There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy
-Hamlet, William Shakespeare

The Cycle never stops. Mortals die, Empires crumble to dust, and Gods wither away to nothing, but The Cycle will never cease. It has always been and always will be, even if the forms within shift and morph in the churning sea of creation. There is no beginning and no end, even as Eons and Ages pass, only change. Always change.

On a humid, dreary Tiwazday in the Month of Rain, a traveler came to Canterlot, bringing with them change.

The Polished Shield was aroar with late-night activity. Jaunty tunes echoed around the cramped quarters, fiddlers dancing around the tables with graceful sylvan steps and impish grins directed toward future bed-companions. A chorus of drunken voices accompanied the screeching notes, their owners barely remembering the words but knowing them by heart, many of the songs being unofficial anthems of the military academies. A few brave souls attempted to dance in the rare open space the bar had to offer, but many of them quickly tasted the fresh polish of the floor, belatedly realizing they were far drunker than they initially thought. Their friends laughed and jeered, encouraging them to get back up and try again, launching tiny barbs and insults that could only be acceptable between friends forged in fire. The Royal Guards of Canterlot, normally the dictionary definition of stoicism, were cutting loose in one of the few places they were free from the public, engaging in behavior that would surely get them latrine duty if their officers found out, though many of the officers were themselves three to four drinks in.

O, I left me Maw a'weepin in the streets o' Baltimare
Tol' her I'd be back by morn on Solstice Day
Strapped on me sword, 'n went to join the Guard
Now ahm penniless, and waitin' for me pay

The men and women of the guard were laughing, bumping their ale-cups, asserting the truth of the song's lyrics, when the door to The Polished Shield was blown open with such force that it cracked the stone wall. All laughing, all music, all sounds of merrymaking ceased. All that could be heard was the howl of the wind as it screamed along the cobblestone streets and the rushing of rainwater as it babbled along the tiny ruts carved beside roads to direct it to the city's cisterns. Standing in the doorway, framed by the incandescent light of a waning moon, was a figure wrapped in a dull green traveler's cloak that was ripped in a few places and covered in mudstains. The figure, unbothered by the attention they commanded over the room, walked across the bar with an ethereal grace that sent a shiver down the spines of those closest to them. Or perhaps they shivered at the sight of the ornate scabbard on the stranger's hip.

The stranger sidled up to the bar and leaned against the lacquered wood as though they were an old patron in a familiar haunt rather than a complete newcomer. In the dim light of the tallow candles burning away in sconces along the walls, a few souls could make out the bottom half of the newcomer's face: pale skin, lips set into a thin line, and a distinctly feminine look. With no fanfare, the stranger tossed a few gold pieces onto the bar.

"Your strongest cup of ale, if you would."

Her voice was the soft sound of summer rain, soothing and gentle, and the sound of rumbling thunder over the distant horizon. It was the gentle wind blowing the tall grass of the Midlands and the crack of lightning as it burns a tree to ash. It was the trade winds that swiftly brought ships to foreign shores and the maelstroms that sent ships full of sailors into watery graves. The patrons closest to her shuffled back, falling into the laps of their friends who were squinting to get a look. The barkeep, a young woman by the name of Malted Barley, hesitantly shuffled over with the requested cup of ale, glancing nervously between the stranger and the rest of the room.

"Many thanks," the stranger purred. Barley blushed and quickly stepped away from the stranger, though kept a curious eye on her. Seemingly ignorant to the sea of people around her, the stranger downed the ale in a single gulp and sighed with pleasure. "Nothing like a good Equestrian brew."

"Certainly true, but who are you to enjoy it in this establishment?" The question was asked by Captain Primrose, the highest-ranking officer in the room. A tall, solid woman with a jawline like a granite block and eyes that pierced through those under her command like an eagle staring at its prey, everything about Primrose screamed authority. She was not one to show disrespect toward; it was said that she once assigned an entire class of recruits to latrine duty after one of them suffered a voice crack when addressing her. That she was okay with the shenanigans at The Polished Shield tonight was a testament to the otherworldly atmosphere that bars produce in their patrons.

"Who am I?" One could sense the stranger's raised eyebrow in her voice. "I am me. And me wants some ale."

Primrose's mouth pressed into a line so thin that it was hardly visible. "Perhaps you were unaware, but this a bar for Royal Guards. Unless you are -"

Everyone in the room reached for their pockets or inside jackets as the stranger reached under her cloak and tossed something at Primrose. The Captain barely caught it. She held up a hand as she examined the object, signaling the guards to wait for further orders. Crow's feet scrunched in confusion.

"Scroll, come and look at this." A dark-skinned man with yellowish hair stepped from the crowd and stood beside his superior, gazing curiously at the object in her hands. His eyes flicked between the stranger and the object, growing more vexed with each passing moment.

"It's one o' the medals tha' they used ta give generals back in the ol' days, but ah don't recognize the design," Scroll responded in his fading Trottish Brogue, tempered after so many years in Canterlot.

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Primrose's hand drifted towards the hilt of her sword, a silent signal to the other guards - those not piss-drunk, at least - to stand at the ready. From all over the room came the distinct sound of daggers, dirks, and shortswords being unsheathed, the weapons gleaming in the candlelight like dangerous stars come down to wreak havoc upon the world. The barkeeps, taking the hint, slipped into the back room and locked the door with a click that echoed around the bar like the sound of a clock ticking down to a vital moment.

With a sigh, the stranger stepped forth from the bar, all blades trained on her. When she was a few steps from Primrose, whose blade was aimed directly at her heart, the stranger shrugged off her cloak. The room let out a collective gasp.

She could have given the hardiest farmhands in the country a run for their money in terms of muscle. It was like gazing at a marble-carved statue from the classical era, the ones made in the image of divine heroes, ideal youths, and the greatest of athletes. Many of the men in the room and a few of the women found blood rushing to their cheeks (and other areas) as they stood transfixed, the woman's beauty unsullied by the dirty, ripped peasant tunic that she wore. But the thing that left most of the room silent was her hair, a wild mess that spilled across her back in the form of a roiling gray stormcloud.

Only the Princess had hair like that.

Primrose, at this point, realized that she had perhaps stepped into deep shit. Putting up her hands in surrender, she switched into diplomatic mode. "Now, m-ma'am, let's talk this -"

The cold feeling of steel at her throat silenced her. The stranger's blade had been drawn faster than anyone could see, moving like a flash of lightning across the sky. Those among the crowd who knew metalworking admired the weapon like a chef savoring fine cuisine. It was a beautifully crafted piece, a single-edged blade that gleamed in the light like a bolt of electricity given physical form. The guard was a ring of shining gold that would do little to guard the hand from the enemy, though it was clear that was not a concern; this was a weapon of pure skill. The hilt was a glittering silver styled like scales, each one clearly and painstakingly etched into the metal, matching the theme of the dragon-headed pommel whose mouth was wrapped around a pure emerald as large as a child's fist. It was clear that this blade was a work of art, and it was even clearer that it could slice through Captain Primrose like she was a hog up for slaughter.

"In the olden days, a Royal Guard would never back down," the stranger, whose eyes had up to this point been screwed shut in some strange battle-glee, opened them and stared at Primrose with a gaze like living lightning. "How you have been softened in these intervening years." She drew a single finger across the back of her sword. A few of the guards swore that they heard the blade purr like a contented cat. "Now, it is time for Orna to sing!"

Author's Note

Chapters will get better as we go along, kinda just laying some groundwork here.