Author's Note
As usual, I hope you enjoy the First chapter of Wartime Creed! And, if there is anything I could change or improve: let me know! I've been away from writing for a while to improve and get over my writer's block- plus, this is my first time writing anything war-related -so if you think it's bad, I won't blame you, lol.
Bloody Ball
Snaggletooth, Griffonstone, 10/4/866 B.B (Before Banishment)
12:34 am, interior of Snaggletooth Grand Hall
Shimmering lights and candle-lit, slowly swaying silhouettes basked a grand ballroom’s walls like sea foam crashing against the shoreline, moving gracefully, akin to breathless whispers, their pawed steps flowing in perfect harmony. Griffons, representatives of all classes and the most esteemed families, held claws shoulder-to-shoulder in a symphony of dance, pairings circling and rounding one another in a hypnotic, sophisticated display rarely seen in griffon society. Even in the face of times marred by famine, poverty, and the ever-present specter of war, those guests who found themselves ill-equipped in fine silks and costly attire stood out in stark contrast to their wealthier counterparts. They had willingly spent every last bit of their meager resources for the privilege of bearing witness to this singular, momentous night.
Although the divisions between rich and poor were undeniable, everyone present shared a single, unspoken conviction.
The death of Pony scum.
At the heart of the sprawling party room, amidst a flurry of rushing servants and elegant decor, loomed a haunting display: long, horizontal gallows adorned with five blindfolded and gagged ponies, their raw necks embraced by nooses. Even stripped of identity, one could tell by gazing upon their battered, bleeding forms that no hope or life remained in those sagged, tired bodies they feebly kept upright with violently shaking knees.
A petite pastry propelled through the air with remarkable speed, colliding squarely with the chest of the central pony. A chorus of feminine laughter immediately followed, like a discordant symphony of mockery.
“Burn in hell!” One Griffon Mistress hissed hatefully.
The pony grumbled, refraining from receiving more lashes for talking back.
"Ah, Senator Talon, it's a delight to make your acquaintance!" A scratchy, aged voice greeted mirthly, approaching a younger griffon standing by the gallows. “I hope you’re enjoying the festivities?” He asked. The young griffon wore a dark blue dress suit decorated with his many past badges of battlefield honor, his cold, hardened features filled with years of untold experience.
Senator Talon didn’t bother facing the speaker, “No, I’m not.” He simply grimaced, “Why make a show, Glider? These wretched ponies don’t deserve glamor; only a dark, damp cave to starve in.”
To claim that Senator Talon merely disliked ponies would be a gross understatement of the retired war hero's seething, profound loathing for the entire equine race. Ponies started this war by stealing what rightfully belonged to the griffons and kept taking in mass, including the brave soldiers he sent to fight for their country. Some believe rising out of general to senator lifted the guilt he held, but only fools thought that- war didn’t stop infecting just the campaign borders. Glider guessed Griffionstone and its neighboring state's declining economies pressured the young senator, considering his nation had victory in a stranglehold, leaving little room for falter.
Managing unruly citizens and the war effort is taxing businesses, but tonight was a night to let go and celebrate.
Glider draped a prosthetic wing over Senator Talon's shoulder, patiently waiting until the senator's gaze aligned with his own, guiding it toward the hapless ponies on display. “In due time, my friend. However, those five are Canterlot's finest 51st battalion soldiers, responsible for many griffon deaths, now weak and vulnerable to our fury- broken mentally and physically.”
“I recall, sir,” Senator Talon sneered, “I also remember the countless griffons that died trying to capture them.” He added.
During a raid on a pony outpost near the gulf of Glizzards Hill, north of Griffonstone capital, allied forces intended to go in, kill any occupants, and pillage anything of value before the ponies attempted to do the same. Yet, as they swarmed the makeshift encampment constructed of rudimentary sticks, Griffon soldiers managed to capture five fleeing high-ranking soldiers after shooting arrows into their back legs. At first, they proposed the idea of simply killing their captured victims but decided to use them as ransom. Regrettably, such a bold incursion exacted a heavy toll, claiming the lives of many brave griffons.
Yet, those sacrifices were repaid in full by the spoils of war the survivors achieved– unfortunately, the ponies never took up the offer of their comrade’s lives later on. The equine prey, captured and subdued, received a brutal reckoning that sought to redress the score in a merciless beating as a substitute.
The report he read of that day left a bad taste in his mouth.
Glider nodded solemnly, removing his fake wing, “Yes, it saddens me to think of the many lives cut short.” He sighed, facing back to Talon. “Say, how about a drink to celebrate and remember the fallen who sacrificed their lives, especially for this night? I’ve purchased a collection of fine wines from the Yaks as of recently and have yet to open them.”
“...If you insist.” Talon agreed hesitantly after a moment of silence.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Amidst the crowd, in a more tightly packed sector near the ominous gallows, an enigmatic figure donned ceremonial robes and concealed their identity behind a full-face, obsidian masquerade mask. Their penetrating gaze remained fixed on Senator Talon and Glider’s position near the gallows. Smiling and clapping his wings together, the nearest servant approached, then ordered by Glider to escort him and Talon to his personal suite. At the first sign of the two griffons beginning to withdraw, the cloaked figure parted ways with the bench they had been seated on.
Gracefully, they moved through the undulating sea of dancing bodies, avoiding drawing attention to themselves as they navigated the labyrinthine path. If there was even a hint of collision with another griffon, they melted into the shadowy folds of the revelry, ready to vanish at a moment's notice.
They continued their stealthy pursuit, closing the distance between themselves and the grand staircase that Senator Talon and Glider had started to ascend.
Just as they reached five meters from the first step, a towering frame cladded in armor and armed with a spear used a massive claw to block them. “Hold it! No guests are permitted to enter the second floor.” He warned.
“Figures.” The robed figure sighed, frowning.
Before the large guard could push his warning further, a sharp pain entered the space between the armored plates covering his broad chest, accompanied by a fiery sensation causing his breath to catch in his throat. Looking down, he spotted a thin sewing needle covered in a clear liquid jetted out of his skin, the hint of a glove-covered hoof holding its blunt end.
The large guard looked up shakingly, “P-Po-!” Nothing came out beyond small bouts of air. The guard's brow furrowed in disbelief, the arm that held the spear faintly trembling as an impacting wave of disorientation overwhelmed him.
“Shhhh,” The figure silenced gently, pulling the needle out, “Give up; it’ll make this next part hurt a lot less.” They said, their voice laced with pity.
He tried to speak, to let any griffon nearby know of the pony that’d stabbed him, but again, nothing but a new round of searing agony and wheezing breaths. Silent cries fell on hearing ears as he stumbled to the closest table topped by alcoholic beverages, desperate to quell his internal suffering no matter how. It burned worse than the hottest dragon flames! The figure behind the suffering guard spared a glance before rushing off, leaving him to support his failing body on the table's edge. Sadly, neither the table nor his body withstood, the guard tumbling over, spilling the table's contents to the floor with a loud crash.
Fleeing glimmers of light fading from his vision, the last thing the guard saw when falling into oblivion was two fellow guards looming over him, hope rising in his dying heart- a hope that maybe someone would understand what happened.
“Geez, that idiot. I didn’t think he was such a lightweight.”
“Hah, I know!”
:////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////:
12:35 am, exterior gardens of Snaggletooth Grand Hall
Stationed just outside the south face of Snaggletooth Grand Hall, facing a vast garden under construction, adorning looks bordering on pure boredom- three guards stood despondently. The third guard closest to a gated exit thirty meters away yawned as he stretched back, armor creaking in sync, before another yawn belonging to the guard on his right caught his attention.
“The hell?” He said, “Why’d ya yawn?” The third guard questioned incredulously, looking at his comrade.
The second guard turned to face his inquisitive comrade, his baggy eyes narrowing with a touch of bemusement, raising an eyebrow. "Um, because I'm tired? Aren't you?" he retorted, his tone laced with a hint of defensiveness.
“Well…yeah, but you yawning after me is freaky.”
Rolling his eyes, the second guard did his best to keep a straight face. “And? What’s it matter to you?” He spat irritably.
Questions in a similar vein out his seemingly never-tired comrade throughout the night, one after another coming in burst like a hail of fire arrows. He’d love nothing more than to punch the chatter-box griffon square in the beak. However, such an act was strictly prohibited among their ranks, with punishments ranging from beating to outright death, being labeled a traitor to the griffon cause or a rebellion sympathizer.
Ugh, rebels, a bunch of peace-loving cowards, they are. Everyone with half a brain knew sitting on their claws and waiting for hugs did nothing, yet those idiots burned government buildings and threw protests in retaliation.
He digressed.
It’d been a month since his part in the army.
The second guard wasn’t fast or strong enough to join positions like infantry, too clumsy and tall for recon, and the newly formed navy dealt with water-related matters- he hated getting his finely groomed feathers wet. So, as a young lad with a good pair of wings given by his father’s side of the family, he became a scout, even taking part in suppressive fire as an archer. Being an army griffon and fighting on the front lines, the rebels knew nothing of the blood, sweat, and tears he and his brothers-in-arms shed to keep them safe.
Sadly, the second guard's wing was crippled once a pony shot him out of the sky during a raid, leaving him honorably discharged and sent back to doing guard work. Of course, the news sent him into a spiral of depression, having lost a purpose he felt he was meant for.
Then there was his hen, a fine griffon who helped him out of his spiral.
He even planned a wedding for next month….only if he wasn’t so overworked.
Why should he be pulled out of retirement and rest to hatchling-sit a bunch of hoity moneybags held up in a warm, cozy building while he freezes his nethers off? Hearing the news of five high-known guards abandoned by their ‘all-powerful’ nation was ear-catching, but he couldn’t care. A lonely body was resting in a lonely bed tonight, and he wasn’t there to warm them both.
“Is it true, folk talking about you makes you sneeze?” The third guard inquired, making the second guard grit his teeth harder.
“I. Don’t. Know.” He forced out.
Changing on a dime, the third guard's curious features dropped into disgust while he swatted a claw in front of his beak.
“Fuck me, this stinks!” He said, grimacing at a wagon full of moss left by the construction crew working on the gardens earlier that day. The celebration happened sooner than expected, leaving the TLC space empty and abandoned to retain an image of perfection indoors. “Couldn’t they move it somewhere else?”
That’s it…
Luckily, before the second guard could ‘express’ his frustration on his comrade’s face, the first guard to his right, stationed by a plain wall, beat him to it. “Will you shut the hell up?!” He screamed furiously, “I’m already missing my night out with my friends, and the last thing I want to do is listen to your ear-bleeding, mind-melting rambling! Close your trap before I come over there, rip it off, and shove it straight up your fucking-”
“SHINK!”
Huh?
Where did he go, the first guard? Why was there blood on the wall next to where he stood? Upon looking down, the second guard found him. Like an inverse horn, a dagger with a leather-wrapped handle jetted from the slumped first guard’s forehead, blood flowing like a gentle waterfall down his droopy-eyed visage. Blinking rapidly, the reality of the situation slowly grew a sense of dread in the second guard’s chest, which fully bloomed into full-blown panic the more he gazed at his dead comrade.
He whipped around to alert the third guard, but empty space greeted him in return, nothing besides a discarded spear resting on the cobblestone.
At first, the second guard thought the third went off to get back up, only to be shot down instantly as more blood coated the ground under the spear. Hollowing winds rolled by, their icy touch completely ignored by the second guard’s already shaking frame as he scanned the area for…anything.
Not a single sound or movement.
“Alert! We have intruders!” He cried, shifting to a defensive stance, posing his spear to strike any oncoming threat.
The second guard waited and waited; he was sure his plea was loud enough to grab someone's attention, but no one came. He tried again, getting the same result. Surely, the guards covering the other walls would hear a loud call during a silent night- they couldn’t mishear it!
“Boo~!”
Just before the second guard was about to let out a yelp at the presence whispering into his ears from behind, he felt two strong hooves grip his head- one on his back neck and the second covering his beak. Life flashing before his eyes, the terrified griffon wished his muffled cries were heard, his head turning and turning and turning to the right in his slowed-down vision. Although, the turning didn’t stop. He felt every breaking bone, tearing muscle, ripped tendon, and snapped nerves in his neck one by one with each passing second. The pain was unimaginable, coming off as a mute numbness holding his claw as life left his eyes.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a swift second, a shadow-covered stranger snapped the griffon's neck like a wet twig, dropping his soon limp corpse on the ground unceremoniously. Chuckling, they unhooked an ivory horn flask off their sling, undid the cap, and threw their head back with the flask’s opening pressed against their lips. At least the smell of scotch was better than the mossy stench covering him- the wagon had a new victim now to stink up.
A moment later, the shadowed stranger’s drinking stopped, interrupted by a series of soft claps forcing him to remove the flask and look down. A new body, noticeably shorter than the towering shadow stranger, scowled at him, then crouched down, retrieving the dagger from their kill and sheathing it.
“Oi, whit took ye sae long, boyo?” The stranger chuckled with a S’coltish accent, only to be hushed by the newcomer putting a hoof to their mouth.
Once they knew the shadowed stranger went noiseless, they circled the air with their hoof, followed by a line over their throat. When the former nodded, so did they before pointing up the wall.
Phase two is complete.
:////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////:
12:40 am, Glider’s Snaggletooth Grand Hall suite
Senator Talon regarded Glider as a griffon of little sentimental value.
He had the riches, power, and gifts all griffons dream of, yet treated them like disposable tissues without tossing them. Trophs from several events haphazardly displayed in dusty cabinets scattered about in the small room, ashes spilling out of the tray and onto the desk he and Talon found themselves sitting on opposite sides. The windows weren’t spared from his uncleanliness either, the young senator spotting boards from behind the cracked curtains covering the window behind Glider, who threw back a glass of grape-colored wine without care.
Glider held the esteemed supervisor role for Griffonstone's premier weapons manufacturing, providing the best weapons bits could buy, and Senator Talon found it impossible to dispute this claim. Each weapon of war shot, sliced, and maimed with a quality that would make weapon freaks and soldiers alike cry tears of joy by merely holding their perfectly balanced bodies.
Yet, it appeared to Senator Talon that money had clouded the great mind of destruction, leaving him not better than the pony nobles. His accumulated monetary wealth could supply half of the Griffon army for years and finally end this war.
But empty promises of bettering Griffonstone’s infrastructure and unspecified ‘developments’ never went through.
He was a greedy sod, no good snake, and an all-around silver-tongue sociopath.
“So, how does it taste?” Glider hummed.
Nonetheless, Senator Talon couldn’t deny the reality of having a drink with the despicable griffon he used to call a friend out of desperation to escape the large gathering. “It’s the quality you’d expect from a yak.” He replied flatly. He hated big, suffocating crowds.
Glider laughed, “Indeed, young sir, you are correct!” He said.
Lord have mercy; he needed a break.
Standing from his desk, Senator Talon disregarded the perplexed look that adorned Glider's face, sighing and rubbing his eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir. The excessive drinks and meals from the festivities twist my wrists into answering the call of duty below.” He explained, “Mind telling me where the restrooms are?” Cackling at his half-baked attempt to joke, Glider nodded to the side.
“Sure, son, it’s to your left. Don’t take too long now.” He grinned.
Internally groaning, Senator Talon silently acquiesced and made his way to a door centering the suite's left face, unlocking it and swiftly vanishing into the room with a soft click of the closing knob. Using a match he stored in his breast pocket to ignite the candles mounted on the walls, a deadpan expression settled on his features once he could see. Why wasn’t he surprised? The chamber pot was gold-plated, while everything else was untouched, a pristine look one might expect of a costly design.
Luckily, he didn’t need to use the restroom, although he couldn't help but feel a shiver of apprehension creep down his spine as he pondered what might transpire within these gilded walls.
How did it come to this?
Senator…No, Talon was a revered general once, leading massive attacks on the Pony forces without fail. Nothing could stop him, the ‘calamity,’ as griffons labeled him. He remembered those days of glory, standing atop the barrels of wagon-sized cannons, cutting down entire squads of ponies, and yelling non-stop commands until the sun went down and his throat bled. The young griffon did a lot in his twenty-nine years of living, now all meaningless because his superiors ‘promoted him’ after a heavy loss three years back at Hookclaw Ridge. “While his use as a leading figure in the war effort had begun to diminish, he still has worth behind the battlelines.” They said.
It was all bullcrap, the supply units should’ve been there to restock ammunition and food, but a storm delayed them long enough to be too late. They only did it out of fear and ego; their unbeatable general suddenly suffered defeat in a relatively effortless battle- imagine if it wasn’t that one time.
It’s not like it matters anymore.
The snares of sluggish paperwork and responsibilities trapped him long ago, and Talon had no say in what he did or didn’t want. Like a true soldier, he did as he told and never talked back, hiding his pain behind a mask of neutrality, a reflex that never faded away. It was a matter of time before he chose between jumping off a roof or cutting the throat of the next government official he saw in a psychotic rage.
A ticking time bomb of stress ready to blow.
“Yes,” Glider’s muffled voice said, gaining Talon's attention, “You may come in. The door’s unlocked.” Must be a maid coming by to see if-
CRASH!!!
Caught off guard by the sudden, violent shattering of wood and the frightened yelps from Glider, Talon jerked away from the sink. However, the reflexes honed by years of military training kicked in, and the young senator swiftly regained his composure. Turning on his back legs heels, he embarked on a mad dash toward the bathroom door, ultimately coming to a halt once he had the golden door knob securely clutched in his claw. Whoever smashed in the door clearly wasn’t a maid, for one, and any creature cocky enough to kick in Glider’s suite door with guards around likely didn’t come unarmed.
Bending down, Senator Talon cautiously peered through the door’s keyhole, only to widen his eyes in sheer shock.
Leaning over the elder griffon while perched on the desk was a figure that appeared to be a pony dressed in robes adorned with shades of blue, red, and brown, all held together by a neat network of leather straps and pouches.
Illuminated by the crystal chandelier that bathed the room in a warm, soft light, Talon could clearly discern the glint of a malevolent metal blade protruding from the intruder's left fetlock, pointed menacingly at Glider's exposed neck. Both were conversing back and forth, hushed words lost on Talon's ears, but the intruder spoke with a masculine, steady tone, while Gliders was understandably quaky. Who was this fiend? How did a pony slither into the grand hall without alerting the guards, much less infiltrating Griffon territory?!
A million questions ran through his head for a second, yet it didn’t change that Glider was in trouble!
Twisting the knob slowly to avoid a loud grinding noise, Talon quietly pushed the door outward until he could move past its frame. Good, the intruder didn’t instantly turn around. Craning a claw forward, he set it down at an agonizing pace, the floorboard close to groaning in strain despite how little pressure he applied. Sweat dripped down the young senator's brow as he kept his breathing in check, then took another step.
Each couple of passing inches closer to the desk felt like a gamble edging on failure, one claw and paw in front of the other, praying he could make it in time and knock the pony out.
“Not another step.”
“Sir Talon!” Glider cried, leaning sideways to look at him.
Talon had no time to react as a second assailant latched onto him from behind, their hold leaving little room for escape. He knew too well the second pony had the advantage, pulling his neck back with a single foreleg and hovering a sharp instrument to his side outside his vision. “Accursed mules! Gua-” He tried to say- it was hard to call for backup when his captor squeezed his airway tightly.
“Should I take care of this one, sir?” The pony behind him asked in a tentative, almost sad tone.
The pony crouching on the table turned their head slightly, “Make it quick.” He ordered.
In the second following the stallion's commanding voice, Senator Talon seized the precious moment of distraction to attack. He hurled his head forward and then back with all the force he could muster, feeling the satisfying impact of his head colliding with the second assailant's muzzle. The blow jolted the intruder, who yelped in pain, causing them to stumble and release their grip on him. Temporarily forgetting the unseen assailant, Talon rushed frantically toward the second pony, claw ready to deliver a retaliatory strike, rending flesh and bone mere ribbons. Unfortunately, the stallion effortlessly back-flipped over the young senator, Talon’s claw slashing at thin air and landing on the tabletop.
Glider was dead.
That was the only thing Talon knew in a newfound state of horror, taking in the old griffon’s sliced, bleeding throat, painting his almond-colored feathers crimson. “No…” He whispered breathlessly, mouth drier than a sand pit.
Horror turned into a deep, boiling rage that etched a hard sneer, teeth nearly breaking in his tightly clenched jaws as he reversed to confront the two ponies.
Glider might have been a lazy bastard in every sense of the word, but he didn’t deserve to die! They would pay for their crimes in blood!
Although Talon's smoldering wrath faltered when he noticed a distinct lack of ponies behind him, the busted door swayed on its warped hinges. A frustrated snarl escaped his beak as he charged toward the door, gripping its frame to pivot himself upon emerging. Just in time, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the ponies' robes disappearing around a corner.
“Intruders! Intruders! Sir Glider’s been murdered!” He shouted as he ran. Where in Tartarus were the guards?!
Tailing the fleeing criminals through winding halls and several staircases, he noticed where they were heading: The ballroom. It’s almost amusing, Talon thought; why were they going to the most secure and guarded area in this building? No matter, even if no guards would come now, surely there would be some waiting for them down the line.
As luck would have it, a victorious grin appeared on Talon's beak after round a corner, seeing the two ponies blocked by a wall of four griffon guards.
Alas, his hopes didn’t last, as the ponies seemed unfazed as they rushed forth.
Ducking low, the taller pony clad in blue, red, and white robes allowed his shorter companion, resplendent in elegant purple and white robes adorned with silver chest armor, to vault off his back, landing on a guard. Instead of getting up, the guard remained motionless, their blood coating a familiar fetlock blade the smaller one used to stab another in the throat as they tried to bring a spear down on the pony. Meanwhile, the taller stallion sprang back to his hooves from his lowered position. He executed a swift spin, delivering an explosive upper kick that shattered the neck of a third guard, who had been momentarily distracted by the demise of their comrades. The final guard, who’d stepped back to get in the stallion’s blindspot, lunged to attack, spear raised over their head. However, the stallion executed a deft maneuver, ducking beneath the griffon's attack and leaving them subjected to the ruthless precision of the shorter pony’s fetlock blade, which found its mark beneath their chin.
Removing the hidden weapon and continuing their escape without noticing Talon, the young senator quickly resumed chasing the two ponies shortly after shaking his disbelief. Talon’s legs, though, were reluctant to move as fast as before, a pit opening in his stomach.
What was that?
He had never heard of ponies that attacked with such…swift brutality, even by royal guard standards. Ponies weren’t natural fighters like griffons, but Talon’s notion began to wane.
Shaking off his distracting woes, Talon pressed on, and soon, the grand ballroom loomed ahead.
Without a second thought, he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Guards, kill the ponies! Glider was slain by their hooves!"
His cry cut through the air like a clarion call, causing griffons near and far to swivel their heads and gaze in his direction. The spectacle unfolding before them, with ponies sprinting down the staircase railing, left them gasping in shock. A group of guards stationed in the ballroom promptly responded to the young senator's desperate plea. They formed a formidable line in front of the staircase, with one guard positioned at the forefront, spear held firmly, ready to confront the intruders.
Regardless of the staggering amount of armed griffons waiting for them like an open pit filled with spikes, the two ponies continued running ever closer.
“Do it!” The robed stallion ordered his companion.
The pony in purple robes nodded emphatically, raising a foreleg toward the ceiling and letting loose a deafening bang as a projectile soared upward. Perplexed by the sudden noise, Talon came to an abrupt halt, his head ringing in the aftermath. He followed the projectile's trajectory with his gaze, finally focusing on the small clay balls suspended from the ceiling by thin ropes. His realization of the clay ball’s purpose was only founded as the projectile struck one of them near the center. In the blink of an eye, the impact triggered a chain reaction.
Smoke and dust billowed downward in a cascading curtain of confusion, plunging the guests into disarray. Their screams and panicked cries filled the air as they became blinded by the hazy, chaotic shroud.
Talon punched the ground, “Find them; do not let one escape!” He roared, unfurling his wings to fly over the field of smoke.
In short, it was a disaster.
Guests rushing to find an exit knocked over and trampled guards, the armored griffons protecting them seeming as lost as they were. Some stood their ground, holding utensils and concealed weapons. Others hid under the tables. The fact two ponies caused this much damage isn’t what infuriated him; it was that he and every griffon here got blindsided so easily, tricked by their own devices. Those hanging clay balls, military-issued smoke bombs, weren’t there the day before; he knew that well. So, this fiasco was planned all along. The Equestrian forces weren’t as cruel as he thought.
Backing the young senator's claim, he finally spotted the two ponies amongst the chaos atop the gallows- only there were now four. Each cut down the five captured pony soldiers- The largest one, a burly pony wearing green, brown, and white robes, carried two on their back, while the rest held one.
It was the perfect moment; the ponies had their backs turned to jump down from the gallows, and Talon was well out of their view.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“For dead stallions, ye twa sure whine a lot!” The green-robed pony complained, landing on the ground, forcing cries of pain from the two soldiers he carried.
The blue-robed stallion snorted, adjusting the soldier on his back, “This is no time for complaining. We did our parts; now’s the time to make our leave.” He said, running off into the smoky war zone. Deep down, he regretted not coming to the rescue much sooner and sparing the poor stallions of their evident torture, the one on his back bleeding profusely. But getting into Griffon territory and setting a camp as close as possible to the grand hall proved more difficult for him and his team. Luckily, tonight was proof that his doubts weren’t entirely unfounded.
Yes, the senator spotted them- an error in his newest teammate's judgment and his. She was distracted by him after following the target from the ballroom and throwing away her disguise, leaving her to fail to provide the information. But, he could blame only himself because she made up for her part in the mistake.
When the senator escaped her grasp, the poisoned pin she held accidentally stabbed his side- adrenaline and exhaustion from the chase he gave should have finished the griffon off by now.
“Get back here!” A recognizable voice roared.
Or…maybe not.
The blue-robed stallion’s eyes narrowed, peering over his shoulder at the sight of the griffon senator diving bombing in his direction, a burning hatred radiating in his eyes. Dear Solstice, either the winged rat had a guarding alicorn watching over his shoulder, or his teammate's poison had expired, the latter option being unlikely. Even so, the enraged griffon’s distance closed faster and faster, leaving the blue-robed stallion to face another of his comrades- a pony wearing all-black robes accented by gold edges.
“Six o'clock, distraction time!” He said.
A sickly green magic hue basked the pony’s face, revealing a prideful grin as they cast a spell.
BOOM!
:////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////:
1:03 am, ???
Exhausted and out of breath, the four robed ponies lowered the injured soldiers onto makeshift mats arranged around a campfire. Each gasping breath felt more laborious than the last, their lungs searing from the effort. But in their dazed and bewildered states, the wounded stallions took in their surroundings, realizing they were in some hastily made encampment. Four tents, a clothes rack, and a small, empty wagon nearby. The additional four ponies settled rumps on chopped logs between the tents and the crackling campfire, all sighing in exhaustion…except for one.
“AHHHH!” The smallest one, a mare, screamed, putting her forelegs to her chest and kicking her hindlegs, “I-I th-thought we were g-going tO DIE!” She cried, whimpering in fright. In contrast to her distress, the large, green-robed one laughed while raising an ivory horn flask.
“Aye, sister! It wis most exhilarating!” He cheered, greedily chugging his flask.
“No, it wasn’t!” She huffed, slamming down and creating a small cloud of dust with her hind hooves. “I almost got my head smashed in!”
The green-robed stallion lowered his flask, using his sleeve to wipe his mouth. "Exactly! Youngins like ye dinnae understand; whan a stallion is on the brink o death is whan he's at his greatest!" he declared proudly. Accompanying his boastfulness, the blue-robed stallion smacked the back of his head, electing a sharp cry of pain under his breath. “Hey!” he protested, rubbing the sore spot.
The other stallion sighed, shaking his head, “Lay off the poor filly- this is her first field mission.” Looking over to the mare, a smile formed on his lips, “Still, it wasn’t a bad first run.” He said pridefully, causing the mare to squirm shyly in her seat.
“T-Thank you…sir.”
“Um, hello?” A guard awkwardly called.
Did they forget they were here?
Nevertheless, the perplexed guards became the center of attention for the four rouges, staring them down with strange looks. To the soldiers, the four appeared off-putting, something completely alien. They talked and acted like some of the more youthful soldiers in the barracks, yet when reminded of the soldiers, a sudden air of seriousness loomed above; faces molded my sternness, hiding any emotion behind the eyes covered by their hoods. Worn clothes, straps, buckles, pouches, and whatever tools they had on them instead of armor or protective wear? Everything about them was strange, down to the blue-robed stallion standing up in an almost forced motion.
“Forgive us for not…introducing ourselves, despite the commodity not proving necessary.” He said flatly. “Our contractor sent us on a mission to rescue the five of you.
We knew Princess Celestia planned on sending a rescue party to retrieve you, but, as they say, ‘the lives of many outweigh the few.’ The amount of lives she would’ve lost would be too much to justify your safety, so she contacted us instead.”
Inside, the soldiers understood the stallion’s explanation, but the sting of potentially getting abandoned stung each heart. “Who…are you?” A different soldier asked.
Shaking her head, “We cannot say.” The mare said in response.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?”
In response to the third soldier's irritated question, the titan of a stallion shrugged, “We juist savit yer arse’s, an you’ll live tae see another day?” He sarcastically answered.
“Getting back to the point,” The blue-robed stallion interjected, “Personally, I apologize for our lateness. If we tracked your whereabouts sooner, you all would be in a better condition.” He said, bowing his head in shame.
Groaning in strain, the middle soldier sat up and grinned, “Well, we aren’t dead yet, right?” he joked.
In the hours that followed within the camp of these enigmatic ponies, the wounded soldiers were tended to, their injuries wrapped in bandages, and the tents swiftly packed. Daybreak was on the horizon, and they knew that search parties would get dispatched to locate them soon; plus, the walk back to Canterlot wasn’t a hop, skip, and jump away. During that time, the soldiers gathered all they could about their mysterious saviors out of boredom and curiosity, which wasn’t much.
It became apparent to the soldiers that the mare was the youngest group member, while the green-robed stallion was the oldest among them. The blue-robed stallion held a leadership role within the group, given the difference with which the others interacted with him.
As for the black-robed pony, their voice remained shrouded in mystery, and none of the soldiers were able to recall hearing them speak. Instead, they engaged in hushed whispers with the others, often discussing a target in hushed tones.
Nothing about who they worked for or who they were.
To the soldiers, they might as well be nameless ghosts sent from heaven to save them.
