Where Mad Gods Danceby CynewulfChaptersTo Prevent All Other Breaking (Big Mac)I Departed and Sought Mountains (Zecora)Where Stallions Win Glory (Soarin')To Prevent All Other Breaking (Big Mac)To Prevent All Other Breaking Dear Applejack, Why do I write you, you ask? Instead of Fluttershy, my wife? A fair question, one I think is better answered by just ignoring it for now and continuing on with my story. The Zebraharan mercenaries cry out when they come rushing in, did you know that? They do. It’s a terrible sound that just ‘bout curdles the blood. It’s a sound I expect to come out of the Everfree some moonless night, and yet it comes out of them, just ponies. Well, not ponies. They look like ponies, they talk like ponies sometimes, but they aren’t ponies. Applejack, I know this is hard, but you have to believe me. We linked up with the King’s forces yesterday. Good Zebras, though we don’t trust them. We watch their every movement and I know they’re watching ours. They looks just like the warriors following the mad god king in the Crags. The only difference, really, is in the colors they wear: good is green and yellow and bad is red and black. They paint their faces in the same swirls usually, with little dots and arrows. They both yell that awful yell. I just wanted to help ponies, sister. We’d cornered them, you see. It took us months to do it, but we finally did. You can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to fight the rebels out on the sands. They have no honor, know no goodness or common decency that we can tell. They’ll kill anything if they need to, burn anything. They jump out of the ground and vanish just as quickly. I’m beginning to understand why earth ponies in the old days hated magic. I’m beginning to fear it myself, because they all use it here. It comes in little vials they drop. I’m sorry. I just keep getting distracted. I don’t Sorry. We did it like you and Winona herd cattle sometimes. I explained it to my troops, and they all got a grin out of it. Just a little one. But eventually they made it to that little village. None of us had thought about it. It wasn’t big enough to hide them all in or for them to disappear. They just wanted to kill, I think. Part of me wonders if it wasn’t always just a kind of animal rage. They like blood, the mad god’s devotees, you know. That’s what they told me. I believe them. It helps me sleep. We moved in. My hoofblades were out and ready, we were drawn up in a long line, staggered so they couldn’t take us out in bundles. The zebras on our side were at the other end of town, and we closed in on them like teeth on a piece of celery. I’d hoped we’d crush them like it too, dear sister. I was so excited that morning. I thought that they’d go out in a brief burst and then we would rule that flat desert. It was one of the last raving bands, Applejack! I was promised leave when the job was done by the Princess herself. She looked so sad, Applejack. I wondered why. We advanced. I could feel the righteous indignation rising up in me, that they would hide in such a place. My soldiers all had strictest orders to take care with the innocents—we’d do what they wouldn’t. We’d be better. We grappled with monsters, Applejack. We had to believe that we wouldn’t be them. That ponies were good, Applejack. We were going to prove it. I was going to prove it to them. And then the arrows started. They’re damned good archers. I heard ponies crying out. I felt sweat pour down my face. I felt the heat of my barding’s metal and the nervous rush of adrenaline like ants crawlin all over my skin. I didn’t yell. You know me, I’m not one for noise. And then I was in the streets. I took one, then another. They’re wide eyed, when they die. Applejack, I see them, monstrous in death, bloated, eyes staring out at something nameless and horrible and I I’m sorry. I had Red Clover. Yes, I had to think for a moment. I had Red Clover with me. We worked up the street. It was after four, we’d been pushing their scouts back. No. It was later. I don’t even know anymore. It all runs together. Lunadammit but I hate sand Applejack. But it was getting late. It was not working, something was wrong. I knew it. I could just feel that somewhere something wasn’t working somepony—some zebra wasn’t dying and it made me furious. They laugh when they dance—they call fighting dancing. I think they’re stupid. Ain’t dancing at all. Dancin is a thing for your special somepony, not for some lunadamned Zebra with wide eyes and stripes all painted up red. And I bucked one in the face and I felt his bones crack and it made me think about home. Time moves so slow and so fast, Applejack. Nothing makes sense in the village. Nothing you do makes sense. You should just keep moving, call out, try to be in command. But you don’t. You feel lost. Where is everpony? What’s happened? Where’s Red Clover? Red Clover is dead, they blew his head off. Explosive potion. They throw them and glass and thaumaturgic death goes everywhere. It’s awful. It burns I’m sorry I was angry. They were all monsters. This was hell. They were all in hell and I was in hell with them. I could smell blood. There was so much blood. Somezebra through a potion out of the alley and dodged it and I don’t know what happened but he died and he stared with wide eyes at the wall of the hut. I cried for somepony but nopony came, my voice is really loud when I yell they had to hear me but they didn’t or they were dead. And then I run and I hear something moving and one of those shrill cries and I just know everything’s gone to hell I’ll never see my Flutters again and I hate them. I hate them so much. I yell back. It sounds the same. I see him coming out of a door way with a hoofblade and I take him I dig my own in his neck and he starts screaming and falls back and we’re in the house. Oh god Applejack are there tears on this? I can’t see. I don’t have time to start over. I have thirty minutes and that’s it. They told me. I’m trying. And then I heard another scream and it was high pitched. I thought it was another attack and I jumped and I felt myself hitting something soft and I stabbed it, twice, thrice it started screaming. I panicked, I fell back, it went still. I noticed her pretty mane and her pretty face. I ruined it AJ there ain’t nothing left of it not a lundammed thing. Ain’t nothing left. She was young. It was her house. It coulda been my house. It was hers, though and I killed her. I didn’t even bother to look I just killed her and I knew that the male was her husband I wondered if he even knew if I was a pony or a zebra. I think he heard the explosion and though I was coming in to kill him or that the Disciples had turned to murder to make our victory hollow. I don’t know They’re all animals though, AJ. They’re all animals. I tell myself that. I glare at the King’s zebras and I hate them, I think. I don’t know. I want to. I want to really badly. They’re all just animals. It’s alright. They murder I think everyone will be silent tonight. Tell Fluttershy I’m fine. She looked like Fluttershy, a little. I think I went crazy AJ in the torchlight it was getting dark and I couldn’t see well and I thought I saw a pink mane. I don’t want to sleep anymore. I don’t think she’s gonna wanna see me. Big Mac Author's Note I just wanted to say (though it seems obvious) that there's a seperation between author and narrator. :P Also, don't be too hard on Big Mac. There are things we say when distraught we might never say when in our right minds. Things we don't mean... or do. Good man say bad things sometimes. This story was originally written for a thirty minute pony challenge! Some of the others might be, too. Who knows? But this'll be a collection of shorter pieces, mostly. Hurray Dark Tag! I Departed and Sought Mountains (Zecora)I Departed and Sought Mountains, With My Father on My Back Your Majesty, I write to you now free from that ban which has stayed my tongue and fettered it joyfully since the day I was born. When I rested in my mother’s forelegs, the village shaman beat his drum and whispered over me a chant, for I was the child born to a child that was born to a child of Jecora, and the time had come for another searcher of stars to be taken from our line. But I am freed from that curse and blessing for the moment. What I need now is not forced, careful thought, but rather swiftness. Princess Celestia, Sun-Mother, I am leaving my abode in the forest and returning to the place of my birth, below the mountain Arafat, to attend a Congress of the College of Shamans. You welcomed me into your country, when I wandered lonely, and for that I thank you. May I ask you now to extend me another hoof in kindness? I ask only that you read my letters. I will ask you for a single boon, and at that time I pray that you will give me an answer. As you know, the deserts are on fire with madness. Mothers and foals die in the streets of Damasca as sacrifices to the Mad God, or so they tell me. As I make the journey to my homeland in the highlands, I will see for myself, and I will tell you of what is true. My Princess, I begin to fear that more than war is on the horizon, for there has not been a Congress of the College in two hundred years. I am leaving now, as soon as this letter is in the hooves of the courier. I take with me the ancient hoofblades of my grandfather and the little idols of my house, for I believe that I may not return. At least, not for a long time. Your Majesty, Today, I cross over into the borderlands. Already, I notice the wrongness. I am in the tribal lands of the Gori, a free tribe, one independent from the King. I had expected the grasslands of the Gori to be free of the scourge of war, and perhaps on the surface they are. Usca, the town I am in, has no barricades in the streets. Refugees are here, but they blend in with the unfortunate souls that live on the streets of every town. Were it not for my performing the duty of my College towards the poor, I would never have realized how many there were. They are quiet. They do not cry, and they do not speak to even one such as I. They stare and they shiver with some secret fear. These poor indigents are scarred, and their coats are burnt by some fire that they will not speak of. The tribal zebras here regard me with little fear, but I know that the garments of my order protect me from their harsh gazes. Yet their gazes are different from when I last passed through, when I first came into your realm. When I was younger, they greeted me in the streets. The zebras here smiled. Now, they hurry and do not call out to me. There are fewer children here. There is a shadow over this town. Your Majesty, The desert. Even before the Mad God, I had no love for this place. I was born in the highlands, in lush jungles. I am accustomed to life and green surroundings. While your ponies in Ponyville feared the Everfree, I found it to be not much different from my own home in Zebrahara. You might imagine, Song-born, how the desert would be alien to me. The royal road that I knew in my youth has changed, and yet is still the same in many ways. Travelers still go down it. Tribal patrols still watch for bandits. It is the nature of these pilgrims that shows the difference. The King’s gold-barded soldiers trot briskly through the wide road, and all part before them. They look stern, but exhausted. The refugees here stare at me like those in Usca. Your Majesty, I write you as I sit in the ruins of the Manni settlement of Edessa. I want to tell you about it, Song-born, if you will let me. It was a walled town, a circle of safety in the desert. Its streets were clean, and its houses were sturdy. The Manni zebras who lived here loved jewelry, and their mares developed a system of propriety for the wearing of ornaments. As a young mare, they wore certain things and colors. As mothers they wore other things. Respected, older females wore yet others. A whole language grew up, a nonverbal way of communicating, and males could see into it only vaguely. They knew when a female’s ornamentation broadcast her availability, and when it proclaimed her taken or in mourning. But a mare could tell who she wanted, her profession, her age, everything. I learned only a little of it, when I stayed here for a month in my youth. Their shamans excelled at medicine and alchemy, and the articles of their enchantments sold at high prices even in Equestria. I believe you wrote me once, when your student was new in Ponyville, that the Manni gifted you with the necklaces that bear the elements? The Manni were a peaceful tribe, but they were proud and brave. The Manni never won wars, your Majesty Song-born, but they always survived. No zebra could wound their spirit. None could kill the bright star of the Manni heart, and so they lived. The Mad God came himself to Edessa. The blood in the square is his own, torn from him as he danced. It is also from three zebras of the village. I assume they are virgins, as the dark rituals often hold fascination for, but I have not checked. There was no need. I buried them outside the walls. The King’s army came and they fled like shadows before a torch, but they are not gone for good. They linger, and I know that eyes have watched me. Your Majesty, I have heard rumors of the Mad God and his warriors, but I only now begin to separate fact from fiction. I have seen his zebra warriors with my own two eyes. They scream long, shrill things. Cries that are not words at all but rather simply the sounds of hell pouring out of them. Their eyes are almost red with fury, and do not think that to be exaggeration. Their eyes are bloodshot, cursed by whatever foul weed or potion it is their master has given them that they might become the monsters they are. They file their teeth into points and growl like manticores. Their manes and coats they cut haphazardly as though drunk, and their war paint bears no sign of tribe or village. It is swirling madness in red, and it tells me nothing of note about their origins. They look familiar, but I will not trouble your Majesty with my idle speculation. They attacked me at dawn on the road from Edessa. By the code of my order, as you know, the hoofblades of my family stayed in my pack, and I was sorely pressed. Against three of them, my kicks and blows were almost no match. But the sun smiled on me. They do not fight with skill as I am accustomed to. They fight with brute strength, and it is a different kind of dance entirely. The dance of hoofblade and kick is usually a kind of chess for my people, all speed and quickness. But they fought more like Equestrians, sweeping wide and putting more force into every movement than I would’ve thought a zebra warrior ever would. Your Majesty, I have never missed Equestria more dearly than now. This place is not the home I left. Yes, the highlands are still days away, but it has all changed. Two more villages burned, and a third scared to death. More signs of ritual slaughter and rape. Blood in the streets and painted on the walls in swirling patterns that almost form images but never quite do. They suggest but delight in disappointing. I will write you again when I know more. Author's Note One of two Zecora letter sequences. Where Stallions Win Glory (Soarin')Where Stallions Win Glory Dear Spitfire, I guess I thought I was cool, you know? When we came to the Zebrahara to help out these poor earthbound fools, I thought I was the hottest thing on the planet. I guess it comes with being a Wonderbolt. It’s just part of the territory, being arrogant. All the glory and the fame goes to your head. You say a lot of stuff, and you claim a lot of things. Because you can back it up, you know? You’re the fastest, the bravest. When you show up on the scene, the bad ponies run and the good ponies cheer. You sign autographs and strut for admiring mares. Foals want to be you. There’s some foal out there right now who wants to be Soarin’. And that’s weird, but it is awesome. It makes your feel invincible. So of course, when we started flying over that terrible place, I wasn’t afraid. I was eager for some action. Life was good and simple: fly, fight, sneak some pie, pose for some pictures. When you’re part of the elite fighting force of the Equestrian guard, you get to live that kind of high life. I wasn’t always that way. Did I ever tell you about how I was growing up? I don’t think I ever did. I was never the brightest, back in Neighvarro. I worked hard, but the only thing I did well in school was fly. Confidence and cool were the least words I would have used to describe myself. I grew fast, and was awkward, but when I started flying I was a fish in water. It was all I knew how to do. I have no idea how I stayed fit enough to fly competitively in school, with how much I ate and how lazy I was besides that. Slacked off as I got older, stopped working so hard at things. I was really excited about going in. Were you? I guess I kind of assume you were, but we didn’t get much chance to talk before we arrived in Antitrot Station and then it was all briefings until they shipped us to the forward base. I miss flying together, Spitfire. I’m sure you’re glad to not have me bumbling around beside you, huh? I remember you were radiant in the light of those flares. It was like... do you remember history class, back in school? How they taught us the old legends, about Celestia and Luna? Do you remember the old picture where Celestia is burning like the sun, and Changelings and manticores and all sorts of monsters are just scattering? I remember too, how we swooped in on that camp. It was still a day to go, of course, before our mission began, but plans are made to be broken. Everybody’s got a plan, ‘till they get punched in the mouth. That’s what you told me once. I remember being shocked how badly the Guardsponies were losing. The walls of the town were in ruins, and the tents our ponies had set up in the square were mostly ruined or on fire. I remember ponies running everywhere. I’m pretty sure I saw General Armor, but you never know. But Damasca was burning. And they were shooting flares, those guardsponies. Don’t you remember? Spitfire, what happened? I still don’t understand. I don’t understand why they were losing. The good ponies win, Spitfire. They beat the darkness back, every time. That’s how life works. We’re the Wonderbolts, and we’re supposed to make sure that happens. I keep seeing it over and over again, how they were on us as soon as we landed. How we started strafing the streets, but they brought us down again. I remember tripping and screaming. I was always doing that, wasn’t I? Falling. I was always the slow one on the ground. And then you were there. You were so angry... and you looked beautiful. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it’s true. You were. I almost cried, just looking at you, how you seemed like you were on fire in the glow of the burning desert town. You told me to run. Why did you do that? It still puzzles me, Spits. Why did you come back for me? We were friends. We are friends. I mean, heck, we’ll always be friends. But why did you come back for me of all the ponies you could’ve saved that night? I mean, yeah, the General got out alright and so did the rest of the Bolts, but you couldn’t have known that. I mean, for all you knew, you had only one shot at saving somepony as we pulled out, and you saved me. I miss you, Spits. You were a beautiful, brave, great... I don’t even know what to say. I miss you a lot. I don’t want my second chance to be wasted, Spits. I don’t want those spears in your chest to be in vain. I don’t want the fires to end up being not worth it. I can’t die with my life still unfulfilled. I’m sorry. I really am, but I’m resigning my commission. As soon as it’s day, I’m giving it up. They’ll have me shipped back with an honorable discharge and a case full of medals after all I’ve done, but that’ll be it for me. I know you would’ve wanted me to do my duty... but I also know that you wanted me to live. I don’t know why you picked me. Maybe it was just a split second decision. Maybe... maybe you thought I was worth it. I’m going back to Equestria, where there’s no sand, and it’s green and beautiful. I’m going to Ponyville. There’s a mare there I’ve always thought would make wonderful pies. You’d think she was cute, but a little flighty... and I’d laugh. But I think you’d like her. You’d approve of her sense of humor, at least. Because, let me tell you, she's got one. She's a fun filly, and she never made fun of me. Not in a real way. She's not tough in the way that you are, but she's got that sense of the ridiculous. Remember how you used to taunt the rooks? I’m done with glory. I have plenty. I’ve got medals and honor and I’m proud of all I’ve done. It was all worth it. But I haven’t lived, Spits. And when you died... it’s just not something I can bear, flying with the Bolts without you. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better wingpony. Your death won’t be in vain. I’ll use what time I have. Have a whole cartload of foals and name one after you, do weather work or something. Live a quiet life away from the fires and desert. That gods-cursed desert. Be at peace, in the song. I leave this on your grave.
To Prevent All Other Breaking (Big Mac)To Prevent All Other Breaking Dear Applejack, Why do I write you, you ask? Instead of Fluttershy, my wife? A fair question, one I think is better answered by just ignoring it for now and continuing on with my story. The Zebraharan mercenaries cry out when they come rushing in, did you know that? They do. It’s a terrible sound that just ‘bout curdles the blood. It’s a sound I expect to come out of the Everfree some moonless night, and yet it comes out of them, just ponies. Well, not ponies. They look like ponies, they talk like ponies sometimes, but they aren’t ponies. Applejack, I know this is hard, but you have to believe me. We linked up with the King’s forces yesterday. Good Zebras, though we don’t trust them. We watch their every movement and I know they’re watching ours. They looks just like the warriors following the mad god king in the Crags. The only difference, really, is in the colors they wear: good is green and yellow and bad is red and black. They paint their faces in the same swirls usually, with little dots and arrows. They both yell that awful yell. I just wanted to help ponies, sister. We’d cornered them, you see. It took us months to do it, but we finally did. You can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to fight the rebels out on the sands. They have no honor, know no goodness or common decency that we can tell. They’ll kill anything if they need to, burn anything. They jump out of the ground and vanish just as quickly. I’m beginning to understand why earth ponies in the old days hated magic. I’m beginning to fear it myself, because they all use it here. It comes in little vials they drop. I’m sorry. I just keep getting distracted. I don’t Sorry. We did it like you and Winona herd cattle sometimes. I explained it to my troops, and they all got a grin out of it. Just a little one. But eventually they made it to that little village. None of us had thought about it. It wasn’t big enough to hide them all in or for them to disappear. They just wanted to kill, I think. Part of me wonders if it wasn’t always just a kind of animal rage. They like blood, the mad god’s devotees, you know. That’s what they told me. I believe them. It helps me sleep. We moved in. My hoofblades were out and ready, we were drawn up in a long line, staggered so they couldn’t take us out in bundles. The zebras on our side were at the other end of town, and we closed in on them like teeth on a piece of celery. I’d hoped we’d crush them like it too, dear sister. I was so excited that morning. I thought that they’d go out in a brief burst and then we would rule that flat desert. It was one of the last raving bands, Applejack! I was promised leave when the job was done by the Princess herself. She looked so sad, Applejack. I wondered why. We advanced. I could feel the righteous indignation rising up in me, that they would hide in such a place. My soldiers all had strictest orders to take care with the innocents—we’d do what they wouldn’t. We’d be better. We grappled with monsters, Applejack. We had to believe that we wouldn’t be them. That ponies were good, Applejack. We were going to prove it. I was going to prove it to them. And then the arrows started. They’re damned good archers. I heard ponies crying out. I felt sweat pour down my face. I felt the heat of my barding’s metal and the nervous rush of adrenaline like ants crawlin all over my skin. I didn’t yell. You know me, I’m not one for noise. And then I was in the streets. I took one, then another. They’re wide eyed, when they die. Applejack, I see them, monstrous in death, bloated, eyes staring out at something nameless and horrible and I I’m sorry. I had Red Clover. Yes, I had to think for a moment. I had Red Clover with me. We worked up the street. It was after four, we’d been pushing their scouts back. No. It was later. I don’t even know anymore. It all runs together. Lunadammit but I hate sand Applejack. But it was getting late. It was not working, something was wrong. I knew it. I could just feel that somewhere something wasn’t working somepony—some zebra wasn’t dying and it made me furious. They laugh when they dance—they call fighting dancing. I think they’re stupid. Ain’t dancing at all. Dancin is a thing for your special somepony, not for some lunadamned Zebra with wide eyes and stripes all painted up red. And I bucked one in the face and I felt his bones crack and it made me think about home. Time moves so slow and so fast, Applejack. Nothing makes sense in the village. Nothing you do makes sense. You should just keep moving, call out, try to be in command. But you don’t. You feel lost. Where is everpony? What’s happened? Where’s Red Clover? Red Clover is dead, they blew his head off. Explosive potion. They throw them and glass and thaumaturgic death goes everywhere. It’s awful. It burns I’m sorry I was angry. They were all monsters. This was hell. They were all in hell and I was in hell with them. I could smell blood. There was so much blood. Somezebra through a potion out of the alley and dodged it and I don’t know what happened but he died and he stared with wide eyes at the wall of the hut. I cried for somepony but nopony came, my voice is really loud when I yell they had to hear me but they didn’t or they were dead. And then I run and I hear something moving and one of those shrill cries and I just know everything’s gone to hell I’ll never see my Flutters again and I hate them. I hate them so much. I yell back. It sounds the same. I see him coming out of a door way with a hoofblade and I take him I dig my own in his neck and he starts screaming and falls back and we’re in the house. Oh god Applejack are there tears on this? I can’t see. I don’t have time to start over. I have thirty minutes and that’s it. They told me. I’m trying. And then I heard another scream and it was high pitched. I thought it was another attack and I jumped and I felt myself hitting something soft and I stabbed it, twice, thrice it started screaming. I panicked, I fell back, it went still. I noticed her pretty mane and her pretty face. I ruined it AJ there ain’t nothing left of it not a lundammed thing. Ain’t nothing left. She was young. It was her house. It coulda been my house. It was hers, though and I killed her. I didn’t even bother to look I just killed her and I knew that the male was her husband I wondered if he even knew if I was a pony or a zebra. I think he heard the explosion and though I was coming in to kill him or that the Disciples had turned to murder to make our victory hollow. I don’t know They’re all animals though, AJ. They’re all animals. I tell myself that. I glare at the King’s zebras and I hate them, I think. I don’t know. I want to. I want to really badly. They’re all just animals. It’s alright. They murder I think everyone will be silent tonight. Tell Fluttershy I’m fine. She looked like Fluttershy, a little. I think I went crazy AJ in the torchlight it was getting dark and I couldn’t see well and I thought I saw a pink mane. I don’t want to sleep anymore. I don’t think she’s gonna wanna see me. Big Mac Author's Note I just wanted to say (though it seems obvious) that there's a seperation between author and narrator. :P Also, don't be too hard on Big Mac. There are things we say when distraught we might never say when in our right minds. Things we don't mean... or do. Good man say bad things sometimes. This story was originally written for a thirty minute pony challenge! Some of the others might be, too. Who knows? But this'll be a collection of shorter pieces, mostly. Hurray Dark Tag!
I Departed and Sought Mountains (Zecora)I Departed and Sought Mountains, With My Father on My Back Your Majesty, I write to you now free from that ban which has stayed my tongue and fettered it joyfully since the day I was born. When I rested in my mother’s forelegs, the village shaman beat his drum and whispered over me a chant, for I was the child born to a child that was born to a child of Jecora, and the time had come for another searcher of stars to be taken from our line. But I am freed from that curse and blessing for the moment. What I need now is not forced, careful thought, but rather swiftness. Princess Celestia, Sun-Mother, I am leaving my abode in the forest and returning to the place of my birth, below the mountain Arafat, to attend a Congress of the College of Shamans. You welcomed me into your country, when I wandered lonely, and for that I thank you. May I ask you now to extend me another hoof in kindness? I ask only that you read my letters. I will ask you for a single boon, and at that time I pray that you will give me an answer. As you know, the deserts are on fire with madness. Mothers and foals die in the streets of Damasca as sacrifices to the Mad God, or so they tell me. As I make the journey to my homeland in the highlands, I will see for myself, and I will tell you of what is true. My Princess, I begin to fear that more than war is on the horizon, for there has not been a Congress of the College in two hundred years. I am leaving now, as soon as this letter is in the hooves of the courier. I take with me the ancient hoofblades of my grandfather and the little idols of my house, for I believe that I may not return. At least, not for a long time. Your Majesty, Today, I cross over into the borderlands. Already, I notice the wrongness. I am in the tribal lands of the Gori, a free tribe, one independent from the King. I had expected the grasslands of the Gori to be free of the scourge of war, and perhaps on the surface they are. Usca, the town I am in, has no barricades in the streets. Refugees are here, but they blend in with the unfortunate souls that live on the streets of every town. Were it not for my performing the duty of my College towards the poor, I would never have realized how many there were. They are quiet. They do not cry, and they do not speak to even one such as I. They stare and they shiver with some secret fear. These poor indigents are scarred, and their coats are burnt by some fire that they will not speak of. The tribal zebras here regard me with little fear, but I know that the garments of my order protect me from their harsh gazes. Yet their gazes are different from when I last passed through, when I first came into your realm. When I was younger, they greeted me in the streets. The zebras here smiled. Now, they hurry and do not call out to me. There are fewer children here. There is a shadow over this town. Your Majesty, The desert. Even before the Mad God, I had no love for this place. I was born in the highlands, in lush jungles. I am accustomed to life and green surroundings. While your ponies in Ponyville feared the Everfree, I found it to be not much different from my own home in Zebrahara. You might imagine, Song-born, how the desert would be alien to me. The royal road that I knew in my youth has changed, and yet is still the same in many ways. Travelers still go down it. Tribal patrols still watch for bandits. It is the nature of these pilgrims that shows the difference. The King’s gold-barded soldiers trot briskly through the wide road, and all part before them. They look stern, but exhausted. The refugees here stare at me like those in Usca. Your Majesty, I write you as I sit in the ruins of the Manni settlement of Edessa. I want to tell you about it, Song-born, if you will let me. It was a walled town, a circle of safety in the desert. Its streets were clean, and its houses were sturdy. The Manni zebras who lived here loved jewelry, and their mares developed a system of propriety for the wearing of ornaments. As a young mare, they wore certain things and colors. As mothers they wore other things. Respected, older females wore yet others. A whole language grew up, a nonverbal way of communicating, and males could see into it only vaguely. They knew when a female’s ornamentation broadcast her availability, and when it proclaimed her taken or in mourning. But a mare could tell who she wanted, her profession, her age, everything. I learned only a little of it, when I stayed here for a month in my youth. Their shamans excelled at medicine and alchemy, and the articles of their enchantments sold at high prices even in Equestria. I believe you wrote me once, when your student was new in Ponyville, that the Manni gifted you with the necklaces that bear the elements? The Manni were a peaceful tribe, but they were proud and brave. The Manni never won wars, your Majesty Song-born, but they always survived. No zebra could wound their spirit. None could kill the bright star of the Manni heart, and so they lived. The Mad God came himself to Edessa. The blood in the square is his own, torn from him as he danced. It is also from three zebras of the village. I assume they are virgins, as the dark rituals often hold fascination for, but I have not checked. There was no need. I buried them outside the walls. The King’s army came and they fled like shadows before a torch, but they are not gone for good. They linger, and I know that eyes have watched me. Your Majesty, I have heard rumors of the Mad God and his warriors, but I only now begin to separate fact from fiction. I have seen his zebra warriors with my own two eyes. They scream long, shrill things. Cries that are not words at all but rather simply the sounds of hell pouring out of them. Their eyes are almost red with fury, and do not think that to be exaggeration. Their eyes are bloodshot, cursed by whatever foul weed or potion it is their master has given them that they might become the monsters they are. They file their teeth into points and growl like manticores. Their manes and coats they cut haphazardly as though drunk, and their war paint bears no sign of tribe or village. It is swirling madness in red, and it tells me nothing of note about their origins. They look familiar, but I will not trouble your Majesty with my idle speculation. They attacked me at dawn on the road from Edessa. By the code of my order, as you know, the hoofblades of my family stayed in my pack, and I was sorely pressed. Against three of them, my kicks and blows were almost no match. But the sun smiled on me. They do not fight with skill as I am accustomed to. They fight with brute strength, and it is a different kind of dance entirely. The dance of hoofblade and kick is usually a kind of chess for my people, all speed and quickness. But they fought more like Equestrians, sweeping wide and putting more force into every movement than I would’ve thought a zebra warrior ever would. Your Majesty, I have never missed Equestria more dearly than now. This place is not the home I left. Yes, the highlands are still days away, but it has all changed. Two more villages burned, and a third scared to death. More signs of ritual slaughter and rape. Blood in the streets and painted on the walls in swirling patterns that almost form images but never quite do. They suggest but delight in disappointing. I will write you again when I know more. Author's Note One of two Zecora letter sequences.
Where Stallions Win Glory (Soarin')Where Stallions Win Glory Dear Spitfire, I guess I thought I was cool, you know? When we came to the Zebrahara to help out these poor earthbound fools, I thought I was the hottest thing on the planet. I guess it comes with being a Wonderbolt. It’s just part of the territory, being arrogant. All the glory and the fame goes to your head. You say a lot of stuff, and you claim a lot of things. Because you can back it up, you know? You’re the fastest, the bravest. When you show up on the scene, the bad ponies run and the good ponies cheer. You sign autographs and strut for admiring mares. Foals want to be you. There’s some foal out there right now who wants to be Soarin’. And that’s weird, but it is awesome. It makes your feel invincible. So of course, when we started flying over that terrible place, I wasn’t afraid. I was eager for some action. Life was good and simple: fly, fight, sneak some pie, pose for some pictures. When you’re part of the elite fighting force of the Equestrian guard, you get to live that kind of high life. I wasn’t always that way. Did I ever tell you about how I was growing up? I don’t think I ever did. I was never the brightest, back in Neighvarro. I worked hard, but the only thing I did well in school was fly. Confidence and cool were the least words I would have used to describe myself. I grew fast, and was awkward, but when I started flying I was a fish in water. It was all I knew how to do. I have no idea how I stayed fit enough to fly competitively in school, with how much I ate and how lazy I was besides that. Slacked off as I got older, stopped working so hard at things. I was really excited about going in. Were you? I guess I kind of assume you were, but we didn’t get much chance to talk before we arrived in Antitrot Station and then it was all briefings until they shipped us to the forward base. I miss flying together, Spitfire. I’m sure you’re glad to not have me bumbling around beside you, huh? I remember you were radiant in the light of those flares. It was like... do you remember history class, back in school? How they taught us the old legends, about Celestia and Luna? Do you remember the old picture where Celestia is burning like the sun, and Changelings and manticores and all sorts of monsters are just scattering? I remember too, how we swooped in on that camp. It was still a day to go, of course, before our mission began, but plans are made to be broken. Everybody’s got a plan, ‘till they get punched in the mouth. That’s what you told me once. I remember being shocked how badly the Guardsponies were losing. The walls of the town were in ruins, and the tents our ponies had set up in the square were mostly ruined or on fire. I remember ponies running everywhere. I’m pretty sure I saw General Armor, but you never know. But Damasca was burning. And they were shooting flares, those guardsponies. Don’t you remember? Spitfire, what happened? I still don’t understand. I don’t understand why they were losing. The good ponies win, Spitfire. They beat the darkness back, every time. That’s how life works. We’re the Wonderbolts, and we’re supposed to make sure that happens. I keep seeing it over and over again, how they were on us as soon as we landed. How we started strafing the streets, but they brought us down again. I remember tripping and screaming. I was always doing that, wasn’t I? Falling. I was always the slow one on the ground. And then you were there. You were so angry... and you looked beautiful. I know you don’t want to hear that, but it’s true. You were. I almost cried, just looking at you, how you seemed like you were on fire in the glow of the burning desert town. You told me to run. Why did you do that? It still puzzles me, Spits. Why did you come back for me? We were friends. We are friends. I mean, heck, we’ll always be friends. But why did you come back for me of all the ponies you could’ve saved that night? I mean, yeah, the General got out alright and so did the rest of the Bolts, but you couldn’t have known that. I mean, for all you knew, you had only one shot at saving somepony as we pulled out, and you saved me. I miss you, Spits. You were a beautiful, brave, great... I don’t even know what to say. I miss you a lot. I don’t want my second chance to be wasted, Spits. I don’t want those spears in your chest to be in vain. I don’t want the fires to end up being not worth it. I can’t die with my life still unfulfilled. I’m sorry. I really am, but I’m resigning my commission. As soon as it’s day, I’m giving it up. They’ll have me shipped back with an honorable discharge and a case full of medals after all I’ve done, but that’ll be it for me. I know you would’ve wanted me to do my duty... but I also know that you wanted me to live. I don’t know why you picked me. Maybe it was just a split second decision. Maybe... maybe you thought I was worth it. I’m going back to Equestria, where there’s no sand, and it’s green and beautiful. I’m going to Ponyville. There’s a mare there I’ve always thought would make wonderful pies. You’d think she was cute, but a little flighty... and I’d laugh. But I think you’d like her. You’d approve of her sense of humor, at least. Because, let me tell you, she's got one. She's a fun filly, and she never made fun of me. Not in a real way. She's not tough in the way that you are, but she's got that sense of the ridiculous. Remember how you used to taunt the rooks? I’m done with glory. I have plenty. I’ve got medals and honor and I’m proud of all I’ve done. It was all worth it. But I haven’t lived, Spits. And when you died... it’s just not something I can bear, flying with the Bolts without you. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better wingpony. Your death won’t be in vain. I’ll use what time I have. Have a whole cartload of foals and name one after you, do weather work or something. Live a quiet life away from the fires and desert. That gods-cursed desert. Be at peace, in the song. I leave this on your grave.
