Ponies surpass Man in innumerable aspects, but chiefly, one: to rule ponies, one does not require war. Ponies will openly throw themselves down before those with power.
Warcraft is but one form.
Despite the difference, ponies and Man share a concept: they are strong together, and weak alone.
For a proper unicorn to rule, you must bear no equal. You will toil alone.
And with the warcraft of Man, one alone may rule many.
The young creatures will show no fear for you, so long as you veil the path.
Remember, you must bear no equal.
Forge messages for the gateway. Hints, lies, vague intrigues to catch passerby.
You will tell the creature that there is a friend awaiting them.
And when Man come, you will take what is rightfully yours, and reclaim all knowledge briefly imparted to the folly creature.
Exsanguinate.
In time, you will learn that Man is but lies.
They, too, are full of deceit. But they wear it broadly on them with no grace, and no ambition. Only the strongest Man bear ambition. But they give others their warcraft for which they enforce their rule.
You will have acquired all knowledge you can of the world beyond the gateway.
Remain patient for as long as deemed necessary. But know you must act swiftly; both Man and creature will come to prevent your rightful work.
It is then that you will seek power directly.
Man are elusive; they hide their knowledge behind codexes and cyphers. To translate these is to foster knowledge and power. To do so, you must first find their physical selves.
This is not so simple, for the gateways to their lands have long since closed, and divvied themselves to the strands of Caelum.
The failures of your lessers, however, will prove a boon. Through studying the demise of those before you, you will learn to forge a way to Caelum.
Additionally, Man are technophilic; they manifest their work through interwoven crafts. With this, they forge opposing societies of immeasurable strength, and rule with armies fed by and armed with crafts. Technology and war share a purpose as the lifeline of Man.
Man are technologically advantageous; thus, dangerous.
Their warcraft is the power you seek.
Black and gray rock surrounds you. Stone. Artificial.
The sky is the wrong blue. Smoggy. And filled with glimmering towers of glass.
They are forged of Maniron.
The scent of the world collapses in upon you. It is hot, sticky. Damp on your coat.
Salt. Meat. Ichor. Life.
Man.
You are drawn from the Maniron towers. The crowd of Man around you swells, and dark Maniron carriages screech in halting. The world creeps in on you.
The black stone beneath you is dotted with white lines. You trace them to a stumbling figure.
It is a Man with power. His grasp is weak, shaking as he holds a shaped chunk.
A warcraft of Blackiron.
You narrow your eyes.
The scent of salt rises from your own coat.
You light your horn. You unclasp your white cape, and levitate it before you.
Crisply, you form a square of cloth.
The crowd of Man is sufficiently awed by your display.
The Man on the dotted white line approaches your white flag. His grasp is loose, jerky.
You approach in kind.
You meet in the middle.
You bow your head, eyes shut.
You hear the fabric of his clothes stretch as he reaches toward you.
“Easy...”
In reply, you open your eyes. You could not disagree more.
As your horn pierces fabric, shrill screams sound for you.
The blood of Man soaks your white flag, but it does not stain your horn.
The Blackiron chunk clanks against the ground between you and the exsanguinated.
You yank back, showering the white lines with crimson.
The metallic bite of copper fills your lungs.
You push the Man without touch, and cleanse your horn with stained cloth.
The screams of the remaining Man rekindle as you redouble your magic.
You raise the Blackiron of Man from the ground.
You pause.
A sneer careens over your lips.
This warcraft... is not fine Blackiron.
You aim the false Blackiron at the crowd.
A tempestuous crack reams through the air, and a Man tumbles.
Gray, pink, red. Bone. The opening is raw. Viscous. Blood pours as hot wine.
You already long for another pull.
There are yells made in the language of the Man. You adjust the Blackiron again. The weight is estranged from what you desire, but it will service you.
The Man enforcers who approach, now, wield more false Blackiron.
Even in the smoggy daylight in the land of Man, your armor glints with purpose.
Momentarily, wield this false Blackiron. Your goal remains pure.
All Man will bleed until they relinquish what is rightfully yours.
