In the first two weeks Blueblood got pretty good at cleaning toilets.

Blueblood cringed at the trumpet. His eyes stayed shut against the battering ram of sunlight. He spoke in a grumpy murmur.

“Alfalfa make it quiet…”

The trumpet sounded again. Blueblood groaned. Memory and awareness began to trickle through his skull like a leaking valve. He kicked off the sandpaper like blanket, groaned again, and rolled off the mattress.

Through bleary eyes he watched the bustle of the barracks. Somewhere already uniformed, chatting with each other; or getting morning stretches in. Some sane ponies were rolling out of bed like him. Many of them seemed unnaturally energetic for this early.

Blueblood looked at the bathroom and its growing line. He shook his head, and tried to focus on the spell; lamenting the enchantments back home that would have done this for him. His horn flickered, then steadied; and his cleaning spell fired. Blueblood shivered at the sensation of hot air over his coat. He cast again; and his mane and tail were sorted out; though not properly styled. He looked at his locker.

He had learned that, yes, those were the official uniforms for the whole army. No, he could not wear something else. No, he could not re-tailor it. No, he couldn’t wear something over it. Blueblood, stop asking questions.

He opened the locker; and with a flash of his horn, one of the uniforms turned red. The flashing spell drew attention to what he was trying. Some sighed, some laughed, some looked hopeful. The last group was disappointed; Blueblood had more janitor practice.

The “Woodspony” M03 was a breech loaded long rifle. It was heavy, with boxy wood furniture.

It was chambered in .421 Rugpile. Its large caliber had made it a favorite in the frontier.

Blueblood could feel every ounce as he ran bipedal with it in his front hooves. He panted like a dog.

Sweat had turned patches of his uniform into an even more disgusting yellow. He kept his eyes forward, trying to follow the instructor’s advice and count his steps. The numbers jumbled in his head like a jigsaw puzzle.

Bipedal exercises were invented by Discord, Blueblood had concluded. Like any reasonably healthy equine, he could rear up and move bipedally; but Running on two hooves? For a protracted period? His entire body screamed at the affront to nature he was putting it through. He actually was better off then some; many dances required bipedal movement.

A few rifle shots, and dings sounded out ahead of him. Blueblood gritted his teeth, kept moving, and tried to breathe. He almost missed the red line; his eyes slicked with sweat. He slowed, and heard a beep as he crossed it; a few feet past it was a wooden shack. He swayed on his hooves as he stopped; but with a groan he hoisted his rifle to his shoulder. The metal target seemed to sway. There was a sharper beep and he fired. The recoil had him stumble back; and a moment later he sat down heavily. He groaned, there hadn’t been a ding. A few more shots rang out; some accompanied with a ding. Blueblood groaned again. He was better off than some.

Blueblood sat under the dark sky; eyes heavy, horn dim, but eyes still panning up and down the pages of his book. Cursebreaker and his companions were advancing through a snow drift to the defense of a village called vanhoover. He had a wane smile.

Blueblood yawned and wondered if he was exhausted enough to fall asleep; to not sit there in his uncomfortable bed, listening and smelling to the thirty ponies that shared his space.

His silent companion yawned too. He and his fellow insomniac shared the alley between their barracks most nights. He was leaning on the wall of his barracks; puffing on awful smelling cigarettes. The stallion was a touch creepy. His dark coat blended with the night; so that he sometimes appeared to just be eyes and floating sparks. He was quiet though.

The moon peaked out from the dark cloud; and washed the valley in pale light. Blueblood started, it had been overcast at night since he got here. Blueblood looked down to see the gray pony looking at him. In a clear, cultured Severnaya accent, he spoke.

“Is that Cursebreaker?”

Blueblood started again, staring at the once grim figure that was fully upright and looking with a cocked head.

“You’ve read it?” A triple surprise.

“Yes, how are you liking it so far?”

“I’m rereading it.”

The Severnayain walked out the shadow of the barracks. His ankles were a solid black, lightening to a dark gray. His cutie mark, the army provided no pajamas, was a lit match. He was shorter than Blueblood, but not by much.

“Have you read The Song of Tsar Charcoalmane?”

Blueblood’s brow knit.

“Wasn’t that… the tsar that opened trade with Equestria? ”

“Close. Tsar Adrik, Charcoalmane was his equstrianized name, freed Severnaya from the Yaks.”

“Why did he have a equstrianized name?” Blueblood chuckled to himself, turned to his satchel and pulled out two cigars, and proffered one to the pony, “But you must forgive me for my poor manners. I am Prince Blueblood, what is your name?”

The pony sputtered for a moment, eyes wide; he gave a neat bow.

“It is an honor to meet you, your highness. I go by Dimitrios Konstantinova or Heartrock; either will do.”

Blueblood gave a full strong smile; and proffered the cigar again. This time Heartrock took it, and the pair sat down to talk.

Author's Note

Technically this is my quickest update.

Sorry about the low word count. Shoeing was originally going to just be one chapter; but I realized the scope of the chapter needed to grow. So instead of putting it off for a few more weeks I decided to post what I had ready.

Hope you enjoy regardless. Any thoughts or criticisms would be appreciated.