A sample

Vague, troubling dreams had plagued Dim’s sleep and he couldn’t quite remember them. What he did remember were lights; a brilliant blue light had shouted at him, had scolded him until a pink light intervened and the blue light was shouted down. Afterwards, when all was said and done, the blue light had become comforting, at least from what little that he could remember. The pink light was with him now while he stood upon the deck of the gunship, staring at the city in the distance.

Smoke rose from a number of places and flames could be seen reaching up into the sky.

Even from here, one could see the airships clustered around the skyscraper towers in the heart of the city. From what little Dim could make out, there was no fighting, no exchange of fire, which meant that there was a stalemate or they were waiting something out. One of those towers had to be Duc Truffe’s, a pony whose lifespan grew radically shorter with each each passing minute.

Dim got paid for killing and there were ponies here that deserved to die.

Blackbird moved beside him on the deck to his left and Bombay to his right. The Abyssinian’s mood was unknown; she’d been quiet, reserved, and Dim suspected that with the lull, she may be grieving. Though he said nothing, he was too. He barely even understood the friendship that he had with the Bard, he hardly had time to appreciate it, and now, he was mourning it. Life’s lessons came fast, hard, and harsh.

“Gasconeigh is burning.” Blackbird’s voice was muted, troubled, and husky with emotional turmoil. “Some of the buildings have been blown up and some of the walls are damaged, I can see it from here.”

Try as he might, Dim could not see the level of detail that Blackbird could, and he was envious of her eyes.

“Duc Argentée had better be okay,” said one of the nearby soldiers.

“Oui,” said another, “we have orders to raze the city if he falls and I want no part in that.”

Dim was still weary and fearing that he had a long night in store, he allowed an audible sigh to slip free unhindered. The setting sun was a bloody, graphic orange against a red-rust sky, which was either Princess Celestia’s bad joke or an ill omen. Entering the city would be tense, sailing closer, and closer, and closer to the hovering enemy gunships. Whatever fragile ceasefire, whatever porcelain truce that existed, Dim hoped it would not break in-route.

“Ignite the white lanterns!” shouted the Bosun and there was a scramble on deck to do his bidding.

“Blackbird,” Dim began, drawing out in her name while leering at her with a fine aristocratic sneer, “prepare to clench your sphincter.”

Comments

[Spectrumancer]

Dim no.