How is this for a two-part opening? · 8:44pm Mar 5th, 2016
Dinner Dash was going to die. This he was fully convinced of, for around him from all angles came angry blasts of thaumic energy, vengeful volleys of swift arrows, ravenous swarms of parasprites, and the otherworldly shriek of mortar shells. Those were supposed to be illegal. The GELPNO (Greater Equus, Let's Play Nice, Okay?) Treaty was signed into law 576 years ago. After the catastrophic destruction witnessed during the War of Daisies and Oats, even the most callous of nations recognized the need to ban guns and cannons of all calibers. The diamond dogs were signatories, and now they were blatantly violating the terms of the agreement. Perhaps this meant that they were getting desperate. But Dinner Dash was pretty sure it just meant he was going to die. Weeeeeeeeeee BOOM! He yelped as fountains of dirt sprayed into the air not twenty yards behind him, suddenly wished his history degree had taught him less about the minutia of historical battles and more about surviving the current one. He whipped his head around wildly, trying to pinpoint where the artillery was coming from. A hoof and part of a pastern landed in front of him. He stared at it, horrified. This was not war. This was Tartarus.
"Sir! Their pegasi are sniping our artillery units with lightning bolts. Our dogs are sitting ducks!
"Dog dammit ! The changelings are supposed to be engaging their air force. What the fetch is happening?!"
"They are engaging! But the Equestrians all have some sort of shield or energy coating that's absorbing unseelie magic. Our intel warned us of this! Colonel, my mutts are taking heavy loses! We have to retreat."
Several miles from where Dinner Dash stood gaping, ensconced in a bunker hidden to all but the sharpest of eyes, Colonel Boxer surveyed the scene through a tiny slit in the hillside. An angry scowl had commandeered his face, and his jowls only accented it. He was a proud canine of the finest pedigree, and he was here today because his ancestors refused to rollover and play dead. But though he was stubborn to a fault, he wasn't stupid. The scene before him was threatening to become a massacre. There was only one responsible option. That didn't mean he had to like it.
"You're right, Mr. Scruffles. This is not our day." He pulled a gem-encrusted kibble bone from his vest and handed it to the major. "Good boy."
Mr. Scruffles barked excitedly and scampered off with the treat, tail wagging. Boxer however, somberly turned to the semaphore team. "I'm calling off the offensive. Signal a retreat to the Mourning Woods. The trees should provide some cover." They rushed off to comply. Boxer was left alone save for the sycophantic Sybil.
"G-g-gee, Colonel, why th-the long face?"
"My mother was a bloodhound. Now if you want to be useful, fetch me the latest field report."
"Of course, of course, of course!" the lanky thing yipped, skittering away. Boxer slumped down whimpering, ashamed by the dog and pony show playing out beyond the bunker. Before he could even scritch the flees behind his ears, Sybil had returned, the report slathered with slobber. She was a try-hard, but at least she was loyal.
"Thank you, Sybil." Boxer stoically rolled the papers up, then viciously thwacked himself on the head. "Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!"
