Amid a field of short green grass, betwixt a fence of tall grey oaks, sat one small modest home. One of red brick and brown timber, worn by weather and weathered by wear. One faithful and longstanding residence to one longstanding and faithful resident.

Pensive pen strokes pressed against pale parchment. The prose, prosaic. The purpose, profound.

The rays of mid-morning sunlight pooled in patches across the lawn, bypassing the breaches in the leafy boughs. A sprinkling of acorns dotted the tamed terrace, nestling between blades of grass and slowly collecting atop the foundation flagstones.

Words marched across the page, as neat columns behind the banner of the officer’s quill. Each letter standing tall and straight, each paragraph a parade formation. A crisp clean correspondence from one sworn servant of the Equestrian nation.

The home sat stubbornly near the side of the road. One of many within the fields of grass shaded by rows of trees. A community for the ponies of wars gone by. One museum within a meadow of mausoleums.

The parchment was folded with care, placed within an envelope that should soon tear. The pen lay still, and the inkwell capped. All that remained was one resolute act.

The road was long and the fields were wide. A patch of history left preserved as swirls within a shell of amber. Time marched by, yet the forgotten fields remained under watchful eye. A remembrance for their service thereafter.

One red flag stood proudly from the metal box atop the post. A tiny window into the life of one very old and reclusive host. The tired grey mailmare trotted gaily down the dusty path, invigorated at the thought that this delivery was her last. The letter was received and the red flag folded down. One important message en route to a bearer of a crown.

From the window, one dark haired pony sighed and turned away. For there was work to do be done, and he could not rest nor invite delay. The letter would soon find its recipient, and she would be on her way. A letter signed as one humble captain, one longtime friend.

Darling Dornier.

A thick tattered cloth lay over the stout polished table. The musty remains of a service issue field tent from the days of the Expeditionary Corps. His shelter and sullen reminder from the days Equestria tasted war.

Armor plate clattered in a disarrayed heap atop the faded green canvas. Dull bronze with heavy tarnish, a surface pocked with dents and gouges. One black hoof traced along the contours, tapping appreciatively at the solid piece. He turned briefly to look at the Royal Canterlot armor draped decoratively across the stand at the far wall. Polished lightweight steel that gleamed immaculately within the rays of sunlight. His head shook with a scowl.

No combat-ready unit ever passed inspection, and no inspection-ready unit ever passed combat.

Dornier’s hoof tapped at a dent in the side of the breastplate.

Earth pony. Carried a mace, but had a paintbrush and easel for a cutie mark. Poor bastard.

The mandril pressed against the inside of the plate, and he struck it firmly with the hammer clenched in his teeth.

The tip of his hoof pressed into deep gash in the greaves of his flank armor.

Gryphon. Ambush on an open field beneath a bright black moonlit sky. Poor dumb bastard.

The mandrill pounded the gouge flat. A smoky red crystal clenched between welded tongs pressed against the rift, bringing it to a cherry red within seconds. Silver wire softened and flowed between the crack, sealing it.

Near the center of the breastplate, a small circular hole...

Dornier looked up with a start. His head darted from left to right, slowly coming to grips with what he saw. This was his house. He was inside his house. He was safe.

The crystallized essence of dragons breath remained firmly clenched within the iron tongs, but hot enough to singe the wisps of thread escaping from the threadbare cloth. He quickly set it back within its stand. Before him lay the armor of his early days in the service. Tarnished, pierced, and beaten.

He looked at it inquisitively. Something lurked within his mind, just beneath the surface. Something important. A task.

A visitor.

His breath drew in as he looked at the hands on the grainy rosewood grandfather clock. Afternoon. She would be coming soon.

He rolled the armor over. Each divot and scratch was as distinct as the memories they represented.

The mandrill pressed against a diamond shaped rift where the tip of a spear had punctured.

Pegasus mare. Coat like a field of amber wheat, mane like a blazing sunrise. Escaped.

Dornier shrugged. He hoped she made it through the war.

The hammer struck the mandril, and the bronze plate flattened. Silver wire flowed beneath burning crystal, and the puncture was sealed.

Pegasus mare. Tan and yellow. Wide gleaming eyes. Absolutely terrified. Cutie mark of...

He shook his head. Couldn’t remember now.

Another teardrop shaped puncture. Dragon. Juvenile. Learned his lesson.

The hammer struck the mandril, the silver filled the crack.

A small perfectly circular hole remained, near the front of the breastplate. Dorner stared at it. He rubbed his hoof along the inside, feeling the small petals of bronze around the rim of the hole.

The gemstone lay on the table. Smoke curled up from the dusty green tent material. Dornier picked up the tongs in surprise, resting the gem back in the holder.

His armor was laid out in pieces across the table. The pallid streaks of silver contrasted sharply with the green tarnish. He looked around the room again, trying to shake away the sudden fog of confusion.

Was it old age? Why was he here. Why was his armor on the table.

His heart slowed as he calmed down. He took a deep breath, and his nose tinged from the aromas wafting from the kitchen.

The kitchen. He made sure the dragonfire gem was set properly in its holder, and he trotted through the well worn walkway between the parlour and the pantry, coming to a stop at the threshold of red enameled brick.

An elaborate dinner was in the works. A dinner for two. She would be arrive at dusk.

Dornier nodded, invigorated with a sense of purpose. A bowl of baking soda and a fresh plump lemon were procured. He turned back to the parlour, setting the bowl next to his armor. The lemon crushed between his hooves, a waterfall of citric juices splashing into the bowl. It foamed vigorously by ill understood means, a trick known only to experimenting chefs, alchemists, and every poor unfortunate warpony caught with the forbidden contraband known as free time.

The foamy mix bubbled and fizzed on the armor plate, feasting upon the dull green patina. Dornier rubbed it furiously with a square swatch of Equestrian-Issue field tent, bringing out the golden hue.

It was by no means quick or easy, but immensely more satisfying than polishing the forest of brassworks that sprung up around ponies of excessive rank.

Something nagged at him from the recesses of broken thoughts and muted memories. An uneasy feeling hidden in plain sight. He paid it little mind as he immersed himself in the monotonous motions of pressing polish to plate.

It was nearly evening. The ancient field armor gleamed with a reddish golden hue that matched the radiance from the fireplace. Satisfied, he carried it away, and swept the tent cloth from the table. There was much dusting to do. Gone were the days of overseeing regiments of soldiers, so his living room bore the brunt of his meticulous inspections. He dusted, swept, and rearranged; several times for good measure.

A new aroma wafted from the kitchen. He never considered his culinary skills as a talent or an artform, as many in that line of work would defensively refer to it. Instead, it was yet another skill in the repertoire of an old disciplined soldier. Practiced in the same manner that a bunk would be made or a blade sharpened. A means to keep him fit and fighting.

Yet, on this particular occasion, no matter how enticing the roasted succulence of the meal he created, he begrudgingly admitted that food could be an artform, and he was merely an amateur.

Across the room, leaning against the backside of his chair, a pile of polished bronze plates. He stopped to inspect his hoofwork one last time, pausing upon a small circular hole in the front of the breastplate.

The sense of unease filled him again. He closed his eyes, opening his mind to the thoughts simmering below. Strong memories clamored for his attention, yet they felt as blank as the tail end of a vinyl record. Nothing was there.

But even nothing could be something.

He examined the hole once more. The tip of his hoof reached forth and prodded the opening.

For a moment, it was very dark. A high pitched whine filled his ears, drowning out the chorus of screams and the din of battle. Screams of every race known to Equestria. A coppery taste filled his mouth as he gasped for breath, pressing his hoof tightly to his chest. His lungs filled to shout an urgent cry, but he could not grasp the words he meant to express.

Captain Dornier looked from side to side. He was home, sitting back on his haunches in the center of the parlour. His armor from his early days of service lay in a pile several yards away. A warm rich aroma wafted gently from the hot kitchen.

She would arrive soon. There was still work to be done.

The table was set, and the dishes covered. Two long slender tallow candles were set alight with the mere touch of the red gem. Satisfied, he returned the gem to the fireplace, pressing the welded steel tongs between two split logs of firewood. An innocuous hiding place for one of the many artifacts in his possession.

Gently, he pulled a small leather bound book from its hiding spot behind the bookshelf, and laid it upon the couch. A simple but sturdy beast of oak timber and patterned cloth cushions. One thing remained.

The bronze armor fit comfortably over familiar contours. The hinges and swash plates creaked in harmony with the bones that carried them. It was a good fit, as he felt obligated to remain fit. It would not be long now, but he stole a quick glance at himself in the parlour mirror.

Where any other pony in his place might consider it dashing or handsome, he simply nodded in approval. A fine image of a soldier.

A small circular hole near the middle of his breastplate caught his watchful eye. Curious, he reached one hoof to tap at the imperfection.

A shrill whine filled the air, and he threw himself into the ditch, tumbling in a cacophony of bronze bloody plate through the thick matted leaves. The ground thumped with an impossible stactatto as burnt soil and shattered rock whistled over the lip of the embankment. Moments later, that terrifying buzz could be heard, vibrating his bones and crashing against his eardrums.

This was suicide.

He rolled to his feet and charged back up over the rise, driven by duty stronger than self preservation. As he crested the edge of the field, he was given pause for one short dreadful moment.

There was a dragon. It was only part of a dragon. Rows of bleached white fangs gaping open in front of a distended gaping gullet. Beyond that, a ragged stump of meat and scale where it once connected to the tapering bulk of its torso. Ruddy ichor and glinting red scale littered a swath of the field as if regurgitated from the cavernous gullet of a leviathan.

From the disembodied head, a round yellow orb with a red slitted pupil turned to look at him. A final wordless plea.

He ran past the grisly conscious remains.

It was the dead of night, but the forest was lit by a hellish orange glow. Roiling torrents of arcane fire looped high overhead, glowing wings holding aloft the steely sentinel. Green lights stabbed the ground and seared his vision, each line as thin as a razor but infinitely sharper. They traced their blinding light through the trees and across the field, flames erupting in their wake.

He was fast, but the green light was much faster. A terrible flash surrounded him as he sprinted towards the seductively false cover of the tree line. He dove and rolled, bashing against the gnarled bare roots and coming to a firm stop against the base of the wide girthy trunk.

There was a sudden and terrible sensation across his back. The unpleasant aroma of burning hair and seared flesh filled his nose as he arched his body downward, writhing and twisting to separate his skin from the form fitting armor. Quickly he grasped the cork plug from his canteen, a hollowed minotaur horn wrapped in dark greenish twine. Hissing in pain, he upended the horn over his back. The hot bronze armor hissed in turn as the water exploded into steam.

The field erupted in gouts of dirt and short-lived screams, drowned out moments later by the angry buzzing of the swift flying contraptions. Explosions rocked the forest around him from all directions, assaulting his senses with the force of a hurricane upon a masted ship. He sat up, attempting to press closer to the solid trunk of the tree. But the tree was not there.

He turned with a start. Behind him, in the strobe-lit darkness, was a morass of shapes with several sets of eyes. Uniciorn, pegasii, and gryphon. All bearing the crimson cloth bands of the Legion.

No! He stepped back warily. It wouldn’t take but a moment to swing his blades to bear and charge into the enemy nest. But he could not, despite the ache in his rear legs to leap forward with the impetus of surprise. The Legion was here. The Herald would not be far behind. The Bloodwashed Terror. The Downfall of Nations.

The Patchwork Princess.

Luna must be warned!

The group stayed close to the tree trunk, not convinced that an easy kill was worth venturing any closer to the maelstrom of indiscriminate fire surrounding them. A wordless detente within an ear splitting cacophony.

Dornier took the opportunity to flex his legs, and bolt in the opposite direction. But just as he turned, there was a short sharp shock as a spear punctured the side of his chestplate. The wound was not deep, but it stung ferociously. He roared with indignant surprise, chopping downwards with one armored foreleg and shattering the haft of the spear.

A golden hued pegasus mare with bright yellow mane stood in shock. She wore the same livery as the Legion, yet it wrapped strangely around her torso. Collaborator scum.

He pivoted and threw his foreleg sideways, catching the pegasus squarely in the nose. Give them a shock to keep them from flying away. Pegasii were a tricky sort. Have to knock them back so they rear up and expose that soft underbelly. Quickly before they take to the sky. The gravity blade on his right foreleg flicked into place.

Tears streamed from her eyes and blood poured from her nose. The pegasus mare leaned back precariously on her haunches, holding two hooves to her battered face. The soft fur of her quivering underbelly was drenched in sweat and matted into curly tufts. An inviting target.

His ears flicked to the shuffling behind him. A shallow encirclement of talons and sharpened steel. Not close enough to make a difference. He stared down his assailant, the pegasus mare with fur like amber and the full radiance of a sunrise for a mane. Red, orange, and pink. Glyphs of three warbling sparrows on her flank.

She stared back, eyes wide and fixated upon him. The terrified plea of one’s final moments facing a monster.

Her wings spread in a vain attempt to retreat into the sky. One wing flapped and one wing flopped limply. The crimson sash of the Legion was wrapped tightly around her chest, slick and glistening in the hazy firelight.

Why could war not be a more simple affair?

Dornier flicked the blade closed, and settled heavily on all four hooves.

“See to her!” he turned and growled.

The encirclement had encircled him.

“See to you first,” said one unicorn.

“Yess,” hissed the gryphon. “A fortunate meeting this is. For we have travelled far, and allowed our rations to run small and meager.”

Sharpened steel swished through the air with the softest of sounds. A silent symphony waiting for the strike of the conductor’s baton.

Dornier reared up to stare the older gryphon in its beady eyes.

“A fellowship of fools, then! Perhaps you should ponder that Proper Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance, oh courageous hunter of field mice!” He pushed his way through the shocked circle of his would-be executioners, levelling his stare at the enraged gryphon.

White feathers fanned out along the neck of the feline falcon.

“I shall devour thy tongue, the very first.”

Explosions rippled through the forest, drowning out the sudden cry from the wounded amber pegasus.

“I tremble not from threats of the feeble, the foolish, nor the dishonoured. And I suspect that you are thrice named,” Dornier growled. “Least of such a cuckold, which your character bears most prominently.”

The gryphon reared up and struck with outstretched talons, scratching across the bronze plate of his helmet and muzzle. The Queen’s soldier held his ground, returning his snout to meet the gryphon’s sneering curved beak.

“Your time is short, pony.”

“And thy sense is as barren as your larders. Tell me. What misbegotten impulse compels thee forth into this abattoir of burning light and bloodthirsty machinations? What hope does one bear against the sentinel of flaming steel that hath turned the very skies into the graveyard of dragons? You are but moths seeking the glory of flame!”

“The Herald shall guide our advance!” one alabaster pegasus shouted proudly in his ear.

“She shall be your undoing!” Dornier snapped.

From behind them, the amber pegasus collapsed to the ground, shivering and pale.

“Please. Please, we need to leave,” she cried softly.

“Shortly. What is thy name, pegasus?” the gryphon asked.

There was a brief respite, as the stricken mare coughed several times, wiping away the bloody spittle from her lips.

“Rising Dawn, of the...” She coughed loudly again, wincing at the pain in her side. “Of the Fallow Plains.”

“Then we shall depart soon. But first...”

The gryphon lunged forward, knocking Dornier onto his back, and digging his talons beneath the rim of his chest plate. Blackened claws pressed tightly against supple flesh.

“First I need to know something. Just one small detail. Your choice of words, pony. I have no mate, nor clutch of eggs. Yet you deign to slander me with the most grotesque insult known to our kind. A cuckold, you say? Do you grasp for stinging barbs as a foal would bear a wooden sword against a conquering army? Tell me why, and I will see you quickly across the veil.”

“No,” came the pleading cry from the amber pegasus.

Dornier struggled under the weight of the thick meaty paws. He looked up and snarled in response.

“Faithfully following a faithless lady. I chose my words without hesitation, brigand. The lot of you blindly follow the Whore of the Legion!”

“Thou will not blaspheme the Herald!” the alabaster pegasus kicked hard against the bronze greaves of Dornier’s flank.

“Had she been born a stallion, I expect you would greedily lap up more than just her lies.”

“Enough. Enough,” the gryphon cooed, raising one scaly arm against the furious pegasus. “I find your wit amusing, teat hanging loyalist of the false crown. But I have not need for amusement now. The Herald shall smite the sentinel, and the prize within the forest heart shall be our claim. There shall be a united Equestria under a rightful queen.”

“Please!” Rising Dawn cried. “We must leave now!”

“See to her! I fear she has succumbed to delirium,” the gryphon snapped impatiently. “I will see to this one myself.”

His claws pressed into Dornier’s throat.

“Worry not. Your false queen will join thee across the veil soon enough.”

“Then I shall have Old Fowl Feathers for company until then,” Dornier muttered.

The eagle eyes of the gryphon narrowed. Every white feather along his brown trembling back stood on end, as he opened his beak and screamed a curse in the face of his prey.

“THAT NAME DOES NOT BELONG UPON THY TONGUE!”

“Yet I honor the late Ambassador of Gryphons in higher esteem than one who would bear fealty to his murderer! A cuckold is thy name! A mercenary paid in dishonour of your very kin!”

“LIES!”

“You flail against the truth as a virgin blade impinges uselessly upon armored plate. I chose my words true as an archer crafts their bolt. Make your choice gryphon, or ponder until the end of your days why I speak the name known only to those within your Ambassador’s affection.”

There was a short silence amidst the din of war.

“Please,” Dawn whimpered.

“Young mare!” the gryphon shouted. “Please refrain thy tongue unless it bears great importance!”

“I...” she began.

“OUT WITH IT THEN!”

“I was followed.”

A sudden noise burst through the darkened forest. The angry hiss of a tea kettle, magnified one hundred fold. It was close, oh gods it was so close.

Dawn’s bleary eyes snapped open, pupils dilating as wide as coin. She leapt up as swiftly as her unsteady legs could carry her, and bolted past the encirclement.

“The Demon is upon us! RUN!”

The head of unseeing eyes wrapped in barbed chain leveled it’s baleful gaze from across the clearing. It bounded forth upon slick spindly steel legs, razor studded tail whipping through the lush undergrowth. The high pitched wail was silenced, and it closed upon them swiftly. No sound but the soft step of claws finding purchase in the leafy forest floor.

“The Herald shall guide me!” shouted the alabaster white pegasus. He darted out from beneath the skirt of the tree and leapt into the air, brandishing a thick spear downward.

The Demon leapt. Not towards the encirclement, but high, impossibly high into the air. Mandibles like an ant, and outstretched limbs like the talons of a swooping eagle, spread wide.

There was a short scream, followed by a sickening silence.

It landed heavily before them, clutching the misshapen pegasus between it’s mandibles and long tapered snout. The Demon buzzed and the studded chain spun, tearing through the white furred torso with horrifying efficiency, slinging sinew and shredding soft ropey intestine in a red flecked line from it’s maw to the bewildered group.

It screamed again. Not a natural organic sound. Rather like an exploding tea kettle - only several thousand times louder.

It leapt.

There was a loud sudden hiss, and Dornier snapped upright in alarm. The tea kettle had finally boiled, but the spring was firm from rust, causing the lid to unseat itself from the pressure. He trotted back to the kitchen, pushing the kettle away from the burner.

He was not a fan of tea, but kept it at ready in the case of company. Just as certain dress uniforms were maintained for exceedingly infrequent occasions.

Boiling water filled the ceramic pot, and the aroma of black tea joined the heady scent of the kitchen.

He returned shortly to the parlour, giving a sidelong glance to the writing desk in the corner. A blank folded envelope sat upright next to the quill and inkpot. Sealed with magic, a letter that bore exactly what needed to be said. It remained closed.

He waited.

There was a knock on the door.