time. Got real close to taking Canterlot and everything too. If it weren’t for the Elements, this war wouldn’t be a question. The invasion would have happened, and we would have been even more bucked than we are now.” It was quiet between them at that point, watching the planes on the tarmac preparing for night patrol. Some of the bombers were being attended to by crewponies, doing maintenance while the flying crews slept so they could be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Occasionally, a pair of MPs could be seen on patrol, watching for suspicious activity. Changelings were shapeshifters after all. Though, in all honesty, another reason they were watching the planes so closely was that a lot of the groundcrew were thestrals, batponies who had been allowed into more technical jobs than just combat arms with Luna’s reforms. The first batch of actual batpony pilots were still in training, but for now the Royal Air Force was happy to use thestrals’ natural inclination for night schedules to cover maintenance shifts for the other ponies that were much happier during the day. And yet, despite the new tolerance laws and regulations paving the way for thestrals to come back to society, old barriers still remained. Silent and unspoken, but it was hard to kill an idea, and this one would be thrashing in its death throes for some time to come. “How’s Cyril?” Static suddenly asked, grinding out the cigarette and tossing the butt towards the trashcan nearby. Paige blinked, surprised. While Static wasn’t quite uncaring, it wasn’t in her nature to ask about affairs across the sea. For the most part, Paige told it to her best friend at will, and had to judge when it was time to shut the spout to stop the flood of words. Static mostly asked about things like rent money, her job, information on politics or what the Empire was doing that contrasted Equestrian stories. Never about Cyril, or her parents or brother (though last she’d heard, Brook had skipped down to Macawia to slip away from the inevitable fight between the Empire and Asterion over the Friestaat). So, this was a new mood for the red unicorn. “He’s...well as he can be. Last I heard, the Empire was absorbing Prywhen.” “By conquest?” “Actually, from what he sent me, it looks like the griffs are giving up. The famine’s hit hard, and the communists haven’t fixed much more than the old kingdom did. I think they just want someone that isn’t going to buck things up even more.” Static chuckled, shaking her head. “Funny. That used to be anygriff -but- the Empire.” “Cyril’s just happy he doesn’t have to shoot as many griffs,” Paige replied, smiling back. “He’d rather take on a surrendering enemy. I think he’s still haunted by the Herzland War.” “From what you told me and what I read up on, that’s understandable.” Silence again, as the two mares stared out into the darkness, their eyes no longer truly focused and instead following the crews more out of habit than actually watching their activity. Finally, Paige once more broke the silence. “What are we going to do, Static?” Sweet Static didn’t respond at first, watching the activity in front of them with an equally blank face. For a moment, Paige wasn’t certain she’d heard her, but then Static sighed, shifting on the bench as if she’d come to a conclusion. She turned to Paige, fishing the aviators out of her jacket and perching them on her forehead, just under her horn. “Same thing we did in the Crystal War, I suppose. Fly, and fly, and fly again. And survive. No different here.” “Except the enemy has decent aircraft this time.” Static laughed, but it held no mirth to it. “Better aircraft. We’ll have to be the better fliers.” They let that impossible statement hang between them for another twenty minutes, watching nothing happening at all while waiting for possibly the largest war the world had ever seen, before they finally left to get what sleep they could. Static headed towards the barracks. Paige made her way to the ready strip. Paige had made it her habit to walk by No. 83 every night before bed. With a smaller crew than her old bomber, there was more for each pony to do, so keeping aware of what was happening was important. Plus, with the current crisis the ground crew were busy with dozens of other planes. She wanted to make sure for herself that 83 was ready to fly when they needed her. This routine was calming, assuring, and helped with some regularity in the current time. Paige saw no reason to stop. But tonight, as she reached 83’s spot, she saw something a bit odd. While she was more than used to seeing ground crew and officers inspecting and crawling over her plane, they’d already gone through maintenance checks to be on ready standby. There shouldn’t be anypony near her. And yet, there was. A dark green Earth pony MP, white stripes on his sleeves clear in the dark, was peering under the wing, looking for something. By all rights, she shouldn’t interfere, but this was her plane, and MPs were supposed to work in pairs. Where was this sergeant’s partner? Suspicious, she moved closer. “Evening, Sergeant,” she called out, her accented Equestrian distinct. The MP started, whipping his head around in shock. “Something I can help you with on my bird?” The pony checked the rank patch on her sleeve, squinting at her own sergeant’s stripes, a recent promotion upon her being activated. Apparently, to her surprise, her time in service had actually meant she was a promotion candidate, and her experience had given her a hasty leg up. In peacetime, there was normally a much more extensive process for NCO selection. “Apologies, Sarge,” he replied, eyeing her up. “We got word the bugs might be trying to sabotage some of the planes. Last minute inspections up and down the tarmac.” That...was actually a good point. If the Changelings were about to try a first strike, they’d of course sabotage Equestria’s aerial readiness first. Assured air dominance would let them wreak havoc on the ground. “Where’s the rest of your crew?” the MP asked, looking past her down the runway, towards where the ground crew were preparing a small group of Spitfires for takeoff. “Bed, I assume,” Paige replied. “Which is where I’m headed. Just wanted to say goodnight to 83.” The MP raised a brow under his brimmed Bronie helmet, but merely shrugged in acceptance. “Carry on, then. Just make it quick. You know the orders on wandering personnel after dark.” “I could say the same to you, Sarge,” Paige quipped, to which the MP merely chuffed, turning back to her plane and leaning down to peer underneath the craft. She grunted as she shifted the Limestone strapped over her back. With the panicked state the force was in here, everypony on base was required to carry their weapons at all times. Static had been given a revolver, designed by some creature with fingers, while Paige herself had been handed the SMG, a Hippogriff designed firearm. She moved closer, running a hoof over No. 83’s aluminum hide. Untested in battle, aging a little ungracefully with her rough and weathered paint job. All the training flights they’d been doing lately had taken a wear on her, and compared with parts maintenance, redoing the camo when it was still mostly intact had been rated a secondary priority. She sighed, taking a seat looking up at her plane, her mind everywhere else but here on the airfield. When had everything become so complicated and dire? A few years ago, she was a bright student on a scholarship to study her lifelong dream, a budding long-distance relationship with a cute soldier griff and a comfortable (if somewhat unstable) home to go back to when her schooling was up. Now? Now she was a veteran combat pilot in an imminent war on the other side of the world against an enemy she knew next to nothing about, the one she loved was constantly out of reach and in danger around every bend and her home was, from the news stories, ripping apart at the seams. She had Cyril, of course, a small and sad smile coming to her muzzle at the thought. Her coltfriend’s next letter would make her feel better. Though separated by an ocean and two continents, his words always made her remember their good times through the years. A shred of normalcy. Which she desperately needed. Her last letter had only just gone out. She’d have a whole month of waiting for his next message, and the news might still be bad. Paige sighed, standing and saying her final goodbyes to the craft. Old and battered it may be, but it was certainly faithful. Good, Paige thought. They’d need that, if the worst came down. When it came down. The pegasus from across the world turned, finally ready to go lay down and get some needed rest. The first plane exploded. Paige’s head whipped around, short and curly mane bobbing around her head. The craft had been a Wellington, parked on the bomber line and ready to taxi onto the runway in mere minutes. It had been intended to be sent forward and bomb clusters of Changeling troops and armor, escorted by Spitfires and Blenheims. In the regular Air Force, she was being replaced by the new Beaufort bombers. But now, she was little more than a pile of flames and scrap, burning brightly in the relative darkness of the airbase. Paige held her breath as the alarms began ringing. A payload accident, maybe? Something gone wrong with the fuel? But then another one, right next to it, exploded. Another. And another. And then a Spitfire. It was as if a chain was being worked down, where aircraft were exploding in segments. A dreadful realization crept into Paige’s mind. A terrifying discovery that, upon making it, she both kicked herself for missing and suddenly knew she had to act on. With little hesitation, she wheeled around, standing on her hind legs with wings flared as she brought the Limestone up, holding down the trigger. The MP had been running, but not towards the explosion like other crewponies and MPs were doing. He’d been running -away-. The Limestone wasn’t designed for accuracy, and the recoil was strong when firing on full auto. But at this range, with the Limestone’s legendary rate of fire, she landed half of the twenty round magazine on target. And .45 caliber rounds were designed to bring a creature down hard. For a heart stopping moment, Paige was terrified she’d just made a terrible mistake. That she’d merely shot a stallion who was panicking as hard as everypony else in the base was, and fleeing in the wrong direction out of simple fear. Her paranoia had just led her to cut down a friendly. But then a sickening green flash engulfed the corpse as it hit the tarmac, and instead of an Equestrian Royal Army Military Police sergeant the figure turned into a black-hued, chitin-skinned soldier in an equally black uniform, splayed across the ground in a puddle of blood that wasn’t even red. She galloped over to No. 83 as more explosions rang out, desperately peering under the craft. Sure enough, hidden in the landing prop, most likely hastily planted because of her arrival, was a trio of small, white tubes taped together and affixed with a mechanism. She didn’t need to see the front to know it was a clockwork timer. She could hear the ticking. Immediately, she seized the bomb, needing only a second to find the button on its face to stop the timer. Simple and rugged. She breathed out a sigh of relief, only for another round of explosions to rock the airfield. More aircraft brewing up. More Changeling sabotage. And then the gunfire started. She heard a shout in the near distance over the alarms and the flames. Then the chatter of the infamous “Baltimare Typewriter”. More and more, and now pistol and rifle fire was added to the mix. A battle had broken out for control of Fort Ord, and she couldn’t make hide or hair of where the combatants were. She trembled as she began fumbling for another magazine, unsure of what to do now but knowing she had to do something. Abruptly, a weight slammed into her, and she flailed, certain she was being assaulted by another Changeling infiltrator. But instead, the yellow visage of Lieutenant Solar Ace greeted her, impeccable dress jacket askew as if he’d been in the middle of taking it off. “Where’s Static?” he shouted over the cacophony, that unflappable air he usually wore gone like it never existed. Paige tried to focus, her eyes sliding from her pilot to the flames behind him as a fresh, new Lancaster blew spectacularly, consuming the nearby crewponies and the MPs battling Changelings for control of the site. At this rate, the detonations would claim more ponies in the chaos than the fighting would. She blinked hard, shaking herself as she finally got her head straight. “She was heading back to the barracks! Not ten minutes ago!” “And now I’m here!” Both snapped their heads over as Static herself appeared around No. 83, her horn glowing as she levitated several bags and flight caps. Belatedly, Paige realized that her ready bag was one of those few things Static had grabbed, likely from their barracks as soon as the first explosion rang out. The unicorn only waited a second before tossing the gear out, Ace grabbing his flight cap out of the air and his ready bag, Paige doing the same a little less gracefully, her cap smacking her in the muzzle and her bag clumsily hitting her chest. “Wait! Sir, what about the others?” “The airfield is lost!” Ace retorted, shoving his bag up to Static in the Blenheim and tugging his cap down over his ears. “Even if they root out all the Changelings, we have to make sure the plane gets up! Living pilots and flying craft are critical! The bug have -got- to be crossing the border right -now-!” She felt her stomach turn. Of course, Ace was right. They had to get as many planes as possible out of the hooves (or mandibles) of the saboteurs. The Changelings would exploit this confusion to swarm over the border. The fighting was likely about to start any second now. And one way or another, they needed to respond. They were away in less than two minutes. Ace pulled the nose up far too short, flying over the heads of an active firefight on the tarmac, framed by the flames. Horned and sinister looking infiltrators fired their stolen weapons at desperate ponies in Bronie helmets, fighting over the dying remains of the airfield as craft flew by in a mad flight, many crashing into wreckage or being brought down by delayed bombs. As they pulled away, they were joined by a hoof-ful of other craft that had escaped the chaos and slaughter. Paige hoped more would manage to escape, because what was in the air now was a pitiful fraction of Fort Ord’s total air wing. What few craft had taken off now angled as a group towards the west. They’d have to land in Vanhoover, get orders, find out the situation. And then, off to war. She looked up, at Cyril’s picture taped above her bombsight. Carefully, she reached a hoof up, smoothing out a corner and reapplying the tape to the metal. She wanted to say something meaningful, poetic. Their world had just changed, again. And in the most drastic way possible, bordering on shattering. Under any other circumstance, from all her novels and study of various languages and technical manuals, she always had the proper word or term for a situation or definition. Now, words failed her. As she flew on towards war, and Ford Ord burned behind her, she simply stared at the picture of the griff she loved but might never see again. Not even tears ran down her face. July 10, 1011 2054 hours Near Temsoar, Acute Forest, South Prywhen 41st Panzergrenadiers, 8th Heergruppe The fire crackled hungrily, orange flames reaching up to tear at the darkness. Here in the forest, they had plenty of wood to harvest, dump into the pit they’d dug and lined with stones. As long as somegriff manned the fire, they’d have light and warmth. The chittering of insects filled the air as the night settled on the camp clearing, the firelight stubbornly resisting the darkness. The griffons sat around the fire quietly, chewing on hardtack and jerky, gulping water from their canteens and contraband liquor from small flasks. This clearing held three panzers drawn around the area, with trucks of soldiers beyond settling into their own campsites while the sentries on watch defended the kompanie with submachine guns and flashlights, on alert for the hardline GLA fighters they’d been hunting the past month. And other things, of course. These ancient woods held worse than just griffon guerillas. The electric torches swept the treeline, the sentries quietly and nervously scanning. Manticores and hydras were known to frequent places like these, stalking for prey in the gloom. The darkness conjured up childhood stories which suddenly were both more terrifying and not quite so far fetched all of a sudden. The campsites were full of Imperial soldiers relaxing, the panzergrenadiers settling in for quiet stories, card games, reading letters from home and doing little meaningless maintenance on kit, cleaning rifles and loading magazines for pistols. But under this air of relaxation, a sense of tension remained. They’d expected fanatical resistance from the GLA. But it seemed that the moment a figure of competence like the Empire had shown up, with healthy, hearty soldiers demanding surrender, the starving griffons of Prywhen simply gave up the revolution in exchange for a hot meal and a clean place to sleep. After the Herzland War, it was sobering. And, ultimately, unsatisfying for many who had gotten their blood and battle lust fired up. Now, instead of armies of communists throwing themselves at their panzers, they were searching for band of resistance fighters, stamping them out and grinding south. The campaign for Prywhen was over, everygriff knew that. And with the Host in a state of tribal civil war (again) and Gryphus signing the treaty to bring them back into the fold, Operation Tartarus was (for a rare exception) proving to be far simpler than expected. Aside from, of course, taking care of these last holdouts. Sydia would fall soon too, and that was it. No more help from Stalliongrad or the Republican socialists in the far north. The camping area was split in two. While regular Reichsarmee troops clustered around their panzers and trucks, talking quietly as they wondered what insanity their officers had planned at the headquarters not far away, Vollstrecker stalking amongst the platoons watching for disobedience, the other half of the campsite was a large, central area. A much larger bonfire was in the middle, with sleeping bags and tents lining the outside in a ring. No trucks or panzers on this side, however. These were the Reformisten soldiers and Black Knights dispatched to this area, and they were in much higher spirits. Unlike the more subdued, frustrated panzertruppen, the Knights and their soldiers were instead enjoying their own drinks and meals, excitedly sharing battle stories and looking forward to the next day. Their spirits were high. To them, they were on the path to greater glory and the redemption of Hellsword. Their own Prince Erich had delivered a speech over the radio yesterday, urging Reformisten and Imperial soldiers to final victory in the east, not that Cyril would care. He was most likely a spoiled griffon noble much like his father. With Gryphus returned, Prywhen all but reconquered and the Host embroiled yet another civil war, it seemed all that was left was to push the minotaurs out of Cyanolisia. And nogriff expected the Sovereign Republic to put up much fight. This campsite was quiet, the soldiers just happy to keep to themselves for this rare moment of peace. The past year has been nothing but war, preparing for the next fight and suspicion from on high. Now, with Operation Tartarus beginning to come to a close, they were looking forward to going home for actual rest, instead of waiting for a possible execution notice. The armored platoon consisted of two Calico light tanks, speedy and quick, as well as their beefier sister, a Stahlschild medium tank with its larger gun and impressive armor, with a handful of ADGZ armored cars, heavy scout vehicles meant to find targets for the panzers. The platoon crews didn’t quite interact with each other, that was down to the sergeants who were clustered to one side. But this squad, this crew, were intimately familiar after a year of service, through several vicious warzones. Eihol snoozed next to the fire, a half-empty bottle of schnapps clutched in one claw as he snored, the brim of his cap tipped low over his eyes and beak. Next to him, Spotsley read a letter in her paws, eyes skimming over each line. She’d read this letter several times already, evident in the worn folds from taking it out and putting it away multiple times. No one else nearby knew what it said, as she had been especially cagey about its contents. Sergeant Hellseig was off with the other panzer commanders now, discussing their next step with the leutnant and trying to figure out the mess they had gotten themselves into. And Haul...Haul was somewhere doing whatever it was he did. He had a tendency to disappear for some periods of time before reappearing as if nothing had happened at all. Vise Korporal Cyril Duskwing grunted, poking the fire with a stick, his mind elsewhere. A claw came up, adjusting his service cap for the thousandth time. The lack of proper battle had given him plenty of time for reflection, something he hadn’t taken much time with during the Herzland War. Now, though, he had too much of it. In truth, he was not really here. His mind was across the sea, in a land he had never visited but he knew quite a bit about. Paige’s letters had been bothering him of late. Both in terms of what was happening for her and where she was. For all he knew, Equestria could be at war by the time her next letter arrived. Ten damned weeks to hear if she was okay, at minimum. It didn’t help that he was stuck out here, in this damned backwater away from the newspapers and the radio programs. All they had out here was Der Reichswehr Rundfunk, and everygriff knew a good portion of that was propagandized nonsense. Just yesterday, the radio had announced that relations with Vedina had reopened, and negotiations were underway to reintroduce them to the Empire. The lack of details meant all the soldiers knew there was a hell of a lot more to the story than that. The same with the report that Skyfall partisans had apparently attacked a Feathisian radio station yesterday. While that one he was a little less certain on, it made no sense for Federation militia to come over the border and attack an Imperial target. But for all this, the lack of any news on Equestria, and now the word that the Riverlands were collapsing into complete chaos, meant he was isolated, uninformed and left to wait. Letters from Paige’s parents had stopped due to the difficulty in both location and traffic. Now letters from Paige took forever to arrive as well. As isolated from her as the world could make him, it seemed. He took a drag on his cigarette, his mind clouded and occupied. “Fucking officers,” Sergeant Hellseig grunted as he abruptly took a seat next to Cyril, wings rustling in irritation as he settled. “Same damn thing that we’ve been doing. Press on into the woods, secure the region and prepare for the next stage in the offensive. They don’t know what we’re doing, same as us on the ground.” “I take it the meeting was a success then, Sergeant?” “Gah, no more than usual,” Hellseig agreed sardonically, tugging a pipe from out of his coat and lighting a match from the bonfire. “This time, the Leutnant actually knew which direction we were going. I can only hope the Kapitan has the same idea.” That was unfair to Leutnant Stonefeather and Kapitan Greybeak, who were both competent commanders and had proven themselves in combat just as much as the two enlisted veterans. But it was common habit to blame the griffs in charge when something went wrong, especially when things weren’t making sense. Cyril merely grunted, stubbing out yet another cheap cigarette as he went back to staring at the fire, Paige’s last letter folded in his claw. She’d sent it to him back in May, and he had managed to get her a response in June. With the extended need to circle through army post offices, that was the going rate of letters. Sometimes, it was hard to remember what he’d written to her, it was so long ago. He was grateful she wrote such extensive explanations to help him recall. And a photo. He held that in the other claw, carefully examining it in the firelight. For a pony, she was beautiful, her curly mane and tail cropped for military service and her attitude, if tired, still said she was ready to take on the world. What he wouldn’t give for some of that boundless optimism and confidence she always had. Actually, what he wouldn’t give for her. “Got a response from Paige?” Hellseig asked, puffing on his pipe. Cyril shook his head, holding up the photo. He’d seen it, he knew the letter she’d sent it with was old. The veteran sergeant merely nodded in reply, puffing another cloud. “Chin up, lad. She’s in the safer place. Long as you keep yourself in one piece, it’s only a matter of time.” Cyril merely nodded again, looking at her picture one last time before tucking it and the letter into a jacket pocket, taking care to wrap the photo in the paper. It got hot in the daytime quite a lot, and he didn’t want to risk the picture getting warped by his sweat. The letter he’d receive more of. “Sarge, can I ask a question?” “Axle grease,” Hellseig shot back, to which Cyril frowned in confusion. “For the grey spots.” From the smirk on his sergeant’s beak and the twinkle in his eye, Cyril could tell he was joking, and let out a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sigh of exasperation, thrown for a moment from his own pitiful reverie. Which, it seemed, was what Hellseig wanted. “Go on, lad.” “I’ve never asked you but once...how do you do it, Sergeant? All these years?” Now it was Hellseig’s turn to frown in confusion, and Cyril cleared his throat, trying to move past his own awkwardness. “Away from your family.” “Ah,” the veteran responded, comprehension dawning. “The greatest of a soldier’s struggles after he’s avoided death; keeping his loved ones close. It’s not easy. Many fail. Especially hard for young couples.” Here, he gave Cyril a meaningful look, to which the young gunner blanched and looked away. “Scheiße, lad. I’m not telling you to give up on her. But sometimes reality takes the lead. And reality is, you haven’t seen her in, what? Four years?” “About. She gave me a call on New Years’.” “My Adelaide lived in my hometown. We grew up together. She said goodbye to me when I boarded the train for Krona. And she’s been there every time I’ve gone back.” Hellseig’s face darkened as now he too looked down into the fire, his cap brim rugged low over his brow and casting the features behind his beak in shadow. “Terrible things I’ve put her through. Separation, loneliness, doubt, endless worry. But the fact that I could come back at any time made it worth the struggle, for us both.” He glanced up at Cyril again, his expression now one of pity. “You don’t have that. You’re halfway around the world from her. All your interaction is boiled down to a claw full of letters and a phone call. She’s cheated on you. You’ve both nearly died, and the other would never know it. Any other creatures would have moved on by now. Found somegriff closer.” He paused, studying Cyril’s now-stoic expression. “Except you, it seems.” Hellseig sighed, tapping the loose pieces of out his pipe before taking another puff, considering the facts carefully. “You’re outside my realm of expertise, lad. I’ve had times where leave was cut short or canceled. Sure. But...there was, at least, always the chance. The possibility. I missed two of my kinder being born. More holidays, birthdays and anniversaries than I can count. They’re all the reason I’m here, and I can’t be there for them.” He paused a moment, then chuckled abruptly. “Though by Boreas, I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I retired. -When-.” They were quiet again, these two soldiers separated by at least a whole generation. Across the fire, Eihol still snoozed, while Spotsley was looking very determined to not be eavesdropping on their conversation, staring intently down at some novella from Strawberry. Inside Sabine came a clatter, likely from Haul making adjustments to the shells’ timing heads, being the single-minded obsessive stallion he was. The night air was otherwise quietly overlapped with the buzz of low conversation from the other fires, where the rest of the kompanie did the same thing this crew was doing. Finally, Hellseig sighed, tapping his pipe again. “Look, you love this formel? This mare? I mean -really- love her? Ready to pass over any easier, less troublesome alternative that pops up until you see her again?” Cyril thought it over hard, eyes fixed on the fire, grey beak set firm as he considered the facts, trying to puzzle out some great formula in his head, about a female not of his own species, not of his nation or even on this continent that he might possibly not see for even years after, or possibly ever if the war he feared was coming actually came. There was already a massive distance between them, and the fact that he had already felt a huge amount of doubt told him some part of his brain had accepted the likely reality that this relationship was going to go nowhere. Too many things kept happening to keep them apart. They’d spoken one time since that day in Rottendedam, and it had been for a few minutes at best. What if they were both just fooling themselves? What if he was just being a massive idiot? But it came to him in that second; of course they were idiots. Neither of them went with the safe, simple option. For better or worse, they were both cursed to the struggle, the idea of suffering for what they wanted. And that meant she’d be there for him when they finally met. And it would make it all worth it in the end. He turned to Hellseig, nodding firmly. “Yes. I do.” The sergeant quietly watched his subordinate, whom he’d mentored the past four years. There was a fire burning in Cyril’s eyes, a passion Hellseig knew had been burned out of himself a long time ago. Good. The kid would need that if he was going to survive the emotional hell he was putting himself through. “Then keep it up. Keep it alive. That’s all I can tell you, Duskwing. It’s up to you after that. All I can do is show you the door to how it works. Down to you to open it.” A shriek split the air. Cyril and Hellseig looked up, sharply. They knew that sound, quite intimately in fact. Spotsley snapped up straight, ears perking in alarm as Eihol fell off his seat, awake and sober instantly. “INCOMI-” The griff who started shouting the warning never had the chance to finish, as the artillery shell that fell on the camp detonated two trucks, a fireball brewing up and blasting a shockwave out around it in a cloud of black smoke. Soldiers and knights were sent flying, some in tatters and others merely stunned, trying to shake off the impact of the concussive force that hit hard as a god’s fist. But then there followed another, and another, and another. The shelling rocked the camp, artillery bracketing the campfires and parked panzers. Luckily, whoever had done the sighting seemed to have screwed up, for the second volley landed wide, splintering trees and pockmarking the ground. “Get to the panzers!” Crews scrambled. Wings flared, claws clattered on steel, weapons were tossed and readied. The screams of the wounded were almost drowned out as the next barrage rocked the camp, more on point the time. More panzers and more soldiers died, trucks and ammunition brewing up. The shelling seemed determined to wipe the armor from existence first, the choice of someone with at least a mind for tactics. The grenadiers and knights flew and ran to prepared defenses, dodging and weaving through the barrage as they went. But before they could reach the dugouts, a mighty bellow rang out from the treeline, half bestial and filled with primal rage before the empty space was abruptly filled with the crushing surge of a line of heavily muscled, khaki-clothed figures surging towards the Imperial line, horns down and weapons up. “Minotaurs!” The cry went up, and was repeated up and down the line. Bayonets were hastily fixed, shotgunners looking for flying infantry clumsily reoriented, and Knights drew swords as the charge continued towards the defenses, ready to meet the bovine surge. The few troopers actually on the line realized the direness of their situation, beginning to fall back under the press. Weapons which were chambered to kill griffons and ponies faltered against the lumbering mountains. Minotaurs were huge and muscled, and even as lean as these soldiers were (evidence of a once deprived diet only just beginning to normalize with fertile fields back in their hands) they still towered over the largest Imperial soldier. A barrage which would have normally decimated a griffon surge only took down the enemy piecemeal, and then they were among the panzers and trucks, bellowing and roaring, shouting and clubbing. The battle descended in an instant to a furious, close-range melee as talons and fists traded blows, shotguns boomed and pistols snapped, stocks used as makeshift clubs, swords and spades slicing in the darkness, fire at close range ending on bloody bayonet points. In an instant, the Asterion charge had negated the Empire’s firepower advantage, bringing the fight to -their- field. It happened slowly. Not expecting the surge, and not equipped for it, panzergrenadiers began to fall back into the camp, firing as they ran, some flying to clear more ground. Panzer crews, still attempting to start their engines, poked their heads out of their vehicles, only to be shot upon rising or dragged from their steeds to be carved to pieces. One Stahlschild had a grenade shoved into its hatch, the boom reducing the crew inside to tatters or flesh and uniform. And then, a boom and a shout. A panzergrenadier fell, his head a mess as blood spurted from the mass of shredded flesh and feathers that was once his neck. His fellows paused, hesitating. Over their heads, a Vollstrecker landed on a nearby panzer, shotgun in claw as she pointed it down at the retreating troopers, racking the slide and ejecting a spent shell. “Pathetic! Get back in and fight! Show the enemy your backs and you will get no mercy! Neither from the ‘taurs or from ME!” A minotaur pushed through the gap between two panzers, bellowing in fury as he clutched his rifle, charging towards the frozen grenadiers bayonet first. For his trouble, another boom rang out, blowing away half his skull and dropping the Asterion like a lead weight, plowing into a campsite firepit. “There!” The Vollstrecker griff cried. “You see how it is done! Now, follow me!” With that, she gave a single pump of her wings, landing on the far side and shouting the charge, leading the now frightened but recovered grenadiers to surge back in for the counterattack, their weapons chattering wildly. In a strange turn, the Hellswordian troopers were holding better. Their weapons, designed primarily after rifles meant for hunting monsters on the frontier, were taking chunks out of the larger, beefier taurian charge. Though they were still forced to give ground in the face of such suicidal determination, they had not devolved to a route like their Imperial comrades. But the gap was still ever closing. They would not be far behind. Cyril stood behind Sabine’s turret, SMG held steady as he gunned down one invading minotaur, then another. The damned things took half a mag each to put down, though he was certain the frenzy of the battle may have contributed to that. It was a much different experience, fighting outside of Sabine, his soft skin and feathers feeling exposed and frighteningly vulnerable. The engine of the panzer coughed as Eihol worked frantically, trying to warm the engine’s glow plugs without flooding her diesel carburetors, Spotsley hollering abuse at the driver between her flurries of howling on the wireless for air or fire support. “Duskwing!” Cyril turned, in the middle of a reload, as a Minotaur clambered up onto the engine hatch, a broken rifle held in meaty hands as the bovine trooper closed in. Thinking fast, Cyril kicked upwards quickly, boot meeting groin and dropping the taur where he stood so Cyril could draw his sidearm, blowing his enemy’s head off. “Thanks Sarge!” he hollered as Sabine rumbled, finally starting up. “Get your tail inside!” Hellseig returned, feeding a new belt into the MG and chattering off a burst into the chaotic frenzy of violence around them. “I need you on the gun!” Another cluster of rounds smacked off the turret next to him, sending the young panzertruppen scurrying up in a hasty flurry of feathers and tan cloth, Hellseig moving aside and taking the weapon, firing a birst over Cyril’s head. Inside, Sabine was almost as chaotic as outside, with Eihol, Spotsley and Haul all yelling at each other over the noise of the engine and the combat outside, arguing about some ridiculous thing he didn’t catch. Cyril merely clambered over to his seat, swapping his cap out for the leather hood and goggles, pressing an eye to the gunsight as one claw came up to his chest, feeling for the pocket for just a moment. Then, it was action time. “Duskwing, Spotsley!” Hellseig shouted over the intercom. “Squirt that treeline! Buy our lads some time! Eihol, roll us up to cover the others!” The coax and hull machineguns added their fire to that of the top mounted gun, while Sabine turned, her treads grinding through the muck, engine roaring in fury as she crushed a pair of tents, surprising a cluster of minotaur troopers on the other side. Not having their own anti-tank weapons, the bulls fired with their rifles, only to get mowed down by the three machine guns as their rounds spanked off her armor plating. Nearby, her sister panzer Rosenknospemoved into accompanying formation, her 5 cm gun booming before a direct hit from the sporadic artillery ripped her apart in a fireball, spewing flaming shrapnel in all directions and adding further to the chaos. Sabine’s own cannon boomed, a countering fireball blowing through the treeline and mulching a cluster of Asterion soldiers. Rallying at the sight of friendly armor, Imperial and Hellsword soldiers fell in on her flanks, renewing the advance and sweeping forwards. They were finally back in the fight. But all was not well. “Team, listen up!” Hellseig called out as his MG chattered. “I just got word that the Kapitan is dead. A sniper got him during the shelling. And Leutnant Stonefeather is unresponsive. The medic thinks he took a shot in the spine. It’s down to us now.” “Sounds familiar!” Cyril shouted back, traversing right and letting another shot out, reducing more of the minotaur charge to tatters and splinters. Response fire was intense, as the ‘taurs realigned their own MGs onto the rolling armored vehicle. The amount of bullets hitting Sabine was so thick, he almost couldn’t see his surroundings, and he feared the vision block might take a hit, rendering him blind. With a clank, the next shell was levered into position, the breechblock slamming shut. “Clear!” Haul shouted as he moved out of the way of the gun. “Duskwing, enemy panzer moving through the treeline!” Calling the lumbering hulk a panzer was stretching things quite a bit, as the boxy, rhomboid shape and slow speed told them all this was clearly an outdated and far inferior model. It’s own stubby cannons poked out of either side, and Cyril didn’t even wait for the shell to be swapped to armor piercing, letting the 5 cm do its work. The HE shell, as it turned out, was more than sufficient to demolish the poor imitation, the enormous fireball of her petrol engine setting fire to the surrounding woods. But more shapes were emerging now, and while some had the same outdated look as the first landship, there were profiles of far more modern panzers in amongst them. Shapes Cyril instantly recognized. “Wingbardy panzers!” he shouted, and Haul didn’t need to be told twice, immediately slamming an AP shell into the breach. “Clear!” “On the way!” Cyril didn’t even wait for the order, and Hellseig didn’t need to give it. Cyril stamped on the trigger, the gun boomed and the shell tore through a Lend-Lease panzer. Fortunately, they were lighter models, and the vehicle slewed to a halt, its turret aflame and its armor holed. They were doing it. So long as they held here and matched whatever the minotaurs threw at them, they could act as an anchor for the rest of the armor to get on line and the infantry to dig in here. But up top, Sergeant Hellseig had a different view of the field. “General, we’ve stopped the charge for now. I think the Asterions are about to break.” ”Sergeant, that’s not a factor anymore. From what I’m hearing, ammunition is at critical levels. Your trucks are destroyed and casualties are mounting. I need you to fall back from that grove before you’re overrun,” came the voice of Vollstreckergeneral Wolfheze, commander of Hellsword’s own Vollstrecker division. With the Kapitan and Leutnant out of commission, the nearest command post in radio range was the Vollstrecker’s own down the hill. Normally removed from the chain of Reichsarmee command, these circumstances proved anything but normal. ”Are you sure this is an armored offensive?” Sabine’s gun boomed again, and Vise-Korporal Duskwing chalked up another panzer kill. “That’s confirmed, General. We’re seeing battalion to regimental numbers of attackers here. We’re dealing with the infantry as best we can, but our panzers have sustained serious losses. They caught us unawares.” ”Then Asterion somehow got a panzer division over the Creeper Mountains. This war has gotten much more serious. I’ll need your panzers to regroup back here. That’s an order Sergeant. I’ll get you what support I can, as soon as I can. Godspeed, Hellseig. Wolfheze, out.” Hellseig cursed as the radio to Feldkommando went silent, replaced instead by the chaotic chatter of the platoons here on the ground. The battered kompanie was finally reforming, and until the enemy panzers had emerged it had certainly looked like they had the situation in claw. Now, however, the ‘taurs had gone from on the verge of breaking to nearly suicidal once more, surging towards newly prepared positions, right into MG fire. He added his own fire to the noise, considering the situation. Options were not great. While they were holding as best they could, if the General’s prediction was correct and an entire division was heading their way, they needed to form up with the rest of the 41st to respond effectively. But at this rate, movement would be on the backs of panzers and by claw and wing. None of their trucks were getting out, and only a few armored cars remained. He fired another burst, cursing the gods, cursing the Empire, cursing the Reformisten and by Tartarus cursing the minotaurs for this surprise attack. He was supposed to be home by now. “Fuck it,” he hissed, gunning down another cluster of minotaurs. One of them had been rushing towards a Calico with what looked like satchel charges. A grim fact that only underlined Wolfheze’s words. “All platoon leaders! I need a tally and an orderly fallback by fire to the other side of the grove, to the north! Gather the wounded as you can! Leave the dead and what equipment you can’t run with.” ”Duskwing!” “I see it, hang on! On the way!” The 5 cm boomed again, and another Lend-Lease panzer slewed in the mud, having tried to sneak around a wrecked Asterion landship to get a shot on them. Hellseig glanced down into the turret, watching his crew in action. Haul smacked another shell into position, coughing as the turret filled with acrid smoke, hollering out the clear as he closed the breech. Duskwing had his eye pressed against the sight, now switched to the MG as he mowed down yet another charge, the high-caliber bullets tearing bulls to bloody chunks. Up front, Spotsley was spitting insults at the same rate her gun spat bullets, until it ran dry and she lit up a storm, fumbling for another belt in her fury. Eihol twitched, watching his surroundings through the vision blocks, one claw on his shotgun, ready and waiting for another suicide charge. They were a good crew. Hellseig had been with the Panzerwaffen since its creation, and before that had led infantrygriffs. This group was the best he’d ever worked with, coordinated and dedicated, skilled and experienced. Which made what he would ask them that much harder. He closed his eyes, breathing out as he absorbed the reality of what he needed to do. “Eihol, prepare to advance.” There was a pause as the whole crew absorbed what their sergeant had just said, and honestly Hellseig didn’t blame them. The order was an insane one, considering their position. Outnumbered and under constant assault, the idea of advancing into that storm was practically suicidal. ”Uh...a-are you sure, Sergeant?” “As I can be, Korporal. We need to buy time for the kompanie to fall back. They’re never going to make it under this kind of pressure.” “We’re with you, Sergeant!” Haul shouted back, saluting up from his loader’s seat, any trace of doubt erased from his face. “We’ll all win Iron Crosses for this!” Hellseig had no doubt the stallion would go with whatever he had said. Spotsley was quiet, for once, as if trying to consider the odds before she finally spoke. “Okay. Let’s do it.” Duskwing looked up at him now, goggles pushed up to expose his eyes. In that gaze, Hellseig saw doubt, a hint of betrayal, questioning and a bit of sadness. But the Sergeant merely nodded, silently telling Cyril that this was the only way. The gunner paused before he nodded back, firmly, a new determination in his eyes as he pushed the goggles back down. Eihol, meantime, was less certain. “Sergeant, we’re gonna fucking die!” “Not if we’re fast enough, Korporal,” Hellseig shot back, chattering off another burst. An idea came to him. “C’mon, what are you afraid of? I’ll buy the beers when we get back. All rounds on me!” A pause. Then, Eihol chuckled. It was mostly out of shocked realization, an acceptance of fate, finally squaring up to embrace what was inevitable. The chuckle turned into a laugh, which spread to Spotsley, who snorted into her radio before she too busted up. Then Duskwing, who just shook his head and smacked the gunsight, guffawing at the situation. Haul was, predictably, the last one to join in, but he did indeed chuckle, more as if he was trying to figure out what was so funny here. A bullet ricocheted off the turret, but Hellseig was beyond caring now. Laughing as well, he fired back, then ordered “Advance then, Korporal. Für den Kaiser!” “Voor de Keizer, Serjeant!” Eihol replied, gripping the levers and cranking them both forward. Full frontal assault. Sabine rolled off her position, down into the hell. As the other panzers were falling back, supported by panzergrenadiers, knights and Hellsword regulars, the Stahlschild advanced into the storm, bullets and grenades ignored as she practically soared in. Confused queries over the radio were ignored, in favor of the crew focusing on their task. Three MGs chattered, interspersed by the 5 cm claiming the occasional panzer. But the charge had left the minotaurs fumbling. They hadn’t expected a counterattack, and even one as small as Sabine on her suicide run left them fumbling. They had no reliable anti-tank weapons, and with their own armor appearing incapable of stopping the oncoming panzer, the bulls finally halted, faltered, and finally began to break. The retreat was slow at first, but picked up speed as Sabine advanced further, finally clearing the killing ground and parking herself right into their positions at the treeline itself. From here, they could see down the forested hill, as flares lit the ground head in a ghastly dull red. The estimated division was moving into position, spreading out across the valley below and preparing to move on the unprepared Imperial line. With this assault regiment blunted, it would only be a matter of time. “Panzer, 9 o clock!” “I see it! On the way!” The gun boomed, another enemy panzer gone. How many had they killed, just here in this one fight? Seven? Eight? How many would the enemy send up at them? How many did they have? “Eihol, keep us moving!” Reality came crashing back down as Hellseig ducked under a thrown grenade. A minotaur, not twenty feet away, roared in defiance, firing his pistol up at the sergeant who, caught blindsided, drew his own and put four rounds into the minotaur’s head. But the enemy were getting their bravery back, realizing there was but one panzer in their midst. The only way they could survive was to keep mobile, fire and maneuver and not get swarmed. Eihol pulled Sabine back as the MGs chattered, retreating off the high ground back into the killing field. Their charge had become a mad struggle, suddenly surrounded and now the sole focus of attention. The retaliatory fire seemed to quadruple, rapid fire rounds pockmarking the already cratered hull. The paint was nearly completely stripped away, the unit designation, camouflage and kill count on the hull little more than smudges now. The gun boomed again. And again. Hellseig brought his MG around, chewing up another suicide bomber, the satchel charges detonating seconds after the soldier fell. Where once the odds were against them and they laughed, now death was certain the crew only got furious, cursing and yelling and spitting. Smoke filled the panzer and Spotsley threw a fit as her MG overheated, the barrel glowing red hot. Haul opened the shot locker again, only to pause as he took stock of what they had left before silently hauling out another shell. But Hellseig could count in the middle of the fight. And he had been. “Scheiße!” A minotaur had landed on the tank, right over the driver’s hatch. Hellseig tried to bring the MG down, but the angle was too steep, and the bull put the gun tube between them both. He went for his pistol, but the driver’s hatch popped open, and the barrel of a shotgun emerged. With a muffled boom that sounded like it was almost underwater, the buckshot blew out the minotaur’s lower torso, and the corpse tumbled away. “Ja! Fuck jou, en de koe die ons met jou vervloekte, jij doorweekte hoop!“ “Eihol, look out!” But it was too late. Distracted dealing with the first boarder, Eihol missed the second, who hopped onto the track guard, bellowing in their strange, southern tongue. Neither Hellseig nor Eihol had the chance before, with twin blasts that rocked the panzer, the satchel charges detonated in the bull’s hands, ripping her track and the front sprocket clean off. Sabine, still going full tilt, crashed bodily to a halt, skidding through the dirt and roots, finally halting as she crashed into the trunk of a tree. Silence. Aside from the panzer’s still rumbling engine, their surroundings were quiet. Their mad charge had bought enough time and space for the kompanie to retreat. They’d likely be heading down towards Wolfheze’s command post by now. The crew recovered slowly. Bruised, battered, coming down from their battle fury. They slowly began checking systems, counting ammo, taking stock. Hellseig stood, looking at where they’d crashed. A tree was nothing to the panzer, but the blast had crippled her, tore up the armor, ripped apart her suspension and road wheels. Even without the crash, Sabine would never drive again. The damage was too great. It was a wonder they weren’t all dead. He turned, looking towards the abandoned campsite. They could run for it, try to catch up to the kompanie’s rearguard. But Eihol was nursing a head wound and a concussion, a consequence of both the crash and having the hatch open when the charges had gone off. He’d never be able to run. But they had to do something. Now they had been taken out, the minotaurs would be one them in seconds. Minutes if they were lucky. Hellseig dropped into the turret, sighing as he laid back in his seat, dabbing at his own temple and the blood there. Shrapnel, maybe. Perhaps from the blast itself. His cap had caught it and spared him the worst. Duskwing and Haul were going over the gun. The hydraulics were a wreck, meaning the gun and turret would have to be operated by claw crank. And the shot locker was nearly empty. Maybe ten shells left, only three of those AP. Spotsley was quietly seeing to Eihol, asking him questions and bandaging his head, trying to keep him conscious. Hellseig groaned, taking his cap off as he considered the situation. If worst came to worst, and they were overrun, Sabine would be their best chance of survival, a place to hole up. Their one way trip had done a number to the enemy panzer force, and certainly bought them time. But with Eihol’s injuries and the distance they had to cross, leaving was not an option anymore. “Weapons,” he croaked, picking up the SMG he’d taken from Duskwing and handing it back. The gunner took it quietly, checking the mag and then swapping with a full one from his satchel. Haul peered out his loader’s hatch at the darkness beyond, watching carefully for the enemy, while Spotsley took Eihol’s shotgun carefully, having to reach for shells. “Okay, someone needs to scout the area. The rest of us are going to get ready for-“ A bellow only the woods cut off Hellseig’s statement, and he cursed as it was answered in a chorus from further back. “Or we could go for the desperate final stand now, then!” He stood at his station fully now, checking the belt on his MG before cocking it, steadying his aim. The treeline was teeming with movement now, indistinct in the darkness as the panzer’s headlights were pointed in a different direction. But the sergeant barely had to aim, as muzzle flashes showed them pushing so close together he simply had to point in one direction and hold down the trigger. The MG stuttered, and in the flashing lights he could see chunks torn out, meat fed into the grinder. The turret rotated slowly, and the coax chattered too, adding it’s fire to the sergeant’s own. Spotsley popped open her hatch, the shotgun in her paws as she fired, rack the slide and fired again. The surge of bulls was truthfully only a few seconds long, maybe twenty at most. But to them, it felt like they held for an hour, adrenaline coursing as lights flickered in the darkness. Hellseig’s wings were fully flared, though he struggled to tuck them down out of danger. As the troopers finally broke and run, leaving behind a slope covered in meat and uniforms, a clattering came to Hellseig’s ears, that of treads and armor plating. Another Asterion landship, struggling and primitive, but with Sabine helpless as she was, even the small cannons it carried would be enough to deal serious damage. “Duskwing!” he hollered down. “Minotaur panzer! Four o clock!” “Roger that!” Cyril hollered back, cranking the handles furiously, the turret inching around. The gun tube swept over through the dark, almost in slow motion. Hellseig held his breath, beak clenched as he hammered away. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d slip a round in through a vision slit, or hit some critical part. But all he saw were the sparks of ricochets, and the cannon on the right flank swiveled towards them… Then, Sabine’s 5 cm was aligned. “Target acquired!” “FIRE!” Hellseig screamed over the MG, the blood rushing in his ears. “On the way!” The gun boomed in the night, her muzzle flash blinding Hellseig. But even more blinding was the Minotaur landship brewing up, its primitive sides splitting and fuel and ammo cooked off, ripping the plates asunder as the wreck slewed to a halt. “Yes! Kill confirmed!” The crew cheered. Already an ace several times over, Cyril Duskwing punched the air. This felt like the most important kill of his career. Even Haul broke, leaving over and throwing his hooves around the gunner’s neck in a half-hysterical, half astounded hug. Spotsley howled, though her ears had to be ringing too. Hellseig laughed, smacking the top of the turret. They’d done it! Now they just had to figure out a plan to get out of- He heard it before he saw it. In all the noise, none of them had realized that even though the panzer was dead, the clattering continued. Hellseig turned, feeling slow though he swore he was moving as quick as he could. There, in Sabine’s headlights, resplendent in the light, was a Wingbardian M11 medium panzer. A brand new, freshly painted model, passed on to the Asterion by the look of the black flag painted on her hull. And it’s large, very modern 5.7 cm cannon was lined up directly on them. “PAN-“ Hellseig’s world went white. The Stahlschild was an excellent medium panzer. A solid gun, good transmission and easy to manufacture. But she was the Empire’s first true foray into medium panzer design, and as such this carried multiple problems. A rather cramped interior, a separation of radio operator and commander to either end of the panzer and, most critically, flawed plate armor standards. While a good panzer, these issues had consigned her to already be replaced by her successor, in development even now. The plate buckled. Then split. Cyril awoke in fire. He blinked, trying to figure out why he still couldn’t see anything. But after a moment, he finally got his panzer goggles off and away, and blinked blearily. The lenses were covered in blood. And from the glow, the panzer was on fire. He started, attempting to stand. Then he realized two things. One; he was in excruciating pain, which when his brain finally caught up left him staggering against the turret of the panzer. Two; the reason for this was the twisted metal wreckage of the gun assembly, combined with the peeled innards of the turret’s armor which was currently crushed together around the catastrophe of flesh and feathers that used to be his left wing. And he was screaming. High, raw, unchained shrieking at the top of his lungs. He felt understanding give way to panic and fright, and automatically tried to pull away, which gave a -tearing- sensation. Oh gods, it fucking hurt so much, what in Tartarus was this shit! He felt like the flesh was slowly being ripped off his back, ligaments in the wing connected to him pulling and tugging in ways they were not meant to. Abruptly, Haul’s visage filled his view, shouting and hollering something that Cyril couldn’t hear over his own white hot agony. Luckily, Haul managed to pin the gunner down long enough that he could still, finally hearing the stallion’s words. “Duskwing! You need to stop thrashing around! I can’t get you out like this!” Behind him, Sabine -was- on fire, fully alight. The paneling, the fuel, the ammunition. Flames licked at the turret walls, and all power seemed to have gone from the panzer. Cyril’s eyes, if possible, opened even wider at the realization, Haul’s words drowned out again. He was going to die here. If that Wingbardian panzer got another shot off on them, and there was no reason it wouldn’t, they’d finish the job. The enemy crew must have assumed they were brewed up. Cyril took a quick role call of himself, awkwardly patting himself down. Legs were good, arms were okay, head fine. In a strange twist of fate, he seemed to be unscathed aside from his wing. And then the answer presented itself. “Cut me out!” he screamed, the small actions he’d done incurring an agony in and of itself. He couldn’t help but thrash in his seat, feel the bones and flesh grind in the twisted metal. Haul shook his head. “I can’t! I don’t have a torch! Just sit still as you can, I’ll try to pull you out!” “No, Haul!” Cyril reached over the wrecked gun assembly, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling the stallion closer. “Cut it off!” Haul was dumbfounded, staring back at Cyril in astonishment. “You...your wing? Cut your fucking wing?” “The bones are powder anyway! Even if I get out, I’ll never fly!” Cyril shot back. The reality of that statement would hit him later, and the grim remorse to come with it. But right now, in the pain and suffering that was anchoring him to Sabine’s burning hulk, all he knew was that he had to get out by any means necessary. “Cut! Me! Out!” It took Haul another few seconds to come to terms with what he was being asked to do. But finally, he gulped, nodding as he clumsily turned, fumbling through the burning wreck to pull out the toolkit. The flames were closer now, the smoke suffocating and blinding. Neither could see clearly. But Cyril could just make out the blurry form of Haul, rising with the hatchet from the toolkit. He would have forced himself to watch. But between the everlasting pain and the smoke and the heat, his eyes closed. It didn’t come off in one stroke. He felt the impact, but the flesh was suffering so bad he almost didn’t feel the pain. Almost. A second stroke. Now he -did- feel the pain, and with that panic set in again. He screamed, feeling his blood spatter the turret. He almost asked Haul to stop, begged him, but somehow he managed to keep his beak clamped shut again. A third stroke, and he almost passed out. A fourth, and now he did black out. He awoke to feel himself being pulled from his seat. Voices spoke around him, and he couldn’t make them out. But he felt cold air, almost ice on his face and matted feathers. They were outside. He was out. They passed him gently down the panzer, Hellseig carefully guiding Cyril down to Haul. It was difficult to do it with one claw, as the sergeant’s other arm was little more than a ragged stump now. But they finally got out Duskwing, one wing now messily hacked off at the wrist and now a horrific mass of bleeding flesh. Hellseig gripped his delirious gunner tightly at the claw. “It’s down to you now, son. You have to go on. Do great things.” “Sarge…” Cyril fumbled, eyes half open, on the verge of passing out once more. “What...you…” “Don’t worry about me,” the veteran replied, gesturing to his missing arm. “Twenty years and this was the best the enemies of the Empire could do? At this point, nothing can kill me!” Bullets smacked off the hull of the wreck, and Hellseig winced, ducking by reflex. The minotaurs had realized the crew had survived. That devilish M11 had moved off in search of more prey, but the infantry advancing behind it were the real threat now. They would swarm them in an instant, and judging from the combat earlier, there would be no prisoners taken here. But he was already committed to this course of action. The realization did not change his decision. Only solidified it. “Get them out of here!” he shouted down to Haul, glancing over to where Spotsley was hauling Eihol, draped over her shoulders as she huffed, trying to hustle across the killing grounds with shotgun in paw. “Keep them safe!” The stallion, understanding, merely nodded, shouldering Duskwing across his back. The Earth pony started away, then took a second to look up at Hellseig, trying to come up with the words. But they never came, and the loader instead nodded before he trotted off, trying to catch up to Spotsley, both of them doing their best to keep their precious cargo from being jostled too badly. Sergeant Hellseig felt tired. Now his crew were away, he was suddenly aware of just how difficult it was to move. He fumbled against the turret, huffing as he tried to blink and get his head together. Tracers chopped past, a few bursts from a minotaur MG. He had to get up there. Protect his crew. “Adelaide…” he muttered, claw fumbling for a handle. “I’m sorry.” With that, he finally found some purchase, hauling himself up onto the top of the turret, rolling over and into the hatch again. Sabine was fully aflame now, but he barely felt the heat. It seemed fitting that both of them die here, to buy time for the others. “Had a good run, didn’t we girl?” he grunted, working the charging handle on the top-mounted MG. Still half a belt left. Good. He didn’t exactly have the ability to reload anymore. But he squeezed the trigger, sending back a response burst. The Asterion troopers immediately refocused fire on him, leaving the battered, retreating crew alone. He couldn’t even see them through the smoke and flames. Just fired in the direction the bullets were coming from. “Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein!” he called out as he fired, remembering the song from the taverns and bars across the Empire. It was a popular song with soldiers at war, who wanted to finally go home. “Und das heißt: Erika!” He chattered off another burst. Not much left in the belt now. But he was beyond caring. He’d done his duty, gone beyond. Fought for the Kaiser in war after war. Now, he was here at the end, he found his regrets heavy in his feathered breast. But they were surmountable. His missing arm hurt. But not as much as he thought. That was a bad sign. He’d likely slip into shock soon. He couldn’t feel the heat from the flames. Also a bad sign. He didn’t care. Overhead, he heard the screaming of engines. And then the rattle of machine guns and the whistle of falling bombs. A massive detonation erupted behind him, a fireball he could perceive even in the smoke. The M11 had indeed come back for the kill. He hoped the blast was the fighter-bombers taking care of it. Wolfheze’s support had come after all. The bombs dropped closer. He closed his eyes. Godspeed indeed. Author's Note Once again, this interlude will be part of a triple section, the last chapter of which will go up next Friday! For those of you unable to line up the date, that should make it April 3rd! I know we’ve all struggled with this pandemic around the world (as can be seen by my work hours and days changing constantly) but I hope I can be a source of entertainment to you all! See you next week! On the Edge pt 3: ZealJuly 11th, 1011 0015 hours CNS Chrysalis Briefing Room 1st Queen’s Guard Squadron Near Queen’s Island, Changeling Queendom “Close the hatch.” The order was obeyed by the Guardsling, sealing it and standing by with the glowing M39/2 Gewehr cradled in his hooves. With the briefing room now finally secure, Hivemarschall Trimmel Eugen Heydrich Zu Gardis allowed himself to relax at last. He was not technically their commander, though his position as Marschall of the Heer left him in charge of all military assets. He’d used it better than any other before too, as previous generals had been so limited in scope as to owe their loyalty to a single hive. Trimmel had moved past such pleasantries and seized the power Queen Chrysalis had granted him, with the vision of an operational doctrine unparalleled by any, having demonstrated its superiority and efficiency during the invasion of Olenia. Before, it had merely been thought and theory. Now, they called the Olenian Campaign the “Lightning War.” The Briefing Room was set just as he had prepared for the queen and her other top-ranking commanders - to gather one last time to review the invasion plans. It shouldn’t be long now before the queen herself would arrive, and the final order would be set in motion. Trimmel could not help but be excited at the prospect of, at last, executing the schemes so meticulously designed by his more conniving brothers in arms. These consisted of Vaspier, The Great Imperial Nobody, leader of the VOPS and almost his direct counterpart was Hermis Thysbe, the tactical genius. Constantly engaged in their bid to impress their queen would often put them at odds with each other, despite being ordered to work past their differences and obedient as any of her most favoured officers, the combination of their mastery in tactics and strategies led to brilliant results which were also observed in the invasion of Olenia. Trimmel was almost envious of their skill but he was already the Queen’s favourite, and he knew it. He just needed to continue achieving victories, and his position at her right hoof was assured, both figuratively and literally. As he slid into his seat at the side of his Queen’s own, barely suppressing a smirk, the leader of her protection detachment Dieter Heinrich himself took his seat as well, followed by Opteris, his closest confidant. Having been summoned by the other commanders to convene on the Flagship, by far out of all his brothers and sisters in arms the only one Trimmel actually feared due to his silent and imposing demeanour, a changeling of few words and decisive action. The perfect individual to lead the bodyguards of Her Royal Majesty. As if acknowledging his arrival, the Hive Marshal nodded to the Leader of the Queen’s guard who responded in kind. The two had a tense if amiable working relationship, as their duties had intertwined in the last few years. Technically, Trimmel outranked Heinrich, but in practice the Captain of the Queen’s Guard was as much political as military, and there Trimmel dared not try his luck. The Queen’s Guard had been granted a massive expansion in terms of their ranks and equipment, such as their own fleet, armored battalions and air wings. They were, in essence, an army inside an army. The Will of Queen Chrysalis herself. The fact that Dietrich even agreed to Trimmel’s suggestions meant he was interested in at least preserving the peace. Opposing each other would only lead to massive bloodshed on both sides. In short succession the rest of the summoned commanders moved to the table, taking their seats quickly as the low buzz of conversation began to taper off. Vaspier in his humble uniform, a stark contrast to Thysbe’s flamboyant garments and flashy monocle, an odd atmosphere of envy, respect and competition thickening the air between them, the two eyeing one another as if scouting for weaknesses to be exploited. Trimmel snorted wordlessly, and the two commanders glanced his way, seeing the evident displeasure on his face. If there was ever a time they could not be weakened by infighting, it was now. Also seated here was Pharynx, the prodigy that had worked with Trimmel on armored and motorized formation warfare. It had been his suggestion to group panzers into dedicated panzer companies like hunting parties, rather than spread them out to support infantry formations. Ever since, Pharynx had attended every exercise he could, watching with rapt attention as they worked through their experiments and trials, until he was almost as capable as Trimmel himself. With him was the stoic and soft-spoken Lactro Mactans, commander of the elite Jaeger battalions, sharpshooters and urban assault specialists. Loyal to Trimmel, he and Pharynx were the counterpoint to Heinrich and Opteris. At the far end of the table, not given to the factionalism on show, was Actis Pagala, responsible for training and soldier curriculum. She wanted nothing to do with the contest between the Heer and the Queen’s Guard, and had made it a point of stating so. On either side of her was Field Marshal Sinovial and General Thranx, returned from the attaché overseas testing panzer technology and tactics in the Empire. Their time in Griffonia had separated them from the politics in the Queen’s inner circle, and while Sinovial sat back and plotted as he would, Thranx simply looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Two commanders exemplified the most contentious part of this scheming; General Epargy Clarus and his immediate second, newly promoted General Caroline Phymata. A genius combined arms and fire support, it had been Clarus’ idea to break from the old and well established doctrine from the airship age, spiting both Griffonian theory of strategic destruction and Equestrion ideals of tactical bombings and aerial groups, instead advising Trimmel to shift priority to better support his combined arms warfare. The implementation of forward radiolings was Clarus’ masterpiece, providing such accurate and quick coordinates to nearby aircraft to bring such swift and overwhelming support to changeling tanks during the Olenia campaign that soldiers could almost radio the planes onto bunkers and trenchlines just ahead of them, equally as responsible for Trimmel’s revolutionary strategic overhaul of the changeling military as the fast attack tank groups Pharynx had formulated. This experience noted a complete shift in Luftwaffe tactics and training. From the new crop of potentials, Clarus had his pick for immediate successor; Phymata had been a promising motorized commander who had shown great promise over the Olenia campaign, granting her a quick promotion to general and at Clarus’ side. But these two were fickle, easily willing to back Trimmel as they were to side with Heinrich and Vaspier. The Luftwaffe were contentious observers. By far the newest of the three branches, for a long time they had been part of each hive’s army forces. But Equestria’s disruption of established doctrine in 1005 had put the airship out of relevance. Sure, they were useful for securing hives, but a Veppelin was easy pickings for today’s aircraft. After Chrysalis had ordered the wholescale adoption of Imperial Herzland concepts and terminology, this had all changed. The three changelings sitting in a small cluster in different uniforms were an odd bunch. Not quite the warrior type, they had all come from backgrounds in flight, aircraft or meteorology. General Apantesis was the most military of the three, having actually come from the old Lyctida airship corps as a commander. Mantis had worked as a pilot for Fargus Vraksis Aeronatics, and it was thanks to him and his expertise in aircraft technology and corporate structure that they had managed to avoid a long and painful process to get the advanced and modern Luftwaffe they had now, avoiding corporate pitfalls and redundant testing. But Luftmarschall Ceryonis, commander of the Luftwaffe, for all his aggressive bluster and rank, had been a weather scout before, a changeling who flew into storms in enchanted armor to gather information and make predictions. While he was the most aggressive, he was technically an intellectual amongst intellectuals, as many Luftwaffe pilots were. Instead of looking for aggression and skill at arms, Mantis’ suggestion of panning university students and technical experts had paid dividends in the end, resulting in a technologically advanced air arm. The only issue Trimmel had with the Luftwaffe was that as loyal as he knew them to be to the Heer and the Queen, their association with the military-industrial complex and the Queen’s Guard controlled scientists meant he didn’t trust them. Trimmel couldn’t prove it, and he’d be damned if he’d go to Vaspier to investigate, but he knew the Luftwaffe was playing favorites with Vespidae, United Wing Association and Svarm Aircraft. That made them susceptible, and he knew Dietrich didn’t count on the Luftwaffe for anything either. Present but not quite observed were Admirals Lysander and Mimic. The Armada occupied an interesting place in the Imperial military; while every unit in the Heer could trace itself back to one hive or another, the Armada was specifically the domain of Ditrysium hive. Such regionalism as gripped the Heer had no place in a navy, but this left the traditional Lysander and the eclectic Mimic as outsiders in a room full of scheming associates. For the most part, the admirals were just fine with that, refusing to play politics outside of honoring the queen. The only reason they were part of this inner circle was because of the vital necessity of their stations. “She is here,” the Guardsling at the hatch states plainly. His words were not yelled, but even at their soft level it put a hush to any further quiet bickering or conversation, all eyes turned towards the hatch expectantly, waiting with equal parts eagerness, trepidation and fear. Some had more parts than others. Finally, after what felt like an interminably long time, a dull thump sounded against the hatch, followed by two more. The Guardsling pushed forward, unsealing the hatch and standing aside, coming to the stiffest attention and hollering “Her Royal Highness; High Queen Chrysalis!” All hives possessed a queen, a female leader who grew larger and far more powerful than the other members of the hive, who had an innate magnetism to them that other changelings instinctively responded to and superior shapeshifting powers. But even among the queens, High Queen Chrysalis was among the tallest ever hatched. She was dressed in a white dress uniform lined with gold and sporting black crowns at her lapels, a stark and regal contrast to the other changelings who wore grey, black or blue. She dominated the room with her very presence, both thanks to her natural magnetism and her station, head held high as she examined the chamber with sea green eyes. The closest comparison to her shape and status would be an alicorn, though she was of course above those feeble princesses. Her blue mane, once ratty and unkept, was now lustrous and styled, falling in gentle waves around her face, her carapace shining in the low light of the chamber. And she was smiling. Pleased. A good sign. The assembled commanders immediately stood, bowing low to the carpet, their horns all an inch away from connecting with the deck. They held this pose until Chrysalis crossed, unhurried, to her highbacked chair, inspecting it briefly before taking her seat, resplendent as she sat up, examining the generals kowtowing before her. Her bodyguards, members of the Queen’s Guard wearing their pitch black uniforms, gas masks and goggles, took up position on either side, the protection detail of a dozen more storming in, checking the corners and sweeping for bugs and observers, gossamer wings twitching in agitation, M39/2s raised and at the ready. Finally, they stood to ready positions around the chamber, weapons held across the chest, prepared to act in an instant. One of her Guardslings leaned in and whispered something to the queen, who nodded. “You may rise,” she finally declared, and as one her inner circle did just that, returning to their seats in absolute silence. She waited for them to take their seats, the faintest hint of a barely concealed smirk present on her lips. Yes, she was in a very good mood tonight. “So, we are here,” she said after the commanders had all sat. “Alicorn Sunset. Years of planning, preparation and buildup. What a marvelous time. Much of our future hangs in the balance of this plan. So let us review our status before we proceed.” This was the most important moment in these briefings with the queen. Whoever spoke first would get her undivided attention. Then, as so often happened in military briefings that dragged on, she tended to become less interested in the minute details. Trimmel normally stepped in to handle those, but he knew that getting the highlights out first would be crucial. But they couldn’t be seen to have rushed to speak. That would make them look desperate. So, Trimmel stayed silent as Vaspier stood, giving a short bow before proceeding. “VOPS operatives embedded in crucial places will begin their strikes in the next two hours unless we send the termination signal, Your Highness. We have targeted mustering points and airbases in Canterlot, Phillydelphia, Manehattan, Mariposa, Vanhoover, Baltimare, Crystal City and a few others besides.” “Not Acornage itself?” Chrysalis asked airily, as if she hadn’t been briefed on this operation by Trimmel personally, listening to changes and giving her input and orders from on high. “No, Your Highness. The Equestrian defense line is incomplete and poorly manned. From what we can tell, most of the garrison are National Guard and Reservist units, with some air wings in support. The core of the professional forces are held further East, closer to Ponyville and Canterlot. Royal Guard units are exclusively stationed in key major cities like Canterlot, Los Pegasus, Ponyville, Manehattan and Crystal City. We want to keep them there as long as possible, so we have avoided stirring up trouble in the west.” Chrysalis nodded in approval, gesturing for Vaspier to continue, which he eagerly did with aplomb, shooting a smug look at a very annoyed Thysbe. “King Sombra has worked his way north with his infiltration company. Jaegers are standing by to sabotage communications on the Sneig Line. The confusion will make it easier for him to work. We’ll be hearing more from them at a later time.” “What are our chances of catching the Prince-Consort?” Chrysalis queried, intelty focusing on Vaspier’s face, her eyes emitting a short glow. The VOPS commander grimaced before swallowing and schooling his features. Thysbe smirked in revenge, knowing Vaspier would see how the tables had turned for his rival. “Very small, Your Highness. Prince-Consort Shining Armor is constantly surrounded by his Royal Guard. Hoofpicked bodyguards, associates he knows personally. He won’t fall for our usual embedding tactics.” “I see…” Chrysalis drawled, clearly disappointed. “Another time, then.” Vaspier, clearly glad to be finished, hurriedly bowed and retook his seat, his previous confidence erased. Trimmel decided this would be the time to save him, and nodded at Pharynx, who stood and bowed. “Your Highness, we have seventy divisions in position to storm the border, with a hundred more at secondary staging points. The attack will stretch from the Crystal Empire to Seaddle.” Pharynx’s voice was gruff, to the point. He’d never liked debating small issues, much like Chrysalis herself. This endeared the young commander to the queen, and with her favor and Trimmel’s tutelage combined with a natural aptitude for combat and a powerful shapeshifting ability, he had risen swiftly up the ranks. But his impatience was a flaw Trimmel had tried to temper out, to little avail thus far. Given his seniority, Thysbe should rightfully have been the one to define the operation, as he was not only higher ranking than the younger Pharynx, but he had also worked with Trimmel extensively on its planning and execution. But Thysbe understood that right now, Pharynx was the rising star. It was time to show off their protege, their newest little brother. “Sixteen of those are dedicated armored divisions, stationed in key areas to affect maximum breakthrough. Once through enemy fortifications, they’ll sweep around to eliminate crucial areas such as supply yards, communications, command posts, repair yards, airfields and so on. We have them placed so that if any of the infantry or motorized divisions meets heavy resistance, at least two armored units can be routed to pincer the target at any time. Our goal is to outmass and outnumber Equestrian armor by a factor of three-to-one in the majority of engagements. Reserve divisions are waiting for the initial breach and the line extending to move into positions. We’ve received a good amount of reinforcements from the Olenian Protectorate...less from the Northern one.” “What is our first target, General?” Chrysalis purred, clearly favoring Pharynx’s commentary. As if reading it straight off a piece of paper, he immediately began rattling off “Acornage must fall first. It is a place of hardened resistance where the border force will focus on using. The structures can be turned into bunkers and the layout gives them roads to bring in reinforcements and supplies. Once Acornage falls, we can turn the city to our own use, and Jagers can use it to secure the countryside.” Trimmel glanced to Mactans, who nodded back coolly, his own expression sculpted from marble. Ever the consummate professional, Mactans would turn Acornage into his forward base of operations for his troops, sweeping the countryside to link with the embedded infiltrators. “After that, Vanhoover. The garrison there is deployed to the fringes of the city. If we can overtake them there, we can sweep the urban areas in less than a week. We move on from there to Tall Tale and Mariposa. Those will have to be taken before Luna can dispatch troops to hold their fallback fortifications. If we can seize those quickly, we can build a firm position on the northwest. Our estimates predict Sombra will likely have picked up enough turncoat divisions to take over the front in the Crystal Empire, but we’ll have to wait and see.” Trimmel smirked to himself. Pharynx had come a long way under his tutelage. Now with both he and Trimmel himself gaining the queen’s favor, they just had to focus on the war. And so the meeting went on. For the next half hour, Alicorn Sunset was carefully laid out. Trimmel was surprised by how long the queen retained her focus, latching on to each commander in sequence and asking follow up questions. Even if she knew the answers already, her goal was clearly to test her generals, make sure they were ready. Cercyonis’ air groups were coordinated, ensuring swift aerial superiority, the Armada would strike from Hjortland and engage the Lunar Fleet while Mimic’s cruiser subs delayed the Celestial Fleet and sunk shipping. Olenian volunteers were being gathered to storm the fortifications, and polar bear shock battalions dispatched to the Crystal Empire. This operation clearly was critical to Chrysalis, and the longer the briefing went on, the more intense the glow in her eyes. Finally, Chrysalis held up a hoof, halting Sinovial in the middle of a talk about what he had learned from the Reichsarmee and how it could be applied to the campaign. Some eyes had begun to wander as the meeting had lengthened, but in the sudden silence all attention was fixed back on the queen. The battleship’s ambient noise was deafening as everyling held their breaths. “We are prepared,” Chrysalis announced, glancing over her shoulder at the chamber’s clock. “In a short time, we will be at war. I want you all to issue what orders you need to start over radio as soon as you leave this room. Then board planes and return to your posts as soon as creaturely possible.” She slowly scanned the room, looking each commander in the eye, holding their gaze one after another. “We have the best trained, best equipped and most numerous army in Equus.” Here, she looked to Actis, who both blushed and nodded firmly in affirmation, clearly taken by the brief attention her queen showed. Chrysalis smiled back before she returned to her oratory. “Our theories and designs are proven by experienced advisors. We have the initiative, and we have the motivation. Today will be the day history records as the day we stepped forward into revenge.” She raised a hoof, declaring “I hereby proclaim the Age of Pax Chrysalia! Let us sound a war that will not end until our glory stretches across the continent! We will forge an empire to last an eternity, and it will start in Canterlot’s ashes!” So taken by her sudden speech, the other commanders, Trimmel included, threw their own hooves in the air, proclaiming “PAX CHRYSALIA!” From their tone, Trimmel could tell their eagerness was honest. His certainly was. “You have your orders!” his queen declared, standing as her Guardsmen quickly formed up around her. “Do NOT fail me. Now go! And we do not stop until we reach the Celestial Sea!” [/hr] 0207 hours Wild Lands, northwest of Acornage 8th Motor-Infanterie Divisione Plan “Alicorn Sunset” The time had come. And he was afraid. According to international law and the stipulations of the Treaty of Canterlot, they weren’t supposed to be this close to Equestria. The Wild Lands garrison had strict limits placed on its size and allotted equipment, which had been subtly defied for the past few years. But all subtlety had gone out the door when they had moved a massive amount of divisions to the borderlands. While the ponies themselves were stupid, their precious Princess Luna was not. The forces assembled before them were lacking in terms of training and equipment, not even full-time professionals from the briefings they had received. But they did still oppose them. Lars Zarek held his weapon close, clutching the rifle for dear life as the Open Blitz truck rumbled and shook. They had marshalled from their staging ground swiftly, told they were going to make history by their captain. Then they had piled into their vehicles, escorted by armored cars and backed by panzers. A short race across the countryside and here they were. And he shook, not just from the bucking of the truck over the rough dirt road, but from the fear in his carapace. But Queen Chrysalis’ speeches had always said this was not a time for fear. This was a time for action, and revenge. He loved listening to her speeches on the radio. She had been what gave him comfort after he received his conscription notice, leaving his construction job to take up arms for the Queendom. So he swallowed his fear as best he could, going through the steps as his gossamer wings fluttered in the wind pelting them. He checked his Gewehr 7, made sure it was loaded. He touched the bayonet at his belt, found his ammunition pouch full of reloads, his canteen. All present. Just for good luck, he touched his helmet. Across the truck from him, Private Nera, a squadmate rifleling of his, smiled in assurance, knowing better than to try and talk while all this noise was happening. But everyling’s nerves were hot right now. They dealt with it in different ways, whether through prayer, checking equipment as Zarek had done or working themselves into a fury. But this first action would see some of them dead, and they knew it. He could hear the artillery already. Guns in the distance thundered, shells whistling overhead before detonating on the far side of the river, a constant drumroll that seemed to have no pause. Nebelwerfers screamed, rockets streaming by and lighting up the sky. He couldn’t see the tactical bombers in the cloudy night sky, but the terrifying screech of the Vs.87 Stukas diving on their targets, cannons thumping before dropping their bombs with frightening accuracy, could all be heard over the din. Return fire arced in, far less frequently but with startling accuracy. The truck swerved around the wreck of a Panzer II, alight and burning, it's crew bailing out. Ahead, a pair of Wespe gun carriages fired on targets across the River too distant for Zarek to see, already surrounded by a small mountain of spent shells. Anti-aircraft fire poured out of Acornage, filling the sky with flak tracers. Now, with the light from explosions, he -could- see the bombers, at least a dozen and probably more raining bombs down on the city. The Blitz swerved to a halt, just short of the river. Behind and around them, more trucks pulled away from the road, slewing to stop and offload their precious cargo. Some, like Zarek’s were open-topped to let the troops shoot back (as if they’d hit anything) whilst others had their canvas flaps thrown back. A stream of changelings in grey uniforms poured out, weapons held close as they moved forward. Shots popped and chattered from a multi-story brick building across the river, slapping down several black carapaced soldiers. A changeling with an MG42 deployed her bipod, the loader immediately picking up the belt as she sent a stream of return fire at the building, sounding more like someone ripping canvas in quick succession than individual gunshots. Mortars began popping nearby, and in the city more explosions thumped dully. “Soldiers of the Queendom!” called out Zarek’s lieutenant, addressing the platoon sheltering behind the trucks. “You have the honor to execute your queen’s will! First squad, advance on the bridge and provide supporting fire from the head! Second squad, prepare to advance over to the other bank behind the armor! Third and fourth squads, I need you to fly over and assault that structure!” The lieutenant waved as the sergeants immediately began bellowing orders, giving assignments to individual soldiers. “Forwards! The history books will write about this day!” Zarek gulped nervously. He was in fourth squad, and now he’d just been handed the most dangerous assignment there was for a changeling soldier; exposing oneself by flying in the open while automatic weapons fired around you. No matter how fast a changeling, pony or griffon was, a bullet was always faster. The only virtue would be they’d be moving so fast, they’d be difficult targets. Hopefully. They hunkered down, watching as the first elements rolled in. Panzer IIIs took lead, machine gun rounds raining onto their armored hides and whining away, mortars popping dully on their plates as the tanks moved over the bridge. One fired its cannon, and a cloud of debris appeared on an apartment building. Behind them came the halftracks, their armored walls sheltering the infantry huddling inside. Behind -them- went second squad, almost hugging the ground as they advanced, weapons slung at the flank-ready so they could move on all fours. “First squad, open fire!” came a shout, and from around the friendly bridgehead changelings rose and leveled their weapons, Gewehrs popping as fast as their users could crank the bolt, MP10s chattering in bursts. Another MG42 position, properly deployed now, added the blistering tearing noise of its fire, green tracers sending a shower of rounds towards the same apartment building. “Fourth squad!” yelled Sergeant Rakowitz, waving a hoof as he held his MP10 at the ready. “Up and over!” As one, the ten members of fourth squad rose and, after a short sprint to clear of any obstacles, stretched their wings and took off, wings buzzing. Behind them, third squad followed into their chaos above their heads. As they rose, Zarek could see the levels of the apartment building on the far side both getting closer and falling away under him. Below, the bridge was still taking fire as the Queendom’s forces pushed into the opposite beachhead. One of the Panzers was abruptly speared by a shell, detonating spectacularly in a fireball as the ammunition and fuel went up, fiery shrapnel raining against the hull of the halftrack behind it as the soldiers dismounted. Now he was above, Zarek spotted an Equestrian machine gunner huddling behind a wall of sandbags on a third floor balcony gawking as he paused, the words he muttered in exclamation lost to the noise and distance. Others, however, were not so slow on the take. As the squads rose above the roofline, Zarek’s heart chilled in his thorax. Mounted on top of the apartment building, firing on the passing Stukas, was a 40mm AA mount, surrounded by sandbags and ammo cans. Pony loaders were slamming a new cylinder in place as the spotter immediately brought down her binoculars, hollering a command at the gunnery crew and pointing frantically at the oncoming changeling fliers. Immediately, they cranked the gun around to line up on the incoming infantrylings, and the gun thundered, deafeningly loud as each shell roared past. The ones that missed still resulted in clouds of flak detonating behind them as the timers ran out, flashing and blinding the changelings. The ones that hit, however, left little to nothing but ragged chunks of meat, scraps of uniform and metal shrapnel. Fortunately, the gunners only had seconds before the lings were over, fifteen soldiers quickly and brutally slamming into the ponies on the roof. Zarek leveled his rifle as soon as he landed, putting a round into the forehead of the spotter as she scrambled for her rifle. Korporal Malkarion fired his MP10 at a unicorn, but a purple bubble abruptly popped into existence, deflecting the barrage. It wasn’t as effective against Private Anchetta who fitted her bayonet and speared the unicorn in the ribs. After a moment of violence, the rooftop was cleared, and Zarek snapped his rifle around as the lack of hostiles perplexed him a moment, though he still felt the shudder of fear in his wings. “Secure the area!” Sergeant Rakowitz called, glancing around. The gunnery crew hadn’t put up much fight on the actual roof, but two changelings still lay dead, not to mention the five or six the gun had burst in midair on the way over. One of them was Sergeant Tetch, leader of third squad. In this small bubble amidst the storm, as artillery pounded the city and the changeling advance pressed the bridgehead, Zarek had a moment to check his surroundings. They had the gun, and the only way off this roof (structurally, at least) was a hatch door in the roof leading down a flight of stairs. He could see his squadmates, his friends, still alive as well. Nera, Anchetta, Malkarion, Vorle and Malket. But aside from him and Rakowitz, that meant they had lost three. His heart sunk in his shell as he realized Goran, Vess and Xander must have been some of the victims of the 40mm, obliterated without trace. He didn’t know any of third squad by heart, though he must have heard their names at least a few dozen times. Rakowitz appeared to come to some decisions, gesturing towards the gun. “Third squad, secure this rooftop. Get on that gun, burn through the pony ammo. Get some support out there. Janar, Yan, you’re coming with us.” The two other soldiers Rakowitz pointed out stepped over immediately, and fourth squad moved to the staircase. As they did so, Zarek heard the cranking of the gun assembly, and he looked back. The remnants of third squad had figured the crank wheels easily enough, and were wheeling the 40mm gun down, targeting another building nearby. This one looked like a shop turned into a bunker, several machine gun nests in windows and infantry hunkering behind sandbags as they fired on more changelings attempting to cross another bridge further downriver. Zarek could only watch, following the muzzle of the cannon as it let out a sharp crack, much louder than when they’d been facing it. A shell streaked out, smashing into the adjacent store-bunker, blowing out the facade and rending whoever was sheltering there in flames. The gunners didn’t let up, firing the gun on full auto and raking the shop back and forth. “Clear this apartment out, room by room!” Sergeant Rakowitz shouted, urging his soldiers on, calling Zarek back to the fight. Fourth squad streamed down the stairs, doors kicked down and weapons chattering. Caught by surprise from a direction they weren’t expecting, the Royal Army troopers were cut down as the changeling soldiers took revenge for their squadmates. It was a butchery. Though they were outnumbered, the din and chaos of battle covered their movements for two whole floors, and they caught the Equestrians by surprise. Zarek found himself almost losing his sense to the downright repetitive nature of the action. Open door, kill ponies inside, move on. They only found soldiers. Intel had told them the city was previously evacuated, so they instead killed infantrymares, machine gunners, a few officers once in a while, a radio room at one point. There must have been a whole platoon holed up here. About the third floor was when the Equestrians caught on that something was wrong. Zarek shouldered open a door, finding himself face to face with a whole rifle section leveling their Lavender rifles, a Nickers MG turned and facing the door. Zarek felt time slow down as he tried to reverse, feeling Anchetta run into his backside, knowing at least three soldiers were behind them. Abruptly, the connecting door also flew open, and Privates Vorle and Malket burst in from an adjoining room. For a split second, the whole room was caught in a freezeframe before the two newcomers leveled the MG42 they had been hauling and cut the Equestrians down where they stood. The machine gun spit a curtain of brass to the side as the apartment was drowned in blood, bullet holes and tatters of green uniforms. Zarek, to his credit, had dove to the side, and now was just trying to hunker down and not get hit by friendly fire. In the aftermath, the silence was deafening. His ears were ringing as he tried to get his bearings back to himself, tasting the gunpowder and copper of the blood in the air. Ahead, he could see the lifeless corpses of the ponies, piled over on one another, their uniforms stitched across with ugly, red bullet holes. At point blank range like this, the machine gun rounds had blown out ugly exit wounds the size of a hoof, and the ones who had been shot in the head or face had been mutilated almost beyond recognition. Zarek’s breath hitched, and he felt himself wheezing as he stared down at a red Earth pony whose wide, lifeless eyes stared back, wide and surprised at the suddenness of his fate. After what felt an eternity, he felt someling shaking him, calling his name. “Zarek? Hey, Zarek! C’mon, snap out of it!” He managed to pull himself back enough to recognize the voice; Nera, crouched over him and shaking his shoulder, calling his name. The others must have assumed him dead. She pushed him again, and he finally came back to the present. “Huh? What?” he finally asked dumbly. “C’mon! We still have the other floors to clear!” She turned, having snapped her squadmate back before glancing back from the doorframe, frowning. “You wounded?” Zarek dumbly patted himself down, looking for green ichor. For the time being, nothing appeared to be leaking out of himself, and the only injury he had appeared to sustain was his ringing ears and some bruising to his carapace when he’d thrown himself down. Dazed, he shook his head. “Then let’s go!” Nera yelled. “There’s still a whole city left to take!” She left, and Zarek was alone with the dead. He turned, trying to ignore the corpses, and looked out the window behind the Nickers gun. Out in the street intersection, Acornage was on fire. Every building appeared to have sustained damage from the bombardment overhead, from afar and now in the streets, parked cars crushed, turned over or on fire. He could see bodies from here. Some wore uniforms, some didn’t. He tried not to let that stick in his mind. An Equestrian tank clattered into view, one of their newer ones if he remembered from the briefing. A Timberwolf? It didn’t get far. As it took up position to cover the Royal Army ponies behind, a Panzer III also came into view from the direction of the bridgehead the changelings had crossed over. Much more quickly, the turret swivelled around, and its cannon boomed. The Timberwolf rocked, then detonated in a massive fireball, killing many of the ponies nearby and setting several on fire. Halftracks, trucks and changelings on hoof rolled past the Panzer, machine guns blasting as they took on building after building. Further down, an Equestrian barricade began spitting machine gun and rifle rounds at the oncoming horde. Mortar fire began falling on the intersection. Changeling artillery boomed in the background as Nebelwerfer rockets screamed by. Someling was -actually- screaming nearby. The ground cracked and rumbled before a massive shape broke through the intersection, the form of a tunneling wormlike creature erupting from the asphalt. A battleshifter, in the form of a massive Thrax worm. The ling was an exceptionally powerful one, as whoever they were turned, their armored face swinging down to examine the panicking pony soldiers below. A Humber armored car clumsily tried to reverse, the gunner firing up at the shifter despite the rounds visibly bouncing off the chitin plating. With almost contemptible ease, the shifter put a huge, armored mandible through the top of the car, spearing it through like paper. Zarek reached down, grabbing up his Gewehr and scrambling after his squad. It took a few more nightmarish hours, and the leveling of half the city, but Acornage finally fell. Dawn arose on a shattered landscape and a changeling army triumphant. The Royal Army had put up much stiffer resistance than expected. While Acornage had fallen in the end, the cost was high. Fourth squad were assigned to mop up detail, moving through the streets to be taken the last few shreds of resistance down or in. They’d come away with plenty of POWs, headed back into the Changeling Lands for detainment. Zarek glanced at the houses they passed, rifle slung over his flank. Many of their fronts had been shattered by cannon fire or flattened by shells, rockets and bombs. The ones still standing were pockmarked by bullet holes, their windows shattered and doors splintered down. One had the wreck of an Equestrian Muletilda tank that had driven through the living room before it had been destroyed. The nature of these homes perplexed Zarek. In hives, residences were built into huge blocks, where hundreds of rooms could be packed in, housing thousands of changelings. But these homes looked like they could hold, maybe, a dozen ponies each. Some were larger, two story affairs. Confusingly, the number of bedrooms per home that he had seen told that the average pony home usually held two to four ponies, a rare few holding more. This seeming waste of space was alien to him, the fact that a city could cover so much ground and yet they seemed to purposefully limit themselves in how many could be in it. Zarek knew he was trying to distract himself from the Royal Army pony and Queendom changeling corpses they passed in masses, some in piles as POW work crews and changeling engineers labored to clear the city. He also knew it wasn’t working. Hauptman Nihilith had joined them on this sweep. It was the task of officers to learn from their ranks as much as from the lowers to seek their officers’ leadership, after all. He had taken the head of the file with Radowitz, their heads leaned in close as they conversed quietly. They hadn’t run into any more active combatants quite yet, mostly a few soldierponies that had surrendered when faced with a dozen changeling gunbarrels. The squad was uneasy, but at least they weren’t being shot at. Zarek leaned over to Nera, glancing around at the silent neighborhood before he quietly said “I guess that could have gone worse.” In all honesty, he was just trying to make conversation, but Nera didn’t seem too interested in engaging, just nodded as she followed along, occasionally scanning her surroundings. Zarek wasn’t sure how to react to that, as he himself was unsure of how to process their surroundings either. They turned another corner, two lines down the middle of the street. Ahead was what he assumed to be a public park of some kind, where a statue bust of Princess Celestia topped a fountain, surrounded by colder friendly shrubbery and benches. Whatever kind of idyllic scene it was supposed to paint was spoiled by one house having been smashed by a Queendom Stuka, its bent and beaten tail fins poking out of the wreckage, as well as most of the few civilian cars having been smashed aside or crushed by passing tanks. A few Equestrian battalions had managed to escape from the city, and in their rush they had clearly left with little regard to what was in their way. A handful of Queen’s Guard were clustered around the fountain, inspecting the bust statue. With little warning, one of them disappeared in a flash of green, and the massive Thrax worm emerged instead, its tail knocking aside another car. With a swing of a huge mandible, the statue disappeared in a cloud of debris, sending chunks raining down around the fountain. Without fanfare, the Queen’s Guardlings inspected the chunks, making sure there was nothing left to recognize. Upon confirming the statue’s destruction, they unceremoniously loaded into the back of a nearby idling halftrack, the battleshifter retaking his previous form. Hauptman Nihilith moved to the front of the squad, calling them close. “This is necessary,” the captain declared, gesturing to the destroyed statue as he tugged irritatingly at a gauge bandage covering his neck, from under which a small leak of green ichor could still be seen. “For this war, destroying the enemy’s material and killing their soldiers will not be enough. To defeat them, we must crush their fighting spirit, and any symbols they rally around.” He gestured to the cityscape in the distance, the columns of smoke and the changeling aircraft still flying overhead. “Our brave comrades gave a heavy toll for this place. It is the first step. The most difficult. But more important than the first is making sure we fight just as hard for the second. And the next. And the next. Look to your fellows. Your platoonmates went above and beyond sustaining such losses and taking up the enemy gun. They’ll be decorated for such bravery. Many of you can earn such awards. Thousands of changelings were killed, wounded or disappeared this day. So now, you have your own, personal reasons for revenge. To match that of our nation, and our queen. Do NOT let them die in vain.” With that, the Hauptman turned away, and the squad resumed their sweep for stragglers. Zarek supposed they had little time for ceremony. After all; they had an invasion schedule to keep. Author's Note After months of hiatus and absence, we are back! My apologies to everyone. I, as everyone else, have had to make radical adjustments to deal with the pandemic and chaos in the world this year. Eventually, the work and stress became too much, and it almost looked like I was to lose my job. For everyone coming back, we welcome you with open arms. For those who have left and gone to other stories, I understand. For the new people, welcome to the warzone! The journey continues on! A Prayer for the LostJuly 13th, 1011 1643 hours Great Temple of Boreas Imperial District, Griffenheim Most of the rest of the day, the Great Temple was packed to bursting with worshippers. Those who had assembled for morning mass and pilgrims who had made the journey from all over to visit the holy site. Griffenheim was one of three of the most visited places in Griffonia, next to the city of Romau and the almost ruined city of Griffonstone. Thanks to its center on the Griffking River and the connection to Feathisian ports, worshippers of Boreas, Arcturius and Eyr came the world over from even as far as distant Zebrica. Boer griffs and Imperial zebras who traveled this far would be greeted to the massive holy structure alongside the more mundane crowds who flocked from the surrounding countryside, such as Strawberry, Feathisia, Katerin, Bronzehill and Yale. Even those territories newly restored in the Grenzwald Frontier such as Lushi, Hellquill and Brodfeld were returning in massive numbers now the Imperial garrisons and newly restored roads assured safe travel. They flew, they drove, they walked, by wing, machine or leg. Still, they came. Now, this late in the day, the Temple was much more empty. Most of the crowd thinned out by noontime, and then the afternoon worshippers came in for a short while. But on this lazy day, the Archon had already retired home, and the priests remaining were mostly content with their duties and taking care of the few worshippers who came in. As such, when the massive, open double doors were graced by two more figures, not many raised their eyes. It was almost evening, after all. They’d come in small pockets, but never more than a clawful. Margot Duskwing swallowed, glancing around as she tugged at her collar, smoothing the pleats in her dress. Clad in her finest clothes for worship, (admittedly still rather plain) she had come here with a purpose in mind. While the district of Industrie had its own temple to Arcturius, the prayer she was going to ask felt much, much heavier with recent events. And she felt it only fitting to finally come to the grandest place of worship in the Imperial City. She hadn’t been here since she was a chick, so many years ago. She had married Stefan in Strawberry, at his father’s vineyard. And her entire life, she had been content with the local temple, as had her own parents. But now, her only son was so often at risk, and lost in his own soul and misery. No, if anything, this felt long overdue. Sophie was quiet at her side as the two paced into the depths of the temple. Dressed in her own temple clothes, her wings twitched in agitation, mirroring her mother. She understood why they were here. Margot felt it only appropriate to explain to her before they arrived, so they spoke as few words as needed in the presence of the gods. They approached the front, where the three great altars stood. While the Great Temple was proclaimed in Boreas’ name, king of the gods and greatest of the three, as the Empire had grown it had taken altars of the other gods, and now stood as a united place of the three Archons of the Gods. Only two other places in the Empire were more holy; the temple city of Romau and the holy land of Griffonstone, now unfortunately left to decay and ruin. Blessings for the nation were proclaimed here, Emperors crowned, crusades declared. She felt almost like an intruder, treading where she was unwelcome. The long, empty pews almost echoed, the shadows almost hiding them. The Great Temple had electric lights, but the pews themselves were lit by candles from massive chandeliers overhead. This late in the day, with such sluggish activity, the very back pews hadn’t been lit by the acolytes for some time, though they would be reignited for evening worship. The few creatures here, at present, were closer up. Sophie looked up, and up, and up high above her head. Above the altars was the Great Seal of Boreas, an ancient stained glass window centuries old, through which the dying light gently filtered in, orange, red, blue and green. This was possibly the largest structure she’d ever been inside in her life. It could fit their apartment, her school, her temple and the corner shop she liked to frequent with her friends all at once inside its cavernous depths. To the eleven year old formel, it was both awe-inspiring and rather terrifying. She moved closer to her mother unconsciously, her wings almost extending fully as she beheld how high up the ceiling was, stretching away on massive pillars. Above them, empty for now, were the elevated pews for the nobility, where aristocrats could worship on their own level, literally looking down on the commoner crowd. At the moment, acolytes quietly cleaned the noble seats, preparing for tonight’s prayers. Something appeared to stir in the shadows behind one of the columns, and her feathers bristled, eyes wide as she swore she spotted a figure, black on black moving in the gloom. She blinked, trying to focus, but whatever it had been, whoever it had been, was gone. “Sophie,” Margot quietly chided, but the rebuke had no heat, and Sophie quietly folded her wings back up again without a word, the shadow forgotten. The other worshippers were a motley collection. Maybe a dozen or so, scattered through the pews. A dog, a soldier by the look of his uniform, sat quietly off to the side, muttering litanies under his breath as he held his cap in his lap. Two griffs on the other side quietly held a photograph, the female silently sobbing. Margot had seen enough grieving parents to recognize the sight. At the front, a priest quietly talked with a young couple, explaining that no, they couldn’t arrange their wedding here at the Great Temple as aristocrats had reserved the rest of the open time between worship and holidays for the next five years. While the formel seemed disappointed but accepting, the drake was extremely unpleasant, almost as if he would start fuming in the next second. But before he could, an imposing shape stepped out of the shadows behind the priest, saying nothing but quietly conveying his presence. Clad in ornate, gold-trimmed black plate armor, the Temple Guard silently said the message; if you cause a disturbance, you will be thrown out. The drake wilted upon seeing the blank and emotionless visor, quietly saying something to his fiancee and both turning and leaving as fast as politeness would allow. Sophie glanced back in time to see both griffons take wing and fly away as soon as they were out the double doors. The priest turned back, looking tired and exasperated. He glanced Margot and Sophie up and down, appearing to consider something before he held up a claw, gesturing them forward. Almost embarrassed after seeing that display, the two females approached. “You remind me of somegriff, Frau. Have we met before?” “Er, no Pfaffer,” Margot admitted. “I only came here once about thirty years ago.” “Ah,” the priest replied, realizing his mistake. “My apologies. I see so many in a day, I mix up beaks and crests.” He smiled over at Sophie before returning his attention to her mother. “So, is there anything I can do for you today then, mein kinde?” “Well, Pfaffer…” Margot paused, suddenly feeling rather foolish and having to resist the urge to simply walk out of this great, grand holy place with her issue, but she forged on. “My son is in the 41st Panzergrenadier. He came back after the end of the Herzland War a bit, well...broken. He was drinking, brawling, arguing. He seemed lost in his life, and miserable. And then he was activated over the New Year to go east with the Grenzwald Expeditionary Force. He writes to me all the time, but I can’t help to worry. I lost his father when he was but a youth and Sophie just a hatchling. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my son too.” “I’m so sorry,” the priest responded almost instantly, and unlike other platitudes she had heard, Margot could see the honesty behind his eyes. “I was with the 41st myself. I was supposed to shepherd the souls of the soldiers in Griefenmarsch. But when the Herzland War happened I…” He paused, considering. How much had the son told the mother? And the child there too? But after a moment, he pressed on. “The things I saw on campaign...I followed behind the troops of course. But the devastation left in their wake. And the things I heard in confession and in the aide stations. Believe me, I completely understand your worry. But Boreas watches over all his children. If he has decided it is not yet your son’s time, Boreas will not let Maar take him.” “I understand, Pfaffer. But I didn’t come all this way to hear that again. Please, can you...can you give my son a blessing? To watch over him?” The priest looked taken aback, glancing between mother and daughter. Margot Duskclaw looked, if not desperate, certainly very agitated, wings twitching and her expression both determined and strained. Sophie reached out, gently setting her own claw on her mother’s shoulder, a gesture she was clearly used to carrying out. Remarkable, for a formel so young. She was, perhaps, eleven years old? In any case, she was far too young to be the supporting one in the family. “Well...I understand your need to keep your son safe, mein kinde. But I cannot bless him if he is not here.” He paused, a realization coming to his mind. No, a revelation. “What is your son’s name, exactly?” The mother slowly blinked, as if the thought had never occurred to tell the priest. As if working through the reasons she shouldn’t she seemed to slowly come around to accepting the fact that, no she hadn’t said it and yes she probably should. He could see the resolve in her eyes. She hadn’t come all the way to the holiest place in Griffenheim just to admit defeat and leave. “Vise-Korporal Cyril Duskwing, Pfaffer.” At that moment, Andreas Bronzeclaw realized this was no simple coincidence to bring her here to his temple, at this time and place. This kind of meeting could only have been steered by the gods themselves. “Frau Duskwing...I think I -can- do something after all.” It took a few minutes and the coordination of two other priests there with him, but Andreas grouped all the current worshippers into the same two pews. For a moment, Margot Duskclaw and her daughter were confused, even a little embarrassed. But only a few introductions cleared things up. Sergeant Dober had returned from the Northern Front short of several squadmates. After a term in hospital and a nervous breakdown, he was attempting to find his confidence through faith before he rotated back to the Legion. The Greyfeathers had lost both daughter and son during the Herzland War. Anna Dawntalon was praying for her husband, newly wed only for him to ship out with the Gebirgsjager to the Grenzwald. He and several squadmates had gone missing two weeks ago. Helga Grimwing, a Vollstrecker returned from the east, had come to confess her burdens and alleviate her worries. It was the only way she could continue to carry out her duty with a clear conscience. Three more griffs and a pony were Kaiserliche Marine sailors, those who had taken the time on shore leave to journey this far, fearing for the war all in the west could see coming on the horizon, especially for the naval forces. A few assorted civilians, not associated with the military but still sympathetic to the griffs in arms, clustered in as well. And with the first two pews full around Margot and Sophie, they all bowed their heads as Andreas stood at the front, claws in the air. “Gods above, we beg your ear this day.” “Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the two other priests with him and the assorted worshippers muttered, claws and paws clasped in front of their chests. “Boreas alium, hoc oro maiestatem tuam.” “We gather to ask for your grace, might and benevolence as we pray on behalf of our brothers, sisters, sons, daughters and friends in danger. We who are unworthy of your favor, yet you grant it to us anyway.” “Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the group repeated. “Arcturius nos obsecro te sapientiam.” “We pray for Kalvin Hund, Hans Dawntalon, Gunter and Idris Greyfeather, Cyril Duskwing and so many more taken up arms to keep up safe and spread your glory. For the ones who have been lost to Maar, we ask your protection for their souls. For those only missing from our sight, we ask your deliverance to safety. And for those still doing their duty, in danger or about to be, we beg thee to extend your wings and shield them from misfortune. Spare them their suffering and end, they who shelter us here at home. And bring them home to us, so they may join us in praising your glory.” “Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the group said one last time. “Eyr, et postulantes gratiam tui.” Andreas brought his claws down, making the sign across his chest of the almighty Boreas, then Arcturus, then Eyr, his movements mirrored by the priests. A silent minute followed, in which the assorted prayed for their loved ones lost, still in the field or even their own souls. A prayer for the lost, for them to finally be found. Finally, Andreas Bronzeclaw raised his head, quietly addressing his assembly. “Respice in servos tuos nos orare. Te rogamus audi nos hodie nobis de fide tres orationes nostrae. Amen.” She went off by herself, afterwards. The rest of the worshippers talked amongst themselves after the prayer. But in her case, it was time to go. She took her greatcoat from the rack by the door, tugging it on over shoulders and wings. The Great Temple would likely be filled with worshippers for evening service soon, singing hymns and muttering litanies. But she wasn’t one for the large services, preferring to get her business with the gods done quickly and alone, more personally. She didn’t need priests shouting blessings, choirs in the wings and an organ. Better to make it a one on one conversation, in her opinion. Griffenheim was quiet beyond the temple fence. Even here, early evening meant griffs were about to get off work in the factories and offices, go home to eat dinner, and plenty would come here after. The scene along the boulevards was gentle right now, strange in this city. Shop windows spilling the glow from their inner lights onto the avenues outside. Traffic on the street was sparse, the occasional automobile passing by the Temple gates. Some of the vehicles were trucks, carrying cargo towards Industrie or away from it to the rest of the city, and even beyond. Occasionally, one of the more elaborate and expensive models passed, all shiny metals and bright filigree with tinted glass displaying status to all around that an aristocrat or Industrierat business griff sat inside. Sometimes, it was a staff car belonging to an officer in the Imperial Guard or the Reichswehr. Airplanes, both commercial and military flew above the laborious cargo airships along the skyline, interspersed by small clusters of flying creatures. In the distance, she could hear one of the great trains leaving Industrie, to begin the laborious process of taking cargo across the Empire from one of the largest trainyards in Griffonia. The Imperial City’s heartbeat, forever clanking and clattering at the heart of the glorious Kaiserreich, fuelled by its Marches and vassals, and oiled by the blood and sweat of its citizens. She plucked a cigarette from her coat as soon as she was clear of the temple, about to flick open the lighter and enjoy the nicotine before she flew back to the barracks, when a voice, slick as oil and quiet as a whisper, sounded directly behind her. Saying she expected him was a stretch, but she certainly wasn’t surprised he was there. “Fraulein Grimwing. How was the service?” She turned back to find none other than the Grand Inquisitor himself had seemingly materialized from the shadows, red eyes focused on her, black uniform perfectly adorned, high-peaked cap pulled down tight on his white feathered head. The officers’ hat was smaller than her own, but her own Vollstrecker uniform was meant to be visible, with scarlet sash, gold embroidery, the symbol of her office around her neck and her gleaming enchanted breastplate with the heraldry of the Empire across her chest. Compared to her, his uniform was both subdued and sinister, meant for one in the shadows rather than visible in battle, blacks and silvers betraying the slightest whisper of his knowledge. By being the leader of the Geheimstaat, Erlinger was just as much her superior as her mother was, his presence and undivided attention a clear sign of something important in the making that involved herself. As a Vollstrecker Helga could only wonder at his intentions. “Herr Erlinger,” she greeted, plucking her cigarette and tucking it away. Looks like she wouldn’t be enjoying it for a few minutes. “I thought the service rather nice,” Erlinger continued, glancing back at the Great Temple. “Though mass was never to my taste. Too large and conspicuous. I thought you were the same, but you joined in with no hesitation.” Figures he’d been inside, watching her. Probably keeping to the shadows. Plenty of them in a giant half-lit stone structure. This was certainly not a conversation she wanted to have. Helga tugged the cigarette out again, deciding to have it after all. “It was small enough to be comfortable,” she replied, taking a pause to strike the flint, allowing the tiny flame to light the end and purposefully stretching out the time before she replied. “And besides, they were praying for soldiers of the Reich. Killed, missing or still out there. How could a decorated Vollstrecker in regalia ignore that?” “You sound a lot like your mother,” Erlinger replied, smiling mirthlessly. It wasn’t that he was being particularly cruel, Helga simply doubted he knew how to put warmth into his face. “She gets passionate when she talks as well.” “What are you, her liebhaber?” Helga scoffed, taking another drag and blowing it out to the side. While she took issue with the wingless griffon, she wasn’t petty enough to blow literal smoke at him. Besides, insulting the Grand Inquisitor was a bad idea. She resigned in her attitude with a second drag. “What business can I do for you tonight, Herr Inquisitor?” “You know your mother would love for you to come work with us,” was Erlinger’s reply, to which Helga was unsurprised. “You’ve done remarkable things as a Vollstrecker. You’re a brilliant investigator. A wonderful...combatant.” “You mean executioner?” she retorted, though her tone was light. She was in no mood to tempt fate. “I’m happy to enforce the law of the Kaiser on His Majesty’s soldiers. It’s an honor. But I’m no spy. And I’d rather not work for an organization that doesn’t let their citizens learn about the outside world.” “We still do,” Erlinger corrected her. “But it is our duty to ensure slander and propaganda do not enter their minds. We cannot have ideas like communism or republicanism take root in any self respecting citizens of the Reich. We suffered one revolution already.” He tugged his own smoke out, this one fatter than her own cigarette. From the smell, she could tell it was cannabis. More popular in the Frontier than the Herzland, it was said to possess properties to calm the mind. Everygriff she knew smoked cigarettes of tobacco and nicotine. To Helga personally, the smell was strange. Out of habit, she pulled her lighter out, striking a flame for him, to which he nodded and lit his own stogie, taking a puff or two, blowing out acrid air. “Don’t tell me that justifies making griffs disappear because they read the wrong pamphlet.” Erlinger raised an eyebrow as he blew another cloud of smoke out, a pulse of purple energy around his eyes giving Helga the idea that she needed to stop skirting the line. “What do you think your mother and the MfÖS do to revolutionary agents? Terrorists? We are not the Pentarchy. We do not sweep up a town because it suits or entertains us. Our process has turned out a superior society. Happiness. Loyalty. One of the most skilled fighting forces on Griffonia.” “At the cost of what? Thought control? State intimidation?” “I could have sworn I heard a few -small- inaccuracies on the radio this morning. You cannot pretend the Empire does not lie to its citizens to manipulate them through a narrative.” Erlinger examined Helga closely, inspecting her face. “Independent thought is permissible. It allows growth. But the mind is like a plant. It must be fed correctly. Or it will start to turn...sickening.” Helga, done with her cigarette, tucked the butt away in a pocket, determined not to let it fall on hallowed ground. “I’m happy with my work, Herr Inquisitor.” “Grand Inquisitor,” Erlinger replied airily. “And if you recall, your work would not exist if not for the Geheimstaat.” “Is -that- why no Hellsword unit has a Vollstrecker attachment?” “Be careful who you accuse, Helga,” Erlinger’s tone had hardened, like steel on the rasp. “I thought it was because formations with the Black Knights were far more disciplined than Reichsarmee conscripts. I might have to start rethinking how I judge my peers.” Helga felt the retort in her beak, but bit it back. She had already skirted the line enough. As Vollstrecker, it was her job to enforce discipline. Her time in the Sturmtruppen had tempered her aggression, but from the stint she worked as a drill instructor in Krona she knew her self-control required work. Erlinger puffed out again, apparently considering his words carefully. That struck her as strange. He hadn’t hesitated in his answers since he had shown up. “We have work for you.” “Work?” she raised an eyebrow, unsure of the term. It was unfamiliar, shorthand. Erlinger was a master dissembler, able to read and manipulate his targets with ease. A shift in personality was not only something her mother had told her to expect, it was purposeful. What was his goal here? “Why not just issue me an assignment?” “Because of who might see it before it passes through your claws,” Erlinger shot back, reaching under his coat and returning with a plain manila envelope, which he held out to her. “You are in the unique position of being one of the few we can trust above all others, even other Vollstrecker. But officers, handlers, support staff we are less sure of.” She took the envelope, opening it to pull out a few papers. They were profiles of various noble families, well known aristocrats and business griffs who had made their fortunes with the rise of the Industrierat. House Goldfeather, House Schwarzplume, House Stahlkralle, and many others. She raised an eyebrow at the names, lists of business assets and photographs. “What am I looking at?” “Those nobles who have taken advantage of the Grand Duke and Duchess Regents’ economic reforms and our recent military successes to skirt the law, and more importantly grow rich off it. The Grenzwald coming back into the fold has opened up a gold mine for merchants and businesses seeking to strike a fortune off the bounty of resources and griffpower. Steel, chromium, precious metals, crystal, factories, agriculture, the list goes on and is ultimately unimportant. But I am not speaking of the activities of Morgend Longpaw or the Kompanie. Nor of the legitimate businessgriffs who have the approval of both the Reformisten and the Imperial Industrierat. These are exploiters, who cheat at labor laws, taxes, bribery, sabotage, extortion, other despicable means. In years past, they got away with it because of their family ties and wealth. But today, the MfÖS and Geheimstaat fight back. Already, we have brought down many of the corruptive worms who seek to escape one jurisdiction or another, fleeing from one corner of the Empire to seek shelter on the other side. Your mother has been ingenious in orchestrating that plan. But Operation Nachtungnebel is multi-headed, like a hydra. We stamp out corruption in the aristocracy in the way only we can, and we dig out the wretches of the terrible enemy underneath it all.” “The Republic?” she asked. It would make sense. Some nobles who had sided with the Revolution in its early days had managed to avoid the axe through one loophole or another. A few were probably still acting as informants and suppliers, despite Kemerskai’s promise to bring down the nobility. Likely they were hoping to buy their way into a good position after the second rising everygriff knew was coming, sooner or later. But Erlinger shook his head. “They are but a symptom of the cancer that grips Griffonia. It is not safe to speak of them out loud in public like we are. But suffice to say that this organization has managed to successfully subvert both myself and Ela. They have agents and informants everywhere this side of the world and will stop at nothing to gain their goal. They brought down the Empire once already with the Revolution, their agents guiding Kemerskai and his turncoats. Now, with the continent so divided, it is the perfect time to try again. They guided Beakolini to overtake Falcor and Sicameon, to reengage in colonialism in Abyssinia. They planted the means for Verany to overthrow the king in Aquileia. And even now, they work to weaken the Herzland with insider agents, sabotage and, as you shall soon see, war.” Helga glanced up, frowning at the implication. The idea that the Empire’s demise was being plotted by some shadowy organization capable of besting both her mother and the most sinister, intimidating drake she knew was beyond her own scope of comprehension. Two of the most powerful spy organizations in the Empire and beyond, and they were unable to fight this menace. “So why me?” she asked, holding up the folder. “I get busting corrupt aristocracy. But fighting some shadow war? What can I do that you can’t?” “Your mother admires your directness,” Erlinger said, stubbing out his stogie and also tucking the stub away. “But I admire your visibility. You have the unique ability to both be informed of this operation, and not incur any suspicion by carrying it out. Nogriff would think twice about you investigating targets, and your reliability is above doubt. If you smash down a warehouse door, there will be no questions asked. If you execute deserting soldiers or renegade mercenaries, there will be no secondary operations at risk. You are not an agent, or an informant. You are Vollstrecker. And that means you can operate without our enemy knowing what you are doing. Because it will just be your job. And by the time he realizes what you -are- doing...it will be too late for him to do anything about it.” The Grand Inquisitor had something Helga hadn’t seen before; a gleam of excitement in his red eye. That purple aura pulsed again, and she realized he was ecstatic, his normal mask cracking on accident. She waited for him to continue, but he seemed finished. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” “Deadly.” “But, my duties to my unit-” “Will of course continue. No sense having you out visibly doing your job if you are no longer carrying out normal functions. But unit transfers are a thing, of course.” “I suppose that makes sense...you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to prepare this for me.” Erlinger chuckled, and this time he actually seemed amused. “Not just me. Your mother truly wants this to be important to you too. We may have stumbled on a lead that says your father’s own gruesome and dishonorable end might have been their work. Has their claw marks all over it.” She felt a chill roll down her spine, to be replaced by the boiling of hot metal anger. In all her time as a Stormtrooper, instructor and now Vollstrecker, she had never hoped or thought to try and find her father’s murderer, knifed brutally practically in public on the steps of the Krona Akadamie and left with hardly any identifying features. Anygriff that could get away with assassinating a high ranking military officer and then disappearing would simply vanish from existence. But with this new information, she suddenly had a new interest in this affair. “Are they now?” “If you do not trust my word, inspect your mother’s notes. Ela was thorough in her research.” “So you literally want me on because I’m so talented at breaking down doors?” “The best there is, really.” Helga smirked, closing up the current profile and tucking it away, shaking her head as she considered what she was about to do. Finally, she folded the envelope up and tucked it under her coat. “I like the way you think, Herr Inquisitor.” This time, Erlinger did not correct her. “Most creatures do. Those who do not tend not to live for long.” “When do I start?” “At your own leisure. Skeiron Goldfeather is one of the few to completely outfox us...for now. Moving his operations to Nova Griffonia was a stroke of brilliance. But an investigation of his practices here will give our enemies the same impression you first had; that we are merely cleaning house. When you begin, we can get the wheels moving.” “And I start kicking down doors?” Helga grinned again, rummaging for another cigarette. “Might makes right, Fraulein Grimwing. You are Vollstrecker. Authorized to do anything that is required to accomplish your mission.” Finally working the cigarette out, she clamped her beak around it, fidgeting with her lighter as she glanced up at the albino griff, striking the flint a few times. “If we can’t talk about them directly, can you at least give me a name? Other than ‘the enemy’?” After a pause, during which she finally lit the flame, he answered in a careful, quiet whisper which, under any other circumstance would seem melodramatic “They call themselves the Black Claw.” When she looked up, he was gone. The flight back home was silent. Margot hadn’t realized a blessing couldn’t be done without the object or individual in person. Or, at least, it had slipped her mind. She had found her attention slipping quite a bit lately, between trying to look out for Sophie, keeping the apartment clean and working her job. She’d been stretched all over the place, and relying more and more on her daughter to keep her grounded and help shoulder the burden. It wasn’t right to ask the eleven year old, of course. But Margot had no choice. Still, the service the priest Bronzeclaw had put on her son had been amazing, far beyond what she herself would have been comfortable asking. When Cyril had left for the Herzland War, she had become a nervous wreck. When he’d returned, she found all she had for him was scolding and sternness. Now he was gone again, she was back to her neurotic self. She hadn’t remembered worrying this much back when Stefan would deploy to various corners of the Empire. But then, she hadn’t lost any family yet back then. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the shadows below extended across the city, from the high towers and the narrow street. Even with daylight left, half of Griffenheim was already doused in darkness, electric and oil streetlamps replacing the sun. Ponies, griffons, dogs and changelings went about their business in the city streets, newly expanded, rebuilt and modernized to accommodate the new flows of automobile traffic, the canals of the Griffking humming with barges and motorboats. Plenty of griffs and the occasional pegasi flew through the sky, flitting past the high smokestacks of factories and the high roofs of apartments and office buildings. Griffenheim was changing, and Margot wondered if it would be recognizable in another decade. She glanced in the direction of the Imperial Palace, and found her thoughts wondering what the Imperial family was doing. Grover VI was so young, too young. Eight wasn’t nearly old enough to govern an empire, but it was difficult to imagine the Kaiser as ‘just’ a child. The position was supposed to demand respect and obedience. It was a good thing, then, that the Grand Duke and Duchess-Regent were heading the Regency Council. She’d heard of the attempted coup, everygriff had. Things were changing in government, and the fact the attempt had only slightly halted Imperial functions said that the change was impossible to stop. Her thoughts turned back to Cyril as they flew in over Industrie. His letters were constant, coming to her every other week or so. They tended to ramble a bit, between small hints of what he was doing in the field, conversations with his fellow truppen, his letters with Paige, his own thoughts. When she’d last seen him in person, Cyril had been disappearing into his cups nightly, miserable and barely able to function. The strange, magical apparition of Paige had done much to lift his spirits, but before she even could take the time to enjoy his better mood, he was gone just after Mondstille, off to conquer some corner of Griffonia for the Empire. But this prayer, this service she had just witnessed, lifted her spirits as they coasted towards their apartment. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Cyril was a panzertrupper. The southeast was notorious for its lack of developed industry. What were the odds that something could damage his steel beast? Of course, this positivity only lasted until she landed, checking Sophie had set down with her, before she glanced up at the awkward visage of a Reichsarmee leutnant, sitting on her front porch, clearly waiting for her return. She took him in, noticing the downcast, braced expression on his beak, the tensing of claws on the stone step. The fact he had waited for her to return, clad in dress greys with medals and pins. She took this all in. Just a moment was all she needed. And then, overcome with a wave of grief and panic, Margot Duskwing sat down on the cobblestone of the sidewalk, placed one claw over her face and lost the rest of her strength and composure as she wept. She did not hear Sophie trying to speak to her. Nor did she see the leutnant slowly approaching her down the stairs. She was blind, and deaf, to the world as she spiralled down. Author's Note A huge shoutout to my beta readers and advisors, Mariner Wingfried, Theortheo and Nagerleral! Thanks to you guys for being my idea soundboards and development helpers! This quick chapter came to me in a burst of inspiration, but rest assured that more story moving narrative involving our main characters is incoming soon! And letters! And battle scenes! Lots of them! War Has ChangedAugust 13, 1011 “Welcome back listeners, to ‘Der Reichswehr Rundfunk Herzland!’ Your armed forces radio service, reaching out across the Kaiserreich!” -Across the Kaiserreich!- *a few bars from Herzland Gloria plays* “I’m your host, Vizefeldwebel Hans Whiteclaw! Out there with all those soldaten, grenadiers, panzertruppen, Vollstrecker, flieger, seeleute and of course the MfÖS agents certainly listening in! Before we get into the music, some news. Word out of the east says that the Brodfeld campaign has been an overwhelming success, and High Kommand is willing to put Operation Tartarus on the shelf as ‘mission accomplished’. Of special note, the 41st Panzergrenadiers received large honors for providing assistance to Reformisten troops, and I’m allowed to tell you they’re being rotated back home now their task is done. From here on, the Black Knights and the Gryps-Süd GmbH Landschnekte have the job well in claw! The Grand Duke and Duchess Regent today gaves honors to the Bronzehill Legion for steadfastly taking the fight to the Sunstriker heretics in the north. We all salute the valiant Bronzedogs who are the best suited of the Kaiser’s vast forces to engage these traitors on their own turf! Victories have been reported from Arrowpeaks and Silkhorn, and the final advance on Dimpeak is already underway to snuff out these Whitetail cultists once and for all! To all of you servicegriffs coming home, you may be hearing the narrative from the fiendish Aquileians to the south on their ‘public’ radio. As we have seen, public just means you are free to spread misinformation. Their propaganda machine spins the ludicrous story of our so-called ‘aggression’ against Skyfall last week. I say, if a destroyer does not count as fair revenge for a radio station, somegriff has some terrible arithmetic! High Kommand has today released word on a new system called the half track! Already in testing with certain panzergruppe, it’s authorization for mass production and full adoption means you’ll see more of these vehicles all over the Empire very soon! Every year, Imperial science takes our already superior Reichswehr and makes it even more unbeatable! Truly, the best in the world! In other news, foreign thrills! Across the sea, Equestria, that so-called bright and shining beacon of harmony, is not doing so well. Changeling forces are reported to have overrun the entire northwest and the Crystal Empire, and it's anygriff’s guess as to where they’ll stop. We’re already receiving reports of shells falling on Quebuck and Mariposa. Rumors are present that contact with Prince-Consort Shining Armor has been lost, and talks between Princess Celestia and General Secretary Pantsushenko of the Stalliongradian Socialist Republic are ongoing. The situation must be desperate if the Harmonists are reaching out to communists. Let that be a lesson in political folly, truppen. The Riverlands continue to fall apart, even as we speak. Today, the unstable River Republic issued another ultimatum to the East Griffonian Co-Prosperity Sphere, demanding they stand down their aggression. No word yet on Jezerograd’s response, if any. Riots, protests and socialist uprisings continue to plague all members of the Coalition as governmental reprisals worsen. And that’s all we’ve got today, truppen! News as it breaks, but for now, enjoy the music as we play through your day, whether you’re in the mountains to the north, the Grenzwald to the east or the Herzland itself! Remember; the Kaiser is counting on you. Boreas bless, and here’s Der Ebonsterne with their record breaking hit, ‘Vielleicht’, still the most requested across the Kaiserreich for almost three months straight!” Silvertalon Memorial Military Hospital Visaginas, Hellsword “Stretch out now, Vise-Korporal. That’s it, far as you can!” Morgend Longpaw was the type of businessgriff the old Empire (ironic to call it old when it was only four years since the Grand Duke and Duchess had started to reform things) made sure to let flourish. An industrialist, he had holdings in mining, military manufacture, automobiles and more. While certainly not the richest or most infamous, he had one thing many other businessgriffs lacked that gave him a definite edge; an ability to adapt to the times. When the worker reforms had come down, Morgen had swiftly changed his practices while other nobles were busy complaining, embraced the Industrierat and reaped the benefits early. And when Großtatze Industrie had run into pressure and competition in the Herzland, he had simply taken his business to the one place those old robber barons couldn’t touch him; Hellquill. It was here that his work had gained the attention he needed, and with Reformisten backing his business struggle in the Herzland, he had finally pulled a win when nogriff else wanted to risk the public backlash of working with the former zealots. Which was why we was here, of all places. Cyril grunted, stretching the stump of his wing out, looking upon the ruined flesh for what felt like the ten-thousandth time. After being evacuated to a field hospital, and then again even further north to a surgical station, the doctors had been forced to take off even more. Haul’s strokes had been strong, but a bit all over the place, resulting in deep cuts and additional damage that required the mangled limb to be cut down to heal properly. By now, the stump had long stopped bleeding, but not only did the pain remain, Cyril kept feeling the twinges of phantom limb syndrome as well. His balance was off when he walked, and if he flared his wings (well, wing) he immediately felt the awkward tilt on his back. It was not a pleasant feeling, in fact it was downright disturbing at times. A griffon losing a wing was nothing new, but it wasn’t an easy thing to fix. Removing the obvious lack of flight, the resultant depression and an inability to adjust meant that many simply took their own life afterwards. Some adjusted by rigging prosthetics, though they weren’t perfect and still couldn’t let them fly. Others never really settled because of it, feeling themselves to be only half a griff. Society for centuries had pitied these mained griffons, drakes and formels both, and simply quietly accepted the result. But here in the modern age, a solution finally existed, in the form of Longpaw’s Steel Wing Program. His work with the military and Reformisten on magical crystals and automobiles meant he had the background necessary to understand both compact arcane power sources and metalworking. The chance to test his prototypes on wounded veterans had brought him here, as the owner and CEO of a large company normally did not work with product development personally. But Morgend Longpaw was here, scribbling measurements onto a notepad as Cyril wore a light, bare aluminum frame. The actual prototype wasn’t ready yet, of course. Each prosthetic had to be specially designed to fit each veteran perfectly, and the technology was just barely out of the concept test phase. But, as the industrialist kept insisting, it was only a matter of time. “Splendid lad! Keep it like that…” Longpaw made another minute measurement, grunting to himself before scribbling again. “Three millimeters...interesting.” “What difference can three millimeters make?” Cyril grumbled, already tired of this latest set of measurements. He shifted on the hospital bed, feeling the pajamas itch him in places he’d rather not think of right now. Morgend didn’t pause in his measures, taking another with the tape as he replied “Tell me, Vise-Korporal. If your shell is three millimeters off target when you fire your kanone, would that matter?” Deciding to concede the point, Cyril remained silent, merely grunting in protest as he stared at the opposite wall. Longpaw continued on without prompting. “Prosthetic limbs are normally built out of a framework or wood. A single piece you measure twice, cut once and wear for years. But if lost or the measurements change for some reason, it can always be replaced. What I’m building here will have to last just as long the first time it is crafted. I can only afford to build one of them right now.” Cyril only grunted a second time, looking across to the other occupant of the room. He hadn’t had many visitors in the past month. His crew, the doctors and nurses, his uncle and now Morgend Longpaw and whatever secretaries and engineers he brought in and chattered at. It all felt like a blur at times, like they were just on the periphery of his existence. But today, he perceived this drake just fine. One didn’t forget the Black King Wingfried of Hellsword, after all. An hour ago, Wingfried had stepped into the hospital room. From the clattering out in the hallway, whatever aides and bodyguards he had with him had taken up position out there as well. Doctor Mercury had barely managed to squeeze her way in, a clipboard hovering in front of her horn. Her usual snappish care and clinical nature had seemingly vanished in front of the Black King, the doctor instead quietly taking her departure after getting a few readings from her patient that any nurse could have obtained, hurriedly saluting on the way out with barely a word to Cyril today. There was another twenty minutes of quiet staring. Before, he had been unable to stay awake half the day, but so far through his recovery he was able to affix the king with a quiet scrutiny. He received the same speculation in return. Finally, Wingfried spoke first. His voice was much lighter than Cyril had expected. Softer. No menace in his tone, nor really any emotion at all. “I hear you performed heroically out there, Vise-Korporal.” The Black King had no idea how much those few words would bring back. In an instant, Cyril’s mind was drowned out by smoke, clattering metal on metal, the dull thudding of the cannon. Then fire, and agonizing pain. One strike, two strike, three, flesh and bone splitting under the assault- He took a breath to steady himself. On the outside only a split second had passed. He cleared his throat. “I only did my duty, Your…” he wracked his brain for the honorific. Not many kings in the Empire, after all. “Highness. Anygriff else would have done the same.” “They did not,” Wingfried retorted coolly, his expression unchanged. “They pulled back. Granted, they followed orders and left an obvious death trap. And you could have as well.” The first sign of movement from Wingfried, a slight shifting moving his cap from under one arm to the other. “But you went in with your panzer. Took a butcher’s bill from the enemy. Bought time for the rest of your comrades. No one would blame you for falling back as well.” You have to go on. Do great things. Screams. Gunfire. Explosions. He swallowed again, trying to school his breathing. If Wingfried noticed this time, he gave no sign aside from a small twitch in the eyes. Cyril inhaled. “I had orders, Sir.” Now Wingfried’s face did move. A small twitch around the edges of his beak. An eyebrow raised half a centimetre. “I think we can agree, these were very unusual orders. For very unusual circumstances.” Wingfried glanced to Morgend, who had finished whatever notes and equations he’d been working on in the corner, watching the exchange with rapt attention, like a spectator at a tennis court, eyes switching back and forth with barely contained, feverish energy. The industrialist was the antithesis of Wingfried; barely bottled excitement compared to the carved stone visage of the latter. “Do you have your measurements, Herr Longpaw?” Wingfried inquired, drawing Morgend’s attention. The griff checked his notepad, evidently running down some kind of list as he considered the data. Cyril got a look at the pages as they passed and to his surprise the notes and measurements seemed jumbled, scribbled at all angles with little statements in the margins. From Paige’s description of the drake, he had expected a well-organized genius. “Ja wohl, your Highness,” Longpaw finally concluded with a shine to his eyes. “For now.” Wingfried’s response was merely to tilt his head towards the door. Luckily, Longpaw caught the hint swiftly, reaching up to take the bare frame down from Cyril’s stump, patting the panzertruppe on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Duskwing. Edelstahlflugel is right over the horizon. We are going to do great things together, you and I.” Great things… ”It’s down to you now, son.” Cyril nodded, not replying as he pushed the memory away again. Seemingly nonplussed, Morgend simply smiled, nodding back before he strode off, whistling cheerily as he left, closing the door behind him. Finally alone, Wingfried glanced back at Cyril. The silence between king and crewgriff was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. “I wish I had more like you,” Wingfried finally said. He stepped away from the door, gently setting the cap down on a nearby cabinet. Cyril shifted on his bed uneasily. “Tell me Vise-Korporal; do you know why I founded the Reformisten?” Taken aback, Cyril gave the Black King a skeptical look. “To fight the Riverlands, sire.” It was, after all, why the Order of Hellquill had set up fortifications in the Hellsword Territory, even if the Crusade to follow had failed. Wingfried’s expression did not change. “That was one of the reasons yes. But the primary means was an ideology for reformation in the Empire.” True, the name ‘Reformisten’ literally translated to ‘Ones Who Change Things.’ “I admit the past few years have been a stain on our institution’s reputation. But I assure you those were the acts of traitors and conspirators. I have loyal soldiers, champion knights that much like me would happily sacrifice ourselves for Reich und Kaiser. It was through their dedication and my leadership that we are standing here as loyal defenders of our nation, because we dared fight against those who would see us fall and the Empire itself.” He fell silent, staring at some invisible spot on the floor, brow knitted, lost in thought. Then, he shook himself out of it. “I had a line of advisors and officers who would have happily shot me for my actions a few years back, because they disagreed in my belief that our way of life could be extended to anyone and everyone. They were weak and as a result of that weakness they have perished where they stood. Now you Vise-Korporal like all of those who had supported me and the Empire at large are mighty. And we know what is necessary as warriors of das Reich; but alas perception is truth, our image is shaped by the world we live in, is it not? We cannot escape it, anymore than we can hold a wave and turn it back, but do understand one thing; nothing is as black and white as others would have you believe. The world is a collection of shades of grey.” Cyril felt his heart hammering in his chest, uncomfortable with where this conversation had turned to. This was above any discussion a monarch should have with a mere subject, and about something as deeply personal and divisive as ideology. Was Wingfried trying to convert him? Convince him? Maybe the Black King was caught in his own dialogue. He felt his wing flutter, the other stump twitching as it tried to copy the motion of anxiety. Without urging, his eyes flicked down to Wingfried’s holster. The moment of tense silence passed with difficulty. “I understand the Empire needing to stand against the threats at home,” Wingfried continued, one claw coming up to rummage around in his coat as he too felt the need to change the topic. “And the 41st belongs in the open field, not hunting through forests and mountains. We have moved from the plains to the forests and hills. I don’t plan to stop until I reach Cyanolisia either. For that, I need soldiers with spine. Grit. soldiers who can stare despair in the face and fight through the valley of death. Not because they do not fear death. But because they have something to fight their way home for. Good soldiers follow orders Herr Duskwing, but only warriors fight for what is truly right.” After a moment, Wingfried, of all people, looked flustered. He dug in his coat one more time before he let out an aggravated sigh, scratching at his brow in thought before a bolt of comprehension flashed across his visage. “Erich!” he called. Not a yell. But firm, with just a slight increase of volume. The result was immediate. The door to the room opened, admitting a single equine figure,a stallion with a coat black as his clothing, dressed in the uniform of a Reformisten officer. To Cyril’s surprise, the infamous Prince Erich, of the kind of fame spoken of like Imperial aristocracy, was a unicorn. With but a tilt of the head from the Black King, Erich stepped towards the wounded panzergriff, his magic surrounding a small black box and lifting it into view, the lid popping with a small click over the ambient noise of a magic aura, rather unsettling and out of place here to Cyril’s ears. But the commendation that lifted out of the box was, to his surprise, nothing less than a Knight’s Iron Cross, resplendent with engraved oak leaves and a pair of crossed knightly swords underneath, strung on a ribbon to be worn around the neck. Almost a perfect replica for a Herzland Knight’s Cross, save the ribbon’s coloration being blue, white and black as opposed to the Imperial orange and yellow. The blue aura gently lifted the decoration out, pulling the ribbon out to its proper length, gently draping over a stunned Cyril’s head and sliding down his neck. A Knight’s Cross. It was more than just a piece of tin or brass on a ribbon, like many other medals. The panzergriff’s attitude on such decorations was not fond, given the blood he had seen shed for them. But this medallion, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, was tantamount to a full knighthood. Had he wanted to apply to one of the Orders, Cyril would undoubtedly have been granted entry with this. Though he had no intent to, the fact it was now a possibility for a griff as lowborn as him suddenly made the prospect much more attractive. “Vise-Korporal Cyril Dusking,” Erich addressed him, in a crisp, clear parade ground speechmaking voice, “For behaviour above and beyond the call of duty, in light of grievous injury and noble bearing, the Order of the Black Knights hereby awards you the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, with oak leaves and noble swords. For your bravery and dedication to honor and Empire, should you wish to enter our brotherhood, we will gladly take you with open arms.” And with that, Erich stepped back, his back ramrod straight, as both the Black Prince and the Black King saluted Cyril smartly, an action which the stunned soldier returned out of reflex. After a moment, they both dropped the salute, and Erich stepped forward, smiling as he held his hoof out, shaking Cyril’s claw. “We both know your dedication to the Reichsarmee. But should you wish to come stand in our Order, the gates are always open to you.” Wingfried stepped forward now, reaching out to do the same as his adopted son. “I see great potential in you, Duskwing. You and others like you. A force of great change in our Kaiserreich. The future rests in your claws.” Cyril blinked, as with that profound and rather obscure statement the rest of his conversation with the king came rushing back, and he cleared his throat, only able to nod as the blue monarch finally stepped away, looking as if he was making to go. Finally, however, he found his voice. “With your permission, sir?” Wingfried glanced back, surprised. But after a moment, he nodded, gesturing. “You are as a knight now, Herr Duskwing. Never be afraid to ask.” “Why are you telling me all this, Your Highness?” Wingfried paused, his wings twitching. Erich glanced back and forth between the two, his expression blank but his form just as tense. After a moment of thought, the Black King refocused on Cyril, a smirk on his face that lacked warmth but to the younger drake still held enough mirth. “The world is...complicated, Vise-Korporal. I suppose, in the end, I am a king of a realm he expects to be absorbed by another, who once led a movement he himself dismantled. Larger minds than mine can find a lesson about the state of the world in that, but I digress. Join our ranks or not, the Kaiserreich needs you. You and others like you who see the truth of the world. One day soon, the Reich will need to change to survive. It has almost fallen twice in the past few decades.” He reached out, squeezing Cyril’s shoulder reassuringly. “I have been telling you all this because the Old must be eclipsed by the new. My beliefs were challenged, and I adapted. I already told you; you are someone who can bring that attitude to the old order. I have taken the time to speak to you, though you are a single drake, because that is how one finds those who are worthy to build a better Reich alongside our young Kaiser. One at a time.” Wingfried’s talon let go of Cyril, instead falling to the Knight’s Cross the young tanker held, tapping it gently. “Know this, Duskwing. This makes you a knight in our eyes, whatever banner you march under. And it will be those like you who will change the world.” With that, the infamous Black King, founder and scourge of the Reformisten, lord of Hellsword and conqueror of the Grenzwald, stepped out of the room with nary a backwards glance at the young griff he’d just decorated. Erich smiled and nodded, levitating his peaked cap up from the chair where he’d set it and stepping out, the door magically shutting behind him. And just like that, Cyril was left with his medal and his thoughts. The next day, August Duskwing came to visit. He’d stopped by a clawful of other times, normally only for a few hours before the pressures of command forced him to return. This time would be the last for both of them. Cyril and his crew had recovered, and would be discharged soon, to go and crew another panzer. August’s command had completely withdrawn from the Grenzwald, leaving behind several regiments of Landwehr and Imperial Jager detachments. Wingfried had been correct that this was no longer a panzer war, and as such the machine heavy 41st and their supporting elements were long gone. Today, as the door opened, August glanced up before blinking in surprise, slowly closing the door behind him. Standing in the center of the room was Cyril, dressed in his grey Reichsarmee uniform, ribbons and pins all carefully placed and adjusted just right with all the spare time Cyril had at his disposal. The left wingsleeve was pinned over the stump, which almost disappeared against Cyril’s back. Along his breast were pinned the Medallion Crimson, the Black Wound Token badge, Ribbon Intrinsic, and of course the Knight’s Cross around his neck. Raising an eyebrow, August noticed the Medal of Arcturus, Cyril’s decoration for valiant service in the Herzland War, was missing. Idly, he wondered if anygriff would figure out it was halfway across the world. “You look ready to go,” August noted, crossing to the room’s table and flopping into the seat, dropping his general’s cap on the surface. From the sound of it, he’d been traveling all night. He glanced down, casting a quick eye over the papers Cyril had accumulated during his stay here. At the top, there was one bearing an address he recognized, in writing familiar to him, already opened. “Letter from Paige?” Cyril nodded. “Just came in today. The mail system had a hard time finding me. Not hard to guess why.” With Equestria at War and Cyril’s own rather remote location, August considered it a wonder the drake’s mail got out here at all, even late. “How is she?” “I don’t know,” the young panzertruppe admitted, a frown crossing his brow. “She sent it before the attack. If she got mine, she either hasn’t written a response or…” He paused, considering carefully before he quietly changed the subject. “We’re being released.” “Any idea where you’re going?” “No...for some reason, none of us got orders yet.” Cyril had a sinking suspicion that he knew why, and General August Duskwing, Hero of the Kaiserreich, showing up out of the blue couldn’t be a coincidence. Spotsley was only missing an eye, Eihol had a series of scars marring his previously handsome face and half the feathers on his head wouldn’t grow back as a result. Haul had gotten away with only a single bullet wound from a stray round. None of their injuries should have stopped them from rotating back into another regiment. The crew had broken him out for his birthday a few days ago, just a few wounded veterans out on the town. But during the drinking, the trash talk, tomfoolery and all the other things soldiers got up to to distract from their memories, they had all agreed that getting this close to a posted medical release without orders was unheard of. Something was afoot, ahoof and aclaw. August nodded, humming in agreement as he conceded the unspoken point. Cyril was far smarter than he gave himself credit. “There’s a reason for that. We’ve been trying to decide what to do with you.” He waved a claw at his nephew’s concerned expression. “Relax, not like that. You performed admirably in Brodfeld. Given the circumstances and that we didn’t know the minotaurs were advancing, nogriff could have asked for more. But then there’s that wing.” He pointed towards Cyril’s empty wingsleeve, his face hard. August had picked up a head injury during his time in the trenches so many years ago. As a result, one of his eyes had changed from gold to a pale green, a condition called heterochromia the doctors assured him would not harm his vision. The effect, he’d been told, was unnerving to those he spoke with as the differing colors and the scars on his face gave him an intimidating appearance. “Kommand hasn’t been sure what to do about it and your career.” “Last I checked, Herr General,” Cyril replied cautiously but with a obstinate visage, looking his uncle straight in the eye. “A panzertruppe doesn’t fly much.” The elder Duskwing watched the younger carefully, inspecting his face. Cyril was defiant, hard, determined. He clearly was unwilling to back down, but August needed to make sure it was honest. The Imperial Akadamie had been going through several sweeping reforms lately. The quality of Imperial soldiers in the Reichsarmee had always varied depending on the Duchy or province that put together and trained the regiment. Bronzehill had only recently shrugged off its pacifism to defend the Empire. The newly retaken Herzland territories, underdeveloped and formerly treasonous, had questions of loyalty and quality there too. Angriver and Katerin recruits were aggressive, but untrained and untrustworthy. Now, with the Grenzwald reintegrated, the problem was compounded even further, as soldiers from Lushi or the Host who had likely never even seen a panzer before were to be integrated in combined arms warfare. Some didn’t even speak Herzlandisch, and the Host was still a stew of violence not yet stabilized into a border march by the Black Knights and Landwehr garrisons. Out of all of this melting pot of ethnicities and non standardized armed forces with varying effectiveness, the Black Knights of Hellquill proved to be the most suited military formation outside the greater Reichsarmee itself due to the Orders’ belligerent roots and martial prowess, well led and well disciplined a shining example of what the Imperial forces should emulate, albeit only so motivated by brainwashed fanaticism and suffering from an almost chronic lack of materials that the Empire proper had to compensate for. The Empire’s officer korps was even worse, composed primarily of the sons and daughters of aristocratic families, many of whom had used their family’s wealth or influence to land positions of prestige where they might not have been so capable. With the Herzland Wars and the Grenzwald Campaign, this practice was slowly being worked towards one of a more honest and meritocratic nature, following the same framework that the Reformisten had proven in the field alongside their Herzland brethren, a consequence of their reintegration into the Empire proper, and as a result even commoners were being allowed to become junior officers in the Reichsarmee. August hadn’t been immune to the issues, using his own influence and protection to watch over Cyril, a flagrant case of nepotism. Which contributed on top of the army reforms to bringing him here. August sighed, knowing the issue was settled in his nephew’s mind. So much for his promise to watch over Cyril. Margot had torn strips off him over the telephone once she had heard the news. Apparently, her first thought upon receiving the message that Cyril had been killed. Fortunately, the truth had been swift in coming, but that had not tempered her rage towards her brother. August had let it come. In his attempt to get Cyril back to working order, he had pushed his nephew right into the fire, unintentionally of course, but it had still happened. With little more delay (gods knew all this inner reflection had contributed to the setbacks Kommand had made), August sighed, reaching under his coat and extracting a large, thick envelope, held together with string and a wax seal bearing the emblem of Reichsarmee High Kommando. He tossed it onto the table with the other papers, where the thick packet audibly impacted. Cyril’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Orders,” August grumbled as he fished a cigar out, clamping down on the stogie but not lighting it. Hospital rules were against smoking in the rooms, and he had a lot to say without risking getting thrown out. “In a few days, you’ll be boarding a train to Zeltstadt with your crew. There, you’ll be retraining while attending to your commission as a kadet at the Jungeschulen, pending an entry exam. It would be preferable to take you west, of course. But right now the Imperial Akadamie at Osnabeak is working overtime, as are the Krona training grounds. So we’ll be sending you in for on-post training. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced enough talking heads and beaks that this would be the best way to handle the situation.” Cyril finally seemed to break out of his stupor, staring at his uncle in absolute confusion. “I’m...sorry, what? First you come in here asking me if I’m certain I want to continue serving, as if you’re about to talk me out of it, then you throw a commission into my lap?” “You’re still addressing a general nephew,” warned, though the threat had no heat to it. Fortunately, it had the desired effect of cutting off Cyril’s rant before it built up steam, and the injured panzertruppe spun down, more carefully considering his words now his temper had been released. “I just...I don’t understand,” he finally continued, far less heated than before. “You left me here in the dark, and then just hand me this. You had to have known.” August nodded again, his weariness feeling far more physical now. “I did. And they were going to discharge you.” He paused, considering his words. “To Kommand, a griffon serving without a wing is...unnatural. It's unprecedented. The power of flight is essential to Imperial warfare. But panzers are so recent and new, you’re probably one of a clawful of panzertruppe to lose a wing. I know you ARE the only one to not immediately ask to go home. The same case was made that you brought up; panzers cannot fly, and their crews are unlikely to need to. Your case was hotly debated for at least a week. I was brought in to make the final decision. And then, word came down that Wingfried intended to decorate you and your crewmates. As such, everything changed.” “Why?” “You don’t just send a holder of the Knight’s Cross home, Cyril. It’s a fighting drake’s award. It’s what you pin on heroes and generals and those that one of the Orders wants to induct. Wingfried coming to give you that around your neck,” and here August even stabbed through the air towards Cyril’s Knight’s Cross with his cigar “changed everything. We had only a few days to figure out an answer. Luckily, it presented itself.” “By making me an officer?” “It only works because of your profession. The panzerwaffe may be young, but they have accrued quite a number of veteran crews and commanders already. Kommand plans to take advantage of that, and now you’re part of the solution. Your whole crew’s been decorated, and they’ve all seen action from Herzland to Temsoar. But you’re about to join the ranks of an elite group, where Kommand can group the deadliest panzer crews in the Kaiserreich.” August paused, glancing down at the packet of orders on the table. Cyril did as well, both of them regarding the envelope like it was an unwelcome guest sitting in the corner, staring them both down silently. “It’s a big step,” August concluded, carefully nibbling at the end of the cigar thoughtfully. Cyril nodded, slowly stepping over to the table, reaching out and taking the orders gingerly, staring down at the wax seal. “I kind of need a new panzer, don’t I?” August nodded, suddenly back to energy as if the question had jolted him. “Not to worry. Your term as a kadet gives us a perfect opportunity. Have you ever heard of a Gryta?” Cyril cocked his head to the side, feathered brow furrowed in thought as he ran through the news, rumors and scuttlebutt he’d been hearing both in the field and here in hospital, claws idly playing with the string around the envelope.. Finally, he shook his head. “No. Should I have?” “I doubt it. So far it's a prototype only in the claws of a few of the knightly orders, mostly the Order of the Tower and Sword and the Order of the Fiery Heart. But I managed to swing a few test models for the 205th Heavy Panzer Battalion. Didn’t take much to convince Grand Master Konrada of the Rosewood Spears to get a few models to train with them too. If all goes well with this last batch of trials, they’ll be approved for mass production next year. And if the information I’m getting is correct, we’ll definitely need them.” With that, August held the cigar out to Cyril, digging another out of his jacket. His nephew paused, claw extended, feeling the ache of his severed wing and the echo of unpleasant memories in his head. Was he truly ready for this? In two days, a lot of pressures had been heaped onto his head. Now he had to figure out how to carry them through. But after a moment, he took the cigar from his uncle, inspecting it thoughtfully as August dug out a lighter. “So...when do I get started?” August 15, 1011 1320 hours Skies over Tall Tale No. 1 Air Group, No. 11 Squadron There were very few new aircraft around them. It turned out, Mariposa had not been the only airfield struck by changeling sabotage, and they had most targeted the newer pieces of inventory. Over the past year, the Equestrian RAF had replaced the Hurricane in their active air wings with the Spitfire, proud of their ingenuity in the air. But the sluggish production meant few replacements and spare parts were available once losses started mounting. As a result, the sky was full of Hurricanes, Wellingtons and Blenheims, replacements for the lost Spitfires, Beauforts and Beaufighters that had been destroyed in the past month by combat, sabotage and abandoning stockpiles in the face of the enemy advance. It was no secret that the entire RAF had become a chaotic mix of regulars and reservists, those who had been activated for the bogus wargames being thrown in to fill holes left behind while hurried wartime recruitment and training caught up. Now, their air inventory matched their personnel. Below the Blenheim No. 83, the massive skywhale shape of a Halifax bomber rumbled by, and Paige couldn’t help but marvel at it, old memories resurfacing in her mind from the Crystal War. While a bit older, they were still massive engines of war, modern airships carrying enough munitions to flatten a city block. The behemoths of No. 35 Squadron had been through some of the worst punishment of the whole RAF, and she could see rough patches in the plane’s fuselage where mechanics had hurriedly gotten the heavy bomber back into working order in a hurry. Bomber casualties were worse than their fighter escorts, as Queendom Sv.109s hunted them like sharks. And yet, No. 35 Squadron was back in the air again with nary a complaint, just a few replacements and they were gone again. Paige glanced up from the bombsight (a generous term for a few pieces of tape and a cluster of numbers and lines she had applied with chalk) and consulted her chart, examining the topographical map to ensure they were on the correct approach. Every plane had a navigator of course, but the more ponies corroborating information, the less likely the air group would be pulled off course. The fact this still happened stupidly often implied how essential the practice was. ”Sword Leader, this is Hammer Leader. We’re coming in on final approach, over.” The radio chattered in Paige’s ears, laden with static from the clouds, distance, interference and the rushing of air past all of their crafts. The various squadron commanders were coordinating for the attack on the changeling forces assaulting Tall Tale. Their air group was one of a hoof-full still keeping up the pressure on the northern juggernaut, rather than simply reacting to stem the tide. Many commanders were nervous to commit their wings in case of yet another withdrawal, another retreat. If an attack was underway, they couldn’t leave until those planes had returned for vital fuel and medical assistance, not to mention providing air cover for the evacuations. Tall Tale was under pressure from two panzerdivisions moving south from Vanhoover, bombers flying across the Luna Gulf and another assault by an Olenian brigade moving east from their landing at Seaward Shoals. The defenders were hard pressed, barely holding on as they were battered from land and air. That’s why it was up to their air group to come in and hopefully deal enough damage to the changelings to disrupt their momentum, buy time for the Royal Guard defenders to hold on for the armored regiment currently tearing up the road to reinforce them. It had been a hard month. Reflexively, Paige’s head came up from her map, scanning the skies out the cockpit for the telltale flash of silver that told of incoming fighters. Given that said planes would be flying towards their own, all the Equestrians would get for warning was that glimmer and a streak, and then bombers would start falling. In the pilot’s seat, Lieutenant Solar Ace leaned down, watching Paige for a moment before he straightened up. “Ease up, Turner. We’re ready this time,” he said, in that same neutral, confident tone he used when he was trying to keep his crew going. Ace was well aware of their odds and the grim reality of war in the air. “I know I am, sir,” came Static’s reply from her turret, watching the skies behind two .303 machine guns. “I grabbed the parachute this time.” The three had a brief chuckle, before they returned to their business. No. 83 didn’t have much payload. As a light bomber smaller than even a Wellington, she possessed a brace of four 250 lb. bombs, a piddling comparison to dedicated bomber craft. Which was why they needed to drop their payload as fast as possible and rejoin the fight with their own brace of machine guns in the wings. Many other Blenheims had figured out this gave them the best chance for survival, rather than just acting like a dedicated bombing craft. ”Sword Leader to all Sword elements,” came the call of their squadron leader. ”We’re coming up on the target. Hammer’s going to hit the Bug positions with overwhelming force. It’s our job to cover them and lay down some hurt on the advancing columns. Bombers, stay in formation on approach. Fighters, get ready for some chop. Goddess speed to you all, over and out!” As No. 83 began drifting lower in the formation, the entire air group finally crested over the forested hills, exposing the city of Tall Tale below. Even from here, Paige could see the battle was not going in the Royal Guards’ favor. Smoke plumes erupted from across the entire city, and to the north the land seemed to seethe with black shapes as the changeling advance seemed to worm its way in, infecting the buildings while also stretching out to surround it. Detonations could be seen from here as structures collapsed, and anti-aircraft fire lit up the sky. It was an awe-inspiring, terrible sight. Abruptly, several black clouds appeared in the air group’s midst, followed a split second later by booms and pops, dozens more following as the sky seemed to disappear into these sudden clouds. ”Flak screen!” came the shout over the radio. ”Stay in formation! Keep speed, ponies!” No. 83 abruptly bucked as a shell detonated far too close for comfort, the sound of shrapnel rattling off her belly as a grim reminder of how close and how sudden death would be for them. Up ahead, a Wellington suddenly took a shell straight in her number one engine, which began to spew smoke and flames, oil and debris streaming off as the propeller sluggishly halted on the ruined apparatus. The bomber began to list, dropping with increasing speed before she turned over, her wing breaking off and spiralling away. The bomber dropped from view. No parachutes were visible. Another Blenheim took a shell directly in her fuselage, detonating spectacularly as the cockpit blew outwards, folding in on itself and spiralling around in mid-air. ”Holy-dead bird! Break, break!” “It’s coming at me-” the rest of the message abruptly devolved into a high-pitched scream that was just as quickly cut short as the Blenheim turned over bodily and smashed into a Halifax below and behind it, crushing the cockpit as the two craft twisted into one piece of wreckage, tumbling to the ground below. ”Bugs!” And with the silver flash Paige was already accustomed to, the sharks were among them. Sv.109s tore through the air group, guns blazing and engines roaring as the dove in. Machine gun turrets on bombers chattered, filling the sky with tracers as they chased after the much faster fighters. Everypony knew that their actual chance of hitting a fighter was extremely low, and the gun mounts counted for little more than keeping the fighters from getting too close. But if enough fire filled the sky, they could get lucky, as had happened several times before. At the back of No. 83, Static’s turret swivelled around, guns hammering at the blurred shapes in the sky. Spitfires and Hurricanes twisted around the air group, chasing after the predators. But the truth was they were merely reacting, and several Halifaxes and Wellingtons were already dipping away, even more still limping along in the group with fire spouting from damaged engines and bullet holes in the fuselage. “Here we go, on target!” Ace finally yelled, and Paige immediately braced herself as the Blenheim dipped, her world swirling until blue was replaced by green, the ground rushing up to meet them. Trees whipped by at what seemed light speed, and Paige’s view was filled and occupied by a massive black smudge that she recognized as a formation of changeling panzers, trucks, halftracks and infantry pushing in towards the city, details blurry in the rush at this distance. “Get ready, Turner!” It was up to her, now. She leaned forward, fighting the gut-wrenching effects of vertigo as her whole world continued into freefall, her wings twitching as they naturally wanted to catch her from her descent. The measurements she’d drawn on the glass were a best guess from practice, a far sight from the actual sights she’d used on Sombra’s troops. But experience had come back to her, and she knew exactly when she needed to let go. Her hoof hovered over the release button, watching the ground come up closer, closer, closer… Now! “Bombs away!” She smashed the release, holding it down. With several thumps that felt like being kicked as No. 83 suddenly dropped a half-ton of weight. Ace instinctively hauled the stick back, the herculean task of defying high-speed gravity and yanking No. 83’s nose out of her dive. The lift they received from dropping the bombs coupled with their reduced weight helped recover, and No. 83 was soaring up and away again even before the bombs impacted. “Here we go!” Ace whooped, twisting the craft around in a tight aileron as fire from the ground chased after them, pulling into a loop to twist back towards where the air battle was still happening. Now devoid of her primary job, Paige glued herself to the glass, watching out for incoming threats and targets. But the sky had turned into a twisting, seething mass of confusion, fighters dancing and chasing each other around, bombers on approach or turning back towards home, wrecks tumbling out of the air aflame, flak shells detonating in what seemed every open inch. No. 83 continued to climb, slipping in nicely behind an Sv.109 that was chasing an already harried and alight Halifax. Her quartet of .303s hammered abruptly, shuddering through the entire frame as bullets filled the air. The majority of them missed, but the burst had still caught the fighter’s wing, and a stream of smoke wafted behind him as the changeling aircraft sloppily turned over, diving for safety. Paige punched the glass and cheered. Not a kill, but even better; a comrade saved. ”Hammer-9, many thanks! Almost bought the farm on that one, over! See you at home!” The bomber peeled away, making towards the east with all speed left in her engines. “Hammer-9, this is Sword-4. Take care of yourself, we can’t always be there to save you, out,” Static’s voice radioed back over the line. Paige laughed, the exhilaration flowing through her body. Even if the odds were stacked against them, as desperate as they were, she was glad to see Equestria was throwing everything it had into the fight. They might suffer for a while, but they’d certainly bloody the bugs’ nose in the process. ”This is Sword Leader, all fighters form up on Hammer and the bombers! We need to take the pressure off to get them home!” “All Sword elements, this is Wonderbolt Leader.” Paige’s head shot up, and she leaned over, practically glueing her face to the glass, desperately searching for anything to tell her of the new arrivals. There, streaking across the sky! She couldn’t quite make it out, but if she squinted she almost thought she could spy the blue and yellow stormcloud of the infamous Wonderbolt Squadron, three Spitfires arcing in. Within seconds of their arrival, one dusted an Sv.109, another chased a changeling off a wounded Wellington and the third soared past No. 83, guns chattering as it went for some target Paige couldn’t see. ”Sorry for the late arrival. Head on home. We’ve got your backs, over.” “Sword Leader to Wonderbolt Leader, many thanks! But what took you so bucking long, over?” “Yeah, we ran into some trouble over Mead Lake, over. Good to see we came in for the save, so we can show you how it's done.” “Keep at it, Wonderbolts. You might just inspire us to turn around and stay, over.” “Not a chance, Sword. Take your ponies and head home before some bug gets lucky and slips past us, out.” No. 83 formed up, joining the retreating flock of aircraft and taking her place in the fighter screen now she was light and fast enough to act as escort instead of fighter-bomber. The air group was now noticeably much smaller, and many of the survivors had taken serious damage. Paige leaned back, the adrenaline having left her body as she had to become accustomed to the relative silence again, the chaos of combat replaced with the simple droning of engines and whistling of air- She blinked, realizing a new sound had joined the engines. Where was it? She turned, looking for the offending object before looking back towards Ace. That’s when she noticed the line of bullet holes, about six in all, that had punched through No. 83’s skin just above her head. She felt the same chill of cheated death pour down her spine as she tried to steady her breathing, staring at the tears in the aluminum skin. A few inches down, and the ground crew would've been hosing her brains out of her station. “You alright, Turner?” Ace asked, not taking his eyes off his instruments and the view ahead. Consummate professional that he was, he seemed to have been barely affected by the entire exchange, though admittedly the frantic battle must have only taken ten minutes. “I didn’t think you’d been hit-” “Turner’s hit?” came Static’s sharp voice over the line, and Paige could see the unicorn leaning down from the turret, trying to get a better view of her longtime friend. Paige held up a hoof, waving at her from her seat. “No, I’m fine, dragi. Just had a close call.” ”Uh, Hammer-4, Sword-2. You got a pretty bad leak on your number two. It’s spurting like crazy, over.” “Many thanks, Sword-2. Pedals are a little shaky, but we should be okay until-MERCIFUL LUNA!” The call from the Halifax pilot suddenly devolved into a scream as, with no warning at all, the stricken bomber detonated into an uncontrolled fireball, the fuel leak spreading back to the tanks and the entire plane going up, gliding along as it turned into a ghastly apparition before almost comically slowly dipping down and crashing into the trees down below, turning into a small flash. Paige and Ace had front row seats to the entire show, and the event killed any further conversation as the tension which had so rapidly bled out had slammed back full force. The rest of the flight was silent the whole way back to the airfield. Longbottom Royal Airbase Near Shire, Twisted Tail Valley Unfortunately, no sooner had No. 83 set down on the tarmac, her crew dismounted and prepared to leave her to the mechanics for a well-earned bite and sack time, then they were immediately ordered to take off again. “Sir, all due respect!” Lieutenant Ace protested to Wing Commander Smoky Chaser, the stern-faced pegasus who led No. 11 Squadron and the rest of the wing they flew with. “I’ve got holes in my cockpit, the whole air group’s been shot to pieces and we’ve been in the air more than we have on the ground today!” “Lieutenant, I recommend you check your tone,” Chaser replied coolly, to which Ace immediately clammed up, shaking with frustration. For Paige, who was only used to seeing the level-headed and professional pilot, it was a stark change in attitude. “I understand your grievances, Ace. But this isn’t my choice. Tall Tale’s fallen to the Hegemony.” Paige felt the chill creep down her neck, eyes wide. Her wings half-spread, she leapt down from the ladder where she’d been helping Static offload their gear from. “But sir!” she said, fully aware she could be badly reprimanded for butting into a conversation between officers. “What about the tanks?” “Never got there,” Chaser replied somberly. “The regiment got bogged down by Jaegers in the forests. Then they were called back. The Royal Guard Grenadiers were overwhelmed in Tall Tale an hour ago.” The crew were stunned silent, absorbing that small fact. That meant that, short of whatever changeling casualties they’d managed to inflict, the entire aerial attack had been, in a word, pointless. “Called back?” Ace asked, his fury abated. “Why?” Chaser sighed, shaking his head. “Because Los Pegasus was taken by changeling marines and Olenian landing troops. The Lunar Fleet is wiped out. So we’re falling back to Bales. You’ve got an hour.” With that, Commander Chaser turned, trotting over towards the next air crew. Watching him go, Paige realized that as the Wing Commander, he didn’t have to notify each and every plane. But clearly, he felt the need to do so personally. The situation was definitely getting dire on all fronts. If this was the state of Equestria’s defense after just a month, when would they finally hold back the changelings? Could they? Static poked her head out, red aura of magic picking up the bags Paige had dropped and pulling them back into No. 83. “Guess we’re moving again, huh?” Ace nodded slowly, watching the airbase as injured were hauled to the base hospital, only to be loaded onto trucks to be taken away, supplies were hurriedly being inventoried and loaded up, bombers being taxied back out onto the runway having just barely fuelled up enough to make the journey. Some of them were still sporting battlefield damage and smoking engines, given just enough work to get them flying again. The base could still be used by fighters covering the army retreat, but even they would have to fall back as well once the lines got too close. And with word of Mariposa under threat by artillery shells and panzer assault, it wouldn’t be long. Paige cursed in Rijekan, the language barrier allowing her to get away with the short, vicious cuss. She desperately hoped they didn’t have to fall back again. They wouldn’t have room to keep going much further. Because Bales was just north of Canterlot. And if Canterlot fell...then they had but a narrow strip of land until they hit the Celestial Sea. And at this rate, they’d be -in- the Sea by Year’s End. Author's Note Once again, after a bit of a delay due to personal issues of money and time, I have returned to continue the fight! Hopefully this doesn't become a pattern, and the war will definitely be over by Christmas! Thanks to all my loyal readers, those who have stuck with me and those who have only recently joined us! The fight goes on! 1011 pt 2He pinned her against the wall, beak snipping lightly as he traced through her mane, finally reaching her ear and nibbling, lightly. She had to bite her lip, but only after the startled beginning of a breathy moan had escaped. She could feel him grinning and resisted the urge to punch him in his smarmy beak. “Jebati!” she hissed, the word slipping out as she felt a claw digging into her haunch, her hooves at last leaving the ground. His waist was too large to wrap her legs around him, but she found purchase against his hips, hiking her body up the wall to finally put her on level with her lover. He pulled back, looking her evenly in the eyes, his own hazel ones overflowing with lust and desire. He opened his smirking beak, and said- “Up and at ‘em, sunshine! C’mon!” September 7th, 1011 Whitemane RAF Airbase Bales, Equestria “Hey, c’mon!” Static repeated, telekinetically tossing a book at Paige’s head. “We’ve got a mission outside Snowbury! Ace wants you out there now! “Jebi!” Paige hissed in frustration, rubbing her head as both it and something else throbbed. “How long did I sleep?” “About three hours,” Static replied, already dressed in her flight gear as she rummaged in the desk on her side of the room for something in a drawer. “Sounds about right…” Paige grunted as her head flopped back down to the pillow, feeling her desire from the wet dream slowly ebb away, but remaining persistent in the background like an annoying friend with personal space issues. “That was a damn good dream, too…” “You start humping your pillow again, I’m taking photos,” Static leered back, grinning. “What do you mean ‘again?’” Paige snapped as she immediately took up a pillow, tossing it after her red flightmate, who ducked behind the standing locker as the fluffy projectile bounced harmlessly off the metal door, followed by a stream of Rijekan cursing. “Outside, ten minutes!” The winter wind cut through her as she stepped outside the flight barracks, even past her wool and leather coat and her own pegasi natural resistance to cold temperatures. Snow had yet to start falling, but the autumn tones on the trees and Bales’ holding of the Running of the Leaves were clear indicators that it was not far off. While Whitemane had been of a good size before the invasion, it hadn’t been near large enough to hold all the aircraft that had been frantically shunted here. As a result, both aircraft and aircrews were housed in quick built structures, whether it was ramshackle hangers or military field barracks set up outside the base proper. Planes from all over had been housed here, those not attending to keeping the changelings held back over Canterlot, the Crystal City or further west containing Las Pegasus. Paige hurried over to where No. 83 had been set up, in the middle of the yard with enchanted netting tossed over it. Underneath, Static was already going over a clipboard with a groundpony, checking off a list for parts and maintenance while munching on a bagel levitating near her face, coming close so she could take a bite occasionally. Upon Paige’s appearance, she nodded to a nearby platter on a stack of crates, piled high with other such breakfast delights such as the aforementioned bagels, prepackaged alfalfa pancakes, a few carrots that had clearly come out of a can and some applesauce and red apples dull from being in storage. Without a word, Paige immediately put together a wartime breakfast as she moved to look under, nodding to herself as she spied the empty bomb rack. Ever since they had arrived, Bomber Command had stripped Blenheims of their pitiful bomb load, repurposing them into heavy fighters to escort the much more efficient and powerful bomber flights, a job they found they excelled at. “Mail call!” shouted a RAF corporal, a member of the groundcrew for Whitemane and another pegasus, this one of spotted grey coloration and a blonde mane, sorting through the mail as he went. They were familiar with this stallion, by the name of Dunky Dee, as he had been the clerk and operations junior NCO who often relayed orders from the base commander to their squadron, one of dozens of dedicated messengers who lightened the load of controlling massive numbers of aircraft on base at once. “Let’s see...Static! Static! Lilac! Static! Ace! Marbles! Another one for Static! Turner! And Static again!” “Ah, my adoring fans!” Static quipped, waving a hoof to Dee before her red magical aura captured the proffered letters, drifting over towards her. “I don’t know how they figure out where I am so fast. These are the only poor bastards who have the military mail system beat!” She sniffed the letters from several of her radio fans back down south once more. “Sweet, sweet outrage and opinion leaking from every page. Hey Turner, d’ya think if I can get enough of them to sign a petition they can get me out of this lousy war?” “I’d hope not,” Paige said back, heading to Dee for her mail. “I’d have no reason to stick around.” Corporal Dee seemed to hesitate as she approached, the groundcrew who had also received mail having already grabbed their letters and scampered off to read what little bit of contact with their families, friends and civilization they had. But Paige knew exactly what the stallion’s furtive, nervous glance was about. News traveled quickly in military units, and the fact she had kept up a romantic correspondence with none other than an Imperialist griffon had become an open secret. With the grapevine in full swing, she’d gotten a lot of dirty looks upon arriving. After a moment, Dee released the envelope from between his teeth, as well as Ace’s so she could take it to him. “Nah, you’d stay,” Static retorted, already ripping open one of her letters as she took another bite of her levitating bagel. “Where else would you go?” “Griffonia,” Paige retorted almost instantly as she moved to 83’s hatch. “You’d have to ship my dust after, I’d be so fast.” “Pillow,” Static teased after her, smirking as she turned back to her fanmail. Inside the Blenheim, Ace sat at his pilot’s seat, silent as he went down a clipboard list of his own, checking instruments and watching the fuel gauge fill slowly. Paige moved up next to him, gently tapping his shoulder to get her lieutenant’s attention, holding the letter out to him. He raised his head in obvious surprise that she was suddenly there, but his reaction otherwise was muted. “Turner,” he muttered in acknowledgement as he glanced down at the envelope, clearly crestfallen at the address. “Sorry to wake you so early. They’re scrambling us fast. Olenians and Umbrals attacking Snowbury, command wants us to plaster them before bug panzers back them up.” “Forget it, sir,” Paige replied, moving towards her navigator’s station. Now she was no longer a bombardier, her natural inclination for weather patterns as a pegasus made her duties in charting even more important. Lucky her, she’d have a few minutes before she really needed to get to her job, so with the little time she had left before they took off, she quietly accumulated her breakfast of coffee so strong it could power a car, pancakes chewy enough to pass as dumplings and an apple or two, spread over her navigator’s table as she tore open the envelope, just happy to see something from her long silent beau. Her eyes skimmed across the paper as she took a sip, wincing at the bracing taste of the coffee... Sent August 16, 1011 Dear Paige, Happy Birthday. I’m hoping I get this in before it's belated, but regardless. I got you something from a local shop with the time I’ve had, but you’ll have to excuse the size. I didn’t have much time to get it or a wide selection (or envelope). Lucky me, I remembered purple. I know it’s been forever since you heard from me. It took a long time to get your letter. I’m sorry. I was wounded again, this time a lot worse than before. They sent me to a field hospital, then on to a surgical station, then to Visaginas for recovery. By the time you caught up to me, I was mostly on the mend. Another week and I would have missed you again. I’m so sorry to hear about the invasion. I know Equestria is like a second home to you. From the news reports we’re being told, it's not good. If half of what they’re reporting is true, the ‘lings are giving you a real fight. If more, then I shudder at the thought. I’ve seen the results of such a war myself. Looks like our suspicions were right. For what it's worth. I’m honestly unsure of where to start. A lot has happened, to both of us. So I’ll start with your last letter and work my way up. I’ve seen some changeling hardware. A lot of it was developed next to ours. Damned good guns, well made panzers. Aside from that, I’ll have to rely on you for descriptions. Mine are at least two years out of date. But given what I remember of that and the Equestria briefings, I know there’s a real gap in the technology. I’m going to move on. We lost Sabine. Turns out Wingbardy decided to give panzers and weapons to Asterion, so the bulls snuck a brigade over the Creeper Mountains somehow. After weeks of hunting partisans, we weren’t prepared for a full attack. Somegriff had to hold the line for the rest of the kompanie to disengage. Sergeant Hellseig’s gone too. Held out long enough for the rest of us to escape. (A few lines are scribbled out) And I've lost a wing. No, you’re not reading that wrong. My left wing got trapped in the wreckage. Haul had to literally hack the wing off to get me out, or I'd have burned with Sabine. It's hard to talk about. Or write about. This time, it's not just some shrapnel taken from under my skin. It's a whole part of me gone. I can’t fly anymore, and when I walk I’m off-balance most of the time unless they hang a weight on me. Sometimes, I forget it's gone and flare up my wings out of habit. Then I start tipping and see that little stub and it all comes crashing back. I still feel it sometimes too, and that doesn't help. Phantom-Extremitäten-Syndrom they call it. According to both the physician and psychiatrist, there's a chance it’ll never go away. I can feel everybody staring. It’s not natural, and I can tell only the dogs and wingless ponies don’t pity me. I try not to go out if I can help it. Mother paid for a long distance phone call to me. Apparently it took twenty-three minutes and five operators patching her through. She kept going from crying frantically to hollering at me back and forth for about an hour before she hung up. I barely got a dozen words in. You know how she gets. She calmed down in her letter though. I’m getting fitted for some new prototype prosthetic, one that is made of metal, can move like a normal wing and is powered by a small crystal. Normally it would cost a small fortune. But the Reichsarmee is covering it as part of the development, with me as the ‘volunteer’. Also, surprise, it's being made by your second favorite griff, Morgend Longpaw himself. He won’t leave me alone, keeps coming in at all hours to try frames on me, take measurements, other stuff I don’t know how to describe. I think, to him, I'm another test subject, part of the experiment, not so much a patient or customer. I think I see what you were talking about with his oddities when you described him. I’ve been decorated with a Knight’s Cross, and offered a commission. Uncle August came in and told me they want me for some kind of propaganda program called the ‘Panzer Elite’. The Empire’s gathering all these high performing ‘ace’ crews from the past few years of fighting and are putting us up on a pedestal. National heroes, they call us. I wouldn’t have taken it, but the position offered an officer candidacy, and I know I'll never afford the tuition for university on my own. And, it came from Uncle. You know it’s a serious deal when he lifts me out of trouble. Eihol, Spotsley and Haul are coming with me to test some new systems. Need a new gunner to take my place. Uncle says that my Kadet-Offizier training will finish at the same time as the testing, so I'll be a Panzer-Leutnant by New Year’s. But after the orders came down, I had to write you before I moved on and things got even more jumbled up. You’ll find the Jungeschule’s address in the envelope, so we can avoid the confusion at my end. It’s so odd, starting at nothing and now soaring to such heights in only a few years (figuratively, at least. There I go, already joking about being flightless). So much has changed, it’s had to read back on the old letters I was able to save. We’re both such different people now. It’s very strange, being the one at peace while you’re off at war. And what a war I’ve read. The press is going giddy, watching Equestria taken down a peg or two. For years, the Empire has had to endure scorn and political ridicule from across the sea, as the Sick Bird of Griffonia. Now the Empire’s on the rise and Equestria is looking to fall. The pundits and politicos out here are full of themselves. But I’m not celebrating. I’m right there praying Equestria pulls out of this war. You have faith, and you’re putting everything you have into this fight. I know it, or you would have grabbed the first boat East. So, I have faith in Equestria because I have faith in you. Don’t worry about me anymore. I’m safe again, and you need to worry about yourself as much as you can. Keep safe, my love. Things are changing. And this war, however terrible, can’t last forever. We -will- be together one day. All the trouble we’ve been through can’t have just built us up to this if the gods didn’t have a plan for us in the end. And you still have my medal. I eagerly await your next letter, and when I next write you, it will be from the akadamie as I take my first steps towards being an officer. Yours always. Love, Cyril (Inside the envelope is a photograph of Cyril standing in his dress uniform, wingsleeve pinned back, as he stands in front of a hospital’s flower garden. With the photo is a dried out but still beautiful lilac, the same as in the hospital photo. Another note reads ‘These are rare in the Herzland, but grow like crazy here, so I bought one from a slower stand. It’s not much, but I hope it’s enough. Happy Birthday ~Cyril’) “Turner!” She snapped her head up, jolting in surprise, coffee slightly splashing onto her front as she cursed in Rijekan. Ace waited patiently before he tossed a clipboard to her, clattering on her map table. “Need you to run your checks, chart us a course to Snowbury with these coordinate checkpoints and help with the systems test before we take off. Rest of the squadron’s queuing up, let’s go!” With a sigh, Paige carefully tucked the letter away, mildly resenting Ace’s ability to still function even after such a personal blow as he’d taken. Regardless, they had a job to do, and lives to save on the ground. But before she got into it, she gently took a small sniff of the rather unfortunate lilac that had been pressed flat in the envelope. In Rijekograd, her mother had grown lilacs in that same flowerbed that they were surely about to abandon. A stew of emotions churned in her gut. She desperately missed Cyril and her parents, it had been years since she’d been home and now like Equestria it too was falling to chaos. Her regret and resentment warred in her head a moment longer, battling over the sense of depressed dread she had felt everyday that past few months. Then, after letting herself slip off the deep end a moment, she simply shook her head, sighed again, and tucked away the lilac to get started on her list. There was a war to fight. She was so tired. On August 25, 1011 ALB (After Luna Banishment), citing months if not years of bad relations and numerous provocations, the Griffonian Kaiserreich invaded their much smaller neighbor, the Skyfall Trade Federation. The stated war goal was to reclaim the prosperous port city of Skyfall itself and capture its fleet, which had once made up the old Kaiserliche Marine before the Republican Revolution of 978 saw the city split away. While brave in standing their ground and professionally trained, the Federation’s defense forces were no match for the much larger and more heavily armed and now veteran Reichsarmee. Within three weeks, the countryside was completely under Imperial control and the city of Skyfall put under siege. But Skyfall was well fortified, and drew their fleet in to dissuade the Kaiserliche Marine. In response, one Imperial commander, General Celia Marshtail, in a stunning show of ruthless cunning, bribed the mercenaries employed by Skyfall’s trade barons. The gates were thrown open and the mercenaries, bored and frustrated with being trapped in a siege by their employers, began looting the entire city, starting with the treasury. When Reichsarmee troops entered the city almost unopposed, many joined in the Sack of Skyfall. It took an entire day before the Vollstrecker managed to regain control of the situation. In that time, almost all of the mercenaries were arrested, 600 Reichsarmee soldiers were summarily executed on the spot and 25,000 civilians were killed or wounded in the crossfire. Relieved that the chaos was over, the city garrison, who had worked with the Reichsarmee to tame the storm, surrendered with no further resistance. The Federation government fled to the nearby Haukland Isles, attempting to rally political favor from the Griffonian Revolutionary Republic and the Federated Republic of Aquileia. By September 13th, both the city and the fleet were secured by the Empire, and the territory declared reclaimed. President Verany of Aquileia insisted the Empire had gone too far, as while annexing the Grenzwald was seen as acceptable, this was seen as warmongering. Duchess Regent Gabriela pointed out the hypocrisy of that accusation, considering Aquileia had used the excuse of ‘unity’ to ‘liberate’ every single small republic and duchy, formerly part of the old kingdom, between the borders of Aquileia and the Empire. No official response was sent. The two nations now prepare, on the brink of war. October 7th. After weeks of quiet, careful negotiation, the Federated Republic of Aquileia, the Griffonian Revolutionary Republic, the Skyfall Trade Federation and the Knightly Kingdom of Vedina sign the Republican Entente. October 9th. Vedinian and Revolutionary troops cross the northern border from Cloudbury to the duchies of Feathisia, Strawberry and the newly conquered Whitetail Territory. To the south, from former Griefwald, Aquileian tanks surprise Reichsarmee troops, bombers soaring overhead. At sea, what’s left of the Federation’s naval forces join those of the other three powers to trap the Kaiserliche Marine in Skyfall and Rottendedam. Imperial forces at the borders are caught in a state of surprise. The attack was only expected from one direction. While all Imperial branches scramble to respond, losses are already mounting. The Great struggle for Griffonia has begun. October 15, 1011 Grenzwald Offizier-Jungeschule Zeldstadt, Hellsword “Extra, extra! Read all about it! Empire under attack! Entente forces pinch from both sides! Duchess Regent calls for volunteers to stand against the Republican menace! Extra!” The newsfoal standing on the street corner kept crowing as he held up the latest issue of Der Rechte Flügel, the stream of passing offizier-kadets occasionally tossing him a few idols for a copy. Cyril, for his part, kept on, pressing for the dormitories, not eager to dawdle. The kadet fatigues mercifully helped blend him in like camouflage in the brush, reducing the discomfort of his empty wingsleeve. But his was a matter of time constraint, not personal space. Flying over campus was off limits to all kadets (not that much of a bother to non pegasus ponies and dogs from the Bund), leaving the air open for instructors, staff and VIPs like visiting knights and inspecting officers. He couldn’t stand the stares that persisted, the whispers that he could barely hear in quiet lecture halls when the instructors had left them to their assignments or quizzes. He’d been warned to expect distaste, and got it. But there was an equal amount of awe from the younger, less hardened kadets. Much like the rest of the Empire, battle scars were a mark of honor, in the Grenzwald more than any elsewhere. But the same unnatural sense of missing a wing persisted, and the stares that came with it, from the Grenzwald kadets, Herzland kadets and even other combat vets like him. Those who would take interest in the young drake never took long to come face to face with him, and were all too eager to ask him about his experience, ponies and griffons alike, further dragging up unwanted memories. The only people he was friends with these days were his crew, barracked off campus at the proving grounds and a few of the other vets who managed to get past their own prejudice. As if his unwanted celebrity wasn’t already rather uncomfortable, the classes were killing him. Normally, a kadet candidate would take at least two years of education in the Empire to earn a commission from the Osnabeak Akadamie. The knight-run learning institutes in Hellquill, Swordsson and Zeltdstadt were even harsher, taking up to three years according to what he had heard. But for a combat veteran like Cyril, who had already passed basic training nearly half a decade ago and acquired more combat experience than most of the frontier kadets here, there was a fast track option available, his training being focused on more intellectually demanding undertakings. Imperial and Reformisten officers, NCO’s and instructors alike shared these halls, the Herzland specialists imparting their expertise until the Grenzwald campus was fully caught up on modern panzer warfare, which only a few Black Knights had grips with. But from all sides, he received no quarters. Upon waking up, it was physical conditioning, with extra physical therapy for Cyril himself instead of flying. Then, after breakfast it was a full barrage of classes for eight hours in subjects like mathematics, combatives, foreign briefings, etiquette, political science, tactical lessons and for him particularly mechanical engineering. Ironically, the subject Cyril suffered in the worst of all, worse even than mathematics, the physical training or etiquette was tactics class, by far the most essential. In all his time, Cyril had only ever had to worry about staring down a gunsight, predicting what the other side was about to do. Now, he’d be in charge of not only his own whole panzer, but three more on top of that. And so far, his idea of reasonable tactics had only been met with lukewarm success. Hauptmann Zettler had highlighted this with a simple exercise; with a theoretical four panzer force, assault an enemy bunker on a hill dug in with an anti-Panzer gun. Cyril’s answer had been to split the force and pincer from both sides, but Zettler had pointed out that it exposed all four panzers’ flanks. Much as Cyril had wanted to protect his drakes, the captain had informed him, he had risked even more injury by letting the enemy take a pick of such juicy targets. The correct answer, Zettler had said, was to square off with two of the panzers as a gun line with their thick frontal plates, while the other two were to pinch from the flanks. It sat badly in Cyril’s beak, knowing from firstclaw experience that such a move would cost at least one panzer. But according to the instructors, his own tactic would result in two, possibly three panzers down with flank shots. It had been embarrassing. Despite this display, Oberstmeister Heimclar, watching nearby, reiterated that the suggestion of the aspiring kadet was not entirely without merit, mentioning how his logic of trying to prevent casualties was admirable. The execution, Heimclar has reasoned, required refinement. The real exercise, for example, would have far more clear conditions than a stock sample tactics board. After all this, Cyril had just enough time to rush to his dorm, change out of his kadet uniform into his newly issued panzerwaffen blacks, grab a bite to go and get out of town to the proving grounds. Luckily, Zeltstadt’s train station wasn’t far from the campus, and once he was aboard it was smooth sailing, assuming he caught the 4:35. So it was he flung open the door to his dorm, glancing around the room. His roommate appeared to be otherwise engaged, the blue blood lout. Cyril sighed, changing out of his kadet uniform and into his Reichsarmee panzerwaffe uniform as quick as he could, already trying to remember what they had tested yesterday on the Gryta and what the engineers claimed they’d be testing while he was gone. He’d have to review the notes once he got there, assuming they didn’t move to gunnery without- Something on the bed caught his eye, and he paused. A few envelopes. His mother hadn’t stopped writing, since the telephone she used had been down at the local pub (they were too poor to afford their own set), but her last letter came in two days ago, after she’d already come to visit him. He moved quickly, flipping them over to inspect. A letter from the Reichsarmee, which he would save for later. Another one from Griffenheim made him pause as he recognized the name of Father Andreas Bronzeclaw, the priest from Greifenmarsch and the Herzland Wars who’d returned to the Great Temple afterwards. That could be interesting. The last letter, however, made his breath hitch and his body freeze up. A letter from Paige. For one long, agonizing minute, he stared at the letter. That was her writing, she always addressed it in cursive, and the stamps were indeed Equestrian, the spires of Canterlot on the small tabs. He almost didn’t know what to do, having been so long without her. Then a train whistle blew in the distance, and he snapped back to reality, quickly tossing the letter in his pack and finishing his preparations to leave. Ten minutes later, Cyril squeezed between two tired looking pony laborers, finding an open space on the passenger car to let him slip in and sit down next to the Bronze Dog slumbering near the end of the car. The window captured the setting sun perfectly, and he set his travel bag down as the letter once more materialized. Another minute of indecision, and he sliced the top open with a claw. As the train steamed off into the Longswordian countryside, Cyril finally unfolded it and began to read Paige’s words once again... Sent September 9th, 1011 Dear Cyril, It’s so good to finally hear from you. I was worried something had gone wrong. In a way, from your description, it did. I am so sorry. I have no words to express my sorrow and sympathy. Pegasi feel the loss of another creature’s wing much like death. It’s our greatest fear. Not even magic can properly heal it sometimes. The thought of having to live without it makes me feel ghastly ill for lack of a stronger term. And you’re working with Morgend Longpaw! What I wouldn’t give to be with you, for multiple reasons. Try to work through your troubles with him for me, he’s possibly the most brilliant drake you’ll ever meet (though I wouldn’t say he’s my second favorite). Your news about the Panzer Elite promotion makes me happy. Congratulations on making the cut. Now you’ll be getting an education too. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. You’re a hard worker. I know you can be a good student at this, army life is everything to you. You earned this, and you’re finally getting recognized for what I’ve always known you could do. I’ve been so scared the past few months. This war has only gotten started, and for a while it seemed like you were gone. Or at least just not there. But now you’re safe again, and I can look forward to your letters once more. We’ve been pulled back again. Tall Tale and Las Pegasus fell to the assault, so our flight has been taken to Bales. Canterlot is practically within short flight range now. But it’s changed. The mountains and forests here are now working to our advantage, funneling the changelings into killzones. I hear there’s still fighting in Mariposa and Raspberry Grove. Word is the Royal Army finally got solid defense lines around Marechester and Ponderosa. Rockville is supposed to get reinforcements, but that’s so far away I can’t say for certain. There’s no way the south will let the bugs roll through. But. We may have finally slowed them down. Maybe even stopped them. I haven’t been anywhere but the airbase and Bales. Well, and up in No. 83, shooting at the bugs. They stopped fitting her with bombs. Seems we’re a bomber escort now, which makes me just a navigator. We go up almost every day, it seems. Never at night. It’s practically suicide against the enemy. Changeling fighters, it turns out, are not so impossible to kill by Spitfires, but we’ve got less and less of those every day, and the bug pilots spent a hell of a lot longer training for this job. Some of their aces are almost magical in the air. There’s two we’re always concerned with; Verkut and Kalart. We know their names because changeling propaganda leaflets keep turning up bragging about them. Both are able to slip right past a bomber wing’s fighter escort and gut the wing with little effort, kill an escort or two and get away scot free. I hear Verkut even shot down a Wonderbolt, but nopony official’s talking about it. The rest of the base always seems to be in some grim spiral, only broken up by radio speeches from the Princesses and large doses of cider, the “old medicine” as we call it. But we keep going up. We get shot down or full of holes, and we grab replacement planes, replacement crew, patch up the damage and go again. And again. It almost seems endless. All the ordnance we’re dropping has to be doing something. RAF High Command ordered the cessation of strategic bombers on our cities. Apparently, there’s too much collateral damage and the Princesses don’t wish to cause anymore civilian deaths. Good and bad with that decision. But still. Sombra’s back. It’s official. I don’t know if your newspapers are reporting on that. He was never confirmed destroyed in the Crystal War. Now he’s back and converting Crystal ponies to his Thrall Legions, working with the changelings. This war is like something out of a nightmare. It just keeps getting worse for us when we think we’ve seen it through to the worst. No word on what Royal Command is doing about it. I just hope they act fast before the Crystal Empire falls, and then we have one more frontline and one less ally. We’ve been told to expect some company. Apparently, a treaty was signed with (the word has been clipped by a censor), so we can expect to see more backup any day now. Any port in a storm, I guess. Commonwealth fighters touched down, talking about Expeditionary battalions landing in (the word has been clipped by a censor) to come help us. About time, but I’m betting nopony is going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Bit of an odd bunch, kind of treating this war as an exciting getaway. They keep going on about ‘saving our flanks a second time’. I remember flying with them in the Crystal War. Seems a lifetime ago, not just a few years. We’re just fighting and surviving as best we can out here, but it’s hard. Static covers it up with sarcasm and humor, but I can tell she’s scared to death. The more she laughs it off, the more frightened she is. We also found out that Tall Tale was Ace’s hometown. He doesn’t even know if his wife and foals got out. No wonder he’s been out of sorts. We let him be after that. I think he needs to work out a few things before we can help him. He always seems to be on the verge of cracking. I just hope that if he does, it’s not while he’s at the stick. Looks like the Empire decided not to sit back and wait. The newspapers are going crazy about Imperial panzers blitzing the border, like it's somehow right up there with the changeling tanks bearing down on us even now. I know how loyal you are, but I’m going to say this right now, and you’ll likely disagree, but here it goes; invading Skyfall is a mistake. I don’t doubt the Empire can win in Skyfall and the Haukland Isles. But you may have to watch for a bigger war yourself. Aquileia and the Republic both were trying to get on the Federation’s good side. You’re so worried about me, now I’m getting worried about you all over again in the course of a letter on top of the news of your wing, now what the papers are telling us from across the sea. In these times, I find myself turned to poetry and sayings. Pieces of home I’ve come to treasure the longer I am away from it, and the worse I hear things are getting. Father finally admits it is probably for the best to leave now. They’re talking about trying to apply for entry to Gryphia, as much as he hates it. Mother keeps reminding him they have no choice. Almost all sea traffic is blockaded right now, and the only choice aside from fleeing to the Hillfolk League through Diamond Mountain is trying to push through Barrad to Kása. Brook fell off the scene again. Probably left the Friestaat to escape before the Reformisten advance. There’s nothing I can do to help any of them, and what’s worse is that the letter took two months to reach me here. They’ve likely left by now. I don’t even know where they decided to go. I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from any of them again. They may as well be one of my squadron, shot dead out of the sky. It feels the same. I’m going to miss my mother’s garden. The whole world seems to be falling apart. Sometimes it feels all I have left is my flight and you. Stay in touch. I can’t lose you again. Ostani na sigurnom i živi dobro, draga moja. Gives you a reason to learn Rijekan. Love, Paige P.S: the lilac was perfect. They grew all over the hills around Rijekograd. I remember a corner of my mother's garden had a huge lilac bush, too thick to play in but beautiful to look at. It’s likely gone now, but your gift will always remind me of it. Thank you. “Next stop! Korinna Proving Grounds!” Cyril’s head snapped up from the letter, which he’d fortunately only just finished. Time to think about it later. There was a lot to unpack in this. The crowd on the station was not thick, and Cyril had no luggage. He flowed through the station like water, trying not to look up at the winged forms flying overhead, either chatting in the station rafters or leaving through the open ends of the station. But he couldn’t help glancing up at the Pegasi and griffons above him, a twinge of jealousy in his gut. “Oops!” Something small and solid impacted his waist, and Cyril glanced down to apologize to the small figure when his voice caught in his throat. He had assumed them to be a chick or a foal, but upon first glance he had no clue what to think. He was the right size, and possessed a muzzle and front hooves, but his head and chest were covered in white feathers, and his lower half was a sky blue that reached to paws and a leonine tail. He was dressed like many other lower class worker children in the Grenzwald, though this being Hellsword the style closely resembled Herzlander clothes. And, strangest of all, the child had purple eyes and no wings. “Sorry, sir!” the chick, foal, whatever this child was snapped a clumsy salute at the sight of Cyril’s uniform. “Wasn’t watching where I was going!” “It’s alright,” Cyril found himself automatically replying. With that, the child beamed up at him before galloping off, moving through the sparse crowd towards a female griffon, who smiled down at the child warmly. She must have been his mother, but how? Adopted, surely. The formel and strange child turned to the train, where an Earth pony stallion, one of the bigger breeds, was exiting a passenger car. Like the formel and child, he was dressed basically, like a low class worker, his saddlebags bulging with what looked like tools. The griffon and child embraced him, and he back to them, talking and smiling like a family recently reunited. Because they were. “Huh,” Cyril remarked quietly to himself, watching the scene until the family made to move towards the entrance. In a flash, he was gone, though not without a pit in his gut...alongside a warm glow of some kind of positive emotion he could no longer name. He was met at the station entrance today by Gefreiter Sabrina Eisenwing, his new gunner, lounging in the staff car, paging through a magazine with a bored expression. While the Panzer Elite has done their best to keep veteran crews together, Cyril now had need of two new crew members, with him being promoted and Haul seemingly having vanished. As a result, he’d been given fresh graduates, replacements in the barest of terms. At least Eisenwing has come highly recommended, and if he was being frank she was fairly attractive, a nice change from the rough and scarred faces he’d served with the past few years. She glanced up as he approached, then immediately stood, stepping out to open the rear door for him and saluting sharply. “Afternoon sir,” she greeted, back ramrod stiff, wings frozen in place. “At ease,” Cyril replied, saluting in return. After so long as one of the griffs below in the enlisted, being greeted as a ‘sir’ was still strange to him. “Were you waiting long?” “No sir. Pulled in thirty minutes ago.” She shut the door behind him, taking her own seat and starting the staff car. “You lucked out, sir. They’re currently fixing a problem with our engine, so we’ve got time to get back and get you up to speed.” “That -is- good news,” Cyril acknowledged, watching the train station pull away and the Korinna grounds roll up instead, his mind elsewhere as he moved on into the second phase of his training. Right now, his mind was on the slip of paper tucked away in his coat pocket. And it would stay there the rest of the day. November 20th, 1011 Whitemane RAF Airbase Bales, Equestria Paige spat as she threw her flying cap to the tarmac, cursing to herself. Another flight, another bitter disappointment. Gods, they had -won- this one. So why didn’t it feel like a victory? She looked back over No. 83 and the sheer number of bullet holes in her side brought back to mind the wind whistling past her mane, hearing the shriek of the air as they had dove and banked through the sky. Contesting the air above the Crystal Empire against the Thrall pilots had been assigned to the Reds, leaving the Royal Air Force to focus on protecting what was even now being referred to as the Blueblood Line. While the situation up north was still in turmoil as the Crystal and socialist ponies kept being pushed further and further back by an almost unending tide of Sombra’s Thrall Legions backed by changeling panzers, umbral monsters, Olenian skirmishers and now polar bear shock troops, the focus of holding Equestria was seen as the more vital point. Mariposa had finally fallen, but Paige had been there to witness the almost flawless execution of the fallback to Marechester. From what the squadron had been told, command had been expecting Mariposa to be taken, and played it to their advantage, evacuating the civilians, booby-trapping the buildings and streets after and then falling back to stronger, more prepared fortifications in Marechester. The bugs’ attempts to use Mariposa’s military structure would receive a nasty surprise in the form of several thousand timed explosives hidden in hangars, radio stations, munitions bunkers and under roads, bridges and runways. Since No. 83 no longer carried bombs, another Nickers machine gun had been installed in the nose for Paige, a role she took to eagerly, ready to fight back when she had previously been little more than a passenger at the mercy of Ace’s flying. The operation had gone off without a hitch...for the army. While Equestrian troops and tanks had moved into trenches and behind artillery pits in Marechester, the Queendom had plastered the RAF with an enormous air fleet, including the two aces Verkut and Kalart, vicious air killers both. The result was half the squadron being shot to pieces, unable to handle the massive swarm they suddenly faced. Even the pegasi fliers had been ambushed by changelings, and the uncomfortable realization that battleshifters could fly still, and were capable of literally ripping apart tactical bombers in midair only worsened the situation. The only reason the rest had escaped was thanks to Marechester’s AA defenses and intervention by fighters from Commonwealth No. 3 Squadron. Ironically, the Mustang and Bucksbane fighters used by the Commonwealth aviators were more modern than the Hurricanes most Equestrian fighter wings were still forced to use. The victory was soured for many surviving ponies as well as Paige herself as she sighed, looking around at the other planes coming down to the tarmac. Most were as beaten as No. 83. Some were worse off, spewing smoke and flames and just barely getting down so the fire crews and on hoof unicorns could halt the fires, some crashing and wrecking on the runway. Pilots and crew were being rushed to the healers, and even from here Paige could see the lines forming up outside the medical station, medics and healer unicorns rushing from patient to patient, trying to stabilize them long enough to get them to a hospital. Many had white sheets pulled over their forms, but no time or hooves to move the corpses away from the living. “Y’know,” came Static’s drawl as she also emerged from the plane, muzzle streaked with sweat and soot around where her goggles had been. “I could have sworn to the Princesses we won that one. They told us we won, right?” “Army won,” Paige replies quietly, an edge of bitterness to her tone. “That’s the difference.” “Well at least somepony on our side is,” Static shot back, stretching out as her magic also tugged the flight gear from her head. “I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna grab some coffee and about twelve hours of sleep. Let me know when they need us, should be about three hours.” “You realize you’re getting coffee -before- you go to sleep?” Paige replied, raising an eyebrow at her crew mate. Static thought about that for a moment before simply shrugging. “Yeah. But I need the coffee to make it to my cot. Guarantee I’ll still knock out before you.” And with that, the red unicorn took off at a wearied, tired trot towards the mess hall. For her part, Paige endured the poking and prodding by a unicorn healer before she was finally allowed to leave herself, exhausted and almost dragging herself back to the flight barracks, where many other crew ponies were staggering towards as well. Her wings ached from lack of use, and she smelled like gunpowder, grease, sweat and exhaust. But the showers would all be occupied by now. She would have to wait her turn, which she was currently more than happy to do. She made it to the room she and Static shared, tossing her flight jacket unceremoniously onto the ground, stretching as wide as she could. All her exhaustion disappeared, however, with the sight of an envelope on her bunk. Glancing over at Static’s, she saw the customary small stack from the radiomare’s fans. Corporal Dee must have delivered their mail while they were in the air. Eagerly, she swept over, only giving the address a cursory glance before ripping it open, eyes eagerly scanning the paper inside as she laid back on her bunk, feeling her aches and worries temporarily fade into the background... Sent October 17, 1011 Dear Paige, I’m sorry to hear I made you so worried, but I suppose it couldn’t be helped. While I’m grateful you can sympathize with me so much, I find I don’t want to talk about my missing wing anymore either. I’m having a strange experience here. The other kadets all seem to react to it, one way or another. Those from the Herzlands who came East because Osnabeak and Vinnin were overcrowded look at me with shock and sometimes a bit of revulsion. To be fair, I kind of know how unnatural I must seem to them. Then the Reformisten kadets are fascinated by it, and keep coming up to ask me how I lost it. They want me to relive that night, over and over again. So no, I’d rather stop talking about it, honestly. Longpaw is...interesting. He is certainly different from the scientists back at Krallestein, my only other basis of comparison. Disconnected from the world around him for sure, but he truly does seem to care. It is never just a science thing with him. He speaks as if we were changing the world with all of this. Were I a bit more optimistic, the words might be touching. What is more strange is that he doesn’t strike me as someone who would become a part of such a fanatical organization as the Reformisten. He doesn’t spout ideology and he certainly doesn’t seem to be aligned with them by common thought. I suppose even the most idealistic need to be pragmatic at times. He came in with the first prototype the other day, a big bulky thing that he called the ‘concept piece’. It fit my back and the stump, but it was so heavy it tipped me back the other way. I never even got to try and flap it. For a moment I could see a disappointed look on his face, a strange sight for one so mysteriously jolly, but in less than a second his attitude shifted back to his energetic usual self. And he was off again saying how he would come with a better design soon. It is a strange feeling to be a part of something that will change society so drastically, the way he speaks of how his invention will help those like me who either cannot fly because of a lost wing or of those without wings strong enough to achieve flight, it seems as though Doctor Morgend truly means well, an unusual sight in this bleak world. I hope he is right. The crew has been alright. Spotsley and Eihol came out okay, just with some injuries. Eihol lost most of the feathers on his face and the hearing in one ear, but he’s very popular with the formels here out East. Spotsley lost an eye, but she’s not letting that slow her down at all, certainly not when she lectures us. They both got promotions to sergeant, and they damned well deserve them. I haven’t seen Haul since the hospital. He just seemed to have disappeared. If I were to guess I would say he has been transferred because the replacements also included a loader for our crew. I may not have trusted him much, but not getting the chance to say goodbye stung a bit. We were never even told he was leaving. Back to the replacements. Sabrina Eisenwing is just a Gefreiter, but she apparently scored top of her class on the gunnery range back in Vinnin, and we need good shooters. She’s new, but so far she’s proving her scores with the Gryta cannon. Our new loader is Lukas Brightclaw, also a fresh rookie, but he apparently comes from a noble family in Yale, so he was talked on. He does a decent job as a loader, he’s a big griff. But he’s also pretty temple-headed. Apparently his father’s actually a bishop or something, I don’t remember. He’s always quoting scripture and saying prayers aloud, singing hymns as he works. Now, I’m a devoted follower myself. But there’s only so many times you can hear “Praise to the God King!” when you call for a reload before it just gets to you. He’s not bad, but he’s also kind of disappointed that nogriff else is as onto them as he is. I can’t tell you about the panzer, which is really frustrating because it’s the more enjoyable part of my day. But it’s considered top secret information, so anything I write will just get clipped. I’d rather save the time and ink and just write you things. I can tell you about the akadamie, however. This place was built out of an older one meant for the Longsword military, but that changed after the civil war. They only just got the new curriculum up and running two years ago, and now it’s seeing more students from the west. It’s not a bad place, but the sheer amount I have to go through is staggering. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say there’s far more to being an officer than you or I ever realized. I have to learn mathematics, for example. Some of these concepts I’ve never even heard of before now. Etiquette is another one, where I learn just how to speak with other officers, nobles, knights, royalty, on and on, given the Grenzwalders’ mindset picking up on these habits should not be so difficult but it appears that relearning my manners for the Imperial elite could cover a whole semester alone. It also turns out that being a good shot doesn’t translate to tactics well. I do well on the range, but that’s only for certification and then we’re done. Now, I have to learn how to manage several panzers at once and place the good of the mission above those under my command. It’s not a mentality I’m comfortable with. The physical conditioning is hard, too. I’m excused from the flying exercises, but they find other things for me, like sprints with the ponies, climbing up obstacles, things like that. The instructors seem to love singling me out. The topic of Skyfall being a mistake is too high above my head to debate with you. Invade as many lands as I have and they all start to look the same through a gunsight. You should know. But I’m not a politician. I’m learning about history and military structure, but the reasons for us being in this war are beyond me, and I know better than to trust the newsrags to tell me the whole truth. Whatever else, we’re at war. This time, we’re on the defensive. Propaganda on the approved radio nets spins it like we’re mounting a heroic defense to throw the invaders back any day now. But then they said that when the enemy was (this section is clipped out by a censor), and when (so is this section) was invaded, and now that Rottendedam’s under siege and our forces are (this section too) to Skyfall while bombers fly over the Herzland. Strangely, the fact I’m now on the other side of the Empire from the war makes me all the more nervous. I don’t know if word’s gotten back to you yet, but with Cyanolisia’s liberation, the war in the east is looking close to closing. They’re saying Asterion will be taken by Mondstille. So all the real battle is in the west. We’re all ready to get into the fight, but told we must stay. How strange. When I was at war, I wanted to be anywhere else. Now I’m in safety, enforced safety, and I can’t wait to go back. I don’t know what to make of that. Mother and Sophie visited over the weekend. There was a lot of crying and cursing from my mother. Then she straightened out and told me how proud she is of me. I can’t tell you how happy that all made me. She gave me some chocolates she made to send out to you, hoping it would reach you before the holidays. Some timing on that formel. Sophie is growing up everytime I look away from her. I can hardly believe it. I’m gone only a year and she shoots up like a weed. An eleven year old weed. And I’m not there. We went out on the town over the weekend, had lunch at a cafe. First time I’ve seen my mother and sister since I shipped out to the east. The stories they share about the air battles over Griffenheim make me more concerned than ever. They take shelter in the cellar while the Luftstreitkräfte fights Aquileian bombers back, listening to the ordnance pounding the Imperial City, while flak guns rattle away. To hear them tell it, the bombardments go on forever, and I can see the same darkness in their faces that many say I have in mine. Mother joined a volunteer group, some sort of Eimerbrigade. She goes out after the bombs stop falling and digs through wreckage for anygriff trapped beneath, then helps the fire service to put out fires. In the mornings, she helps pick through wreckage for bodies and precious remnants of lives shattered by the bombers, then joins the repair parties to fix the damage. She should not have to be the one to step into this role. I am now torn between wanting to be by your side, wanting to join the struggle out in Feathisia and being back home so I may protect my family. Sadly, it seems, I can have none of them. Mother and Sophie departed on the train for home after that. We have no family anywhere safer right now, but I have heard rumors of a chick’s evacuation to the east. I pray it does not come to that. I’ve been hearing news about the Riverlands. Concerning news that I’m not sure you know. Before the Entente invasion, the Reformisten were mostly concerned with restarting the crusade that was supposed to crush the east. Plenty of the instructors here speak of striking while the Coalition is tearing itself apart. But it appears that decision is no longer in their claws. Your parents will be fine, Paige. If they got out early enough, they can find safety in a number of places. And they’re smart enough to leave before things got too out of claw. After all, they were smart enough to raise you right. We get flyovers from the Luftstreitkräfte from time to time. Everytime they do, I always look up and think of you, even when I’m in class. It must be hell up there, from what little I know of aerial combat and what you’ve told me. If it's anything like panzer warfare, cooped up in a can while your fate is in the claws of others, then I at least have a shred of knowledge. Everyday the miles separating us seem to grow ever wider. We now have two enormous wars in our way, and I don’t know when the fighting will end this time. It seems endless, this gulf. The drumming never seems to cease, beating its chant into time as we try to march to its tune. It seems less land and sea striving to keep us apart and more a river of soldiers, walls of steel armor and an ocean of blood. The very force of war itself seems dedicated to our separation. You’re not the only one turning to poetry lately. Love, Cyril And that was it. No positive message at the end, no PS, no mention of how much he missed her. It didn’t seem so much a response to her last letter, and more Cyril getting a lot of baggage off his chest. While she felt for her beau, the letter left Paige a bit down, unsure of how to react to the words. War had come to Griffonia as well, and the news reports she trusted showed it to be just as bad as this one. By Cyril’s words, the distance between them now seemed as wide as going from the ground to the moon. Armies and fleets separated them now, not just land and an ocean. She was staring at the letter, trying to read deeper into it or at least gain some shred of the joy she used to have when she read Cyril’s words, when Static came back in, looking about as worn out as she felt. She glanced over at Paige with a small smile on her face. “Ace just got word. His family got out before Tall Tale was cut off.” “Oh. Yeah, that’s great,” Paige replied, not quite distracted but also not really able to muster up the energy for the relieved and active response she knew positive words like this deserved. True to form, Static raised an eyebrow as she eyed up the letter Paige had before her. “You okay? That a letter from Cyril?” “Yeah.” “Uh...how is he?” “Not good,” Paige said back, turning to the paper and scanning it for the fifth time. “He’s having a hard time at officer candidate school. Plus losing a wing. Griffenheim’s getting the crap bombed out of it, and his family’s right in the firing line.” “Damn war,” Static grumbled as she tugged her jacket off. “Both of them. What in Tartarus happened to the world? Four years ago, war was a memory as distant as Nightmare Moon. Now we’ve had civil wars, revolutions, coups, an evil resurrection and now we’re sitting in the middle of two firestorms threatening to burn down both continents. It’s insane.” “Yeah,” Paige mustered up, glancing over at her side table, where she’d cautiously set up the last photo she’d taken with her family, a week before she left for university, an eternity and a lifetime ago. “Maybe the world’s always been broken. We just covered it up so we could pretend everything was fine and carry on like it was all just one big, magical adventure.” To this, Static sighed as she collapsed onto her bunk, the fanmail shoved off the side to think about later. “Well, that’s certainly what Equestria’s been doing. Can’t really go back, can we?” And with that, the unicorn gave an enormous yawn, curled up with her pillow under the covers, and nodded off in minutes. The Rijekan Pegasus sighed, reading the letter once more. It would be hard to write back, she knew. But she had to. He was her only connection left. Maybe later, when she wasn’t so tired. But as she collected up the envelope to store the letter so she too could get some sleep, another slip of paper caught her eye. There, in the envelope as well. She’d missed it when she had opened it up. Curious, she reached in and gently extracted the much smaller piece. It had one line of text printed on it, in neat letters she thought she might recognize. Your family has passed through the Host. They are secured. And underneath, all there was for a signature was a drawing of an eye. Some kind of symbol? What did it all mean? Paige glanced up at the window, still holding Cyril’s letter as she watched the activity of the base outside and, more importantly, the sky. It had started snowing again. Author's Note Something new for you guys, a mixture of styles from narrative and letter both. A sign of changing times, how nothing is normal anymore, and how they cannot go back to the way they were. Expect the next one coming up fast, as I am very excited to write it. Its thanks to your support and eagerness that I keep writing these, and we still have a long road to go. Comment below on thoughts and feedback, join the Discord if you haven't yet and want to find some kindred spirits or join my patreon if you feel my writing deserving of what little you can give! Remember, we're all just starving artists! Next time: Winter War Stories Winter War Stories pt 1Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Winter War Stories pt 2Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 1Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.The GraduationSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Adelart OffensiveSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Bloody BlackthornSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 2Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.The Mountain StirsSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 3Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.A Matter of FaithSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 4Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 5Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 6Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Dream a Little DreamSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Love, Death and MagicSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Der Kaiser's LebenstagSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 7Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Iron SkySomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Welcome to the JungleSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.The Trial pt 1Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.The Trial pt 2Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Dream a Little Dream IISomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Black Harvest pt 1Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Black Harvest pt 2Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 8Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.The Middenheim GalaSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Dream a Little Dream IIISomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.A Nightly Conference pt 1Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.A Nightly Conference pt 2Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Return of the KingSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Dream a Little Dream IVSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Red WednesdaySomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.When In Ost-GriffoniaSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.Lest We ForgetSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.In the NewsSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.The Fall of CloudburySomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 9Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.1012 pt 10Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.GötterdämmerungSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.The MeetingRottendedam, Feathisia, Griffonian Empire March 14th, 1007 ALB (After Luna Banishment) The sea breeze always blew in warm and gentle from Sky Bay this time of year, carrying the salt smell over the port city. Rottendedam was one of the primary ports of the Griffonian Empire left in the current day. White and tan houses hugged the waterfront, an abundance of bridges, docks and quays let the entire city access the port as griffons went about their day. Rottendedam was a center of commerce, tourism and colonial power, which to contrast also bloomed the gardens it was so proud of, primarily tulips but also other flowers as well. Griffons didn’t usually carry such a reputation of being good gardeners, but Feathisians were proud of this niche part of their heritage. The old city held onto its charm compared to many other griffon towns of similar age or more, and a large part of that was the color and vibrancy of these flower gardens. Another part was the bright and chipper character of the residents as well. Cyril had to admit, compared to many other places in the Empire, Feathisia certainly felt a step and above more cheerful. The young griffon compared the lanes of cheerful market-goers and happy gossip to Griffenheim, and the difference was startling. Even in the grips of an economic crisis, the Rottendedam locals seemed optimistic, hopeful. He passed a police officer in his blue uniform, the lawgriff tipping his helmet in greeting before going on down the street at an easy amble, whistling casually. A shopkeeper haggled with a customer, and after only a few seconds of easy conversation, the two parted on good terms. A cluster of chicks poured past, chasing a wooden hoop down the cobblestone lane. Quite a scene. Much as he liked taking in the sights here, Cyril sighed and continued onwards. He had a reason for being here, and while there was no rush the sooner he got it over with, the better. He liked touring Rottendedam, and as such the fact he had to be here for unpleasant business left a bad taste in his beak. So, he squared his shoulders, flicked his wings and continued down the boulevard towards the harbor. This opened into a plaza of sorts, where tables and chairs were assembled towards a rope barrier, overlooking the ships in port, a cruiser from the Ducal Fleet anchored further out overshadowing the fishing boats and cargo trawlers. Here the sea breeze was especially prominent, the salt air a constant to his senses so he had to struggle to smell the cafe nearby, busy serving girls rushing platters back and forth, taking orders while fending off the advances and flirtatious nature of the unruly sailor griffs mixed into the common crowd here. The smell of roasted fish and salted pretzels rolled over Cyril, and he considered stopping to get a bite to eat. His unpleasant task might be easier with a full stomach, after all. It was then that, for just a moment, the crowd enjoying their lunch parted a quick moment, and he got a rare look through the griffons in his way to the other side. In another story, Cyril might have rolled his eyes, insisting there was never a storybook moment like this in real life, cynical griffon that he was. But there she was. On the other side of the plaza, studying a book in front of her with rapt attention, a plate of pretzels in front of her as well as what looked like some sort of sandwich. Cyril knew Rottendedam had a pony minority from across the sea, but he still hadn’t seen or met many personally in his life. She drew his curiosity for a moment in that base manner of spotting something new and different, a break from the banal of his life. Her coat was a pleasant off-white shade, her curly mane a light grey with a single purple stripe. The wings on her back fluttered idly as she studied whatever was in front of her, and that emblem the ponies called a ‘Cutie Mark’ was an open book with a quill. Her colors seemed to shoot out in the mostly tan and brown city, surrounded by griffons in ordinary drab clothing, and Cyril’s eye was caught by her stark coloration. Something drew him in, and he began to press into the crowd. But then the cruiser in the harbor blew her horn, a sign of departure, and Cyril started at the noise, looking first to the warship, then to the tall structure across the bay. The Vlootacadamie stood tall and imposing, a sign of Imperial glory in the city. What was he doing? He had a goal here, one he needed to accomplish today. He sighed, shaking his head as he began exiting the crowd again. No reason for him to get sidetracked just because of a mare that caught his eye. He glanced over her way, then stopped again. He couldn’t hear from across the plaza with so much noise, but three griffons had stepped towards her, townies who were approaching. And Cyril didn’t like the look on their faces. He glanced up at the Vlootacadamie in the distance, then back to the pegasus. She might not be in trouble. For all he knew, the mare was more than capable of handling herself. But the situation still bothered him. He looked up at the structure once more, then down to his uniform and back up to the mare, who had just realized the three griffons were making a ring around her. “Boreas dammit,” he cursed, pushing through the crowd more forcefully now. He was across the plaza in seconds, leaving many griffons in startled protest and annoyed at the rough treatment. But he finally could hear what they were saying. “Listen darling,” one said, leaning over close to her, an arm around her back as his talons lightly scraped the table. “You shouldn’t be out and about by yourself. Ponies in Feathisia aren’t very liked, ja? You could be in danger.” “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” the pegasus replied cautiously, glancing back and forth between the griffs around her. Her Herzlandisch had an accent, clipped and refined, from someplace definitely not within the Empire. “Please, I’m just trying to eat some lunch.” “Don’t be so rude, mijn geliefde,” said a second griffon. These guys looked like merchant marine sailors, griffs who manned the cargo ships and came into port only once every few months. So, of course they were the type to look for a good time. Or a bad one. “We’re just trying to have some fun.” “Listen, I should go,” the mare said, standing from her seat and slipping beneath the arm of the first griffon. But the third one, easily the largest of the group, planted himself in her way, leering down. “Who said you could leave?” he rumbled. The pegasus grit her teeth, glancing around nervously. Abruptly, the second griffon was yanked back by his shirt collar, dumped to the cobblestones of the plaza. The first whirled around at the noise, only to be shoved back into a table, sent tumbling over steins. Cyril turned to look up at the burly griffon, who was just as flummoxed by the young soldier suddenly appearing in their midst. “How about you back off, before I claw your eyes out?” he hissed, tail whipping in agitation. “Piss off, Herzlander,” the burly griff growled back. “This has got nothing to do with you. Don’t care if you’re Reichsarmee, I’ll dump your corpse in the harbor if I have to. No love lost here.” “She already said she’s not interested,” Cyril glared, not flinching a step back, even as he could hear the other two getting to their feet behind him. “So step. Back.” Cyril was under no illusions. He wore his grey Imperial Guard uniform and nothing else. No enchanted knight’s plate, no flak jacket, nothing but cloth. But finally faced with somegriff that appeared to be an actual threat, and drawing the stares of the entire plaza, the three sailors’ courage dried up. “Let’s go,” burly griff muttered, turning to shove through the crowd. His companions, now without their heavy hitter, turned and ran after him, one giving a last glance at Cyril and flaring his wings as a threat. But the soldier stood strong, and held his position as the attackers retreated. Only once they were out of sight and the crowd filled back in behind them did he let a breath out of his beak, one he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. “Good riddance,” he muttered as the adrenaline bled off him, leaving him shakey as he turned back to check on his would-be victim. “Fraulein, are you-“ But instead of finding her a quivering mess, on the ground trying to cope with the situation as he’d expected, the Pegasus was instead seated back at her table, chewing on a pretzel thoughtfully, watching him carefully. Her eyes were purple, he saw. A very odd shade that reminded him of a cluster of crystals he’d seen used in making enchanted metals. He blinked, surprised in more ways than one. “...alright?” he finished, though his question was certainly answered. Fortunately, she smiled back, finishing her bite of pretzel. “My hero,” she replied in that accented voice, and he couldn’t help but feel she was teasing him a little. She gestured to the wear across from her. “Do you have a moment for your damsel in distress?” He scoffed, rubbing his beak before he grunted, taking the seat she offered. Suddenly feeling very foolish, he shifted awkwardly. All his bravado, stolen by a simple gesture. “It’s alright,” the mare said again, holding up a hoof to the passing server. “Can I get a Braufenweisen for my rescuer?” She glanced over at him once more. “I assumed that would be alright? You look like a Braufen griff.” “It’s fine,” he muttered, watching her carefully. It was true that Braufenweisen was his favored drink, but how did she know that? “Most Herzlanders, especially Imperial military, drink Braufenweisen just out of tradition,” she explained as if she could read his mind. “Not to my taste personally, but I understand the appeal.” She held a hoof across the table to him. “Paige Turner.” “Cyril Duskwing,” he replied, taking her hoof uncertainly and giving it an awkward shake, unsure of himself again. She was unlike most ponies he’d heard of, who were so brimming with overwhelming ‘positive’ energy and feelings of ‘harmony’. Then again, most of those stories were about Equestria. Was she a Riverlands pony? The confidence in her face suddenly shifted, and now she was the one looking awkward. “Right, sorry. You did do me a favor with that rescue, I shouldn't be making you uncomfortable.” Cyril chuckled, reaching over and toying with a pretzel. “Something tells me you might have at least had it under control, right?” Paige smirked again, some of her confidence coming back. “I grew up in Rijekograd. Socialist protests every other week. Not my first time in a bad situation, sorry to say.” “Sounds like my intervention was...unnecessary, then,” Cyril replied, taking the offered bottle as the server returned, smacking the cap off on the edge of the table. “Cheers.” She lifted her own tankard, and the two clinked a quick toast before taking large gulps. At the end, she smacked her lips, closing up her book to make sure it didn’t get stained. “No, I -am- very grateful. Three on one is never good, and no matter the race a female can’t say she doesn’t like being rescued by a male in uniform.” She smiled again, the good kind that he liked that made him buzz at the base of his hind paws, and he was certain he hadn’t drank enough for it to be the beer. He took another sip, trying to distract himself a moment. She gave him a quick up and down, checking his lapels for a rank pin and the state of his uniform, while inspecting his face once more. Young, barely enlistment age, black feathers with a strong axebeak. The poster child of an Imperial soldier. “What’s a Herzlander Guardsgriff doing out in Feathisia? You’re a ways from home.” “Military business. Of a family matter,” he replied, shrugging as he knew it made little sense. “Military family then? Old tradition?” Paige asked, idly blowing a lock of grey and purple mane out of her eyes, her attention locked in on him. Truthfully, Cyril hadn’t felt this much like the object of such intense focus since Reichsarmee training, when the instructors were looking for any fault to punish, harshly. “You could say that,” Cyril replied dryly, taking another gulp of the beer. “You’re very observant.” “I recognized the name. I learned Herzlandisch by reading newspapers. A LOT of newspapers. “Oh, then you saw my name all the time,” Cyril said, chortling before taking another drink. “Not that it's done me any favors. Suddenly, just because I’m a Duskwing I'm supposed to be an ubergriff, or I can get favors or a hundred other things.” “Sounds rough…” Paige replied, frowning as she went from studying Cyril to her drink. “My family’s all noponies. My mother works with clocks while my father mans a riverbarge hauling freight.” “Rijekograd, right?” Now it was Cyril’s turn to arch an eyebrow. “So what are -you- doing on the other side of Griffonia?” “Ah, you’re smarter than you look, Herr Duskwing,” Paige chuckled, pleased to have her own game turned on her out of the blue for once. “Nah, just a little snap reasoning,” Cyril replied, smiling back. ”Now c’mon, out with it. What’s the story?” She smiled back, pointing down next to her seat, where he finally spotted a single suitcase, up on its side with the handle folded and wheels sticking out. “I’ve been accepted for a scholarship at the Luna Nova Academy. It's an amazing opportunity, and the best place to study advanced magical theory.” “Magical theory? But you’re-” “A Pegasus? Yes, I'm aware -I- can’t cast magic, but there’s far more to study than practical usage! According to Star Swirl’s theory of manativity, for example, the energies of both magic and life can be said to run parallel with each other, rather than one dominating over the other! And I'm going to be looking into that!” Paige was practically giddy in her seat, bouncing with glee as she chartered off obscure knowledge of magics that were of little use to Cyril himself. “Isn’t that amazing? Imagine the kind of work I can do!” Cyril blinked slowly, not sure what to say, and the off-white mare began spinning down from her intellectual enthusiasm, realizing she may be speaking over his head. Now a bit sheepish, she merely shrugged. “It's an amazing opportunity, is all. And my boat leaves tonight.” “Tonight?” Cyril tried to keep the disappointment out of his tone. After all this time, and pretzels and beer, he’d started giving a bit more thought to the idea of asking to spend more time with her. But if she was leaving… “Well, good for you. I’m uh...certain you’ll do well.” Paige gave him an odd look there, tilting her head to the side. “You really mean it?” Now even more confused, Cyril went with it. After all, she was leaving, what could a little unfounded positivity hurt? “Well, yeah sure. You seem like a smart filly. Way smarter than me, anyway.” “You’re not as dumb as you think Cyril,” Paige returned, continuing to fix him with that odd expression before she smiled and asked “Hey, weird question; do you want to keep in touch?” “Keep in touch?” “Okay, are you a griffon or a parrot now?” She giggled, and he coughed, no obvious response coming to mind. “By letter. I...kinda feel like I want to keep talking to you. But if you have to head east, and I’m going west, that's going to complicate things, yeah?” She pulled a piece of paper and a quill from her bag, rummaging for ink. “I can’t say when I’ll be set up, but I know the Academy’s address.” Abruptly, he was reaching across the table, tearing the paper in half and picking up the quill. “Then you should send me a letter first, Ja? After all, my parent's address isn’t changing. You can let me know when you’re set up.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back, delighting at the practical genius of the seemingly small detail that had shot over her head. “Okay. I think I'd like that.” With that, reluctant to part, the two ordered another round of pretzels and beer, spending the next hour talking about Griffonia, Equestria, arguing about history, pointing out things in the harbor, ignoring the stares sent their way by the crowd. By the time the two finally rose and moved away, they were speaking like old friends who would dearly miss the other’s company. Little did they know as they went their separate ways, the two would not meet in person again for ten years. Vlootacadamie “You’re looking good, Cyril.” General August Duskwing, member of the Imperial general staff, glanced up from his paperwork, looking over the young griffon in his fresh Reichsarmee uniform before returning to his work. “Hope you’re not here asking favors already.” “No, Uncle.” Cyril fidgeted awkwardly, glancing around the general’s office. Temporary though it had been, this place was General Duskwing’s for several weeks, and it showed from the handful of certifications and novels he’d brought, a couple of them being ones he had authored on modern infantry tactics. “Mother said you wanted to speak with me?” “And you came out to Feathisia to do it?” Duskwing’s tone was both humored and a bit dumbfounded at that. “I assumed you’d be too busy once you returned to your duties.” Duskwing thought that over for a moment, then nodded slowly, understanding. “I suppose I have little time for home life these days. I apologize, Nephew.” The general shut his current book before looking up at his nephew more carefully, more studiously. “You’re going to embark on a great journey, Cyril. Things in the world are changing, and the Empire must change with it. Before your father died, I promised him I'd look out for you. But Duskwings don’t ride off each other, we make our own glory. So I let you go through training, alone. And you did outstanding. But now comes the part where I step in.” The general tapped his talons on the desk, pondering a moment as Cyril watched carefully, wondering where August was going with this line of reasoning. “General Synovial believes we are ready to field our own separate panzerwaffen formations. I’ve been working with him during exercises, and we have a new prototype landship to replace the Airbender. Nephew...I can pull a few strings, and get you assigned to the first panzer division in training. You’ll literally be making history for the Empire. And it's much better than being some grunt in the trenches. So...what do you say?” SS Jolly Sea Jewel As the passenger liner finally pulled far enough away that Griffonia disappeared over the horizon, Paige felt a pang in her chest, her wings ruffling anxiously. Even before she left Rijekograd, she’d been experiencing apprehension, homesickness and a little paranoia. The River Union was unstable, risky territory, but Equestria wasn’t entirely safe either as the Changelings over the border proved. What if she wasn’t good enough for the Academy? What if she got deported? She wished she’d had more time to talk to Cyril about things. They were just getting to know each other and now they were going to be half a world apart. Well, they had their letters to look forward to, and she’d have to simply work towards getting a ticket back to the Empire during a break when she could manage it. That was still entirely feasible. The world couldn’t change that much before then, right? Author's Note This story is obviously based in the incredible world of Equestria at War. While we have some talented authors, a community -within- a community like this could always use more stories. If you guys are interested, I'd recommend giving it a try through the game Hearts of Iron IV. If not, then here's hoping you get a taste of it through here! 1009 pt 2Sent June 16, 1009 Dear Paige, Worrying you? I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Most of the major powers have some overseas territories. Equestria still has New Mareland, need I remind you. They had to take that from the local griffons the same that Feathisia took the South Zebrides from the locals. Wingbardy’s got territory in Abyssinia, and everyone knows the River Coalition’s been eyeing up the lands in the southeast. I’m not in a position to say what’s wrong or right, Paige. But if the Emperor or the Regency determines the flag be raised over some miserable desert in Zebrica, I’ll roll off the transport screaming ‘Fur das Kaiserreich’. Look. (Several words are scratched out.) I’m happy your War is over. Sombra sounds like a threat to all of Equus, not just Equestria. I hope someone took care of him, for good. I hope your leave helps clear your head. You need it. You mentioned Manehattan before, but I’ve only ever seen it in newspapers or from a postcard. It sounds like an amazing place. I’d love to go there some day. Did you ever get a response from Hoofington U? I’m fairly sure you’ll get in, especially with how many must have left to enlist in one branch or another. If you’ve got that veterans’ education bill, I’d think that would fast track you up. It definitely would here. Your father thinks I made you enlist? You did tell him I tried to talk you out of it, right? Anyway. We’re sitting here with baited breath. Across the river, Marsch troops dig in. They’ve dug miles of trenches already, sandbags and log bunkers, machine guns and mortars waiting. This is madness. From the intel briefings, we outnumber the peasant troops just on this front three to one, with panzers, howitzers and airplanes. I see the lights of Oldwingburg on the horizon, well within striking range. For the life of me, I can’t fathom what the Peasant Council’s thinking is. They’re outnumbered, outgunned and not even in a good fortified position to cover themselves. Statthalter Erebus and his Council have gone insane. But we just sit, and we wait. Even the trips to town have become lifeless. The village we visited before was taken over as a korps kommand. No more beer and schnitzel our way. Just a regiment of volunteers from Rimau and dogs setting up howitzers in trenches. Guess they’re not so happy to see us. They’re telling us the Ducal Wedding is going to be July 7th. We’re on standby. The Council’s likely to declare secession around that time, we’re told. Everyday, I climb into Zola and stare down my gunsights, watching a bunch of militia watching me. We’re all just sitting here, waiting for the word to start shooting each other. And no matter how the odds look stacked in our favor, I know it’s not going to be easy. It’s going to get ugly here. If the fight breaks out before I hear back from you, I want to send you one last message. I know you don’t need my medal of Arcturius anymore. Keep it. From me. Just in case. Yours, -Cyril P.S: Female attention: more than I’d like, less than you think. It was a bit thrilling at first, but now it’s just awkward. (Inside the envelope is a small, square photo of Cyril smiling in his Reichsarmee uniform, sitting on a tank in an unknown location, wings slightly flared. Flipping it over on the back is handwritten “To Paige, For when the years grind on, and the winters grow bitter and cold. -Cyril” Sent June 31st, 1009 Dear Cyril, I’ll drop the colony issue, for now. But don’t think this is over. I’m not letting it go. We’re posted on occupation in the Crystal Empire. I’ve been moved north to the City’s airfield. If Whinnyapolis was cold, it’s frigid up here, even in the summer. Forests stretch all around, and even now there’s still ice and snow to be found in caves and areas that remain cool. Good thing my leave came in before too long. I flew over Manehattan as soon as I arrived. There’s so much I missed here when I arrived all that time ago. The metropolis stretches as far as the eye can see up and down the coastline, with the tallest modern towers I’ve ever seen. Not Rijekograd, not Griffenheim, not even the Crystal City or Canterlot has skyscrapers like these. They’re marvels of engineering, and more are under construction, the workers tending to it around the clock with rivets and hammers and magic. The harbor is more full with nautical traffic than even Rottendedam ever was. The Celestial Fleet was in, and I spotted an aircraft carrier with half a dozen destroyers at the naval yard. The attitude here is different than Whinnyapolis or the Crystal City. Up north, I get welcomes and thank yous and congratulations, all for winning the Crystal War. But here, I get just as many dirty looks for my uniform. There’s protestors in front of city buildings calling for a vote to dethrone the Princesses and decide their own fate, and they all glared at me. I stopped in at a bar to grab a few drinks, and lucky me I picked a military bar. All my beers were paid for by other ponies, and I even earned a pat on the back from a few Nova Griffonian mercenaries. Apparently they were on a protection detail for a cargo shipment, not that I asked. But I did get a look at their gear when they left. To my chagrin, they were better equipped than the Equestrian army ponies I saw in the Crystal City. Isn’t that humbling? I went to the harbor like I said I would. Looked east across the Celestial Sea. For a brief moment, I imagined I could see Rottendedam, where we first met. I could almost hear your voice again. And now, thanks to the photo you sent, I can remember how you look without missing a detail. You look very handsome in your uniform, by the way. There was apparently a contingent from Hippogriffia in the city while I was there. The airway was cleared for them to fly through the skyline, all gleaming jewelry and bright colors. First time I’ve ever seen a hippogryph up close. It’s such a strange feeling, seeing a creature that is two halves of two different, familiar creatures. They were so...large. Larger than the biggest pony I’ve ever seen. Larger than griffons. Everywhere I look, I see more reminders of you. Hippogryphs that look like you, crows with your feather color, snacks at the seaside. With no war to distract me, I feel further from you than ever. Hoofington U replied to my letter. Apparently, somepony already sent my transcripts and information from Luna Nova (no idea who, and I wasn’t going to start asking). I start in the Fall, on a mail-in course. I’m going back into arcana! Wishing you were here, Yours, -Paige (Enclosed in the envelope is a photograph of Paige, apparently at some sort of photo shop, seated in a wicker chair. She wears the uniform of the RAF, and her wool-lined bomber jacket is hung over the back. She smiles, but looks tired, forlorn and distant. The reverse says “To Cyril, the missing piece of my life I never knew I needed, gone for too long. Use this to chase off that awkward attention you get. -Paige) Sent July 8th Paige, The word came down. The Ducal Wedding went ahead in Rottendedam. The Regency demanded Griefenmarsch stand down and prepare for Imperial reintegration. The Council declared themselves independent from ‘the tyrant Duchess Regent’. All in one day. We’re being ordered to battlestations. I can hear the guns already. Artillery thundering in the distance. It is thrilling and terrifying. I will be running to the line as soon as I finish this. Please, keep my medal and photo somewhere safe. Should the worst happen, do not forget me. You are the best thing to have happened in my short life. Pray for me. Dearly Yours, Cyril Sent July 29th, 1009 7/22/09 Dear Paige, I’m alive. That’s unfortunately the extent of the good news. Breaching the lines was more difficult than we thought. The peasants fought hard, but without anything heavier than artillery, they couldn’t stop us. Our guns shelled those bunkers for what seemed like forever, and all we could do was wait for the signal over the radio. Once the guns stopped, the real battle began. We advanced, covering the dogs as they stormed the trenches. It was bloody work. I fired the cannon again and again and again. Sprayed the ground with the MG. And when Hellseig finally told me to stop firing, all we had in front of us was mud, splintered wood and torn flesh. The dogs went in with flamethrowers and shotguns to flush out the rest of the defenders. Then we moved on Oldwingburg. Fighting in a city is a completely different affair than in the open field or up in the air. I’ve never felt so helpless inside a panzer. It wasn’t just their regulars we fought. Militia griffs took up arms. Males. Females. Teenagers. The defense was scrambled, disorganized. But fire came from everywhere, a gun in every window. The panzergrenadiers dismounted their trucks to clear the houses. We were literally driving these griffons from their homes. But, strangest of all? No civilians. No old grandmas or schoolchildren running in fear from the houses. Oldwingburg was emptied out. In the middle of the fighting, it was chilling to realize that. But it also made the job easier. The ones without rifles flew in from above and cooked our panzers with firebombs. Panzergrenadiers and crew gunners cut them down with close-range fire. Artillery landed on the city blocks, dog sturmtruppen, Knights from the Order of the Carmine Shield and our support schutzentruppe blasted into city squares and markets. Bombers pasted the quarters of the city held by the enemy. I don’t know how many we lost. We struggled through Oldwingburg for four days. They had to literally drop us supplies from cargo planes into the city. Booby traps in every house, streets rigged with landmines. It was insane. I dismounted at one point to look at a squad of partisans the panzergrenadiers took prisoner. They looked like the most miserable griffs. Out of five of them, one looked like a soldier. The rest looked like farmers. And their guns? Hinterladerbusche. C-78 pistols. Firebombs made from beer bottles and kerosene. These griffs have no planes, no AT guns, no modern rifles. I’m certain I’ve oversimplified what happened. Understand, I was in the gunner’s seat, watching all this down a gunsight. What I’m telling you is only a fraction of what happened. We won, in the end. After four days, we took Oldwingburg. We’ve been advancing swiftly through Griefenmarsch. The slower elements attached to our korps have moved west, to Nortfome. We’re moving at top speed through Thurwingen. They’re calling it ‘the Blitz’. No defensive line can stand before us. Anything we meet, we blow past. Anything we leave behind, the panzergrenadiers engage and mop up. We’re making at least twenty miles a day, though I’m not entirely sure. But at this rate, we’ll make Asselt in the next week. We’re holed up on a farm right now, doing some maintenance on Zola. The mood is quiet, to say the least. Nogriff really talked much after Oldwingburg. The excitement is gone. All I can say is, this isn’t war. This is slaughter, and its monumentally one-sided. 7/27/09 We’ve taken Asselt. We all expected another fight like Oldwingburg, so we called the bombers in before us. Asselt lasted maybe an hour after that. We caught the militia mustering. Not much more resistance once your griffs are meaty chunks in the town square. From here, we’re supposed to refuel, resupply and head west to assist the other push, the part of the army using ‘traditional Imperial strategy’. Tradition. None of this was like the old stories. 7/28/09 (The words below are slightly smudged, and there appears to be some water damage to the paper) It's done. We moved west yesterday to push into the enemy flank. They folded under the pressure of fast-moving panzers. Apparently they’d already smashed themselves to pieces assaulting our divisions in the north. Most of the Marsch Regulars have given up. The militia stopped fighting before that. The Regency is calling this a ‘total victory’ on the radio. We’re to remain here and reassert Imperial domain, quell unrest and wait for the Landwehr to set up a garrison in Nortfome and Oldwingburg. It won’t stop raining. Once it started it just didn't let up. Driving panzers through muddy roads isn’t the same as across paved ones. Zola keeps sinking in, and we have to dig her out. They tell us we’re supposed to patrol the countryside suppressing partisans. Fat chance. The panzergrenadier trucks sink same as our tracks. The rains stopped all air cover. At this point, only the Bronzehill troops are willing to keep going, so they’re sniffing out (heh) the last of peasant resistance. So much for glory. They’re calling it ‘the Month Long War’. I’m just glad its over. I’m sorry it took so long to get this letter to you. We keep changing locations. I’m stationed at Nortfome now, so I can use the postal system again. I taped your photo over my gunsight, so it's right at eye level for me whenever I want, and I can grab it if I ever need to bail out. Nothing else in that panzer matters to me as much as that. 7/29/09 Zola busted a drive out in the mud. We had to wait for another panzer to come and haul her out. Now we’re cleaning her and fixing her up as best we can. Good thing we don’t need her for any fighting right now. I’ve decided to prep this letter today. It's been a while since you last heard from me. I haven’t heard from you either. Hope that’s a good thing, or at least not something bad. It’s all wet, cold and miserable over here. The people of the Marsch don’t care for us, not like the Feathisians up north did. Everywhere I go, I see hostile faces on griffs who blame us for crushing their freedom and democracy. Honestly, the way I see it, we wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t decided to spit on the Regent’s beak. Who declares war on somegriff else’s wedding day? Seriously? Just wanted to wrap this whole thing up with saying that I’m fine. This war was done and over with before anygriff knew what in Tartarus was happening. We just have to live with the aftermath now. The Empire fixes up Greifenmarsch, puts a new governor in place and we all go home. I hope. But given what’s happening in the south with the Holy League, we might have just witnessed a hint of the future. Mother’s thankful I’m still alive. Says she prays for me every night since the shooting started. I left out the worst of what I saw. Griffons burning alive inside panzers, limbs and wings blasted off, corpses laying in the street, MPs lining up militia against a wall, city blocks on fire. You’ve seen it. Or things like it. I’m just waiting now. In the sopping rain, in a town that I conquered. Tell me about something normal. Tell me about weekend pass in Whinnyapolis. Tell me about theoretical arcana, about thestral rights, about school. Because in the next month, I’m going to need something to convince me I’m not going insane out here. Moving our again. Send to the military address on the slip of paper in the envelope. Distribution will find me. Yours, -Cyril Sent August 14th, 1009 Dear Cyril, Never worry me like that again! I’ve been watching and waiting for word on what’s happening back east. The newspapers are calling it a ‘crackdown’. More harmonists howling at the ‘dismantling of democracy’. Without realizing it was the democrats who started this fight. Myself, I was more concerned about you. I’m so happy you’re alright. That battle you described, all the trekking across Greifenmarsch, it all sounds so different to what I went through. I was helpless, sure, but the only death I saw was my comrades. I never even saw what my bombs did to the ground. That all sounds like a nightmare. I’m glad you only had to go through it for a short time. I don’t know if I could at all. The press is going nuts over it back here. With the Crystal War over, ponies are chattering about it. But not us. Military’s keeping quiet on the subject. We know better than those sycophants and gossip-mongers in Canterlot acting like they’re so much better. But you ask an armypony what he thinks, and he’ll just stare back at you. They transferred me back south. Apparently the work of making sure the populace is compliant falls back to the army. The Royal Guard’s moving the royal family back in any day now. They don’t need bomber pilots up north anymore. Headache’s going into storage for refit, while we get some well-deserved leave. We got two weeks, and then it's down to Dodge City for retraining over the desert. I’m touring Hoofington for the next few days, visiting the university and looking over the town. It’s hot, that’s all I can say. After months of freezing my flank off in snow and high-altitude aircraft, this place is way too much for me. I prefer staying indoors, if I can help it. There’s a lot of buffalo around lately since the tribes joined Equestria. Some sort of protectorate deal from what I understand. Stubborn to a fault. But good-natured. Had to wade through a whole mountain of paperwork. Just because my transcripts are in doesn’t mean my application’s 100% complete, I found out. They accepted me to the course, but I still have about a thousand more things to fill out. So that’s about half of my leave, and of course I have to get this done ASAP. They’re talking about releasing me at the 1 year mark for wartime service, which means I have a few months left to get everything in order before I join the Air Reserves. This was always the plan, and at least this worked out. I didn’t get to finish at Luna Nova, but that’s okay. My hope is they’ll open back up again before long. Your mother has toned down. I think, with the war on your side and everything, she’s more worried about you than she is focused on abusing me. She asked me if I had wanted to be a unicorn when I was growing up, given my fascination with magic. I told her ‘I always dreamed big. So I wanted to be an alicorn.’ She got a kick out of that. And it -is- possible for unicorns to evolve into alicorns, but sadly not for pegasi. Once I learned that, the dream kind of died. Sophie likes writing me too. Apparently she used my letters to her for a class assignment about writing a soldier. She got the most attention for it, and a good grade. I apparently have a fascinating life. Who knew? Pushing this letter out fast so you get it quick. Write more. Otherwise I’ll think you’re dead. And if you die over there, I’ll come and revive you long enough to kill you myself. Miss you. Yours, -Paige. Sent September 8th, 1009 Dear Paige, You never mentioned Hoofington itself last time you were there. Then again, I feel like you had other things on your mind while you were there. Good of you to tell me about it while you were there, I love hearing about other places in the world. You’re so lucky you get to travel. Things are quieting down here. Well, quieting down in that the shooting’s mostly stopped. The Marchers have grudgingly come to accept we’re not leaving. Fortunately, they also realize we’re not here to loot, pillage, plunder and salt the earth. The MPs catch somegriff being stupid every now and then, but the executions stopped weeks ago. Now it's only for those who kill or continue to try and resist. Service was a bit awkward this week. When the 41st’s preacher called us to bow for prayer, we actually had a few civvies join us. Apparently, some shells hit Asselt’s temple during the battle, and it's now collapsed and is unsafe. Nogriff knew until now. Engineers are on it, but the preacher is holding mass for every townie that wants to attend. It was one of those olive branch moments. Not as many incidents in town ever since. Lucky me, I think we’re getting through to them. The Burger says Equestria’s having an election crisis. This surprised me quite a lot. I thought faith in the princesses was without doubt? Wouldn’t it only get stronger now you’ve won against King Sombra? I remember you saying something about protestors and defeatists in one of your earlier letters. All I can say is, keep out of politics if you can help it. Riots, mudslinging, ruined careers and civil wars come from bad politics. Just look at what happened to the Empire if you need an example. Given how much trouble the Crystal War gave you, the Burger is also stating Equestria’s not only unprepared, but unwilling to fight its battles. Crock of shit, but you know how the papers spin things. Mother and Sophie like you. Keep asking when they’ll get to meet you. I told them even -I- haven’t seen you since that day in Rottendedam. Mother is concerned, but impressed we’ve managed to keep talking this long over such distance. Of course, she said something about how we can hope to keep a relationship going like this, but (a few words are scratched out) that’s not important. I’m not sure when I’m going home. It’s so close by, but no one’s been rotated out for leave yet. Except the officers, of course. The colonel in charge of the occupation leaves every few days and comes back looking sloshed. Pretty sure he goes for drinks and girls in Oldwingburg. The aristocracy at work. Uncle August sent me a letter saying he expects we might be in for more within months. I hope not. I’d rather get a chance to live without all this mud. My nightmares are few, surprisingly. Not so much about the militia griffs I gunned down in the open street or blew apart. My nightmares are about fire. About kerosene poured on panzers and then set alight for the entire thing to burn. About the griffs stuck inside, cooking alive. The Month Long War is over. But I’m not looking forward to what a war against a far more prepared opponent would be like. I wish you were here. Even for a moment. Yours, -Cyril Sent September 30th, 1009 Dear Cyril, I still miss you too. I’m sorry about the nightmares. I can’t promise they’ll go away. What you went through was much more intense. I still wake up from bad dreams about engines on fire, death spells and shadow monsters. I’ve been told it could take years for them to fade, if they do at all. Yes, the election issue has been ongoing for months now. Princess Celestia has gone before the press, stating she’s conferring with her sister about holding the referendum, and the reformists are stating that just proves their point. But you know me. I’m not a fan of democracy by force. I’m not going anywhere near that, but you might be pleased to know (or not, considering your attitude on thestrals) that Pricess Luna’s reforms have finally taken hold. I’m seeing thestrals all over the place, mostly at night. They man bars, work factories, typist desks, fly through the sky. I’m happy to see that, for once, the underdog won. They finalized me. I’m officially in the RAF Reserves. I said my goodbyes to my crew, and the Headache. Half of them are going home like me. We’ve all gotten so close in such a short time. Static, at least, promised to write me. I’m actually okay with this. I can use my veterans’ bill to pay my way through school in Hoofington itself, no need for long distance stuff. Hoofington U is like I remember it. Built of bricks and tradition. The facilities aren’t as good as Luna Nova, and I’m fairly certain I’m the smartest in my advanced theoretical arcana class, which of course is still leagues behind the more advanced one. But that is at least one issue off my list. I can worry less about passing and take some time for myself. I’ve been doing some experiments in my off-time with a unicorn named Solid Stripe. He’s trying to get into the AP class, but he’s not sure he can pass the entrance exam without help. So, with him providing the magic for my crystal experiments, I tutor him in exchange. So far, it's been a great agreement. He’s really coming around, and he’s at least pleasant to be around. I’m making huge strides in my research, I could even turn this into my thesis eventually. I think I’m on the verge of making a huge discovery in terms of crystal matrices and magical containment, but I’m hitting a wall. Very frustrating. Hoofington is a southern city, through and through. Other ponies gawk at my accent without a shred of awareness of how theirs is seen across the rest of Equestria. They’re very enclosed, these ponies. Friendly, of course. But blunt. They’ll take good care of you for very little, but won’t hesitate to comment on how everything that comes from another land is strange in their eyes. The local bookstore has nothing but books in Equestrian common, though I haven’t looked in the smaller neighborhoods. It's still hot in September, which drives me nuts. Apparently it doesn’t cool off until mid-October out here. Now I really miss home. Princess Twilight is expected to come to Hoofington U sometime next week to give a lecture on the connection between the ‘energy of friendship’ and arcane amplification, and while I am excited to hear from an alicorn on magic, I’m not so on about her theories regarding friendship. True, it's a proven phenomenon, but as the recent Crystal War and the wars overseas prove, it's clearly not an almighty unstoppable force. And it's a little difficult to test in an academic way. Magic has only just merged with the scientific sphere in the past century. Sorry, I realize I may be talking over your head. Our lives may keep up separate, but I keep your photo around at all times. And so long as we can keep talking in our letters like this, we can keep this relationship alive. I’ve been asked if I have a coltfriend by a few other students, and so far I just tell them yes. It’s a bit too odd a situation to keep chattering off in casual conversation. That’s okay, right? Your marefriend (?) -Paige Sent October 17th, 1009 Dear Paige, Glad to hear you’re back at it in school. Of the two of us, you’re going to go places. Don’t waste it. I’m also glad you’ve got someone to talk big-brain to. I know it was a little restraining to simplify your words to me in your letters. Hoofington sounds like another good place to visit, though if its really as hot as you say, I’m not sure I’d like it. Then again, I want to visit Zebrica, so maybe it would be a good warmup (ha). I like that you moved to the reserves. So many would just go home and leave the service behind. You’re part of that other breed, the kind who sticks with it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked being Air Force. But then I know how much you hate being helpless at high altitude. About the whole marefriend/coltfriend thing, I guess it's okay to refer to us like that. I just sort of simplify it myself the same way over here. I get the feeling you’ll get less guff about having a griffon boyfriend. There’s plenty of griffs here who wouldn’t get it, both on a racial level and a national level. Tensions are high with the Coalition right now. I don’t know if it's in the news over there, but the County of Cyanolisia was invaded a few days ago. The Burger is calling it an unwarranted act of aggression. Y’know, after touting the Month Long War as a righteous battle against traitors. Cyanolisia is the last province loyal to the Empire outside the Heartlands aside from the South Zebrides (and maybe Nova Griffonia, but that one’s up in the air). Its makes anything tricky. There’s word among the officers about intervention, but the Kaiserliche Marine has maybe five capital ships at present. What in Tartarus are we supposed to do? Sail an army around Aquileia and Wingbardy? I’m sure they’d love to just let us through their waters and fuel up in their ports. So it just seems to be talk. I also heard about the coup in Nova Griffonia. Nogriff wants to talk about it, but every trooper in the Reichsarmee with world awareness knows what’s happening. They’re saying now’s the right time to land and kick Hemphill off his high castle, finally bring the colony back under control. Which is nuts. We’ve got half the Empire still in rebellion against us and they want to talk about landing an amphibious force across the sea? I’m all for the Empire regaining its strength. But this just shows you how most of these soldiers are so poorly educated they can’t see past their own beaks. Or snouts. Or muzzles. Bigger picture here, guys. You taught me that, Paige. Thank you for your words on the dreams. It’s getting a little easier now. The weather is getting better, the mud is freezing. It’s easier to drive around without throwing a track or breaking an axle. These Changeling designs are supposed to be good against cold weather, so we’ll see what happens when frost in a hostile environment sets in. Anyway, it sounds like all we can both do is keep weathering the storm as it were. I’ll keep writing as long as I can, so long as you do as well. Mother’s been talking better about you. I think you single-clawedly managed to change her mind about pegasi, though she still regrets you being from the Riverlands. That one’s probably never going away, though. And Sophie can’t help but idolize you even more. If we’re not careful, she’ll try to follow in your hoofsteps. Then that’s two females in my life vastly smarter than I am. I’ve gotten friends in the area as well. The 41st’s preacher Andrea Bronzeclaw has talked faith with me several times. I’ve been counting on him to get me through the worst of these times, and he’s set up a talk group with some of the townies to mend gaps. The engineers are almost done repairing the temple, and we’ve been invited to use it for the unit after they’re done. Word from Uncle August is that he’s even got a statue to Arcturius on the way. Hearts and minds. The banner of the Empire is flown freely over the city square without a fear in Griffonia of it being vandalized. Tell that to your papers. Maybe they’ll see we’re not all the jackboot thugs they think we are. I’m thinking, as well as going to engineering school eventually, I’m going to try and take down some notes, get into writing and maybe write about these crazy times in a few years. I can’t say it’ll be any good, or anygriff will want to read it. But there are groundshaking things happening right now. Somegriff needs to record it while it's happening. I can send you drafts one day, but not for some time, once I’ve got the words noted. It’s the quiet time, now. Let’s hope it stays that way. Though, judging by the world, it won't last for long. Your boyfriend/coltfriend (?) -Cyril Sent November 11th, 1009 Dear Cyril, If you feel awkward about the whole marefriend/coltfriend thing, we don’t have to do it. I can tell you’re a bit off about the whole thing. I heard about Cyanolisia. Quite unfortunate what’s happening down there. The minotaurs are supposed to be mad with rage. And Hemphill’s coup in Nova Griffonia is just adding fuel to the fire here on Equus. I hope you don’t get sent there either, not with everything going on back in the Herzlands. I’d much rather you stay right there, so I don’t have to worry about your transport getting torpedoed and I can just listen to you bitch about the cold and mud and tell me about your religion and your unit and your tank. Going all the way across the world to fight is...kind of madness. Tests come and go, exams and midterms. But I’m not worried about any of that anymore. I don’t stress as hard as I used to, not like before. It's a bit surreal. I wonder if its because the courses aren’t as challenging or if I’ve become too confident. That last one worries me a little, I could seriously sabotage myself. I’ve actually gone back to study a bit more as a result, just to make sure the facts are as I remember them. Luckily, my tutoring Solid is helping. I help him to learn things, he helps me remember the basics. Good for us both. We go out for hayburgers and fries every Friday to relax and talk shop for a bit, as it were. He’s actually been a good lab assistant on my own personal project, now he’s getting the hang of it. He makes small corrections on my calculations that I miss when I’m going over grandscope things, and honestly if he didn’t I’d be going back over my matrices for hours. But thanks to him, I’ve got a new prototype mana crystal I’ve formulated. My only regret is that I’m not a unicorn myself. Always such a disappointment to be able to design these things, but never actually make them myself. I think keeping track of your memoirs is a great idea. You’re on the ground, living what’s sure to be history. Keep track of it, and I’ll help you sort your notes out. We can fit it into either a nonfiction book, or an autobiography if you’re feeling brave enough in a few years. It’s good to hear things are settling in Greifenmarsch. I don’t like wars of conquest, but I tell myself the Empire owned that area before. And, at least, you’re being good to it. With the ease of which the locals are taking you in, it sounds like they at least wanted to rejoin the Empire on some level. Perhaps the Peasant’s Council was the catalyst in their bad decision (though certainly not their first one. I had to write an in-depth essay on how their system was both the most democratic in the world, and also the weakest government. Elections on everything every three months. Wow). Being in the RAF Reserve isn’t bad. It's boring, but I don’t get shot at anymore. I’m not in an aircraft right now. I’m mostly relegated to airfield operations, in the arsenal. Not strictly my job, but I did learn about every piece of ordnance I dropped, so I’m in a bomb storage facility. Two days a month, just got in, check a list, sit in on some briefings. Nothing fancy. Good way to ride out the next three years. Your mother’s letters have mellowed out. She talks about the future, how its always so uncertain in the Empire. She says it’s been like that since she was a chick. Then the riots took your father. Now she’s afraid she’s going to lose you too. I’m aware this is all stuff she’s already told you. Just...be patient with her, okay? She’s going through a rough time, a lot’s changing around her and she doesn’t know what else to expect from the future. You being a tanker doesn’t help that at all. I gotta go. Solid and I have a project we need to work on, and I wanted to get researching. Write me when you can. I’m just happy we’re back to a peacetime schedule again. Yours, -Paige Sent November 28th, 1009 Dear Paige, A blizzard blew in a few days back. Covered the whole city in snow. We had to use the panzers just to cut through, let the infantry and rescue crews through. They’re saying this is the coldest Griffonian winter on record in history, and it's not even December yet. We’ve been busy with entrenching tools and flamethrowers, digging homes out of the frost. The dogs are taking to it just fine with their damn trench coats. I’m stuck with my field jacket and panzer gloves. But the townsfolk are grateful. We’re had to set up the local train yard as an aide station, since the city hospital had a whole floor’s windows get blasted in. Now the ground level is packed with snow and ice. Preacher Bronzeclaw is holding a soup kitchen in the temple, cooking up what he can and delivering it to families without. I’d help him if I could, but my place is carving through snowdrifts it seems. So, I’m writing you this from the side of a fire in an empty old fuel barrel, sitting in a train roundhouse next to Zola, tucked into my jacket and trying not to freeze my feathers off. It’s hard to write, but lucky me, my claws are just as numb as the rest of me. The trains aren’t moving, but just like the panzers and the trucks, they keep the engine running hot to keep it from freezing over. I swear, we’ll more of our fuel just sitting around than we do actually out on patrol. Sergeant Hellseig promises that when blizzards start coming this early, it's got a mild winter right behind it. I hope to Boreas he’s right. Our company kommandant Kaptein Briarbeak promises that better winter supplies and rations are inbound. I want to believe her, but I’ve seen what the military’s like in peacetime. They just outright seem to forget about garrison troops. Uncle August says it won’t be long. They’ll have the Landwehr brigades down here to continue the occupation by next year. Then we can finally go home. Apparently the Grand Duke himself came to Oldwingburg to deliver a speech to the troops. And he brought the Emperor. I am sorry I missed that, for sure. Asselt’s not nearly as big or important, so I know why we got looked over. But to look up my grubby beak at my future Emperor in person would have been a story to tell for the ages. He’s six now, so I’ll see him take the throne and rule in my lifetime. Maybe even our (a word is vigorously scratched out). Any chance the censor could cut that one for me? Thanks for agreeing to help with my notes. I sent the first batch since the invasion. Most of its just scribbles, but if you see something worth writing down, let me know, okay? Mail’s still coming and going on time. Small wonders, eh? So, this Solid Stripe guy. You spend a lot of time with him? Yours, -Cyril Sent December 19th, 1009 Dear Cyril, Another year closed up. Hopefully this will reach you either at the end of the month, or the beginning of 1010. A new decade. We’ve seen a lot happen, haven’t we? Been through wars, crisis, hardships. And yet, here we are. Good to hear you’re making use of yourself. I know surviving a blizzard can’t be easy, but I also know you love staying busy. This is as good a cause as any, so I can see plenty of upside there. Keep those griffs out of danger, Cyril. You’re fighting the good fight. Look, about Solid Stripe. I think I need to be upfront. I’ve been putting off saying anything. I know we’ve said we’re in a relationship, and there’s no doubt I feel something for you. But the work between me and Solid, it got...it changed. At first he was the stallion I’d taken on to tutor, and then he became a study buddy and lab assistant. Next thing I know, we’re going out for dinner every Friday and hanging out in our free time. We clicked, sort of like what happened with you and me. But he was right there. I’m having a hard time writing this. Solid’s been flirting with me and showering me with praise and attention and even a few gifts for weeks now. I held him off at first, talking about you. But the more I kept trying to resist, the more he kept trying. The more he kept trying, the more he made sense in his reasoning of why I should be with him instead. He was there, and we worked together a lot. And you weren’t there. Hadn’t been for years. You and I haven’t physically seen each other since Rottendedam, Cyril. That’s two and a half years. I was lonely. And Solid was persistent. Extremely persistent. But that’s over now. He started getting weird the morning after. I sat him down to talk about what happened, and he left. I haven’t seen him since, but I know I’m not going to talk to him again. I am so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. Most of my holiday cheer’s kinda been sapped by this. I’ve been agonizing about how to tell you about it. I got your letter and I couldn’t even read it for a week. I (the word ‘was’ is firmly scratched out) am so ashamed. I got drunk and I gave in to a weakness. I miss you, I really do. And I care about you. But it's been so long. And after everything else, it was nice not to feel alone and thousands of miles from everything and everypony I cared about. Please. Please please please, forgive me? I’ll understand if you don’t. Yours? -Paige Author's Note And so we wrap up 1009! Keen readers will notice that in other chapters, words have changed as I've gone back and made edits for grammar, spelling, plot mistakes and info errors. I consider the whole story a living document, and there's no mistake I'll just ignore. Please, if you guys see any mistake in any chapter, don't hesitate to let me know! And again, leave a review or a like to tell me what you think! I'll see you all on the flipside! 1010 pt 2Sent August 19th, 1010 7/02/10 Paige, They finally called a halt order. We’ve basically been running the panzers out of the trucks. Good to have a few days to get shit done instead of trying to fix an engine -on- fire -under- fire. Yale is mostly forests, hills and towns. We’re having a hard time really getting the same speed as in Greifenmarschen, but luckily resistance has been light. These Yale boys have no real fight in them. They either fallback, surrender or waste their lives trying to hold us off. It's the professional mercenaries and Angriver soldiers that are holding us off. I know Landschnekt when I see them, but I’m guessing these green uniformed griffs are mercs too. They don’t speak Herzlandisch, and we keep running into them supporting Yale positions. Good fighters. If we’ve taken any prisoner I haven’t seen it. We’re on the road to Middenheim. I say road, but honestly we’re kind of just carving a route wherever our pathfinders can spot okay terrain. The trees aren’t so thick we can’t maneuver through, but it’s still slow going. From what I hear, they’re saving the actual roads for the heavy panzers, so our Knight contingent can get through. I don’t even know what order they are, if they’re White Lions, Carmine Shield, Tower and Sword. By the time this gets sent, whatever importance that had will be long gone. We’ve circled the panzers in a clearing. Our kompanie’s taken a beating, but with a few days to rest and repair, we’re hoping to get our remaining panzers fixed up and going. Losses are light but constant. Every step we take its another rifle behind another tree or in another window, a landmine beneath treads, wing-clipper nets in the trees for our scouts. The panzergrenadiers are getting frazzled from having to stop and clear another hardpoint over and over again. Suddenly I miss Greifenmarsch even more. I know I keep going on about it. I have another panzer kill on the turret. More Angriver troops tried to draw us into an ambush. Knights of Arcturius fell on the trucks with the grenadiers while the panzer-zerstorer cannons engaged us with their Airbenders. We came out of it okay, but more of those small, constant losses. I only saw the one panzer I shot myself. Once I got him and started scanning for more targets, it was all over. But I got him, for sure. I’m writing you this next to a fire, under the trees and the stars. As I look up, I can see the sky above. I haven’t heard from mother or Sophie yet. I’m worried. I haven’t heard from Uncle August. Less worried. I haven’t heard from you. But I’m not worried. It occurs to me I never told you about my grandparents. My father’s family is mostly passed on. My grandfather on his side is living off his retirement from service in Strawberry. He sends word every now and then from his vineyard. Apparently, they can grow fruit even in the winter up there. Not bad for an old trench-hopper. He tries to send idols to help out. Mother keeps refusing. My mother’s and Uncle August’s parents live in Griffenheim as well. They’re a bit like us, same sort of circumstances. My mother’s father is a factory foreman, clawed his way up from being a line worker. He swears he’ll do it until the day he dies. My grandmother visits a lot. She’s the one who got Sophie interested in books and aiming for higher learning. She used to be a music teacher. Adele Duskwing, the Industrie piano tutor. She was good, in her day. Not Octavia Melody good, but local performance hall good. She tried to teach me, too. No luck, I had absolutely no coordination in the talons. Should’ve been a sign, I guess. Wound up unsuited for anything but army life. Anyway, we see them every once in a while. Haven’t for a few years myself. I should go visit. 7/4/10 Dear Paige, We got the order to advance again. The rain doesn’t want to let up. Its set us back in our work and trying to deploy. But we’re going once more. It takes time for a whole division to get going, though. And ours is all panzers and trucks and artillery. You can imagine how long it takes just to get the supplies packed up again. We’re rolling southeast again. The 6th Panzer is ahead, so the worst of the pathfinding is already done for us. I hear scattered gunfire in the distance, so our panzergrenadiers are finding targets to shoot at. We’ve got a clawful riding on our hull, to simplify things in the rain and the mud. It really makes it feel like we’re in one of those epic war stories. I may know a bit better about the fighting itself, but I can at least feel like we’re on an adventure in between. I don’t really read those stories much anymore. I’m perfectly fine with this cleanup nonsense. The newbies complain about glory and rushing ahead into the fight, but there’s nothing glorious about washing these griffs out under cannon fire. Sure, they’ve got panzers, but they’re so out of date its not a fight anymore. Just struggling and grinding through meat. We stopped for camp again tonight. The fight’s going on through. Artillery lighting up Middenheim, getting it ready for the 6th. Shells in the dark, bombers in the daytime. Is there going to be anything left of the city by the time we get there? The crew and the unit are in high spirits. Bluetalon gets drunk every night, but somehow it doesn’t screw with his driving. Grimquill’s got somegriff she writes every night as well, doesn’t let me know. Oddly, Sergeant Hellseig has been talking with me more. Showed me a picture of his family. He’s got a wife and three children waiting at home, in Vinnin. I asked him why he keeps coming back. Ten years in, he’s got to have some say in when he stops. But he just shrugs at me and says something I swear I’ll never forget. “I have been called. And so, I answer. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I get out.” I’m starting to wonder more and more about what I’ll do when I get out. Four years in uniform. So much has changed. The Empire needs me more than ever, especially the panzerkorps. But it seems like we’re never going to be done putting down traitors and breakaways. I have two years left on my term. Then I have to decide if I’m checking that second box for another term or going home. If I know what I’ll do at home. I honestly can’t decide. 7/9/10 Dear Paige, The (this word has been clipped out by a censor) is gone. We keep finding stragglers and survivors, but for all intents and purposes, from what we’re seeing the (clipped out) is annihilated. We rode up into Middenheim three days ago, looking to take the place. The (clipped out) was sweeping ahead like usual, and the 41st was holding back until we received the go ahead to clean up behind them. I hate city fights, I really do. It doesn’t matter that this one was a small city. They all have the same problems. Over the radio, we start hearing things. Reports of contact with enemy troops. The (clipped out) pushing in. Then, next you know, contact with enemy panzers. Reports of losses. A lot of them. Then the channel goes dead. Division kommand likely realized it was a bad idea to broadcast that sort of news in the open. Then, we get sent in to assist. We couldn’t have been more than a day behind them, and yet by the time we got there, Middenheim’s streets are loaded with destroyed panzers, wrecked trucks and dead griffs. The further we went, the more ruin we saw. Landmines detonated under tracks, panzer-zerstorers blasted out of ambush points, enemy griffs cut down around our burned out panzers. Yale may not have been fighting very hard for this place, but somegriff was. I got a look at one of the enemy panzers up close, and I finally found out who they were; (clipped out). Most of the other wrecks and uniforms have had their logos stripped, but not this panzer. Purple flag of a diving raptor, clear on its plate. Sergeant Hellseig told us somegriff else would handle it. We moved on. The city itself isn’t big. Not like Griffenheim or Vinnin or Rottendedam. Still somegriff fighting for it. I don’t really care who anymore. I’m more motivated than ever to get stuck in. Like I said, it’s been a few days. But from what we can tell, the (clipped out) is functionally destroyed. At least fifty percent casualties, which means they’re useless for the front. They’ll need to withdraw for replacements. Which means their job is now our job. Time for a little old-fashioned revenge. 7/15/10 Paige, Word came in from the capital. There was an attempted coup by an officer called General Dawnclaw. Kommand is playing it down, but there’s rumors that the Emperor was in danger, and the Regency Council was slaughtered. They say Dawnclaw’s units have been halted from advancing on Romau. Apparently they think those divisions will turn on the Empire. Given what they say happened, can’t blame the generals for once. There’s whispers of what’ll happen when the MfÖS gets around to our unit. They’re calling it the Small Cleansing. But there’s nothing small about this. It’s a purge, plain and simple. Word on the radio today. They confirmed the coup happened, and that the Emperor and his Regents are safe. Thank Eyr. Last thing we need is -another- succession crisis. And I don’t know what the Empire would do if the line of Grover was broken. It’s gotten worse since we took the front. Now we’re the spearhead. Ambushes, artillery barrages, panzer strikes. And (clipped out) is definitely here. I don’t know how they got troops and panzers in country, but they’re here. Yale’s about given up holding against us. Its Angriver and (clipped out) throwing everything they have against our advance. I’m up to seventeen panzer kills. We’ve lost dozens of panzers. I honestly can’t tell if we’re winning anymore. We punch through a defensive line, and there’s another one a few miles away from it. Crazy bastards with Angriver cocktails come down from the trees. They’re even strafing us with biplanes. I don’t know if the League is desperate or if they hate us this much. They certainly took the deal from Wingbardy, maybe both. It's getting harder and harder to write. We don’t even leave the panzers to make camp these days. Just circle up and wait while they bring up the fuel, ammo and parts. We sleep on the move. Rotate stations. They say we’re on the road to Greenback and making good progress. I’ll take Sergeant Hellseig’s word for it. We’re all at each other’s throats. I swear, if we’re not shooting the enemy, we’ll be liable to shoot each other. Grimquill and I got into it yesterday over how fast she gets my reloads. I almost strangled her before Hellseig punched me out. An hour later, we’re fighting Angriver troops over a river crossing and it's like our argument never happened. It’s insane what’s happening here. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. Every few hours we’re fighting again. This isn’t Tartarus, not like what happens in the cities or when we cross the fields of corpses mowed down by machine guns or artillery. But this is a torture all in itself. 7/21/10 They called a halt order. Apparently, we’re only a few days from the Green River crossing. Makes sense. We’re running into Yale troops again. Now they really are desperate. We’ve had to pull back from the assault several times so far, when we’re getting hit hard. But every time we get bogged down, the Reichsarmee calls up another battalion from the rear, more artillery, more air support. Then we go again a day later. But now the 41st is stopping to get ready for the final assault. We cross the river here, it’s not more than a week before Greenback. We’re supposed to rest up and supply for the push. Everygriff is on edge. We’re being covered by a Strawberry regiment that’s dug in a mile ahead while we get stocked up at this depot. The shot locker is full, the petrol tank is full. So now we’re just waiting. The mud is persistent, there’s a no fly order in place and every night we get drunk to shake off the impending dread we all feel. There’s new officers walking around. They wear enchanted vests, peaked caps with eye badges, black coats. They’re not commanders. They’re called Vollstrecker. Apparently, they work for MfÖS. Some kind of new morale officers. I heard a rumor they’re field agents, special forces and Knights. All loyal. All watchful. I guess the Cleansing reached us after all. Nothing bad so far. But I’m keeping an eye on these vultures. I’m watching the casualties getting trucked out. The wounded get brought into the field hospital here, get treated and go. Some of them head back for further treatment. Maybe even go home. Others come back after a few days and they’re on the line again. I’ve seen entire fields full of dead griffs, whole towns leveled by bombers and howitzers. If they’re doing this kind of damage to us, what are we doing to them? How bad are the League’s losses? Why don’t they just fucking give up already? 7/29/10 Paige, It’s all gone to shit. 7/30/10 Dear Paige, I’m writing to you from my hospital cot. Before you ask, I’m okay. Most of me, at least. I was evacuated to Middenheim’s field hospital. The attack on the river crossing didn’t go so well. The enemy was waiting with panzers, panzer-zerstorers and ambush troops. We tried to press on the bridge, and they hammered it with artillery. I remember the second my panzer died. Zola’s gone. I was tracking a (clipped out) panzer when I suddenly felt like I’d been kicked in the tailhole. Power’s gone, I almost black out, then I taste blood. Hellseig’s screaming for us all to get out. Grimquill and I got out. Bluetalon didn’t make it. Then, we’re out in the mud and muck, Zola’s on fire, there’s machine guns and cannon rounds everywhere. It was jarring, going from feeling safe and invincible behind armor plating to suddenly back in my own skin and that’s my only protection. We take off for friendly lines again when we start getting shot at. Grimquill went down. Hellseig and I made it back. I grabbed the letters and your picture. But I had to leave the novels. They’re all gone. I don’t know what killed us exactly. I think it was a landmine, or a panzer-zerstorer. But I got a bit banged up. Nothing too bad the doctors are saying. Shrapnel mostly. I’m fine now. Recovering as best I can, which is boring as shit. It keeps hitting me over and over again. Bluetalon and Grimquill are dead. Zola’s gone. I don’t know what’s next for me. Word is the 41st is still pressing southeast. And I’m stuck here in my cot. Funny. I thought more than anything I wanted to get pulled from the chaos of the fight. But now I can’t stand being away while the unit keeps going. 8/2/10 Dear Paige, Turns out, shrapnel wounds hurt like a bitch without the painkillers. And they never last long. The nurses say they don’t want to risk I’ll get addicted to the morphine. So instead I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like my chest is on fire. I can walk, but no luck flying right now. Word from the front is things have slowed down again. Apparently the (clipped out) was stood down for replacements. Too many casualties. Mostly panzergrenadiers. So the 3rd Panzer is taking the lead. I’m supposed to make a full recovery before too long. Then they’ll stick me in another panzer. Don’t know where. News from home. Mother is freaking out, of course. Gave me all kinds of grief for scaring her so bad. But according to her and Uncle August, no more bombing raids on the Herzlands. The Luftstreitkräfte must have dealt with their long-range bombers. The evacuations have halted. Civilians are coming back to the city to fix things up, move back in. Uncle wishes me the best on my recovery. Not much else out of him. Guess he’s busy as an army kommandant. Vollstrecker officers made an example out of a few deserters today. Summary execution in the courtyard. One bullet to the head. No trial. That’s what awaits those who run from their duty. As if I needed more reason to keep fighting. They’re talking about the eastern front on the radio. Katerinburg’s under siege. The Reformisten are taking the lead on this. ‘King Wingfried’ apparently going in to liberate his namesake. Good riddance. I hope he gets killed like his cousin did. Insane, the both of them. War propaganda makes it sound like this whole business is days away from being resolved. Fallschirmjager in Angriver, panzers advancing without meeting any meaningful opposition. It’s all trash, of course. If you believe what they say, we’re about to capture the Archon. Every day we’re hot on his trail. I can’t sleep. Everytime I close my eyes, I see Bluetalon slumped over the controls. I see Grimquill bleeding out from a dozen bullet holes in the mud. It’s etched into my mind...they don’t leave me alone. I can’t help but think that if I was just a little better, I could have killed whatever got us. I could have saved them. I need to get out of here. Or get a drink. Both, preferably. 8/9/10 It’s my birthday today. Boreas above, I never told you when my birthday was. Three years writing, and I never thought to tell you. I suppose there was always something more important going on. But now, while my brothers and sisters are off fighting and dying, I’m here in a hospital with holes in my chest. Sergeant Hellseig came for a visit. Said he talked to some griffs. We’re going back to the 41st, but we’re the replacements now on a support panzer. Apparently the crew got wasted but the vehicle itself is fine. A Stahlschild, they call it. More armor, bigger gun. Slower. I’ll judge it when I climb inside. No time for the range. I’m supposed to be out of here in a few days. That’s when they’ll have the panzer restored for us and ready. We’re going to go drinking at a local pub. A few of the other griffs are busting me out. They learned its my birthday, so they’re taking the excuse to ‘liberate’ me. Don’t feel bad about missing my day. We both forgot to say when they were. I’m 22. And I’m off at war. As far from you as the world seems able to make me. 8/11/10 Dear Paige, They’re letting me go tomorrow. My ribs are still sore as Tartarus and I’m having trouble sleeping with the dead still bothering me, but apparently I’m good enough to go back in a panzer. I’m actually going to miss these dumb bastards here with me in the hospital. Some of them get to go home. Mostly the ones with debilitating injuries. Lose a leg, lose a wing, that sort of thing. Lose an eye? Apparently they rotate you back out again. Guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. A few days driving in a truck to our staging ground isn’t my idea of a good time. Better than walking, though. And with the roads secure, we shouldn’t have so bad a time of it. Hopefully. Mud will still slow us down. I don’t know what else to say here. They gave me a slip informing me I’m being awarded the Medallion Crimson. I don’t really care. I’ll stash it with my dress greys and leave it be. I know I should want to go home, like the others. But hearing what’s going on out there, knowing what’s happening to other Imperial soldiers out at the front. I want to go back, I know it. I’ve got a job to do now, and too many griffs to do it for that can’t anymore. It’s not just about fighting for the Empire now. Now, its personal. I’ll have one more drink before we take off. One of the grenadiers heading home gave me her old flask. It’s nice and sturdy. Got some schnaps in it. I can probably hold onto it for a while before I have to refill. 8/14/10 Paige, Heard Western Town finally fell. Looks like they got Dawnclaw’s troops straightened out again. What a mess. They’ll be moving on Romau itself now. Every day, I hear rumors about the fighting there. It’s held out so far for so long. Cost us so much. It might just be impossible to take while the Archons’ alive in there. But it's one of the holiest sites on Griffonia, for all griffons. So take it we must, one way or another. They showed Sergeant Hellseig and I to our new panzer. I told you it's a new ‘support’ panzer. Not so big as a Beak, but larger than a Calico. I thought it’d be a bit spacious, but there’s five of us crammed in here now with a (clipped out) cm cannon. It's pretty choked up. For one, the loader and radio operator are separate now. Apparently the griff on the set is up in the bow, where he mans a second machine gun. That’ll take some getting used to. The panzer came with a name; Sabine. Written on her gun tube. The crew may have gotten splattered, but apparently she was tough enough to survive whatever they threw at her. We’ll see. So, we’ve got three new crewgriffs. Our driver is this nervous looking conscript from Feathisia, barely speaks a word of Herzlandisch. Name’s Eihol or something like that. I’m just glad I’ve been brushing up on my Feathisian. The new radiogriff isn’t actually a griff at all. She’s a dog, apparently a fill in from Bronzehill. Goes by the name of Spotsley. She reminds me a lot of you in that she takes your brainy side but goes to the wall with it. Always spouting trivia and nonsense. Apparently she was a student back in Bronzecross when she got conscripted. So now we have to deal with her. Wonderful. And then we come to the loader. Get this; a Reformisten -pony- from Longsword. Traveled west to volunteer for the Reichsarmee after the east rejoined. I honestly don’t know what to say about him after that. He’s an Earth pony by the name of Long Haul, and while he is good on the (clipped out) cm, I honestly don’t know how he can associate with people like that who were so dead set on causing him and his entire species such suffering not long ago. We’re getting ready to roll out. Funny, I go back through all the notes I’ve made waiting for your next letter. I’ve written a lot of battle notes. So much so I’m starting to run out of paper in my notebook. Might have to cut them down a little bit. 8/18/10 Dear Paige, Got your letter yesterday, got around to finally writing a full response. Thank Static for sticking up for us. Maybe Equestria will learn all us easterners aren’t warmongering idiots. (There is a line firmly crossed out) I’m glad to hear you and her found a place together. By now, if you haven’t moved already then I wish you luck in doing so. Changing living places can be difficult, especially if you bounce around like you and I do. But I’m writing you about it now because you’ve got her there to help you get accustomed faster. And that makes all the difference. Give her my luck in getting her talk show up and running. I almost forgot about our questions. I almost forgot about half of what your letter is talking about. So much has happened over here, it almost feels like it's from a different time. Years ago, instead of a month. By Eyr, just a month. I’ll give it my best to answer. I need this, the sort of head-clearing talking about these topics brings. Hobbies. Well, I used to sketch. I know, it seems a bit odd, especially after what I said about my failure at piano. But sometimes I’d sit back and sketch landscapes. Towns, military bases, airplanes in the sky, buildings. I’m no good at griffons, I keep getting the proportions all wrong. But I can sketch scenes. I haven’t done so in a while. I’ll try to send you one if I can help it. Aside from that, you know I like reading a good adventure or mystery. You got me into that. So thanks. Childhood. I was born in Griffenheim, as you know. My parents were loving and supportive, if busy. So I had to make time for myself. I used to run with a small group of other kids through Industrie, playing in back alleys and markets and exploring abandoned warehouses and factories. We called ourselves a gang and pretended like we were so tough. We’d harass shopkeepers and play pranks on the police. I even got caught a few times. We had street ‘wars’ with other ‘gangs’ where we’d throw mud and sticks and challenge each other to fly the fastest and other dares and the occasional brawl. Then my father died, and I had to stick around at home, go work in the factory, help take care of Sophie. Things changed, and I had to change with them. I know plenty of others who had to go through something similar. Fear. That’s tough for me. I’m seeing new things that make me reconsider that all the time. I used to mostly be afraid to die. But I’m finding out there’s worse things than that. Still don’t want to. Just seeing there’s a lot more to be fearful of. I’d say it’d have to be similar to yours. The idea of just losing people you care about and not even knowing it until after the fact. I’m having trouble with it when it's in my face. I don’t know how I’d feel if I had to delay my reaction. I’ve got a few. Simple ones, but I think you’ll agree we’ve been asking a lot of big questions lately. Do you sing in the shower? When I’m home, I sort of do. But definitely not while I’m out with the regiment. That would cause all kinds of awkwardness. Believe me. Where do you want to go for vacation? Imagine if we were together for a single week, no strings attached. Where would you want to go? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; I want to see Zebrica. It’s just the idea of going somewhere so exotic and distant is so exciting to me. Maybe travel to the Boers or the Zebrides. I just want to see jungles and deserts on another continent. Last one. Do you like sports? I’ll admit I’m usually too busy to keep up with it regularly, but I do check in on hoofball every now and then. Go Fowls! Also, so there’s no more awkwardness, when’s your birthday? Three years going and neither of us said when it was. You think that’d be one of the first things we’d tell. Guess we both lead exciting lives, eh? Keep at your studies, Paige. You’re going to go do great things, I know you will. I’ll keep at it out here and fighting as best I can so I can come home to you. One day. Stuck in here like I am, with the end so far away, I feel like getting into all the mushy emotional crap again. I miss you. I can’t wait to see you. But I’ll save the bigger stuff until we’re face to beak. It deserves to be said in person. Yours, -Cyril Sent September 12th, 1010 Dear Cyril, I am so sorry. I was so shocked by the news that Zola, Bluetalon and Grimquill are gone. I almost feel like I knew them too from what you wrote about them. I had to take a while to get that all in there. And the fact you’d been injured. I’m so sorry. I managed to go my whole term without getting seriously hurt. Let’s face it, you’ve officially taken the trophy for ‘most suffering’. Static agrees. We finally did get moved in, by the way. It’s nothing fancy, mostly just a two bedroom one bath. Lucky me, Static is mostly a night pony and I’m a daytimer. Helps with the bathroom, though she’s got a habit of being a bit of a slob about the food. Anyway. I heard Romau finally surrendered. Well, I guess judging by what you’ve said and the newspapers are reporting, it sounds like the defenders were just slaughtered enough to take the city. The fact it took so long, I don’t know. These Vollstrecker sound like bad news. Executioners. It certainly sounds like a purging, which makes them political officers. Watch yourself, Cyril. I’d hate for you to get on their bad side. I’m only keeping up with the news to laugh at how bad they’re getting it. Static’s railing about how the press is obviously biased against the Empire and anypony that’s not ‘Harmonist’. It's kind of obvious now. Mixed bag so far. Hoofington folk are patriotic and loyal to Celestia. They don’t like the idea of somepony supporting the Empire, but they -are- mad about the press lying to them. Ups and downs I guess. You -do- know how cutie marks work, right? The symbol is supposed to indicate a ponies given talents, a piece of them that they are special and amazing at. Now true, that means a lot of ponies have the -same- cutie mark. But they’re more than just symbols on the flank. Why do you think mine is a book? While a lot of them are more abstract in their representations, it's usually a no-brainer to connect once it becomes clear. I never knew you had no idea how they worked, or I might have told you this years ago. New school term at Hoofington U. All advanced placement classes. I’ve had to quit my job and get something at night to keep up. I barely slept before because I was worrying about you, now I’m lucky if I get four hours. So now I’m a clerk for a factory. I get delivered reports for the company, I type them up in a comprehensive way. Me and forty other ponies, sitting at our typewriters, for hours into the night at this office. I have to compete with a bunch of thestrals, and they don’t have to spend half the day at school. It’s rough, but it pays the bills and I’m still at Uni. Such is life. My parents are nervous about the Herzland War. My father more than my mother. He’s convinced the Empire’s coming back. My grandfather served in the Deponyan royal army, so paranoia about the Empire is pretty constant. They want me home. But I can’t just leave after all this. I’ve only got two years schooling in, I’m not even fit for a bachelor’s yet. I can’t give up when I’m finally GOING places. One more semester. Then I’ll at least have a degree. Maybe then it’s time to come home. I don’t know. If I come home, it’ll be easier to get to you. But Equestria is the best place on the planet to learn magic. I’d be throwing away my shot at getting back into Luna Nova ever again. I put together another request, but now I don’t even know if I want to. I came to Equestria to learn at Luna Nova. But now I’ve got Static, my other friends at Hoofington U, a lot of time spent here on campus, an apartment. Maybe I don’t need to go to Luna Nova to get what I want. I’ve done more work with Static on my thesis. The crystal I’ve been building has been coming along nicely with her input. I know she doesn’t understand half of what I say. Then again, she’s a radiopony, an electrician. Ideas like theoretical arcana, even to a unicorn, have got to be pretty out there for somepony of her background. The crystal is now fully formed, and I am proud of the matrix I have in place. Now I just need to run through some calculations for power distribution through the crystal. I have to keep bleeding off the energy in order to regulate it, which annoys Static to no end (which I suppose I get, because even if the experiment is ‘successful’ a lot of time I’ll drain the energy to be safe for the next run). But I’m not just going for some military crystal like what they use in their beam rifles (news flash, apparently that’s what those strange glowing weapons you saw are too. Amazing that the Empire would consider even attempting that field of magic, much less developing working magic weapons). I’m looking at a power source of immense magnitude, something that would make those rifle crystals look like .45 slugs. Imagine a panzer powered by a crystal, or a plane. What if we could go bigger? What about warships powered by magic, or even a whole city? I’ve been doing some reading, and apparently high minds in the Ministry of Magic have been publishing articles on a theoretical spell framework to allow a magnification of spells. A sort of amplifier if you would. A tool that would let one unicorn cast a spell with the power of, say, a dozen. I don’t know more than that, but I hope my thesis catches the eyes of the Ministry. I’m never going to get the funding I need to make this a reality like that spell amplifier if I don’t. I am glad to hear you recovered from your wounds. Less glad they decided to repay that by throwing you straight back into the war again. And a Reformisten PONY. I don’t even know what to say about that. How could he? Has he forgotten what they’ve done? The Longswordian Genocide and the Wrath of Hellquill are still being talked about in the Riverlands. If the Empire hadn’t stepped in, the Coalition would have likely invaded. Your loader is ultimately a traitor. I’m not talking about how some Riverponies call other ponies that live in the Empire, I’m saying he’s completely forsaken the ideal of everypony who fought or died for him and before him. That’s just not right. I told Static about it, and she announced over the radio that there are -ponies- joining this group. She got TONS of outraged mail. Some called her a liar. But most were just as disgusted as, well, we are. Static’s a natural born Equestrian, but she understands my horror. Cyril, I know you have to work with that stallion. But don’t trust him. He found it so easy to forsake his race he’d abandon everything that makes ponies unique. Okay, back to you. I’m okay with simple questions. I really am. And I appreciate it, too. Time to throttle down a little. Yes. I sing in the shower. ALL the time. I’ll sing songs on the radio, I’ll hum while I’m scrubbing. Static gets all kinds of annoyed when I sing old songs in Rijekospiel. Stuff from home. My mother sent me a record in a care package, and it was all I could listen to for a whole week. Static, of course, doesn’t speak it, and it's completely different music than out here. She usually just shuts herself up in her room, but when I’m in the shower she says she can hear me singing out in the living room. I don’t care. I like it. I actually wouldn’t mind going to Hippogriffia. I’m like you, I want to see Zebrica. But now I’m a little more traveled, I wouldn’t mind seeing things closer to home as well. I’ve been interested in Aquila, for example. Such a historic city. All those monuments and the culture there. Sports? Um. Maybe? Does wrestling count? I used to watch it in Rijekograd with my brother when I was a filly. Big huge stallions and mares throwing each other around in a ring. It was a major sport back east. I don’t really anymore. Once in a while I’ll look in on the celebrities I used to watch, see how they’re doing. Most of them retired since I knew them, became spokesponies. But no, not really anymore. Okay, three from me. What book would you like next? I’m so sorry to hear your collection was lost in the tank. Please, just tell me what you want next, I’ll get it for you. I’m personally involved in a novel myself about a science drama from a few decades back, about creatures from another planet invading and being defeated by, of all things, bacteria. It’s one of those old novels that hasn’t aged well, like the dragon fighting one you sent me. But it’s still written quite well. Second: what’s the first thing you’ll do when you get home? For me, I know I’ll want to go out in Rijekograd and get some food from home. Equestrian food is good, but their portions are enormous out here, and use way too much sugar on everything. Third: how do you feel about kids? I know, I know. A little awkward given how far away we are and how long since we’ve seen each other. But it’s a question we have to ask someday. Might as well be now. As for me, I always felt like a family would just be a natural occurrence. Inevitable, you know? Then my schooling came up and my education came first. Now? I don’t know. I’ve been thinking it over. I’d be okay having foals some day. Maybe when I’m a famous arcanist. Then I won’t have to struggle like my parents did. What about you? I miss you. I can say that again, right? Now we’re back to repeating the mushy stuff we say everytime? Static wonders how I can hold out for you after three years. She tells me I turn heads when I go out. I tell her the same thing I’ve said. Its because its been so long and after what happened with you know who that I have to hold out. We’ve come too far to let it end here, thousands of miles apart. Come home safe, okay? There’s a lot to be said when we are face to beak again. Yours, -Paige P.S: apparently my brother broke out of that Bakaran prison. Because of course he did. Now he’s apparently gone south to work as a smuggler out of the Friestaat. My whole family is just in awe of how he’s screwed up his life. And, of course, what he’ll do to screw it up again. Sent October 15th, 1010 Dear Paige, Gods above, where do I start? I decided to hold off on the war notes this time, since I almost made a novel with the last letter. Now, I’m using my notes to put together a single message to you. Hopefully there will be less mood whiplash, less reiterating the same things. A lot’s happened since my last letter to you. Since August, we’ve pushed south hard. Once we got word that Romau had finally surrendered, we knew there was reinforcement coming. High Kommand wanted us to press, hard. Get as much ground as we could so when the Sturmdivisiones come up behind us we hammer into them with fresh units. Katerinburg fell to the Reformisten after that. Literally fell. They practically leveled the city with the Order of the Ebon Shroud and a few grenadier regiments behind them. Apparently there’s a deal being worked out with Wingfried. He can’t technically be king of the duchy, but he’s the last in the line. So Katerin is working out a way to give him the title, but things are essentially still going to be run by Imperial governors. Apparently, Katerin has been the easiest to occupy so far, with more and more defecting to our side all the time. Wingfried’s still got half the duchy to retake, but an easier job means a faster end to the war. Apparently, Aquileia invaded neutral Griefwald and they’re gobbling up all the land between them and the Empire. Everygriff here is talking about how they’re next on the list. Plenty of us are pumped to take the fight to the westerners. I say we finish this fight first, but word is troops are being mobilized to guard the border out (clipped out). Empire can’t seem to catch a break. Again. We took Greenback on September 25th. Yale finally decided to fight back. These weren’t their militia and conscripts, though. These boys were determined, as capable as the Angriver fanatics we’ve been facing so far. They hold and they fight. Guess it just took them a while to train up some real soldiers. Too little too late, though. Even with (clipped out) panzers, we rolled in there and took the city in three days fighting. Nightmarish stuff, but you’ve heard me go on about cityfights before. This had to have been the worst though. Greenback was big. And we were practically fighting for piles of rubble, not buildings. But we won in the end. The Rectorate in the city of Yale issued their surrender. Stood down the rest of their troops. For that, I think the Empire’s going to go easy on them. Besides, we need as many of their universities and scientists intact as we can get. The past two weeks, we’ve been carving into Angriver. I think we’ve cut their best down, because at this point they’re having a damn hard time stopping us. We took Appengen on the 6th, and then kept going until we hit Griffing the next day. They must not have been expecting that, because we only had a few militia and police to stop us. They didn’t of course. We had a deployment of Fallschirmjager from the (clipped out) division helping us. I think we really got that big breakthrough we were looking for. Ever since then, the real Angriver troops have counterattacked everyday to take the city back. But we’ve held. Now the line’s caught up with us, Griffing’s been reinforced and we’ve been relieved to get our panzers refuelled, rearmed and repaired. We’re not quite pulled out, but we can go get some coffee and decent sleep. Thank the gods. I’ve come to appreciate Sabine. She’s sturdy, much harder than Zola was. She’s bounced shells that would have wrecked a Calico no problem. And the 5 cm can wreck Airbenders and buildings the same. I feel unstoppable in her. I reset my kill count when we changed over, but I’m back up to seven panzer kills, mostly because of how few there are out here. Half of them are (clipped out). When are they going to stop? Evergriff knows they’re here. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a diplomatic incident yet. The replacements aren’t bad either. Turns out, Eihol used to be an auto racer in Feathisia. Those prime cars that can go faster than a griff can fly. He apparently enlisted as a truck driver but was bumped over to the panzerkorps. Spotsley is a good one too. Sure, she’s a know it all and all superior about it, but so far she’s shown that when something needs to be done or somegriff is in trouble she’s always there. She’ll lecture you on how you did it wrong, but she’ll do it while helping you through. We don’t like Haul much. Not because of the pony himself, he’s actually not a bad type, good loader does his job like he was born for it (that’s how those flank markings work, right?). Keeps talking about the Reformisten’s Integralist philosophy. Thing is, that’s the problem. He’s Reformisten, and nogriff knows what to make of that or what he says. A whole month and I have absolutely no idea how to handle it. And the way he talks about the whole way of doing things is eerie. They call it a ‘cultural refinement’, where they take the better elements of whatever they’re absorbing and ban anything else that doesn’t match griffon culture. Other faiths, other philosophies, art styles, traditions. The way Haul talks about it, its like its inevitable. It's really kind of creepy. This was a stallion who fought against Pallas and his genocidal maniacs in Longsword as a militiapony. Now he’s joined Wingfried’s banner. None of the rest of us know how to deal with that. And every time we ask, he says the same thing: "They were wrong, they were traitors, they completely subverted the Reformisten ideal and as such were made examples of.” I’ve heard the Archon make speeches like that about purging heresy in the Empire. The Vollstrecker are just as bad as we expected, of course. More deserters shot. A few spies discovered in our ranks. Griffs sympathizing with the League. Archon supporters. The worst like the spies and deserters get shot with no trial. The others are chained and marched off. Nogriff knows where. These new Crows are with us in the attack, watching us carefully to see who’ll try to run off or retreat without being told to. Those are shot on sight, of course. Even panzer crew. I saw a Vollstrecker climb onto a Calico and execute the sergeant because he refused to drive his panzer into a firefight. Then she climbed in and ordered the panzer forward herself. They take point on near every charge, protected by their armor as they tell the truppen with them to attack behind them. It’s madness. What’s worse is, they leave the Reformisten volunteers from the east alone, like Haul. Just pass them over. Not like those idiots would ever break, though. From what I hear they never retreat if they can help it. Waste of griffpower. Or ponypower, as it is. So, less about the war. Though I find I have little to talk about outside it. I realize that makes my letters a bit awkward. Hmm. Next book? Tough one. I want to get my Daring Do collection back, but that could take a while, and I don’t want you sending me a whole stack to start with. I’ve got an idea instead; The Downfall of Númenor. All this interest in historical fiction got me curious. There’s an Equestrian author named K. T. Trotkin, lives in the Griffish Isles. He wrote a book based on the series of breakaways and uprisings after the Republic Revolution. I read a news article where he swears it's not based on that, but after our talks I can see the connection. Give it a read before you send it over. For some reason, I could never find it in a bookstore here. When I get home, I want to get drunk. As drunk as I can get. So drunk I can’t even fly. Then I want to just sleep for a whole day. That would be nice, to get some sleep without worrying about getting blown up. Again. And then yeah, something to eat would be nice, like a steak. I don’t know about the kids question. Isn’t it a little early to be asking about that? I mean, I guess I’d want to start a family one day. It never really seemed important. I always had something else I needed to focus on instead. I want to. But I (several lines are furiously scratched out here). Maybe. Things are a little strange. I don’t know if I can really think about that right now. Three more questions. Hm. Okay. I’ll be honest, I can only think of one right now. I keep wracking my brain, but all I’ve got is seasons. What’s your favorite? Mine is autumn. That point where its cooling down from summer, the leaves are all turning and the smells of hot cooking fires with cookies, cake and meats just rolls down the street. The knowledge that winter is coming, with all the holidays it carries with it. I hate to get all poetic, but there’s something magic about it. I think we’re in the end now. Baron Leer and the Archon are all alone now. The Empire is advancing and we’re holding Griffing. Hope is, maybe I’ll be home before New Years’. Then, maybe, just maybe, I can start looking into booking that trip across the ocean. To you, Paige. I’ll see you. There’s a lot to say. Yours, -Cyril (Folded up into the envelope is a sketch, made with a pencil of some kind, of a cityscape with forests beyond. Without color it is difficult to say if the sun peeking over the horizon is rising or setting, but there is quite a bit of cloud cover regardless. Some of the buildings are little more than rubble, and sections of the forest appear rudely interrupted as if those were from shell craters. It is a bit rough, but still apparent that much effort was put into this drawing. On the back is a scribbled note. “Sunset Over Angriver. From Cyril”) Sent November 21st Dear Cyril, You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to send this! Word about the surrender came in last week over the radio, and I’ve been just burning waiting for your letter so I can reply. So. Your letter had a lot about the war. Obviously, the Empire won. I’m just glad you’ll be heading home after all that. You’ve been on the front for what, six months? Now that Baron Leer’s dead and the Archon captured, I can’t imagine they’ll need a tank unit to hold the south. The Vollstrecker alone seem like they’d be enough to terrify the south into compliance, honestly. I’m just happy you’re out of danger again. With you in the combat zone, I’ve been awake all night and suffering in my AP classes. Now I can get A’s and B’s again instead of C’s. That was a joke, FYI. Anyway, I’m sending you The Downfall of Númenor. I did read through it, for a time. I’m afraid I’ll have to pick up a new copy, since it’s less historical fiction and more history-inspired classic fantasy. So it had a whole world to get into and learn, and honestly I was too busy to get into it entirely in the short few weeks I had. I’m sorry, but I’ll get into it when I can! I got a letter from your mother. She’s so relieved the war’s finally done. Apparently, she was worried for both you and your uncle. There was word about some combat behind your friendly lines. She apparently couldn’t even send any messages because the postal system in Griffenheim was so messed up. She thanked me for staying in touch with you. She’s worried, Cyril. Worried about how you’re acting. She wants me to tell you we’re all still here for you. Me, Sophie, your mother, your grandparents, Static. We’re all here for you. We’re all proud of you and we’re here to help after everything you’ve been through in this war. All you need to do is talk to us. Spring. My favorite season is spring. Seeing everything in full bloom, the mist rolling over the hills and still having cold mornings. It's an amazing time, and when you’re flying over the Riverlands the rolling green hills just stretch all the way away toward the horizon. So you’re telling me you don’t want to have kids? I understand if that might be an awkward topic, but ever? But you love your family so much. You’re always talking about how proud you are of Sophie. I think you’d be an excellent father. You’ve got enough experience under your belt to point in the right direction, you know what kids would get up to and how to talk to them. Did you ever think about what we might want in the future? I think we’ve been writing to each other about how we feel long enough to at least consider it. Or do you just not want to have kids with me? Okay. I got awkward. I’m sorry. I’m just glad you’re okay. And I want to talk with you more. I’d love to start planning more for a visit. I can take a vacation to come. If you do make it to Equus, rest assured I’ll be waiting for you with eager, open arms and wings. First thing we do is fly over a city. I’ve been looking forward to flying with you. Yours, -Paige P.S: wow. I kind of expected this one to be a lot longer. I guess with the war over, I just want to see you more than write you. Sent December 19th Dear Paige, Yes. I’m home. Whoever that griff was that plugged the Baron, he’s an Imperial hero. They won’t release his name, but we know he goes by the callsign ‘Bogeygriff’, and the Kralle he did it with has pretty much become legendary. The Archon’s in exile. Up north in Hellquill, in the middle of nowhere. But you already know all this. I guess I’m just writing to fill paper. It’s different now, writing at home again. It feels like there’s less urgency. I’m on leave until the New Year. With orders to not leave the country. There’s that idea shot to Tartarus. Meaning I can’t come see you after all. I’m so sorry. Again. So I drink. And drink. And drink. I go to the bars with the crew. We get called heroes wherever we go. Beer and schnapps flow freely. But we know the truth. What we’ve seen. What we’ve done. We’re butchers. The League might have betrayed the Empire, but we’re not heroes. Heroes don’t have night terrors and wake up in a cold sweat. Heroes don’t need to get drunk every night to fall asleep. Heroes don’t feel disgust when they look at their medals. Heroes don’t keep leaving their girl behind over and over again. Heroes don’t get interrogated and put on a watchlist by an intelligence agency. I should explain. After I sent my last letter, Angriver pulled one last card on us. Somehow, somewhere, they got their talons on a few Imperial panzers and a bunch of Reichsarmee uniforms. Baron Leer had his cronies slip behind the lines and start attacking supply depots, radio posts, and command centers. By the time we were able to react, we were already shooting each other. Griffing came under attack by both the enemy -and- a battalion from the 2nd Grenadiers. And I just...mowed down everything in front of me. Couldn’t even take the chance anymore. Just minced everygriff and everything. Over the course of a week, they took our cohesion apart. I can’t say anything more about what happened, but it wasn’t good. We failed to spot the enemy at his own game, and we got our own paranoia killing Imperial truppen. The 106th Infanterie captured plans calling this ‘Operation Trauer’. Too late to stop it, but we could at least spot them again. Good news was, we got all the enemy false panzers. All officers, sensitive personnel and panzer crews were interviewed afterwards by the (the word is clipped out). Multiple times. I don’t know how many times I was pulled into a dark room with griffs I couldn’t see and had to answer questions for hours. That copy of The Downfall of Númenor you sent me? Haul warned me that it could be seen as seditious, pro-Republican publishing. And you know what? He was fucking right. They asked me about Uncle August, told me things about my mother and sister. They’re watching you too, y’know. Said they’ve got copies of all our letters, asked me how long I’ve been talking to a Riverlands spy. I told them you were no spy, you’re a student in Equestria. On and on and on. Then they brought in these two specialists by the name of (clipped out) and (clipped out). One was this really giggly female who just seemed to love tossing out random things to make me uncomfortable. And the other was this albino demigryph. At least, I thought he was missing his wings. Then the interviews stopped. They announced Baron Leer was dead and the Archon captured by Fallchirmjager. We didn’t even stay for the occupation. All panzertruppen were ordered back home. I haven’t even seen Sabine since. They’ve told me they’ll let me know when I can return to service. So yeah. We won. Doesn’t feel like a damn thing’s changed. But there’s celebrations in the streets, at the temples, in the bars. I talked with preacher Bronzeclaw again. He’s got nothing for me but to hold firm to faith. I’m even starting to doubt a griff of the cloth. Only places I go these days are temple, the bar and home. Nothing else for me here. The Reichsarmee sent me my Medallion Crimson and Ribbon Intrinsic. Useless pieces of tin. I don’t know what to do, Paige. I kept fighting because I believed I was going to finally make the Empire a better place. Get some glory at last. Go home and rest. Go see you. Instead, I’m a pariah in the military, I can’t sleep, all I do is drink to get the memories out of my head and any time now secret agents could kick down my door and abduct us all in the night. I can’t go see you. I can barely sit down for dinner with mother and Sophie. I’m going insane here. Look, if you’re gonna ask the question, fine. -If- it works out between us, and -if- we stay together long enough, yeah I’d have kids with you. But could we, even? What is that, half-griffon, half-pegasus? Have you ever seen any of those around? And even if that’s possible, what would they go through, being seen as some sort of freak? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be there, I’m sorry I can’t be more positive about the future, I’m sorry I can’t get myself into a place where I’m not in danger every second. It's almost four years since we last saw each other, Paige. Things aren’t getting better here. They’re just getting worse. Help me, Paige. -Cyril Author's Note And thus, we close out the year 1010. You guys all know the drill, keep an eye out for any errors or typos I have made, ask any questions as you see fit, and generally just let me know what you thought! Next chapter: the year 1011! 6 1/2 years to go! On the Edge pt 1: DarknessJuly 11th, 1011 Royal Palace, Canterlot In the end, she decided on the bright moon. Princess Luna had been debating on dimming the moon when she raised it these past few weeks. If her suspicions bore out, a dim moon would make an invasion of any kind difficult for an attacker. They’d be forced to either attack during the day, in which Equestria’s large air force could more easily assist her ground forces, or try to make the attack in the darkness, during which accidents would occur, friendly fire was a certainty, and units would of course lose their way. But in the end, she kept the moon cycle as normal for one reason; Changelings were nocturnal shapeshifters. This wasn’t your normal enemy they faced over the northern border, this was a foe who could literally change their appearance to give themselves the physical attributes they needed, fly over rough terrain, and use their black carapace hides to conceal themselves in darkness even without their abilities. After Chrysalis’ attempted coup, Luna had committed herself to learning everything she could about them, and it still wasn’t enough. They were like nothing she had ever faced before, and Equestria was already a malnourished state defense-wise against regular foes like griffons or monsters. The Crystal War had exposed deep faults in the Royal Armed Forces, faults that had been ignored or handled too sluggishly. While Luna’s own influence had improved after her work reforming thestral rights with Celestia, she found that the undying adoration the Royal Army had for her only got her so far. Many of her attempts to alter training had her run headlong into Chancellor Neighsay of the EEA of all ponies. It turned out that soldier curriculum, by outdated traditions in place for centuries, fell under their oversight. Attempts to procure better equipment ran into treasury problems, production had issues with industry leaders and even an attempt to muster up additional ponypower was headed off by her own generals, who pointed out that such a decree from her when no war was active would likely be hotly contested. After everything Luna had done, she couldn’t fix the one thing she had finally become comfortable handling in this day and age. She assumed improving the lives of the thestrals and reintegrating them into society would bridge the gap, but while she had reversed their fortunes, the nation paid for it as businesses and society were thrown into confusion. Managers and businesses that discriminated against thestrals were promptly punished, leading to an air of extreme caution and sensitivity. As it turned out, Twilight’s proposed reforms had worked too well, too fast. Things were only just going back to normal. Luna sighed as she gazed down to Canterlot from the high ledge, with its wide boulevards, high white towers and bright lights illuminating her streets. She should be going out soon, to guard the citizens of Equestria’s sleep from nightmares. But all she could think about was the border, and the ponies stationed there as little more than sacrificial sheep. Oh, she didn’t want to think of them as such or to throw away their lives. But her options were severely limited. “Ah, Luna,” said a melodic voice behind her, snapping her out of her thoughts. “I see you haven’t left yet.” “You are up late, Sister,” the alicorn of the night replied, not looking back as Celestia stepped onto the balcony with her, her pleasant white coat and rippling rainbow mane contrasting not only her own, but also the darkening shadows across the palace walls. It seemed no matter how late it was, Celestia was always bright and radiant in appearance. “I assumed you would have retired by now. Or at least gone to relax for the evening.” “I haven’t seen you for several days now. And even then, you’re always so busy.” Perhaps Celestia sensed her sister’s apprehension, the dark storm of thoughts brewing in her head, because she stopped short of coming up next to her at the railing. “You’ve certainly been...invested in military affairs as of late. A few weeks ago, you were asking to review the naval budget. Now I hear you’ve called up wargames at Mariposa between the Army and Air Force.” “Only the reserves and National Guard,” Luna pointed out, now actually looking at her sister with a stoic expression she normally saved for uncooperative ministers and public appearances. “Since I was forbidden from using the regular troops.” Celestia didn’t even look surprised, merely examining her sister carefully. “I never said you were forbidden. I said it was a terrible idea. That there were ponies who would get in your way.” “Tia, who are we kidding?” Here, Luna’s expression finally changed, though into one of exasperation. “We are practically -queens-! Any decree we give is followed without contest! -You- are the only one who can stand in between my orders and my soldiers!” “-Your- soldiers?” Celestia asked coolly, an eyebrow arching even as her eyes narrowed. Luna huffed, not in the mood to split hairs. “-Our- soldiers, whom -you- placed me in charge of!” She spat, pointing an accusing hoof at the day alicorn. “Why ask me to command them if I cannot fix the problems I see? Why charge me with Equestria’s defense if I cannot move them where I need them? Why ask me to oversee training and equipping if I am denied the funds I need to change both?” “Luna, enough.” “No!” Even she was a little taken aback by her response, and Luna needed a moment to recover, compose herself and continue, now much quieter and calmer. “Sombra is gone. But the threat -is- real. We are in danger here, and everytime I try to change something, I am stonewalled. By ministers. By budgets. By -you-.” Luna sighed, shaking her head as she gestured out beyond the balcony. “The world is still full of peril. You have -been- there, by my side. We were not given this nation to let it fall to our enemies.” “Luna,” Celestia tried to intone gently, her face softening once again. “I understand your worries. But as you said, Sombra -is- gone.” “And what a victory -that- was!” Luna snapped back. “How many lost for our victory, Sister? A hundred-thousand of our subjects dead and wounded to push Sombra back. And how many Crystal ponies died for the liberation? Every one of his soldiers we killed was a citizen brainwashed or enchanted into doing his bidding. In the end, the only ones who suffered was -we-. Sombra was never confirmed destroyed. I know he is STILL out there, somewhere, and now abruptly the Changelings have an advanced, unified industrial nation and a massive army full of griffon-designed tanks, which they have used to conquer two of their neighbors! The warnings are all over the walls, Celestia! And yet, we do -nothing!-” “We don’t need to do anything,” Celestia replied. “When the Changeling economy has balanced itself with the resources they now possess, they’ll see Chrysalis for the insane being she is and depose her.” “Bullshit, they will,” Luna snapped. Celestia blinked, taken aback and shocked. They were from an older time, Luna especially more than herself. They didn’t use crass language like that. While she was proud of how her sister had adapted to the modern day, eleven years just didn’t seem like enough time to break her of her usual air of high nobility. A voice in the back of Celestia’s head reminded her that Luna had found a very strong bond with her generals and admirals, and had even toured army camps on the front during the Crystal War. Clearly, she had picked up a few modernized words here and there. Luna pressed on. “Tia, Chrysalis is the one who united the hives! -She’s- their savior! The very reason they won over Olenia in the first place! What on this earth makes you think they’re going to just cast her down when the system she has put in place is -working-? That is the most idiotic thing I have ever heard!” Silence. The quiet night stretched on between them, the two sisters huffing as the emotion of the moment rolled over their argument. This was not the first time they had clashed over this issue. And it was the same result every time. Luna would attempt sweeping reform of the Royal Armed Forces, Celestia would head her off and then Luna would be forced to work from the sidelines, affecting small change here, introducing minor measure there, dispensing instructions to the generals to keep them going towards possibly reworking the heap that was their defense force. In some regards, she had been very successful. The Lunar Sea Fleet had gotten their first cruisers last year, and the Celestial Sea Fleet now had three modern Rockhoof class carriers to it. The Royal Air Force had finally replaced all their Hurricanes with Spitfires, and from what she’d heard the new Celestia infantry tank design was ready to go into prototype phase next month. At this rate, they’d be able to mass produce some time next year. But the large scale changes she knew they needed to stand against Chrysalis’ Imperial Army were always shot down. The lack of ponypower to train new divisions and fill the gaps in existing ones, the lack of a modern, portable machine gun to give their bolt-action Lavender rifles some tactical support, an outdated tank doctrine that specifically kept armor on light and medium tanks thin because of their place in Equestrian battle doctrine, and of course the absolute shunning of additional submarines due to them being ‘cowardly’ weapons. None of it was fixed, only softened. Finally, Luna sighed, calmed down. She looked Celestia right in the eye and wearily asked “Why?” “Why?” Celestia repeated, not as if she didn’t understand, but more as if she were processing the word. And that was when Luna brewed into a cold fury, sweeping a hoof to point out beyond Canterlot, to the northwest, trembling in her barely controlled rage. “Why! Why am I unable to mobilize when our recon flights -clearly- tell us the Changelings are massing on our border? Why am I barred from increasing recruitment rates and authorizing propaganda campaigns to fill our ranks? Why must I work in the dark, in secret meetings and clandestine calls to get my generals the orders they need to make certain Equestria is kept safe? Why, when Queen Velvet begged you to step in and save her country, did you override my recommendations for a first strike, or even to support a resistance movement? Why, Tia? WHY?” Her voice had escalated, from a stern and cold pitch through to insensate fury, all the way up to her Royal Canterlot voice, Celestia’s mane blowing in the wind she generated. And yet, the elder was unphased, merely looking down at her sister. Both literally and figuratively, Luna thought scornfully. But Celestia surprised her, then. She smiled. And Luna’s rage doubled, feeling the clawing darkness that was always present in her mind returning, whispering, gleefully boasting that Celestia would never see her as her equal, always the stupid little sister to be controlled. The voice that said she was the one who should be in charge, without inane weights holding her down. The voice of Nightmare Moon, the part of her she had locked away inside herself for years. “I see now. Ironic. The one banished to the moon and stepping out of time has grown up much more than I ever have.” And in a moment, Luna’s fury abated, leaving her flabbergasted, trying to struggle for words. “Wha...how do you mean?” “Luna, when you came to me for help with your thestrals, I almost told you to strike out, accomplish it on your own. In my mind, undertaking this campaign would have been such an experience for you, becoming your own mare and finally cementing your place as a true ruler of Equestria, loved as much as feared, and a firm figure. But a dark vision passed through my mind, and I knew too much was at stake. Yes, you were capable, but I had to make -sure- the reform succeeded.” Celestia moved past her, taking up a place at the railing now herself, staring first up at the moon, then across the horizon towards the northwest. “When you rallied Equestria to face Sombra, I knew you were still the same warrior who defeated him a thousand years ago. And our troops and public were behind you, every step of the way. But then the Crystal War ended...and the peace came with it.” She turned to Luna again, sadly. “Ponies wanted their calm, quiet life back. To grieve their lost loved ones and to reclaim their sense of safety. We had won. What was the point of staying armed, ready for an attack? Surely you saw it in their dreams?” Luna had indeed. During the Crystal War, the ponies dreamed for victory and safety from the evils of the north. With her new duties of running a war, Luna had shamefully been forced to ask Celestia for help once more with safeguarding their dreams, especially with Sombra’s vicious umbrals at large. Her war had been fought at the sides of mages as much as with the soldiers in the snow. She nodded, mollified and listening intently. “And after? What did they dream of?” “Of life returning to normal,” Luna sighed. “Perhaps even better than normal, as if to forget what had happened to begin with.” “Ponies are not natural warriors anymore,” Celestia pointed out. “Our lust for battle has long been left idle, to wither and die. The Riverlands diplomats I meet point out to me the vast difference when I hired instructors from the east.” Luna’s ears perked up at that. When had she done that? Riverlands instructors? In her camps? Surely she would have heard about that? But no...that fell under EEA jurisdiction. Luna had moved on from that stonewall. Had Celestia gone around the EEA anyway? “I am not blind to the threat of the Changelings, Luna. Nor am I so feeble as to believe Friendship would defeat Chrysalis a second time. You cannot make friends with armies. This is a new war we face. A brutal one. An industrial one. And so, I stalled for time. The longer Chrysalis spent on Olenia and her own affairs without believing she needed to rush to attack us, the longer you had to work.” She smiled at her sister, who frankly looked flabbergasted. “I used those same thestral reforms we worked out with Twilight to pressure industry leaders who stonewalled you. I kept the nobles busy with parties so they wouldn’t be paying attention to the new ships you commissioned with commoner officers. Planned railroad projects when you set up new airfields in the south and to the west so the material movement would not raise attention. When I said how mobilizing the regular troops would enrage our populace, ponies who want nothing to remind them of the dark war we fought not so long ago, I made sure nopony was aware of you moving reserves north.” “Sister...I…” Luna was stunned speechless for a moment. “While I admit I could have done more, or simply let you have at it with your opponents, I didn’t want the good will you had gained with the people go to waste. Equestria loves you now, Luna. You saved them from Sombra’s legions. The last thing I wanted was for them to hate you again. However right you were. Are.” Celestia sighed, head hanging, her mane drooping slightly. Did she suddenly look much more tired than before? “And, I will admit to a fault on my own end in leaving Chrysalis be. I truly thought the Changelings were united by nothing more than a cure to their hunger. Why else would they support such a mad creature as Chrysalis? By the time I saw my error in reasoning, it was too late. And if I could not help you prepare us for war while saving the love you now had, I could at least make sure nopony got in your way.” Celestia turned back to Luna, away from Canterlot. Her face was now grim, determined. “You’ve been warning me of Changeling mobilization for some time now, yes?” “Yes, Sister.” Her recon agents and planes had confirmed as much since the beginning of June, massive amounts of forces moved to the border from Seaddle all the way across the frontier. The few spies she had been able to secure in Olenia said that garrison units were being stripped of planes and heavy hardware, and a polar bear naval officer with leaked intel had revealed that the Grand Armada had slipped its moors days ago. The signs were all there. “Then, Luna; I fear you will finally be proven right in these next few days. So. I will no longer stand in your way. And I will no longer protect Equestria from you, whatever measures you feel need be put in place. Instead, I trust you to do the right thing to protect our realm. I will support you, all the way.” Luna slowly stepped forward, until she was standing next to Celestia at the railing, both of their gazes pulled almost by an invisible force towards the northwest. They were silent for several minutes, contemplating the impossible task set before them. “Acornage will fall,” Luna finally stated. “The defense line was not completed. It is still understrength and suffers many gaps. Whitebell will likely go the same. Mariposa I do not have high hopes for. Vanhoover, we will likely only delay them. And the Celestial Sea Fleet must be given orders to sail, at once. The Lunar Sea Fleet will not last against the Changeling Armada, not after they absorbed those Olenian battleships.” “I will sound the general mobilization at once. I can dispatch the Royal Guard to respond immediately.” “It will still take them several days at least to make it to the front. We need to prepare for heavy losses.” Celestia nudged Luna, and the smaller alicorn looked up at the taller one. Actually, was it her imagination, or was their height difference not quite as pronounced now? “You have a plan, I take it.” “Yes. With your permission-” “You have it.” Luna blinked in surprise, the words dying on her lips. “I have not said it.” “I do not need to hear it. You have proven worthy of my trust on many occasions. This, our most important hour, is no different.” “Just like that?” “Just like that,” Celestia assured, smiling proudly at her sister. In that moment, both of them shone more brightly on the balcony, Luna’s star mane lighting up like the constellations it resembled, and Celestia’s coat was like a lighthouse on this top tower. “Go. I will take over the dreamwatching for tonight. I’m more prepared this time. But from now on, we split it. We’re both about to be very busy at all hours of the day.” “Like nothing we know of, Sister,” Luna agreed, stretching her wings and taking flight, immediately soaring off towards the building of the Ministry of Defence. Within seconds, her black and blue form was gone in the darkness, swooping down to lead Equestria in her darkest hour. Now alone on the balcony, exhausted from the day but committed to the duties of the night, Celestia took a deep breath, steeling herself. “You may be the only one to save us from my failure, Luna.” And with that, Princess Celestia flew off to do what she had always done; buy Luna time and space to do what -she- had always been best at. Sneig Defense Line, Jade Hills, Crystal Empire 19th ‘Evergreen’ Onhooves Division “Midnight, General.” Major General Deimos Falafel sighed, blowing out a cloud of hot air into the frost, watching it immediately be swept away. Though it was by all rights the middle of summer further south, winter technically never ended in the Crystal Empire, merely relaxed its grip. There was no snow, but the temperature plummeted to such a degree that patches of frost could still be found on the ground. The wind scythed down from the mountains to the north like an icy blade, covering his command post in a spray of early frost, normally not unwelcome to the Crystal ponies, but now an unwelcome reminder of what they faced; an enemy even more adjusted to the bitter cold than they were. Snow and ice would not slow a Changeling down. “Any word from Blueblood?” Falafel asked, tugging his coat tighter around him. To his dismay, the Crystal trooper shook his head, already knowing the answer. “No sir. Mariposa’s gone silent.” It was no secret that, as vital as the Crystal City was for manufacturing the Empire’s war material, the true center of coordination for the current war preparations up and down the border sat firmly with Field Marshal Prince Blueblood. His intel and troop movements had been far more accurate and informational than anything from the Crystal City or Canterlot, and it was in him that the Crystal generals along the Sneig Line put their trust. Word from the south was that Blueblood had been forced to secretly and silently evacuate the whole town of Acornage, turn it into a military hardpoint. The Equestrians were getting desperate to overcome their lack of foresight. “Try Snowbury, then. See if we can’t reach the Prince-Consort.” Falafel stepped outside his headquarters tent, suddenly feeling the urge to get some fresh air. This late at night, his entire command post was lit brightly by crystal powered arcane spotlights, casting the area in an icy blue that did little to put him at ease. Around him, grey uniformed ponies were constantly in motion, unicorns studying arcane patterns, intelligence officers attempting to decipher field intelligence, radioponies shouting and receiving orders at a breakneck pace. In the distance to the west, he could see the lights from his division’s positions, eight thousand soldiers scattered across this narrow valley. To the north, the high peaks leading to Yakyakistan formed a natural, impossible to cross barrier guarded by Crystal pegasi, and the thick forests of Frozen Butterfly province made an impenetrable barrier held by seventeen other Crystal divisions, all dug into fortified ready positions. Here in the Jade Hills was the enemy’s only possible entry over flat ground. They wouldn’t stop the Changelings, and neither would the divisions behind them or at the fallback line, but they would certainly make them pay for every inch they tried to press into the Crystal Empire. No surprise attack here like what they had done in Olenia. “Lieutenant?” Falafel asked over his shoulder, calling his aide over. “Bring the division to alert status. All hooves on the line. If the Changelings are going to try something, it’ll be now.” The unicorn nodded, saluting as she galloped away, leaving Falafel standing at the sandbag wall, caught in his thoughts. Dark had his dreams been since the end of the Crystal War, when Sombra’s insidious hold over his mind had cleared and he finally could control himself and absorb the consequences of his actions. The things he’d seen. The things he’d done. Ordered done. He had been offered a retirement, but he knew he’d never function outside of the army after that. Now, he was beginning to regret his decision, as they changed out one enemy for another, merely years apart. Deimos’ mind had been plagued by visions of dark creatures, innumerable shapes overwhelming the land as he could do nothing but stand by and watch. Worse, at times his nightmares had him participate, commit heinous deeds alongside these shadowy creatures. It was enough to make him wake in terror most nights, panting and sweating at the visions and the memories they conjured. A hoof gently came up, touching the Snowflake submachine gun he had strapped to his flank. Never again. He’d take his own life before he’d allow himself to be overtaken like that again. When word had reached him from Prince-Consort Shining Armor that an invasion was imminent, Falafel had immediately gotten to work. The Empire didn’t have the ponypower to last in a sustained fight, so the name of the game was a fighting retreat with Equestrian air support. Even now, positions were being prepared along a carefully prepared fallback route, over which they would tear the Changelings a new one until they reached Snowbury. If their line still couldn’t hold after all that, the final fallback point was the Crystal City itself, which had been made a fortress since Sombra’s banishment. They would hold at least as long as Equestria, perhaps even longer if fortune was on their side. No word on Princess Cadance’s intentions yet, but hopes were high that she’d fight beside her troops, just as Shining Armor was already prepared to do in Snowbury. Deimos let out a breath, reassuring himself. Everything was in hoof. They had the situation under control. It was -not- going to be the same as the last war. “General!” Falafel turned, frowning as a radiopony rushed up from the comms pit, headset gone flying and panic across his features. He skidded to a halt merely a few feet from Deimos, the two MP ponies reflexively reaching for their weapons a moment. “Sir! We just lost Snowbury!” The command post froze, various Crystal ponies halting whatever they were doing as their heads all swivelled over at the radio operator’s brazen declaration. Falafel’s first reaction was to internally panic, both at the news and suddenly having all these eyes on him. Sombra’s curse the first time had shook his confidence, and he’d never regained it. Having to respond to a crisis like this with so many witnesses was his every fear, and he grappled internally to not freak out as he got his own racing heart under control. Abruptly being isolated from the entire army, twenty divisions of ponies, was enough to make his soul seize up in terror at the possibility of isolation. Breathe in… Count to four… Breathe out… Count to four… Okay, he thought. This is clearly a big deal. Time to step up, be the officer you always were. Address the anomaly. Sound the alarm, that’s what was needed here. The invasion may not be underway. But it was best to act like it was. “No. It’s -not- him,” the general whispered quietly once he’d steadied himself, taking only that half moment to compose himself before he shifted to a familiar attitude. They had trained for this, fought like this. “I need that ready alert sped up, get the division on stand by ASAP! As of now, we must assume we are being isolated from the army group! Get me the guns, I want every inch of this valley sighted by a howitzer or mortar!” To the radio pit, he ordered “Check the lines, If it’s the weather we can call up a pegasus team to get us better reception. But if we’re talking physically cut, we might be looking at Changeling sabotage.” Quickly, several of his subordinates moved in his direction as the radiopony scurried off, and he began barking off orders to his battalion commanders. This. This, he could do. He had a plan, and all contingencies were planned for. The Royal Air Force would be on standby, and if the offensive rolled out, the 19th would stall the Changelings long enough for Blueblood to be warned and ready for the main attack. “Captain Frost,” he continued, turning to his chief artillery coordinator. “I need you to-“ The wind came again, chill once more, but somehow even colder than before. It wrapped him in its icy embrace as he huddled, attempting to start again, cap pulled down on his red and black mane. His words abruptly caught in his throat, as Falafel glanced over a shoulder towards the treeline. He hadn’t picked a direction on purpose, it was more of him running off adrenaline and locking into combat mentality. But for whatever reason, he looked away to the south. Army engineers had scouted the area ahead of time, choosing a suitable location for his field headquarters where he could move to command the division. And he was fairly certain they had never reported any corrupted crystals in the area. Sombra’s mind-controlled Legions had never made it this far. And yet, just a few hundred meters down the hill, sticking out of the treeline, was a large, purple shard, flowing with dark and sinister energy. Falafel’s eyes locked on it, his mouth hanging open, his mind reeling. The visions returned, darkness hazy over his mind, shouting the orders to lines of masked troops, the creatures made of shadow surging past him. The feeling that every thought, emotion and action had been robbed of him by somepony who viewed Deimos himself not with amusement or even as a toy. But as a mere slave. A tool to use and dispose of at will, nothing more. The mere sight was too much for him. All the confidence he had been feeling, the momentum he had carried, flew out of him in an instant. He had been right. And he had talked himself down from the idea. But he -had- been right... Captain Frost frowned, watching the general carefully before he too glanced to the south. Fortunately, Frost was more on the take as he immediately recognized what the crystal implied, spinning to one of the nearby MPs. “Sound the alarm! Get security troops up here, we need the area-“ General Deimos Falafel heard the shots, felt the splatter of blood on his face. But it took him a moment to react, blinking blearily and reaching a hoof up to wipe the sticky red liquid from his muzzle. By the time he realized what had happened, his gaze slipped down to the Snowflake in his hoof, and then to the corpse of Captain Frost and the two nearby MPs on the frigid ground. His stomach lurched at the sudden, sickening realization. Around the HQ, other infiltrators revealed themselves, cutting down officers and MPs that went for their weapons. A unicorn radiomare blew the head off the nervous stallion who had been feverishly trying to contact Snowbury, an artillery coordinator cut down two battalion commanders discussing fire control over a map of the valley. As half his command was cut to pieces by the other half which turned out to be the enemy, General Falafel could only watch on in shock and terror, frozen in place. Unable to act. Then, a dark presence, like oil sliding over water, slipped over his mind. His soul suddenly felt caught in a vise grip, a familiar feeling he’d certainly been through before, and the white stallion choked as he tried to turn to face what he already knew he’d see. "No...you were destroyed! This...this is impossible-" His eyes darted feverishly towards the radio pit. There had to be a survivor, somepony still alive and unturned who could warn the army group! The nation! Even as shots rang out, he had to give the order. They might die here, cut down by the enemy, but they could give the Empire a fighting chance. But a sickening thought crawled over him; the radio lines were down. Whether that was the Changelings cutting them, the infiltrators taking advantage of the storm or one of his operators having sabotaged their sets, they were still cut off. Smack dab in the middle of a group of twenty divisions, and they couldn’t even shout for help with their last breaths. But there! As one of the Changelings moved away, he spotted an aide kit, sitting on top of a crate nearby. He scrambled over, hooves fumbling with the latch. But after a moment of panicked reaction, he had the lid open, glancing feverishly to make sure he hadn’t been spotted, seeing more and more Changelings and glowing green eyes that signaled the fate he feared above all else. And then, with the flare gun in his hooves, he took a few feverish steps outside, aiming high and pulling the trigger. The weapon only bucked lightly, the phosphorous starshell screaming away into the sky. He’d done it! He’d sent the only warning he could, but he had overcome his- The flare was green. The signal for an artillery barrage, now hanging high in the sky over the Evergreen division’s positions. He had grabbed the wrong shell. He felt the despair wash over him. And then, that dark presence in his mind was given strength, tenfold now, shadowy tendrils coiling through his mind. His last act, his sacrifice before his ultimately cheap death, nothing but wasted effort. But he could at least face the being he had feared, and known, had returned this whole time. Before he could complete his turn, the dark presence finished taking control, and he stopped in place, his eyes glowing green. Behind him, King Sombra smirked, leering over the ruined command post at his victory. Those officers who hadn’t been killed by the strike force had been turned to his command, and all looked to him with the same vacant expression on their faces. Like a shadow itself, a massive dark purple umbral loomed over him, an sentry trooper’s head stuck in its jaws, struggling feebly to get away. And when the dark king spoke again, that little shred of Falafel’s mind that remained his own (so small and insignificant compared to how much had been taken by the suffocating power) quivered in fear at the voice. A voice he had hoped to never hear again, as if from shadows themselves, from all directions at one, at once everywhere and right behind him. And this time, he could no longer take a minute to calm down and reassure himself it wasn’t real. Because it was. “Ah, yes. Hello again, Deimos." The general merely nodded, a blank expression on his hypnotized face. Abruptly, Sombra heard the sound of a hammer drawing back, and glanced annoyed over to see Falafel’s unicorn aide, tears streaming down her face, revolver held in her magic pointed at Sombra’s armored head. She must have hidden away when the shooting started. The Changelings hadn’t noticed her yet either. Sloppy. His annoyance turned to amusement, and the dark king merely chuckled, turning away from the unicorn dismissively as his red horn glowed. “A strong one. Always one, I suppose. You know what to do, General.” The unicorn blinked, confused for a moment before a rattle of gunfire rang out, a bloody line of bullet holes stitching across her chest and she fell to the ground, blood already soaking into the ground. Falafel’s submachine gun smoked, held steady as the general watched to ensure she was dead before he brought the weapon down. Sombra didn’t have to order the mare killed, not when he could have easily turned her, but the Changelings could use a show of force. To make sure they knew -who- was in charge here. He looked up at the green flare, now slowly drifting away from the headquarters, blowing with the icy breeze towards the 19th division’s positions. A smirk caught his lips. Already caught in the middle of their alert, the troopers below would be looking up, confused and conflicted. Radio messages to the headquarters, already ringing out over the sets he could hear, would go unanswered. Ponies would instinctively fear they were being targeted by their own guns, victims of a friendly fire incident. How deliciously ironic. Chrysalis had warned him to be cautious. To take no chances and keep his infiltration quiet and careful for maximum effect. Now, they could do things -his- way instead. “Let’s get some fire on those positions,” he said idly, holding up a hoof to inspect it for dirt or imperfections. “Confusion will make it easier to turn the division, and I’d hate to interrupt the invasion timetable.” At his spoken order, one of the surviving artillery coordinators saluted. “Yes, My King.” As the artillery coordinates were fed to the howitzer positions, Sombra breathed deep, sighing as he prepared to turn his new army. The guns fired, the shells falling on the 19th’s prepared positions. Screams rent the air. “Ah. Good to be back.” He glanced to General Falafel, once again staring into the distance, eyes glassy and waiting for orders. Sombra grinned, conjuring a Legionnaire helm into being. “Thank you, Deimos. You’ll be quite useful.” He chuckled at his own small joke, once more looking to the flare hanging in the sky, its green light ghastly against the shells exploding in the trenches. Behind him, the umbral closed its jaws, crushing the trooper’s skull. The hind hooves twitched once, twice, and then fell slack. Author's Note Welcome to On the Edge! This triple part interlude will cover multiple perspectives covering the beginning of the Changeling invasion, this significant and tragic event that signals a new age of blood and strife unseen in this world's history! Instead of weeks, you'll only be waiting days for the next part, and then a few days after that! Enjoy, and remember we'll get back to 1011 part 2 after On the Edge is concluded! Many thanks to all my beta readers. Without you, this work would not be possible, as I would second guess myself to death. Tune in next week for On the Edge part 2!
1007 pt 1Sent March 21, 1007 Dear Cyril, First, let me express condolences for the death of your Emperor. I only heard the news after I'd just gotten off the boat in Manehattan. Your homeland and mine haven’t had the best of relations in history, but I understand Grover V did his best with a bad plate, and genuinely cared for his subjects. I’m sure you’re devastated. On a brighter note, Equestria is such a marvelous place. I’ve never seen a land so bright and lit up. I’ve only seen Manehattan and the countryside, but so far it's unlike anything back in Griffonia. I’m writing this on the train, but I’ll be sure to send it once I stop at the end. Should give me a day or two to get it written up. I keep thinking about our conversation before we said goodbye, in Rottendedam. I know it was literally the only thing we said to each other, but it still sticks in my head regardless. I find that, despite having just met you a week or so ago, I miss you already. Strange, isn’t it? Wishing you well, -Paige Sent April 16th, 1007 Paige, Thanks for your words. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel about the Emperor’s death. He’s such a distant figure on the throne, sometimes it's hard to relate. The whole Empire mourns, however. The Empire’s in chaos right now. The Regency Council is doing their best to hold things together, but from what I hear Griffenheim’s become a political shit pile. The Archon and the Duchess of Strawberry are having it out, and apparently they’re giving high-level commoners the vote alongside nobles in the palace. Things must be more desperate than even I thought. Every griff's trying to take what they can, sometimes I wonder if anyone’s trying to save it. Sunstriker Clan broke ranks with us as soon as word of the Emperor's death got out. Let’s hope those traitors are the last. I’ve been assigned to the ‘Synovial’ division, a panzer testing unit. It's strange to jump from infantry tactics to panzer, much more technical. They’re running us on these new prototypes, something called an ‘LI-1’. Not too sure how it differs from the old Airbenders I see parked in the yards here, but from what I hear it's supposed to be the end result of study with the Changelings. I will say, it's nice to be inside of something instead of trekking across muddy fields. They’re talking about big changes to come. I don’t know how I feel about that. Some news of your home, in case you were wondering and the newspapers out there hadn’t updated you yet. Chancellor River Swirl won your election. I wouldn’t even have known if I hadn’t been watching the papers. You kind of opened my eyes to the wider world, and now I’m not sure I can go back from that now. I think back on our talk too. Rottendedam was just a few weeks ago, but I miss you too. Writing this feels like the only thing left that’s normal these days. I remembered something you said last time while I was out on the town. I’m sending a few fliers from the university of Griffenheim in this envelope, stuff about a lecture on theoretical enchantments. I know it's not the newspapers you were all about, but I hope some of the more intellectual terms would give you a challenge to learn. Maybe not. I’ll write again when I can. -Cyril Sent May 9th, 1007 Dear Cyril, Thank you so much for the fliers. It's fascinating to read about the university’s curriculum in a different language. Herzlandisch was always a challenge for me, so you’ve provided me with plenty of entertainment. Though, I’m afraid I already know most of what they have to offer me. I’m settled in to the university. It's a wounderous place, full of bright minds. I don’t know what I expected, but I’m surrounded by prodigies who are even younger than I am. I’m suddenly so nervous. Classes are supposed to start soon, and then I can get a measure of myself, I suppose. I've been studying like mad in the meantime. The library is plenty well-stocked with far more advanced technical tomes and scrolls than I had imagined. I found out something fascinating while I was here. Apparently there's a healthy population of batponies in Equestria, though you’d probably know them better as thestrals. There haven’t been thestrals in the Riverlands since, well, ever. Or at least, it's not well covered. My roommate Gloaming Bright is one, but she’s not eager to open up. I think she’s a bit defensive. There’s not many other thestrals here, if any. I want to say I understand her situation, given I’m the only Riverpony here I know of, but somehow I think it's not the same. It's interesting what you’re describing. I’m not much into mechanical engineering myself, but I do know Changelings have some of the best technical knowledge in the world. That’s going to be some top quality machinery you’re in, if it had their input. Are you sure you’re allowed to talk about military hardware like that? Its later. I started this letter earlier, but I stopped for a while. I knew I'd miss home, but I didn't think it would be this bad already. I haven’t even heard from my parents yet. Or my other friends. Just you so far. Thank you, Cyril. Sincerely, -Paige Sent May 28th, 1007 Paige, I’ve heard about thestrals before, but they were always stories, just a legend about creatures of the night come to snatch bad chicks from their beds. I had no idea they were real. That’s a little unnerving. If half the tales about them are true, you need to watch yourself. I have no idea why Equestria would let such creatures into their academies. Just watch yourself around them. The tension is getting worse over here. As well as our problems at home, Longsword just broke into a civil war a few weeks back. You probably read about it in the news. Could be that’s why mail from your home is having trouble getting through. Still, can’t say no one saw it coming. Only so long you can push creatures around, ponies or griffons, before somecreature snaps. I’ll tell you what I’ve read up on from the Riverlands. Apparently, after the coup Lake City installed some Prince. So much for democracy. I don’t know much about the underlying history there aside from what public school taught me, and that was still a bit lacking. Apparently there’s some other tensions going on in the east, so much so that the Order of Hellquill actually starting building a grand fortification project, something called the ‘Ostwall’. I don’t know much aside from what I’ve been briefed, and that didn’t tell us too much either. You’re average Imperial grunt isn’t very smart. A lot of us can’t even read. Most of us enlisted either out of family pride or because there aren’t many options outside of the elite merchant and scholar families. It's just kind of our fate. One more thing, you probably haven’t heard but the Reformistan has been suppressed in the east. Apparently, they stopped being very popular in the Griffkrieg Basin. Most of us are saying good riddance. They have a bad rap here too, rest assured. A few of them came west from the fighting in Longsword and the purges in Hellquill. From what I heard, they were shot. On that subject, I got a letter from my uncle. Apparently, the MfÖS saw me as a risk and were about to bring me in for questioning before he intervened. So I’m sorry if I have to be a bit more vague in the future. But I can tell you one thing; whatever is happening in Griffenheim, in the Imperial palace, its seems like High Kommand is getting ready for something serious. That prototype I mentioned we were field testing before? We’re getting more of them, a lot more. Our training regime has gotten more serious. We’re trained on all stations, but Sergeant Hellseig seems to think I have a thing for the 3.7 cm, which is a delight to fire on the range. We’re getting issued new arms out of the reserves, and I’m seeing more recruits coming out of the Crona training camps than were even in my cycle. More and more planes are flying overhead, and they’ve even got this new light bomber called a ‘Griefvogel’. The Luftstreitkräfte have to be happy about that, I imagine. Imperial Guard training was intense, but it seems they’re overhauling our combat capabilities something fierce. Someone knows something, and the more I’m seeing a buildup, the more worried I get. Stay safe, okay? -Cyril Sent June 22nd, 1007 Dear Cyril, A bit more cheer before I go into the grim news. Yesterday was a festival known as the Summer Sun Celebration. I didn’t know much about it, but I got a recommendation to go into Canterlot from one of my classmates, so I stretched my wings for a bit. You’d love the countryside, I think. Nothing but green forests and small towns as far as the eye could see. Reminds me of home. Gloaming didn’t come with, which I suppose makes sense as a creature of the night not wanting to celebrate the sun. Still, she seems like she could really use some cheer. She’s into her studies harder than I am. Canterlot is about the prettiest place you’ve ever seen, and I’m not talking grand or large or anything like that. Griffenheim has size on this place, but Canterlot is gorgeous. That’s not a word I use often either. The whole city is made of white walls and boulevards, ornamental lightposts and archways, gardens and fountains. Its seems as if this city was built from the ground up to be as beautiful as possible, even the manufacturing plants which have their smokestacks piped underground to keep the sky as blue as possible. From an architectural standpoint, it had to have been done by magic. No other method comes out this clean. The ponies had the place decorated from roof to street, every building. Strings of lights, sun lamps, pictures of the sunrise. A local school apparently had every colt and filly draw pictures of Celestia and they had all of these all over the place. Carnival games, shows, fireworks. It went all night, and I honestly lost track of the time until morning. Now I warn you to keep an open mind about this next part. They gathered us all in front of the castle, where Princess Celestia actually put on a demonstration of raising the sun. I know what you’re going to say, but it's a proven fact that she has command over the sun, not Boreas. She’s not my ruler either, but the evidence has shown that if she is unable to, the sun doesn’t move without her. I didn’t stick around long after sunrise anyways, since I had a flight back, but I heard the celebration went on the rest of the day as well. I’m all for a late-nighter every once in a while, but I had too much to get back to. I heard of another affair up north called the Crystal Fair. I was told its a lot like the Summer Sun Celebration, but in the Crystal Empire. While it sounds like fun, I was too late to buy tickets to that one. Besides, my studies are already keeping me busy. Perhaps I'll read about it when it happens. Bound to be a newspaper article about it if it's such a big deal. Okay, now the grim news. The story about Longsword hit the papers the other day. Good riddance indeed. The Reformistan are monsters. I’m actually relieved even the Empire thinks so. The attitude about the fight back here is concern for the ponies, but I’m worried about the implications. Its sounds like East Griffonia is heading for a bad time. I don’t know if you still hear about Prywhen these days, I’m certain that’s old news. But before I left, there was a lot of ponies worried about what the end of that fight would mean for the region. I had heard about the Princely Restoration in Jezerograd. Grand Prince Heavenly Snow is the name of the latest legitimate heir to the throne. It’s honestly just a bunch of military minds who want to use a figurehead monarch to fix their problems. Lake City was never a very straight democracy, and this just proves it. Not that that’s a real issue. Half of the Riverlands are monarchies of some kind. I’m just concerned what else they’re going to pull in the name of past glory. You mentioned your uncle in your last letter, but I’ve never heard you talk much about your parents. What’s the rest of your family like? I told you about my parents, but I didn’t mention my brother Brook Runner. He’s a businessstallion working in Coltovac, with a position in the shipping industry. I say ‘businessstallion’ but he sees himself as a bit of a river pirate, even though he’s not a criminal. That I know of, anyway. I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea about thestrals. Gloaming’s the only one I’ve spent a lot of time around, and she doesn’t seem anything like the old stories. She eats fruit, not blood, she doesn’t terrify anyone. Honestly, she really gets picked on herself, just for being a thestral. Maybe the world’s been a bit too hard on them. Gloaming certainly just wants to be left alone. I’ll do some reading on this, I feel like we may only have half the story here. You asked me to stay safe, but from what it sounds like you’re in a lot more danger than I am out here. There’s all kinds of outcomes I can think of for that and none of them are good. Whatever happens with you needing to keep quiet, I understand. I just hope you don’t get into something that’s too much to handle. I’d hate to lose my penpal after we’ve just gotten started. Sincerely, -Paige Sent July 16th, 1007 Dear Paige, I’ll ignore the religious debate you just brought up, since I know that’s not what you’re getting at and I’m not a very fervent temple goer anyway. All these festivals and fairs in Canterlot. It sounds like Fastnacht, which is essentially like the Summer Sun Festival except with less sun-raising demigods and more drinking. The high point is Rosenmontag, where a grand parade is put on to drive evil spirits out of the home with merriment. You just missed it in Rottendedam. A shame too. Feathisians love Fastnacht, especially Weiberfastnacht. The Thursday before Fastnacht, we set out a grand feast for the community, and eat our fill to prepare for the festival. I missed the last one myself, not all of us got the opportunity to go home for the holidays. We had some good beer to make up for it, though. Canterlot sounds unreal. Like, literally unreal. No industrialized society can make a city look that nice. It all turns into ugly towers and city blocks, no matter how hard they try. Suppose that’s the benefit of Pegasi weather control and unicorn magic. My family is a bit of a hard subject. My father was a soldier in the Reichsarmee, military police. He inherited a lot of the chaos and disorder in the Empire left over from the Kemerskai Meuterei. One day, he was shot during a riot in Romau, and my mother was left with me and my younger sister, Sophie. My mother did her best, but there was only so much a millworker could do to feed two chicks. I enlisted as soon as I could, so now there’s more money and fewer beaks to fill at home. But my mother didn’t agree. She didn’t want me to be swallowed up by the same chaos that took my father. Uncle August promised her he’d watch out for me. He’s the one who got me into the panzerwaffe, so he’s holding true to his word. Your brother sounds like a smuggler, Paige. I’m not even joking here, you need to ask him. I’ll bet you twenty bits. I’m not saying I’m absolutely right about thestrals. Not saying I'm wrong either. Most of what I know is from old legends. But you seem to be interacting with them more than I ever will. I just want to point out that reputations come from somewhere. Be careful around them, that’s all. I don’t know if its war. I just know that things are getting bad out here. Word from Longsword is getting worse, and I hear plenty of officers are grumbling about intervention. I looked into Prywhen like you asked, and it's not much better either. Refugees are travelling hundreds of miles to get nowhere, really. I also found out that there’s been a hold order on all mail coming west, given the state of things. No safe route, apparently. So if you still haven’t heard from your family, I am sorry. With all the violence in the east, postal lines are all messed up. I got my claws on a newspaper about the Riverlands Hoofball Cup. I’m not sure if you’re into that sport, but I decided to send it west. I also bought a book for you called Of Things That Never Happened. I didn’t read it myself, a lot of the words are too advanced for me. But I thought you might like it, and it's another way to practice your Herzlandisch, so I got you a copy. I can’t imagine what it’s like at that school. The only time I’ve been to a university was to visit Uncle August and that time I stopped by Griffenheim University. It's so far beyond me- (the next part is scratched out with several lines) Equestria sounds like a nice place. I don’t know if I’ll ever see a land like that. It just seems like Griffonia is doomed to war and chaos and grim circumstance. I want to come visit next time I can, but with training ongoing right now, I don’t know if I’ll ever get the leave for it. This next part I’m writing from my panzer, Ludmilla. Testing is ongoing. They’re drilling us as much as they are testing the tanks. Now we’ve got artillery panzers, flakpanzers, panzerjager. They’ve turned this into a major training and development field. New stuff at home too. They’ve done an overhaul of industrial production in Griffenheim, and Sophie says they changed teachers at her school. She’s a lot more into her classes now. My mother is happy, and so am I. Maybe the Empire’s not going to war. Maybe we’re just taking precautions. The Emperor’s death threw a lot of us for a loop. Maybe that’s what it took for things to change. A huge crisis. The Regency Council’s definitely trying, for all the issues they’re apparently having. The newspapers aren’t divulging much, but the military rumor machine is running full tilt. We’ve been saying how much we miss each other. If I can score some leave when you’re on break, where would you want to meet? I don’t know that I can afford a boat trip to Equestria on a zoldat’s salary, but I can get back to Rottendedam. How about it? First chance we get, beer and pretzels back by the harbor? I’ll buy. Yours, -Cyril Sent August 14th, 1007 Dear Cyril, I am so sorry this took so long to send! Your letter didn’t get to me until the beginning of the month, and then I got so bogged down with my classes. It took me forever to write you a response. I loved the book. It's a little thin on plot, and the author seems like he’s putting too much of himself into the character sometimes, but the internal turmoil and dialogue were stellar. You really should give it a try, it's not as bad as you think. Though, given its about a Republican agent, I think your superiors might frown on that. So I got you the newest Daring Do book! ‘Daring Do and the Forbidden City of Clouds’. I’m a big fan of the series, and I didn’t know if you read it. Sorry it's not in Herzlandisch. I don’t know if they published it in anything but Equestrian yet. I finally heard back from my family. I was so worried about them when you told me about the mail holdup, I sprang for a dragon to send a notice. Imagine my surprise when I got a reply the next day! They’re fine, thank Gods, just worried since they had learned their mail wasn’t getting through. News of the wars out there has the while Riverlands on alert. Apparently Prince Heavenly Snow has been making a lot of firebrand speeches against griffons, socialists, socialist griffons, you get the picture. He’s apparently not willing to let ancient history go, and Lake City is behind him on that. The context is a bit much to get into here, but I recommend you check it out in a library if you can get to one. If you’re interested. Gloaming’s finally started opening up. We have Advanced History of Arcana class together, so we’ve been study buddies a little bit. According to her, thestrals have been suffering the same sort of distrust you’ve been having, through stories and their strange appearances. It's actually really heart-breaking, but a lot of thestrals live in the jungles and hinterlands. Ponies don’t like them, and she’s had to deal with that her whole life. I’m not going to call you close-minded, but I’d really appreciate it if you try to look at this with a bit more open perspective. I started looking into it, and I found a charity group that’s trying to raise thestral awareness. I’m thinking of joining up. This is the same kind of issue ponies in East Griffonia are facing, and I know plenty of those who were personally affected by that kind of mistreatment. It's nice to hear more about your family. I’m sorry about your father, and my heart goes out to your mother and sister. It sounds like your family has been through quite a bit. I hope you’re not going to war either. With everything that's happening, the last thing Griffonia needs is more chaos, and I don’t want you in the line of fire. Rottendedam sounds great. I know you said you don’t know when you’ll next get leave, but let’s hope it’ll be around my holiday break. I have most of December and part of January off. I know it seems like a ways off, but I’ll be taking my midterms before then, so the pressure will be off me and that’ll hopefully be enough time for things to calm down back east, enough you can get out to Feathisia. Now it just seems like forever to wait. A few months turned into an eternity. Sincerely, -Paige PS. And I apparently owe you twenty bits. Please find enclosed. Sent Sept 8, 1007 Dear Paige, I always feel like my letters are packed full of more bad news than yours ever are. I hope this doesn’t continue being a trend, not that I’m wishing any misfortune on you. It's my turn to apologize for taking so long. We were out on maneuvers in Hellheim, practicing battle tactics with infantry and panzers combined. A Changeling actually gave us a lecture on revolutionary panzer strategy and combat lessons. Made me feel like I was learning something worthwhile at last. I heard, and so will you soon. The Prywhen fight is over. The communists won. I understand that doesn’t carry the same sense of dread for you as it does for me, but it could really still be a problem. Word is the Empire might blast through Blackrock to intervene. Then again, there’s no movement south. They haven’t pulled any of us out of training. I’ve been sorted into a new unit. We’re not Imperial Guard anymore. From the briefing we received from Field Marshal Bronzetail, we’re regular Reichsarmee now, us and a bunch of divisions. I’m getting transferred out of the Synovial division and into the 3rd Panzer Division. Apparently the Regency Council made the decision after the Archon insisted on a reorganization of Imperial forces. This is big. Those panzers I mentioned before (let’s not give the censor a reason to start cutting) are much better than we thought. We’re riding in better versions now, and we know what we're doing. Sergeant Hellseig has me permanently assigned on the gun. The battalion are my circle of friends now, and Ludmilla the 2nd is our trusted chariot. It's a unique bond, almost like family. I’m not labeling all thestrals as bad or anything. I just haven’t had much reason to trust-(the rest of the sentence is scratched out). I’m just gonna drop it. You have your reasons, and I’m okay with that, honest. I’m trying to read the book, but it's slow going. I’m not so good with Equestrian. I have to find the words that are close enough in Herzlandisch, and then look over the whole sentence again. By the time of this letter, I haven’t even finished the first chapter. Its a bit frustrating, but I'm keeping at it. More units, more gear. Word is, we’ll be getting AA guns supporting us. No neighboring army has a decent air force until you get to Aquileia. Which means these are meant to kill Knights. That thought always leaves a bad taste in my beak. End of the year is a ways off. Lucky me, that’s when High Kommand gets charitable with leave. Rottendedam it is then. Once we get a day, I'll wait for you in the harbor. Then I'll take you out for dinner like I should have six months ago. Can’t wait. No, seriously. I’m sick of waiting. -Cyril Author's Note I had originally wanted to write each chapter pertaining to a year in game, but I found that this one dragged on a little, and I wasn't even halfway through my desired letters! So, you'll be getting a few of the years as part 1 and 2, especially as the action picks up later. Given everything that can happen in game, I'm sure you all can guess how many ways this can all go.
1007 pt 2Sent September 23rd, 1007 Dear Cyril, I met one of the Princesses today! Actually spoke to her face to face! Shook hooves even! Apparently, Princess Luna wanted to come tour the university in order to see how some new educational reforms are shaping up, a new budget got passed. Anyway, I was in my Theoretical Magicks class when she stepped in to look us over. She’s so tall, I almost didn’t believe it! I saw Princess Celestia before, but there was nopony nearby for me to judge the scale next to her. Luna stood head and withers above anypony else, and she was so beautiful and regal! She’s the one this university is named after, and she came around and shook hooves with- (Several lines underneath are scratched out furiously) I should just start a new letter. I have never- (More scratches, just for the next sentence) You know me, Cyril. I’m not one given to celebrity worship, and the Princesses are not my sovereigns. But I swear when Princess Luna entered the lecture hall today, my mind went for a trip. I don’t know if this is all alicorns, but maybe this is why they inspire such fervent loyalty. Gloaming’s still going on about it. Apparently Princess Luna went out of her way to find the only thestral on campus. It’s good to see her laughing and smiling. I know you're more of a traditional mind, but I hope I can bring you around on thestrals. It’s really not fair what they’re going through out here. Did you know a large portion of thestrals on Equus are forced into frontier neighborhoods? The southern jungles are full of thestral villages and tribes. There’s even Nightmare Moon cults out here. Think of them like the Sunstriker Clan berserkers the Empire has so much trouble with. They’re not bad ponies, they keep to themselves. I just feel like there’s more we can do to help them. I wish you could understand. Midterms are coming up in a few weeks. I might not get back to you for awhile. Want to start my university career out strong, and that means getting good grades on these exams. Every day is extra assignments and every night is study hall. I’ve got a crystal matrice model I’m behind on and two essays I can barely start. Gloaming just seems to rock the whole thing. I don’t know how she does it, but she makes me feel like a little filly. I’m glad she’s here to help me. You’re part of the reason I can’t focus, by the way. I can’t help but worry for you too, with all the violence and disorder out east. I know you can’t give me much but sweeping details, so I did a little reading at the Ponybucks coffee shop. They’ve got a lot of newspapers there, and one of them had an article on the ‘Griffonian Kaiserreich’s Militant Resurgence.’ Apparently, ponies are saying that the Emperor’s death set off a chain of dominos. It was mostly somepony bashing your Regency Council about jingoism and what happens when the values of Harmony are rejected. Personally, if this is what an Equestrian pro-Harmonist has to say about the opposition, I’m not inclined to join his party. But it told me of the stark lack of information around here. It’s just surface details. Photos of military parades in Griffenheim, Imperial Knights training with swords, planes overhead. But they’re all selected shots. This journalpony isn’t the only one railing against your nation. So, while I understand you needing to be vague, can you tell me anyway? I know so little aside from textbooks from when I was back in Rijekograd. And you’ve opened up to me about the army and your family. But what’s home to you? I figure that, and trying to figure out that Daring Do book, might be enough to keep you occupied while I’m up to my wings in schoolwork. Wouldn’t want you getting bored, now would we? Yours, ~Paige P.S: I saw a little bistro in Rottendedam when I was there. It really caught my eye but it seemed too much for me by myself. I can’t remember the name, but I know I can point it out to you when I see it. Dinner sounds amazing, I’m counting the days with bated breath. Sent October 18, 1007 Dear Paige, Its started calming down around here. They’re not trying so hard to run us into the ground, gives us a bit of downtime, so it's a good time to take it slow and focus on this letter. It's also a great time to tell you about my crewmates, and what’s happening here. Ludmilla the 2nd is an LI-2 Ausf D light panzer. I’m allowed to say that now its been declassified, but expect stuff to get censored anyway. Our Changeling instructor (the name is cut out) walked us through her operation practically while she was being designed during the prototype phase. We may as well have had a hand in making the improvements. She carries a 3.7 cm main cannon, which I am the proud operator of. So far as I hear, a lot of this trial and error is being recorded by the Changelings and sent back to their homeland, so while we get a lot out of their designs, I can’t help but feel like we’re just the test rats. Sergeant Alrich Hellsieg is our panzer kommandant. He’s a veteran of the failed revolution. When he was an infantryman, a bullet turned his kneecap to powder. Now he has a severe limp, but he makes up for it by spitting insults and invectives at us all day long on how terrible we are. He’s an excellent leader, and all the abuse he heaps on us makes us better at the end of the day. Well, that’s what I try to tell myself, at least. Lance Korporal Hans Bluetalon is our driver. He’s been in a few years as well, so he’s a griff to go to when you have questions. The problem is, he takes his ‘big-brother’ attitude a bit too far at times. We’re both learning the same thing at the same time and he keeps going on about how much more experienced on panzers he is. Which can be a bit annoying. Zoldater Erika Grimquill is our new radiogriff and loader. In the last model panzer we didn’t have enough room for one, but the newer variant put another seat in. She mans the wireless set and loads my 3.7 cm. For a radiogriff, she’s a bit of a loudbeak and she’s got a pretty nasty attitude at times. Always flares her wings, looking for a fight. But we did learn that her mother sold out to the Republicans up north, and even now works for the Skynavians. We’ve been informed by MfÖS to keep an eye on her as a potential security risk. So that may have to do with her attitude. Which I’m not too happy about. All this backstabbing and mistrust is exactly what got us to our current political crisis in the first place. My regiment is the 41st Panzergrenadiers. We are responsible for assaulting enemy fortifications and rendering them null for infantry to move up and occupy the area. We’re being trained in ‘wolfpack’ tactics to take on enemy forts in companies to break up enemy fire. No word on anti-panzer tactics yet however. Apparently enemy panzers are not being seen as a factor yet. You asked about my home, and I have two answers for you. Right now, the Reichsarmee is my home, and while I can’t say which base I’m posted up at, I can tell you a bit what it's like. We’re usually up early morning for calisthenics at sunrise. Pushups, stretches, ground laps and flight sprints. This is just for an hour, but it's good to get exercise in before we’re crammed into the panzers. The rest of the day mostly goes how I imagine the film reels and stories might portray it; training all day, classes and equipment maintenance. But where an infantrygriff just takes care of his kit and that’s it, we’re panzergriffs. We have to look out for Ludmilla, and right now the officers are breathing down our necks for perfection. I have to memorize every moving part on the panzer, how to change a track and how to drive the tank and spot for a gunner. They fitted a machine gun onto the turret, but so far that’s just for Sergeant Helseig. It may sound boring to you, but there’s something to be had from the stability, the knowledge that this routine is going to be the same tomorrow. It helps, y’know? No stress about your work versus home, buying food or paying bills. After the nobles take their piece and the Empire skims tax off the top, what’s in your pocket usually stays there. It’s not too terrible. I mean, aside from the prospect of war, that is. But my home is in the outskirts of Griffenheim. My mother Margrit lives there with Sophie, and she says she has no intent to leave. I grew up in a small apartment on the Industrie side, facing towards Crona. The outer districts are much bigger than the city proper, almost like cities in themselves. My mother’s worked at a steelmill since my father died. Before that, she was going to school to become a teacher herself, but she always says you have to put reality first. I always felt sad that she had to give up her dream to take care of us, but she’s never made us feel terrible about it. Sophie’s in primary school right now. She was barely a hatchling when Father died, and she doesn’t remember anything about him. Maybe that’s why she’s always the happier one of us all. Industrie was always a hard place to live. It’s mostly factories and wharfs. Material gets hauled in from the countryside and turned into workable products here. The river is always full of gunk and it's dangerous to even touch, so no one dares to drink it. Accidents happen all the time in Industrie, and some of the street gangs even operate in the open. The only roads that are actually paved there are the important ones, the ones the nobles care about and finance. Otherwise, it's mostly muddy slosh. My father and uncle enlisted to get out. Uncle August got the attention of a general, and was promoted for it. My father meanwhile kept managing riots and disorderly soldiers until the day he died. Just goes to show how difficult it is to get out of this life. That’s why I send back whatever I can to mother. Make it easier so she doesn’t kill herself at the mill. And I think I’m getting it, I really think I’m changing things for her. Mother doesn’t know I’m writing you. Not that she dislikes ponies, I’m just not sure what she’d think about (several words are scratched out) whatever this is. She has enough to worry about, I’d rather not (several more words are scratched out) Forget it. Griffenheim proper isn’t bad. It’s tall towers and open boulevards. A lot of the buildings make you think you’re still in the age of castles and swords, but that’s the point. It carries a lot of culture in its stones, and we’re proud of that. Oktoberfest was a few weeks back, but I didn’t get leave for that either. It’s basically a week long drinking binge across the country and the end of September. Its lost prominence in the outer territories. I know it's practically illegal in Wingbardy. But we got an extra ration of beer back at base and a night off, so it wasn’t all bad. I still remember the beers we drank in the harbor in Rottendedam. I can’t drink beer anymore without smelling the sea breeze. So, I blame you for my lack of focus too. Anyway. Go into the Imperial City today, and everyone’s getting ready for Geheimisnacht, where we dress in fierce costumes and do mock battles to scare off evil spirits. Its a night of magic, so the occasional wayward ghost or ghoul isn’t unusual. The last time an actual monster came to Geheimistag was a century ago, I think. That’s more an issue in the countryside. But we dress up anyway, and decorate the buildings with skulls and strands of lights. We carve pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns like ponies do, and set them outside as our loyal sentries. The temples get a lot of traffic too, griffins coming in to try and say a prayer to Boreas and Arcturius, though this is also the time of year that Maar worshippers cause havoc. But last time I was in Griffenheim on leave was a few days ago, and the attitude was good. The markets are full of pumpkin beer, pumpkin pies, spiced sausages, caramel apples. Music playing all day in the squares. Candlemakers are working overtime to produce this year. With electric lamps becoming more common, business is falling for them. Everygriff keeps congratulating me for being a zoldaten. I even had a few chicks ask if they could get a ride on a panzer. The autumn air feels good. It’s a different atmosphere in the Empire than it was a few months back. The countryside’s leaves have mostly changed colors, and it's getting colder. We’ll likely start seeing snow by early November. There’s a few farms and small towns near the base we travel through a lot on maneuvers. They like us there. Military means griffons to sell food and drink to on the way. Better than the rations waiting back in the canteen on base, for sure. But they’ve collected the autumn harvest I’ve never heard you go on about any famous figures before. I’ve heard of Princess Luna of course. But it must be another thing entirely to meet her face to face. I suppose that would be as if Archon Eros himself toured our base. I know for a fact that would cause a huge stir. I may not be a frequent temple-goer, but a lot of Imperial soldiers come from religious families. That, and the more veteran among us say you wind up doing a lot of praying one way or another. So is alicorn the term for a pony with horn and wings both? Are all alicorns demigods? Can anypony just become one, or are they considered a separate tribe like pegasi and unicorns? Look, Paige. I’ve got nothing with -you- trying to do more for thestrals, but I don’t know anything about them aside from what I’ve heard. It's a little hard for me to have (the words ‘knowledge’ ‘wisdom’ and ‘ambivalence’ are all scratched out) perspective on them. I’m not saying don’t be her friend, I just don’t want you hurt because one of the old stories winds up being true. That’s all. I already asked to drop it. Please? I feel like we’re not quite going to see eye to eye on this. You wouldn’t be at that school if you hadn’t earned it. So be proud. If you feel like (somegriff is crossed out) somepony else has gotten ahead of you, use that to push yourself to be better. Rise to their level. I know it's easy for me to speak of here while you do everything you listed off in your letter, but I just know you’re going to do amazing. Look where you’re at, Paige. You’ve already got a (foot is crossed out) hoof in the door. It doesn’t matter how good (everygriff is crossed out) everypony else is. Just you. And just so I’m caught up, what is a matrice? Back again, later. I took my time with this letter, so I’m writing it over the course of a week. I’ve seen the journalists you wrote about. They show up to our bases in the public areas, they’re in Griffenheim and up at the palace. They’re taking photos of what they want, writing what they want. Equestria doesn’t have a good opinion of us, same as your country. A lot of creatures have the same idea. It seems no matter what, we’re always the bad-griffs. I don’t take it personally. But if the newspapers are that skewed out there, I’ll get some local papers here and send them to you. I can’t promise they’re any more honest, but maybe between the lies and the propaganda you’ll find some truth. I’ve been working on this letter a while, and it seems like long enough. Hopefully, if I send it tomorrow with the post it’ll reach you after exams, so you’re not as distracted. Any idea when you’ll get the results back? By the way, I’m on chapter 3 now. I’m sure we can find that bistro. The harborfront is all about serving the sailors coming and going and the dockworkers, so a lot of bars and eateries are out in the port. Let’s just not meet the same way we did last time. I’m not sure my pride could take another hit like that. -Cyril Sent November 13th, 1007 Dear Cyril, Midterms are finally over, thank the Gods, Princesses, whatever you want to thank. Nothing but week of grinding studies, tests and endless lectures. Your letter showed up exactly when I needed it to, right as I was finished last week. Finals for the year aren’t until May, so I’ve got until then to prepare and panic. Okay, matrices. Hmm. Okay, let me see if I can explain like this; a matrix is a series of numbers or of patterns that are internal to the subject, and are what give it form. For my assignment, I had to assemble a series of arcane patterns together to create a small magic crystal, which inside can hold arcane power. It's a relatively new but very exciting field of study, and my professors hope it can help catapult us to the next level of magic study by allowing it to be collected and store like an electric battery or a tank of gasoline. Imagine, refined crystals that can be manufactured to hold power. A future with no batteries, no oil, no diminishing fossil fuels. Just magic crystals, perfectly natural and replenishable. It's still a long way off, and we may never get there, but the possibility is so amazing it astounds me that I get to work with this. I obviously can’t create the arcane power in the crystal myself, but luckily I don’t need to so long as I can get a unicorn to charge it. It’s good to hear you have family and friends to lean on. From your grim letters, I was almost afraid you didn’t have anyone else in your life. I know your family may not approve, but I hope that in time I can get them to like me. At the very least, I wouldn’t mind meeting your mother and sister one day. I know it probably won’t be for a few years down the road if we’re lucky enough to still be (underneath several scratches, the word ‘together’ is barely legible) talking at that time. Your uncle, well...I get the feeling he wouldn’t like me much either. I’ve heard of Oktoberfest and Geheimenstag before. The first one is still popular with other griffons out east, I used to see the Griffon Quarter in Rijekograd bringing out casks and kegs into the middle of the street and just drinking for days straight. I’m sorry you missed out. But Geheimenstag sounds like an Equestrian holiday out they call Nightmare Night. I was caught a little unprepared when on the 31st everypony just showed up in costume. If I heard correctly, the costumes serve a similar purpose to yours, but these are meant to scare off Nightmare Moon specifically. Or, they were. Apparently Princess Luna turned that tradition around a few years back. Truthfully I’m not sure what they dress up for now. But good news! The group I volunteered for, the Batpony Acceptance Team (“Go BATty for Equality!”), got word that Princess Luna is setting up new reforms to grant equal rights to thestrals with Celestia’s backing! I’m sorry you don’t see eye to eye with me on this. Maybe I can change your mind eventually. But I spent all of yesterday handing out fliers and pamphlets to everypony in the quad. Gloaming’s not too thrilled about the announcement. She seems to think this is a short-lived publicity campaign, and the only one she trusts out of all this is Princess Luna herself. That makes me sad as well. I thought I’d been getting through to her, but I’m afraid now she just sees me as hopping on a fad bandwagon that won’t get anything done. I’m a little iffy about visiting Griffenheim itself. I’ve always heard such nasty things about it. Then again, you can’t call Riverponies the most unbiased creatures in the world. But if they’ll let me in, I could do it to visit where you grew up. There’s as many good stories as there are bad. I know its huge, but we don’t have to tour the whole place. Industrie sounds like such a rough place to grow up. I can see what you meant about the army being the only way to escape. How’s an average worker supposed to afford to leave on that salary? (rhetorical question, sorry). End of the year’s finally coming up. With midterms over, it’s mostly just review lectures and final assignments to turn in for the semester until the end of December. I’ll get my results before Hearth’s Warming break, so I can at least get the anxiety of how bad I flopped out of my system. Also, word back from my parents; they’re not -eager- that I’m talking to you, but they’re not telling me to burn all the letters and issue you a hate note either. So, hopefully, good news. My brother though, sent me a surprise; enough bits to cover a trip to Rottendedam, a little bit of fun out there, and the trip back! And here I was thinking I’d have to eat ramen noodles the rest of my stay here. I can’t wait to see you. Just another month, and so far, it’s all getting (The following writing is more rushed, almost scribbled out) Cyril, I had to send this letter out to you today. It's all over the news, King Sombra just reemerged in the Crystal Empire. Gods, that sentence feels like it has no impact written out. I don’t know how and the news isn’t saying. But the border is not far from here, and by the time you get this letter I may not get another chance. The most I’ve got is that Crystal loyalists went through some kind of ritual to resurrect him, and most of the army has mutinied with him. The royal family is on the run and the Equestrian National Guard is all over Luna Nova, heading north. The Guard commander told everypony to stay calm, but be ready to evacuate at anytime. So far the headmaster is telling all the students to go back to business as normal. I guess it's one thing to live with a former enemy over the border, but its another for a war to break out nearby. I’m really worried now. The National Guard set up a camp just outside the school. There’s Royal Army recruiters and MPs all over the place. I can hear planes flying overhead all the time. All pegasus students have been told not to fly outside the gymnasium so they can keep the skies clear. Okay, maybe I’m scared instead of just worried. Sombra’s got a dark reputation, and the last time he returned, the Princesses and the Elements were barely able to stop him. Now, he’s apparently got an army and the Crystal City right off the bat. I don’t know what else is being done to stop him. But I just hope it gets rolling soon. Cyril (the rest of the sentence is scratched out) What do I do? (The following is much calmer, written almost like normal) Sincerely, -Paige Sent December 1st, 1007 Dear Paige, I can’t believe this happened. This whole time we were expecting I’d be the one at risk. I’ve heard stories of King Sombra, and none of them anything but terrifying. Most of them are spooky shit we tell around the campfire to scare everygriff. We got the news just after you sent your letter (so, before I got it. Means I’ve had a few weeks to process). None of the officers treated it like a big deal, and I guess to them it really wasn’t, but the newspapers are going ballistic over it. Thought you'd want to hear, though its likely in the papers too; Duchess Eagleclaw was named Regent and Protector of the Emperor last night. The announcement was made to the army at large today. The Archon and half the Regency Council are furious. It seems huge, but I guess its a bit overshadowed but what happening over there. I don’t know what Equestria’s defenses are like. But given what I’ve heard, it's not encouraging. Apparently, the Royal Army’s been a bit lax from the Long Peace. I hear there hasn’t been a large-scale conflict since Stalliongrad seceded, and they’ve gotten used to having all their problems solved by the Princesses and the Elements. I wish I was there to help you. Or that you were here, out of the way. But we have to accept the situation, and put faith in Equestria’s army to end the fight quick. Word here is that New Mareland just sent an expeditionary force across to you. So, hopefully, this will be enough to hold the line while the Princesses get off their ass and do something about it. Look, I’m sorry if I’m scaring you. We may be freaking out about this too early. Equestria hasn’t been invaded yet, and there’s nothing saying any invasion won’t be stopped before it gets to you. But the commander and your headmaster are right. You have to stay calm. Keep an emergency bag by the door at all times, full of everything you need. If you can’t leave yet, then at least make sure you’re ready to go at all times. I just looked in an atlas. Luna Nova’s right in the way of a march south to Canterlot. If it comes to it, you’ll be evacuated for sure. Don’t worry about it. Keep sending me your letters if you can. I’m not going to be able to walk you out of danger, but I can at least tell you what to prepare for. Surviving a war is a different game than lasting through a riot or a barfight. Okay, Reichsarmee survival training, real fast. Thank Arcturius for those endless lectures. Here we go. If you’re forced to evacuate, stay with the convoy, no matter what. If you find yourself out on the road without military protection or a clear place to go, keep heading the opposite direction of the front if you know where it is. Try to stay out of big cities and away from harbors, they’ll be jampacked with refugees and a clear target for the enemy. Like me, you can fly, so travel light and stay off the roads. Fly at night if you can help it. Good places to escape to are forests and mountains, where you can wait for friendly help. Whatever happens, do -not- surrender for your safety. The enemy will broadcast deals and assurances. Trust me, you’re better off in a refugee center than a POW camp. I don’t know what else to tell you. Everything else we’ve been told is all about getting back to a unit to rejoin the fight. You’re not a trained zoldaten, so that part of the lectures isn’t helpful. I need you to send me a letter back as soon as you can about what’s happening out there. Now -I’m- worried -you’re- going to get caught up. Okay, I went back and read this letter again. If it's been a few weeks and Sombra hasn’t invaded yet, then we’re probably not going to see shadowponies storming over the horizon. Besides, by the time this letter reaches you, the whole situation’s probably changed. If you haven’t been forced to leave yet, then we’ve both overreacted. The papers are hilariously treating this like a backwoods affair. Like when Nova Griffonia marched into the Frontier back in September. As if an evil sorcerer king returning from the dead a second time and instantly launching a coup isn’t a cause for immediate concern. But believe me, I’m concerned. For you. And a bit for the Equestrians, too. Tell me you’re safe. -Cyril Sent December 23nd, 1007 Dear Cyril, I’m okay. We’re all okay. For the most part from what I’ve heard, Sombra’s Legions have turned west instead of south. Crystal units loyal to Cadence and Equestria are making a fighting retreat, trying to get out of to Equestrian lines. But the Royal Army’s stopped. They’re not advancing yet. I can’t tell you why. Long range holiday break’s been suspended. The army’s worried about traffic on the roadways. Thank you for all the advice, Cyril. I packed a bag with all those bits, some cold-weather clothes and a few maps. I don’t know where I’d go. I know you said to avoid big cities and harbors, but that’s my way home. I’m pretty sure I can’t fly across to Haukland, even with the minimum. I’m having trouble writing. Everypony’s kind of...muted I guess. All the energy on campus is gone. With the war just up north, we’re all just sort of waiting I guess. The recruiters are still here, though. There’s a line of ponies outside the booth everyday, either talking to the recruiters or signing up. All the holiday cheer has gone from the school. Even the BAT has kinda toned down. Now we just put up posters. But last night was the Winter Moon Celebration. Last night I listened to a broadcast over the radio. Princess Luna herself in Manehattan lit up the night sky under the Winter Moon and said we all have to stand together. Ponies, thestrals, everypony. It was apparently a huge turnout. I know I’m a bit more verbose when I write. I guess now my mind’s elsewhere. But Luna’s words last night really hit me. Gloaming went and enlisted. Gave up her education to go and sign up. I’m proud of her, I really am. She leaves next month for training. But between what she did, what the Princess said and what you’ve been saying, I’ve been thinking. I’m not at risk of being drafted here. I’m a foreigner. But if I go and volunteer, I’m sure they’ll overlook that. I’m stuck in the middle of this dilemma. I worked so hard to get this scholarship and I love this school. But I can’t sit by while other ponies are signing up. I’ve heard all the stories around Sombra. The rumors are flying. And with it so close, I can’t ignore it. So do I sign up and go fight for a country that’s not mine, or do I wait for that fight to come south to me? I want your input, but at the very least, I think I’m going to go talk to a recruiter tomorrow. I’m not going to sign up yet, but I want to do something. I’ve never been good about just sitting around. I mean, maybe you’re right. This whole thing could just blow over and never come south. I could just keep up my classes and never get anywhere near a shadowpony Legion. Gods, I wish you were here. Yours, -Paige P.S: Sorry I can’t make it to dinner. Author's Note And there you have it folks. The second half of the year 1007. I can't promise a steady update schedule. Due to the nature of my job, my own schedule tends to bounce around a lot, so as a result I may have periods where I feverishly update like a madman, and others where time is scarce. But keep up the input, both good and bad, let me know what you like, what you don't like, and I'll get back to you guys as quick as I can.
1008 pt 1Sent January 13th, 1008 Paige, I killed a griff today. (The above writing is shakey, but the below is calm and ordinary, as if some time has passed between the two) It’s all falling apart. I know you’re dealing with a lot over there, but things haven’t been so simple here either. Two weeks ago, half of the Regency Council walked out with Archon Eros. Its official. They’ve seceded. I don’t know the particulars, and lately I don’t exactly trust the newspapers, but apparently Duchess Eagleclaw and the Archon had it out, hard. Rumors say it got so bad that Knights from the Order of the White Lion and the Tower and Sword were squaring off with the Knights of Arcturius. The Barkginian Guard themselves almost got into it. Now, the southern part of the Empire’s gone. We really are falling apart here. A week ago, Aquileia had another revolution. Another one. Which means there’s now another civil war raging over the border. Longsword’s just ended. Prywhen’s finally stopped. Now we’ve got one more war in Griffonia. Its insanity here. There’s been riots all over the loyal Empire. Police can’t stop it. The Landwehr and the Imperial Guard can’t stop it. Chaos all over. So they called us in. They called in panzers to man roadblocks against angry civilians. It’s that bad. Or somegriff was that crazy. We were ordered to (the location has been clipped out). It’s a town not far from Vinnin, within spitting distance of Griffenheim, so what happens there affects this place immediately. Griffons were freaking out about the secession, rioting in the streets, vandalizing and looting. Seems like the chaos was about to end, and now this. But we were to restore order. And that’s what we did. I was told not to use the cannon unless I absolutely had to. So instead Sergeant Hellseig hands me his sidearm, shows me how to use it and then two mags. He tells me if it comes to it, don’t hesitate. Bold words for a griff on an MG. We set up Ludmilla at this checkpoint with a unit of military police soldiers, with me and Grimquill posted outside, waiting. But the crowd comes down the lane, males and females both, young as teens and even a few older ones in the crowd. They don’t feel like that have a direction or a target. Just burning whatever they can because they’re angry and scared. The lieutenant in command yells something at them, I think it was an order to stop, I don't remember, but the crowd keeps coming. He has the troopers fire warning shots over their heads, no good. Finally, he has Hellseig fire a burst to get their attention. They throw smoke grenades. Nothing. They’re still pouring on. We start getting debris thrown at us, incendiary bombs against the tank and the barricade. I heard a shot in the crowd. I knew it was about to get bad. So the lieutenant orders the troopers to fire a volley into the crowd. (The writing above is shaky, but below it seems to stabilize, as if calm once more.) The Karabiner Kralle 06 is a 7.65mm rifle. Those rounds are based off hunting ammunition. The MG90 is the same caliber. So imagine what damage thirty rounds did at once on a bunch of ordinary griffons. A bunch of them fell. The rest of the crowd swarmed the troopers. Grimquill and I held our fire. We didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t the enemy we’d been trained to fight. This wasn’t a bunch of Republican shock troops or Aquileian fusiliers or Riverpony troops. This was a bunch of civilians who were just confused, angry and scared. One griffon broke from the brawl, made for the tank. Just an ordinary Griff. Middle aged, probably a factory worker. I hesitated. Hellseig ordered me to fire. So I squared up and squeezed the trigger. (Once more, the text appears to be jagged, shakey. The next whole line is scratched out. The writing then appears to clear up.) This isn’t what I signed up for. But I wasn’t about to go out like my father. (There is a visible space in the paragraphs, and the ink appears to follow a fold, as if the letter was folded up for a time before being resumed) Maybe I shouldn’t have written that. Especially with your situation right now. The barracks are quiet now. Everygriff’s too on edge about what happened. Sergeant Hellseig says it doesn’t get easier. You just get more used to it. I’m not sure I want to. If you still haven’t enlisted by the time you get this message, I’d recommend you hold off. I know that seems a bit off coming from me, of all creatures. But I enlisted to get out of Industrie. You still have your education. Equestria isn’t completely committed yet, and in the barest most heartless expression, it's not your country. You’ve got a lot of opportunities there. Of course, if you do volunteer I’d of course be very proud of you. And worried for you. If things are getting bad over here, I shudder to think of how the war’s developing there. The papers still only publish the barest facts, but I think that’s more because we’ve got so much going on closer to home. How’s the university? I am of course hoping it’s alright for the time being. Everygriff’s eyes are tracking the Empire as we slowly fall apart. The Regent Duchess has ordered a full mobilization of the Kaiserliche’s military force. I’ve been told we’re getting new panzers that just went through final testing from the Synovial division, something called a (the name is clipped out), but I’d personally like to stay on Ludmilla the 2nd as long as I can. We’ve been paired off with the 31st Heavy Panzer Brigade, which has an entire battalion of Beak landships, so we’ve got some heavy armor between us and whoever wants to take on the Loyal Empire. Mother is worried, of course. This is the same sort of chaos my father was killed in. I’m not sure Sophie understands what’s going on. She seems just as cheerful as ever, keeps asking me the next time I’m going to come home. I wish I had a definite answer for her, but it doesn’t look like it’ll be anytime soon. Don’t worry about dinner. I wasn’t going to be able to make it myself. Besides, it's a bit old-fashioned. What about one of those picture shows? They have a theatre in Rottendedam where they run them, but I don’t know what kind of selection they have, if any. Though I hear it's all Applewood films anyway. Talonsburg Studios hasn’t done anything the last few years but make propaganda pieces. -Cyril Sent January 29th, 1008 Dear Cyril, The university’s been bombed, a few times. I think Sombra’s troops figured out the Guard was using it as a staging ground. They didn’t do much, mostly aiming for the Army troops forming up and heading north. But one of the wings was hit. No students have died yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Plenty of injuries. They’re talking about evacuating the school down south. Equestria’s fully into it now. I hear all the propaganda about going to save the Crystal Empire. Evil shadow magic. Destroying the Crystal hordes. This is… not what I expected. I decided against enlisting. Talked with a few recruiters, though. Army and RAF. That was a mistake, they chase me down whenever they get a chance. At first it was that foreign volunteers weren’t being taken quite yet. Now apparently that’s been cleared up. Classes are going as best they can, when you have to keep running to a bomb shelter every other day. The Crystal War (newspapers are just so good at coming up with catchy names, aren’t they?) has thrown a bender in everything. So many students enlisted. Others went home, or transferred to a different school. All my classes are missing somepony. But you’re right. I came here for a reason. I want to at least finish up my first year. Maybe then I can sign up and come back on this new education bill the recruiters are going on about. I don’t want to talk about the war anymore. That’s terrible, what happened to you! I honestly don’t know what to say or how to start. I’ve been caught in the middle of riots before, but I’ve never seen somepony get killed for it. And killing is another thing altogether. If there’s anything I can say, from what little I have heard of this, I can say a few things that might help you be put at ease. You did your job. You stood a roadblock, and these griffons were mad and scared enough that they charged a tank. It doesn’t sound like there was any good way that was going to end. At that point, it was you or him. None of this might help. I’m not there, and I wasn’t in that situation. You’re a good soldier, Cyril. You followed orders and did what you were supposed to in a bad situation. I know if might not help. But at least I want you to know I don’t think less of you for it. I know you’re having trouble with the Daring Do book you’re on, but I sent you another one. Daring Do and the Marked Thief of Marapore. It’s one of my favorites. I always wanted to travel to exotic places myself. Equestria is the furthest I’ve ever been. Not quite so exotic, though. Maybe to the southern jungles out here, or someday all the way to Zebrica if I’m lucky. Though I hear there’s some issues in Abyssinia between the locals and the Wingbardy garrison. Maybe Maregypt or Hippogriffia would be a safer option. The Empire doesn’t have any overseas garrisons left, do they? I miss you. Hard to believe it's been so long since we started writing. Talk about missed chances. I’m making the most of this, though. My family’s worried, of course. My father goes up and down the wall about demanding I come home, my mother tells me he doesn’t mean it and my brother says if need be he can see about ‘smuggling’ me out. I also got messages from a few of my friends back home in Rijekograd. I never thought myself a social butterfly, but now it's odd to go so long without hearing from them all. And it's not that many letters either. Still. It's nice to know they all care so much for me. A movie sounds just fine. I never saw many of them myself. But with you, I’m happy to. After that, we can go for drinks if you like, though I know beer to you is more of a novelty drink. Sort of like soda pop. Yours, -Paige P.S: the censors appear to be getting more diligent. Just warning you. P.P.S: I paid a dragon to get this message over to you, extra quick. You sounded like you needed somepony to talk to. Sent February 7, 1008 Dear Paige, Thanks. You may not think you saying anything does much, but it’s amazing to have the support. I feel much better between what you and Mother have to say. Which is, amazingly, pretty similar. The riots have settled down. Enough that they’re not sending anymore panzers out there, at least. The Empire’s still in a shambles. They say the southern provinces have united into a ‘Holy League.’ Apparently Baron Leer of Angriver is determined to ‘return the Empire to the faithful’. So, things aren’t ever going to completely settle down. I’m glad to hear you’re okay. I know that’s a bit of a tenuous thing with bombers overhead. But From what I hear, Equestria’s supposed to have a pretty large air force. Hopefully they’ll have the issue taken care of soon. No, no frontier posts left. Unless Nova Griffonia comes back into the fold, I think I’m going to be staying here. Shame really. Wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. Keep up the schooling as long as you can. The first year, at least for sure. But remember what I said; it's not your country. And you worked hard for that scholarship. I went to temple today. I know that doesn’t seem like such a big thing, but I haven’t been to temple much since I was little. My mother stopped going after my father died. Definitely haven’t gone seeking guidance from the gods. I know you’re not very religious yourself, so I’ll keep it short. But there were a lot of soldiers there doing the same thing as me. Ever since the Archon walked out, temple has been a bit of an uneasy issue. But now, it can’t be helped. So I went and listened to the service, prayed for guidance. Then we sang what I think might be my new favorite temple song, ‘Der Morgen Kommt’. I doubt you’ve heard it, and I don’t think there’s many other translations, so it's good you’re fluent. Its all about steeling your heart through darkness, for holding on to your faith will see you through to the better dawn. That one hit me on a personal level, given what’s happening to you, me, and the rest of the world. That’s what we have to do, Paige. Just hold on and hold out for that dawn to come. I haven’t told you, I’m getting better at Equestrian. I’m almost done with the first book you sent. I love it, and I’m happy you sent this one too. I know it's way too long to read a novel like this, but I’m kind of learning a new language too and I don’t get much downtime lately. I dug around a little, though, and I found you a new story you might like. Der Drache Krieg. Its an old novel about a group of knights from Vedina who have to hold out when the kingdom comes under attack by a horde of dragons. A bit dated, but I figure you might like a story about knights and chivalry. I liked it a lot. Just warning you, it hasn’t aged well. You don’t talk about your friends in the Riverlands much. Then again, I suppose I haven’t asked much. I guess it never occured to me you had a social life back home. Thank you for taking such time to be concerned for me. I needed it. But the rest of the crew has been there too. We’re all there for each other after what happened. I am touched that even in your current situation, you still find time to worry for a griff on the other side of the world. But I fear it won’t be over any time soon. With Aquileia falling apart and now the Holy League rising up, things are looking to only get worse here. Beer is a fact of life here. As soon as I turned sixteen, I was drinking it with dinner. Sophie complains that she doesn’t get any yet, but she will one day. And sooner than I like. But mother is adamant that she does not get any until she’s sixteen, and not one day younger. Soda is the novelty here. It's actually not that common, usually only found in import shops and at fairs and carnivals. If you want to start figuring out griffon beer with me, we’re going to need to set aside a whole day so you can figure out your drink. Everygriff has one, and you do too. That one beer that just has to be yours above all others. But we can do some of that after the movie. So what we’ve got so far is a movie, drinks for a bit and then dinner? Or should we actually organize the whole night once we get together again? Sincerely, -Cyril P.S: thanks for the heads up on the censors. Uncle August had a talk with me about it too. Sent March 11th, 1008 Dear Paige, It's been a little over a month since I’ve heard from you. I don’t know what’s happening over there. The papers say some of Sombra’s Legions broke out further east, and that Trotsylvania fell. Looks like Equestria has been well and truly invaded after all. It’s been quiet here. The political wildfire is still raging, but fewer riots have been breaking out. We’re more focused on training, coordination and equipment. They issued us a shotgun and some pistols for the panzer, for close defense they say. Bluetalon got the shotgun as our driver, and he’s not letting it go. Shit-eating grin and all. I was issued a P01. Good pistol. Like the one Sergeant Hellseig gave me. Gods, I need better material to write about. I spoke to my mother. Finally told her I’ve been talking to you. She unsurprisingly did not approve. She asked what the ‘nature’ of our relationship was. I wasn’t sure what to tell her, so I said we were just friends. She settled down after that. But it got me wondering, and I wanted to ask you before I read too much into what we’re doing. So here it is; what are we doing? I mean, we’re separated by an ocean, national borders and now a war. Are we just friends, or are we trying to be something else through just letters? I don’t know. I’ve told you more about me and my life than anygriff else. But the distance does bring it into question, doesn’t it? Maybe it's the lack of response getting to me. I shouldn’t send this letter, just wait until you get back to me. Well, I'm still writing. Call me crazy. Am I being crazy? I want you to tell me I'm reading into this thing between us too much. I visited Uncle August. He couldn’t tell me much, and the censors would take what was there. But I think it's somewhat safe over here, for now. He also said he’s read a few of our letters, to make sure we don’t trip the censors again. He’s of a similar mindset to my mother, says we shouldn’t let this get too serious. I really want your feedback on all this, Paige. I was thinking about us going out to Rottendedam again. If we can help it, we should take a whole day. Get started in the morning and explore the sights before we get to all the things we want to do. Gods, this letter is a mess. Just a bunch of idle scribbles. But I'm sending it unedited. Guess we’ll both have to live with the result, since every other time I try to start over it comes out worse, if that’s possible. Please tell me you’re okay. -Cyril Sent March 26th, 1008 Dear Cyril, I’m sorry to have worried you so much. I’m fine, but we had a brief incident where a few bombing missions came too close for comfort. It hit the school proper, and I know we had a few students die. But it looks like they were aiming for the recruiting stations. That was only the start though. The army lost several soldiers off in the woods, mauled. I didn’t get a good look myself, but everypony says it was gruesome. They organized a mission to go take care of what they thought were commandos that had parachuted in behind enemy lines. Turns out, they were some kind of umbrum. Magical attack beasts unleashed in the forest. That’s all I got from the rumors. Gloaming got blamed for it. The other students started insisting she was working for Sombra, and must have summoned the shadowponies here. Utter idiocy, of course. But she’s still withdrawn. Whatever little sliver of personality I got out of her before the war started is gone again. When the mail came in, I got both of your letters at the same time. I’m glad you’re doing okay, though it sounds like politics aren’t. I’ve been a bit isolated here. They’re still talking about evacuating the school, but honestly I don’t see the point. No one can concentrate on finals. I’ll have to transfer to a new school, and I don’t even know if my scholarship is going to be honored elsewhere. Seems you’ve had a bit of a religious awakening, I guess. No you’re right. I’ve never been one to believe in faith and deities. We’ve proven that ultra-powerful beings exists right here, so why worship those we can’t see? That’s not a challenge by the way, I’m just explaining. Anyway, if you’ve found your faith to get through, I don’t mind. No worries from me. And I listened to the song. It’s quite beautiful. I can see why you took such guidance from it. I understand your mother and uncle come from a traditional mindset. It doesn’t sound like they dislike you talking to me, so much as anything going further. And I have to say I think that’s incredibly bigoted of them. I know griffon pony couples aren’t common, but who’s to say that it's any of their business? We never really defined us, did we? I know it's tricky, and maybe we’ve both been sidestepping around what -this- is. Always expecting we could pick up the discussion in person later. I like you, a lot. I really do. And from what I can tell, you like me too. We’ve been talking about dinner and stepping it up to movies, drinks and now a whole day together at some unspecified date. We’ve flirted, we’ve assumed and we’ve avoided the topic. But now, I guess it's out there. Please, don’t take this the wrong way. But given what’s happening in the world around us and the distance between you and I, I don’t think we’re in any shape to explore whatever this is between us. I still consider you a good friend, and I want to keep writing you. And maybe, just maybe, we can finally figure out what this is when things clear up. I’m so sorry. Yours, -Paige Sent May 12, 1008 Paige, I guess what you’re saying makes sense. With everything going on and letters getting interrupted every so often, trying to (the rest of the line is scratched out). Okay. New topic. Aquileia finally finished its revolution. The 2nd Republic was declared. I honestly don’t know what to think about a nation that has to build itself by overthrowing its monarch. All I know is that Feathisia is moving troops to the border of Skyfall and Griefwald. There’s talk about Imperial intervention. I don’t know what that means either. Uncle August won’t tell me, and Sergeant Hellseig just says waiting and seeing is our only real choice. I finished the Cloud City Daring Do book. I really enjoyed it, once I got a handle on the language. Tartarus, I went back and reread it once I could better understand it. A lot more made sense. I started on the Marapore book. Do you like the one I sent you? You know, you’re talking about finals, but you never told me about those midterms you made such a big deal about a few months ago. Actually, you haven’t really talked about your classes much at all. Hope that’s all still going well for you. Can’t be easy to support an advanced education with bombs going off and magic creatures in the woods. Say hi to Gloaming for me. Tell her I’m sorry she’s so unfairly mistreated. I heard the Changelings invaded Olenia. That’s not a fight that’ll last long, mark my words. It seems like the last two years have just been full of all kinds of insanity, on both continents. I know you said Equestria is peaceful and I’m sure it's a beautiful place like you mentioned, but it sounds like that age is about to come to an end, especially if Sombra’s Legions are giving the Royal Army the fight the papers say they are. I don’t know what to do aside from tell you to take care of yourself, and try to do what you think is right. My mother and uncle are old-fashioned, yes. There’s a lot of griffs who still tell the stories warning of barbaric Riverponies. Longsword and Hellquill wouldn’t be wasting time on the Ostwall if they didn’t. I agree it's xenophobic, but I’m used to it. I’m sure griffons aren’t well liked back east either. I also agree that’s the understatement of this century. But Longsword’s managing to make it work with ponies in their lands, and you know about the dogs of Bronzehill. So maybe there’s hope. (Another line is scratched out) Sorry. I know you said to leave it (more words scratched out). Right. Keep in touch. Hopefully things will get better sooner or later. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent June 1st, 1008 Dear Cyril, You were right about Olenia. The Changelings stormed over the mountains. Vaverfront fell yesterday. It won’t be long now. I agree with you that I’m wary about Aquileia. They call themselves a harmonic democracy, but at the end of the day they did summarily execute their king and commit to a bloody civil war. Vérany and his supporters are a bit of a grey area over here. The school used to have a pro-Republic club on campus, but they’ve lost enough members to army recruitment and transfers that they couldn’t keep together. I know it means something completely different to you than a set of political morales, but you have to remember I come from a republic. My view on democracy is a little skewed. You were right. Reading about a tale of chivalry and knights and dragons was a welcome change of pace. No politics for a bit, no connections to the real world, no impending wars or invasions. Just an old story about knights rescuing damsels in distress. You’re right, it is a bit outdated. But I think the fact it was so different from today was what made it enjoyable. (The words ‘You don’t have to be awkward, Cyril’ are crossed out with a single neat line.) Okay, sorry. I meant you don’t have to tiptoe around. We can still be like before, we just have to wait before we really start talking about us again. I didn’t mean to make things awkward, but I fear that my trying to set down some (boundaries is scratched out) precautions may have made this a bit...odd. Okay, i’m moving on. I think I’ve made my point. My midterm results came back months ago. Mostly B’s though I did get an A in Theoretical Magicks. Finals are coming up, and I honestly don’t feel ready. I just stumbled on a few of our letters from last year. So much has changed. We have a bit too, I think. Just a bit more sad. A bit more serious. Let’s hope things can change again. They’re finally evacuating the school. Canterlot University is full up, so they’re taking us to the University of Hoofington. I don’t want to leave, but they say it's not safe. I don’t know what I’ll do after finals. Maybe that’s a discussion for the next letter. Missing you. Hoping we can get back to how we were when we started writing. Yours, -Paige Author's Note Okay, so in my game year 1008 wound up being rather uneventful. So I mostly focused on our estranged couple themselves. I'm aware a new update for the Empire is incoming to the game, but thankfully from what I've read it won't change too much for the story. Still, let's see what happens! Keep up the feedback folks! Let me know what you think and how it's going for you! See you on the flipside! Expect part 2 soon!
1008 pt 2Sent June 17 1008 Paige, I hope I got the address right. Hoofington University General Dorm. Hope this gets to you. I wish I’d been wrong. The newspapers are saying the Changelings swarmed Sakara yesterday. Everydeer in the defense is dead and the King finally gave up Hjortland. While I might say it was a lost cause since the beginning, it still makes me nervous as Tartarus. The Changelings occupy the second largest land area on Equus now. I know you haven’t met any Changelings yet yourself, but let me tell you most of them are single-minded sociopaths, with a bit of love for violence. I know the Empire had a Changeling mission here, but that doesn’t make us allies. Most griffs I know are pretty offput by them, but a lot of them like them enough that they stayed as long as they did. I know you’re pretty occupied between the move, the war and finals, but I just want you to stay aware of how dangerous they are, especially now with Olenia’s resources in their mandibles. Okay, less politics. I’m just worried about you. Given our last conversation, I can only hope that things are getting better for you. The newspapers finally decided to treat the Crystal War as a major event, though its still being largely described as ‘Equestria walking into its own backyard’. So now you know the general Griffonian attitude over here. Fewer politics. Life’s mostly gone back to normal in the Herzland. No more riots, no more chaos. All good for me, means I have to get put on riot duty less. We’ve gone back to training. The worst came down after all. Ludmilla the 2nd is gone, replaced by something called a LP-2 ‘Calico’ panzer (don’t ask me about the name, apparently the Gryphus South Continent Company invested some idols in the development with the Changelings). It's completely different from her predecessor. Different layout. Her engine is more powerful, and her armor is thicker. Totally different from Ludmilla, not that that’s always a good thing. The whole 41st is getting our LI’s replaced by these new systems, with promises for more equipment in the future. We decided on a name. ‘Zola’ is what we’ll call her. Sergeant Hellseig himself painted it on the 4 cm’s barrel. Bluetalon keeps going on about how easy she is to drive, while Grimquill does nothing but bitch up and down the wall like back on Ludmilla. At the end of the day, this is still a good panzer. We’re lucky to have her. Training continues, though now we think its war preparation. More infantry units keep coming into the Crona Training Fields. The 41st has been put into the 8th Korps, under Uncle August. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a coincidence. Something big is going down in the Empire, but I couldn’t tell you what it is. I saw Mother and Sophie the other day. She’s happy we’re mostly just shuffling around, like any mother would be. Sophie asked about my job, and I told her it's mostly just sitting around right now. She doesn’t know about the riot in (the location is clipped out). Mother didn’t tell her. And I’m not going to either. Industrie feels like it's changing. Apparently a new group called the Industrierat is making reforms to the district. Worker safety is increasing, minimum wage is going up, paved roads are being installed everywhere and modern machines are being enforced on the factories. While I’m happy that the neighborhood is changing for the better, I’m mostly happy for my mother. I’ve always been worried she had the more dangerous occupation of the two of us. Now she’s safer and the district is improving (apparently the local police had it out with a few streetgangs in some brutal crackdowns) I can worry a little less. All in all, things are going back to the way they were. And honestly, I’m happy for that. Means there’s hope, right? Let me know I got the address right. I get the feeling I’d go insane if I couldn’t talk to you anymore. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent July 5th, 1008 Dear Cyril, I’m fine. You got the address correct, though I wouldn’t advise you keep it. I got your letter during finals week, so I’m done here in Hoofington. Until they decide to let students back into Luna Nova, my scholarships is kind of up in the air. Though, I can likely leave a forwarding address. This week, there was a tragedy. An ammunition ship in New Mareland detonate in a huge accident. Commonwealth troops are supposed to be landing in Manehattan to join the fight, and apparently the wartime preparations triggered some real issues overseas. It’s all been frontpage news. It's finally given me the push I needed. My first year is over. Finals are up. And ponies are dying. So, despite what you told me and my parents’ wishes, I finally made up my mind. I enlisted in the Royal Air Force yesterday. I’m not in yet, I have to go for a physical check and then training after that. I’ve thought long and hard about this, Cyril. You should know this better than anypony or griff. You enlisted to escape your home, but I can’t sit by with nothing to do here and watch others go fight (the next words are scratched out) and die for my safety. My recruiter said I’ll be in the bomber forces. Apparently they’re being rapidly expanded, and they need crewponies for the aircraft. Sombra’s air force is apparently small, so that’s the safest place I can think of to be. New Wellington modern bomber craft are replacing old Wheatleys, so they need more crew for bigger planes. This isn’t something I can just ignore. I’ve been directly impacted by this. Sombra’s a menace to the whole continent. He needs to be stopped. By the time you read this, I'll likely be off to training. They’re apparently moving replacements to the front as quick as they can. Gloaming coming with. She enlisted the same time I did, though she signed up for the Army Pegasi Corps. They’re giving her grief about being a thestral, so the Air Force wouldn’t take her. I wish BAT was still around, but anti-thestral sentiment is even worse here in the south. Hoofington’s got a bad taste for thestrals, likely from proximity. Not even Princess Luna's reforms are changing that very quickly. I already sent messages to my parents. They’ll likely disapprove. Too bad it takes six to eight weeks to get mail to the River Republic from southern Equestria. I haven’t given up on academics, don’t worry. Sometimes, things just take priority. “Left to its own circumstances, the world will stagnate and decay, never changing or moving forward. It is only by introducing strife and challenge that life, society and knowledge evolve.” -Conrad Dawkclaw Save a beer for me? Yours, -Paige Sent July 27th, 1008 Paige, I don’t know what you were thinking. I never said I would stand in the way of you enlisting, I just wanted to make sure you weren't jumping (the word ‘claws’ is scratched out here) hooves first into something you weren’t ready for. While I can’t say I approve of the air service (pilots are mostly nobles in the Kaiserliche Luftstreitkräfte, so to Tartarus with those assholes) I am of course proud of you enlisting. Though separated by an ocean, race and nations, we both set to something greater than ourselves. And you volunteered to actually go fight. I just did it for the paycheck. I don’t know much about pony military doctrine, or Royal Air Force training. But if it's anything like Imperial Guard training, it’ll be intense. There will be times where you want to give up and walk away from this stupid endeavor. But you have to stick it out. When I enlisted, my Uncle August said something to me, and while the words have faded a little over the years (I I know, it wasn’t that long ago to begin with) I still remember the intent behind it. Seeing as how you’re about to go to war, I feel I should share them with you. “You are about to embark on one of the greatest journeys of your life. In our short time, there is little greater one can do aside from volunteer to serve something bigger than themselves. You will be tested, you will be scarred and you will be forced to question everything you know. You may suffer. You may die. But by the end, you will stand head and shoulders above those around you, knowing what you now know, having seen what you’ve seen. You have put yourself on the line, and come what may you have become one of the few to have started down the road of heroes. Stand tall, stand strong, stand faithful and you will come out the other side.” Again, I may not be remembering his words exactly, but I’m confident I got close enough to his intent. I hope I either catch you before you leave Hoofington or early enough in your training to have this message make a difference. You’ve become my best friend simply through our letters, and I want to be there for you, no matter the difference. And to me, that means every day counts. You may not be the only one going to war soon. From what I hear filtering down, apparently the remaining Regency Council is full of hot debate. After the Holy League broke away, they started expanding their military efforts by a massive amount. There’s rumors that the Regent Duchess Eagleclaw is pressing for a reintegration of all loyal territories. This would mean, of course, that the nobles remaining would lose direct control over their lands, their private armies and a large portion of their incomes. From what I hear, the biggest opponent is Grand Duke Gerlach, who states (and I’m just relaying rumor here) that he doesn’t want all his hard work and reforms to go out the window with Griffenheim’s rule. So, on top of facing a war to reclaim our wayward southern neighbors, we may be facing war with our ‘loyal’ provinces. I love the Empire, I do. But some days, it honestly feels like we’re too busy fighting each other than the ones that truly threaten us. I finished the book. Both of them. Surprise! I wanted to let you know a few letters ago, but I decided to double down. Practice, memorization and a little bit of guesswork. I love these books. They’re my prize possessions now, and I’m looking into finding a book store when I next get a weekend pass. I want to get the other novels in the Daring Do series, and if I take what idols I have left after helping my mother and putting into savings from this month, I might have enough to get one or two. I make two idols a day, and I’ve gotten better with math since I joined the Panzerkorps. Keep writing, if they let you. If I can’t talk to you, I’m going to miss you something fierce, and its way too easy for our letters to get delayed already. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent August 25th, 1008 Dear Cyril, Unfortunately, you didn’t catch me in time. Lucky you, that forwarding address I left worked just fine. I’ve been shipped off to the Cloudsdale Flight School. Apparently even if you’re a pegasus and even if you’re in a bomber some constant still apply. The registration process took less time than I thought, they did a one day health check and a one week background investigation. I was off to training July 20th, so if it makes you feel better I was gone even before you had a chance to send the letter. Its free time in the barracks right now. I’m not going through pilot training myself, being just a low-end crewpony. The real pilots are all officers who go through months of flight school, though apparently the course differs for earth ponies and unicorns. Right now, it's mostly memorization of terms and physical exercise. The training sergeants are fierce, constantly on the lookout for weakness in ‘the crop’. They keep stating that if we’re not up for the job, Sombra’s umbrals will swallow us up. I learned the hard way its best not to ask questions or point out faults in logic. I wasn’t very physically active before I enlisted. I know now that was a mistake. Flying sprints, no-wing dashes, weight training. Its intense, and I’m hurting in places I didn’t even know I had. I keep getting told this is light compared to what infantryponies get, and it honestly makes me glad I didn’t join the army (no offense intended). I’m tired. Different day. Free time is short, I don’t have the endless hours I used to. Hard to go on sometimes. Lectures most of the day on the functions of the bomber, general maintenance, emergency procedures. They say it's (eight is scratched out) six more weeks of this. Meaning by the time you get a reply to me, I’m likely to be gone. So I set up a PO box in Cloudsdale, where all my mail goes these days, address included here. I’ll start sending forwarding addresses to it. I wanted to say thank you for the inspiring words. And tell your Uncle August he makes very good speeches. Almost like its out of a history book of, oh say, famous Imperial generals. (wink wink). Secret’s safe with me. Though I am worried about a possible Imperial civil war too. Given the balance of power over there, you have enough to worry about without fighting each other. Wingbardy’s militarization going unchecked means they could conquer the whole south before the Empire responds, not to say what the Republic and Aquileia will do (before you say anything, don’t forget that I'm not a fan of ‘democracy by force’). My parents are, of course, worried. They’re over the shock now. They just want me to stay safe, keep my head down, not take any risks. Can’t say I blame them. With what they keep telling us here, I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake. I could really die with this. We did bombsight lectures today. And machine gun range training. It's a lot harder than it looks, to be honest. I suppose I’m lucky it's mounted, and I don’t really have to carry it. We all did horrible, of course. More pushups, more sprints. The way they talk to us, it sounds like nopony in the squadron can do anything right. I’m trying my best, Cyril. But it's just as weary as it sounds. They give us news from the war. Apparently, Equestrian forces are within sight of the Crystal City. But losses are high. According to news, over a hundred thousand dead, wounded or captured. Commonwealth and Crystal Loyalist units are on the ground with us. The enemy is relentless. Apparently there’s no way to discern between Sombra’s followers and their mind-controlled Legionnaires. The Crystal air corps knows they’re outnumbered, so they tripled down on flak and shadow spells. We’re being told more air crew casualties are being inflicted by magic than actual fighter craft. That doesn’t make me feel much better about it. From what I hear, this war could be over before I even go on my first combat mission. But then again, isn’t that what they all say? I get the feeling it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better. My recommendation for the next one is Daring Do and the Eternal Flower. I know it sounds a little...well, flowery. But if you liked the other two, you’re going to love this one. Any recommendations for me? I might only get a few days’ leave before I ship out. And thank you, Cyril. For everything. Yours, -Paige Sent September 16th, 1008 Dear Paige, Sounds like my timing was off. If it's only six weeks left, and it takes four weeks on average for a message to cross the sea, then I won’t get another chance to talk to you in training. And for that I’m sorry. We’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. The separation is amazingly horrible. I don’t know much about aerial combat. I see Imperial planes flying overhead all the time, more and more and more of them. Fighters, bombers, CAS craft, transport planes. They fly farther and faster than any griffon strapped for combat. They fire bullets and drop bombs or griffons. That’s the extent of my knowledge on air combat. Listen, something occurred to me. Since it takes so much longer for letters to get from Equestria to the River Republic, I was wondering if maybe we could exchange our parent’s addresses. I can send letters to your folks for updates, and I’m fairly certain you’d want to prove yourself to my mother, change her mind in a way that I can’t. This is an idea that’s been bouncing around in my head for a while, but now you’re in the service it means you’ll be facing even worse mail delays, so I figured them having someone on this continent to let them know you’re okay would help out. Plus, Sophie’s started asking questions about you. She’ll be thrilled to have a penpal. You officially know more about the Crystal War than I do. Newspapers are still going on about it being trivial affairs an entire world away, though given what’s happened here at home I don’t suppose I can blame anygriff for thinking that. Uncle August wrote me again. He can’t exactly call me into his command post to speak. That could be seen as favoritism. But he said he’s proud of what I’m doing, and I told him some more about you. He’s impressed that you enlisted, though as a proud Reichsarmee griff he is, like me, disappointed you chose the easy branch. But word from him is to give it your best, and give them a few pieces for him. I got the book you recommended. Turns out it has a Herzlandisch version after all. But I got it in Equestrian. I knew you’d be disappointed if I took the easy way out, and this way nogriff else will want to steal it. Grimquill keeps calling me a sucker for taking the time to learn the language, but Hellseig approves, I can tell. Word came down from the kaptein. The 41st is going through new tactics and maneuvers. Again. Apparently, we’re expected to be getting new vehicles again, and they’re testing ideas for something called a ‘medium’ panzer. It's supposed to move like Zola but hit almost as hard as a Beak tank. But they’re still in development, so I’m expecting it’ll be a while before we even use them. Which makes what we’re doing here feel kind of pointless, but I haven’t gotten answers from my kommandants before. I don’t expect any now. I’ve been thinking about applying for mail order classes from Griffenheim University. I never gave any serious thought to going, always thought I was too dumb. But after our conversations and what I’ve learned from you and my time in service, maybe I have a shot. I was thinking perhaps something in mechanical engineering. Industrial expansion is booming over here, might be a good way to look into the future. Thank you for giving me the confidence I needed to even think about trying. Although, given everything, I may have to wait until next year before I apply. Something new from me this time. There’s a book in the package for you called ‘Der Schwarzwald’. This one I know only comes in Herzlandisch. It's a thriller novel I read a few years ago, a bit more contemporary. It's about some hikers lost up north who stumble upon a dark secret in the frozen woods. The author apparently spent some time with the Arcturian Order, and her experiences up on the Dread Peninsula inspired her writing. I hope you enjoy it. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent September 28th, 1008 Dear Paige, I know you probably haven’t gotten my last letter yet, but by my reckoning you should be graduating from training any day now. I know this will probably not arrive until afterwards, but on this day especially I still felt the need to write another letter. Congratulations. Welcome to the service. We may be separated by national flag and, Boreas’ sake, branch of service. But the fact is, you’ve put your best foot forward and taken the step to being a soldier like me. You didn’t have to, and a lot of people tried to talk you out of it. You’re one of a kind amongst crowds, and given everything else you can do and what you’ve been through, it just makes you unique. Paige, you’re amazing. The things you can do and what you’re capable of just by wishing it outstrips anything I’ve ever seen in anyone else. You’ve conquered the schoolroom, travelled the world, fought to correct what you saw was a critical wrong, and now stepped forward to go to war. You, Paige, are truly one of a kind. Now go give ‘em hell. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent October 13th, 1008 Dear Cyril, I finally got your letters, and managed to get a reply of my own back. Thank you for the novel, the message of encouragement, the word from your uncle, everything. Gods, you’re incredible. I did graduate from bomber training. You’re currently writing Aircrewmare Turner, Royal Air Force, 16th Bomber Squadron. They’ve stationed me up north, as part of a Halifax crew. A bit different from what they got me ready for. I’m stationed at an airbase that I can’t talk about, classified and all that. But you’re used to that too, aren’t you? Then again, they army boys can’t really understand much unless its in picture form. I’m really no good at the whole interservice trash-talk thing, am I? I haven’t flown any combat missions yet. They’re massing aircraft to get ready for the next offensive. Our troops are pressing the Crystal City, hard. But Sombra’s throwing up everything he can to keep us out. It’s getting ugly on the ground. We could be sent in anyday now to support. Life in the service isn’t what I imagined. After I got off the plane, they shuffled us away into these dingy barracks that looked like they hadn’t been used in twenty years, and we’ve sort of just been sitting around ever since. I’ve met the rest of my aircrew, a bit of an odd bunch. We’ve been poking around the plane since we got here, doing maintenance and learning what we can. But this is a new crew, fresh out of training, on a new aircraft, literally just out of the factory. I’ve got a bad feeling about all of that. There’s not much more I can talk about. I love the book so far, and I’m so delighted to hear you talk about trying to apply for school. You have a lot of potential, Cyril. You just need to figure out how to use it, and your experience on machinery would be invaluable in the industrial market. Things are changing, a lot. It's the right time to learn a new trade. Speaking of learning, I got back the results of my finals at last. Mostly B’s and a C, but I’ve been so busy with training and distracted by the state of the world I honestly just forgot about it for a time. Well, more accurately, I kind of stopped caring. But now, we’re set to launch at any time. And now all the things I’ve done over my life have come back to me and made me question what I’ve done. I know we said we’d wait until things calmed down before we started talking about the nature of our possible relationship, but given the fact that either of us could die at any time lately, maybe we should at least start? I’ve inserted my parents’ address on a separate slip. They’ve lived at that address the past twenty years, its not changing anytime soon. I’m already drafting a letter to your mother as we speak with the address of your home. It's a little more difficult than trying to talk to you, because I know you’re less likely to judge me so harshly. Don’t feel you’re under the same pressure when talking to my family, they’re not so traditional. I am having more trouble writing your sister. I’m not sure what to tell her and what to leave out. So I’m doing my best to talk to her like anypony else. No special treatment, no politics. I really want to make a good impression on them both. Now that I’m here at a base, I understand what you meant about the boredom. We’re waiting for word to take off at any time now, but meanwhile we have nothing else to do but the routine, day after day. How have you survived years of this so far? Eagerly waiting, -Paige Sent November 1st, 1008 Dear Paige, First, congratulations for you. I always knew you’d make it, and I’m immensely proud of you. Don’t worry about the trash talk. It’ll come naturally as you come to hate/love the groundpounders. Your father hasn’t sent a message, but your mother is pleasant enough. She was a little confused about the nature of our talks, so I told her we were penpals the last year or so. She’s worried about you, but I told her you’re alright and that we’d been in touch. If you’re writing my mother, do me a favor and don’t call -her- close minded or talk to her about thestral rights. She’s not going to be too loving of that. Don’t worry about Sophie. She’s a smart girl, she knows how the world works even if she doesn’t let on. I think it's better that she does that. The boredom does get to you. We get by over here with cardgames, worship study (wouldn’t recommend it, you get the diehards in there yelling over everygriff else) and, when we’ve been way too long without something to do, practical jokes. Bluetalon filled my cap with whipped cream the other day right before formation, so I got him back by forging a letter saying he won a contest and got a thousand bits. Should have seen him, he was gushing about leaving us ‘suckers’ behind and moving on. So in the middle of writing a letter trying to resign, he gets a letter from his banker at home saying he had a grand total of thirty bits. Now he’s trying to figure out who got him so good. But I’ll never tell. Paige, about that other topic. Are you sure you want to open that can of worms again? I know what you’re saying, but we’re treading into some dangerous territory there. Now we’re both in, the odds of us getting leave the exact same time are even slimmer. I like you, I do. I really like you. But I don’t want us laying out plans we’re never going to get to or, even worse, coming to hate each other over not being able to fulfill. I just want to make sure you know what we’re getting into. Sincerely, Cyril Sent December 1st, 1008 Dear Cyril, We went on our first bombing mission. They scrambled us and said it was time, we were hitting the Crystal City. I was bombardier. We got set up for a night raid, so to obscure ground batteries. The whole time we were getting ready I was shaking like a leaf in a storm. I thought ‘this is it. We’re going up.’ Once we got off the tarmac, it was cold. Like stupid cold. We went up higher than any other flight I’ve ever been on. Higher than I’ve ever flown with just my wings. We flew up so high, we needed oxygen masks. It was dark inside. Felt darker than even outside. I sat in the bombsight, so I could see the ground. Well, towards it. Because most of what I saw was darkness and snow. There were forty of us, flying in one direction in formation with Blenheim escorts. You could look out the windows and see the lights one either side, stretched out. The only color in an otherwise pitch black sky. We flew like this for a few hours. I lost track of time and I think I even fell asleep. Nopony talked much. We just huddled tight in our leather jackets and tried not to think about what waited for us. The next thing I know, there’s light everywhere. Flashes and bangs and stars exploding around us. I look through the bombsight and see lights all over the ground. We reached the front and I didn’t even realize it. As we fly through the flak, I remember my heart pounding out of my chest so hard, I felt like my ribs were going to crack. Everytime a shell burst nearby, I swore my teeth rattled. I saw a plane die. She got hit by a shell in her number 2 engine, and when she slewed off with her wing on fire it broke off. She spun in below the clouds and that was it. Another one was struck by a spell I recognized even in blackness; a bolt of death. It blew out her cockpit. The crew never had a chance. We were over the target when I was given the greenlight. That meant I had eight seconds to spot and aim at the target. I want to say I hit it, I do. But in the darkness, with flak and spells bursting all around, I think the best I can say is that I hit the city, at least. Thirteen thousand pounds of ordnance, and I have no idea where it went. But I dropped it. The bomber lifted up. And we started back. That’s when the Gladiators attacked. Biplanes they might have been, but even biplanes are enough to catch up to heavy bombers. Whoever said the Crystal air corps was starved out was out of his gourd, because they smoked two of us before we even saw them. The Blenheims peeled off to deal with them, and I could hear the turret gunners hammering away. All I could do was sit there and hope we weren’t next. When we set down, I went to my bunk and passed out on the way down. I was so exhausted just from the sheer terror I felt of going in. We were honestly only in the fight for about twenty minutes. The rest of it was just getting there. But when I saw what happened to our bomber, I felt sick all over again. There was a hole, not two hooves over from my bombsight, punched straight through. Turns out, we lost nine bombers last night. And I don’t even know if I did any good. (There is a fold, a few scratched out words and a smudge of something.) I’m okay now. We went out to the bar near base and got drunk. They’re telling us the raid was a success, but I can’t think how. We were supposed to be targeting factories, and those are pretty big. So if the army’s telling us we got it, I’ll take the satisfaction. But I don’t know that it was worth sixty-three ponies. I got word back from your mother. She doesn’t like me, but she was polite about it. Thinks I’m this Riverlands hussy who’s trying to seduce her son into debauchery and perversion. Oh, she didn’t say it like that, but her words made it abundantly clear. Sophie’s a delight though. Very articulate for a chick. She has good penmanship. My father will come around. He’s a little wary of this whole affair is all. Yes. I really want to start talking about us again. Last night made me realize that in the end all we’ve got is what we do now. Your future and mine may be extremely short. We may not be face to face, but we’ll know we’ve got each other. So, how about it? Ready to leap into this whole long-distance romance thing with both eyes closed and no idea what underneath? Yours, -Paige Sent December 20th, 1008 Dear Paige, When I got your letter, I took the next night to go to the nearest tavern, ordered some schnapps and gave you and your comrades a toast. What you described sounds harrowing to the extreme, and I never imagined air combat to be so intense. I’m tracking (the Crystal War is scratched out by two solid lines) your war as best I can from over here. Nothing about your raid, but fighting has moved inside the Crystal City’s outskirts. The western front has Sombra’s reinforcements cut off by Loyalist forces. Commonwealth tanks were the first to breach the outer walls. We might just be seeing the beginning of the end here. Fingers crossed. My mother is a bit abrasive at times. She’s a single mother living in a crime-infested, poverty stricken neighborhood while her son is off in the army all the time. She doesn’t warm up to things quickly at all. As for Sophie, I’m very proud of her. She’s going to go off and do great things when she grows up. Okay. Then just so you know before we get into this thing, I’ve wanted to take you out for months. I know we talked about it a bit, but I mean I really wanted to. Not just as a ‘oh we’ll go have dinner’. You mean a lot to me, Paige. I’m just trying not to ruin that. The winter over here feels a bit somber. Politics being what they are, the year being what its been and now I’m reading about you fighting a war half the world away. It’ll almost be two years since we saw each other, you know that? Come March. And I’m having trouble dealing with that. I wish I could see you again. Throw my arms around you. And I’d find a way to make sure you were never more than four hours away from me at all times. That may seem a bit possessive, but I figure ‘fuck it. We’ve spent enough time apart.’ In the envelope, you’ll find my Medal of Arcturius, from temple. You need it more than I do right now. Keep it close. And I’ll always be right beside you. In the meantime, I’ll keep thinking about that day we finally see each other again. I know ponies kiss, but it's a little different for griffons. No lips, you see. So instead, imagine me gently rubbing my face against yours, cheek to cheek. The winter might be cold, and you might feel alone up there in that bomber of yours, but so long as you keep me with you, I’ll always be there. We don’t have a Hearth’s Warming Day like you do. But what we do have is Mondstille, where we gather friends and family and other loved ones close, spend time together, drink, make merry and sing songs together as we bring in the new year. Sometimes we’ll exchange gifts, but I think griffons are a mite too selfish and greedy to make that a tradition. So this New Years’, look up in the sky and just imagine me looking at the same thing. If I seem a little emotional and overly sappy, it could largely be that every time I’ve sat down to write, I’ve taken a few shots of liquid courage. I miss you. Yours, -Cyril Author's Note So this closes out the year 1008. But if you all remember, year 1009 is where things really start getting intense. So stay tuned, lend me your feedback and hopefully I can keep up this momentum I'm on thus far! Still got 9 years to go, after all!
A Feathisian EngagementJanuary 2nd, 1009 ALB The Imperial Palace Griffenheim, Herzland One feature the city of Griffenheim had was that it had been designed for capacity. With the immense size of the Empire at its height, the capital of course had to be built to match it. The city was easily the largest on the continent, only rivaled by Romau itself, and the center of this was the truly enormous Imperial Palace at its heart. This had been shown during the sendoff the Empire held for the Changeling mission a few months ago, or the Imperial Banquet last year in which those traitors hadn’t attended. But she dropped such negative thoughts, pulling her fine cloak closer as she looked out over Griffenheim at night. The smokestacks of Industrie were visible in the far distance, and she could still see the Griffking River bisecting the city, dividing the upper district from the lower ones. Quite a glorious sight, and she felt her breast fill with a sense of pride knowing that it was her hard work that had wrangled the Regency into actually making the changes necessary to bringing the Empire back to glory. Duchess Gabriela Eagleclaw heard a knocking at the heavy wooden door behind her, the one leading out onto the landing she currently occupied. Her bodyguard, not one of her knights from Readewetter but a pair of soldiers from the Imperial Guard (it was thought to show less favoritism to use Guardsgriffs instead of Strawberry's knights), glanced at each other before readying their MP14 ‘Specht’ submachine guns. One cracked the door open, speaking quietly to whoever had knocked before he looked over at the Duchess. “Your Grace,” the soldier said, holding the door in a way that his body would have to be moved if he was to abruptly be shot, allowing her a second to respond. “The Grand Duke is here, ma’am.” “Admit him,” the pink griffon replied, turning to look back out at the city. “I’ve been expecting him.” The Guardsgriff stood aside, allowing Grand Duke Gerlach IV Weijermars to step through, his black and yellow enchanted plate glinting in the flickering light from the electric lantern on either side of the door. Behind him, his own bodyguards awaited, a pair of Ducal Guards in similar knight’s plating, swords at their sides and pistols on hips. The Grand Duke shivered lightly as he stepped out into the brisque winter night air, breath billowing in clouds from his beak. “I swear, I only just arrived and I seem to have forgotten how cold it was out here,” he stated, tugging his own cloak closer. He glanced up at the lamps, an eyebrow raised. “Last time I was here, those were still oil lanterns. Somegriff sprung for an upgrade.” “It was time,” Gabriela said from the rail, drawing Gerlach’s eye. She saw his grey feathers fluff slightly under his collar and around his plumage before he quickly managed to flatten them out, and smiled to herself while he couldn’t see. “There’s been a lot of change in the Empire as of late.” “Yes. And not all of it good unfortunately,” Gerlach replied. Normally known as ‘the Silent’ for his calm demeanor, Gerlach also had a way of being blunt and polite at the same time that few monarchs or nobles could do or cared to do. He approached, halting just out of wings’ reach from her. “You look beautiful tonight,” he commented idly, all trace of his tension gone as he smiled towards her once more. Schooling her features, she turned towards him, her cloak held closed tightly as she appeared to inspect him with cold indifference. “Are you here to talk business, or simply to play the game of flattery? I assumed from your telegram it was the former.” “Actually, its funny you mention those together,” Gerlach said, his smirk having yet to fade. “Since they are one and the same.” Gabriela scrutinized the Grand Duke closely, noting that, while his demeanor appeared quite calm and collected, he twitched slightly under her gaze, his own eyes flickering over her shoulder occasionally. She nodded to her Guards. “Leave us.” The soldiers looked to each other uneasily, SMGs still held at the ready over their chests before they moved slowly to the door, glancing back at her. She understood, of course. The Imperial Guard’s duties were to defend Griffenheim and the Herzland, handpicked from the best the Landwehr and Reichsarmee had to offer. They were utterly devoted to her safety. Willingly stepping away was something that sat ill at ease with them. The Ducal Guards looked to their sovereign, who nodded as well, grateful for the momentary distraction. The knights took their leave as well, their features more schooled but clearly just as awkward about leaving the Grand Duke here without protection, going to stand in the hallway to stare at the Guardsgriffs. The heavy wooden door scraped shut with a thud, dislodging a bit of snow from the stones over it. As soon as they were alone, Gabriela relaxed slightly, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding before smiling over at the Grand Duke warmly. “Gerlach,” she said, beckoning him over. “It’s been a while since we’ve been alone like this.” “It has,” he replied, stepping to join her at the stone railing. “Gods know we can’t exactly rendezvous with the Council everywhere.” They watched Griffenheim for some time, listening to the thrum of automobiles and late night industry. On the river, a barge blew its horn, and the clatter of late-night tavern goers echoed out of every district, almost discernible even here. The spirit of Mondstille was still strong in the air, and would carry on likely until the end of the month. It was difficult to not find excuses to get together, drink and make merry, and this was one of the few holidays where nobles and commoners shared an equal level of celebration. Upstate manors were just as festively lit and active as riverside tenements, uniting Imperial society on a level scarce enough in the Herzland. “You’ve been busy,” Gerlach commented, glancing her way before he looked back at the skyline. In the distance, a cluster of griffons flew by, likely rebellious youths enjoying the winter air before the polizei chased them down. Flying over the imperial city at night was dangerous, and therefore illegal. The shadows flitted over modern electric streetlights, past cable cars and automobiles in the streets. Higher overhead, a handful of Imperial Guardairplanes soared by, fighters running patrol screens. Though a small patrol, that small handful represented a good portion of his own air force back in Feathisia, and he felt a small stab of jealousy. “It was time to bring the Empire into the modern age,” she said. “My cousin was a compassionate griff...but he was no visionary.” Likely due to the fact that his illness occupied a large portion of his attention, but the obvious went unsaid. “Oh, is that what you are?” Gerlach asked instead. “A visionary, come to save the Empire from itself?” “I’ve done a damn good job so far,” Gabriela defended, only half serious in her offense. This was an old topic between them, though when it was out on the Council floor he often pointed to the seeming double standard of allowing merchant princes and clergy into the Council, but refusing to grant written rights to common griffons in the Empire. She had argued back that the balance of power needed to be maintained, and so on and so forth. But the heat and venom were saved for the chamber, in front of the rest of the Regency. Here, by themselves, such topics were often handled much more airily. “Oh yes, damn good job losing half the Empire,” Gerlach teased, though he was cautious with his tone. The Holy League was the reason the Guard were flying night patrols over the city. The reason for the massive buildup in the Reichsarmee. Troops had been called down from Bronzkreuz, the fantical dog regiments helping to reinforce the Herzland. The Barkginian Guard were busy guarding their five year old charge as he slept, and Imperial generals had wanted more of the ecstatically loyal shock troops standing by for what they saw as the inevitable. “Why are you here, Gerlach?” Gabriela asked, her tone still polite, but bearing the faint edge of ice in her voice. He realized he had indeed crossed a line, and quickly moved to secure her affection and attention once more. “Can I not simply steal away to spend time with the love of my life?” he questioned, reaching up and taking her claw in his, squeezing lightly. She looked back at him, smiling briefly to show she wasn’t quite so irate with him before she looked back over the city once again. “You could, though I am a fool for accepting. I have a train to catch tomorrow to Oldwingburg. The Statthalter wanted to speak with me about the Pythagorean Academy.” “Which is why I wanted to ask you out here under the midnight sky, my love,” Gerlach stated, sweeping his other claw across the sky. Gabriela fixed him with an exasperated smile. “It is two in the morning, Gerlach.” “Bah, details!” the Grand Duke shot back, waving a claw in front of his beak dismissively. “My train was late. The point is, I am here because I heard a small rumor that you are planning to expand the Empire’s power.” “The rumor should not have been passed, I said it in confidence to my nephew. Besides which, whether or not it is true, it is not an expansion if the Empire is merely taking back what already belongs to us.” “So it is true, then? You seek to end the autonomy of the vassals?” Gabriela fixed him with an actual glare of exasperation now, sighing and rubbing her beak tiredly. “The Heartlands need to be united, now more than ever. With this rebel alliance in the south and the revolutionaries building themselves up in Cloudbury, our enemies will not wait for us to recover naturally. How long until Aquileia tries their luck? Or Wingbardy?” At the mention of the southern kingdom, both she and Gerlach grimaced. Prime Minister in name only, Giulio Beakolini was a loudbeaked braggart who made fiery speeches from the podium, having effectively sidelined his king and annihilated the communists in his nation. But nogriff could deny that in the short time since he’d seized parliament, he’d effectively reversed Wingbardy’s economic ruin, and was building the kingdom into an industrial giant off their newly found bounty of oil. It was only a matter of time until his armies matched his amibition. But after that, Gerlach began nodding. “I know. And on a level, I agree.” She blinked in shock, studying her lover carefully. In the Council chamber, he had publicly accused her of using Imperial unity as an excuse to cushion her own power by stripping it from the vassals at gunpoint, citing the fact that Feathisia was a constitutional monarchy, and the Empire and absolute one. Fights had broken out, and political deadlock was looming. But now, it was more than mere suggestion. Now, it was starting to look like unity at the end of a bayonet was the only way. So to hear him suddenly agree with her, even in private, was a little startling to the Duchess Regent. Gerlach continued. “There are reforms you are making that are working. And there are reforms I am making that are equally working. But the truth is on the wall. Alone, we are but a pack of sheep ready for slaughter. There are far graver things in the world than loss of face.” He sighed, studying her closely. “I have heard from the north.” “The Order?” Gabriela asked quietly, to which the Grand Duke nodded. “What news?” “Headmaster Torygg’s death goes much further than we had expected,” he said. “At first we had suspected Greneclyfian interference. But William Steel Beak disagreed. Now he thinks the Dread League had something to do with it.” “The dead?” Another nod. “So in the face of rebels, traitors, revolutionaries, breakaways and warlords, we have a looming apocalypse to contain. Wonderful.” she huffed, all her contentment and holiday spirit gone, replaced by a grim fatalism. There was no way the Empire was ready for the Dread League if they rose again. “The Empire needs unity. We must put aside all of our previous conflicts and focus on what matters.” Here, Gerlach took the claw he clutched, raising it and her other claw up to grasp them both, much to her surprise. “Which is why I must ask, Gabriela Eagleclaw, love of my life and possibly the most amazing woman I have ever met,” to this, her feathers ruffled unintentionally, both embarrassed, flattered and now anticipating his next words. Gerlach went onto one knee, holding her claws up in his own mailed gauntlets to her utter amazement. “Marry me, Gabriela?” he asked, smiling as his own feathers ruffled, his apprehension written all over his beak and the rest of his body. “Be my wife and complete me. We unite the Empire together and save Griffonia.” “Is that all?” she quipped off the cuff before she clamped her beak shut, feathers now practically sticking out from her skin. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything, and he watched her with hope in his eyes, claws still tightly clutching hers. “What about the Regency?” she asked quietly. “The Council will never accept you over me. Not after everything we’ve been through to this point.” “I looked it up in the Imperial archives,” he shot back confidently. “The Regent has the ability to name a co-Regent. Split authority down the middle. The two share power, and responsibility. I can stand across from you in the chamber as I always have and speak for the moderates, while you can remain as the traditionalist and speak for the nobles. By Tartarus, they may even come to see you as their defender against me.” Gerlach chuckled at the thought. “So all that talk about the Empire stampeding over your reforms? All your hard work?” “There is no reason we cannot work it out together. I have every confidence that the reforms the Ducal Party have proposed can be integrated to what the Regency Council is planning. We can compare, and plan what is best for the Empire’s future.” He grinned up at her. “And you get a navy.” “I get the Ducal Fleet?” she asked, a little more excited than she’d meant to be. When Skyfall had rebelled, they had taken most of the Kasierliche Marine with them. The ships remaining had formed under Feathisian command. Certainly no true match for the battleship armada Skyfall commanded, but something was better than nothing, and she’d dreamed of eventually taking over those ships and expanding them into a true navy again. “Better,” he countered. “I have a new battleship under construction in Rottendedam. The most modern one in Griffonia. Cutting edge technology, the biggest guns in the fleet. She’ll be finished in July, I’ve been told, and named on her commission.” “And what, pray tell, were you planning to name her?” she asked teasingly, not letting him win her over quite yet. His smile, so wide before, tightened as he looked up at her, taking a breath before replying “I was hoping she might earn the name KMS Gabriela. Perhaps we could even have the wedding on her deck.” They were both silent for a few moments, her gawking at him in awe and delight, and him clutching her claws even tighter, awaiting her answer with bated breath. Finally, she gently pulled her claws back, taking his face and lifting him up, confused as he stood. She gently preened against him, her cheek against his, still smiling as she stood back to look up at him. “Give me some time?” she asked quietly. His expression was visibly crestfallen. He looked almost crushed, to which she hurriedly put his fears to rest. “Just the night! I can give you an answer in the morn. I just need to consider...everything.” “Ah,” Gerlach managed, frowning in concern. Not so much crushed now as much as very, very confused. “Then...before you leave?” “Yes!” she replied hurriedly, then her eyes widened. “To answer! I mean,” she laughed nervously, clearing her throat as she smoothed her feathers down. He cleared his own throat as well, trying to straighten his features. “Well, yes, of course.” “Do you have guest chambers already?” “No, I came straight here,” he replied, straightening his armor as he tried to look everywhere but at her. “Take the ones you had last time. I’ll see to it that everything's arranged. And...and I’ll see you at breakfast.” He looked up at her now, taking a deep breath as he tried to contain himself, nodding sharply in reply. “Yes...of course. Thank you, Gabri-...Your Grace.” He bowed his head, moving towards the door before he paused, turning back to her again, all knightly demeanor and discipline. “Apologies. May I be dismissed to my chambers?” “Yes,” she replied quietly, pulling her cloak tighter, suddenly missing his claws in hers. He nodded back, taking the handle on the door and pulling it open. Just as he was about to step back into the warmth of the tower, she suddenly called out “Gerlach!” He paused, the door wide open, his knights looking over to him as the Guardsgriffs did as well. Two servants were moving down the hallway, a pony and a dog attending to the tapestries and a flower vase, and despite knowing better they also looked over towards the noise. She steeled herself, staring him dead in the eye as she declared “I love you.” He was stunned. She knew exactly what saying those words in front of everygriff else meant. Slowly, a small smile stretched across his beak. “Then you know what answer I want to hear,” he replied. Now, slower and without taking his eyes off of her on the snowy landing, he pulled the door shut. In the morning, in that same hallway, she gave him exactly the answer he wanted. Author's Note So I came up with this earlier today while I was out grocery shopping, of all things. Decided to get it uploaded before work, to make sure I got it out before I lost time. I understand it changes a few details from the game, but a few of those were details I think needed to be changed to begin with. Regardless, give me your likes, your dislikes, your feedback! And I'll see you on the flipside, everyone!
1009 pt 1Sent January 15th, 1009 Dear Cyril, They keep sending us out. Again and again and again. Sometimes a night raid, sometimes a day one. I almost prefer the daytime ones like what the Wellington squadrons do, because I can at least see my target. The Crystal City’s become overgrown with King Sombra’s corruptive dark magic, or at least that’s what they tell us it is. Just looks like a bunch of black, jagged mess from up there. Doesn’t matter what’s been pasting them, there’s always columns of troops filing through towards the front. But in the daytime, the flak can target better. And the fighters can see you coming. Since we started these bombing campaigns a month and a half ago, 16th Bomber Squadron has lost 73 bombers and 23 escorts fighters. That’s absurd losses at 7 ponies a bomber. I haven’t been on a daytime raid in two weeks. We don’t lose as many at night. But the most embarrassing part is that about twenty of those losses are from crash landings on return. Our airfields get iced over, our pilots are too green. We’re almost killing ourselves as fast as the enemy is. I’m afraid to try and make friends here. Seems as soon as I get to know somepony, they get killed in another raid. Makes me wonder when I’m going to be part of that statistic. I swear, if they ask me to climb in that bomber again, I will bash my face in on that instrument panel. (The ink is slightly smeared above, but is nice and neat again underneath) Thanks for the toast. I got your letter at a bad time, just after a raid. I’ve been told by my base captain to stop publishing losses so the enemy can’t figure out how effective they’ve been. Which doesn’t make sense to me since they’re not in a position to intercept my mail, but that’s the military for you. I hope we’re in the end. Based on how things are going on the homefront in Equestria, the public isn’t taking this well. Apparently, there’s accusations of incompetence in the ranks, which is what other ponies are insisting is the reason for the heavy losses. I say, if terrible leadership is the reason my friends are dying like flies up here, maybe it's time for a change. Then again, I don’t really like the pacifists and defeatists either. These newspaper articles make it sound like the whole offensive’s on the verge of collapse, with mountains of pony corpses. They just piss me off. I got your medal, and your drunk holiday cheer. I’ve been thinking of you a lot as the new year changed over. It helps pass the time. On New Year's, we had a party in one of the bomber hangars. Drinks, music, hazing. I opted out after a while, took a walk around the airfield. It's cold here. We’re based outside of Whinnyapolis, far from the fighting. Before, you could hear the artillery from the fighting, see the explosions on the horizon. Now it's far too quiet. But I like to think that, when I was looking up at the sky that night, you were too. I wear your medal under my fatigues, next to my tags. It digs into my chest when we go on night raids. I don’t mind. The rest of me is numb from the cold up there. The sensation keeps me grounded so to speak. Military culture is very different from back home. I’m sure you’re used to the way it works, but it's still a bit strange to me. They call me ‘Scholar’ out here. I get a little brainy when I'm drunk, and so far as I can tell I’ve got the best education of most ponies here, even the lieutenant who pilots my crate. I try not to talk about it if I can help it, it's a little embarrassing. Roughhousing is considered fine, suffering is the order of the day and we joke about each other getting knocked out of the air on a regular basis. Like accepting our inevitable death is the only way to push forward. I can’t imagine what goes on in infantry units. I know the distance is...intense. It makes talking a little hard. But try to get back to me as soon as you can. Our mail’s not as badly snarled up as further up north, and I’m glad for that. Yours, -Paige PS: I don’t care if you can’t kiss me. I can still kiss you. Sent February 9th, 1009 Dear Paige, A bit of a new development here. Might not mean much to you, but it’s big news out here. The Imperial Regent Duchess Eagleclaw and the Grand Duke Gerlach of Feathisia are engaged. I’m not usually invested in the personal affairs of nobles, but this is huge news. The whole Reichsarmee was told about it, it's in the papers, everything. It means Feathisia is willingly binding itself to the Empire, joining at the hip. It means after all the insanity that’s happened here, the Empire’s largest province is returning peacefully. What did we always say? Hold out and maybe things would get better. We were right, Paige. Mother wrote me back. She says she’s not a fan of you, but she approves of how you want to apply yourself. Whatever you said, you made an impression on her. Don’t let her attitude get you too much, she’s like that with everygriff. Once you show her what you’re capable of, I’ve no doubt you’ll win her over. Your mother wrote me again too. She asked if I told you to go and enlist, and I insisted I of course hadn’t. Good news is, she believed me. I’m not used to that, really. She told me a little about her work with clocks, and asked about my life in the Reichsarmee. I told her a little bit, but obviously not as much as you. I’m waiting on her response now, but I keep getting the sneaking suspicion she knows about us. My mother will insist, but that doesn’t mean she thinks she’s correct. Yours on the other claw seems to keep her suspicions to herself but drops hints. That all sounds horrifying. I know that of the two of us, we expected I would be the one to face war first. But you were thrown into it with little in the way of preparation. Did you have any thoughts about the future? What will you do when your service is up? Go back to school? Enlist in the River Republic Air Force? Hopefully come out to Rottendedam? Let’s hope the -next- year gives plenty of chance to (there is a space, a few letters and something scratched out). Nevermind. Everytime we make plans, they keep getting trashed. Let’s just focus on what we have to do now, and let it fall into place. But I do know you have something called Hearts and Hooves Day in Equestria. Again, not your own custom, but they’ll be celebrating regardless. So I sent a package of Strawberry chocolates. Hope you like them, this cost more than a few idols out of my check. On top of that I also sent a pack of my Bronzland cigarettes. I don’t know if you smoke, but even if you don’t, you can trade them. Just filling time over here. Feels like we’re waiting for something. Not quite sure what, but given the choices, it can’t be good. Also, I like the implications of that PS. I will store that information away for later. Yours, -Cyril Sent March 1st, 1009 Dear Cyril, Thank you for the chocolates. They came at just the right time, which was after everypony gouged everypony else for what they had. Your package arrived late enough I managed to avoid all that and eat in peace. I do smoke, now at least. Turns out I'm not so above it all. This will help me save a few bits. Cigarettes are so expensive in Equestria. The last month wasn’t so bad. I think they finally knocked down enough of Sombra’s defenses, we had an easier time of it. We’re doing bombing missions around the clock again, though we lose the occasional bomber and crew so it's not all roses. It's easier now, to fly into the storm of flak and magic. Our target is still the Crystal City. Seems like everytime we bomb a factory or defensive emplacement to Tartarus, they figure out a way to get it built back up again. Those groundpounders need to find Sombra’s spellcasters and kill them already. I’m having bad dreams. At least during “Blitz Season” as they called it, I was too damn tired to dream. Now, I’m having trouble sleeping at all. I can’t even remember what they’re about, for the most part. Just come in the night and gone, and I’m left a shivering wreck until dawn. The base was attacked by umbrals again. At least our MPs were more prepared than the Guard troops back at the school. Gods, that seems like forever ago, doesn’t it? Shadow creatures are a bit difficult to defend against, but we’ve got a Unicorn detachment here. The airbases is protected by a barrier shield, so we’re the closest to safe we can get. Still don’t mind sentries with bigger guns than me. I don’t know what I’ll do after the war. There’s some ponies who have been here since the start and they all seem like they have it figured out. I’ve only been in a few months and I keep telling myself I'll pick up where I left off, but I’m not sure. School is important, and I don’t want to give up a career in theoretical Arcana, but that seems an eternity away now. Everypony else can’t shut up about what they’ll do when they get home, but I don’t even want to think about it. Too stuck in the now, I suppose. It's good to hear about the engagement. I understand the implications of a noble marriage like this. I also know you’re a fervent patriot, so this is good news for you. Good to finally see some stability in the Herzland after so much chaos. If nothing else, I’m happy your mother won’t have to risk you going to war. Or me having to worry either. I’m already stressed enough about you in peacetime. Pulled out your first letter to me, for old times’ sake. I miss us being that enthusiastic. Do me a favor, go buy some beer and pretzels and just enjoy it for me? As a stand in for me actually being there. Hopefully by the time your next response gets back, they’ll have grounded me for a while. Bombers have to break down eventually. Wouldn't mind a break. Yours, -Paige Sent March 23rd, 1009 Dear Paige, I am glad to hear you are in better spirits, though not completely out of danger. I can’t help but imagine you trapped in some freezing aluminum can, off to meet your death at a moment’s notice. I suppose that’s the same with me, but at least Zola’s made of steel. Turns out it's not all good news over here. The council of Griefenmarsch made a public statement about the Regent’s engagement. Erebus Whiteplume called it ‘a plot to take over the Empire’. It's all over the newspaper. We’re facing -another- split. With what little is left of the Reichspakt, I wonder if the Empire’s just going to dissolve after all. They’re ringing the mobilization again, except now we’re getting sent west. If you don’t hear from me for a bit, its likely because I’m going to be switching bases and all that. We’re loading Zola up on a train while the rest of us get in the back of a truck. We’re leaving tomorrow. I mentioned the umbrals to my Uncle. He seemed like he already knew about them. Mentioned how those are the result of ‘powerful dark magic’. Apparently they’re not just apparitions, or spirits, they’re actually summoned beings. Terrifying to think that there’s a creature out there that just exists like that. He was cryptic in his letter, but mentions something about ‘up north’. Not sure what he entirely means by that, but he said he couldn’t really be specific. You’ve got an emergency crew weapon, right? I’d recommend carrying it around if you can, especially if you’re at risk like this. If your bad dreams are affecting you like this, don’t you have someone to talk to over there? A base doctor, a preacher (they’re good to talk to, even if you don’t believe), something? Can’t let your senses dull, that’s how soldiers get killed. I pulled out your first letter too. Went and got that beer and pretzels. I honestly couldn’t finish them. Take care of yourself, Paige. You sound like you’re in rough shape over there. Keep fighting, and let’s hope that little bit more you can do will end this fight that much faster. Yours, -Cyril Sent April 19th, 1009 Starting to think I should have gone Royal Navy. At least then it would be warm, and out to sea where you’re protected by layers of armor plating. Travel the world, visit exotic ports. Like Zebrica. I’d have made a damn good carrier pilot. The umbral attacks have stopped for the most part. News from the front says they’re appearing mostly in the Crystal City. Sombra must be desperate. We’re grounded for now. Apparently the fighting is -inside- the factories now, and the Army captured the last enemy airfield. Nothing left for us to do but wait. I don’t mind. Rotating off active is a blessing. Weeks without a single flight mission. Just down to maintenance, exercises, lectures and free time. I meant to tell you, I finished your book some time ago. The old one about the dragons. I liked it. It’s very simple and direct. You don’t need to worry about who the good guys and bad guys are, it's a bunch of knights fighting off a bunch of marauding dragons. Not too far outside of something that might happen today. I dug out some of my old textbooks from my locker (yes, I brought them). Now I’ve had a break, I'm reminded of why I got into arcana in the first place. All the formulae, the experiments. I stayed up all night on accident reviewing my notes and making adjustments. It was wonderful. Like picking up an old hobby after not practising for so long with it. This is what I’m meant to do. I managed to get a few older published scientific journals through my base captain. When she asked what I wanted them for, I mentioned my previous schooling. She laughed and told me I’d made a huge mistake enlisting. But she got them for me. The Equestrian military has a school for veterans bill. After the war’s over, and it's looking to finally be over soon, I’ll use that. Luna Nova’s reopening soon. My scholarship may be forfeit, but on the RAF’s bits, I can go without worrying about losing funding. After months of not knowing, I have a direction to go. I know where I’m going to end up. Now it's looking like my crew won’t die as likely, I should tell you about them, like you did with your comrades. We’re a bit of a mixed bag, being that most of us enlisted after the war broke out. Our bomber is named “Northern Headache”. She’s got a picture of a bomb cracking the Crystal City wide open. So, I told you I’m the bombardier, but I’m just one of seven on our Halifax. There’s Lieutenant Silver Rush, our pilot. He was formerly in the Wonderbolt reserves before the war broke out, but when they called for pilots, he requested a transfer over to Bomber Command. He’s pretty easy-going and laid-back, but incredibly calm under pressure. Grease Goose is our co-pilot and flight engineer. She says she used to be an automobile mechanic in Baltimare before the war, and according to her she enlisted the second she heard King Sombra had returned. She always seems overworked, but then she always manages to keep the bomber going despite appearing to always have too much on her hooves. May be its her Unicorn magic. Firefly is our navigator. He’s a bit of a nervous wreck. Apparently he was a teacher in Tall Tale, and enlisted due to somepony insulting his lack of backbone. He keeps talking about wanting to get out as soon as he can, and is the loudest complainer when things go wrong. Sweet Static is our radiomare. Real chatty type, absorbs just about everything without even trying. I don’t know how she does it, but that pony is able to hear the most garbled message through the worst static you can imagine. She gets a bit of relief from her post with her own machine gun station, and she absolutely loves her job. She’s the one I hang out with back at base, and we go drinking together all the time. Then there’s the meat heads, as we refer to them, but they man our guns and keep us safe, for the most part. Billy Bell, but we just call him ‘Dumb-Bell’. Really not so smart, and all he does is brag all the time. Apparently the RAF was the best thing for him, but I hear a rumor he flunked out of flight school. Score came with Dumb-Bell. He doesn’t talk much, but those two pegasi are thick as thieves, always together in schemes and bars. I’m not sure he’s as dumb as we think, but then he’s friends with Dumb-Bell, so there’s that. We’re a pretty mixed bag, like you’d expect. Pegasi, Unicorns and Earth Ponies from all over. But we’ve been flying together since the beginning. We drink together, bicker, play games during off-hours and make fun of the other air crews. We’ve been lucky that nopony on the Headache has been killed, because we know of other crews who’ve lost members to flak or bullets. I love these characters. Don’t know what I’d do without them. I needed this break. To write you, to get my head straight. They’ll be sending us back in, and soon. But the past two weeks I’ve been given are a blessing. I miss you all over again, now I’ve had the opportunity to dump all my other tension and worry. I’ve told Static about you, and ‘somehow’ it leaked to the rest of the crew, so they make fun of me when I go off alone for a while to write you. They say crude things like I’m writing you some filthy clop. Dirty stuff like that. I’m sorry to hear about the tensions back home. It seems the Empire really can’t catch a break. But the newspapers are doing the same thing as usual. What little they say about it is so heavily opinionated I’m not sure what the facts are anymore. That’s why I rely on you so much, cause I know you’re not BSing me, and I hate muddled facts. I want to say things will go back to normal after all this. But we both know they won’t. We’re both different people in the time we started writing. The world’s been hard on us. But I’m starting to feel more like I was before I enlisted. And that gives me hope for tomorrow. Especially when it comes to you and me. Missing you greatly, -Paige Sent May 11, 1009 Dear Paige, I’m glad to hear you got a break. We all need one, and I was getting worried with how your letters started to sound. I’m all for you going back to school. You have marvelous potential, and not using it would be a massive waste. Now you’ll have a term of service under your belt as well, as it were. Out here, that would get you into any school a commoner could apply to, without a doubt. Some news about your home, by the way. Apparently, there’s been a bit of a shakeup. Some sort of dispute over railroads in Deponya led to Lake City marching troops in and more or less occupying the territory. The River Republic is furious, and they dispatched troops to the border but Diamond Mountain backed up Lake City with Ironpaw battalions. For now, it looks like both sides are standing down, but lines are being drawn. The east isn’t looking much calmer than the west right now. Less politics. It’s good to hear about your crew. From what it sounds like, after all you’ve been through, you all must be really close. I look at my own crew sort of the same. We haven’t been through the gauntlet yet like you have, but we’ve been working and training together for years now. We’re essentially a disfunctional family. Hellseig is the overworked father, Bluetalon the quirky and outgoing kid, Grimquill the bitchy and troublesome kid, and I'm the calm, unremarkable middle child. We do everything together too. We finished the move west. We’re posted near the Marsch’s border. I look south and I can see the peasant troops down there, digging trenchlines and setting up fortifications. Erebus hasn’t declared his secession, and the Empire hasn’t labeled him a traitor, so I don’t know what we’re all doing here. The 41st got paired up with a division from Bronzehill, the 19th Sturmdivisone. These dogs make our clerics and preachers look like pretenders. Every morning its worship to the gods, thanks given to the Emperor Grover VI and Emperors past. They have their own vanguard units that wear these gasmasks and heavy armor. I’m told they expect sixty percent casualties from these forward elements. Fantical madness. I’d always heard Imperial Diamond Dogs were loyal to a fault, but these hounds are practically frothing at the mouth for a fight. Compared to them our panzergrenadiers look like stoic professionals, and those griffs would cause a riot for kicks. The Feathisians are glad to see us, though. We rolled into the town of (the name is clipped out by a censor), and they even rolled the ducal flag down to hang the Imperial flag above it for us. Drinks, food and other stuff have come our way. I think these griffons are hoping for unification same as we are. We went out drinking with the rest of the kompanie last night, and they were practically shoving beer, hamburgers and sausages at us, sandwiches and chocolates. Plenty of soldiers went home with a girl on each claw, and I think I even saw Grimquill strolling off with a companion, though she denies it today through her hangover. I must tell you, I got an offer but I of course turned the woman down. I believe I’m already spoken for. Your war is almost over. And that’s great. But at least yours is uncomplicated. You’re literally fighting a dark sorcerer who enslaved his people. Nothing to question about that. But I’m being asked to fight griffins who, up until recently, had been Imperials themselves. I don’t know how I feel about that, but I look back to Griffenheim. If they were considered the outlier, and the rest of the territories were coming to ‘bring her back’ to the fold, would I fight for the Imperial City? I think yes, and I think I understand these traitors a little more. But they -are- still traitors, loyalty to home notwithstanding. I can’t wait for things to go back to normal. When the Empire is whole again, you’re back in school and I’m bored as Tartarus, sitting around doing maintenance and gunnery exercises. I don’t know when that might be, but it’ll be a damn sight better than what’s going on right now with the insanity in the world. One last thing; they say the Ducal Fleet is preparing to resurrect the Kaiserliche Marine. There’s been rumors of new shipyards coming online in Rottendedam. A couple of Imperial soldiers have been joking about taking back Nova Griffonia or even looking into colonies in Zebrica. Remember you asked about exotic postings? The way things have been going, maybe we’ll look into getting some overseas territories in the next few years. Get to travelling after all. Missing you too, -Cyril Sent May 28, 1009 It’s over. They announced yesterday that the Crystal City was finally taken. Princess Cadence’s flag is flying again. Nopony knows where King Sombra’s gone, but his mind control’s broken. Most of the Crystal Legionnaires have surrendered, gladly. There’s only his loyalists left, and there’s not nearly enough of them left to keep up the fight. The army’s flushing them out of the Heights to the northeast. We’ve been stood down. With the Crystal City retaken, there’s no more structures to bomb, and you can’t use Halifaxes on troop formations. The Wellingtons are flying hunter-killer missions now to snuff out the last of Sombra’s supporters, but we’ve been given weekend leave by the base commander. And it feels so good to go further than Whinnyapolis. I’m going to Manehattan again for the weekend. It’s where I first came to this country, and the closest link I can get to you. Equestria fought long and hard for this, and I’m going to take advantage of however long they give me. If that means all I can do is stand on the pier all night and think about you, I’ll take it. I’ll wait to write you again until after I come back, which shouldn’t be too long. That way I at least know I got my letter out to you first. I’m also planning to stop by bookstores, see what I can get that we’d both like reading as well as what educational materials they’ve got. If I’m going back to school, I have to get ready. I think I’ll get some novels from Dr. Hoofing. His statements on theoretical magic origins are inspiring. Shame about his disability. Static’s giving me grief over my softness, but I can tell its not serious. She’s got a coltfriend and family in Vanhoover she’s going to go visit. But she knows I’m all alone out here. She offered to come east with me, but I told her no. This is the first long-range leave we’ve been given since we rotated into combat. I’m not robbing her family of that for my own sense of loneliness. So, just how much female attention do you have to fight off, then? Don’t take that line seriously, I’m teasing. I’m glad you told me. Means I have to worry less. Letters from my parents finally got through. My mother likes you, a lot. Thinks you’re “responsible and loyal”. I’m not sure whether to laugh at that or correct her. My father blames you for me enlisting, so that may be why he’s not writing you back. My brother wants to meet you, strangest of all. Given his line of work, he may be able to see you sooner than I can. That just makes me a bit sad. Luna Nova’s not taking any applications yet, I learned. So I sent a letter of inquiry to Hoofington U. I was fairly impressed with their campus when I was there. Hopefully they’ll take me once I get out. I’m not a fan of imperialism of any sort. Nova Griffonia is one thing. But I’m not sure I like your support of just ‘taking’ overseas territories. Those are living, breathing creatures too. You’ll literally just be kicking in the door to take what you want. You’re on the edge of going to war, too. How can you be okay with that, Cyril? You’re worrying me a little. Yours, -Paige Author's Note And that's the first part of the year 1009 uploaded! Keep up the input guys! My writing is very unscheduled and sometimes I have to do a bit of it from work, so I rely on you guys giving me feedback and pointing out my errors to catch inconsistencies and the like. I give it my best in editing, but the more eyes on target, the more likely I am to catch things! In the meantime, enjoy, comment and I'll see you in the next chapter!
Calling VanhooverJanuary 1st, 1010 Vanhoover, Equestria “Mmmf...hello?” “Sweet Static?” “Yeah, that’s me. Who’s this?” “Operator, TR&T telephone services. I have a long distance call incoming from Hoofington. Would you like to accept and agree to the fees associated with this call?” “It’s one in the morning, lady. Who in Tartarus is calling from Hoofington at one AM?” “I believe the name of the caller is one Paige Turner, from Hoofington University.” “...yeah, go ahead.” “One moment please…” “Uh huh…” …… “*click* Static?” “Turner, sweetie, as much as I love hearing from you, don’t you think you’re pushing it? I seriously came in from a pretty big bender at the Vet’s Hall over here. It’s gotta be about the same time for...are you crying?” “*snff* Static...I bucked up.” “...okay. Like in a money sort of way, or a-” “I don’t even know what the hay happened! Okay, so I went out for dinner with Solid a few weeks back because we’d been working hard on my project and Winter Break was coming up, so we decided to celebrate because we didn’t know when we’d get another chance! Well, I don’t know how, but we went from the diner to a bar and we started knocking back cider and beer, and he starts coming on to me and I don’t know what the bloody buck is happening but the longer it goes, the more he starts to make sense-” “Turner.” “And he says how I haven’t seen Cyril in -years- and why should it be wrong that I try to find some comfort close to home, and it's not even like he’s -really- my coltfriend because we don’t know when we’re going to see each other again! And I know I shouldn’t have done it but I just kept drinking and drinking and Solid starts making all kinds of sense and I got angry and hurt and more alone than ever-” “Turner!” “And then Solid recommends we go back to the dorms and he can help me not feel alone anymore and-” “PAIGE!” “...yes?” “Okay, one. Slow down. I’m still a bit drunk and you literally woke me up. Two, I got most of what you’re saying, so don’t repeat it. Did you sleep with him?” “...Cyril or Solid?” “What? Why would I-” “I don’t know, I’m freaking out over here!” “Okay, uh...either one?” “No.” “No what?” “I mean yes.” “I’m gonna fly down there and strangle you with the phone cable if you don’t start making sense, Paige.” “Sorry Static...no to Cyril. Yes to Solid.” “Okay, Paige. Yeah, you bucked up.” “I know.” “Then why are you calling me at 1 am on New Years’ long distance?” “Well, after I send Solid away, I felt so guilty...I stewed in it a few days, tried to reason it all out, get back to my studies. But I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t think. Then Cyril’s latest letter came in and I couldn’t even open it for a while. But then I did, and he was telling me about this blizzard that blew in where he’s stationed, and how he was part of this rescue effort. You know...just being Him. He-” “Yeah, I get it. You’ve already told me, he’s an amazing griff. Trust me, you’ve been over how wonderful he is. Go on.” “Oh, right. Well. Anyway. I thought about leaving it be and just acting like nothing happened. Playing it off. Handling it.” “Okay, yeah. You could. Probably wouldn’t ever...wait, thought? You tell him already?” “I sent a reply…” “Okay. And what did you tell him?” “Everything.” “...when did you send the letter?” “Two weeks ago...I thought about just telling him everything was fine. But Static...he almost mentioned kids.” “...wow. Wait, how do you -almost- mention kids in letter form?” “He scratched it out and tried to act like he never said anything, but it doesn’t take an idiot to see where he was going. He can’t just rewrite a whole letter over there, no time or money. You know how it was.” “If it was anything like what we went through, he would have had nothing -but- time.” “Well he’s a tanker, it's different. Anyway...I started thinking, and getting emotional and feeling like I betrayed him...so I wrote him back. And I told the truth.” “Okay. When did you do this, again?” “About two weeks ago, I said.” “Then why the buck are you calling me at 1 am on New Years’! I remind you, you -still- haven’t answered that!” “...” “Paige? Shit, look hon. I never...I didn’t meant to snap.” “...I’m just...so lonely. He’s not here. And I’m all by myself here.” “Paige...look, you want the truth?” “...yeah?” “Until something changes, you’re gonna -be- alone here. You two went in separate directions, and circumstances drove you apart. So there’s a choice you gotta make here; either you hold out, accept you won’t see him until this whole war and chaos thing on Griffonia blows over and take the consequences. Or, give up and move on to closer opportunities.” “That’s a really shitty choice.” “Yeah, well unless you wanna apply to Griffenheim’s education system where they can’t teach you jack about magic, that’s what you got. You either sleep in the bed you made, or you go get a new one.” “...gods, you’re awful at peptalks.” “Might be why my show doesn’t get many listeners.” “...should I call back later?” “Yes. Please. Do that. And next time, -you’re- picking up the bill, sweetie.” “Heh. Okay. Deal.” Author's Note Hey all! I know what you're thinking, and I'm sorry I'm leaving you guys hanging, but the next update is still a few days out thanks to some circumstances in my life right now, which means I may not have the time to post that I want. Fear not, this is just a delay of a few days. But then this idea popped into my head, so I decided to give it a shot. So keep reading, and stick around! If I'm lucky, I'll get the time and focus I'm hoping for, and you'll get your actual update like I want!
1010 pt 1Sent January 2nd, 1010 Dear Cyril, I don’t know why I’m writing this. I haven’t got a letter from you yet, which means one of two things. Either A) your reply hasn’t reached me yet. Or B) you’re just that pissed at me. If it’s either case, I’m sorry for bothering you. I know we didn’t talk for Mondstille Day, Hearth’s Warming Eve or New Year’s. Kinda wish we at least had a phone line we could share. Might solve a lot of things. Look, I’m at risk of just rambling awkwardly. And I know that’s not what you want right now. I just wanted to tell you I still care for you, very deeply. I’m sorry I screwed up. I called up Static and she gave me the worst lecture I’ve ever heard. I went and got drunk again after all this, just to sleep. I just want to hear from you again. Still Yours, -Paige Sent January 15th, 1010 Paige, I have thought long and hard about what to say here. I realize we’ve got a strange relationship going on. We live so far from each other, it takes a month before we hear a response either way. We haven’t seen each other in years. So I get being lonely. That doesn’t make this okay. Still. You didn’t have to tell me. You could’ve gotten away with it without consequence and I’d have never known. That does tell me you’ve got good intents. But it seems like it’s your judgement that’s poor. I need a bit of time. We’ve both got a lot going on. Just give me a while to reply. Otherwise, I don’t know what else to say. My mother doesn’t know. And she’s not going to know. I forgive you. One time. -Cyril Sent February 12th, 1010 Paige, Okay. I think I’m ready to talk again. Thanks for the breathing room. Given everything that’s happened, we may need to back off a little with the relationship talk. I’m not saying that I want to end whatever we’ve got, but let’s face it. We’ll always be missing each other. And until we meet again, it’s going to be awkward. So easing up may be a good idea? I’m home again. Griffenheim hasn’t changed all that much since I went west. Industrie has, though. The whole district’s up and moving. The factories are in full swing, construction and expansion are ongoing. New roads everywhere across the district, paved roads for the big hauler trucks everywhere now. New faces too, ponies and dogs and griffons moving in from the countryside and off the frontiers to come to the Imperial City. I swear to Boreas I even saw a few zebras. There’s some new boats in the Griffking, rumor is they’re using unicorns and enchanted filters to tackle the pollution. I’ll believe the Griffking clear when I spot seaponies in it though. I got to my neighborhood, and all our neighbors came bustling out to welcome back the ‘war hero’. That was just a bit awkward. I had to return home in my Reichsarmee uniform, regulations and all, so I couldn’t just avoid them. They asked me a bunch of questions, like how many griffs I’d killed, what kind of guns I got to shoot and what medals I’d won. Everygriff offered me a beer. Took me an hour to get home from the station, that’s usually a ten minute walk. I’m reminded of how you were ‘welcomed’ by the Equestrians when you went back into the cities. Different experiences here, for sure. Mother’s just glad I’m alive. I’ll be staying with her a few weeks, so I’m letting her fuss over me and baby me. Sophie peppered me with questions about the war at first, but now she’s stopped since I keep refusing to go into detail with her. I think she understands. It’s nice, feeling cared for again after all that time freezing in Greifenmarsch. It’s still snowing here, of course, but Industrie tends to warm you up. Traffic and factory fumes do that. But at least I’m not huddled behind the tank trying to warm up in the exhaust. I went to a new cinema in Industrie with Sophie. We saw a new film just recently released within the last few months. Apparently, somegriff came up with the idea of a film detective named Rikard Talony, a hard-boiled detective in Rottendedam who fights the Cosa Nostra and other criminal elements while being harassed by the corrupt police department. It was good fun, Sophie loved it. Over the top, and I swear Rikard never did anything more than sneer and growl over his Specht gun while blasting down mobsters left and right. You should watch it, if they’re showing it there. Uncle August wanted to speak with me. I can’t go into detail about it, but he mentioned something about the Holy League. I think this year might be it. When we finally take action. You and me, we’re both aware of what happens in that case. I knew the Month Long War wouldn’t be it, but so soon after...I guess I just assumed I’d have more time until my next fight. But it's kinda just my speculation. A bad feeling in the gut. You know the kind. I’ll go see him on my last day of leave. When it's all back to business. I just want to enjoy a few more quiet days. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Come to think of it, I don’t know where I’m going either. Send your next letter to my home, Mother will make sure it gets to me after that. Let’s see where the future goes. -Cyril February 28, 1010 Oh my goodness thank thank thank you! I am so sorry and I swear on every god in every pantheon I will not put you through something like this again! I decided to take the time I wasn’t getting letters from you to re-evaluate my life. Solid’s not in it anymore, thank Celestia. I see him in class, but we’re no longer working together. He lost his tutor, but I lost my lab tech, so looks like my thesis will have to wait. I did try and contact my old friends from Luna Nova. Most of them I never knew their addresses to. Gloaming gave me hers way back, but according to her parents, she went north with the Army last year and never came back. The military just sent back the Royal Alicorn Cross. Apparently there wasn’t much left to recover. As I lacked anypony else to talk to, I called up Static again. She’s working as a radiomare in Vanhoover, so she’s a bit set up. Turns out her coltfriend cheated on her while she was gone, so we’re two independant mares against the world. I’m going to fly up to her over the weekend, take some time to figure out what a normal life is again. My parents are glad I’m back in school. My father was never happy about me enlisting, much less about me being in the Equestrian forces. He doesn’t like western ponies much. Thinks they’re too idealistic and stuck in their own fantasy land. He may have a point. Mother asks about you. A lot. And far too many awkward questions, especially with...what happened. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about it. So far as she knows, you and I are taking a break. The vote issue presses on. Apparently there’s an election arranged for later on this year. I got a letter in my mailbox about it. I’m a citizen now, who knew? Apparently both the republicans and the monarchists are looking to snap up veteran votes as quick as they can. I stopped by a Vet Hall in Hoofington. It’s turned into a political craphouse there, with republicans even going so far as to talk succession under the Coltumbia Party. Then there’s the monarchist vets looking to defend the Princesses. And then there’s the moderate crowd, trying to find some sort of compromise. It's a mess. I don’t think I’m going to go back to a Vet Hall for a while. Maybe things are less politically charged in Vanhoover. I picked up a nightjob as a clerk. It’s not much, but working a typewriter all night pays the bills that the Vets Bill won’t. I work with a few thestrals here, and they all look at me like I’m the odd one out which is ironic in a way. Its strange, I wasn’t in the service very long but -this- feels like the charade, like I’m just going through the motions. I’m hoping it goes away. I don’t like this unnatural feeling. This sensation that its all an act that I’m playing out. That being back to a normal life is just me waiting for the next big thing as I bounce from place to place. I don’t know anymore. I’d heard about Rikard Talony. I’m afraid that out here, there’s too much Daring Do loyalty to accept another action hero in ponies’ hearts. Besides, Hoofington doesn’t much like outsiders, so unless they do an Equestrian version, I don’t think they’ll be showing a Herzlander film. I’m interested, though. I have to come back to the continent one day, so maybe it’ll be in time to see any sequels that have come out, and there will be some. The papers are already saying Rikard Talony’s becoming popular enough on the screen that even nobles are asking for film viewings. Trust me, it’ll be big. Your mother wrote me again. Apparently, she’s noticed a change in you. She’s worried. I didn’t tell her what happened. Just talked about what you told me of Greifenmarsch. I don’t think she’ll be entirely convinced. Listen, I know you wanted to take it slow and not really look over where ‘we’ are, but I don’t know if we quite have the luxury of that. It’s been a few months by the time you get this letter. We don’t get face to face conversations to ask questions or talk things out. I’m not asking you to take me back, mind, body and soul after what I did. But I do miss telling you how much I wish you were here. I miss planning our dinner in Rottendedam. I miss thinking about where we’d go in the future. I miss you, Cyril. Even what we had, limited by letters, is so terribly important to me that without it I’ve been sad and lonely. I bucked up. I know that. But I want to make it up to you. Still Yours, -Paige (Inside the package with the letter is a pack of chocolates with a note reading “Happy Hearts and Hooves Day. You sent one last year, I felt it only right to get you one this year. ~Paige”) Sent March 17, 1010 Paige, They sent me back a few weeks ago. Our new posting is at a site known as Castle Krallestein, out here in Osnabeak. It’s an old castle whose family has died out, so the Empire is taking the estate and turning it into a military operations center. The 41st is part of the new military response force stationed here for the time being. The Empire’s looking to turn it into the most fortified site on Griffonia outside of the Imperial Palace. They’re talking about putting some top-secret work in here, so I can’t describe it much more than that, though something tells me I might not want to know. What I can say is that this garrison is enormous. The castle has its own dedicated security force, and on top of that there’s a Landwehr detachment manning the defense guns, the AA and emplaced artillery. Couple that with the panzers we’ve got, and it's looking like they’re shaping this place into a major hardpoint. But it's Osnabeak. That’s what confuses me. We’re right smack dab in the middle of friendly territory, days away from any hostile border. They’re talking about military and scientific minds coming together here. You mentioned somegriff named Daklaw I think. Is he an important scientist? Because I heard his name while we were setting up here. He’s apparently running the whole place now. Well, him and a bunch of military bigwigs like General Dawnclaw, General Silverplume and General Grimclaw, those sorts. They’re legends of the old guard here. Oh, I got promoted. Yeah. Me. Imagine that. Apparently for my work in Greifenmarsch I’ve been given the rank of Vise-Korporal and the Imperial Service Bar. It’s not much, just a junior rank up, a pay raise and a small decoration. But it means a lot to me. I’m here because of my father. It's good to see that I’m finally making him proud in the afterlife. Everygriff congratulated me. Sergeant Hellseig says I deserve it. Bluetalon broke out some of his contraband hooch for a toast. Even Grimquill was tolerable for a while. My kompanie decided to hold a small party. All a bit much for a Vise-Korporal promotion, but I suppose we need as much cheer as we can get. So, surprise of all surprises, we got a detachment of Knights in black armour from the east. And before you ask, not Longsword. These ‘Black Knights’ (suppose that explains the armor) wore the badge of Hellquill and some odd looking griffon head symbol with crosses on its sides. It seems Longsword and Hellquill put aside their differences and formed a union on the frontier. But it gets worse. They declared themselves to be part of something called the Integralists. They were formerly an order under the command of the Reformisten. Apparently, these jackasses took on the mantle of Blackloaks after they purged the ‘hardliners’ from their ranks. Now they’re all about spreading griffon culture to all races under the Empire. And here’s the kicker; they swear by ‘the Black King Wingfried.’ I don’t know what to think. I thought these murderers were gone, now I see what’s basically their next generation walking around Krallestein like they never abandoned the Empire. Nogriff’s happy to see them. Not us Panzerkorps or the grenadiers, not the security troopers, not Landwehr, not the other knights. It’s just a whole heap of bad news. Don’t worry about mother. We talked about this, remember? She’s not going to know about what happened. That’s best for everyone, trust me. As for you and me, well. I gave you a second chance, Paige. I’m not entirely comfortable talking about us as a couple again, not yet. I can’t stop you from wanting to discuss it. I want us to be together, I do. I miss talking to you about us too. You are one of my only real emotional outlets here. And I need that. I’m just not sure I can do it yet. I’m sorry. Sincerely, -Cyril P.S.: thanks for the chocolates. (A package attached to the envelope opens to reveal a small tin full of cookies. Inside is another note: “Pfeffernuesse from Sophie. She baked them while I was there. Mother insisted I send them along. I didn’t object too hard. -Cyril”) Sent April 1st, 1010 Dear Cyril, I sent a letter thanking your sister for the cookies. They were delicious. I looked up the recipe for pfefferneusse, and I’m impressed. She’s got a gift, for sure. The news about these Knights from a unified Hellquill really bothers me. You told me the Reformisten was purged. So why is Wingfried still alive? I know you’re not able to answer. But at least I can take heart that they’re still hated over there. Maybe it won’t be long before your Regency orders Hellquill be reclaimed. I’m sure you can understand why every Riverpony would want that. Just stay on your guard. If they learn you’ve been (several words are scratched out here) talking with a Riverpony, you might be in trouble. I don’t think the MfÖS would sell you out if they hadn’t by now. Having an uncle as a general has its perks, I guess. Do you mean Conrad Dawkclaw? He’s one of the greatest scientific minds in Griffonia! Do you mean to tell me he’s at the site you’re stationed? I know you can’t actually speak to him for me, but if you could at least tell if he’s on the verge of some breakthrough, and maybe I can eventually get an autograph? Congratulations on your promotion! First step is always the hardest. I told you that you had potential, and I’m glad to see somegriff else sees it too. You’re too hard on yourself Cyril. Remember, you wanted to go to school too? What kind of program for vets does Griffeinheim have? Speaking of school, finals are coming up again. I have now reached a happy medium. I feel appropriately confident and appropriately anxious at the same time. I joined a study group for advanced arcana, but I’m afraid I’m still struggling in advanced trigonometry. With everything that’s happened, I want to try to keep at least a B average (it's been a rough semester after all) but my trig score might drag me down. And I need trigonometry for my crystal work. Let’s see...okay, so you know I’ve been able to form energy crystals on my own with unicorn magic assisting me? Well, trigonometry is the math of measuring triangles, and essential to calculating striations and patterns in a crystal matrix. So I -need- this class to pass the higher levels of advanced theoretical arcana. Otherwise it's just going to be me suffering, and I’m already at a disadvantage. Everypony else in the class is a unicorn, so I’m kind of going in with half a deck here. So...wish me luck. Solid came back. Says he’s not doing well now and needs my help to pass exams. I sent that loser packing. Literally. I took everything he left in my lab and dumped it right on his desk. I don’t need a manipulator like that around who takes advantage of drunk mares. Small bit of revenge on my part. Maybe a bit on yours too. I told him to look up Griffonian honor. Went right over his head that ‘Griffonian honor’ means you get the right to shoot him on the spot for his attempt on...well, your woman. Anyway, I had a private laugh at that. It's fine if you don’t want to talk about us. I understand how awkward I’ve made things. Just know that, if and when you are, I’ll be here. Yours, -Paige Sent April 23rd, 1010 Dear Paige, Something is wrong. I can feel it. They issued new weapons today. An entire convoy brought dozens of crates down last night. Now the panzergrenadiers have been issued new rifles, (in technical terms, the Selbstlader M-09 “Gerund” battle rifle according to the labels and the officers) and new Krahe maschinenpistole. We were given the Krahe too, for all of us to have as crew weapons. Bluetalon stuck with his shotgun, but the rest of us now have new arms to take care of. So now I have a rapid fire assault weapon loaded into a rack next to my station and a pistol on my hip. Suppose those panzers we lost in Oldwingburg spooked High Kommand enough to try and change things. Good. At least good griffs died for something. Still, I don’t like it. New gear always means kommand is getting ready for something big. At least I get to go hit the range. That’s always fun. We’re also being brought up to full combat load. Maintenance is being prioritized, and the magazines opened to let us load live fire shells. I’ve seen the Knights and the Sturmtruppen carrying some kind of new rifle as well. Something that glows. But nogriff is allowed to talk about them, and I’m not allowed to get close. They’ve brought in some kind of new panzer as well. Not many. We’re told these are brand new, so they’re ‘support panzers’. The Arcturien Mkpfw I, designated the ‘Stahlschild.’ According to the briefs, it's supposed to be cheap and fast enough to keep up with us, but heavy enough to support the grenadiers in urban combat. The 41st has got maybe (the word here is clipped out) of them. All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not going to be fighting in towns if I can help it. Leave that to the Beaks and these new panzers. Don’t bring that unicorn up again, please. I’d rather just forget he exists. Unless you kicked the crap out of him, I don’t want to hear it. And I wouldn’t shoot him. Well (the next few words are scratched out). Maybe in the leg. You’ll get those exams. And the (several words are scratched out) trig stuff. I have (the word ‘faith’ is gently scratched out) confidence. You’re the smartest person I know, Paige. Pony or griffon. You’ve got this. Went on leave to Rottendedam this weekend. Out of all the cities in the Empire I’ve seen, Rottendedam has grown the most aside from Griffenheim. Streetcars, telephone cables, new housing at the harbor for all these creatures immigrating on the ‘Opendeurbelid Act’ (I picked up some Feathisian from a griff in the regiment. I’ve been practicing). And, wouldn’t you know it. Touring the city, I came right back to the harbor. And, I couldn’t help but go back. I know I said I wanted to leave aside all the talk about us, but I wanted to mention that I did go back. I found our table, overlooking the bay. There was a battleship there instead of a cruiser this time. I think it was the KMS Gabriela, but I’m not sure. I ordered beer and pretzels. Then I just watched the water the rest of the night, drinking and snacking. I’m glad the other griffs in the platoon went elsewhere. I don’t think I would have been the most polite of company. Just give me time. Sincerely, -Cyril Sent May 20th, 1010 Dear Cyril, I promise you won’t hear about Solid ever again. He’s gone, and after this semester even I won’t have to deal with him. Leg shots are perfectly fine. Encouraged, even. Thank you for you words. I always count yours as the most important for motivation. My father just goes on about me being gone and asking when I’m going to come back, and I feel like most of my subjects are a little too abstract for my mother. My brother is apparently in a Bakaran prison right now. I suppose that was inevitable. But their letters take even longer than yours. And you get what I’m talking about, at least in the general sense. I always keep your encouragement in mind when I’m studying. I like putting your medal where I can see it. Reminds me that what I’m doing is important. So many students here lack focus. But if I want to work in arcana, I need to learn more than anypony else, even unicorns. If the Empire is anything like Equestria, the new gear rolls out when action does. Sad fact of life. I’m just hoping you won’t need it. But given what’s happened in the past and where you are, I think we’re both kidding ourselves. You’re a good soldier, Cyril. I know you and your crew can get the job done. And, more importantly, come back alive. The election crisis goes on, if you must know. A crowd gathered in front of Hoofington City Hall, protesting against the princesses. Then a bunch of monarchists got into it with them. Then the police. Even the university can’t escape it, bunch of students yelling about topics like “freedom of vote”, “citizens’ rights” and “liberty”, acting like they’re so highly educated. We’ve even got communist supporters here on campus. I’m taking more and more of my weekends up north with Static. Sometimes, she comes to visit me. It’s helping out a lot to be with somepony that understands what we went through together. Says she sometimes misses the war, if you can believe it. Funny, some nights so do I. But she’s a welcome help. I never mentioned, but as a unicorn she can help me with my project again. Having to wait to only do it every weekend or so is grating, but I think it’s helped me focus. Helps keep me from getting distracted from work, studying. Static’s fun. I know I said we were good friends before, but now with us doing more together outside the Air Force, she’s lots of fun. Her radio show is called ‘No HS’, and it's a radio talk piece. She had to start doing ads in order to pay for the studio, but it lets her say her piece. Veteran radio is very much underrepresented, and she gets letters from all across Equestria to answer. If you can believe it, Vanhoover’s even more charged than Hooftington. Up north, it’s pretty heavily seated in the republican camp, even the socialist one. Static hates it, keeps talking about moving out. We’re thinking about getting a place together in Hoofington. Works out for both of us. About the Rottendedam thing, its okay if you went back. I wish I could go back to Manehattan, but that’s not possible over a weekend. I hope you saved some of those pretzels for me. There’s a naval base nearby called Fort Mourn. I visited there one time, watched the subhunters out on maneuvers. It wasn’t the same, but the salt air reminded me of Rottendedam. And you. Take whatever time you need. Given how long its been and how long we’ve got, best we have our heads straight as we can before we meet again. Stay Safe. Promise me. -Paige. Sent May 26th, 1010 Paige, It’s happened again. Word just came down. They’re sending us to the panzers. Negotiations broke down between the League and the Empire. There’s going to be no reintegration. It’s war. I’m already seeing the bombers flying south, poor bastards. We’re being mobilized, as well as the rest of the force stationed here in Krallestein. Word is that Uncle August has been given operational command again. We’re to head southeast starting tomorrow. The castle train depot can’t handle this many armored vehicles. We’ve orders to make for Reinsfeld in the morning, the closest city with a railhead that can accomodate us. Within a week we’re supposed to be at the front. We’ll be right into the fight. We’re ready. Or, that’s what we keep telling ourselves. This fight has been a long time coming. Hellseig’s not taking any chances. He’s got Bluetalon scrounging for whatever he can find to increase our odds. Zola’s got some new armor plating bolted on. Non-regulation of course, but if it keeps us alive, I’m not complaining. We moved everything we own into her. Your picture is back over my gunsight. The books you sent me are under my gunner’s seat. Your letters I keep in a satchel. It’s been six months. Time I set the record straight. We’re going to war. That changes things. I’m never going to forget what happened, Paige. But I think I’m ready to move on, and right now I don’t want any kind of bad air to remain between us. Keep in contact with mother and Sophie. You know how the mail gets. All kinds of snarled up in the rear lines. So I’m dropping this letter in the Castle mailbox now, before we go into the chaos. You likely won’t hear from me for some time. Keep up your studies. Good luck on your finals. Static is a good influence on you, let her help. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Yours (again), -Cyril (The following is an attachment, a secondary letter folded up into the envelope. The penmanship is neat, and the stationary reads as from the 8th Heer, Reichsarmee) To Miss Paige Turner, While we have never met or corresponded, I have kept a close watch on your words to my nephew, as part of the favor to my sister. I failed Cyril’s father, and the least I can do is make sure he stays as safe as he can. Know this; I have been monitoring your correspondence closely. I know what happened, and I have remained silent about it. But now Cyril goes to war, I feel the time is no better to send you a notice. If you betray him again before he dies, I will personally find you and make sure you atone for what you have done. I will bring you back to Griffenheim myself, and you can explain to his mother, face to beak. I will be watching. The censors will intervene again if I order it. Do not respond to this message. Say nothing to Cyril. -August Duskwing Sent June 12th, 1010 Dear Cyril, We always knew this could happen. I suppose I was getting hopeful it might not. Peaceful reintegration would mean I got to see you sooner, or at least increase my chances. I wish you the best as you go to war. Keep your head down, and return to us all safe. If we’re going to do this long distance relationship again, I feel we’re missing out on some things we’ve never discussed. Face to face couples have the chance to talk things out like we can’t, and we’ve been talking for years. Static recommended I try to start things back at the beginning (she says I have a habit of over complicating things) and honestly, I think something simple to focus on will help you, too. So, I ask you three questions about yourself, and then you ask me. Simple, right? Favorite color? Mine is purple. It’s an elegant color, really. I can’t get over it. Favorite music? While I will always love the string quartets back home in Rijekograd, I have grown attached to something out here called electronica. Simply put, it’s a type of synthetic music using various sounds effects. I like to listen to it while I work on my crystal with Static. Place you want to visit? Now I’m actually in Equestria, and given everything with us, I’m a bit drawn between Rottendedam and actually getting to that date we keep planning, and Griffenheim. You always talk so highly of it, and I didn’t see much when I took the train from the east. Everything’s normal out here again. Boring, really. Static came south to visit and we started looking into properties for rent. She’s looking to restart her radio station in Hoofington, thinks she’ll get better reception that way. I personally agree, though she might get fired up over the Coltumbia party here. Apparently, the oil magnate Rockefeller has been funding the republican party, and I don’t like how political she gets over this stuff. At least she’ll be well received in the Vet Halls. Finals week will be done and over with by the time you get this letter, and then that’s two years done for me. I’m hoping to get a bachelor’s soon, and then I can apply for a position at an arcane lab. That would be amazing to work in magic development while finishing up school. I want to aim for my doctorate, but that’s so far down the road. I decided to answer your sister with my own baking. It’s been years since I tried it, but I made some decent medenjaci for her. Static liked them so much, I had to make a whole new batch! Maybe I’ll get back into baking to pass the time between semesters when I’m not busy with work. I hope Sophie and Margot like them too. I’ve got your picture in a frame on my nightstand. I know if I leave it in my saddlebag, I’ll lose the stupid thing. I wouldn’t mind another when you can get the opportunity. I’ll try to be your source of normal while you go to the front. With everything that can happen out there, I know you need it. Come back to me, okay? One day. Yours (gladly), -Paige PS: you have a good family. They watch out for you. Sent June 29th, 1010 6/9/10 Dear Paige, Back to war as expected. It’s a lot like Greifenmarsch. The Holy League don’t have a lot of panzers, but they’re making up for it a lot better than the Peasants ever did. More professional troops, panzer-zerstörer guns and even the Knights of Arcturius. The 41st hasn’t gotten stuck in yet, but we’re following the advance towards Yale. I don’t feel bad about that part, because the Sturmtruppen assaulting Romau have got a rough one ahead of them. I’d rather head for Greenback personally, rather than take on the Archon’s own in another city fight. 6/14/10 Paige, The summer rains are on again. Trucks and tanks sometimes get bogged in the mud, but it’s not as bad as I expected. Better roads here, better fields. Yale’s rich, so they know how to handle infrastructure. We had a small scrap with some infantry. The Yale truppen scattered once the panzers took to the field, but a company from Angriever stood their ground, died to the last griff. Those griffons concern me. They’re supposed to be some of the Archon’s most loyal soldiers. How do you get fanatics to surrender when they consider you a heretic? Pushing southeast. The main fight’s still ahead of us. I’m okay with taking our time getting there. 6/21/10 Dear Paige, We keep pushing, and the League keeps pulling back. But not without cost. It’s a fighting withdrawal, we think. They can’t hold against us, so they fight long enough to stop us and then pull back. Lines of wounded Imperials heading back to the field hospitals. We passed by a kompanie from the 6th Panzer. They were pretty beaten up. Apparently they rolled right into an ambush with PzWs and landmines. Once they stopped to fight the infantry and clear the mines, the enemy pulled back and arty hammered them. We’re taking the 6th’s place for now. We’re not as armor heavy, no Beak’s and only a few Stahlschilds. Most of our force is Calicos like Zola, with some knights from the Order of the Carmine Shield. But if we keep the panzergrenadiers safe, they’ll handle the fights ahead of us. I keep thinking back to what you said about going to school. I know I told you that I would if time permits, but so far it’s been nothing but training, preparation to fight, and now actual war. My fear is that, if I do come back alive from this, it’ll be so late in my life when I’m able to go to school, won’t be a point. 6/24/10 Paige, We got into a scrap with the Yale troops we’re chasing. Turns out, they’ve got panzers after all. We engaged outside the town of Mortome. Yale troops barricaded the place with traitor Knights backing them up. The panzergrenadiers and Knights dismounted, and we moved to flush out the enemy when we start taking fire from the woods. Turns out, the local Yale forces dug them in, with logs to act like trenches. We lost three before we took out the enemy. Four Yale panzers, old Airbender models. But damn did they do damage. I got one. Felt good. Marked it on the turret. First panzer kill of my career. 6/28/10 Got your letter. Dunno when I’ll get another chance for a photo. I’d give my right arm for ‘boring’ though. It’s gotta be better than this crap. Whatever your finals, I know you did great. No other possibilities with you. Keep on pushing towards that degree. I know you’ll get there some day. I wouldn’t mind some baking. Sophie will love it. What is medenjaci, anyway? I’ve got the chance to answer your questions. Okay, favorite color: green. But dark green, like pine needles. Music: jazz, both high energy and blues. We’ve got new numbers on Reichsheer Radio every day, straight out of Griffenheim. It really took off a few years back, and I love it. Place to visit: Rottendedam for me too. Wouldn’t mind some more time at home with mother and Sophie. Hoofington would be worth it to see you there. Always wanted to visit Zebrica, explore the ‘mysterious dark south’. Maybe the Boer colonies, or the Zebrides. Okay, for you: favorite book? Gotta be ‘Daring Do and the Lost Valley’. Honestly, I’m all up for a good monster-killing story, so the one sells it for me with all the thunder lizards she runs into. Favorite food? I know ponies are a little limited. But I’m always a fan of a good schnitzel. And finally favorite flower? This one might surprise you, but I decided to think outside the box a little. I like Feathisian tulips. Ever since I visited Rottendedam and saw those gardens they have, it just got me. The petals, the smell. I wouldn’t mind a garden of my own wherever I settle down. We met the enemy again today, in full battle. A Feathisian regiment tried to dislodge them and wound up getting a bit fucked up, so we were sent to save them. The League griffs were dug into a series of trenches, with guns and knights defending them. I don’t know how long we slogged through that field, but I can see why we’re slowed so much. They used the same flying infantry firebomb tactic that the Peasants did. I was hoping that wouldn’t catch on, but now we’re calling them ‘Angriever cocktails’, so I suppose they’re becoming more known. From what I can tell by the uniforms, it was more Yale troopers backed by Angriever soldiers. I saw another uniform I didn’t recognize. It definitely wasn’t Imperial, but it had the pins stripped. These griffons didn’t want to be recognized. I don’t like that. 6th Panzer is moving up again. We’re following behind. Here’s hoping we just clean up whatever they leave for us. General Dawnfeather’s Sturmtruppen broke through the defensive ring, and are advancing towards Romau. We’ll likely have the city under siege soon. But 8th Army is continuing southwards, towards Greenback, and then Angriever. That’s the plan the officers keep spouting, at least. More news of the Black Knights. Apparently, King Wingfried is going to be decorated. Katerin troops tried pushing east into Longsword for a flank, and Hellquillian troops destroyed them, stopped cold. So word is he’s coming to Griffenheim. The whole thing flares my wings, it really does. Nogriff in the Reichsarmee trusts them. For good gods-damned reason. We’re winning, I think. The advance isn’t as fast as back in Greifenmarsch, but we -are- moving forward. Here’s hoping it doesn’t keep costing as much as it is for just scraps of land, though. Word back from mother. She’s concerned, of course. Not just for me. Apparently, the Katerin front has stalled out. She says a lot of griffons are talking about evacuating Griffenheim just in case, but the Regency keeps issuing statements that the Imperial Guard will never let the traitors have the city. Still. Griffenheim has been bombed a few times. I almost want mother and Sophie to get out. I’ve seen what happens when a city is bombed. But I don’t want to worry them anymore than they already are. There’s panic in the Imperial City. Militias are forming too. Word is, General Dawnclaw is on his way back with some of his Sturmtruppen. No chance any land force can take Griffenheim. But I don’t want to see what happens if they try. Uncle August will watch out for them. He’ll know better than I would if they need to go. Keep up your boring life. I need it right now to stay sane. Yours, -Cyril Sent July 22nd, 1010 Dear Cyril, Finals came and went. I think my head was somewhere else. It wasn’t hard, I just had trouble focusing. Summer vacation right now, and I don’t have much outside of work and my crystal project. All my friends from school are either at home or out on vacation. I’m starting to feel like I might be slightly boring. The newspapers are finally reporting on the war out there. They’re calling it the ‘Herzland War’. Plenty of journalists declaring it to be the ‘final gasps of a dying empire about to demolish itself.’ I hate the media out here. I told Static about what you said on the front, about the truth out there, and she said it over her radio show. She started getting hatemail for talking positively about the Empire. She can’t wait to move out of that place. I can’t believe they’re decorating that monster. I know I’ve been a bit quiet on your leadership, but this is seriously the most bucked up thing. He and his followers are responsible for a massive amount of pony suffering, but just because he comes back to the Empire declaring himself a changed griff, it's all supposed to be okay? I’m not okay with this, and I’m glad to hear the Imperial military isn’t either. (several words are furiously scratched out) I am glad to hear you and your crew are alright. Your experience in this war is so different compared to what I went through. The constant grind forward, stuck in the mud and struggling for every inch. Thank ‘Zola’ for keeping you alive. I wouldn’t ever consider myself aggressive under most means, but given the fact you’re stuck in against these guys, all I can say is keep knocking them down and keep your head in the panzer. I looked in an atlas at the Empire. You’re right, Katerin is rather close to Griffenheim. If the Princess’ forces were able to bomb it already, your mother might be right to try and get out. Though you’re right, your uncle would certainly keep her safe. I haven’t heard back from her or Sophie. I’m worried too, trust me. Medenjaci is a kind of honey spice cookie, or cake. Depends on what you use for the base and how large you make them. I like making cookies, though. Then you can scoop them up for a snack later. Static found a place, a nice cheap apartment near the campus. I know I get free university housing, but she can’t move out here without help, and I make enough bits to contribute. Plus, I can always apply for housing aid for educational purposes. We’re supposed to go through a series of meetings with officeponies to discuss rent, appeal for housing and other things tomorrow. Hooves crossed, right? Favorite book. You always have to pull a hard one, don’t you? Okay, I have to say my favorite book would have to be the ‘Senke nad Rijekom’ series (‘Shadows Over Rijekograd,’ but don’t let the name fool you). It’s a political thriller series about the tumultuous nature of Riverlands politics. It covers the formation of the River Coalition and the early years. There was a lot of backstabbing and border tensions in those days. We were so busy fighting each other, we almost fell apart again. It doesn’t paint a flattering picture of the Griffonian Empire either, which I kind of had to unlearn as I grew up. To us, the Empire is still the big scary boogeypony, even after it fell apart. But for the most part, the series is a good historical narrative. And, unfortunately, it also shows how our politics today became so messed up. Socialists, republicans, monarchists, all at each others’ throats. A pity we never learned from those days. Favorite food is definitely truffels over creamy pasta. It’s simply to die for, and I can never get enough. It’s expensive though, so I don’t get it very often. If you can order it sometime, do so. It speaks for itself. Favorite flower? You are weird, you know that? I’ve never thought about it. Purple anenome. My mother has a garden in the yard, and her favorite part of it is the Riverlands Purple Anenome in the center. They’re beautiful flowers. When I was a filly, I used to hide under the flowers in the garden, and I remember the Anenome smelled so nice. Maybe that’s why purple’s my favorite color? Suddenly, it's getting tough to come up with more questions. I suppose it's different through letters. Oh, here’s one; hobbies. You can’t be a soldier all day, right? What do you do when you’re not at “work” in your panzer? You know about me, with my novels. But I also used to do crafts. When I was a filly in school, I made little statues out of popsicle sticks and glitter. I used to do a bit of scrapbooking too. Then school kind of took over my life and I dropped it for a bit. Maybe I’ll pick it back up. Childhood. We haven’t mentioned much about when we were younger. I know you told me a little bit about growing up in Industrie, but do you have anything more than that? I was always the smart foal in school, like advanced smart, so I wound up moved forward two whole grades. Got a little awkward during physical education when I was flying with teenagers and I could barely flap my wings. My parents had to take that over for a while, so guess how many times I wound up throwing myself off the slide, the window, whatever high point I could find? I lost my baby teeth early, for certain. This one is Static’s suggestion. It’s going to be a bit hard for us both. What is your biggest fear? That one’s tough for me. Before the Crystal War, I used to be afraid of never being able to fly again. I love flying so much, I can’t ever imagine not being able to use my wings again and just stuck on the ground. But nowadays, I’m kind of perpetually afraid of losing you all over on Griffonia and I wouldn’t even know it until a month later. My parents, you, your mother, Sophie. Imagine if you thought everything was going fine until just one day a letter shows up and tells you they’ve all been gone and you never even would have known otherwise. Okay, that’s a grim way to end this. But Static says we need to get the tough ones out of the way first. So I’ll keep it in there. I’m watching the news as best I can. I know it's mostly shit, but I like to think it helps me keep track of you in between. There’s word of ‘scuffles’ in the Herzlands, but aside from them saying there’s action in Yale and Katerin, it's a bit vague. They mention the Battle of Ruhr River and the Katerin Siege like everypony’s supposed to know where that is. So keep writing me, Cyril. Because if you tell me what you’re doing, I can watch you. I’ve got Mortome pinned on my map. I know you left it behind already, but I just point an arrow at Greenback and hope. And maybe pray a little. Tell no one. I’ve got your notes, by the way. If you’re going to turn this into a workable log, they need to be preserved properly. So I’ll add your letters to them. We’ll have your autobiography a best seller in no time. A good, nice, long one. Now I think I’m looking for excuses not to end this letter. Let’s keep hoping this is it. That after this, the quiet we’re looking for lets us see each other. I know we’ve said that before. We need to keep saying it. Can’t lose hope. Yours, -Paige Author's Note 1010 is underway, and the Herzland Wars are on! Thank you guys for sticking with me thus far and your feedback thus far, I'm really pleased to have a fanbase (?) to inspire me. Also, for those of you who play the game, I am combining events from a submod I am part of called Project Tartarus, which looks to reform Wingfried and the Reformisten. If you notice any odd discrepancies, it is the unfortunate result of me attempting to merge old and new information together into a workable narrative, so I rely on your feeback even more to make sure I keep it flowing like its supposed to! Once again, like if you like, comment if you want, and follow if you want more! I've been overwhelmed by your guys' positive attention, and its the fuel that keeps me chugging! Anything that needs to be corrected will be, and I'm always up for discussions! See you guys later, enjoy now!
Die Kleine SäuberungAuthor's Note A quick note to readers before you begin! Yes, I know this is another interlude, but two reasons for this break in pattern; 1) I've been extremely busy as of late, and my writing has been getting sloppy as a result, so a few of my readers came together and came up with a plot for this event, which 2) happens in between letters! Never fear, we will be returning to Paige and Cyril after this! Also, this chapter features many small twists introduced by the submod Operation: Tartarus. For those of you who play, and are now interested, don't hesitate to look it up! Many thanks to my beta readers Emperor Wingfried and Nagerleral, who fed me pieces from other writers as well as their own work to make this chapter possible while I was far too preoccupied myself! Die Kleine Säuberung July 1st, 1010 Rimau-Griffenheim Rail Line Leutnant-General Ferdinand Dawnclaw sat in one of the many seats of his personal train car, watching the countryside he knew so well roll by. From the windows of the train, he could see several of the small villages and hamlets that surrounded Griffenheim, the capital of the Griffonian Empire. And the seat of the Regency council. Dawnclaw frowned, and put his right talon on his forehead in a thinking pose. The Regency Council. He snorted. The damn nobles couldn’t keep the Empire together the first time, and what did that cause, in 978? Now everygriff was wondering what had gone wrong when the war with Greifenmarschen and now with the Holy League happened. He knew what had happened both times, of course. The Revolution. He was still a teenage griffon back then, a sick albino trying to figure out his place in the world. Waiting to be ordained as a priest for the Church of Arcturius – it was position he would have gone into if wasn’t for what…happened. He respected Archon Proteus, and he still did, even with the war against the Holy League. Kemerskai, that damned traitor (along with the Nobles and the other Archons) was probably one of the biggest causes of all the poverty, conflict and misery Griffonia suffered today. Perhaps it was a calling, he thought. That all the death, destruction and battles of the Revolution was the motivation that made him leave his Arcturian priesthood training and instead join the Reichsarmee. On the other claw, the consequences of the war against the Holy League he could hear right now, see right now. The sounds of the train masked them somewhat, but it was hard to ignore the fighter planes in the sky, patrolling for any Holy League aircraft. There were also several small craters near the railway line, and he could even see a destroyed house. To the south, he knew lines of wounded griffons were being rushed to field hospitals, wings broken, bleeding out. Many would not last the night. Dawnclaw once again snorted. Griffons were dying, on the field and in the cities, because the Nobles and the Archons couldn’t keep the Empire together, instead engaging in petty fighting for what remained of it. Then, he made his decision. No more. If it was necessary for a third party to step in with force to save the Empire, he was determined to do it. Ferdinand stood up from his seat, and opened the door that led to the rest of the train, to the car that held most of his most loyal guards and officers. July 13th, 1010 Griffenheim, the Imperial Palace “Where is Grover?” Gabriela’s face screwed up, clearing her throat as she and her husband descended the stairs. The air in the palace could not be any different to that fateful night he proposed. The plush carpeting under their talons and paws muffled their steps, and the stone walls were alight with electric lamps displaying the ancient tapestries, paintings and portraits of kaisers, nobles, archons and various scenes of glory and wondrous landscapes. The palace was looking much better under her care (their care, she reminded herself for the hundredth time) and she noticed both its defenders and its staff moved with more defined purpose these days, motivated by the Empire’s resurgence. Well, more motivated than some. “He didn’t feel like coming out. This time, I let him stay,” she replied, turning down the hall that would lead them to the Council Chamber, four Knights from the Ducal Guard falling in on all corners for their protection. Before she could proceed, a claw gently took her shoulder, pulling her to a halt. She knew what she would find behind her, and was not surprised to see Gerlach watching her carefully, an eyebrow raised. She huffed in irritation. “Do you find something interesting, Husband?” “Only that you would allow our young charge to duck out on this. You normally ignore his reluctance and seat him on the throne for all occasions. What was it you said…’getting him used to unpleasant tasks?’” “Don’t try me, Gerlach. I’m not in the mood.” He blinked in surprise. “You’re really bothered about this.” “You’re not?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought one as bound to the laws of chivalry as you would be -deeply- disturbed by what the Reformisten has done.” “I never said I wasn’t,” he countered, glancing over one armored shoulder at a group of ministers passing on the level below, chatting quietly having not noticed the Regents above them. His wings flared slightly, and she realized his anxiety existed, but was buried deep. That armor, she’d learned, wasn’t just physical. Once the ministers were gone, he took a deep breath, his wings settling against his back once more. “But whatever the reasoning, Conrad Silvertalon mended ranks with them willingly. And we know how hard he and the soldiers of Longsword fought to bring down Pallas.” Count Pallas Dusktalon had ruled the Longsword territories for some time, and had taken the worst aspects of the Reformisten ideology to heart, committing crimes not even Hellquill would resort to, sanctioning actual genocide in their attempts to stamp out the ponies of the Griffking Basin area. When he had ordered one too many purges, both the regular army and a socialist uprising took him down, and the civil war had not been pretty by all accounts. The Count’s fate had been to rot in the custody of his own army before they escorted him north to face the same knightley Grandmaster he had claimed to serve, only to be sentenced with a summary rifle volley. “That doesn’t mean anything. Wingfried could have forced him with military intimidation.” “Did you ever -meet- Silvertalon? The griff could take a bullet and not blink. Besides, he -handed- Pallas back to Wingfried, and they shot him. There’s something else going on here, Gabriela. Why else would Grandmaster Cyrod step back?” Urlach ap Cyrod, an infamous traditionalist and Empire supporter, had taken over when Siegfried Trappenfeld had retired from the position of Grandmaster, ruling over the knights of the northeast frontier. It had been his decision to start hunting down the Blackcloaks of the Reformisten, though it appears that Wingfried had convinced the Grandmaster to integrate the moderates, and to also make the unified territory formally known as ‘Hellsword’ out of the frontier on the Riverlands border. Gabriela scoffed. “Just because Silvertalon and Cyrod follow him doesn’t mean he’s suddenly a saint,” she hissed. “You honestly expect me to believe he had no idea his griffs were murdering thousands in the foothills? Ponies or griffons, makes no difference in the end. Butchers are butchers. Even if he never ordered the purges, he had to know it was happening. And I will -not- expose Grover to such a griffon who stands by and lets his soldiers commit such atrocities.” “Speaking of committing atrocities,” said a nearby voice, much deeper than Gerlach’s. The two turned to see Captain Benito standing there patiently, his white armored helm held calmly under one arm. Descended from Bronze dogs who had settled up north, Benito was the commander of the Barkginian Guard, the Kaiser’s personal bodyguards. Considered the best soldiers in the Empire, they had guarded Grover V with their lives, averting several assassination attempts and Republican agents. In the end, the one enemy they could not fight had taken the Kaiser, a black day for the Guard. Benito shifted, his armor clattering quietly. The Captain of the Guard was accustomed to their outbursts, but today of all days, he was visibly uneasy. “Your Graces, if you continue to argue out here on the steps, I may need to set up a perimeter, lest our guests think a brawl has broken out.” Then again, Captain Benito certainly had no reservations speaking his mind. Loyal as he was, he considered it his duty to make sure his charges didn’t embarrass themselves. For this reason only, he had made his opinion known to every noble around Kaiser Grover V, including some high ranking generals. He glanced between the two of them, his annoyance and disappointment written across his muzzle. “Watch yourself, Captain. You still speak to your Regents,” Gabriela said curtly, but they all knew it was with little heat. Out here in the open, if she was seen openly taking criticism from a mere Captain, even the Kaiser’s bodyguard, it would do poorly for her image. So regardless of Benito’s job, she had to audibly rebuke him. Benito rolled his eyes but simply came to attention, nodding crisply. “Yes, milady. I merely came to inform you, Your Graces, that your guests are arriving, as has the Regency Council. They are awaiting you in the Chamber.” “Our thanks, Captain,” Gerlach replied smoothly, gently taking his wife by the shoulder. “I assume you are taking up your post?” “My place is with the Kaiser as always, Your Grand Grace,” Benito replied matter of factly, as if there could be no other truth. “But I must warn you...General Dawnclaw has also arrived. He’s already gotten into an argument with General Speer.” Gabriela grimaced anew. “What does he want? Bad enough he’s got his gas mask goons stamping around, now he has to pick fights?” “He insists on being in the Chamber, for security. He feels we need to keep a close eye on Wingfried.” “He’s not the only one,” she muttered, and they both caught on to her double meaning. As if summoned by the conversation, a pair of Stormtroopers from Dawnclaw’s detachment strolled down the hall below them silently. They were dressed as other Sturmdivisione soldiers were, clad in dark blue trench coats, black helms and gas masks, but those who had come with Dawnclaw felt less like Imperial soldiers, and more like the General’s own. They were spread around the palace, and at first the Nobles had been glad for the extra protection after the scare of the Katerin bombers. Gabriela hadn’t been worried herself, but the rest of the Council had panicked, and insisted Dawnclaw stay with his griffs, despite the need for troops on the League Front to the south. That had been days ago, and every time the Regents saw these soldiers or the General, they regretted it more and more. The two Stormtroopers strolled (almost stalked really) by, never deviating or looking around, though with those masks you never knew. As soon as they were out of sight, Benito sighed, shaking his head. “Personally, I say let him go back with his truppen. Let them keep fighting for Romau, do something useful.” “Hang on now,” Gerlach intervened. “What, are we going to start keeping generals out of the Chamber now? The Kaiser’s already absent, we can’t just tell military commanders to leave because they’re unpleasant.” “No, we’re going to keep Dawnclaw out because he’s a tax-evader, a political meddler, definitely an Archon supporter, -and- a generally very unpleasant griff.” Leutnant-General Dawnclaw represented a lot of things wrong with the Imperial General Staff. As well as being corrupt, tied to politics and blatantly disrespectful of the Council, he had arisen to Oberst-Leutnant via suspicious circumstances in 1004, when he had been ‘battlefield promoted’ during a skirmish with Republican troops. Seeing as how the commander who had awarded him said promotion had turned up dead in the snow before anygriff could confirm, many remained suspicious of the true circumstances of that day. As such, his subsequent climb up the ladder to general the past six years had been watched with suspicion, and had not turned up good news. Not to mention, the griff was an albino, and always seemed to wear a smirk that caused discomfort to many around him. Many of the rumors surrounding him may have only been that, rumors, but his blatant gathering of toadie officers, personal wealth, and loyal soldiers were certainly enough for MfÖS to label him a significant risk. Gerlach sighed, relenting to the point. Nogriff liked Dawnclaw, to an even greater degree than Wingfried, who at least had a cause other than personal power. “Fine. We’ll dismiss Dawnclaw. He goes back to the front today. I don’t think even Katerin is crazy enough to sacrifice more troops for Griffenheim anyways.” The Council Chamber was circular in construction, with benches reaching high into the far corners, wrapping around in two half-moons to ring around the podiums in the center, where the speakers would debate or present topics of national interest. Three thrones were set at the head of the Chamber, one taller than the other two, which were moderate and humble and had been moved forward to a lower step than the Kaiser’s seat. The room was massive, partially to allow anxious griffs to take flight when agitated but also to accommodate the titanic size of the Regency Council, which in its day had sized almost a thousand nobles, ministers and clergygriffs. While today that number only reached six-hundred, it had been padded by the agreement to let influential commoners into the Regency as well. Wealthy business leaders, political advocates and those members of certain government offices who, despite their work, were denied from the vote for their common blood. These were the best in their fields of politics and economics, and while many of them were from well-off families, the fact that they had not been part of the Old Guard as it were had meant they were long closed off despite their wealth and influence. No longer. Griffons, dogs, ponies, who would they let in next was the question whispered behind corners. Commoners now. Military next? Minotaurs? Zebras? The chatter went on and on. As the two Regents entered the chamber, buzzing and full of the low energy of hundreds of creatures conversing, they were met by two griffons quietly discussing something near the entrance. Both looked up immediately as the Regents and their guards entered, glancing to each other once they saw who had come in. They were familiar to the Grand Duke and Duchess of course. Major-General Cornello Galluzzo was commander of the Imperial Spezial Kommando Korps, and was in charge of developing a symmetric and atypical warfare with the Reich Militärakadamie in Vinnin and the Reichsarmee training grounds in Crona. While others on the general staff had scoffed had his theories and methods, Galluzzo’s work reforming the Gebirgsjager was legendary, and had gained him the support of influential commanders such as General Silverplume. With the backing he’d received, he was now pioneering tactics in amphibious warfare and what he called “aerial insertion” tactics. Hard, stoic and not given to kowtowing to anyone, Galluzzo had the attitude of a grizzled outdoorsgriff more than a hard-willed Kommando officer. His companion was Ela Grimwing. Unlike Galluzzo, with his cap and pins and clearly military demeanor, she had no sign of her true station. She wore a simple suit, dark brown with a red shirt, a pair of goggles strapped to her forehead as if she’d forgotten they were there. When she spoke, it was often at high speed and energy, with smiles and laughter sprinkled in. But her appearance was a deception. This was the head of the Ministrierium für Öffentliche Sicherheit, the Empire’s espionage center and secret police established by the Regency to keep order across the Empire. Everygriff knew who they were, and feared their agents. They censored letters, gathered intelligence on enemy activity and (most terrifyingly of all) kept tabs on ‘citizens of interest’. Both Gabriela and Gerlach had learned that meant a wide array of details, and methods to control those griffons under observation. For example, General Anicetus Mudbeak, the commander of the Imperial Guard, was a good, loyal soldier. But the unfortunate combination of a disappointing career and an opium addiction picked up after sustaining injuries during the Revolution in 978 had turned him into a nervous, depressed wreck. While his military skills were still intact, he avoided other griffons like the plague, and it was obvious he was waiting to retire so he could disappear from society. Grimwing’s solution to securing his loyalty? Quietly slip him packets of opium to keep his addiction under control, thus ensuring nogriff could persuade him away with drugs. Galluzzo glanced back to Grimwing before bowing to the Regents. “Your Graces,” he said stiffly before he rose, adjusting the beret he wore. Knowing he was a griff of few words, and clearly seeing he was trying to leave respectfully, Gerlach nodded in reply, allowing the general his leave. They'd find out just what the disagreement was about later. Grimwing, meanwhile, simply beamed at Gabriela, executing a short and rather sloppy bow before she excitedly launched into her statement. “My Lady, you’re going to love what I’ve been digging up!” Given that Gabriela Eagleclaw and Ela Grimwing were thick as thieves, it was little surprise that the Duchess grinned back, setting a claw on Grimwing’s shoulder to calm the secret agency chief. “Is it urgent, or can it wait until after the ceremony?” Grimwing’s faced screwed up in thought for a moment before she simply shrugged. “Well, I’ve been doing digging mostly on Wingfried and his officers. So its relevant. But I also have stuff on Dawnclaw, Duskwing and a few tips from out of the Riverlands.” This perked up both Gabriela and Gerlach. Not one given to intimidation and force, Gerlach relied on a quiet network of merchants, traders, ship captains and travellers to get his information from abroad, so whatever Gabriela’s methods turned up were always laid over the data he’d acquired, however distasteful he found the methods used. Gerlach nodded. “I think we have time for the first one. Seeing how we’ll be giving him a medal and all.” Gabriela shot him a venomous glare, and he shrugged. She had to get over this, honestly. Grimwing didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice. “Okay, so Archon Hephaestus mentioned to me that Wingfried and the Reformisten had a shady past not too long ago during one of our talks.” That, of course, was code for her grilling the poor griff to get incriminating information out of him. Puppet or no, the Archon of Eyr they had elevated had still enjoyed a good relationship with the other Archons and the rest of they clergy before half of them had turned traitor and gone south with the Holy League. This meant Hephaestus I, Archon of Eyr, had been forced to work twice as hard to ensure his innocence was believed. “So I started looking into what Wingfrid was doing -after- he took power. Everygriff focuses on what he was doing before. And you know what? Turns out -he- was the one who convinced Silvertalon and Cyrod to purge the Blackcloaks.” “So the leader of the Reformisten decided it was time to smash the bad eggs,” Gerlach noted quietly, eyes on the crowd as they continued filtering in and filling the stands. Not long now. They had to speed this up. He made a claw gesture, and fortunately Grimwing caught on. “So, ever since then Hellquill was focused on building the Frontier to both resist eastern attack and set up for settlers to move into towns. Apparently, Wingfried starts arguing with Grandmaster Cyrod about pony rights and this new “Integralist” idea. Thing is, anygriff in his ranks disagrees, they wind up having a small ‘accident’ or disappearing. So something changed his mentality compared to what we’ve seen the past few years. A lot of griffs think Hellquill is bound for civil war too. Then, Silvertalon hands Palles over to them. After its all said and done, they welcome the general in as a war hero. Talks move to integration. Thing is, none of them can agree on what to do, they’re all so different in the mentality. But eventually, Silvertalon and Wingfried convince Cyrod that protecting Griffonian culture is the most important thing at all cost. Apparently, they found a few ponies that assimilated so well, you wouldn’t even know they weren’t griffons.” “To the point, Grimwing,” Gabriela stated, realizing the time limitation as well. They both looked to where the stands were now beginning to fill with ministers and representatives. At this point, they were beginning to draw eyes. “Right, the point,” Grimwing concluded, claws raised. “From what my agents tell me, and believe me they worked HARD to get this. You can’t bribe those Hellquill guys for some reason...anyway, -something- happened to change Wingfried’s whole mentality. How else do you go from the second-string leader of an extremist movement to suddenly purging your organization -of those- extremists and becoming king of the east?” “That’s all you’ve got? That -something- has changed?” Gabriela gawked, not quite understanding how her chief of intelligence had led them down this path just to end in such an anti-climax. Grimwing pondered, then shrugged, looking unsure. Gerlach sighed, taking Gabriela’s shoulder and tugging her forward so the speaker of the Council could announce their entrance. “We might be missing something in the context of the rest of your information. We’ll listen to the rest of it after this, alright?” “But what about Dawnclaw?” Grimwing asked, looking a bit concerned as her Regents moved towards their seats. “Please, knowing him he’s probably sulking on his train all the way back to Rimau by now. Dawnclaw’s the army’s problem now.” The Imperial Guardsgriff unfortunate enough to be posted defending the palace armory lay to the side, his throat sliced with such precision and savage strength that he was nearly decapitated. His partner lay further down the hall, her neck snapped and twisted. Capable and loyal they may have been, they were no comparison to battle-hardened veterans. There should have been double the number of guards here, but the other two had been pulled to keep watch on the Council Chamber and the treacherous Reformisten within. A mistake they’d surely pay for. The armory door lay open, and inside came the sounds of cabinets and crates being wrenched open, ammunition spilling out and metal sliding smoothly on metal. They weren’t taking any chances. Machine guns, shotguns and SMGs were quickly being handed out, loaded swiftly and then passed back down the line, stick grenades taken up and tucked into satchels, pistols in holsters, battle rifles loaded and tipped with bayonets. When they had first arrived, they’d been forced to give up their heavier armaments in the interest of ‘security’. But now, they’d get this one single chance to strike, and they were seizing it with both claws. “Sir,” says one to him quietly. “We just got word. The Kaiser’s not in the Council Chamber.” “Dammit,” the leader grunts, glancing around. “Dammit! Gods-dammit! We need to do this -now-.” “Sir, strike teams are moving into position. Should I recall-” “Absolutely not. Split off killteams. We’ll search every inch of this palace if we have to, but we need to act fast. Clear the halls. Once the first shots are fired, they’ll seal him up in the most fortified bunker they’ve got and wait us out after.” “But sir, to search the whole palace we’ll need to split the strike force almost in half.” “Please, Major. I think we’re more than ready to deal with a few Guardsgriffs.” The leader hefted another piece from the weapon rack. It was large, inelegant and heavy. It wasn’t ideal, but he’d have armored soldiers to deal with. He grabbed a belt of rounds, feeding them into the machine gun. “Give me two. I’ll take the Kaiser’s room.” “Aye, sir.” Gerlach and Gabriela seated themselves in their Regency thrones. In normal times, after Grover took the throne, these would be removed and they would take their seats in the Council as the rulers of Feathisia and Strawberry respectively. But now, they were above the Regency, at the head of the room. For the next decade, that is. Many Regents had attempted to hold onto their power once their Emperor came of age, some more successful than others. The fact that the Grover line remained unbroken spoke of how those attempts had fared. Gerlach glanced to Gabriela, who smiled back before the two faced forward, faces set and ready. All eyes in the Chamber were focused on them, but Gerlach took note of his surroundings. The light filtering in through the stained glass window behind him, the empty podiums, the sea of faces before him, the Knights of the Order of the White Lion standing sentry at all entrances, their faces obscured by their leonine helms. They’d been here dozens of times, and yet being sat in front of all these griffs intimidated him far more than consulting his own Parliament in Feathisia ever had. Gabriela was more comfortable in these circumstances, she’d practically grown up in the palace with Grover V. Fortunately, his reputation for silent fairness came in handy here, and he largely let her handle the talking most days. To prove his silent point, Gabriela straightened up. The small gesture may not have meant much, but any buzz in the crowd that remained died as she gathered herself to speak. She did indeed have quite a presence in a room. “Send them in,” she called out simply. A moment later, and the doors at the end of the chamber opened, admitting a squad of Imperial Guardsgriffs, their spiked black pickelhaube shining in the chamber’s light, their Specht guns held at the ready as they cleared the room for a moment, parting to allow their charges in. Behind them came a smaller party than Gerlach was expecting, only three individuals surrounded by four personnel in black uniforms. The armed guards and guests had been stripped of everything save their pistols, and all they had left afterwards was their black uniforms. Of true interest, especially to Gerlach, was that two of these soldiers were of all things unicorn ponies, one a mare, her coat a mint green and an Imperial C78 holstered at her belt and the other a stallion with a coat black as his uniform. Wingfried held the center of course, the Black King of the East as they were calling him. His face was stoic, hardly a feather out of place as he approached, eyes locked dead on the Duke and Duchess ahead as he stepped around the podium towards the chairs that had been left for him. Beside him was Conrad Silvertalon, the Hero of Longsword. His scarred visage suggested a long life of war and strife. Though expressionless, Silvertalon proved not quite as unflappable, eyes moving and head tilting slightly to take in the grandeur of the chamber. His cap still bore the rose of the Longswordian Army, though his grey uniform had been handed in for a black one with appropriate pins and insignias. On Wingfried’s other side was a white griffon that Gerlach didn’t quite recognize, with purple plumage, and red eyes that hinted at some far deeper purpose than suggested. Most disconcerting of all, upon closer inspection Gerlach realized that the white griffon had something even more disturbing. He lacked any wings! He looked to Gabriela, who seemed nonplussed by the deformity. Perhaps Gerlach was getting too ahead of himself. Rumors of those unfortunate to be born as demigryphs persisted, but it was fairly uncommon, almost to the point of it being an old wives’ tale. Still, perhaps this griff only suffered an unfortunate accident, was all. The trio moved to the chairs set out for them before the Duke and Duchess as their guards took up position behind them, all looking to the two Regents. Gerlach, upon realizing his wife was content to leave their guests standing, gestured with a claw for them to sit. The three Reformisten officials did so without preamble, watching the thrones quietly. The chamber was now silent as a tomb, as everygriff, pony and dog watched carefully, those in the front leaning as far as they could forward and those in back standing to get the best angle, a few anxious wings flaring but not daring to take off. “King Wingfried von Katerinburg,” Gabriela started, folding her claws before her. “You have been asked to this Council to be congratulated for the valor you and your soldiers have shown in meeting the Holy League on the field of battle. For your stalwart efforts, we thank you.” Wingfried nodded, his head descending to his chest before returning. “I am honored. Thank -you-, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice low and smooth, not what was expected of a frontier dictator. “In particular, you yourself were personally mentioned many times participating in the field of battle. I believe there was one about using a satchel charge on a Katerin panzer?” “We were hard pressed, Your Grace. As you know, the Reformisten does not possess our own panzerkorps. My knights were forced to give ground under assault. I was simply doing what had to be done. Lacking Imperial resources, we had to rely on our skill at arms instead.” Gabriela twitched, her talons tightening. Gerlach recognized the slight as well as she had. A subtle point to the Black King. “Well,” the Duchess continued, her voice only just strained a hair above normal. “A true testament to your fighting prowess then. And we are here to show our appreciation.” “Is that so, Your Grace?” Wingfried asked, an eyebrow moving a centimeter up. “Then why does this feel more like a trial than an award ceremony?” Straight to the point, Gerlach mused. Wingfried didn’t have the markings of a true political animal anyway, and bandying around was likely not his way. He decided to take a risk and defuse this potential situation before it got out of claw. Immediately, all the Reformisten officers turned to look at him, and he once more found himself looking into the demigryph’s unnatural red eyes. Lucky him, he’d prepared for that, and his experience in politics came back to him once more. “We’re trying to get a better measure of you, Lord Wingfried. You do carry a reputation, after all.” “King. Wingfried,” the demigryph corrected coolly. “He -was- coronated as one, after all.” Gerlach raised an eyebrow, considering the white-feathered griff carefully, inspecting as best he could. He’d always considered himself a good judge of character, able to spot telling characteristics from a single glance. It had helped him in being a Regent, since he had to be the more approachable half of the two where Gabriela was firm and uncompromising. This white griffon gave him the same chills that General Dawnclaw did, while those eyes told of the same hidden intelligence as Grimwing. But the unnatural air didn’t stop there. He swore he could almost taste arcane power in the air, something he’d picked up from meeting unicorns from the west. “And you are?” Gabriela asked, her voice curt and her body tense, one claw on her armrest, talons dug into the wood with her firm grip. Her smile was all superficial, and she stared at the demigryph with the air of one sizing up a target for a strike. “Grand Inquisitor Erlinger,” Wingfried stated. “My trusted head of internal security. Without him, we would not have been nearly so successful hunting down our Blackcloak problem.” “Well,” Gerlach cut in smoothly. “Herr Inquisitor. We are of course glad to have an Imperial territory such as Hellsword return to us. The loss of the frontier was a tragic one.” “And should never have occurred,” Erlinger agreed, nodding. “It was a short-sighted error in judgement that we have come to atone for.” “And we appreciate such loyalty,” Gerlach responded. Gabriela herself nodded, her intense expression still etched across her face as she continued glancing between the three. On that, Gerlach and Gabriela could both agree on. With so many provinces rebelling and split away, those that willingly returned were rare and certainly could not be turned away, making this current situation even more complicated. “We are merely making sure that what we get is the genuine article. With all the news from the east, you cannot blame our caution.” “If you mistrust our loyalty, need I only state that we came to you, Your Grace,” Wingfried stated. “If you mistrust our motivations, I only need to indicate our thorough purges and how we dealt with the Count. He and several officers in Longsword took our dedication to protecting griffon culture too far. Fortunately, they are now dead, as they deserve.” “So that’s your reasoning?” Gabriela scoffed, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Your followers and confederates took it too far? Not you?” “Well Your Grace...aside from a Count having far more political sway than a knight, there’s a bit more to it than just a change of heart,” Wingfried replied. Gerlach could have sworn he saw the smallest of smiles on his beak. Before Wingfried could go into the details of his miraculous transformation, the double doors leading into the chamber flew open, drawing dozens of eyes at the sound, including Gerlach and Gabriela’s. The Regency was in session, only the most critical of news was supposed to allow interruption. But the Imperial Guardsgriffs outside the doors were supposed to halt any intrusions. None of these were happening. Instead, griffons in blue trenchcoats and gasmasks, wielding battle rifles, SMGs and machine guns charged in. Over their heads, Gerlach could not see any Guards attempting to stop them. Something was wrong. “Get down!” he ordered, throwing himself over at Gabriela. As he did this, the side entrances flew open as well, and as the Knights posted there moved to intercept whoever had rudely entered, gunshots rang out. Knights and Guardsgriffs died where they stood, only a few able to retaliate in surprise. The entire exchange only lasted a split second. One Stormtrooper officer blew a Guardsgriff’s head off with his pistol before pointing towards the thrones. “There! Kill them!” Pandemonium broke out in the Council Chamber. Griffons either fled from the armed troopers or tried to force their way past to the doors. Those unfortunate enough to get in the way of a Stormtrooper were swiftly cut down by barking rifles and the rat-tat-tat of automatic weapons. The Guards and Knights remaining finally responded, attempting to fire back but blocked several times by the fleeing crowd. A bullet rang off Gerlach’s plate, and he knew that if he had not thrown himself in front of his wife, the round would have ended her life. He shielded her as best he could, looking down at her face in concern. Like always, she was immediately over her fear and shock, instead trying to peer past his arm to gauge the situation. “Are you alright?” he asked, half-yelling over the chaos of screaming and gunfire behind him. She nodded, frowning as she heard more bullets ricocheting off the Grand Duke’s plate armor. “Get us to cover, you oaf!” she snapped. “You’re not invincible!” He pulled her over behind the throne as more pullets chased after them. The Council Chamber had turned into a battlefield, the bodies of dead Councilors, Guards, Knights and Stormtroopers littering the floor, splinters and chunks of wood everywhere in splashed puddles of blood on both hardwood floor and elegant rug. “It must be Wingfried!” she hollered. “That treacherous snake!” “While he’s in the line of fire? I don’t think so!” Gerlach yelled back. “Those are Dawnclaw’s griffs!” “Isn’t he supposed to be gone?” “I suppose he decided to stick around!” the Grand Duke snarked back. He reached under Gabriela’s throne, tearing up the secret compartment she had installed and pulling out the twin P01 pistols, checking both chambers to ensure they were loaded before handing her one and peeking out with the other. Before he could act, a Dawnclaw Stormtrooper, this one an officer by his peaked cap and major’s pins, looked over in his direction and spotted him, calling for his soldiers as he raised his Gerund rifle. Gerlach ducked only just in time, hearing the first shot blast through the wood of the seat before the second buzzed by. PING! The Gerund rifle had a unique en-bloc clip system, where when the last shot in the eight round capacity was fired, it ejected the clip up into the air. This sound was infamously tied to the rifle, and Gerlach’s ears perked up immediately upon realizing the Stormtrooper officer had just fired his last shot. Gerlach was up on his feet immediately, leveling his pistol to bring the cursing major in his sights when the griff’s head suddenly exploded in a spray of blood and brain matter, falling to the floor. Gerlach blinked, unsure of what had just happened before Wingfried stepped into his view, brandishing an older C78 pistol, the infamous broomhandle weapon. The would-be assassin dealt with, the Black King approached the huddling Regents, gesturing a few Imperial Guardsgriffs over. “Your Grace! You are unharmed?” “For now!” Gerlach replied. Now able to get a free shot, Gabriela rose up next to him, squeezing off careful pairs as if she were back on the range. She’d always put in more pistol time than he had, and right now the Grand Duke was pleased for it. “Where is Kaiser Grover?” Wingfried demanded over the noise. Gabriela visibly flinched. “His room!” Gerlach shook a claw to reassure her, firing a round into the scuffle, more to do something than because he thought he could hit something. “Benito would never let anything happen to him! We have time!” A grenade detonated nearby, sending several Guardsgriffs and a Knight flying. “Less every second!” Wingfried called back. “Come! We must find him!” If the Council Chamber had turned into a battlefield, the halls had become a close quarters nightmare. Spread out as they’d been, the skirmishes that broke out between the Loyalist forces and Dawnclaw’s troops were in isolated pockets, individual struggles to take and hold a part of the palace. A shootout would be won, only for the victors to be gunned down by another group from their own battle. Order had broken down. But it wasn't a complete disaster for the Loyalists. They had secured both the entrance hall and Grand ballroom as well as another palace arsenal, handing out their own heavy weapons. Now it was a matter of maneuver and attrition, Knights swamping through storms of fire to close with entrenched Stormtroopers, Imperial Guardsgriffs clustering around choke points to hold safe passages for evac and Dawnclaw’s griffs resorting to using explosives to close off hallways as they tried to form a working perimeter. Having emerged from the corpse-strewn Council Chamber, Gerlach and Gabriela, now joined by their bodyguards, moved into the hallway towards the Grand staircase, only to run into a barricade made from tipped over furniture, Guardsgriffs firing up at the next landing. With them was General Anicetus Mudbeak, normally a wreck of a griff, firing his weapon blindly while howling out orders. Beside him were General Silvertalon, snapping off precision shots with a Gerund battle rifle, Ela Grimwing with a Krahe SMG and Grand Inquisitor Erlinger, who held a C78 but appeared to not be using it. Instead, as the Regents approached, his red eyes glowed crimson, and two Stormtroopers on the landing above were surrounded by a similarly colored aura. Their rifles snapped up and they lurched towards each other, firing at the same time and blowing each other away. “What are you, a mage?” Gerlach yelled over the storm, his face in awe. Griffon magic was long proven impossible, a part of nature inaccessible to the race as a whole aside from the enchanters who used captured magic energy to work their craft. But Erlinger merely laughed, the glow gone from his eyes. “Ask the Barrodians, Your Grace! Even I am unsure what I am.” “I’m good at asking questions!” Grimwing piped up, the machine pistol rattling in her claw as she sprayed the landing above. “Could I interest you in a ‘talk’ when this is over?” Erlinger laughed again. “My dear, many have tried. Most do not remain intact.” “Oh I LIKE you!” the secret police chief replied, grinning. “FOCUS!” barked the Duchess, having traded her pistol for a fallen Barkginian Guard’s shotgun, racking the pump and blowing a Stormtrooper’s masked head off. “We need to reach Grover! At all cost!” An MMG began stuttering above them, carving out wood, feathers and flesh on the Loyalists below. “The enemy holds this staircase and many others, Your Grace!” Mudbeak hollered, fumbling his next reload. “I’ve sent griffs to fly up the outside and breach from above!” “Where’s the army?!” Gabriela howled, thumbing shells into her weapon as she shook off one of her Ducal Guards trying to pull her out of the line of fire. “Word from the city! Galluzzo’s sending a battalion of Fallschirmjager from the 82nd! We’re expecting them in forty minutes!” “Forty minutes?!” she snapped, picking up a fallen clawful of brass casings and chucking them at the general, who clumsily tried to block the rain of metal. “Forty minutes?! All it takes to kill a child is a second, Mudbeak!” She whipped around to Gerlach, who was carefully reloading his pistol again. He saw the fire in her eyes and knew, for a fact, there’d be no stopping her. He nodded back, then turned, pointing to the Ducal Guards and several other Loyalists nearby. “Alright! You, you, you and you! We’re assaulting this staircase! You’re coming with us! Erlinger, cause as much disruption in their line as you can! Grimwing!” “Smoke out!” she cried, lobbying the mentioned explosive as far as she could. White clouds immediately began billowing out from the canister, and Gerlach nodded before wheeling back to face their soldiers, all of whom were checking their magazines and bracing for the suicidal charge. “Follow us, Loyal Griffs of the Empire! For the Regent! For the Empire! FÜR DEN KAISER!” “FÜR DEN KAISER!” came the return, and the motley force attacked as one, charging up the stairs or taking flight, soaring over the balcony. Duchess Gabriela led these, her shotgun booming. Below, Erlinger glanced around, a frown on his face as he realized something. “King Wingfried?” Then, after a moment, the Inquisitor smiled in realization. General Ferdinand Dawnclaw stood before the entrance of the Child-Kaiser’s room, the bullet-ridden corpses of the fanatically loyal Barkginian Guards lay where they’d fallen, the machine gun he’d hosed the hallway down with smoking and empty on the floor. He knew what he had to do, the terrible act that he would commit to secure his power. The Kaiser had no real authority, he was merely a figurehead, a pawn to be used by the various political factions that infested the rotting corpse of the Once-Great Empire. The Generals, the Nobles, the Archons and more. All of them whispering in the boy’s ear, guiding him this way and that, gaining his puppeted voice to give themselves legitimacy. The child had to be removed if the Empire was to survive. And yet, he found himself unable to open the door, something deep in the back of his mind preventing him from doing so. Would this unforgivable act really be worth it? Absently, he could still hear the shots ring out, his stormtroopers pounding down the halls bolting doors and sealing entrances to hold off the Imperial Guard, the Barkginian Guard, the Knights of both the White Lions and the Black Knights, the nobles’ own various bodyguards, by Arcturius it felt like the whole Empire was coming down on them. They were badly outnumbered here, and while he had control of this section of the palace for now, it would not last forever. Committing such an act would surely anger the entire Empire. Even the gods themselves would despise him for his actions. Was taking…-saving- the Empire truly worth it? Would it be worth the weight of such an evil act? He struggled with himself for a minute, and every second that passed by, he felt as if a noose was tightening around his neck. Finally, after what felt like hours to the self-proclaimed “Lord Protector” of the Empire, he made up his mind. As he reached for the door, a small part of him prayed for forgiveness. A larger part salivated at the thought of the power he would soon possess. He paused, his claw about to grasp the ornate knob. Dawnclaw’s ear twitched, and he slowly turned back. Had he missed one of Benito’s dogs? No, the Kaiser’s chambers had been protected by a half-dozen Barkginian Guards, and his soldiers had cut this area off from reinforcements. He took a half-step away from the door, leveling his revolver and slowly thumbing back the hammer, eyes narrowed. For a moment, all he could hear was the background gunfire of the struggle in progress, the yells of wounded griffons and howl of dogs as fighting raged through the halls of the palace. His Sturmtruppen would prevail, he knew. But something else had him on edge. He could have sworn he’d heard… Wingfried swung out from behind the statue when Dawnclaw scanned the opposite direction. For a split second, the two were staring each other down a thirty foot hallway, pistols up and ready, moving in to the kill. Dawnclaw fired first, his bullet soaring past Wingfried’s head and impacting in the stone wall behind the king. Wingfried fired next, but his first shot was also a miss, blowing the head off another statue nearby in a shower of stone and dust. Dawnclaw fired again, this round coming close and taking a piece of Wingfried’s coat with it. Wingfried’s next bullet, the last in his current magazine, finally landed in the rogue general’s chest. Dawnclaw coughed, hacking up a globule of blood as he looked down, his shaking claw moving from where he’d automatically clapped it to. His talons were crimson and sticky and wet, and his vest was already soaking through. “No…” the general whimpered, grunting as he refused to accept the reality in front of him, struggling for the door to the Kaiser’s room in one final, last ditch effort to accomplish his task. “No! Not like this! I was chosen by the Gods!” his talon scrabbles on the doorknob, trying to find purchase and maybe, just maybe save himself. He heard boots behind him on the carpeted floor as Wingfried slowly advanced, stepping over the bodies of the dog Guards in his way. Dawnclaw tried one more time, lunging for the knob before flopping to the floor in a bloody, undignified heap, loose feathers flying. He toes over and tried to raise his revolver, only to find his arm too weak. Instead, the claw holding the weapon fell aside, slippery talons unable to grip it. “Dammit, it’s my destiny!” he howled, still unwilling to accept his fate. After reaching the spot where the treasonous general lay drowning in his own blood the Black King reloaded his weapon and leveled it to Ferdinand's head before saying, “Your destiny did not account for me,” as he unceremoniously pulled the trigger. He wasn’t prepared for the silence that followed. Having fought his way through the battle below, his ears still rang. The final shot after all the bellowing, shooting and blood rushing through his skull still seemed to hold in the air. Among all the corpses, loyal and traitor, Wingfried stood alone, staring down his gunsight at Dawnclaw’s ruined head, the blood splattered over the Kaiser’s bedroom door. He paused a moment, taking in the scene before he slowly turned the pistol over, inspecting it before his eyes flitted up to the door itself. Dawnclaw had not yet entered. There was still a chance, though, that a stray round had pierced the wood. Slowly, he moved for the door. Given he was still underage, the young Kaiser still slept in his childhood room. The old Kaiser’s grander quarters sat empty, unused. They would do so until Grover VI was older, and things normalized. The door swung open to reveal a child’s room, one of an heir apparent of course but still a child. A box full of toys sat off to one side, a low table with chairs in the middle with a play tea set. A low bookshelf with children's books and a few for older ones, as Grover VI had shown potential in scholarly pursuits. A four-poster bed graced the center, where the finest sheets were laid out and made by the servants. But the room was dark. No Child-Kaiser inside. He was surprised. Maybe Grover was hiding under the bed, or in the closet. He paused, listening closely. No sound. Wait. That wasn’t true. He turned, stepping back into the hallway. There, again. A sniffle. Muffled, but present. He moved down the hall, ears perked, pistol up in case any of Dawnclaw’s other traitors came rushing in. He paused, listening closer. One of the servants, maybe? They must have fled to escape the carnage. But he reached the end of the hallway, peering around the corner. Nothing. He should be right on top of the noise, but he couldn’t see anygriff, and there were no doors nearby for a creature to be hiding. Then he looked down. He stood over the body of a Barkginian Guard, white armor and sturdy helmet prominent in the dark hallway. A puddle of blood leaked into the carpet. The Guard had been shot in the back. But this dog had been at the end of the hallway. He would have been the furthest from Dawnclaw when the General and his goons had opened fire. Why had he not turned to return fire? And then he saw a small ripple in the blood, just up under the muzzle. And heard the whimper again. Immediately, he holstered the pistol, claws grabbing at the dog’s armor. He was a big one alright, but Wingfried was strong from years as a Knight of Hellquill. He hefted, and as the helmet came away, the body of Captain Benito finally rolled over. Underneath, feathers and clothes all askew, covered in the blood of the dog who had saved his life, was Kaiser Grover VI. A sniffling wreck, clearly having been sobbing under his protector while trying to remain silent lest Dawnclaw find him and kill him. The boy stared up at Wingfried, eyes wide and claws clasped over his beak as he frantically tried to inch away. At a different time, Wingfried might have found himself ridiculing the child for crying and showing such weakness from one of such high station. Another time, he may have just left the boy to his tears. Time had changed Wingfried, changed Hellquill too. Lowering himself down to comfort the young Kaiser he spoke softly to him. "You are safe now, Your Excellency. Its okay. Everything will be okay now." Grover still shook, glancing from Wingfried to Dawnclaw’s corpse and back again, blinking as if trying to clear his eyes. Wingfried took the chance, gently grasping the Kaiser’s shoulder. For a moment, the boy calmed, his shaking pausing. A clatter rang out behind them, startling the boy as the king looked back. An entire entourage poured out of the stairwell, into the hallway. Barkginian Guards, Imperial Guardsgriffs, Ducal Guards and Knights of the White Lion, surging up like a battered, bleeding tide. At the head was Conrad Silvertalon, his cap missing and his face smeared in blood as he lowered his rifle, confused at the scene before him. “Your Highness?” he asked, more to work it out in his head than to ask a question. Behind him, several of the Black Knights accompanying him moved to secure the hallway, pausing at the carnage of the scene. Wingfried pointed to Benito. “I believe the Captain yet lives. He put himself between the Kaiser and Dawnclaw’s bullets.” “I need a medic up here!” Silvertalon, ever the soldier, hollered back down the hall, finally able to react. Several Barkginian Guards immediately moved, dragging their captain up and hauling him away for treatment. The dog soldiers paused, looking cautiously on as Wingfried comforted the child, unsure if they should intervene or not. “Is it over?” Grover asked quietly, head turning away from all his loyal soldiers around him back to Wingfried. The Black King looked to Silvertalon, who shrugged but nodded. More or less done, then. The coup had failed. He turned back to the Child-Kaiser. “Yes. There will be some left to flush out, but they must know by now their leader is dead.” “Sir,” Conrad warned quietly. “The Regents are coming. They know we have him.” Wingfried nodded, standing and holstering his pistol, offering a claw to Grover. The boy appeared to be recovering himself, as he only needed a second to take the offer, pulling up as his wings fluttered, stretching out after being pinned under Benito’s bulk. “Why?” Grover asked quietly, his gaze turning back to Dawnclaw. “Why did he do all this? I did nothing wrong.” “Because you represent strength. A strength he never possessed, but craved terribly,” Wingfried explained. “You are the Kaiser, Your Excellency. One day, you will lead griffonkind to our future.” “Am -I- strong?” Grover asked quietly, looking up to Wingfried. Judging by the noise from the stairs, he would only have a few more moments to speak with the Kaiser, before he was whisked away to safety. He considered his words carefully before squeezing Grover’s shoulder. “No,” he answered honestly. “You are still a child. A boy, unfamiliar with the world. But…” He knelt down, looking the Kaiser in his watery eyes as Wingfried removed his cap. “You have the potential to become the most powerful griff on the continent. Perhaps even the world. You will command great armies, millions of creatures’ souls and the destiny of the world. On that day, you will be strong. But for now, you must survive.” With that, the dam of tears young Grover had been holding back finally burst, and he threw his arms around his savior, burying his face in Wingfried’s feathers and sobbing. Though a little caught off guard, the Black King cleared his throat, recovered and reached up, gently patting Grover on the back, letting the Kaiser vent his emotions. Finally, fighting through the parting crowd, Gabriela and Gerlach broke through from the staircase, wings flared wide in agitation. Upon seeing Grover safe and sound, Gabriela's fury evaporated, and she dropped her gun as with one powerful stroke of her wings she cleared the king hallway and landed next to the two of them. “Grover!” she cried, arms outstretched. Relaxing his grip, the Black King released the Kaiser, taking a half step back, his wings fluttering in apprehension. Still overcome, Grover immediately latched onto his aunt and cried into her neck as she cradled him like he was her own child. She looked up at Wingfried, her expression unreadable as she comforted her nephew. Then, after a moment, she appeared to make a decision, and nodded silently before she returned to shushing Grover gently, stroking his fuzzy plumage gently. A claw fell on Wingfried's shoulder as Grand Duke Gerlach stepped up next to him. “In the nick of time. Thank you, Wingfried. We cannot thank you enough.” “I did what I had to,” the blue griffon replied, his face impassive. “For the Empire.” “Yes, indeed…” Gerlach appeared lost in thought for a moment, watching his wife and young Kaiser with intensity before glancing around at the hallway, packed with soldiers and Imperial officers, watching the event carefully, many of them looking awkward in the bloody hall, watching several powerful figures in such an emotional state. Then, as if inspired, the Grand Duke turned back. “King Wingfried von Katerinburg, of the Hellsword Territories. We brought you here to both decorate you and judge your intentions. Though this incident was unfortunate, it allowed you an opportunity to prove your mettle, and your loyalty. I am ashamed to say a mere medal is not enough to reflect our appreciation for the tremendous act of rescuing not only the Kaiser, but the Captain of the Barkginian Guard, and perhaps the Empire itself. Here and now before these witnesses, as a reward for your actions abroad and at home, I name you Lord Protector of the Kaiserreich.” The entire hallway was stunned. Duchess Gabriela stared up at her husband, flabbergasted, while Grover (who had recovered) sniffled and watched on, eyes flitting back and forth between the adults, all of them trying to understand what was happening. Fortunately, Wingfried seemed the first to comprehend, and he bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Grace. This is a great honor.” “Don’t be too pleased yet,” Gerlach quipped, smirking a bit. “This is a great responsibility. I’m putting under your charge the former Imperial territories to the east and south. This war against the League will end, and soon. And when it does, our eyes will turn west. Must turn west. Our enemies will come for us. Soon. But I need eyes on the east. Cyanolisia has already fallen. Prywhen is in the communists’ claws. Blackrock is...well, you know. But we can still save all of these.” He raised an eyebrow. “You understand what I’m charging you with.” Wingfried nodded without hesitation, the cap back on his blue plumage. “Yes, Your Grand Grace.” “Then go. Gather your griffs. I’ll contact you with the plans. In the meantime, we need to fix...well, this.” He gestured to the ruination they were standing in, wincing as his eyes set on Dawnclaw again. “It’s just more proof we need to clear our own ranks first. Then the League.” He looked to Gabriela, who looked displeased, but still had said nothing, eyes flitting from Gerlach to Wingfried to Silvertalon. In her arms, Grover watched Wingfried carefully, his blue eyes wide and fixated. Suddenly a little uneasy, Wingfried bowed once more. “Your Excellency.” He began to turn away, pausing to look back at Grover one last time. “Remember...survive. There will be many more trials ahead.” And with that, the Black King, now Lord Protector of the Griffonian Empire, gathered his Black Knights and set out. There was no time to waste, after all. Operation Tartarus was about to begin. The Celestial Sea Mayday, mayday. This is SS Sunny Hauler. We’re drastically off-course, our navigation equipment is malfunctioning and the fog is preventing us from seeing the stars. According to our charts, we should be in the middle of the ocean, but we’re seeing reefs and rocks coming out of the water. Last known coordinates were two-five degrees north, negative seven-one degrees east. We’ve seen shapes moving in the water, suspect sea serpents in the area. Any station receiving, please respond. I say again, we are- Wait...is that...singing? What is… (The voice gets quieter, as if the sender has moved away from the radio but forgotten he’s set something on the ‘Talk’ button) Thorn, what in Celestia’s tits is that?...That noise?...The singing? Island? What island? We’re in the middle of the ocean you bucking idiot. Wha-...wait, I think I see it... Tirek’s balls...shit, get us away from there! Hard to starboard, hard to- Thorn, what in Tartarus are you- (The radio squeals before falling silent)
Calling GriffenheimAuthor's Note Yes, I know I said I'd be returning to letter form for a bit longer, and that was the origianl intent. But when an idea digs itself into your head and you don't even have to fight to write it all down, you know that idea was meant to be written. And that's what happened here. Enjoy, everyone. I'll be taking a small break to attend to some real life issues, but you can expect the next chapter by the beginning of the next month. As always, leave me your thoughts, problems, questions, any errors I made, and have a wonderful Thanksgiving season. Calling Griffenheim December 31st, 1010 Industrie District, Griffenheim Griffenheim on New Year’s Eve. The city still hadn’t stopped its celebrations, despite the war having ended over a month ago. On the day it had all finished, grand parades had rolled down Griffenheim’s majestic boulevards, troops returning home in orderly fashion, freshly pressed uniforms glittering with new decorations, knights in their enchanted plates with blank, faceless armored visors and panzers of all three classes lumbering through with gun barrels raised high. A large part of these celebrations had been the Reformisten. Before, they had entered the city as pariahs. After the Treaty of Griffing, with the news gone public about who had saved the Kaiser and what had happened to turn Katerin loyal once more, they were heroes. Wingfried himself had been stoic in the back of his staff car, watching the lines of griffons that had turned up to cheer him and his marching soldiers on, offering flowers, food and drink from the crowd to confused Reformisten troopers. He leaned forwards to a black unicorn seated with him, and a dark-brown griffon both in the uniforms of high level officers. “Now, my friends: Operation Tartarus awaits.” The infamous phrase was taken by the Reformisten propaganda department, and printed on posters and banners wherever the Black Knights went. Now, the banners remained. Soldiers still went out in uniform to be given free food, drink and even nightly companionship. They were heroes of the Empire. Valiant warriors who had annihilated the traitors in what had to be one of the most important battles in the Empire’s history. Banners of Generalfeldmarschall Bronzetail, the new face of the Reichsarmee hung next to those of Wingfried, the Black King of Hellsword. Propaganda posters of Fallschimjager descending from the sky onto a cowering and unprepared Archon Eros went up right next to recruiting posters of mighty panzers crushing all in their path and other posters of powerful artillery guns thundering over the heads of proud ranks of Imperial Grenadiers. Snow covered the streets, and the frosty winds tugged at these posters as the lone griff staggered past, trying his best to keep footing. Most of the folk in the district were in the bars and their homes, watching the clock and counting down for the new year. A better year, they knew. For now the Herzlands were reunited, loyal Imperial governors watching these former breakaways. The spirit of Mondstille persisted as well, strands of pine and strings of garland hanging next to silver ornaments on walls and storefronts. Packages and gifts had already been exchanged, and for once the typical greedy griffon mindset in the Empire was not fixed towards what to gain next. He moved up the stairs, feeling the cold biting through the artificial warmth the alcohol had provided, as well as his ratty scarf and old coat. But he merely shivered, brushing the frost from his shoulder and fluttering his wings as he finally reached the door, a beaten and worn old thing whose green paint had long faded like the district had. His key slid home after two or three tries, and he swung the door in, fighting the gusts as he strode through and firmly shut it, so quick the candles only briefly fluttered in the harsh wind. He took a moment to contemplate the tiny flames, bright eyes sunken into his black-feathered face. Then he sighed, tugging off his cap, scarf and coat, stomping his rear legs to get the snow off his boots. He’d have to take those off too. “Cyril?” called a voice from the kitchen. “Is that you?” “Ja, Mutter,” he called back, feeling his speech slur a little and fighting it as best he could. “You’re home early,” Margot’s voice continued, hopeful. Perhaps her son had decided spending time with family was the more important venture here, instead of drinking with his army buddies on this important night, such as he’d done Monstille Eve. Sadly, and with a little bit of loathing and shame in his heart, he broke her of that notion. “That Grenadier from the other night was there. Started back up again. The bartender threw us both out.” “Oh, Cyril. You didn’t break anything this time, did you?” Her disappointed and downcast tone told him all he needed to know as he moved into the living room. “Just a bottle. Over her head.” “Cyril!” And there she was, in the doorway to the kitchen. Margot Duskwing was a force to behold in herself. Her feathers were black as her son and brother, though streaks of grey were beginning to form around her ears and eyes, evidence of the years of hardship she’d been subject to since Stefan had been killed. As per tradition, she had retaken her maiden name upon her husband’s death, though with how busy she was these days with the house and taking care of Sophie while her son was away, no one was under any illusions of her chances to find another griff to fill her life. Now, she was covered in flour on her apron from baking, and she glared furiously at her half-drunk troublemaker son, heartbreak replaced fully by righteous anger. Arms crossed over her chest, talons clacking as they rubbed together. Cyril, hardened vet that he was, wilted before her, glancing down behind his mother. Ten year old Sophie peered through the gap, trying to see what was going on as her wide eyes glanced between her brother and mother. She more resembled her father Stefan, grey feathers around a white face. She knew better than to say anything during these exchanges, but the look on her face told of a thousand questions she wanted to voice. Cyril felt his defenses crumble, even before either said anything more. The alcohol-induced fighting spirit he had channeled on the problematic soldier in the bar was spent. Sergeant Hellseig had ordered him home instead of going out bar-hopping as many vets were tonight. That had already taken the wind out of his sails, and now seeing how his mother and sister were looking upon him, hurt and disappointed, robbed him of it entirely. “Cyril, you’re out of control!” Margot snapped, literally clacking her beak as her wings flared a moment. “Every night, you’re out drinking away your pay and getting in fights and breaking things in public! You’re almost never home for dinner, and when we see you during the day you’re hungover half the time! It’s disgraceful!” “I know, Mutter,” Cyril replied weakly, but he knew now the boiler was fired up the only way she would stop was if all the steam was let out. And she proceeded to for almost a half-hour, berating her son for his sloppy appearance, his terrible behaviour as of late, irresponsible habits. It got to the point where Sophie awkwardly went back to the bakin the kitchen. That hurt the most. The fact that little Sophie, who had for so long idolized her big brother, was so used to him getting chewed out she went to go do something else without voicing a single word. It broke his heart, but then again Cyril knew he was responsible for all this. And then both Margot and Cyril crossed the line. “If your father were here, he would hang his head in SHAME!” Cyril flinched. His mother never talked about his father like that. It had always only been how much she missed Stefan, how proud he would have been. Never like this. He saw the realization on her face, the awkwardness, heard the apology coming. But his fight reared its ugly head. Before she could say what he knew she would, he bit first. “Well, I’m sure he would! But he’s NOT here!” Silence. It hung in the cold house for several moments as mother and son gaped at each other, unbelieving of what they had both said. This was the worst it had ever been between them. Even when Cyril had first returned home, broken and disheartened, their outbursts hadn’t reached this kind of hurt. Margot broke first, turning away and sighing as she returned to the kitchen, the curtain separating it from the living room falling into place. Too late, Cyril raised a claw to try and catch her, say something to her, anything. But she was gone before he had fully reached out. Alone again. In the dark living room. Hearing the raucous sounds of a New Years’ party downstairs through the floorboards. The only lights were the ones leaking through the thin curtains from the street and the face of the radio set in the corner, accidentally left on and caught between stations, burbling static. Groaning, he stepped over to the set, contemplating turning it off and just going to bed. But something made him reach up, adjusting the tuner and volume dials until he heard music playing clearly. Once that came in, he flopped onto the couch, closing his eyes and leaning his head back as he waited. He knew this song. We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away So will you please say hello To the folks that I know Tell them I won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singing this song We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Til the blue skies Drive the dark clouds far away So will you please say hello To the folks that I know Tell them it won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singin' this song We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day He grunted as the song came to a close, knowing exactly why he had listened to this song in particular, eyes still closed. “Happy New Year, Paige,” he muttered as a faster paced, more upbeat holiday song came onto the set. Just as he had been the three years previous, he sat alone on New Years’ Eve, efforts to reunite with her thwarted to an almost comically sick degree. Did the universe simply hate him this much? Or was it interference by some divine being? He knew he had really lost it if he believed that Princess Celestia or the goddess Eyr really wanted to fuck up his love life. Maybe it was a sick joke by Discord or Maar. That made more sense. Or was his luck really just that bad? The radio set crackled with static, and he frowned, bringing his heavy head around and blinking in the dark, staring at the set. Interference? Must have been from the snow. But the white noise continued, battling the radio station as the dials on the display twitched back and forth, the radio experiencing some anomaly. He leaned forward, puzzled and out of his element. Despite his lack of knowledge, he reached out, a talon pausing as he tried to figure out what to do. Then, with a thunderclap and a flash of blue light, his world disappeared. Cyril howled, cursed and squawked in shock as he tumbled headfirst into the bulky radio set, almost knocking it over but instead bouncing off the wall. He threw a claw over his face, wishing he had his sidearm that was still safely locked up back in the regimental armory. But after a moment, the glow lessened, and he blinked as his vision began to return. “It worked!” called a voice, echoing and shrill in his ears as he tried to place it. The flanging exclamation was strange, almost impossible to discern with all the background noise. But also, somehow, familiar. “Cyril! Are you there?” And then, after a moment. “Oh. Shit. Oh shit! Cyril, are you okay?” Confused and not believing his ears, Cyril lowered his claw. The bright light, it turned out, had only ebbed, not disappeared. Instead, the blue glow was softer, emanating from a spectral form in the middle of the room. This apparition appeared to be made of dancing blue-white motes, dancing inside of a set of boundaries. He took a few seconds to comprehend what he was seeing as his eyes traced the outline, drawing a shape in his brain. It appeared quadrupedal, with wings that flared out in either aggression or worry. It had a tail, and a head that he tried to place as he stared at it. Was it an illusion? Then it took a step towards him. “Cyril?” it asked softly, in that quiet ghostly echo. The voice had normalized, for the most part. Not so much warping or distortion, though it still did every few syllables. And he suddenly placed the rest of the pieces. “Paige?” he half-whispered, almost unbelieving. He had to be drunker than he thought. There was no way this was real. “Cyril,” she replied, and he swore he could see a wide smile on her muzzle. “Holy shit, it worked.” He stood, still unbelieving what was happening. Behind her, the curtain to the kitchen flew open as Margot, brandishing a meat cleaver, literally flew into the living room wings wide and talons out, ready for whatever had dared make the mistake of intruding into the Duskwing household. Then she stopped, staring in abject stupefaction at the glowing form of Paige Turner, standing in the living room. Behind her, Sophie poked her beak out nervously to see what the noise was, then ducked back into the kitchen, eyes wide in terror. He stepped closer, looking her up and down. She was silent a moment, letting him absorb what was happening, her starry expression difficult to make out but definitely beaming with pride and barely contained glee. Any trace of alcohol in his system had been blasted out, replaced by stone-cold sobriety as he gawked, moving around her to take it all in. Finally, she couldn’t resist. “What do you think? Not bad, eh?” The image then turned, facing something off towards the wall. “Say hi, Static!” After a moment of silence, Paige turned back. “She says ‘hi’. We’ve got her to thank for casting this in the first place.” “This is unicorn magic?” Cyril asked, stunned. Behind him, Margot covered herself in the holy gesture out of habit, eyes just as wide as Cyril’s, the forgotten meat cleaver hanging limply in her claw. “Of a sort,” Paige replied, her accented voice warping briefly before returning to its echoes again. “I took a standard message spell and er...boosted it a fair bit.” “What? How?” If what she said was true, she had taken a fairly simple and standard spell, something even griffons knew about and replicated with magic crystals from time to time, and amplified its range by over five thousand percent! She was literally transmitting him from the other side of the world! “My thesis,” she answered proudly. “I decided to take a wild hunch of mine and run with it. And, well...it worked!” She gushed, and he could almost make out her bright eyes, beaming at her accomplishment. “The crystal…” he whispered. “You used the crystal to boost the spell?” “I’ll admit, it was a bit of a long shot,” she replied, shrugging as her wings fluttered and laid back against her flanks. His eyes followed the motion, and then he gave in to the temptation, reaching out and trying to rest a claw on her cheek. To his sharp though not complete surprise, his talons went through, his claw tingling as the dancing lights began to gather around the intruding limb. He pulled back sharply, and the lights returned to Paige’s ghostly form. She hung her head in sheepish defeat as she sadly admitted “But no spell in existence can help me teleport all the way to you. Sorry.” He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as his brain finally caught up to his eyes. “You’re...you’re here!” “In the spectral flesh!” she declared proudly, then stopped to ponder on that. “Or, is it ectoplasmic flesh? Then again, it's not flesh at all, more a manifestation of arcane energy-” “Paige?” he gently interrupted her. To her credit, she heard him immediately, lifting her head and tilting it to show she was listening. “How long is this good for?” Her ears drooped, and he knew it was bad news. “Not long...maybe five minutes. I tried to time it so I’d show right when the New Year was going to pass over there. Did I get it?” Cyril glanced over at the old, worn clock above the fireplace. Even he hadn’t been aware of what time it was, but sure enough there were only four more minutes until midnight. He nodded, dumbly, still trying to wrap his head around the concept. “Ja…just on the nose,” he looked back over to her, frowning. “You couldn’t have tried this before?” Here she looked a little taken aback, but pressed on after a moment. “I didn’t know it would work before. I’m not a unicorn. And a message spell is, at best, able to cover a continent. I had, maybe, one shot at this. Reaching Griffenheim took...well. All of the energy I had in the crystal.” That was SEVERAL years of charging and stabilization efforts, gone. She had burned all that work for five minutes of talking with him. He was stunned as the full implications of that finally hit him. “But...your thesis?” She waved a hoof in the air, the lights dancing around and leaving small contrails in her wake. “I’ve still got, what? Two years before I need to finish that. Besides, I can get it all back. Just gotta get multiple unicorns to submit to extensive charging sessions while I make sure it doesn’t overwhelm the spell framework.” She shuffled awkwardly, scratching her mane with a hoof. “How hard could that be?” “But-” he clamped his beak shut as his eye saw the hand on the clock twitch. Three minutes until midnight! And here he was, standing around like an idiot asking questions that wouldn’t matter soon. With that realization dumping cold water on his mind, he knew he had to act fast. “Paige,” he started, gesturing behind her. The apparition turned her head, her magic vision landing on a still frozen Margot. But Cyril rushed over to his mother, gently pushing her forward. “Paige, this is my mother, Margot. Mutter, this is Paige.” The two were silent as they studied each other. Paige, at least, had the benefit of not being forced to try and perceive details about a magical illusion, but she at least gave Margot the chance to recover. Finally, Margot leaned over to her son. “I thought her mane would be longer.” Indeed, while Paige had let it grow out since her days in the RAF, it was much shorter than when they had first met, her bangs barely to her jawline. Paige recovered quickly, smiling and nodding. “An honor and a pleasure to meet you, Frau Duskwing,” she said in her accented Herzlandisch. “I am sorry I cannot shake your claw. A strange first meeting, I know.” Margot recovered, clearing her throat and tucking the cleaver away. “Think nothing of it, dear. These are strange times after all.” Paige’s ‘eyes’ traced down behind them both, and she leaned down, smiling as the two griffons looked back to see that Sophie had gotten her courage together to step out from the kitchen, gawking up at the spell ghost. “And this little cutie -must- be Sophie! My Gods, she’s such a pretty little thing!” Paige waved a hoof, grinning. “Hello there Dragi! Don’t be shy! It’s me, Paige! Your penpal!” Cautiously, Sophie stepped forward, once more using her mother as a hiding spot as she looked up and said “H-hallo Fraulein Paige.” Paige actually -squealed-, prancing in place. “She’s adorable!” Down below them, Cyril could hear the party beginning to gather up, and glanced at the clock. Two minutes left. “Paige?” She looked over to him, smiling and happy. “Why this? Why now? After all these years and everything with...well, us.” Her smile faded, and she studied his face for a long second, so long he almost glanced at the clock to make sure she wasn’t just about to disappear. Her ghostly wings rustled. “I had to try,” she said, so quiet and so warped he almost missed the whisper. “When I got your letter and saw what had happened. I couldn’t stand the thought of you here. Alone. Trapped. Hurt. I know it's not much. And I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to try again. But I get to see you. Talk to you.” She reached up, about to stroke his face before remembering that he wasn’t there either. “You look so tired.” She leaned over, and with careful motions gently put her muzzle against the side of his beak. He felt the tingling as his feathers and skin met the arcane energy, and for a moment he swore he could almost feel an actual warmth of her coat, hear her soft breathing as she kissed him. He leaned in a little, turning his face to run his cheek along her manifested one, gently preening her image, the tingling spreading down his neck. Below, their moment was spoiled as the party-goers began chanting the countdown from twenty. They’d have, at best, a minute after the countdown finished. He pulled back, so happy to have had this opportunity, but so sad it had to end, and so soon. He wouldn’t get another chance, and who knew when they’d physically see each other? So, he took it. “I love you, Paige.” She paused, watching him carefully, almost examining him. No, she wasn’t examining. She was shocked. It was a little difficult to tell in her starry gaze, but he finally realized he had pulled a fast one on her, and for a moment his heart sank in terror. Was she about to tell him- But then she snorted. “You’re no fun! Isn’t there a time-honored tradition where I spend months weaseling it out of you while your male pride prevents you from saying it until one of us is in mortal peril?” He chortled, disbelieving her response before he laughed as well, mostly at the sheer absurdity of the statement as any humor in her voice. “Not-not this time,” he said as he got his laughs under control. “Sorry to kill your fun.” TEN! She stopped laughing, watching him carefully, a decision being made behind her eyes that he could see, even when her manifestation warbled and warped. They were almost out of time. Nine! “I love you too, Cyril.” She said it quietly, softly. They only had this moment, these bare seconds before the cold barrier of separation would come slamming back down between them, and they were forced back to the lonely life of waiting an entire month for any word from each other. Eight! Everything would change now. Or would it? At the end of the day, they would still be split by an ocean and two continents, and who knew how many wars in between? Seven! “Hey,” Paige said quietly, seeing the look on his face. He blinked in surprise, focusing on her again. Six! She smiled, and in that briefest of moments, he swore he could physically see her there, his memories of the harbor and the photo he still carried. “It’s not goodbye,” she insisted. Five! “Not until we want it to be.” She reached up again, and her hoof seemed to melt slightly into his jaw. He ignored the tingling, instinctively trying to press into her. Four! “It’s, ‘until next time.’ As long as we keep saying that.” Three! “Then it’ll never be goodbye.” Two! “Until next time, then.” He muttered, staring down at her and cursing how unfair the world was. The gods had brought her so close, so DAMN CLOSE. This was a mockery, an insult, dangling in front of him what he desired most and could never have. And judging from the look in her starry eyes, she was feeling the same kind of hurt. One! “Love you,” she said, quieter than ever. Happy New Year! “Love you too,” he whispered back. They both braced, watching each other carefully as the clock began ringing quietly, the party downstairs breaking out in cheers as the year officially rolled over to 1011 ALB. January 1st. But she didn’t fade. Not yet. After another moment, they both let out breaths they hadn't realized they’d been holding. Paige turned, looking back at Margot (who nodded) and waving towards Sophie, who braved emerging from behind her mother to wave back, smiling as well. Paige turned back, about to say something more. That’s when the front door, which Cyril realized belatedly he had forgotten to lock, flew open in a blast of wind, snow and panzer crew. “Duskwing! Gelukkig nieuwjaar!” Truppen Eihol called, the Feathisian driver clearly more than a little drunk as the griff stumbled in the door. “Sit down ‘fore you hurt yerself, you lout!” Spotsley snapped, stumbling under Eihol’s weight before roughly depositing him on the bench in the entry hall. “Duskwing! I swear to fuckin’ gods if you don’t come get this daftie, I’m leavin’ his arse in your hall!” “Calm down,” Sergeant Hellseig said quietly, pushing past the two arguing soldiers. “Before you two become even more of a disgrace.” But it was Long Haul, the Reformisten pony loader, who made it through first. Words died on his lips as, with wide eyes, he took in the magically projected form of the pegasus, who was just as stunned to come face to face with him too. For a moment, the two of them simply grappled with their confusion and inability to process what they were seeing. And then, in a gently fading light and a gentle breeze, Paige’s image began to fade. Sensing her end, she glanced down at herself before sharply up at Cyril, trying to say one more thing. But before the words could manifest themselves, her form broke up, and the motes of light blew past, over Cyril who automatically reached out to try and catch her. Of course, by the time the lights made contact with his feathers, not even the sensation of them bouncing off him remained as his final connection with her faded at last. “Recalled to duty?” Sergeant Hellseig nodded, leaning against the table as he fiddled with the cap in his hand. “Leutnant came to the bar with the news after you left. The 41st is shipping back to the camp in two days’ time. We’ve all been cleared of suspicion.” Cyril leaned against the couch, looking over the sergeant’s shoulder at his mother and sister in the kitchen, slicing up the cake they had been baking as Eihol drunkenly tried to take a piece while Spotsley reprimanded the drunken driver, making sure to properly give him his slice and not stab himself with his fork. “Where are we going?” Cyril asked, now glancing between Hellseig and Haul. The pony hadn’t said anything about the apparition he’d witnessed, and that was fine by Cyril. The less he had to explain to everygriff, the simpler it would be. “The Frontier,” Hellseig replied, seemingly not noticing or not caring about the tense looks the gunner and loader shared, likely chalking it up to the disagreements they’d had since they had been paired up. “The Reformisten brought Lushi back into the fold. Now the anchluss is complete and the Herzlands are reunited, King Wingfried is taking his Black Knights south. Towards Prywhen and Blackrock. Given they have no panzers of their own, we’re part of the Imperial Expeditionary Korps assisting them.” The communist republic had taken down the infamous bandit queen while the Herzland Wars had raged, so attacking into Blackrock was going through republic territory. Any idiot could see where this pattern was going. After Prywhen and Blackrock, the Empire would be eager to retake the jewel of the south, Cyanolisia. Or, in this case, the Friestaat. After that, the rest of the south could be seized at leisure. “So, we just ended one war to start another?” Cyril asked quietly. Hellseig winced, but Haul remained steadfast. “Operation Tartarus has been in the planning stages since the Reformisten existed. It was going to be launched whether the Empire was there or not,” the Earth pony said matter of factly. “But with Imperial panzers, grenadiers and aircraft behind the Reformisten, what was thought to take a considerable amount of time and resources could be accomplished in less than a year. And with the Landwehr holding seized territory, we worry less about pacification and more on winning the battles.” “That positive about your chances of success, are you?” Cyril quipped sarcastically. Taking the southeast in a year? Insanity. Just walking that far was an endeavour in itself, much less fighting for it. “I think Asterion and Sicameon have something to say about that.” Haul shrugged. “Those are the optimistic projections from the briefing. Even I shall admit, it will likely take slightly longer than the Geheimstadt is predicting. But it will still be extremely rapid.” “And how do you happen to know so much, Haul? Last I checked, I outranked you.” Cyril cocked an eyebrow. Surprisingly, the pony snickered, a small smile on his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Duskwing.” “In any case,” Hellseig interjected. “We have our orders. The Empire wants to focus on Aquileia. Which means the Reformisten takes the lead in the east one way or another. We’re there to blow up anything they can’t. Simple, easy mission.” A few minutes later, Hellseig was satisfied his gunner knew the objective, moving towards the kitchen to slap some sense into his drunk driver and foul-mouthed radiohound, noting that Margot Duskwing was on the verge of taking up her knife again. Left alone with Haul, Cyril contemplated simply turning on the radio and relaxing on the couch. “Was that her?” Cyril looked at Haul flatly, the two watching each other carefully. With a small, measured reaction, Cyril slowly nodded. Haul nodded in response, seemingly deep in thought. “She must care for you deeply, to go to such lengths.” Cyril didn’t answer. Just stared back. But the loader understood, sighing as he rose and trotting off towards the kitchen too. He’d be missed. In a moment, the rest of the crew would demand he come over to share in the New Year festivities with them. But for now, Cyril leaned back, listening to the quiet buzz of the radio and stared out the window at the snowy streets of Griffenheim. Then smiled, at last.
1011 pt 1Sent January 2nd, 1011 Dear Paige, Happy New Year. I meant to tell you that when you made your ‘visit’. Sophie won’t stop talking about it. She keeps asking me questions that I can’t answer about magic, how it works, all that noise. Honestly, I understand just enough to comprehend -how- you did it, so I can’t really tell her how you shouldn’t have been able to and how it -doesn’t- make sense. More news of a military nature; we’re cleared of suspicion. Sergeant Hellseig told us the 41st has been recalled after MfÖS finished their investigation. Which means now I get to return to camp, get back on Sabine and actually get back to the business of doing my job. Mother and Sophie are safe now. It’s a New Year’s miracle. But now the bad news. We’ve been called up again. Apparently there’s something going on to the east called Operation: Tartarus. The Reformisten are spearheading it, and all I’m allowed to say is that they’re requesting panzer support. That means us in the 41st. I can’t say much, you know the way things go. But word is now that Lushi is flying the flag of the Empire again, its a certain rogue nation gone the way of civil war recently. I know that doesn’t narrow it down, but a lot of secrecy’s going into this operation. We’re being deployed eastwards. Once we reach (the location has been clipped by a censor), we’re to spend a month or so training with the Reformisten so they can get their heads around combined arms tactics with panzers. From what I hear, they’ve already got Imperial advisors on the ground, but no armor of their own. That’s where the Empire comes in. We go in with a few other panzer regiments and an infantry division or two, some aircraft loaned to the Reformisten and a whole lot of suppression forces behind us. That’s the plan, at least. I’ve been told not to think about this as a war, not like what happened with the Holy League. The Grenzwald Territories aren’t supposed to be capable of that sort of coordination or advanced resistance. But you and I know better. We’ll see. Thank you, by the way. I know how much it means to have done what you did, using up the crystal’s energy like that. I don’t know much about magic and how it works, but I know you’ve been working on that thing since we met. I didn’t get the chance to say all that when we ‘talked’. It means more than I could ever say that you gave that up just for a few minutes. So. Remember Haul? My new Reformisten loader? Turns out, he caught sight of you that night. I don’t know if it’s somehow illegal or not, but so far as I can tell, he hasn’t ratted on us. Which kind of surprised me. He did mention how much effort you must have gone through to send that message. I don’t know what to think about it. I’ll keep an eye on him. Less worried they’ll freak over the use of magic thing. More worried they’ll see me talking to a ‘Harmonist’ as a problem. Political agendas are always an issue here with the Republic still sniffing at our claws. You know what? With the end of the war and everything happening over here, I completely forgot our three questions thing going on. So, in light of everything that’s happened, I’m hereby resurrecting it. Question one: Birthday. This is a bit of a free one. You still haven’t told me, and I’d like to know ahead of time so I can send a letter, and a gift. I may not make many idols, but what I set aside for myself is just spent on booze and other little shit at this point. I can put it to much better use for you, especially on your birthday. After all, I have three years to make up for at this point. Two: what kind of language would you want to learn next? I know you’re fluent in a couple more tongues than I am. So what’s next to learn? I think I might go Wingbardian, given all the ‘mercenaries’ we keep running into. Maybe Aquileian (kind of a weird complex on that. We’re encouraged to learn it so we can be useful in the field but nogriff wants to because of the whole ‘Republican/Harmonist suspicion’ sort of thing). Kind of sad that I’m looking at this by what’ll be useful for the next war, but you know everything happening over here on that. Anyway. Three: do you have an idol in your life? Like, anypony or anygriff you look up to? I know you’ve always been drawn to science and magic types. You spoke highly of your meeting with Princess Luna, and you seem to know more about the scientists in Griffonia than I ever thought to ask. But who do you get inspired by? I’ve always got my father to look up to. My mother is a great source of strength. And the stories of heroes out here are good inspiration. But with everything happening, I’ve been really looking to Uncle August for motivation. He wrote me again after everything that happened. We don’t talk much these days, to his regret. But he told me it would be alright. Turns out, he was the one who arranged my transfer to the east. A whole division sent east for my own sake. To ‘get my head on straight’ he said. I’m thankful he’s looking out for me. I’m also a little glad I don’t have any cousins. You asked me a question some time ago, and I’ve had time to think it over. And given what happened the other night, and what’s happening in the world, I feel maybe I have the chance to tell you what conclusion I came to. I answered this my last letter, but I was too bitter about it. I wasn’t thinking, and I said a few insensitive things. Yes. If we had the chance, and we were happy, I would want to try and make a family with you. I’m not sure how much success we’d have. But if we are ever handed the chance, I’d be an idiot not to try if you wanted to. Someday, when we’re ready. I know we’ll not see each other until we can get face to face again. But I’m looking forward to that with renewed eagerness, however long it takes. Love, ~Cyril Sent January 28th Dear Cyril, First off, I’m glad you’re doing better. You certainly didn’t wait long to write. I’m glad to hear that. I wasn’t sure who does what after making the equivalent of a magical telephone call. So, your Reformisten comrade is...interesting. I’m a little unsettled by his discretion. Part of me wants to believe the pony in him is just letting us have this. The other part thinks he hasn’t sold you out to his ‘buddies’ because he’s waiting until the right moment. I don’t know. He isn’t natural, if you ask me. Joining an organization like that. And from what you told me of his Cutie Mark. I don’t think there’s a single pony between Equestria and even the Riverlands with a mark meant for war. Field Marshal Lipzig would be our best candidate for that (dedicated his whole life to the Republican Army), and he certainly doesn’t have it. If Marks are able to be shaped into war instruments too, I’m afraid of what that could mean. Just keep an eye on Haul. I don’t trust him, and neither should you. Maybe I’m getting overly paranoid. You’re closest to the situation. You know what to do. You’ve always been good at that. First of all, Happy Hearts and Hooves Day. If I’m right, this letter will get to you just before (or just after). It would mean the world to me to say it. Enjoy the attached cookies! I sent a bag to your mother and Sophie. Made them myself, with Static’s help. Static says hi. Second, your question about my birthday doesn’t count, since that was something we were planning to discuss before. But I’ll grant you this information out of my own grace and kindness regardless. May 15th. My birthday is May 15, so if you plan to get me a happy birthday letter and a gift, I’d recommend you start soon. Remember, I like purple. Though, on second thought, I know what I really want. Shame that I can’t have it. University is still going, as it does. Midterms were kind of a blur, but I’m still plodding along. Well, I say plodding. I’ve been trying to keep up my high-level classes while balancing my job at the office, but it's a bit difficult. Before the RAF, I was more flexible with my time. Now, it grates me when I’m awake at night. It’s an annoying thing I wish I could drop. I was in for only a year. But the Reserves keeps me in the habit, so the night shift is terrible for my health. Heard back from my parents, wishing me happy holidays. They’ve mellowed out. My father will never like me being in Equestria, and my mother will always be so passive about it all. But they’re coming around to me being gone so long. No word from my brother yet. Starting to wonder if something bad happened to him in...well, you know where. No way to tell until he comes up for air, I suppose. Brook’s always been good at getting out of trouble. He has to, with how talented he is at getting -into- trouble. So, I know you’re burning for my answers to your two other questions. Language to learn next. Well, I’ve done Herzlandisch, my own mother tongue, Equestrian, a little bit of Aquileian myself, a bit of a few others here and there. I even picked up a bit of Bison, but don’t ask me to carry on a conversation with a buffalo. They’re very protective of their culture. So I’d have to say the next language I’d want to learn might be Greneclyfian. I’ve been hearing they’re getting more involved back east, and if or when I ever go back it might be of good benefit to be able to speak to the Changelings. I assume they’ll have a greater role with the Riverlands. It’s kind of sad, to hear the distrust and discrimination they’ve faced, all because they’re shapeshifters, different creatures coming from strange lands that nopony understands. It’s a lot like the thestrals out here in Equestria. But from what I’m reading, the situation’s turned around at home for the Changelings too. Good. Next, idol. Well, that is a tough one. I’ve tried to expand my horizons for so long, I haven’t focused on one for a big amount of time. Ooh, except for one. Morgend Longpaw. If you haven’t heard of him, that’s okay. Even among the scientific community he’s a bit of a recluse, and somewhat of a pariah. The theories he’s proposed are not widely accepted but he refuses to renege, so the Griffonian scientific community has made it difficult for him to get any legitimacy. Firstly, he’s been forced to take over the family business in Flowena, so that’s not going to get him many fans. But I’ve loved his work, because it really inspired my own. He’s currently the leading theorist in renewable crystal energy being implemented on a wide scale in things such as automobiles and city power plants. Sound familiar? Well, in Morgend’s case, he has happened to infuriate the oil and coal barons of Griffonia while also refusing to back down under pressure from other Griffonian scientists. There’s been a lot of controversy around him. There’s even been attempts on his life, his family. But he inspired me to start looking into crystals. I always wanted to do magic of some kind, but here was my way in. Someone else who wasn’t a unicorn, who could work with magic anyway. How could I stay away from that? Word is he even has a prototype for his design, and it uses a little something called ambient charge enchanting. Can you imagine that? A crystal that recharges itself from the magic in the air? No unicorns or anything like that needed? Just put it down somewhere with magical energy and leave it alone. Okay, so since you’re going to war, again, I’ll ask the three questions -before- I start worrying about you all over again. I know you said it's not the same, but I’m not going to stop fretting over here. See, there I go stressing out when I said I wouldn’t. Okay, question one: dream job. Let’s say, for one reason or another, rather than stay in the army or even rather than ever enlisting in the first place, you decided to do something else. What would that be? I think you can already guess mine, from everything up until now. The topic of magic crystals used in industrial applications and power substitutes is a brand new frontier, and I want to be at the forefront of that discovery. It’s one of the few schools of magic I can pursue, since I’m not a unicorn. But what about you? You’re great with machines, and I know you’ve never had a chance for higher schooling, but you’ve got a natural gift, Cyril. You should do something with it! Next: have you had any accomplishments you’re particularly proud of? You’ve done a lot with your life, and there’s got to be something you look back fondly on. I know you’re full of doubt, so let me tell you what I’m proud of; you took the problem of feeding your family the second it came up, you love your sister to death, you’re incredibly respectful of your mother, loyal to the Empire regardless of the crap they keep throwing at you. You always have your morals and ideals, you stick to doing the right thing. Cyril, there are so many things you’ve done I’m proud of, and love you all the more for. C’mon, pull one thing out for me? I’m proud of the fact that I’m here, in Equestria, doing what everypony told me was impossible; learning magic. True, I’m no longer at Luna Nova, but I’m on the way despite what they all thought of me. Take that, Professor Slide! Okay, last one; would you ever want to be famous? Have your name on marquees and newspapers, be recognized wherever you went and have whole countries talking about you? I’m not one of those glory types myself, but I must admit that after talking about Longpaw, the idea of being in the headlines is a bit alluring. Though, maybe not butting heads with the scientific community. The need for bodyguards. Family being harassed. Death threats. Maybe not. Okay, the part where I worry over you. I already told you I’m concerned. You survived the Herzland Wars, don’t go getting blown up by some communist landmine, okay? If you die after everything that’s been thrown at you, after what we both went through with this long-distance relationship the past three years, I will kill you myself. Seriously, though. Stay safe. We both know the worst things can happen at the flip of a riverbit. I don’t want to lose you after coming so close to getting you back. Keep your eyes open, head on a swivel. And come back to me. Love, ~Paige Sent February 19th Dear Paige, I’m glad your letter came in today. They’re putting our panzers on the trains next week, destination; eastwards. (I’ve started figuring out what specific information the censors are looking to clip. Victory at last) I’ve got everything packed up, and we’re getting one more weekend of leave before we hit the Grenzwald. I would take it at home in Griffenheim, but by the time I get there by train or wing I’d have to get ready to come right back out again. So me and the lads are planning to hit the town tonight, get some beers as a kompanie. I pity the pubs we choose to pillage; they don’t stand a chance once a military unit on leave gets underway. We’ve got a few Bronzehill units here with us at this location which shall not be named. Apparently they’ve been entrusted with marching north and putting down the Sunstriker berserkers. Serves them right. Those Maar cultists are nothing but murderous anarchists. From all news, every free Bronzehill division is going north. They’ve got a pretty impressive set of all-dog air wings assembled too from what I hear. Good luck to them, they’re the best suited for the task. Spotsley wants to go with, I can see it. But she hasn’t said a word about leaving. Complains about not being sent in, of course, but never asks to be transferred. You got the math pretty close, by the way. I know Hearts and Hooves Day passed for you already, and I appreciate the cookies. They’re quite tasty, and the rest of the crew thinks so too (bunch of thieving vultures). I bought you some Flowenan chocolates, managed to hide them long enough to wait for your letter. So it’ll be a little late, but I hope you appreciate the gesture at least. About Haul: I don’t really trust him either. The rest of the crew is a bit offput by him, but he’s professional enough and does his job with no issue. We can put up with some ultranationalist preaching for a job well done. Doesn’t mean I trust he won’t eventually sell me out to MfOS or the Geheimstaat, but I at least know I can do my job too. By the way; is this your way of saying pony culture is the only good one out there? I’m kidding. May 15. Purple. Got it. Let’s hope I get the math right too. Dream job? Honestly, I never had much chance to do anything but work in the factory until I got old enough to enlist. Then the idea of moving on to something else never occured to me. I’ve never had a dream job, I’ve just always wanted to do what I can where I’m at. I suppose, if I was ever not shooting the Empire’s enemies, I might want to go into fixing automobiles. After you pointed out to me that my role here gives me good knowledge of machines, I talked to a few mechanics in the motor pool. It's not a dream job by any stretch, but it is something I could do in peacetime. Accomplishments I’m proud of. I don’t know about that. I’ve done a lot in my life. I’m not sure I’m proud of any of it. It always seems to come with some drawback to rob it of any integrity it used to have. The closest I could come to thinking of something I hold with pride is Sophie. She’s only ten, but she’s already got a sharp mind, and it seems like she’s going to go down the right path when she grows up. I’m already proud of her and what she’s getting set up to do, and I know I had a part in helping her learn those lessons., Do I want to be famous? No. I don’t want that kind of attention. I can live my life without griffons watching me in the papers or on the television. It’s odd. Ever since I spoke to you face to face in my house, you’ve been on my mind more and more, but the ache of you not being here has gotten worse too. As if with how close we got I could almost feel you there, and the fact I was that close and still so far from you makes me feel cheated. Don’t feel bad. I don’t regret what you did. Just wish I was there even more now. Okay, questions for you. Let’s say you get a million bits in the mail. No strings attached, like a prize or an inheritance or something. It’s a lot of funds, I will admit. If I got a fortune like that, I don’t know what I’d do with it myself. Maybe buy Mother a better house, closer to the Imperial District. After that, maybe invest or buy shares? I’d have to find out how the stock market works before I do that. It’s got numbers, right? Favorite festival or holiday? I’ve got to tell you, I don’t know much about pony traditions, and I know less about Equestrian ones than Riverpony ones. But mine would of course have to be Geheimesnacht. I think we had this conversation years back. The idea that the magic of the past seeps into the world around us is so intriguing to me, even if it does bring unsettled spirits with it. Of course, there’s also Imperial Day. The marches, the songs, the cookwagons in the streets. Anygriff with even a shred of patriotism in their veins has got to feel their heart swell at the sights, sounds and smells. Mind, they both come with beer and a day off. That might have something to do with it. Final question: what’s the most beautiful place you’ve ever visited? I know this one is a bit subjective, but you’ve been all across Griffonia and now over to Equestria. Something has to have stuck with you from all that. For me, I remember when I was in Griefenmarschen. Not the best of memories, but we were out on anti-partisan patrol during the occupation one night (overkill? Maybe, but we weren’t taking chances). We were on our way back when dawn came up over the horizon. Now, the panzer column was going through a valley, so when the sun came up over the hills and spilled down, it was like a golden curtain falling on the snow. I haven’t seen anything else like that before or since. I’ll try to stay in contact as best I can out east. We’ll be using the Reichsarmee mail train, and I would prefer that over whatever frontier system has to be rigged up, as unreliable as you know it is. Let’s hope for once our cynicism is unfounded. Keep up your studies. I know you have it in you to do this. Just a few years of suffering to go, after all. Remember, put my unit on the envelope instead of my address to get the letter sent to my position. Otherwise, it’ll go home to Mother. Just a reminder. Love, ~Cyril (The letter is attached to a package of chocolates from Flowena, which carry quite a hefty price tag on them.) Sent March 14 Dear Cyril, I am sorry to have to watch you go to war again. Well, read about it. The Herzland War is only just over, and now they’re asking you to go follow a bunch of mad knights to conquer in the name of ‘imperial glory’. Big surprise there. Empires will be empires. But it doesn’t make it easier on you, me, your mother, your sister or your uncle. Still, no point complaining, I guess. I’ve only just realized how much I already said that part. But I’m allowed to worry about my buckfriend. Thank you so much for the chocolates. They were delicious, but that was quite an expensive gift! You didn’t have to do that. I don’t care they were late either. You got them to me, and that’s all that matters. I just want you to stay on your toes. The Reformisten may be playing the whole ‘reformed’ bit nowadays, but you can’t completely alter an organization without parts of it remaining. Anypony that willingly associates with what they once stood for, especially one from Longsword, I’d bet is brainwashed. Or worse. Moving on. School is still plugging onwards. I’m past the point where the excitement has worn off. Now, I’m just trying to get through and earn a degree so I can maybe stop for a few years and do some actual work. Static’s radio show is getting more popular, but she’s too political for me to listen to everyday. Still, she’s gotten a small following from the Southrons (their word for themselves, apparently) who believe the Royal government is ignoring the signs around the world. First she started about the fixed articles in the papers keeping ponies from knowing about what was really going on in Griffonia, but now apparently there’s some word from up north about trouble in the Wastes. And apparently the army is doing nothing about it. So a bunch of these ‘survivalist’ ponies have started using Static as sort of their sounding horn to pass news out. She does it, of course. They pay bits for her to read flyers, and we’re hard up for what we can get for rent and food. Oh, right. I lost my job. Apparently, a thestral can do my work better and with more ‘energy.’ So they hired one. Ironic, really. There are some days I think going back to the military isn’t a bad idea. Also, I know you were only joking about it, but I do feel I have to point out; no pony culture in the world has the foundation of taking things from others by force. Which is kind of how half or more of the griffon nations do things. Okay, question time. We’re getting good at these, aren’t we? Favourite holiday. It has a complicated name in Rijekan, but in Equestrian it translates roughly to Ancestor’s Day. Basically, we remember our ancestors (surprise), what they did in life and how they lived. Great-grandparents, granduncle, some more distant relatives, you get the idea. It’s a saying back home, that you really die two times – first in the body and later when you’re forgotten. It's a big thing in the Republic, and in most of the Riverlands really, though I do know the Deponyan and Ponaidhean ponies have their spirit worship, so it winds up being a different affair for them. Though lately spending time here in Equestria I’ve really gotten involved with Hearths’ Warming Eve and Hearts and Hooves Day. You know about H&H Day, but the first one’s got more history to it. The Equestrians celebrate the union of the Pegasus, Earth Pony and Unicorn tribes that formed the country; so the holiday is meant as a celebration of friendship and harmony. Though since I’m not Equestrian I can’t really celebrate that part (from a cultural point of view) you can see how the story permeates into the wider attitude the ponies here have. I know my letters have focused on some of the bad parts, and it’s soured a bit with the recent world events, but you can’t believe how friendly Equestrian ponies are, at least compared to home. If you are walking down a street, expect somepony to say ‘hi’ to you with a smile randomly or ask how you’re doing. It's really nice, especially compared to what you or I are used to back east. Now, what I would do with a million riverbits? That’s more difficult. I would definitely send some back to my family in Rijekograd, but even then it leaves me with a lot of money. Really, like the amount, there’s a million things I could spend it on. Though, with Morgend’s theory, I would really like to spend it on research dealing with renewable crystal energy. If you think about it, the return benefits of it succeeding easily surpasses the million bits; it would be way, way more than that, and I’d never have to worry about securing funds for myself after. Favorite place? That’s a bit easy. So, basically, when I was a filly we went to visit some relatives in the northeast, near the border with Nimbusia. It's a really mountainous region, with a lot of forests as well. Now when I think about it, it's similar to your story: the last day before we left, I woke up at dawn and went to the window, which faced over the valley. I saw the sun rising up over the mountains and just spilling down to light up the whole place, letting the trees cast long shadows across the landscape. That whole scene stuck with me, to this day. It's gets better when you realize that this part of the world is one of the first to see dawn, so I was one of the first creatures on the entire planet to see the new day. It's nice when you think about it that way. Okay, three from me. First of all, is there anything you do to reduce your stress? I understand you drink and hang out and don’t have much else when you’re out in the field, no real time for hobbies, but you’ve got to do something to pass the time, live with the army life. You know I love my music and sinking into my studies, but every once in a while, Static and I take a night and go to the cinema. It doesn’t even matter what the picture is, just as long as we get out. Then we go for drinks after. But what about you? Question two: wardrobe accessories. Not to say any pony or griff needs clothes, but sometimes there’s that something you just can’t live without. Since I’m letting my mane grow out again, I’ve found it gets a little awkward to groom, so I’ve started braiding it. Not quite an accessory, but I always make sure to start my morning with the brush and a few hair ties. Twenty minutes later, braided mane. And I get you wear a uniform, but there’s got to be something else you just can’t go out without, right? Third: drinks. I know what your favorite beer is, but is that your absolute favorite? Mine is strawberry milkshakes. It’s so odd, in the Riverlands you don’t find milkshakes all that often, but with how much Equestria loves ice cream, I can find a parlor on almost every corner. I don’t know what I’ll do when I go home. I understand your issues with the mail system. Though I do have to say it seems to be getting a bit more efficient. Obviously you can’t tell me where you’re going, but if it’s where I think it is, you’ll be closer to home than I’ve been in years. A bit ironic. And it makes me homesick and missing you all over again. Do me a favor; I know you and my father don’t get along, but try writing them again. It takes so long for my letters to reach them, I just want them to know I’m doing okay and thinking about them. It’s a lot less time for you to write, and you only have to go over once border, whereas I have a whole ocean to write across. And besides, I want you guys to get better. Find something you can relate to, even if it’s a little thing. Otherwise, this barrier between you two is never going to get better, and we’re going to be in for a rough ride. At least try. I can understand if it doesn’t work out anyway, but at least you’ll have made the attempt. For me? Don’t ask about my brother, by the way. Love, ~Paige Sent April 12th Dear Paige, First, Happy Birthday. I know it’s still a month off, but I know I won’t get another chance to say it before, and I’m tired of writing about events after the fact. I couldn’t get you much out here in the middle of I can’t tell you where’s-ville, but I know you always love a good read, so I picked up a local storybook on myths and legends, “Raganų Istorijos”, which I’ve been told roughly translates to “Witch Stories.” Have fun with the language, I can barely read the title. Gives you a twofer, a new language to figure out and a book to go with it. What I -can- tell you about was our short stay in Hellsword. As it turns out, the target we were moving towards has not yet had its rail network set up to the Imperial standard gauge (though from what I’m seeing, the whole thing needs to be ripped up and replaced regardless). So we offloaded in Visaginas to move southwards. Traveling with us we have several battalions of Reformisten soldiers, who had to march most of the countryside due to bad roads and lacking trucks. First off, the thing that got me was just how overwhelmingly the pony population outnumbers griffs out here. Aside from you and Haul, I’ve only seen a few in my time. And on some level, I knew this was pony country (Visagina was the center of the pony socialist uprising during the civil war). But I’ve never seen this many in one place. For every one griffon I saw in the city, there had to be a dozen ponies, but strangely the force we travelled with were mostly griffs. As you might have expected, there was propaganda everywhere, even more than in the Empire. Posters and banners and some kind of police with those special badges, ponies and griffs shouting Wingfried and the Emperor’s name all over the place or going “Angriff”, a lot of saluting and the Reformisten flag flying under the Imperial one. It’s actually really disconcerting. Oddly though, it didn’t seem like they were miserable about it all. So they’re doing this hot-stepping either out of passive fear or they actively believe this crap. Maybe both. The roads we went down in the panzers seemed just like anything back in the Empire. Markets were bustling, shops were open, colts and fillies chased after our vehicles pestering us about the panzers over the noise. They seemed happy, though I suppose I’m a poor judge. A few even came out with Imperial banners, started waving them. That’s...probably the friendliest greeting I’ve gotten when we rolled through a place. I’m not saying I like it. The amount of conditioning is evident, and these ponies are okay with just letting a bunch of griffs rule over them who just a few years ago were committed to their very genocide. Wingfried be damned, who’s to say someone worse doesn’t take power when he dies? We went south from there. The terrain is hilly, mountainous in some places. Their railroads might not be very good, but their roads are pretty well taken care of. Even the dirt ones. Every once in a while, we passed a militia watch station, and behind said station are a set of gallows. They’re usually bedecked with the rotten corpses of griffons marked as traitors, either hardline Blackcloaks or Pallas’ followers. Little more than dried skin over bones inside scraps of uniforms by now. But they apparently keep changing the signs, replacing the paint or the old wood. Someone wants everypony and everygriff to remember this. We passed one, just like any other, and Haul out on the turret getting some air, he points to one and said “That’s Pallas Duskwing.” Just put out to rot like the rest. The sheer amount of control the Reformisten exert on their lands kind of answers my question of just how everygriff and pony here seems so happy. Not sure they’re really given a choice otherwise. At least the Reformisten troops are decently drilled. The non-Knights are well-trained. They apparently use a similar structure to the Reichsarmee, calling themselves the Ostheer. These pony troopers don’t stick around long to chat, they mostly come look at Sabine and then take off when we try to ask them questions. But while their officers will talk with us, we don’t like doing it for long. They’re like Haul, continuing to go on about the purity of Imperial culture, the benevolence of King Wingfried and the filth that is communism. While I agree with the last one, the fact they can all pull a lecture out of their ass is equal parts annoying and worrying. ‘Angriff’ indeed. I’m a bit separated from the rest of Imperial news, but I did hear something that caught my ear. I don’t know if you’re aware, but rumor is that there’s some rumblings coming out of the Changeling Lands. Something that’s got Uncle August and the rest of High Kommand getting nervous. By the time this reaches you, it may be too late. Or it could wind up being nothing. If it's leaked down to the lower ranks, even out here, it must be something important, though. I know everygriff says the Changelings are our friends, and that’s still the official story. But recently, every time I’ve seen Changeling troops at Imperial bases, there’s always been this tension. We’d always eat at separate tables, drill in separate yards, practice with different weapons. All that comradery and cooperation from years ago is gone. Something happened between the Changeling mission and High Kommand. I don’t know myself. Call it a weird feeling. Like there’s this gap between us now. You’re closest to the trouble. Stay alert. I don’t know that there’s much more I can do for you from here. I’ll write your dad again. Not sure what to say to him. I get that this rift needs to be addressed, but if he doesn’t like me now, I’m not sure what to say to change his mind. We don’t exactly have much in common to discuss. As you well know. Not to mention it's a little tricky getting mail to the Riverlands through the Refromisten mail network. Questions, then. Stress reduction is a bit of an odd one. You were air force, so you may not be aware of just what the front liners do to keep the edge off. I’ll avoid the utter stupidity to keep it tolerable, but we like target shooting cans with our sidearms, playing cards and placing bets on the sports teams we can listen to over the radio. It’s all gambled on, of course. No griff goes into a competition without something to gain, and bragging rights don’t mean much when you’re stuck with each other for weeks on end. Eihol makes a small fortune betting on the automobile races in the paper. Amazing. This one made me laugh. Then scratch my head. Paige, Mein Leibe, I have worn civilian clothes I think maybe a dozen times or so in the past month. I don’t get much time to accessorize. Although, if I had to take a stab I might say my panzer goggles. We all wear them to protect our eyes in Sabine. I’ve always got my eye on the gunsight, so when Eihol takes us into a dip, I can at least not go blind. And then outside I’ve gotten so accustomed to them I just wear them around my neck everywhere I go. Habit, I suppose. Same with my coveralls, really. Though, on the few times I do go out, I have this blue hat. Nothing special. I picked it up from a cheap clothing stall. But I’m used to headgear. So that hat goes with me everywhere when I’m back home in Griffenheim. I put a pin with the logo of the Reichsarmee panzerwaffen in it. Little things, I suppose. Well, you know I like my beers. Braufenweisen especially. But I do enjoy a good soda pop. Peach flavored, if I can get it. I told you some time ago that it’s a novelty out here. Doesn’t mean we don’t like it. So if I can get a day in a civilian town, I’ll spare a day where there’s no coffee or beer and look for a fruit-flavored pop. Brand doesn’t matter, as long as they’ve got the flavor. Three for you right back, then. It’s getting difficult to think these up. We say again for the fifth time. And yet, we somehow keep doing it. Do you miss your time in the military? I know you’re still in the Air Force reserves, and you had plenty of bad memories, but from what you wrote, it changed a lot of things for you. Might there have been something you remember fondly, at least? I don’t know what I’d do outside the Reichsarmee, as we’ve addressed before. And your input has really got me starting to think about looking into something I can fall back on. Can’t be in a panzer forever, right? Second, Equestria or the River Republic? Not in a which is better sense, but where do you see yourself settling down? I know Rijekograd is where you grew up and your parents live there, but you seem to be having a great time in Equestria. No shame in staying where you like. I’ve been across the Empire, and now I’m wandering land she used to own, and will again soon. I don’t know where I’m going myself right now. Finally, and this one might seem a bit awkward, but you’ve got Spotsley to thank for this one. Turns out she’s a fan of those trashy romance novellas. Anyway; if we do wind up having kids one day, how do you think they’d turn out? I know this one’s a bit sensitive because of what we had spoken of before a few letters back, but I guess we can’t afford to step around things in a letter-relationship. And, I didn’t have anything better, really. Personally, I (several sentence starts are scribbled out, smudged, wiped and written into the crease, as if the writer had folded up the letter a few times before continuing to write). I just hope it all winds up okay. Hybridization’s apparently difficult enough. Four limbs, two eyes, one head. Everything fine. After that, doesn’t matter. Okay, are you being serious with that one? Need I point out Nimbusia? Lake City? Deponya? Even your River Republic’s princess fell trying to conquer Wittenland (cracked open a history book not too long ago). And Griffonian culture has far more to it than martial prowess. There’s honor to code, chivalry, drive to accomplish. Ponies are creative and cooperative, I’ll give them that, but there’s no reason to ignore the parts of our cultures either one of us dislike. Love, ~Cyril Another slip of paper was in the same envelope, and written in a different ink, with a different writing style, were the simple words “YOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY. OTHERS ARE READING. THIS IS HELLSWORD NOW. WILL WATCH OUT, SEE WHAT I CAN DO. -LH” Sent May 9th Dear Cyril, I have to pick up on your power of observation. Our unit’s been put on alert, which is disturbing because I haven’t flown anything in over a year now. My pilot’s license is a bit out of currency. They won’t tell us what’s going on, and the news appears to be blindingly oblivious. The only clear enemy on the continent is the Changelings, so if ponies can’t put the pieces together we kind of deserve to be taken by surprise. Apparently, we’re to report for ‘maneuvers’ near Mariposa. Which is a miracle for me since I have yet to find another job. I could use the extra pay, rent’s coming due. Between what Static and I will make together, we should be able to pay it. I just hope it won’t be for too long. I’d hate to have to clear my school backlog. First, some good news. I ran into somepony at class today; another thestral that served up north in the Army during the Crystal War. Turns out he was using the same idea as I was, take the money for school after service and use it quick as possible. His name is Hills in Shadow (I think he’s from one of the tribes in the southeast) and he apparently served in Gloaming’s unit. You remember her? We had some good talks about our time in the north. Turned out, to my surprise, she really missed me before she got killed. Talked about me a lot to the unit, which surprised me because she wasn’t much for conversation when I knew her. I don’t even think we hung out a lot outside of study. But I haven’t thought much on her the past year. I feel awful for that. And now to hear she actually thought really highly of me? I considered us friends, but now I’ll never get the chance to have spent more time, done more with her. And I don’t have a lot of friends left. (The next line has a few scribbles, as if the author made several attempts to write something, but gave up and moved on.) Second, some bad news. I know you’re busy being the mighty hammer of the Empire (only half sarcastic there) so I wanted to report a few things happening at home you may not be aware of. Mostly because it doesn’t mean much to anypony so far away from it and also so you know what to keep an eye on when you get back. Which you will. Anyway. Apparently, there was a bit of stirring in March. Remember that business in 1009, when Lake City and Diamond Mountain almost started a war over Deponya? Well, Heavenly Snow and Lake City have formally left the River Coalition. I kind of saw this coming, with what my parents have been telling me about back home. The River Republic, Bakara and Wittenland have been making strong attempts to unite the region. A series of economic reforms and pacts got signed, railroads built, trade concessions etc. Boring politics you only need to know the gist of. My mother knows how much I like hearing the details (and I know you don’t). All you need to know is that the eastern half of the Coalition wants to draw all the Riverlands together and form a stronger nation, perhaps even a truly united one. While the western half, which is Lake City, Deponya and Diamond Mountain, keep protesting loss of independence. So, with all this going on, of course that’s when socialists in Bakara and the Republic want to start kicking up trouble, right? So keep in mind all of this is happening back in March. Yesterday I see in the news that the Coalition’s been broken. The Principality officially left. And with them, they took Diamond Mountain and Deponya. And as you’ve pointed out, the Empire is getting stronger (so is a greater threat to all the Riverlands according to the paranoid politicians in charge). There’s no way the River Coalition and the new East Griffonian Co-Prosperity Sphere (seriously) are going to leave things alone. So watch yourself. I want to go home. It sounds like things are getting serious back there, between socialist uprisings in Bakara and the shit with Lake City. I’m worried about my parents. My father wants to stay, stubborn ass that he is. But my mother says she’s looking into the possibility of leaving. Where to, she’s not sure. But neither of them want to get caught in this. I’d send them some bits (the exchange rate is good with all the crashes and whatnot) but I don’t have anything. At this point, I’m already committed here, and I can’t leave without formally being released. Which means I can’t do a damn thing. I know that doesn’t affect you much. Just felt like getting it out. Nopony here would get it either. Except Static, but you know how she is when it comes to politics. Listen, I’ve been giving it some thought. Both before and after I got your letter. I’m sorry. The pressure I put on you about kids so long ago wasn’t fair. And after your last letter and how it really must have been hard for you to think it over, I just wanted to take that pressure off. I know the odds of hybridization. And I would love for nothing more than to look forward to that possibility. But I know what we’re thousands of miles apart, have been for years. And making you face what’s been on my mind isn’t fair. While it's sweet that you’re getting worried too, I’m okay. Really. Step 1: get face to beak meeting. Step 2: plan for future. I promise, I’ll stop jumping ahead. I’ve got my bags packed and waiting by the door. As I write, Static’s closing down her station. Tonight’s the last night we’ve got before we head to the depot. I almost feel like taking a few drinks, but we’ve got to be up early. But I had to take this time to sit down and write to you. Funny thing is, I got your last letter a few days ago. But if I hadn’t, I would have written anyway. Then we’d have another letter in circulation. Wouldn’t that be ridiculous? But I didn’t want to miss my chance to say something. I can’t help but feel like we’re getting close to something here, the world on edge like it is. Everywhere is getting more and more chaotic, like it's all building up to something. I almost feel like, if I don’t write you now when I’ve got the chance, I’ll regret it. Call it a bad feeling, or maybe your sense for danger at long distances is rubbing off on me. I’ll take the latter, personally. Especially if it's literal. (A few small scrapes, as if the author was considering scratching out the last line) Wow, that was terrible. Segue to questions and answers so I can actually pretend I got something done with this letter. For your first question, I find it ironic since I’m being mobilized short notice. Guess we’re in the same boat. But yeah. More than I realized, I missed a few things. The job security, for one. Two lost jobs and a month of unemployment later and I do miss the sense that I at least could keep hold of something. The food was...not good. Quarters were free I guess. And it was amazing to fly airplanes. Until, y’know, the whole battle thing. I know you’re a lot more accustomed to that. Makes my term in uniform seem like a foal playing dress up. I’ll be okay playing Airmare for a little while. Take a break from city life. River Republic. Hooves down. I like Equestria, I do. It’s calm and quiet, everypony here is nice. Aside from a -small- case of evil invasion, it’s peaceful. But it’s -too- nice. I know that seems a bit odd to say, but I really can’t take the whole “friendship” angle that keeps getting heaped on. It’s nice to cooperate and all, but we both know reality, and ignoring the rest of the world doesn’t mean you’re a paradise in comparison. My family aside, I need to live somewhere that’s in touch with how the world really is. This one technically doesn’t count either, since I answered it earlier. But I think I have an idea. I gave it a bit of thought when I wanted to apologize for the pressure. But here goes. I still remember your face. Every detail. My eyes would be good with your feathers, I think. A muzzle would make things a bit more comfortable. But claws and talons would let them interact with the world. Wings, of course. Then we could all fly together. Your stubbornness. My artistic flair. They’d never give up on anything in life. That’s the kind of thing I’d want for our children, should we ever succeed. But we do have a few more steps in between to accomplish, don’t we? Three for you then. What do you remember of your father? You talk about your mother all the time, but you seem really hesitant to mention anything more about him. Stefan, was it? I understand it is painful to think of him. I just want to know more about you and your family. Your mother doesn’t speak much about him either. I think his loss might have been too much for her. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. My father, Stern Vigil, has been a river worker since he was a foal. I told you my grandfather served in the Deponyan Royal Army, but my father didn’t want anything to do with that. So he moved east to get away from the Empire and settled down in the Republic after he met my mother, Poppy Banks. I know you’ve written him, and you know he’s a bit intense. I thought that might bring you two together, given how like him your mother is. I’m sorry that hasn’t been the case. I know he’s harsh and judgemental, but he does it because he cares. His father died for a kingdom that barely paid their family back. He doesn’t look well at armies or the Empire for either of that. He tells me all the time he can’t look out for me if I’m across the world, and my brother’s already run off with the criminal lifestyle. I know I disappoint him, but I also know I make him proud. He just has a hard time saying it. Mother has always tried to mediate between us, and her job’s not easy through letters. Now he’s got all the trouble back home, I’m worried he’ll be too focused on Brook and I to keep his eye on what’s happening there. Do you keep touch with friends? You mention you’ve been moved through a few units, and you go drinking with your comrades. As well as the ones from Industrie you probably see when you go home. Ever since I left the Riverlands, my friends in Rijekograd have been writing me less and less. Now I’m losing touch with my Equestrian friends from Luna Nova. All I seem to have left is Static, a few ponies from my RAF days and the friends I have in Hoofington. And I’m worried that, when I move on somewhere else, I’ll lose touch with everypony there too. More and more, I come to value your letters as my only permanent source of conversation (aside from Static, though some days she’s so dry and sarcastic I just leave her alone). Finally, to change up the tone a little and make things somewhat cheerier, what’s the most daring thing you’ve done? Aside from what you’ve been through in the army, you mentioned having a pretty wild childhood in Griffenheim. And children, whether foals or chicks, always dare each other to do stupid, intense things. For me, I remember this time when my friends and I found this series of caves. Nopony knew where they went, and we didn’t even know they were so close to home. We were fascinated to see what was inside, but so scared to even try it. So, I went first. And got lost. The place was practically a honeycomb inside. I got out eventually, but let me tell you, I wasn’t too smart when I charged in cause I wanted to impress my friends. I still remember those deep, dark caverns. Beautiful, but I was terrified the whole time that I’d found the lair of a dragon or something. Obviously, I got out, but those caves have stuck with me the whole time. I’ve never just thrown caution to the wind like that again. Always look things over, always have a plan, my father says. And I’ve stuck to that ever since. Well, tried to at least. Now’s my usual time to say I miss you. Things are getting more and more tense on both our ends. You back at war already and me still unemployed and struggling. Still haven’t heard back from the EEA (Equestrian Education Association) about my scholarship. If I could at least get them to help me with some things like bills and rent, it would be a lot easier. But military education only covers tuition, not food and board. The decision to move out of the dorms may have not been a good one, but if I go back I lose Static as a roommate. But don’t worry about me. There’s nothing for you to do, so there’s no point in you freaking out too. I always have a plan. Right now, that’s to report for these exercises and rack up a bit more reserve pay for rent. But you’re the one at very real risk of getting killed, not me. So do me a favor; don’t go sticking your head out for some communist sniper to take it off. If you die, I’ll fly over to Griffonia and dig you up just so I can bitch you out myself. Love, ~Paige P.S.: In case you’ve forgotten, I still have your medal. Keep it close to my heart. I’ll be carrying it everyday on these maneuvers. (Inside is a photograph of Paige, in her RAF fatigues. From the background, it appears this was taken in her apartment. Her smile is wide and energetic still, wings flared excitedly, her photo of Cyril held up so the camera can see it. Flipping it over, the writing on the back reads “To Cyril, Now you have one too. -Paige”) Sent June 14th Dear Paige, I’m finally allowed to speak on our destination and what I’ve been up to with details, though I’m pretty sure you figured out where we’ve been going. We’re in Prywhen now, heading south towards Cyanolisia. The 41st Panzergrenadiers’ main objective is to beat Beakolini to the border before Wingbardy absorbs the entire south, like he did with Falcor. Like he’s doing now with Sicameon. It’s not dramatic to say on my part, but we’ve been rolling through the Griffonian Liberation Army like a knife through ancient scroll paper. The communists don’t have any panzers of their own, and with the Reformisten and their Knights backing us, I’m reminded pretty firmly of Griefenmarsch. It’s not a good memory. Everyday it’s the same thing. Wake up, move on enemy positions, overwhelm them, move on. The GLA griffs don’t even have a sufficient amount of artillery, no panzers, no airplanes. The Reformisten troops and Grenadiers we have with us are our only limiting factor. These militia fighters seem so...tired, I guess. The city fights aren’t even really fights anymore, and a lot of these towns barely deserve the name. We’re fighting an enemy with his wings clipped and a claw behind his back. I’m sitting behind thick centimeters of steel armor plate with an MG and a cannon, and the most they seem to have is hand grenades and the occasional artillery piece. The only upside? A lot of them are choosing to surrender. More and more each day. Good. Less for me to have to mow down. We’ve all had to soften our approach here. At first, it was slaughter all resistance inside a town. We weren’t taking many prisoners then. Now, as more griffs are just giving up, the Reformisten are moving to the propaganda campaign. They keep going on about “integralism” and restoration of Imperial glory. Given what I’ve seen here, it's not like the revolution did them much good. We’ve started escorting food convoys recently. These griffs are so thin. A lot of them are giving up now they understand we’re willing to feed them. I’ve heard most of our POW camps are turning into aide stations. Landwehr, Reformisten, Reichsarmee. We’re doing more garrisoning than fighting lately. Only the harcore GLA communist fanatics are really holding out. They’re getting thinner by the day. Imperial and Hellsword divisions are moving east from Blackrock. Apparently, the bandits there didn’t put up much better fight. They’re coming towards our lines to join up and catch the GLA forces in a vice. And behind us, behind both thrusts, comes the Landwehr. More and more occupation forces. If it keeps up like this, we’ll be to Cyanolisia before month’s end. Faster if negotiations with Gryphus are successful. From all accounts, we might be able to convince them to return to the Imperial banner without a fight. I don’t know how much you know about Gryphus, but they have two very powerful political forces down there controlling the Free Towns (what, you thought the Free Towns were actually in charge?); the first is the Militärorden der Brüder vom Herzlandisch Haus der Heiligen Opinicus. You might have heard of them simply as the Order of Opinicus. Long story short, they’re a bunch of crusader nuts left over from Grover II’s days. Bringing them back in would be a huge source of local griffpower. I know they’ve apparently become very vocal about carrying on their crusade. Well, now they can purge to their murderous hearts’ content without starting a civil war in Gryphus. The second I know you’ve heard about. De Gryphusische Südkontinent-Gesellschaft. The Southern Continent Company is notorious, and securing their trade networks and spreading their assets out over the Empire again would mean huge things back home (not to mention their huge Landsknechte army). Apparently, King Wingfried and Grand Duke Gerlach are negotiating with the Grandmaster and Governor-Executive, and the news the officers are telling us sounds promising. One more Imperial territory returned, one more war avoided. Don’t ask about Griffonstone. Apparently we’re staring over gunsights with Wingbardy. Nogriff wants to start that war. Less politics. Most of what I’m getting is from the Reformisten, the newspapers and the officers, so you know at least half of it is bullshit. I don’t want to keep going on about war stuff with you anyway. Much better things to talk about. The way this war has been going has given me time to think. I have a few of your letters here, and I’ve been looking through them a lot. Rereading them. I’ve got your photo taped over my gunsight. I’m back to you stuck on the brain. The hills make me think of you, talking about your home in Rijekograd. I roll into a town and I think about how you’d want to try and help all these griffs out of their suffering. I talk to Reformisten soldiers and I can’t help but remember your warnings (Haul had a talk with me, by the way. Apparently he’s trying to make sure we understand at both ends how to not draw attention). I see Imperial planes overhead and can’t help but think of you. You’ve literally wormed your way into my head at this point, and refused to leave. I can’t say I mind too terribly. I miss you. But it's the better kind of missing you now, instead of just being bitter about being so far apart. I’m getting hope back that we’ll have our chance after all. This war won’t last much longer. The frontier is falling faster than the Black Knights or High Kommand predicted. Nogriff is really happy with this farce of a war. Spotsley keeps track of the northern campaign. The Sunstriker Front has bogged down. Bronzehill’s troops are refusing to back down, but Sunstriker’s not giving an inch either. I can tell it’s getting to her. But she doesn’t ever want to talk about it. I’m worried about her. There’s something else going on there she isn’t telling us. Sergeant Hellseig is just as enigmatic as ever. Eihol’s kind of getting quiet. Dipping into his drinks more. We’re watching him as best we can. Seems the only one whose spirits are up is Haul. He’s in a chipper mood. Goes on and on about the same old rhetoric. Bringing prosperity to the land, restoring the Empire through Operation Tartarus. I think he just likes being with his ‘people’ again. Much as the Reformisten say they’re on our side, they feel like a separate nation. They claim they’re here to restore the Empire, but they shout Wingfried’s name a lot. They don’t really seem to declare any victories for the Kaiser. They’re invaluable as combat troops, and the Vollstrecker don’t seem to have a problem with them. They certainly have a loyal following. But I’m not alone in thinking the sooner we finish here, the better. My father was a good griff. It’s been a long time. And it is still painful. But we’ve been honest with each other. Nothing hidden, nothing obscured. I know everything about you. You deserve to know everything about me. Stefan Amberquill was a career soldier. He gave his life for the Empire. He was always proud to serve, and he told me he would be proud of me when I served. He purposefully avoided going to the akadamie so he could stay in the field with his troops, rather than be stuffed in an office. This was long before the reforms I went through. It was a different time, after the Revolution. He was a bit absent, true. Sophie hardly remembers anything about him. My fondest memories were of him coming home. He’d be tired, but he was already ready to catch me when I flew at him. He never shouted, never got angry. He was stern when he disciplined, but never over the top. Mother said he was the best thing to happen to her. And then, one day, he didn’t come home. Instead there was a Reichsarmee leutnant at the door, cap off and looking awkward. Just like that. He never got to see me enlist. He never saw Sophie start flying. And I never got to see him at his best. Just taken away by some rioter in Romau. I never want to go to that city as long as I live. My old friends are like yours. We drifted apart. I still have a few comrades I hear from in the Imperial Guard, back before I joined the panzerwaffe. I have a few from other kompanies I talk to. But the ones in my unit, I -know- but I’m not...close with. It's like you’ve said. We’re so afraid of losing each other, we try not to form bonds too deep. We’re all brothers and sisters here, and we’d die for each other. But nogriff really talks much about home. Just a little bit of small talk here and there. It’s different between panzer crews. Infantry squads. That’s where the real brotherhood is. My friends at home are either in the army too or they’ve settled into their own lives. I see them every once in a while. We chat. But I don’t send letters to them. Not nearly as much as I do you. The most daring thing I’ve done. Well, you hit that nail on the head. Before I had to become ‘responsible’ there was this one time. Back when Industrie was still its half-deserted state when I was a kid, we hosted this ‘gang war’ on our city block. We wound up getting really close to the Imperial quarter, and then the contest became about who was brave enough to try and fly towards the palace. There we are, a bunch of dumb idiot kids standing on top of a factory at the waterfront. We keep trying to fly out towards the palace over the Griffking, only to lose our nerve and turn back. Finally, I just say fuck it and glide out as far as I can...I lost control at the end, smashed into the outer wall and flew back as fast as I could. After that, the Guard finally caught on to us and we scattered. But still. Good memories of a simpler time. I think I’d like to take a break from the questions. Just for a few letters. It’s been a good way to get to know each other. But I think we’re both struggling for them, both questions and answers. I’d rather talk about what’s going on in your life right now anyway. Just for a bit. Be careful, Paige. I know these are just training maneuvers. But this is all very strange to me. Nothing feels right about what you’re telling me, what Uncle August isn’t telling me, what the brass is saying. Just stay prepared. I’m just a lowly Korporal. But even I can smell an army on the march. And I don’t know if it's Equestria’s or someone else's. Stay safe. I love you. ~Cyril Sent July 10th Dear Cyril, Something’s happening. I can tell. The officers don’t want to talk about it, and communication outside the base has been restricted. We’ve been put on constant alerts. Recon squads go out all hours of the day and then they’re confined to quarters for days after. I don’t know how much longer before I can’t send mail. You were right. There’s more than just our squadron here. A LOT more. Mariposa’s military complex is packed full of air squadrons, army divisions, royal guard, mages, tanks. Thing is, most of them are reservists and National Guard. I talked with a few ponies from other units, and they say the same story. We’re supposed to be here for war games, at the order of Royal Army Command and Princess Luna herself. But so far as I can tell, no mock battles have happened anywhere. We’ve been here for weeks, apparently just training and stockpiling equipment. I’ve been assigned to a Blenheim, #83. Apparently, taking a crash course in map reading is enough to qualify me for navigator, because I’m running dual duty. It’s this strange heavy-fighter/light bomber mixup. I’m not sure the RAF is really sure what they want it to be. Static is with us as radio mare, and we’ve got a new pilot assigned us. Solar Ace, Flight Lieutenant. He’s an okay sort, one of those stiff upper lip types you hear about from the RAF. Yes, they exist. Fortunately, I was never assigned one of them except as an instructor. But the thing is, he’s professional military, full-time. They never just mash half-qualified crews together in the same flights, much less the same planes. We’ve been briefed on Changeling weapon systems. And honestly, what they’ve got in the sky outclasses us by a wide margin. These planes are sharp, advanced, lethal. And from what we’re being told (and I’m not allowed to relay) they’ve got a bucking lot of them. But most of this is speculation, from recon reports the brass keeps censoring. They’re hiding something and only giving us the barebones. I really feel like I’m being jerked around here. It’s like I’m back in the Crystal War again. We wait up every night after exercises, listening for the alerts, trying to pick out something other than our own birds. We’ve got CAP flying all night, every night over the base, and the AA perimeter is always manned. This doesn’t feel like an exercise. This feels like we’re expecting an invasion. The ground units are dispersed between here and Vanhoover, and MPs are checking everypony’s papers everyday. They keep talking about tightening security measures, and at first that didn’t make sense. Until I remembered that Changelings can shapeshift (in my defense, it only took me a few seconds to remind myself). Now I don’t know who to trust, or what to say to anypony. Which is likely what the bugs want. Cyril, something bad is coming. This may be my last letter for a while. I’m sorry we never got that time to spend together. I’m sorry that Solid ever happened. I’m sorry I had to stick it out here in Equestria. I should have come back to you. I’m actually really scared, Cyril. And my biggest fear is that I’m going to lose my only way of talking to you. That this -is- going to turn into another war, and I’m not going to hear from you again. I get that I’m just rambling through nerves down here, but I honestly have nothing else to do. Radios are confiscated, telephones are only available to officers and there’s buck all to do here on base that we haven’t done a hundred times already now. We’re not allowed to go into town, and all I brought with me to read are textbooks and that Longsword story book you bought me (nice pictures, but I’m still piecing the language together). I get stuck in my head when I get stressed out, and when I get stuck in that loop, everything appears to get so much worse. I’m starting to wonder if I may be getting anxiety attacks. I don’t know anymore. Write me back. Now. The second you finish this letter. I don’t care what the buck you’re doing, get me a reply. Don’t leave me alone out here. Please. Love, ~Paige
On the Edge pt 2: HeroJuly 11, 1011 0114 hours Fort Ord Royal Army Base, Mariposa 33rd Air Reserve Wing Past midnight on a Royal Army post normally meant silence. Gear and vehicles shut away and personnel resting their heads for the night, MPs and patrol sentries out on duty at gates and doors, attempting to stay awake. But tonight, like across the northern Equestrian border, Fort Ord was lit, alert and ready. Ponies constantly rushed back and forth between barracks and offices, delivering reports and showing up to late night duties. Planes touched down on the runway, parked just long enough for a refuel, a maintenance check and swap of pilots. Fort Ord alone played host to five-hundred Spitfire fighters, with dozens of bombing craft and several assorted ground attack wings. But it was only one of two air bases in the north, with the other in Vanhoover serving an even smaller air host. Princess Luna’s preparations had given them a fighting chance, and little else. Their odds were still grim at best. She sat at one of the picnic tables in one of the grassy break areas, quietly watching the runway and airfield. From here, she could just spot her craft, #83. Where before during the Crystal War, a Blenheim had looked big and fearsome, after watching what was filling the sky to the northwest it looked clunky and fragile, not at all fierce like a warfighting machine. Not like the aerial apex predators the Changelings flew, the Silver Slayers as some of the pilots who had witnessed their astounding speed and maneuverability had dubbed them. If the Changeling craft were like sharks, the Equestrian aircraft seemed more like whales. The metaphor was chilling. Beside her, Static leaned over, nudging her navigator/bombardier. “Hey. Snap out of it.” Paige blinked, looking back to Static as the latter used her magic to pluck the smoldering cigarette from her lips, blowing out a cloud into the air. The two had been passing the smoke back and forth the past hour, trying to figure out how to relax enough to finally go to sleep. They couldn’t. Recon flights were buzzing overhead on a regular basis, and the constant rumble of tanks and trucks overlapping the plane engines meant there was no way to pretend that the possibility of the war they knew was coming was remote. Because, at best, it was inevitable. On one hoof, it might take some time to arrive, allowing the Royal Army the time it needed to actually fully mobilize and organize. On the other, the level of activity suggested it was imminent, within the next few nights for sure. Not many were getting the level of rest they needed until they collapsed from exhaustion Paige didn’t reply at first, just extending a wing and carefully taking the smoke back from Static, wedged between feathers as she pulled it back, taking a drag of her own, the red coal tip flaring in the night. “When the hell did it all get so bucked up?” she finally asked, looking off at a squad of infantry troopers hustling by, rifles slung over a shoulder as they trotted in formation. “A year ago, our biggest worry was making rent.” “Technically, it still is,” Static quipped, magically stealing the cigarette back as Paige blew out a cloud of smoke. “We just put it on hold until we get back.” “I had my studies,” Paige continued, ignoring her sarcastic crewmare. “You had the radio. Things were getting better.” “C’mon, we all saw this coming,” Static pointed out. “When the Changelings took Olenia and nopony did anything about it, the invitations were sent. Even Cyril could see what was happening, and he’s halfway round the world.” Paige simply sighed, opting not to retake the smoke when Static levitated it in her direction. “I guess you’re right. Wonder if they would have come after us if Equestria had been better prepared.” “Oh yeah, they would have,” Static replied, and Paige frowned over at the red unicorn. “You weren’t here when they invaded the first time. Got real close to taking Canterlot and everything too. If it weren’t for the Elements, this war wouldn’t be a question. The invasion would have happened, and we would have been even more bucked than we are now.” It was quiet between them at that point, watching the planes on the tarmac preparing for night patrol. Some of the bombers were being attended to by crewponies, doing maintenance while the flying crews slept so they could be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Occasionally, a pair of MPs could be seen on patrol, watching for suspicious activity. Changelings were shapeshifters after all. Though, in all honesty, another reason they were watching the planes so closely was that a lot of the groundcrew were thestrals, batponies who had been allowed into more technical jobs than just combat arms with Luna’s reforms. The first batch of actual batpony pilots were still in training, but for now the Royal Air Force was happy to use thestrals’ natural inclination for night schedules to cover maintenance shifts for the other ponies that were much happier during the day. And yet, despite the new tolerance laws and regulations paving the way for thestrals to come back to society, old barriers still remained. Silent and unspoken, but it was hard to kill an idea, and this one would be thrashing in its death throes for some time to come. “How’s Cyril?” Static suddenly asked, grinding out the cigarette and tossing the butt towards the trashcan nearby. Paige blinked, surprised. While Static wasn’t quite uncaring, it wasn’t in her nature to ask about affairs across the sea. For the most part, Paige told it to her best friend at will, and had to judge when it was time to shut the spout to stop the flood of words. Static mostly asked about things like rent money, her job, information on politics or what the Empire was doing that contrasted Equestrian stories. Never about Cyril, or her parents or brother (though last she’d heard, Brook had skipped down to Macawia to slip away from the inevitable fight between the Empire and Asterion over the Friestaat). So, this was a new mood for the red unicorn. “He’s...well as he can be. Last I heard, the Empire was absorbing Prywhen.” “By conquest?” “Actually, from what he sent me, it looks like the griffs are giving up. The famine’s hit hard, and the communists haven’t fixed much more than the old kingdom did. I think they just want someone that isn’t going to buck things up even more.” Static chuckled, shaking her head. “Funny. That used to be anygriff -but- the Empire.” “Cyril’s just happy he doesn’t have to shoot as many griffs,” Paige replied, smiling back. “He’d rather take on a surrendering enemy. I think he’s still haunted by the Herzland War.” “From what you told me and what I read up on, that’s understandable.” Silence again, as the two mares stared out into the darkness, their eyes no longer truly focused and instead following the crews more out of habit than actually watching their activity. Finally, Paige once more broke the silence. “What are we going to do, Static?” Sweet Static didn’t respond at first, watching the activity in front of them with an equally blank face. For a moment, Paige wasn’t certain she’d heard her, but then Static sighed, shifting on the bench as if she’d come to a conclusion. She turned to Paige, fishing the aviators out of her jacket and perching them on her forehead, just under her horn. “Same thing we did in the Crystal War, I suppose. Fly, and fly, and fly again. And survive. No different here.” “Except the enemy has decent aircraft this time.” Static laughed, but it held no mirth to it. “Better aircraft. We’ll have to be the better fliers.” They let that impossible statement hang between them for another twenty minutes, watching nothing happening at all while waiting for possibly the largest war the world had ever seen, before they finally left to get what sleep they could. Static headed towards the barracks. Paige made her way to the ready strip. Paige had made it her habit to walk by No. 83 every night before bed. With a smaller crew than her old bomber, there was more for each pony to do, so keeping aware of what was happening was important. Plus, with the current crisis the ground crew were busy with dozens of other planes. She wanted to make sure for herself that 83 was ready to fly when they needed her. This routine was calming, assuring, and helped with some regularity in the current time. Paige saw no reason to stop. But tonight, as she reached 83’s spot, she saw something a bit odd. While she was more than used to seeing ground crew and officers inspecting and crawling over her plane, they’d already gone through maintenance checks to be on ready standby. There shouldn’t be anypony near her. And yet, there was. A dark green Earth pony MP, white stripes on his sleeves clear in the dark, was peering under the wing, looking for something. By all rights, she shouldn’t interfere, but this was her plane, and MPs were supposed to work in pairs. Where was this sergeant’s partner? Suspicious, she moved closer. “Evening, Sergeant,” she called out, her accented Equestrian distinct. The MP started, whipping his head around in shock. “Something I can help you with on my bird?” The pony checked the rank patch on her sleeve, squinting at her own sergeant’s stripes, a recent promotion upon her being activated. Apparently, to her surprise, her time in service had actually meant she was a promotion candidate, and her experience had given her a hasty leg up. In peacetime, there was normally a much more extensive process for NCO selection. “Apologies, Sarge,” he replied, eyeing her up. “We got word the bugs might be trying to sabotage some of the planes. Last minute inspections up and down the tarmac.” That...was actually a good point. If the Changelings were about to try a first strike, they’d of course sabotage Equestria’s aerial readiness first. Assured air dominance would let them wreak havoc on the ground. “Where’s the rest of your crew?” the MP asked, looking past her down the runway, towards where the ground crew were preparing a small group of Spitfires for takeoff. “Bed, I assume,” Paige replied. “Which is where I’m headed. Just wanted to say goodnight to 83.” The MP raised a brow under his brimmed Bronie helmet, but merely shrugged in acceptance. “Carry on, then. Just make it quick. You know the orders on wandering personnel after dark.” “I could say the same to you, Sarge,” Paige quipped, to which the MP merely chuffed, turning back to her plane and leaning down to peer underneath the craft. She grunted as she shifted the Limestone strapped over her back. With the panicked state the force was in here, everypony on base was required to carry their weapons at all times. Static had been given a revolver, designed by some creature with fingers, while Paige herself had been handed the SMG, a Hippogriff designed firearm. She moved closer, running a hoof over No. 83’s aluminum hide. Untested in battle, aging a little ungracefully with her rough and weathered paint job. All the training flights they’d been doing lately had taken a wear on her, and compared with parts maintenance, redoing the camo when it was still mostly intact had been rated a secondary priority. She sighed, taking a seat looking up at her plane, her mind everywhere else but here on the airfield. When had everything become so complicated and dire? A few years ago, she was a bright student on a scholarship to study her lifelong dream, a budding long-distance relationship with a cute soldier griff and a comfortable (if somewhat unstable) home to go back to when her schooling was up. Now? Now she was a veteran combat pilot in an imminent war on the other side of the world against an enemy she knew next to nothing about, the one she loved was constantly out of reach and in danger around every bend and her home was, from the news stories, ripping apart at the seams. She had Cyril, of course, a small and sad smile coming to her muzzle at the thought. Her coltfriend’s next letter would make her feel better. Though separated by an ocean and two continents, his words always made her remember their good times through the years. A shred of normalcy. Which she desperately needed. Her last letter had only just gone out. She’d have a whole month of waiting for his next message, and the news might still be bad. Paige sighed, standing and saying her final goodbyes to the craft. Old and battered it may be, but it was certainly faithful. Good, Paige thought. They’d need that, if the worst came down. When it came down. The pegasus from across the world turned, finally ready to go lay down and get some needed rest. The first plane exploded. Paige’s head whipped around, short and curly mane bobbing around her head. The craft had been a Wellington, parked on the bomber line and ready to taxi onto the runway in mere minutes. It had been intended to be sent forward and bomb clusters of Changeling troops and armor, escorted by Spitfires and Blenheims. In the regular Air Force, she was being replaced by the new Beaufort bombers. But now, she was little more than a pile of flames and scrap, burning brightly in the relative darkness of the airbase. Paige held her breath as the alarms began ringing. A payload accident, maybe? Something gone wrong with the fuel? But then another one, right next to it, exploded. Another. And another. And then a Spitfire. It was as if a chain was being worked down, where aircraft were exploding in segments. A dreadful realization crept into Paige’s mind. A terrifying discovery that, upon making it, she both kicked herself for missing and suddenly knew she had to act on. With little hesitation, she wheeled around, standing on her hind legs with wings flared as she brought the Limestone up, holding down the trigger. The MP had been running, but not towards the explosion like other crewponies and MPs were doing. He’d been running -away-. The Limestone wasn’t designed for accuracy, and the recoil was strong when firing on full auto. But at this range, with the Limestone’s legendary rate of fire, she landed half of the twenty round magazine on target. And .45 caliber rounds were designed to bring a creature down hard. For a heart stopping moment, Paige was terrified she’d just made a terrible mistake. That she’d merely shot a stallion who was panicking as hard as everypony else in the base was, and fleeing in the wrong direction out of simple fear. Her paranoia had just led her to cut down a friendly. But then a sickening green flash engulfed the corpse as it hit the tarmac, and instead of an Equestrian Royal Army Military Police sergeant the figure turned into a black-hued, chitin-skinned soldier in an equally black uniform, splayed across the ground in a puddle of blood that wasn’t even red. She galloped over to No. 83 as more explosions rang out, desperately peering under the craft. Sure enough, hidden in the landing prop, most likely hastily planted because of her arrival, was a trio of small, white tubes taped together and affixed with a mechanism. She didn’t need to see the front to know it was a clockwork timer. She could hear the ticking. Immediately, she seized the bomb, needing only a second to find the button on its face to stop the timer. Simple and rugged. She breathed out a sigh of relief, only for another round of explosions to rock the airfield. More aircraft brewing up. More Changeling sabotage. And then the gunfire started. She heard a shout in the near distance over the alarms and the flames. Then the chatter of the infamous “Baltimare Typewriter”. More and more, and now pistol and rifle fire was added to the mix. A battle had broken out for control of Fort Ord, and she couldn’t make hide or hair of where the combatants were. She trembled as she began fumbling for another magazine, unsure of what to do now but knowing she had to do something. Abruptly, a weight slammed into her, and she flailed, certain she was being assaulted by another Changeling infiltrator. But instead, the yellow visage of Lieutenant Solar Ace greeted her, impeccable dress jacket askew as if he’d been in the middle of taking it off. “Where’s Static?” he shouted over the cacophony, that unflappable air he usually wore gone like it never existed. Paige tried to focus, her eyes sliding from her pilot to the flames behind him as a fresh, new Lancaster blew spectacularly, consuming the nearby crewponies and the MPs battling Changelings for control of the site. At this rate, the detonations would claim more ponies in the chaos than the fighting would. She blinked hard, shaking herself as she finally got her head straight. “She was heading back to the barracks! Not ten minutes ago!” “And now I’m here!” Both snapped their heads over as Static herself appeared around No. 83, her horn glowing as she levitated several bags and flight caps. Belatedly, Paige realized that her ready bag was one of those few things Static had grabbed, likely from their barracks as soon as the first explosion rang out. The unicorn only waited a second before tossing the gear out, Ace grabbing his flight cap out of the air and his ready bag, Paige doing the same a little less gracefully, her cap smacking her in the muzzle and her bag clumsily hitting her chest. “Wait! Sir, what about the others?” “The airfield is lost!” Ace retorted, shoving his bag up to Static in the Blenheim and tugging his cap down over his ears. “Even if they root out all the Changelings, we have to make sure the plane gets up! Living pilots and flying craft are critical! The bug have -got- to be crossing the border right -now-!” She felt her stomach turn. Of course, Ace was right. They had to get as many planes as possible out of the hooves (or mandibles) of the saboteurs. The Changelings would exploit this confusion to swarm over the border. The fighting was likely about to start any second now. And one way or another, they needed to respond. They were away in less than two minutes. Ace pulled the nose up far too short, flying over the heads of an active firefight on the tarmac, framed by the flames. Horned and sinister looking infiltrators fired their stolen weapons at desperate ponies in Bronie helmets, fighting over the dying remains of the airfield as craft flew by in a mad flight, many crashing into wreckage or being brought down by delayed bombs. As they pulled away, they were joined by a hoof-ful of other craft that had escaped the chaos and slaughter. Paige hoped more would manage to escape, because what was in the air now was a pitiful fraction of Fort Ord’s total air wing. What few craft had taken off now angled as a group towards the west. They’d have to land in Vanhoover, get orders, find out the situation. And then, off to war. She looked up, at Cyril’s picture taped above her bombsight. Carefully, she reached a hoof up, smoothing out a corner and reapplying the tape to the metal. She wanted to say something meaningful, poetic. Their world had just changed, again. And in the most drastic way possible, bordering on shattering. Under any other circumstance, from all her novels and study of various languages and technical manuals, she always had the proper word or term for a situation or definition. Now, words failed her. As she flew on towards war, and Ford Ord burned behind her, she simply stared at the picture of the griff she loved but might never see again. Not even tears ran down her face. July 10, 1011 2054 hours Near Temsoar, Acute Forest, South Prywhen 41st Panzergrenadiers, 8th Heergruppe The fire crackled hungrily, orange flames reaching up to tear at the darkness. Here in the forest, they had plenty of wood to harvest, dump into the pit they’d dug and lined with stones. As long as somegriff manned the fire, they’d have light and warmth. The chittering of insects filled the air as the night settled on the camp clearing, the firelight stubbornly resisting the darkness. The griffons sat around the fire quietly, chewing on hardtack and jerky, gulping water from their canteens and contraband liquor from small flasks. This clearing held three panzers drawn around the area, with trucks of soldiers beyond settling into their own campsites while the sentries on watch defended the kompanie with submachine guns and flashlights, on alert for the hardline GLA fighters they’d been hunting the past month. And other things, of course. These ancient woods held worse than just griffon guerillas. The electric torches swept the treeline, the sentries quietly and nervously scanning. Manticores and hydras were known to frequent places like these, stalking for prey in the gloom. The darkness conjured up childhood stories which suddenly were both more terrifying and not quite so far fetched all of a sudden. The campsites were full of Imperial soldiers relaxing, the panzergrenadiers settling in for quiet stories, card games, reading letters from home and doing little meaningless maintenance on kit, cleaning rifles and loading magazines for pistols. But under this air of relaxation, a sense of tension remained. They’d expected fanatical resistance from the GLA. But it seemed that the moment a figure of competence like the Empire had shown up, with healthy, hearty soldiers demanding surrender, the starving griffons of Prywhen simply gave up the revolution in exchange for a hot meal and a clean place to sleep. After the Herzland War, it was sobering. And, ultimately, unsatisfying for many who had gotten their blood and battle lust fired up. Now, instead of armies of communists throwing themselves at their panzers, they were searching for band of resistance fighters, stamping them out and grinding south. The campaign for Prywhen was over, everygriff knew that. And with the Host in a state of tribal civil war (again) and Gryphus signing the treaty to bring them back into the fold, Operation Tartarus was (for a rare exception) proving to be far simpler than expected. Aside from, of course, taking care of these last holdouts. Sydia would fall soon too, and that was it. No more help from Stalliongrad or the Republican socialists in the far north. The camping area was split in two. While regular Reichsarmee troops clustered around their panzers and trucks, talking quietly as they wondered what insanity their officers had planned at the headquarters not far away, Vollstrecker stalking amongst the platoons watching for disobedience, the other half of the campsite was a large, central area. A much larger bonfire was in the middle, with sleeping bags and tents lining the outside in a ring. No trucks or panzers on this side, however. These were the Reformisten soldiers and Black Knights dispatched to this area, and they were in much higher spirits. Unlike the more subdued, frustrated panzertruppen, the Knights and their soldiers were instead enjoying their own drinks and meals, excitedly sharing battle stories and looking forward to the next day. Their spirits were high. To them, they were on the path to greater glory and the redemption of Hellsword. Their own Prince Erich had delivered a speech over the radio yesterday, urging Reformisten and Imperial soldiers to final victory in the east, not that Cyril would care. He was most likely a spoiled griffon noble much like his father. With Gryphus returned, Prywhen all but reconquered and the Host embroiled yet another civil war, it seemed all that was left was to push the minotaurs out of Cyanolisia. And nogriff expected the Sovereign Republic to put up much fight. This campsite was quiet, the soldiers just happy to keep to themselves for this rare moment of peace. The past year has been nothing but war, preparing for the next fight and suspicion from on high. Now, with Operation Tartarus beginning to come to a close, they were looking forward to going home for actual rest, instead of waiting for a possible execution notice. The armored platoon consisted of two Calico light tanks, speedy and quick, as well as their beefier sister, a Stahlschild medium tank with its larger gun and impressive armor, with a handful of ADGZ armored cars, heavy scout vehicles meant to find targets for the panzers. The platoon crews didn’t quite interact with each other, that was down to the sergeants who were clustered to one side. But this squad, this crew, were intimately familiar after a year of service, through several vicious warzones. Eihol snoozed next to the fire, a half-empty bottle of schnapps clutched in one claw as he snored, the brim of his cap tipped low over his eyes and beak. Next to him, Spotsley read a letter in her paws, eyes skimming over each line. She’d read this letter several times already, evident in the worn folds from taking it out and putting it away multiple times. No one else nearby knew what it said, as she had been especially cagey about its contents. Sergeant Hellseig was off with the other panzer commanders now, discussing their next step with the leutnant and trying to figure out the mess they had gotten themselves into. And Haul...Haul was somewhere doing whatever it was he did. He had a tendency to disappear for some periods of time before reappearing as if nothing had happened at all. Vise Korporal Cyril Duskwing grunted, poking the fire with a stick, his mind elsewhere. A claw came up, adjusting his service cap for the thousandth time. The lack of proper battle had given him plenty of time for reflection, something he hadn’t taken much time with during the Herzland War. Now, though, he had too much of it. In truth, he was not really here. His mind was across the sea, in a land he had never visited but he knew quite a bit about. Paige’s letters had been bothering him of late. Both in terms of what was happening for her and where she was. For all he knew, Equestria could be at war by the time her next letter arrived. Ten damned weeks to hear if she was okay, at minimum. It didn’t help that he was stuck out here, in this damned backwater away from the newspapers and the radio programs. All they had out here was Der Reichswehr Rundfunk, and everygriff knew a good portion of that was propagandized nonsense. Just yesterday, the radio had announced that relations with Vedina had reopened, and negotiations were underway to reintroduce them to the Empire. The lack of details meant all the soldiers knew there was a hell of a lot more to the story than that. The same with the report that Skyfall partisans had apparently attacked a Feathisian radio station yesterday. While that one he was a little less certain on, it made no sense for Federation militia to come over the border and attack an Imperial target. But for all this, the lack of any news on Equestria, and now the word that the Riverlands were collapsing into complete chaos, meant he was isolated, uninformed and left to wait. Letters from Paige’s parents had stopped due to the difficulty in both location and traffic. Now letters from Paige took forever to arrive as well. As isolated from her as the world could make him, it seemed. He took a drag on his cigarette, his mind clouded and occupied. “Fucking officers,” Sergeant Hellseig grunted as he abruptly took a seat next to Cyril, wings rustling in irritation as he settled. “Same damn thing that we’ve been doing. Press on into the woods, secure the region and prepare for the next stage in the offensive. They don’t know what we’re doing, same as us on the ground.” “I take it the meeting was a success then, Sergeant?” “Gah, no more than usual,” Hellseig agreed sardonically, tugging a pipe from out of his coat and lighting a match from the bonfire. “This time, the Leutnant actually knew which direction we were going. I can only hope the Kapitan has the same idea.” That was unfair to Leutnant Stonefeather and Kapitan Greybeak, who were both competent commanders and had proven themselves in combat just as much as the two enlisted veterans. But it was common habit to blame the griffs in charge when something went wrong, especially when things weren’t making sense. Cyril merely grunted, stubbing out yet another cheap cigarette as he went back to staring at the fire, Paige’s last letter folded in his claw. She’d sent it to him back in May, and he had managed to get her a response in June. With the extended need to circle through army post offices, that was the going rate of letters. Sometimes, it was hard to remember what he’d written to her, it was so long ago. He was grateful she wrote such extensive explanations to help him recall. And a photo. He held that in the other claw, carefully examining it in the firelight. For a pony, she was beautiful, her curly mane and tail cropped for military service and her attitude, if tired, still said she was ready to take on the world. What he wouldn’t give for some of that boundless optimism and confidence she always had. Actually, what he wouldn’t give for her. “Got a response from Paige?” Hellseig asked, puffing on his pipe. Cyril shook his head, holding up the photo. He’d seen it, he knew the letter she’d sent it with was old. The veteran sergeant merely nodded in reply, puffing another cloud. “Chin up, lad. She’s in the safer place. Long as you keep yourself in one piece, it’s only a matter of time.” Cyril merely nodded again, looking at her picture one last time before tucking it and the letter into a jacket pocket, taking care to wrap the photo in the paper. It got hot in the daytime quite a lot, and he didn’t want to risk the picture getting warped by his sweat. The letter he’d receive more of. “Sarge, can I ask a question?” “Axle grease,” Hellseig shot back, to which Cyril frowned in confusion. “For the grey spots.” From the smirk on his sergeant’s beak and the twinkle in his eye, Cyril could tell he was joking, and let out a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sigh of exasperation, thrown for a moment from his own pitiful reverie. Which, it seemed, was what Hellseig wanted. “Go on, lad.” “I’ve never asked you but once...how do you do it, Sergeant? All these years?” Now it was Hellseig’s turn to frown in confusion, and Cyril cleared his throat, trying to move past his own awkwardness. “Away from your family.” “Ah,” the veteran responded, comprehension dawning. “The greatest of a soldier’s struggles after he’s avoided death; keeping his loved ones close. It’s not easy. Many fail. Especially hard for young couples.” Here, he gave Cyril a meaningful look, to which the young gunner blanched and looked away. “Scheiße, lad. I’m not telling you to give up on her. But sometimes reality takes the lead. And reality is, you haven’t seen her in, what? Four years?” “About. She gave me a call on New Years’.” “My Adelaide lived in my hometown. We grew up together. She said goodbye to me when I boarded the train for Krona. And she’s been there every time I’ve gone back.” Hellseig’s face darkened as now he too looked down into the fire, his cap brim rugged low over his brow and casting the features behind his beak in shadow. “Terrible things I’ve put her through. Separation, loneliness, doubt, endless worry. But the fact that I could come back at any time made it worth the struggle, for us both.” He glanced up at Cyril again, his expression now one of pity. “You don’t have that. You’re halfway around the world from her. All your interaction is boiled down to a claw full of letters and a phone call. She’s cheated on you. You’ve both nearly died, and the other would never know it. Any other creatures would have moved on by now. Found somegriff closer.” He paused, studying Cyril’s now-stoic expression. “Except you, it seems.” Hellseig sighed, tapping the loose pieces of out his pipe before taking another puff, considering the facts carefully. “You’re outside my realm of expertise, lad. I’ve had times where leave was cut short or canceled. Sure. But...there was, at least, always the chance. The possibility. I missed two of my kinder being born. More holidays, birthdays and anniversaries than I can count. They’re all the reason I’m here, and I can’t be there for them.” He paused a moment, then chuckled abruptly. “Though by Boreas, I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I retired. -When-.” They were quiet again, these two soldiers separated by at least a whole generation. Across the fire, Eihol still snoozed, while Spotsley was looking very determined to not be eavesdropping on their conversation, staring intently down at some novella from Strawberry. Inside Sabine came a clatter, likely from Haul making adjustments to the shells’ timing heads, being the single-minded obsessive stallion he was. The night air was otherwise quietly overlapped with the buzz of low conversation from the other fires, where the rest of the kompanie did the same thing this crew was doing. Finally, Hellseig sighed, tapping his pipe again. “Look, you love this formel? This mare? I mean -really- love her? Ready to pass over any easier, less troublesome alternative that pops up until you see her again?” Cyril thought it over hard, eyes fixed on the fire, grey beak set firm as he considered the facts, trying to puzzle out some great formula in his head, about a female not of his own species, not of his nation or even on this continent that he might possibly not see for even years after, or possibly ever if the war he feared was coming actually came. There was already a massive distance between them, and the fact that he had already felt a huge amount of doubt told him some part of his brain had accepted the likely reality that this relationship was going to go nowhere. Too many things kept happening to keep them apart. They’d spoken one time since that day in Rottendedam, and it had been for a few minutes at best. What if they were both just fooling themselves? What if he was just being a massive idiot? But it came to him in that second; of course they were idiots. Neither of them went with the safe, simple option. For better or worse, they were both cursed to the struggle, the idea of suffering for what they wanted. And that meant she’d be there for him when they finally met. And it would make it all worth it in the end. He turned to Hellseig, nodding firmly. “Yes. I do.” The sergeant quietly watched his subordinate, whom he’d mentored the past four years. There was a fire burning in Cyril’s eyes, a passion Hellseig knew had been burned out of himself a long time ago. Good. The kid would need that if he was going to survive the emotional hell he was putting himself through. “Then keep it up. Keep it alive. That’s all I can tell you, Duskwing. It’s up to you after that. All I can do is show you the door to how it works. Down to you to open it.” A shriek split the air. Cyril and Hellseig looked up, sharply. They knew that sound, quite intimately in fact. Spotsley snapped up straight, ears perking in alarm as Eihol fell off his seat, awake and sober instantly. “INCOMI-” The griff who started shouting the warning never had the chance to finish, as the artillery shell that fell on the camp detonated two trucks, a fireball brewing up and blasting a shockwave out around it in a cloud of black smoke. Soldiers and knights were sent flying, some in tatters and others merely stunned, trying to shake off the impact of the concussive force that hit hard as a god’s fist. But then there followed another, and another, and another. The shelling rocked the camp, artillery bracketing the campfires and parked panzers. Luckily, whoever had done the sighting seemed to have screwed up, for the second volley landed wide, splintering trees and pockmarking the ground. “Get to the panzers!” Crews scrambled. Wings flared, claws clattered on steel, weapons were tossed and readied. The screams of the wounded were almost drowned out as the next barrage rocked the camp, more on point the time. More panzers and more soldiers died, trucks and ammunition brewing up. The shelling seemed determined to wipe the armor from existence first, the choice of someone with at least a mind for tactics. The grenadiers and knights flew and ran to prepared defenses, dodging and weaving through the barrage as they went. But before they could reach the dugouts, a mighty bellow rang out from the treeline, half bestial and filled with primal rage before the empty space was abruptly filled with the crushing surge of a line of heavily muscled, khaki-clothed figures surging towards the Imperial line, horns down and weapons up. “Minotaurs!” The cry went up, and was repeated up and down the line. Bayonets were hastily fixed, shotgunners looking for flying infantry clumsily reoriented, and Knights drew swords as the charge continued towards the defenses, ready to meet the bovine surge. The few troopers actually on the line realized the direness of their situation, beginning to fall back under the press. Weapons which were chambered to kill griffons and ponies faltered against the lumbering mountains. Minotaurs were huge and muscled, and even as lean as these soldiers were (evidence of a once deprived diet only just beginning to normalize with fertile fields back in their hands) they still towered over the largest Imperial soldier. A barrage which would have normally decimated a griffon surge only took down the enemy piecemeal, and then they were among the panzers and trucks, bellowing and roaring, shouting and clubbing. The battle descended in an instant to a furious, close-range melee as talons and fists traded blows, shotguns boomed and pistols snapped, stocks used as makeshift clubs, swords and spades slicing in the darkness, fire at close range ending on bloody bayonet points. In an instant, the Asterion charge had negated the Empire’s firepower advantage, bringing the fight to -their- field. It happened slowly. Not expecting the surge, and not equipped for it, panzergrenadiers began to fall back into the camp, firing as they ran, some flying to clear more ground. Panzer crews, still attempting to start their engines, poked their heads out of their vehicles, only to be shot upon rising or dragged from their steeds to be carved to pieces. One Stahlschild had a grenade shoved into its hatch, the boom reducing the crew inside to tatters or flesh and uniform. And then, a boom and a shout. A panzergrenadier fell, his head a mess as blood spurted from the mass of shredded flesh and feathers that was once his neck. His fellows paused, hesitating. Over their heads, a Vollstrecker landed on a nearby panzer, shotgun in claw as she pointed it down at the retreating troopers, racking the slide and ejecting a spent shell. “Pathetic! Get back in and fight! Show the enemy your backs and you will get no mercy! Neither from the ‘taurs or from ME!” A minotaur pushed through the gap between two panzers, bellowing in fury as he clutched his rifle, charging towards the frozen grenadiers bayonet first. For his trouble, another boom rang out, blowing away half his skull and dropping the Asterion like a lead weight, plowing into a campsite firepit. “There!” The Vollstrecker griff cried. “You see how it is done! Now, follow me!” With that, she gave a single pump of her wings, landing on the far side and shouting the charge, leading the now frightened but recovered grenadiers to surge back in for the counterattack, their weapons chattering wildly. In a strange turn, the Hellswordian troopers were holding better. Their weapons, designed primarily after rifles meant for hunting monsters on the frontier, were taking chunks out of the larger, beefier taurian charge. Though they were still forced to give ground in the face of such suicidal determination, they had not devolved to a route like their Imperial comrades. But the gap was still ever closing. They would not be far behind. Cyril stood behind Sabine’s turret, SMG held steady as he gunned down one invading minotaur, then another. The damned things took half a mag each to put down, though he was certain the frenzy of the battle may have contributed to that. It was a much different experience, fighting outside of Sabine, his soft skin and feathers feeling exposed and frighteningly vulnerable. The engine of the panzer coughed as Eihol worked frantically, trying to warm the engine’s glow plugs without flooding her diesel carburetors, Spotsley hollering abuse at the driver between her flurries of howling on the wireless for air or fire support. “Duskwing!” Cyril turned, in the middle of a reload, as a Minotaur clambered up onto the engine hatch, a broken rifle held in meaty hands as the bovine trooper closed in. Thinking fast, Cyril kicked upwards quickly, boot meeting groin and dropping the taur where he stood so Cyril could draw his sidearm, blowing his enemy’s head off. “Thanks Sarge!” he hollered as Sabine rumbled, finally starting up. “Get your tail inside!” Hellseig returned, feeding a new belt into the MG and chattering off a burst into the chaotic frenzy of violence around them. “I need you on the gun!” Another cluster of rounds smacked off the turret next to him, sending the young panzertruppen scurrying up in a hasty flurry of feathers and tan cloth, Hellseig moving aside and taking the weapon, firing a birst over Cyril’s head. Inside, Sabine was almost as chaotic as outside, with Eihol, Spotsley and Haul all yelling at each other over the noise of the engine and the combat outside, arguing about some ridiculous thing he didn’t catch. Cyril merely clambered over to his seat, swapping his cap out for the leather hood and goggles, pressing an eye to the gunsight as one claw came up to his chest, feeling for the pocket for just a moment. Then, it was action time. “Duskwing, Spotsley!” Hellseig shouted over the intercom. “Squirt that treeline! Buy our lads some time! Eihol, roll us up to cover the others!” The coax and hull machineguns added their fire to that of the top mounted gun, while Sabine turned, her treads grinding through the muck, engine roaring in fury as she crushed a pair of tents, surprising a cluster of minotaur troopers on the other side. Not having their own anti-tank weapons, the bulls fired with their rifles, only to get mowed down by the three machine guns as their rounds spanked off her armor plating. Nearby, her sister panzer Rosenknospemoved into accompanying formation, her 5 cm gun booming before a direct hit from the sporadic artillery ripped her apart in a fireball, spewing flaming shrapnel in all directions and adding further to the chaos. Sabine’s own cannon boomed, a countering fireball blowing through the treeline and mulching a cluster of Asterion soldiers. Rallying at the sight of friendly armor, Imperial and Hellsword soldiers fell in on her flanks, renewing the advance and sweeping forwards. They were finally back in the fight. But all was not well. “Team, listen up!” Hellseig called out as his MG chattered. “I just got word that the Kapitan is dead. A sniper got him during the shelling. And Leutnant Stonefeather is unresponsive. The medic thinks he took a shot in the spine. It’s down to us now.” “Sounds familiar!” Cyril shouted back, traversing right and letting another shot out, reducing more of the minotaur charge to tatters and splinters. Response fire was intense, as the ‘taurs realigned their own MGs onto the rolling armored vehicle. The amount of bullets hitting Sabine was so thick, he almost couldn’t see his surroundings, and he feared the vision block might take a hit, rendering him blind. With a clank, the next shell was levered into position, the breechblock slamming shut. “Clear!” Haul shouted as he moved out of the way of the gun. “Duskwing, enemy panzer moving through the treeline!” Calling the lumbering hulk a panzer was stretching things quite a bit, as the boxy, rhomboid shape and slow speed told them all this was clearly an outdated and far inferior model. It’s own stubby cannons poked out of either side, and Cyril didn’t even wait for the shell to be swapped to armor piercing, letting the 5 cm do its work. The HE shell, as it turned out, was more than sufficient to demolish the poor imitation, the enormous fireball of her petrol engine setting fire to the surrounding woods. But more shapes were emerging now, and while some had the same outdated look as the first landship, there were profiles of far more modern panzers in amongst them. Shapes Cyril instantly recognized. “Wingbardy panzers!” he shouted, and Haul didn’t need to be told twice, immediately slamming an AP shell into the breach. “Clear!” “On the way!” Cyril didn’t even wait for the order, and Hellseig didn’t need to give it. Cyril stamped on the trigger, the gun boomed and the shell tore through a Lend-Lease panzer. Fortunately, they were lighter models, and the vehicle slewed to a halt, its turret aflame and its armor holed. They were doing it. So long as they held here and matched whatever the minotaurs threw at them, they could act as an anchor for the rest of the armor to get on line and the infantry to dig in here. But up top, Sergeant Hellseig had a different view of the field. “General, we’ve stopped the charge for now. I think the Asterions are about to break.” ”Sergeant, that’s not a factor anymore. From what I’m hearing, ammunition is at critical levels. Your trucks are destroyed and casualties are mounting. I need you to fall back from that grove before you’re overrun,” came the voice of Vollstreckergeneral Wolfheze, commander of Hellsword’s own Vollstrecker division. With the Kapitan and Leutnant out of commission, the nearest command post in radio range was the Vollstrecker’s own down the hill. Normally removed from the chain of Reichsarmee command, these circumstances proved anything but normal. ”Are you sure this is an armored offensive?” Sabine’s gun boomed again, and Vise-Korporal Duskwing chalked up another panzer kill. “That’s confirmed, General. We’re seeing battalion to regimental numbers of attackers here. We’re dealing with the infantry as best we can, but our panzers have sustained serious losses. They caught us unawares.” ”Then Asterion somehow got a panzer division over the Creeper Mountains. This war has gotten much more serious. I’ll need your panzers to regroup back here. That’s an order Sergeant. I’ll get you what support I can, as soon as I can. Godspeed, Hellseig. Wolfheze, out.” Hellseig cursed as the radio to Feldkommando went silent, replaced instead by the chaotic chatter of the platoons here on the ground. The battered kompanie was finally reforming, and until the enemy panzers had emerged it had certainly looked like they had the situation in claw. Now, however, the ‘taurs had gone from on the verge of breaking to nearly suicidal once more, surging towards newly prepared positions, right into MG fire. He added his own fire to the noise, considering the situation. Options were not great. While they were holding as best they could, if the General’s prediction was correct and an entire division was heading their way, they needed to form up with the rest of the 41st to respond effectively. But at this rate, movement would be on the backs of panzers and by claw and wing. None of their trucks were getting out, and only a few armored cars remained. He fired another burst, cursing the gods, cursing the Empire, cursing the Reformisten and by Tartarus cursing the minotaurs for this surprise attack. He was supposed to be home by now. “Fuck it,” he hissed, gunning down another cluster of minotaurs. One of them had been rushing towards a Calico with what looked like satchel charges. A grim fact that only underlined Wolfheze’s words. “All platoon leaders! I need a tally and an orderly fallback by fire to the other side of the grove, to the north! Gather the wounded as you can! Leave the dead and what equipment you can’t run with.” ”Duskwing!” “I see it, hang on! On the way!” The 5 cm boomed again, and another Lend-Lease panzer slewed in the mud, having tried to sneak around a wrecked Asterion landship to get a shot on them. Hellseig glanced down into the turret, watching his crew in action. Haul smacked another shell into position, coughing as the turret filled with acrid smoke, hollering out the clear as he closed the breech. Duskwing had his eye pressed against the sight, now switched to the MG as he mowed down yet another charge, the high-caliber bullets tearing bulls to bloody chunks. Up front, Spotsley was spitting insults at the same rate her gun spat bullets, until it ran dry and she lit up a storm, fumbling for another belt in her fury. Eihol twitched, watching his surroundings through the vision blocks, one claw on his shotgun, ready and waiting for another suicide charge. They were a good crew. Hellseig had been with the Panzerwaffen since its creation, and before that had led infantrygriffs. This group was the best he’d ever worked with, coordinated and dedicated, skilled and experienced. Which made what he would ask them that much harder. He closed his eyes, breathing out as he absorbed the reality of what he needed to do. “Eihol, prepare to advance.” There was a pause as the whole crew absorbed what their sergeant had just said, and honestly Hellseig didn’t blame them. The order was an insane one, considering their position. Outnumbered and under constant assault, the idea of advancing into that storm was practically suicidal. ”Uh...a-are you sure, Sergeant?” “As I can be, Korporal. We need to buy time for the kompanie to fall back. They’re never going to make it under this kind of pressure.” “We’re with you, Sergeant!” Haul shouted back, saluting up from his loader’s seat, any trace of doubt erased from his face. “We’ll all win Iron Crosses for this!” Hellseig had no doubt the stallion would go with whatever he had said. Spotsley was quiet, for once, as if trying to consider the odds before she finally spoke. “Okay. Let’s do it.” Duskwing looked up at him now, goggles pushed up to expose his eyes. In that gaze, Hellseig saw doubt, a hint of betrayal, questioning and a bit of sadness. But the Sergeant merely nodded, silently telling Cyril that this was the only way. The gunner paused before he nodded back, firmly, a new determination in his eyes as he pushed the goggles back down. Eihol, meantime, was less certain. “Sergeant, we’re gonna fucking die!” “Not if we’re fast enough, Korporal,” Hellseig shot back, chattering off another burst. An idea came to him. “C’mon, what are you afraid of? I’ll buy the beers when we get back. All rounds on me!” A pause. Then, Eihol chuckled. It was mostly out of shocked realization, an acceptance of fate, finally squaring up to embrace what was inevitable. The chuckle turned into a laugh, which spread to Spotsley, who snorted into her radio before she too busted up. Then Duskwing, who just shook his head and smacked the gunsight, guffawing at the situation. Haul was, predictably, the last one to join in, but he did indeed chuckle, more as if he was trying to figure out what was so funny here. A bullet ricocheted off the turret, but Hellseig was beyond caring now. Laughing as well, he fired back, then ordered “Advance then, Korporal. Für den Kaiser!” “Voor de Keizer, Serjeant!” Eihol replied, gripping the levers and cranking them both forward. Full frontal assault. Sabine rolled off her position, down into the hell. As the other panzers were falling back, supported by panzergrenadiers, knights and Hellsword regulars, the Stahlschild advanced into the storm, bullets and grenades ignored as she practically soared in. Confused queries over the radio were ignored, in favor of the crew focusing on their task. Three MGs chattered, interspersed by the 5 cm claiming the occasional panzer. But the charge had left the minotaurs fumbling. They hadn’t expected a counterattack, and even one as small as Sabine on her suicide run left them fumbling. They had no reliable anti-tank weapons, and with their own armor appearing incapable of stopping the oncoming panzer, the bulls finally halted, faltered, and finally began to break. The retreat was slow at first, but picked up speed as Sabine advanced further, finally clearing the killing ground and parking herself right into their positions at the treeline itself. From here, they could see down the forested hill, as flares lit the ground head in a ghastly dull red. The estimated division was moving into position, spreading out across the valley below and preparing to move on the unprepared Imperial line. With this assault regiment blunted, it would only be a matter of time. “Panzer, 9 o clock!” “I see it! On the way!” The gun boomed, another enemy panzer gone. How many had they killed, just here in this one fight? Seven? Eight? How many would the enemy send up at them? How many did they have? “Eihol, keep us moving!” Reality came crashing back down as Hellseig ducked under a thrown grenade. A minotaur, not twenty feet away, roared in defiance, firing his pistol up at the sergeant who, caught blindsided, drew his own and put four rounds into the minotaur’s head. But the enemy were getting their bravery back, realizing there was but one panzer in their midst. The only way they could survive was to keep mobile, fire and maneuver and not get swarmed. Eihol pulled Sabine back as the MGs chattered, retreating off the high ground back into the killing field. Their charge had become a mad struggle, suddenly surrounded and now the sole focus of attention. The retaliatory fire seemed to quadruple, rapid fire rounds pockmarking the already cratered hull. The paint was nearly completely stripped away, the unit designation, camouflage and kill count on the hull little more than smudges now. The gun boomed again. And again. Hellseig brought his MG around, chewing up another suicide bomber, the satchel charges detonating seconds after the soldier fell. Where once the odds were against them and they laughed, now death was certain the crew only got furious, cursing and yelling and spitting. Smoke filled the panzer and Spotsley threw a fit as her MG overheated, the barrel glowing red hot. Haul opened the shot locker again, only to pause as he took stock of what they had left before silently hauling out another shell. But Hellseig could count in the middle of the fight. And he had been. “Scheiße!” A minotaur had landed on the tank, right over the driver’s hatch. Hellseig tried to bring the MG down, but the angle was too steep, and the bull put the gun tube between them both. He went for his pistol, but the driver’s hatch popped open, and the barrel of a shotgun emerged. With a muffled boom that sounded like it was almost underwater, the buckshot blew out the minotaur’s lower torso, and the corpse tumbled away. “Ja! Fuck jou, en de koe die ons met jou vervloekte, jij doorweekte hoop!“ “Eihol, look out!” But it was too late. Distracted dealing with the first boarder, Eihol missed the second, who hopped onto the track guard, bellowing in their strange, southern tongue. Neither Hellseig nor Eihol had the chance before, with twin blasts that rocked the panzer, the satchel charges detonated in the bull’s hands, ripping her track and the front sprocket clean off. Sabine, still going full tilt, crashed bodily to a halt, skidding through the dirt and roots, finally halting as she crashed into the trunk of a tree. Silence. Aside from the panzer’s still rumbling engine, their surroundings were quiet. Their mad charge had bought enough time and space for the kompanie to retreat. They’d likely be heading down towards Wolfheze’s command post by now. The crew recovered slowly. Bruised, battered, coming down from their battle fury. They slowly began checking systems, counting ammo, taking stock. Hellseig stood, looking at where they’d crashed. A tree was nothing to the panzer, but the blast had crippled her, tore up the armor, ripped apart her suspension and road wheels. Even without the crash, Sabine would never drive again. The damage was too great. It was a wonder they weren’t all dead. He turned, looking towards the abandoned campsite. They could run for it, try to catch up to the kompanie’s rearguard. But Eihol was nursing a head wound and a concussion, a consequence of both the crash and having the hatch open when the charges had gone off. He’d never be able to run. But they had to do something. Now they had been taken out, the minotaurs would be one them in seconds. Minutes if they were lucky. Hellseig dropped into the turret, sighing as he laid back in his seat, dabbing at his own temple and the blood there. Shrapnel, maybe. Perhaps from the blast itself. His cap had caught it and spared him the worst. Duskwing and Haul were going over the gun. The hydraulics were a wreck, meaning the gun and turret would have to be operated by claw crank. And the shot locker was nearly empty. Maybe ten shells left, only three of those AP. Spotsley was quietly seeing to Eihol, asking him questions and bandaging his head, trying to keep him conscious. Hellseig groaned, taking his cap off as he considered the situation. If worst came to worst, and they were overrun, Sabine would be their best chance of survival, a place to hole up. Their one way trip had done a number to the enemy panzer force, and certainly bought them time. But with Eihol’s injuries and the distance they had to cross, leaving was not an option anymore. “Weapons,” he croaked, picking up the SMG he’d taken from Duskwing and handing it back. The gunner took it quietly, checking the mag and then swapping with a full one from his satchel. Haul peered out his loader’s hatch at the darkness beyond, watching carefully for the enemy, while Spotsley took Eihol’s shotgun carefully, having to reach for shells. “Okay, someone needs to scout the area. The rest of us are going to get ready for-“ A bellow only the woods cut off Hellseig’s statement, and he cursed as it was answered in a chorus from further back. “Or we could go for the desperate final stand now, then!” He stood at his station fully now, checking the belt on his MG before cocking it, steadying his aim. The treeline was teeming with movement now, indistinct in the darkness as the panzer’s headlights were pointed in a different direction. But the sergeant barely had to aim, as muzzle flashes showed them pushing so close together he simply had to point in one direction and hold down the trigger. The MG stuttered, and in the flashing lights he could see chunks torn out, meat fed into the grinder. The turret rotated slowly, and the coax chattered too, adding it’s fire to the sergeant’s own. Spotsley popped open her hatch, the shotgun in her paws as she fired, rack the slide and fired again. The surge of bulls was truthfully only a few seconds long, maybe twenty at most. But to them, it felt like they held for an hour, adrenaline coursing as lights flickered in the darkness. Hellseig’s wings were fully flared, though he struggled to tuck them down out of danger. As the troopers finally broke and run, leaving behind a slope covered in meat and uniforms, a clattering came to Hellseig’s ears, that of treads and armor plating. Another Asterion landship, struggling and primitive, but with Sabine helpless as she was, even the small cannons it carried would be enough to deal serious damage. “Duskwing!” he hollered down. “Minotaur panzer! Four o clock!” “Roger that!” Cyril hollered back, cranking the handles furiously, the turret inching around. The gun tube swept over through the dark, almost in slow motion. Hellseig held his breath, beak clenched as he hammered away. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d slip a round in through a vision slit, or hit some critical part. But all he saw were the sparks of ricochets, and the cannon on the right flank swiveled towards them… Then, Sabine’s 5 cm was aligned. “Target acquired!” “FIRE!” Hellseig screamed over the MG, the blood rushing in his ears. “On the way!” The gun boomed in the night, her muzzle flash blinding Hellseig. But even more blinding was the Minotaur landship brewing up, its primitive sides splitting and fuel and ammo cooked off, ripping the plates asunder as the wreck slewed to a halt. “Yes! Kill confirmed!” The crew cheered. Already an ace several times over, Cyril Duskwing punched the air. This felt like the most important kill of his career. Even Haul broke, leaving over and throwing his hooves around the gunner’s neck in a half-hysterical, half astounded hug. Spotsley howled, though her ears had to be ringing too. Hellseig laughed, smacking the top of the turret. They’d done it! Now they just had to figure out a plan to get out of- He heard it before he saw it. In all the noise, none of them had realized that even though the panzer was dead, the clattering continued. Hellseig turned, feeling slow though he swore he was moving as quick as he could. There, in Sabine’s headlights, resplendent in the light, was a Wingbardian M11 medium panzer. A brand new, freshly painted model, passed on to the Asterion by the look of the black flag painted on her hull. And it’s large, very modern 5.7 cm cannon was lined up directly on them. “PAN-“ Hellseig’s world went white. The Stahlschild was an excellent medium panzer. A solid gun, good transmission and easy to manufacture. But she was the Empire’s first true foray into medium panzer design, and as such this carried multiple problems. A rather cramped interior, a separation of radio operator and commander to either end of the panzer and, most critically, flawed plate armor standards. While a good panzer, these issues had consigned her to already be replaced by her successor, in development even now. The plate buckled. Then split. Cyril awoke in fire. He blinked, trying to figure out why he still couldn’t see anything. But after a moment, he finally got his panzer goggles off and away, and blinked blearily. The lenses were covered in blood. And from the glow, the panzer was on fire. He started, attempting to stand. Then he realized two things. One; he was in excruciating pain, which when his brain finally caught up left him staggering against the turret of the panzer. Two; the reason for this was the twisted metal wreckage of the gun assembly, combined with the peeled innards of the turret’s armor which was currently crushed together around the catastrophe of flesh and feathers that used to be his left wing. And he was screaming. High, raw, unchained shrieking at the top of his lungs. He felt understanding give way to panic and fright, and automatically tried to pull away, which gave a -tearing- sensation. Oh gods, it fucking hurt so much, what in Tartarus was this shit! He felt like the flesh was slowly being ripped off his back, ligaments in the wing connected to him pulling and tugging in ways they were not meant to. Abruptly, Haul’s visage filled his view, shouting and hollering something that Cyril couldn’t hear over his own white hot agony. Luckily, Haul managed to pin the gunner down long enough that he could still, finally hearing the stallion’s words. “Duskwing! You need to stop thrashing around! I can’t get you out like this!” Behind him, Sabine -was- on fire, fully alight. The paneling, the fuel, the ammunition. Flames licked at the turret walls, and all power seemed to have gone from the panzer. Cyril’s eyes, if possible, opened even wider at the realization, Haul’s words drowned out again. He was going to die here. If that Wingbardian panzer got another shot off on them, and there was no reason it wouldn’t, they’d finish the job. The enemy crew must have assumed they were brewed up. Cyril took a quick role call of himself, awkwardly patting himself down. Legs were good, arms were okay, head fine. In a strange twist of fate, he seemed to be unscathed aside from his wing. And then the answer presented itself. “Cut me out!” he screamed, the small actions he’d done incurring an agony in and of itself. He couldn’t help but thrash in his seat, feel the bones and flesh grind in the twisted metal. Haul shook his head. “I can’t! I don’t have a torch! Just sit still as you can, I’ll try to pull you out!” “No, Haul!” Cyril reached over the wrecked gun assembly, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling the stallion closer. “Cut it off!” Haul was dumbfounded, staring back at Cyril in astonishment. “You...your wing? Cut your fucking wing?” “The bones are powder anyway! Even if I get out, I’ll never fly!” Cyril shot back. The reality of that statement would hit him later, and the grim remorse to come with it. But right now, in the pain and suffering that was anchoring him to Sabine’s burning hulk, all he knew was that he had to get out by any means necessary. “Cut! Me! Out!” It took Haul another few seconds to come to terms with what he was being asked to do. But finally, he gulped, nodding as he clumsily turned, fumbling through the burning wreck to pull out the toolkit. The flames were closer now, the smoke suffocating and blinding. Neither could see clearly. But Cyril could just make out the blurry form of Haul, rising with the hatchet from the toolkit. He would have forced himself to watch. But between the everlasting pain and the smoke and the heat, his eyes closed. It didn’t come off in one stroke. He felt the impact, but the flesh was suffering so bad he almost didn’t feel the pain. Almost. A second stroke. Now he -did- feel the pain, and with that panic set in again. He screamed, feeling his blood spatter the turret. He almost asked Haul to stop, begged him, but somehow he managed to keep his beak clamped shut again. A third stroke, and he almost passed out. A fourth, and now he did black out. He awoke to feel himself being pulled from his seat. Voices spoke around him, and he couldn’t make them out. But he felt cold air, almost ice on his face and matted feathers. They were outside. He was out. They passed him gently down the panzer, Hellseig carefully guiding Cyril down to Haul. It was difficult to do it with one claw, as the sergeant’s other arm was little more than a ragged stump now. But they finally got out Duskwing, one wing now messily hacked off at the wrist and now a horrific mass of bleeding flesh. Hellseig gripped his delirious gunner tightly at the claw. “It’s down to you now, son. You have to go on. Do great things.” “Sarge…” Cyril fumbled, eyes half open, on the verge of passing out once more. “What...you…” “Don’t worry about me,” the veteran replied, gesturing to his missing arm. “Twenty years and this was the best the enemies of the Empire could do? At this point, nothing can kill me!” Bullets smacked off the hull of the wreck, and Hellseig winced, ducking by reflex. The minotaurs had realized the crew had survived. That devilish M11 had moved off in search of more prey, but the infantry advancing behind it were the real threat now. They would swarm them in an instant, and judging from the combat earlier, there would be no prisoners taken here. But he was already committed to this course of action. The realization did not change his decision. Only solidified it. “Get them out of here!” he shouted down to Haul, glancing over to where Spotsley was hauling Eihol, draped over her shoulders as she huffed, trying to hustle across the killing grounds with shotgun in paw. “Keep them safe!” The stallion, understanding, merely nodded, shouldering Duskwing across his back. The Earth pony started away, then took a second to look up at Hellseig, trying to come up with the words. But they never came, and the loader instead nodded before he trotted off, trying to catch up to Spotsley, both of them doing their best to keep their precious cargo from being jostled too badly. Sergeant Hellseig felt tired. Now his crew were away, he was suddenly aware of just how difficult it was to move. He fumbled against the turret, huffing as he tried to blink and get his head together. Tracers chopped past, a few bursts from a minotaur MG. He had to get up there. Protect his crew. “Adelaide…” he muttered, claw fumbling for a handle. “I’m sorry.” With that, he finally found some purchase, hauling himself up onto the top of the turret, rolling over and into the hatch again. Sabine was fully aflame now, but he barely felt the heat. It seemed fitting that both of them die here, to buy time for the others. “Had a good run, didn’t we girl?” he grunted, working the charging handle on the top-mounted MG. Still half a belt left. Good. He didn’t exactly have the ability to reload anymore. But he squeezed the trigger, sending back a response burst. The Asterion troopers immediately refocused fire on him, leaving the battered, retreating crew alone. He couldn’t even see them through the smoke and flames. Just fired in the direction the bullets were coming from. “Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein!” he called out as he fired, remembering the song from the taverns and bars across the Empire. It was a popular song with soldiers at war, who wanted to finally go home. “Und das heißt: Erika!” He chattered off another burst. Not much left in the belt now. But he was beyond caring. He’d done his duty, gone beyond. Fought for the Kaiser in war after war. Now, he was here at the end, he found his regrets heavy in his feathered breast. But they were surmountable. His missing arm hurt. But not as much as he thought. That was a bad sign. He’d likely slip into shock soon. He couldn’t feel the heat from the flames. Also a bad sign. He didn’t care. Overhead, he heard the screaming of engines. And then the rattle of machine guns and the whistle of falling bombs. A massive detonation erupted behind him, a fireball he could perceive even in the smoke. The M11 had indeed come back for the kill. He hoped the blast was the fighter-bombers taking care of it. Wolfheze’s support had come after all. The bombs dropped closer. He closed his eyes. Godspeed indeed. Author's Note Once again, this interlude will be part of a triple section, the last chapter of which will go up next Friday! For those of you unable to line up the date, that should make it April 3rd! I know we’ve all struggled with this pandemic around the world (as can be seen by my work hours and days changing constantly) but I hope I can be a source of entertainment to you all! See you next week!
On the Edge pt 3: ZealJuly 11th, 1011 0015 hours CNS Chrysalis Briefing Room 1st Queen’s Guard Squadron Near Queen’s Island, Changeling Queendom “Close the hatch.” The order was obeyed by the Guardsling, sealing it and standing by with the glowing M39/2 Gewehr cradled in his hooves. With the briefing room now finally secure, Hivemarschall Trimmel Eugen Heydrich Zu Gardis allowed himself to relax at last. He was not technically their commander, though his position as Marschall of the Heer left him in charge of all military assets. He’d used it better than any other before too, as previous generals had been so limited in scope as to owe their loyalty to a single hive. Trimmel had moved past such pleasantries and seized the power Queen Chrysalis had granted him, with the vision of an operational doctrine unparalleled by any, having demonstrated its superiority and efficiency during the invasion of Olenia. Before, it had merely been thought and theory. Now, they called the Olenian Campaign the “Lightning War.” The Briefing Room was set just as he had prepared for the queen and her other top-ranking commanders - to gather one last time to review the invasion plans. It shouldn’t be long now before the queen herself would arrive, and the final order would be set in motion. Trimmel could not help but be excited at the prospect of, at last, executing the schemes so meticulously designed by his more conniving brothers in arms. These consisted of Vaspier, The Great Imperial Nobody, leader of the VOPS and almost his direct counterpart was Hermis Thysbe, the tactical genius. Constantly engaged in their bid to impress their queen would often put them at odds with each other, despite being ordered to work past their differences and obedient as any of her most favoured officers, the combination of their mastery in tactics and strategies led to brilliant results which were also observed in the invasion of Olenia. Trimmel was almost envious of their skill but he was already the Queen’s favourite, and he knew it. He just needed to continue achieving victories, and his position at her right hoof was assured, both figuratively and literally. As he slid into his seat at the side of his Queen’s own, barely suppressing a smirk, the leader of her protection detachment Dieter Heinrich himself took his seat as well, followed by Opteris, his closest confidant. Having been summoned by the other commanders to convene on the Flagship, by far out of all his brothers and sisters in arms the only one Trimmel actually feared due to his silent and imposing demeanour, a changeling of few words and decisive action. The perfect individual to lead the bodyguards of Her Royal Majesty. As if acknowledging his arrival, the Hive Marshal nodded to the Leader of the Queen’s guard who responded in kind. The two had a tense if amiable working relationship, as their duties had intertwined in the last few years. Technically, Trimmel outranked Heinrich, but in practice the Captain of the Queen’s Guard was as much political as military, and there Trimmel dared not try his luck. The Queen’s Guard had been granted a massive expansion in terms of their ranks and equipment, such as their own fleet, armored battalions and air wings. They were, in essence, an army inside an army. The Will of Queen Chrysalis herself. The fact that Dietrich even agreed to Trimmel’s suggestions meant he was interested in at least preserving the peace. Opposing each other would only lead to massive bloodshed on both sides. In short succession the rest of the summoned commanders moved to the table, taking their seats quickly as the low buzz of conversation began to taper off. Vaspier in his humble uniform, a stark contrast to Thysbe’s flamboyant garments and flashy monocle, an odd atmosphere of envy, respect and competition thickening the air between them, the two eyeing one another as if scouting for weaknesses to be exploited. Trimmel snorted wordlessly, and the two commanders glanced his way, seeing the evident displeasure on his face. If there was ever a time they could not be weakened by infighting, it was now. Also seated here was Pharynx, the prodigy that had worked with Trimmel on armored and motorized formation warfare. It had been his suggestion to group panzers into dedicated panzer companies like hunting parties, rather than spread them out to support infantry formations. Ever since, Pharynx had attended every exercise he could, watching with rapt attention as they worked through their experiments and trials, until he was almost as capable as Trimmel himself. With him was the stoic and soft-spoken Lactro Mactans, commander of the elite Jaeger battalions, sharpshooters and urban assault specialists. Loyal to Trimmel, he and Pharynx were the counterpoint to Heinrich and Opteris. At the far end of the table, not given to the factionalism on show, was Actis Pagala, responsible for training and soldier curriculum. She wanted nothing to do with the contest between the Heer and the Queen’s Guard, and had made it a point of stating so. On either side of her was Field Marshal Sinovial and General Thranx, returned from the attaché overseas testing panzer technology and tactics in the Empire. Their time in Griffonia had separated them from the politics in the Queen’s inner circle, and while Sinovial sat back and plotted as he would, Thranx simply looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Two commanders exemplified the most contentious part of this scheming; General Epargy Clarus and his immediate second, newly promoted General Caroline Phymata. A genius combined arms and fire support, it had been Clarus’ idea to break from the old and well established doctrine from the airship age, spiting both Griffonian theory of strategic destruction and Equestrion ideals of tactical bombings and aerial groups, instead advising Trimmel to shift priority to better support his combined arms warfare. The implementation of forward radiolings was Clarus’ masterpiece, providing such accurate and quick coordinates to nearby aircraft to bring such swift and overwhelming support to changeling tanks during the Olenia campaign that soldiers could almost radio the planes onto bunkers and trenchlines just ahead of them, equally as responsible for Trimmel’s revolutionary strategic overhaul of the changeling military as the fast attack tank groups Pharynx had formulated. This experience noted a complete shift in Luftwaffe tactics and training. From the new crop of potentials, Clarus had his pick for immediate successor; Phymata had been a promising motorized commander who had shown great promise over the Olenia campaign, granting her a quick promotion to general and at Clarus’ side. But these two were fickle, easily willing to back Trimmel as they were to side with Heinrich and Vaspier. The Luftwaffe were contentious observers. By far the newest of the three branches, for a long time they had been part of each hive’s army forces. But Equestria’s disruption of established doctrine in 1005 had put the airship out of relevance. Sure, they were useful for securing hives, but a Veppelin was easy pickings for today’s aircraft. After Chrysalis had ordered the wholescale adoption of Imperial Herzland concepts and terminology, this had all changed. The three changelings sitting in a small cluster in different uniforms were an odd bunch. Not quite the warrior type, they had all come from backgrounds in flight, aircraft or meteorology. General Apantesis was the most military of the three, having actually come from the old Lyctida airship corps as a commander. Mantis had worked as a pilot for Fargus Vraksis Aeronatics, and it was thanks to him and his expertise in aircraft technology and corporate structure that they had managed to avoid a long and painful process to get the advanced and modern Luftwaffe they had now, avoiding corporate pitfalls and redundant testing. But Luftmarschall Ceryonis, commander of the Luftwaffe, for all his aggressive bluster and rank, had been a weather scout before, a changeling who flew into storms in enchanted armor to gather information and make predictions. While he was the most aggressive, he was technically an intellectual amongst intellectuals, as many Luftwaffe pilots were. Instead of looking for aggression and skill at arms, Mantis’ suggestion of panning university students and technical experts had paid dividends in the end, resulting in a technologically advanced air arm. The only issue Trimmel had with the Luftwaffe was that as loyal as he knew them to be to the Heer and the Queen, their association with the military-industrial complex and the Queen’s Guard controlled scientists meant he didn’t trust them. Trimmel couldn’t prove it, and he’d be damned if he’d go to Vaspier to investigate, but he knew the Luftwaffe was playing favorites with Vespidae, United Wing Association and Svarm Aircraft. That made them susceptible, and he knew Dietrich didn’t count on the Luftwaffe for anything either. Present but not quite observed were Admirals Lysander and Mimic. The Armada occupied an interesting place in the Imperial military; while every unit in the Heer could trace itself back to one hive or another, the Armada was specifically the domain of Ditrysium hive. Such regionalism as gripped the Heer had no place in a navy, but this left the traditional Lysander and the eclectic Mimic as outsiders in a room full of scheming associates. For the most part, the admirals were just fine with that, refusing to play politics outside of honoring the queen. The only reason they were part of this inner circle was because of the vital necessity of their stations. “She is here,” the Guardsling at the hatch states plainly. His words were not yelled, but even at their soft level it put a hush to any further quiet bickering or conversation, all eyes turned towards the hatch expectantly, waiting with equal parts eagerness, trepidation and fear. Some had more parts than others. Finally, after what felt like an interminably long time, a dull thump sounded against the hatch, followed by two more. The Guardsling pushed forward, unsealing the hatch and standing aside, coming to the stiffest attention and hollering “Her Royal Highness; High Queen Chrysalis!” All hives possessed a queen, a female leader who grew larger and far more powerful than the other members of the hive, who had an innate magnetism to them that other changelings instinctively responded to and superior shapeshifting powers. But even among the queens, High Queen Chrysalis was among the tallest ever hatched. She was dressed in a white dress uniform lined with gold and sporting black crowns at her lapels, a stark and regal contrast to the other changelings who wore grey, black or blue. She dominated the room with her very presence, both thanks to her natural magnetism and her station, head held high as she examined the chamber with sea green eyes. The closest comparison to her shape and status would be an alicorn, though she was of course above those feeble princesses. Her blue mane, once ratty and unkept, was now lustrous and styled, falling in gentle waves around her face, her carapace shining in the low light of the chamber. And she was smiling. Pleased. A good sign. The assembled commanders immediately stood, bowing low to the carpet, their horns all an inch away from connecting with the deck. They held this pose until Chrysalis crossed, unhurried, to her highbacked chair, inspecting it briefly before taking her seat, resplendent as she sat up, examining the generals kowtowing before her. Her bodyguards, members of the Queen’s Guard wearing their pitch black uniforms, gas masks and goggles, took up position on either side, the protection detail of a dozen more storming in, checking the corners and sweeping for bugs and observers, gossamer wings twitching in agitation, M39/2s raised and at the ready. Finally, they stood to ready positions around the chamber, weapons held across the chest, prepared to act in an instant. One of her Guardslings leaned in and whispered something to the queen, who nodded. “You may rise,” she finally declared, and as one her inner circle did just that, returning to their seats in absolute silence. She waited for them to take their seats, the faintest hint of a barely concealed smirk present on her lips. Yes, she was in a very good mood tonight. “So, we are here,” she said after the commanders had all sat. “Alicorn Sunset. Years of planning, preparation and buildup. What a marvelous time. Much of our future hangs in the balance of this plan. So let us review our status before we proceed.” This was the most important moment in these briefings with the queen. Whoever spoke first would get her undivided attention. Then, as so often happened in military briefings that dragged on, she tended to become less interested in the minute details. Trimmel normally stepped in to handle those, but he knew that getting the highlights out first would be crucial. But they couldn’t be seen to have rushed to speak. That would make them look desperate. So, Trimmel stayed silent as Vaspier stood, giving a short bow before proceeding. “VOPS operatives embedded in crucial places will begin their strikes in the next two hours unless we send the termination signal, Your Highness. We have targeted mustering points and airbases in Canterlot, Phillydelphia, Manehattan, Mariposa, Vanhoover, Baltimare, Crystal City and a few others besides.” “Not Acornage itself?” Chrysalis asked airily, as if she hadn’t been briefed on this operation by Trimmel personally, listening to changes and giving her input and orders from on high. “No, Your Highness. The Equestrian defense line is incomplete and poorly manned. From what we can tell, most of the garrison are National Guard and Reservist units, with some air wings in support. The core of the professional forces are held further East, closer to Ponyville and Canterlot. Royal Guard units are exclusively stationed in key major cities like Canterlot, Los Pegasus, Ponyville, Manehattan and Crystal City. We want to keep them there as long as possible, so we have avoided stirring up trouble in the west.” Chrysalis nodded in approval, gesturing for Vaspier to continue, which he eagerly did with aplomb, shooting a smug look at a very annoyed Thysbe. “King Sombra has worked his way north with his infiltration company. Jaegers are standing by to sabotage communications on the Sneig Line. The confusion will make it easier for him to work. We’ll be hearing more from them at a later time.” “What are our chances of catching the Prince-Consort?” Chrysalis queried, intelty focusing on Vaspier’s face, her eyes emitting a short glow. The VOPS commander grimaced before swallowing and schooling his features. Thysbe smirked in revenge, knowing Vaspier would see how the tables had turned for his rival. “Very small, Your Highness. Prince-Consort Shining Armor is constantly surrounded by his Royal Guard. Hoofpicked bodyguards, associates he knows personally. He won’t fall for our usual embedding tactics.” “I see…” Chrysalis drawled, clearly disappointed. “Another time, then.” Vaspier, clearly glad to be finished, hurriedly bowed and retook his seat, his previous confidence erased. Trimmel decided this would be the time to save him, and nodded at Pharynx, who stood and bowed. “Your Highness, we have seventy divisions in position to storm the border, with a hundred more at secondary staging points. The attack will stretch from the Crystal Empire to Seaddle.” Pharynx’s voice was gruff, to the point. He’d never liked debating small issues, much like Chrysalis herself. This endeared the young commander to the queen, and with her favor and Trimmel’s tutelage combined with a natural aptitude for combat and a powerful shapeshifting ability, he had risen swiftly up the ranks. But his impatience was a flaw Trimmel had tried to temper out, to little avail thus far. Given his seniority, Thysbe should rightfully have been the one to define the operation, as he was not only higher ranking than the younger Pharynx, but he had also worked with Trimmel extensively on its planning and execution. But Thysbe understood that right now, Pharynx was the rising star. It was time to show off their protege, their newest little brother. “Sixteen of those are dedicated armored divisions, stationed in key areas to affect maximum breakthrough. Once through enemy fortifications, they’ll sweep around to eliminate crucial areas such as supply yards, communications, command posts, repair yards, airfields and so on. We have them placed so that if any of the infantry or motorized divisions meets heavy resistance, at least two armored units can be routed to pincer the target at any time. Our goal is to outmass and outnumber Equestrian armor by a factor of three-to-one in the majority of engagements. Reserve divisions are waiting for the initial breach and the line extending to move into positions. We’ve received a good amount of reinforcements from the Olenian Protectorate...less from the Northern one.” “What is our first target, General?” Chrysalis purred, clearly favoring Pharynx’s commentary. As if reading it straight off a piece of paper, he immediately began rattling off “Acornage must fall first. It is a place of hardened resistance where the border force will focus on using. The structures can be turned into bunkers and the layout gives them roads to bring in reinforcements and supplies. Once Acornage falls, we can turn the city to our own use, and Jagers can use it to secure the countryside.” Trimmel glanced to Mactans, who nodded back coolly, his own expression sculpted from marble. Ever the consummate professional, Mactans would turn Acornage into his forward base of operations for his troops, sweeping the countryside to link with the embedded infiltrators. “After that, Vanhoover. The garrison there is deployed to the fringes of the city. If we can overtake them there, we can sweep the urban areas in less than a week. We move on from there to Tall Tale and Mariposa. Those will have to be taken before Luna can dispatch troops to hold their fallback fortifications. If we can seize those quickly, we can build a firm position on the northwest. Our estimates predict Sombra will likely have picked up enough turncoat divisions to take over the front in the Crystal Empire, but we’ll have to wait and see.” Trimmel smirked to himself. Pharynx had come a long way under his tutelage. Now with both he and Trimmel himself gaining the queen’s favor, they just had to focus on the war. And so the meeting went on. For the next half hour, Alicorn Sunset was carefully laid out. Trimmel was surprised by how long the queen retained her focus, latching on to each commander in sequence and asking follow up questions. Even if she knew the answers already, her goal was clearly to test her generals, make sure they were ready. Cercyonis’ air groups were coordinated, ensuring swift aerial superiority, the Armada would strike from Hjortland and engage the Lunar Fleet while Mimic’s cruiser subs delayed the Celestial Fleet and sunk shipping. Olenian volunteers were being gathered to storm the fortifications, and polar bear shock battalions dispatched to the Crystal Empire. This operation clearly was critical to Chrysalis, and the longer the briefing went on, the more intense the glow in her eyes. Finally, Chrysalis held up a hoof, halting Sinovial in the middle of a talk about what he had learned from the Reichsarmee and how it could be applied to the campaign. Some eyes had begun to wander as the meeting had lengthened, but in the sudden silence all attention was fixed back on the queen. The battleship’s ambient noise was deafening as everyling held their breaths. “We are prepared,” Chrysalis announced, glancing over her shoulder at the chamber’s clock. “In a short time, we will be at war. I want you all to issue what orders you need to start over radio as soon as you leave this room. Then board planes and return to your posts as soon as creaturely possible.” She slowly scanned the room, looking each commander in the eye, holding their gaze one after another. “We have the best trained, best equipped and most numerous army in Equus.” Here, she looked to Actis, who both blushed and nodded firmly in affirmation, clearly taken by the brief attention her queen showed. Chrysalis smiled back before she returned to her oratory. “Our theories and designs are proven by experienced advisors. We have the initiative, and we have the motivation. Today will be the day history records as the day we stepped forward into revenge.” She raised a hoof, declaring “I hereby proclaim the Age of Pax Chrysalia! Let us sound a war that will not end until our glory stretches across the continent! We will forge an empire to last an eternity, and it will start in Canterlot’s ashes!” So taken by her sudden speech, the other commanders, Trimmel included, threw their own hooves in the air, proclaiming “PAX CHRYSALIA!” From their tone, Trimmel could tell their eagerness was honest. His certainly was. “You have your orders!” his queen declared, standing as her Guardsmen quickly formed up around her. “Do NOT fail me. Now go! And we do not stop until we reach the Celestial Sea!” [/hr] 0207 hours Wild Lands, northwest of Acornage 8th Motor-Infanterie Divisione Plan “Alicorn Sunset” The time had come. And he was afraid. According to international law and the stipulations of the Treaty of Canterlot, they weren’t supposed to be this close to Equestria. The Wild Lands garrison had strict limits placed on its size and allotted equipment, which had been subtly defied for the past few years. But all subtlety had gone out the door when they had moved a massive amount of divisions to the borderlands. While the ponies themselves were stupid, their precious Princess Luna was not. The forces assembled before them were lacking in terms of training and equipment, not even full-time professionals from the briefings they had received. But they did still oppose them. Lars Zarek held his weapon close, clutching the rifle for dear life as the Open Blitz truck rumbled and shook. They had marshalled from their staging ground swiftly, told they were going to make history by their captain. Then they had piled into their vehicles, escorted by armored cars and backed by panzers. A short race across the countryside and here they were. And he shook, not just from the bucking of the truck over the rough dirt road, but from the fear in his carapace. But Queen Chrysalis’ speeches had always said this was not a time for fear. This was a time for action, and revenge. He loved listening to her speeches on the radio. She had been what gave him comfort after he received his conscription notice, leaving his construction job to take up arms for the Queendom. So he swallowed his fear as best he could, going through the steps as his gossamer wings fluttered in the wind pelting them. He checked his Gewehr 7, made sure it was loaded. He touched the bayonet at his belt, found his ammunition pouch full of reloads, his canteen. All present. Just for good luck, he touched his helmet. Across the truck from him, Private Nera, a squadmate rifleling of his, smiled in assurance, knowing better than to try and talk while all this noise was happening. But everyling’s nerves were hot right now. They dealt with it in different ways, whether through prayer, checking equipment as Zarek had done or working themselves into a fury. But this first action would see some of them dead, and they knew it. He could hear the artillery already. Guns in the distance thundered, shells whistling overhead before detonating on the far side of the river, a constant drumroll that seemed to have no pause. Nebelwerfers screamed, rockets streaming by and lighting up the sky. He couldn’t see the tactical bombers in the cloudy night sky, but the terrifying screech of the Vs.87 Stukas diving on their targets, cannons thumping before dropping their bombs with frightening accuracy, could all be heard over the din. Return fire arced in, far less frequently but with startling accuracy. The truck swerved around the wreck of a Panzer II, alight and burning, it's crew bailing out. Ahead, a pair of Wespe gun carriages fired on targets across the River too distant for Zarek to see, already surrounded by a small mountain of spent shells. Anti-aircraft fire poured out of Acornage, filling the sky with flak tracers. Now, with the light from explosions, he -could- see the bombers, at least a dozen and probably more raining bombs down on the city. The Blitz swerved to a halt, just short of the river. Behind and around them, more trucks pulled away from the road, slewing to stop and offload their precious cargo. Some, like Zarek’s were open-topped to let the troops shoot back (as if they’d hit anything) whilst others had their canvas flaps thrown back. A stream of changelings in grey uniforms poured out, weapons held close as they moved forward. Shots popped and chattered from a multi-story brick building across the river, slapping down several black carapaced soldiers. A changeling with an MG42 deployed her bipod, the loader immediately picking up the belt as she sent a stream of return fire at the building, sounding more like someone ripping canvas in quick succession than individual gunshots. Mortars began popping nearby, and in the city more explosions thumped dully. “Soldiers of the Queendom!” called out Zarek’s lieutenant, addressing the platoon sheltering behind the trucks. “You have the honor to execute your queen’s will! First squad, advance on the bridge and provide supporting fire from the head! Second squad, prepare to advance over to the other bank behind the armor! Third and fourth squads, I need you to fly over and assault that structure!” The lieutenant waved as the sergeants immediately began bellowing orders, giving assignments to individual soldiers. “Forwards! The history books will write about this day!” Zarek gulped nervously. He was in fourth squad, and now he’d just been handed the most dangerous assignment there was for a changeling soldier; exposing oneself by flying in the open while automatic weapons fired around you. No matter how fast a changeling, pony or griffon was, a bullet was always faster. The only virtue would be they’d be moving so fast, they’d be difficult targets. Hopefully. They hunkered down, watching as the first elements rolled in. Panzer IIIs took lead, machine gun rounds raining onto their armored hides and whining away, mortars popping dully on their plates as the tanks moved over the bridge. One fired its cannon, and a cloud of debris appeared on an apartment building. Behind them came the halftracks, their armored walls sheltering the infantry huddling inside. Behind -them- went second squad, almost hugging the ground as they advanced, weapons slung at the flank-ready so they could move on all fours. “First squad, open fire!” came a shout, and from around the friendly bridgehead changelings rose and leveled their weapons, Gewehrs popping as fast as their users could crank the bolt, MP10s chattering in bursts. Another MG42 position, properly deployed now, added the blistering tearing noise of its fire, green tracers sending a shower of rounds towards the same apartment building. “Fourth squad!” yelled Sergeant Rakowitz, waving a hoof as he held his MP10 at the ready. “Up and over!” As one, the ten members of fourth squad rose and, after a short sprint to clear of any obstacles, stretched their wings and took off, wings buzzing. Behind them, third squad followed into their chaos above their heads. As they rose, Zarek could see the levels of the apartment building on the far side both getting closer and falling away under him. Below, the bridge was still taking fire as the Queendom’s forces pushed into the opposite beachhead. One of the Panzers was abruptly speared by a shell, detonating spectacularly in a fireball as the ammunition and fuel went up, fiery shrapnel raining against the hull of the halftrack behind it as the soldiers dismounted. Now he was above, Zarek spotted an Equestrian machine gunner huddling behind a wall of sandbags on a third floor balcony gawking as he paused, the words he muttered in exclamation lost to the noise and distance. Others, however, were not so slow on the take. As the squads rose above the roofline, Zarek’s heart chilled in his thorax. Mounted on top of the apartment building, firing on the passing Stukas, was a 40mm AA mount, surrounded by sandbags and ammo cans. Pony loaders were slamming a new cylinder in place as the spotter immediately brought down her binoculars, hollering a command at the gunnery crew and pointing frantically at the oncoming changeling fliers. Immediately, they cranked the gun around to line up on the incoming infantrylings, and the gun thundered, deafeningly loud as each shell roared past. The ones that missed still resulted in clouds of flak detonating behind them as the timers ran out, flashing and blinding the changelings. The ones that hit, however, left little to nothing but ragged chunks of meat, scraps of uniform and metal shrapnel. Fortunately, the gunners only had seconds before the lings were over, fifteen soldiers quickly and brutally slamming into the ponies on the roof. Zarek leveled his rifle as soon as he landed, putting a round into the forehead of the spotter as she scrambled for her rifle. Korporal Malkarion fired his MP10 at a unicorn, but a purple bubble abruptly popped into existence, deflecting the barrage. It wasn’t as effective against Private Anchetta who fitted her bayonet and speared the unicorn in the ribs. After a moment of violence, the rooftop was cleared, and Zarek snapped his rifle around as the lack of hostiles perplexed him a moment, though he still felt the shudder of fear in his wings. “Secure the area!” Sergeant Rakowitz called, glancing around. The gunnery crew hadn’t put up much fight on the actual roof, but two changelings still lay dead, not to mention the five or six the gun had burst in midair on the way over. One of them was Sergeant Tetch, leader of third squad. In this small bubble amidst the storm, as artillery pounded the city and the changeling advance pressed the bridgehead, Zarek had a moment to check his surroundings. They had the gun, and the only way off this roof (structurally, at least) was a hatch door in the roof leading down a flight of stairs. He could see his squadmates, his friends, still alive as well. Nera, Anchetta, Malkarion, Vorle and Malket. But aside from him and Rakowitz, that meant they had lost three. His heart sunk in his shell as he realized Goran, Vess and Xander must have been some of the victims of the 40mm, obliterated without trace. He didn’t know any of third squad by heart, though he must have heard their names at least a few dozen times. Rakowitz appeared to come to some decisions, gesturing towards the gun. “Third squad, secure this rooftop. Get on that gun, burn through the pony ammo. Get some support out there. Janar, Yan, you’re coming with us.” The two other soldiers Rakowitz pointed out stepped over immediately, and fourth squad moved to the staircase. As they did so, Zarek heard the cranking of the gun assembly, and he looked back. The remnants of third squad had figured the crank wheels easily enough, and were wheeling the 40mm gun down, targeting another building nearby. This one looked like a shop turned into a bunker, several machine gun nests in windows and infantry hunkering behind sandbags as they fired on more changelings attempting to cross another bridge further downriver. Zarek could only watch, following the muzzle of the cannon as it let out a sharp crack, much louder than when they’d been facing it. A shell streaked out, smashing into the adjacent store-bunker, blowing out the facade and rending whoever was sheltering there in flames. The gunners didn’t let up, firing the gun on full auto and raking the shop back and forth. “Clear this apartment out, room by room!” Sergeant Rakowitz shouted, urging his soldiers on, calling Zarek back to the fight. Fourth squad streamed down the stairs, doors kicked down and weapons chattering. Caught by surprise from a direction they weren’t expecting, the Royal Army troopers were cut down as the changeling soldiers took revenge for their squadmates. It was a butchery. Though they were outnumbered, the din and chaos of battle covered their movements for two whole floors, and they caught the Equestrians by surprise. Zarek found himself almost losing his sense to the downright repetitive nature of the action. Open door, kill ponies inside, move on. They only found soldiers. Intel had told them the city was previously evacuated, so they instead killed infantrymares, machine gunners, a few officers once in a while, a radio room at one point. There must have been a whole platoon holed up here. About the third floor was when the Equestrians caught on that something was wrong. Zarek shouldered open a door, finding himself face to face with a whole rifle section leveling their Lavender rifles, a Nickers MG turned and facing the door. Zarek felt time slow down as he tried to reverse, feeling Anchetta run into his backside, knowing at least three soldiers were behind them. Abruptly, the connecting door also flew open, and Privates Vorle and Malket burst in from an adjoining room. For a split second, the whole room was caught in a freezeframe before the two newcomers leveled the MG42 they had been hauling and cut the Equestrians down where they stood. The machine gun spit a curtain of brass to the side as the apartment was drowned in blood, bullet holes and tatters of green uniforms. Zarek, to his credit, had dove to the side, and now was just trying to hunker down and not get hit by friendly fire. In the aftermath, the silence was deafening. His ears were ringing as he tried to get his bearings back to himself, tasting the gunpowder and copper of the blood in the air. Ahead, he could see the lifeless corpses of the ponies, piled over on one another, their uniforms stitched across with ugly, red bullet holes. At point blank range like this, the machine gun rounds had blown out ugly exit wounds the size of a hoof, and the ones who had been shot in the head or face had been mutilated almost beyond recognition. Zarek’s breath hitched, and he felt himself wheezing as he stared down at a red Earth pony whose wide, lifeless eyes stared back, wide and surprised at the suddenness of his fate. After what felt an eternity, he felt someling shaking him, calling his name. “Zarek? Hey, Zarek! C’mon, snap out of it!” He managed to pull himself back enough to recognize the voice; Nera, crouched over him and shaking his shoulder, calling his name. The others must have assumed him dead. She pushed him again, and he finally came back to the present. “Huh? What?” he finally asked dumbly. “C’mon! We still have the other floors to clear!” She turned, having snapped her squadmate back before glancing back from the doorframe, frowning. “You wounded?” Zarek dumbly patted himself down, looking for green ichor. For the time being, nothing appeared to be leaking out of himself, and the only injury he had appeared to sustain was his ringing ears and some bruising to his carapace when he’d thrown himself down. Dazed, he shook his head. “Then let’s go!” Nera yelled. “There’s still a whole city left to take!” She left, and Zarek was alone with the dead. He turned, trying to ignore the corpses, and looked out the window behind the Nickers gun. Out in the street intersection, Acornage was on fire. Every building appeared to have sustained damage from the bombardment overhead, from afar and now in the streets, parked cars crushed, turned over or on fire. He could see bodies from here. Some wore uniforms, some didn’t. He tried not to let that stick in his mind. An Equestrian tank clattered into view, one of their newer ones if he remembered from the briefing. A Timberwolf? It didn’t get far. As it took up position to cover the Royal Army ponies behind, a Panzer III also came into view from the direction of the bridgehead the changelings had crossed over. Much more quickly, the turret swivelled around, and its cannon boomed. The Timberwolf rocked, then detonated in a massive fireball, killing many of the ponies nearby and setting several on fire. Halftracks, trucks and changelings on hoof rolled past the Panzer, machine guns blasting as they took on building after building. Further down, an Equestrian barricade began spitting machine gun and rifle rounds at the oncoming horde. Mortar fire began falling on the intersection. Changeling artillery boomed in the background as Nebelwerfer rockets screamed by. Someling was -actually- screaming nearby. The ground cracked and rumbled before a massive shape broke through the intersection, the form of a tunneling wormlike creature erupting from the asphalt. A battleshifter, in the form of a massive Thrax worm. The ling was an exceptionally powerful one, as whoever they were turned, their armored face swinging down to examine the panicking pony soldiers below. A Humber armored car clumsily tried to reverse, the gunner firing up at the shifter despite the rounds visibly bouncing off the chitin plating. With almost contemptible ease, the shifter put a huge, armored mandible through the top of the car, spearing it through like paper. Zarek reached down, grabbing up his Gewehr and scrambling after his squad. It took a few more nightmarish hours, and the leveling of half the city, but Acornage finally fell. Dawn arose on a shattered landscape and a changeling army triumphant. The Royal Army had put up much stiffer resistance than expected. While Acornage had fallen in the end, the cost was high. Fourth squad were assigned to mop up detail, moving through the streets to be taken the last few shreds of resistance down or in. They’d come away with plenty of POWs, headed back into the Changeling Lands for detainment. Zarek glanced at the houses they passed, rifle slung over his flank. Many of their fronts had been shattered by cannon fire or flattened by shells, rockets and bombs. The ones still standing were pockmarked by bullet holes, their windows shattered and doors splintered down. One had the wreck of an Equestrian Muletilda tank that had driven through the living room before it had been destroyed. The nature of these homes perplexed Zarek. In hives, residences were built into huge blocks, where hundreds of rooms could be packed in, housing thousands of changelings. But these homes looked like they could hold, maybe, a dozen ponies each. Some were larger, two story affairs. Confusingly, the number of bedrooms per home that he had seen told that the average pony home usually held two to four ponies, a rare few holding more. This seeming waste of space was alien to him, the fact that a city could cover so much ground and yet they seemed to purposefully limit themselves in how many could be in it. Zarek knew he was trying to distract himself from the Royal Army pony and Queendom changeling corpses they passed in masses, some in piles as POW work crews and changeling engineers labored to clear the city. He also knew it wasn’t working. Hauptman Nihilith had joined them on this sweep. It was the task of officers to learn from their ranks as much as from the lowers to seek their officers’ leadership, after all. He had taken the head of the file with Radowitz, their heads leaned in close as they conversed quietly. They hadn’t run into any more active combatants quite yet, mostly a few soldierponies that had surrendered when faced with a dozen changeling gunbarrels. The squad was uneasy, but at least they weren’t being shot at. Zarek leaned over to Nera, glancing around at the silent neighborhood before he quietly said “I guess that could have gone worse.” In all honesty, he was just trying to make conversation, but Nera didn’t seem too interested in engaging, just nodded as she followed along, occasionally scanning her surroundings. Zarek wasn’t sure how to react to that, as he himself was unsure of how to process their surroundings either. They turned another corner, two lines down the middle of the street. Ahead was what he assumed to be a public park of some kind, where a statue bust of Princess Celestia topped a fountain, surrounded by colder friendly shrubbery and benches. Whatever kind of idyllic scene it was supposed to paint was spoiled by one house having been smashed by a Queendom Stuka, its bent and beaten tail fins poking out of the wreckage, as well as most of the few civilian cars having been smashed aside or crushed by passing tanks. A few Equestrian battalions had managed to escape from the city, and in their rush they had clearly left with little regard to what was in their way. A handful of Queen’s Guard were clustered around the fountain, inspecting the bust statue. With little warning, one of them disappeared in a flash of green, and the massive Thrax worm emerged instead, its tail knocking aside another car. With a swing of a huge mandible, the statue disappeared in a cloud of debris, sending chunks raining down around the fountain. Without fanfare, the Queen’s Guardlings inspected the chunks, making sure there was nothing left to recognize. Upon confirming the statue’s destruction, they unceremoniously loaded into the back of a nearby idling halftrack, the battleshifter retaking his previous form. Hauptman Nihilith moved to the front of the squad, calling them close. “This is necessary,” the captain declared, gesturing to the destroyed statue as he tugged irritatingly at a gauge bandage covering his neck, from under which a small leak of green ichor could still be seen. “For this war, destroying the enemy’s material and killing their soldiers will not be enough. To defeat them, we must crush their fighting spirit, and any symbols they rally around.” He gestured to the cityscape in the distance, the columns of smoke and the changeling aircraft still flying overhead. “Our brave comrades gave a heavy toll for this place. It is the first step. The most difficult. But more important than the first is making sure we fight just as hard for the second. And the next. And the next. Look to your fellows. Your platoonmates went above and beyond sustaining such losses and taking up the enemy gun. They’ll be decorated for such bravery. Many of you can earn such awards. Thousands of changelings were killed, wounded or disappeared this day. So now, you have your own, personal reasons for revenge. To match that of our nation, and our queen. Do NOT let them die in vain.” With that, the Hauptman turned away, and the squad resumed their sweep for stragglers. Zarek supposed they had little time for ceremony. After all; they had an invasion schedule to keep. Author's Note After months of hiatus and absence, we are back! My apologies to everyone. I, as everyone else, have had to make radical adjustments to deal with the pandemic and chaos in the world this year. Eventually, the work and stress became too much, and it almost looked like I was to lose my job. For everyone coming back, we welcome you with open arms. For those who have left and gone to other stories, I understand. For the new people, welcome to the warzone! The journey continues on!
A Prayer for the LostJuly 13th, 1011 1643 hours Great Temple of Boreas Imperial District, Griffenheim Most of the rest of the day, the Great Temple was packed to bursting with worshippers. Those who had assembled for morning mass and pilgrims who had made the journey from all over to visit the holy site. Griffenheim was one of three of the most visited places in Griffonia, next to the city of Romau and the almost ruined city of Griffonstone. Thanks to its center on the Griffking River and the connection to Feathisian ports, worshippers of Boreas, Arcturius and Eyr came the world over from even as far as distant Zebrica. Boer griffs and Imperial zebras who traveled this far would be greeted to the massive holy structure alongside the more mundane crowds who flocked from the surrounding countryside, such as Strawberry, Feathisia, Katerin, Bronzehill and Yale. Even those territories newly restored in the Grenzwald Frontier such as Lushi, Hellquill and Brodfeld were returning in massive numbers now the Imperial garrisons and newly restored roads assured safe travel. They flew, they drove, they walked, by wing, machine or leg. Still, they came. Now, this late in the day, the Temple was much more empty. Most of the crowd thinned out by noontime, and then the afternoon worshippers came in for a short while. But on this lazy day, the Archon had already retired home, and the priests remaining were mostly content with their duties and taking care of the few worshippers who came in. As such, when the massive, open double doors were graced by two more figures, not many raised their eyes. It was almost evening, after all. They’d come in small pockets, but never more than a clawful. Margot Duskwing swallowed, glancing around as she tugged at her collar, smoothing the pleats in her dress. Clad in her finest clothes for worship, (admittedly still rather plain) she had come here with a purpose in mind. While the district of Industrie had its own temple to Arcturius, the prayer she was going to ask felt much, much heavier with recent events. And she felt it only fitting to finally come to the grandest place of worship in the Imperial City. She hadn’t been here since she was a chick, so many years ago. She had married Stefan in Strawberry, at his father’s vineyard. And her entire life, she had been content with the local temple, as had her own parents. But now, her only son was so often at risk, and lost in his own soul and misery. No, if anything, this felt long overdue. Sophie was quiet at her side as the two paced into the depths of the temple. Dressed in her own temple clothes, her wings twitched in agitation, mirroring her mother. She understood why they were here. Margot felt it only appropriate to explain to her before they arrived, so they spoke as few words as needed in the presence of the gods. They approached the front, where the three great altars stood. While the Great Temple was proclaimed in Boreas’ name, king of the gods and greatest of the three, as the Empire had grown it had taken altars of the other gods, and now stood as a united place of the three Archons of the Gods. Only two other places in the Empire were more holy; the temple city of Romau and the holy land of Griffonstone, now unfortunately left to decay and ruin. Blessings for the nation were proclaimed here, Emperors crowned, crusades declared. She felt almost like an intruder, treading where she was unwelcome. The long, empty pews almost echoed, the shadows almost hiding them. The Great Temple had electric lights, but the pews themselves were lit by candles from massive chandeliers overhead. This late in the day, with such sluggish activity, the very back pews hadn’t been lit by the acolytes for some time, though they would be reignited for evening worship. The few creatures here, at present, were closer up. Sophie looked up, and up, and up high above her head. Above the altars was the Great Seal of Boreas, an ancient stained glass window centuries old, through which the dying light gently filtered in, orange, red, blue and green. This was possibly the largest structure she’d ever been inside in her life. It could fit their apartment, her school, her temple and the corner shop she liked to frequent with her friends all at once inside its cavernous depths. To the eleven year old formel, it was both awe-inspiring and rather terrifying. She moved closer to her mother unconsciously, her wings almost extending fully as she beheld how high up the ceiling was, stretching away on massive pillars. Above them, empty for now, were the elevated pews for the nobility, where aristocrats could worship on their own level, literally looking down on the commoner crowd. At the moment, acolytes quietly cleaned the noble seats, preparing for tonight’s prayers. Something appeared to stir in the shadows behind one of the columns, and her feathers bristled, eyes wide as she swore she spotted a figure, black on black moving in the gloom. She blinked, trying to focus, but whatever it had been, whoever it had been, was gone. “Sophie,” Margot quietly chided, but the rebuke had no heat, and Sophie quietly folded her wings back up again without a word, the shadow forgotten. The other worshippers were a motley collection. Maybe a dozen or so, scattered through the pews. A dog, a soldier by the look of his uniform, sat quietly off to the side, muttering litanies under his breath as he held his cap in his lap. Two griffs on the other side quietly held a photograph, the female silently sobbing. Margot had seen enough grieving parents to recognize the sight. At the front, a priest quietly talked with a young couple, explaining that no, they couldn’t arrange their wedding here at the Great Temple as aristocrats had reserved the rest of the open time between worship and holidays for the next five years. While the formel seemed disappointed but accepting, the drake was extremely unpleasant, almost as if he would start fuming in the next second. But before he could, an imposing shape stepped out of the shadows behind the priest, saying nothing but quietly conveying his presence. Clad in ornate, gold-trimmed black plate armor, the Temple Guard silently said the message; if you cause a disturbance, you will be thrown out. The drake wilted upon seeing the blank and emotionless visor, quietly saying something to his fiancee and both turning and leaving as fast as politeness would allow. Sophie glanced back in time to see both griffons take wing and fly away as soon as they were out the double doors. The priest turned back, looking tired and exasperated. He glanced Margot and Sophie up and down, appearing to consider something before he held up a claw, gesturing them forward. Almost embarrassed after seeing that display, the two females approached. “You remind me of somegriff, Frau. Have we met before?” “Er, no Pfaffer,” Margot admitted. “I only came here once about thirty years ago.” “Ah,” the priest replied, realizing his mistake. “My apologies. I see so many in a day, I mix up beaks and crests.” He smiled over at Sophie before returning his attention to her mother. “So, is there anything I can do for you today then, mein kinde?” “Well, Pfaffer…” Margot paused, suddenly feeling rather foolish and having to resist the urge to simply walk out of this great, grand holy place with her issue, but she forged on. “My son is in the 41st Panzergrenadier. He came back after the end of the Herzland War a bit, well...broken. He was drinking, brawling, arguing. He seemed lost in his life, and miserable. And then he was activated over the New Year to go east with the Grenzwald Expeditionary Force. He writes to me all the time, but I can’t help to worry. I lost his father when he was but a youth and Sophie just a hatchling. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my son too.” “I’m so sorry,” the priest responded almost instantly, and unlike other platitudes she had heard, Margot could see the honesty behind his eyes. “I was with the 41st myself. I was supposed to shepherd the souls of the soldiers in Griefenmarsch. But when the Herzland War happened I…” He paused, considering. How much had the son told the mother? And the child there too? But after a moment, he pressed on. “The things I saw on campaign...I followed behind the troops of course. But the devastation left in their wake. And the things I heard in confession and in the aide stations. Believe me, I completely understand your worry. But Boreas watches over all his children. If he has decided it is not yet your son’s time, Boreas will not let Maar take him.” “I understand, Pfaffer. But I didn’t come all this way to hear that again. Please, can you...can you give my son a blessing? To watch over him?” The priest looked taken aback, glancing between mother and daughter. Margot Duskclaw looked, if not desperate, certainly very agitated, wings twitching and her expression both determined and strained. Sophie reached out, gently setting her own claw on her mother’s shoulder, a gesture she was clearly used to carrying out. Remarkable, for a formel so young. She was, perhaps, eleven years old? In any case, she was far too young to be the supporting one in the family. “Well...I understand your need to keep your son safe, mein kinde. But I cannot bless him if he is not here.” He paused, a realization coming to his mind. No, a revelation. “What is your son’s name, exactly?” The mother slowly blinked, as if the thought had never occurred to tell the priest. As if working through the reasons she shouldn’t she seemed to slowly come around to accepting the fact that, no she hadn’t said it and yes she probably should. He could see the resolve in her eyes. She hadn’t come all the way to the holiest place in Griffenheim just to admit defeat and leave. “Vise-Korporal Cyril Duskwing, Pfaffer.” At that moment, Andreas Bronzeclaw realized this was no simple coincidence to bring her here to his temple, at this time and place. This kind of meeting could only have been steered by the gods themselves. “Frau Duskwing...I think I -can- do something after all.” It took a few minutes and the coordination of two other priests there with him, but Andreas grouped all the current worshippers into the same two pews. For a moment, Margot Duskclaw and her daughter were confused, even a little embarrassed. But only a few introductions cleared things up. Sergeant Dober had returned from the Northern Front short of several squadmates. After a term in hospital and a nervous breakdown, he was attempting to find his confidence through faith before he rotated back to the Legion. The Greyfeathers had lost both daughter and son during the Herzland War. Anna Dawntalon was praying for her husband, newly wed only for him to ship out with the Gebirgsjager to the Grenzwald. He and several squadmates had gone missing two weeks ago. Helga Grimwing, a Vollstrecker returned from the east, had come to confess her burdens and alleviate her worries. It was the only way she could continue to carry out her duty with a clear conscience. Three more griffs and a pony were Kaiserliche Marine sailors, those who had taken the time on shore leave to journey this far, fearing for the war all in the west could see coming on the horizon, especially for the naval forces. A few assorted civilians, not associated with the military but still sympathetic to the griffs in arms, clustered in as well. And with the first two pews full around Margot and Sophie, they all bowed their heads as Andreas stood at the front, claws in the air. “Gods above, we beg your ear this day.” “Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the two other priests with him and the assorted worshippers muttered, claws and paws clasped in front of their chests. “Boreas alium, hoc oro maiestatem tuam.” “We gather to ask for your grace, might and benevolence as we pray on behalf of our brothers, sisters, sons, daughters and friends in danger. We who are unworthy of your favor, yet you grant it to us anyway.” “Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the group repeated. “Arcturius nos obsecro te sapientiam.” “We pray for Kalvin Hund, Hans Dawntalon, Gunter and Idris Greyfeather, Cyril Duskwing and so many more taken up arms to keep up safe and spread your glory. For the ones who have been lost to Maar, we ask your protection for their souls. For those only missing from our sight, we ask your deliverance to safety. And for those still doing their duty, in danger or about to be, we beg thee to extend your wings and shield them from misfortune. Spare them their suffering and end, they who shelter us here at home. And bring them home to us, so they may join us in praising your glory.” “Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the group said one last time. “Eyr, et postulantes gratiam tui.” Andreas brought his claws down, making the sign across his chest of the almighty Boreas, then Arcturus, then Eyr, his movements mirrored by the priests. A silent minute followed, in which the assorted prayed for their loved ones lost, still in the field or even their own souls. A prayer for the lost, for them to finally be found. Finally, Andreas Bronzeclaw raised his head, quietly addressing his assembly. “Respice in servos tuos nos orare. Te rogamus audi nos hodie nobis de fide tres orationes nostrae. Amen.” She went off by herself, afterwards. The rest of the worshippers talked amongst themselves after the prayer. But in her case, it was time to go. She took her greatcoat from the rack by the door, tugging it on over shoulders and wings. The Great Temple would likely be filled with worshippers for evening service soon, singing hymns and muttering litanies. But she wasn’t one for the large services, preferring to get her business with the gods done quickly and alone, more personally. She didn’t need priests shouting blessings, choirs in the wings and an organ. Better to make it a one on one conversation, in her opinion. Griffenheim was quiet beyond the temple fence. Even here, early evening meant griffs were about to get off work in the factories and offices, go home to eat dinner, and plenty would come here after. The scene along the boulevards was gentle right now, strange in this city. Shop windows spilling the glow from their inner lights onto the avenues outside. Traffic on the street was sparse, the occasional automobile passing by the Temple gates. Some of the vehicles were trucks, carrying cargo towards Industrie or away from it to the rest of the city, and even beyond. Occasionally, one of the more elaborate and expensive models passed, all shiny metals and bright filigree with tinted glass displaying status to all around that an aristocrat or Industrierat business griff sat inside. Sometimes, it was a staff car belonging to an officer in the Imperial Guard or the Reichswehr. Airplanes, both commercial and military flew above the laborious cargo airships along the skyline, interspersed by small clusters of flying creatures. In the distance, she could hear one of the great trains leaving Industrie, to begin the laborious process of taking cargo across the Empire from one of the largest trainyards in Griffonia. The Imperial City’s heartbeat, forever clanking and clattering at the heart of the glorious Kaiserreich, fuelled by its Marches and vassals, and oiled by the blood and sweat of its citizens. She plucked a cigarette from her coat as soon as she was clear of the temple, about to flick open the lighter and enjoy the nicotine before she flew back to the barracks, when a voice, slick as oil and quiet as a whisper, sounded directly behind her. Saying she expected him was a stretch, but she certainly wasn’t surprised he was there. “Fraulein Grimwing. How was the service?” She turned back to find none other than the Grand Inquisitor himself had seemingly materialized from the shadows, red eyes focused on her, black uniform perfectly adorned, high-peaked cap pulled down tight on his white feathered head. The officers’ hat was smaller than her own, but her own Vollstrecker uniform was meant to be visible, with scarlet sash, gold embroidery, the symbol of her office around her neck and her gleaming enchanted breastplate with the heraldry of the Empire across her chest. Compared to her, his uniform was both subdued and sinister, meant for one in the shadows rather than visible in battle, blacks and silvers betraying the slightest whisper of his knowledge. By being the leader of the Geheimstaat, Erlinger was just as much her superior as her mother was, his presence and undivided attention a clear sign of something important in the making that involved herself. As a Vollstrecker Helga could only wonder at his intentions. “Herr Erlinger,” she greeted, plucking her cigarette and tucking it away. Looks like she wouldn’t be enjoying it for a few minutes. “I thought the service rather nice,” Erlinger continued, glancing back at the Great Temple. “Though mass was never to my taste. Too large and conspicuous. I thought you were the same, but you joined in with no hesitation.” Figures he’d been inside, watching her. Probably keeping to the shadows. Plenty of them in a giant half-lit stone structure. This was certainly not a conversation she wanted to have. Helga tugged the cigarette out again, deciding to have it after all. “It was small enough to be comfortable,” she replied, taking a pause to strike the flint, allowing the tiny flame to light the end and purposefully stretching out the time before she replied. “And besides, they were praying for soldiers of the Reich. Killed, missing or still out there. How could a decorated Vollstrecker in regalia ignore that?” “You sound a lot like your mother,” Erlinger replied, smiling mirthlessly. It wasn’t that he was being particularly cruel, Helga simply doubted he knew how to put warmth into his face. “She gets passionate when she talks as well.” “What are you, her liebhaber?” Helga scoffed, taking another drag and blowing it out to the side. While she took issue with the wingless griffon, she wasn’t petty enough to blow literal smoke at him. Besides, insulting the Grand Inquisitor was a bad idea. She resigned in her attitude with a second drag. “What business can I do for you tonight, Herr Inquisitor?” “You know your mother would love for you to come work with us,” was Erlinger’s reply, to which Helga was unsurprised. “You’ve done remarkable things as a Vollstrecker. You’re a brilliant investigator. A wonderful...combatant.” “You mean executioner?” she retorted, though her tone was light. She was in no mood to tempt fate. “I’m happy to enforce the law of the Kaiser on His Majesty’s soldiers. It’s an honor. But I’m no spy. And I’d rather not work for an organization that doesn’t let their citizens learn about the outside world.” “We still do,” Erlinger corrected her. “But it is our duty to ensure slander and propaganda do not enter their minds. We cannot have ideas like communism or republicanism take root in any self respecting citizens of the Reich. We suffered one revolution already.” He tugged his own smoke out, this one fatter than her own cigarette. From the smell, she could tell it was cannabis. More popular in the Frontier than the Herzland, it was said to possess properties to calm the mind. Everygriff she knew smoked cigarettes of tobacco and nicotine. To Helga personally, the smell was strange. Out of habit, she pulled her lighter out, striking a flame for him, to which he nodded and lit his own stogie, taking a puff or two, blowing out acrid air. “Don’t tell me that justifies making griffs disappear because they read the wrong pamphlet.” Erlinger raised an eyebrow as he blew another cloud of smoke out, a pulse of purple energy around his eyes giving Helga the idea that she needed to stop skirting the line. “What do you think your mother and the MfÖS do to revolutionary agents? Terrorists? We are not the Pentarchy. We do not sweep up a town because it suits or entertains us. Our process has turned out a superior society. Happiness. Loyalty. One of the most skilled fighting forces on Griffonia.” “At the cost of what? Thought control? State intimidation?” “I could have sworn I heard a few -small- inaccuracies on the radio this morning. You cannot pretend the Empire does not lie to its citizens to manipulate them through a narrative.” Erlinger examined Helga closely, inspecting her face. “Independent thought is permissible. It allows growth. But the mind is like a plant. It must be fed correctly. Or it will start to turn...sickening.” Helga, done with her cigarette, tucked the butt away in a pocket, determined not to let it fall on hallowed ground. “I’m happy with my work, Herr Inquisitor.” “Grand Inquisitor,” Erlinger replied airily. “And if you recall, your work would not exist if not for the Geheimstaat.” “Is -that- why no Hellsword unit has a Vollstrecker attachment?” “Be careful who you accuse, Helga,” Erlinger’s tone had hardened, like steel on the rasp. “I thought it was because formations with the Black Knights were far more disciplined than Reichsarmee conscripts. I might have to start rethinking how I judge my peers.” Helga felt the retort in her beak, but bit it back. She had already skirted the line enough. As Vollstrecker, it was her job to enforce discipline. Her time in the Sturmtruppen had tempered her aggression, but from the stint she worked as a drill instructor in Krona she knew her self-control required work. Erlinger puffed out again, apparently considering his words carefully. That struck her as strange. He hadn’t hesitated in his answers since he had shown up. “We have work for you.” “Work?” she raised an eyebrow, unsure of the term. It was unfamiliar, shorthand. Erlinger was a master dissembler, able to read and manipulate his targets with ease. A shift in personality was not only something her mother had told her to expect, it was purposeful. What was his goal here? “Why not just issue me an assignment?” “Because of who might see it before it passes through your claws,” Erlinger shot back, reaching under his coat and returning with a plain manila envelope, which he held out to her. “You are in the unique position of being one of the few we can trust above all others, even other Vollstrecker. But officers, handlers, support staff we are less sure of.” She took the envelope, opening it to pull out a few papers. They were profiles of various noble families, well known aristocrats and business griffs who had made their fortunes with the rise of the Industrierat. House Goldfeather, House Schwarzplume, House Stahlkralle, and many others. She raised an eyebrow at the names, lists of business assets and photographs. “What am I looking at?” “Those nobles who have taken advantage of the Grand Duke and Duchess Regents’ economic reforms and our recent military successes to skirt the law, and more importantly grow rich off it. The Grenzwald coming back into the fold has opened up a gold mine for merchants and businesses seeking to strike a fortune off the bounty of resources and griffpower. Steel, chromium, precious metals, crystal, factories, agriculture, the list goes on and is ultimately unimportant. But I am not speaking of the activities of Morgend Longpaw or the Kompanie. Nor of the legitimate businessgriffs who have the approval of both the Reformisten and the Imperial Industrierat. These are exploiters, who cheat at labor laws, taxes, bribery, sabotage, extortion, other despicable means. In years past, they got away with it because of their family ties and wealth. But today, the MfÖS and Geheimstaat fight back. Already, we have brought down many of the corruptive worms who seek to escape one jurisdiction or another, fleeing from one corner of the Empire to seek shelter on the other side. Your mother has been ingenious in orchestrating that plan. But Operation Nachtungnebel is multi-headed, like a hydra. We stamp out corruption in the aristocracy in the way only we can, and we dig out the wretches of the terrible enemy underneath it all.” “The Republic?” she asked. It would make sense. Some nobles who had sided with the Revolution in its early days had managed to avoid the axe through one loophole or another. A few were probably still acting as informants and suppliers, despite Kemerskai’s promise to bring down the nobility. Likely they were hoping to buy their way into a good position after the second rising everygriff knew was coming, sooner or later. But Erlinger shook his head. “They are but a symptom of the cancer that grips Griffonia. It is not safe to speak of them out loud in public like we are. But suffice to say that this organization has managed to successfully subvert both myself and Ela. They have agents and informants everywhere this side of the world and will stop at nothing to gain their goal. They brought down the Empire once already with the Revolution, their agents guiding Kemerskai and his turncoats. Now, with the continent so divided, it is the perfect time to try again. They guided Beakolini to overtake Falcor and Sicameon, to reengage in colonialism in Abyssinia. They planted the means for Verany to overthrow the king in Aquileia. And even now, they work to weaken the Herzland with insider agents, sabotage and, as you shall soon see, war.” Helga glanced up, frowning at the implication. The idea that the Empire’s demise was being plotted by some shadowy organization capable of besting both her mother and the most sinister, intimidating drake she knew was beyond her own scope of comprehension. Two of the most powerful spy organizations in the Empire and beyond, and they were unable to fight this menace. “So why me?” she asked, holding up the folder. “I get busting corrupt aristocracy. But fighting some shadow war? What can I do that you can’t?” “Your mother admires your directness,” Erlinger said, stubbing out his stogie and also tucking the stub away. “But I admire your visibility. You have the unique ability to both be informed of this operation, and not incur any suspicion by carrying it out. Nogriff would think twice about you investigating targets, and your reliability is above doubt. If you smash down a warehouse door, there will be no questions asked. If you execute deserting soldiers or renegade mercenaries, there will be no secondary operations at risk. You are not an agent, or an informant. You are Vollstrecker. And that means you can operate without our enemy knowing what you are doing. Because it will just be your job. And by the time he realizes what you -are- doing...it will be too late for him to do anything about it.” The Grand Inquisitor had something Helga hadn’t seen before; a gleam of excitement in his red eye. That purple aura pulsed again, and she realized he was ecstatic, his normal mask cracking on accident. She waited for him to continue, but he seemed finished. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” “Deadly.” “But, my duties to my unit-” “Will of course continue. No sense having you out visibly doing your job if you are no longer carrying out normal functions. But unit transfers are a thing, of course.” “I suppose that makes sense...you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to prepare this for me.” Erlinger chuckled, and this time he actually seemed amused. “Not just me. Your mother truly wants this to be important to you too. We may have stumbled on a lead that says your father’s own gruesome and dishonorable end might have been their work. Has their claw marks all over it.” She felt a chill roll down her spine, to be replaced by the boiling of hot metal anger. In all her time as a Stormtrooper, instructor and now Vollstrecker, she had never hoped or thought to try and find her father’s murderer, knifed brutally practically in public on the steps of the Krona Akadamie and left with hardly any identifying features. Anygriff that could get away with assassinating a high ranking military officer and then disappearing would simply vanish from existence. But with this new information, she suddenly had a new interest in this affair. “Are they now?” “If you do not trust my word, inspect your mother’s notes. Ela was thorough in her research.” “So you literally want me on because I’m so talented at breaking down doors?” “The best there is, really.” Helga smirked, closing up the current profile and tucking it away, shaking her head as she considered what she was about to do. Finally, she folded the envelope up and tucked it under her coat. “I like the way you think, Herr Inquisitor.” This time, Erlinger did not correct her. “Most creatures do. Those who do not tend not to live for long.” “When do I start?” “At your own leisure. Skeiron Goldfeather is one of the few to completely outfox us...for now. Moving his operations to Nova Griffonia was a stroke of brilliance. But an investigation of his practices here will give our enemies the same impression you first had; that we are merely cleaning house. When you begin, we can get the wheels moving.” “And I start kicking down doors?” Helga grinned again, rummaging for another cigarette. “Might makes right, Fraulein Grimwing. You are Vollstrecker. Authorized to do anything that is required to accomplish your mission.” Finally working the cigarette out, she clamped her beak around it, fidgeting with her lighter as she glanced up at the albino griff, striking the flint a few times. “If we can’t talk about them directly, can you at least give me a name? Other than ‘the enemy’?” After a pause, during which she finally lit the flame, he answered in a careful, quiet whisper which, under any other circumstance would seem melodramatic “They call themselves the Black Claw.” When she looked up, he was gone. The flight back home was silent. Margot hadn’t realized a blessing couldn’t be done without the object or individual in person. Or, at least, it had slipped her mind. She had found her attention slipping quite a bit lately, between trying to look out for Sophie, keeping the apartment clean and working her job. She’d been stretched all over the place, and relying more and more on her daughter to keep her grounded and help shoulder the burden. It wasn’t right to ask the eleven year old, of course. But Margot had no choice. Still, the service the priest Bronzeclaw had put on her son had been amazing, far beyond what she herself would have been comfortable asking. When Cyril had left for the Herzland War, she had become a nervous wreck. When he’d returned, she found all she had for him was scolding and sternness. Now he was gone again, she was back to her neurotic self. She hadn’t remembered worrying this much back when Stefan would deploy to various corners of the Empire. But then, she hadn’t lost any family yet back then. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the shadows below extended across the city, from the high towers and the narrow street. Even with daylight left, half of Griffenheim was already doused in darkness, electric and oil streetlamps replacing the sun. Ponies, griffons, dogs and changelings went about their business in the city streets, newly expanded, rebuilt and modernized to accommodate the new flows of automobile traffic, the canals of the Griffking humming with barges and motorboats. Plenty of griffs and the occasional pegasi flew through the sky, flitting past the high smokestacks of factories and the high roofs of apartments and office buildings. Griffenheim was changing, and Margot wondered if it would be recognizable in another decade. She glanced in the direction of the Imperial Palace, and found her thoughts wondering what the Imperial family was doing. Grover VI was so young, too young. Eight wasn’t nearly old enough to govern an empire, but it was difficult to imagine the Kaiser as ‘just’ a child. The position was supposed to demand respect and obedience. It was a good thing, then, that the Grand Duke and Duchess-Regent were heading the Regency Council. She’d heard of the attempted coup, everygriff had. Things were changing in government, and the fact the attempt had only slightly halted Imperial functions said that the change was impossible to stop. Her thoughts turned back to Cyril as they flew in over Industrie. His letters were constant, coming to her every other week or so. They tended to ramble a bit, between small hints of what he was doing in the field, conversations with his fellow truppen, his letters with Paige, his own thoughts. When she’d last seen him in person, Cyril had been disappearing into his cups nightly, miserable and barely able to function. The strange, magical apparition of Paige had done much to lift his spirits, but before she even could take the time to enjoy his better mood, he was gone just after Mondstille, off to conquer some corner of Griffonia for the Empire. But this prayer, this service she had just witnessed, lifted her spirits as they coasted towards their apartment. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Cyril was a panzertrupper. The southeast was notorious for its lack of developed industry. What were the odds that something could damage his steel beast? Of course, this positivity only lasted until she landed, checking Sophie had set down with her, before she glanced up at the awkward visage of a Reichsarmee leutnant, sitting on her front porch, clearly waiting for her return. She took him in, noticing the downcast, braced expression on his beak, the tensing of claws on the stone step. The fact he had waited for her to return, clad in dress greys with medals and pins. She took this all in. Just a moment was all she needed. And then, overcome with a wave of grief and panic, Margot Duskwing sat down on the cobblestone of the sidewalk, placed one claw over her face and lost the rest of her strength and composure as she wept. She did not hear Sophie trying to speak to her. Nor did she see the leutnant slowly approaching her down the stairs. She was blind, and deaf, to the world as she spiralled down. Author's Note A huge shoutout to my beta readers and advisors, Mariner Wingfried, Theortheo and Nagerleral! Thanks to you guys for being my idea soundboards and development helpers! This quick chapter came to me in a burst of inspiration, but rest assured that more story moving narrative involving our main characters is incoming soon! And letters! And battle scenes! Lots of them!
War Has ChangedAugust 13, 1011 “Welcome back listeners, to ‘Der Reichswehr Rundfunk Herzland!’ Your armed forces radio service, reaching out across the Kaiserreich!” -Across the Kaiserreich!- *a few bars from Herzland Gloria plays* “I’m your host, Vizefeldwebel Hans Whiteclaw! Out there with all those soldaten, grenadiers, panzertruppen, Vollstrecker, flieger, seeleute and of course the MfÖS agents certainly listening in! Before we get into the music, some news. Word out of the east says that the Brodfeld campaign has been an overwhelming success, and High Kommand is willing to put Operation Tartarus on the shelf as ‘mission accomplished’. Of special note, the 41st Panzergrenadiers received large honors for providing assistance to Reformisten troops, and I’m allowed to tell you they’re being rotated back home now their task is done. From here on, the Black Knights and the Gryps-Süd GmbH Landschnekte have the job well in claw! The Grand Duke and Duchess Regent today gaves honors to the Bronzehill Legion for steadfastly taking the fight to the Sunstriker heretics in the north. We all salute the valiant Bronzedogs who are the best suited of the Kaiser’s vast forces to engage these traitors on their own turf! Victories have been reported from Arrowpeaks and Silkhorn, and the final advance on Dimpeak is already underway to snuff out these Whitetail cultists once and for all! To all of you servicegriffs coming home, you may be hearing the narrative from the fiendish Aquileians to the south on their ‘public’ radio. As we have seen, public just means you are free to spread misinformation. Their propaganda machine spins the ludicrous story of our so-called ‘aggression’ against Skyfall last week. I say, if a destroyer does not count as fair revenge for a radio station, somegriff has some terrible arithmetic! High Kommand has today released word on a new system called the half track! Already in testing with certain panzergruppe, it’s authorization for mass production and full adoption means you’ll see more of these vehicles all over the Empire very soon! Every year, Imperial science takes our already superior Reichswehr and makes it even more unbeatable! Truly, the best in the world! In other news, foreign thrills! Across the sea, Equestria, that so-called bright and shining beacon of harmony, is not doing so well. Changeling forces are reported to have overrun the entire northwest and the Crystal Empire, and it's anygriff’s guess as to where they’ll stop. We’re already receiving reports of shells falling on Quebuck and Mariposa. Rumors are present that contact with Prince-Consort Shining Armor has been lost, and talks between Princess Celestia and General Secretary Pantsushenko of the Stalliongradian Socialist Republic are ongoing. The situation must be desperate if the Harmonists are reaching out to communists. Let that be a lesson in political folly, truppen. The Riverlands continue to fall apart, even as we speak. Today, the unstable River Republic issued another ultimatum to the East Griffonian Co-Prosperity Sphere, demanding they stand down their aggression. No word yet on Jezerograd’s response, if any. Riots, protests and socialist uprisings continue to plague all members of the Coalition as governmental reprisals worsen. And that’s all we’ve got today, truppen! News as it breaks, but for now, enjoy the music as we play through your day, whether you’re in the mountains to the north, the Grenzwald to the east or the Herzland itself! Remember; the Kaiser is counting on you. Boreas bless, and here’s Der Ebonsterne with their record breaking hit, ‘Vielleicht’, still the most requested across the Kaiserreich for almost three months straight!” Silvertalon Memorial Military Hospital Visaginas, Hellsword “Stretch out now, Vise-Korporal. That’s it, far as you can!” Morgend Longpaw was the type of businessgriff the old Empire (ironic to call it old when it was only four years since the Grand Duke and Duchess had started to reform things) made sure to let flourish. An industrialist, he had holdings in mining, military manufacture, automobiles and more. While certainly not the richest or most infamous, he had one thing many other businessgriffs lacked that gave him a definite edge; an ability to adapt to the times. When the worker reforms had come down, Morgen had swiftly changed his practices while other nobles were busy complaining, embraced the Industrierat and reaped the benefits early. And when Großtatze Industrie had run into pressure and competition in the Herzland, he had simply taken his business to the one place those old robber barons couldn’t touch him; Hellquill. It was here that his work had gained the attention he needed, and with Reformisten backing his business struggle in the Herzland, he had finally pulled a win when nogriff else wanted to risk the public backlash of working with the former zealots. Which was why we was here, of all places. Cyril grunted, stretching the stump of his wing out, looking upon the ruined flesh for what felt like the ten-thousandth time. After being evacuated to a field hospital, and then again even further north to a surgical station, the doctors had been forced to take off even more. Haul’s strokes had been strong, but a bit all over the place, resulting in deep cuts and additional damage that required the mangled limb to be cut down to heal properly. By now, the stump had long stopped bleeding, but not only did the pain remain, Cyril kept feeling the twinges of phantom limb syndrome as well. His balance was off when he walked, and if he flared his wings (well, wing) he immediately felt the awkward tilt on his back. It was not a pleasant feeling, in fact it was downright disturbing at times. A griffon losing a wing was nothing new, but it wasn’t an easy thing to fix. Removing the obvious lack of flight, the resultant depression and an inability to adjust meant that many simply took their own life afterwards. Some adjusted by rigging prosthetics, though they weren’t perfect and still couldn’t let them fly. Others never really settled because of it, feeling themselves to be only half a griff. Society for centuries had pitied these mained griffons, drakes and formels both, and simply quietly accepted the result. But here in the modern age, a solution finally existed, in the form of Longpaw’s Steel Wing Program. His work with the military and Reformisten on magical crystals and automobiles meant he had the background necessary to understand both compact arcane power sources and metalworking. The chance to test his prototypes on wounded veterans had brought him here, as the owner and CEO of a large company normally did not work with product development personally. But Morgend Longpaw was here, scribbling measurements onto a notepad as Cyril wore a light, bare aluminum frame. The actual prototype wasn’t ready yet, of course. Each prosthetic had to be specially designed to fit each veteran perfectly, and the technology was just barely out of the concept test phase. But, as the industrialist kept insisting, it was only a matter of time. “Splendid lad! Keep it like that…” Longpaw made another minute measurement, grunting to himself before scribbling again. “Three millimeters...interesting.” “What difference can three millimeters make?” Cyril grumbled, already tired of this latest set of measurements. He shifted on the hospital bed, feeling the pajamas itch him in places he’d rather not think of right now. Morgend didn’t pause in his measures, taking another with the tape as he replied “Tell me, Vise-Korporal. If your shell is three millimeters off target when you fire your kanone, would that matter?” Deciding to concede the point, Cyril remained silent, merely grunting in protest as he stared at the opposite wall. Longpaw continued on without prompting. “Prosthetic limbs are normally built out of a framework or wood. A single piece you measure twice, cut once and wear for years. But if lost or the measurements change for some reason, it can always be replaced. What I’m building here will have to last just as long the first time it is crafted. I can only afford to build one of them right now.” Cyril only grunted a second time, looking across to the other occupant of the room. He hadn’t had many visitors in the past month. His crew, the doctors and nurses, his uncle and now Morgend Longpaw and whatever secretaries and engineers he brought in and chattered at. It all felt like a blur at times, like they were just on the periphery of his existence. But today, he perceived this drake just fine. One didn’t forget the Black King Wingfried of Hellsword, after all. An hour ago, Wingfried had stepped into the hospital room. From the clattering out in the hallway, whatever aides and bodyguards he had with him had taken up position out there as well. Doctor Mercury had barely managed to squeeze her way in, a clipboard hovering in front of her horn. Her usual snappish care and clinical nature had seemingly vanished in front of the Black King, the doctor instead quietly taking her departure after getting a few readings from her patient that any nurse could have obtained, hurriedly saluting on the way out with barely a word to Cyril today. There was another twenty minutes of quiet staring. Before, he had been unable to stay awake half the day, but so far through his recovery he was able to affix the king with a quiet scrutiny. He received the same speculation in return. Finally, Wingfried spoke first. His voice was much lighter than Cyril had expected. Softer. No menace in his tone, nor really any emotion at all. “I hear you performed heroically out there, Vise-Korporal.” The Black King had no idea how much those few words would bring back. In an instant, Cyril’s mind was drowned out by smoke, clattering metal on metal, the dull thudding of the cannon. Then fire, and agonizing pain. One strike, two strike, three, flesh and bone splitting under the assault- He took a breath to steady himself. On the outside only a split second had passed. He cleared his throat. “I only did my duty, Your…” he wracked his brain for the honorific. Not many kings in the Empire, after all. “Highness. Anygriff else would have done the same.” “They did not,” Wingfried retorted coolly, his expression unchanged. “They pulled back. Granted, they followed orders and left an obvious death trap. And you could have as well.” The first sign of movement from Wingfried, a slight shifting moving his cap from under one arm to the other. “But you went in with your panzer. Took a butcher’s bill from the enemy. Bought time for the rest of your comrades. No one would blame you for falling back as well.” You have to go on. Do great things. Screams. Gunfire. Explosions. He swallowed again, trying to school his breathing. If Wingfried noticed this time, he gave no sign aside from a small twitch in the eyes. Cyril inhaled. “I had orders, Sir.” Now Wingfried’s face did move. A small twitch around the edges of his beak. An eyebrow raised half a centimetre. “I think we can agree, these were very unusual orders. For very unusual circumstances.” Wingfried glanced to Morgend, who had finished whatever notes and equations he’d been working on in the corner, watching the exchange with rapt attention, like a spectator at a tennis court, eyes switching back and forth with barely contained, feverish energy. The industrialist was the antithesis of Wingfried; barely bottled excitement compared to the carved stone visage of the latter. “Do you have your measurements, Herr Longpaw?” Wingfried inquired, drawing Morgend’s attention. The griff checked his notepad, evidently running down some kind of list as he considered the data. Cyril got a look at the pages as they passed and to his surprise the notes and measurements seemed jumbled, scribbled at all angles with little statements in the margins. From Paige’s description of the drake, he had expected a well-organized genius. “Ja wohl, your Highness,” Longpaw finally concluded with a shine to his eyes. “For now.” Wingfried’s response was merely to tilt his head towards the door. Luckily, Longpaw caught the hint swiftly, reaching up to take the bare frame down from Cyril’s stump, patting the panzertruppe on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Duskwing. Edelstahlflugel is right over the horizon. We are going to do great things together, you and I.” Great things… ”It’s down to you now, son.” Cyril nodded, not replying as he pushed the memory away again. Seemingly nonplussed, Morgend simply smiled, nodding back before he strode off, whistling cheerily as he left, closing the door behind him. Finally alone, Wingfried glanced back at Cyril. The silence between king and crewgriff was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. “I wish I had more like you,” Wingfried finally said. He stepped away from the door, gently setting the cap down on a nearby cabinet. Cyril shifted on his bed uneasily. “Tell me Vise-Korporal; do you know why I founded the Reformisten?” Taken aback, Cyril gave the Black King a skeptical look. “To fight the Riverlands, sire.” It was, after all, why the Order of Hellquill had set up fortifications in the Hellsword Territory, even if the Crusade to follow had failed. Wingfried’s expression did not change. “That was one of the reasons yes. But the primary means was an ideology for reformation in the Empire.” True, the name ‘Reformisten’ literally translated to ‘Ones Who Change Things.’ “I admit the past few years have been a stain on our institution’s reputation. But I assure you those were the acts of traitors and conspirators. I have loyal soldiers, champion knights that much like me would happily sacrifice ourselves for Reich und Kaiser. It was through their dedication and my leadership that we are standing here as loyal defenders of our nation, because we dared fight against those who would see us fall and the Empire itself.” He fell silent, staring at some invisible spot on the floor, brow knitted, lost in thought. Then, he shook himself out of it. “I had a line of advisors and officers who would have happily shot me for my actions a few years back, because they disagreed in my belief that our way of life could be extended to anyone and everyone. They were weak and as a result of that weakness they have perished where they stood. Now you Vise-Korporal like all of those who had supported me and the Empire at large are mighty. And we know what is necessary as warriors of das Reich; but alas perception is truth, our image is shaped by the world we live in, is it not? We cannot escape it, anymore than we can hold a wave and turn it back, but do understand one thing; nothing is as black and white as others would have you believe. The world is a collection of shades of grey.” Cyril felt his heart hammering in his chest, uncomfortable with where this conversation had turned to. This was above any discussion a monarch should have with a mere subject, and about something as deeply personal and divisive as ideology. Was Wingfried trying to convert him? Convince him? Maybe the Black King was caught in his own dialogue. He felt his wing flutter, the other stump twitching as it tried to copy the motion of anxiety. Without urging, his eyes flicked down to Wingfried’s holster. The moment of tense silence passed with difficulty. “I understand the Empire needing to stand against the threats at home,” Wingfried continued, one claw coming up to rummage around in his coat as he too felt the need to change the topic. “And the 41st belongs in the open field, not hunting through forests and mountains. We have moved from the plains to the forests and hills. I don’t plan to stop until I reach Cyanolisia either. For that, I need soldiers with spine. Grit. soldiers who can stare despair in the face and fight through the valley of death. Not because they do not fear death. But because they have something to fight their way home for. Good soldiers follow orders Herr Duskwing, but only warriors fight for what is truly right.” After a moment, Wingfried, of all people, looked flustered. He dug in his coat one more time before he let out an aggravated sigh, scratching at his brow in thought before a bolt of comprehension flashed across his visage. “Erich!” he called. Not a yell. But firm, with just a slight increase of volume. The result was immediate. The door to the room opened, admitting a single equine figure,a stallion with a coat black as his clothing, dressed in the uniform of a Reformisten officer. To Cyril’s surprise, the infamous Prince Erich, of the kind of fame spoken of like Imperial aristocracy, was a unicorn. With but a tilt of the head from the Black King, Erich stepped towards the wounded panzergriff, his magic surrounding a small black box and lifting it into view, the lid popping with a small click over the ambient noise of a magic aura, rather unsettling and out of place here to Cyril’s ears. But the commendation that lifted out of the box was, to his surprise, nothing less than a Knight’s Iron Cross, resplendent with engraved oak leaves and a pair of crossed knightly swords underneath, strung on a ribbon to be worn around the neck. Almost a perfect replica for a Herzland Knight’s Cross, save the ribbon’s coloration being blue, white and black as opposed to the Imperial orange and yellow. The blue aura gently lifted the decoration out, pulling the ribbon out to its proper length, gently draping over a stunned Cyril’s head and sliding down his neck. A Knight’s Cross. It was more than just a piece of tin or brass on a ribbon, like many other medals. The panzergriff’s attitude on such decorations was not fond, given the blood he had seen shed for them. But this medallion, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, was tantamount to a full knighthood. Had he wanted to apply to one of the Orders, Cyril would undoubtedly have been granted entry with this. Though he had no intent to, the fact it was now a possibility for a griff as lowborn as him suddenly made the prospect much more attractive. “Vise-Korporal Cyril Dusking,” Erich addressed him, in a crisp, clear parade ground speechmaking voice, “For behaviour above and beyond the call of duty, in light of grievous injury and noble bearing, the Order of the Black Knights hereby awards you the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, with oak leaves and noble swords. For your bravery and dedication to honor and Empire, should you wish to enter our brotherhood, we will gladly take you with open arms.” And with that, Erich stepped back, his back ramrod straight, as both the Black Prince and the Black King saluted Cyril smartly, an action which the stunned soldier returned out of reflex. After a moment, they both dropped the salute, and Erich stepped forward, smiling as he held his hoof out, shaking Cyril’s claw. “We both know your dedication to the Reichsarmee. But should you wish to come stand in our Order, the gates are always open to you.” Wingfried stepped forward now, reaching out to do the same as his adopted son. “I see great potential in you, Duskwing. You and others like you. A force of great change in our Kaiserreich. The future rests in your claws.” Cyril blinked, as with that profound and rather obscure statement the rest of his conversation with the king came rushing back, and he cleared his throat, only able to nod as the blue monarch finally stepped away, looking as if he was making to go. Finally, however, he found his voice. “With your permission, sir?” Wingfried glanced back, surprised. But after a moment, he nodded, gesturing. “You are as a knight now, Herr Duskwing. Never be afraid to ask.” “Why are you telling me all this, Your Highness?” Wingfried paused, his wings twitching. Erich glanced back and forth between the two, his expression blank but his form just as tense. After a moment of thought, the Black King refocused on Cyril, a smirk on his face that lacked warmth but to the younger drake still held enough mirth. “The world is...complicated, Vise-Korporal. I suppose, in the end, I am a king of a realm he expects to be absorbed by another, who once led a movement he himself dismantled. Larger minds than mine can find a lesson about the state of the world in that, but I digress. Join our ranks or not, the Kaiserreich needs you. You and others like you who see the truth of the world. One day soon, the Reich will need to change to survive. It has almost fallen twice in the past few decades.” He reached out, squeezing Cyril’s shoulder reassuringly. “I have been telling you all this because the Old must be eclipsed by the new. My beliefs were challenged, and I adapted. I already told you; you are someone who can bring that attitude to the old order. I have taken the time to speak to you, though you are a single drake, because that is how one finds those who are worthy to build a better Reich alongside our young Kaiser. One at a time.” Wingfried’s talon let go of Cyril, instead falling to the Knight’s Cross the young tanker held, tapping it gently. “Know this, Duskwing. This makes you a knight in our eyes, whatever banner you march under. And it will be those like you who will change the world.” With that, the infamous Black King, founder and scourge of the Reformisten, lord of Hellsword and conqueror of the Grenzwald, stepped out of the room with nary a backwards glance at the young griff he’d just decorated. Erich smiled and nodded, levitating his peaked cap up from the chair where he’d set it and stepping out, the door magically shutting behind him. And just like that, Cyril was left with his medal and his thoughts. The next day, August Duskwing came to visit. He’d stopped by a clawful of other times, normally only for a few hours before the pressures of command forced him to return. This time would be the last for both of them. Cyril and his crew had recovered, and would be discharged soon, to go and crew another panzer. August’s command had completely withdrawn from the Grenzwald, leaving behind several regiments of Landwehr and Imperial Jager detachments. Wingfried had been correct that this was no longer a panzer war, and as such the machine heavy 41st and their supporting elements were long gone. Today, as the door opened, August glanced up before blinking in surprise, slowly closing the door behind him. Standing in the center of the room was Cyril, dressed in his grey Reichsarmee uniform, ribbons and pins all carefully placed and adjusted just right with all the spare time Cyril had at his disposal. The left wingsleeve was pinned over the stump, which almost disappeared against Cyril’s back. Along his breast were pinned the Medallion Crimson, the Black Wound Token badge, Ribbon Intrinsic, and of course the Knight’s Cross around his neck. Raising an eyebrow, August noticed the Medal of Arcturus, Cyril’s decoration for valiant service in the Herzland War, was missing. Idly, he wondered if anygriff would figure out it was halfway across the world. “You look ready to go,” August noted, crossing to the room’s table and flopping into the seat, dropping his general’s cap on the surface. From the sound of it, he’d been traveling all night. He glanced down, casting a quick eye over the papers Cyril had accumulated during his stay here. At the top, there was one bearing an address he recognized, in writing familiar to him, already opened. “Letter from Paige?” Cyril nodded. “Just came in today. The mail system had a hard time finding me. Not hard to guess why.” With Equestria at War and Cyril’s own rather remote location, August considered it a wonder the drake’s mail got out here at all, even late. “How is she?” “I don’t know,” the young panzertruppe admitted, a frown crossing his brow. “She sent it before the attack. If she got mine, she either hasn’t written a response or…” He paused, considering carefully before he quietly changed the subject. “We’re being released.” “Any idea where you’re going?” “No...for some reason, none of us got orders yet.” Cyril had a sinking suspicion that he knew why, and General August Duskwing, Hero of the Kaiserreich, showing up out of the blue couldn’t be a coincidence. Spotsley was only missing an eye, Eihol had a series of scars marring his previously handsome face and half the feathers on his head wouldn’t grow back as a result. Haul had gotten away with only a single bullet wound from a stray round. None of their injuries should have stopped them from rotating back into another regiment. The crew had broken him out for his birthday a few days ago, just a few wounded veterans out on the town. But during the drinking, the trash talk, tomfoolery and all the other things soldiers got up to to distract from their memories, they had all agreed that getting this close to a posted medical release without orders was unheard of. Something was afoot, ahoof and aclaw. August nodded, humming in agreement as he conceded the unspoken point. Cyril was far smarter than he gave himself credit. “There’s a reason for that. We’ve been trying to decide what to do with you.” He waved a claw at his nephew’s concerned expression. “Relax, not like that. You performed admirably in Brodfeld. Given the circumstances and that we didn’t know the minotaurs were advancing, nogriff could have asked for more. But then there’s that wing.” He pointed towards Cyril’s empty wingsleeve, his face hard. August had picked up a head injury during his time in the trenches so many years ago. As a result, one of his eyes had changed from gold to a pale green, a condition called heterochromia the doctors assured him would not harm his vision. The effect, he’d been told, was unnerving to those he spoke with as the differing colors and the scars on his face gave him an intimidating appearance. “Kommand hasn’t been sure what to do about it and your career.” “Last I checked, Herr General,” Cyril replied cautiously but with a obstinate visage, looking his uncle straight in the eye. “A panzertruppe doesn’t fly much.” The elder Duskwing watched the younger carefully, inspecting his face. Cyril was defiant, hard, determined. He clearly was unwilling to back down, but August needed to make sure it was honest. The Imperial Akadamie had been going through several sweeping reforms lately. The quality of Imperial soldiers in the Reichsarmee had always varied depending on the Duchy or province that put together and trained the regiment. Bronzehill had only recently shrugged off its pacifism to defend the Empire. The newly retaken Herzland territories, underdeveloped and formerly treasonous, had questions of loyalty and quality there too. Angriver and Katerin recruits were aggressive, but untrained and untrustworthy. Now, with the Grenzwald reintegrated, the problem was compounded even further, as soldiers from Lushi or the Host who had likely never even seen a panzer before were to be integrated in combined arms warfare. Some didn’t even speak Herzlandisch, and the Host was still a stew of violence not yet stabilized into a border march by the Black Knights and Landwehr garrisons. Out of all of this melting pot of ethnicities and non standardized armed forces with varying effectiveness, the Black Knights of Hellquill proved to be the most suited military formation outside the greater Reichsarmee itself due to the Orders’ belligerent roots and martial prowess, well led and well disciplined a shining example of what the Imperial forces should emulate, albeit only so motivated by brainwashed fanaticism and suffering from an almost chronic lack of materials that the Empire proper had to compensate for. The Empire’s officer korps was even worse, composed primarily of the sons and daughters of aristocratic families, many of whom had used their family’s wealth or influence to land positions of prestige where they might not have been so capable. With the Herzland Wars and the Grenzwald Campaign, this practice was slowly being worked towards one of a more honest and meritocratic nature, following the same framework that the Reformisten had proven in the field alongside their Herzland brethren, a consequence of their reintegration into the Empire proper, and as a result even commoners were being allowed to become junior officers in the Reichsarmee. August hadn’t been immune to the issues, using his own influence and protection to watch over Cyril, a flagrant case of nepotism. Which contributed on top of the army reforms to bringing him here. August sighed, knowing the issue was settled in his nephew’s mind. So much for his promise to watch over Cyril. Margot had torn strips off him over the telephone once she had heard the news. Apparently, her first thought upon receiving the message that Cyril had been killed. Fortunately, the truth had been swift in coming, but that had not tempered her rage towards her brother. August had let it come. In his attempt to get Cyril back to working order, he had pushed his nephew right into the fire, unintentionally of course, but it had still happened. With little more delay (gods knew all this inner reflection had contributed to the setbacks Kommand had made), August sighed, reaching under his coat and extracting a large, thick envelope, held together with string and a wax seal bearing the emblem of Reichsarmee High Kommando. He tossed it onto the table with the other papers, where the thick packet audibly impacted. Cyril’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Orders,” August grumbled as he fished a cigar out, clamping down on the stogie but not lighting it. Hospital rules were against smoking in the rooms, and he had a lot to say without risking getting thrown out. “In a few days, you’ll be boarding a train to Zeltstadt with your crew. There, you’ll be retraining while attending to your commission as a kadet at the Jungeschulen, pending an entry exam. It would be preferable to take you west, of course. But right now the Imperial Akadamie at Osnabeak is working overtime, as are the Krona training grounds. So we’ll be sending you in for on-post training. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced enough talking heads and beaks that this would be the best way to handle the situation.” Cyril finally seemed to break out of his stupor, staring at his uncle in absolute confusion. “I’m...sorry, what? First you come in here asking me if I’m certain I want to continue serving, as if you’re about to talk me out of it, then you throw a commission into my lap?” “You’re still addressing a general nephew,” warned, though the threat had no heat to it. Fortunately, it had the desired effect of cutting off Cyril’s rant before it built up steam, and the injured panzertruppe spun down, more carefully considering his words now his temper had been released. “I just...I don’t understand,” he finally continued, far less heated than before. “You left me here in the dark, and then just hand me this. You had to have known.” August nodded again, his weariness feeling far more physical now. “I did. And they were going to discharge you.” He paused, considering his words. “To Kommand, a griffon serving without a wing is...unnatural. It's unprecedented. The power of flight is essential to Imperial warfare. But panzers are so recent and new, you’re probably one of a clawful of panzertruppe to lose a wing. I know you ARE the only one to not immediately ask to go home. The same case was made that you brought up; panzers cannot fly, and their crews are unlikely to need to. Your case was hotly debated for at least a week. I was brought in to make the final decision. And then, word came down that Wingfried intended to decorate you and your crewmates. As such, everything changed.” “Why?” “You don’t just send a holder of the Knight’s Cross home, Cyril. It’s a fighting drake’s award. It’s what you pin on heroes and generals and those that one of the Orders wants to induct. Wingfried coming to give you that around your neck,” and here August even stabbed through the air towards Cyril’s Knight’s Cross with his cigar “changed everything. We had only a few days to figure out an answer. Luckily, it presented itself.” “By making me an officer?” “It only works because of your profession. The panzerwaffe may be young, but they have accrued quite a number of veteran crews and commanders already. Kommand plans to take advantage of that, and now you’re part of the solution. Your whole crew’s been decorated, and they’ve all seen action from Herzland to Temsoar. But you’re about to join the ranks of an elite group, where Kommand can group the deadliest panzer crews in the Kaiserreich.” August paused, glancing down at the packet of orders on the table. Cyril did as well, both of them regarding the envelope like it was an unwelcome guest sitting in the corner, staring them both down silently. “It’s a big step,” August concluded, carefully nibbling at the end of the cigar thoughtfully. Cyril nodded, slowly stepping over to the table, reaching out and taking the orders gingerly, staring down at the wax seal. “I kind of need a new panzer, don’t I?” August nodded, suddenly back to energy as if the question had jolted him. “Not to worry. Your term as a kadet gives us a perfect opportunity. Have you ever heard of a Gryta?” Cyril cocked his head to the side, feathered brow furrowed in thought as he ran through the news, rumors and scuttlebutt he’d been hearing both in the field and here in hospital, claws idly playing with the string around the envelope.. Finally, he shook his head. “No. Should I have?” “I doubt it. So far it's a prototype only in the claws of a few of the knightly orders, mostly the Order of the Tower and Sword and the Order of the Fiery Heart. But I managed to swing a few test models for the 205th Heavy Panzer Battalion. Didn’t take much to convince Grand Master Konrada of the Rosewood Spears to get a few models to train with them too. If all goes well with this last batch of trials, they’ll be approved for mass production next year. And if the information I’m getting is correct, we’ll definitely need them.” With that, August held the cigar out to Cyril, digging another out of his jacket. His nephew paused, claw extended, feeling the ache of his severed wing and the echo of unpleasant memories in his head. Was he truly ready for this? In two days, a lot of pressures had been heaped onto his head. Now he had to figure out how to carry them through. But after a moment, he took the cigar from his uncle, inspecting it thoughtfully as August dug out a lighter. “So...when do I get started?” August 15, 1011 1320 hours Skies over Tall Tale No. 1 Air Group, No. 11 Squadron There were very few new aircraft around them. It turned out, Mariposa had not been the only airfield struck by changeling sabotage, and they had most targeted the newer pieces of inventory. Over the past year, the Equestrian RAF had replaced the Hurricane in their active air wings with the Spitfire, proud of their ingenuity in the air. But the sluggish production meant few replacements and spare parts were available once losses started mounting. As a result, the sky was full of Hurricanes, Wellingtons and Blenheims, replacements for the lost Spitfires, Beauforts and Beaufighters that had been destroyed in the past month by combat, sabotage and abandoning stockpiles in the face of the enemy advance. It was no secret that the entire RAF had become a chaotic mix of regulars and reservists, those who had been activated for the bogus wargames being thrown in to fill holes left behind while hurried wartime recruitment and training caught up. Now, their air inventory matched their personnel. Below the Blenheim No. 83, the massive skywhale shape of a Halifax bomber rumbled by, and Paige couldn’t help but marvel at it, old memories resurfacing in her mind from the Crystal War. While a bit older, they were still massive engines of war, modern airships carrying enough munitions to flatten a city block. The behemoths of No. 35 Squadron had been through some of the worst punishment of the whole RAF, and she could see rough patches in the plane’s fuselage where mechanics had hurriedly gotten the heavy bomber back into working order in a hurry. Bomber casualties were worse than their fighter escorts, as Queendom Sv.109s hunted them like sharks. And yet, No. 35 Squadron was back in the air again with nary a complaint, just a few replacements and they were gone again. Paige glanced up from the bombsight (a generous term for a few pieces of tape and a cluster of numbers and lines she had applied with chalk) and consulted her chart, examining the topographical map to ensure they were on the correct approach. Every plane had a navigator of course, but the more ponies corroborating information, the less likely the air group would be pulled off course. The fact this still happened stupidly often implied how essential the practice was. ”Sword Leader, this is Hammer Leader. We’re coming in on final approach, over.” The radio chattered in Paige’s ears, laden with static from the clouds, distance, interference and the rushing of air past all of their crafts. The various squadron commanders were coordinating for the attack on the changeling forces assaulting Tall Tale. Their air group was one of a hoof-full still keeping up the pressure on the northern juggernaut, rather than simply reacting to stem the tide. Many commanders were nervous to commit their wings in case of yet another withdrawal, another retreat. If an attack was underway, they couldn’t leave until those planes had returned for vital fuel and medical assistance, not to mention providing air cover for the evacuations. Tall Tale was under pressure from two panzerdivisions moving south from Vanhoover, bombers flying across the Luna Gulf and another assault by an Olenian brigade moving east from their landing at Seaward Shoals. The defenders were hard pressed, barely holding on as they were battered from land and air. That’s why it was up to their air group to come in and hopefully deal enough damage to the changelings to disrupt their momentum, buy time for the Royal Guard defenders to hold on for the armored regiment currently tearing up the road to reinforce them. It had been a hard month. Reflexively, Paige’s head came up from her map, scanning the skies out the cockpit for the telltale flash of silver that told of incoming fighters. Given that said planes would be flying towards their own, all the Equestrians would get for warning was that glimmer and a streak, and then bombers would start falling. In the pilot’s seat, Lieutenant Solar Ace leaned down, watching Paige for a moment before he straightened up. “Ease up, Turner. We’re ready this time,” he said, in that same neutral, confident tone he used when he was trying to keep his crew going. Ace was well aware of their odds and the grim reality of war in the air. “I know I am, sir,” came Static’s reply from her turret, watching the skies behind two .303 machine guns. “I grabbed the parachute this time.” The three had a brief chuckle, before they returned to their business. No. 83 didn’t have much payload. As a light bomber smaller than even a Wellington, she possessed a brace of four 250 lb. bombs, a piddling comparison to dedicated bomber craft. Which was why they needed to drop their payload as fast as possible and rejoin the fight with their own brace of machine guns in the wings. Many other Blenheims had figured out this gave them the best chance for survival, rather than just acting like a dedicated bombing craft. ”Sword Leader to all Sword elements,” came the call of their squadron leader. ”We’re coming up on the target. Hammer’s going to hit the Bug positions with overwhelming force. It’s our job to cover them and lay down some hurt on the advancing columns. Bombers, stay in formation on approach. Fighters, get ready for some chop. Goddess speed to you all, over and out!” As No. 83 began drifting lower in the formation, the entire air group finally crested over the forested hills, exposing the city of Tall Tale below. Even from here, Paige could see the battle was not going in the Royal Guards’ favor. Smoke plumes erupted from across the entire city, and to the north the land seemed to seethe with black shapes as the changeling advance seemed to worm its way in, infecting the buildings while also stretching out to surround it. Detonations could be seen from here as structures collapsed, and anti-aircraft fire lit up the sky. It was an awe-inspiring, terrible sight. Abruptly, several black clouds appeared in the air group’s midst, followed a split second later by booms and pops, dozens more following as the sky seemed to disappear into these sudden clouds. ”Flak screen!” came the shout over the radio. ”Stay in formation! Keep speed, ponies!” No. 83 abruptly bucked as a shell detonated far too close for comfort, the sound of shrapnel rattling off her belly as a grim reminder of how close and how sudden death would be for them. Up ahead, a Wellington suddenly took a shell straight in her number one engine, which began to spew smoke and flames, oil and debris streaming off as the propeller sluggishly halted on the ruined apparatus. The bomber began to list, dropping with increasing speed before she turned over, her wing breaking off and spiralling away. The bomber dropped from view. No parachutes were visible. Another Blenheim took a shell directly in her fuselage, detonating spectacularly as the cockpit blew outwards, folding in on itself and spiralling around in mid-air. ”Holy-dead bird! Break, break!” “It’s coming at me-” the rest of the message abruptly devolved into a high-pitched scream that was just as quickly cut short as the Blenheim turned over bodily and smashed into a Halifax below and behind it, crushing the cockpit as the two craft twisted into one piece of wreckage, tumbling to the ground below. ”Bugs!” And with the silver flash Paige was already accustomed to, the sharks were among them. Sv.109s tore through the air group, guns blazing and engines roaring as the dove in. Machine gun turrets on bombers chattered, filling the sky with tracers as they chased after the much faster fighters. Everypony knew that their actual chance of hitting a fighter was extremely low, and the gun mounts counted for little more than keeping the fighters from getting too close. But if enough fire filled the sky, they could get lucky, as had happened several times before. At the back of No. 83, Static’s turret swivelled around, guns hammering at the blurred shapes in the sky. Spitfires and Hurricanes twisted around the air group, chasing after the predators. But the truth was they were merely reacting, and several Halifaxes and Wellingtons were already dipping away, even more still limping along in the group with fire spouting from damaged engines and bullet holes in the fuselage. “Here we go, on target!” Ace finally yelled, and Paige immediately braced herself as the Blenheim dipped, her world swirling until blue was replaced by green, the ground rushing up to meet them. Trees whipped by at what seemed light speed, and Paige’s view was filled and occupied by a massive black smudge that she recognized as a formation of changeling panzers, trucks, halftracks and infantry pushing in towards the city, details blurry in the rush at this distance. “Get ready, Turner!” It was up to her, now. She leaned forward, fighting the gut-wrenching effects of vertigo as her whole world continued into freefall, her wings twitching as they naturally wanted to catch her from her descent. The measurements she’d drawn on the glass were a best guess from practice, a far sight from the actual sights she’d used on Sombra’s troops. But experience had come back to her, and she knew exactly when she needed to let go. Her hoof hovered over the release button, watching the ground come up closer, closer, closer… Now! “Bombs away!” She smashed the release, holding it down. With several thumps that felt like being kicked as No. 83 suddenly dropped a half-ton of weight. Ace instinctively hauled the stick back, the herculean task of defying high-speed gravity and yanking No. 83’s nose out of her dive. The lift they received from dropping the bombs coupled with their reduced weight helped recover, and No. 83 was soaring up and away again even before the bombs impacted. “Here we go!” Ace whooped, twisting the craft around in a tight aileron as fire from the ground chased after them, pulling into a loop to twist back towards where the air battle was still happening. Now devoid of her primary job, Paige glued herself to the glass, watching out for incoming threats and targets. But the sky had turned into a twisting, seething mass of confusion, fighters dancing and chasing each other around, bombers on approach or turning back towards home, wrecks tumbling out of the air aflame, flak shells detonating in what seemed every open inch. No. 83 continued to climb, slipping in nicely behind an Sv.109 that was chasing an already harried and alight Halifax. Her quartet of .303s hammered abruptly, shuddering through the entire frame as bullets filled the air. The majority of them missed, but the burst had still caught the fighter’s wing, and a stream of smoke wafted behind him as the changeling aircraft sloppily turned over, diving for safety. Paige punched the glass and cheered. Not a kill, but even better; a comrade saved. ”Hammer-9, many thanks! Almost bought the farm on that one, over! See you at home!” The bomber peeled away, making towards the east with all speed left in her engines. “Hammer-9, this is Sword-4. Take care of yourself, we can’t always be there to save you, out,” Static’s voice radioed back over the line. Paige laughed, the exhilaration flowing through her body. Even if the odds were stacked against them, as desperate as they were, she was glad to see Equestria was throwing everything it had into the fight. They might suffer for a while, but they’d certainly bloody the bugs’ nose in the process. ”This is Sword Leader, all fighters form up on Hammer and the bombers! We need to take the pressure off to get them home!” “All Sword elements, this is Wonderbolt Leader.” Paige’s head shot up, and she leaned over, practically glueing her face to the glass, desperately searching for anything to tell her of the new arrivals. There, streaking across the sky! She couldn’t quite make it out, but if she squinted she almost thought she could spy the blue and yellow stormcloud of the infamous Wonderbolt Squadron, three Spitfires arcing in. Within seconds of their arrival, one dusted an Sv.109, another chased a changeling off a wounded Wellington and the third soared past No. 83, guns chattering as it went for some target Paige couldn’t see. ”Sorry for the late arrival. Head on home. We’ve got your backs, over.” “Sword Leader to Wonderbolt Leader, many thanks! But what took you so bucking long, over?” “Yeah, we ran into some trouble over Mead Lake, over. Good to see we came in for the save, so we can show you how it's done.” “Keep at it, Wonderbolts. You might just inspire us to turn around and stay, over.” “Not a chance, Sword. Take your ponies and head home before some bug gets lucky and slips past us, out.” No. 83 formed up, joining the retreating flock of aircraft and taking her place in the fighter screen now she was light and fast enough to act as escort instead of fighter-bomber. The air group was now noticeably much smaller, and many of the survivors had taken serious damage. Paige leaned back, the adrenaline having left her body as she had to become accustomed to the relative silence again, the chaos of combat replaced with the simple droning of engines and whistling of air- She blinked, realizing a new sound had joined the engines. Where was it? She turned, looking for the offending object before looking back towards Ace. That’s when she noticed the line of bullet holes, about six in all, that had punched through No. 83’s skin just above her head. She felt the same chill of cheated death pour down her spine as she tried to steady her breathing, staring at the tears in the aluminum skin. A few inches down, and the ground crew would've been hosing her brains out of her station. “You alright, Turner?” Ace asked, not taking his eyes off his instruments and the view ahead. Consummate professional that he was, he seemed to have been barely affected by the entire exchange, though admittedly the frantic battle must have only taken ten minutes. “I didn’t think you’d been hit-” “Turner’s hit?” came Static’s sharp voice over the line, and Paige could see the unicorn leaning down from the turret, trying to get a better view of her longtime friend. Paige held up a hoof, waving at her from her seat. “No, I’m fine, dragi. Just had a close call.” ”Uh, Hammer-4, Sword-2. You got a pretty bad leak on your number two. It’s spurting like crazy, over.” “Many thanks, Sword-2. Pedals are a little shaky, but we should be okay until-MERCIFUL LUNA!” The call from the Halifax pilot suddenly devolved into a scream as, with no warning at all, the stricken bomber detonated into an uncontrolled fireball, the fuel leak spreading back to the tanks and the entire plane going up, gliding along as it turned into a ghastly apparition before almost comically slowly dipping down and crashing into the trees down below, turning into a small flash. Paige and Ace had front row seats to the entire show, and the event killed any further conversation as the tension which had so rapidly bled out had slammed back full force. The rest of the flight was silent the whole way back to the airfield. Longbottom Royal Airbase Near Shire, Twisted Tail Valley Unfortunately, no sooner had No. 83 set down on the tarmac, her crew dismounted and prepared to leave her to the mechanics for a well-earned bite and sack time, then they were immediately ordered to take off again. “Sir, all due respect!” Lieutenant Ace protested to Wing Commander Smoky Chaser, the stern-faced pegasus who led No. 11 Squadron and the rest of the wing they flew with. “I’ve got holes in my cockpit, the whole air group’s been shot to pieces and we’ve been in the air more than we have on the ground today!” “Lieutenant, I recommend you check your tone,” Chaser replied coolly, to which Ace immediately clammed up, shaking with frustration. For Paige, who was only used to seeing the level-headed and professional pilot, it was a stark change in attitude. “I understand your grievances, Ace. But this isn’t my choice. Tall Tale’s fallen to the Hegemony.” Paige felt the chill creep down her neck, eyes wide. Her wings half-spread, she leapt down from the ladder where she’d been helping Static offload their gear from. “But sir!” she said, fully aware she could be badly reprimanded for butting into a conversation between officers. “What about the tanks?” “Never got there,” Chaser replied somberly. “The regiment got bogged down by Jaegers in the forests. Then they were called back. The Royal Guard Grenadiers were overwhelmed in Tall Tale an hour ago.” The crew were stunned silent, absorbing that small fact. That meant that, short of whatever changeling casualties they’d managed to inflict, the entire aerial attack had been, in a word, pointless. “Called back?” Ace asked, his fury abated. “Why?” Chaser sighed, shaking his head. “Because Los Pegasus was taken by changeling marines and Olenian landing troops. The Lunar Fleet is wiped out. So we’re falling back to Bales. You’ve got an hour.” With that, Commander Chaser turned, trotting over towards the next air crew. Watching him go, Paige realized that as the Wing Commander, he didn’t have to notify each and every plane. But clearly, he felt the need to do so personally. The situation was definitely getting dire on all fronts. If this was the state of Equestria’s defense after just a month, when would they finally hold back the changelings? Could they? Static poked her head out, red aura of magic picking up the bags Paige had dropped and pulling them back into No. 83. “Guess we’re moving again, huh?” Ace nodded slowly, watching the airbase as injured were hauled to the base hospital, only to be loaded onto trucks to be taken away, supplies were hurriedly being inventoried and loaded up, bombers being taxied back out onto the runway having just barely fuelled up enough to make the journey. Some of them were still sporting battlefield damage and smoking engines, given just enough work to get them flying again. The base could still be used by fighters covering the army retreat, but even they would have to fall back as well once the lines got too close. And with word of Mariposa under threat by artillery shells and panzer assault, it wouldn’t be long. Paige cursed in Rijekan, the language barrier allowing her to get away with the short, vicious cuss. She desperately hoped they didn’t have to fall back again. They wouldn’t have room to keep going much further. Because Bales was just north of Canterlot. And if Canterlot fell...then they had but a narrow strip of land until they hit the Celestial Sea. And at this rate, they’d be -in- the Sea by Year’s End. Author's Note Once again, after a bit of a delay due to personal issues of money and time, I have returned to continue the fight! Hopefully this doesn't become a pattern, and the war will definitely be over by Christmas! Thanks to all my loyal readers, those who have stuck with me and those who have only recently joined us! The fight goes on!
1011 pt 2He pinned her against the wall, beak snipping lightly as he traced through her mane, finally reaching her ear and nibbling, lightly. She had to bite her lip, but only after the startled beginning of a breathy moan had escaped. She could feel him grinning and resisted the urge to punch him in his smarmy beak. “Jebati!” she hissed, the word slipping out as she felt a claw digging into her haunch, her hooves at last leaving the ground. His waist was too large to wrap her legs around him, but she found purchase against his hips, hiking her body up the wall to finally put her on level with her lover. He pulled back, looking her evenly in the eyes, his own hazel ones overflowing with lust and desire. He opened his smirking beak, and said- “Up and at ‘em, sunshine! C’mon!” September 7th, 1011 Whitemane RAF Airbase Bales, Equestria “Hey, c’mon!” Static repeated, telekinetically tossing a book at Paige’s head. “We’ve got a mission outside Snowbury! Ace wants you out there now! “Jebi!” Paige hissed in frustration, rubbing her head as both it and something else throbbed. “How long did I sleep?” “About three hours,” Static replied, already dressed in her flight gear as she rummaged in the desk on her side of the room for something in a drawer. “Sounds about right…” Paige grunted as her head flopped back down to the pillow, feeling her desire from the wet dream slowly ebb away, but remaining persistent in the background like an annoying friend with personal space issues. “That was a damn good dream, too…” “You start humping your pillow again, I’m taking photos,” Static leered back, grinning. “What do you mean ‘again?’” Paige snapped as she immediately took up a pillow, tossing it after her red flightmate, who ducked behind the standing locker as the fluffy projectile bounced harmlessly off the metal door, followed by a stream of Rijekan cursing. “Outside, ten minutes!” The winter wind cut through her as she stepped outside the flight barracks, even past her wool and leather coat and her own pegasi natural resistance to cold temperatures. Snow had yet to start falling, but the autumn tones on the trees and Bales’ holding of the Running of the Leaves were clear indicators that it was not far off. While Whitemane had been of a good size before the invasion, it hadn’t been near large enough to hold all the aircraft that had been frantically shunted here. As a result, both aircraft and aircrews were housed in quick built structures, whether it was ramshackle hangers or military field barracks set up outside the base proper. Planes from all over had been housed here, those not attending to keeping the changelings held back over Canterlot, the Crystal City or further west containing Las Pegasus. Paige hurried over to where No. 83 had been set up, in the middle of the yard with enchanted netting tossed over it. Underneath, Static was already going over a clipboard with a groundpony, checking off a list for parts and maintenance while munching on a bagel levitating near her face, coming close so she could take a bite occasionally. Upon Paige’s appearance, she nodded to a nearby platter on a stack of crates, piled high with other such breakfast delights such as the aforementioned bagels, prepackaged alfalfa pancakes, a few carrots that had clearly come out of a can and some applesauce and red apples dull from being in storage. Without a word, Paige immediately put together a wartime breakfast as she moved to look under, nodding to herself as she spied the empty bomb rack. Ever since they had arrived, Bomber Command had stripped Blenheims of their pitiful bomb load, repurposing them into heavy fighters to escort the much more efficient and powerful bomber flights, a job they found they excelled at. “Mail call!” shouted a RAF corporal, a member of the groundcrew for Whitemane and another pegasus, this one of spotted grey coloration and a blonde mane, sorting through the mail as he went. They were familiar with this stallion, by the name of Dunky Dee, as he had been the clerk and operations junior NCO who often relayed orders from the base commander to their squadron, one of dozens of dedicated messengers who lightened the load of controlling massive numbers of aircraft on base at once. “Let’s see...Static! Static! Lilac! Static! Ace! Marbles! Another one for Static! Turner! And Static again!” “Ah, my adoring fans!” Static quipped, waving a hoof to Dee before her red magical aura captured the proffered letters, drifting over towards her. “I don’t know how they figure out where I am so fast. These are the only poor bastards who have the military mail system beat!” She sniffed the letters from several of her radio fans back down south once more. “Sweet, sweet outrage and opinion leaking from every page. Hey Turner, d’ya think if I can get enough of them to sign a petition they can get me out of this lousy war?” “I’d hope not,” Paige said back, heading to Dee for her mail. “I’d have no reason to stick around.” Corporal Dee seemed to hesitate as she approached, the groundcrew who had also received mail having already grabbed their letters and scampered off to read what little bit of contact with their families, friends and civilization they had. But Paige knew exactly what the stallion’s furtive, nervous glance was about. News traveled quickly in military units, and the fact she had kept up a romantic correspondence with none other than an Imperialist griffon had become an open secret. With the grapevine in full swing, she’d gotten a lot of dirty looks upon arriving. After a moment, Dee released the envelope from between his teeth, as well as Ace’s so she could take it to him. “Nah, you’d stay,” Static retorted, already ripping open one of her letters as she took another bite of her levitating bagel. “Where else would you go?” “Griffonia,” Paige retorted almost instantly as she moved to 83’s hatch. “You’d have to ship my dust after, I’d be so fast.” “Pillow,” Static teased after her, smirking as she turned back to her fanmail. Inside the Blenheim, Ace sat at his pilot’s seat, silent as he went down a clipboard list of his own, checking instruments and watching the fuel gauge fill slowly. Paige moved up next to him, gently tapping his shoulder to get her lieutenant’s attention, holding the letter out to him. He raised his head in obvious surprise that she was suddenly there, but his reaction otherwise was muted. “Turner,” he muttered in acknowledgement as he glanced down at the envelope, clearly crestfallen at the address. “Sorry to wake you so early. They’re scrambling us fast. Olenians and Umbrals attacking Snowbury, command wants us to plaster them before bug panzers back them up.” “Forget it, sir,” Paige replied, moving towards her navigator’s station. Now she was no longer a bombardier, her natural inclination for weather patterns as a pegasus made her duties in charting even more important. Lucky her, she’d have a few minutes before she really needed to get to her job, so with the little time she had left before they took off, she quietly accumulated her breakfast of coffee so strong it could power a car, pancakes chewy enough to pass as dumplings and an apple or two, spread over her navigator’s table as she tore open the envelope, just happy to see something from her long silent beau. Her eyes skimmed across the paper as she took a sip, wincing at the bracing taste of the coffee... Sent August 16, 1011 Dear Paige, Happy Birthday. I’m hoping I get this in before it's belated, but regardless. I got you something from a local shop with the time I’ve had, but you’ll have to excuse the size. I didn’t have much time to get it or a wide selection (or envelope). Lucky me, I remembered purple. I know it’s been forever since you heard from me. It took a long time to get your letter. I’m sorry. I was wounded again, this time a lot worse than before. They sent me to a field hospital, then on to a surgical station, then to Visaginas for recovery. By the time you caught up to me, I was mostly on the mend. Another week and I would have missed you again. I’m so sorry to hear about the invasion. I know Equestria is like a second home to you. From the news reports we’re being told, it's not good. If half of what they’re reporting is true, the ‘lings are giving you a real fight. If more, then I shudder at the thought. I’ve seen the results of such a war myself. Looks like our suspicions were right. For what it's worth. I’m honestly unsure of where to start. A lot has happened, to both of us. So I’ll start with your last letter and work my way up. I’ve seen some changeling hardware. A lot of it was developed next to ours. Damned good guns, well made panzers. Aside from that, I’ll have to rely on you for descriptions. Mine are at least two years out of date. But given what I remember of that and the Equestria briefings, I know there’s a real gap in the technology. I’m going to move on. We lost Sabine. Turns out Wingbardy decided to give panzers and weapons to Asterion, so the bulls snuck a brigade over the Creeper Mountains somehow. After weeks of hunting partisans, we weren’t prepared for a full attack. Somegriff had to hold the line for the rest of the kompanie to disengage. Sergeant Hellseig’s gone too. Held out long enough for the rest of us to escape. (A few lines are scribbled out) And I've lost a wing. No, you’re not reading that wrong. My left wing got trapped in the wreckage. Haul had to literally hack the wing off to get me out, or I'd have burned with Sabine. It's hard to talk about. Or write about. This time, it's not just some shrapnel taken from under my skin. It's a whole part of me gone. I can’t fly anymore, and when I walk I’m off-balance most of the time unless they hang a weight on me. Sometimes, I forget it's gone and flare up my wings out of habit. Then I start tipping and see that little stub and it all comes crashing back. I still feel it sometimes too, and that doesn't help. Phantom-Extremitäten-Syndrom they call it. According to both the physician and psychiatrist, there's a chance it’ll never go away. I can feel everybody staring. It’s not natural, and I can tell only the dogs and wingless ponies don’t pity me. I try not to go out if I can help it. Mother paid for a long distance phone call to me. Apparently it took twenty-three minutes and five operators patching her through. She kept going from crying frantically to hollering at me back and forth for about an hour before she hung up. I barely got a dozen words in. You know how she gets. She calmed down in her letter though. I’m getting fitted for some new prototype prosthetic, one that is made of metal, can move like a normal wing and is powered by a small crystal. Normally it would cost a small fortune. But the Reichsarmee is covering it as part of the development, with me as the ‘volunteer’. Also, surprise, it's being made by your second favorite griff, Morgend Longpaw himself. He won’t leave me alone, keeps coming in at all hours to try frames on me, take measurements, other stuff I don’t know how to describe. I think, to him, I'm another test subject, part of the experiment, not so much a patient or customer. I think I see what you were talking about with his oddities when you described him. I’ve been decorated with a Knight’s Cross, and offered a commission. Uncle August came in and told me they want me for some kind of propaganda program called the ‘Panzer Elite’. The Empire’s gathering all these high performing ‘ace’ crews from the past few years of fighting and are putting us up on a pedestal. National heroes, they call us. I wouldn’t have taken it, but the position offered an officer candidacy, and I know I'll never afford the tuition for university on my own. And, it came from Uncle. You know it’s a serious deal when he lifts me out of trouble. Eihol, Spotsley and Haul are coming with me to test some new systems. Need a new gunner to take my place. Uncle says that my Kadet-Offizier training will finish at the same time as the testing, so I'll be a Panzer-Leutnant by New Year’s. But after the orders came down, I had to write you before I moved on and things got even more jumbled up. You’ll find the Jungeschule’s address in the envelope, so we can avoid the confusion at my end. It’s so odd, starting at nothing and now soaring to such heights in only a few years (figuratively, at least. There I go, already joking about being flightless). So much has changed, it’s had to read back on the old letters I was able to save. We’re both such different people now. It’s very strange, being the one at peace while you’re off at war. And what a war I’ve read. The press is going giddy, watching Equestria taken down a peg or two. For years, the Empire has had to endure scorn and political ridicule from across the sea, as the Sick Bird of Griffonia. Now the Empire’s on the rise and Equestria is looking to fall. The pundits and politicos out here are full of themselves. But I’m not celebrating. I’m right there praying Equestria pulls out of this war. You have faith, and you’re putting everything you have into this fight. I know it, or you would have grabbed the first boat East. So, I have faith in Equestria because I have faith in you. Don’t worry about me anymore. I’m safe again, and you need to worry about yourself as much as you can. Keep safe, my love. Things are changing. And this war, however terrible, can’t last forever. We -will- be together one day. All the trouble we’ve been through can’t have just built us up to this if the gods didn’t have a plan for us in the end. And you still have my medal. I eagerly await your next letter, and when I next write you, it will be from the akadamie as I take my first steps towards being an officer. Yours always. Love, Cyril (Inside the envelope is a photograph of Cyril standing in his dress uniform, wingsleeve pinned back, as he stands in front of a hospital’s flower garden. With the photo is a dried out but still beautiful lilac, the same as in the hospital photo. Another note reads ‘These are rare in the Herzland, but grow like crazy here, so I bought one from a slower stand. It’s not much, but I hope it’s enough. Happy Birthday ~Cyril’) “Turner!” She snapped her head up, jolting in surprise, coffee slightly splashing onto her front as she cursed in Rijekan. Ace waited patiently before he tossed a clipboard to her, clattering on her map table. “Need you to run your checks, chart us a course to Snowbury with these coordinate checkpoints and help with the systems test before we take off. Rest of the squadron’s queuing up, let’s go!” With a sigh, Paige carefully tucked the letter away, mildly resenting Ace’s ability to still function even after such a personal blow as he’d taken. Regardless, they had a job to do, and lives to save on the ground. But before she got into it, she gently took a small sniff of the rather unfortunate lilac that had been pressed flat in the envelope. In Rijekograd, her mother had grown lilacs in that same flowerbed that they were surely about to abandon. A stew of emotions churned in her gut. She desperately missed Cyril and her parents, it had been years since she’d been home and now like Equestria it too was falling to chaos. Her regret and resentment warred in her head a moment longer, battling over the sense of depressed dread she had felt everyday that past few months. Then, after letting herself slip off the deep end a moment, she simply shook her head, sighed again, and tucked away the lilac to get started on her list. There was a war to fight. She was so tired. On August 25, 1011 ALB (After Luna Banishment), citing months if not years of bad relations and numerous provocations, the Griffonian Kaiserreich invaded their much smaller neighbor, the Skyfall Trade Federation. The stated war goal was to reclaim the prosperous port city of Skyfall itself and capture its fleet, which had once made up the old Kaiserliche Marine before the Republican Revolution of 978 saw the city split away. While brave in standing their ground and professionally trained, the Federation’s defense forces were no match for the much larger and more heavily armed and now veteran Reichsarmee. Within three weeks, the countryside was completely under Imperial control and the city of Skyfall put under siege. But Skyfall was well fortified, and drew their fleet in to dissuade the Kaiserliche Marine. In response, one Imperial commander, General Celia Marshtail, in a stunning show of ruthless cunning, bribed the mercenaries employed by Skyfall’s trade barons. The gates were thrown open and the mercenaries, bored and frustrated with being trapped in a siege by their employers, began looting the entire city, starting with the treasury. When Reichsarmee troops entered the city almost unopposed, many joined in the Sack of Skyfall. It took an entire day before the Vollstrecker managed to regain control of the situation. In that time, almost all of the mercenaries were arrested, 600 Reichsarmee soldiers were summarily executed on the spot and 25,000 civilians were killed or wounded in the crossfire. Relieved that the chaos was over, the city garrison, who had worked with the Reichsarmee to tame the storm, surrendered with no further resistance. The Federation government fled to the nearby Haukland Isles, attempting to rally political favor from the Griffonian Revolutionary Republic and the Federated Republic of Aquileia. By September 13th, both the city and the fleet were secured by the Empire, and the territory declared reclaimed. President Verany of Aquileia insisted the Empire had gone too far, as while annexing the Grenzwald was seen as acceptable, this was seen as warmongering. Duchess Regent Gabriela pointed out the hypocrisy of that accusation, considering Aquileia had used the excuse of ‘unity’ to ‘liberate’ every single small republic and duchy, formerly part of the old kingdom, between the borders of Aquileia and the Empire. No official response was sent. The two nations now prepare, on the brink of war. October 7th. After weeks of quiet, careful negotiation, the Federated Republic of Aquileia, the Griffonian Revolutionary Republic, the Skyfall Trade Federation and the Knightly Kingdom of Vedina sign the Republican Entente. October 9th. Vedinian and Revolutionary troops cross the northern border from Cloudbury to the duchies of Feathisia, Strawberry and the newly conquered Whitetail Territory. To the south, from former Griefwald, Aquileian tanks surprise Reichsarmee troops, bombers soaring overhead. At sea, what’s left of the Federation’s naval forces join those of the other three powers to trap the Kaiserliche Marine in Skyfall and Rottendedam. Imperial forces at the borders are caught in a state of surprise. The attack was only expected from one direction. While all Imperial branches scramble to respond, losses are already mounting. The Great struggle for Griffonia has begun. October 15, 1011 Grenzwald Offizier-Jungeschule Zeldstadt, Hellsword “Extra, extra! Read all about it! Empire under attack! Entente forces pinch from both sides! Duchess Regent calls for volunteers to stand against the Republican menace! Extra!” The newsfoal standing on the street corner kept crowing as he held up the latest issue of Der Rechte Flügel, the stream of passing offizier-kadets occasionally tossing him a few idols for a copy. Cyril, for his part, kept on, pressing for the dormitories, not eager to dawdle. The kadet fatigues mercifully helped blend him in like camouflage in the brush, reducing the discomfort of his empty wingsleeve. But his was a matter of time constraint, not personal space. Flying over campus was off limits to all kadets (not that much of a bother to non pegasus ponies and dogs from the Bund), leaving the air open for instructors, staff and VIPs like visiting knights and inspecting officers. He couldn’t stand the stares that persisted, the whispers that he could barely hear in quiet lecture halls when the instructors had left them to their assignments or quizzes. He’d been warned to expect distaste, and got it. But there was an equal amount of awe from the younger, less hardened kadets. Much like the rest of the Empire, battle scars were a mark of honor, in the Grenzwald more than any elsewhere. But the same unnatural sense of missing a wing persisted, and the stares that came with it, from the Grenzwald kadets, Herzland kadets and even other combat vets like him. Those who would take interest in the young drake never took long to come face to face with him, and were all too eager to ask him about his experience, ponies and griffons alike, further dragging up unwanted memories. The only people he was friends with these days were his crew, barracked off campus at the proving grounds and a few of the other vets who managed to get past their own prejudice. As if his unwanted celebrity wasn’t already rather uncomfortable, the classes were killing him. Normally, a kadet candidate would take at least two years of education in the Empire to earn a commission from the Osnabeak Akadamie. The knight-run learning institutes in Hellquill, Swordsson and Zeltdstadt were even harsher, taking up to three years according to what he had heard. But for a combat veteran like Cyril, who had already passed basic training nearly half a decade ago and acquired more combat experience than most of the frontier kadets here, there was a fast track option available, his training being focused on more intellectually demanding undertakings. Imperial and Reformisten officers, NCO’s and instructors alike shared these halls, the Herzland specialists imparting their expertise until the Grenzwald campus was fully caught up on modern panzer warfare, which only a few Black Knights had grips with. But from all sides, he received no quarters. Upon waking up, it was physical conditioning, with extra physical therapy for Cyril himself instead of flying. Then, after breakfast it was a full barrage of classes for eight hours in subjects like mathematics, combatives, foreign briefings, etiquette, political science, tactical lessons and for him particularly mechanical engineering. Ironically, the subject Cyril suffered in the worst of all, worse even than mathematics, the physical training or etiquette was tactics class, by far the most essential. In all his time, Cyril had only ever had to worry about staring down a gunsight, predicting what the other side was about to do. Now, he’d be in charge of not only his own whole panzer, but three more on top of that. And so far, his idea of reasonable tactics had only been met with lukewarm success. Hauptmann Zettler had highlighted this with a simple exercise; with a theoretical four panzer force, assault an enemy bunker on a hill dug in with an anti-Panzer gun. Cyril’s answer had been to split the force and pincer from both sides, but Zettler had pointed out that it exposed all four panzers’ flanks. Much as Cyril had wanted to protect his drakes, the captain had informed him, he had risked even more injury by letting the enemy take a pick of such juicy targets. The correct answer, Zettler had said, was to square off with two of the panzers as a gun line with their thick frontal plates, while the other two were to pinch from the flanks. It sat badly in Cyril’s beak, knowing from firstclaw experience that such a move would cost at least one panzer. But according to the instructors, his own tactic would result in two, possibly three panzers down with flank shots. It had been embarrassing. Despite this display, Oberstmeister Heimclar, watching nearby, reiterated that the suggestion of the aspiring kadet was not entirely without merit, mentioning how his logic of trying to prevent casualties was admirable. The execution, Heimclar has reasoned, required refinement. The real exercise, for example, would have far more clear conditions than a stock sample tactics board. After all this, Cyril had just enough time to rush to his dorm, change out of his kadet uniform into his newly issued panzerwaffen blacks, grab a bite to go and get out of town to the proving grounds. Luckily, Zeltstadt’s train station wasn’t far from the campus, and once he was aboard it was smooth sailing, assuming he caught the 4:35. So it was he flung open the door to his dorm, glancing around the room. His roommate appeared to be otherwise engaged, the blue blood lout. Cyril sighed, changing out of his kadet uniform and into his Reichsarmee panzerwaffe uniform as quick as he could, already trying to remember what they had tested yesterday on the Gryta and what the engineers claimed they’d be testing while he was gone. He’d have to review the notes once he got there, assuming they didn’t move to gunnery without- Something on the bed caught his eye, and he paused. A few envelopes. His mother hadn’t stopped writing, since the telephone she used had been down at the local pub (they were too poor to afford their own set), but her last letter came in two days ago, after she’d already come to visit him. He moved quickly, flipping them over to inspect. A letter from the Reichsarmee, which he would save for later. Another one from Griffenheim made him pause as he recognized the name of Father Andreas Bronzeclaw, the priest from Greifenmarsch and the Herzland Wars who’d returned to the Great Temple afterwards. That could be interesting. The last letter, however, made his breath hitch and his body freeze up. A letter from Paige. For one long, agonizing minute, he stared at the letter. That was her writing, she always addressed it in cursive, and the stamps were indeed Equestrian, the spires of Canterlot on the small tabs. He almost didn’t know what to do, having been so long without her. Then a train whistle blew in the distance, and he snapped back to reality, quickly tossing the letter in his pack and finishing his preparations to leave. Ten minutes later, Cyril squeezed between two tired looking pony laborers, finding an open space on the passenger car to let him slip in and sit down next to the Bronze Dog slumbering near the end of the car. The window captured the setting sun perfectly, and he set his travel bag down as the letter once more materialized. Another minute of indecision, and he sliced the top open with a claw. As the train steamed off into the Longswordian countryside, Cyril finally unfolded it and began to read Paige’s words once again... Sent September 9th, 1011 Dear Cyril, It’s so good to finally hear from you. I was worried something had gone wrong. In a way, from your description, it did. I am so sorry. I have no words to express my sorrow and sympathy. Pegasi feel the loss of another creature’s wing much like death. It’s our greatest fear. Not even magic can properly heal it sometimes. The thought of having to live without it makes me feel ghastly ill for lack of a stronger term. And you’re working with Morgend Longpaw! What I wouldn’t give to be with you, for multiple reasons. Try to work through your troubles with him for me, he’s possibly the most brilliant drake you’ll ever meet (though I wouldn’t say he’s my second favorite). Your news about the Panzer Elite promotion makes me happy. Congratulations on making the cut. Now you’ll be getting an education too. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. You’re a hard worker. I know you can be a good student at this, army life is everything to you. You earned this, and you’re finally getting recognized for what I’ve always known you could do. I’ve been so scared the past few months. This war has only gotten started, and for a while it seemed like you were gone. Or at least just not there. But now you’re safe again, and I can look forward to your letters once more. We’ve been pulled back again. Tall Tale and Las Pegasus fell to the assault, so our flight has been taken to Bales. Canterlot is practically within short flight range now. But it’s changed. The mountains and forests here are now working to our advantage, funneling the changelings into killzones. I hear there’s still fighting in Mariposa and Raspberry Grove. Word is the Royal Army finally got solid defense lines around Marechester and Ponderosa. Rockville is supposed to get reinforcements, but that’s so far away I can’t say for certain. There’s no way the south will let the bugs roll through. But. We may have finally slowed them down. Maybe even stopped them. I haven’t been anywhere but the airbase and Bales. Well, and up in No. 83, shooting at the bugs. They stopped fitting her with bombs. Seems we’re a bomber escort now, which makes me just a navigator. We go up almost every day, it seems. Never at night. It’s practically suicide against the enemy. Changeling fighters, it turns out, are not so impossible to kill by Spitfires, but we’ve got less and less of those every day, and the bug pilots spent a hell of a lot longer training for this job. Some of their aces are almost magical in the air. There’s two we’re always concerned with; Verkut and Kalart. We know their names because changeling propaganda leaflets keep turning up bragging about them. Both are able to slip right past a bomber wing’s fighter escort and gut the wing with little effort, kill an escort or two and get away scot free. I hear Verkut even shot down a Wonderbolt, but nopony official’s talking about it. The rest of the base always seems to be in some grim spiral, only broken up by radio speeches from the Princesses and large doses of cider, the “old medicine” as we call it. But we keep going up. We get shot down or full of holes, and we grab replacement planes, replacement crew, patch up the damage and go again. And again. It almost seems endless. All the ordnance we’re dropping has to be doing something. RAF High Command ordered the cessation of strategic bombers on our cities. Apparently, there’s too much collateral damage and the Princesses don’t wish to cause anymore civilian deaths. Good and bad with that decision. But still. Sombra’s back. It’s official. I don’t know if your newspapers are reporting on that. He was never confirmed destroyed in the Crystal War. Now he’s back and converting Crystal ponies to his Thrall Legions, working with the changelings. This war is like something out of a nightmare. It just keeps getting worse for us when we think we’ve seen it through to the worst. No word on what Royal Command is doing about it. I just hope they act fast before the Crystal Empire falls, and then we have one more frontline and one less ally. We’ve been told to expect some company. Apparently, a treaty was signed with (the word has been clipped by a censor), so we can expect to see more backup any day now. Any port in a storm, I guess. Commonwealth fighters touched down, talking about Expeditionary battalions landing in (the word has been clipped by a censor) to come help us. About time, but I’m betting nopony is going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Bit of an odd bunch, kind of treating this war as an exciting getaway. They keep going on about ‘saving our flanks a second time’. I remember flying with them in the Crystal War. Seems a lifetime ago, not just a few years. We’re just fighting and surviving as best we can out here, but it’s hard. Static covers it up with sarcasm and humor, but I can tell she’s scared to death. The more she laughs it off, the more frightened she is. We also found out that Tall Tale was Ace’s hometown. He doesn’t even know if his wife and foals got out. No wonder he’s been out of sorts. We let him be after that. I think he needs to work out a few things before we can help him. He always seems to be on the verge of cracking. I just hope that if he does, it’s not while he’s at the stick. Looks like the Empire decided not to sit back and wait. The newspapers are going crazy about Imperial panzers blitzing the border, like it's somehow right up there with the changeling tanks bearing down on us even now. I know how loyal you are, but I’m going to say this right now, and you’ll likely disagree, but here it goes; invading Skyfall is a mistake. I don’t doubt the Empire can win in Skyfall and the Haukland Isles. But you may have to watch for a bigger war yourself. Aquileia and the Republic both were trying to get on the Federation’s good side. You’re so worried about me, now I’m getting worried about you all over again in the course of a letter on top of the news of your wing, now what the papers are telling us from across the sea. In these times, I find myself turned to poetry and sayings. Pieces of home I’ve come to treasure the longer I am away from it, and the worse I hear things are getting. Father finally admits it is probably for the best to leave now. They’re talking about trying to apply for entry to Gryphia, as much as he hates it. Mother keeps reminding him they have no choice. Almost all sea traffic is blockaded right now, and the only choice aside from fleeing to the Hillfolk League through Diamond Mountain is trying to push through Barrad to Kása. Brook fell off the scene again. Probably left the Friestaat to escape before the Reformisten advance. There’s nothing I can do to help any of them, and what’s worse is that the letter took two months to reach me here. They’ve likely left by now. I don’t even know where they decided to go. I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from any of them again. They may as well be one of my squadron, shot dead out of the sky. It feels the same. I’m going to miss my mother’s garden. The whole world seems to be falling apart. Sometimes it feels all I have left is my flight and you. Stay in touch. I can’t lose you again. Ostani na sigurnom i živi dobro, draga moja. Gives you a reason to learn Rijekan. Love, Paige P.S: the lilac was perfect. They grew all over the hills around Rijekograd. I remember a corner of my mother's garden had a huge lilac bush, too thick to play in but beautiful to look at. It’s likely gone now, but your gift will always remind me of it. Thank you. “Next stop! Korinna Proving Grounds!” Cyril’s head snapped up from the letter, which he’d fortunately only just finished. Time to think about it later. There was a lot to unpack in this. The crowd on the station was not thick, and Cyril had no luggage. He flowed through the station like water, trying not to look up at the winged forms flying overhead, either chatting in the station rafters or leaving through the open ends of the station. But he couldn’t help glancing up at the Pegasi and griffons above him, a twinge of jealousy in his gut. “Oops!” Something small and solid impacted his waist, and Cyril glanced down to apologize to the small figure when his voice caught in his throat. He had assumed them to be a chick or a foal, but upon first glance he had no clue what to think. He was the right size, and possessed a muzzle and front hooves, but his head and chest were covered in white feathers, and his lower half was a sky blue that reached to paws and a leonine tail. He was dressed like many other lower class worker children in the Grenzwald, though this being Hellsword the style closely resembled Herzlander clothes. And, strangest of all, the child had purple eyes and no wings. “Sorry, sir!” the chick, foal, whatever this child was snapped a clumsy salute at the sight of Cyril’s uniform. “Wasn’t watching where I was going!” “It’s alright,” Cyril found himself automatically replying. With that, the child beamed up at him before galloping off, moving through the sparse crowd towards a female griffon, who smiled down at the child warmly. She must have been his mother, but how? Adopted, surely. The formel and strange child turned to the train, where an Earth pony stallion, one of the bigger breeds, was exiting a passenger car. Like the formel and child, he was dressed basically, like a low class worker, his saddlebags bulging with what looked like tools. The griffon and child embraced him, and he back to them, talking and smiling like a family recently reunited. Because they were. “Huh,” Cyril remarked quietly to himself, watching the scene until the family made to move towards the entrance. In a flash, he was gone, though not without a pit in his gut...alongside a warm glow of some kind of positive emotion he could no longer name. He was met at the station entrance today by Gefreiter Sabrina Eisenwing, his new gunner, lounging in the staff car, paging through a magazine with a bored expression. While the Panzer Elite has done their best to keep veteran crews together, Cyril now had need of two new crew members, with him being promoted and Haul seemingly having vanished. As a result, he’d been given fresh graduates, replacements in the barest of terms. At least Eisenwing has come highly recommended, and if he was being frank she was fairly attractive, a nice change from the rough and scarred faces he’d served with the past few years. She glanced up as he approached, then immediately stood, stepping out to open the rear door for him and saluting sharply. “Afternoon sir,” she greeted, back ramrod stiff, wings frozen in place. “At ease,” Cyril replied, saluting in return. After so long as one of the griffs below in the enlisted, being greeted as a ‘sir’ was still strange to him. “Were you waiting long?” “No sir. Pulled in thirty minutes ago.” She shut the door behind him, taking her own seat and starting the staff car. “You lucked out, sir. They’re currently fixing a problem with our engine, so we’ve got time to get back and get you up to speed.” “That -is- good news,” Cyril acknowledged, watching the train station pull away and the Korinna grounds roll up instead, his mind elsewhere as he moved on into the second phase of his training. Right now, his mind was on the slip of paper tucked away in his coat pocket. And it would stay there the rest of the day. November 20th, 1011 Whitemane RAF Airbase Bales, Equestria Paige spat as she threw her flying cap to the tarmac, cursing to herself. Another flight, another bitter disappointment. Gods, they had -won- this one. So why didn’t it feel like a victory? She looked back over No. 83 and the sheer number of bullet holes in her side brought back to mind the wind whistling past her mane, hearing the shriek of the air as they had dove and banked through the sky. Contesting the air above the Crystal Empire against the Thrall pilots had been assigned to the Reds, leaving the Royal Air Force to focus on protecting what was even now being referred to as the Blueblood Line. While the situation up north was still in turmoil as the Crystal and socialist ponies kept being pushed further and further back by an almost unending tide of Sombra’s Thrall Legions backed by changeling panzers, umbral monsters, Olenian skirmishers and now polar bear shock troops, the focus of holding Equestria was seen as the more vital point. Mariposa had finally fallen, but Paige had been there to witness the almost flawless execution of the fallback to Marechester. From what the squadron had been told, command had been expecting Mariposa to be taken, and played it to their advantage, evacuating the civilians, booby-trapping the buildings and streets after and then falling back to stronger, more prepared fortifications in Marechester. The bugs’ attempts to use Mariposa’s military structure would receive a nasty surprise in the form of several thousand timed explosives hidden in hangars, radio stations, munitions bunkers and under roads, bridges and runways. Since No. 83 no longer carried bombs, another Nickers machine gun had been installed in the nose for Paige, a role she took to eagerly, ready to fight back when she had previously been little more than a passenger at the mercy of Ace’s flying. The operation had gone off without a hitch...for the army. While Equestrian troops and tanks had moved into trenches and behind artillery pits in Marechester, the Queendom had plastered the RAF with an enormous air fleet, including the two aces Verkut and Kalart, vicious air killers both. The result was half the squadron being shot to pieces, unable to handle the massive swarm they suddenly faced. Even the pegasi fliers had been ambushed by changelings, and the uncomfortable realization that battleshifters could fly still, and were capable of literally ripping apart tactical bombers in midair only worsened the situation. The only reason the rest had escaped was thanks to Marechester’s AA defenses and intervention by fighters from Commonwealth No. 3 Squadron. Ironically, the Mustang and Bucksbane fighters used by the Commonwealth aviators were more modern than the Hurricanes most Equestrian fighter wings were still forced to use. The victory was soured for many surviving ponies as well as Paige herself as she sighed, looking around at the other planes coming down to the tarmac. Most were as beaten as No. 83. Some were worse off, spewing smoke and flames and just barely getting down so the fire crews and on hoof unicorns could halt the fires, some crashing and wrecking on the runway. Pilots and crew were being rushed to the healers, and even from here Paige could see the lines forming up outside the medical station, medics and healer unicorns rushing from patient to patient, trying to stabilize them long enough to get them to a hospital. Many had white sheets pulled over their forms, but no time or hooves to move the corpses away from the living. “Y’know,” came Static’s drawl as she also emerged from the plane, muzzle streaked with sweat and soot around where her goggles had been. “I could have sworn to the Princesses we won that one. They told us we won, right?” “Army won,” Paige replies quietly, an edge of bitterness to her tone. “That’s the difference.” “Well at least somepony on our side is,” Static shot back, stretching out as her magic also tugged the flight gear from her head. “I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna grab some coffee and about twelve hours of sleep. Let me know when they need us, should be about three hours.” “You realize you’re getting coffee -before- you go to sleep?” Paige replied, raising an eyebrow at her crew mate. Static thought about that for a moment before simply shrugging. “Yeah. But I need the coffee to make it to my cot. Guarantee I’ll still knock out before you.” And with that, the red unicorn took off at a wearied, tired trot towards the mess hall. For her part, Paige endured the poking and prodding by a unicorn healer before she was finally allowed to leave herself, exhausted and almost dragging herself back to the flight barracks, where many other crew ponies were staggering towards as well. Her wings ached from lack of use, and she smelled like gunpowder, grease, sweat and exhaust. But the showers would all be occupied by now. She would have to wait her turn, which she was currently more than happy to do. She made it to the room she and Static shared, tossing her flight jacket unceremoniously onto the ground, stretching as wide as she could. All her exhaustion disappeared, however, with the sight of an envelope on her bunk. Glancing over at Static’s, she saw the customary small stack from the radiomare’s fans. Corporal Dee must have delivered their mail while they were in the air. Eagerly, she swept over, only giving the address a cursory glance before ripping it open, eyes eagerly scanning the paper inside as she laid back on her bunk, feeling her aches and worries temporarily fade into the background... Sent October 17, 1011 Dear Paige, I’m sorry to hear I made you so worried, but I suppose it couldn’t be helped. While I’m grateful you can sympathize with me so much, I find I don’t want to talk about my missing wing anymore either. I’m having a strange experience here. The other kadets all seem to react to it, one way or another. Those from the Herzlands who came East because Osnabeak and Vinnin were overcrowded look at me with shock and sometimes a bit of revulsion. To be fair, I kind of know how unnatural I must seem to them. Then the Reformisten kadets are fascinated by it, and keep coming up to ask me how I lost it. They want me to relive that night, over and over again. So no, I’d rather stop talking about it, honestly. Longpaw is...interesting. He is certainly different from the scientists back at Krallestein, my only other basis of comparison. Disconnected from the world around him for sure, but he truly does seem to care. It is never just a science thing with him. He speaks as if we were changing the world with all of this. Were I a bit more optimistic, the words might be touching. What is more strange is that he doesn’t strike me as someone who would become a part of such a fanatical organization as the Reformisten. He doesn’t spout ideology and he certainly doesn’t seem to be aligned with them by common thought. I suppose even the most idealistic need to be pragmatic at times. He came in with the first prototype the other day, a big bulky thing that he called the ‘concept piece’. It fit my back and the stump, but it was so heavy it tipped me back the other way. I never even got to try and flap it. For a moment I could see a disappointed look on his face, a strange sight for one so mysteriously jolly, but in less than a second his attitude shifted back to his energetic usual self. And he was off again saying how he would come with a better design soon. It is a strange feeling to be a part of something that will change society so drastically, the way he speaks of how his invention will help those like me who either cannot fly because of a lost wing or of those without wings strong enough to achieve flight, it seems as though Doctor Morgend truly means well, an unusual sight in this bleak world. I hope he is right. The crew has been alright. Spotsley and Eihol came out okay, just with some injuries. Eihol lost most of the feathers on his face and the hearing in one ear, but he’s very popular with the formels here out East. Spotsley lost an eye, but she’s not letting that slow her down at all, certainly not when she lectures us. They both got promotions to sergeant, and they damned well deserve them. I haven’t seen Haul since the hospital. He just seemed to have disappeared. If I were to guess I would say he has been transferred because the replacements also included a loader for our crew. I may not have trusted him much, but not getting the chance to say goodbye stung a bit. We were never even told he was leaving. Back to the replacements. Sabrina Eisenwing is just a Gefreiter, but she apparently scored top of her class on the gunnery range back in Vinnin, and we need good shooters. She’s new, but so far she’s proving her scores with the Gryta cannon. Our new loader is Lukas Brightclaw, also a fresh rookie, but he apparently comes from a noble family in Yale, so he was talked on. He does a decent job as a loader, he’s a big griff. But he’s also pretty temple-headed. Apparently his father’s actually a bishop or something, I don’t remember. He’s always quoting scripture and saying prayers aloud, singing hymns as he works. Now, I’m a devoted follower myself. But there’s only so many times you can hear “Praise to the God King!” when you call for a reload before it just gets to you. He’s not bad, but he’s also kind of disappointed that nogriff else is as onto them as he is. I can’t tell you about the panzer, which is really frustrating because it’s the more enjoyable part of my day. But it’s considered top secret information, so anything I write will just get clipped. I’d rather save the time and ink and just write you things. I can tell you about the akadamie, however. This place was built out of an older one meant for the Longsword military, but that changed after the civil war. They only just got the new curriculum up and running two years ago, and now it’s seeing more students from the west. It’s not a bad place, but the sheer amount I have to go through is staggering. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say there’s far more to being an officer than you or I ever realized. I have to learn mathematics, for example. Some of these concepts I’ve never even heard of before now. Etiquette is another one, where I learn just how to speak with other officers, nobles, knights, royalty, on and on, given the Grenzwalders’ mindset picking up on these habits should not be so difficult but it appears that relearning my manners for the Imperial elite could cover a whole semester alone. It also turns out that being a good shot doesn’t translate to tactics well. I do well on the range, but that’s only for certification and then we’re done. Now, I have to learn how to manage several panzers at once and place the good of the mission above those under my command. It’s not a mentality I’m comfortable with. The physical conditioning is hard, too. I’m excused from the flying exercises, but they find other things for me, like sprints with the ponies, climbing up obstacles, things like that. The instructors seem to love singling me out. The topic of Skyfall being a mistake is too high above my head to debate with you. Invade as many lands as I have and they all start to look the same through a gunsight. You should know. But I’m not a politician. I’m learning about history and military structure, but the reasons for us being in this war are beyond me, and I know better than to trust the newsrags to tell me the whole truth. Whatever else, we’re at war. This time, we’re on the defensive. Propaganda on the approved radio nets spins it like we’re mounting a heroic defense to throw the invaders back any day now. But then they said that when the enemy was (this section is clipped out by a censor), and when (so is this section) was invaded, and now that Rottendedam’s under siege and our forces are (this section too) to Skyfall while bombers fly over the Herzland. Strangely, the fact I’m now on the other side of the Empire from the war makes me all the more nervous. I don’t know if word’s gotten back to you yet, but with Cyanolisia’s liberation, the war in the east is looking close to closing. They’re saying Asterion will be taken by Mondstille. So all the real battle is in the west. We’re all ready to get into the fight, but told we must stay. How strange. When I was at war, I wanted to be anywhere else. Now I’m in safety, enforced safety, and I can’t wait to go back. I don’t know what to make of that. Mother and Sophie visited over the weekend. There was a lot of crying and cursing from my mother. Then she straightened out and told me how proud she is of me. I can’t tell you how happy that all made me. She gave me some chocolates she made to send out to you, hoping it would reach you before the holidays. Some timing on that formel. Sophie is growing up everytime I look away from her. I can hardly believe it. I’m gone only a year and she shoots up like a weed. An eleven year old weed. And I’m not there. We went out on the town over the weekend, had lunch at a cafe. First time I’ve seen my mother and sister since I shipped out to the east. The stories they share about the air battles over Griffenheim make me more concerned than ever. They take shelter in the cellar while the Luftstreitkräfte fights Aquileian bombers back, listening to the ordnance pounding the Imperial City, while flak guns rattle away. To hear them tell it, the bombardments go on forever, and I can see the same darkness in their faces that many say I have in mine. Mother joined a volunteer group, some sort of Eimerbrigade. She goes out after the bombs stop falling and digs through wreckage for anygriff trapped beneath, then helps the fire service to put out fires. In the mornings, she helps pick through wreckage for bodies and precious remnants of lives shattered by the bombers, then joins the repair parties to fix the damage. She should not have to be the one to step into this role. I am now torn between wanting to be by your side, wanting to join the struggle out in Feathisia and being back home so I may protect my family. Sadly, it seems, I can have none of them. Mother and Sophie departed on the train for home after that. We have no family anywhere safer right now, but I have heard rumors of a chick’s evacuation to the east. I pray it does not come to that. I’ve been hearing news about the Riverlands. Concerning news that I’m not sure you know. Before the Entente invasion, the Reformisten were mostly concerned with restarting the crusade that was supposed to crush the east. Plenty of the instructors here speak of striking while the Coalition is tearing itself apart. But it appears that decision is no longer in their claws. Your parents will be fine, Paige. If they got out early enough, they can find safety in a number of places. And they’re smart enough to leave before things got too out of claw. After all, they were smart enough to raise you right. We get flyovers from the Luftstreitkräfte from time to time. Everytime they do, I always look up and think of you, even when I’m in class. It must be hell up there, from what little I know of aerial combat and what you’ve told me. If it's anything like panzer warfare, cooped up in a can while your fate is in the claws of others, then I at least have a shred of knowledge. Everyday the miles separating us seem to grow ever wider. We now have two enormous wars in our way, and I don’t know when the fighting will end this time. It seems endless, this gulf. The drumming never seems to cease, beating its chant into time as we try to march to its tune. It seems less land and sea striving to keep us apart and more a river of soldiers, walls of steel armor and an ocean of blood. The very force of war itself seems dedicated to our separation. You’re not the only one turning to poetry lately. Love, Cyril And that was it. No positive message at the end, no PS, no mention of how much he missed her. It didn’t seem so much a response to her last letter, and more Cyril getting a lot of baggage off his chest. While she felt for her beau, the letter left Paige a bit down, unsure of how to react to the words. War had come to Griffonia as well, and the news reports she trusted showed it to be just as bad as this one. By Cyril’s words, the distance between them now seemed as wide as going from the ground to the moon. Armies and fleets separated them now, not just land and an ocean. She was staring at the letter, trying to read deeper into it or at least gain some shred of the joy she used to have when she read Cyril’s words, when Static came back in, looking about as worn out as she felt. She glanced over at Paige with a small smile on her face. “Ace just got word. His family got out before Tall Tale was cut off.” “Oh. Yeah, that’s great,” Paige replied, not quite distracted but also not really able to muster up the energy for the relieved and active response she knew positive words like this deserved. True to form, Static raised an eyebrow as she eyed up the letter Paige had before her. “You okay? That a letter from Cyril?” “Yeah.” “Uh...how is he?” “Not good,” Paige said back, turning to the paper and scanning it for the fifth time. “He’s having a hard time at officer candidate school. Plus losing a wing. Griffenheim’s getting the crap bombed out of it, and his family’s right in the firing line.” “Damn war,” Static grumbled as she tugged her jacket off. “Both of them. What in Tartarus happened to the world? Four years ago, war was a memory as distant as Nightmare Moon. Now we’ve had civil wars, revolutions, coups, an evil resurrection and now we’re sitting in the middle of two firestorms threatening to burn down both continents. It’s insane.” “Yeah,” Paige mustered up, glancing over at her side table, where she’d cautiously set up the last photo she’d taken with her family, a week before she left for university, an eternity and a lifetime ago. “Maybe the world’s always been broken. We just covered it up so we could pretend everything was fine and carry on like it was all just one big, magical adventure.” To this, Static sighed as she collapsed onto her bunk, the fanmail shoved off the side to think about later. “Well, that’s certainly what Equestria’s been doing. Can’t really go back, can we?” And with that, the unicorn gave an enormous yawn, curled up with her pillow under the covers, and nodded off in minutes. The Rijekan Pegasus sighed, reading the letter once more. It would be hard to write back, she knew. But she had to. He was her only connection left. Maybe later, when she wasn’t so tired. But as she collected up the envelope to store the letter so she too could get some sleep, another slip of paper caught her eye. There, in the envelope as well. She’d missed it when she had opened it up. Curious, she reached in and gently extracted the much smaller piece. It had one line of text printed on it, in neat letters she thought she might recognize. Your family has passed through the Host. They are secured. And underneath, all there was for a signature was a drawing of an eye. Some kind of symbol? What did it all mean? Paige glanced up at the window, still holding Cyril’s letter as she watched the activity of the base outside and, more importantly, the sky. It had started snowing again. Author's Note Something new for you guys, a mixture of styles from narrative and letter both. A sign of changing times, how nothing is normal anymore, and how they cannot go back to the way they were. Expect the next one coming up fast, as I am very excited to write it. Its thanks to your support and eagerness that I keep writing these, and we still have a long road to go. Comment below on thoughts and feedback, join the Discord if you haven't yet and want to find some kindred spirits or join my patreon if you feel my writing deserving of what little you can give! Remember, we're all just starving artists! Next time: Winter War Stories
Winter War Stories pt 1Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.
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Dream a Little DreamSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.
Love, Death and MagicSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.
Der Kaiser's LebenstagSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.
Welcome to the JungleSomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.
Dream a Little Dream IISomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.
Dream a Little Dream IIISomething has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter.
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The MeetingRottendedam, Feathisia, Griffonian Empire March 14th, 1007 ALB (After Luna Banishment) The sea breeze always blew in warm and gentle from Sky Bay this time of year, carrying the salt smell over the port city. Rottendedam was one of the primary ports of the Griffonian Empire left in the current day. White and tan houses hugged the waterfront, an abundance of bridges, docks and quays let the entire city access the port as griffons went about their day. Rottendedam was a center of commerce, tourism and colonial power, which to contrast also bloomed the gardens it was so proud of, primarily tulips but also other flowers as well. Griffons didn’t usually carry such a reputation of being good gardeners, but Feathisians were proud of this niche part of their heritage. The old city held onto its charm compared to many other griffon towns of similar age or more, and a large part of that was the color and vibrancy of these flower gardens. Another part was the bright and chipper character of the residents as well. Cyril had to admit, compared to many other places in the Empire, Feathisia certainly felt a step and above more cheerful. The young griffon compared the lanes of cheerful market-goers and happy gossip to Griffenheim, and the difference was startling. Even in the grips of an economic crisis, the Rottendedam locals seemed optimistic, hopeful. He passed a police officer in his blue uniform, the lawgriff tipping his helmet in greeting before going on down the street at an easy amble, whistling casually. A shopkeeper haggled with a customer, and after only a few seconds of easy conversation, the two parted on good terms. A cluster of chicks poured past, chasing a wooden hoop down the cobblestone lane. Quite a scene. Much as he liked taking in the sights here, Cyril sighed and continued onwards. He had a reason for being here, and while there was no rush the sooner he got it over with, the better. He liked touring Rottendedam, and as such the fact he had to be here for unpleasant business left a bad taste in his beak. So, he squared his shoulders, flicked his wings and continued down the boulevard towards the harbor. This opened into a plaza of sorts, where tables and chairs were assembled towards a rope barrier, overlooking the ships in port, a cruiser from the Ducal Fleet anchored further out overshadowing the fishing boats and cargo trawlers. Here the sea breeze was especially prominent, the salt air a constant to his senses so he had to struggle to smell the cafe nearby, busy serving girls rushing platters back and forth, taking orders while fending off the advances and flirtatious nature of the unruly sailor griffs mixed into the common crowd here. The smell of roasted fish and salted pretzels rolled over Cyril, and he considered stopping to get a bite to eat. His unpleasant task might be easier with a full stomach, after all. It was then that, for just a moment, the crowd enjoying their lunch parted a quick moment, and he got a rare look through the griffons in his way to the other side. In another story, Cyril might have rolled his eyes, insisting there was never a storybook moment like this in real life, cynical griffon that he was. But there she was. On the other side of the plaza, studying a book in front of her with rapt attention, a plate of pretzels in front of her as well as what looked like some sort of sandwich. Cyril knew Rottendedam had a pony minority from across the sea, but he still hadn’t seen or met many personally in his life. She drew his curiosity for a moment in that base manner of spotting something new and different, a break from the banal of his life. Her coat was a pleasant off-white shade, her curly mane a light grey with a single purple stripe. The wings on her back fluttered idly as she studied whatever was in front of her, and that emblem the ponies called a ‘Cutie Mark’ was an open book with a quill. Her colors seemed to shoot out in the mostly tan and brown city, surrounded by griffons in ordinary drab clothing, and Cyril’s eye was caught by her stark coloration. Something drew him in, and he began to press into the crowd. But then the cruiser in the harbor blew her horn, a sign of departure, and Cyril started at the noise, looking first to the warship, then to the tall structure across the bay. The Vlootacadamie stood tall and imposing, a sign of Imperial glory in the city. What was he doing? He had a goal here, one he needed to accomplish today. He sighed, shaking his head as he began exiting the crowd again. No reason for him to get sidetracked just because of a mare that caught his eye. He glanced over her way, then stopped again. He couldn’t hear from across the plaza with so much noise, but three griffons had stepped towards her, townies who were approaching. And Cyril didn’t like the look on their faces. He glanced up at the Vlootacadamie in the distance, then back to the pegasus. She might not be in trouble. For all he knew, the mare was more than capable of handling herself. But the situation still bothered him. He looked up at the structure once more, then down to his uniform and back up to the mare, who had just realized the three griffons were making a ring around her. “Boreas dammit,” he cursed, pushing through the crowd more forcefully now. He was across the plaza in seconds, leaving many griffons in startled protest and annoyed at the rough treatment. But he finally could hear what they were saying. “Listen darling,” one said, leaning over close to her, an arm around her back as his talons lightly scraped the table. “You shouldn’t be out and about by yourself. Ponies in Feathisia aren’t very liked, ja? You could be in danger.” “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” the pegasus replied cautiously, glancing back and forth between the griffs around her. Her Herzlandisch had an accent, clipped and refined, from someplace definitely not within the Empire. “Please, I’m just trying to eat some lunch.” “Don’t be so rude, mijn geliefde,” said a second griffon. These guys looked like merchant marine sailors, griffs who manned the cargo ships and came into port only once every few months. So, of course they were the type to look for a good time. Or a bad one. “We’re just trying to have some fun.” “Listen, I should go,” the mare said, standing from her seat and slipping beneath the arm of the first griffon. But the third one, easily the largest of the group, planted himself in her way, leering down. “Who said you could leave?” he rumbled. The pegasus grit her teeth, glancing around nervously. Abruptly, the second griffon was yanked back by his shirt collar, dumped to the cobblestones of the plaza. The first whirled around at the noise, only to be shoved back into a table, sent tumbling over steins. Cyril turned to look up at the burly griffon, who was just as flummoxed by the young soldier suddenly appearing in their midst. “How about you back off, before I claw your eyes out?” he hissed, tail whipping in agitation. “Piss off, Herzlander,” the burly griff growled back. “This has got nothing to do with you. Don’t care if you’re Reichsarmee, I’ll dump your corpse in the harbor if I have to. No love lost here.” “She already said she’s not interested,” Cyril glared, not flinching a step back, even as he could hear the other two getting to their feet behind him. “So step. Back.” Cyril was under no illusions. He wore his grey Imperial Guard uniform and nothing else. No enchanted knight’s plate, no flak jacket, nothing but cloth. But finally faced with somegriff that appeared to be an actual threat, and drawing the stares of the entire plaza, the three sailors’ courage dried up. “Let’s go,” burly griff muttered, turning to shove through the crowd. His companions, now without their heavy hitter, turned and ran after him, one giving a last glance at Cyril and flaring his wings as a threat. But the soldier stood strong, and held his position as the attackers retreated. Only once they were out of sight and the crowd filled back in behind them did he let a breath out of his beak, one he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. “Good riddance,” he muttered as the adrenaline bled off him, leaving him shakey as he turned back to check on his would-be victim. “Fraulein, are you-“ But instead of finding her a quivering mess, on the ground trying to cope with the situation as he’d expected, the Pegasus was instead seated back at her table, chewing on a pretzel thoughtfully, watching him carefully. Her eyes were purple, he saw. A very odd shade that reminded him of a cluster of crystals he’d seen used in making enchanted metals. He blinked, surprised in more ways than one. “...alright?” he finished, though his question was certainly answered. Fortunately, she smiled back, finishing her bite of pretzel. “My hero,” she replied in that accented voice, and he couldn’t help but feel she was teasing him a little. She gestured to the wear across from her. “Do you have a moment for your damsel in distress?” He scoffed, rubbing his beak before he grunted, taking the seat she offered. Suddenly feeling very foolish, he shifted awkwardly. All his bravado, stolen by a simple gesture. “It’s alright,” the mare said again, holding up a hoof to the passing server. “Can I get a Braufenweisen for my rescuer?” She glanced over at him once more. “I assumed that would be alright? You look like a Braufen griff.” “It’s fine,” he muttered, watching her carefully. It was true that Braufenweisen was his favored drink, but how did she know that? “Most Herzlanders, especially Imperial military, drink Braufenweisen just out of tradition,” she explained as if she could read his mind. “Not to my taste personally, but I understand the appeal.” She held a hoof across the table to him. “Paige Turner.” “Cyril Duskwing,” he replied, taking her hoof uncertainly and giving it an awkward shake, unsure of himself again. She was unlike most ponies he’d heard of, who were so brimming with overwhelming ‘positive’ energy and feelings of ‘harmony’. Then again, most of those stories were about Equestria. Was she a Riverlands pony? The confidence in her face suddenly shifted, and now she was the one looking awkward. “Right, sorry. You did do me a favor with that rescue, I shouldn't be making you uncomfortable.” Cyril chuckled, reaching over and toying with a pretzel. “Something tells me you might have at least had it under control, right?” Paige smirked again, some of her confidence coming back. “I grew up in Rijekograd. Socialist protests every other week. Not my first time in a bad situation, sorry to say.” “Sounds like my intervention was...unnecessary, then,” Cyril replied, taking the offered bottle as the server returned, smacking the cap off on the edge of the table. “Cheers.” She lifted her own tankard, and the two clinked a quick toast before taking large gulps. At the end, she smacked her lips, closing up her book to make sure it didn’t get stained. “No, I -am- very grateful. Three on one is never good, and no matter the race a female can’t say she doesn’t like being rescued by a male in uniform.” She smiled again, the good kind that he liked that made him buzz at the base of his hind paws, and he was certain he hadn’t drank enough for it to be the beer. He took another sip, trying to distract himself a moment. She gave him a quick up and down, checking his lapels for a rank pin and the state of his uniform, while inspecting his face once more. Young, barely enlistment age, black feathers with a strong axebeak. The poster child of an Imperial soldier. “What’s a Herzlander Guardsgriff doing out in Feathisia? You’re a ways from home.” “Military business. Of a family matter,” he replied, shrugging as he knew it made little sense. “Military family then? Old tradition?” Paige asked, idly blowing a lock of grey and purple mane out of her eyes, her attention locked in on him. Truthfully, Cyril hadn’t felt this much like the object of such intense focus since Reichsarmee training, when the instructors were looking for any fault to punish, harshly. “You could say that,” Cyril replied dryly, taking another gulp of the beer. “You’re very observant.” “I recognized the name. I learned Herzlandisch by reading newspapers. A LOT of newspapers. “Oh, then you saw my name all the time,” Cyril said, chortling before taking another drink. “Not that it's done me any favors. Suddenly, just because I’m a Duskwing I'm supposed to be an ubergriff, or I can get favors or a hundred other things.” “Sounds rough…” Paige replied, frowning as she went from studying Cyril to her drink. “My family’s all noponies. My mother works with clocks while my father mans a riverbarge hauling freight.” “Rijekograd, right?” Now it was Cyril’s turn to arch an eyebrow. “So what are -you- doing on the other side of Griffonia?” “Ah, you’re smarter than you look, Herr Duskwing,” Paige chuckled, pleased to have her own game turned on her out of the blue for once. “Nah, just a little snap reasoning,” Cyril replied, smiling back. ”Now c’mon, out with it. What’s the story?” She smiled back, pointing down next to her seat, where he finally spotted a single suitcase, up on its side with the handle folded and wheels sticking out. “I’ve been accepted for a scholarship at the Luna Nova Academy. It's an amazing opportunity, and the best place to study advanced magical theory.” “Magical theory? But you’re-” “A Pegasus? Yes, I'm aware -I- can’t cast magic, but there’s far more to study than practical usage! According to Star Swirl’s theory of manativity, for example, the energies of both magic and life can be said to run parallel with each other, rather than one dominating over the other! And I'm going to be looking into that!” Paige was practically giddy in her seat, bouncing with glee as she chartered off obscure knowledge of magics that were of little use to Cyril himself. “Isn’t that amazing? Imagine the kind of work I can do!” Cyril blinked slowly, not sure what to say, and the off-white mare began spinning down from her intellectual enthusiasm, realizing she may be speaking over his head. Now a bit sheepish, she merely shrugged. “It's an amazing opportunity, is all. And my boat leaves tonight.” “Tonight?” Cyril tried to keep the disappointment out of his tone. After all this time, and pretzels and beer, he’d started giving a bit more thought to the idea of asking to spend more time with her. But if she was leaving… “Well, good for you. I’m uh...certain you’ll do well.” Paige gave him an odd look there, tilting her head to the side. “You really mean it?” Now even more confused, Cyril went with it. After all, she was leaving, what could a little unfounded positivity hurt? “Well, yeah sure. You seem like a smart filly. Way smarter than me, anyway.” “You’re not as dumb as you think Cyril,” Paige returned, continuing to fix him with that odd expression before she smiled and asked “Hey, weird question; do you want to keep in touch?” “Keep in touch?” “Okay, are you a griffon or a parrot now?” She giggled, and he coughed, no obvious response coming to mind. “By letter. I...kinda feel like I want to keep talking to you. But if you have to head east, and I’m going west, that's going to complicate things, yeah?” She pulled a piece of paper and a quill from her bag, rummaging for ink. “I can’t say when I’ll be set up, but I know the Academy’s address.” Abruptly, he was reaching across the table, tearing the paper in half and picking up the quill. “Then you should send me a letter first, Ja? After all, my parent's address isn’t changing. You can let me know when you’re set up.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back, delighting at the practical genius of the seemingly small detail that had shot over her head. “Okay. I think I'd like that.” With that, reluctant to part, the two ordered another round of pretzels and beer, spending the next hour talking about Griffonia, Equestria, arguing about history, pointing out things in the harbor, ignoring the stares sent their way by the crowd. By the time the two finally rose and moved away, they were speaking like old friends who would dearly miss the other’s company. Little did they know as they went their separate ways, the two would not meet in person again for ten years. Vlootacadamie “You’re looking good, Cyril.” General August Duskwing, member of the Imperial general staff, glanced up from his paperwork, looking over the young griffon in his fresh Reichsarmee uniform before returning to his work. “Hope you’re not here asking favors already.” “No, Uncle.” Cyril fidgeted awkwardly, glancing around the general’s office. Temporary though it had been, this place was General Duskwing’s for several weeks, and it showed from the handful of certifications and novels he’d brought, a couple of them being ones he had authored on modern infantry tactics. “Mother said you wanted to speak with me?” “And you came out to Feathisia to do it?” Duskwing’s tone was both humored and a bit dumbfounded at that. “I assumed you’d be too busy once you returned to your duties.” Duskwing thought that over for a moment, then nodded slowly, understanding. “I suppose I have little time for home life these days. I apologize, Nephew.” The general shut his current book before looking up at his nephew more carefully, more studiously. “You’re going to embark on a great journey, Cyril. Things in the world are changing, and the Empire must change with it. Before your father died, I promised him I'd look out for you. But Duskwings don’t ride off each other, we make our own glory. So I let you go through training, alone. And you did outstanding. But now comes the part where I step in.” The general tapped his talons on the desk, pondering a moment as Cyril watched carefully, wondering where August was going with this line of reasoning. “General Synovial believes we are ready to field our own separate panzerwaffen formations. I’ve been working with him during exercises, and we have a new prototype landship to replace the Airbender. Nephew...I can pull a few strings, and get you assigned to the first panzer division in training. You’ll literally be making history for the Empire. And it's much better than being some grunt in the trenches. So...what do you say?” SS Jolly Sea Jewel As the passenger liner finally pulled far enough away that Griffonia disappeared over the horizon, Paige felt a pang in her chest, her wings ruffling anxiously. Even before she left Rijekograd, she’d been experiencing apprehension, homesickness and a little paranoia. The River Union was unstable, risky territory, but Equestria wasn’t entirely safe either as the Changelings over the border proved. What if she wasn’t good enough for the Academy? What if she got deported? She wished she’d had more time to talk to Cyril about things. They were just getting to know each other and now they were going to be half a world apart. Well, they had their letters to look forward to, and she’d have to simply work towards getting a ticket back to the Empire during a break when she could manage it. That was still entirely feasible. The world couldn’t change that much before then, right? Author's Note This story is obviously based in the incredible world of Equestria at War. While we have some talented authors, a community -within- a community like this could always use more stories. If you guys are interested, I'd recommend giving it a try through the game Hearts of Iron IV. If not, then here's hoping you get a taste of it through here!
1009 pt 2Sent June 16, 1009 Dear Paige, Worrying you? I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Most of the major powers have some overseas territories. Equestria still has New Mareland, need I remind you. They had to take that from the local griffons the same that Feathisia took the South Zebrides from the locals. Wingbardy’s got territory in Abyssinia, and everyone knows the River Coalition’s been eyeing up the lands in the southeast. I’m not in a position to say what’s wrong or right, Paige. But if the Emperor or the Regency determines the flag be raised over some miserable desert in Zebrica, I’ll roll off the transport screaming ‘Fur das Kaiserreich’. Look. (Several words are scratched out.) I’m happy your War is over. Sombra sounds like a threat to all of Equus, not just Equestria. I hope someone took care of him, for good. I hope your leave helps clear your head. You need it. You mentioned Manehattan before, but I’ve only ever seen it in newspapers or from a postcard. It sounds like an amazing place. I’d love to go there some day. Did you ever get a response from Hoofington U? I’m fairly sure you’ll get in, especially with how many must have left to enlist in one branch or another. If you’ve got that veterans’ education bill, I’d think that would fast track you up. It definitely would here. Your father thinks I made you enlist? You did tell him I tried to talk you out of it, right? Anyway. We’re sitting here with baited breath. Across the river, Marsch troops dig in. They’ve dug miles of trenches already, sandbags and log bunkers, machine guns and mortars waiting. This is madness. From the intel briefings, we outnumber the peasant troops just on this front three to one, with panzers, howitzers and airplanes. I see the lights of Oldwingburg on the horizon, well within striking range. For the life of me, I can’t fathom what the Peasant Council’s thinking is. They’re outnumbered, outgunned and not even in a good fortified position to cover themselves. Statthalter Erebus and his Council have gone insane. But we just sit, and we wait. Even the trips to town have become lifeless. The village we visited before was taken over as a korps kommand. No more beer and schnitzel our way. Just a regiment of volunteers from Rimau and dogs setting up howitzers in trenches. Guess they’re not so happy to see us. They’re telling us the Ducal Wedding is going to be July 7th. We’re on standby. The Council’s likely to declare secession around that time, we’re told. Everyday, I climb into Zola and stare down my gunsights, watching a bunch of militia watching me. We’re all just sitting here, waiting for the word to start shooting each other. And no matter how the odds look stacked in our favor, I know it’s not going to be easy. It’s going to get ugly here. If the fight breaks out before I hear back from you, I want to send you one last message. I know you don’t need my medal of Arcturius anymore. Keep it. From me. Just in case. Yours, -Cyril P.S: Female attention: more than I’d like, less than you think. It was a bit thrilling at first, but now it’s just awkward. (Inside the envelope is a small, square photo of Cyril smiling in his Reichsarmee uniform, sitting on a tank in an unknown location, wings slightly flared. Flipping it over on the back is handwritten “To Paige, For when the years grind on, and the winters grow bitter and cold. -Cyril” Sent June 31st, 1009 Dear Cyril, I’ll drop the colony issue, for now. But don’t think this is over. I’m not letting it go. We’re posted on occupation in the Crystal Empire. I’ve been moved north to the City’s airfield. If Whinnyapolis was cold, it’s frigid up here, even in the summer. Forests stretch all around, and even now there’s still ice and snow to be found in caves and areas that remain cool. Good thing my leave came in before too long. I flew over Manehattan as soon as I arrived. There’s so much I missed here when I arrived all that time ago. The metropolis stretches as far as the eye can see up and down the coastline, with the tallest modern towers I’ve ever seen. Not Rijekograd, not Griffenheim, not even the Crystal City or Canterlot has skyscrapers like these. They’re marvels of engineering, and more are under construction, the workers tending to it around the clock with rivets and hammers and magic. The harbor is more full with nautical traffic than even Rottendedam ever was. The Celestial Fleet was in, and I spotted an aircraft carrier with half a dozen destroyers at the naval yard. The attitude here is different than Whinnyapolis or the Crystal City. Up north, I get welcomes and thank yous and congratulations, all for winning the Crystal War. But here, I get just as many dirty looks for my uniform. There’s protestors in front of city buildings calling for a vote to dethrone the Princesses and decide their own fate, and they all glared at me. I stopped in at a bar to grab a few drinks, and lucky me I picked a military bar. All my beers were paid for by other ponies, and I even earned a pat on the back from a few Nova Griffonian mercenaries. Apparently they were on a protection detail for a cargo shipment, not that I asked. But I did get a look at their gear when they left. To my chagrin, they were better equipped than the Equestrian army ponies I saw in the Crystal City. Isn’t that humbling? I went to the harbor like I said I would. Looked east across the Celestial Sea. For a brief moment, I imagined I could see Rottendedam, where we first met. I could almost hear your voice again. And now, thanks to the photo you sent, I can remember how you look without missing a detail. You look very handsome in your uniform, by the way. There was apparently a contingent from Hippogriffia in the city while I was there. The airway was cleared for them to fly through the skyline, all gleaming jewelry and bright colors. First time I’ve ever seen a hippogryph up close. It’s such a strange feeling, seeing a creature that is two halves of two different, familiar creatures. They were so...large. Larger than the biggest pony I’ve ever seen. Larger than griffons. Everywhere I look, I see more reminders of you. Hippogryphs that look like you, crows with your feather color, snacks at the seaside. With no war to distract me, I feel further from you than ever. Hoofington U replied to my letter. Apparently, somepony already sent my transcripts and information from Luna Nova (no idea who, and I wasn’t going to start asking). I start in the Fall, on a mail-in course. I’m going back into arcana! Wishing you were here, Yours, -Paige (Enclosed in the envelope is a photograph of Paige, apparently at some sort of photo shop, seated in a wicker chair. She wears the uniform of the RAF, and her wool-lined bomber jacket is hung over the back. She smiles, but looks tired, forlorn and distant. The reverse says “To Cyril, the missing piece of my life I never knew I needed, gone for too long. Use this to chase off that awkward attention you get. -Paige) Sent July 8th Paige, The word came down. The Ducal Wedding went ahead in Rottendedam. The Regency demanded Griefenmarsch stand down and prepare for Imperial reintegration. The Council declared themselves independent from ‘the tyrant Duchess Regent’. All in one day. We’re being ordered to battlestations. I can hear the guns already. Artillery thundering in the distance. It is thrilling and terrifying. I will be running to the line as soon as I finish this. Please, keep my medal and photo somewhere safe. Should the worst happen, do not forget me. You are the best thing to have happened in my short life. Pray for me. Dearly Yours, Cyril Sent July 29th, 1009 7/22/09 Dear Paige, I’m alive. That’s unfortunately the extent of the good news. Breaching the lines was more difficult than we thought. The peasants fought hard, but without anything heavier than artillery, they couldn’t stop us. Our guns shelled those bunkers for what seemed like forever, and all we could do was wait for the signal over the radio. Once the guns stopped, the real battle began. We advanced, covering the dogs as they stormed the trenches. It was bloody work. I fired the cannon again and again and again. Sprayed the ground with the MG. And when Hellseig finally told me to stop firing, all we had in front of us was mud, splintered wood and torn flesh. The dogs went in with flamethrowers and shotguns to flush out the rest of the defenders. Then we moved on Oldwingburg. Fighting in a city is a completely different affair than in the open field or up in the air. I’ve never felt so helpless inside a panzer. It wasn’t just their regulars we fought. Militia griffs took up arms. Males. Females. Teenagers. The defense was scrambled, disorganized. But fire came from everywhere, a gun in every window. The panzergrenadiers dismounted their trucks to clear the houses. We were literally driving these griffons from their homes. But, strangest of all? No civilians. No old grandmas or schoolchildren running in fear from the houses. Oldwingburg was emptied out. In the middle of the fighting, it was chilling to realize that. But it also made the job easier. The ones without rifles flew in from above and cooked our panzers with firebombs. Panzergrenadiers and crew gunners cut them down with close-range fire. Artillery landed on the city blocks, dog sturmtruppen, Knights from the Order of the Carmine Shield and our support schutzentruppe blasted into city squares and markets. Bombers pasted the quarters of the city held by the enemy. I don’t know how many we lost. We struggled through Oldwingburg for four days. They had to literally drop us supplies from cargo planes into the city. Booby traps in every house, streets rigged with landmines. It was insane. I dismounted at one point to look at a squad of partisans the panzergrenadiers took prisoner. They looked like the most miserable griffs. Out of five of them, one looked like a soldier. The rest looked like farmers. And their guns? Hinterladerbusche. C-78 pistols. Firebombs made from beer bottles and kerosene. These griffs have no planes, no AT guns, no modern rifles. I’m certain I’ve oversimplified what happened. Understand, I was in the gunner’s seat, watching all this down a gunsight. What I’m telling you is only a fraction of what happened. We won, in the end. After four days, we took Oldwingburg. We’ve been advancing swiftly through Griefenmarsch. The slower elements attached to our korps have moved west, to Nortfome. We’re moving at top speed through Thurwingen. They’re calling it ‘the Blitz’. No defensive line can stand before us. Anything we meet, we blow past. Anything we leave behind, the panzergrenadiers engage and mop up. We’re making at least twenty miles a day, though I’m not entirely sure. But at this rate, we’ll make Asselt in the next week. We’re holed up on a farm right now, doing some maintenance on Zola. The mood is quiet, to say the least. Nogriff really talked much after Oldwingburg. The excitement is gone. All I can say is, this isn’t war. This is slaughter, and its monumentally one-sided. 7/27/09 We’ve taken Asselt. We all expected another fight like Oldwingburg, so we called the bombers in before us. Asselt lasted maybe an hour after that. We caught the militia mustering. Not much more resistance once your griffs are meaty chunks in the town square. From here, we’re supposed to refuel, resupply and head west to assist the other push, the part of the army using ‘traditional Imperial strategy’. Tradition. None of this was like the old stories. 7/28/09 (The words below are slightly smudged, and there appears to be some water damage to the paper) It's done. We moved west yesterday to push into the enemy flank. They folded under the pressure of fast-moving panzers. Apparently they’d already smashed themselves to pieces assaulting our divisions in the north. Most of the Marsch Regulars have given up. The militia stopped fighting before that. The Regency is calling this a ‘total victory’ on the radio. We’re to remain here and reassert Imperial domain, quell unrest and wait for the Landwehr to set up a garrison in Nortfome and Oldwingburg. It won’t stop raining. Once it started it just didn't let up. Driving panzers through muddy roads isn’t the same as across paved ones. Zola keeps sinking in, and we have to dig her out. They tell us we’re supposed to patrol the countryside suppressing partisans. Fat chance. The panzergrenadier trucks sink same as our tracks. The rains stopped all air cover. At this point, only the Bronzehill troops are willing to keep going, so they’re sniffing out (heh) the last of peasant resistance. So much for glory. They’re calling it ‘the Month Long War’. I’m just glad its over. I’m sorry it took so long to get this letter to you. We keep changing locations. I’m stationed at Nortfome now, so I can use the postal system again. I taped your photo over my gunsight, so it's right at eye level for me whenever I want, and I can grab it if I ever need to bail out. Nothing else in that panzer matters to me as much as that. 7/29/09 Zola busted a drive out in the mud. We had to wait for another panzer to come and haul her out. Now we’re cleaning her and fixing her up as best we can. Good thing we don’t need her for any fighting right now. I’ve decided to prep this letter today. It's been a while since you last heard from me. I haven’t heard from you either. Hope that’s a good thing, or at least not something bad. It’s all wet, cold and miserable over here. The people of the Marsch don’t care for us, not like the Feathisians up north did. Everywhere I go, I see hostile faces on griffs who blame us for crushing their freedom and democracy. Honestly, the way I see it, we wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t decided to spit on the Regent’s beak. Who declares war on somegriff else’s wedding day? Seriously? Just wanted to wrap this whole thing up with saying that I’m fine. This war was done and over with before anygriff knew what in Tartarus was happening. We just have to live with the aftermath now. The Empire fixes up Greifenmarsch, puts a new governor in place and we all go home. I hope. But given what’s happening in the south with the Holy League, we might have just witnessed a hint of the future. Mother’s thankful I’m still alive. Says she prays for me every night since the shooting started. I left out the worst of what I saw. Griffons burning alive inside panzers, limbs and wings blasted off, corpses laying in the street, MPs lining up militia against a wall, city blocks on fire. You’ve seen it. Or things like it. I’m just waiting now. In the sopping rain, in a town that I conquered. Tell me about something normal. Tell me about weekend pass in Whinnyapolis. Tell me about theoretical arcana, about thestral rights, about school. Because in the next month, I’m going to need something to convince me I’m not going insane out here. Moving our again. Send to the military address on the slip of paper in the envelope. Distribution will find me. Yours, -Cyril Sent August 14th, 1009 Dear Cyril, Never worry me like that again! I’ve been watching and waiting for word on what’s happening back east. The newspapers are calling it a ‘crackdown’. More harmonists howling at the ‘dismantling of democracy’. Without realizing it was the democrats who started this fight. Myself, I was more concerned about you. I’m so happy you’re alright. That battle you described, all the trekking across Greifenmarsch, it all sounds so different to what I went through. I was helpless, sure, but the only death I saw was my comrades. I never even saw what my bombs did to the ground. That all sounds like a nightmare. I’m glad you only had to go through it for a short time. I don’t know if I could at all. The press is going nuts over it back here. With the Crystal War over, ponies are chattering about it. But not us. Military’s keeping quiet on the subject. We know better than those sycophants and gossip-mongers in Canterlot acting like they’re so much better. But you ask an armypony what he thinks, and he’ll just stare back at you. They transferred me back south. Apparently the work of making sure the populace is compliant falls back to the army. The Royal Guard’s moving the royal family back in any day now. They don’t need bomber pilots up north anymore. Headache’s going into storage for refit, while we get some well-deserved leave. We got two weeks, and then it's down to Dodge City for retraining over the desert. I’m touring Hoofington for the next few days, visiting the university and looking over the town. It’s hot, that’s all I can say. After months of freezing my flank off in snow and high-altitude aircraft, this place is way too much for me. I prefer staying indoors, if I can help it. There’s a lot of buffalo around lately since the tribes joined Equestria. Some sort of protectorate deal from what I understand. Stubborn to a fault. But good-natured. Had to wade through a whole mountain of paperwork. Just because my transcripts are in doesn’t mean my application’s 100% complete, I found out. They accepted me to the course, but I still have about a thousand more things to fill out. So that’s about half of my leave, and of course I have to get this done ASAP. They’re talking about releasing me at the 1 year mark for wartime service, which means I have a few months left to get everything in order before I join the Air Reserves. This was always the plan, and at least this worked out. I didn’t get to finish at Luna Nova, but that’s okay. My hope is they’ll open back up again before long. Your mother has toned down. I think, with the war on your side and everything, she’s more worried about you than she is focused on abusing me. She asked me if I had wanted to be a unicorn when I was growing up, given my fascination with magic. I told her ‘I always dreamed big. So I wanted to be an alicorn.’ She got a kick out of that. And it -is- possible for unicorns to evolve into alicorns, but sadly not for pegasi. Once I learned that, the dream kind of died. Sophie likes writing me too. Apparently she used my letters to her for a class assignment about writing a soldier. She got the most attention for it, and a good grade. I apparently have a fascinating life. Who knew? Pushing this letter out fast so you get it quick. Write more. Otherwise I’ll think you’re dead. And if you die over there, I’ll come and revive you long enough to kill you myself. Miss you. Yours, -Paige. Sent September 8th, 1009 Dear Paige, You never mentioned Hoofington itself last time you were there. Then again, I feel like you had other things on your mind while you were there. Good of you to tell me about it while you were there, I love hearing about other places in the world. You’re so lucky you get to travel. Things are quieting down here. Well, quieting down in that the shooting’s mostly stopped. The Marchers have grudgingly come to accept we’re not leaving. Fortunately, they also realize we’re not here to loot, pillage, plunder and salt the earth. The MPs catch somegriff being stupid every now and then, but the executions stopped weeks ago. Now it's only for those who kill or continue to try and resist. Service was a bit awkward this week. When the 41st’s preacher called us to bow for prayer, we actually had a few civvies join us. Apparently, some shells hit Asselt’s temple during the battle, and it's now collapsed and is unsafe. Nogriff knew until now. Engineers are on it, but the preacher is holding mass for every townie that wants to attend. It was one of those olive branch moments. Not as many incidents in town ever since. Lucky me, I think we’re getting through to them. The Burger says Equestria’s having an election crisis. This surprised me quite a lot. I thought faith in the princesses was without doubt? Wouldn’t it only get stronger now you’ve won against King Sombra? I remember you saying something about protestors and defeatists in one of your earlier letters. All I can say is, keep out of politics if you can help it. Riots, mudslinging, ruined careers and civil wars come from bad politics. Just look at what happened to the Empire if you need an example. Given how much trouble the Crystal War gave you, the Burger is also stating Equestria’s not only unprepared, but unwilling to fight its battles. Crock of shit, but you know how the papers spin things. Mother and Sophie like you. Keep asking when they’ll get to meet you. I told them even -I- haven’t seen you since that day in Rottendedam. Mother is concerned, but impressed we’ve managed to keep talking this long over such distance. Of course, she said something about how we can hope to keep a relationship going like this, but (a few words are scratched out) that’s not important. I’m not sure when I’m going home. It’s so close by, but no one’s been rotated out for leave yet. Except the officers, of course. The colonel in charge of the occupation leaves every few days and comes back looking sloshed. Pretty sure he goes for drinks and girls in Oldwingburg. The aristocracy at work. Uncle August sent me a letter saying he expects we might be in for more within months. I hope not. I’d rather get a chance to live without all this mud. My nightmares are few, surprisingly. Not so much about the militia griffs I gunned down in the open street or blew apart. My nightmares are about fire. About kerosene poured on panzers and then set alight for the entire thing to burn. About the griffs stuck inside, cooking alive. The Month Long War is over. But I’m not looking forward to what a war against a far more prepared opponent would be like. I wish you were here. Even for a moment. Yours, -Cyril Sent September 30th, 1009 Dear Cyril, I still miss you too. I’m sorry about the nightmares. I can’t promise they’ll go away. What you went through was much more intense. I still wake up from bad dreams about engines on fire, death spells and shadow monsters. I’ve been told it could take years for them to fade, if they do at all. Yes, the election issue has been ongoing for months now. Princess Celestia has gone before the press, stating she’s conferring with her sister about holding the referendum, and the reformists are stating that just proves their point. But you know me. I’m not a fan of democracy by force. I’m not going anywhere near that, but you might be pleased to know (or not, considering your attitude on thestrals) that Pricess Luna’s reforms have finally taken hold. I’m seeing thestrals all over the place, mostly at night. They man bars, work factories, typist desks, fly through the sky. I’m happy to see that, for once, the underdog won. They finalized me. I’m officially in the RAF Reserves. I said my goodbyes to my crew, and the Headache. Half of them are going home like me. We’ve all gotten so close in such a short time. Static, at least, promised to write me. I’m actually okay with this. I can use my veterans’ bill to pay my way through school in Hoofington itself, no need for long distance stuff. Hoofington U is like I remember it. Built of bricks and tradition. The facilities aren’t as good as Luna Nova, and I’m fairly certain I’m the smartest in my advanced theoretical arcana class, which of course is still leagues behind the more advanced one. But that is at least one issue off my list. I can worry less about passing and take some time for myself. I’ve been doing some experiments in my off-time with a unicorn named Solid Stripe. He’s trying to get into the AP class, but he’s not sure he can pass the entrance exam without help. So, with him providing the magic for my crystal experiments, I tutor him in exchange. So far, it's been a great agreement. He’s really coming around, and he’s at least pleasant to be around. I’m making huge strides in my research, I could even turn this into my thesis eventually. I think I’m on the verge of making a huge discovery in terms of crystal matrices and magical containment, but I’m hitting a wall. Very frustrating. Hoofington is a southern city, through and through. Other ponies gawk at my accent without a shred of awareness of how theirs is seen across the rest of Equestria. They’re very enclosed, these ponies. Friendly, of course. But blunt. They’ll take good care of you for very little, but won’t hesitate to comment on how everything that comes from another land is strange in their eyes. The local bookstore has nothing but books in Equestrian common, though I haven’t looked in the smaller neighborhoods. It's still hot in September, which drives me nuts. Apparently it doesn’t cool off until mid-October out here. Now I really miss home. Princess Twilight is expected to come to Hoofington U sometime next week to give a lecture on the connection between the ‘energy of friendship’ and arcane amplification, and while I am excited to hear from an alicorn on magic, I’m not so on about her theories regarding friendship. True, it's a proven phenomenon, but as the recent Crystal War and the wars overseas prove, it's clearly not an almighty unstoppable force. And it's a little difficult to test in an academic way. Magic has only just merged with the scientific sphere in the past century. Sorry, I realize I may be talking over your head. Our lives may keep up separate, but I keep your photo around at all times. And so long as we can keep talking in our letters like this, we can keep this relationship alive. I’ve been asked if I have a coltfriend by a few other students, and so far I just tell them yes. It’s a bit too odd a situation to keep chattering off in casual conversation. That’s okay, right? Your marefriend (?) -Paige Sent October 17th, 1009 Dear Paige, Glad to hear you’re back at it in school. Of the two of us, you’re going to go places. Don’t waste it. I’m also glad you’ve got someone to talk big-brain to. I know it was a little restraining to simplify your words to me in your letters. Hoofington sounds like another good place to visit, though if its really as hot as you say, I’m not sure I’d like it. Then again, I want to visit Zebrica, so maybe it would be a good warmup (ha). I like that you moved to the reserves. So many would just go home and leave the service behind. You’re part of that other breed, the kind who sticks with it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked being Air Force. But then I know how much you hate being helpless at high altitude. About the whole marefriend/coltfriend thing, I guess it's okay to refer to us like that. I just sort of simplify it myself the same way over here. I get the feeling you’ll get less guff about having a griffon boyfriend. There’s plenty of griffs here who wouldn’t get it, both on a racial level and a national level. Tensions are high with the Coalition right now. I don’t know if it's in the news over there, but the County of Cyanolisia was invaded a few days ago. The Burger is calling it an unwarranted act of aggression. Y’know, after touting the Month Long War as a righteous battle against traitors. Cyanolisia is the last province loyal to the Empire outside the Heartlands aside from the South Zebrides (and maybe Nova Griffonia, but that one’s up in the air). Its makes anything tricky. There’s word among the officers about intervention, but the Kaiserliche Marine has maybe five capital ships at present. What in Tartarus are we supposed to do? Sail an army around Aquileia and Wingbardy? I’m sure they’d love to just let us through their waters and fuel up in their ports. So it just seems to be talk. I also heard about the coup in Nova Griffonia. Nogriff wants to talk about it, but every trooper in the Reichsarmee with world awareness knows what’s happening. They’re saying now’s the right time to land and kick Hemphill off his high castle, finally bring the colony back under control. Which is nuts. We’ve got half the Empire still in rebellion against us and they want to talk about landing an amphibious force across the sea? I’m all for the Empire regaining its strength. But this just shows you how most of these soldiers are so poorly educated they can’t see past their own beaks. Or snouts. Or muzzles. Bigger picture here, guys. You taught me that, Paige. Thank you for your words on the dreams. It’s getting a little easier now. The weather is getting better, the mud is freezing. It’s easier to drive around without throwing a track or breaking an axle. These Changeling designs are supposed to be good against cold weather, so we’ll see what happens when frost in a hostile environment sets in. Anyway, it sounds like all we can both do is keep weathering the storm as it were. I’ll keep writing as long as I can, so long as you do as well. Mother’s been talking better about you. I think you single-clawedly managed to change her mind about pegasi, though she still regrets you being from the Riverlands. That one’s probably never going away, though. And Sophie can’t help but idolize you even more. If we’re not careful, she’ll try to follow in your hoofsteps. Then that’s two females in my life vastly smarter than I am. I’ve gotten friends in the area as well. The 41st’s preacher Andrea Bronzeclaw has talked faith with me several times. I’ve been counting on him to get me through the worst of these times, and he’s set up a talk group with some of the townies to mend gaps. The engineers are almost done repairing the temple, and we’ve been invited to use it for the unit after they’re done. Word from Uncle August is that he’s even got a statue to Arcturius on the way. Hearts and minds. The banner of the Empire is flown freely over the city square without a fear in Griffonia of it being vandalized. Tell that to your papers. Maybe they’ll see we’re not all the jackboot thugs they think we are. I’m thinking, as well as going to engineering school eventually, I’m going to try and take down some notes, get into writing and maybe write about these crazy times in a few years. I can’t say it’ll be any good, or anygriff will want to read it. But there are groundshaking things happening right now. Somegriff needs to record it while it's happening. I can send you drafts one day, but not for some time, once I’ve got the words noted. It’s the quiet time, now. Let’s hope it stays that way. Though, judging by the world, it won't last for long. Your boyfriend/coltfriend (?) -Cyril Sent November 11th, 1009 Dear Cyril, If you feel awkward about the whole marefriend/coltfriend thing, we don’t have to do it. I can tell you’re a bit off about the whole thing. I heard about Cyanolisia. Quite unfortunate what’s happening down there. The minotaurs are supposed to be mad with rage. And Hemphill’s coup in Nova Griffonia is just adding fuel to the fire here on Equus. I hope you don’t get sent there either, not with everything going on back in the Herzlands. I’d much rather you stay right there, so I don’t have to worry about your transport getting torpedoed and I can just listen to you bitch about the cold and mud and tell me about your religion and your unit and your tank. Going all the way across the world to fight is...kind of madness. Tests come and go, exams and midterms. But I’m not worried about any of that anymore. I don’t stress as hard as I used to, not like before. It's a bit surreal. I wonder if its because the courses aren’t as challenging or if I’ve become too confident. That last one worries me a little, I could seriously sabotage myself. I’ve actually gone back to study a bit more as a result, just to make sure the facts are as I remember them. Luckily, my tutoring Solid is helping. I help him to learn things, he helps me remember the basics. Good for us both. We go out for hayburgers and fries every Friday to relax and talk shop for a bit, as it were. He’s actually been a good lab assistant on my own personal project, now he’s getting the hang of it. He makes small corrections on my calculations that I miss when I’m going over grandscope things, and honestly if he didn’t I’d be going back over my matrices for hours. But thanks to him, I’ve got a new prototype mana crystal I’ve formulated. My only regret is that I’m not a unicorn myself. Always such a disappointment to be able to design these things, but never actually make them myself. I think keeping track of your memoirs is a great idea. You’re on the ground, living what’s sure to be history. Keep track of it, and I’ll help you sort your notes out. We can fit it into either a nonfiction book, or an autobiography if you’re feeling brave enough in a few years. It’s good to hear things are settling in Greifenmarsch. I don’t like wars of conquest, but I tell myself the Empire owned that area before. And, at least, you’re being good to it. With the ease of which the locals are taking you in, it sounds like they at least wanted to rejoin the Empire on some level. Perhaps the Peasant’s Council was the catalyst in their bad decision (though certainly not their first one. I had to write an in-depth essay on how their system was both the most democratic in the world, and also the weakest government. Elections on everything every three months. Wow). Being in the RAF Reserve isn’t bad. It's boring, but I don’t get shot at anymore. I’m not in an aircraft right now. I’m mostly relegated to airfield operations, in the arsenal. Not strictly my job, but I did learn about every piece of ordnance I dropped, so I’m in a bomb storage facility. Two days a month, just got in, check a list, sit in on some briefings. Nothing fancy. Good way to ride out the next three years. Your mother’s letters have mellowed out. She talks about the future, how its always so uncertain in the Empire. She says it’s been like that since she was a chick. Then the riots took your father. Now she’s afraid she’s going to lose you too. I’m aware this is all stuff she’s already told you. Just...be patient with her, okay? She’s going through a rough time, a lot’s changing around her and she doesn’t know what else to expect from the future. You being a tanker doesn’t help that at all. I gotta go. Solid and I have a project we need to work on, and I wanted to get researching. Write me when you can. I’m just happy we’re back to a peacetime schedule again. Yours, -Paige Sent November 28th, 1009 Dear Paige, A blizzard blew in a few days back. Covered the whole city in snow. We had to use the panzers just to cut through, let the infantry and rescue crews through. They’re saying this is the coldest Griffonian winter on record in history, and it's not even December yet. We’ve been busy with entrenching tools and flamethrowers, digging homes out of the frost. The dogs are taking to it just fine with their damn trench coats. I’m stuck with my field jacket and panzer gloves. But the townsfolk are grateful. We’re had to set up the local train yard as an aide station, since the city hospital had a whole floor’s windows get blasted in. Now the ground level is packed with snow and ice. Preacher Bronzeclaw is holding a soup kitchen in the temple, cooking up what he can and delivering it to families without. I’d help him if I could, but my place is carving through snowdrifts it seems. So, I’m writing you this from the side of a fire in an empty old fuel barrel, sitting in a train roundhouse next to Zola, tucked into my jacket and trying not to freeze my feathers off. It’s hard to write, but lucky me, my claws are just as numb as the rest of me. The trains aren’t moving, but just like the panzers and the trucks, they keep the engine running hot to keep it from freezing over. I swear, we’ll more of our fuel just sitting around than we do actually out on patrol. Sergeant Hellseig promises that when blizzards start coming this early, it's got a mild winter right behind it. I hope to Boreas he’s right. Our company kommandant Kaptein Briarbeak promises that better winter supplies and rations are inbound. I want to believe her, but I’ve seen what the military’s like in peacetime. They just outright seem to forget about garrison troops. Uncle August says it won’t be long. They’ll have the Landwehr brigades down here to continue the occupation by next year. Then we can finally go home. Apparently the Grand Duke himself came to Oldwingburg to deliver a speech to the troops. And he brought the Emperor. I am sorry I missed that, for sure. Asselt’s not nearly as big or important, so I know why we got looked over. But to look up my grubby beak at my future Emperor in person would have been a story to tell for the ages. He’s six now, so I’ll see him take the throne and rule in my lifetime. Maybe even our (a word is vigorously scratched out). Any chance the censor could cut that one for me? Thanks for agreeing to help with my notes. I sent the first batch since the invasion. Most of its just scribbles, but if you see something worth writing down, let me know, okay? Mail’s still coming and going on time. Small wonders, eh? So, this Solid Stripe guy. You spend a lot of time with him? Yours, -Cyril Sent December 19th, 1009 Dear Cyril, Another year closed up. Hopefully this will reach you either at the end of the month, or the beginning of 1010. A new decade. We’ve seen a lot happen, haven’t we? Been through wars, crisis, hardships. And yet, here we are. Good to hear you’re making use of yourself. I know surviving a blizzard can’t be easy, but I also know you love staying busy. This is as good a cause as any, so I can see plenty of upside there. Keep those griffs out of danger, Cyril. You’re fighting the good fight. Look, about Solid Stripe. I think I need to be upfront. I’ve been putting off saying anything. I know we’ve said we’re in a relationship, and there’s no doubt I feel something for you. But the work between me and Solid, it got...it changed. At first he was the stallion I’d taken on to tutor, and then he became a study buddy and lab assistant. Next thing I know, we’re going out for dinner every Friday and hanging out in our free time. We clicked, sort of like what happened with you and me. But he was right there. I’m having a hard time writing this. Solid’s been flirting with me and showering me with praise and attention and even a few gifts for weeks now. I held him off at first, talking about you. But the more I kept trying to resist, the more he kept trying. The more he kept trying, the more he made sense in his reasoning of why I should be with him instead. He was there, and we worked together a lot. And you weren’t there. Hadn’t been for years. You and I haven’t physically seen each other since Rottendedam, Cyril. That’s two and a half years. I was lonely. And Solid was persistent. Extremely persistent. But that’s over now. He started getting weird the morning after. I sat him down to talk about what happened, and he left. I haven’t seen him since, but I know I’m not going to talk to him again. I am so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. Most of my holiday cheer’s kinda been sapped by this. I’ve been agonizing about how to tell you about it. I got your letter and I couldn’t even read it for a week. I (the word ‘was’ is firmly scratched out) am so ashamed. I got drunk and I gave in to a weakness. I miss you, I really do. And I care about you. But it's been so long. And after everything else, it was nice not to feel alone and thousands of miles from everything and everypony I cared about. Please. Please please please, forgive me? I’ll understand if you don’t. Yours? -Paige Author's Note And so we wrap up 1009! Keen readers will notice that in other chapters, words have changed as I've gone back and made edits for grammar, spelling, plot mistakes and info errors. I consider the whole story a living document, and there's no mistake I'll just ignore. Please, if you guys see any mistake in any chapter, don't hesitate to let me know! And again, leave a review or a like to tell me what you think! I'll see you all on the flipside!
1010 pt 2Sent August 19th, 1010 7/02/10 Paige, They finally called a halt order. We’ve basically been running the panzers out of the trucks. Good to have a few days to get shit done instead of trying to fix an engine -on- fire -under- fire. Yale is mostly forests, hills and towns. We’re having a hard time really getting the same speed as in Greifenmarschen, but luckily resistance has been light. These Yale boys have no real fight in them. They either fallback, surrender or waste their lives trying to hold us off. It's the professional mercenaries and Angriver soldiers that are holding us off. I know Landschnekt when I see them, but I’m guessing these green uniformed griffs are mercs too. They don’t speak Herzlandisch, and we keep running into them supporting Yale positions. Good fighters. If we’ve taken any prisoner I haven’t seen it. We’re on the road to Middenheim. I say road, but honestly we’re kind of just carving a route wherever our pathfinders can spot okay terrain. The trees aren’t so thick we can’t maneuver through, but it’s still slow going. From what I hear, they’re saving the actual roads for the heavy panzers, so our Knight contingent can get through. I don’t even know what order they are, if they’re White Lions, Carmine Shield, Tower and Sword. By the time this gets sent, whatever importance that had will be long gone. We’ve circled the panzers in a clearing. Our kompanie’s taken a beating, but with a few days to rest and repair, we’re hoping to get our remaining panzers fixed up and going. Losses are light but constant. Every step we take its another rifle behind another tree or in another window, a landmine beneath treads, wing-clipper nets in the trees for our scouts. The panzergrenadiers are getting frazzled from having to stop and clear another hardpoint over and over again. Suddenly I miss Greifenmarsch even more. I know I keep going on about it. I have another panzer kill on the turret. More Angriver troops tried to draw us into an ambush. Knights of Arcturius fell on the trucks with the grenadiers while the panzer-zerstorer cannons engaged us with their Airbenders. We came out of it okay, but more of those small, constant losses. I only saw the one panzer I shot myself. Once I got him and started scanning for more targets, it was all over. But I got him, for sure. I’m writing you this next to a fire, under the trees and the stars. As I look up, I can see the sky above. I haven’t heard from mother or Sophie yet. I’m worried. I haven’t heard from Uncle August. Less worried. I haven’t heard from you. But I’m not worried. It occurs to me I never told you about my grandparents. My father’s family is mostly passed on. My grandfather on his side is living off his retirement from service in Strawberry. He sends word every now and then from his vineyard. Apparently, they can grow fruit even in the winter up there. Not bad for an old trench-hopper. He tries to send idols to help out. Mother keeps refusing. My mother’s and Uncle August’s parents live in Griffenheim as well. They’re a bit like us, same sort of circumstances. My mother’s father is a factory foreman, clawed his way up from being a line worker. He swears he’ll do it until the day he dies. My grandmother visits a lot. She’s the one who got Sophie interested in books and aiming for higher learning. She used to be a music teacher. Adele Duskwing, the Industrie piano tutor. She was good, in her day. Not Octavia Melody good, but local performance hall good. She tried to teach me, too. No luck, I had absolutely no coordination in the talons. Should’ve been a sign, I guess. Wound up unsuited for anything but army life. Anyway, we see them every once in a while. Haven’t for a few years myself. I should go visit. 7/4/10 Dear Paige, We got the order to advance again. The rain doesn’t want to let up. Its set us back in our work and trying to deploy. But we’re going once more. It takes time for a whole division to get going, though. And ours is all panzers and trucks and artillery. You can imagine how long it takes just to get the supplies packed up again. We’re rolling southeast again. The 6th Panzer is ahead, so the worst of the pathfinding is already done for us. I hear scattered gunfire in the distance, so our panzergrenadiers are finding targets to shoot at. We’ve got a clawful riding on our hull, to simplify things in the rain and the mud. It really makes it feel like we’re in one of those epic war stories. I may know a bit better about the fighting itself, but I can at least feel like we’re on an adventure in between. I don’t really read those stories much anymore. I’m perfectly fine with this cleanup nonsense. The newbies complain about glory and rushing ahead into the fight, but there’s nothing glorious about washing these griffs out under cannon fire. Sure, they’ve got panzers, but they’re so out of date its not a fight anymore. Just struggling and grinding through meat. We stopped for camp again tonight. The fight’s going on through. Artillery lighting up Middenheim, getting it ready for the 6th. Shells in the dark, bombers in the daytime. Is there going to be anything left of the city by the time we get there? The crew and the unit are in high spirits. Bluetalon gets drunk every night, but somehow it doesn’t screw with his driving. Grimquill’s got somegriff she writes every night as well, doesn’t let me know. Oddly, Sergeant Hellseig has been talking with me more. Showed me a picture of his family. He’s got a wife and three children waiting at home, in Vinnin. I asked him why he keeps coming back. Ten years in, he’s got to have some say in when he stops. But he just shrugs at me and says something I swear I’ll never forget. “I have been called. And so, I answer. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I get out.” I’m starting to wonder more and more about what I’ll do when I get out. Four years in uniform. So much has changed. The Empire needs me more than ever, especially the panzerkorps. But it seems like we’re never going to be done putting down traitors and breakaways. I have two years left on my term. Then I have to decide if I’m checking that second box for another term or going home. If I know what I’ll do at home. I honestly can’t decide. 7/9/10 Dear Paige, The (this word has been clipped out by a censor) is gone. We keep finding stragglers and survivors, but for all intents and purposes, from what we’re seeing the (clipped out) is annihilated. We rode up into Middenheim three days ago, looking to take the place. The (clipped out) was sweeping ahead like usual, and the 41st was holding back until we received the go ahead to clean up behind them. I hate city fights, I really do. It doesn’t matter that this one was a small city. They all have the same problems. Over the radio, we start hearing things. Reports of contact with enemy troops. The (clipped out) pushing in. Then, next you know, contact with enemy panzers. Reports of losses. A lot of them. Then the channel goes dead. Division kommand likely realized it was a bad idea to broadcast that sort of news in the open. Then, we get sent in to assist. We couldn’t have been more than a day behind them, and yet by the time we got there, Middenheim’s streets are loaded with destroyed panzers, wrecked trucks and dead griffs. The further we went, the more ruin we saw. Landmines detonated under tracks, panzer-zerstorers blasted out of ambush points, enemy griffs cut down around our burned out panzers. Yale may not have been fighting very hard for this place, but somegriff was. I got a look at one of the enemy panzers up close, and I finally found out who they were; (clipped out). Most of the other wrecks and uniforms have had their logos stripped, but not this panzer. Purple flag of a diving raptor, clear on its plate. Sergeant Hellseig told us somegriff else would handle it. We moved on. The city itself isn’t big. Not like Griffenheim or Vinnin or Rottendedam. Still somegriff fighting for it. I don’t really care who anymore. I’m more motivated than ever to get stuck in. Like I said, it’s been a few days. But from what we can tell, the (clipped out) is functionally destroyed. At least fifty percent casualties, which means they’re useless for the front. They’ll need to withdraw for replacements. Which means their job is now our job. Time for a little old-fashioned revenge. 7/15/10 Paige, Word came in from the capital. There was an attempted coup by an officer called General Dawnclaw. Kommand is playing it down, but there’s rumors that the Emperor was in danger, and the Regency Council was slaughtered. They say Dawnclaw’s units have been halted from advancing on Romau. Apparently they think those divisions will turn on the Empire. Given what they say happened, can’t blame the generals for once. There’s whispers of what’ll happen when the MfÖS gets around to our unit. They’re calling it the Small Cleansing. But there’s nothing small about this. It’s a purge, plain and simple. Word on the radio today. They confirmed the coup happened, and that the Emperor and his Regents are safe. Thank Eyr. Last thing we need is -another- succession crisis. And I don’t know what the Empire would do if the line of Grover was broken. It’s gotten worse since we took the front. Now we’re the spearhead. Ambushes, artillery barrages, panzer strikes. And (clipped out) is definitely here. I don’t know how they got troops and panzers in country, but they’re here. Yale’s about given up holding against us. Its Angriver and (clipped out) throwing everything they have against our advance. I’m up to seventeen panzer kills. We’ve lost dozens of panzers. I honestly can’t tell if we’re winning anymore. We punch through a defensive line, and there’s another one a few miles away from it. Crazy bastards with Angriver cocktails come down from the trees. They’re even strafing us with biplanes. I don’t know if the League is desperate or if they hate us this much. They certainly took the deal from Wingbardy, maybe both. It's getting harder and harder to write. We don’t even leave the panzers to make camp these days. Just circle up and wait while they bring up the fuel, ammo and parts. We sleep on the move. Rotate stations. They say we’re on the road to Greenback and making good progress. I’ll take Sergeant Hellseig’s word for it. We’re all at each other’s throats. I swear, if we’re not shooting the enemy, we’ll be liable to shoot each other. Grimquill and I got into it yesterday over how fast she gets my reloads. I almost strangled her before Hellseig punched me out. An hour later, we’re fighting Angriver troops over a river crossing and it's like our argument never happened. It’s insane what’s happening here. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. Every few hours we’re fighting again. This isn’t Tartarus, not like what happens in the cities or when we cross the fields of corpses mowed down by machine guns or artillery. But this is a torture all in itself. 7/21/10 They called a halt order. Apparently, we’re only a few days from the Green River crossing. Makes sense. We’re running into Yale troops again. Now they really are desperate. We’ve had to pull back from the assault several times so far, when we’re getting hit hard. But every time we get bogged down, the Reichsarmee calls up another battalion from the rear, more artillery, more air support. Then we go again a day later. But now the 41st is stopping to get ready for the final assault. We cross the river here, it’s not more than a week before Greenback. We’re supposed to rest up and supply for the push. Everygriff is on edge. We’re being covered by a Strawberry regiment that’s dug in a mile ahead while we get stocked up at this depot. The shot locker is full, the petrol tank is full. So now we’re just waiting. The mud is persistent, there’s a no fly order in place and every night we get drunk to shake off the impending dread we all feel. There’s new officers walking around. They wear enchanted vests, peaked caps with eye badges, black coats. They’re not commanders. They’re called Vollstrecker. Apparently, they work for MfÖS. Some kind of new morale officers. I heard a rumor they’re field agents, special forces and Knights. All loyal. All watchful. I guess the Cleansing reached us after all. Nothing bad so far. But I’m keeping an eye on these vultures. I’m watching the casualties getting trucked out. The wounded get brought into the field hospital here, get treated and go. Some of them head back for further treatment. Maybe even go home. Others come back after a few days and they’re on the line again. I’ve seen entire fields full of dead griffs, whole towns leveled by bombers and howitzers. If they’re doing this kind of damage to us, what are we doing to them? How bad are the League’s losses? Why don’t they just fucking give up already? 7/29/10 Paige, It’s all gone to shit. 7/30/10 Dear Paige, I’m writing to you from my hospital cot. Before you ask, I’m okay. Most of me, at least. I was evacuated to Middenheim’s field hospital. The attack on the river crossing didn’t go so well. The enemy was waiting with panzers, panzer-zerstorers and ambush troops. We tried to press on the bridge, and they hammered it with artillery. I remember the second my panzer died. Zola’s gone. I was tracking a (clipped out) panzer when I suddenly felt like I’d been kicked in the tailhole. Power’s gone, I almost black out, then I taste blood. Hellseig’s screaming for us all to get out. Grimquill and I got out. Bluetalon didn’t make it. Then, we’re out in the mud and muck, Zola’s on fire, there’s machine guns and cannon rounds everywhere. It was jarring, going from feeling safe and invincible behind armor plating to suddenly back in my own skin and that’s my only protection. We take off for friendly lines again when we start getting shot at. Grimquill went down. Hellseig and I made it back. I grabbed the letters and your picture. But I had to leave the novels. They’re all gone. I don’t know what killed us exactly. I think it was a landmine, or a panzer-zerstorer. But I got a bit banged up. Nothing too bad the doctors are saying. Shrapnel mostly. I’m fine now. Recovering as best I can, which is boring as shit. It keeps hitting me over and over again. Bluetalon and Grimquill are dead. Zola’s gone. I don’t know what’s next for me. Word is the 41st is still pressing southeast. And I’m stuck here in my cot. Funny. I thought more than anything I wanted to get pulled from the chaos of the fight. But now I can’t stand being away while the unit keeps going. 8/2/10 Dear Paige, Turns out, shrapnel wounds hurt like a bitch without the painkillers. And they never last long. The nurses say they don’t want to risk I’ll get addicted to the morphine. So instead I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like my chest is on fire. I can walk, but no luck flying right now. Word from the front is things have slowed down again. Apparently the (clipped out) was stood down for replacements. Too many casualties. Mostly panzergrenadiers. So the 3rd Panzer is taking the lead. I’m supposed to make a full recovery before too long. Then they’ll stick me in another panzer. Don’t know where. News from home. Mother is freaking out, of course. Gave me all kinds of grief for scaring her so bad. But according to her and Uncle August, no more bombing raids on the Herzlands. The Luftstreitkräfte must have dealt with their long-range bombers. The evacuations have halted. Civilians are coming back to the city to fix things up, move back in. Uncle wishes me the best on my recovery. Not much else out of him. Guess he’s busy as an army kommandant. Vollstrecker officers made an example out of a few deserters today. Summary execution in the courtyard. One bullet to the head. No trial. That’s what awaits those who run from their duty. As if I needed more reason to keep fighting. They’re talking about the eastern front on the radio. Katerinburg’s under siege. The Reformisten are taking the lead on this. ‘King Wingfried’ apparently going in to liberate his namesake. Good riddance. I hope he gets killed like his cousin did. Insane, the both of them. War propaganda makes it sound like this whole business is days away from being resolved. Fallschirmjager in Angriver, panzers advancing without meeting any meaningful opposition. It’s all trash, of course. If you believe what they say, we’re about to capture the Archon. Every day we’re hot on his trail. I can’t sleep. Everytime I close my eyes, I see Bluetalon slumped over the controls. I see Grimquill bleeding out from a dozen bullet holes in the mud. It’s etched into my mind...they don’t leave me alone. I can’t help but think that if I was just a little better, I could have killed whatever got us. I could have saved them. I need to get out of here. Or get a drink. Both, preferably. 8/9/10 It’s my birthday today. Boreas above, I never told you when my birthday was. Three years writing, and I never thought to tell you. I suppose there was always something more important going on. But now, while my brothers and sisters are off fighting and dying, I’m here in a hospital with holes in my chest. Sergeant Hellseig came for a visit. Said he talked to some griffs. We’re going back to the 41st, but we’re the replacements now on a support panzer. Apparently the crew got wasted but the vehicle itself is fine. A Stahlschild, they call it. More armor, bigger gun. Slower. I’ll judge it when I climb inside. No time for the range. I’m supposed to be out of here in a few days. That’s when they’ll have the panzer restored for us and ready. We’re going to go drinking at a local pub. A few of the other griffs are busting me out. They learned its my birthday, so they’re taking the excuse to ‘liberate’ me. Don’t feel bad about missing my day. We both forgot to say when they were. I’m 22. And I’m off at war. As far from you as the world seems able to make me. 8/11/10 Dear Paige, They’re letting me go tomorrow. My ribs are still sore as Tartarus and I’m having trouble sleeping with the dead still bothering me, but apparently I’m good enough to go back in a panzer. I’m actually going to miss these dumb bastards here with me in the hospital. Some of them get to go home. Mostly the ones with debilitating injuries. Lose a leg, lose a wing, that sort of thing. Lose an eye? Apparently they rotate you back out again. Guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. A few days driving in a truck to our staging ground isn’t my idea of a good time. Better than walking, though. And with the roads secure, we shouldn’t have so bad a time of it. Hopefully. Mud will still slow us down. I don’t know what else to say here. They gave me a slip informing me I’m being awarded the Medallion Crimson. I don’t really care. I’ll stash it with my dress greys and leave it be. I know I should want to go home, like the others. But hearing what’s going on out there, knowing what’s happening to other Imperial soldiers out at the front. I want to go back, I know it. I’ve got a job to do now, and too many griffs to do it for that can’t anymore. It’s not just about fighting for the Empire now. Now, its personal. I’ll have one more drink before we take off. One of the grenadiers heading home gave me her old flask. It’s nice and sturdy. Got some schnaps in it. I can probably hold onto it for a while before I have to refill. 8/14/10 Paige, Heard Western Town finally fell. Looks like they got Dawnclaw’s troops straightened out again. What a mess. They’ll be moving on Romau itself now. Every day, I hear rumors about the fighting there. It’s held out so far for so long. Cost us so much. It might just be impossible to take while the Archons’ alive in there. But it's one of the holiest sites on Griffonia, for all griffons. So take it we must, one way or another. They showed Sergeant Hellseig and I to our new panzer. I told you it's a new ‘support’ panzer. Not so big as a Beak, but larger than a Calico. I thought it’d be a bit spacious, but there’s five of us crammed in here now with a (clipped out) cm cannon. It's pretty choked up. For one, the loader and radio operator are separate now. Apparently the griff on the set is up in the bow, where he mans a second machine gun. That’ll take some getting used to. The panzer came with a name; Sabine. Written on her gun tube. The crew may have gotten splattered, but apparently she was tough enough to survive whatever they threw at her. We’ll see. So, we’ve got three new crewgriffs. Our driver is this nervous looking conscript from Feathisia, barely speaks a word of Herzlandisch. Name’s Eihol or something like that. I’m just glad I’ve been brushing up on my Feathisian. The new radiogriff isn’t actually a griff at all. She’s a dog, apparently a fill in from Bronzehill. Goes by the name of Spotsley. She reminds me a lot of you in that she takes your brainy side but goes to the wall with it. Always spouting trivia and nonsense. Apparently she was a student back in Bronzecross when she got conscripted. So now we have to deal with her. Wonderful. And then we come to the loader. Get this; a Reformisten -pony- from Longsword. Traveled west to volunteer for the Reichsarmee after the east rejoined. I honestly don’t know what to say about him after that. He’s an Earth pony by the name of Long Haul, and while he is good on the (clipped out) cm, I honestly don’t know how he can associate with people like that who were so dead set on causing him and his entire species such suffering not long ago. We’re getting ready to roll out. Funny, I go back through all the notes I’ve made waiting for your next letter. I’ve written a lot of battle notes. So much so I’m starting to run out of paper in my notebook. Might have to cut them down a little bit. 8/18/10 Dear Paige, Got your letter yesterday, got around to finally writing a full response. Thank Static for sticking up for us. Maybe Equestria will learn all us easterners aren’t warmongering idiots. (There is a line firmly crossed out) I’m glad to hear you and her found a place together. By now, if you haven’t moved already then I wish you luck in doing so. Changing living places can be difficult, especially if you bounce around like you and I do. But I’m writing you about it now because you’ve got her there to help you get accustomed faster. And that makes all the difference. Give her my luck in getting her talk show up and running. I almost forgot about our questions. I almost forgot about half of what your letter is talking about. So much has happened over here, it almost feels like it's from a different time. Years ago, instead of a month. By Eyr, just a month. I’ll give it my best to answer. I need this, the sort of head-clearing talking about these topics brings. Hobbies. Well, I used to sketch. I know, it seems a bit odd, especially after what I said about my failure at piano. But sometimes I’d sit back and sketch landscapes. Towns, military bases, airplanes in the sky, buildings. I’m no good at griffons, I keep getting the proportions all wrong. But I can sketch scenes. I haven’t done so in a while. I’ll try to send you one if I can help it. Aside from that, you know I like reading a good adventure or mystery. You got me into that. So thanks. Childhood. I was born in Griffenheim, as you know. My parents were loving and supportive, if busy. So I had to make time for myself. I used to run with a small group of other kids through Industrie, playing in back alleys and markets and exploring abandoned warehouses and factories. We called ourselves a gang and pretended like we were so tough. We’d harass shopkeepers and play pranks on the police. I even got caught a few times. We had street ‘wars’ with other ‘gangs’ where we’d throw mud and sticks and challenge each other to fly the fastest and other dares and the occasional brawl. Then my father died, and I had to stick around at home, go work in the factory, help take care of Sophie. Things changed, and I had to change with them. I know plenty of others who had to go through something similar. Fear. That’s tough for me. I’m seeing new things that make me reconsider that all the time. I used to mostly be afraid to die. But I’m finding out there’s worse things than that. Still don’t want to. Just seeing there’s a lot more to be fearful of. I’d say it’d have to be similar to yours. The idea of just losing people you care about and not even knowing it until after the fact. I’m having trouble with it when it's in my face. I don’t know how I’d feel if I had to delay my reaction. I’ve got a few. Simple ones, but I think you’ll agree we’ve been asking a lot of big questions lately. Do you sing in the shower? When I’m home, I sort of do. But definitely not while I’m out with the regiment. That would cause all kinds of awkwardness. Believe me. Where do you want to go for vacation? Imagine if we were together for a single week, no strings attached. Where would you want to go? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; I want to see Zebrica. It’s just the idea of going somewhere so exotic and distant is so exciting to me. Maybe travel to the Boers or the Zebrides. I just want to see jungles and deserts on another continent. Last one. Do you like sports? I’ll admit I’m usually too busy to keep up with it regularly, but I do check in on hoofball every now and then. Go Fowls! Also, so there’s no more awkwardness, when’s your birthday? Three years going and neither of us said when it was. You think that’d be one of the first things we’d tell. Guess we both lead exciting lives, eh? Keep at your studies, Paige. You’re going to go do great things, I know you will. I’ll keep at it out here and fighting as best I can so I can come home to you. One day. Stuck in here like I am, with the end so far away, I feel like getting into all the mushy emotional crap again. I miss you. I can’t wait to see you. But I’ll save the bigger stuff until we’re face to beak. It deserves to be said in person. Yours, -Cyril Sent September 12th, 1010 Dear Cyril, I am so sorry. I was so shocked by the news that Zola, Bluetalon and Grimquill are gone. I almost feel like I knew them too from what you wrote about them. I had to take a while to get that all in there. And the fact you’d been injured. I’m so sorry. I managed to go my whole term without getting seriously hurt. Let’s face it, you’ve officially taken the trophy for ‘most suffering’. Static agrees. We finally did get moved in, by the way. It’s nothing fancy, mostly just a two bedroom one bath. Lucky me, Static is mostly a night pony and I’m a daytimer. Helps with the bathroom, though she’s got a habit of being a bit of a slob about the food. Anyway. I heard Romau finally surrendered. Well, I guess judging by what you’ve said and the newspapers are reporting, it sounds like the defenders were just slaughtered enough to take the city. The fact it took so long, I don’t know. These Vollstrecker sound like bad news. Executioners. It certainly sounds like a purging, which makes them political officers. Watch yourself, Cyril. I’d hate for you to get on their bad side. I’m only keeping up with the news to laugh at how bad they’re getting it. Static’s railing about how the press is obviously biased against the Empire and anypony that’s not ‘Harmonist’. It's kind of obvious now. Mixed bag so far. Hoofington folk are patriotic and loyal to Celestia. They don’t like the idea of somepony supporting the Empire, but they -are- mad about the press lying to them. Ups and downs I guess. You -do- know how cutie marks work, right? The symbol is supposed to indicate a ponies given talents, a piece of them that they are special and amazing at. Now true, that means a lot of ponies have the -same- cutie mark. But they’re more than just symbols on the flank. Why do you think mine is a book? While a lot of them are more abstract in their representations, it's usually a no-brainer to connect once it becomes clear. I never knew you had no idea how they worked, or I might have told you this years ago. New school term at Hoofington U. All advanced placement classes. I’ve had to quit my job and get something at night to keep up. I barely slept before because I was worrying about you, now I’m lucky if I get four hours. So now I’m a clerk for a factory. I get delivered reports for the company, I type them up in a comprehensive way. Me and forty other ponies, sitting at our typewriters, for hours into the night at this office. I have to compete with a bunch of thestrals, and they don’t have to spend half the day at school. It’s rough, but it pays the bills and I’m still at Uni. Such is life. My parents are nervous about the Herzland War. My father more than my mother. He’s convinced the Empire’s coming back. My grandfather served in the Deponyan royal army, so paranoia about the Empire is pretty constant. They want me home. But I can’t just leave after all this. I’ve only got two years schooling in, I’m not even fit for a bachelor’s yet. I can’t give up when I’m finally GOING places. One more semester. Then I’ll at least have a degree. Maybe then it’s time to come home. I don’t know. If I come home, it’ll be easier to get to you. But Equestria is the best place on the planet to learn magic. I’d be throwing away my shot at getting back into Luna Nova ever again. I put together another request, but now I don’t even know if I want to. I came to Equestria to learn at Luna Nova. But now I’ve got Static, my other friends at Hoofington U, a lot of time spent here on campus, an apartment. Maybe I don’t need to go to Luna Nova to get what I want. I’ve done more work with Static on my thesis. The crystal I’ve been building has been coming along nicely with her input. I know she doesn’t understand half of what I say. Then again, she’s a radiopony, an electrician. Ideas like theoretical arcana, even to a unicorn, have got to be pretty out there for somepony of her background. The crystal is now fully formed, and I am proud of the matrix I have in place. Now I just need to run through some calculations for power distribution through the crystal. I have to keep bleeding off the energy in order to regulate it, which annoys Static to no end (which I suppose I get, because even if the experiment is ‘successful’ a lot of time I’ll drain the energy to be safe for the next run). But I’m not just going for some military crystal like what they use in their beam rifles (news flash, apparently that’s what those strange glowing weapons you saw are too. Amazing that the Empire would consider even attempting that field of magic, much less developing working magic weapons). I’m looking at a power source of immense magnitude, something that would make those rifle crystals look like .45 slugs. Imagine a panzer powered by a crystal, or a plane. What if we could go bigger? What about warships powered by magic, or even a whole city? I’ve been doing some reading, and apparently high minds in the Ministry of Magic have been publishing articles on a theoretical spell framework to allow a magnification of spells. A sort of amplifier if you would. A tool that would let one unicorn cast a spell with the power of, say, a dozen. I don’t know more than that, but I hope my thesis catches the eyes of the Ministry. I’m never going to get the funding I need to make this a reality like that spell amplifier if I don’t. I am glad to hear you recovered from your wounds. Less glad they decided to repay that by throwing you straight back into the war again. And a Reformisten PONY. I don’t even know what to say about that. How could he? Has he forgotten what they’ve done? The Longswordian Genocide and the Wrath of Hellquill are still being talked about in the Riverlands. If the Empire hadn’t stepped in, the Coalition would have likely invaded. Your loader is ultimately a traitor. I’m not talking about how some Riverponies call other ponies that live in the Empire, I’m saying he’s completely forsaken the ideal of everypony who fought or died for him and before him. That’s just not right. I told Static about it, and she announced over the radio that there are -ponies- joining this group. She got TONS of outraged mail. Some called her a liar. But most were just as disgusted as, well, we are. Static’s a natural born Equestrian, but she understands my horror. Cyril, I know you have to work with that stallion. But don’t trust him. He found it so easy to forsake his race he’d abandon everything that makes ponies unique. Okay, back to you. I’m okay with simple questions. I really am. And I appreciate it, too. Time to throttle down a little. Yes. I sing in the shower. ALL the time. I’ll sing songs on the radio, I’ll hum while I’m scrubbing. Static gets all kinds of annoyed when I sing old songs in Rijekospiel. Stuff from home. My mother sent me a record in a care package, and it was all I could listen to for a whole week. Static, of course, doesn’t speak it, and it's completely different music than out here. She usually just shuts herself up in her room, but when I’m in the shower she says she can hear me singing out in the living room. I don’t care. I like it. I actually wouldn’t mind going to Hippogriffia. I’m like you, I want to see Zebrica. But now I’m a little more traveled, I wouldn’t mind seeing things closer to home as well. I’ve been interested in Aquila, for example. Such a historic city. All those monuments and the culture there. Sports? Um. Maybe? Does wrestling count? I used to watch it in Rijekograd with my brother when I was a filly. Big huge stallions and mares throwing each other around in a ring. It was a major sport back east. I don’t really anymore. Once in a while I’ll look in on the celebrities I used to watch, see how they’re doing. Most of them retired since I knew them, became spokesponies. But no, not really anymore. Okay, three from me. What book would you like next? I’m so sorry to hear your collection was lost in the tank. Please, just tell me what you want next, I’ll get it for you. I’m personally involved in a novel myself about a science drama from a few decades back, about creatures from another planet invading and being defeated by, of all things, bacteria. It’s one of those old novels that hasn’t aged well, like the dragon fighting one you sent me. But it’s still written quite well. Second: what’s the first thing you’ll do when you get home? For me, I know I’ll want to go out in Rijekograd and get some food from home. Equestrian food is good, but their portions are enormous out here, and use way too much sugar on everything. Third: how do you feel about kids? I know, I know. A little awkward given how far away we are and how long since we’ve seen each other. But it’s a question we have to ask someday. Might as well be now. As for me, I always felt like a family would just be a natural occurrence. Inevitable, you know? Then my schooling came up and my education came first. Now? I don’t know. I’ve been thinking it over. I’d be okay having foals some day. Maybe when I’m a famous arcanist. Then I won’t have to struggle like my parents did. What about you? I miss you. I can say that again, right? Now we’re back to repeating the mushy stuff we say everytime? Static wonders how I can hold out for you after three years. She tells me I turn heads when I go out. I tell her the same thing I’ve said. Its because its been so long and after what happened with you know who that I have to hold out. We’ve come too far to let it end here, thousands of miles apart. Come home safe, okay? There’s a lot to be said when we are face to beak again. Yours, -Paige P.S: apparently my brother broke out of that Bakaran prison. Because of course he did. Now he’s apparently gone south to work as a smuggler out of the Friestaat. My whole family is just in awe of how he’s screwed up his life. And, of course, what he’ll do to screw it up again. Sent October 15th, 1010 Dear Paige, Gods above, where do I start? I decided to hold off on the war notes this time, since I almost made a novel with the last letter. Now, I’m using my notes to put together a single message to you. Hopefully there will be less mood whiplash, less reiterating the same things. A lot’s happened since my last letter to you. Since August, we’ve pushed south hard. Once we got word that Romau had finally surrendered, we knew there was reinforcement coming. High Kommand wanted us to press, hard. Get as much ground as we could so when the Sturmdivisiones come up behind us we hammer into them with fresh units. Katerinburg fell to the Reformisten after that. Literally fell. They practically leveled the city with the Order of the Ebon Shroud and a few grenadier regiments behind them. Apparently there’s a deal being worked out with Wingfried. He can’t technically be king of the duchy, but he’s the last in the line. So Katerin is working out a way to give him the title, but things are essentially still going to be run by Imperial governors. Apparently, Katerin has been the easiest to occupy so far, with more and more defecting to our side all the time. Wingfried’s still got half the duchy to retake, but an easier job means a faster end to the war. Apparently, Aquileia invaded neutral Griefwald and they’re gobbling up all the land between them and the Empire. Everygriff here is talking about how they’re next on the list. Plenty of us are pumped to take the fight to the westerners. I say we finish this fight first, but word is troops are being mobilized to guard the border out (clipped out). Empire can’t seem to catch a break. Again. We took Greenback on September 25th. Yale finally decided to fight back. These weren’t their militia and conscripts, though. These boys were determined, as capable as the Angriver fanatics we’ve been facing so far. They hold and they fight. Guess it just took them a while to train up some real soldiers. Too little too late, though. Even with (clipped out) panzers, we rolled in there and took the city in three days fighting. Nightmarish stuff, but you’ve heard me go on about cityfights before. This had to have been the worst though. Greenback was big. And we were practically fighting for piles of rubble, not buildings. But we won in the end. The Rectorate in the city of Yale issued their surrender. Stood down the rest of their troops. For that, I think the Empire’s going to go easy on them. Besides, we need as many of their universities and scientists intact as we can get. The past two weeks, we’ve been carving into Angriver. I think we’ve cut their best down, because at this point they’re having a damn hard time stopping us. We took Appengen on the 6th, and then kept going until we hit Griffing the next day. They must not have been expecting that, because we only had a few militia and police to stop us. They didn’t of course. We had a deployment of Fallschirmjager from the (clipped out) division helping us. I think we really got that big breakthrough we were looking for. Ever since then, the real Angriver troops have counterattacked everyday to take the city back. But we’ve held. Now the line’s caught up with us, Griffing’s been reinforced and we’ve been relieved to get our panzers refuelled, rearmed and repaired. We’re not quite pulled out, but we can go get some coffee and decent sleep. Thank the gods. I’ve come to appreciate Sabine. She’s sturdy, much harder than Zola was. She’s bounced shells that would have wrecked a Calico no problem. And the 5 cm can wreck Airbenders and buildings the same. I feel unstoppable in her. I reset my kill count when we changed over, but I’m back up to seven panzer kills, mostly because of how few there are out here. Half of them are (clipped out). When are they going to stop? Evergriff knows they’re here. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a diplomatic incident yet. The replacements aren’t bad either. Turns out, Eihol used to be an auto racer in Feathisia. Those prime cars that can go faster than a griff can fly. He apparently enlisted as a truck driver but was bumped over to the panzerkorps. Spotsley is a good one too. Sure, she’s a know it all and all superior about it, but so far she’s shown that when something needs to be done or somegriff is in trouble she’s always there. She’ll lecture you on how you did it wrong, but she’ll do it while helping you through. We don’t like Haul much. Not because of the pony himself, he’s actually not a bad type, good loader does his job like he was born for it (that’s how those flank markings work, right?). Keeps talking about the Reformisten’s Integralist philosophy. Thing is, that’s the problem. He’s Reformisten, and nogriff knows what to make of that or what he says. A whole month and I have absolutely no idea how to handle it. And the way he talks about the whole way of doing things is eerie. They call it a ‘cultural refinement’, where they take the better elements of whatever they’re absorbing and ban anything else that doesn’t match griffon culture. Other faiths, other philosophies, art styles, traditions. The way Haul talks about it, its like its inevitable. It's really kind of creepy. This was a stallion who fought against Pallas and his genocidal maniacs in Longsword as a militiapony. Now he’s joined Wingfried’s banner. None of the rest of us know how to deal with that. And every time we ask, he says the same thing: "They were wrong, they were traitors, they completely subverted the Reformisten ideal and as such were made examples of.” I’ve heard the Archon make speeches like that about purging heresy in the Empire. The Vollstrecker are just as bad as we expected, of course. More deserters shot. A few spies discovered in our ranks. Griffs sympathizing with the League. Archon supporters. The worst like the spies and deserters get shot with no trial. The others are chained and marched off. Nogriff knows where. These new Crows are with us in the attack, watching us carefully to see who’ll try to run off or retreat without being told to. Those are shot on sight, of course. Even panzer crew. I saw a Vollstrecker climb onto a Calico and execute the sergeant because he refused to drive his panzer into a firefight. Then she climbed in and ordered the panzer forward herself. They take point on near every charge, protected by their armor as they tell the truppen with them to attack behind them. It’s madness. What’s worse is, they leave the Reformisten volunteers from the east alone, like Haul. Just pass them over. Not like those idiots would ever break, though. From what I hear they never retreat if they can help it. Waste of griffpower. Or ponypower, as it is. So, less about the war. Though I find I have little to talk about outside it. I realize that makes my letters a bit awkward. Hmm. Next book? Tough one. I want to get my Daring Do collection back, but that could take a while, and I don’t want you sending me a whole stack to start with. I’ve got an idea instead; The Downfall of Númenor. All this interest in historical fiction got me curious. There’s an Equestrian author named K. T. Trotkin, lives in the Griffish Isles. He wrote a book based on the series of breakaways and uprisings after the Republic Revolution. I read a news article where he swears it's not based on that, but after our talks I can see the connection. Give it a read before you send it over. For some reason, I could never find it in a bookstore here. When I get home, I want to get drunk. As drunk as I can get. So drunk I can’t even fly. Then I want to just sleep for a whole day. That would be nice, to get some sleep without worrying about getting blown up. Again. And then yeah, something to eat would be nice, like a steak. I don’t know about the kids question. Isn’t it a little early to be asking about that? I mean, I guess I’d want to start a family one day. It never really seemed important. I always had something else I needed to focus on instead. I want to. But I (several lines are furiously scratched out here). Maybe. Things are a little strange. I don’t know if I can really think about that right now. Three more questions. Hm. Okay. I’ll be honest, I can only think of one right now. I keep wracking my brain, but all I’ve got is seasons. What’s your favorite? Mine is autumn. That point where its cooling down from summer, the leaves are all turning and the smells of hot cooking fires with cookies, cake and meats just rolls down the street. The knowledge that winter is coming, with all the holidays it carries with it. I hate to get all poetic, but there’s something magic about it. I think we’re in the end now. Baron Leer and the Archon are all alone now. The Empire is advancing and we’re holding Griffing. Hope is, maybe I’ll be home before New Years’. Then, maybe, just maybe, I can start looking into booking that trip across the ocean. To you, Paige. I’ll see you. There’s a lot to say. Yours, -Cyril (Folded up into the envelope is a sketch, made with a pencil of some kind, of a cityscape with forests beyond. Without color it is difficult to say if the sun peeking over the horizon is rising or setting, but there is quite a bit of cloud cover regardless. Some of the buildings are little more than rubble, and sections of the forest appear rudely interrupted as if those were from shell craters. It is a bit rough, but still apparent that much effort was put into this drawing. On the back is a scribbled note. “Sunset Over Angriver. From Cyril”) Sent November 21st Dear Cyril, You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to send this! Word about the surrender came in last week over the radio, and I’ve been just burning waiting for your letter so I can reply. So. Your letter had a lot about the war. Obviously, the Empire won. I’m just glad you’ll be heading home after all that. You’ve been on the front for what, six months? Now that Baron Leer’s dead and the Archon captured, I can’t imagine they’ll need a tank unit to hold the south. The Vollstrecker alone seem like they’d be enough to terrify the south into compliance, honestly. I’m just happy you’re out of danger again. With you in the combat zone, I’ve been awake all night and suffering in my AP classes. Now I can get A’s and B’s again instead of C’s. That was a joke, FYI. Anyway, I’m sending you The Downfall of Númenor. I did read through it, for a time. I’m afraid I’ll have to pick up a new copy, since it’s less historical fiction and more history-inspired classic fantasy. So it had a whole world to get into and learn, and honestly I was too busy to get into it entirely in the short few weeks I had. I’m sorry, but I’ll get into it when I can! I got a letter from your mother. She’s so relieved the war’s finally done. Apparently, she was worried for both you and your uncle. There was word about some combat behind your friendly lines. She apparently couldn’t even send any messages because the postal system in Griffenheim was so messed up. She thanked me for staying in touch with you. She’s worried, Cyril. Worried about how you’re acting. She wants me to tell you we’re all still here for you. Me, Sophie, your mother, your grandparents, Static. We’re all here for you. We’re all proud of you and we’re here to help after everything you’ve been through in this war. All you need to do is talk to us. Spring. My favorite season is spring. Seeing everything in full bloom, the mist rolling over the hills and still having cold mornings. It's an amazing time, and when you’re flying over the Riverlands the rolling green hills just stretch all the way away toward the horizon. So you’re telling me you don’t want to have kids? I understand if that might be an awkward topic, but ever? But you love your family so much. You’re always talking about how proud you are of Sophie. I think you’d be an excellent father. You’ve got enough experience under your belt to point in the right direction, you know what kids would get up to and how to talk to them. Did you ever think about what we might want in the future? I think we’ve been writing to each other about how we feel long enough to at least consider it. Or do you just not want to have kids with me? Okay. I got awkward. I’m sorry. I’m just glad you’re okay. And I want to talk with you more. I’d love to start planning more for a visit. I can take a vacation to come. If you do make it to Equus, rest assured I’ll be waiting for you with eager, open arms and wings. First thing we do is fly over a city. I’ve been looking forward to flying with you. Yours, -Paige P.S: wow. I kind of expected this one to be a lot longer. I guess with the war over, I just want to see you more than write you. Sent December 19th Dear Paige, Yes. I’m home. Whoever that griff was that plugged the Baron, he’s an Imperial hero. They won’t release his name, but we know he goes by the callsign ‘Bogeygriff’, and the Kralle he did it with has pretty much become legendary. The Archon’s in exile. Up north in Hellquill, in the middle of nowhere. But you already know all this. I guess I’m just writing to fill paper. It’s different now, writing at home again. It feels like there’s less urgency. I’m on leave until the New Year. With orders to not leave the country. There’s that idea shot to Tartarus. Meaning I can’t come see you after all. I’m so sorry. Again. So I drink. And drink. And drink. I go to the bars with the crew. We get called heroes wherever we go. Beer and schnapps flow freely. But we know the truth. What we’ve seen. What we’ve done. We’re butchers. The League might have betrayed the Empire, but we’re not heroes. Heroes don’t have night terrors and wake up in a cold sweat. Heroes don’t need to get drunk every night to fall asleep. Heroes don’t feel disgust when they look at their medals. Heroes don’t keep leaving their girl behind over and over again. Heroes don’t get interrogated and put on a watchlist by an intelligence agency. I should explain. After I sent my last letter, Angriver pulled one last card on us. Somehow, somewhere, they got their talons on a few Imperial panzers and a bunch of Reichsarmee uniforms. Baron Leer had his cronies slip behind the lines and start attacking supply depots, radio posts, and command centers. By the time we were able to react, we were already shooting each other. Griffing came under attack by both the enemy -and- a battalion from the 2nd Grenadiers. And I just...mowed down everything in front of me. Couldn’t even take the chance anymore. Just minced everygriff and everything. Over the course of a week, they took our cohesion apart. I can’t say anything more about what happened, but it wasn’t good. We failed to spot the enemy at his own game, and we got our own paranoia killing Imperial truppen. The 106th Infanterie captured plans calling this ‘Operation Trauer’. Too late to stop it, but we could at least spot them again. Good news was, we got all the enemy false panzers. All officers, sensitive personnel and panzer crews were interviewed afterwards by the (the word is clipped out). Multiple times. I don’t know how many times I was pulled into a dark room with griffs I couldn’t see and had to answer questions for hours. That copy of The Downfall of Númenor you sent me? Haul warned me that it could be seen as seditious, pro-Republican publishing. And you know what? He was fucking right. They asked me about Uncle August, told me things about my mother and sister. They’re watching you too, y’know. Said they’ve got copies of all our letters, asked me how long I’ve been talking to a Riverlands spy. I told them you were no spy, you’re a student in Equestria. On and on and on. Then they brought in these two specialists by the name of (clipped out) and (clipped out). One was this really giggly female who just seemed to love tossing out random things to make me uncomfortable. And the other was this albino demigryph. At least, I thought he was missing his wings. Then the interviews stopped. They announced Baron Leer was dead and the Archon captured by Fallchirmjager. We didn’t even stay for the occupation. All panzertruppen were ordered back home. I haven’t even seen Sabine since. They’ve told me they’ll let me know when I can return to service. So yeah. We won. Doesn’t feel like a damn thing’s changed. But there’s celebrations in the streets, at the temples, in the bars. I talked with preacher Bronzeclaw again. He’s got nothing for me but to hold firm to faith. I’m even starting to doubt a griff of the cloth. Only places I go these days are temple, the bar and home. Nothing else for me here. The Reichsarmee sent me my Medallion Crimson and Ribbon Intrinsic. Useless pieces of tin. I don’t know what to do, Paige. I kept fighting because I believed I was going to finally make the Empire a better place. Get some glory at last. Go home and rest. Go see you. Instead, I’m a pariah in the military, I can’t sleep, all I do is drink to get the memories out of my head and any time now secret agents could kick down my door and abduct us all in the night. I can’t go see you. I can barely sit down for dinner with mother and Sophie. I’m going insane here. Look, if you’re gonna ask the question, fine. -If- it works out between us, and -if- we stay together long enough, yeah I’d have kids with you. But could we, even? What is that, half-griffon, half-pegasus? Have you ever seen any of those around? And even if that’s possible, what would they go through, being seen as some sort of freak? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be there, I’m sorry I can’t be more positive about the future, I’m sorry I can’t get myself into a place where I’m not in danger every second. It's almost four years since we last saw each other, Paige. Things aren’t getting better here. They’re just getting worse. Help me, Paige. -Cyril Author's Note And thus, we close out the year 1010. You guys all know the drill, keep an eye out for any errors or typos I have made, ask any questions as you see fit, and generally just let me know what you thought! Next chapter: the year 1011! 6 1/2 years to go!
On the Edge pt 1: DarknessJuly 11th, 1011 Royal Palace, Canterlot In the end, she decided on the bright moon. Princess Luna had been debating on dimming the moon when she raised it these past few weeks. If her suspicions bore out, a dim moon would make an invasion of any kind difficult for an attacker. They’d be forced to either attack during the day, in which Equestria’s large air force could more easily assist her ground forces, or try to make the attack in the darkness, during which accidents would occur, friendly fire was a certainty, and units would of course lose their way. But in the end, she kept the moon cycle as normal for one reason; Changelings were nocturnal shapeshifters. This wasn’t your normal enemy they faced over the northern border, this was a foe who could literally change their appearance to give themselves the physical attributes they needed, fly over rough terrain, and use their black carapace hides to conceal themselves in darkness even without their abilities. After Chrysalis’ attempted coup, Luna had committed herself to learning everything she could about them, and it still wasn’t enough. They were like nothing she had ever faced before, and Equestria was already a malnourished state defense-wise against regular foes like griffons or monsters. The Crystal War had exposed deep faults in the Royal Armed Forces, faults that had been ignored or handled too sluggishly. While Luna’s own influence had improved after her work reforming thestral rights with Celestia, she found that the undying adoration the Royal Army had for her only got her so far. Many of her attempts to alter training had her run headlong into Chancellor Neighsay of the EEA of all ponies. It turned out that soldier curriculum, by outdated traditions in place for centuries, fell under their oversight. Attempts to procure better equipment ran into treasury problems, production had issues with industry leaders and even an attempt to muster up additional ponypower was headed off by her own generals, who pointed out that such a decree from her when no war was active would likely be hotly contested. After everything Luna had done, she couldn’t fix the one thing she had finally become comfortable handling in this day and age. She assumed improving the lives of the thestrals and reintegrating them into society would bridge the gap, but while she had reversed their fortunes, the nation paid for it as businesses and society were thrown into confusion. Managers and businesses that discriminated against thestrals were promptly punished, leading to an air of extreme caution and sensitivity. As it turned out, Twilight’s proposed reforms had worked too well, too fast. Things were only just going back to normal. Luna sighed as she gazed down to Canterlot from the high ledge, with its wide boulevards, high white towers and bright lights illuminating her streets. She should be going out soon, to guard the citizens of Equestria’s sleep from nightmares. But all she could think about was the border, and the ponies stationed there as little more than sacrificial sheep. Oh, she didn’t want to think of them as such or to throw away their lives. But her options were severely limited. “Ah, Luna,” said a melodic voice behind her, snapping her out of her thoughts. “I see you haven’t left yet.” “You are up late, Sister,” the alicorn of the night replied, not looking back as Celestia stepped onto the balcony with her, her pleasant white coat and rippling rainbow mane contrasting not only her own, but also the darkening shadows across the palace walls. It seemed no matter how late it was, Celestia was always bright and radiant in appearance. “I assumed you would have retired by now. Or at least gone to relax for the evening.” “I haven’t seen you for several days now. And even then, you’re always so busy.” Perhaps Celestia sensed her sister’s apprehension, the dark storm of thoughts brewing in her head, because she stopped short of coming up next to her at the railing. “You’ve certainly been...invested in military affairs as of late. A few weeks ago, you were asking to review the naval budget. Now I hear you’ve called up wargames at Mariposa between the Army and Air Force.” “Only the reserves and National Guard,” Luna pointed out, now actually looking at her sister with a stoic expression she normally saved for uncooperative ministers and public appearances. “Since I was forbidden from using the regular troops.” Celestia didn’t even look surprised, merely examining her sister carefully. “I never said you were forbidden. I said it was a terrible idea. That there were ponies who would get in your way.” “Tia, who are we kidding?” Here, Luna’s expression finally changed, though into one of exasperation. “We are practically -queens-! Any decree we give is followed without contest! -You- are the only one who can stand in between my orders and my soldiers!” “-Your- soldiers?” Celestia asked coolly, an eyebrow arching even as her eyes narrowed. Luna huffed, not in the mood to split hairs. “-Our- soldiers, whom -you- placed me in charge of!” She spat, pointing an accusing hoof at the day alicorn. “Why ask me to command them if I cannot fix the problems I see? Why charge me with Equestria’s defense if I cannot move them where I need them? Why ask me to oversee training and equipping if I am denied the funds I need to change both?” “Luna, enough.” “No!” Even she was a little taken aback by her response, and Luna needed a moment to recover, compose herself and continue, now much quieter and calmer. “Sombra is gone. But the threat -is- real. We are in danger here, and everytime I try to change something, I am stonewalled. By ministers. By budgets. By -you-.” Luna sighed, shaking her head as she gestured out beyond the balcony. “The world is still full of peril. You have -been- there, by my side. We were not given this nation to let it fall to our enemies.” “Luna,” Celestia tried to intone gently, her face softening once again. “I understand your worries. But as you said, Sombra -is- gone.” “And what a victory -that- was!” Luna snapped back. “How many lost for our victory, Sister? A hundred-thousand of our subjects dead and wounded to push Sombra back. And how many Crystal ponies died for the liberation? Every one of his soldiers we killed was a citizen brainwashed or enchanted into doing his bidding. In the end, the only ones who suffered was -we-. Sombra was never confirmed destroyed. I know he is STILL out there, somewhere, and now abruptly the Changelings have an advanced, unified industrial nation and a massive army full of griffon-designed tanks, which they have used to conquer two of their neighbors! The warnings are all over the walls, Celestia! And yet, we do -nothing!-” “We don’t need to do anything,” Celestia replied. “When the Changeling economy has balanced itself with the resources they now possess, they’ll see Chrysalis for the insane being she is and depose her.” “Bullshit, they will,” Luna snapped. Celestia blinked, taken aback and shocked. They were from an older time, Luna especially more than herself. They didn’t use crass language like that. While she was proud of how her sister had adapted to the modern day, eleven years just didn’t seem like enough time to break her of her usual air of high nobility. A voice in the back of Celestia’s head reminded her that Luna had found a very strong bond with her generals and admirals, and had even toured army camps on the front during the Crystal War. Clearly, she had picked up a few modernized words here and there. Luna pressed on. “Tia, Chrysalis is the one who united the hives! -She’s- their savior! The very reason they won over Olenia in the first place! What on this earth makes you think they’re going to just cast her down when the system she has put in place is -working-? That is the most idiotic thing I have ever heard!” Silence. The quiet night stretched on between them, the two sisters huffing as the emotion of the moment rolled over their argument. This was not the first time they had clashed over this issue. And it was the same result every time. Luna would attempt sweeping reform of the Royal Armed Forces, Celestia would head her off and then Luna would be forced to work from the sidelines, affecting small change here, introducing minor measure there, dispensing instructions to the generals to keep them going towards possibly reworking the heap that was their defense force. In some regards, she had been very successful. The Lunar Sea Fleet had gotten their first cruisers last year, and the Celestial Sea Fleet now had three modern Rockhoof class carriers to it. The Royal Air Force had finally replaced all their Hurricanes with Spitfires, and from what she’d heard the new Celestia infantry tank design was ready to go into prototype phase next month. At this rate, they’d be able to mass produce some time next year. But the large scale changes she knew they needed to stand against Chrysalis’ Imperial Army were always shot down. The lack of ponypower to train new divisions and fill the gaps in existing ones, the lack of a modern, portable machine gun to give their bolt-action Lavender rifles some tactical support, an outdated tank doctrine that specifically kept armor on light and medium tanks thin because of their place in Equestrian battle doctrine, and of course the absolute shunning of additional submarines due to them being ‘cowardly’ weapons. None of it was fixed, only softened. Finally, Luna sighed, calmed down. She looked Celestia right in the eye and wearily asked “Why?” “Why?” Celestia repeated, not as if she didn’t understand, but more as if she were processing the word. And that was when Luna brewed into a cold fury, sweeping a hoof to point out beyond Canterlot, to the northwest, trembling in her barely controlled rage. “Why! Why am I unable to mobilize when our recon flights -clearly- tell us the Changelings are massing on our border? Why am I barred from increasing recruitment rates and authorizing propaganda campaigns to fill our ranks? Why must I work in the dark, in secret meetings and clandestine calls to get my generals the orders they need to make certain Equestria is kept safe? Why, when Queen Velvet begged you to step in and save her country, did you override my recommendations for a first strike, or even to support a resistance movement? Why, Tia? WHY?” Her voice had escalated, from a stern and cold pitch through to insensate fury, all the way up to her Royal Canterlot voice, Celestia’s mane blowing in the wind she generated. And yet, the elder was unphased, merely looking down at her sister. Both literally and figuratively, Luna thought scornfully. But Celestia surprised her, then. She smiled. And Luna’s rage doubled, feeling the clawing darkness that was always present in her mind returning, whispering, gleefully boasting that Celestia would never see her as her equal, always the stupid little sister to be controlled. The voice that said she was the one who should be in charge, without inane weights holding her down. The voice of Nightmare Moon, the part of her she had locked away inside herself for years. “I see now. Ironic. The one banished to the moon and stepping out of time has grown up much more than I ever have.” And in a moment, Luna’s fury abated, leaving her flabbergasted, trying to struggle for words. “Wha...how do you mean?” “Luna, when you came to me for help with your thestrals, I almost told you to strike out, accomplish it on your own. In my mind, undertaking this campaign would have been such an experience for you, becoming your own mare and finally cementing your place as a true ruler of Equestria, loved as much as feared, and a firm figure. But a dark vision passed through my mind, and I knew too much was at stake. Yes, you were capable, but I had to make -sure- the reform succeeded.” Celestia moved past her, taking up a place at the railing now herself, staring first up at the moon, then across the horizon towards the northwest. “When you rallied Equestria to face Sombra, I knew you were still the same warrior who defeated him a thousand years ago. And our troops and public were behind you, every step of the way. But then the Crystal War ended...and the peace came with it.” She turned to Luna again, sadly. “Ponies wanted their calm, quiet life back. To grieve their lost loved ones and to reclaim their sense of safety. We had won. What was the point of staying armed, ready for an attack? Surely you saw it in their dreams?” Luna had indeed. During the Crystal War, the ponies dreamed for victory and safety from the evils of the north. With her new duties of running a war, Luna had shamefully been forced to ask Celestia for help once more with safeguarding their dreams, especially with Sombra’s vicious umbrals at large. Her war had been fought at the sides of mages as much as with the soldiers in the snow. She nodded, mollified and listening intently. “And after? What did they dream of?” “Of life returning to normal,” Luna sighed. “Perhaps even better than normal, as if to forget what had happened to begin with.” “Ponies are not natural warriors anymore,” Celestia pointed out. “Our lust for battle has long been left idle, to wither and die. The Riverlands diplomats I meet point out to me the vast difference when I hired instructors from the east.” Luna’s ears perked up at that. When had she done that? Riverlands instructors? In her camps? Surely she would have heard about that? But no...that fell under EEA jurisdiction. Luna had moved on from that stonewall. Had Celestia gone around the EEA anyway? “I am not blind to the threat of the Changelings, Luna. Nor am I so feeble as to believe Friendship would defeat Chrysalis a second time. You cannot make friends with armies. This is a new war we face. A brutal one. An industrial one. And so, I stalled for time. The longer Chrysalis spent on Olenia and her own affairs without believing she needed to rush to attack us, the longer you had to work.” She smiled at her sister, who frankly looked flabbergasted. “I used those same thestral reforms we worked out with Twilight to pressure industry leaders who stonewalled you. I kept the nobles busy with parties so they wouldn’t be paying attention to the new ships you commissioned with commoner officers. Planned railroad projects when you set up new airfields in the south and to the west so the material movement would not raise attention. When I said how mobilizing the regular troops would enrage our populace, ponies who want nothing to remind them of the dark war we fought not so long ago, I made sure nopony was aware of you moving reserves north.” “Sister...I…” Luna was stunned speechless for a moment. “While I admit I could have done more, or simply let you have at it with your opponents, I didn’t want the good will you had gained with the people go to waste. Equestria loves you now, Luna. You saved them from Sombra’s legions. The last thing I wanted was for them to hate you again. However right you were. Are.” Celestia sighed, head hanging, her mane drooping slightly. Did she suddenly look much more tired than before? “And, I will admit to a fault on my own end in leaving Chrysalis be. I truly thought the Changelings were united by nothing more than a cure to their hunger. Why else would they support such a mad creature as Chrysalis? By the time I saw my error in reasoning, it was too late. And if I could not help you prepare us for war while saving the love you now had, I could at least make sure nopony got in your way.” Celestia turned back to Luna, away from Canterlot. Her face was now grim, determined. “You’ve been warning me of Changeling mobilization for some time now, yes?” “Yes, Sister.” Her recon agents and planes had confirmed as much since the beginning of June, massive amounts of forces moved to the border from Seaddle all the way across the frontier. The few spies she had been able to secure in Olenia said that garrison units were being stripped of planes and heavy hardware, and a polar bear naval officer with leaked intel had revealed that the Grand Armada had slipped its moors days ago. The signs were all there. “Then, Luna; I fear you will finally be proven right in these next few days. So. I will no longer stand in your way. And I will no longer protect Equestria from you, whatever measures you feel need be put in place. Instead, I trust you to do the right thing to protect our realm. I will support you, all the way.” Luna slowly stepped forward, until she was standing next to Celestia at the railing, both of their gazes pulled almost by an invisible force towards the northwest. They were silent for several minutes, contemplating the impossible task set before them. “Acornage will fall,” Luna finally stated. “The defense line was not completed. It is still understrength and suffers many gaps. Whitebell will likely go the same. Mariposa I do not have high hopes for. Vanhoover, we will likely only delay them. And the Celestial Sea Fleet must be given orders to sail, at once. The Lunar Sea Fleet will not last against the Changeling Armada, not after they absorbed those Olenian battleships.” “I will sound the general mobilization at once. I can dispatch the Royal Guard to respond immediately.” “It will still take them several days at least to make it to the front. We need to prepare for heavy losses.” Celestia nudged Luna, and the smaller alicorn looked up at the taller one. Actually, was it her imagination, or was their height difference not quite as pronounced now? “You have a plan, I take it.” “Yes. With your permission-” “You have it.” Luna blinked in surprise, the words dying on her lips. “I have not said it.” “I do not need to hear it. You have proven worthy of my trust on many occasions. This, our most important hour, is no different.” “Just like that?” “Just like that,” Celestia assured, smiling proudly at her sister. In that moment, both of them shone more brightly on the balcony, Luna’s star mane lighting up like the constellations it resembled, and Celestia’s coat was like a lighthouse on this top tower. “Go. I will take over the dreamwatching for tonight. I’m more prepared this time. But from now on, we split it. We’re both about to be very busy at all hours of the day.” “Like nothing we know of, Sister,” Luna agreed, stretching her wings and taking flight, immediately soaring off towards the building of the Ministry of Defence. Within seconds, her black and blue form was gone in the darkness, swooping down to lead Equestria in her darkest hour. Now alone on the balcony, exhausted from the day but committed to the duties of the night, Celestia took a deep breath, steeling herself. “You may be the only one to save us from my failure, Luna.” And with that, Princess Celestia flew off to do what she had always done; buy Luna time and space to do what -she- had always been best at. Sneig Defense Line, Jade Hills, Crystal Empire 19th ‘Evergreen’ Onhooves Division “Midnight, General.” Major General Deimos Falafel sighed, blowing out a cloud of hot air into the frost, watching it immediately be swept away. Though it was by all rights the middle of summer further south, winter technically never ended in the Crystal Empire, merely relaxed its grip. There was no snow, but the temperature plummeted to such a degree that patches of frost could still be found on the ground. The wind scythed down from the mountains to the north like an icy blade, covering his command post in a spray of early frost, normally not unwelcome to the Crystal ponies, but now an unwelcome reminder of what they faced; an enemy even more adjusted to the bitter cold than they were. Snow and ice would not slow a Changeling down. “Any word from Blueblood?” Falafel asked, tugging his coat tighter around him. To his dismay, the Crystal trooper shook his head, already knowing the answer. “No sir. Mariposa’s gone silent.” It was no secret that, as vital as the Crystal City was for manufacturing the Empire’s war material, the true center of coordination for the current war preparations up and down the border sat firmly with Field Marshal Prince Blueblood. His intel and troop movements had been far more accurate and informational than anything from the Crystal City or Canterlot, and it was in him that the Crystal generals along the Sneig Line put their trust. Word from the south was that Blueblood had been forced to secretly and silently evacuate the whole town of Acornage, turn it into a military hardpoint. The Equestrians were getting desperate to overcome their lack of foresight. “Try Snowbury, then. See if we can’t reach the Prince-Consort.” Falafel stepped outside his headquarters tent, suddenly feeling the urge to get some fresh air. This late at night, his entire command post was lit brightly by crystal powered arcane spotlights, casting the area in an icy blue that did little to put him at ease. Around him, grey uniformed ponies were constantly in motion, unicorns studying arcane patterns, intelligence officers attempting to decipher field intelligence, radioponies shouting and receiving orders at a breakneck pace. In the distance to the west, he could see the lights from his division’s positions, eight thousand soldiers scattered across this narrow valley. To the north, the high peaks leading to Yakyakistan formed a natural, impossible to cross barrier guarded by Crystal pegasi, and the thick forests of Frozen Butterfly province made an impenetrable barrier held by seventeen other Crystal divisions, all dug into fortified ready positions. Here in the Jade Hills was the enemy’s only possible entry over flat ground. They wouldn’t stop the Changelings, and neither would the divisions behind them or at the fallback line, but they would certainly make them pay for every inch they tried to press into the Crystal Empire. No surprise attack here like what they had done in Olenia. “Lieutenant?” Falafel asked over his shoulder, calling his aide over. “Bring the division to alert status. All hooves on the line. If the Changelings are going to try something, it’ll be now.” The unicorn nodded, saluting as she galloped away, leaving Falafel standing at the sandbag wall, caught in his thoughts. Dark had his dreams been since the end of the Crystal War, when Sombra’s insidious hold over his mind had cleared and he finally could control himself and absorb the consequences of his actions. The things he’d seen. The things he’d done. Ordered done. He had been offered a retirement, but he knew he’d never function outside of the army after that. Now, he was beginning to regret his decision, as they changed out one enemy for another, merely years apart. Deimos’ mind had been plagued by visions of dark creatures, innumerable shapes overwhelming the land as he could do nothing but stand by and watch. Worse, at times his nightmares had him participate, commit heinous deeds alongside these shadowy creatures. It was enough to make him wake in terror most nights, panting and sweating at the visions and the memories they conjured. A hoof gently came up, touching the Snowflake submachine gun he had strapped to his flank. Never again. He’d take his own life before he’d allow himself to be overtaken like that again. When word had reached him from Prince-Consort Shining Armor that an invasion was imminent, Falafel had immediately gotten to work. The Empire didn’t have the ponypower to last in a sustained fight, so the name of the game was a fighting retreat with Equestrian air support. Even now, positions were being prepared along a carefully prepared fallback route, over which they would tear the Changelings a new one until they reached Snowbury. If their line still couldn’t hold after all that, the final fallback point was the Crystal City itself, which had been made a fortress since Sombra’s banishment. They would hold at least as long as Equestria, perhaps even longer if fortune was on their side. No word on Princess Cadance’s intentions yet, but hopes were high that she’d fight beside her troops, just as Shining Armor was already prepared to do in Snowbury. Deimos let out a breath, reassuring himself. Everything was in hoof. They had the situation under control. It was -not- going to be the same as the last war. “General!” Falafel turned, frowning as a radiopony rushed up from the comms pit, headset gone flying and panic across his features. He skidded to a halt merely a few feet from Deimos, the two MP ponies reflexively reaching for their weapons a moment. “Sir! We just lost Snowbury!” The command post froze, various Crystal ponies halting whatever they were doing as their heads all swivelled over at the radio operator’s brazen declaration. Falafel’s first reaction was to internally panic, both at the news and suddenly having all these eyes on him. Sombra’s curse the first time had shook his confidence, and he’d never regained it. Having to respond to a crisis like this with so many witnesses was his every fear, and he grappled internally to not freak out as he got his own racing heart under control. Abruptly being isolated from the entire army, twenty divisions of ponies, was enough to make his soul seize up in terror at the possibility of isolation. Breathe in… Count to four… Breathe out… Count to four… Okay, he thought. This is clearly a big deal. Time to step up, be the officer you always were. Address the anomaly. Sound the alarm, that’s what was needed here. The invasion may not be underway. But it was best to act like it was. “No. It’s -not- him,” the general whispered quietly once he’d steadied himself, taking only that half moment to compose himself before he shifted to a familiar attitude. They had trained for this, fought like this. “I need that ready alert sped up, get the division on stand by ASAP! As of now, we must assume we are being isolated from the army group! Get me the guns, I want every inch of this valley sighted by a howitzer or mortar!” To the radio pit, he ordered “Check the lines, If it’s the weather we can call up a pegasus team to get us better reception. But if we’re talking physically cut, we might be looking at Changeling sabotage.” Quickly, several of his subordinates moved in his direction as the radiopony scurried off, and he began barking off orders to his battalion commanders. This. This, he could do. He had a plan, and all contingencies were planned for. The Royal Air Force would be on standby, and if the offensive rolled out, the 19th would stall the Changelings long enough for Blueblood to be warned and ready for the main attack. “Captain Frost,” he continued, turning to his chief artillery coordinator. “I need you to-“ The wind came again, chill once more, but somehow even colder than before. It wrapped him in its icy embrace as he huddled, attempting to start again, cap pulled down on his red and black mane. His words abruptly caught in his throat, as Falafel glanced over a shoulder towards the treeline. He hadn’t picked a direction on purpose, it was more of him running off adrenaline and locking into combat mentality. But for whatever reason, he looked away to the south. Army engineers had scouted the area ahead of time, choosing a suitable location for his field headquarters where he could move to command the division. And he was fairly certain they had never reported any corrupted crystals in the area. Sombra’s mind-controlled Legions had never made it this far. And yet, just a few hundred meters down the hill, sticking out of the treeline, was a large, purple shard, flowing with dark and sinister energy. Falafel’s eyes locked on it, his mouth hanging open, his mind reeling. The visions returned, darkness hazy over his mind, shouting the orders to lines of masked troops, the creatures made of shadow surging past him. The feeling that every thought, emotion and action had been robbed of him by somepony who viewed Deimos himself not with amusement or even as a toy. But as a mere slave. A tool to use and dispose of at will, nothing more. The mere sight was too much for him. All the confidence he had been feeling, the momentum he had carried, flew out of him in an instant. He had been right. And he had talked himself down from the idea. But he -had- been right... Captain Frost frowned, watching the general carefully before he too glanced to the south. Fortunately, Frost was more on the take as he immediately recognized what the crystal implied, spinning to one of the nearby MPs. “Sound the alarm! Get security troops up here, we need the area-“ General Deimos Falafel heard the shots, felt the splatter of blood on his face. But it took him a moment to react, blinking blearily and reaching a hoof up to wipe the sticky red liquid from his muzzle. By the time he realized what had happened, his gaze slipped down to the Snowflake in his hoof, and then to the corpse of Captain Frost and the two nearby MPs on the frigid ground. His stomach lurched at the sudden, sickening realization. Around the HQ, other infiltrators revealed themselves, cutting down officers and MPs that went for their weapons. A unicorn radiomare blew the head off the nervous stallion who had been feverishly trying to contact Snowbury, an artillery coordinator cut down two battalion commanders discussing fire control over a map of the valley. As half his command was cut to pieces by the other half which turned out to be the enemy, General Falafel could only watch on in shock and terror, frozen in place. Unable to act. Then, a dark presence, like oil sliding over water, slipped over his mind. His soul suddenly felt caught in a vise grip, a familiar feeling he’d certainly been through before, and the white stallion choked as he tried to turn to face what he already knew he’d see. "No...you were destroyed! This...this is impossible-" His eyes darted feverishly towards the radio pit. There had to be a survivor, somepony still alive and unturned who could warn the army group! The nation! Even as shots rang out, he had to give the order. They might die here, cut down by the enemy, but they could give the Empire a fighting chance. But a sickening thought crawled over him; the radio lines were down. Whether that was the Changelings cutting them, the infiltrators taking advantage of the storm or one of his operators having sabotaged their sets, they were still cut off. Smack dab in the middle of a group of twenty divisions, and they couldn’t even shout for help with their last breaths. But there! As one of the Changelings moved away, he spotted an aide kit, sitting on top of a crate nearby. He scrambled over, hooves fumbling with the latch. But after a moment of panicked reaction, he had the lid open, glancing feverishly to make sure he hadn’t been spotted, seeing more and more Changelings and glowing green eyes that signaled the fate he feared above all else. And then, with the flare gun in his hooves, he took a few feverish steps outside, aiming high and pulling the trigger. The weapon only bucked lightly, the phosphorous starshell screaming away into the sky. He’d done it! He’d sent the only warning he could, but he had overcome his- The flare was green. The signal for an artillery barrage, now hanging high in the sky over the Evergreen division’s positions. He had grabbed the wrong shell. He felt the despair wash over him. And then, that dark presence in his mind was given strength, tenfold now, shadowy tendrils coiling through his mind. His last act, his sacrifice before his ultimately cheap death, nothing but wasted effort. But he could at least face the being he had feared, and known, had returned this whole time. Before he could complete his turn, the dark presence finished taking control, and he stopped in place, his eyes glowing green. Behind him, King Sombra smirked, leering over the ruined command post at his victory. Those officers who hadn’t been killed by the strike force had been turned to his command, and all looked to him with the same vacant expression on their faces. Like a shadow itself, a massive dark purple umbral loomed over him, an sentry trooper’s head stuck in its jaws, struggling feebly to get away. And when the dark king spoke again, that little shred of Falafel’s mind that remained his own (so small and insignificant compared to how much had been taken by the suffocating power) quivered in fear at the voice. A voice he had hoped to never hear again, as if from shadows themselves, from all directions at one, at once everywhere and right behind him. And this time, he could no longer take a minute to calm down and reassure himself it wasn’t real. Because it was. “Ah, yes. Hello again, Deimos." The general merely nodded, a blank expression on his hypnotized face. Abruptly, Sombra heard the sound of a hammer drawing back, and glanced annoyed over to see Falafel’s unicorn aide, tears streaming down her face, revolver held in her magic pointed at Sombra’s armored head. She must have hidden away when the shooting started. The Changelings hadn’t noticed her yet either. Sloppy. His annoyance turned to amusement, and the dark king merely chuckled, turning away from the unicorn dismissively as his red horn glowed. “A strong one. Always one, I suppose. You know what to do, General.” The unicorn blinked, confused for a moment before a rattle of gunfire rang out, a bloody line of bullet holes stitching across her chest and she fell to the ground, blood already soaking into the ground. Falafel’s submachine gun smoked, held steady as the general watched to ensure she was dead before he brought the weapon down. Sombra didn’t have to order the mare killed, not when he could have easily turned her, but the Changelings could use a show of force. To make sure they knew -who- was in charge here. He looked up at the green flare, now slowly drifting away from the headquarters, blowing with the icy breeze towards the 19th division’s positions. A smirk caught his lips. Already caught in the middle of their alert, the troopers below would be looking up, confused and conflicted. Radio messages to the headquarters, already ringing out over the sets he could hear, would go unanswered. Ponies would instinctively fear they were being targeted by their own guns, victims of a friendly fire incident. How deliciously ironic. Chrysalis had warned him to be cautious. To take no chances and keep his infiltration quiet and careful for maximum effect. Now, they could do things -his- way instead. “Let’s get some fire on those positions,” he said idly, holding up a hoof to inspect it for dirt or imperfections. “Confusion will make it easier to turn the division, and I’d hate to interrupt the invasion timetable.” At his spoken order, one of the surviving artillery coordinators saluted. “Yes, My King.” As the artillery coordinates were fed to the howitzer positions, Sombra breathed deep, sighing as he prepared to turn his new army. The guns fired, the shells falling on the 19th’s prepared positions. Screams rent the air. “Ah. Good to be back.” He glanced to General Falafel, once again staring into the distance, eyes glassy and waiting for orders. Sombra grinned, conjuring a Legionnaire helm into being. “Thank you, Deimos. You’ll be quite useful.” He chuckled at his own small joke, once more looking to the flare hanging in the sky, its green light ghastly against the shells exploding in the trenches. Behind him, the umbral closed its jaws, crushing the trooper’s skull. The hind hooves twitched once, twice, and then fell slack. Author's Note Welcome to On the Edge! This triple part interlude will cover multiple perspectives covering the beginning of the Changeling invasion, this significant and tragic event that signals a new age of blood and strife unseen in this world's history! Instead of weeks, you'll only be waiting days for the next part, and then a few days after that! Enjoy, and remember we'll get back to 1011 part 2 after On the Edge is concluded! Many thanks to all my beta readers. Without you, this work would not be possible, as I would second guess myself to death. Tune in next week for On the Edge part 2!
