The foreign skies above Fähnriche 1st1 Class Kvetoslava Shalev were choked with smog. His feet were damp, even through his waterproof clothing. The sweat pooled in the soles of his boots so badly he sloshed when he moved. Every part of the chemical suit covering him head to toe squelched and gathered in pools under his joints.

His breath misted past the filters of the beaked mask on his face. Each exhale came out shallow, mingling visibly with the greenish yellow chlorine gas that hung around in the foxhole. It swirled around the dead Feldwebel beside him, patterns spinning and twirling amidst his rotting carcass. The last words out of the poor squad leader’s mouth formed the punchline to an unfinished joke.

Let’s bucket this gas out of the foxhole like those Navy boys do with water, hm? Then he slipped on the mud, and scrambling back up, a stray round caught his mask and shattered it, and the gas did the rest. Kvetoslava couldn’t help him, try as he did. The Fähnriche prayed to the Saint above Saints2 for the poor bastard and clutched his rifle closer to his chest.

In another foxhole, a pair of soldiers shared words with hand signs, laughing raucously with each translated joke or turn of phrase made into a crude hand gesture. Geyfreyten Knechten Rébecca “Emil” Emilienne sat across from Gefreiter Achille Anne-Sophe in their foxhole. Emil had a tube canister of ammunition in her lap, a cloth belt of rifle cartridges stringing its way across the foxhole to Achille and his bulky, water-cooled machine gun, which sat on its tripod, lowered below the lip to avoid being damaged by stray shots.

Occasionally, Achille would grab a pocked helmet from nearby, put it on the end of his shotgun and put it over the lip of the foxhole. A whipcrack of gunfire, and Achille snagged it back down the silence was perforated by gunfire. A quick observation, a hand gesture that simply meant ‘yep, that’s a bullet hole alright’ then a toss of the thing into the foxhole. The two machine gunners then watched the cloying gas waft through the hole in the helmet as the oxygen found its way out and the chlorine found its way into the bowl.

On another side of the frontline, Hauptegefreite Nat Zahariev took delight in the way her flamethrower’s pilot light went click-click-click, dousing the air in noise before the donut-shaped flamethrower tank on her back burbled, and a stream of jellied napalm came spitting out the nozzle, cast alight millimeters away from the muzzle. She watched the burn pit of corpses with a sense of hawkish awareness. Her assistant trooper, a nasally voiced soldier in training named Kalin Rylee, kept fingering his shotgun nervously, an action which required her only to turn her head to him before he straightened his back and kept his eyes trained on the bodies. A slight twitch from one, and his shotgun raised and discharged buckshot. The snapping boom of the scattergun made the shooter jump in the recruit’s arms, and he nearly dropped the thing. Nat shook her head with disapproval and prepared a second waft of flame. Click-click-click.

The story repeated itself over and over across the frontline of the Craviist3 border war. Bodies piling up with exotic diseases passing through them, enemy combatants firing at entrenched soldiers with poison gas shells popping overhead at all hours of the night, so that nobody could sleep, lest they turn over and die in their sleep from asphyxiation.

This was the Craviist way of war. There were few soldiers quite so decorated in its methodology as the 107th Khantaran Demons Regiment of the 10th Sanitar4 Division. Three Battalions within the regiment, and four companies for each battalion. Each carried their colours; a flag, stowed in a hay-packed wooden crate in the back of a truck. Each victory put another detail on the flag; a ribbon for each battle, a line of golden stitching for each war, a mark for every hundred killed in a battle.

When the fighting stopped, and the formations of troopers were stood in blocks on a beaten airfield so politicians and generals could declare the end of things, it was always the banner of the 107th’s second battalion which glimmered the brightest, and the triangular section at its peak, the section dedicated to Company C, that drew the most eyes. Its glimmering lines of stitching and ribbons flapping across its berth drew the attention of jealous captains and boastful generals alike, and so the worst of the worst and best of the best became the reinforcements, and the cycle repeated.

Company C “Cheap Company” was renowned for its fighting. Its officers, appointed by those boastful generals, happily stand at attention with chests full of accolades and ribbons denoting great battlefield victories, while its infantry stand ragged and tall behind them, rifles, shotguns and machine guns at their sides while the wind whips through the tears in their chemical suits and whistles off their bird-faced respirators with cracked lenses and stapled rips in the leather.

Kvetoslava Shalev was a long-time veteran of the company. After the fighting at the border ended and with it the Battle of Orange Butte, or by the crude moniker of the infantry, “Battle of the Goddess’ Unwashed Arse,” he had been promoted from the officer cadet’s rank of Fähnriche. He had supposedly ‘done right by the boys and the company,’ according to their captain, Yeruti Roman, and was fast-tracked to be the man’s executive officer at the rank of Oberleutnant. It was a position Kvetoslava had to justify taking over beers with his fellow troopers, but one they all ultimately decided he was best suited for, despite his arguing for the contrary.

Kvetoslava Shalev was a mustang—an officer promoted out of the general enlisted infantry rather than one who had gone to an officer school, and at that, he was the one that had gotten Cheap Company through the worst trials of the Butte. His father had passed down a decade of knowledge from his time in the trenches of the independence war. Kvetoslava passed that down to his men, and it saved many of their lives. Some couldn’t be helped—the ones who couldn’t learn how to handle the mud or to avoid the shell-holes, or whose masks were faulty… the usual tribulations of men and women who weren’t cut out for the fighting. He made his peace with their deaths as best he could and moved on.

His overseas volunteer work with foreign militaries, like the Omelese5 and the Escalians6 had taught him the basics of offensive fighting, and how to fight aggressively with the new water and air-cooled machine guns which were proving to be all the rage with the armies of Craviisto-Gradd and abroad. It garnered him respect, and his competence earned him a place with good pay as an officer. Had he not been pressured by his comrades and enlisted men to take it, though, he never would have.

Looking out at the passing scenery from the bumpy self-driving carriage with its heavy-duty double-wide tyres and half-treaded rumblings like an armored car, Kvetoslava Shalev felt like he was undeserving of the privilege of sitting with a feathered helmet in his lap in a weather-regulated carriage, cigar smoke flooding his nostrils while his siblings-in-arms sat in a bumpy horse-drawn in the long caravan behind them.

“The cultists are expected to be gathered in the village, it’s built in a murky swampland and we’re expecting them to be well-armed…” The voice of Hauptemann Yeruti Roman was thickly cushioned by the man’s fat neck, and Kvetoslava found it disgusting. He was a posh officer without much combat experience. The Butte had forced the man to lose weight, and it had been no small amount of amusement to Cheap’s troopers. Being amused by one’s commanding officer, however, was not the foundation of good leadership and loyalty. Kvetoslava had to shoot a man and a woman during the worst of the fighting for trying to desert, and out of all the deaths he had experienced, they were the ones whom would not be leaving his mind’s eye any time soon. “Are you listening to me, man? For the Saint’s sake, pay attention.” The jowly voice of the upper-crusty captain snapped Kvetoslava back into focus.

“My apologies, sir. I was musing on the…” his eyes fell on the battle map lain before them on an overturned crate. He swore. “Swamps, evidently.” Yeruti Roman gave him a sympathetic, but too heavy-handed slap on the shoulder. Kvetoslava toughed it out as the man rumbled with jolly laughter.

“My boy, if these Sanitarii can survive the worst that those damn Yascaids7 could throw at us on the Butte, they will survive these marshes. Besides, they’re going against a bunch of angry farmers with pitchforks and possibly a psykic or two. We’ll do just fine.” Kvetoslava frowned inwardly but kept his professional mask from slipping.

“Sir, if I could speak freely?” The fat captain gestured with a sweeping arm to get on with it as he sucked on his cigar. “Fifty years ago, we were the farmers with pitchforks, fighting the imperial invaders from Siqul.” The captain’s face fell at the sound of disagreement, but he kept his ears open as he leaned forward. Kvetoslava mirrored the act and began articulating with a gloved finger at the map between them. “They have shotshell scatterguns, percussion muskets, some revolvers most likely. It’s enough to fight off the wildlife, and enough to deter me from a full-frontal assault.” The captain scratched his bushy moustache and nodded along. Kvetoslava pushed his luck, and kept at it. The oil lamp burned for many hours as the two plotted a plan, and the fresh Oberleutnant felt some sense of relief at being listened to.

Perhaps, just perhaps, we’ll survive long enough for their contracts to run out. Then we’ll all go home.

The Everfree Forest was dark overhead. Twilight’s muscles ached as she trotted her way through the forest. They had managed to lose the Timberwolves, but her heart was still pounding in her chest. Everfree Castle loomed overhead, and Twilight spared only a flick backwards before moving forward at a breakneck pace. A snapping in the trees set the drake on her back to stir.

A crumbling stone turret loomed overhead as Spike’s head perked up. He was clinging to her neck for dear life, and she could scarcely blame him. Twilight’s mind was awash with panic. They were well and truly lost. She didn’t know the way back. She knew the way into the Castle, though.

It would be safe there. So, she sidled forward, past the walls, into the hallways, and she found her skin itching under her fur. The dust, it must be the dust, she told herself.

Hours went by. Spike whined; she whinnied her assurances. She would keep him safe no matter what. As long as she lived. The hours turned to days. Panic took hold. She couldn’t focus. Everything itched, she was so thirsty. Spike’s words became mumbling, dull and distant in her ears. She could barely move she was so tired. So itchy.

It would be fine. Everything would be fine. He asked her if it was good that they were at the old castle. She told him they would go back in the morning. Days of retching black bile out a window later, and they still weren’t home. Things weren’t going to be fine. She had to focus. She had to focus.

We just need to get home! It’ll be fine! I just need to focus!

She could feel the branches under her fur, under her skin. They itched, they ached, they hurt. She was so thirsty.

I just want to go home.

And she was gone in a flash, while he was left in the trees outside the Castle. Hell had wormed its way into her body, and she would carry it into Ponyville, and from there, it was only a matter of time before it spread.

Author's Note

Alphyrra's Almanac, Issue I

1 The ranking structure of Craviist-Gradd follows the same as its predecessor nation and the general beats of the other military bodies of their home continent. See attached image for in-depth details.

2 Saint above Saints: A common deity on the continent of Wraihohen. Worshipped by the Ludovican Church, the Saint above Saints is the entity which is believed to have given the church's namesake saint, Ludovic I, the ability to grant minor miracles, such as healing by touch, the drafting of illusions, etc.

3 Craviisto-Gradd: (Adjective Craviist, ex. "I am a Craviist from Craviisto-Gradd", "The Orange Butte is Craviist territory"), a country in the continent of Wraihohen, formed in 5.031 after bloodily seceding from the PRDK. They have inherited many of their methods of warfare and some of their culture, though their country is best known for a "Melting Pot" military culture due to the mandatory military service for foreigners to become citizens.

4 Sanitar: (Noun, plural Sanitarii), a type of combined Cavalry-Infantry unit native to the continent of Paigobrath, originally birthed during the Abominable Plague of 5.017-023 by the Peoples' Republic of Don Krasa (PRDK), and then exported to other countries during their brief colonial efforts from 5.026-5.036.

5 Omelone: (Noun, plural Omelese), a country native to the continent of Ukrea, known for its export of mercenaries and having involvement in most, if not all major and minor wars of the early 5th Era.

6 Escal: (Noun, adjective form Escalian), a country native to the continent of Paigobrath, known for its fine manufacturing work and the Prinz Ironworks corporation, with a frontier army that regularly hosts military exercises with allied and neutral nations.

7 Yascaida: (Noun, adjective form Yascaid), a country bordering Craviisto-Gradd to the North, a desert country that regularly has border skirmishes and minor wars with Craviisto-Gradd over territorial disputes and historic claims.

[6/3/2024] Going through a bout of revisions for clarity. I'm one person, and I have bad habits regarding second passes. Doing my damnedest though <3