The Scramble for Equestria (A Pre-EAW Story)

by Radical Centrist

Rating: teen
Tags: Alternate Universe, Human, Narcotics, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Adventure, Profanity, Random, Griffons, Violence, Princess Celestia, Crossover, Zebra, Dark, Hippogriffs, Death
Length: 77501

In the middle of their version of the renaissance, strange fully-clothed gryphons and ponies with never-before seen flags or standards land on every continent's shores, irrevocably shifting the destinies of the era's titans. (Victorian Europe in EAW)

Here's EAW's timeline btw

And here is an image of the map of EAW + Europe.

Technical summary:

Late Victorian era Europe of 1888 is inserted into the EAW universe in their respective year of 774ALB (Just after Grover I fails his invasion of Sicameon). Also, none of the Europeans remain human. Discord blushes.

Grover I, or the soon-to-be, "The Blessed," rests his creaky bones as he receives news of the defeat against Sicameon. Grover II will remember that. He pays little mind to this advancement, after all, he expected as much considering he only sent a meagre force mostly comprised of levies and Acquilean sellswords in his so-called 'military expedition,' though, he regrets the unifying effect he inadvertently initiated on the Parishes.

Across the sea, Celestia, as always carefully schemes and manipulates the fates of her neighbours, namely, Severyana, of which royal family and attached royal court she had been patiently nudging into a hyperbolic pit of Tartarus every generation or so to orchestrate a succession crisis. She figured they would blow up in 22 years. Of course, she could just ditch the mind-numbingly slow subtlety and just kick the Tzar in the flank and turn the boyars into ash, but she doubted the proud burghers and peasants of Severyana would appreciate that one bit.

Meanwhile, in Europe.

The Brits wept at the loss of their source of tea.

The Russians purchased a noose upon realising there was nothing past the Ural mountains.

The French erupted in civil disobedience, protests, riots; political and regular violence epidemic, Paris was in ru- oh wait, sorry, France was completely normal.

The Germans drowned themselves in beer. To their wives, 'it was because they had turned into mythical lion-eagle hybrids'. But really, they always finding excuses to get plastered.

The Austro-Hungarians continued to be a tongue-twister, and the powderkeg they sat on turned into a RBMK reactor with Dyatlov in charge.

The Italians surrendered to their mirrors when they awoke.

The Swiss became dragons.

The Spanish pretended that they had lost alot.

The Nords ate glue & paste.

The Balkans became Balkan-ier.

And the Portuguese... Uh, they existed.

Written on a phone.

I don't check my work. (It drains my motivation)

About my writing style: Why yes, I enjoy the mass assault doctrine. How could you tell???

I'm creatively bankrupt and have been playing an unhealthy amount of Victoria III and Equestria at War, and after my 9th playthrough of genocidal Suntail and Funni black flag Russia, I had the brilliant idea of writing a fic with the premise of Victorian Europe tryna scramble up the continents of Equus, Griffonia and Zebrica during their kinda-Renaissance.

It is very niche, but this story is mostly for me. I had to make a part of my brain shut up and unfortunately, my lobotomist got arrested, so I gotta do this now.

Yay, I got featured.

The shitty title pic is mine.

Published 2023-11-20 09:20:00 UTC
Last updated 2024-09-14 15:10:53 UTC

A day in the life of Bismarck

Scratch Scratch Scratch

The sound of pen imparting its ink echoed in the darkly lit room.

For many, its sound invoked despair, reminding them of gratuitous exams and abhorrent lectures by half-dead tutors. Strangely, the one wielding it found it quite soothing.

Strange. That would best describe the figure currently slaving away. A soon-to-be mythical figure of German history 'til his defamation by association with unsavoury characters around 5 decades from now.

Despite having experienced similarly unbearable years as a student in one of Prussia's most finest educational institutions, Bismark had no repressed phobias for the mighty pen.

While finding his work tedious, he knew deep down the importance of his work. Regardless of the repetitive drabble he would encounter every day, he still knew the importance of acknowledging its sender; stroking egos and stability was hand-in-hand in an autocracy after all.

After all, who would find the work to protect and ensure the prosperity of one's homeland to be regretted or despised? Only a madman would!

Bismarck sighed half-contently, his usual tactic of self-motivation through finding virtue in his work shaking as he set aside another egregious demand by a fanatical, unreasonable, and hopefully independently-acting French politician that wanted Alsace-Lorraine back.

"Damn Revanchists," He thought, neatly rolling up the poorly disguised emotional letter that masked itself as an official state document and hovering it over a flickering candle.

He kept a candle unlike most of his fellow bureaucrats despite the advent of electricity and modern lighting. He reasoned it was for such occasions.

Definitely not because he liked the old ways.

It was because he was poetic!

He enjoyed watching these frivolous, and quite frankly, childish 'diplomatic proposals' burning to ash, mentally conjuring the writers of these 'proposals' across him, as he smirked cooly at their seething faces.

Would their fists be clenched as well? But of course! Their knuckles would be white and their nails digging their palms with fury! While he audaciously burned their demands to demonstrate his superiority.

But that was all reserved for thought.

Because unlike the self-unaware morons of Paris who let their heart drive their bodies, he knew ego had no place in diplomacy. What they call 'passion' is just an excuse to be uncouth.

He sighed. Look at what thinking about the French has done! I am become pompous! The annoyance to all!

"I can't, -nay won't let myself even entertain the idea of the French luring me into sparking a conflict..." Bismarck frowned with slightly pursed lips, "I will never be undone by my own pètard... In extension, Germany won't as well, falling for the same trick that undid third Napoleon..." Bismarck reminisced, allowing a ghost of a smile to manifest as he favourably remembered how the now-dead, disgraced and deposed Napoleon III had fallen for all of his traps.

The 'emperor' had been quick to latch on his carrot, swifter to follow into the cliff he threw the rod over. Because that was what it essential was. A suicide, for no better word could summarise the outcome of the defensive war between the North German confederation and France.

He received a unified Germany from their common defence against the manufactured aggressors.

The French received another Republic. And the jokes were on them, as he didn't have to lift a single finger to provide them that.

The only thing stopping his ghostly smile from materialising into physical form, however, was that he had actually come to respect that greatly-distant relative of Napoleon.

During the latter's captivity due to the French's defeat at Sedán, Bismarck had engaged in close conversation with the 'emperor', and had begun feeling sympathy for him when he realised that unlike the brainless politicians of Paris who agreed almost unanimously for war against Prussia and the Lesser German states for a simple insult manufactured by Bismarck, Napoleon III was forced to propose and ignite said war to support his extremely tenuous position as an unpopular 'emperor' of France, and was essentially forced to step on every one of his traps and follow his figurative carrot, for it remained the only way to retain his authority; populism.

Bismarck frowned at that fact. Once upon a time, the workers and peasants did not question their liege's authority, for their kings and emperors were ordained by god to rule over them, the former being created by god to serve the sole purpose of pleasing their heavenly-ordained masters. But now, that beautiful order was shattered, and emperors such as Napoleon III were forced to appeal to chaotic and unnatural 'ideas' such as nationalism, economic prosperity, social reforms and military meritocracy to keep his subjects content, and not the other way around.

He feared that his emperor would also have to stoop to Napoleon III's level, especially when considering Friedrich III was a well-known advocate of Liberalism and limitations of monarchial power.

The very thought terrified him. He had dreaded it when Wilhelm I chose to hear out the peasantry during the 1848, sending away the army from the capital. He had sighed a huge breath of relief when the emperor had relented and subsequently dispersed the crowd with grapeshot, aptly gaining the nickname: "Prince of Grapeshot" henceforth.

He could not imagine the extent of the despair he would feel when his new Emperor, Friedrich III, willingly, without even being prompted with threats decided to voluntarily relinquish his divinely-ordained powers to rule. He shivered at the thought.

But he repeatedly assured himself that the worst of the German Liberal movements had passed, and as long as his Germany kept its picturesque, orderly army alongside its social structure and common ethos of devotion to the fatherland, he knew his liege's position was secured.

He sighed deeply, pushing the candle dangerously close to the edge of his desk.

He flipped up another document.

It was going to be another sleepless night in the palace.

At least some of these papers aren't entirely wastes of time, he thought, as he delightfully skimmed through a proposal by the appointed magistrates of the relatively newly acquired states of Alsace and Lorraine. It detailed a plan to more extensively integrate the aforementioned state into Germany proper by finally doing away with the Napoleonic code entirely and fully adopting the Prussian rule of law.

Although he was aware of the chaos that may follow, and knew even more that his blessings were meaningless considering his insider-knowledge of the magistrate's incompetence, making his words of approval weigh less than spoken words in successfully doing away with the old codes.

But it was high-time to centralise the relatively newly-acquired territory. This meant he would tolerate the kleptocratic magistrates gaining a virtual free hand to reign hell in their appointed office. He could not afford factionalism, no less regional obstructionism in these trying times.

He knew the consequences well, hell, he was downright familiar with it after all the debacle against the Catholics in the early years.

His blessings to the appointed magistrate of Bavaria to 'persecute' its Catholics proved disastrous when said official went-above-and-beyond, zealously attacking the regional Catholic institutions and wrecking whatever subtle plans Bismarck had in mind to patiently dislodge the Roman pope's influence over the region.

No one seemed to have subtlety. Oh, how his younger self would laugh at him now for how soft he had become!

"Why couldn't the Italians just rid us of those indulgent bastards when they had the chance?" Bismarck tapped impatiently on the corners of his document, creasing it, which would reflect poorly on his professionalism, he thought.

A frustrated expression slowly spread on his face at his anger for one, Gariboldi, whose personal left-leaning political views would make you expect that he would destroy the Papal states and evict the pope from Rome, of which scene would've definitely made Bismarck smile.

For god's sake, they had it coming after for all those years of persecuting the protestants in Germany, causing unspeakable amounts of death and suffering from those relentless religious wars.

They deserved to be knocked down a notch!

He depressed his fountain pen with a little more force than necessary. Years of writing signatures had honed the exact motions for its accomplishment in his sub-conscious, which made his current situation shock him more than it should have when he briefly focused his gaze beneath the tip of his pen and found only an indent, a shadow, a paler shade of black that ink should've made.

He had run out of ink.

With great and almost-lazy gentleness, of which gesture Bismarck figured was to hide his current annoyance and anger of his previous thoughts and current predicament compounding eachother, he set his fountain pen aside, then looked around the dimly lit room to locate another pen.

At first, he refused to leave his seat and instead scanned his table fruitlessly, as if great concentration would manifest a pen before him, perhaps beneath the mountain of paperwork or the edge of his peripheries.

This was why he never liked working in the palace's offices, instead much favouring working in his private building just outside it, stocked with much office supplies and advantage of familiarity coming with the latter. But for this occasion, he had no choice, as he was in the middle of convincing the emperor to forfeit any ideas of enacting Liberal reforms until the night ceased further discussions and caused him to dejectedly retreat into an unfavoured, but still his, office.

He hoped to intercept the emperor early in the morning, and so decided not to return to his offices. For he had done so before with the predecessor many times when confronting a 'bad' behaviour of theirs which he intended to remedy.

...

Safe to say, Bismarck was beginning to regret that decision every minute he spent here. This wasn't his worst day, oh no, far from it. That title would be designated to any of the days he had spent in Russia.

The palace retinues, courtiers and everyday bureaucrats that visited made sure that he had not forgotten about his disaster in dislodging the Catholics in Bavaria, for still yet, in his mind, they misinterpreted his intentions due to those incompetent magistrates, and viewed his 'petty revenge' against the Catholics as nothing but a reactionary measure that would reopen old wounds and divide Germany further, of which goal, Bismarck had no intentions to fulfil in the first place.

He knew many of the individuals that gave him the sour glares personally, and knew they were smart enough to disregard the rumours and see his 'Bavarian project' for the good-intentioned decision it was.

But maybe it was the desire to see a titan, someone who rarely ever failed and always seemed to succeed finally miss and fall.

Or maybe he was the one delusional.

He sighed.

Amidst the negativity, he reminisced of the good times; his first taste of self-gratification in the political stage. It was when he had been requested, then accepted an invitation to participate in talks of whether a constitution should be created to restrict the powers of the emperor when one of the representatives, his friend, had become unexpectedly sick and had to call in Bismarck as a replacement.

He remembered it being his first taste in politics in-person; although he did not enjoy it at the moment, specifically, thinking of the liberals and the chaos they brought to any atmosphere as being toxic and utterly unbearable. It was a little more bearable now though, but still so insufferable.

But he also remembered it as somewhat addicting; the way he had captured even the brainless morons he thought liberals as, in the senate through his fiery speech about the sanctity of the powers of the king and decrying the liberal's outrageous claim that the Germans had united and thrown Napoleon's armies out of the Rhine due to them being supposedly promised a constitution. Outrageous!

They had thrown Napoleon's army out of the Rhine because they were invaders and oppressors! Not because the German people were promised a constitution if they did it! They had fought against France FOR GERMANY, not for some piece of paper like the Liberals were alledging!

...

Bismarck finally noticed the unmistakable silhouette of a fountain pen on a stand nearby, and moved to retrieve it, careful to not knock over anything while his vision was impaired by dark.

While some career bureaucrats would despair at the prospect of standing up from their chair, Bismarck was no such blue-pilled weakling who groaned and whined at needing to leave his desk to accomplish basic tasks.

After all, his legs worked, humans were made to be mobile and active, it wasn't going to break any bones or cause lasting pains and the time required to go and do whatever needed to be done always was shorter than the usual soy-boy ritual of contemplating it for 30 seconds and moaning incessantiously to do something which even a debilitated sea otter with missing chromosomes and every type of diabetes would easily do without a second thought.

At first, he patted pathetically around the fountain pen, not wanting to call his depth perception into question by embarrassingly missing the pen and devolving into self-doubt.

Once he was sure he had a firm grasp on the distance relative of him to the pen, he leaned forwards confidently and grasped the pen in a fist, the latter instrument looking comedically undersized and the former conduct, therefore, seeming immature, yet Bismarck assessed it was a worthy sacrifice despite the lack of audience that could judge him for his cautiousness.

"I need to stop overthinking things," He noted; he still thought extensive planning and thought was essential for any task, especially considering his line of work and the consequences of carelessness, but he disliked how this meticulousness was seeping to his daily life.

"Truly, I'm a slave to my work, slave to Germany especially so, as I let them dictate my entire life." He reflected to no one in particular, "What a glorious honour it is." Bismarck smiled, for it was indeed a prestigious role, and who wouldn't be delighted to serve their fatherland in such a crucial role as mine?

Very poetic. He swore he wasn't a narcissist.

Without a thought, he traced his cautious trail back towards his desk, carefully removing the cartridge from the fountain pen he had just repossessed for GERMANY. He quite liked his artisan hand-crafted fountain pen, and would be a fool and disrespectful to replace anything but the cartridge.

Whistling winds pressed against the distant windows, its well-polished wooden frame, no matter the level of craftsmanship and effort still sporadically tapping what it contained, playing soft 'tinks' which echoed in the room despite the abundant paper piles acting as insulators of sound.

Prompted by this auditory distraction, Bismarck momentarily glanced towards the source, reflecting briefly, on how even the most well-worked and meticulous product still had unbearable imperfections.

He did not overlook the symbolism of that observation.

It reflected almost scarily with his work.

Bismarck despaired to see a Germany without him. Without its trusty carpenter, so to speak, hammering in its loose nails.

Without him, Germany would become unrestrained, impatient and entirely antagonistic. He knew it would become so without his realist influences.

He knew there were many others in governmnet who thought Germany's imperial possessions were lacking compared to the other Great powers such as France and Britain. They tactlessly wished to seize more territories, even from the said powers directly.

He despaired at the prospects of an incompetent chancellor, as while somewhat of an egotist, he knew himself to be near perfect man for the job; a man unrivalled in statescraft, with a similarly unmatched belt of experience. He had mastered the arts of offending none while appeasing all. The last thing Germany needed was a conflict for a piece of far-flung dirt.

"There are none even close to my abilities, at least not in Germany as far as I can see."

He was irreplaceable, and definitely not because of his ego, but of his abilities. Yep, definitely because of his competency and expertise.

"How will Germany fare without me?"

Bismarck blinked away from the window frames, his vision blurring around it, revealing the beautiful, beige starry night sky with the iconic silver crest of the moon pasted on the picturesque, near-fantastical piece of natural art that had inspired so many great men before.

Oh, how much he wished for his Germany to be so fantastically beautiful, so expansive, so... All-consuming. He could only dream.

Alas, his Germany was, unfortunately, a product of artificiality by men, specifically by a man named Otto Von Bismarck. Thereby, the flaws of the product followed with its creator, for mere mortals, no matter how perfect, could only hope to compare with the almighty.

His only solace? "At least the damned Liberals weren't the ones to make it..." He knew he had achieved the closest to perfection, creating a Germany by nobles, princes and kings ordained by god, and not by some dirt-poor peasants, of which class god had assuredly forsaken to work for the benefit of god's chosen people.

He huffed quite exasperatedly, shaming himself quickly for getting so worked up throughout the night, considering, but quickly dismissing the notion that it may be caused by sleep deprivation. He had worked longer hours before, worked through entire nights without problems before. "This should be nothing," The workaholic huffed.

"Then what could it be? What is making me so irritable for no reason?" Bismarck briefly looked towards the ceiling, as if it would assist in his self-reflection, needlessly risking the flaring of pain in his aging, creaking neck.

...

He felt... No pain?!

He blinked wearily, then squinted suspiciously at the fact that he couldn't hear the minuette creaks and chiselling of his bones against one another, which would normally cause either immense or barely bearable pain.

Usually not a gambler well, not anymore at least, but curious of how far he could get away with his probably temporary flexibility/numbness, Bismarck stretched, at first cautiously, then radically bent his head from one shoulder to another; a feat that had been unfeasible since hitting his late 60's without excruciating and long-lasting pain.

His eyes widened at this development, a slight frown lying in reserve, awaiting to be called up to the front if even a slight pain began to flare up in consequence.

But nothing. No pain at all.

Perhaps I will pay for my recklessness the next morning? Bismarck immediately thought, but such depressing imaginations were cut short by an unmistakable sensation of being sharply poked on the palms...

...By what felt like three pincers???

He snapped downwards, narrowly avoiding biting his tongue off to desperately dispel the implications of his impossible physical sensation.

He looked down... To see two clenched fis- claws???

A single brow rose impossibly high on his face, his brain contemplating court martialing his perception apparatuses to immediate execution and imprisoning his eyeballs for life for crimes against the laws of physicality (and or logic).

He pushed away his ~~fists~~ -claws apparently from his face, then hopefully opened them, willing the claws to not acquiesce with his requests. But it did.

The amount of cognitive dissonance and proprioceptive drift affecting him all at once threatened to collapse his mental state; Bismarck swore he could see foam forming in his ~~mouth~~ beakwhatthefuc-.

He knew through corresponding movements, as requested by his 'self' -brain, matched with his -now claws, which would let him logically rationalise that, those claws were, in fact, his hands, however, the aforementioned afflictions on his mind also refused to believe that the claws in front of him were actually his hands through overwhelming memory associated to what his hand had felt and looked like conflicting with how his claws felt now. Not only that, I only have four digits!

His new appendages felt stronger, tougher and were noticeably thicker than his previous ones, and without even having to see a dissection or test his strengths, he could definitely tell the bones and muscles within it were far denser, through the sheer rigidness and 'weight' of his claws which made themselves evident regardless of his assumably strengthed arm to support said 'buffed' appendages.

He made other, far less confusing discoveries with his anatomy, as he no longer felt any pains in his joints, muscles or any place for that matter that had been caused by old age. He felt the very comforting emrbace of his still-not-yet-forgotten youthful spirit and energy, prompting a wild smile to possess his face as a result of overwhelming joy to once again reclaim the title of "wild man Bismarck."

Choosing for a minute to ignore the destructive implications and aspects of his transformation, Bismarck lapped-, nay, exploded out from his seat, his momentum alone causing the massive table to literally fly off from its ancient position, revealing a noticeable dent on the intricate carpet where the table's legs had sat, to then land unceremoniously, alongside its contents on the floor, miraculously breaking nothing in the process.

Bismarck, despite initial indiscipline, landed gracefully on his ~~feet~~ -paws, yet he refused to acknowledge them as such, as he deemed it to be childish to call his base of support anything other than legs and feet, and immediately entered into a duelling stance, convincing himself that the golden gilded fountain pen he held in his claws was his reliable duelling sabre.

He felt a slight discomfort in the fact that he had one less digit to support his supposed sabre, but quickly adapted, orchestrating complex moves from memory, lunging and generally prancing around the office, seemingly locked in a desperate battle against an illusive phantom that seemed to parry all of his attacks.

Bismarck relentlessly attacked this presumptuous phantom that dared toy him by not striking back; so focused in this life-or-death battle, he hadn't even noticed that he could perfectly see in the dark and subconsciously, yet expertly dodge the obstacles littered around the office as if second nature and as if he had returned to his prime.

Finally, Bismarck found an opening, and ever the opportunist, lunged forward to attain it; not noticing the slight flaps of his wings that stabilised him and prevented his fall which would assuredly mean his end, for his enemy was shameless and would assuredly end him while he was helpless, on the ground.

Bismarck drove his sabre into the deep crevasses of his opponent's neck, and with the absent presence of the mediator, was free to drive the tip deeper and twist, ending his opponent for good.

He panted through triumphant a smile, twirling his sabre and depositing it in its sheath cooly.

...

Then the self-illusion broke.

...

The office was a mess; piles of once-organised pages now strewn about chaotically around the room, black smudges of unmistakable shoe-prints, albeit disgusting on the well-polished and crafted marble floor, displayed the aftermath of a great duel between two skilled masters of the finest, most glorious art form, although one of the masters seemed to be a ghost, evident by the missing footprints of one participant.

...

Bismarck glanced towards the window. It was still the dead of night.

...Then back at the trashed office.

...

...

...

"Damn..."

...

...

...

He promptly went back to work.

Author's Note

Oh Bismarck, you!

Also big surprise, Bismarck hates Liberals and the peasant class as a whole. Based.

Also sorry if I came off as Liberal-bashing. I'm just writing what Bismarck would probably think and unlike my previous story, I want my historic figures to act authentically.That's a lie, I will make historians cry.

...Which probably means alot of self-righteousness and delusions of grandeur. So brace yourselves for noble snobbery. Wait 'till you see the British, and *shudder* The French

Background Info (I'm gonna have multiple of these)

As I have said in the introduction, the Europeans are no longer humans. Chaulk it up to magic bullshit that they are no longer humans, like when Twilight travelled through the mirror and she switched species. Just don't look too deep into it, aight?

Predominantly Ponies

Spain

Portugal

Southern Italy

Acquitaine (Southern France)

Poland (Huh? Where'd they go?)

Slovak

Hungary

Greece

India (Their entire continent is gone, but those hired by the British came with them. This includes ~~slaves indentured servants~~ 'labourers' and soldiers)

Wales

Predominantly Griffons:

Norway

Danmark

Sweden

Finland (Part of Russia during 1888)

Iceland

Germany

Austrian parts of Austria-Hungary

Normandy (Northern France)

Scotland

Mix between Griffons and Ponies

France (As a whole)

Great Britain

Northern Italy

Ireland

Scotland

Russia

Czech

Netherland

~~Northern France~~ ~~Southern Netherland~~ ~~Roadbump~~ Belgium

Predominantly Kirins

Balkans (oh yea yea) I consider Hungarians Balkan. I am not sorry.

Predominantly Zebras

Algerians (French Foreign Legionaries)

Tunisians (Read above)

Morrocans (Read)

Predominantly Dragons

Switzerland (I know their banking sector hasn't boomed to its full extent yet and their reputation for money-hoarding will be established during WW2 and beyond, but come on, let me have some fun.)

Nepal (I want dragon Gurkhas. Sue me.)

If you think any of the choices are racist, take it up with Hasbros.

Don't think too hard about these choices.

Also, a tidbit, basically every European nation is gonna be broke at the start since their trade is gone, there are no colonies to exploit and stocks tend to devalue when everyone's species changes overnight. Also since their common economic model of mercantilism went down the shitter.

Finally, not all griffons are gonna be the same. The Nord will be mostly comprised of eagle-lions and the griffons outside the region will have their bird parts mellow out into more peaceable kinds like a dove or a pigeon depending on distance.

Here's the map again if you didn't bother to click the one of the intro page:

I'm probably wrong on the scaling but whatever. Look at the map with a grain of salt. Preferably in the eyehole.

Interestingly, since the Europeans came into their new planet inverted, their sense of directions will be inverted too. This means that they will draw their maps in a way that makes their lands look 'familiar,' eventually meaning everyone's west would mean the European's east, and vice versa.

Battles depicted within the story will usually be accompanied by a strategic map. (unless I'm lazy) so it can supplement my shitty writing skills in immersing you into the scene. Here's a key for such maps:

Here is an example of how I'll be illustrating my battles:

Pretty self-explanatory right? Also, if you think the amount of rocket artillery in the above battle is an overkill, I'll spit on you. (Also it seems like I made a mistake, but I won't admit where. Also, I'm too lazy to fix it.)

Author's Note

Start date:

Equestria at War - 778ALB June 1st

Europe - 1888 June 1st

While in Griffonia... More specifically, Zaphzia

The scene seemed staged.

Two griffons that wore what was considered 'noble apparel' in Zaphazia lay prostrated, their beaks narrowly missing contact from the dirt below. While the last of similar clothing stood holdfast between them, his form expanded, as if to prepare for an immediate confrontation.

Across of them were five pompous figures of Herzlander stock, two clearly guards from their still-adorned armour despite the presumed safety guaranteed inside the golden tent of the crown prince of the Empire.

"Better safe than sorry." The only seated griffon reasoned. He wouldn't take any chances with these barbarians.

A whisper came from his right, "I'm all for diplomacy, but I'm telling you again, these cunts are just tryna buy time."

The seated griffon glanced briefly at the source of the agreeable opinion. He was, of course, Walter Griffy; capable battle commander, baron and most importantly, a trusted friend.

He seemed awkward without his armour. Far too thin. For wasn't it the same griffon that had always been on the front with his knights, first to crash into the enemy positions and match blow-to-blow with even the most fiercest warriors in all of Griffonia?

"Pay attention sire, there may be a chance to not shed blood this day. Families of both sides would be grateful to you for even a single griffon to return back to their cubs." An elderly voice gruffed from his left. Caring little to whisper, less so in humiliating his grace's heir before the rebel ambassadors.

Würt Swabia he resisted a frown from manifesting. The old duke, as always, held a permanent scowl on his face, which somehow, had deepened after his failure in Sicameon. No wonder! For his eyes are always slit, closed and blind to the goings' around him! He exaggerated.

Though, most of his annoyance was aimed at his father, "As why attach me, a brilliant commander, with a failure like Duke Swabia?!"

He could only hope incompetency wasn't contagious.

"Yes! Listen to reason most gracious prince, you need not soil our beautiful lands with the blood of innocents!" One of the prostrating griffons all but pleaded, as well as one could when they were muffled by the dirt they inadvertently swallowed from lowering their heads further.

"You mean MY lands." Grover II boomed, not concealing the clenching of his claws on the arms of his decorated seat. "Also how rich of you to call your soldiers a bunch of 'innocents', because we sure as Tartarus did not burn those villages we crossed while arriving here!"

The only standing ambassador scoffed, "They were all safely evacuated, so spare us your attmept in accusation, we all know what would've happened to them if you Herzlanders had your claws on them." Then he omninoisly stepped forward, "Need I remind you what happened to those villages in the Riverlands? Your griffon's 'chevauchèe?"

It was Grover II's turn to scoff, as he leaned back, caring little of the shadow casting over the ambassador's face. "Why would you lot care? Your citizens have no care for those ponies, so much is clear from your near-daily raids, OF WHICH, I must remind you, we have continuously advised to hold off on."

"So what? So that you Herzlanders can reap the loot while we starve?" He spat back.

"NO, it's because we have a brain unlike you savages." Grover II could smile when he spotted the ambassador's mouth open wide with indignation. But before he could give him the satisfaction with a rebuttal, he swiftly turned to his friend, "Griffy, what happenes to a field after a good-year's harvest?"

Unexpecting such a question, his friend briefly sputtered, or at least seemed to him, as to an outsider Walter would have seemed composed throughout. "You... Till the soil and resow, and reap the rewards sire."

"What happens the next season?"

"You... Repeat?" Griffy hoped he was answering these questions correctly.

"And again?"

Ah, so that was his angle. Griffy barely resisted a smirk, "The soil dies eventually. Then you must move."

Grover II smiled with pride, "Exactly. Heed the words of the baron clearly ambassador. With how proud and tied you Zaphzians are with your lands, I wonder how you all would feel when forced to move after the ponies on the border all but die or flee inland." He smiled imperiously at the fuming ambassador.

"How fitting for a buncha barbarians, to form another horde and migrate eastward." Griffy chuckled openly.

"Watch your mouth! The Zaphzians are subjects of the Empire! And no subjects will be demeaned to barbaric terms!" The Duke reprimanded the uncouth baron, evidently blind and deaf of the heir's insults.

"Well, they're clearly not anymore." Grover II glared at the duke while flashing an approving smile at Griffy, "But enough of this. Tell me what you lot want, and it better not be the same with the last five envoys." He boredly groaned.

The only ambassador to have not talked so far finally lifted his head high enough to not be muffled by the dirt, but still low enough to please any Herzlander superior. At closer inspection of his face, Grover noted his lack of a right eye. And seniority...

His voice was shaky, as if his life depended on the heir's approval of whatever deal he proposed. Maybe it did, considering the sheer fear laced in his voice. "W-we simply ask for a replacement of the Zaphzian tax collectors! They collect more than they are owed! Beat those that they cannot extort! They are bleeding us dry while hiding behind the imperial banner! They are a disgrace to us all, surely you will unders-"

The senile ambassador abruptly stopped and snapped upwards, reaching a claw into the inner parts of his coat to retrieve a hidden implement.

This promptly caused the ever-vigilant guards into action, immediately closing the gap from the flanks of the three Herzland notables towards the ambassadors, bracing the edge of their halberds on the neck of the individual that activated them. Their tensed muscles, poised to push the blades further, though relaxed when they heard the high-pitched "eep!" from their impending victim. Assassins don't usually 'eep!'... At least, not good ones.

"Halt!" Grover II casually ordered the guards, caring little of how close the ambassador had evaded death. He absently pointed at the claw of the ambassador that was now exposed, a claw that was holding a roll of paper.

With the same energy, he waggled his extended digit to gesture the ambassador over, much to the perceivable worry of his guards. Thankfully, he defused them with a face that boisterously announced: 'You think they can hurt me? ME? An assassin shines a blade and you think out of me?! No, I AM THE ONE WHO STABS!"

The guards hesitantly withdrew their halberds, allowing the ambassador to deeply exhale. He sheepishly looked side to side, scanning the expressions of the undecipherable guards before swiftly shifting over to the grand heir, leaning deliberately wide to hand over the paper so as to not contact the royal with his tainted, mortal claws.

Grover II unamusedly grasped the roll, before unceremoniously flicking his wrists to unfurl it. To have his eyes meet... A list of signatures?

"What is this?" Grover II did not mask his impatience.

"It is the signatures of all the citizens of Zaphzia that know how to read and write sire, all having signed to plea for our case sire." The ambassador managed to say with some hidden courage.

Grover II made no impressions of being moved, instead lazily dangling the petition with two unfolded digits. "...And why wasn't this presented earlier by the previous envoys?"

"M-my deepest apologies your grace, for it took some time for me to go around the cities, farms and castles to collect them! Please show leniency!" The ambassador once again dove for the floor, displaying great humility.

A single brow of Grover II's rose in surprise, "You mean to tell you, on your lonesome, collected all of these signatures?" Grover II grew impressed, "How idiotic is your Hetman* to make one cub do all that?!" Impressed, of their leader's stupidity, it seemed.

*Hetman - A title of cossack leaders

"The grand Hetman did not order it, your liege." The ambassador raised his head, "I did it out of my own initiative."

Grover II abruptly shut his mouth, deathly quiet and silently staring at the ambassador now.

Once again, the ambassador failed the guage a Herzlander's expressions.

Relief to him, the guards flanking him and the two other commanders beside him didn't seem to be able to gauge him as well. Or maybe it was a bad thing, especially considering the unexpectable reputation the heir of the Empire held, and let's be honest, cultivated for political purposes.

To support that hypothesis, Grover II promptly affirmed said reputation with a sudden jump from his seat, and an enthusiastic declaration of:

"I like you!"

...

The silence was palpable. The awkwardness? It had solidified into a solid state of matter.

"You're now part of my inner circle! Congratulations. Your first job? Escort your 'friends' out of here." Grover II deadpanned the last bit.

The recently 'befriended' ambassador sputtered, his claws opening and closing sporadically with squeaks of exasperation.

The fiery ambassador among them yelled with indignation, "WHAT?! You can't just poach one of us!"

"-We serve the Hetman!" The other prostrating ambassador added,

"-And he serves my father, and in extension, me, by blood. What he owns is actually mine, and the griffons in the land is mine aswell, and he-," Grover II pointed at his new friend, "Is mine."

"He's a griffon isn't he?" Griffy helpfully added,

The fiery one sputtered, trying to find words, "He- Wha-, You-!... You don't even know his name!"

Grover II faced the still-broken ambassador, flashing a toothy smile "What's your name?"

"Danilo Apostole, sire." He automatically replied.

Grover II faced the other two ambassadors with sudden seriousness, "His name is Danny! And how dare you presume such things! He is one of my closest friends!"

Griffy tried not to look jealous.

Swabia's scowl simply became scowl-ier.

The guards had seen this already. They wished the tent didn't have more filler.

The ambassadors? They were too confused, or more like dumbfounded to reply to somegriff that was intentionally being un-reply-able.

Grover II turned towards the non-existent opening of the tent to determine the lateness, "Oh my, it seems to be the time of the day 'where only friends are allowed in the tent', much shame! Guards?"

The ambassadors, minus the new 'friend' were immediately dragged out, thankfully without any screaming or resistance. Another victory for the 'battering ram of the empire'!

"Hey, they forgot this one, eh?" Griffy playfully slapped the back of the Duke of Swabia, much to the latter's annoyance... I think. Can't really tell from that permanent scowl of his.

"I am most certainly a friend of the Empire's heir!
..." He rebuffed dryly, "...The same cannot be said... Of 'friend' Apostle here..." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly of the heir's choice of followers. But not directly, instead making the nervous griffon, still splayed on the dirt the victim of his sour, disapproving glare.

"None of that!" Grover II waved with indignation, "As you said it yourself duke, aren't we ALL friends here?" The heir moved to raise 'Danny' off the dirt, much to the latter's hesitance for the risks of dirtying his new master.

"I said we are all subjects of the Empire, sire." The duke swore the heir intentionally ignored or misconstrued his words to deliberately annoy him. But why? He could never cipher.

"No time to speak of the past duke! We march now! -So ready your contingents!" Grover II shouted into the face of the 'friend' he had just helped up and dusted off, definitely a display of dominance, Danilo thought, as he cringed at the volume.

Griffy swiftly saluted as he dashed out of the tent, always eager to be of service. In contrast, Duke Swabia leisurely trotted out, careful not to show an inch of respect to the Zaphzan by ensuring his eyes did not even lay on the shadows of the 'lower being'.

Conveniently, this had made him not notice Grover II's scorching stare at the back of his head.

A scorching, sweat-inducing stare that snapped unto Danilo. "eep!" Did he just think that or say that aloud?! He would never realise, since his master showed no reactions.

"You will be inserted into my duke's army and you will correspond to me of his exact movements, intent and location daily. Understood?" He wasn't asking. Nay, DEMANDING. Attached with consequences of refusal, which he was not dying to find out. Literally.

"Who'll be my messenger?" Danilo did not waste breath objecting.

Grover II gave a sadistic grin, "You will be messenger."

Before Danilo could even contort his face into one of abject horror and denial, Grover II added on, "You said you got all them signatures by yourself right? You must be faster than any of my messengers! Tartarus! Maybe even the fastest in all Griffonia! -What would be the point?!"

Danilo had to stop him. He had to stop him now. How could he have been such a fool?! He was dead the second he entered the tent. He was sure of it now, and before the guards would come back, he would attempt to be a kingslayer. Since this was his first go, he had much doubt, but the alternative was certain death so-,

"Unless..." A hope was sparked.

"You lied."

Nope! He was freaking Grogar-incarnate.

Whatever he was planning to do would surely fail against this monstrosity and being tortured alive in a sweltering pit of needles and lemon squizzings would be preferable for whatever wrath he would incur if he even touched his master wrongly right now.

Grover Ii smiled soothingly, probably once he realised he sent his message across; as if he hadn't just unleashed a vision of damnation against a 'friend' just before flashing the most innocent of smiles that would make puppies blush in embarrassment of their own inadequacies.

"Great! I'm counting on you, Danny!" Grover II tapped his soldier heartedly.

The heir of the Empire joyfully bounced out of his tent, rubbing shoulders against the two guards that, by now, returned and stood outside the entrace. They both held knowing faces based on the atmosphere exuding out of the golden tent.

The ambassador inside had by now had fallen back onto the dirt floor.

Danilo felt bad for this 'Danny' character.

Author's Note

I'm basing Grover II's personality nearly entirely on the Black Prince (Edward), Charles XII and the Lionheart (Richard I).

Brutality + Diligence + Zealousness respectively. But zealotry, not in the 'Boreas-is-my-homie' way, but the 'This-will-improve-my-image-and-prevent-others-who-share-the-same-religion-as-me-from-attacking-me-at-the-threat-of-excommunication' way.

Walter Griffy, of course, is a parody of Walter Manny. IRL, he was probably of viking Norman stock, but in this story I made him vaguely gaelic.

I'm gonna base the Zaphzians of EAW with the Earth-equivalent Zaphorizhzhia (I'm not the only one plagiarising from history it seems)

Apostole's gonna be loosely based on this guy (Same name, I know. *taps the note about being creatively bankrupt*

Now, how old is Grover II in 774ALB? Well, the wiki says he was born in the years roughly between 720 and 760 so I chose 757ALB. This would make him 17 in this story's start. Just between the ages of Charles XII and Edward when they fought their first battles.

Griffy is 36. Gonna really plagiarise history here.

Danilo is 71. (Again, plagiarism.)

Finally, here's a foreshadow:

Is a life without tea worth living? -Every British person

She tried to pay it no mind; her lack of a pinky finger that is, disallowing her from drinking tea the customary way, with the 'ear finger' out. It felt unnatural, very bothering so, despite how trivial she thought it was, breaking such simple, yet normalised etiquette of high society to have such an effect on her seemed ridiculous only two days before.

"Maybe I'm overthinking this," She muttered, clicking her cup back on her petite plate.

"Overthinking what, your grace?"

She flashed a brief smile. She reminded herself of his presence; he was very close actually, sitting just across from her. A luxury, which she would only afford to his most favourite prime minister. I mean, there IS only one, but she meant it overall, compared to all the other candidates.

She had invited him over to her most favourite Terrace garden to ~~alleviate her boredom~~ discuss productively about the businesses of the state.

She sighed, "I'm contemplating whether my discomfort is from the broken table etiquettes, or-..."

"Oh my apologies, did I break some protocols again?" Disraeli hurriedly fidgeted around his seat, attempting to correct an absent wrong.

The queen allowed herself a chuckle, as Disraeli attempted to first straighten himself against his chair, only to slide down helplessly as his new limbs did not have a knee to balance an upright position. He then desperately frailed with his hooves that thankfully still remained over the table to prevent fully sliding under, pushing himself up once he reached further into the centre of the table, to prevent it from tipping over from an applied force on the edge.

He sighed a breath of relief. Then snapped onto the chuckling queen. He could only sheepishly smile.

"-No, your worries are misplaced. You were quite satisfactory Benjamin, my slight actually comes from my own lacking." Victoria assured,

Disraeli lightly frowned in disagreement, "Surely, you turning into a griffon wasn't by conscious choice, your majesty?" Disraeli reattempted to straighten his posture, but ultimately resigned to simply lying in all-fours on the chair, his forehooves resting on the table.

Victoria shook her head, then sipped in the gap of her minister cutely readjusting in his seat. "No, no. Not that prime minister. I was thinking about how I couldn't follow the basic etiquette of holding a cup." Victoria shook her head lazily, "-Four digits. No pinky." She waved her empty claw in front of her minister, whose eyes blinked absently in understanding.

...

...

...

Queen Victoria jostled awkwardly in her seat, having wrongly assumed Disraeli would dispel any prolonged silences between them as he normally had.

She shouldn't have been too surprised by this, considering Disraeli had been slowly losing his homeliness and warmth from age and subsequent painful gouts that constantly distracted and rid him of his usual, charming joy.

But she knew that excuse was no longer viable since the 'mass-transformation-of-everyone-into-mythical-beasts-of-which-event-is-yet-to-be-named' had given everyone a 'second-wind' of sorts, curing existing illnesses and seemingly de-ageing those affected, evident from the jumpy elderly around Europe.

So she figured his withdrawnness was from a different source. Perhaps from work? She wagered.

"...So, any developments within the House of Commons?" She asked hesitantly,

"..." Disraeli didn't answer, instead, gazing at his rippled reflection offered poorly by the Chinese black tea. He made note of his squared muzzle; it seemed his long nose as a human had carried over, alongside his curly hair, now-mane, which looked just as messy as it had been before transmutation.

Thankfully, he has made other more positive revelations; he had discovered them far earlier, and many were unspeakably pleasant. "Like that ghastly gout that had haunted me! It's gone!"

Unknowingly, like his counterparts in Germany, Benjamin Disraeli had also felt what would be later coined (not really), the 'great de-aging,' which in reality, wasn't an actual regression in age, but the illusion of it, offered by the sudden intake of 'magic' abundant in their new environments into their diffusable new bodies.

The sudden influx of magic had unknowingly strengthed them both physically and mentally, lessening the effects of any existing diseases or in some cases, outright curing them. While the bacteria and viruses that were also transmigrated absorbed the ambient magic, they nevertheless pathetically withered away in a now-foreign body, wholly unsuited to parasitise or fell the now-pony/griffin/kirin/dragon/zebra cells.

"...Oh right. You are all on break, aren't you?" Victoria began reprimanding herself for her discommode, regretting summoning her presumably busy prime minister for her selfish want of small talk.

"Who am I kidding, of course he would be busy! He's the bloody leader of the conservative party!" She resisted biting her ~~lips~~ -huh? Where is my-, oh. Right. Beaks. in guilt, definitely because she didn't have one anymore; she definitely had enough self-discipline to refrain from doing so.

Disraeli, by-now, was staring at his most holy Queen at this point, hesitantly allowing a treasonous grin to splay goofily on his muzzle upon witnessing his majesty ostensibly attempting to bend the tip of her lower beak in reach of her front teeth to presumably chew it; obviously, it was futile.

"It is nearing February, your majesty, so you won't have to remind us that we're all 'wage-thieves.' as the tabloids mock-alleged." Disrael elegantly rose from his seat, more like tripped as he rolled underneath the table as he pushed too far back with his forehooves, causing him to tip over forward. But he managed a dignified stand, narrowly missing his head from the roof of the table.

Much ripples formed in the content of the cups and the chafing of the ground with the legs of his seat was accomplished. Completely breaking etiquette, he noted. as expected from a gentleman of my calibre.

He had tried to end the meeting early by leaving his seat and initiating the 'final stroll' which usually happened after an extended conversation, which, he had not the time for since the current state of chaos all over Europe had made being the Prime minister of Britain a busy position.

He had meant to imply this message most politely, but by the blank stare he was receiving from the queen, he figured she was least impressed by his display of amateur acrobatics and most disappointed at his early departure.

...

Victoria chose to ignore the last 1 minute.

...

"I-... I don't fault you for thinking this was a waste of time. -Truly, I should be the one apologising here." Victoria refused his prime minister's ~~hand~~ hoof for support rising from her seat; she had already pestered him enough.

It still felt weird to be on all-fours. Regardless of how natural it seemed to do so.

Disraeli balked, raising his hooves in between her and himself as if to protect himself physically from an accusation. "Oh, no! No time spent with your majesty is wasted time! It was the least of my intentions to offen-,"

"Oh hush, -Benjamin. Even a blind Irish peasant could've had the mental faculties necessary to deem my current act as most improper." She shamelessly stamped out, somehow retaining her regal aura in speech despite the bashing context, "You have to stop enabling me for once! You of all people should've refused to entertain my request as nothing but a wasteful effort by me to chase away boredom!"

Disraeli lightly shook his head in disagreement, "Do not beseech yourself, my queen. Recreation is as essential as food in preserving physical health as the former is for mental health." He took the lead on the 'stroll', as customs dictated a gentleman should, "Haven't I told you the story of the sailors of Admiral Drummond's crew?"

"Sir James Robert, Drummond? You mean the Usher of the Black Rod?" Victoria remembered very little of the man; even as she attempted to quickly jog her memories of the story Benjamin supposedly told, she could only make out that the mentioned man had been retired almost half a decade ago, and was always mentioned by his prime minister in passing, with only little details in his letters.

Disraeli nodded briefly, "The very same. During the Crimean war, -he was a captain then, his crew had lacked much equipment other than those to enact war, -namely a deficit of the means to distract themselves."

"Why would there be a need for distraction? Don't they reap enough from battle? Do they seriously need more? Does the glory-greed of the common sailors have any bounds???" Victoria blindly mocked, carefully tracing her ~~hand~~ claw along the long leaves of a plant, of which genus she had neglected to learn the name from her gardeners and botanists.

Disraeli frowned, but tried successfully not to look too annoyed by his majesties' ignorance of the horrors of battle, "Not all the time at sea is comprised of glorious battle, your majesty. In actuality, most time is spent by the common sailors in a stir-crazy mood, contemplating battle." He refrained from potentially lecturing her about the brutalities of war; much aware of Victoria's sympathy for the soldiers in the Crimean War. He did not wish to needlessly invoke the horrors of the conflict to remind her of war's ugliness.

"Good. Is it not? You want energetic sailors, correct?" Victoria accidentally pierced the thick leaf that she traced, her digit's unexpected strength and sharpness causing the tip of it to sink downwards, through the leaf and leave an ugly gash lengthwise. She hastily let go.

"Yes. But not crazed ones; possessed by their desires for battle, thereby ignorant of commands and lacking discipline." Disraeli huffed passively, masking his slight irritation that he had to explain 'this' all over again. "After all, the captain's greatest enemy is always never the actual opponents themselves. But the disease, starvation, dehydration and the general insanity of sea-faring and its effects on the crew's discipline are his true, greatest foe."

"How poetic of you prime minister," Victoria gauged his expressions, ensuring that her friend; no matter her senior, wasn't getting cocky. "This is from a man who has never sailed?" She cheekily jabbed,

"No. But it's a testimony from a trusted friend in that profession." He rebutted,

"From Sir James?" Victoria was getting sick of that name.

"No, but another who served in the Crimean War."

Victoria scuffed, "Blast that campaign. I have no love for Russia, but to throw ourselves into that diseased nation for the sake of another *sick man of Europe was almost comical of us, if only without all those tragedies." She spat bitterly; they had wasted so much men, money and effort to achieve basically nothing, as the Crimean War had done nothing to keep Russia's power in check, as they would seize the Balkans regardless after the war, placing the Greeks, Serbians, Montenegrians and Romanians into their sphere of influences.

*'Sick man of Europe' was a common name to reference the Ottoman Empire which had degraded much in status, especially during the Victorian era when they fell behind greatly scientifically and economically.

"I also share no love for that war, your majesty, but you must admit, it did a great service in reforming our militaries." Victoria rejectedly hummed in agreement, having long-before agreed with his assessment, albeit not happily, of the case that it was better to learn from a small mistake now rather than a later, much larger catastrophe. He had put it, "Rather a hundred men die for the sake of a thousand later."

"Yes, yes. You had already said as much in the previous correspondences. No need to rub it in any further." She waved him off, suggesting he change topics.

"-Ah, right. So, regarding your recreational health, it is very impo-,"

"Bah! Enough of your cuddling! I can put two-and-two together!" She rubbed her head in the most unladylike fashion; her wings behind her ruffling spastically subconsciously.

...

"... Isn't it strange how our clothes perfectly adapted to our bodies?" Disraeli spoke without a target, "Would that suggest it was the work of god? Only he would be so meticulous."

Victoria slowly faced his prime minister with a gloomy expression, "...Seriously? Tis' more of a work by the devil considering the chaos it has wrought." She huffed, "Also, stop with the cuddling Benjamin! If I wanted god-talk I would've just gone to the church!"

She accusingly pointed, but misjudging distance, pushed against the tip of Benjamin's long muzzle, creasing his nose and causing him to scrunch his face. Her coat could not mask the embarrassing blush. "Do not mistake this as a blessing Benjamin, Satan was meticulous in fooling Adam and Eve to take the apple, and is cunning still. Regardless, what benevolent god would punish us with such chaos?"

"...The same benevolent god that drowned all but two of every species?" Disraeli cheekily rebuffed.

"...Be careful with your words minister, you wouldn't want humanity to further feel god's wrath, hmmm?" Victoria smirked mischievously, unperturbed.

Disraeli scrunched his face in deep thought, "It still feels like a blessing... Perhaps I'm biased, your majesty, since the recent transformation had rid me of my wretched gout." Disraeli posed neutrally, shrugging his shoulder disarmingly, "Before 'this', I felt as though I was near death's door, but now I feel I could go another decade or two more!"

"'Bah! The devil acts in mysterious ways, Benjamin! It may be trying to lure us away from the divine forms our god had decided upon with promises of youth and unnatural strength to lead us astray." She meticulously recited.

Disraeli blinked, briefly appraising his Queen to ensure she had not been possessed. The maturity wholly unsuited her, and her prior thoughtful response had rattled him.

Victoria tried paying no mind to his oggling, convincing herself, no matter how futile, that the former's conduct of disbelief at her brief show of maturity was not insulting in the implications.

"How... Pious? Of you? Your majesty? Victoria, the queen?" Disraeli's mouth refused to string together the words his brain had instructed it to, for fear the insinuation would break the ears it heard back from.

"Oh enough of this! I can stand being cuddled, but insulted?! How cruel of you Benjamin!" Victoria mocked-scowled, boisterously stamping her paws into the ground in a 'click' to draw attention to the glare she would give him.

Disraeli knew this dance. He had played along before, and he would do so again today. With a preemptive disarming smile, with relaxed expressions to boot, he slowly faced his queen.

Now, two factors drastically changed how this usual interaction would go. One, Disraeli was now a unicorn, largely herbivore, and mostly prey. In general, neither side had any vestiges of humanity except their memories left.

Now, hypothetically, what would happen if a similarly mythical beast but comprised of half lion and eagle, specifically of Germanic predatory stock glared, regardless of harmless intentions at a prey?

The next scene is what happens

Disraeli immediately seized up from his monarch's glare, beads of sweat already coalescing and threatening to roll down and dampen his undershirt. His coat and mane similarly rose, prepared to insulate himself from an expected strike in case the dampness of his coat failed to slip from one.

His breathing became instantly erratic, heavy and painful. It took all the will and discipline honed from years within the political ring and refined with age to not immediately leap up and scramble away, craven.

"Great Scott..!" He squeaked; an audibly sharp intake of breath followed it, "OUR ROYALS ARE DAMNED VIKINGS!"

His panicked mind warped his perception; he could now only see those glaring eyes of his great, terrifying sovereign surrounded by an endless void. The same eyes seemed to now tower over him, with the radius of a lighthouse and similar luminosity, burning his skin.

He had never felt so little and helpless in his entire life. Despite this, he bravely held his ground. Of which action, he would forever be proud of, more than anything.

"Woah-, are you well Benjamin? You suddenly look dreadful!" He felt his Empress nudge him slightly in his ribs, "-Oh dear, is your gout acting up again?! I thought you said you were fine now." She proceeded to step back a bit, second-guessing what could've possibly made her friend so pale.

Thankfully, the distance now between them was deemed enough for his brain to snap him out of paralytic fear, supplemented by his Empress's ceased glare to one of worry.

"P-please don't do that again, your-, my Empress." He managed,

Victoria withdrew herself further in confusion, "Do what? Nudge you?" She sputtered, "Are you implying-,"

"Y--yo-your glare, my Eh-Empress!" Disraeli exercised all of his willpower to not scamper away in fear; I AM A MAN! I WILL NOT DISGRACE MYSELF! AHHHHHHHHH

Victoria gaped slightly in exasperation, "-That's what got you so rattled!?"

Disraeli nodded violently.

Victoria sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance, forgetting the sharpness of her claw, "Are you so frightened that I may punish you for my slight displeasure Benjamin? You know better than that!"

"OBVIOUSLY NOT THAT MY EMPRESS! IT IS YOUR EYES!"

Victoria recoiled further in confusion, "-My eyes?"

"YOU ARE A HAWK!" Disraeli screamed most elegantly.

...

"Ah. Right." Victoria crossed her arms defensively, turning her head to the side with a bored expression.

"AH RIGHT INDEED MY EMPRESS, NOW, WHERE MAY I LEAD YOU TO?!" Disraeli barked most gentlemanly; a distant drill sergeant blushing jealously.

"Hm. Let's just wrap this up. You probably have a meeting today, don't you?"

"RIGHT AS ALWAYS MY EMPRESS, THE HOUSE OF COMMONS ARE TO CONVENE TODAY EARLY! OF COURSE TO DISCUSS OUR UNPRECEDENTED SITUATION, OF WHICH DECISION YOU WERE CRIMINALLY NOT INFORMED ABOUT! WHICH WAS MY DUTY! WHICH I WOEFULLY NEGLECTED! PLEASE FORGIVE THIS INSOLENT SERVANT!"

Victoria squinted painfully.

"...Right. Toodles."

Henry Brand, 1st Viscount of Hampden and honourable speaker of the House of Commons, had his cheeks lazily leaned up against his hoof of which attached elbow? Was braced on his armrest.

Such conduct would've been unspeakably scandalous to any noble society, one he happened to be in. He would've been assuredly reprimanded for his 'common' etiquette, or even ejected entirely by his peers for supposedly appealing to the unenlightened masses through 'relatable mannerisms' to cheaply win votes via subsequent tabloids.

But brainless populism wasn't what he subscribed to. He was breaking protocol since everyone around him was doing so as well. And quite frankly, he was done with everyone's shit.

He couldn't really blame them though, or, -at least blame them any more than he usually did for their rambunctious, uncordial and generally obnoxious and uncouth behaviour in the House.

He usually would immediately shut down everyone at this level of discord, but he allowed them to 'burn-out,' so to speak, unwilling to sacrifice his throat again to shut them up for a mere second or so.

And so, he rested quite contently despite the unbearable noise being exuded by his degenerate 'peers'. He liked to believe he had been sufficiently immunised against it. But a hint of a scowl on his muzzle said otherwise.

He imagined what the tabloids would read, but mostly cared for how it would seem. Despite decrying the caricatures and cartoons within them as being 'childish,' he held a guilty pleasure for them. He specifically conjured a probable cartoon from Punch magazine, the incoherent dribble for the masses; an image of territorial cocks and stallions in a savage bout in the House of Commons. He could definitely see it.

Speaking of seeing, he was somehow able to recognise all of the individuals of the House of Commons, despite the transformation. He made an extra mental note to consult a scientist about why that was. They're probably all busy though... Brand noted.

The alternative was to consult a religious man. An available option, considering Brand was a religious man; I mean, who wasn't in this day and age? Hell, my fellow, Gladstone, the leader of the Liberals, wished to pursue a religious career! Before getting dragged into this shitty ring called 'politics'. Brand sighed. He hoped another, one more well-versed in the bible could unravel meaning in their current predicament.

Unlike most other people, Brand wasn't so presumptuous as to pretend to know why they had been transformed. He knew he didn't have the answers, nor was smart enough to figure one out."Wait... Is it pretentious to think others are pretentious while you aren't? -Damn the paradoxes!" Brand clicked.

So far, no single popular theory had been widely spread nor even proposed so far of why they had been transformed. Not to mention, why only Europe had been subjected to this ((((definitely)))) unjustified punishment.

"Reasonable since it had only been a few weeks," Brand thought, "Well, enough dilly-dallying around. Time to do my wretched job..." He sighed. He absolutely hated his job, but knew it was an important, necessary one. Most importantly, he hated the guy that preceded him more than he hated the job. So he resigned himself to this terrible role, as he dreaded someone else doing it, so better be the asshole with the gavel than an asshole without it.

Not that he really needed the gavel anymore... He had realised his hoof was a far superior implement in creating noise. Sure, it was barbaric, but hey, who wasn't in this house?

"ORDER! ORDER IN THE HOUSE!" Someone other than HIM called out those sacred words.

"WHO DARES!" Brand exploded from his seat, "WHICH 'HONOURABLE' GENTLEMAN DARED STEP OVER THEIR BOUNDARIES?!" He dangerously scanned over the benches, catching several of the MPs frozen in the middle of delivering their unholy insults and savage gestures.

He also noticed most of them were similarly standing, but not from rage like him, but out of necessity, as the benches were too narrow for the MPs to sit comfortably, at least for the ponies among them. It seemed the standing ponies of the house had instigated the griffons among them seated comfortably to rise as well; either in solidarity or as an escalating response.

"TAKE YOUR SEATS MAN! THIS IS A MOST SHAMEFUL DISPLAY!" Brand chided angrily, a stomp of his hoof resounding in each stop of his sentences. "-AND YOU SIR, WHATEVER DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!" Brand pointed accusingly at a pony MP, lying far too comfortably on his stomach horizontally on the cushioned seat. We must all suffer equally! What an unthinkable display!

The singled-out MP suddenly found himself the centre of attention of every member of the house; his head already risen and an uneasy smile stretched across his muzzle as he began to spot several of the opposition that sat across him, the Liberals, lean forward with squinted eyes to presumably rip into him.

"Uhhhh... It's comfortable?" The very same MP heard an audible face-palm behind him, prompting him to immediately posit a better defence, "W-what?! We're four-legged, aren't we? -And these pony legs aren't too suited to sit upright! I'll just slide right off!"

The Liberal opposition seemed poised to rip him apart as advertised, but many of the ponies among them visibly restrained their griffin compatriots to usher them over in a private discussion.

After much murmuring and Brand's own experimentation of the supposedly comfortable position in his seat, a convinced pony MP of the liberal's side firmly nodded, and lately replied,

"Finally something that has bipartisan support. Proposed by the conservatives no less! Perhaps the transformation did affect our intelligence. It definitely did for the gentleman across the room, after all." He nakedly jabbed with a smirk, but the conservatives smartly refused the obvious bait. But it didn't stop his fellow Liberals from cheering loudly.

Brand meanwhile had comfortably nestled into his seat, anxious and slightly guilty for how comfortable he felt lying on his stomach. His job entailed suffering. Feeling comfort was far too unnatural for him.

"Any more of your dry jokes, and you will soon turn London into a barren Sahara." A rebuttal came from an unknown MP from a sea of conservatives, followed by the usual counter-hooting and hollering.

"ORDER GENTLEMEN! While I would love to see you all engage in petty squabbling in manners dissimilar to schoolchildren. I, meanwhile, would like to actually do my job, and invite others to do the same, -TO RUN OUR DAMN NATION IN AN UNPRECEDENTED CRISIS!"

Thankfully, a tranquil silence followed.

Brand visibly relaxed, allowing a sigh to escape from his soon-to-be torn larynx. "I swear gentlemen, any more of these petulant attacks on one another, and I would mistake you for some obstructionist Irishman!" He allowed a chorus of chuckles from around him, glad that the mutual dislike of those backwards Catholics would sow a tad bit of harmony among the parties.

A particularly passionate MP of the Irish Home Rule party rose in offence, an incensed expression and an overstretched hoof accompanied him."Oi! Take that bac-!"

Except, he was restrained back into his seat, shocking considering one of his peers had orchestrated it; a hoof wrangled over the passionate MP's muzzle to halt him mid-sentence.

What was most shocking was who had done it. At least shocking to those who were new in the House of Commons, as William Shaw, the presider of County Cork and leader of the Home Rule Party, with great resignation and spite directed at the speaker of the house, pulled his fellow back.

Shaw wished for no confrontation as always. He would bide his time.

The Brits had already very little to no goodwill towards the Irish men of the House, so Shaw reckoned a confrontation, especially when outnumbered, would not bode well in increasing the likelihood his upcoming proposals would be heard.

A proposition, he correctly guessed, would be imperative in the survival of the Irish people to come.

Why?

Their greatest supplier of food, which had been the USA, had disappeared, or hopefully, only the trans-Atlantic cable connecting them telegraphically had disappeared... And by 'disappeared;' had recoiled itself and returned to the English branch warehouse of the US Atlantic Telegraph Company.

The labourers and managers there were still scratching their heads on how that was possible.

Regardless, with the repealing of the Corn Law, blessed be, Britain, and Ireland in extension were able to enjoy a nearly endless amount of cheap produce from the Americas.

Shaw shuddered at a time when the Corn Law had been still in effect; Irish people reeling and starving en masse by what would be known as the 'Irish Potato Famine', as they could not purchase the widely available U.S produces due to said law's tariffs on them.

Never again. Shaw thought.

Ironically the repealing of the Corn Laws had now exasperated their looming food shortage due to the destruction of domestic farmers via overwhelming American competition. It wasn't lost to Shaw, but he did not regret it. The famine had reaped far too many Irish lives after all. But the problem of where to procure the food remained.

His proposal stressed the prevention of another Irish famine through the purchasing of Russian foodstuffs. Shaw knew it would probably be at a premium, as most of Europe had also been relying on cheap U.S. produce, meaning they would have similar proposals that would massively drive demand, thereby cost.

It would be a tough pill for all in the House to swallow, so he was determined to bite the bullet l, and force others within his party to do so as well.

Regardless of who attacked them, the Home Rule Party wouldn't budge, he would make sure of that. Even if they were offended by the political 'opposition'.

*Context: The Irish Home Rule party were firmly on the side of the Conservatives before 1886, wherein Gladstone would sway them to the Liberal's side by promising a separate Irish parliament.

"...Are you in need of a bit there Shaw?" A Liberal minister mocked, "A bit?! Surely a riding crop is more suitable to reign in such a brutish beast!" Another joined in, "-A branding will break its spirit!"

A despicable wave of stomps rung out from the Liberal camp. Most disheartening of all, Shaw noticed his 'allies', the conservatives, merely observing apathetically, some even chuckling; none coming to his defence.

Bite the bullet, Shaw. For the Irish people.

"ENOUGH DADDLING! FIRST MOTION!"
Brand slammed the armrest, pretending not to notice the crack slowly forming caused by his hoof.

"-The honourable gentleman Gladstone wishes to import foodstuffs once sold by the American market... From the Russians!" Brand squinted at the last bit. Surely it was jest! Gladstone hated the Russians!

Actually, everyone here hated the Russians.

Brand also pretended to not notice Shaw collapsing in his seat with a loud groan. What got him so suddenly mad?

An orchestra of 'outrageous!' 'preposterous!' and a far few 'what of the great game?' was heard from the right, with one notable individual in particular who wielded great respect perhaps politically, but not personally among the MPs, rose from his bench as expected by pretty much everyone.

"...Earl Disraeli. You just can't leave the Russians be. Can you?" Gladstone rose in usual opposition, his peers fluttering around him to pat him on the back and shoulders in rowdy support of 'oo's' and 'yeah!'

Disraeli similarly received his complimentary pat on his back and an intelligible cheer of support for facing his famous rival in politics. "Same can be said for you, Right Honourable Willaim Ewert Gla-"

"Cut the formality, Disraeli, we all know that you only say it as a form of mockery of me," Both gentlemen glared.

"Hmph. Very well. -I was about to say that licking the hypothetical boot of Russia isn't also 'leaving the Russians be'." Disraeli heard a distant hush from the Liberal camp, roughly amounting to, 'like how you lick Victoria's,' which explained the shit-faced grin Gladstone was wearing while he prepared to unleash his rehearsed defence.

"No one is kissing anyone's boots. At least, not as much to earn that title, mi lord." Gladstone nakedly mocked his rival's circumstances of receiving his title as the House of Lords. He greatly disliked Disraeli's favour with the Queen, and especially despised how while he, a far more accomplished and popular individual was yet to receive any honorary titles, while this, -this lowly flirtatious Italian Jew had wriggled up to that blind, ignorant Queen and was being paid dividends for it! He masterfully hid his emotions through his usual, stoic face.

"Still upset you cannot speak with a woman Gladstone? We all also know your failures in your love li-"

"ENOUGH! Gentlemen, please! Refrain from acting like damn children! This bill will decide whether the British people will starve or not!" Brand tried to look displeased. He had to seem impartial after all.

"-So enough with your petty battles of ego and forfeit your immaturity at once -at least for now!" Brand then turned his attention to the 'whooping' 'spectators',

"-And both respective party's Members of Parliament! Stop encouraging them with your braindead hollering!" Brand growled as best he could for a herbivore, missing canine and all, but his threat was accentuated by a dangerous glow of his horn, unnoticed by the host. None in the house wanted to see what it could do. But they would definitely test it later.

Gladstone swiftly retook the initiative, "Ahem-, thank you, honourable Speaker. I have proposed a bill to purchase any and all edible foodstuffs from, primarily, but not exclusive to, Russia, in order to offset the predicted deficit of losing America as an exporter."

Gladstone waved a claw towards the table near the entrance which held a pile of documents prepared by him, to support his case. "If one honourable gentleman from each respective party would be so kind to distribute those papers to all of their peers-"

"We're not schoolchildren..."

"-that would be much appreciated. They detail the incalculable famine we expect to face if we do nothing in the coming MONTH."

Steadily, but surely every MP of the House received their reports, the face of despair and grim frowns following. Like a wave, it started quietly from those who received the data first, but crashed uproarastly as gloomy faces and mutters of doom accumulated over on every passed sheet.

"I knew we were reliant on the Americans! -But this much?!"

A Conservative MP loudly gasped, resistingly mightly to not reference the Corn Laws. The significance of which, having already been made aware by Shaw's imaginings.

Gladstone solemnly nodded, "Thankfully, we need not despair, for the Russians comprised roughly 37%* of all international market for foodstuffs before... This 'event,' meaning we may avert a complete disaster from skyrocketing food prices and their subsequent social unrest or, god forbid, a revolution like the French."

The Russians actually made up slightly under 30% of the food market by the 1900s, but since there are no conclusive data for the international market shares of 1880, I just made that 37% number up through healthy assumptions.

"Curse those Frenchies!"

"Curse them right to hell!"

"Yes, yes. A bipartisan policy I would zealously support; I too have no love for the French, but back to the topic. *Ahem* I already have some good news to disclose! -Of course from mine, and my colleague's efforts!" Gladstone declared triumphantly, subconsciously puffing his chest out in a victorious mood. Others watched on curiously by this display, most actually surprised that they didn't find the act awkward in any way.

"Despite my dislike of all sects of Christianity other than Protestantism; as you all should know by now *ahem*, I have found renewed respect for the Eastern Orthodox church! -For Emperor Alexander II, the ruler of Russia has decreed that he would not pettily stop any efforts on our part, despite previous grievances... To purchase any amount of foodstuffs to subvert famine!... For an agreeable price that is." Gladstone trailed off innocently with an unchanged expression, hoping no one would notice the appendix.

Lord Cavendish, a fellow influential Liberal helped hide his imperfection, by adding, "We must not forget that the Russians are not holding all the cards. They had many export partners outside of Europe. They would be a fool to limit trade with the richest European nation due to petty rivalries."

"You call a near century-long bloody imperial struggle for power a petty rivalry?" Lord Salisbury angrily denounced his Liberal opponent, perceiving Cavendish's statement as careless, and a grave insult to the British Empire and her history.

"Yes, I am. And I'm tired of you all for not seeing it that way." Cavendish lazily inclined in his seat, gazing boredly with eyes half-lidded at the infamously neurotic Cecil.

"Oh, why do you think the tabloids call it 'the great game,' and oh, why do the other nations make a mockery of us so frequently? -It's because of that stupid 'game of chicken' against the backward Russians!" A chorus of agreement rang out from his side of the bench.

A pleasant surprise also possessed him, as some hesitant nods of agreement came opposite him as well. "Need I mention the disasters in Afghanistan? Crimea? The Balkans or the Ottoman Empire? -All caused by our wasteful desires to limit the powers of a state that had no chance to even catch up with us in the first place! -They just look big gentlemen! They're. No. Bite!"

Cecil, the Lord of Salisbury, exercising his contradictory, yet nevertheless, usual level of caution, pondered on the means of furthering his attack against the political opponent. It was a testament to his somewhat blind passion; the will to enter partisanship regardless of the opposing party's stance, regardless of whether they were valid or not.

Usually, this would lead to his fellow members being isolated, and then subsequently humiliated when they blindly followed his lead in permanent contrarianism. Thankfully, he would be dutifully stopped by Disraeli's gatekeeper, Lord Lennox.

"...While I would usually detest whatever came from those loose mouth of yours, Lord Cavendish," Yells of 'aye's' was heard behind Lennox,

"-I am inclined to agree with you. Without your principals though. -Let me explain!" He gestured to his colleagues for silence, especially towards his friend Disraeli, who seemed to be on the verge of renouncing their valued friendship, built upon many years of shared hardships and tribulations, just then and there from the perceived betrayal.

"As first, I must dispel Cavendish's perception of our invincibility. For are we not, still, under a recession from the fallout of the railway boom*?"

*Context: There had been a 'railway boom' all around the world until 1870, which the British greatly benefited from. However, after 1870, the 'bubble popped,' sending Britain into a 'medium-sized,' recession/destitution. The Conservatives would be blamed for this, as despite their policy of Protectionism, their greed to exploit this 'boom' would lead them to enact numerous market-friendly legislation that even the Liberals would consider too radical. Gladstone in particular would use this as a prime opportunity to attack the morals of the Conservative party, which would be ultimately successful in the 1880 March election, wherein the Liberals would win in a minor landslide.

"And whose fault would that be?" Gladstone righteously injected,

Disraeli tossed him right back out, "Campaigning season is over Gladstone, leave your preachings outside the House of Commons."

"As always, we, the Liberals are left to deal with the Conservative's mess." Lord Granville dramatically sighed out, shaking his head dejectedly while placing a comforting claw over his friend, Gladstone's, shoulder. Who hummed softly in a similar, dejected tone, albeit slightly more mocking. While facing the Conservatives knowingly. His not-so-subtle targets didn't seem as amused as him.

Lord Lennox waved off this obviously inflammatory attempt to arouse scandalous reaction. Instead, opting to continue, maturely, with what he had to say,

"You can celebrate all you want with your self-assured victory, but I wouldn't further antagonise my fellows, gentlemen. This is a time when we should be working together, -to combat potential radicalism that may spring up! -Which reminds me of what I was going to say before, being that, Russia should not be our main concern, BUT OURSELVES." Lennox swallowed the bile rising from within him, expertly hiding his nervousness in breaking party ranks by daring to partially agree with Gladstone.

"-We cannot possibly hope to restrain another nation's ambitions while our own is rife with chaos and destitution! -In other words, to oppose Russia, we must look domestically, for victory!"

A relieving chorus of 'ayes' rung out across the House, although Brand's mile of solidarity unnerved him. Lennox briefly glanced at Disraeli, hoping his friend wasn't too displeased in him agreeing with a life-long rival.

"Hang on... Why would we even need to get permission from the Russian Emperor to buy foodstuffs? Don't we already have enough contacts with the Russian Landed Nobility?" Cavendish pointed out,

"The Germans have far more, friend, and it is definitely not foolish to gain the blessings of an absolute monarch to approve of the businesses conducted on his soil." Gladstone helpfully alleviated.

"AHEM." Everyone in the house was suddenly made aware of Brand's existence in the House. Especially since the former had slammed his armrests again with his convenient hoof, acting as a makeshift gavel. The cracks were now noticeable.

Oh, right. They were trying to pass a bill. Who could blame them for getting distracted though? The dialogue was interesting.

"While I do appreciate, -actually I DO NOT appreciate any sort of banter! No matter how friendly it is! Don't be the wage-thieves those blasted tabloids claim us to be! We'll be taking a vote, right now!" Brand hotly declared; they had a lot go through!

Disraeli anxiously gnawed at the edges of his lower lip. He cursed Victoria -but not really since he would never wish harm upon the empress, for the habit she seemed to have bestowed into him, albeit less ridiculously-looking since his muzzle was evenly shaped, unlike Victoria's beak.

This thought distracted him from the inner turmoil he was suffering from even considering agreeing with whatever Gladstone had proposed. His mind's knack for self-preservation, honed over a millennium by his late ancestors operated dutifully to shield the host's mind from admittance of wrong which would've surely broken Disraeli's fragile ego.

Alternatively, his mind masterfully deluded Disraeli's ego into believing acquiescing to Gladstone's position was actually, in fact, an affirmation of an opinion Disraeli had already held. Yes! That was it! You weren't admitting anything! You were just sad that your solutions aligned!

Disraeli's mind rebooted.

Brrrr... It just gave him the chills just thinking about it! But he was right, and it would be pointless trying to take away his credit like last time by proposing a more extensive bill, as it seemed his rival had learned from his mistakes and had perfected the proposal; void of flaws.

"He must've written this bill far earlier... Definitely before this whole 'transformation' ordeal... Lucky bastard..." Disraeli briefly glared at his rival,

"This bill is almost perfect for this situation... Too perfect... Any other time, and he would've been chased away from Britain for being a Russophile!"

Disraeli sighed, knowing he could prove nothing. "Just... Pass the bill, sir Brand, this all seems meticulous enough."

"This is all too foolish! Trusting those devilish Russians to not turn-coat! What if they poison, -or, -or outright refuse to sell us the foodstuffs once we reach their ghastly ports?!" Cecil ranted most improperly, discomforting his adjacent peers who, while appreciating his 'passion,' wished he would just shut up for once and stop being his usual neurotic self.

"Surely you don't think the Russians would refuse an opportunity for easy cash, Lord Salisbury? Stupid as they are, the only 'danger' is that they will use this new capital to further cement their industrialising efforts." Lord Lennox unsuccessfully cooled off his passionate colleague, but still managed to shut him up long enough for the Speaker to call up another essential bill.

"-This is very unorthodox, but WHAT HAS BEEN ORTHODOX these past weeks, right honourable gentlemen? So! The bill is passed with an unspecified majority! Let the tabloids take that as they will! -Those obnoxious pigs... Brand shifted through another pile of documents haphazardly, causing several pages of identical papers to fall around, alongside the crumbles of his right armrest.

Thankfully, again, for unexplainable reasons, his, and all the other ponies' hooves had a 'phantom' grip to them, allowing for similar motions expected for a hand, albeit far clumsier and thicker; as if they had a thick glove or mitten at all times. What was most disturbing, however, was how deceivingly the hooves grasped at things, as the sole of the hoof never fully coiled around anything that was being held, only seeming to be curved slightly while the held object hovered thinly over them.

Eh, let the scientists figure it out. Brand shrugged, as he finally retrieved the cover for the second bill.

"Ah! There we go! Another from The Right Honourable Gentleman, Gladstone!"

"Another from him?! Don't you think you're being biased LIBERAL Speaker?!" Cecil dared,

"Well, MAYBE if mi Lords of the House spent the last week formulating bills instead of planning his Queen's tea parties, MAYBE there would be more Conservative bills on top of the pile." Gladstone was relentless in his crusade against Disraeli. He absolutely despised him and the Queen, and like a stubborn bulldog, would not let go of his battered chew toy.

"Is the honourable gentleman seriously bragging that being able to propose your own bills slightly earlier is worth not having a social life? -I'll have you know, I work as long as you do, you pompous p- uh, no-gooder!" Disraeli struck back, shifting the analogy of him as a simple chew toy into a prickly cactus.

Brand quite frankly didn't give a shit. The only analogy in the House he was aware of was of a man being repeatedly fucked. Because that was him right now. Fucked by these detours and brainless idiots that just watched on and did nothing. Maybe they were the wage-thieves the tabloids accused them of.

With a raised brow, Brand queried, "Are you done? -Good. Gladestone's second bill proposes two possible routes of resolution to the problem of our currently over-bloated military." Brand boredly threw said proposals in the general direction of the Conservatives, not-so-subtlely implying his opinion of them.

Jokes were on him though, as Lord Lennox cooly snatched them mid-air and passed it to Disraeli, who smoothly received it as if rehearsed and promptly began scanning its contents.

Gladstone began by summarising his proposal, dumbing down his points by an insulting amount, for no one's behalf in particular. But first, he provided some context, as if no one in the House of Commons knew it already.

"It should've been obvious by now to all of you gentlemen, that everything that once belonged to the British Empire, including her people, soldiers, goods and etcetera had been transferred over, to here. -Which, so far has shown every sign to signify it isn't Earth." Gladstone tapped the proposal in his claw with two slightly folded digits, exuding an aura of thoughtfulness.

"These... 'Belongings' include the colonial officers and personnel from our various colonies, -most significantly, the British Raj." A synchronised nod from all MPs encouraged him to continue,

"There used to be a manageable 100,000 men within the regular British army. NOW THERE IS 300,000! -Tripled from our armies overseas, not to mention the settlers alongside them, adding at least a million more souls into the pool of our hungry citizenry." Gladstone wiped away a fake sweat, portraying the stress they all, and the Empire was about to be in.

"Luckily, they had transferred with them all their provisions, clothes and other civilian goods, meaning we won't need to provide for them. Unfortunately, though, they have also brought with them their guns, ammunitions and other far more destructive instruments of war."

"-And why is that a problem Gladstone? All I hear is that we can finally stand up against other Great European powers." Cecil interjected, much to his own party's dismay,

"...The only necessary means of defence we need is our navy, Lord Salisbury. We are an island after all, and you should be especially happy to know that all of our ships, including merchant convoys, have dutifully accompanied its master." Gladstone swept the Duke aside for now,

"Regardless, despite our standing army increasing triple-fold, it is still numerically lacking when against the German's 400,000. Thankfully, all our soldiers are professional, while the latter's numbers are primarily comprised of conscripts." Gladstone assured the Warhawks of the House, some literally.

"Not mentioning the Russian's one million when counting reservists. ALSO mostly conscripts by the way, but more like uniformed peasants when comparing them to the enlisted Germans." Gladstone chuckled, and many followed.

"-But that is not my point, as-"

Lord Lennox helped dumb it down further, but mostly interjected to move the discussion forward, "He's worried that the soldiers will incite civil unrest. A reasonable concern considering there's a finite supply of provisions transferred over to keep them from starving."

"And we're going to have to have to cut their pay. Or reorganise the entire colonial army for civilian duties so that our voters don't think paying them is a waste of their taxes. -Even if that is what is keeping the said party from bayonetting them." Disraeli added, further going above by mentioning the voter's general tendency to shoot themselves in the foot.

"But critically,/an army this size is utterly unsustainable for our devastated economy!" Disraeli declared,

"That brings us to my first sub-proposal, gentlemen." Gladstone flipped his page loudly on purpose, hinting others to follow less subtlely,

"Due to the constraints of time, I will make it brief as we can decide on the finer details later. But as a tidbit, of which, we gentlemen, must continually remind ourselves is that those soldiers aren't going to wait for us to sit on our fannies and deliberate while they starve." Gladstone cleared his throat of his previous threat,

"Option 1 basically entails that we reorganise our overseas armies that have found themselves stranded in Britain to take up 'civilian duties,' such as policing, guarding and riot suppression. -We'll definitely need them for the chaos to follow." Granville reminded,

"-But the people won't stand for it. Must I remind you how difficult it was for our predecessors to form even an unarmed police force due to our citizen's paranoia against authority? -Many still today think it should be abolished, believing it was an organisation created by the rich due to their phobia of the poor." Disraeli pointed out,

"Well, we know better that it is for everyone's good, Disraeli. I could counter by saying many in the poorest district of London appreciate the constables, for all the safety and security they brought to that lawless pit of Tartarus." Granville swayed,

"But the majority of people still don't." Disraeli deadpanned, "-And while I also shiver at the prospects of returning to the thief-taker system, the people of Britain still prefer living in fear of each other, rather than the government. If 'option 1,' as you call it, was to be passed, it may subvert a military insurrection, but may cause a far larger, and more devastating civilian uprising!" Disraeli declared with sudden stress, evident by his faintly glowing horn.

Was it getting hotter in here?

Several of the Liberal MPs looked to move to defend Gladstone's position, however, were halted by the very man they tried to defend whose claws were raised to order restraint among his peers.

"I actually agree with the House of Lords's assessment. The people of Britain are already presumably shocked, afraid and irrational from the ordeals of weeks ago, and will probably act negatively on what they perceive as an overreach by the government alongside that. They abhor tyranny. Reasonable. But they detest it regardless of its low magnitude and will most likely tip their repressed emotions from the week's chaos to snap back at us, most unreasonably." Gladstone solemnly said.

"...Then you prefer 'option 2?... Disbanding our army?!" Lord Lennox paled, re-reading the proposal in front of him again to make sure he hadn't been mistaken. What of the implications?! -The consequences of what such an action would reap!

Loud murmurs spread pandemically around the room, the variants of potential consequences mutating in severity as they passed from one MP to another.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! It would've been unlike me to propose something exclusively destructive! What do you take me for, -an imbecile?! I-"

"A loner is more accurate."

Gladstone scowled, he didn't even have to look to know that Disraeli had said that, but for the sake of Britain! He would overlook it! "-I of course made a detailed plan to undertake this action with as minimal risk as possible. But as of now, I believe the worst-case scenario that Britain could feasibly fall into, currently, is for the military to become too powerful and subsequently, corrupt. We, for the life of us, CAN NOT allow our Empire to fall into the same trap that the Ottoman Empire or the Sikhs had fallen into!" Gladstone spoke without stutter nor pause, his training to become a preacher dully paying off.

"The military MUST be neutralised under the primacy of civilian administration for a democratic, prosperous nation to be possible! Say whatever you want about the Germans achieving prosperity as an '*Army with a state,' but their people's desire does not align with ours, and their noble want of liberty! -Ultimately, if the army is not crushed by us now, the people will do it themselves eventually, with too much needless bloodshed, -so we must act now, in the people's 'stead!" Gladstone declared,

"-That is why I propose that our domestic armies demobilise, disarm and otherwise disband all the former-overseas armies of Britain. -While the colonial officers may resist, -likely so due to their sudden loss in authority, I have full confidence that the loyal soldiers of the British Empire will dutifully lay down their arms for the good of the state, -for the good of the people who they swore to protect and enrich." Gladstone finished with solemn tones. His eyes, just ago widely awake, had progressively become half-lidded then tiredly closed, from his emotional preaching. Many in the House, even those from the opposition prepared to spontaneously applaud such a passionate display in the concern for the people.

And they would have, if not for Disraeli's existence.

"...You forgot option 3,"

Gladstone repressed a sinking-feeling in his stomach, as he regretfully peeked an eye open to witness a practically glowing Disraeli, a reflective, toothy grin of self-satisfaction all-present.

Cavendish rapidly flipped through his own copy of the bill, uncaring how his stumpy hoof kept creasing the centre of all of his pages as he recklessly swiped them over another, "Did...? We get the same copies, Lord Disraeli? There are clearly only two options." Cavendish asked with a raised brow.

Gladstone resisted the urge to slide his claw down his face, "Don't make this any worse man..." He so wished to say,

"Great eyes Lord Cavendish, but 'option 3,' is actually from one of my own bills, presumably buried in the deep crevices of today's pile." Disraeli directed a hoof towards said imposing soul-drainers.

"I will debrief in laymen's terms, as my fellow, Gladstone, generously had." He retrieved a neatly folded page from his breast pocket, which he impossibly unfolded into an entire 50-page-ish bill.

"How the fu-?" Gladstone's eyes snapped open, his brain already filing the paperwork to arrest the dorsolateral prefrontal right cortex for spreading misinformation via visual mediums.

Thankfully, logic, or lack-of, came-a-knocking, pleading for its innocence, "Oh. Right... We got turned into magical, fairytale creatures overnight, SO WHO CARES WHATEVER ELSE BREAKS THE LAWS OF PHYSICALITY?!" He reminded himself to consult a scientist after this. Again. Hopefully, if they had not already all committed suicide out of despair.

"-While our colonial armies pose a significant threat to our internal security and domestic stability, it would be unwise to demobilise such a well-trained, professional corp of troops while there are other, far less intrusive ways to neutralise them." Disraeli lazily glanced around the room with a presumptuous smile that somehow managed to not seem insulting.

"-By, of course, making use of them, that is." Still, many within the House seemed unimpressed, Disraeli's opening seeming to be a boring repeat of what his rival had just professed.

Granville scoffed heatedly, his usual patience and reservedness having decayed away, as was the norm when speaking with the utterly hopeless Russophobic House of Lords, "-If you so dare to even mention using them for a war against Russia, I will rip your bal-"

"That is farthest of my intentions!... But similar... In that, the soldiers would be helpless to disobey." Disraeli preempted a triumphant grin.

Gladstone felt momentarily lost. Now, despite whatever opinion of Disraeli he always had, he was sure that the latter statesman wasn't truly an imbecile. Compound that with his amicable memories with the man before the whole economic crisis and wasteful bloody conflict with Russia over saving some eastern heretics had ruined their friendship, he knew Disraeli to be at least a well-read intellectual, but now? He was beginning to question this.

After all, it wasn't uncommon for those near death to become incoherent or outright delusional... And just weeks ago he seemed to be on the verge of death's door! -No but wait... They were all rejuvenated by the transmutation... So had he always been stupid? Or had he misjudged him at the start? Or possibly, he was misjudging him now. -Because no matter how much he wrapped his mind around the issue, he could not find a better resolution to the colonial army issue, as Disraeli was seemingly, so confidently was about to reveal. Gladstone conveyed all this internal turmoil through a blank stare at his rival, long-ago friend, Disraeli.

Disraeli, exercising his convenient denseness, failed to notice the meaning behind Gladstone's stare, allowing the time between his rival's great battle against himself to be used most succinctly in a follow-up, "All of the machinery, machine tools and agricultural goods have also been transported over gentlemen! Do you know what that means? -We can immediately establish a colonial administration on virgin land, extracting its resources, guarantee our food independence and keep our colonial soldiers busy without any civilian or army backlash! It's a win-win-win!"

It was time for a Liberal, one Lord Granville to gape, "You... -Your plan to save us is an idealistic gambit?!" He snapped furiously, much contrary to his usual personality, "You will really gamble our Empire's fate on the slim possibility of finding land?! PREPOSTROUS! INCONCIEVABLE! -If your idealistic dream were to fail, our people would be the ones left repaying for your burdenous loss! IRRESPONSIBLE! MONSTROUSLY RECKLESS!" He madly reprimanded, willing others around him to echo his insults. Yet, there was calculated silence. He greatly misjudged everyone's desperation.

Cavendish spoke first in solidarity, "Desperate times call for desperate measures!... Is what someone in a similar position as mine would probably say." He announced non-committedly, which didn't stop a supporting 'there, there!' from hesitantly resounding around him.

Noticing, and not willing to ruin their rare bipartisanship, Lennox refrained from attacking Granville, instead nodding agreeably towards Cavendish, "We achieved greatness through great risk-taking, Lord Granville. We may resort to realist politics to preserve that greatness, -of which effort from you predominantly, is greatly appreciated, -at least from me. But those times are rightly over, good gentlemen." Lennox looked around, seeking confirmation from his peers to continue.

"Our grandeur, once come from our boastings of the sun's obsession with us are conclusively over, for the star has abandoned our empire for the last weeks, finally setting as our imperial possessions lie a world apart!" Lennox seemingly lit up the House's atmosphere, filling everyone with patriotic fervour and optimism, once doused by the negative news from the prior bill,

"Have we not always felt inferior? Felt lesser than our great grandfathers who allowed us to live in such luxury?! -It is time for us to shed ourselves of such humiliation! Prove our worth to our fathers and our distant sons! Make the future generations praise our names and sing of our efforts as we do for our ancestors today! WE! WILL! MAKE! HISTORY!" He threw his fist violently into the air, as if punching villainous fate, who had nefariously put them in this situation.

Stubbornly refusing to be swept along, by what he perceived to be blind optimism, Lord Salisbury gruffed with a hardened scowl,

"Hey, -hey! What are all you hopeless adventurers fantasising about?!" In particular, he attempted to hold back two of the most prolific idealists of his Conservative party,

"You are basing our success entirely on assumptions! We're mature, learn'ed adults for Christ's sake! We make decisions based on proven facts and logic! -And there is no logic in presuming that there will be new lands outside of Europe just because it was the case on Earth! -This isn't Earth! And I will not! -Allow this House to commit idealist suicide for the want of foolish adventurous men that selfishly want a stake in history! I WON'T ALLOW IT!"

Cecil indignantly crossed his arms, his scowl somehow deepening beyond perceivability as it now had a physical effect of exuding a threatening aura that promised others an obnoxious snapping if approached too closely.

"...I agree with option 3."

Granville painfully snapped towards the source of the voice, silently thanking whatever deity that gave him such a flexible neck but paling from the realisation of whose voice it was. "Et tu, Gladstone?!"

Gladstone nodded soberly, briefly flashing Granville an apologetic glance to hopefully remedy his friend's sense of betrayal for falling to idealism. "All my options were similarly idealistic anyways. They were also based on assumptions... Foremost, it would be foolish of us to depend on other Europeans for basic necessities like food, iron or other raw materials. Let us not forget why we were in an era of 'Splendid Isolationism;' -it was because of continental Europe's instability to provide such goods reliably. Wars and such, not to mention the 'continental system' imposed by Napoleon." He waved tiredly,

"While I consider Russia a relatively minor threat to our prosperity, us trading with them means they could become the thorns the Conservatives perceive them as. The threat of them becoming a reality, so to speak, as if they industrialise, they will prove to be an annoying competitor in the global market. If such a case is to happen, our ability to retain the isolationist policies our forefathers graciously leveraged through sweat and blood to guarantee us peace would become untannable." Gladstone gravely remarked,

"-For the future of this country, we prospect for new land now, rather than later, to guarantee our splendid isolation through resource self-sufficiency." He summarilarily declared, rippling mixed emotions among the benches.

"...You know this is reckless. We're talking about gambling with our finite resources! If we were to lose them, and subsequently anger the soldiers, it will mean the acceleration of our downfall!" Granville sputtered desperately, holding onto the slight possibility that he may be able to sway his friend's mind back to the realm of logic.

"Yes, accelerate. I couldn't put it in any better words man, but our downfall is inevitable. Only if we don't find any virgin land." Gladstone determinedly declared, convincing many of the fringes of his party to convert from that simple statement. After all, what was Britain without its colonies? Just a damp, wet, depressing Island off of Europe. That's what it was.

Disraeli smiled, but enshrined caution so as to not come off presumptuous or arrogant in his triumph to preserve solidarity. "Not to cause alarm, though gentlemen, but I had already taken the initiative yesterday by ordering, through the Queen, as is convention, to launch as many colonial expeditions in as many available directions as possible. -Now, say whatever you want of me being dictatorial, but you all ended up agreeing to it anyways, so the end res-!"

"You did the right thing. There's no time to lose, right? And it is quite expected for a man gambling everything, -including their career, reputation and the damn entire nation to also bet on that we'll agree with your proposal." Gladstone spat with a noticeable venom in his voice, but still retained his intentions to fold, much to Granville's dismay.

Said Lord softly nudged his friend in his side, requesting his ear, "I hope you know what you are getting yourself into friend... I also back Gladstone... But let it be in the record that I did so with great reluctance!" He huffed indignantly,

"So... That would only leave Lord Salisbury left as opposition?" Brand looked around the benches, and presumably found only Cecil with a negative expression, his putrid permanent scowl especially noticeable among the comparably bearable faces of the Conservatives.

"...Let it be recorded that Disraeli's bill was passed unanimously by the House!"

"Hey!" Lord Salisbury bitterly snapped at the insinuation, and he would've stood to give a piece of his mind to the speaker, but he was stopped by the least likely of persons, again... The Home Rule party leader, William Shaw, Who by now thought the description of being footnotes of today's gathering was an exaggeration, as they were more comparable to the dust lining the underneath of the benches in their level of participation in the discussion. At least the dust had moved throughout the session.

Regardless, Shaw had placed a comforting hoof on the flaming shoulder of Lord Salisbury, hushing a quiet, "First time?" Under his breath.

The victim of this unidirectional commentary simply stared confusedly at the inconsequential Irishman, his brain refusing to process the fact that he had been degraded to the point of associating with whom he, like other members of Parliament, considered as pests.

"-MOVING ON! WE'VE GOT A LOT TO GET THROUGH! Fourth bill! -From the honourable gentleman, Viscountt Chaplin!... About... Oh. Oh, dear..." Brand trailed off; a hoof magnetically clamping against his face in sorrow.

A slight glistening followed between his hoof and face. He had promised not to cry dammit!

A Liberal MP, having already grabbed a copy of the bill and having briefly swept over it, lifted his face from the pages to deliver a single word with deathly seriousness; his claws visibly shaking while his grip on the documents strengthened every second, threatening to either rip the paper apart or irreversibly crease it to illegibility.

"Tea." He shakily, yet so-bravely declared. An ultimate testament of the unknown MP's indomitable will.

"Tea."

Several Conservative MPs echoed, some even standing up with one claw or hoof across their chest, a sign of respect one would normally display for a lost, comrade-in-arms.

"Tea."

The entire House erupted in similar grievances.

"-I..." A Conservative MP revealed a letter from his inner pocket, garnering his fellow's attention,

"I... Have a eulogy for the honourable Chinese Black Tea; the drink that flows in our blood, comprises thirty percent of our economy and had made us resort to peddling drugs to procure..." He held back a sad gasp.

"Undoubtedly the drink that well and truly defines us Brits. A part of us, you can say, which makes this ever more tragic, since its loss will mean a part of us has forever died." He orientated his letter properly.

Then, most elegantly, he began reciting the eulogy.

.

.

.

The flags of Britain all rose half-mast that day.

.

.

.

They had gone to war to avenge Boston's tea.

They would've waged war on heaven itself to get back at god.

Only if they could find him, or his realm.

Imagine being so addicted to tea that you are forced to sell LITERAL OPIUM, one of the most addictive substances on Earth to pay for your tea addiction. The British are just built differently, man. But tbh I would also rather be addicted to tea than opium.

Author's Note

I fucking hate writing long chapters. It literally drains all the motivation you have; all your remaining hopes, inspiration and dreams just lost in an ever-avaracious void.

Ain't it such a Bri'ish thing though, that more than 30% of their economy was comprised of the procurement for tea?

Btw, all the MP's names are real. If you want to know more about them just search 'em up. I tried my hardest to give them the personalities the sources avaliable to me said they had. But I may be entierly wrong, so take that as you will.

Most of the named MPs except for the MPs from the Home Rule League will be reoccuring characters since they were influential and are somewhat fun charatcers to play around with.

Btw, if you are wondering why Disraeli is alive in 1889 if he had died in 1881 in real life, the answer is: I hate his successor, Robert Cecil and Disraeli seems so much more interesting to write about as a character than the apparently permanently negative Marquess of Salisbury.

The Chapter where I briefly list some Notable British MPs

The two notables:

Liberal
William Ewert Gladstone (Griffon): Favoured much by the working-class people. (Strange, since his pappy was a slave owner. Talk about a redemption eh?) Was described to be 'preachy,' devout, earnest, a little self-righteous and cynical, realistic and opportunistic (but who ISN'T opportunistic?) Despite what Disraeli said about him not having a social life, Gladstone had a very prolific 'sex' life in his youth which he deeply regretted as being wasteful with age. He hid this fact from his peers for obvious reasons.

Conservative
Benjamin Disraeli (Unicorn): Liked by Queen Victoria, he was the first and foreseeably only Jewish British Prime Minister. Was described as being somewhat casual, tolerant, poetic, open-minded, friendly, idealistic, optimistic and opportunistic. I purposely made the descriptions loosely mirror Gladestone's, as like I, many libertarians and writers would play Gladstone and Disraeli off against each other as near polar-opposite rivals, despite for much of their lives being friends with each other, and only really splitting after 1870, when the '*eastern question' occurred and the 'rail-way boom' popped, which sent Britain hurtling into a long-term recession.

*Context: The 'eastern question' can be extremely oversimplified as to whether the British thought Russia was a big enough threat for them to save the Ottomans to maintain the balance of power, due to the latter's declining status as the 'sick man of Europe.'

Lesser, but nevertheless consequential notables:

Liberal
Spencer Compton Cavendish (Unicorn): Described as being "too easy-going and too little of a party man." So basically a chad who didn't have party loyalties that would otherwise compromise his beliefs. He was also seen as the rolemodel of the 'modern Noble,' which all others of similar status should follow, otherwise risk losing them from their obsolescence. I gave him a somewhat laid-back, yet diligent when-times-called-for-it, attitude.

Liberal
Granville George Leveson-Gower (Griffon): Insurmountable patience, intelligence and realism rolled into one; that is who Granville is. He kept Britain out of any European conflicts, furthered their isolationist prosperity and is noted for his excellence in restoring good relations with the USA after the American Civil War. However, he was somewhat distant with domestic politics, opting frequently to leave those matters to Gladstone by continually backing him to high offices. Presumably, they were good friends.

Unfortunately, Disraeli really hugged all the attention from his Conservative party, and it seems a lot of other members of his party were kinda 'written-off' to make more room to write about Disraeli. Because of this, the following Conservative MP's personalities will have a healthy dose of assumptions sprinkled in, maybe except Lord Salisbury's since he's such a character.

Conservative
Henry George Charles Gordon-Lennox (Griffon): Was a close friend to Disraeli and would do many acts throughout his career that some may consider immoral under Disraeli's instructions. AKA, Disraeli's gatekeeper/yesmen. He was someone that could be described as being 'secretive,' cautious and deductive. While not shy, he made sure not to embarrass himself and frequently prevented others from making the same mistakes. He was presumably plan-orientated, and would quickly become helpless when said plan went awry.

Conservative
Robert Arthur Talbot Gascoyne-Cecil (Griffon): I like to call him Lord Salisbury since typing that in google will immediately get the right Wikipedia entry, while 'Cecil' doesn't. While a fanatical isolationist like Granville, he was the furthest from his personality-wise. He was described to be deeply neurotic, depressive, agitated, introverted, fearful of change and loss of control, and self-effacing but capable of extraordinary competitiveness. That's not even my own description of him, it's a straight quote from a historian! He's such a character, I tells ya! He is also known for being a hopeless reactionary that prevented Britain from 'progressing' socially for 20 years singlehandedly through sheer will alone and some healthy whipping of his party. What a character.

Author's Note

My gawd, researching 'Lord Salisbury' was the most exhilarating rabbit-hole 'history moment' in my life. I swear he was only a reactionary to either piss off the Liberals or because of how stubborn he was. He might be one of history's most hypocritical and self-contradicting politicians. Thank fucking god he was a realist or else he would've dragged Britain into so many goddamn unnecessary wars.

Hear an Old Cossack's Tale

Zaphzia. A land of sporadic forests and hills littered throughout that, while, beautiful on their own, proved disgusting when dotting the vast empty plains like warts on a pristine face.

Despite the curvature of the planet and Zaphzia's place within it, if one was to stand within the great flatness of Northern Evia, they would be able to see a hundred mile away. It proved bountiful for the cossacks that resided here, for reconnaissance proved easier still despite being able to scout adequately by flying.

But as always, every positive had its drawbacks, for the enemies too, could see them easily. It was fortunate then that those that the cossacks raided did not come from the Great Plains, but from across the river, where common forests and hills masked the approach of an incoming raid.

It was in these conditions that a Herzlandic camp had been constructed. Atop one of the few elevated grounds seldom appropriated as 'hills' where the soldiers of the Empire could rest. Many were left in a pity for they could not enjoy the abundant game that the lands of Zaphzia were famous for, as the the insurrectionists had stripped the land bare.

Thankfully, the soldiers of Grover II did not starve thanks to the latter's diligence, for he made extensive efforts in establishing supply depots with adequate garrisons to dot alongside the sparse roads that he followed. Straight into the capital of the treacherous Hetman, who made frequent, albeit inconsequential ventures in the forms of skirmishes to disturb his solid supply lines.

The successes so far had led to a celebratory mood to fester within the Prince's camp, best described through the observation by a certain old Cossack 'impressed' into the Empire's service. His brief glances while hastily marching towards the Silver Tent brought him a new perspective and thereby, opinion of these griffons west of Evi.

The Herzlanders of the camp, though, lived up to their reputation. Ever-vigilant, glistening armour perpetually adorned with their pikes, halberds or longswords continually being polished or sharpened in cycles.

Their martial culture dictated that they should be ready for a battle at any given breathing moment, ever-evident from their masterfully forged armour carved with the sigils of Arcturus, their common God of War, who would undoubtedly bring them victory through strength. They only hoped the sacrifice would be solely paid by the enemy, and not their own blood.

In polar opposites, the Aquileians, whose griffons were situated only a stone tossed south of the Herzlander's homeland of Central Griffonia were much too relaxed, at least, in the view of their northern cousins.

Unlike the martial Herzlanders, the Aquileians were mostly a mercantile culture. Representative of this fact, they did not wear the same tonnage of armour as their northern brethren. Instead, the hedonists wore posh textiles, vaguely resembling uniforms, without considering the variety of colours and patterns of the coats they wore over their clean, white undercoats.

The only aspect of their apparel that was standardised and signified that they were, indeed, soldiers, and not gentlegriffs intending to attend a ball, was their dark, violet vests. It tightly hugged their midriffs, compressing the plumes in between, providing the Aquileian soldiers a deceivingly lean frame, almost unworthy of a masculine soldier of war, if only, it had not made them look so dashing.

To finish off their looks, they wore a wide-brimmed cavalier hat, made of the finest felts imported from Equestria. They were topped with either the illustrious scale of a fearsome dragon or the chained horns of a mighty southern minotaur.

The biggest point of contention, however, was the colour the Aquileans wore. Grover I had first tried, but quickly reversed his attempts to remove the regionalism that existed within his great Empire. The colour purple, associated with the Discrete dynasty of the Acquilean kingdom was seen as the sorest thumb of the centralisation issue.

For many Herzlanders, like Grover II, they saw the Aquileian's insistence to wear purple as not only an insult, but an existential threat for the future stability of the Empire. The Prince and others fell for the usual 'slippery-slope' fallacy, of believing that the minuette concession to any marginal cultural group of the Empire would lead to a domino-effect of others asking for similar concessions, eventually leading to the decentralisation and ultimate disintegration of the Empire.

The annoyance with their southern neighbours was further compounded by the Aquilean's pretentious love of wine, which they considered a more refined drink compared to the 'barbaric' ale and beer of the Herzlanders.

They would've had a point, if not for the telltale blood-red stains of wine that seemed to always carelessly permeate on the tip of their beaks. The bottle that caused it was usually close around, likely loosely hanging on a limp claw by their side as they staggered drunk along the camp, a goofy wide smile on their faces, almost always leaning on a comrade who was similarly plastered.

The sparse among them that remained sober similarly maintained their arms like the Herzlanders, although distractedly, absently twiddling their extravagant moustaches, which effort to maintain mirrored their northern brethren's care for their most prized armour.

The Aquileians, Danilo noted, were almost all ranged. The wine-lovers possessed the latest designs of muskets, both domestically produced and imported from the Equestrians, as evident from the qualitative flintlock models. Despite their hedonism, he found respect in that the Aquileians held their weapons extremely close. Almost too close, he reckoned, enough to turn their wives jealous or seem unfaithful, considering the elaborate personal engravings on every unique musket, and how closely they held their weapons at all times.

In contrast, their comically large shields laid always on their feet or haphazardly laid on the camp's ground while their master drunkenly wandered. While such abandonment signified disuse, the bare number of shields that had their faces up told otherwise through their hideous scars.

Danilo was distracted by a sudden commotion to his right. Even with a momentary glance, he immediately realised who was in the wrong.

The Southern Griffonians were similarly known for their mercantilism. Their impressive ports and matching quality ships attested to that. Combined with fertile fields, abundant natural resources, a highly literate populace (at least when compared to the regions of Griffonia), great roads, extensive trade routes and a direct connection to the golden goose that was Equestria by proxy via a land border with New Mareland meant the lynchpin of Souther Griffonia, Wingbardy was the proverbial 'crown jewel' of the Empire.

While such a title would warrant respect, the Wingbardians received the opposite, much from their own doing. If the Aquileans were despised in the empire for being pretentious snobs who thought they were better than everygriff, the Wingbardians then would be the presumable targets of a popular lynching.

The Empire at large were deeply xenophobic. Compound that with the past's mentality of extreme prejudice, any creature that deviated from 'their' ways of life was not only seen as foreign and weird, but dangerous. Contact with the Equestrians and subsequent trade was rumoured to make a griffon weak. Bloated. Far too soft and therefore, an insult to their gods that favoured strength above all. The Herzlanders feared it may be contagious. The Evians and Northern Griffonians too.

Prosperity was overseen in fears of straying from the 'moral' path that their gods destined them to follow. Trade with Equestria was akin to heresy to some circles in the capital of the Empire, Griffonstone.

And no other creatures in all of Griffonia had more trade agreements, contracts and common contact with the Equestrians than the Wingbardians did. For that, they were universally despised by all in the Empire, even by the Aquileans out of jealousy, who desperately tried to curry more favour from the Equestrians by allowing their settlement within their lands.

Despite the almost ruinous tariffs and tax levied to prevent trading with the ponies across the sea, the profits still incentivised the Wingbardians to barter, inadvertently becoming the greatest contributors to Grover's coffers. The current emperor only refrained from ceasing the trade outright through a ban or further tariffs once wisely deducting it would only lead to illegal smuggling and, therefore, untaxable transactions.

Ah right. The commotion.

It had already concluded by the time Danilo finished briefly contemplating the Empire's southern geopolitical situation. A dark eye now adorned the Wingbardian legionary, a groan of pain escaping from his muffled beak, as it laid face down on a patch of ground conveniently devoid of grass so the Wingbardian could rightfully taste the soil.

"-an' -hic! Stay down!" An evidently drunken Herzlander knight slurred.

Danilo was positive he would tip over at any minute, noticing the awkward 'footwork' of the assailant. He was impressed at how someone that indisposed could throw such a hurting punch. Must be the gauntlet, Danilo figured.

Two other legionaries, probably the injured one's friends, quickly came over to drag their own back towards what was presumably their segregated section of the camp. Danilo swore he noticed them giving the drunken knight and the grinning spectators a spiteful glare.

Danilo absently wondered what the Wingbardian could've possibly done to offend the knight.

But it was enough contemplating. For he had finally reached the entrance of the Silver tent. Its silver frame loomed over him and all others, its symbolism not lost to him, a message to all within the camp that their most holiest and heavenly ordained Prince of the Empire resided there.

Danilo braced himself. Letting in a deep breath. He would need it later when the assured noose wrapped around his neck.

5 minutes earlier

The Prince and the Baron sat beside eachother, a stool for the each of them, forgoing regalty in favour of modesty. This was to the presumable great chagrin of the absent Duke of Swabia.

"I remember it like yester'day Prince. Me, ol' Griffy, alongside your pappy in the glorious campaign against the vile! Fiendish! Princeling of Lushi!" The boisterous Commander boomed, slapping his much younger, yet, best friend Grover II's shoulder. The latter in response, simply rolled his eyes and resisted a sigh at having to listen to 'this' story again.

Ignorant of his friend's reluctance, Griffy swayed his claws dramatically over him, prepared to rehearse his grandiose tale. "T'ere I was! With the honour of leading the Emperor's wing of glory! Facing down those Lushian peasants shaking in their cheap leather boots, and even shittier arms and armour on the left!" Griffy jeered, while Grover II listened passively.

"Oh yeah! Was I mighty annoyed when your daddy forbade us from attacking! The Empire's knights would've made quick work against those Lushian levies! Grounded them really finely! Routed them with a lance up their arses no doubt!" Griffy huffed, "But don't take your father as a fool! He definitely had good reasons not to send me out. Reasons I'm probably too stupid to understand, considering I'm but a child in warfare when compared to your paps!" Griffy lectured.

In response, Grover II rolled his eyes once more. "It's not like I didn't know that..."

Griffy, noticing his Prince's expressions moved to slap his shoulders once more, "Oh don't look so glum, cub! Genius runs in your blood! You'll be an equal, or even better leader of warriors than your father in time, no doubt!"

Grover II forcibly chuckled, "Haha, yeah. I sure do hope I'll be great as my dad." He lazily said.

"Anyways! Our entire line advanced, save my wing, an' those Lushians just watched on dumbly as they let our 'shots'* get in range for a hell ov' a volley!" Griffy cheered with a sinister grin,

Shots* - A term for musketeers or other form of small-arms gunpowder infantry during the age of Renaissance

"It's about the only thing an Aquileian is good for too! Other than being shit-faced drunk or fornicating that is! -Hah!" Griffy jabbed the prince's shoulder. The victim tried not to growl.

"A loud bang! -An' it will melt the 'fat' of the army. It was strange then that the Lushian army didn't just evaporate then and there." Griffy snickered, then moved to nudge his reluctant listener once more. Unfortunately for him, the Prince had adapted and had already moved preemptively to dodge the contact. The baron shrugged in response.

Griffy continued, "Ayep. It was shameful still when it seemed only our side faltered. Damn Aquileians. One shot, and they're gone from the front. Melting into the pikes wielded by our noble Herzland peasants." Griffy crossed his arms, unaware of the breath of relief the Prince silently sighed at his touchy friend's withdrawal.

"Eh, who can blame them, Griffy, it takes near an hour to reload the damn things. They're just making way for the next guy to shoot." Grover II placated,

"Pfft. It's just a damn excuse! Any cock can use a musket! Those snobbish merchants of Aquileia are just hiding behind those guns to excuse themselves from a good, honest day of fighting!" Griffy spat, "Have you seen their shields sire? They despise death! Not to mention their, -their dress! All vanity! No substance!"

Grover II rose a brow. "Do you mean to tell me that you love death?" It was his time to huff, "My, my, in an affair with an older lady are you Griffy? -You saucy devil!" The prince cheekily smiled,

Griffy snapped towards his prince, his face red in embarrassment. "Y-you know that's not what I meant! Also! -What a cheesy joke!" The baron sputtered indignantly.

"-And yours weren't?" The Prince countered succinctly, only to be ignored by the baron who continued the mind-numbing story,

"ANYWAYS! 'Ere be the best part! Once the Lushians exhausted themselves against our pikes and were pelted by the coward's stones, Grover gave the signal for me to charge!" Griffy loudly shouted, retaking the initiative within the 'conversation'.

Grover II, unamused by the dictate and even more uncaring of the self-aggrandising that he knew his friend would engage in, loudly groaned. Subtlety be damned, for he had already made his opinion clear through his 'jabs' of his own.

"Great timing too! For warm winds created an updraft! -Definitely, something the Emperor had been waiting for! Allowing us to quickly fly up and dive towards the bastards with minimal exhaustion to our own!" Griffy dramatically said, waving an imaginary sabre in his empty claw. "Our charge bent their spears! Bent their swords! Bent their resolves! -And finally! Bent-"

"Sires?" A voice from outside the tent entered from the slim opening of the silver tent.

Before Griffy could even think to stall whoever it was outside to finish his majestic tale, the Prince lived up to his quick-thinking reputation by swiftly declaring, "Danilo! Please enter!"

"-Wai," Griffy managed, but was cut off once more,

"Indulge us with information about Swabia's army, would you? It is of great importance we know!" Grover II didn't let up, caring little of how much he was frightening the new griffon in the room with his impatient tone.

Said scared griffon was already grovelling, head turned low with the most sincerest expression in tow. "-I dare not contradict the good words of your own attachès. -I do not presume to know more than what they have already told you, sires." Danilo stammered, unsure of what to say to not offend the competency of the Prince's army, but ultimately blurting out both in his nervousness.

Griffy eyed the new entree dirtily, but Grover reassured Danilo with a disarming smile, allowing the latter's hair to finally settle in calm. "Relax, I'm not gonna poke out your last eyes or something, Danny. I called you over for a different reason." Grover nonchalantly said.

Danilo had enough respite to raise his head just far enough for his only eyes to grace the Prince's expressions, gauging it as if to figure out his intentions by perception alone.

Grover II gave a few sporadic huffs of disbelief, "Ha-I mean, I expected you to flee by now. The fact that you're still here, have followed my orders dutifully, and even willingly walked into my 'den' despite your fear of me is astounding!"

"-Aye, who knew the cossacks were such spineless bastards?" Griffy added with a cocky grin.

Hesitant to answer, Danilo looked aside withdrawingly, a large frown forming on his face. An obvious bait, Grover realised, for him to push for answers. He just reminded himself to exercise caution to not get carried away. He didn't want another bout of storytelling, after all, he wasn't some bourgy therapist!

The concept of the bourgeoise or 'therapist' in its modern form hasn't been invented yet in Grover's time. I have simply used them as literary devices to most eloquently describe the current predicament.

"Let me guess. Are you no longer welcome in the capital-, what was it again? Kaiv? -Yes, was the punishment for failing to convince me, exile? -Execution maybe. Perhaps that pretender wanted to get rid of you, assigning you an impossible task, hmmm?" Grover rapidly queried while his loyal baron dumbly nodded on.

To the Prince's displeasure, Danilo did not reciprocate with a satisfying answer, simply continuing to mutely look away in hesitance.

Grover squinted, thinking hard while stroking his comparably naked chin when compared to the lush beard of Griffy. "No? -Then perhaps you were close to the previous Hetman, the very same the pretender had slain to usurp the title legitimately granted by my father. Or perhaps you had a claim as the head of Gryphian Host, which, was unfairly taken away from you in a failed power struggle? -Your age definitely gives off that impression." Grover asked again.

Danilo slowly shook his head, prompting the Prince to grumble less annoyedly. At least he was making some progress in breaking the cossack's recalcitrance, he thought. He dignified him with a bare response at least.

"Or maybe he was tired of the cunt's shit. No offence, but you lot are an insufferable bunch." Griffy helpfully added,

Seeing his Prince's deadpan expression at his interjection, Griffy quickly spoke in his defence, "What? I knew the guy he usurped. A fucking mess of a cock, if gluttony was a griffon, it would be 'im." he shrugged,

Before it could get awkward, Danilo finally chose this moment to speak, "I... I don't much approve of the current Hetman's conduct." He admitted.

Griffy smiled triumphantly, cheering, "Ah-hah! Ah knew it! -What I tell you fledgling-,"

"-Don't call me a fledgling." Grover mandated.

"... What did I tell you! I've been in their court before, bloody suffocating it is! It ain't 'insensitive' to know they all hate each other's guts!" Griffy declared, "-Huh... But that calls into question... How the hell did y'all agree to elect this sunnavabitch?" The baron eloquently asked.

Danilo blankly stared at the uncouth baron. Momentarily, he could not believe someone of such vulgar vocabulary, tactlessness and ignorance of the thoughts of his peers could be possibly standing with him here, inside the royal tent, but Danilo quickly reminded himself of Griffy's credentials. It was somewhat romantic, he figured, of the baron's entire existence, of a figure whose general intelligence was offset by his genius in battle. Completely contradictory, yet, so suitable for the position he currently presided. An invaluable asset in war, but useless in administration. Oh, how envious other kings would be for Grover to have such a character in his employ. Someone who could not threaten him politically, but remained extremely useful in an essential office.

"I guess we played the role of the 'big bad'." Grover II inserted, "From what all those diplomats that tried to delay us said, our officials seemed to have acted pretty shittily." Grover II guessed, facing Danilo for confirmation.

"We all want peace sire. Even the biggest diehards and sabre-happy Warhawks want peace. But as you know, the everyday peasants, merchants and burghers of the Host desire it most." Danilo sadly remarked, drawing a limp claw over his eyes. "Decades of ceaseless wars, both infighting and raiding have laid the land bare, destroyed. In need of dire rest. Why do you think we so easily bent the knee and acceded the candidate the Empire put forth?" Danilo sighed quite brashly, the previous intent of avoiding provocation forgotten in needing to depart a heart-felt truth.

Danilo continued with a sad tone, "-I tried so hard to work with Polubotok, -but he refused to even review the,"

"Wait, wait, wait. You worked for that fat bastard?!" Griffy shouted believingly, but his face quickly morphed to accommodate a wide laugh, "Forget what I said! You must have spines made of steel to have stuck with him even for a second!" Griffy said with an uproarious laugh, joined by no one.

It was Danilo's turn to eye the baron dirtily, but he managed to continue his recounting while glaring. "When reasonable griffons are unafforded the avenues for dialogue, they most often pick up their swords, and let them do the talking." Danilo darkly summarised, "We Zaphzians are proud lions. Prouder falcons. We don't just let the boot that may stamp us be. We slice the paws of its wearers." He finished gloomily.

Grover II swallowed in contemplation, digesting this 'not-very-new' information, while his friend contrastingly growled.

"Was that a threat you infirmed bast-!" Griffy started, with a raised clenched claw, only to be stopped short by an expecting Danilo.

"It is the truth. It is happening right now, before our eyes." Danilo deadpanned, then faced the Prince, the only audience he seriously acknowledged, "We aren't some mindless treacherous savages as the courtiers and nobles of Griffonstone allege, my Prince. We are a loyal kind; knowledgeable of duties and the weights agreements pertain. -Only if we are given the same respect you expect for us to reciprocate."

Griffy huffed indignantly, disbelieving everything that had just come out of Danilo's beak, but before he could even think of calling him out of it, Grover II thankfully spoke first.

"Then what would you have me do? I can't just subvert the wills of everygriff at court, nor can I convince them." Grover II asked,

"Bullshit." Danilo dared to curse, much to the amusement of the Prince and surprisingly, the baron. Griffy, in contrary to being angry, was absolutely joyed by the cossack's sudden growth of 'balls'.

Danilo spoke with great certainty, his eyes staring straight through the young prince from their sheer intensity, "Your line holds the Idol of Boreas. Your father has constructed a near-perfect state of absolutist autocracy. Most important of all, I have seen the soldiers of the camp. I have seen how they react to your every word. Seen how moved they were, entranced even. Perhaps it is the effects of the Idol, but they nevertheless mention you in hushed tones of greatness, milord, and I am not too blind from the lack of eye to see that you are destined for greatness." Danilo spoke with the least intent of flattery, as he uttered every word and sentence like it was an obvious truth. He gave off a tone that disagreeing would implicitly equate to stupidity, like a child disagreeing with the simple truth that the Earth was round, or one plus one, was indeed, equal to two.

"-And I do not think that you are so blind yourself to not realise your destiny, sire. And I am even more sure of the fact that YOU CAN, AND WILL break the proverbial beaks of those indulgent, despotic nobles of Griffonstone." Danilo ascertained.

The tent had grown quiet at this point, only the faint noises of soldiers nearby and the guard clattering in their armour standing guard at the entrance could be heard.

Griffy was thoroughly impressed at the cossack's sudden resolve and his mirrored evaluation of the Prince. Maybe this could work out, after all.

Grover II meanwhile, gave a neutral expression. Completely indecipherable as always, but Danilo honestly began preferring it to Griffy's unrestraint.

"...I always had a talent for attracting weirdos." Grover II finally spoke, rising from his stool. Danilo eyed him wearily, recoiling slightly when the Prince raised a claw over to him, eventually landing on his shoulder reassuringly.

Grover turned to Griffy with a manic grin. "Fabulous weirdos."

The Prince snapped towards the old cossack, who was beautifully his surprsied-self again. "Welcome to the team Danny! -Hope you don't go insane!" He slapped him HARD. Grover was assuredly learning something from the Baron.

Uncaring of this fact, Danilo began regretting his life decisions. Only for a well-timed announcement by the standing guards to cease any time to contemplate.

"My lords!" A familiar-sounding guard announced. Danilo figured it was the very same that pointed a spear at him. "A wee-bit cloaked griffon seeks an audience with you!"

"I'm not small!" An unknown irate voice contested,

The guard continued regardless, "He claims to be in the employ of Apostle! -Should I turn this bed-warmer away, sire?!"

"Okay, you're just being a dick on purpose." The unknown voice spat.

Griffy gave Danilo a brief look of 'he with you?'

The recipient of said look suddenly realised the benefits of having such an uncouth personality. Griffy's facial muscles had been exercised so thoroughly that they could even transmit messages, considering Danilo's ability to read them off so accurately. But for now, Danilo gave a curt nod.

"Send 'im in!" Griffy spoke without pause, not waiting for his Prince's input. To his relief, if he had any awareness, Grover II didn't seem to mind much.

Danilo quickly moved to welcome the new griffon in, even courteously opening the flaps of the tent to usher him in. Surprise, behold, the griffon was, indeed, small as the guards had attested, and considering how gently Danilo led him in, Griffy was sure to embarrass the old cossack later for hiring a griffon with the frames of a 'bed attendant'. Shit, wait! What if he really was a bed warmer?! -How uncouth!

Grover II scanned the new 'griffon', gauging the possibility that he might actually be a bed-warmer considering he was completely hooded and had an aura of trained secrecy. One honed out of their private will and voluntarily exercised to boot. Most interesting of all, the cloak the newcomer wore reached down to their paws, completely covering them in darkness. What are you hiding? Grover immediatrly thought.

The newcomer nonchalantly trotted into the tent, his steps extremely light and making not a sound. He absently looked around the tent, even without his face uncloaked, everygriff in the room could tell he was somewhat bored and even a tad bit unimpressed.

"Eh, I've seen better." The cloaked griffon blurted with a shrugged shoulder.

Danilo balked, "Watch your mouth! You're in the presence of royalty!" he hastily reprimanded,

But it was unnecessary, as this was no ordinary noble camp, but the property of the Crown Prince, who was more amused than aghast with brazen guests.

"Hah! I already love this cub!" Griffy shouted,

"I'm not a child!" The small figure angrily snapped,

"There's fight in 'em too!" Griffy pointed at the newcomer in novelty, shaking his friend as if to accentuate his great pleasure.

"Who is he?"

Grover had asked, but considering the aura he was exuding, it seemed more like a demand. Griffy and the newcomer seemed immune to it though, the former more out of ignorance and the latter due to bravery. Unfortunately, Danilo seemed to share neither of the qualities, as he nearly suffocated from the sudden attention.

They had been laughing merely a second ago! What's with the sudden threat?! Danilo swore to never underestimate the Prince... Again.

"H-He is my apprentice, sire." Danilo managed to not stammer out.

"Oh-, izzit true?" Griffy smiled predatorily at the hooded griffon, and barely resisted the urge to lick his beak devilishly to frighten the poor lass.

It would all be for naught though, as the newcomer seemed indifferent to threats.

Speaking of threats, a certain Prince was embodying it. Sending innumerous danger signals to anygriff predisposed to sensing it... And rightfully feeling endangered by it.

"...You better have a damned good reason to let a hooded griffon in without prior checking, Danny." Grover II dangerously queried, his face darkening with exception to his eyes that took on a void-like quality. It stared right into everyone's soul. Except Griffy though. He was just built different.

"I'm giving alot of leeway. I broke a loooot of protocols. So repay me the favour will ya?" Grover II's smile became visible to those susceptible, his pastel-yellow beak unfurling from the deep darkness in a toothless grin. "Unfurl that hood."

"Grace us with that ugly mug!" Griffy cheered.

Danilo could not believe the baron. His brain compounded the matter, since it became stuck in indecision on whether to be slaw-jacked or remain frozen in fear. Either way, he could not act.

Thankfully, he wouldn't have to.

Taking the available initiative, the newcomer took it graciously, reaching with a concealed appendage to unfurl the part of the cloak hiding his head.

The Prince immediately entered a state of appraisal. "Expressions? Still unamused. Eyes? Half-lidded in boredom. Face? Hints of a constant frown. Colourisation? Sky-blue. Messy mane...? Ocean blue? Wait, floppy ears?! -MUZZLE?!"

Grover's brows impossibly rose,

"A FUCKING PONY?!"

Griffy grabbed his sword.

Author's Note

I hate long chapters so I cut this one short.

Also, help me decide on a name for the pony, I'm lazy. Nvm, I decided on one while I was procrastinating whether I should post this story.

Btw, if it wasn't obvious by now, this story will divert greatly from the original Equestria at War universe. (Since there isn't much to base off in the first place.)

THE BI-ANNUAL AFFAIRS: 1888

Our introduction, to you!

These are trying times, for you all at least! Us publishing companies have always been in 'tried' times burdened by all those taxes! (Not to mention all those unlicensed communists that leach off our sales!)

-And you are probably all scared, confused and questioning whether you angered your god to deserve such a punishment like this. Or not. Or maybe you are currently contemplating if you are even alive or not!

Luckily for you, dear readers, regardless of what is currently floating your fear-laden boats! We have the means to tow it to shore safely, for we, The Times publishing company and Punch Magazine, alongside innumerable other reputable paper companies have partnered to deliver the crazy happenings of today and the foreseeable crazier tomorrow!

So expect the usual satires and comedy expected from Punch Magazine and especially await our informative style from Time's newspapers! While some of you 'intellectual' viewers may pale at the addition of Punch's contents, which 'your' kind regard as an appeal to the brainless masses, therefore unpalatable to your oh-so refined tastes, believe us, you will appreciate their presence soon enough. After all, some comedic relief in our current sea of endless despair, fear and confusion is an astronomical relief for our poor, exhausted logical psyche.

A revolution in Paris! -Finally some normalcy!

Finally, news from France gives us an anchor to latch ourselves onto, giving us a firmer grasp on our ever-loosening grip on reality! For it can be recorded today; correspondent to our prior records, proving our space-time continuity, as the presumably 67th Paris Commune was declared, surprisingly far later than expected, but occurred nevertheless 2 weeks after what we and others dubbed, 'The Great Change.'

In another bonus of relieving familiarity, the Paris Commune was resoundingly defeated by the nearby French garrison, whose soldiers, according to local newsletters and journalists, 'flew' into the city. That's right! We have the fantastical ability of flight! -For which so many before us have coveted for and fantasised for, like our philosophical titans, the Greeks! -It's not all positive though! As we will shortly discuss the limitations levied by our governments, so keep on reading!

As usual, the descriptions of the battle follow the same usual mahogany: Fiery youths, mostly from universities, rampage along the city streets. They shout about some mundane jargon about inequality or oppression. They flash weaponry. They threaten the existing order while destroying property in abandoned restraint. The poor, confused citizenry fled. The army is called, they unleash a swift volley and the misguided youths scatter, restoring order.

A caricatured drawing of the events that transpired in Paris is shown below. The 'rebel,' is depicted as being a young, presumably foolish teenager, considering his baggy, poorly-maintained oversized Napoleonic-style uniform.

He is shown kneeling, begging at an adamant soldier while showing an overexaggerated expression of cowardice and youth for clemency. The latter is shown resolutely pushing the teen away with an overstretched arm, pushing against their face. A rifle is held in his other hand, its barrel smoking suggesting casualties on the 'insurrectionist's' side.

Caption:
Revolutionary: "Please! Spare my life!"
French Soldier: "Worry not! I wouldn't want to take away your father's right to beat your arse!"
Sorry for the cheesy dialogue. The magazines back in the day had really primitive humour. Not terrible, per say, but pretty generic.

Peculiarly, the caricatures drawn still illustrate humans, despite their new 'physiology'. It seemed the artists of the magazines were still adapting.

We have flight! (Be wary of the tale of Icarus!)

We have been blessed with wings! -Or probably cursed with them. We at Times-Punch & others Publishing, or 'TPP' for short, are inclined to believe the latter, if the heading wasn't obvious enough.

Why?

Well first, read the heading again and ask yourselves why... No? Still no clue? Oh, you uncultured swine! -Have you not heard of the famous Greek tale? What are our schools for?! They're supposed to teach you this!

Not to worry, for we will summarise the story so:

Icarus. Fellow of Daedalus. Wax wings. Flew too high. Melted his wings. Fell to his death. Boo-hoo.

Although a myth, it tells us an ever-relevant lesson in restraining our temptations! Especially now, -since we now really have wings! Not wax, yes. But we can still fly with them!

While so far, flying too high hasn't caused our gooses to combust into flames, or melt our wings, it is our humble opinion that we should not be trying to test out our limits. At least not so soon, or without prior training.

But first, we are obligated to inform you of all of the reasons against the said practice from our governments. We pray you do not chafe nor grumble at this news, for we also agree with the following measures to safeguard your, and other's safety. SO HEED IT.

FLIGHT SAFETY ACT 1880

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

AT THE ORDERS FROM THE NEW MINISTRY OF AERONAUTICS, AIRSPACE, FLIGHT AND OTHER AIRBORN BUSINESSES.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

YOU MAY NOT

(1) Fly over any private or government-owned property unless it must be crossed en route to an 'allowed' area.

(2) Fly over, or into any military installations. (If deemed dangerous, YOU WILL BE SHOT ON-SIGHT)

(3) Fly in the near vicinity of important peoples or members of government or other noble institutions. (If you refuse to ground, YOU WILL BE ARRESTED for not only loitering, but also possibly SHOT if deemed suspicious)

(4) Fly over any distance of open sea without an appropriate license. (Illegally crossing into other nations will immediately VOID ANY OF OUR NATION'S PROTECTIONS.)

{5} Exceed an altitude of over 1000 metres without a license.

(6) Fly when fatigued, injured, or in a mental/physical state where your ability of flight/awareness is impaired.

(7) Fly while possessing a salmon and dressed 'flamboyantly'. (Due to a certain case involving an eccentric Welshman and a notable Viscount.)

(8) Exceed a pace beyond a horse's trot while flying in *urban areas without a license.

(9) Exceed a pace beyond a horse's gallop while flying in *rural areas without a license.

(10) Exceed a pace beyond a 'speeding train' while flying in *remote areas without a license.

(11) Initiate flight while in the vicinity of a gathering more numerous than 30 fliers without a licence.

(12) Fly near government airborne installations without proper clearance or a license.

(A hasty 13th point is also included, it being rushed plainly obvious from the fact it is squished on the bottom unequally, while the other 12 points are evenly spaced. It seemed as if the publishing companies themselves had to hastily accommodate the last-minute addition.

FLIGHT SAFETY AMENDMENT 1880
(13) Expropriate clouds for private use without a license. (Due to concerns of potentially disrupting our ecosystems and reservoirs, the penalty of 'cloud thievery' will be harsh.)

All reasonable rules, right? We wouldn't want anyone crashing full-speed into buildings, would we? Or god-forbid, other people! Who would wipe clean all those twice-big blood stains?!

Now, with the common sense from the government aside, we at TPP believe that while those ~~12~~ 13 points are to be abided by strictly, we are of the opinion that it is as far as the governments should intervene in regards to flight rules.

Now, this doesn't mean we endorse anarchy! Far from it, as we believe that the people should decide what other 'laws' should be added. Actually, not really 'laws', but rules. Unspoken, unwritten rules.

Our 'wings' are not some artificial construct that can be regulated by some, central, overbearing government! Like how we learnt how to use our limbs to write, walk and manipulate on our own*, we should have the Liberty to create further rules, guides and lessons for the use of our wings!

*Context: Charles Darwin's "On the Origins of Species," published in 1859, had already been widely accepted by the time and the fact that we evolved from apes was generally accepted by the wider populace and especially among intellectuals for obvious reasons.

Their 'Ministry of Aeronautics, Airspace, Flight and other Airborn Businesses' ugh, we'll just call it the MAAFAB. Even saying its name is irritable! It is just another ploy by the noble cronies and groupies from London to fill up their own coffers and fatten themselves with our hard-earned coins by nepotistically appointing their own sons or friends into positions of government! -Positions they created! -Which will do nothing at its best, and its worst, debilitate us!

So down with the wage-thieves! We must rid ourselves of yet another meaningless money-sinking institution!

We have the utmost confidence the people will create far more in-depth regulations on flights! -Through norms and familial rules!

We cannot expect the people to listen to the government like Daedalus expected Icarus to listen to a higher authority, himself. We, the familiar of Icarus must discipline ourselves with restraint. Only then, will we achieve the natural evolution into casual flight.

Touch the clouds! Due to recent regulations, no publishers are allowed to advocate for the manipulation of clouds for any cause. It's possible I tells ya!

...Is what a raggedly dressed man said a day ago, as he near-assaulted, and at best, harassed the citizens of London to... Touch the clouds?

An inspiring quote sure, like we didn't hear it from our fathers enough... But he was right!... Not our fathers, but the dishevelled man! WE CAN TOUCH THE CLOUDS!

It wasn't long until everyone nearby then those around them, UNTIL THE WHOLE OF LONDON were flying up to grab a piece of the clouds! Biting them, moulding them; hell, some even managing to turn them into rainclouds! Some of the creative ones even zapped themselves! But like all good things with a lot of demand, it was short lived, as all the clouds above London ran out! I know! An impossibe, achieved!

But not all could participate in this 'great experiment', as many among us without wings could only watch on with jealousy in the quickly dampening streets of London.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be not all fun and games, as some of the well-read intellectuals of London were literally foaming at the mouth, -a common sight to all by now, no doubt.

Babbling incoherently, too-fast, something about how "Clouds aren't meant to be that low," "How are you condensing them so fast into rainclouds," "Making lightning isn't that easy-, my god what if we use them for power?!" and other self-monologues, at least according to the interviews and testimonies of passer-byes.

As usual, by now, several coppers arrived at the scene with their-now standard equipment straight-jackets to escort any intellectuals undergoing mental breaks into a mental asylum, hopefully, temporarily.

There, they could not disrupt the ignorant bliss and tranquillity normal folks had confined themselves to, or potentially kill themselves in despair. However, unexpectedly, most of those in 'brain-shock' that day recovered quickly, many when interviewed, citing that their previous experiences with said ailment and their supposed "Abandonment of any semblance of logic and reality," had allowed them to recover in record time.

The journalists of our publisher are proud of them. They have adapted well.

But if you or your loved ones are experiencing similar ailments and are not recovering, do not lose hope! Local churches are now distributing cannabis to assist any 'highly logical' people to 'normalise,' however, due to the lack of manufacturing capacity caused by demand, most will need to be smoked raw instead of being taken orally as pills!

In the aftermath, only one straight jacket would need to be used, and one permanent reservation to room Z-G-D-1304 of the recently expanded London Mental Institution booked.

Strangely enough, it would be the ragged man to be detained. He had the audacity to trade-mark touching clouds! Sure enough, he would be quickly restrained, muzzled and carried away, never to menace our society ever again, we hope.

A caricature of a plucked chicken in a patchy-holed business suit is shown, his eyes wild and unfocused, his wings and legs flailing wildly between two coppers whose backs are turned and are holding the straight jacket in place.

Caption:
Insane Person: "I TRADE MARK THE SUN! THE AIR! THE CLOUD!"
Copper 1: "Hey, where's his lion-half?"
Copper 2: "Huh? Isn't this the escaped cock?"

HIGHEST DEBATE! Hands?Claws? -Or Hooves?

The brightest minds of Oxford, Cambridge and other prestigious schools, including notable individuals and intellectuals all over Britain and beyond convened today, of all places, the London's St Paul's Cathedral. Their purpose being, to discuss the questions we have all been asking! -Thankfully! We've got some responses...

Unfortunately... They're the farthest from 'answers', especially considering the 'questionable' quality of their recorded responses, which calls into question their mental faculties and their current right to hold their positions in our most notable educational institutions.

We did not lie when we dubbed this convention the 'Highest Debate'... Not only due to its significance and future repercussions... But also because of the Liberal use of cannabis during the meeting, abundantly made available by the churches, especially common in a Cathedral.

I mean, you really can't blame them. They are all coping best they can, and while some of you viewers may revel and feel pompous by the fact that you don't need to rely on some vice due to your perceived mental fortitude.

You must remember, no offence, that these minds that have gathered today are instrumentally smarter than any of you viewers, and therefore are more prone to insanity due to the sheer amount of information they process everyday.

Due in part to this, while you, the viewer, may process one problem at a time, these intellectuals notice every imperfection at once. Apparently, that is enough to break them.

While you may rightfully consider that a flaw, you must recognise that these very same complex minds have advanced our societies instrumentally, and so, you should not slander them, for they turn our societies 'round.

The meeting went very smoothly, with only one brief distraction occurring when a desperate priest barged in, fearing a fire in the Cathedral due to the massive billowing of smoke out of the openings.

...

Barely anyone yelled during the convention. Every individual participating acted most properly, allowing others to speak in turn and every 'topic' was concluded with an orderly vote to determine any given side's victory. Who knew it only took some funky-looking green leaves to turn everyone so civil?

To reflect this civility, we have taken the liberty to bless you, the readers, an excerpt of a discussion regarding whether we should still be referred to as humans.

To spare the speaker from embarrassment, we have shrewdly chosen to not disclose anyone's name from this discussion.

Here it is:

"Hey man... If we are, like. Souls and shit, since y'know the experiment, and shit, y'know? Figuring out that, y'know, we're more than just our bodies an' shit, y'know? And we think, y'know, or, I guess, associate an' shit with humanity and all that with our souls y'know, with god, jesus, spirit, body and all that y'know, it would be weird to call ourselves something entirely out of our realm man, 'humans' aren't our humanic avatar man, we are the soul, -hang on, I already said this, shit, -ah... Right. We think humans are us. Not human equal body. We still human because we, us y'know?"

"Naw-naw! We're minds, not souls man. But I see your point, in like, saying that we don't call the vessels of our minds, y'see, as humans, but the mind itself, like, being the brain as humans, so probably, possibly, maybe, it would probably mean, like it changes really nothing, since like, we're still us in our brains an' shit, y'know?"

"Yeah, yeah, bruv. An' we can say hands and claws as same right?"

"-Hooves as well, right bruv?"

"Yeee, fuckit, nofftthing makes sense anywahis."

...

Here at TPP, we wish them all good health, and hope for their immediate recovery to their usual selves.

WE'VE GOT MAGIC! -DON'T TELL THE SCIENTISTS! (They've got enough to worry on their plates)

Hear, hear the unicorns of Britiain and beyond, FOR WE HAVE FAN-BLOODY-TASTIC MAGIC! It is definitely going to be a hot topic among the church, whose millennia-old doctrine against paganistic rituals and beliefs in magic will presumably make them an enemy against investigating our powers, which, so far, can only be described as being 'magical'.

But the true losers will definitely be our scientists, whose poor, abused minds will be further bombarded by this sudden revelation.

It first began as a rumour. News of disparate people levitating small objects with glowing horns had begun at first, being met with disbelief, and sometimes a recommendation to a room in the nearest mental asylum, but far too numerous reports of such happenings have confirmed it! WE GOT MAGIC! We are specifically talking about unicorns.

While many scientists had suspected something of the sort, but never fully admitted to it being 'magic', but instead, referred to it as an 'unknown influence/variable'. They used said term to explain the impossibility of the pegasus among us in being capable of flight, despite their comparably small wing-body size ratio.

Extremely preliminary tests that have now been published, therefore, we have access to, describe the processes by which pegasus seems to be able to fly. They explain that by the use of some 'unknown influence/potential', the pegasus can create an updraft of air beneath their wings to become airborne. It would be later discovered in the same study that griffons use a similar process to fly, albeit with less of that elusive 'unknown potential' due to their comparably larger wings.

Now, the proponents of said published study are justifying that, through the use of the same 'unknown potential', unicorns are able to perform what people report as 'magical miracles'. This has created further discussions on whether every other species that we have been transformed into can perform similar 'miracles' by utilising the vexing 'unknown potential'.

Thankfully, already several new terms superior to the mouthful 'unknown potential' have been forwarded by the scientific community and the public at large. The most popular is 'Werg', a primitive root of other words such as the Greek term, 'Ergon' that roughly translates 'to do'.

We at TPP are confused as to why calling something 'magical' could be so frustrating for the intellectuals of our society, but we will humour them in calling it whatever they want, as long as they continue to churn out their fantastical inventions.

Werg Societies Form! Dangerous Cultists? Or Amusing Eccentrics?

Before the rumours were even confirmed of our newfound abilities among our unicorn brethren, it seemed secret societies had already been formed to practise said 'Werg' out of prying eyes.

In contrast, flight seems to have been seamlessly adopted by the people at large due to its sheer usefulness and wastefulness of not exercising it as a means of transportation. We even have scant reports that armies all over Europe are creating entire divisions of airborne soldierly.

The Vatican has been unusually silent about all the happenings in Europe, as no expected condemnation of practising 'Werg' (Not magic!) has been declared by Pope Leo XIII, not even by his Cardinals.

To some Catholics, this is expected, due to Leo XIII's reputation as an intellectual who espouses free-thinking. However, the great silence is still greatly unexpected for an institution that only a few hundred years ago, was demanding the lynching and burning of 'witches'.

We at TPP suspect this is but a farce, a tactic. Delaying to first gauge the populace's reactions before announcing something that would mindlessly please them. Thankfully, we are no Catholics, so we will spared from the Pope's insulting pandering.

Regardless, this leaves a problem of what should be done with these mysterious societies. First, we would like to acknowledge that this discussion is far exceeding our pay grade, but we believe it is our sacred duty to you, to inform our audience and protect them from any possible dangers an external group may pose to them. In achieving this goal, we shall most generously inform you of the activities of such one 'Werg' society, as one of our journalists had been able to infiltrate and record their actions.

Said infiltrator will remain anonymous for good reasons! For what we will describe warrants it! -But most importantly! Do not doubt our words and make our brave journalist's efforts be in vain!

It all seemed like a bad dream. Like I had been somehow sent back in time, something not in the farthest of my speculations considering our latest transformation.

But I had reminded myself such was not the case. Where else would we find such fine porcelain other than modern Britain? At least that remained in the near-pagan room I found myself in, for even those pretending to be Gaels of England's long past could not resist a good cup of tea.

I at first thought I had wandered into a nudist society, as they had barbarously forfeited their clothes in favour of wandering naked in the darkly lit room. I cannot imagine the amount of sensual chafing and bumping that could've transpired! Thankfully, I had withdrawn from the practice, comfortingly alongside several other 'initiates'.

But most outrageous of all, they had allowed women to participate in this uncouth activity! Such a scandalous act, especially naked, will see all members shunned! I would see to it when I eagerly left, although, I had not shown it in an effort of secrecy.

It was a most surreal display though, when I still stayed. All the 'willing' participants had their bodies engraved with fierce paints, reminding me of the Gaels the Romans described while on our petite Island. But it seemed quite messily done, expected of such uncouth individuals, but also, it seemed, because our furs proved unwilling canvases of paint.

They danced wildly in what they described as 'rituals', apparently instructed from sparse parches of papers which the 'elders' among the societies swore they could read.

I miraculously held a laugh as they tried the best they could to somehow perform this 'ritual' while on all-fours. Some, I swore, were just flopping like a loose fish in a port market.

Utterly preposterous! I thought, for even the most daft scholar of Gaelic history knew the elders of old Briton had to know their scriptures by memory alone. But this was no surprise to me, for in my brilliance, I had already figured these savages for the pretenders they were long ago.

The only occurrence that impressed me was the action of a quite daring lady. Fair, she looked. I and many others still did not know how we could measure beauty considering our new physiology, but this was no time to contemplate, for she was, indeed, pretty at the moment.

Even in the darkness, her coat shined a beautiful deep sky blue, accompanied by a swept mane of a lighter complexion that striped in different shades horizontally. Her looks were accentuated by two rare purple eyes that twinkled with two silver specks that determinedly fought the darkness for attention.

What really caught my attention, however, was the identical engraving-? On either side of her flanks. They were decorated with a 5-pointed star, silver in colour. With closer inspection, it was attached to a thin wand of sorts. It seemed to be painted on with great detail, for they, as described, were identical and intricately detailed.

She confidently announced her name, fascinatingly speaking in third-person, momentarily reminding me of the habits of a certain great Caesar. But she was the least of his familiar, as she spoke with an unmistakable Highlander accent. Perhaps an appeal to Gaelic roots, but from her proficiency, I wagered it was not pretend.

She declared her apparent superiority and everyone around me seemed more than happy to flatter her with eager ears and lack of objections. I, meanwhile remained silent, as it was a duty as a gentleman like myself to listen patiently, especially to a lady, regardless of their hysteria.

Imagine my surprise when she proved she wasn't all-talk! For her 'Werg' wasn't just limited to unimpressive levitation nor illumination, as she impossibly misappropriated herself from one place of the room to another in but a flash!

Before I could even fathom the possibility of such an action through so-called 'smoke and mirrors', she, giving us little rest, managed to change the colours of all of our manes!

I became horrified, for I had grown to appreciate my golden mane that fitted well with my albino coat, making me the picturesque representation of the unicorn that presided within our glorious coat of arms. But now, it had become deathly black in colour, which, with hindsight, had elicited an overbearing reaction on my part.

It did not help that the fair lady was all-laughs now. It was only marginally better than her previous all-id* attitude.

Worst of all, I had no one to sympathise with since it seemed I was the only one who had been be 'attached' to my mane. I would have to last out the entire meeting with a scowl on my face, a growing worry manifesting in my conscience as my mane refused to revert in colour, regardless of time passed.

It was only at the end, that the alleged 'Great and Powerful' 'sorceress' would revert our colourisation. I cared little of those around me who sought the continued 'blessing', as I moved to quickly leave, only for the fair lady to suddenly transpose herself in front of me.

After an expected reaction from me, for a man suddenly being stopped by a lady suddenly appearing in a flash before them, she again laughed at my very ordinary reactions.

Why tell you all this? Because she, quite weirdly, as she is, informed me and the others of her intention to depart alongside the planned expedition organised, by one, Benjamin Disraeli.

I was confused of this, but considering everyone else's reactions, it seemed that the fair lady was a frequenter of this society, and probably an important member, as they bid their hesitant farewells and regret at her departure.

To prevent possible corruption of our great soldiery, I have informed my contacts to the admiralty to prevent any ladies of the features as I described them from entry into any expedition. For the interests of the British Empire, I implore any readers with similar connections to do the same!

SECRACY DEFENESTRATED! Expedition Revealed!

We are not blind! Our government seems to have thought gathering hundreds of thousands of men along with ships, gun pieces and provisions will go unnoticed by the masses!

For those still unaware, the House of Commons has seemingly approved of a massive expedition from their last meetings. The destination? We do not know, but we are assured by the officials on the ground who are happy to talk that it is no war fleet.

Why the government is trying to launch an expedition in these troubled times, we do not know. You can be assured that we, too, also despair about the disappearance of provisions and goods that would be desperately needed at home, going somewhere we do not know. Some say in the docks that they are embarking on an exploration. Utterly wasteful, we should say, for this is no time for adventuring! All efforts should be focused at home, not wasted offshore for some fool's dream!

So march into your local docks! Protest these vanity projects organised by those snobbish nobles! Breach the lines and liberate the goods stocked in the ships! Don't you want to prevent starvation?! Do you want to save hour families from poverty?! Then do as we say and march alongside us! Towards the docks to stop the madness!

London Socialists Storm Major Publishing Centres

First off, we would like to apologise for the recent publication. Both to our valued audience and the most honourable members of government. It seems a messy rabble of Socialists had infiltrated our major distributors to circulate their drabble at large to our beloved London public.

In light of this, we plead for our audience to ignore the recent messages and again, we profusely apologise for what had transpired. We at TPP shall work to further increase the securities within our publishing centres. You can be assured that this will never happen again.

Furthermore, please dismiss any absurdist rumours or claims that the very same Socialists have spread about us. That somehow the TPP have conspired to monopolise the publishing industry or has cooperated with the government to control popular sentiments or opinions. These claims are all unfounded and have no basis in reality, like the mouths that spoke them!

...
...
...

For those who are still worrying, especially since the Socialist's fearmongering of the preparing expedition, do not be. We would first like to pass on the word from the House of Commons, that they had no intentions of hiding the expedition.

Of course, they wouldn't, for in these trying times, trust is more precious than gold, and our most honourable members of the government would not dare break the sacred bonds that hold our fabric of society together.

To respect this bond, we, the people should repay the favour by trusting our officials wholeheartedly, and believing that whatever they are planning will ultimately prove to be our salvation. This is no time for division! So we must not doubt, but trust our fellow man!

Speaking of a trustworthy man, the most honourable Lord Disraeli and Sir Gladstone have appointed the best among us all! -SIR FLASH! Or professionally, Sir Harry Paget Flashman, to head one of the Western expeditions leaving from the ports of Plymouth.

As always, we have asked for an interview with the prestigious Sir Flash; the foremost charger of the light brigade, defender of Piper's fort, hero of Custer's land stand and victor of Islandlwana! But most unusually, he refused to talk, instead being diverted to a government-appointed aide. Said aide spoke of how the now-world-renowned hero of Britain, especially among the ladies, had valiantly volunteered himself to head one of the three expeditions to discover virgin land.

By our guess, he did so to add to the recently-empty possessions of the British Empire, for we have lost the crown jewel of the Empire! -Only left with its loyal soldiers who seem to have been transported with their new-mother nation.

We pray for Sir Flash's success and foremost his safety. His success? We are assured of that fact. He will need no prayers to bring prosperity to our people, for that is a pre-determined guarantee! We simply pray he would not go the way of Admiral Nelson.

Prices of Foodstuffs Predicted to Inflate Tenfold!

State of Emergency, Vetoed! Germany Saved by The Noble Frederick III

Radicalism Impending. Tensions Rise all Across the Capitals of Europe

The Balkans A Powderkeg! -Violence Rise Endemically in Balkans!

Mad Land Grab in the Balkans! Franz Joesph I Calls for a Convention for an Orderly Partition of Previous Ottoman Territories

Greek Irredentists Captures Istanbul! Proclaims the Recovery of Constantinople! -Russia Objects!

A band of Greek irredentists, claiming to be acting independently have taken over the government offices of Istanbul, formerly the capital of the Ottoman Empire. The latter's sovereignty has all but disintegrated ever since the 'great transformation', its great holdings within the Middle East and Africa having vanished.

This seems to have emboldened these hot-headed radicals to proclaim the restoration of Constantinople, with very little fanfare or resistance from the substantial Greek local population. These 'independent liberators' then subsequently requested for the government in Athens to formally annex their territories, presumably wanting it to return as their capital.

Predictably, the power brokers of the Balkans, namely Russia and the Austria-Hungarian Empire have unanimously denounced this blatant attempt at a land grab. Russia especially has decried the Greeks, forgoing the subtleties that the convention the emperor of Austria-Hungary had proposed would provide, to directly dispute the claims of the Greeks for their former capital.

This is quite predictable. Ever since Peter 'The Great' had declared that every Tzar of Russia should "Take Constantinople," the subsequent heads of state had drooled for it like rabid dogs to claim that legacy. We are simply surprised that they are displaying this desire so shamelessly.

We are still yet to hear an official response from the Greek government. Perhaps they may forever be silent? Abandoning those rowdy 'liberators' to the fate of the Russian bear. Time will tell.

Textile industries collapses worldwide! Hear the hallowing tale of this Midland town with a staggering 70 percent of male able-bodied men unemployed.

Serfdom in Russia shakes. Farmhands all across the world gains immense leverage amid food crisis. The reactionary, stubborn Alexander III allegedly forced to negotiate!

Author's Note

Have started reading the Flashman journals. Got bored, so I just read several summaries and reviews. I'm terrible.

Kinda clueless on how to really write him though, so he's gonna be a bit AU. I mean, how the hell are you supposed to write an admitted fornicator?

Anyways, here begins the first arc... Not really, since it began from the first chapter, but eh.

Here's some foreshadowing:

(There's no good video about the battle of Buxar, so just imagine I inserted one here anyway.)

Like the title of this chapter suggests, I'm gonna make this Victoria 2-esque newspaper thingo every 2 years or maybe more. It's such a shame that they removed the newspaper for Vickky 3 tho. How am I ever going to find out now that EL SALVADOR FEARS OUR MIGHT.

The Balkans exploding is coming up. Hold yer' horses.

Interlude in the Balkan Powderkeg - Creditors of Western Civilisation

"Πάλι με χρόνια με καιρούς,
πάλι δικά μας θα 'ναι!"
"Once more, as years and time go by, once more they shall be ours!"
- Megali Idea

The Greek Irredentist, Resparked

God,

Thou hast allowed me to live till now.

I thank thee and offer up my sufferings thee and pray thee at the same time to take me further into thy protection.

This and several other pious meditations I had with god, and I considered my destiny.

Although it was never quiet the entire night, and though a new battle might have started at any hour, none of all my miseries were so hard and depressing as the thought of my brothers, sisters and friends back home.

This thought was my greatest pain, which I sought to repress with this hope:

With god, everything is possible. So I will depend upon his further help...

...

In the month of March 1888, I and my fellows from the sleepy town of Argos has decided to take up arms, discarding our laborious, monotonous chores to claim a stake in fulfilling the Great Idea.

From there, we marched through Roumeli and Thessaly, pleasantly being surprised to encounter countless like-minded folks on our way, who seemed as determined as we were to accomplish our father's dreams.

The outlook seemed great.

I and all the other soldiers were very merry, always singing and dancing especially since throughout the entire Macedonian Country.

The quarters in eating and drinking were particularly good, because of the large supply of wine the locals would jubilantly supply us with, so that everyone voluntarily had his flasks filled with wine and his pockets with cookies.

At the time of departure moreover, the beautiful villages on the main river, surrounded by vineyards, fruit trees and grain fields put everyone in a happy mood.

We were still very lively in these towns.

Singing and laughing cheerfully, although, we could imagine the unusual campaign before us.

But everyone always believes in and hopes for the best.

The woes are never expected, yet always regretted...

...

...

...

From there, the line of the march turned towards Komotini, along the ancient road that shortly led to Istanbul. A perversion of its original name, Constantinopole, which, we were sure to restore in quick order.

A hope, swiftly dashed by the halt made here by our general.

We were quartered for four days, and by this time we had to be contented with poor food and regiment bread.

We had to drill even on ascension day, justified by our General, Zelos, for most of our's lack of experience.

However, in his lame charm, he would convey so thusly: "I will do you a favour, private, and not arrest you. Do you think I don't know what day it is?"

On Corpus Christi day for those devoted to the Latin church within us, we marched into the city of Corlu.

Here, for the first time, we saw all the corpses of the Ottoman remnants strung together.

We had always encountered sporadic headless barrels of our former oppressors in our journey through the countryside, no doubt, perpetrated by a disgruntled farmer or equally incensed revolutionary.

Here, though? It had seemed our fellow peoples' collectively sought efficient retribution.

All the gates were jammed and the regiments had to wind through the streets in a great throng.

We still obtained quarters, however, we had to prepare our own food from our ration meat and bread.

The meat came from the salted ice pits, and there was a rumour that it had been stored from a regional revolt by our fellow peoples in 1871!

...The condition of the meat made the rumour seem credible, since the meat appeared bluish black and was sharp as herrings. The man who attested to this would forever have our pity, and our equally genuine ridicule.

...

Daily, the hardships increased and there was no hope of bread. My colonel spoke to us once, and said that we could hope for no more bread until we finally reached Silivri, an eye-away distance from the soon-to-be Constantinopole.

But every great achievement imply an equal exchange in blood.

As the Bulgars stood holdfast between our Capital.

On June 25th, the army, under General Zelos's discretion, became determined to march through the Bulgarian formations.

Even today, I still do not know what had compelled him to take such initiative.

I would later learn the government had not consented to Zelos's advance, nor did they even know he was leading a modest army of few adventurers like me and my Argos fellows.

Athens would applaud his eventual results. I would forever curse him for leaving me alive.

Our company was of 80 men now, of the initial 300. Our numbers, having already been shaved from the ravages of disease, had been thoroughly battered from the Berdan Rifles of the Russian's design, lent to our foes whose unfortunate proficiency with their borrowed arms bored bloody holes in our thick ranks.

The same could not be said with our purchased Gewehr 71. Not for their inadequacy, but our inexperience.

I can still feel the splatter of blood across my cheeks, bled by my fellow whose curdling screams slowly quieted behind me as I heartlessly marched forward, possessed by the hardness of those that quickly took my friend's place in the ranks, and the zealous cry of the officer, swaying his sabre hypnotically above his head.

Even as a bullet spilt the contents of the officer's skull across me, I mutely carried on my march, stepping over his limp body, feeling the crunch of his splayed wings beneath my recently souled shoes and the grainy shattering of fragments of his skull.

...

For 200 blurry souls of men in my company, we would take a single hill of many from the Bulgarians.

Sorrow and anger would fill me, as the men who had leisurely shot and massacred my fellows would escape unharmed to another hill overlooking us, this time, leering with cannons.

...

On the morning of June 26th, fit men of every regiment were set in motion, and all advanced in crooked columns against the rigid, refortified Bulgarians.

Here every regiment without exception was under fire again.

And again, the troops attempted assaults, but because of the greater number and training of the Bulgarians, we were forced back every time on this day, since their heavy artillery stood on the heights and could hit what Zelos had generously exposed.

...

Finally, by night, we had made good our position on the heights overlooking Constantinopole, and the battle was discontinued.

That night, the thought of the coming day alternated with fitful sleep, and in fantasy, the many dead men came as a world of spirits, haunting many from good rest.

Before the last judgement, as soon as the day broke, we marched for our holy city.

Once again, we were checked by the disciplined Bulgarians who had not been routed from our previous day's engagement.

Zelos sought the employ of any sappers or engineers among us, only to dismay once he realised we were but petty men, formerly engaged in menial labour either in petite towns or the fields.

Once again, Zelos would resolve, that we had to march directly into the clattering, sharp teeth of the Bulgarian's mouth.

The defences on the road were frontally stormed, but the usual hail of bullets wouldn't meet us.

By then, we had run dry of ammunition, resorting to the bayonets and thereby pitifully hoping the enemy had been struck blind just before our assault.

Faith would have it, our Bulgar foes had similarly been afflicted with a shortage of munitions. Later I would learn, that the Bulgarians had never expected a fight.

But another horror awaited us atop the hill.

Hell came early to many on the 28th.

We never knew what races the Bulgarians, or for that matter, the entire Balkans were supposed to be.

Like lions, they had an encompassing mane, but instead of paws, they had hooves.

They also had an antlered, often vibrant, colourful singular horn on their heads, reminding of valuable gems or rubies.

But most confusing of all, they had scales on their backs whose curvatures straightened into echelons that stretched along their muzzle, accentuating their sightly horn.

At a distant glance, their similar equine silhouettes gave us impressions of regularity. The later sights of scales reminded of us of lizards, or any type of reptile with patterned scales.

Was it complacency then, that we had not considered that the fire-breathing dragons of fantastical tales, also had scales?

The first one was enough to momentarily halt our charge.

Despite the engulfing fire, we definitely spotted the unmistakable highlights of a charcoaled creature galloping, not running, as its epicentre.

The dreadful Bulgar warcries, heard from the days before, heard clearer now, further confirmed our suspicions, then, that these weren't incended objects to break our charge, but quite literally, enflamed Kirins, ripped straight off from the Oriental's texts, before us.

The first of the Bulgar Kirins were soon followed by his entire line, galloping in feral rage downhill towards our own exhausted formations.

In the glaring light of their fiery bodies, I made out their officers, who, strangely were not afflicted with similar spontaneous combustion, as they were still on their two 'feet', rallying their feral comrades to, with great momentum, smash into our scattered ranks.

The first to go, burnt up, was my company's doctor named Stressle, a good Bavarian fellow who had his arm shot away prior while taking the hill, now, harrowingly scorched to death underneath the feral stomps of a blazed hoof.

After the manner of his death, I no longer could pay any attention to my comrades and, therefore, knew not in what way they perished or were lost to later convey to their heartbroken parents or spouses.

Everyone fired and struck at the enemy in wild madness and no one could tell whether he was in front in the middle or behind the center of the army.

Even still, I refused to run.

A blindingly bright hoof, as squint-worthy as it was burning on my skin, approaching my bare cheeks is all I remember of that day.

...

I awoke in a daze, the glaring pain of a scorching brand iron of sorts slowly irradiating from my cheeks to my jaws.

Soon, through spreading pain, I would be made aware that I was burnt all over. Miraculously survived.

Surrounding groans of pains and amalgamated distant, too-quiet conversations quickly told me that I was in a hospital, albeit, clearly a hastily scrounged facility or the 'waiting room' of a triage; those within, like I, deemed beyond expedient treatment to save.

My loud curses, uncaring of the lord above, listening, would, though, disprove the first theory and validate the last, as I would be promptly relocated out of the 'waiting room.'

It was through that, in a passing conversation with a nurse, that I was made aware that I was currently in a Constantinople hospital, after our brutish General Zelos's victory from a timely reinforcement via sea, after a sortie to occupy Cyprus returned triumphantly.

...

...

...

I saw the huge city lying before me.

I contemplatively gazed at the occasional headless Ottoman official, distincted from their severed heads, attached, their awkward headdress. And already, the first fires for the long-sought retribution against the oppressors were lit in the former governor's palaces and the wealthier Turkish districts of the city.

...Clouds of fire-red smoke, great gilded crosses of the church towers glittered; shimmered, and billowed up to us from the city.

This, holy city was like the description of the city of Jerusalem, over which our saviour wept.

It even resembled the horror and the wasting, according to the gospel.

Hurrah! The megali idea had been realised...!

Author's Note

If this chapter seems a bit janky, it's because it is.

I used a soldier's diary as a reference, and used several direct quotes and accounts from them.

Also, by copying his style, I seemed to have made a chapter with absolutely horrendous pacing.

But oh well, what's done is done.

Also, not surprising that soldiers back in those days were mega-religious.

...Continue to Hear an Old Cossack's Tale

The entrance of the tent flapped violently from the sudden intrusion of two guards, their halberds poised threateningly to strike at the supposed pony that their Prince cried out. Walter Griffy seemingly had the same idea, as he had smoothly unsheathed his sword in one stroke to point accurately at the still unamused pony's neck. The tip narrowly bristled against the target's coat, his steady breathing threatening to sink its blade deeper and draw blood.

Danilo would've squeaked if it wasn't for his 'apprentices' composure, which emboldened him too to think things clearly and somehow maneuver out of this mess.

Grover still stared incredulously at the pony in his tent. Sure, it wasn't his first time seeing a pony, for he had been graced with their presence at court from either the delegations from Aquileia or Southern Griffonia who sometimes brought ponies with them. Tartarus, it wasn't even the first time a pony was this close, nor even in his royal tent. What he was really surprised about was that a cossack, the eternal enemy of the ponies, had apprenticed one of their most dreaded races, the very same from the Riverlands that had oppressed them.

Griffy didn't really care about all that. He just knew he had fought with ponies numerous times, and hated their guts on the count that they were liked by the cravens from Herzlander's south. Compound that with his mother's tales of pony debaucheries and general deviancy, and his opinions of ponies were either that they were slaves or enemies. Griffy didn't see any chains on this pony, ergo, enemy.

Making matters worse, soldiers all over the camp began gathering around the royal's tent. Despite being forbidden from doing so unless being addressed by their liege, the commotion from their Prince's shout and the steel-beaked guard's sudden entry to the tent had elicited their great interest. Also, an ever greater worry. Was their Prince in danger? Some began to uneasily brandish their weapons.

"Sire?" The same rude guard from before asked his shocked Prince for orders, not letting his eyes escape the pony while doing so.

Grover II blinked. "At ease! The pony poses no harm!" He shouted towards the entrance.

"Sire?!" Background guard 2 sputtered, his grip on his arms loosening ever-slightly.

The dwellers of the camp similarly broke into a mad choir of whispers, some still doubtful that there even was a pony, but most professing their long-thought beliefs that a pony could not be harmless.

Of course, the Herzlanders of the camp were the biggest proponents of the lattermost theory. The Aquileians among them though were a mix of both while the sparse Wingabardians among them fiercely defended their pony neighbours. Soon enough, the atmosphere of fear quickly began boiling over into hatred, as the soldiers of the camp slowly grew louder and more spiteful of each other, their initial worry gone.

Once again, regionalism threatened to split the Prince's army apart.

For once, Griffy recognised the precarious atmosphere, prompting him to swiftly stash his blade. "RIGHT HE IS! THIS, -MERE COLT POSES NO HARM!" He announced. Very loudly. Evergriff in the in the tent cringed in pain.

But it seemed to do the trick, as everygriff around suddenly was reminded of why they had even gathered in the first place. To protect the Prince. His most trusted commander and first-hand testimony spoke of his safety... So what were they doing?

The soldiers quickly dispersed, departing to their self-segregated parts of the camp, presumably to return to their usual tasks. Get inebriated or maintain.

The guards still uneasily eyed the pony, their tension still low as the only equine in the room seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep. He would've snoozed too, if it wasn't for a certain Baron's outburst.

"I'm not a colt." The pony with two halberds leaning against his neck growled with a scowl, "I'm a stallion."

Danilo dove his head into his cusped claws, suppressing a groan for the decisions that he took that led to the situation now.

"Guards." Grover II muttered tiredly, "You're dismissed." He dejectedly pointed at the exit.

"You heard the Prince! Git' out!" Griffy unexpectedly lunged to push the guards out, visibly to their great displeasure. Even as they fully exited the tent, with Griffy's arms extended out the entrance as it still clung to their shoulders, they still kept their eyes on the ever-unamused 'stallion'.

Grover was impressed at their loyalty and diligence. But he had enough of that in Griffy already, and he was sick of it.

Griffy wheeled with trained elegance, landing his paws towards the acclaimed 'stallion' with a manic grin. His stance was confrontational, still remaining bipedal to add height and somehow leaning forward despite the troubles in balancing. "So..." The baron started, but then suddenly broke into a confused stupor, "Uh. What now?"

Grover, mirroring the expressions of the 'stallion,' faced Danilo, "Now. We ask Danny about his little apprentice."

"I'm not li-!" The pony tried to indignantly yell but was muffled by a whole clenched claw. Grover cringed at the subsequent bite. Ouch.

Hide the pain Danilo "-But of course, sire! Please pardon us, insignificant creatures!" Danilo kowtowed, pulling his supposed apprentice along. At least, he tried to, as the pony resolutely pushed back against his alleged mentor's pull.

Griffy snickered at the display. "Alright, enough of that now. Let go of that claw, will ya?" The pony stared confusedly, before quickly loosening his jaw once briefly glancing at the location of Danilo's claws. It was an amusing scene, especially so, as the pony poorly disguised his embarrassment.

Grover slowly groaned, "Danny. I didn't march all this way, away from the capital to have my paws be suckled by some sleazy noble."

"Right!"

Grover's eyes drifted to his side briefly.

"...So get on with the story, orrrr- I'll bend your digits backwards." He casually decided with a nod.

The pony moved to valiantly defend his mentor, but Danilo pushed forward, finally taking the initiative during the 'meeting'. "I would first like to disclose that I'd... Omitted some information from our previous conversation."

"Mhm-hm?" Grover smiled innocently at this revelation. Griffy became disturbed. By whom, nobody would know.

Danilo contemplated momentarily whether he should even tell his new charge of this information. What would it even serve? But he already had a paw out the door, so his admittance was guaranteed, the question is, should he question the Prince's patience?

He glanced at the subject matter. H̷̡͔̹̰̞̜̆̉͜e̶̮͓͔͔͎̐ ̸̻̪̊́̏͑͌̾́h̸̢̞̻̯̦̟͋̓̆̆̾͋͠ͅa̵̪͋̃̔d̴̺̯̊̾̈́̆̋̕ ̸̢͈̞̹̜͗̋͐͜p̵̼͎̊̊̀̽̈́̅̕u̴̢̨̗͔͖̮̇̿̾̆̌ṷ̶̳͈̱̤͋p̴̢͇̮̙͈͖͓̐̂̍̒̾̐͝ý̵̱ ̶͔̆́̾d̴̺̄͛̉̑o̸̗͇̹͚̊͘ğ̵̣͈̱̍̏̋͆̿̚ ̸̲̀́͋͂ę̷̒̓͘y̶̦̯͕̘̠̋̅̚ę̶͙̳̥͋̍͂̉͒̋͝ͅͅs̶͚̳̓.

Danilo decided he had to live, for the sake of his apprentice. His close presence reminded him of that.

"It wasn't I that collected all those signatures." Danilo held his pony close, and the emotional support fluff didn't push back.

"-You lied?"

Griffy was sweating up a storm. Danilo swore he could see his boots overfilling with it.

"NO! -I mean, no. No, Your Majesty, since technically you spoke on my behalf in saying I did it all in, quote, 'lonesome'." Danilo spoke in careful terms.

Griffy very poorly hid his sporadic glance to his Prince, as if trying to find the cue for his escape.

"Hm."

Grover deliberately pondered, then lightheartedly recalled, "Yes, I remember saying that. How silly of me!"

"THAT YOU AREN'T! HE SHOULD'VE BEEN CLEARER! -I WILL SLAY THIS SWINE TO RECTIFY HIS CRIMES!" Griffy all but leapt to his sword, committing a somersault while grasping the sheath of his blade in both claws. On his back, with trained swiftness, he reached for the hilt of his blade with an obsolete claw to presumptively pull it, but before he landed expertly on his paws.

...Only for an unseen hoof to suddenly extend from the pony's cloak and launch a dagger. A dagger, whose pommel violently smashed against the hilt of Griffy's blade, immediately removing any progress the Baron had in unsheathing it.

"PEACE!" Grover roared, while momentarily glaring deathily at the guards who thought it was their cue to also move in. The prince absently noticed the dagger harmlessly sink into the thick grass below.

Griffy nervously looked to his Prince, but only after flashing the pony an impressed, but hateful glare. Danilo looked like he would faint again. The pony replied with a glare of his own, directed at the baron which dared flash edge at his mentor.

Grover shifted his claw through his upper plumage (essentially, hair), sighing. "Boreas help me... Need I ask why your 'apprentice' has a concealed weapon? -That he brought into the royal tent no less?"

Danilo sputtered incoherently, but it was all pointless since the pony spoke first anyway, "It looks like I needed it." He bluntly dismissed.

Grover stared at the unbelievable pony. "Y'know-, Fuck. I don't care anymore, just tell me your name and why you're Danny's apprentice."

"-He's my dad."

...

...

...

"WHAT?!"

After an uncanny Deja Vu had been dispelled once again, at the credit of Griffy's charm, the situation within the camp had returned to normal. Except with one extra piece of information: THE PONY WAS DANNY'S SON.

"I don't see it." Griffy proved to be of further assistance, "This filly really your fledgling?"

Danilo clamped his supposed successor's muzzle, preventing his angry growl from escaping. "Yes, and his name is Pavlo. Pavlo Skorepadsky Apostle." He finally yielded,

"Skorepadsky? -Yee' had a middle name?" Griffy glared at the cossack, suspicious of why he was so secretive.

Danilo shrugged in response, "I was never asked. It is of little importance anyways."

Griffy was inclined to believe, but the Prince entered a state of vigilance. Something about those two names hit something deep in his conscience.

Grover repeated the name in his head, as it seemingly provoked a certain section of his long-term memory. Reconstruction was hard, but thankfully, he had recently revisited the texts of previous Zaphzian Hetmans to prepare him for this campaign, and he soon drew some connections.

"Apostle... Skorepadsky." Grover said out loud, "Are you perhaps related to Ivan Skorepadsky?"

Griffy's expressions brightened in realisation, "The deceased late Hetman?"

"The very same." Grover nodded, awaiting for Danilo's response.

The cossack's expressions immediately soured, and the late Hetman's name seemed to similarly discourage Pavlo who was still close to him. "He was my brother by law." Danilo managed without a hiss.

"Sibling troubles, 'ey? Trust me, I've been 'tere. Nearly strangled one of my own very closely before." Griffy assured leisurely.

Danilo passively stared at the insensitive baron. "He caused the death of my beloved spouse."

Silence.

...

...

"Shit! -What's the story?!" Griffy much-too enthusiastically exclaimed,

"Hold-on, no no, I'm not gonna hear another bloody history lesson!" Grover suddenly reminded himself of the impending predicament. His expression flexed initially as an attempt to cease whatever would come next. Unfortunately, Danilo had fully realised the reality of possessing the initiative.

"...It was the faithful year of 738 ALB of the pony's calendar. The then Hetman, Ivan Skorepadsky, my brother, recruited my expertise to fend off a Riverlander retaliation..."

"NO! NO! NOT AGAIN!"

The world began to blur, as a flashback began to slowly manifest.

"That... Wretched soon-to-be-vanquished Grand Prince Frail Spear of Jezeragrad launched a punitive expedition against our state. Foolishly believing a war with us would bring swift victory and secure their stability."

"NOOOOOOO!"

Grover desperately grasped at the fabric of reality. Futilessly, as he was soon swallowed into the world of flashbacks.

Author's Note

AHHHHHHH I HATE EXPOSITION AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The next few chapters are gonna be about the Brits, by the way, so sucks to suck.

Also, if anyone's wondering, lil' Pavlo is 15. I'll explain later why that is later. Muchhhh later...

Background Information: South-West Zebrica

South-East Zebrica

This is the route of the Flashman's expedition. He is entering through the Sea confusingly named the "Arabian Coast." But to the Brits, it's just the 'Atlantic'.

An Empire in its Golden Age

This is the absolute unit that is Saddle Arabia, at least according to the Equestria at War wiki: Ignore the Republic of Tobuck, they shouldn't exist yet.
The general gist of the following information is available in the Equestria at War wiki - Timeline.

They're horses btw. Not ponies. (They're no pegasus, only unicorns or 'earth' horses)

But it's pretty barren on its own, so I'm adding a lot of shit.

250ALB - Saddle Arabia is formed by the Sa'adle family as they unite the 'Heartlands'. (The Western region)

296-351ALB -Successive Grand Princes of Saddle Arabia create extensive trade networks across the Arabian Sea, filling the nation's coffers and granting its heirs near-boundless freedoms.

400ALB - Saddle Arabia subjugates the donkeys of Asstyria and Anseruk, seizing the lands of Abyssinia. Subsequently, the buffer states, Despotate of Asstryia and the Eyalet of Anseruk is formed.

510ALB - The then-current Grand Prince of Saddle Arabia begins one of many military campaigns against the disparate Maregyptian minor states, in what would be called the 70-year war.

537ALB - After an intermediate truce, Saddle Arabia redoubles their efforts to conquer the numerous Maregyptian states.

540ALB - A grand conference of numerous Lords, Chiefs and Elders of the various remaining Mareyptian states convene in Somnambula, their historic collective capital. Discussions to create a united front against the Saddle Arabians fail, as three major minor dukedoms scuffle over the leadership of the United Front.

541ALB - The Grand Prince of Saddle Arabia declares his intentions to conqueror Somnambula to demoralise and quash further resistance from the Maregyptians.

542ALB - The first siege of Somnambula fails due in large part to a sudden heroine who organised the city's defences. The very same heroine is promptly assassinated by the jealous mayor of the city.

560ALB - Every Maregyptian state around Somnambula is captured. Sparse counties still exist in between Saddle Arabia and the Maregyptian historic capital, but the end is nigh.

564ALB - The Second Siege of Somnambula begins. The mayor of the besieged city exhausts the city's riches, melting down artifacts and extorting the populace to hire a mercenary band of awesome proportions.

565ALB - Somnambula gains respite through the sea by a mercenary Seapony sortie, briefly breaching the Saddle Arabian blockade to resupply the garrison. The siege is prolonged, leading to the execution of the Grand Vizier presiding over the operation.

566ALB - An edict by the Kingdom of Hippogriffia mandates all mercenaries abroad to return for a suspected confrontation with the marauding Quaggatai. The edict includes terms to compensate any current employers as per the breach of contract decree of any Hippogriffian mercenaries. As a result, seapony mercenaries desert. 'Hippogriffia' becomes synonymous with 'betrayal' in Maregypt thereforth.

567ALB - Somnambula falls. Saddle Arabian soldiers enter a deserted, dead diseased city. It becomes the new capital of the Governorate of Maregypt, finally uniting the region for the first time in five centuries, albeit under foreign rule.

500-600ALB - In what would be called the 'Grand Ride', Saddle Arabia, in a span of a century unite horsekind under one nation. Utilising a provincial system of governance, Saddle Arabia is able to maintain their vast size through decentralised rule.

542ALB - A desperate Sa'adle Grand Prince launches a hastily organised foray into the western regions of the Great Lakers, winning a decisive victory near Re'em which also works to restore the monarch's waning sanity after previous consecutive losses.

547ALB - The three major kingdoms of the western region of the Great Lakes are severely weakened after a half-decade of relentless war.

548ALB - The Nobatsian Kingdom is shattered into various petty chiefdoms after its king is captured and subsequently tortured to death.

549ALB - Marecureia is at first absorbed into the larger Alwani kingdom, but soon devolves into chaos like their Nobatsian neighbours.

550ALB - Through Saddle Arabian meddling, Timbucktu sucedes from the Alwani Kingdom, joined by bordering preliminary states as various western nobles chafe under the increasing taxation from Zongola to repair the previous war's devastation.

625ALB - Chafing under Maretonia's belligerence and insistence on a toll for the passage through the shared strait into the Arabian Sea, Saddle Arabia seizes the Jabil Taill, finally turning the Arabian Sea into their 'lake'.

626ALB - Sanjak-bey of Suhmane is formed, a 'Banner-State' governed by a military commander and not a traditional Beylerbey Eyalet.

626-651ALB - Saddle Arabia launches several more incursions into the Duchy of Maretonia's northern states. The Grand Prince is challenged by an alliance between Maretonia and Aestlonia, called the Pact of Aestrius-Trinity.

651ALB - A truce is signed, ending hostilities in the Hestrayan region. Maretonia and Aestlonia lick their wounds, fostering revanchist sentiments among the displaced nobility to one day reclaim their lost lands.

665ALB - Several zebra 'hordes', recorded dismissively as 'barbarians' are repelled in the east. Local Beylerbeys of the east venture inland, creating buffer states to fend off future incursions.

672ALB - Saddle Arabia attempts several incursions deep into Abyssinia but are beaten back in the rough terrain. A peace treaty is signed, making Abyssinia into an independent tributary, but Abyssinia loses Manedalusia which becomes an autonomous subject of Saddle Arabia.

677ALB - The last 'warmongering' Grand Prince is buried. Following successors preserve the peace, however, the Sa'adle lineage devolve into increasing hedonism.

678-778ALB(present) - Unchecked decentralised rule leads to overwhelming corruption to fester all throughout the nation and spread to its subjects. Regional officials ceased employing the national army, instead opting for private armies to quell revolts or settle disputes with local rivals.

The Pact of Aestrius-Trinity is a creative liberty of mine, as while there is little written about them in the official timeline, I thought it would be realistic for them as the only Ponies in the South to band together against a presumable existential threat.

The Richest Fieflings

Or how treachery cares little of a nation's potential.

The one too busy fighting themselves
The Vassaldom of Abyssinia enjoys the greatest degree of freedom within the Saddle Arabian sphere. One would believe that would work to its benefit, but in reality, it only allowed them to destroy themselves without someone to stop them.

Ever since their prostration to the Grand Prince in 672, two rival royal lineages, the pro-peace Clawomonic dynasty that signed the prior peace treaty and the pro-independence Catwe dynasty battled.

The latter, leveraging the anger of the displaced nobles of the southern holdings, now dispossessed to the lesser donkey vassals, would unseat the Clawomonic lineage to begin the Catwe dynasty in 750ALB. The Catwe king would subsequently purge the nobles that assisted in his coronation, further reneging in his promises to declare a war of independence.

This began the Abyssinian Dark Age, characterised by the displacement of Abyssinian merchants due to the superior Saddle Arabian competition, leading to an economic recession. Furthermore, the removal of the grain monopoly levied by the Clawomonic dynasty would lead to cheap produce flooding in from the Governate of Maregypt, leaving domestic farmers destitute.

It is still disputed today whether the deposal of the sitting lineage was all a conspiracy manufactured by Saddle Arabia to remove the astute Clawomonics in favour of the incompetent Catwe.

The one too proud to realise he was kneeling
The Governate of Maregypt doesn't need Saddle Arabia.

That is what the people within it proudly proclaim. They still did.

It is the job of the governor of Maregpyt to delude their people that it is the opposite.

While yes, Maregypt does periodically flood the Saddle Arabian market with essential cheap produce to keep the vast citizens of the Princedom alive, it wouldn't be possible without the protection of the Grand Prince in Trotgiers!

'The Great Lie' must be repeated. Public schools, extensive road networks and temples exist throughout, not in the interest of the Maregyptians, but to forward the necessary notion: "If it wasn't for Saddle Arabia, we wouldn't be so prosperous. So safe. So proud."

To be proud of being Maregyptian was to love Saddle Arabia.

The Grand Prince brought safety. To protect their families, they must worship him.

They must never realise that all are but appendixes to Maregypt.

Don't worry about the increasingly literate ponies.

They will never wise up.

The one twice prideful, but observant
The Eyalet of Mandalusia had not existed for almost 650 years. One might rightfully expect then, that the national identity of being 'Mandalusian' would've been thoroughly exterminated through assimilation.

You would be wrong.

When Mandalusia was independent under the rule of the ambitious, albeit, delusional Queen Pawkuno in 10ALB, they had invaded the then unstable Maregyptian Kingdom. They had vastly underestimated their enemies, or maybe vastly overestimated their own.

Despite the great turmoil, the overwhelmed king of Maregypt would exhaust the bare remaining resources of the state to repel the feline's invasion, decisively defeating them near the city of R'ataphet in a pitched battle on favourable terrain.

Why the king would do this is still hotly debated. Some say it was to unite his divided ponies through a glorious victory against a foreign invader. Some say it was to inseminate himself into the annals of history; a ray of light in the long period of decline and disgrace.

Regardless of the reasons, the result was the same. Maregypt, having emptied its coffers and scrambled an unsustainable army, refused to disband because of the briberies from scheming nobles. This would lead to the victorious king supposedly being strangled by his unpaid guards and then dumped into one of the many rivers of the Kingdom.

Probably due to this great instability, Maregypt would not be able to reap the rewards of their victory. The subsequent regency council of Maregypt would relinquish their claims of Mandalusia by right of conquest to their regional rival, Abyssinia for a single, significant tribute. Presumably to bribe the overbloated army to disband.

The very same bribed by the nobility to stay mobilised.

For that century, mercenaries active throughout Western Zebrica would brandish golden mails, silver hilts and intricately decorated armours.

The latter refused to dignify it as a tribute, instead recording the transaction as a 'purchase', nevertheless gaining the former territories of Mandalusia.

The prideful cats of Mandalusia would eternally resist. Not only slighted by being bested by a decaying, senile Kingdom of Maregypt, but furious that they were not even subjugated by the foes that defeated them, but by some sleazy merchants that purchased that right.

For six centuries they rebelled.

For their effort, their gods gave them such an unsatisfying 'independence'.

A paw exchanged for a hoof. Ironically, bluntness was exchanged for sharpness.

But while they could easily decide to bite the paws away, the hoof that now rested on their heads posed a dilemma.

The so-called 'last warmongering Grand Prince' of Saddle Arabia was deceivingly sly. Extremely so, as time seemed to tell.

The land granted to the new Eyalet of Mandalusia was undefendable. It contained the eastern core regions of Abyssinia, making garrisoning them impossible due to the likelihood of the locals rebelling. The Grand Prince had also 'generously' granted the western ports of Maregypt to Mandalusia, the very same coveted by the delusional late Queen Pawkuno.

Altogether, this created a toxic diplomatic atmosphere. Whenever the governor of Maregypt, King of Abyssinia and beylerbey of Mandalusia convened at the behest of the Grand Prince in Trotgiers, they would always devolve into a shouting match. The governor wished to appease their foreign subjects. The king wished their core territories returned. The beylerbey would grovel at the Grand Prince for his mediation.

That would be the legacy of the 'last warmonger'. An insufferable stateman. Crafting a scenario of perpetual conflict, eliciting all subjects to grovel the Sa'adle's hooves.

The Mandalusians wished to poke out their eyes for who they had become.

The stubborn twins, smartest of all equines
Paradoxically, the twin stubborn donkey vassals of Saddle Arabia enjoy the least manipulative relationship within the kingdom.

Stubbornly loyal. They say. Also paradoxical, as the loyalties of the donkey vassals are the most fluid in all the lands.

One might then dismiss the respective Despotate of Asstryia and Eyalet of Anseruk as nothing but a deadweight to the greater kingdom, a detriment, perhaps. But again, the paradoxes of the twins would prove the antithesis.

Their nature of ever-moving loyalty hid the succulent quality of a never-shifting anchor. For once a foreign nation seized the cheap guardianship of these stubborn creatures, they would serve desperately in the interest of their constantly rotating masters.

They had no magic. They could not fly. They could not farm better than the next illiterate Pie. They were no stronger than their pony cousins. Smaller than the horses. Pitiful in water unlike the deers, less vainglory than the griffons.

The donkeys would still serve though. With a near-endless reservoir of stubbornness, one surely honed from their contempt for their creators. Creators that rid them of any tools that would allow them to stand above others. The very same creators that birthed their species in such precarious lands, bordering not two, but four belligerent nations.

Many would simply give up. Many more would simply try to move, to flee from such an unforgiving land to a better place.

Not the donkeys though.

Because curse the gods! They would live despite their apathy! The donkeys would show those petulant gods that they sure as Tartarus didn't need them to live! They didn't need some kind of cheat! They didn't need a talent! THEY WOULD SURVIVE, EVEN THRIVE, DESPITE BEING NEGLECTED!

...

The Saddle Arabian lieutenants and generals would always comment on the unbreakable resolve of their donkey auxiliaries.

Their ugly mug, normally unbearable, would be a celebratory sight whenever they appeared on the nearest hills, for victory always followed.

"Steel-forged expressions. Tempered resolves. Uncaring of pain, even more despondent to death. Unapproachable in peacetime, terrifying in battle, a scourage in debates. Utterly insufferable. Yet, forever desirable. Such are the equines that despise the gods." - Unknown Maregyptian scholar

The survivors

A memory of grandness
The cold western half of Cape Hestraya is split horizontally between the northern Duchy of Maretonia and in the bottom, Aestionia.

Legends speak of an ancient king from Maretonia, a great alicorn, even before the time of Equestria's alicorn siblings that conquered the entire southern quarter of Zebrica, subjugating the squabbling zebras to the east, warring states of the yetis before finally reaching the borders of the Kirian provinces.

The great king is said to have named several major settlements he conquered after himself, yet the lack of uniformity throughout the southern Zebrican cities opposes this testament.

The fate of this great, possibly mythical king is unknown. Some records suggest he died from an unknown, but fatal disease referred to as "The every fourth day fever." Other records attest he was poisoned by disgruntled officers.

What is for sure though, is that this myth, or not, has shaped greatly what the Maretonians think of themselves. Dangerously so. To the point of delusion, as the year 625ALB would prove. Monkeydonians

The only reason such a group of ponies could survive lies with the existence of their southern neighbour, Aestionia. Remindant of the fabled Ying-yan, balance exists within the western half of Cape Hestraya. North is for ignorant pride. South is for observant humility.

While Maretonia was busy provoking Saddle Arabia, Aestionia had observed and studied why the Maregyptian statelings had been defeated, but most importantly, how they had held for so long, despite being decentralised.

Believing war with Saddle Arabia would be inevitable, Aestionia would further cement their relationship with Maretonia to eventually create a united front when the provoked Grand Prince invaded their lands.

The pact would be named after Aestrius, meaning 'Starry', who was also possibly mythical. An alicorn or unicorn, depending on the sources, that had established Aestionis even before the later 'great' alicorn of Maretonia.

The 'Trinity' aspect of the pact's name pays homage to the 'idol' of Maretonia, since his name is lost to history and three possibilities of what it could be remain. The question even exists physically, in the forms of three major noble families that exist as power brokers within the Duchy of Maretonia that respectively claim his legacy.

To these shameless families, history is not sacred, but a tool to further their own interests.

To appease these families, the princess of Aestionia would adopt the long-existing standard of the 'Trinity' followed by the lesser Maretonian nobilities to begrudgingly unite them against an immediate threat. Unbeknownst to their northern 'ally', Aestionia withholds the 'true' heir of the mythical Great conqueror, prepared to reveal him if Maretonia proves to be too overbearing. But for now, they're a useful buffer against the Saddle Arabian horde.

The spiritual brothers of a certain mountain warrior caste
They say the dragons southbound do not care of coins.

They say the dragons of the frozen mountains value glory above all.

They say the dragons of ice, both in blood and temperament fight for whoever would offer them the most honour.

Skeletons of their past great warrior's adventures litter the supposed path that the Great Maretonian Conqueror paved.

But these dragons are short of words. They care little of concluding some mortal's succession crisis, even little in confirming the truth of some nation's tales of their foundings.

They're too busy cheering for their deaths. Crying out the names of their deceased ancestors who similarly fought to their deaths.

For there is no greater shame among the Dragons of ice than to die peaceably. The elderly or disabled among them resort to ritual battles against one another to achieve a satisfying, warrior's death.

We could only hope to grace the scene of our great ancestor, wielding these indomitable soldiers in battle, conquering the southern swathes of Zebrica with similar zeal and apathy for danger.

The dragons of ice are truly the greatest treasures of our valiant ponies. - An extract commissioned by a minor nobility of Maretonia.

The eternal conflict between state and society

Major settlements are starred.
Keys:

Green - Horsekind

Light Purple - Donkeys

Blue - Abyssinians (Felines)

Black - North Zebrican Pony

Dark Purple - Hestrayan (Ponies)

Opaque Grey - Dragon

Yellow - Great Laker (Zebras)

Fuck it, imma just copy the wiki's descriptions:

Horses
Horses are sometimes considered to be the same race as ponies, but there are several notable differences. Most obviously, horses are much larger in size than ponies and lack cutie marks. In addition, there are only two subgroups, earth horses and unicorns, with no equivalent to pegasi. Horses favour more arid environments, being able to thrive in harsher conditions than ponies.

Thankfully, unlike the pun-obssessed ponies, horses dignify their flock with respectable names.

Zebras
The Zebras are equids similar to earth ponies but recognizable by their striped black and white coat. Their flanks bear cutie marks, albeit they are far more abstract in appearance than those of ponies. They have magical abilities, but most of their magical practices involve the craft and use of potions and communion with spirits. Unlike their pony cousins, zebras tend to live in more arid or tropical climates.

Dragons
Dragons, much like in classical fantasy, are rare, fire-breathing winged lizards. In Equus, they vary dramatically in size, with the majority being humanoid-sized or a bit larger, but occasionally they may grow (or be magically induced) to be several stories high. Dragons tend to be competitive and respect strength, and are derisive of non-combative races such as ponies. Many are solitary, with the Badlands and islands off the east coast of Equus, owned by the Dragon Tribe, being the closest thing to a nation-state.

The dragons of Zebrica are comparably far more decentralised, aptly being described as a collection of tribes. Their sizes also vary, however, due to their lack of contact compared to their Equus relatives at the behest of one, Spike, the dragons are far less socially acclimated. Perhaps due to this, their emotions are far less restrained, leading overall to a superior mean size.

Ponies
Ponies are small, colourful equines found across the world of Equestria at War. They are generally friendly, peaceful and capable. Herbivores, they naturally fear predators and defend themselves through cooperation. They wield various magic, but all possess minor magic that allows them to manipulate objects and perform fine work with hooves. There are 3 major types of ponies, and several minor ones.

Earth Ponies have neither wings nor horn, but are innately connected to the earth and land. They have a magical affinity for growth and agriculture, and tend to be stronger than their counterparts. This practical inclination can also manifest as an aptitude for mechanics and technology.

Unicorns are powerful spellcasters, who channel spells and telekinesis through their horn. However, most are not especially powerful, and only know basic telekinesis and specialist magic relating to their talent and hobbies. With telekinetic magic, unicorns can multitask whilst performing highly dextrous tasks such as needlework. For this reason, unicorns tend to be more highly employed as scholars, artisans and writers.

Especially skilled unicorns are rare, but can wield incredible powers such as shields, healing, flying, teleportation, invisibility, energy blasts and even time travel.

Pegasi are winged, flying ponies, and have natural magical powers over weather and the skies. They can travel quickly and are responsible for managing weather around Equestria, including preventing natural disasters, allocating rain and managing the change of seasons. Because of their maneuverability, they are often employed to patrol and range distances, with the best fliers employed in elite special forces units.

Donkeys
Donkeys are supposedly the smartest species of equine, and also the most resilient, adaptable and self-sufficient. Unlike their pony cousins who wield the three domains of Earth, Air and Magic the donkeys are comparably magically lame. Known as the race unfavoured by the gods, the race is notoriously cranky. Any creature unfortunate enough to fall into a conversation with an ass can attest to the grumpiness of their very existence. Yet, the donkeys never seem to wallow in despair. They stubbornly soldier on, admirably challenging fate, spurning magic in all its forms to create a prosperous future for a race so disadvantaged by the gods.

A dangerous 'few' among them even believe magic to be innately evil. The innumerable numbers of captured unicorns and pegasuses returning with their horns shattered or wings amputated post-treaties speak doubt of 'their' supposed rarity.

The time was still not right.

Felines
Native to Abyssinia alone, the Felines are essentially anthropomorphic cats. They are, uh-.... ummmmmm...

Huh.

They're literally just smart cats. Huh.

I guess they're just cute punching bags. I could say that they are a creature focused on intrigue, but that might be just stereotyping. Humans cheat eachother too. Perhaps even more than these cats.

Society

Hmmmm... So, this-, nation. What's it called?

Saddle Arabia.

Ohh-ho. A little on the nose? Isn't it?

...

Lemme guess, it's some-, great parody of Saudi Arabia! Oh-oh! Maybe its an imitation of the entire Middle East! -Adventurous aren't we?

You blew up a hospital

Hey, hey!.. Why so serious? -Let's keep talking about these horsies. So. What are they? The Seljuks? Seleucids? Persians? Or maybe the more modern Ottomans?

-How?

Let's just say the Arkham has an interesting library. Now, what is it?

...All of them.

Woah-ho! I like... I like... So. About the monkeydonians now.

I'm removing the asylum's router.

Oh, you're no fun. But why's Estonia the sub?

The State

As of writing, Lockheed Martin stocks are up due to Hamas. Got a great payday. God bless the military-industrial complex. Might as well. If you don't try to benefit from a tragedy, only the devil wins.

The Saddle Arabian Kingdom is decentrally governed from the capital of Trotgiers. The Grand Prince only directly controls the coasts surrounding their majestic capital, with their vast outer holdings, especially those beyond the Arabian Sea being held on the Grand Prince's behalf by appointed beylerbeys in the form of 'eyalets'.

The highest royalty of Saddle Arabia possesses the authority to upstage, replace or even execute, in any of those orders, the 'personally' appointed beylerbeys of the kingdom. However, in reality, many of these so-called 'servants' of the Prince exercise near-complete autonomy. A symptom of the great erosion of Royal authority that began ever since the 'Last Warmongerer's' death.

Some eyalets democratically elect their beylerbeys, usually, these relics of a pluralist past are no larger than the amalgamation of two city-states. Most decide on their beylerbeys through paternal succession, either through a primitive form of primogeniture or house seniority. This act, once punishable by death of the entire offending bloodline, is now widely permissible through the apathy of the gluttonous Grand Prince, who refuses to leave the lavish palaces of Trotgier.

Though who could blame the Sa'adle family? For Trotgier is the closest to a heavenly paradise that could possibly exist on their mortal planet. Only the richest officials, generals and merchants are allowed to reside in the great capital, and as a testament to the great prosperity of the kingdom, over two hundred thousand souls reside there, made up of various races of the Kingdom.

If something is less inexpensive than the purest ingot of gold, it does not exist in Trotgiers. The aforementioned material is so insignificant, so unremarkable that the residents of the capital routinely trample it in their walks, the intricately paved roads of the magnificent city being carelessly engrained with the ordinarily precious metal.

Elaborate gems decorate the walls of every house. An understatement, perhaps, as 'mansion' would be a more applicable description of such tall specimens of architecture. Surely reminding the onlookers of skyscrapers that would not come almost until the next three centuries.

Most important of all, the capital is accentuated by a grand central plaza, privately owned and accessible by the Sa'adle family alone. Such was the name, 'The Forbidden Plaza'.

The property is overwhelming. Excessively frivolous, blindingly focused on vanity, nakedly pleasure-seeking. Undoubtedly shameful for the founders of the once-great Sa'adle family that neurotically preached modesty.

In the middle, a great pillar stands, created by solid gold. This impossibly tall monument is surrounded by the spoils of their ancestors' previous victories, once hidden away with humility in vast warehouses, now pridefully displayed. Historic artefacts from Egypt, surreal artworks varying from intricately carved marble statues and jumping paintings from Abysinnia, and rare silver and gold tablets containing the mysterious writings from the Zebras of the Great Lakes are scattered sporadically, their messiness of positioning, countered alone by their sheer beauty.

If discounting the overt sin of pride, the Palace of the Capital truly deserves the title of the manifestation of heaven on their meek mortal realm. Only if, it wasn't for the very owner of this paradise.

He was dangerously obese, somehow more unsightly than the least charismatic donkey and his hooves visibly leaking pus, after presumably ignoring the warnings from his physicians of the risk of gout.

Despicably, he was surrounded by the fairest mares that barely refrained from flashing an expression of abject disgust at this sad excuse of a creature. They were but tributes, offered without their consents to the Grand Prince so that their beylerber fathers may gain favour, or more likely, a single compensation to prolong a rivalry or feed their own excesses.

With forced smiles and serenity, the servants-in-all-but-name took over the Grand Prince's responsibilities of living. Even in this faculty, common to all living things, it had been delegated to another. The Sa'adle family, once the lineage that had set the entire section of their continent to heel, were now led by a lazy, gluttonous hedonist.

He cared little about the Kingdom's increasing decentralisation. Most probably ignorant of how his unrestrained nobles were accumulating personal power so as to not rely on the capital and wrangle their neighbours with impunity. Not a single thought of how his nobles were devastating their own lands in undisclosed wars passed him. Nor did the dangerous rising of several major autonomous officials, able to counter even his influence enter his mind.

The work his ancestors had spilt hard sweat and blood to fulfil was now wasted on a sorry heir.

Not that he felt guilt. He did not even worry about how his next meal would be procured. Not even the most basic purpose of his mind was being fulfilled.

The Grand Prince in Trotgiers simply ate, was 'entertained' and slept without a worry in the world within a blurry loop.

The foreign ships in Jaffmare were no worry to him. The eyalets would handle it.

The British Expedition

Alfred Ernest Albert, Duke of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha

He became the Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet in March 1886, with his flagship HMS Alexandra, a central battery ironclad.

He had been promoted to admiral on 18 October 1887 at age 43. Probably as a result of nepotism, considering he was the second son and fourth child of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Or maybe not, since he was described as having "a great natural ability for handling a fleet" and was noted that he "would have made a first-class fighting admiral."

He would be tasked to 'lead' the 'Flash Expedition' with a sortie including:

HMS Trafalgar

HMS Victoria

HMS Sans Pareil

HMS Nile

HMS Hero

HMS Conqueror

HMS Benbow

Alongside several other troopships

Like his parents, he is now a griffon of Germanic stock, sharing similar plumage to a German hawk as such:

Sir Harry Flashman is a chicken in his upper half. Well, more accurately a cock.

The pony-to-griffon ratio of the entire expedition is 4:3.

The boys
The expedition includes the 1st and 2nd division. They are respectively comprised of 6,000 infantry, 850 cavalry, 82 artillery pieces, 14,000 infantry, 1750 cavalry and 44 artillery pieces.

They are also joined by the 1st Sikh infantry and the 1st Madras Pioneers. The 42nd and 43rd Gurkha Regiments have also joined. This totals the 'auxiliaries' with 12,000 Indian infantry, 61 artillery pieces and 4000 Gurkhas.

In total, the expedition comprises of 36,000 infantry, 2600 cavalry and 187 artillery pieces.

On a footnote, the expedition has brought 17 modern Gatling guns, 21 outdated Gatling guns and 3 of the new Maxim machine guns. Those will be important later.

Also if you're asking what the cavalry is going to do without horses, it's this:
Jk, but they'll figure something out... Maybe

Horatio Henry Kitchener, 1st Earl Kitchener will be practically in charge of the expedition.

Harry Flashman will accompany him, acting as a figurehead for the media.

Kitchener is now a bright pink unicorn. No doubt hilarious to his uncountable detractors, as Kitchener's cold personality and his tendency to drive his men hard made him widely disliked, especially by his fellow officers.

The fact that his gruff voice carried over made it even funnier, but now his tendency to overcompensate for his 'cuteness' was not found as humourous by his men.

Sir Edward Seymour will 'aid' Alfred Albert, making sure the paternal appointee does not blunder.

If not on the flagship advising Prince Alfred, Sir Seymour will be on HMS Victoria.

Seymour had drawn the jackpot in his transformation when compared to the pink monstrosity that was Kitchener. He had an opaque crater coat that cooly fit with his silver, dark-tinted aging mane.

With the majestic uniform of the British Admiralty over him, he looked most defined, especially with the fantastical horn protruding just underneath his worn tricorne.

His great patience, desire for glory and personable charm had led to him being immediately accepted into the expedition once he volunteered.

Author's Note

God, I'm getting sick of all these goddamn puns.

Also, if you can't tell, I gave up halfway.

Also, also, the Ottoman Empire and the Middle East as a whole couldn't abolish slavery until even up to the 20th century. This means Saddle Arabia will still have slaves.

Here's a shadow that is foreseeable in front of you:
I still hate writing expositions.

Also, also, also, I realised I usually write in the third person, so writing Flashman won't be as difficult as I thought. It is actually somewhat fun, trying to write from the perspective of all the other people he managed to impress / fool.

The Brits roll a nat20... Again

(("*")) Double bracketted dialogue means it is in a foreign language.

"...India is a subcontinent of many political entities, in which every village is a republic..."
-British colonial administrators after only a year in Bengal, soon to establish the 'Raj' thanks to the treachery of the autnomous vassals in the Mughal Empire.

"...China's power is but an illusion, for just beyond the veil, all was rotten, soon to collapse." "Give me a frigate! -And I will decimate their junks!"
-George Macartney after spending less than a year in the Qing dynasty that would soon spiral into disastrous ruin.

The British weren't strong. But they had an inconceivable amount of luck. The very luck that would fortuitously make their enemies weak, just at the moment when they fought them.

April 1889 / April 775ALB

The Port of Jaffmare had seen a lot. It was one of the first few major settlements swept under the colossal tide, that was the Sa'adle family. Its denizens would serve the subsequent Saddle Arabia well, producing great commanders, heroes and generals who would assist in the subjugation of the entire sub-continent.

But evidently, they hadn't seen enough.

The dockworkers of Jaffmare had already been on alert, anxiously scanning the distant sea for a lost trading vessel. Allegedly, it had gotten lost from its sister ship in a nightly flash storm while hopping along the 'Arabian coast', not referring to the confusingly named sea, but their actual coastline.

The worst was already being circulated among the labourers, no doubt being discussed by the harbourmaster's council as well. The sister ship that managed to return had lost nearly a quarter of its crew by the ferocity of the storm alone, the other quarter being swept under the waves. The traumatic accounts of those who survived had shaken the very citizens of Jaffmare as they quickly dispersed into the nearest taverns, and soon the news had spread to the beylerbey of Jaffmare.

Normally, no sane creature in all of Saddle Arabia, especially any outside it, has any sympathy for the Kingdom's beylerbeys. If they had thought the Sa'adle Grand Princes to be hedonistic leaches, the beylerbeys were the entire colonies. Undoubtedly far more dangerous than the thoughtless royalty in Trotgiers. These so-called 'appointed servants' of the Prince were nothing but that title, milking his subjects dry to fund their own interests.

Everycreature knew that the tribute these beylerbeys sent to Trotgiers was tenfold less than what they extracted from the populace. So why were they feeling sorry?

The lost ship had a very valuable cargo. One, if lost, would probably not raise the ire of the Grand Prince, but would definitely make the nearby beylerbeys hound onto to the Jaffmare governor and promptly deliver his severed head to Trotgiers as 'righteous retribution'. Or, simply, as a punishment carried out on behalf of the state, therefore, a service deserving a handsome reward. Or perhaps killing a rival governor was reward enough, and the expected gift from the Grand Prince a nice bonus.

Any excuse was good enough to sever any governor's head. But this? It was almost too good to be true.

Was it the gold? No, it was comparably worthless. The 'cargo' was a nephew of the Sa'adle Grand Prince.

Yep.

Their governor was fucked.

It didn't help that they were transporting supposed treasoners. The Grand Prince was spoiled a good public quartering.

The denizens of Jaffmare just hoped that the beylerbey would simply be replaced, but it was most likely a fool's dream. It was tough to admit, but they would probably be absorbed by the ravenous Gallarb eyalet, that stretched from Mareakech to Awal, governed by an ambitious distant relative to the current Grand Prince.

Their crippling tax was soon to be replaced with an unlivable one. Soon, like many others before, they would need to migrate east, across the Arabian Sea to escape into the comparably bearable peripheral eyalets. Apparently to many in Saddle Arabia, living with constant Zebra raids was preferable to paying more taxes.

But these contemplations would be relievingly dispelled from the sight of a speck atop the ocean, approaching Jaffmare quickly. The dockworkers would've cheered, if not for the sighting of several other specks swiftly joining the initial subject.

Confusion replaced jubilation. For sparse among them literate in marine navigation, balked. The ships were impossibly fast!

Now, Jaffmare wasn't some minor port city.

Actually, it was the second-largest port city, behind only the Kingdom's capital of Trotgiers itself. Coveted by all, especially by the aforementioned ambitious relative ruling over the Gallarb eyalet, Mir Jal-far Saddle, who had subsumed every territory of the western heartlands except for the crown jewel, Jaffmare, and obviously, not Trotgiers, the capital. It didn't mean he didn't covet it any less.

Home to 180,000 souls, 20,000 shy of the royal capital, Jaffmare was as modern, but not as frivolous as Trogiers. The paved roads were not engraved with gold, nor were the buildings decorated with rich gems, but there were definitely more of them in Jaffmare, and subsequently, the 'second-largest city' strangely covered more ground than the capital did.

So why did they feel so small?

Every onlooker began to sputter, some slack-jawed as the unmistakable sign of iron or sanely, perhaps a shining type of metallic wood-laden ships approached them casually. Billowing great heaps of smoke from what they recognised as massive twin chimneys in the centre, the mighty vessels, definitely double the size of their own, effortlessly pushed aside the great waters despite the lack of sail.

Quite immediately, the rumours of 'giant metal smokers' elicited a flashmob, as the denizens of Jaffmare poured into the port to bear witness to this mysterious, and somewhat ridiculous claim. Meanwhile, those residing in properties facing the Sea cracked their windows, the dockmaster following from his petite office, accompanied by his counsellors who momentarily wrestled for a clearer view.

The governor? He was still missing ever since the news of the missing vessel. He had probably fled, escaping the death penalty for failing to prevent a natural disaster. The empty treasury sure proved that.

The harbourmaster's expressions would suddenly harden. He would see Jaffmare through this.

A Month Earlier... The Deck of HMS Alexandra

"...So." The howling winds, bombarding rain and crashing waves barely made the voice of the speaker audible, much less, recognisable.

The ship's bow crashed down thunderously, displacing the ocean and spilling its contents in a hiss all across the deck, soaking the personnel still remaining precariously on it... Plus four notables.

The rising bow gave enough reprieve for the same prior voice to speak, "-Pray tell, why are we exposing ourselves to the elements?"

"Why? -For the dramatic scene, of course, sir Flash!" Seymour cheered, who was quickly laundered with a blast of seawater as the bow sunk. He coughed dignifiedly, sipping the salty, diluted tea which he held quaintly with both hooves.

Flashman, or Flash for short, squinted. "...Huh?"

"Hah! -I jest, sir Flash! I merely intended to dispel any homesickness." Seymour's tricorne flew off, landing wetly on Albert's face.

"Most splendid." The Prince agreed neutrally, extracting the hat from his eyes with a pinch which flapped violently from his loose 'grip'. "Although I regret the treatment of our precious tea." He made a show by lifting his teacup, whose contents presumptively emptied on his face as the deck lifted.

Kitchener witnessed the tricorne in the Prince's claws escaping and hurtling towards a screaming sailor who desperately held onto the railing. It impressively struck the terrified sailor's beak, causing him to spin and disappear into the dark abyss.

"CATCH HIM!"

He should be fine. "Choppy weather this is." He sipped his tea, cringing when he only tasted salty seawater.

"Quite." The table finally gave away, the wind making it flightworthy to ultimately smash itself against two sailors who were carrying the previous griffon swallowed into the abyss. They too, hurtled into the dark with a painful cry.

"Hmm... Peculiar how that hadn't happened sooner." Seymour stared into the abyss, and the overused quote didn't repeat itself.

"Most fascinating." Albert chorused.

"An accurate assessment." Kitchener echoed.

Flash blinked. "Mhm." He finally decided.

"MEN OVERBOARD! BRING OUT THE HALE!*"

Short for Hale rockets, it was essentially just a glorified rescue rope tied to a rocket that was more reliable than the Congreve ones.

Seymour calmly set down his tea on the non-existent table, launching it with the wind. "Well, this was a most entertaining convention. -I believe a thanks is owed to the Prince for allowing us to gather on his vessel." He called into attention the prince, by the waving of his hoof. The target of everyone's attention then gracefully stood.

Predictably, the chair beneath him became airborne.

"The thanks are underserved, sir Seymour. All Brits are welcome on my flagship." He curtly leaned in a half-bow.

The fellow officers of the empire took this opportunity to rise, sending the rest of the furniture on deck into the air.

A painful hiss and a red glare in the distance signified the firing of a rescue rope.

"Oh dear."

"Hm?" Seymour turned to the Prince, who seemed a foot higher.

"It seems I've entered involuntary flight." Albert stared at the gradually distancing deck.

"How unfortunate." Kitchener quipped, catching Flash rising as well in his peripheries.

"Do call the men." Albert hugged his wings close, but Flash seemed ignorant of aerodynamics, as he most unwisely unfurled his wings.

"That we shall, your highness." Kitchener watched Albert spiral into the dark. But Flash though? -He had improvised a space program.

The acclaimed hero's cry of terror fortuitously became muffled by the very same violent storm that had snatched him from the decks. He frailed aimlessly, numb to the sensation of his wings catching the winds and further spiralling him into the dark unknown.

FUCK YOUUUUUUU-, GLADSTONE!

Britain, Gladstone's Residency

Sir William Ewert Gladstone sneezed into his claws. "Accursed cold..." Growling, he wished he could've been part of the expedition, but he was too important to leave Britain.

He had to squalor beneath the London climate while Flash presumably enjoyed a tropical adventure."...He better thank me later for sending him on that vacation!" Gladstone angrily returned to his work.

Same Time. The Lost Merchant Ship, "Cliché"

"CAPTAIN! SHE CANNOT HOLD!"

"SILENCE, DAMN YOU! THIS ISN'T HER FIRST STORM! SHE'LL PUSH THROUGH!"

The middling oak of the ship creaked dreadfully as it was abused by the giant waves that forcefully bent the ship to and back. Sporadically, the entire ship would be submerged into the ocean, carried under by the waves but quickly reemerge thanks to the ship's buoyancy.

For now, the accumulated damages manifested themselves with the sudden snap of mast and its spar holding it, eliciting cries from the crew, who, some among them, got crushed under the beams, adding to the chaos of noise.

"WE'VE LOST THE SAIL!"

"I'M NOT BLIND! -LESS TALK! MORE BAILING!"

The crew continued their futile fight, despite knowing that without their sails they were extirpated from the option to escape the storm. Now, they had no choice but to outlast the storm, an invariable death sentence, even in a deep-sea dhow.

The conditions were truly miserable. Some horses that dared approach the railings too close had even been thrown aboard, swallowed by the unforgiving ocean in a comparably peaceful 'plunk'. Any inexperienced crew, except five, on the ship by now were all submerged, having long ago lost their balance on the twisting and turning ship.

Their mouths, always busy either shouting commands or pulling miscellaneous ropes would prove susceptible to the seawater that repetitively splashed onto the deck or momentarily submerged them, entering their throats and scorching their innards. The poor sailors would've succumbed to their pains too, if it weren't for the rain. Proving to be a fickle mistress, the freshwater flushed their mouths, ridding them of the salt that panged their tongues.

Their efforts were noble, even inspirational.

Which made it more depressing that their work proved ultimately futile.

The ocean roared, no longer amused by the puny mortal's romantic struggle. Omnipotent nature would soon again prove their superiority against desperate wills.

"Great Asura... WHAT IS THAT?!"

'That' proved to be a titanic wave, easily equal, if not taller than their dhow that was now without its spar. What was most terrifying was that their bow was pointing downwards, having bounced and climbed the recent wave.

"Over a hundred feet." The captain internally murmured, hushedly wishing for a favourable afterlife.

"HOLD ON! -FOR DEAR LIFE!"

The head of the ship dove straight down into the depression of the wave, tilting the dhow abruptly upright.

As it were, horses proved ineffectual in the air. Even less so in water. So it proved devastating when their ground disappeared and the unstoppable water ahead of them threatened to temper them like an iron on an anvil.

The wave's crest crashed into the quarter-deck first, violently pushing the wheel and the captain who dearly held onto it against the roof of the officer's quarter, soon breaking through the stretched, stressed oak and snapping the mighty vessel in half.

The horses on the main deck would suffer mixed fates, but most were not afforded the same mercy granted to their captain, who fleeted swiftly.

When the wave finally crashed, the snapped dhow suddenly found itself 15 meters deep inside the ocean, sinking quickly, its buoyancy lost by innumerable damages to the hull, especially to its middle.

It was then, perhaps a work of fate that the navigation room survived with relative integrity, launched by the same force that pressed the 'Clichés' captain to his death.

So who had the Great Asura Mazda spared from the crew of 200?

12 horses. 5 greatly distressed, and 7 uninvited.

The British had caught a great prize.

Dettached Navigation Room
"THE PRISONERS ARE LOOSE!"

Four guards, who had all evidently ditched their armours, immediately braced themselves around a sobbing individual, covering him from view.

The atmosphere was tense, especially so by the darkness which was barely staved off by the illuminating glow of the guard's horns levitating their respective elaborate scimitars. Ditching one's armour was prudent, especially in the interest of survival. Ditching their swords, though? They could forget about being an imperial guard. Even the lowliest levy knew not to forfeit their means of murder.

"Peace." A unicorn among them emerged from the darkness, awkwardly so, as he poorly manoeuvred himself in the shaky compartment. "We don't murder children like those you serve." He hatefully spat.

"Bold claims from a shackled stallion!" The furthest guard facing away from the emergent horse snapped back.

Said horse raised a brow in amusement. "We earned these shackles for resisting the decadent Sa'adles' and his retinues." He shook the remaining chains on his cuffs as a point, "But I suppose it's pointless discussing philosophy with you brainwashed nails." His expressions immediately became darker.

The guards swished their swords about, causing some of the prisoners who had been approaching too close, back.

An earth horse among those circling the guards would soon clarify their intentions, renewing the guard's resolves. "We know you, nails, aren't much for talk, but we're pretty familiar in your 'language' too!"

The prisoners suddenly produced various weaponry, ranging from daggers used by the sailors and even some blunt hatchets of mysterious sources.

The guards went wide-eyed at this unforeseen development. Sure, it would've been a laughable scene with their qualitative lamellar armour, but as mentioned before, they had all ditched it for the fear of its weight dragging them to a watery death.

While they were definitely far more rigorously trained than these mere bandits, the unstable ground, their cold, soaked coats, exhaustion and insufferable noise of the stormy ocean made their collective years in the academy worthless. One lucky wave and a flimsy jab were all these prisoners needed to kill one of them.

Speak of the devil, all the horses were about to kiss the ceiling.

"Hold the Princeling!" A guard narrowly shouted, sparing the subject colt from being skewered by a hovered scimitar or tossed violently around the room, of which either scenario if transpired, would've been fatal.

The foreseen wave had its dreaded effects, rolling everything that had not been bolted through across its opposite end as the detached section of the dhow flipped violently from the ocean's force.

As the guards suspected with sunken stomachs, their scimitars escaped their magical grasps, lost to the darkness around them, hopefully not lodged in their comrade's skull when they next illuminated the room.

Unknown to them, the prisoners had also lost their grips on their 'weapons', similarly being lost into the darkness as wet teeth and even more malnourished bodies proved poor at holding anything still.

Water entered the room with greater vigour, submerging those within completely when the room turned vertical, but just as quickly sank to cover only their barrel as it turned horizontal. This brief, but vicious cycle forced all to breathe quickly and exhale just as fast, if they didn't want to swallow water that is. But for some, it wasn't even a choice, as their body, in all its stress and lack of energy, could not adapt to keep away water from their guts or their lungs. So instead of being forced into hyper-ventilating, they choked and chugged painfully with coughs and wheezes in between.

One unlucky enough to be in both worlds was the Princeling, who, while spared the impalement of the sword, would face the much worse wrath of the ocean. Held tight against a guard's barrel. The same barrel that was either entirely submerged or barely out of water when horizontal.

Not that the Princeling could tell though, as drowning and furiously fighting the hoof that held him from breathing the precious life-giving air distracted him from noticing his orientation. Or his view. Or his olfaction, audition or anything else for that matter.

No thoughts except his primary drives occupied his mind. NEED. TO BREATH.

Then it was all over.

Stallions limply crashed into the walls, loud groans escaping from their poisoned muzzles, each louder than the other as they wetly crashed on top of eachother, creating a dog-pile until it too collapsed from their tilting room, splaying them all across what had been their ceiling just a minute ago.

"Ugh... My ears burn."

From the mass of hooves, manes and barrels a single one of the former rose to signify that they were the owner of the previous voice, which also happened to be the eldest among the guards, senior to the rest. Not that it mattered or seemed like it. His armour with his appropriate rank insignia was gone.

Still groaning, the bruised stallions stumbled around, crawling, and the eccentric ones even rolling to distance themselves from everyhorse, lest they regret it later when they were revealed to be the enemy.

Many at the edges of the initial pile who were confident there were nohorse close began limply swiping their hooves around the oaken floor, inadvertently lodging some splinters into their battered hooves. Thier objective? Find a loose weapon from the darkness and stick it into the nearest horse's eye.

"...Just, stop." A pained slur came choking out.

Several stallions rose their heads to see who it came from. In doing so, It would turn out only 4 among them had done so. The only guards there.

It turned out it was the same unicorn that had first announced peace, before provoking the guards as being slight improvements to glue.

It also turned out, the same unicorn who had supposedly rebelled against the Sa'adle regime was holding one of its members, the Princeling, against his barrel, pressing against his midriff.

"We're all dead anyways... Let's try not to worsen our chance in the afterlife by making bloodshed our last." He tiredly slurred. "-There." The Princeling expelled the last of the liquid in his lungs, finally desperately gasping for the air that continually eluded him. The stallion allowed the colt to slip away from him, who presumptively rolled on the floor in the pain that he had been repressing.

The senior guard took this scene in, a brow involuntarily rising from his surprise at it. He promptly dropped his head down limply in a distinct 'thud'. "He's right..." He sighed, "Stand down. There's no point."

This seemed to do the trick, as the atmosphere of the room immediately cooled into one of abject despair, marginally better than the previous mad bloodlust. "Wait... Then why'd you save the Princeling? -Aren't you just prolonging his suffering?" A guard suddenly pointed out,

"..." The unicorn blanked in silent realisation. Too bad the guards couldn't enjoy it because of the dark. "It seemed right at the moment..." He admitted defensively. His guilt compounded as the Princeling continued to thrash and wheeze violently on the ground next to his hind hooves.

"Well, rebel. Mind sharing your name before we get shipped to Tartarus?" The senior guard groaned out, the pain having caught up to him as well.

The unicorn lazily eyed the guard. Why not amuse him? "Tall-at Pasha. Leader of the 'Young Saddles'." He revealed.

The senior guard rashly choked in a manic chuckle, "Y-you?! Leader of that sorry group?! -And you call us brainwashed!" He roared a hearty laugh, much to the annoyed groans of the 7 other stallions still on the floor. "Oh, that's rich. You lot justify banditry like all the others, the Maregyptian for 'freedom', those cats for 'prosperity' and you? For some abstract idea of 'reform'."

"Better than sucking on some gout-ridden hoof." Pasha snapped venomously.

The senior guard bit his tongue. "...Anyways, momma always told me to repay favours, so here's mine," He limply slapped his head with his hoof in a weak, wet salute. "Captain Adni Mahmud, at your disservice, -and the Princeling," He pointed at the now-quietly sobbing colt, "-Is Pedrollah ibn Saddle." He majestically declared.

Pasha allowed himself a grin. "Nicely met." He said, limping as he did, sliding down the wall he leaned on, "Shame that we'll part so soon." He fell with a similar 'thud'.

"Worry none, we'll soon see eachother again." Mahmud grinned knowingly.

Fate, it seemed, was determined to make him look a fool.

(("FUCK YOUUUUUUU GLADSTONE!"))

Who Fate's victim was, no one was sure.

Everyhorse blinked. What was-

Then all Tartarus broke loose.

An unknown projectile, added furious voice, smashed into the centre of the room, causing all stallions inside to seemingly 'bounce', which in reality, was their floor displacing downwards from the aforementioned applied force.

The Princeling, plus all passengers suddenly found themselves rolling towards the epicentre of the projectile's damage, their floor suddenly becoming a great decline towards the hole that was punched through.

Perhaps due to his low weight or weakness or both, Pedrollah, or just Pedro was the first to roll down the makeshift slide.

Surprisingly, instead of plunking into the water, he would roughly crash into the very same foreign projectile that had caused the violent upheaval. More shockingly, it elicited an unmistakable 'oof' from the alien apparatus, the universal reaction to pain.

(("DAMN! Damn, that hurts! -If I ever get a hand over you Gladstone, I promise you a world of-!"))

The remaining horses following the Princeling, smashed into the projectile, removing their privilege of hearing out the foreign sentence.

Unlike the guards or prisoners whose backs were now pressed either against eachother or the foreign projectile, Pedro had the unique opportunity to witness the outline of a spindly limb, dripping wetly, jittering either in pain or cold above him. Probably both.

Too shocked and now exhausted to shout in alarm, the Princeling could only note that the evidently clothed, albeit soaking-wet stranger was in inconceivable pain.

But it did not impede his ability to speak, it would seem.

(("W-what the devil is this?!"))

The prince shivered violently as he felt a soaked limb swipe across his barrel, resting coldly just beside his flank. He tried to yelp, but his torn throat could only produce squeaks.

"What in Tartarus just happened?!" A voice among a sea of groans cried that seemed to belong to Pasha.

(("WHO WAS THAT?!")) A muffled voice spinelessly squeaked. That might've been literal.

"Is that a shark?! I CAN'T SEE! -Get your flank off my face!" A voice belonging to Mahmud panickly insisted.

(("OH DEAR DIETY, GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT!"))

The pile stirred from its center, unknowingly gappening the hole that had been initially made by the forced entry. The hole, plugged by the booties of the aforementioned projectile shook wildly as it became panicked, causing it to crack loudly.

After a forestalled wave? It finally caved.

The orchestra of screams began its second verse, added one high-pitched songstress.

HMS Alexandra
"Heave!"

Prince Albert's head peaked over the edge, indomitable calm splayed over his face. Beneath him, hidden from the view of the men pulling him was a brave marine who had dived into the treacherous waters to rescue him. The fact that Albert was wrapped in his entirety, making him immobile wasn't important. He had been saved.

As the Prince was pulled onto the deck, he was at least spared some dignity as he was not dragged beak-first on the wet, hard floor. Instead, he was fortuitously twisted on his back, revealing his bored face to all the sailors who pretended there was something deathly interesting ahead of them at that time.

Kitchener, in his great pinkness, was by his Prince's side as two sailors converged beside Albert to hastily free him.

"Fresh clothes have been prepared in your quarters, your majesty."

Albert twisted his neck ever-so-slightly to face the major. "Forward my gratitude to the arangee."

Seymour appeared from Kitchener's back, bipedal in-stance. "Already done, sir! -And you're most welcome." He idly looked around, "Have you perchance spotted sir Flash?"

"OVER HEREEE YOU MONGOLOIDS!"

Albert's brow fluttered. "I have been recently informed of his location."

Kitchener sighed. "I'll go direct the men..." he trotted leisurely towards the exhausted men who were already preparing to launch a rocket into the general vicinity of their hero's voice.

"...You need me, sir?" Seymour asked.

Albert stared down at the rope that encased him, shook a bit, and then looked back at Seymour. "Freeing me would be a prudent start."

"At once." Seymour knelt and raised a sharp digit.

...

...

...

"Missed again, sir."

Kitchener rubbed his eyes, only to be clopped by a hoof to his eyes. The men resisted a chuckle. He growled. "Peal your eyes and aim again!"

"Yes, sir!"

A nasty hiss and a red glare of a hale rocket followed, carrying a thick rope for Flash, wherever he was, to hopefully grab onto.

The bright glare of the rocket also worked as an improvised flare, illuminating the surface of the dark seas with a violent red tint. Occasionally, the men aboard would spot a speck above the irregular waters which they attributed to Flash, allowing them to aim their rockets without sound alone.

"It's a hit!"

"Splendid! Pull him in!" Kitchener barked,

"Objection, sir!"

Kitchener groaned, "What could possibly be wrong now?!"

"We hit sir Flash, sir!"

Kitchener viciously appraised the soldier.

"We uh-, might've knocked him unconscious." The in question neevously stammered, "SIR!" He reminded finished.

Kitchener pouted and resisted bruising his face anymore with his hoof. "Bloody hell..."

"No... Wait! He's grabbed on!"

Kitchener brightened only slightly.

"It takes more than that to kill the Great Flash!" The men cheered exuberantly, some even tossing their hats in the air, -only for it to disappear forever in the strong winds. Oops "His grip is strong too! Like the strength of 6 men almost!"

The men cheered once more.

"WE MAY HAVE HALF OUR STRENGTHS, BUT WE'RE 11 STRONG!" Mahmud yelled,

The desperate stallions cheered back, desperately holding the rope, which attached glaring projectile had knocked the previous projectile unconscious.

Said initial projectile, revealed to be an eccentrically dressed griffon, had clasped onto the Princeling dearly before being knocked out, as Mahmud quickly realised as he failed to pry off Pedro from the heavy griffon frozen in a surprised expression. He was now forced, alongside his unlikely companions to hold him and themselves on the rope that was being pulled in a mysterious destination, fighting desperately against the water that tried slipping them off.

"NOT A STALLION LEFT BEHIND!" Pasha yelled, coincidentally grabbing onto a guard that had slipped from the rope. With unknown strength, said leader of the delusional bandits valiantly pulled the guard over him with one hoof with a great grunt, pressing the grasped hoof on the section of rope unoccupied.

A soft "Thanks," went unheard amid the noise.

Suddenly, what was once a gentle pull turned into a wild yank, as unbeknownst to them, they were meant to tie themselves to the rope by now. Due to this, the water even fiercly crashed against them, immediately pushing everyhorse off the rope.

Faster than even one could think, all the briefly airborne stallions, bouncing on the waters while having held the rope, implicitly grabbed onto the nearest thing they could. Most grabbed onto the other's hindhooves. Those horses grabbed onto Mahmud or Pasha. Pasha held onto the griffon, and Mahmud had already been holding onto him.

So how had the rope still not eluded them? Remaining in their view, shaking violently in front of them?

The perspective turned, facing the griffon from the front.

It revealed the Princeling, Pedro ibn Saddle shakily leaning against the torso of the griffon while sitting on the waving rope.

The Princeling proved to be decisive, quick-thinking and extremely resourceful.

Because wrapping the griffon was the precious rope, the Princeling having tied its ends around the griffon's midriffs while the rest madly gripped the rope. He was unreasonably proud of his work. For a colt who had accidentally also invented a mechanism to periodically slam at a man's balls.

Flashman felt the rope either violently chafe or slam into his crotch as the rope was tied behind him, its extension reaching out from under him, waving fiercely as it bounced and was pulled through the waters.

Words could not describe the amount of pain. So Flashman scowled deeply instead, his brain short-circuiting with every slamming.

"THANK ASURA, FOR OUR PRINCE!" Mahmud cheered with unrepentant joy.

Two pairs among the 13 begged to differ.

The bow sinking and wave incoming made for a perfect opportunity for an awesome entrance.

"HERE HE COMES! Bouncing off that wave!"

"-Where?!"

"THERE!" A private pointed, where a silhouette seemingly greatly encumbered had gone airborne from the aforementioned waves to foreseeable land on their rapidly rising deck.

"HEADS UP, MEN!" Kitchener roared a warning, at first glaring in the general direction, before brightening at the sight of an ever-closening shadow in the darkness.

The warning would prove unnecessary, as the silhouette seemed to spin and head towards a section devoid of men.

"The rope's coiling us! Loosen it!" Mahmud yelled in pain, as the rope burned his hoof, chafing violently against the bare coat which the rope coiling around the griffon contacted.

Heeding his orders and fearing the same fate, Pasha gnawed painfully against the thick rope, which, already weakened from overuse and a healthy dose of luck having burnt it due to a foresight on coating, allowed the rope to loudly snap.

Pedro would finish off this effort by untieing the knot by reaching around, the various buttons and gaps within the griffon's bizarre dress assisting him in this endeavour.

This also occurred in quick succession, impressively so too since they were spinning wildly with the griffon, the drag of their total surface area barely acting as a substitute wing to slow their fall or stop their fierce twisting.

"HANG ON!" Pasha cried, shutting his eyes like many others around him, despairing the ground that quickly approached them.

(("HANG ON!"))
"INCOMING!"

Flash landed wetly and painfully, bupedally on the deck, before the quickly gathering crowd of sailors and soldiers alike. His wings by then had majestically unfurled, and his uniform, absolutely tattered by the abuse of the rope had been ripped, but not in a manner reminding of a beggar, but just in a convenient way that made it seem intentional. Like a noble knight who ripped a part of his rich silken cloth to dress another, or like a toiling labourer who wished to cool off.

The men gathered looked in awe, some even cooed as they met their gaze on his face. Flash had an expression of furious concentration, mixed with the best features of a determined face. It was soon obvious why! Because just behind that picturesque face that screamed brave desperation was the cowering, shivering mass of particularly large ponies, that looked starved, desperate for help, which the Great Flash seemed to have provided by a ride on his back.

The looks of what seemed to be the only colt among them, rested warmly on the body of Flash was enough to speak of the Hero's gallantry.

Seymour and Kitchener soon pushed their way into view, immediately gasping at the sight. Albert wasn't close behind.

"Is... -Is that... Blood? What did you do-? Fight a shark?" Seymour sputtered, first noticing the wretched condition of his uniform, which, underneath revealed red, rashed flesh that had chafed and subsequently bled due to the rope.

Kitchener though was more focused on the hero's 'cargo'. "Sir Flash. Did you... Abduct this adolescent...-" Kitchener looked down, "...-Colt?" Why it was naked could come later. The 11 other on top of him, he suddenly realised, COULD COME MUCH LATER.

Flash was unresponsive. If one was to be closer though, they could hear the silent hissing exhale of pain exuding from his slightly gapped beak and gritted teeth. Pedro sure could.

Albert didn't care much for Flash's stankface though, for he had already decided on what had transpired. "Isn't it obvious, sir Flash has rescued this poor colt, alongside 11 other men! Faint'ed only after besting some foreign beast of these strange seas', and rescuing a dozen lives!" He declared cheerfully. Probably having overindulged in seawater and underindulged in oxygen.

Before Kitchener could voice his doubts about this hastily contrived fantasy, the men that had gradually gathered around them cheered madly.

"Huzzah! All hail the brave rescuer, -sir Flash! Hip-Hip!"

"HURRAY!"

Seymour shrugged, and joined in, "Hip-Hip!"

"HURRAY!"

Flashman would rue the day he met Gladstone.

One and a half days later, HMS Victoria, Sick Bay
Pedro groggily opened his eyes. When did he fall asleep? Everything hurt all over, his mouth was dryer than all the deserts he had visited in his, albeit, short life.

His eyes stung greatly, despite its protective layers unknown to him. They were degraded due to malnutrition and the dissolved salt from the dried seawater pricked at his nerves.

He did not wish to know what he had done the previous day to be so afflicted with pain all over. But for now, he stared at the blurry ceiling.

...

Eventually, he resigned himself to lifting himself with a soft groan to at least alleviate the dryness of his throat from the cup of water his guard usually left him at his order.

(("Woah-oh, easy there, easy."))

Pedro immediately jolted at the strange noise closely beside him, recoiling from his slowly retracting hoof, clenching his blankets closer which chafed at his... Clothes? He finally noticed the unusual sensation of adorned clothes, now unforgettable as he glanced at the plain white fabric hugging loosely on his coat.

The sudden clear view of a unicorn became interpreted by his sore eyes. They seemed unperturbed by the Princeling's adverse reactions, considering he continued speaking in his foreign tongue, (("You were out a couple of days now, why don't you just relax a second, and get your bearings?."))

The Princeling visibly relaxed when the unicorn flashed a harmless smile, inching extremely slowly. This time, Pedro decided not to recoil further, not really because he felt safer, but because he felt the tell-tale sign of his back bracing against air, causing his heart to drop as he realised any further back, and he would probably fall. He could later decide if the fall was the better option anyway.

(("Let's see what the damage is. How about your name?")) The unicorn still spoke in what Pasha could only discern as garbles. (("Can you tell me your name?")) Pedro's brow rose in slight comprehension as he barely noticed the unicorn had repeated something. Probably a question, he wagered.

...

Silence.

Pedro refused to dignify anything with a response in the short-sighted expectation that he might get something wrong and possibly offend the unicorn before him. Further considering, now, that this unicorn seemed to be a pony, possibly those from the southern Pact, Pedro thought it to be wise to be silent.

The wide smile of the weirdly dressed unicorn began to judder.

...

Patience running out, the unicorn abruptly faced towards a curtain behind him, muttering something frustratedly, (("Of course, he can't speak English. All that rehearsal was for nothing!"))

Unexpectantly, a griffon that looked to be wearing some sort of lighter spectacles appeared from behind the curtains, seemingly entering a dialogue with the unicorn. (("Of course he can't speak English, Mitchell, you think we have child stowaways? -And those other ponies couldn't speak it either, so how would a colt know?"))

Pedro stared gape-jawed at the rare creatures. The accounts of their most adventurous merchants and travellers did not serve these 'griffons' justice, it seemed, as Pedro drank in the sight of these almost mythical beasts.

Half-feline and half-bird, as advertised, Pedro noted. However, while the accounts of the merchants embellished tales of these creatures' apparent savagery and zeal for battle, unmatched even by the Great Laker Zebras, the griffon right before him seemed to look as dignified, if not more than the same posh merchants that acclaimed such stories.

Pedro would be foolish though if he completely dismissed the Intercontinental merchants, as some did account for the 'civilised' griffons past what was known among local seafarers as 'Marauding Macawia'. It is allegedly a mountainous island, heaven to pirates who ravage any ships that dare approach too close, or even vaguely near their coasts. The sorry state Asterion is in proves this, and forewarns all of the brutal efficiency of griffon pirates.

Pedro's tutors would be so proud.

(("We do now, Frank. -And you'll be surprised, but that tale is for another day. For now, what's our orders again?")) The unicorn asked in a despondent manner.

(("Be the doctors we are...?")) The griffon replied awkwardly, Pasha noted.

(("I'm more of a surgeon, but sure.")) The unicorn briefly glanced towards Pasha before turning back at the griffon again. (("He needs a good meal, sleep and exercise."))

The griffon curtly nodded. (("Same opinion as the others. To the mess hall then."))

It was at that moment when Pasha's memories of the previous two nights finally decided to crash into him.

"Mahmud! -My guards! Where are they?!" Pedro blurted out.

Frank and Mitchell gave Pedro an indecipherable stare.

"Mahmud? ((Huh-? Where have I heard that before?")) The unicorn seemed to say to himself,

"Mahmud! You know where he is?!" Pedro sputtered

(("I think the ponies that woke up earlier were saying the same thing.")) The griffon spoke to the unicorn.))

Pedro sunk in resignation, hooves limply falling by his side as the pony and griffon before him did not even pretend to care about his current distress. He figured that wasting his already parched and abused throat to be futile.

(("Well, come on little colt, let's reunite you with your friends.)) The unicorn spoke to Pedro, his last word laced with scepticism, as it seemed by his expression when he said it.

Pedro flinched intensely when a claw suddenly grasped his comparably small hooves, but he did not resist it. Either because he was exhausted or resigned to whatever these caltives had in store for him, Pedro allowed himself to be dragged away. Just in case it was to his death, Pedro dragged his hooves. He couldn't make it too convenient for them.

3 Weeks Later
"How truly fascinating. Oh, -sir Flash, perhaps you can share one of many heroics with us while we're at it. I hear your death-defying charge in the light brigade is a capital story!" Seymour cheered in between the clattering of his silver cutleries, absently slicing away on his plate.

"Oh, I shouldn't. I wouldn't want to belittle any of your own good stories." Flash gently pushed away, evidently the only one not multi-tasking on the table.

Flash's recovery had been a miracle. Unknowingly the works of a cynical universe that granted abilities based on its comedic effects. The recovery was still only skin deep though, as the trauma would forever remain in Flash's mind.

"No offence shall be taken at this table. You should know as much, good Flash." Albert dapped his beak with a napkin. Still not looking at Flash, he continued, "Please, indulge us with a quality story."

Kitchener continued to passively appraise Flash, only momentarily snapping his gaze away towards his meal when someone was about to meet his eyes.

A knock would avert Flash's inner disaster.

Seymour seemed to have already turned towards the door, his usual sensitive ears, now enhanced, having picked up the noise of approaching hooves. "You may enter."

A pegasus colonel entered the room, his hat pressed tightly against his chest, his overall stance hesitant. "Is it a bad time, sir?"

Seymour's expression immediately brightened, "Colonel Francis! It's an absolute pleasure of ours to be graced with your presence. Why don't you sit down with us before you speak?" He flashed an irresistible smile.

It was fortunate, then, that Francis had been looking aside as Seymour offered a nearby seat, as he hastily informed him of his intent, "Perhaps another time, sir. But I'm here to pass on an urgent revelation about our... Rescued stowaway from a few weeks back." He revealed, nervously tracing the rims of his hat, poorly. Hooves didn't make for good twiddlers, so he instead soon opted to gently spin the hat.

"You mean 'Sandy'? -I still cannot believe our men decided on that silly name. 'Sahara' is a far superior choice! -Much cooler and, mysterious." Albert huffed.

Francis nodded, "Yes, the very same, favourite of the crew. While I do not regret the choice in names,-"

Albert squinted.

"-'Sandy's' vocabularies have greatly been expanded by our onboard lingual specialists, who before, had nothing to do." Francis continued regardless, "Despite being nine, he had a lot to reciprocate too it seems-,"

"Nine? He looked at least to be 15 or mid-adolescent age." Kitchener interrupted, having distinctively remembered the size of the pony.

"Well, maybe in size, sir."

"Whatever are you implying?" Kitchener impatiently dug,

Francis rubbed his neck with a vacant hoof, seamlessly balancing his leaned posture with his hindhooves alone. "Well, sirs... It turns out the 'pony' is actually a horse. They're all horses actually."

Malnutrition impedes growth. Read history and you will know that people before tbe great indistralisation were alot shorter then average due to the former's abundance in food.

For modern examples, just look at North Korea.

Silverware clattered throughout the table.

"Truly? -The very mounts which our cavalry cry each nights for their disappearance?" Albert cautiously breathed, absently looking around the room in hushed contemplation. "But they're all much too small!"

"No. Not the exact same. -I... Ugh. This is all too confusing for me too." Francis rubbed his face into his hat, before continuing, "We first thought he meant all of us to be horses. But apparently, we are ponies by his testim-,"

"Hang on, he's familiar with the races of this world-? At his alleged young age?" Flash finally interjected, voicing his own surprise. "Just who did we snatch?"

"You mean, you snatched, you lucky bastard!" Seymour called out joyfully, quickly filling the room with a jubilant atmosphere.

"Yes... He seems to be extremely bright. But others also testifed it to be the case. Perhaps his brightness is due to the non-stop attention our linguists give him." Francis shook his head, returning to the topic,

"Nevertheless, he is predicted by his tutors to be fully fluent in but a week's time. Amazing, I know, as the other horses with him could onlt eeach basic fluency. But no doubt, we will stand to benefit the most from this relationship, -by learning their language." Francis uneasily smiled, his hat's spin hastening ever-slightly.

Studies from Cambridge found that it takes at least 780 hours (low estimate) for primary school children to reach an 'advanced' level of language proficiency when starting from scratch with a generalist teacher (not an English teaching specialist.)

Now, Pasha had an entire team of lingual specialists, who all had great motivations to teach and learn back from him. Compound that with Pasha's willingness to learn and slave away like a university rat, I have cut down the total time by half. With an added dose of copium on my part, and magic bullshittery, I have cut the total time into a quarter of what it initially was.

So if Pasha had been slaving away studying 12 hours a day, 20 and half days straight, he would be proficient in English. Thank you for listening to my deranged Ted-talk.

Noticing this, Seymour reassuringly smiled, yet Francis's anxiety did not stop.

Frowning, Seymour asked exactly what Francis had been waiting for to break the bad news as smoothly as possible. "Is there something wrong with 'Sandy'?"

"No. At least, not in the way you think, sir." Francis swallowed. Now or never."-And his name is Pedrollah ibn Saddle. A nephew of a King fashioning himself as the 'Grand Prince' of the kingdom we are currently heading towards.-" Damn!
-Too abrupt! Francis silently cursed, chewing the bottom of the lips.

Somehow, the silverware around the table clattered thrice.

...

...

...

As always, Seymour broke the silence, "What the fuck Harry,"

Flash cursed Gladstone once more.

Jaffmare Port, Present Time
The harbourmaster had gathered all notables of the city, for some even going door by door to drag them to the berths. Many like Fareed Ample, leader of the richest Jaffmare merchant guild, coincidentally half-pony, were caught mid-way packing to predictably flee like their beylerbey. For the others, their homes were vacant, already at the port to view the commotion.

These included the associates of Fareed who were quickly directed to the harbourmaster's gathering place by the latter's workers. Theologian and High Priest of Jaffmare's Zoroastrian Temple, Jihaad Al Qasim was also there with his entourage, probably butting heads with the virtueless merchants, and especially the half-breed degenerate Fareed.

The head engineer of Jaffmare, which was supposed to be a heredity post, was the notable Urban El Hungari, who had swiftly presumed the office by right, as the chief apprentice when the predecessor fled with the beylerbey. He seemed to have the same idea as the harbourmaster, as they crossed paths on the streets, both overcumbered in exhaustion.

With Urban came the rest of the petite officials and city figures, including cultural figureheads like the famous feline artist Treble Nimblenail and the historian, orator and city ~~rabblerouser~~ organiser Shah Al Assad. As expected, they brought with them their respective followers, also probably fighting with the already gathered merchants and clergy.

The last group to gather was the military, however, there was a little hitch in that plan. There was no military.

It had turned out, or more accurately, they had always known that their beylerbey had not been using the vast riches he extracted from the populace for protection, in the form of a hired, professional army or even a civilian guard. Why?

Well, there was an entire deluge of reasons why, but for brevity, it was because of two major reasons:

One, The heartlands of Saddle Arabia, in which, Jaffmare was near the centre of, did not require protection, or at least from foreign threats. Like how Earth's Rome did not have a wall during its Republican golden ages, Jaffmare did not need a standing army, as unlike their eastern eyalets who were constantly in danger of raids or full-scale invasions, Jaffmare had an enormous buffer and enjoyed relative peace.

Domestic enemies would soon challenge this notion.

Two, corruption. Look up the Byzantine Empire. It's basically that word-for-word. Yep, the governors who paid for their positions melting down anchors, swords and armour for coin and using the taxes collected for hedonistic purposes. Yep. Yep. Yep. Ghost armies and navies only exist on paper so that they can siphon tax money via fake wages to be paid into the governor's pockets too.

Now, this was all made nakedly obvious to the citizens of Jaffmare, with all the rotten dhows and outnumbering outdated galleys littering the harbour and non-existent parades and marches of their lavishly paid soldiers. The harbourmaster too, had not been blind to this fact, but like the citizens, it was still better than what other beylerbeys were doing around them.

After all, they weren't being pressed into service, mothers need not be burdened by the choice of choosing their many foals to die on the march of war, and their taxation was still considered lenient, especially when considering they were the second largest port of the kingdom, generating a fortune's worth in gold each day.

But what was gold worth when facing the enemy without an army of your own?

An incentive for them to slay you and relinquish you of your property.

The harbourmaster had to consider the worst, and things were only becoming gloomier as he discovered the absence of either the admiral or general entrusted with the protection of the city. Their 'offices' in the lavish palace of the city's capital turned out to be the servant's quarters, said employees of the state within, busy gorging at the previous day's banquet as the harbourmaster abruptly barged in.

He promptly excused himself.

In light of this, the harbourmaster had no choice but to 'scrap the barrel', so to speak, as he scoured the palace's records of the wealthy residents, hoping that a scant few officers or even experienced soldiers had decided to vacation or retire in Jaffmare.

It would be needed though, as he would quickly receive word from Urban's courier, informing him that a 'replacement' had already been found.
He resigned to himself that it wouldn't make a difference anyway.

This collection of events would finally set the long-awaited scene at the harbour.

Like the start of a bad joke, the harbourmaster entered a berth where the clergy, merchants, petite bourgeoise (They're not called that yet, instead they're known as burghers) and military stood.

Just in time too, as the billowing vessels neared.

Port's Berth. Gathering Place
The harbourmaster galloped towards the uncanny group, having immediately determined that the rare concentration of felines, donkeys, and horses with either robes or avaricious attires could only mean one thing.

Jihaad immediately noticed the harbourmaster's approach, either due to his tall stature, even compared to the bipedal felines among them or by his astute hearing. "Here comes master Zubair El Bakar, how nice it is for you to finally join us." He warmly announced to the rest, first politely bowing at Bakar.

Bakar skidded to a halt, catching several breaths. "My apologies, I expected to find you all sooner from your noise." He slowly trotted into the improvised circle of officials, deciding to nestle himself among the clergy. "Sorry if you find this rude, but I really expected a shouting match by now."

Fareed cleared his throat pointedly, not amused by the petulant implication. "We're not foals, port lord. There is a time and place to argue, but here? Do you not see those iron monstrosities?" He waved pointlessly, his target already clear.

Jihaad surprisingly nodded along, a serene smile still splayed across his muzzle, even as he met the lead merchant's gaze head-on. "Right. This is no time for pointless conjecture. Only a colt would've thrown a tantrum or sabotaged a gathering of such an important nature. This is a foremost time for unity." Jihaad declared, further destroying a certain cliché overused in productions to artificially heighten tension.

"Right. This is no place for melodrama!" Treble added, followed by a round of agreeing murmurs around the circle.

"Yes, yes. Very good. We're all happy and united now, but it still won't stop the fact that we're royally screwed." Fareed shrugged with a lazed expression. "Why don't you all just take my advice and leave this place? -I mean, even if these mysterious ships turn out to be filled with peace-mongering angels, we'll still be driven out by Jal-far. Everyhorse knows he's been acting like a spiked charger ever since the Princeling died."

Assad glared at the merchanrhorse, "-And whose ship did he die in?"

"WOAH, woah! Let's not play the blame game now! That is all in the past! -And do you seriously think Jal-far even needed a reason to devour us?" Fareed rapidly fired out.

Urban sighed loudly, "We still don't know if Pedrollah is dead-,"

"-It's been a month, on open sea no less, sir. He's assuredly dead." An unknown, yet authoritative voice corrected, trotting past two forgettable(s). He wore what vaguely resembled a ship's captain, but from its tattered appearance, it seemed almost stolen, like a pirate having looted it.

"And you are-?" Fareed scrutinised the pony directly opposite to him.

"Baltog Al-Hue. Provisional admiral of our sorry fleet." He spat without even the courtesy of a salute. "This was the most presentable uniform left in the storerooms. Quite representative of the current status of our 'navy'."

"Your credentials?" Bakar braced for the worst,

Baltog faced Bakar with an incredulous stare, "The academies are a farcical ladder for the governor's foals and there hasn't been a major naval battle in over a century." He sneered, "Now, do I look like a beylerbey's foal to you, sir?"

"Easy Baltog." Urban pulled his selection back, "Bakar isn't a noble's sire either." The clergy among them shuffled impatiently. Urban faced the contemplative harbourmaster, and abruptly admitted, "There are no credentials."

Loud uncomfortable murmurs rang out, the subject of those mutterings, though, remained defiantly still.

Fareed decided he wasn't made for subtlety, instead, he rolled his eyes and drawled, "Perfect. I still have room on my carriage for 4 more, by the way, just ask me when you all regain your reason."

"-We're not leaving." Jihaad abruptly announced.

Fareed boredly stared at the high priest. "Cool, scratch that mares! There's a price for the ride now! -Now without preaching old horses."

Jihaad's expression barely changed from his serene calmness. Except for a slight twitch of the brow. "I meant all of us."

"-And why's that? Lemme guess, some grand delusion about fate? What, we will forever squallow in torture if we don't resist or something? Or if we try to escape? -What is it now?" Fareed babbled, much to little effect on the priest.

"...Asura has truly challenged me to condone a free spirit like yours Fareed." Jihaad broke a wide smile, "If you knew anything about our faith, free soul, you should know we do not follow such restrictive things as 'fate'."

Fareed yawned.

"...We are free to act however may our will directs us, but we will all be eventually judged for every act we've done, Fareed." Jihaad cracked an unworldly wise eye at the unscrupulous merchant. "If we flee, we are subjecting the citizens of Jaffmare to certain doom. A scenario, we can readily change, one not predetermined by some fickle fate-,"

"But our fickle, fallible minds. Gotcha." Fareed boredly blurted,

Jihaad continued with a slight irritation in his voice, "-But determined by our free will, therefore, responsible individually as murderers of hundreds of thousands of innocents." Jihaad suddenly stomped, eliciting the surprised yelps of several of the merchant leaders who were becoming drowsy, "LISTEN WELL! -For you still have time for redemption! We will only flee when the most of Jaffmare's citizenry is evacuated! Not now, when all are panicked are still unprepared!"

"I don't think those ships out there will give us much time." Fareed idly shifted through his mane, wholly unattentive. "-And even on the great off chance that they do, what makes you think the horses of Jaffmare will follow you?" He indignantly huffed,

"Because unlike you, they trust me to act in their best interests." Jihaad said matter-of-factly, "And I will not force anyhorse. If they decide to stay, they'll stay. Reaping whatever misfortune their free will wrought."

"-Annnd I will exercise that free will to leave now. And I shall reap whatever fortune that decision wrought." Fareed nodded wildly in mock understanding.

"You would regret it."

"But I won't" Fareed deadpanned, was this going anywhere?

Jihaad appraised the merchant before him. Does he know what regret means?

"Ahem..." Urban drew everycreature's attention back, but immediately awkwardly recoiled at the sudden attention. "Uh, I haven't yet introduced who will organise the city guard." He managed,

"What do you mean? We'll all familiar with Assad," Bakar squinted again, bracing himself for the pain of knowing.

A heavy hoof stomping on the ground redirected everycreature's attention again. This time, it was a naked donkey, which, while would be a pretty normal sight, seemed slightly awkward in the sea of elaborately clothed merchants and scant few clothed dignified cultural contributors.

This one gave a rigid salute. "Jass Canary, 47. Temporary general."

"Okay, now I know you're just fucking with me." Fareed glared at the so-called 'head engineer' of Jaffmare, now suspecting him to be some sort of unfunny circus pimp as he evaluated his unique entourage.

Jass correctly answered the provocative merchant. By not even acknowledging him. "I had previously served in 3 armies. 8 regiments and individually led 21 companies of around 120 soldiers each, as a mercenary captain." He apathetically muttered.

...

"Now we're talking!" Fareed cheered exuberantly, seemingly suffering from onset amnesia, "Donkeys have always been reliable, precious soldiers of the Kingdom! -At least we have some hope!"

Quiet murmurs of approval rung out. Bakar sighed a breath of relief. Finally, some reprieve.

"Problem." Jass barely vocalised,

"What's your problem, soldier?" Assad happily asked,

"Everything." Jass deadpanned. "We have no regulars, which could be substituted for militias easily if they only hold fortifications, but there are no outer walls here to speak of. Just a crumbling heap of bricks that had been expropriated by the poor to build their homes and is far too inside the city to be of any use." He monotonously murmured.

Fareed smiled knowingly, "There it is. See? We should just leave while we have the time." He briefly glanced at the approaching ships, counting 12 or 13 more following the initial 7. Huh.

Jass's frown deepened, "Well, it isn't entirely hopeless though. We could round up the citizenry with me and Assad there," He pointed at the infamous horse, who bowed majestically, "-And dig some rudimentary ditches around the outskirts of the city. We could even get some skilled lumberjacks to cut the nearby forests and make some spikes or palisades to complement the ditches."

Jihaad nodded sagely, absorbing the options, "We could do all of that. The temples will help organise the citizens in your efforts, Commander Jass."

Jass snorted. If it was in dismissal or acknowledgement was soon to be discovered, "It probably won't make a difference in the end," He rebuffed, "It all hinges on the rival governors to strike Jal-far while he sieges us anyways, as even if we hold, the enemy could just starve us out. Also, did I mention we have no siege weapons? -We won't be able to counter their artillery, we'll be just sitting ducks."

The group broke again into private discussions, weighing in on the experienced donkey's assessment.

"I mean, insufferable as the head merchant is, I also think retreating is the best course of action. Sure, some of the 'rearguards' will fall for our sake, but the alternative is to stay defending in a proverbial chamber pot, about to be shat on from both the seas and land." Jass articulated eloquently.

"So what? We leave thousands to die while we seize the luxuries of living?" Assad spat,

Jass frowned, "Well, if you're so determined to die you can board one of those galleys and turn fireship."

Furious private debates followed, many now discussing the possibility of escaping openly.

"SILENCE!" Bakar yelled desperately, "We should just begin digging those ditches Jass mentioned immediately. We have no time to lose!"

"Can't." Jass intoned.

"-Huh?" Bakar and Urban twisted,

"They're too close now morons." Fareed spat, "-I knew I should've just left! Why did I ever listen to you?!" He growled at the guiltless harbourmaster.

"Oh shut your trap, Ample, really. How far do you think you could've seriously gone while over-encumbered with your ducats?" Treble rolled her eyes, "Just scamper back to your mansion and kiss whoever's hoof that takes over. All you lot really care about is getting into Trotgier's little club anyways."

"So? Doesn't everycreature? Also, don't admonish me about kissing whoever's hoof! That's about all you do!" Fareed scoffed.

"Well, they're not firing." Jihaad decided to ignore the youths.

"No, they aren't," Jass joined in, blending the noise of Fareed's shout with the loud blares of the ironclads. "Assad, I owe you an apology. It wasn't a fireship you must board, but a frontal sortie into Jal-far's army."

Assad eyed the donkey. "Har-har. Let's just see what these newcomers want."

"20 more ships seems excessive for trade. Maybe they're nomads?" Urban tossed, barely escaping the merchant's quarrel. "Damn, are those ships tall! They're near triple our dhow's height!" Urban exclaimed, finally being able to gauge the ships with their own.

"...Nomads or not, our city would not stand a chance against them." Bakar gulped nervously, his eyes tracing the mighty streams of white the metal vessels effortlessly carved. "We should evacuate the citizens around the docks, just in case-,"

"OVER THERE! WHO'S THAT?!" A distant citizen cried out, one closest towards the ocean, watching from his balcony which estate lay in one of the many salients of the city.

Those who heard the shout looked around confusedly, until the unmistakable voice of a native of their lands came buzzedly from the iron-cladded ships, providing inconceivable relief to all on near the shore.

The various creatures Bakar gathered especially sagged in relief, many not even realising the tension they'd held on their limbs and muscles until they became relaxed, hearing their familiar language.

"THE PRINCELING LIVES!" It boomed, assisted by a megaphone.

"THE PRINCELING LIVES?!" The gathering repeated disbelievingly,

"THE PRINCELING LIVES!" The close citizens cheered,

"SPREAD THE WORD! THE PRINCELING IS ALIVE!"

The entire city rang. Mad few among them galloping the streets, echoing those words aimlessly into the sky.

The city was saved! They would be spared! They all collectively thought at that moment.

In Trotgiers, the most obese horse in the world sat furiously on a toilet, having dearly regretted his previous day's choice of food. When suddenly,

The ground before him loudly creaked, causing the main culprit to momentarily blink out of his fierce concentration to stare forward in anticlimax.

He caught the views of his servants also watching him, clearly aware and nervous of the sound, but they all seemed to look downwards.

So anxiously, the Grand Prince twisted about with his immobile body, moving his chunks of flesh out of the way to see the floor.

There he saw cracks. Cracks, that immediately worsened as he briefly glanced at his putrid reflection off the reflective, pristine marble.

He squeaked, "Help," yet the mares around him idly stood by. Staring with their soulless, wide empty eyes that seemed to chant for the immediate collapse of the floor, regardless if they ended up as matyres.

But Asura had decided that these mares had suffered enough, and would deliver on their wishes.

The Grand Prince felt his heart sink, but not in the same way it usually did, in a tangy sting or scorching burn. It was like he was on his carriage again, like the times when he was sometimes abruptly dropped by a daring or exhausted servant who would promptly face the executioner's scimitar. Except, the sensation didn't stop.

Darkness quickly surrounded him. Frailing in his nakedness, he would inadvertently test the aerodynamics of his flappy skin which would shamefully be counteracted by his weight.

The fall was unbearably long, both for the Grand Prince who would plummet in a flabby scream, and for the mares above, waiting near hysterically for the satisfying splat.

It would turn out that the slaves of the palace had been neglecting to clear out the cavernous cisterns of the Grand Prince's latrine, letting the various ghastly variants of feces pile up like a temple to pestilence.

Understandable really, preferring death to having to shovel the Grand Prince's wastes. But their bravery would produce something far greater; a fitting end to such an undesirable creature.

Because the Grand Prince would miraculously survive the freat plummet, his own wastes having cushioned his fall. However, his weight had caused him to plunge several metres down, completely submerging him in fecal matter.

So ended the pathetic existence of Sancho the fat, dying literally in his own shit. Never to be extracted, nor even thought to be buried alongside his ancestors.

He was a disgrace to his family, a perverted hedonist to his Kingdom and an anomaly to the theory of life and evolution.

The horse race to the capital had begun.

Author's Note

Oh boy! I wonder who this Tall-at Pasha is based on!

...

Mir Jal-far

I had written a section where the rescued shipwrecked horses adjust and become wowed by the technological shock, but it was so incredibly boring, cringe and generic that I removed it halfway writing it.

(You're gonna see it in the following chapter anyways. Hopefully.)

1000+ words wasted, and I lost sleep for no reason.

I ripped off Zoroastrianism for the main Saddle Arabian faith, because I'm lazy. I especially like their free will stuff and their doctrines revolving around the randomness of life. It completely contradicts conventional religions that are all about fate and I have some mind about how their magic can be incorporated into their beliefs. Like those funky racial technology in EAW.

Also, I keep writing long chapters despite saying I hate them. Masochist, I am.

The Chapter where you hear about the British some more

Their ears had not deceived them.

Just before their eyes was their lost Prinecling, Pedrollah in his glorious, rust orange, casus-belli-revoking-self. He was waving haughtily, leaning off the foreign ship's railing and smiling around at the gathered citizens of Jaffmare who dutifully cheered whenever they were faced by their Sa'adle royalty.

Next to him was an equally imperious pastel brown horse who had announced their arrival with a megaphone, smiling all the face, looking around absently at the features of Jaffmare's port.

But their initial jubilance would be quickly exhausted by the sight of their mysterious benefactors.

They wore the same clothes their Princeling was wearing, and they just realised then that they were all wearing pants, their hindquarters hidden for some reason. Immediately, they could only reason that they were doing so because they preferred to be bipedal, not wishing to uncouthly swing their junk around other creature's faces.

Oh yeah, why were they all bipedal? Everycreature spectating wondered, as they saw the foreign ponies standing awkwardly on their decks in hindhooves. The griffons too.

Murmurs varying from exciting to fearful overtook the onlookers, as for many in Jaffmare, it was their first time witnessing these bird-lions first-hoof. Unknowingly like their Princeling had, they realised that the accounts of their merchants and explorers proved almost wholly unfaithful.

None of these supposed savages exuded any violent intent, nor displayed a predisposition to barbarism as was acclaimed. Instead, they were almost dissimilar to the ponies in behaviour onboard, especially linked by their identical uniforms, working harmoniously in a picturesque scene of pristine order.

The diverse creatures of Saddle Arbia would undoubtedly envy this level of cooperation between species. There were always rumours of a certain kingdom in the far northern continent where ponies and griffons lived in positive partnership, but they had all been dismissed as foolish fantasies, propagated by the hopeful minorities of the kingdom who wished to mirror them. But now? Suddenly nobody had ever doubted that theory.

"No... That's not-," Urban suddenly stammered, prompting everycreature to snap away from the ships, "....Something's wrong." He intensely paled, staring ghostly at the forefront ironclad.

"Huh-? Woah, you alright, Urban? What did you see?" Treble visibly recoiled when she twisted to see the engineer's haunted expression.

Jass mutely nodded, slowly turning towards his commissioner. "Eerie, isn't it?"

Fareed rapidly darted from looking at the donkey to the unicorn horse, determined to not enter into speculations like his peersand instead extract the answer directly from the source. "What's wrong? -What's so eerie?" He sequentially queried.

Urban did not let up his gaze at the anomaly. "Can't you feel it?"

Fareed groaned, "Aren't you engineers supposed to be objective? -Don't give me that abstract religious fluff."

"There's no magic," Jass substituted,

Fareed's eyes immediately widened, alongside all the unicorns that were gathered. In all their worry, they had not realised the absence of that overpowering force. "...That's not possible!" Fareed snapped towards the iron ships, his horns illuminating for a novice searching spell.

Bakar also began to pale, "Those ponies... And griffons too. They're almost invisible." He tapped his horn, flabbergasted at their foreigner's lack of 'pull' of the ambient, surrounding magic. All creatures were meant to act as small divergers or cyclers of the proverbial magical 'stream', however, these strangers exerted so little influence in the greater ambience that they felt like innate objects, flowing along the stream.

"Such... Marvel." Urban gasped, his haunted face turning into one of immense curiosity, "Engineering without magic... Is that even possible?!" He abruptly galloped towards the slowing ships, eyes still not escaping on the anomaly.

"No, wait! -Damn it!" Bakar swiftly followed the entranced engineer, carelessly pushing past several of the delegates.

The shocked, and some annoyed horses stared incredulously at the two unicorns now galloping at break-neck speeds towards the now-halted ships. Jass shrugged at them, and quickly took the same path Bakar had carved through the circle.

Baltog followed. Then Assad, Treble, and soon everycreature were bolting after one after another. Jihaad, leading the clergy decided to follow too, but decided to trot in a dignified manner, more out of necessity due to their long robes that reached down to the hooves. Fareed, misinterpreting this as a challenge, decided to hold back his fellow merchants and trot reservedly along the priests, their heads similarly held high.

Two griffons and ponies watched on amusedly.

"Alright, ladies! Here's the rules, you're not allowed to detour or stray from the greater group, speak unless told to, or mingle with the locals without the major's say-so! -Understood?!" Sir Lieutenant Robertson shouted, entering a four-legged stance to stomp with both forehooves to drive the points through.

The majority civilian delegation ignored the barkish officer, busily fiddling with their luggage or directing the porters. "Hey, hey!" Basil Zarahoff, the merchant of death, angrily flapped in place, slightly lifting off the ground, "Careful with that, unless you want to pay for the reparations!" The porters simply rolled their eyes, appeasing the scrupulous Greek pegasus by rolling the twice-taller wood crates slower.

A unicorn nearby clicked his tongue, "How could someone of such infamy gain a spot in this expedition?" Thomas Henry Howard, commander of the Southern Australian Branch of the Salvation Army sighed, "What purpose would he serve except bloodshed? -What was our government thinking?"

"We're talking about the same government that habitually neglects its poor, Tom. Who but our government?" Florence Nightingale reminded, placing a gentle claw on the dejected 'officer'.

'Tom' soothingly smiled, "They at least had the right minds to send you, lady with the lamp."

Florence softly waved, "Oh please, that's all overblown tabloid dribble. But you should more rightfully thank god, who granted me a second wind to travel again, and directly help those in need."

"Really? Because I think you would've been far more useful staying in England." A darkly burly bearded unicorn trotted into view, promptly standing on his hindhooves to offer a hoof, "Sigmund Freud. It's a pleasure to meet a legend in person."

Florence appraised the hoof presented to her, "...The pleasure is all mine, Mister Freud." She blinked at the hoof before her and hastily shook it with an apologetic smile, "Sorry, your name seemed somewhat familiar. Are you perhaps from Germany?"

Freud slightly blushed, "Ah, is it that obvious? I suppose I cannot really blame myself though, since I've been familiar with the language for but a month now." He cleared his throat, "But, no-, I'm Austrian. Close though."

Tom became delighted, "Ah, a fellow international! -I thought I was the only one. Thomas Howard." He reached out a hoof,

Freud brightened too, "Really? You don't really strike me as such." He shook the opposing hoof.

"I was in Australia before this whole ordeal, before suddenly being transposed back to my birthhome." Tom nodded, "Oh you should've been there. The new owners kept swiping at me with a kitchen knife, accusing me of burglary!"

"That does sound hectic." Freud said, hesitating to say 'humourous'.

"Freud... Freud... Ah! Are you perhaps the author on the application of coca?" Florence softly clapped in realisation,

"'On Coca', yes." Freud allowed himself a grin in recognition,

Tom gaped, "You, who narrowly missed out on the distinction of discovering the first anesthetic?"

Freud sagged a little in regret, "The very same. But I'm glad for Karl, he deserved it."

"You knew him personally?" Florence wracked her mind, remembering that Karl Koller had been the one to publish the pain-preventing properties of cocaine.

"He is my colleague. -He's actually going to join me shortly, but he had some more stuffs to pack." Freud explained,

"Pardon for asking, but why are two Austrian neurologists in this expedition?" Tom cautiously queried,

"No offence taken. It's because of the coca plant. They don't grow in Europe." Freud neutrally intoned,

"Oh, that's terrible." Florence covered her beak, contemplating how his new acquaintance felt, knowing his life's work had essentially vanished overnight.

"Many scientists were a victim. I'm sorry for your loss, Sigmund." Tom rested a comforting hoof on the Austrian neurologist who promptly shook it off.

Freud sighed, "It's alright, our labs had a large stockpile of them anyways." Speak of the devil, Freud produced a translucent bottle filled with white tablets from his coat, "Any of you want to partake?"

Florence shook her head, unamused with vices. Tom, though, didn't have such inhibitions.

"Sure,"

They both took a tablet.

"It helps me think. And I think I'm making a breakthrough in its application to cure morphine addiction." Freud admitted before gulping loudly.

"Terrible thing. I suppose you are trying to find a substitute in these new lands?" Tom spoke while chewing, cringing sporadically as the bitterness of the tablet filled his mouth.

"Basically. It was quite rash of us, now that I think about it. Finding land wasn't even guaranteed." Freud unnoticeably shivered, his body unconsciously preparing for the foreseeable deluge of dopamine. "I suppose the coca had unveiled my Id, as it did to my colleague. But I suppose the prospects of discovering more of the application of our 'Werg' was irresistible."

"How very resourceful of you... My purpose here is to convert and perhaps even create a new Salvation Corps." Tom reciprocated,

"Really?" Florence tilted, "I am travelling with my unicorn student nurses to experiment with their 'Werg' for medical applications." She revealed,

Tom's eyes widened in surprise, "Wow, I guess I should've really planned this better, huh?" He embarrassingly rubbed his neck,

"ATTENTION, CIVILIANS!" The same lieutenant from before announced, "Colonel Kitchener has graciously allowed you all to accompany him! So you shall return that favour by following our rules to a tat! -No detouring! No straying! -And no mingling with the natives! Is that clear?!"

Roberts was still met with silence. He didn't expect any less from civvies.

"For those that requested translators prior, you will be assigned one! Also, note, sir Flash will be joining Kitchener in this delegation! So be on your best behaviour, and show your respects!" Roberts ended with another wide stomp.

Dramatically, those very individuals would step forward dressed most respectively, as expected of men of the British Empire. The pink unicorn held his head high, a right hoof resting just underneath his left chest for a photogenic scene. The griffon too, assumed that stance, also eager to maintain his prestige and look good in the interest of Britain.

A nearby box camera would absorb the scene, presumably to be catalogued and shipped back to the publishing companies at home.

Once Kitchener received the signal from the cameramen, he took the 'stage'.

"...I am not a man of many words." Kitchener began, "I much prefer those who act. So I will keep this short. -This is not the first time a foreign peoples arrived unannounced in a foreigner's land. Much records of similar cases exist to make our endeavour a common one, but don't despair at that. Be delighted by it! For past men have made numerous mistakes that we can now avoid for a more successful venture."

Kitchener paused for breath, "As you all have seem to realise, we have landed in a nation of peoples in the middle of what we have only the Renaissance as an Earthly equivalent to. Those of us that are military men or astute historians might even notice that these foreign peoples' architecture reminds us of the westerly orientals, alike the Egyptians, and Ottomans; like a slice of their holy site of Baghdad. -But make no mistake!"

Kitchener raised a hoof authoritatively in a point, "Do not let that knowledge make you complacent! They may seem familiar on the surface, but may be wholly different in their minds. So listen to your commanders, do not make private judgments and for you civilians, stick close to our soldiers and never let one of these natives nab you, lest you spark a costly crisis."

Flash chose this moment to step forward, cooly timing his entry with Kitchener's soft finish to announce,

"Gentlemen, let's get this show on the road."

He hushly whispered to Kitchener's side, "Why are they all naked?"

Despite Kitcherner's insistence, the British delegation subdivided into three sections, the vanguard consisting of the military, the core comprised of the 'traders' and the rear being mainly made up of the intelligentsia.

These sections would soon disobey another rule of his: Mingling with the locals, as the natives seemed determined to prove the term: "Opposites Attract" as a pathetic joke.

Author's Note

Nightingale: "For health!"

Thomas: "For Christianity!"

Freud: "For cocaine!"

Circa 1889

Journals of a Petite Bourgeoise

By some work of fate, the Jaffmare's petite bourgeoise had gravitated to the rear, being drawn to the massive heads of the ponies and griffons at the back, their skulls seemingly leaking with brains.

Accounts of Shah Al Assad, Historian and Populist Organiser

Iron ships, thrice taller and longer than our baghlahs had arrived at our shores at exactly midday of April 17th 774. Their mighty fleet consisted of 7 of mighty scale, with circular compartments in the centre, able to swivel and shoot the cannons stored within.

Following them were 14 similarly iron-cladded ships, but smaller. They looked to be dedicated transport ships, definitely not converted merchant liners, for only one could only imagine how rich these foreigners must be to cover all their ships with those glistening priceless metals.

Imagine my surprise when I eventually found out from my new foreign friends that all ships of their nations were made of (('steel')), an alloy, like bronze, but mainly consisting of iron. This would baffle me. Perhaps because I am not an engineer, I could not fathom how such a heavy vessel could float on water.

...

This nation, (('England')), from where they hail must be exorbitantly rich for them to undertake such grandiose projects of engineering. Their 'Battle-Ships' dwarf any great monuments our Kingdom has ever produced, and I could only compare it to my glances of our glorious capital of Trotgiers. It may not be gelded in gold, but it is still beautiful in its meticulousness. (('HMS Victoria')) they call it.

...

But the most foreign of all was the crew. The fact that they were griffons and ponies had not surprised me. It may have shaken my peers, but as a learn'ed reader and as a supposed fool who believed there was such a thing that existed in our world, I had been more shocked by how they moved.

They very uncomfortably stood tall on their hind hooves or paws, only occasionally falling to the normal mode of four-leggedness before rebounding back on their twos'. Most peculiarly, it seemed that the griffons were most acclimated to this unusual method of maneuver, as they barely ever contacted the floor with their claws.

Their pony partners were in comparison less fortunate, humorously tripping on their flat hooves as unlike the griffons whose paws had digits to balance themselves, our fellow equines had no such luxury. Despite this, they determinedly pushed on, only looking slightly annoyed whenever they fell on their forehooves.

It was a most bizarre tradition. Like many, the only times we saw a pony, or even any equine for that matter, stand on two hooves were mere foals learning to trot. Adventurous as they were, they would quickly retire their pubescent experimenting and learn to be on all fours. But I dare not presume the ineffectiveness of these weird practices of the foreigners, as I do not know why or how they came to be, and would be foolish of me to dismiss them due to mere prejudice.

By sight alone, I could only posit that these 'Two-Legs' adopted this 'tradition' to use their unoccupied forehooves as how we would use our muzzles, holding precise tools and the like. I would find this quite ingenious, if not, extremely discomfortable, as I had momentarily tried to adopt their strange tradition, only for me to fall quite embarrassingly backwards on my barrel, much to the amusement of my peers around me.

It was around that time I also noticed the foreigner's chronic disuse of their mouths. While some, especially those in the buisness of war could definitely relate to these foreigners in using their forehooves to hold weapons or shields. I don't imagine they would feel the same way with how these foreign ponies seem to completely neglect their mouths.

Not once have I seen any of the ponies atop the ships use their mouths in any capacity. Even when they seemed to write, they had forgone the convenient mouth, awkwardly grabbing onto their quilt-equivalent instruments on an uncomfortably bent hoof.

Everyhorse knows, and I can't imagine the ponies don't either, that the grip of their hooves is notoriously weak. While there are sparse enough cases to suggest one can improve their grip by extensive training and feverish 'visualisation' (as attested by those aforementioned subject cases) of their hooves to act like their digitigrade counterparts, it is hardly replicable.

Not only that, the meagre reports of great ancient thinkers who delved into this subject warn madly against trying to understand those aforementioned phenomenal cases, instead, pleading to all who have read their manuscripts to abandon their inquiries immediately, lest they also go insane.

The fact that these same daring ancient thinkers promptly committed suicide or entered into a great chasm of despair, never to recover again, or even mentally broke and became catatonic, I rightfully marvel at these foreign ponies. Perhaps they have solved the 'Forbbiden Mystery'. What even the greatest thinker of our world* refrained from investigating, infamously dismissing it as "Hooves, being Hooves"

Spoiler alert, the Europeans didn't. They were just biologically hard-wired to 'have' hands and use them. We still don't know how our brains or body fully work, so they were doubly ignorant.

...

There is something else which defines the 'Two-Legs'. The most obvious, really. The feature I have been withholding so far due to its ironic inconsequentiality. It is, of course, their attire.

Their sailors typically wore a darkish-blue overshirt, sometimes in the form of coats and usually an aged-white undershirt. Several of them also seemed to wear the switched colour variants of the same uniform, most likely a distinction of rank. All of them wore a quaint hat of similar darkish colour, of which shape I could not relate to any of our own.

Some of the more smartly posed crew among them wore an appropriate-looking uniform, as I could clearly make out their golden buttons, stripes and buckles on their longer coats, accompanied by a long, thin-sheathed sword on their side. Despite mine inexperience in war, I could definitely tell that they were some sort of officers, especially as their plainly dressed compatriots looked obediently to them periodically, loyally awaiting orders. To further distinguish them, they wore a sort of triple-layered hat, of midsection had a golden stamp of sorts.

(Something like this, minus human characteristics:)

Seeing this uniformity in colour, I had a mind to quite rudely refer to these foreigners as 'Blue-Shirts', in instead of the misleading 'Two-Legs', but the convenient arrival of some much brightly dressed soldiers on-deck quickly made me reconsider my choices.

These new strangers wore a more eye-catching red, with tanned bands wrapped over their shoulders, carrying several miniature 'bags' that neatly hugged their upright barrels or torsos. Their strange tanned egged-shaped hats immediately gave me the impression that these were ground troops, since they seemed unbearable to wear in the probable cramped environment of the ship.

(They look like this, also minus human characteristics:)

But this is all somewhat usual if you discount the difference in probable material or look, as our own armies and dignified horses wear clothes to distinguish their ranks, wealth or prestige. But even here, these foreigners must confuse us still, as if one were to drift their eyes lower, they would discover the immense injustice.

They wore a strange... Article of clothing over their flanks. In our society, this is a great punishment, levied against shunned horses who are forever cursed to cover their cutie mark at the threat of death if they were to unveil it. The North Zebrican Ponies have similar ethics, but have largely fazed out such punishments, and rightfully so in my opinion. For there is no greater indignation to an equine than to hide their cutie marks, essentially removing their individuality and robbing them of any purpose or employment in our highly ordinal society.

Those sadly subjected to this 'veiling' live in a pitiful state in our society. The luckiest ones are able to find menial jobs from the empathetic few, but most are shamefully ignored by the large populace, avoided, cursed and eventually starved in the middle of the streets, their flanks branded with the dreaded 'crown' of irony, a reminder to all to avoid such a similar fate.

So the fact that these foreigners were willingly subjecting themselves to these punishments, seen as too cruel to administrate in the north, was utterly baffling to me. To the griffons, maybe not as vexing, but to the ponies among them? What bizarre culture they must have to hide their individuality so.

...

...

A lingering suspicion of mine became fostered as I saw what I could only determine as civilians leaving the 'Red Coat's' ships. They were headed by a particularly stuck-up pink unicorn and fearsome-looking griffin, flanked by two extra ponies wearing some humorously fluffy large hats.

They all similarly wore those dreadful 'hind-clothes', all still very uniform, wearing some sort of slick black coat over a clean, white shirt and a strange varying article of accessory around their necks, tightly hugging the collar of their shirts.

It was thought-provoking, that last accessory, as it, to me, proved no purpose other than perhaps offer a slight opportunity of individuality as they all varied slightly in colour or pattern. It also seemed exclusive to stallions alone, as the mares and lionesses wore their own variants of clothing, as expected.

The fairer sexes wore quite noticeable clothes, with none of them seemingly wearing the same colours, exotic patterns and jewellery dotting their dresses. Eerily, they also seemed to cover their flanks, but their choice of 'veiling' elicited an unknown reaction within me. It was very strange, I cannot serve it justice with words alone, but I will still try to provide a description.

Their 'veil' was large, seemingly multi-layered and gave an illusion of an obscenely large flank. I must remind you again, that words alone cannot describe what I have seen, and that prior description gives the impression that it may look horrendous, but I assure you, it was quite the opposite. And I must admit, shamefully, that I fancied them.

...

...

...

I had met a quite fascinating character. Despite needing to intermediate with an interpreter, our conversation was very warm and pleasant. He was black in mane, bushly bearded and beige in coat. His horn was modest in size, however, poorly maintained compared to his neat attire and straightened mane. He would introduce himself as Sigmund Freud.

The tall pony was joined by another unicorn, unusually dressed in a military-style attire that stood out among the other civilians and varied with the red-coated soldiers. His alleged acquaintance had a deep magenta coat, ruby red mane, neat moustache and pointed beard. His name was Thomas 'Henry' Howard, and apparently an officer of a presumably militaristic religious order.

They were finally accompanied by an old griffoness. Modestly dressed, she was dovish in plumage, white and red-eyed. Apparently, she was highly esteemed back in their collective homes, yet, in my time conversing and observing her, she gave me no impressions of being so.

These opinions of mine would only strengthen when they praised her for relieving (An equivalent of the foreign word (('nursing'))) the stallions (A vague translation of their word (('men')) which encompasses both male griffons and ponies) during a conflict called the 'Crimean War'. I do not how a war-wife* could be acclaimed, no less even mentioned without invoking shame, but again, I dare not question their culture or their foreign customs.

War-wife* - A woman who followed armies to provide spousal services. They would cook for the soldiers and provide promiscuous 'relief'. As expected, they were hated and seen as a disgrace by the larger public, propagandised, tempting men to fornicate.

My new friend, 'Freud', would kindly answer all of my questions, however, his answers would prove somewhat unsatisfactory. As an example, I had asked him about the circumstances of how our Princeling had boarded their ship, only for me to be disappointed when he regretfully informed me that he also didn't know.

My frustrations would only grow, as he was also ignorant of the ship's name, its design, armaments and mode of operation. I suppose it wasn't fair to him though, as like me, he admitted that he was no engineer, and neither were his two acquaintances as I soon found out.

Nonetheless, these predicaments would all prove insignificant to the mane-tearing occupation of my new 'friends'. Freud similarly looked to be distressed in my incomprehension, as he tried to explain to me this otherwordly concept called (('neurology')) and his expertise within it as a (('neurologist')) in their foreign tongue. He tried to convince me of the utterly noble idea that the brain, and not the heart was the seat of the mind. More ludicrously, he explained to me a theory of his that our minds 'had a mind of its own'. I had truly met an interesting character.

This 'Thomas', pony, though, had a far more familiar concept in occupation. Like the savage Great Laker Zebras, it seemed, these foreigners mixed militarism with religion, albeit, obviously with technological superiority. Once thought by me a contradiction for a society to obsess with war yet achieve prosperity, these foreigners seem to have achieved it, despite following said savages' ethics.

This gave me a pause for thought. It should advise you to reconsider those eastern savages too. Perhaps we shouldn't dismiss their beliefs and traditions as entirely folly, but adopt some of them, or at the least, learn from their best aspects, as the case of these Red-Coats propose.

...

...

...

The journal continues on with the rest of the delegation's events, better explained by the journals of other notables, Fareed and Bakar.

Author's Note

Grover's still on statis.

I hate cheese, and this chapter makes the Swiss jealous.

Antics of a Merchant

The Jaffmare's merchants and artisans, like their pseudo-intellectuals of the city, had also become drawn to their counterparts, rubbing flanks with the British traders, revelling in the atmosphere of unscrupulous greed and the universal scent of money.

The Antics of Fareed Ample; a Forgettable Merchant, Forced into Historic Notoriety

Fareed knew avaricious creatures when he saw one. Wealthier the more noticeable, he could smile at sensing the same atmosphere of business, experienced in Jaffmare's numerous merchant guilds.

Other merchants around him weren't so as astute like him, many blind to the divide between what Fareed considered the 'pretentious know-it-alls' and 'the noble and hard-working realist traders' in the foreign delegation.

Regardless, it did not matter, as the little parasites the 'lesser' merchants were, they followed Fareed like hyenas, soulless stares accompanying the most successful merchant's every move. Some were determined to copy and follow him, as if that would bring them success and joy. But even more of them spectated silently, wishing for his hideous downfall, dreamily pulling him down with their collective phantom hooves onto their abyssal level, only for the next to rise to be similarly cut down to size.

Fareed wouldn't give them that satisfaction. He, unlike any of these lowly hay-peddlers would rise, cheating them all and escaping intrigue to finally end up in Trotgiers! Where only wealth mattered, and one's race, family status or prowess didn't.

Fareed gritted his teeth. He would show these nobodies what a half-breed could do.

He approached two pompous griffins with a charming grin.

"Hm. They're too primitive for a modern banking sector, don't you think, brother?" Alfred de Rothschild, second child of the notable Rothschild family spoke, smartly twirling his moustache with a soft claw.

"Nonsense, brother. As Colonel Kitchener said, these natives seem to be in the middle of their renaissance, and history proves banking is about to boom. A capital investment for us, it is, if we were to create a monopoly." (The Lord) Nathaniel Mayer Rothschild, eldest child of the Rothschilds', slyly replied, stroking his beard with a similar soft claw that had never seen menial work.

A familiar pegasus rolled his eyes, "Your types always lack foresight! So little narrow view of the future, what great opportunity that may be presented, you always fail to see the greater prize!" Sir Basil Zaharoff reprimanded, yet, due to his natural charisma and reputation, it didn't come off as offensive.

Zaharoff continued, "These new lands could expand our understanding about our Werg, granting us avenues for its use in every sector of industry!... Especially in regards to our specialties..."

"Just imagine the fantastical devices that can be wrought with magic... So many possibilities... Such beauties will be made..." Thorsten Nordenfelt giddly cooed, a manic grin sprawled across his beak as his wings flapped wildly in reflection.

A unicorn beside him nervously leaned away from the mad inventor, a worried expression on his face, "Okay...? But let's not forget why we're doing this, gentlemen. -To save lives." Sir Hiram Stevens Maxim resolved, ignorant of Zaharoff's second eye roll, Nodenfelt's continued mad imaginings and the Rothschild's apathetic stare.

(("Pleasure to be of acquaintance! -My name is Fareed. Fareed Ample."))

All eyes and attached heads slowly turned to the newcomer. A native, from the voice, but closer. They'd noted, finally meeting eyes with a familiar-looking smile from a particularly small unicorn horse. That also didn't wear pants...

At least this one had a shirt though. It nevertheless made them shiver a bit, disgusted that these nudists would shamelessly uncover their privates like this. Their respite and subsequent little goodwill only came from the knowledge that they were at least not bipedal. Not because it would make them comparable to these savages, but because it would fully reveal their privates, partially hidden when on all-fours.

"Interpreter!" Nathaniel called, promptly being answered by one privately contracted by him.

"Milord?"

"Help us with this, good sir." Alfred waved a palm at the petite unicorn.

"Very well, sir."

Fareed will no longer be bracketed, except for words without an English equivalent and vice versa.

"Could we get a photographer here?" Nordenfelt yelled,

"Pleasur-... It is equitable to have met. My name is Nathaniel, eldest of the prestigious Rothschilds'." The banker barely dipped his head in greeting.

Fareed became bemused as a claw didn't shake his hanging hoof, causing him to stiffly drop it back in place. He decided to repay this treatment with an amiable smile. "Fareed Ample. Richest merchant of Jaffnare." He sneaked a self-commendation.

A similar looking griffon stuck close to his familiar dipped deeper, "-And I am his brother, Alfred. That there is Nordenfelt, Maxim and-, hey, where's Zaharoff?"

"Mind holding that native still?" Zaharoff revealed himself suddenly a fair distance away from the group, next to a griffon whose head was concealed in the black hood of a dry plate camera.

The Rothschilds thought it was beneath them, however, Maxim, out of decency and Nordenfelt, out of sating curiosity quickly moved to usher Fareed to their sides, much to the latter's confusion, to the middle of their group.

Fareed quickly galloped to the edge of the group, nestling next to Alfred and Nathaniel to turn the group even again.

"The tabloids will read, 'Savages meet the best of the west!'"

The photographer raised a thumb in completion,

"Now, now. You know how those people think about we wealth-men calling natives 'savages'." Nathaniel clicked his tongue, "Uncivilised is a far more suitable term."

Fareed, by now quite flustered at being ignored, tossed around, and ignored again, finally decided to provoke a clearing of his throat. "'Hem... Could somehorse please explain what just happened?"

Expectedly, the banker family ignored him, alongside the eccentric salesman, leaving the engineers to pick up the tab once more.

"We just took a ((photo)), good horsie! Want to see an example?" The interpreter took to liberty to omit 'horsie'. Nordenfelt dug a claw into his inner pocket, extracting a messy grasp of post-developed photos. Some slipped out of his gaped digits and hit Fareed's face, causing him to cringe as some narrowly missed his eyes.

Said eyes would immediately widen at witnessing the various contents of the rectangular 'fabrics' in the energetic griffon's claws.

"They're still pictures, captured by the prior instrument that was pointed at us." Maxim helpfully elaborated,

Ignoring etiquette, Fareed's horn glowed to snatch the goods off of Norden felt's claws,

"ARGH! Papercut!"

-And levitating them close to his face to better observe the colourless yet surreal piece of 'art'.

The four without pain curiously noted the magical display.

"-How..." Fareed rapidly cycled through the various 'photos', depicting various scenes from what he could vaguely determine ranging from scenes of battle to fair ladies. "How is this possible?! There was no magic in that previous contraption!"

An awkward silence followed the merchant's outburst. The interpreters were hard at work, neatly whispering to the ears of their benefactors.

Zaharoff shrugged, "Technology."

Fareed sputtered indignantly at the half-flanked, yet obvious response.

"Apologies, mister Fareed, but explaining its operation and engineering is simply impossible with our precarious limit in time." Maxim remedied,

"Not to mention, it's not exactly of our expertise..." Nordenfelt spat, nursing his sore undulating palm that was sure to become worse later.

"Speaking of technology's antithesis, are your kind or wider friends perhaps familiar with it?" Albert chanced,

Fareed abruptly blinked out of his thoughts, "Familiar with what?"

"He means 'Werg'." Zaharoff scrutinised the merchant, "But I guess from your reaction, it goes hand-in-glove with technology."

Fareed sputterd again in disbelief, "Of course! -Even a foal knows magic is expected for any tool! -I can't-! What?! -That is the most obvious fact known by everycreature! How in Asura's name can you not know this? -OR EXERCISE THIS SIMPLE RULE?!" He manically stammered,

Before any could counter with an excuse, Zaharoff dumbfoundedly blurted, "-There's a rule?"

"-YES!!! It's Clover's rule of the four classical elements, 'earth, water, air and magic!' -The last element, with qualities of power is the force for all goods!" Fareed rashly yelled, blushing slightly for shouting something so obvious out loud. He wished desperately that any listeners wouldn't think he wasn't one of those pretentious morons that espoused the truth of one plus one equals two.

"Clover?" "-Who the devil is Clover?"

"Clover the Clever..." Fareed impatiently groaned, rubbing his tired eyes with both hooves.

His patience would further dry out when he looked up, facing the still-confused foreigners.

"...The apprentice of the legendary Starswirl the Great? -The real hooves behind the Princess Platinum's reign?" Fareed balked at their continued incomprehension.

"...Dear Asura... You're all serious..." Fareed snapped his gaped jaw shut, "Just... How dettached have you creatures been?"

Alfred's brow rose, "Well, it's hardly our faul-,"

"-Let's just say the seas around our lands are treacherous. But it isn't all bad, our first contact with the wider world has been you, kind people." Nathaniel flashed an uncommon smile, cracking his charisma open.

Zaharoff noiselessly trotted to his patron's side, a similar smile on his muzzle, "Yes, how fortunate of us to be here, welcomed without threats or a scratch on our side. But what else could be expected with friends?"

Fareed began sensing a wormly deja vu, his coat instinctively shivering.

"Tell you what... Your kind's warm reception requires a fitting reward... And who else to deliver it, then the richest merchant of the quaint, polite city?" Zaharoff waved absently in the air. Unbeknownst to all, several strategically positioned porters heeded their signal to approach.

Fareed immediately realised the foreigner's intentions, and internally scowled at the implications. He would resolve to be intentionally obtuse, for the slight of thinking he was some lightweight negotiator, vulnerable to some honied wor-

"-After all, if you have so much already, what will be the point of stealing some measly gift? -Not saying you would, but other unscrupulous men." Zaharoff was soon joined by four pony porters, each carrying a 'dense' crate on a wagon once intended for a less conscious being.

Zaharoff nodded. The crates became cracked open.

And... Fareed became disappointed.

Underclimatic, really.

He didn't even know what he was seeing.

Zaharoff awkwardly coughed, "These are... Graphophones!"

Nathaniel gasped intensely, "No, Zaharoff! These were for our esteemed commanders of the expedition!" He covertly nudged Alfred's side,

"Maxim and Nordenfelt, could you please step aside with me for a brief 'mo to discuss your prototypes?" Alfred swiftly stepped forward, supplemented by his wings to wrap his arms around their employed engineer's shoulders.

Nordenfelt cheerfully began chatting, but Maxim briefly sent a glance at the scene about to unfold.

"They can wait, Lord Nathaniel, but we may be parting ways with these hosts anyday. This might be the only time we could repay our gratitude, and-," Zaharoff determinedly stared at the merchant with deep conviction, "We traders never forgive our debts." Around the same time, a porter slid a graphophone atop a convenient wheeled table just before Zaharoff.

Fareed gazed expectantly at the strange machine, nodding and glancing at the last Rothschild sporadically, who still looked greatly worried.

"Indulge your ears, of the ride of the valkryies."

Fareed twitched as he heard the displeasing noise of what he could only compare to a blacksmith sharpening his sword on a particularly jagged grinding wheel.

But it soon became overshadowed by a hasty stroke of the violin.

Fareed's eyes widened once more as he observed the impossible sight of a contraption, still without any traces of magic, emitting sound. While such functions were not explored by the Great Starswirl or his clever apprentice, many other magicians had long ago and still tried, following the overwhelming path that the former titan carved, futilely trying to expand his knowledge, only to drown in his still-much alive shadow.

What was occurring in his very-eyes and ears was thought to be fantasy. Little demand and subsequently too little funding for such functionality had made sure of that. Starswirl had already invented a spell to transport written messages, and that had been breakthrough enough. Nocreature wanted, or expected more.

But the foreigner's machine showed what they had been missing.

By now, everycreature in an earshot distance had staggered towards the noise. Those familiar softly hummed the tune, helping drown out the annoying scratchy ambience, while those who didn't, either not familiar with Wagner or a native, listened with awed expressions.

Fareed, somehorse who had enjoyed the pleasures of music before and have bragged of having listened to the greatest bards and performers of the Kingdom could not form words to describe this particular piec-, no, masterpiece.

He could especially not fathom how these foreigners could gather the number of professionals in the appropriate concentration to create such a harmonious, fantastical symphony.

Sure, Fareed had witnessed famed concertmasters who had gathered musicians in impressive numbers to play in such symphonies, but they had been amateurish, poorly paid and absolutely horrendous, when compared to the song played by this 'graphophone'.

He thirsted desperately to hear it without distortion.

Zaharoff ended the track early, flipping a black tab haphazardly with his flat, stiff hoof. He cursed under his breath, "Well? Will you be delivering these gifts?"

Fareed hesitantly looked up to Zaharoff, taking note of his hopeful expression. He gnawed his lip.

"This is out-rageous! These are top-of-the-line products! -And will not be squandered as a gift to those that don't understand its value!" Nathaniel moved to wrestle the graphophone towards the crate, only to be easily thwarted by Zaharoff who slapped his claws limply off the table.

"Value?" Fareed picked up from his whispering interpreter, immediately entering into a racing thought of its possible market value. "...Trotgiers would go crazy for this! Frivolous luxuries like these are exactly their type! -Imagine the amount of ducats!"

"Maybe you're right, Lord Nathaniel... Perhaps just some gold would suffice?" Zarahoff anxiously tapped his hoof together.

"-Right it would! How could you even entertain the idea that any one of these unelightened peoples could smartly find worth in a product like this?!" Nathaniel slowly wrapped his claws around the graphophone once more, delicately coiling his digits around its miscellaneous nobs and features.

Fareed waved wildly, "Wait! -Just... Asura, damn it... Stop."

Nathaniel had already stopped even before his interpreter's input.

"I'll, uh... I graciously accept your gift, Zarahoff." Fareed managed,

Zarahoff smiled, but Nathaniel stepped in front of him, "That offer is off the table... Literally." He ardently declared, unconsciously nudging the desk from behind.

Noticing this, Fareed began to tense, "Oh, come on, Lord Nathaniel. Are we not friends as Zaharoff said? -This would go a long way to improve our relationship, and especially strengthen ties in the long run as well." He said with surprising confidence.

"It is still a no. I will not risk severing ties with the Colonel for some strangers west." Nathaniel flatly huffed.

"Please, Nathaniel, these natives deserve enough." Zarahoff peered his head from Nathaniel's shoulder, flashing a reassuring smile at Fareed.

"What? -For a warm welcome they get a million pounds worth of goods?!"

"Don't be ridiculous! Like what Fareed said, they would surely reciprocate! -He should know even better as the richest merchant!" Zarahoff desperately defended, looking nervously at Fareed to be vouched.

"-That's right! I will compensate you with some of Jaffmare's most talented sorcerers!" Fareed hastily nodded at Zarahoff, who immediately relaxed once interpreting the counteroffer.

"What use are temporary employs-?"

"They're indentured servants! Paying off their contracts from their academies, -I'll give you them!" Fareed elaborated on the offer,

"-I'm still not-,"

"I'll give you the literatures of Starswirl and Clover! -Alongisde our own scholars, on my expense!" Fareed declared. They're all inexpensive anyways!

"Lord Nathaniel, I swear by the gods that I, alone, will be solely responsible if our Colonel and commanders take offence to goffing these good people." Zarahoff crossed a hoof across his barrel.

Fareed thanked Asura for the generous Zaharoff.

"Fine... But these goods better go to the right people, Zaharoff." Nathaniel glared at Fareed, even as he stepped to the side.

"I swear, by Asura, that these gifts will go the city council," Fareed said through his smiling teeth.

The graphophone slid towards Fareed's reach.

"Sucker," the sucker thought.

Author's Note

Plot twist: The British are the suckers. Those indebted magicians are cheap-as.

Hiram Maxim is an extremely interesting individual. One may consider him delusional, falsely sticking to the belief that the machine gun would reduce the number of men needed for wars, even as he witnessed the outbreak of the Great War, where mass conscription occurred, undeterred by the presence of his Maxim machine gun which would go on to grind the men of all sides to dust.

Perhaps it was a coping mechanism, avoiding confronting the monster his invention had become. But I'm confident that his last moments would've been as peaceful as any other man's, considering he was an atheist and he wouldn't die expecting endless torture in hell, but a common nothingness.

Also, I'm going to assume that in the EAW universe, magic cannot record audio at least, easily. (Because if they could, Celestia's letters would be in voicemail) Unless Trollestia wanted Spike to suffer... Or does Spike enjoy reading them out loud? -I'm so confused now.

Observations of a 'Bandit'... And Everyone else

"...You have no idea where we're going, do you?" Flash deadpanned,

Kitchener brisked at the 'hero's' judgemental stare, "Might you suggest there's a better plan? I don't see any military personnel or similar high dignitaries that would escort us."

"We could just ask the locals?"

"Ask some primitive illiterate nobody directions?" Kitchener huffed, "Perish that thought. We will continue towards the tallest citadel."

Flash frowned. He could claim otherwise by citing his times in Bengal, where the locals were of great help in finding his way, however, noted that these natives were greatly different to the far technologically superior peoples' of the Indian subcontinent. Considering this, he gave a hesitant nod.

"Colonel, halt the delegation!"

"Again?!" Kitchener groaned, tiredly wheeling to his lieutenant who was close behind him, "Robertson, halt the men again."

"Yessir. HALT MEN!"

"Halt!"

"Halt!"

Kitchener wheeled with strained, overused ankles to face the files of men who had halted the delegation time and time again, symbolically spitting on the corpse of his previously outlined rules, already battered and deceased from the member's naked disobedience, of detouring and intermingling with the locals. The mission, therefore, had been ongoing at a crawl's pace, periodically entering stoppages, even by the straggling of only a few dozen men.

"What is it now?" Kitchener appraised the man marching with a hastening pace towards him. It caught him momentarily off-guard that the man was also wearing a Moorish uniform.

"Harry Maclean." He hailed, "-I bring the Princeling and his companions."

"You're Scottish?!" Flash suddenly interjected, disbelieving the stranger's poignant accent that poorly matched his Morrocan appearance, "I swear, I thought you to be a native!"

Maclean decided it was a compliment, "I am Sultan Moulay Abdelaziz's instructor of the army... Well, I was before this whole 'mess'." He brushed a claw over his mythical features, deciding to flap his wings gently as well to further signify his implication.

Pedrollah soon galloped beside the eccentric Scotsman, joined by his Captain Mahmud and friend Pasha. All three were refreshingly fully covered, them having come around to the reality of wearing pants, at least out of the bare respect for their saviours.

"The bright prince! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Kitchener's eyes drifted away from the colt, landing on four others in a short distance quickly closing the gap. "To... Two naked unicorns, one with torn clothes and... A donkey, no less?" Kitchener's smile quivered.

Mahmud ignored the colonel's looks, "The green one is Urban El Hungari, the chief engineer. The yellow one is Zubair El Bakar, harbourmaster of Jaffmare and apparent provisional leader."

The addressed unicorns bowed in greeting.

"-And these are the commanders of the ground and seas, Jass Canary and Baltog Al Hue respectively."

"This uniform is not my own." The yellow earthhorse irritably reminded, still adorning the tattered captain's coat.

"Then why still wear it?" Jass mumbled, "-Thanks for introducing me, captain."

"Provisional leader? -You mean to tell me that the previous is indisposed?" Kitchener began to pale. While he was somewhat relieved that the local ruler wasn't some presumptuous demagogue who thought so little of them to not meet with him, the fact that he would be dealing with a provisional leadership disturbed him.

Flash, sharing a similar opinion began whispering to him, "We better have not come all this way just to speak with inconsequential men." He hissed without the intent of offending the locals. Merely annoyed that they may speak to people whose agreements and dealings could be reneged or easily dismissed by a higher authority.

"Not another Peking situation..." Kitchener hushed, mirroring Flash's distress.

While the two officers were being reminded of a similar scenario, the native provisionals were entered into an impromptu conference, added, a colt Princeling and a certain idealistic rebel.

"What do we tell him?" Bakar blabbered,

"Tell him what?" Mahmud and Pasha chorused, joined by a squeaky Princeling in between them.

"That our beylerbey fled like a craven, and is probably dead." Baltog spat,

"THE BEYLERBEY IS DEAD?!" Mahmud exclaimed,

"Shush!" Urban reprimanded the captain by stuffing a hoof in his careless muzzle.

The gathered horses looked around wearily, catching the confused eyes of Kitchener and Flash, responding to them with a hasty smile.

"This... Is unprecedented. Shouldn't there be a new beylerbey then?" Pasha retook everyhorse's attention.

"There's not even supposed to be a 'regency council'..." Mahmud glared at Bakar.

"We're not separatists, captain!... If you were implying that..." Urban hastily countered, "We're just... The 'waiting' committee for the new beylerbey."

Mahmud stared, unimpressed.

"Please see reason, captain. You know how bad Jal-far is." Bakar pleaded, "If he takes over, there won't be a Jaffmare tomorrow."

"Why would he-?" Mahmud suddenly blanched. "Oh. Is it to do something with Pedro?"

"Princeling Pedrolllah. -And yes." Bakar pinched the bridge between his eyes... Somehow, with hooves. "He would've used the Princeling's disappearance as a casus beli to annex us. Probably with some contrived reasons along the lines of 'I will prevent it from ever happening again'."

"Well, it doesn't matter now, since he's safely with us." Urban lightened the mood, "...Right?" He dimmed it a bit.

"Let's not ruminate now, Urban." Baltog patted the engineer's shoulder,

"Right." Jass finally participated, nodding at Baltog, "I don't even know why we're having this discussion. It should be obvious that we tell them everything." He accentuated it with a shrug.

"And why is that obvious?" Bakar asked,

"Alright. Ask yourselves this: What do we have to lose by telling them the truth?"

"Nothing! They just got here, so what would they gain from knowing?" Pedro immediately answered,

Jass's brow rose in amusement, impressed at the wit of the colt. "Very good, my Princeling. That's right. They have no knowledge, much less interest in the politics of this region." Jass looked back at the now-contemplative horses around him. "Next question: What do we have to gain by telling them the truth?"

"Something good?" Pedro nonsensically blurted,

Yet, Jass nodded once more in agreement, "Right again, Pedrollah. Not getting scalped for telling a revealed lie would be 'something good'."

"What's 'scalped'-?"

"Also, building a mutual trust with these new 'friends' could only possibly grant benefits, so what's up with the resistance?" Jass muttered tiredly.

"It also might be too late for secrecy. Whatever that reason might be." Pasha squinted at Bakar, "I've already told them much, talking to one of their '((filibusters))'."

"You've conversed with them before?" Baltog asked, surprised.

"Yes...? Of course, all 12 of us rescued did. What else were we supposed to do in one month at sea?" Pasha said, aloof.

"It was quite the luxury cruise. The experience on the ship is indescribable. Literally. -There is no equivalent." Mahmud confirmed, "There was little to do other than... 'Amuse' their 'language experts'."

"I learnt lottsa stuff! -Like, did you know, our planet is not actually the centre of the universe-? -Or even our solar system?" Pedro eagerly revealed.

"What?" "Huh?" Was thought by all but two fully clothed horses.

"The foreigner's religious theory aside, I think that's enough 'convening'. They're looking impatient." Pasha subtlely nudged his head towards his back, putting the foreigner's commander into focus. "Bakar, you better go over and answer him. Truthfully."

Bakar sighed, "I guess I just needed somehorse to say it. Thank you, Pasha." He reached a hoof out for a shake, "Sorry if I had forgotten... But what do you do again?"

Mahmud immediately paled as he saw Pasha lift his own hoof to take it, even more so as he saw the bandit leader open his muzzle.

"I am a leader of a guild that operates in the heartland of Saddle Arabia." Pasha vaguely answered,

"A guild leader? What are you doing here then, and not in the centre of their delegation? -I heard they have merchants there." Urban interrupted,

"My guild isn't focused on monetary gains." Pasha elaborated, while Mahmud continued to jostle nervously.

"A mercenary order then? Dodging tributes by calling yourselves a guild, are you?" Jass cracked a rare grin, "Hey, props to you. Did the same thing, 'way back."

Pasha squinted. "That does describe our activities..." He ominously mumbled. Thankfully for Mahmud, nohorse had heard, and were satisfied with their provisional general's allusion.

"MEN! QUICK, MARCH!" Robertson suddenly cried out,

"QUICK MARCH!"

"QUICK MARCH!"

"QUICK MARCH!"

Bakar quickly galloped towards the colonel, "Wait, -wait! I need something to tell you!"

Kitchener loudly groaned at the familiar noise of hooves galloping towards him. Without even looking behind him he yelled, "Tell any that may, I WILL NOT speak until we are situated in an appropriate building!"

Subsequently, an interpreter swiftly intercepted the naked galloping unicorn, skidding neatly in front, blocking the view of the Colonel.

"My apologies, sir. But the commander wishes to speak once we reach the city's citadel." He softly said,

Undeterred by the interpreter's surprising fluency, Bakar continued, "But it's important-!"

The interpreter pushed Bakar back into his place. Pushing imposingly with his bipedal stance and utilising the dexterity his two limbs offered, the griffon interpreter easily grappled the naked unicorn still. "It must wait, sir! The world won't end in our walk to the governor's place!"

Bakar immediately froze, "Oh shit..."

He had forgotten to evict the 'mistresses'.

Bakar cringed in sympathy for his future self.

(("Woah-Ho! Ladies, allow me escort you out, so we gentlemen can conduct business."))

"Sir Flash?! When did you learn to speak their langu-?!"

"Not now sir Franchis! -And promise you won't tell Kitchener that,"

"Where are you going, sir?"

"A place requesting little of your worry, good man."

(("So... Do any of you ladies fancy a tale of my dashing exploits as a royal seaman?"))
Governor's Palace. After a prolonged discussion.
"That... Creates so many problems..." Kitchener loudly groaned, having listened to Bakar's confession. "Now I have to repeat this to Flash... Where is that Gladstone's pet, anyways?"

"No idea, sir. But the men have reported seeing him direct trespassers away." Robertson suggested hesitantly, fearing he may have misremembered a certain detail.

"Always busy... I swear, someone like him are always overcompensating for something." Kitchener impotently spat,

"Sir... If I didn't know any better, you're claiming yourself to be overcompensating. -You're clearly the most busy worker here." Robertson chuckled,

"I know the ways to a good rest!" Kitchener densely rebuked.

Robertson's jaw opened, but quickly closed again. "Apologies, sir. How should we proceed with this information, though?"

"Without Alfred or Seymour? -Nothing, unfortunately." Kitchener abruptly rose from his seat, pushing away from the table he had been leaning his hoof on. "Lieutenants, make ready our delegates and guests for the 'show'. It's about time to wow these natives."

(("What's going on? Are we finally done?")) Bakar relievedly sighed, having endured a nerve-racking interrogation, alone and surrounded by foreign officials with nohorse to count on.

"At once, sir." The lieutenants in the room similarly rose, then saluted.

Yet another time skip, as I slowly lose the will to live, jumping from multiple perspectives
Zaharoff took centre stage, despite the palace's 'lawn*' being devoid of features, much less a pedestal.

It's not the same lawn you're probably thinking of. 'Lawns', especially during the Renaissance were a great patch of empty land which large estates usually left undeveloped to brag how much wealth they had to squander.

Of course, they did this to their similarly rich guests while the poor starved in their meagre subsistence farms or cities. Why couldn't there be a Reinnaisaance Mr Beast?

The 'merchant of death' was surrounded by various eager notables, including, of course, the officers of the British military, keen to see what their newly bought 'hardware' could do.

Sure, some like Alfred and Seymour had already seen its impressive qualities, however, were honourably holding their mouths closed, not wishing to spoil it for the rest of them.

Among the spectators included the various glorified sellswords of Europe. Despite calling themselves filibusters, most of these ambitious men had been coerced into the expedition's contracts by their respective nations, which wished to rid themselves of a possible heavily armed insurrectionist.

Out of pay, out of objective, these single-minded men who despised masters were made no better than mercenaries, as they could not practice any trade other than war.

The British, for their part, were glad to have them. They had been cheap, and unlike actual sellswords, filibusters tended not to devolve into bands of marauding reavers, with proper enforcement of discipline, of course.

Two notables among the displaced filibusters, both respectively leading their own faction within the private army was the familiar Harry Maclean, and the Russian, Emilio Kosterlitzky.

Maclean, feeling right in his elements in a place definitely not dissimilar to his last post, had a quite conventional plan, hastily wrought up once noticing the sparse similarities in culture.

While not usually this ambitious, as he much preferred a subservient role, he planned on leading his loose faction of similarly ambitious men to force their 'protection' upon the local cities and villages of their new lands.

To his advantage, he had a vague understanding of the primitive's culture, added to historical precedents, the men were willing to believe, but most out of their own confirmation biases, that they could extract 'insurance' from the local populace.

To his disadvantage, Maclean lacked natural charisma, and would have to hold his men together through the flaunting of his experience and knowledge. In other words, he would have to actively convince them through wise words and directions.

In comparison, Emilio almost leaked in inherent charisma, exuding overwhelming confidence despite his comparable lack of experience or know-how to Maclean.

Known as the 'Mexican Cossack', he perceivably lived up to that name, dressed fashionably as a cossack hussar but attaining the humble, cool ruggedness of the yet-to-be Mexican División del Norte. His sharpness was further edged with his fearsome visage, a mix of a German golden falcon and Russian imperial eagle, topped up by his shining golden claws.

Mexicans during the Victorian era, at least before the PRI and various anarchist and socialist insurrections ruined their image, were seen as brave, inspiring, and dashing people by the larger world. Ironically, they were especially seen as such by the U.S. whose 'cowboy' archetype largely is derived from Mexican rebels.

He was utterly unbelievable in talent, as he was proven fluent in Russian, Polish, Spanish, French, Italian, English, German, Danish, Swedish, and even the new Saddle Arabian dialect.

Probably due to this, his outrageous plan and subsequent faction created by the poached men of Macleans' turned out to be half of the total 'filibusters'.

What was his outrageous plan? Well, again like the yet-to-be's, he aimed to emulate the conducts of one, madlad, Roman Sternberg, the supposed reincarnation of Genghis Khan. Unbelievable, he shared a similar ethnic background to him. Importantly, minus a USSR.

More realistically, although still very much insane, he wished to emulate the empirical events of the First Crusade, minus indirect regicide or Sternberg's conversion to forge a state like the county of Edessa, albeit, much more extractive and more characteristic of a colony.

This would assuredly breach their contracts, but Emilio knew better. Calling their bluff, the eccentric cossack knew public opinions usually swayed to the poor and virtueful filibuster, such as he.

Therefore, Emilio handily guessed that if they were to spark a conflict, the British would have no choice but to assist them, and they would soon be forgiven as they shared the spoils of their assured victory. They couldn't possibly ghost* him!

The term 'ghosting' hasn't been coined yet as a term to ignore someone. I've simply used it here as a temporary literary device and I've definitely not just done that so I can pretentiously explain it.

These contrasting figures and their larger filibuster army had gathered for similar reasons as the British expedition; to observe the effectiveness of some of the newest toys of war. But unlike the Brits, they hadn't owned any, so would await eagerly too if it was a worthy investment to purchase some of their so-called 'Nordenfelt or Maxim machine guns'.

The last group to observe was the least expectant of the three, being comprised of the natives, specifically the 'provisional-but-not-really-regency-council'. They had still been inadequately informed of the purpose of the supposed 'demonstrations', as the interpreters they asked all played coy or outright refused to even play around the reasons.

And so, they awaited quite boredly, even being neglected the services of any interpreters, as they were all preoccupied attending the intellectuals accompanying the British expedition, busily transcribing translated texts.

Unbenknowst to them, certain indentured spellslings and interpreters of Zaharoff-Rothschilds' employ were busily transcribing the most important of texts.

Not about history or culture like the 'forward-thinking' professors and academics, but magic.

"THIS WONDEROUS WEAPON DOES THE WORK OF 20-, NO, 60 FIGHTING MEN! -ABLE TO DISPENSE A PROVERBIAL HAIL OF BULLETS, ACCURATELY, I MIND YOU-, WITH THE QUALITATIVE MACHINING OF THE SIGHTS AND BARRELS!" Zaharoff majestically unveiled a somewhat petite-looking cylindrical device on a rectangular box, attached to a comedically large wheel.

Next to it, was a large box labelled '800 cartridges' that was hard to make out in the distance.

(("What are they saying?!")) Urban hurriedly asked, clearly the only one among the naked gathered horses who were eager about the ordeal.

(("They're finally firing one of their guns. Damn two-legs made me wait this long, continually teeing me with their strange muskets, and now they're finally going to fire one!")) Mahmud said with a hyper-fixated stare.

(("Is that what they're doing? Firing a particularly small cannon?")) Bakar sighed, (("Is that what we've been waiting so long without explanation for? A gun-show?"))

"IT IS, OF COURSE, THE MAXIM MACHINE GUN!" Zaharoff declared, soon being joined by two red-coated guard infantry who positioned themselves next to the gun, both standing on either wheel. "IT ONLY TAKES TWO MEN TO OPERATE, AND AS ADVERTISED, WILL MULTIPLY THEIR USEFULNESS SIXTY-FOLD!"

The guards presumptively manned the gun. One knelt on one knee while holding the protruding handles with both claws, and the other knelt on both, hastily feeding the straps of bullets from the box into the feeding mechanism.

Facing the guns weren't any obviously noticeable targets, but a convenient line of trees and its accompanying sapling offspring soon proved otherwise.

"Gentlemen, at your pleasure." Zaharoff wheeled away from the audience to face the trained gun crew, who prematurely braced for the onslaught of noise.

(("That can't be right. Am I misinterpreting something, or is he implying that can one-barreled contraption can shoot a 60-men worth of projectiles?")) Pasha asked Mahmud, who similarly shook his head in confusion.

(("Surely you'd misheard!")) Urban chuckled in doubtful huffs, (("He must be exaggerating to have even sugges-"))

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT

Shut up nerd. I know it's a later model. Just use your imagination and think it's on wheelies

The noise was immense, even at a distance.

Several of the spectators audibly wowed, even those who had already seen it, carried along by the collective surprise around them.

This left the natives in the worst spot possible.

(("MAGNIFICIENT! -It's still firing!")) Mahmud broke a manic laugh. Okay, that was unexpected.

(("Do we have something like that?!")) Pedro enthusiastically yelled, a hoof neatly covering his small folded ears. (("We have, uh... Muskets! Like those, don't we?!"))

(("Have you seen one of ours shoot more than once, Pedro?")) Pasha deadpanned,

(("Yes...?")) Pedro drawled, squinting at a distant memory onboard the 'Cliché'. Pasha firmly shook his head.

(("IT'S STILL FIRING! -They've annihilated those trees!")) Bakar exasperated, staring at the young greeneries that he had grown fond of in his past visits to the reprehensible beylerbey.

(("I doubt those trees should worry us, sir. I more worry about what a couple of those things could do to our rank and files.")) Jass stared intensely, boredom completely wiped from his face. (("I doubt even our loose formations would spare us from those devil's clattery teeth.")) He poetically noted.

(("How is it smokeless?!")) Urban, ever the ardent engineer, focused seemingly on the most trivial things, (("Have they found an alternative to black powder?! -What chemical mixture and magical technique did they use?! -I need to know!"))

(("If they can eviscerate wood like that... Dear Asura, were those giant cannons on their ships repeaters too?!")) Baltog balked, as the weight of these foreigner's technological superiority crashed on him. Although, not to say he was unique in feeling that.

(("Those crates say 800 'bullets'...")) Mahmud leaned in, then retracted, ((Welp, lay tight colts, we're gonna be here for a while."))

(("Not with their rate of firing, we won't.")) Pasha determined through a quick run of math.

"WATER-COOLED, THE BARRELS OF THIS MIGHTY GUN WILL NOT WARP, MELT OR ENCOUNTER ANY OTHER SORT OF MALFUNCTION!" Zarahoff yelled amidst the clattering of gunfire, "THE FEED SYSTEM IS WHOLLY RELIABLE! AND UNLIKE THE PRIMITIVE GATLING GUN, THE CARTRIDGES WILL NEVER JAM, AND YOU WILL BE ABLE TO DISPENSE CONTINOUS FIRE WITHOUT ANY CHANCES OF STOPPAGES!"

As if on cue, the firing stopped as it spat out the last of the empty cartridges to the grass now-glistening brown beneath the wheels.

Zarahoff received a round of applause, except, unknowingly, by not the native spectators.

"THAT IS NOT ALL THOUGH! -NO! THAT WAS THE JUST THE BEGINNING, AS WE PRESENT TO YOU ONE OF OUR LATEST PROTOTYPES, -STILL, READY TO BE DEPLOYED, DESIGNED BY THE LEGENDARY MAXIM, WHO DESIGNED THE PREVIOUS CONTRAPTION, AND NORDENFELT, THE WILD, WONDEROUS INVENTOR!" Zarahoff walked over to another covered item, this time though, much larger.

"IT IS, THE ALL-NEW QF-1 POUNDER!"

"-I call it Pom-Pom 'cause of the sound!" A voice, unmistakably belonging to Nordenfelt helpfully added.

...

"Yes... -AND IT FIRES A 31mm CALIBRE BULLET! -GUARANTEED TO PLOW THROUGH ANY PATHETIC SANDBAGS OR FORTIFICATION YOUR UNFORTUNATE FOES MAY BRING BEAR!" Zarahoff, this time, was joined by a distant target being dragged in by similarly dressed guards as the last. They each carried rudimentary defenceworks, such as the aforementioned 'pathetic' sandbags, wooden fences and even a wagon without its roof which was pushed into the sights of the 'pom pom'.

(("That gun is huge...")) Pedro cooed,

(("Excellent observation, your Prince-liness. It looks to be an enlarged version of the last gun.")) Pasha deadpanned once more,

(("I don't speak their tongue, but it's obvious what would happen to those 'fortifications'.")) Jass remained intently staring.

(("Still without any magic...")) Urban did a circle basic, his brain presumably hard-rebooting.

(("I knew it, I called it! Those ship cannons must've been rapid-firing!")) Baltog yelled most annoyingly,

(("They haven't fired yet, Baltog. Let's not assume before we see it for our own eyes.")) Mahmud eagerly turned back to view the demonstration, almost salivating at the suspense.

Only Bakar remained silent. Pensively observing, and digesting his sightings.

...

...

...

That night, the Jaffmare's outer-district
A hooded figure galloped loudly in the dark empty narrow streets of Jaffmare's ghetto, where the sparse undesirable zebra 'imports' or migrants were forced into 'quarantine', forbidden from exiting to 'inconveniencing' the wider populace.

Many of these outcasts did not stir in their deep sleep, even those outside, lying uncomfortably on the public streets, covered in filth and only a ragged blanket to offer them warmth. The echoing noise of hoovesteps was nothing to them compared to the frequent noises of vagrants or muggers accosting or otherwise eliciting ear-piercing screams in the night. They actually found it pleasing, somewhat. It was like white noise to them.

The hooded figure seemed to aimlessly turn alleys, squeeze through gaps between improvised buildings and occasionally leap over small wooden fences, still uncaring of the amount of noise they were making.

Then, suddenly, the darkly cloaked equine's head snapped towards his right, momentarily revealing a horn underneath his hood. Quickly covering it back up, they began scrutinising a loosely piled tower of poorly worked barrels.

The hooded equine approached carefully, despite knowing their secrecy was already forfeited by their loud entrance into the scene.

And as they had sowed, they had reaped, as the tower of barrels pathetically collapsed to launch a similarly cloaked figure, but with wings, into the air with little fanfare.

"WAIT! -I have a letter!" The grounded equine yelped, his voice definitively indicative of a stallion.

Undeterred, the cloaked pegasus continued to flee, soaring higher into the air.

"IT HAS THE ROYAL SEAL! -YOU MUST DELIVER THIS LETTER!" He determinedly cried, his horn slipping from his hood once more as his head was risen to trace the pegasus in the air.

In great relief, the species of no horse's equivalent ceased in his uplift to hover contemplatively in the air.

With a shrouded smile, the unicorn waved the subject of importance in his hoof, "It had just come in, -so I rushed over to you after asking the others where you might be." He gave a stuttery chuckle, "-And thank Asura that they were right! I thought I was a goner!"

The pegasus continued to mutely hover him, his expressions totally unreadable as the darkness shrouded any features.

"...I'm only to collect the letters in designated locations."

The unicorn began to sputter, "W-what?! Dude! You can't be serious, my life is on the line here!"

"Look, it's not my fault that you slept in or something and forgot to deliver the letter. I'm in the clear." The pegasus began to turn, with every quickening flap worsening the aches of the unicorn's stomach.

"Didn't you hear me?! The letter just came in! I delivered the letter you have right now, didn't I?!" The unicorn exasperated.

"How did you kn-?"

"-Because, of course! What? You're going to fly off without anything on you? I gave that letter to another middlehorse ages ago!" The unicorn waved his own letter again.

The pegasus loudly sighed, reached into his saddlebag, rummaged through it to find the previously collected letter and looked around him, making sure their commotion didn't attract any unwanted witnesses. After that order of action, he dove into the ground to elegantly unfurl his wings at the last moment, gently landing on the ground at a fair distance from the unicorn.

"...Who's our employer?" He threateningly flapped his wings, ready to depart at immediate notice.

The unicorn rolled his eyes. It was unseen as well, but he wouldn't need it to drive his point across. "Really? -How would I know, -as a matter of fact, I don't think anyhorse working for him knows, including you."

He waved the letter for the third time, "Letter." He deadpanned.

The pegasus sighed for the last time, "Let's take a look at that sigil..." He tiredly approached, "Mind lighting us up a bit?"

A horn glowed.

Author's Note

DUN
Dun-Dun-Dun-Dun-Dun-Dun-Dun
Dun-Dun-Dun

There's an imposter among us
Fucking kill me.

Quaggatai's lookin' real pretty for a Russian madman...

...Finally Hear the End of an Old Cossack's Tale

Grover violently grasped his chest, sharply expelling the air that had been stuck in his lungs for an eternity. He swiftly hissed in a breath also, animatedly swatting away a claw that approached him too.

"Woah! Ya right in there, cub?" Griffy quickly retracted his arms, giving the hyper-ventilating Prince some breathing room.

"ONE YEAR! -ONE YEAR, TRAPPED FOR SIX CHAPTERS!" Grover madly yelled,

Griffy finally decided he had to restrain his majesty, before he would pose a harm to himself, "Calm down, Prince!"

"CALM DOWN?! -CALM DOWN?!!!" Grover screeched, desperately frailing in his Baron's hug, "IT WAS COMPLETE DARKNESS-! ALSO AN OVERWHELMING LIGHT, -I WAS A PRISONER OF MY OWN BODY, DRIFTING IN A REALM THAT MADE MOCKERY OF MY SENSE OF SELF AND REALITY! THERE WAS NOTHING, YET I SAW SO MUCH. NOT EVEN BOREAS, IN HIS INFINITE WISDOM, CAN FATHOM THE ETERNITY OF MY EXPERIEN-!"

"-Could I please continue with my story?" Danilo coughed, having stared unamusedly at the whole 'self-unactualisation'.

"Oh, please continue." Griffy widely smiled, still tangled in with his prince.

Danilo cleared his throat,

"Yes, my brother, Skorepadsky and I were marching towards a pitched battle... Only, that they didn't know it..."

Grover grasped again at the edges of the fabric that constituted their reality, "NO, NO! -NOOOOOO!"

"I had only joined him when he assured me that my wife, taken prisoner from the preliminary forts had been successfully ransomed..."

738ALB, near the Zapzhian capital of Kaiv
"These vile grazers will pay..." Danilo growled viciously, causing the cloud he laid on to shake from his unbridled tightening claws.

"You will get the chance, brother. For now, we must exercise caution and look out for any of their pegasus scouts." Skorepadsky assured while looking about. Glad that he had chosen to position themselves atop a hill, quite elevated too, to spot any counter reconnaissance units.

"Speaking the obvious again, huh?" Danilo leered, "Don't worry none, I got my flock all around, sniffin' and snuffing out their glorified flight students." He flashed a confident smirk.

"Careful now, we don't want them to put their guards up, do you?" The Hetman chided, "...Be too successful, and they'll stop sending scouts-,"

"-And they'll act like cornered diamond dogs. Yeah, I know." Danilo rolled his eyes, "Have some faith in me, bro. At least, with all the effort you made setting my wife free to have me in your army, you should expect some competency on my part, right?" Danilo slapped his brother heartily.

Skorepadsky returned a soft, half-lidded smile. "Yeah... I guess I was worried for nothing." He turned his head away, "Since it seems you're handling everything fine, I better get going."

Danilo loudly groaned, "Oh, come on~, stay put for a lil' longer. The assault isn't due until tomorrow, and we rarely ever hang out!... Ever since becoming the big leader."

"Ah... Sorry, brother, but my army needs my presence for tomorrow's great trial... They'll need all the assurances and confidence that they can get." Skorepadsky flashed a sorry smile, before turning to depart again.

Only for Danilo to suddenly grab his arm.

Skorepadsky shook roughly.

"Hey... By the way, brother..." Danilo stared ghostily into his sibling's eyes, causing the latter to involuntarily lean back.

Skorepadksy felt the sting of sweat permeating from his back and head.

He gulped nervously as the moment seemed to drag on, Danilo firmly grasping onto his arm, and without intentions of letting go.

"..."

Skorepadsky suddenly felt himself being pulled in, evoking an effeminate yelp to escape from his beak. A prompt second claw soon wrapped around his shoulders, joined by the initial one that had drawn him in, into a deep hug.

Unbeknownst to Danilo, his brother's eyes were wide in surprise as his were closed. He would dig his beak and cheeks into the soft, comforting plumage of his brother's shoulder.

"Thanks for saving my wife, brother." Danilo tightened his hug, "You-, -hah, oh, brother, -you can not imagine how shitty I felt when I heard she was captured by those fiendish vermins from the north..." He half-chuckled, "But I mean it. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you."

Skorepadsky softly ran his claws up and down his brother's coat, patting him sporadically while at it. "Yeah..."

"-And in return, I will bring victory! Killing those grazers like a cow to a slaughter', amiright?!" Danilo abruptly broke the hug to slap his brother's arm roughly, contagious laughter accompanying from his beak.

Skorepadsky resolvedly nodded,

"Right."

"I had lured their pegasus vanguards as planned, and had looked with glee as I found their similarly winged rearguards and shock Nimbusian elites followed en suite. The latter, probably out of exasperation, trying to save their foolish vanguard."

"They all better be fucking ready!" Danilo maniacally yelled, wind in his gaped beak, wings straightly unfurled to pierce through the air.

His lieutenant laughed back, his voice, though, distorted as they soared through the air. "Don't you doubt my order! This ain't our first time chewing these pony deadweights to dust!"

"We're about to find out!" Danilo barely pitched his wings, having the effect of suddenly turning him upright in the air, stopping him dead.

His lieutenant stopped as well, but he decided to perform an elaborate flip in the air to end up in the same position as his general.

They now faced the pursuing vanguards of Frail Spear's army, presumably the rearguard and prestigious Nimbusian auxiliaries close behind them.

The encroaching pegasi all had red-tints in their eyes, exuding an aura of utter doom, accumulating an unstoppable momentum to violently slam into the fleeing cossacks, leaving only a memory of scattered feathers behind.

Only, it would be their own feathers that would be plucked.

A shuddering horn blared, coercing the nearby leaves of frailing branches to dance while the very air inside the lungs of all that were close rumbled terrifyingly.

Hesistance earmarked the pursuers at that very moment.

There were few among them, 'veterans' or more accurately, 'survivors' who had faced a cossack horde before. They would all wisely hug their wings and dive to the ground.

The reasons why would soon be known. As the trees and hills began speaking Zaphzian.

"IF ARCTURIUS IS WILLING, WE'LL ALL BE RICH!"

The sudden predicament elicited dual immediate reactions.

The vanguard immediately peeled. Their infinite resolve and confidence pathetically melted away in their shock as they found enemies all around them.

They wouldn't get far, as squads of cossacks awaited in the air, hidden behind clouds, ready to dive and impale any isolated cravens.

The rearguard was far wiser, following their veteran's lead to dive into the air to join the quickly growing mass of vigilant bodies. However, some similarly fled, leaving themselves exposed while others were too slow in joining the main formation, creating several separate masses of pegasi that would soon be subsumed by the horde.

Finally, the elite Nimbusian heavy pegasi screeched to a halt, narrowly escaping the trap due to their distance. The forward-most units briefly retreated to regroup with their strung, still-following columns to hopefully organise a counterattack and breakthrough to the survivors in time.

For now, the cossacks predatorily circled the main 'pocket' of resistance, rotating an endless round of haphazard volleys from bowstrings and black powder. The progress would be determined by those further back from the intensities of screams by the pitiful defenders, hit by lucky tips in their comparably undefended necks and thighs or taken breathless by a stray iron ball of a smoking musket.

The occasional sound of ricochet or a brave go at a chaotic breakout broke the satisfying sound of suffering ponies, but the concentrated bliss would soon not to be.

Several obvious gaps in the air, accompanied by a sudden warm updraft confirmed the resolve in the desperate pegasi. Those still uninjured or reserving a second wind immediately took to the air, utterly disembowelling and mincing the sparse griffons hovering to cover the wide gaps.

This was in no way centrally coordinated, instead, independent groups of pegasi escaped to whatever gap they could immediately see; a pair at first, then a small group, until any still capable pegasi around them joined them in an irregular line of desperate survivors.

A horrible mistake it was, to follow their instincts.

The thin columns proved vulnerable and outright savoury to the relentless eagle-lions.

The most elite flyers of the cossack army was still in the air, their beaks, claws, weapons and armour absolutely soaked in blood and bodily parts of the pegasi's vanguard comrades. Some of the griffons even still, held the spears which they had skewered the cravens with; the horror-stuck heads, some still even with helmets, displayed chillingly with one of either eye sockets the unfortunate holster for the polearms.

It was these terrifying reavers that dove into the exhausted escapees.

There would be little survivors.

As history alluded, the relief force only came, for this case, in the form of Nimbusian auxiliaries, only when the severed heads and wings of their comrades littered the battlefield.

"DRIVE THEM BACK TO THEIR CAMPS!" As it also alluded, the commander, being Danilo, ordered his blood-crazed, high-morale, victorious warriors.

"NIP THEIR TAILS! SLASH THEIR WINGS! -AND JAB THEIR NECKS! LEAVE NONE ALIVE IN OUR TREK!"

The elite, obsessively trained Nimbusians, the very same which passed the culling Trials of the Cyclones, and their prowess was honed as a means of deterring an existential threat, would've normally held their grounds, regardless of the odds or the futility, only so that their reputation would not be tarnished, and not dishonour their fellow Nimbusian warriors.

But this was different.

The Nimbusians saw the cossacks as a kindred spirit, but in prowess and zeal only. They, like all the Eastern Riverlanders still saw them as marauding barbarians; a collection of creatures without reason, meaningful culture or a proper sense of statehood. But they were inimitaly familiar of the cossack's martial abilities. They were targets of it countless times.

This made them hesitate. Unthinkable, but some of their ancestors had been bested by them before, and they had not wallowed in despair at their own cowardice, but the enemy's respectable strength. Maybe they could too, to their children as well?

Many of them were already wheeling, but the noticeable standard of the Nimbusian auxiliaries flipping finally informed the warriors of their collective intentions.

Not for the first time, the Nimbusians fled. Honour be damned, the helots back home needed to be repressed, and their children nurtured. They weren't dying today. At least, not in the name of Frail Spear.

Danilo would cheer in exhaustless exuberation.

Glorious day!

GLORIOUS DAY!

"Mercy! Mercy, PLEASE!"

A thunderous axe overshot into the earth below.

A splurt of blood followed, alongside the thump of a loose head.

Butchery was the order of the day.

Systemic extermination would've been comparably a lighter regime.

Fragments of shattered horns lay sprinkled sporadically in localised spots all across the battlefield.

A progressive touch, if not for the brutality, as the cossacks cared very little of their worth as ransoms to their rich noble families. They were too bothersome to fight, so why not encourage the rest to not, by killing them?

Feathers, too lean and short for it to belong to a griffon, also littered the battlefield, albeit, less locally. But most of it was a fair distance away from the destroyed camp, at the sight of a certain ambush.

The earth ponies of Frail Spear's army were less subtle or poetic in the symbolism of their defeat. Their presence was known with the mountainous piles of heads, leaking profusely still, like a grotesque fountain turned into a monument glorifying death, fiendishly calling upon the heretical attention of Maar, its witnessing of the cruelty and the thickly miasma, tainted with madness of vainglory warriors, undoubtedly bringing it pleasures of untold scale, corrupting the souls of all that did not amuse their better judgments, marking them for an eternal bout of torture.

Treasures of the royal tent and the lesser nobilities had swiftly banished. Much like Frail Spear himself.

The carriages carrying the total wages of the Jerzagrad excursion had also been seized, its contents disappearing into the private claws and pockets of the cossack's endless, ravenous hunger.

The army's various civilian followers had already scattered, presumably to be kidnapped and turned into some lowly peasant's lowlier slave.

The screams, jeers and periodic duels for the possession of a commonly discovered booty continued ceaselessly.

Blood continually ran fresh in the great plains of Zaphzia.

Danilo was all smiles.

Glorious day!

"Cheer up, brother! These Jerzagrad swine aren't coming back any time soon!" Danilo slapped a contemplative Skorepadsky enthusiastically on his shoulder, "With such a total defeat? They'll be mad to send another one of their 'field trips'!"

"Sir! I bring you message from Frail Spear... Alongside a heavy wagon." A lieutenant smiled knowingly, slapping the roof of the said loaded carriage.

"Hah! -See, brother? That Frail piece of shit has already sent us an offer of peace! Alongside a mighty tribute!" Danilo rushed over to the side of the supposed loot-cart, only to be side-stepped by the lieutenant with the aforementioned closed letter in his overstretched claws.

"Ah-ah, General. Save the best for last, right?" The lieutenant waved the letter in front of Danilo's beak.

"Ugh, fine." Danilo snatched the letter in one smooth stroke, and boredly ripped the golden string keeping it closed, lazily tossing it over him.

Clearing his throat, he suddenly entered an imperious pose, reciting the letter most nobly... And mockingly.

"From the Noblest, most grandiose Prince of Jezagrad, Grand protector and ruler of all ponies, Descendent of the gods, and the legendary Spears'... Blegh, dribble... Blah, blah... Ah, there we go. Frail Spear." Danilo gave up half-way.

"I have seen your recent-most conducts, and have been most unfortuitessly been affected first-hoof by them. And I am the least amused." Danilo squinted at the lines, "What a sore loser, amiright?" He chuckled, followed by several of the soldiers and lieutenants who had been listening.

Skorepadsky remained silent.

Wiping a stringant tear, Danilo continued, "...You had guaranteed our safety during the negotiations you, 'Hetman' Skorepadsky, yourself had proposed! Yet, like the savages you are, but desperately trying to prove not to be, have reneged it, and fell'ed upon my unexpecting army, successfully destroying it..."

murmurs began to manifest.

Danilo begins to shake, "Unfortunately, my only recourse for your great, and unforgivable treachery, Skorepadsky, is to punish the innocents you have heartlessly loaned me in guarantee for your so-called parlay."

A sneaking, greedy soldier unlatched the hinges of the enclosed cart, swinging it wide open like a two-doored casket.

In ominous justice, a pile of griffon heads rolled out.

Skorepadsky, the Villain, looked away shamefully. His ever-present frown, one I only realised then, he had worn throughout the entirety of the campaign since starting, now, it finally dawned on me, it looked depressive.

I remember my mind being clouded with rage; my body acting completely in instinct, and as it were, my peripheral systems found the need to immediately accelerate into my brother, and tackle him to the ground.

.
.
"WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

"What had to be done."

End of flashback
Grover paled, "I remember now... He was captured and returned to the capital, where the nobles voted to execute him, for lying to them and getting their children and wives killed..."

Griffy paled as well, "Holy shit... So none of those hostages were captured by that little shite, Frail?!"

Grover blankly shook his head, "I also remember another detail... The one who killed the Villain Hetman, Skorepadsky was... His own brother."

"..."

Pavlo had already crept up to his adoptive father and was hugging him.

Griffy had chosen a great moment to develop situational awareness, and subsequently, had shut his beak. Giving, the pair as much silence as they needed.

"...My mind had still been clouded with fury... And I'm still somewhat am for what he had done to me... What he had done to countless others too, and their families..." Danilo began to sag, and started leaning on his son.

"But the guilt of his blood on my claw soon overwhelmed me... No matter how evil, he was still my brother for boreas's sake! -And... -And I can't rightly explain this... But I had spent my entire fledgling life with him... He had been there, with me at my hardest times, and the bonds created mutually helping eachother created nothing short of what can be described as love." Danilo sorrowfully recited.

his son hugged him tighter.

"He was my same blood. And I had slain him without a second thought. I hadn't even bothered asking why! Or even if he was sorry! -Or hurt as much as I was!... I rid myself of a chance of closure, as I dug my blade into him repeatedly. Without mercy... And even a satisfied grin on my beak!" Danilo snapped upwards, hiding a tear that threatened to roll down his cheek, instead redirecting it up and over.

The three listeners in the room rightfully remained silent.

"I... I had decided after a haunting two decades from the ugly battle of Kaiv that I should return there..." Danilo covered his eyes in shame for what came next,

"I had thought it would've been better if I had just perished in the field of honour... And began perhaps thinking... Quite foolishly... That it wasn't still too late..."

Grover somehow became paler, while Griffy loudly gasped.

"Only... for a distant cry to catch my sword."

He liked to think that he hadn't completely lost his mind yet.

"A cry! A cry of a fledgling!" He swore he heard, madly flying around the great blossoming plain of red poppies.

He heard a burst of the same wails from before, again, making him immediately snap towards the source of the noise and dive.

Why was he even doing this? A sword, buried deep in the tall grasses from its initial drop would wonder, watching its master disappear into the distance.

Danilo carelessly dove into a tree, smacking himself painfully on a sturdy branch as he madly followed the sparing bursts of an ever-weakening cry of a fledgling.

It was then, that he found it.

A pegasus foal, wrapped beautifully in cloth, resting in the picturesque form inside a quaint basket atop an antlered branch.

"...My wife wished to name our first child Pavlo. After the deity of compassion that her family locally followed..."

Pavlo leaned into the claw that pampered him, further messing his mane.

...

"Hey, not to break the heart-warmin' moment, but do y'all also hear that?" Griffy pointed at the entrance of the tent, which was, indeed, spilling sounds reminiscent of a ruckus outside.

"No fucking way." Grover angrily rose from his elbows and marched towards the flaps. There was no freaking way they were gathered ag-

A third crowd of soldiers were gathered again.

Grover abruptly closed the flaps.

He smoothly turned. "How?"

...

...

...

Griffy merely shrugged. "Ask them."

...

With a deep sigh, Grover exited the tent.

"WHAT ARE YOU ALL DOING HERE?! I TOLD YOU TO DISPERSE!"

Hesitant murmurs followed.

"Well... Some of us wanted to see if there really was a pony in the royal tent!"

"That's none of your business! -Also, didn't you all see already?!" Grover spluttered.

"No, 'cause some of us were at the back!"

"Some of us still are! -I want to see!"

Fucking. Of course.

"So... About that duel, colt." Griffy merrily asked, brushing past Grover with Pavlo in tow.

"Sorry, I don't fight the infirm." The colt sneered,

"I'm not old!"

"-And I'm not little!" Pavlo snapped.

"Is that him?"

"Of course it's him! Do you see any other pony here?!"

"Let's not try to take away the last thing Danny cares about, hmm, Griffy?" Grover lazily eyed the petulant Baron.

"What are you saying? -That I'll lose to this bustard?" Pavlo cackled.

Overlooking the arrogant colt, Grover continued, "We need somegriff with a little more restraint." He briefly turned to his commander, "No offence."

Griffy, in a rare show of maturity, nodded promptly. "None taken!"

Danilo peaked his head from the tent, "Is anygriff going to ask for my opi-?"

Grover plucked out a guard of two, that still stood defending his tent, "You there, Guard!... -What's-your-name? Go easy on the colt, will ya?"

"Peter Hagendorf, sir...”

Grover wore a wide smile, "Nicely met, Peter. Meet Pavlo, Pavlo meet Peter."

Pavlo appraised the familiar face.

"Didn't think I'd end the day by fighting a bed-warmer, but whatever." Peter heftily shrugged,

Pavlo's eyes twitched, "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy smothering that beak in mud..."

Danilo rubbed his face in indignation in the background, "For Boreas sake..."

"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!" Griffy cheered.

"...Need I announce the rules?" Grover looked towards the two glaring competitors. "No? Good. Go nuts fellas."

Peter immediately drooped his halberd to grip its end, increasing his reach. Beneath his visored bascinet, he tore into a wide grin for the deed to come.

Pavlo meanwhile chafed in the heavy Herzlander armour. The fact that it wasn't even for a pony meant that were many chinks and gaps which his opponent could exploit. These factors were then all compounded by his unsuited fighting style. Pavlo had been trained to fight as a cossack and the infrequent pegasus auxiliary, which focused on agility and dexterity, rather the Herzlander's brutish strength and endurance.

This led to Peter scoring several jabs on Pavlo, although, the latter's smaller size gave him a natural allusiveness, despite the overemcumberedness, making all those jabs only scrape the curvaceous plates and occasionally jingle the exposed chainmail.

"It won't be shameful to yield now!" Peter jeered, still exuding unrelentless pressure with the rapid jabs of his halberd. "A cossack, no less a pony, ESPECIALLY not a colt can stand against a bloody Herzlander imperial guard!"

A loud cheer rung out among the spectators as Peter widely swung his halberd crosswards, his biceps clearly flexing with strenuous activity beneath the layers of heavy mail and plates.

The great displacement of air was audible, the powerful swing created a like-vacuum that sucked the cleanly shaved grass in a spiral, following the ghost of the already-occurred slash.

It was then to a certain old cossack's relief that the target had safely rolled away from the Herculean cleave.

Undeterred, Peter immediately raised his halberd over him, using the leftover momentum from the previous slash to thunderously smite the petite colt splayed before him.

The heavy edge of the axe instead only met the soil, shaking the earth from his mighty force and shuddering those who stood on the crackling ground, caving in a sight most resembling the saltiest drought.

Pavlo had narrowly jumped out of the way from the undeniably fatal guillotine, but his reward would be the least from respite, as Peter, confirming the fabled reputation of the exhaustless imperial guards, immediately took to sending a flurry of jabs again in his opponent's way.

"He-he's going to stop, right? This isn't a fight to the death, right?" Danilo sputtered to Griffy, then to Grover.

Griffy shrugged, "He knows the rules. He'll stop before it gets too bad," He assured with a smooth smile.

CRACK

The round visored bascinet of Pavlo's crumpled from the direct impact of the halberd's point, sinking deeply until the beaks of the spear found purchase, hooked onto the creased metal, rooting the wearer in place.

Peter finally revered that one of his jabs had finally sunk and not ricocheted from the curved sides of the visor. He tightened his grip on the haft, and using his immense strength, began unbelievably lifting the stuck visor and the attached pony slightly off the ground, despite the great complaint of gravity of physics.

He sucked in a dramatic length of breath,

"UUU-RAHHH!"

Pavlo bounced from the impact, like a skipping stone, he was sent rolling across the field, repelling the gathered spectators in a rigid, but soon, drastic wave to give the young contender his space. Not out of respect mind you, as the loud cheers for the imperial guard made it clear.

Danilo lunged towards his sprawled son...

Only for a firm and incredibly strong claw to grasp him still.

He hostilely turned... Only for a second claw to firmly clasp his beak shut.

"Damn! How much did you train this colt, you old maniac!" Griffy chuckled absently, ignorant of his Prince restraining said old griffon.

Danilo immediately turned back around, ripping Grover's claws on him. The latter grumbled.

He gaped at the sight of his colt surprisingly relatively unharmed.

Pavlo leisurely shook off his armour, and in one swift motion, unbuckled his damaged helmet which pathetically fell beside him with hints of blood faintly smeared over the inside of the visor.

He bitterly rubbed his muzzle, feeling it with his un-gauntleted hoof to ensure it hadn't broken. Finally, with a cool bloody spit, Pavlo called out,

"Round two mother-bucker."

"He had spun to redirect the force." Somegriff inwardly muttered.

A wild cheer rang out, the loudest among them, still being Griffy, "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! GIVE 'EM TARTARUS!"

Peter broke into a manic grin, still hidden by his visor. "Perhaps there would be flory in defeating you, colt." He rumbled.

"Colt, am I now? I'm seeing some improvements." Pavlo tossed the blade that he had yet to unsheathed on the ground, instead biting down on a shorter halberd wrapped on his barrel. He also busily wrapped cloth, lined with chainmail around his right hoof.

"Bed-warmers tend to not have martial training... Except for those sly Aquileans." Peter menacingly inched towards the busy colt, who was also by then quite done with his preparation.

"Oh? Are you a traveller?" Pavlo said while muffled, twisting his halberd so that the beak would be horizontal. With his covered right hoof, he pressed on the edge of the blade, keeping it further still. "Then have you heard of the Riverland's jousters?"

Peter didn't stop from his meticulous approach. The opponent before him was completely exposed, had an open stance, and even had his wings widely displayed which absently flapped in the air.

Yet he was entirely confident, pure determination overflowing from his eyes and a posture, so awkward, but still so elegant and practised.

Peter began feeling uneasy.

Others around him couldn't absorb the atmosphere.

Still, he bravely rebuked, "Sounds exhausting. Perhaps you can tell me what it is when you're in the infirmary."

Pavlo saw the opposing halberd rise. He didn't even have time for a clever rebuttal.

The griffon, twice his size furiously began jabbing again. Except, with this widely differing results.

Pavlo had always been staggering backwards while Peter inched forward with his jabs, ultimately resulting in his forward-most features being the only target for the sharp point, which was the visor's peak. So with his muzzle bare, one would expect Pavlo to be scraped and further bloodied, however, his lightness finally allowed him to fully utilise his strengths and training.

Peter quickly realised, even with his visor limiting visibility, that he was only brushing air.

The gathered crowd, many hovering, cheered again for the fighters. This time though, for the other's main sake.

Not one to be easily provoked, Peter-,

A dagger neatly entered the slit of his visor.

There was a blood-curdling scream.

A loud "OooH!" rang out among the spectators, many cringing in shared pain.

"Oh, big woop! I didn't hit his eyes!" Pavlo snarled, his entirety covered in sweat.

Peter indeed, blank under his visor with both eyes. As his burning pain receded, he finally felt where the dagger must've landed; narrowly missed his left eye.

Easily, he retracted the faintly bloodied dagger, revealing only its tip to be encased in the precious stuff, thanks to the design of the visor.

"-You LITTLE SHIT-!"

Peter looked up from the dropped dagger, only to see the blurry launch of the tricky colt towards him.

In his brief peripheries, he could see the awe-struck faces of the spectators, the displacement of grass in a far distance away, which the colt must've jumped off from, in the time he was distracted.

Instinctively, Peter had raised his halberd to skewer the petite flyer.

However, with eye-watering elegance, invincible to those inexperienced, Pavlo twisted in the air with a swift shutting of his wings.

His coat brushed and was shaved against the rigidly held blade of the spear, his previously attained sweat lubricating his body to slide smoothly against the haft, pushing the edge far enough so that his flank would not be caught.

Pavlo's eyes shone with the single-minded goal to hit his target with the beak of his unwieldy halberd.

Peter immediately began sinking his head; his mind's protocol for self-preservation kicking in as he desperately tried to cover his chain-mail-laden neck with the much studier peak of his plate iron visor.

To many, this all happened in an instant, alongside the violent crash that followed.

Pavlo was sent spinning around the giant's neck, as his halberd had been held irregularly, and despite his right hoof's bracing, it wasn't enough to not throw him asunder from the imbalance.

Nevertheless, Peter was the one who absorbed the most force out of the launch.

A halberd was lodged into his neck, though, thankfully, the short beak had been the one to do so, after first piercing the thick layer of hardened leather underneath the mail.

Pavlo, performing a clever trick of aero-acrobatics, quickly regained his control in the air to dive beside the rude guard.

In a trained motion, he lifted Peter's visor and promptly placed a dagger on his bare, panting beak.

"Do-, huff, -you wield?" Pavlo dazedly sniggered.

Peter coughed, then wheezed in pain.

"Eh-, huff, -good enough." Pavlo tiredly sheathed his dagger.

He looked around at the silent crowd.

"-What?" He huffed,

"I didn't violate any rules did-?"

An exuberant cheer blasted from the camp

"YOU'VE got to teach me how to do that, Danny!" Griffy was hassling the old cossack again, as Grover saw off the last of the loitering spectators.

"Like I've told you for the fifth time, eager knight, only the pegasus can perfect, thereby, use that technique." Danilo groaned, trying, but failing to ignore the obnoxious baron who shook his shoulders.

"He's right, bustard. So stick to your dives while we have dashes." Pavlo jeered, cringing infrequently as his adoptive father appraised his brusies and cuts by gently nuduging them, making sure that none of his parts were broken.

Grover amusedly approached the scene, "That was all quite impressive, Pavlo... Really turned the tables on that one, huh? -Gave my soldiers a good show..."

"Don't have to tell me that I'm impressive!" Pavlo flashed a winning grin.

"Yes... Quite impressive that you retired one of my invaluable, House of Groverite, guards..." Grover leaned in with a squint at the pony, pushing Danilo to stagger a bit away.

Pavlo gulped,

"...Sorry?"

Grover did not relent, "Well, word is cheap. And I am a sucker for hefty reimbursements." He flashed a predatory grin.

Danilo raised an indecipherable brow, "Gold isn't a problem for me." He shrugged, reapproaching his son, "What's the price?"

Grover uproariously laughed, jolting both son and father, "You think I'm out for gold?! -Hilarious! You think I'm some low-life Vedinian Prin-?!"

"Alright. Alright, what do you want then?" Danilo raised both claws in the universal call for restraint.

Grover pointed a digit at Pavlo.

The colt at the receiving end of said gesture involuntarily shivered at the attention.

Boldly ignoring his wiser instincts, Pavlo sputtered, "What? -Spit it out!"

Grover split into a maniacal grin.

"You'll take his place, by my side."

...

...

...

...

...

...

...

"Eh, I expected that."

Author's Note

Hey, don't look at me like that. It wasn't unusual for commanders to hire even lowborn peasants into their armies or personal guards if they were seen as powerful or proved their worth. Cough, cough, literally any competent Byzantine Emperor.

Also, please tell me if my shitty go at humour is unappreciated, and would much rather have the story be more serious, in which case I will try to dile down the 'silliness'.

Pasha's "Open" Letter (It's really just another background info chapter)

"...The British inqilab* of 'Benghal' left those who rode atop elephants as mere beggars on the streets... 'While' other beggars were elevated into palaces." - A Benghali Poet, circa 18th century

Inqilab - A great upheaval of the current order; a revolution.

"There was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes." - Judges 21:25

Outgoing Mail:
Alive. Uncaptured. In major port city. Grand Prince dead. Chaos reigns. Four rivals for the throne. A Princeling in my possession.
The Young Saddles shall inherit the Golden Kingdom.

There was a letter from Pasha, the native they had rescued during their voyage, on the desks of all he had 'befriended'.

One of these 'friends' happened to Kitchener, who much liked the native's straightforwardness and appreciated his astuteness.

The other was Alfred, who was wisely flattered by Pasha due to the former's exudation of apparent overwhelming 'aura of importance' and the respect everyone else seemed to pay him.

An affirmed decision, as Pasha would soon be told Alfred was of royalty.

They read the letter:

Mir Jal-Far Saddle;
The Marshal of the Heartlands

Ambitious, determined and energetic.

Or,

Delusional, headstrong and rabid.

He has de facto control over the Kingdom's heartlands as the beylerbey of the eyalet of Gallarb, which stretches from Mareakech from the south to Awal in the north.

It can be safely said, from what we have seen so far, that Jal-far had several secret treaties with the various other minor beylerbeys in the heartlands, such as the governors of the lesser eyalets of Manedinah and Jeddneigha.

With hindsight, we can determine it is so as Jal-far has supported the successions of those respective eyalet's governors, and is probably calling in the debts.

Despite the heartland's sizeable population, Jal-far does not have the largest army among the four major factions vying for the Saddle Arabian throne, instead, he confusingly has the most prosperous regions, so while he may not have a large standing army, it is supplemented by a formidable mercenary force.

Such is why he is known as the 'Marshal of the West,' ironically so. As he is with an insufferable personality, one, only sustained through the coop of a tendency to resort to strict disciplinary measures.

There is very little respect for the detached brother of the recently dead gluttonous Grand Prince. He was born from the fourth concubine who was, following many others like her, killed in a mysterious 'accident' on one cold weary night.

A foalhood of being unloved, uncared and isolated has shaped the free mind of Jal-far into a particularly ugly one. But he is not deserving of Asura's pity, for he exercises his immense will to seize others of the memories he lived without.

There is no doubt his ruinous tax, if implemented Kingdom-wide, would rid the foals of every family of their cherishable youthhood. Either toiling away working, or more likely, heart-breakingly offered to the barracks, sold to be a slave soldier, never to wield an ounce of will given as a birthright from our great creator.

...

His army is diverse, as mercenary armies go. Levies from the heartland still overwhelmingly outnumber the soldiers-for-hire, but their ratio far exceeds any of the armies from the four other major players.

'Kiṣir šarri', otherwise known as the 'King's unit,' they are the most prolific category of mercenaries in Jal-far's employ.

Almost entirely comprised of donkeys from Assytria and Anseruk, these at-face benign creatures with a-near deafness to magic bafflingly specialise in siege warfare.

Their invaluable engines in defeating the Maregyptian chariots in the 70-year war attest to their surprising competency.

In the previous centuries, they dabbled with engineering the most renowned ballistas, trebuchets and siege towers. Now, they have begun tinkering with black powder, creating near-monuments in the form of gargantuan cannons that are even taller and wider than some of the forts they were meant to destroy; many better served as a hollow battering ram, considering their unreliability.

Al-Haras al-Mutaharikkah, or, the Fursan, are a light mobile unit that claims 'spiritual ancestry' to the fabled 'marching guard' the first Sa'adle Grand Prince used to neatly roll the heartland into his saddlebag.

Their composition still remains largely the same, except for a sharp increase in the ratio of unicorns to earth horses, which, in its inception as the 'marching guard' was 1:9, which has been turned up to, if possible, to 2:8.

This expensive reform came into being, slowly at first, in the initial years of the 70-year war, which, if you start seeing a trend, is because it is, as said war with Maregypt would provoke several key military, political and economic reforms to fight, integrate and sustain the Kingdom respectively.

Several phyric battles against the nimble and often permanently airborne chariots, that was before they were violently shot down, led the then-Grand Prince to figure the number of unicorns in his battalions should temporarily double, to exert more ranged force with their levitated composite bows and crossbows.

He would further remedy the problem by equipping some of his levies, who all still by then wielded spears and bucklers, which could handle the enemy's ground levies handily, with crossbows, lessening the impacts of the Maregyptian chariots even further.

Regardless, even without the more permanent reforms after the 'Grand Ride', the Fursan was a formidable unit. Fast, agile, nimble and utterly maneuverable in the field of battle, they proved devastating still in an all-out shocking frontal charge.

That is until they faced the Zebra's Chargers from the Great Lakes.

Griwbanar, better known as the Cataphracti, or just the Cataphracts, these heavily-armoured, strong and towering horses of primarily earth stock were the answers to the Zebra's Chargers.

The then-Grand Prince of the 6th century had thrown just about everything, from Abyssinian rangers, Maregyptian charioteers and simple, true, overwhelming numbers to match the fiercesome, stubborn and unrelenting Chargers of the Great Lakes.

It was around the 10th time (The records are muddled) when the then-Grand Prince allegedly said, quote: "SCREW IT! WE'RE PLAY BY THEIR RULES!" And create the first units of Cataphracts, literally meaning 'All-covered (in armour)'.

The first engagement yielded surprising results:

The complete annihilation of the Saddle Arabian army, including the newly formed Cataphracts.

Most rulers would call it quits there, but not the Saddle Arabian Grand Prince.

Possibly out of delusion, coping or other manner of rejecting reality, the Grand Prince would scrounge up another army; added, his replenished cataphracts, and launch another invasion into Re'em. No doubt, probably exasperating the Nobatsia King, who ruled one of three kingdoms in the western regions of the Great Lakes, the others being Macureia and Alwani which all had resisted, by now, probably the 100th invasion from the Sa'adle lineage.

Somehow, the 111th time was the charm, as the Zebras became the ones massacred in the sands, not by rout and subsequent capture and execution, but from hard, brutish, and an absolutely savage melee.

The desert sands drank in a refreshing new palate. They had long since found the taste of horses too common.

The Grand Prince, in his victorious high, would fracture the great Alwani Kingdom, dissolve the precarious existence, that was Macureia, and irrevocably shatter the Nobatsian realm, splitting them into various squabbling chiefdoms.

It is still in dispute whether the cataphracts are an effective force, especially when they were similarly massacred against the Maretonian's pike walls.

However, they still remain quite popular for their imposing visage, and their mere presence they exert on the battlefield, depicted by a contingent of particularly large earth horses in heavily cladded lamellar armour. They speak volumes of their commissioner's wealth, and is even useful in shaming the occasional onlooking generals or dignitaries for their disparaging prosperity.

These are the most noteworthy mercenary forces in Jal-far's employ... And now, I shall list the other Great Players for the Throne...

Fatima ibn Saddle;
The Scholar-Stewardess of the North

The 'humble' mare of the north is the least reflective of her title.

Despite without the dreadful colours of the Sa'adle family; rust orange, the Princess is as crafty and cunning as any Princeling or, maybe, even any Grand Prince of the Sa'adle family.

She is the niece (By Law) of the deceased Grand Prince, and I will be remiss to not inform you that she is the legal elder sister of the rescued Princeling, Pedrollah.

The intricacies of how she is one, are far too convoluted to explain shortly...

But in laymare's terms, Fatima had become far too 'engrossed' in a specific culture of Maregypt while being tutored there, being their very unique... 'Succession styles' and 'unrestrained' marriages.

Directly ripping-off a precedent set in Maregyptian history, she has shamefully inserted herself into the Sa'adle dynasty by fiendishly violating the sanctities of familial relations.

Her conduct of treating her close and extended families as nothing but tools is not only vaguely heretical, but violates the very laws of common decency.

Despite her juniority in her regionally significant family, she had taken to become the head of it, marrying off her blood relatives to the swayable, weak-willed members of the minor Sa'adle line.

Her greatest achievement would come from marrying her... Ugh... Grandmother to an indebted hedonistic Princeling, whose hoof's continual attachment to his limb hinged on repaying a loss in a game of chance.

The rich Fatima was only too glad to pick up his tab. For a ring, that is.

This would get her a trot closer to her likely ambitions of becoming the third Grand Princess of Saddle Arabia, also inadvertently becoming the unassuming sister of a certain bright Princeling.

The records are sketchy on what happened next, but Princeling's senile wife would disappear only a day after their betrothal. Rumours of murder still linger today, but others insist that she was never alive, only on paper so that the marriage could take place.

This would ultimately lead to her becoming the sister of Pedrollah, but as is usual for the Sa'adle family for the past century, there is no love, care or even a bare respect for the same blood.

Actually, for most cases, the inverse is true. The countless corpses or involuntarily 'protected' members of the Sa'adle family in their relative's 'possessions' is a testament to this. For history has proven, that if the legible heirs were to be freed or loved, it would only pose an opportunity for them to betray or otherwise usurp their compassionate counterparts for the Trotgier throne.

Genorisity faced extinction in the Sa'adle family.

Ironically, Fatima, herself, has never tied a knot herself. This is despite having an endless selection of suitors, either drawn to her wealth, youth, influence or beauty, conveniently overlooking her rotten personality.

Some say she is saving herself for the eventual winner of the succession war... However, that is still to be debated sceptically, as confirmed reports of her mustering armies, combining the forces of her allies in Abyssinia, Maregypt and the reluctant Mandalusians on the borders to the heartlands speaks doubt of her peaceful intent in resolution.

Actual spoilers:
No seriously, you should probably not read this as I'm gonna reveal it better later on.
C'mon bro, have some patience. This is mostly for me to not forget writing this later.
Jeez, fine. Spoil yourself, but don't blame me when the eventual reveal is underclimatic and lame.
My agents did a little digging, and turns out, she had been arranged by her father to marry a rival family engaged in similar commerce, in the interests of monopolising their businesses.

The fact that her father had mysteriously 'disappeared' shortly afterwards that decision, and the marriage annulled, paints a somewhat vivid picture of the reasons why she is so resistant to marry.

The fact that the rival family soon became destitute and impoverished also further supplements her reputation for 'diligence'.

Of course, the story straight from the mare's mouth would be far more telling, and in the grand scheme of things, this changes very little, but it seemed in good faith to tell what you what, I, myself, had been recently told. It's mostly for you, friend Alfred.

It can be safely said that Fatima is heading for a direct collision course with Jal-far's army, as for the first time in decades, the north is not subsumed in chaos from bitter rivarlies, mainly originating from Mandalusia.

Possibly out of bribery, prostrating flattery, or even an unthinkable appeasement, the various governors that fief over Maregypt and Abyssinia have thrown their weight behind Fatima's gambit to Trotgiers.

Meanwhile, Mandalusia, possibly fearing the head-strong, 'pure-heartlander' Jal-far, would overreach his tyranny to their autonomous, unsegmented greater-eyalet, has reluctantly decided to fight beside the hated cats and North Zebrican ponies to support the highly-educated and culturally-versed Fatima.

The odds are definitely not in favour for the North, as they are neither the most prosperous, whose title belongs to the heartlands, nor the most militaristic, which belongs to the East. The consolatory presumptuous title for 'most self-deterministic allies' is even lost to the North, as said prize is flaunted by the South, with their uneasy Maretonian and Aestlonian 'allies.'

Instead, the soldiers of Fatima's army have fanatic zeal, and a will invoking jealousy from even the great Asura, to win.

As while Jal-far's army may fight for gold, Fatima's army of proud Abyssinians, Maregyptians and Mandalusians are fighting against the probably exaggerated threat of cultural extermination.

Fatima, from her expansive tutelage, would no doubt channel the same fury and desperate energy of past's Northern defiance, albeit, in a poetic reversal to seize the iron shoe that had repressed the very force that is carrying her to retrieve it.

These other 'tools' of hers can be summarised thusly:

The Kadesh is the informal, yet, the most common address for the notorious Maregyptian charioteers.

A terror for any ground-bound troops, they are the dreaded reapers of numerous Fursan orders and the vein of the close-behind Cataphracts and Chargers.

Rarely not seen without the scorching blue canvas with scattered clouds behind them, the Mareygptian charioteers still survive today, having evolved miraculously from useless expensive ornaments to deadly efficient killer vehicles.

No longer in the lavish parades of despotic Nobles or smashed misfortunately in grand racing spectacles, these favoured weapons of the North Zebrican Ponies are able to translate their awe-inspiring majesty in the stadiums, into pure-terrifying devastation in the battlefields.

The levees of the heartlands, plucked from the ranks of lowly peasants could cry when they witnessed what normally only a noble could've indulged in.

And they did, cry. Cry, in terror as a giant amalgamation of chariots in the rough formation of a sphere headed straight towards them. Of the chariot, there were six riders tightly packed, two on a leash, and all armed with various ranged weaponry.

The sparse crossbows on the ground could only hope to shoot so far up.

It was then miraculous that so many of Sa'adle's armies did not immediately flee when encountered by the seemingly invulnerable weapons of the air, as by remaining still, in formation, the various soldiers and especially levies knew they would be resigning themselves to an eventual death.

But their discipline kept them cohesive, and the knowledge that breaking formation would only result in an eventual, but faster death, kept them all together.

The opening stages of the 70-year war played countlessly like the scene described above, with the Sa'adle barely taking the 'fields' by outlasting the chariot's munition supply, at which point, they would retreat. They had learned early that a frontal assault was suicide against the Fursans.

The balance would only tip with the recruitment of the before-mentioned 'King's unit' and the following donkey auxiliaries.

...

More recently, the Kadesh would be used against the Maretonian alliances' phalanxes, with mixed results.

As while the ground-bound pike-wielders were similarly vulnerable to their now-allied Saddle Arabians, the Cape employed far more experienced ranged infantry, engineers and crucially, pegasi to effectively neutralise the comparably inflexible Maregyptian charioteers.

In the foreseeable present, though, the Kadesh remains a useful unit for any army that can perform any task, such as reconnaissance, screening, pursuing, skirmishing or even acting as a shock vanguard, all moderately well.

Recently being rebranded as 'Meowdros's Nips', the mischievous rangers of Abyssinia seem determined to remain conformant to their stereotypes as liquor-loving debauches.

Metacommentary: I'm beginning to see a pattern here... Maybe guys who could afford guns and the matching pompous dress back in those days had an overlap with petite merchants who had nothing better to do with their disposable income but to drink, frolic and play.

Frustratingly, though, as the only naturally ambidextrous creatures on our side of the continent, they stubbornly remain the most talented and reliable ranged unit; coveted and wanted by all armies.

They are particularly well-suited to utilise the muskets imported from overseas, which had all but been disregarded and forfeited by the traditional generals of the heartlands, and subsequently, the Sa'adle's Saddle Arabia as a whole. Well, of course, except the Abyssinians.

The weapon deemed 'too unwieldy', 'too inaccurate', 'impossible to reload with hooves', 'who the fuck thought this was a good idea with our stumps?', and 'wholly inferior to the crossbows and bows,' were put to devastating use by the cats, putting the critics to rest. Literally.

There isn't much of a past, no less dignity, with these particular types of soldiers, but historically, Abyssinians have been the superb choice for substituting any army's ranged contingent, and so far, this phenomenon still holds true. Despite their moral degeneration.

Another Metacommentary: Pasha's wrong. The Abyssinian mercenaries have always been like that. What did you expect? They're bloody low-life sellswords. Well, in this case, sellmuskets.

The Zenata, coined by, one, legendary rebel leader, Nyarid Growlnada, were once a purely volunteer force which diehard members dedicated their entire lives for the liberation of their beloved Mandelusia.

Spitting in their legacy, the Sa'adle had made it the designation of their standing army, turning the once-symbol of holy, inspirational resistance for glorious freedom into a bland, humiliating subservient auxiliary of the greater Saddle Arabian army.

Depressingly, this 'tamed army' is feverishly paid for by the Mandelusians alone, to protect themselves from their two larger, hostile neighbours. However, they are more often used far away from home, dying on soil never coveted by the noble, great Nyarid, and spilling blood in the name of foreigners a seasonal trot away.

These poor, diligent Mandelusians are not allowed to complain. For they have been geopolitically taken hostage by the vile Sa'adles in Trotgiers, who would no doubt allow the neighbouring Maregyptians and Abyssians to swallow Mandelusia whole, if they even squeak in protest of their courageous fellows' death in a faraway war, uninstigated by their own.

My deepest condolences are felt to those iron-willed cats of the north. Especially the dashing Nyarin Growlnada, whose glorious ambushes and raids against the gluttonous officials of Trotgiers still inspire us all.

Third Metacommentary: Pasha is biased. 'Nough said.

Back on topic, the 'Zenatas' are a frail imitation of its historic namesake.

All of its apparent 'credit' is owed to the other elements of the victorious army, especially towards the heartland's Fursans, which are a far superior mobile force than the pathetically slow bipedal Zenatas.

Why they don't just employ them as ambushers or rangers like the Abysinnians, I do not know, as to me, there are clear historic and current relevant precedents that they could follow to become a far superior force.

Metacom: (Because that'll be fucking stupid. Different culture and changing times is why.)

Those were the ~~three~~ two major components of Fatima's army... And now, introducing the puppet in the east:

Kavad ibn Saddle;
The Wagging Dog of the Eastern Seven Houses

There are scant few information about the most definite puppet Sa'adle Princeling of the East.

As a matter of fact, there is scant of anything that could be foraged from the east, much less, intelligence.

The volatility of the region due to constant raids into the preliminary states, sometimes deeper, from the Great Lakers chiefdoms meant that the Kingdom's East would forever remain militaristic and vigilant.

This vigilance would also, unfortunately, affect our network of informers in the region, meaning the information I will present now should not be taken as gospel, as it is the combined snippets of historical archives and various other records pieced as meticulous can be to create a coherent picture.

...

One of the more well-recorded and disseminated heads of the seven great 'houses', that are more akin to criminal clans, is Shookhra al Khan. Why that might be, either due to self-importance or actual greatness, I cannot determine.

He, like all the other heads of the clans that control the Kingdom's East, had been appointed independently to be the respective beylerbey of the eyalet hereditarily, not uncommon now, but they were the first to break that sacred 'rule'.

If they were a catalase, or if it was pre-determined for the Kingdom to decentralise with the governors no longer being appointed directly by the Grand Prince, I do not know.

Nevertheless, Shookhra, and his 6 peers are from families steeped in military tradition. You can expect no less for a creature that is either always in the threat of war, or is currently in one already.

Quite expectedly, the eastern eyalets, despite collectively being the least populated, prosperous or generally a pleasant place to live in, have the largest standing professional army in the entire Kingdom, albeit, one that can never leave said region.

This, however, hasn't stopped prospecting heirs of the Saddle Arabian throne before, from draining the precious garrisons and reserves of the east to march into Trotgiers.

Regardless if they had won or lost, the east's troops would not be returned or quickly replenished, and coincidentally, the Zebras further east would take such gaps of recovery to strike deep into the eastern eyalets, ravaging the lands and looting it dry, or even just devastating it to settle past grudges, some made even before the avenger's birth.

Tired of this dreadful cycle, around 662ALB, the locals would franchise a system wherein they elevate one of their richest 'patrons' in each region to act as their private defenders, forgoing the reliance on the fickle beylerbeys.

This 'patronage system' would soon mutate into an uncontrollable magnet of powerful noble families that would soon compete with one another and leave only the seven great houses seen today.

They would be further entrenched in their position of remarkable independence and power when they, through their own initiative, invaded the various Great Laker tribes which were the fractures from the three major kingdoms in 665ALB, creating several buffer states.

While the still-competent Sa'adle Grand Prince was supposed to punish such acts of blatant free-will, he, with hindsight is seen as a disastrous decision, decided to reward the seven great houses by appointing them the new beylerbeys of the conquered buffer states.

The consequences of his actions would be seen at his death in 677ALB, as the seven houses swiftly stronghoofed the rest of their informally controlled territories into their appointed eyalets, and using their massive armies, seeked to install a villainous nepotist to the Trotgiers throne, on the condition that the newly ordained Grand Prince would confirm their illegal land-grab.

In an upset, the pre-determined heir, son of the predecessor, was defeated near Farasrah, starting the long decline in the quality of Sa'adle monarchs, as the Zoroastrian church, following their strict principles of free-will, had no choice but to accede to the accession of the villainous usurper, due to his apparent 'superiority of will'.

But unlike countless times before, the armies of the east would return home, further galvanising support from the citizens in the east for the seven houses to remain, ultimately leading to their continued existence as major power brokers in the decide for the Trotgier's throne today.

But allegedly, one of the leading houses, being Shookra's, is not satisfied with just installing a weak, puppet Grand Prince.

Instead, he supposedly wishes to become a regent to the Grand Prince, no doubt wishing to indulge in the pleasures of Trotgier's amenities and expend its exhaustless wealth for his private ambitions.

Even if that is not true, there is no telling what the other six great houses will demand from their puppet Grand Prince. Possibly even full independence, which may instigate every other nominally free eyalet to follow, similar to the case of mass decentralisation that the east started in 678ALB.

This must never come to pass.

As much as I hate the Kingdom in its current state, further decentralisation and subsequent fracturing like the three Zebra kingdoms of the Great Lakers would only lead to chaos, statelessness and ceaseless violence, as can be seen in the various 'chiefdoms' that arose after the Nobatsian and Marecueria's fall.

In the fight against this agent of disorder, we shall encounter these stocks of soldiers:

Zebrican Chargers, or Great Laker Chargers, it really doesn't matter what word you attach before the word 'Chargers'. One stray cry of that horrifying word, and the army melts to its most seasoned bones, revealing who among them is prepared to even invade Tartarus, itself.

That is how veterans who have faced the iron-clad, alchemically enhanced, striped warriors of the Lakes describe it. Facing Tartarus, itself.

There exist vivid accounts of survivors plunging daggers straight into the necks and eyesockets of the wide-eyed, manic Chargers, only for it to not even elicit a twitch from the victims.

Those very same accounts also attest hauntingly, that the zebras, still showing no indication of pain and their mad grin unbroken, would either smash their helms against their muzzles or violently pummel them with their shortspears or bare hooves in a bloody pulp of shattered, broken bones.

Their hideous disfigurements provide validity to their words, and the innumerable unmarked graves that litter the eastern borders speak for those who cannot; still being sorted in the probable endless queue of fallen soldiers in the Chitvan Bridge.

So it is even more terrifying that in the seven house's employ, are these accursed 'devils'.

It is apparent that these marauders never had a noble goal of fulfilling some ancestral vengeance. Like all primal creatures, stripped bare of the structures and stability offered in an orderly society, they are driven solely by greed and without any moralistic functions; only the basic focus for the attainment of gold.

Deprived of a stately function by the unfortunate collapse of their respective societies and following states, these warrior castes had only two choices, either start from scratch in the still-existing Alwani Kingdom or become 'self-employed'.

The former's army had already been oversaturated with cheaply 'available' Chargers who had similarly fled from their collapsing societies, meaning there really was one option: 'freelancing'.

More accurately, banditry.

But even the most unhinged bandits require a semblance of stability in their tumultuous lives, and it seems the eastern eyalets were more than happy to provide them such, in the forms of several handsomely paying mercenary contracts.

As explained before, the Chargers are nearly without equals in terms of ferocity, shock and strength.

And if it can easily break the most elite-ranked formations, the untrained levies must feel like a brief breeze to these striped devils.

But, there is no such thing as an immortal soldier, and the Abyssinian rangers and the Cape's phalanxes would resolutely humble them on that fact.

Called the 'Aksumites', they are similarly shrouded in mystery, however, what little is known about them is that they originate from the Haymir region, and like all the elite units of Saddle Arabia, they are a mobile, lightly armoured and armed force.

It is generally accepted that they are the equal counterparts to the heartland's Fursans, which, is a source of massive confusion, as the East also employs the various elite units of the wider Kingdom, meaning they have both the Fursans and Aksums in their armies, sharing their designated roles.

More of a religious order than a military unit, the 'Magdakites' is a subversive cult that proclaim they are following the 'purified' version the main Zoroastrian beliefs.

Once endemic in the heartlands, these wayward supposed apostates of the primary branch of Zoroastrianism would be violently prosecuted when they reached the certain number of converts where their preachings of social welfare and equal distribution of wealth, therefore equal power and free-will for all, became too loud for the nepotists in Trotgier's comfort.

The wisest among them had foreseen this though, and many Magdakites fled across the vast Arabian Sea, landing on the various coastal cities of the wider Kingdom.

The most notable of these early self-imposed exiles was Magdak himself, who would arrive on the western coasts of the Eastern eyalets in hopes of escaping the looming storm and winning new converts in the then-already autonomous states of the East.

Quite bizarrely, this peaceable branch of the Zoroastrian faith, focused nearly entirely on charity and the pursuit of social welfare would adapt drastically in the militaristic lands of the eastern peripheries.

As soon after the founder, Magdak's death, his namesake Magdakites would immerse sharply into the cultures of their new converts.

With every new generation, new priests and subsequent head priests being increasingly sourced from the martially-focused unicorns of the East, the doctrines of the Magdakites blended in a melting pot to forge a seemingly contradictory belief of unshakable harmonic equality matched by violent prowess.

This would do what the Zoroastrian temples in the heartlands couldn't; make the Magdakites unpalatable to the wider masses.

For following this shift, the Magdakites ceased to become a major competing faith in the Greater polity, instead being confined to the east, specifically their stronghold in Mareib.

Their right to freely practice their faith comes at a price though, but while in everywhere else in the Kingdom, where minority faiths are beholden to pay the Jizya, the eastern eyalets instead sought reimbursement in the form of military service.

Rightly seeing their knowledgeability in magic, and aware of their notorious selection process in elevating priests from the exclusive classes of warmages only, as useful assets in war, the east would recruit them in a sort-of 'holy orders' for their various campaigns.

They would prove especially useful against the Zebras and occasional Abyssinian auxiliaries, whose lack of equals to the unicorns, much less, a bunch of fanatically magocratic, overzealous, former-warmages would often tilt the balances of any battle in the seven houses' favour.

This leaves only the last major player for the Saddle Arabian throne... The diplomat of the South.

Hayjaz ibn Saddle;
The Éminence Grise of the South

Deceitful, two-faced, soft-hoofed, sly, knavish slithering snake that has done nothing in the south but flatter those that have insidiously struck us without just cause, and astuciously begged for peace when we briskly slapped them back across the Arabian waters.

He has revoltingly attained the hoof of an Aestlonian princess, no doubt, the beginning of a ploy by the deceitful ally of the equally fiendish Maretonians to turn the noble citizens of Saddle Arabia their slaves; a laborious work steed, leashed by the delusional 'ancestors' of their imaginary alicorn king, to fulfil a foolish dream which our great Kingdom has already attained.

We must not lose the achievements made by our ancestors.

To watch a vile interloper to our historic, treacherous enemy sit on the Trotgier's throne will not only be an insult to us all, but to our great fathers, who would no doubt roll in their graves to see such defilement of our sacred, albeit temporarily tainted capital.

Expectedly, he is with the armed support of the Western Cape Hestraya.

It sickens me to even imagine that these wormly existences of the cold, miserable south will dirty our majestic standards by the mere contact of their slithery hooves.

I would pity our kind that they were made to march with those sorry excuses of equines. Half-horses, both in size and mind, will cling to our noble Fursans of the south, conjuring unthinkable sights of rich Greens marching with their sickly Purple, undoubtedly tainting our history and image forevermore.

It is to my somewhat relief though, that for those very transgressions, I have no second thoughts that they will be shortly exterminated by the other three factions, hopefully rid from our minds sooner, and their awkward experiment erased from history.

I cannot fathom what had gone through Hayjaz's mind.

I had always thought him to be smart. Combined with his reputation as an astute diplomat, negotiating the subjugation of all other minor beyliks and eyalets in the south to his vaguely central authority had only confirmed his genius to me in the past.

Everyhorse in the Kingdom had shared my opinion. Many thought, shortsightedly, that Hayjaz had also achieved a military victory, as after his consolidation, the Cape had all but ceased their military incursions, ranging from petty raids or petite sieges of border forts.

Others, like me, had thought it so because the alliance of Aestrius-Trinity wouldn't be dafted enough to strike against a clearly stronger, unified force.

However, Hayjaz proved slyer still. Decieving us all.

After the numerous jubilant letters to wipe the rump survivors off the map went continually ignored by Hayjaz, he would truly reveal his diplomatic aptitude when he shockingly revealed his marriage to the Aestlonian princess, Jadwig Zaida, even before announcing his betrothal.

A Saddle mixing blood with a deceitful Zaida...

If it wasn't for the absolutely wretched reputation and debauched former head of the Saddle lineage, the mere suggestion of such a tied knot would warrant a swift relocation on a noose and the kick of the chair beneath them.

It was a miracle that Hayhaz's southern subjects hadn't revolted against him.

Even bigger a miracle that all the other beylerbeys of the Kingdom hadn't immediately converged upon him to tear him to shreds.

Everyhorse had forgotten about decency apparently.

The soul of the Kingdom MUST BE RESTORED.

This shamefully unpunished move gave Hayjaz the laughable assortment of organised mobs called 'soldiers' in the Western Cape. Plus one race of monsters...

The 'Phalanxes' are a laughably ineffective force of mainly toothpick-wielding earth ponies.

They only seem to be effective against the similarly barbaric Zebras, somewhat adding belief to their outlandish tale of once conquering the whole of the Great Lakers and beyond, as the former's Chargers tend to blindly skewer themselves in their rigidly held wall of iron points.

Metacommentary: The zebras go around them. They're not that stupid. Pasha is just pulling a Rome / Middle Kingdom.

They are utterly inflexible. Making it even seem more cretinous that they had ever believed that they could defeat us.

Our entire roster of soldiers is highly maneuverable. How could they possibly think sitting still in an open plane would not expose their flanks???

But what better could I have expected from the delusional Maretonians?

I suppose this is also why they have also refused to give up their unwieldy pikes.

As long as they keep clinging to their beliefs of alicorn ancestry, they will similarly never forfeit their long sticks.

...Need I remind you that they hold round shields?

Because they do.

It is shameful, really, that they do barely anything to stop our projectiles.

Why did Hayjaz ally with these cretins?!

The 'Thunderers', or mockingly, the 'Thuns' are what our soldiers have affectionately called the Aestlonian, and later, combined Maretonian pegasus units.

Unlike the Maregyptians in our employ, whose pegasi are predominantly leashed on meticulously engineered chariots, these unelegant savages to our south prefer to chaotically dot the air above the battlefield, one day hoping that they would be more than quaint shades for the levies below.

The name would derive from their common usage of thunderclouds, which, if not uselessly adding to the dramatic atmosphere of the battlefield with its mighty roars of lightning, would compel the conjurers to flash their petite daggers and rush the Maregyptian charioteers, desperately slashing the leashes on the comparably higher armoured, equipped and trained pegasi of North Zebrica.

Most of the aforementioned attempts by the Thuns would result in their swift annihilation and the rout of any that remained, scattering their already scattered, incohesive formations in every direction.

Dragons.

You may not believe me, but the Western Cape Hastraya have always employed these savage beasts in their armies.

One can only imagine the amount of treasures, favours or flattery is required to hire these impulse-made incarnates.

It is a great contradiction that the delusional, self-aggrandising Maretonians would stoop and beg for the icy savage's services. However, I suppose those very dragons being in their myth, hired by their supposed alicorn ancestor king would waive any shame they may feel in prostrating themselves upon them, and pleading for their help.

Nevertheless, the 'warriors' of the Ice Dragon Tribes are a ferocious bunch.

If not for our various engines and mighty cannons, the dragons would no doubt wreak havoc on our lines, as the occasional times when a Saddle Arabian commander was forced to abandon their heavy weaponry or had them destroyed by a lucky Allied ambush had shown.

If the numerous aligning reports of the soldiers were to be believed, arrows simply bounce off the hard scales of the Icy Dragons, spears shatter at their charge, and the hooves or teethes that held the swords striking them painfully clatter and jitter off in ineffectiveness.

If there was any reasons, of many, that the titanic Kingdom of Saddle Arabia couldn't just sweep the Allies asunder, like grains of a sand in the beach, these cold-hearted beasts of the south-most isle would likely be...

Kitchener neatly folded the letter and deposited it into his inside pocket, patting the spot comfortably.

"What a boon!... That must be repaid in kind... After I make sure this doesn't reach the wrong pair of ears..." He hurriedly marched towards his door, the goal of intercepting his courier for assurances of secrecy in mind.

Alfred waved the letter in a laxed claw, a joyful smile in tow.

"Seymour, good man! You've got to see what my little horsie wrote me!"

Author's Note

Suddenly, Pasha's letter became open.

You can tell from my linearly decreasing quality in each chapter that I gradually lose my sanity as I try to write these chapters in one 'sitting'.

I really hate myself, don't I?

Btw, the various metacommentaries might make you think Pasha is a moron, but he is highly educated... For their time.

He just lives in an unnuanced, single-minded society.

Don't interpret the references I had embedded through links literally. Since there's magic and different anatomy, the various units will be drastically different from our historic counterparts.

The significant figures will also be different. I just decided to reference them as they would either follow similar fates or have similar personalities.

Interlude in Equestria: An Expected Encounter

I'm going to assume that the Southern deserts of Equestria have not yet been colonised.

I'm making this assumption based on the wiki's timeline that implies mass-scale colonisation, therefore, settle-mentation had only occurred in 1001ALB, where the Appleloosans and the Buffalo Chiefdom would clash over a land dispute.

But this doesn't mean that they would be completely devoid of Equestrian equines, however, it would mean that the sparse few that escaped from the 'wider society' would be isolated, both geographically and politically.

A Lost Cretan Fisherman
It was most peculiar...
Markos scrutinised the familiar desert coasts directly ahead of him.

He would occasionally encounter such terrain when he strayed too far, or a spontaneous current carried his inherited, generational fishing sloop south, tracing the ancient routes his late ancestors would trek to raid the rich, industrious port cities of Libya and Egypt, girt by golden sands and spots of luscious greens.

What currently perturbed him was the lack of such landmarks anywhere on the endless yellow shores.

The ancient cities that he was so accustomed to seeing, even from the start of childhood, sailing with his four brothers and distant father when the waters near Crete proved unbountiful, were absent on the landscape that stretched from one head turn to the other; one, nevertheless, that seemed uncannily familiar.

Perhaps this was what had compelled him to sail directly towards it. Though, he would have been remiss to not remind himself that the entirety of Europe had been displaced, and the vast desert before him, reminding him of North Africa had not come with them. So what was it?

Possessed with the same spirit that had haunted great explorers before, Markos entered a state of single-minded exploratory adventurism. Infected with the optimism that he may discover new land, and may his forgettable line be forever engrained into the immortal paradises of history.

After all, why not? Why shouldn't he pursue this impossible dream?

He had no spouse he owed his return to, and he was still young in age; 19, and overflown with energy to see any possible troubles he may encounter through.

Under his stumped hoof, he rolled his Mauser Rifle, attained from his services in the Balkan 'reconquests' to its side. With the flatter side now facing the sky, he could wrap his hoof quite adequately around the stock of the rifle, at which point he swiftly lifted it and slapped it against his barrel, holding it horizontally against his upright body, still gently rocking in the shallow waters of the strangely familiar shore.

He figured he would need it later.

The Eternally-Ravaged Frontierponies

"A life of the frontiers is often short, violent and brutish. If not perished on the first seasonal cycle, one can only expect the never-ending sensation of dreadful paranoia; otherwise, the constant fear of violent death."
- Promise Hooves on 'Warre' (chaos & statelessness)

...

The buffaloes were ceaseless in their pursuit.

Everypony knew that these broad-shouldered brutes never chased anycreature past their loosely determined territory, much less, even close to the barren coasts of southern Equus.

Yet, they were currently being chased, even still out of their zealously protected lands, and foreseeable into the ocean from the pace of the buffalo's unrelenting stampede and the direction of their funnelled desperate gallop to escape.

It seemed that the native's patience had run dry.

They would all perish too, as a message to the rest of the 'hopeful settlers'.

Little did the southern chiefdoms know, the ponies from the north weren't some conniving colonisers, intent on milking their sacred lands dry of their resources and committing sacrilege to their various holy grounds with their petulant homes. But instead, they were better described as refugees, fleeing the oppressive rules of regional nobles, lordlings and religious or discriminatory laws.

This impending massacre would prove as convincing to these fronteirponies as the last.

That is, nothing. As long as the risks of being murdered en masse by furious natives were better than the odds of being tortured or quartered back home.

The early, current 'settlers' weren't evil, but simply ignorant. They wished no harm or offence to the natives.

The later ones, though, would make the future generation of chiefs forever curse their forefathers for needlessly slaughtering the 'good ones'.

These were actual colonisers, intending harm and actually exploiting their lands; due in three centuries passed.

Though, a certain displacement would move said event to this decade.

...

Coats, ranging from the vibrant colours of orange and red, combined with darkly hued manes proved greatly noticeable in the golden, dusty sands of Southern Equus.

If not for the grains of stinging brown that radiated in the air from their thunderous kicks against the shambling ground, every buffalo tribe nearby would've been able to make out their bright visage in the blank features of the screeching, cliff-littered land.

"Melrose! Where are yer' sisters?!" An elderly, brown-coated earth pony with spots of algae-green huffed through exhausted breaths, galloping to meet her listener flank-to-flank.

"They're with mah' paps! What about your own, missis Splendour?!" The apparent-Melrose yelled similarly in a short breath, peaking behind her with the sudden opportunity to notice the tip of the stampede closing in.

"They were with yer' siblin's, last when I saw 'em! -I remember them takin' a right from the last split!" As Splendour spoke, Melrose noticed the outlines of another galloping group amidst the dusty clouds at a fair distance behind the elderly pony's ear.

"There! That must be them!" Melrose leaned her muzzle towards the splintered group, and began gradually turning to converge with them, gently pushing against the barrel of Splendour to direct her towards them too.

A hovering eagle nearby would be pleasured by the witnessing of a hypnotising sight of a few specks, trailing massive fumes of dust, gliding, maneuvering in the sands like a sloop in a calm sea. They would see the smaller group integrate seamlessly into the larger strained-out specks, who were still followed by an even larger horde of 'fumers', terraforming the very landscape beneath their heavy hooves, barely nipping at the tails of the fleeing stragglers.

"Sis!" A barely distinguishable face, far less, voice, brightly welcomed the approach of Melrose, and the separated group she had briefly led in an impromptu herd.

"Honeycrisp! Where's paps?!" Melrose relievedly asked, but the chaotic atmosphere, precarious situation and breathlessness made it come out as a demand.

"Delicish'- ain't with you?!" Honeycrisp blurted suddenly, briefly getting caught on her own hooves in shock.

She quickly regained her hoofing, and began galloping faster to catch back up to her elder sister.

"Dear Celestia-! What happened to paps?!" Melrose yelled in delayed reaction once Honeycrisp caught up.

"Nothin'! He's probably at the front! -Ya know how paps is!" Honeycrisp happily assured, smiling deeper when Melrose's worry melted entirely from her face.

"...Yeah! -Paps was with me just before the split! -It's not worth a worry, -none!" Melrose absently nodded to herself.

...Which proved to be a perfect momentary distraction for her to stumble on a jagged rock.

"SIS'!" Honeycrisp saw Melrose roll forward, but quickly disappear into the larger dust cloud kicked behind them. She instinctively began to wheel around to help her up, except for a familiar elderly pony to wring her hooves around her neck and usher her forward.

"You youngin's are spry! Yer' sister will be up and galloping ahead of you in no time!" Splendour confidently announced, swiftly loosening her grip as quickly as she had wrung it.

Honeycrisp nervously glanced back. The ever-loudening sound of buffaloes trampling convinced her more than the elderly pony ever could. "Melrose..."

"Eyes straight, foal! T'ere comes another split!" Splendour nudged the smaller pony to the side, directing her to follow the entire group to the right, away from the coasts and inland, this time, not separating.

"Ah'm not losing you too sis'!" Honeycrisp yelled to the skies, inadvertently tasting the salty, bitter sands permeating the air around them.

...

Melrose tumbled, but as survival necessitated, her twisted, bruised hooves immediately began paddling, even in the air, until it finally found purchase on the ground to push off against, quickly entering into a full gallop again.

She hissed at the sharp pain radiating from her forward left hoof she had tumbled on, yet nevertheless, continued galloping with bit lips to fulfil her primary drive; survival. She dared not to even briefly glimpse at her hurt hoof, dreading the possible damage, which, despairingly, may perhaps warrant an amputation due to internal hemorrhaging.

She did not need that in her conscience. Especially, not now.

In her squints of pain and teary blur, compounded by the enormous dust clouds before her, she barely made out the open path to the left, which, her instinctively-acting hooves immediately decided to take her through.

She could barely hear the sounds of galloping in front of her, but she reassured herself it was due to her falling behind from her earlier stumble.

The sounds of the buffalos still trampling behind her, the closest that they had ever been so far, definitely convinced her that she was heading the correct path.

"Ah'm, -ow! Gonna survive, -ow! This!" She resolved through bouts of incredible pain.

At least the deeper sands of the coasts cushioned her gallop... It would also slow down the heavy buffalos more than her!

...

...

...

The Pitiful, Lumbering, Hirsute Cows.

"The Springfield rifle was the favourite weapon of the hide hunters. A party could kill over six hundred Buffalo on the hunt, keeping only the tongues and the choice cuts, but leaving the rest of the carcasses to rot on the plains."
- General William F. Cody (Claimed to have personally slain 4000 buffaloes.)

...

Markos kept glancing back at the landmarks that would guide him to his sloop, ensuring that the chosen irregular-shaped rock wasn't all common to the other rocks that littered the inland coasts.

When he wasn't looking behind him, he would twiddle with his German rifle, still quite awkward in his stump for a hand, but functional with the winter trigger and sling, which was used to tie the forestock of the rifle tightly on the overreaching forehoof. Finally, the cocking of the bolt would be achieved by using the still-mysterious suctioning characteristics or magical intervened, 'phantom hands' of their hooves.

Markos, like many, preferred the last method, even if it somewhat strained his hoof points after a while. Hands, even if magical, still simply felt natural.

He felt somewhat jealous of the griffons though, with their convenient digitigrade claws and all. Not to even mention their wings!

Markos sadly patted his head, feeling the distinct lack of a spirally horn like some lucky few.

Like so many, it had seemed he had lost the 'lottery', so to speak, being a creature not from mythology like the Pegasus, Unicorns, Gryphons, Dragons or Kirins.

"...What has god planned, for us unfortunate few?" He dejectedly murmured.

...Then, he felt slight jitters on his bipedally stood hindhooves.

Having already been looking down in silent contemplation, Markos only had to focus to realise the sparse fragments of rocks around his pair of hooves were shaking.

"What the-?"

He heard a distant stampede.

He involuntarily shivered.

His mind found it appropriate to remind him of the Albanian, and later, Serbian Kirins who all, allegedly, like the Bulgarians, had manically charged downhills in literal blazes of glory, crashing into his positions innumerable times and turning his comrades close to him to ash.

The shuddering ground and the thunderous sound of gallop could almost hallucinate Markos into hearing the dreadful war cries of the former Ottoman 'mistresses' and the Serbian 'pushovers' also, returning him to the moment of stinging sweat and unbearable heat.

(("Y'ALL NOT CATCHIN’ ME! DO Y'ALL HEAR ME?! -NEVER!"))

Markos slowly faced, wide-eyed towards the general direction of an unmistakable voice among the orchestra of stamping hooves.

He owed no obligations to help, nor even approach the source of his nightmares.

He swore no oath to protect, and his prior ones to serve were only owed to the Hellenic state, and its glorious people.

So why was he charging?

...

...

...

Melrose tried to lean off her battered hoof.

She definitely did not want to check it now, as the pain she expected to gradually dull had only gotten worse. She swore she could even feel the fractured bones pressing against her flesh within, filling her bruised hoof with blood, which would explain the immense sensitivity, and the sharp pain whenever she applied even the slightest pressure on said hoof.

She was greatly slowed, but thankfully, her light-hoovedness allowed her to trek comparably smoothly on the deep sands than the top-heavy buffaloes who would visibly sink with every trot of their stubby hooves.

But this was only a slight reprieve in the proverbial mountain of trouble she was being bombarded with at this very time.

It may've been a miracle that she had separated herself to the coasts, where the sands were deeper and would supplement her damaged, but still stouter hoof. On top of that, it had seemed that she had diverted the rest of the buffaloes to her lonesome, which provided great relief in her that the rest of the community would be safe from the stampede. However, she knew now, that she would assuredly perish, having been singled-out, isolated and worst-off, injured.

In the bouts of intense pain that would sporadically splay scowls across her face, displacing the bawled tears and river-worth of sweat that caught dirt which would further sting by entering her irritated eyes, she felt insurmountable despair.

Despair, that she would die in a brutish manner, mangled and pressed from all sides, until the loved ones she was absent with from her at the point of departure could only mourn an amalgamation of blood and meat in their return.

A great tiredness was soon to overtake her. She knew it from the signs.

Many deceased relatives and friends, mostly young in a reflection of the cruelty of the lands, told her of how their 'final-moments' were characterised by an unconscious drawl of their motions, as if the body had prepared to give up, while the mind hotly fought to motivate its partner to fight on.

She was definitely feeling it now, as no matter how desperately she ordered her hooves to continue its previous pace, it slowly grew rigid, stuck, yet limp at the same time as her joints pitifully scrunched under her weight, and she felt her head weakly dip and her vision sink towards the ground.

"I thought I had more time..."

Melrose's head finally met the ground, causing her to roll violently forward from the momentum she still had.

At least her pain had also dulled, and the once intense pain all over, concentrated on her left hoof was now nothing but an unpleasant throb.

She peaked an eye from her sprawled position, watching blurrily the approach of those that had taken so much, and would finally extort her of an old life.

Her story wasn't special. Her fate, especially not. So many other Equestrian settlers would meet the same fate on the unforgiving southern deserts, and she definitely wasn't the last.

Most were destined to die young. The majority, with inconsequential lives, but luckily for Melrose, she would fall, knowing she had saved her village, her friends and most importantly, family. It wasn't that bad of an exchange, really. One short life for the continuation of several lives.

...

...

It was then, when someone decided to spit on fate's face.

In a bang, no less.

A thunder broke on the ground.

A buffalo hit the floor.

If there was any reaction among the surrounding buffaloes, they did not audibly show it. But there was a great reaction in movement.

Like a gentle stream, the crude buffalo stampede split in the face of a stalwart rock, this time, in the form of a fallen brethren whose head steadily leaked a faucet of blood and the exit-wound slid a piece of pink cranial matter onto the dirty sands.

Such sight would dishearten any creature, especially when the most likely perpetrator looked positively insane, awkwardly bipedal, fully clothed in an attire most uncommon, and the usual white, blinding smoke not permeating the barrel of the familiar implement held on their forehooves.

A second shot rang out, confirming the buffaloes' instincts to flee.

While first intent on circling around the fallen Merlone and the bipedal newcomer, the streams of stampeding buffalos decided to entirely break off their charge, scattering in every direction. None wished to find out how many more bullets the strange rifle could dispense, much less wanted to be the next one to suffer from it.

So, the relentless, savage buffaloes fled, in the face of two dead.

Very few in the deserts were warriors.

A pursuer's resolve is always strong, only until the runners hold their ground.

Markos was surprised his brief training had served him so well still, as he silently witnessed the source of his repressed fears melt into the dusty clouds from the simple act of holding his ground, relieving him of the sharp stings on his neck and breezing the scalp under his mane.

(("...That, was incredibly stupid of me.")) Markos finally chuckled out, unconsciously inserting two new cartridges to remedy what he had exhausted into his magazine with his overreaching hoof. (("Are you people herding those unwieldy bisons like cattle? -'Cause I definitely saw some with feathered headdresses."))

Markos loosened the sling on his other hoof, while contemplating the answer on his own. (("God be praised that I arrived just in time, though I might've scattered your herd.")) He smiled apologetically, down at the still-sprawled Melrose.

Markos dumbly blinked at the unresponsive mare, (("...Lady?"))

Melrose was pale, eyes weakly shut and her breath short and erratic. If pressed up upon, one would hear the sad flutters of her dying heart, overexerted trying to compensate for her leaking veins.

He momentarily blushed in realisation, but immediately paled as well in horror. (("Christ! -You're in good hands now, lady!"))

Melrose's last clear memory was that of a fellow earth pony, fully clothed in an aged white undershirt with rugged brown coat and a foreign hind-veil loosely covering their cyan flank and coat gently lifting her against his barrel.

She remembered a pristine, warm comfort in the strange stallion's embrace, who kept spouting words she could not comprehend, but were laced with utmost empathy.

Melrose finally allowed herself to sleep.

Author's Note

This chapter is definitely not an excuse to have a translator when the Europeans arrive. Nope! If you think that, you're just delusional, and wrong, and delusional.

It's gonna be real weird when the Europeans land on the seemingly least useful piece of land in Equestria. The foreshadow is black gold.

Also, I'm stuck deciding whether I should do an 'Old Summer Palace' or a 'Tenochtitlanan'.

The smoll chapter where Frederick walks by

The sun had risen over the Reich, every one of its denizens screaming in terror, and in extension, all of Europe's due to a certain mass-transformation.

The palace in Berlin specifically was the nation's hotspot of yelling and hysteria.

While the attendants and guards alike had lost all discipline and were running around like headless chickens, with loose feathers fluttering around and all, a single upright figure casually marched towards a certain man's office with bored expressions.

He stopped at the open door.

Then wheeled.

...

"Bismarck."

...

"Yes, my liege?"

"I see you are a griffon too."

"Mhm."

...

...

"...Who'd you kill in this office?"

"I was just stretching."

...

...

...

"I'm passing those refo-"

"OVER MY DEAD BODY!"

Author's Note

He won't die of lung cancer.

'Cause uh, magic.

Since cancer cells are technically not 'us' anymore, I have taken the creative liberty to cure 'ol Fritz here of lung kafuffle.

Chaulk it up to his immune system finally recognising cancer cells as the traitorous shits they are and killing them or something.

Here's a video by a German explaining this all better: