Chapter 7 - Heavy Metal
Handy was having, quite simply put, a rather excellent week. Sure, it took a while to get used to the hero worship he was receiving from the townsfolk, but that didn’t outstay its welcome, as ponies, he had learned, were fickle beasts. One day they were waving and cheering him as he passed by in the streets; the next, it was as if he was just another regular face in the crowd. He was still treated warmly but how fast the attitudes of the ponies adjusted was still kind of jarring, even if it was nothing like the fifteen minutes of fame syndrome back home.
However, even with the more welcoming attitude, Handy tended to keep to himself and stay in his room if at all possible, only coming out to check up on various projects, or whenever a ‘little Timmy fell down the well’ moment popped up and ponies, usually mares, suddenly needed HANDY THE HAMMER to come bail them out of it. It was normally simple stuff: help, my cat’s gone missing; help, I need somepony to hold up the overhang so I can get this last nail put in place; help, could you stand at my stall for a few minutes? I need to go take care of something.
Weak sauce stuff like that. It was getting old. He was suddenly very glad he had accepted Ivorybeak’s job offer. It was a simple one: follow the griffons around as a bodyguard and look intimidating. Honestly, that job sounded excellent. He only needed to wait around long enough for the pair of them to ‘get word back’ or some such nonsense. He didn’t care – he was only being paid as muscle, not to think. Besides, it gave him enough time to hang around Pawstown while Heat Source worked on his armour and the tailors got his new clothes made. He had made sure to commission several pairs of sturdy trousers as well as a few shirts and underwear. In a moment of inspiration, he also commissioned a great cloak to certain specifications, one he could fit around his armour with a hood large enough to fit his helmet. He figured there might come an occasion where he’d have to don his armour in the rain, which would be uncomfortable to say the least.
It was not to say he didn’t have a bit of trouble about the town. Some of the ponies were REALLY nervous around him, not exactly fond of the idea of a meat eater who could beat up a minotaur was living in their town with them. It must have felt like learning your next door neighbour was, in fact, Lord Dracula. However, it only made the more curious ponies even more inquisitive. That was what he got for playing up the mysterious foreigner card and then going and locking himself in his room most of the time. He could deal with that, however. Not to mention his visit to the local sheriff’s office.
See, Handy wanted to know exactly what was it with ponies and not being able to get their collective shit together. First Spurbay, which he learned had an actual guard force, didn’t bother investigating the mines themselves despite knowing full well brigands were squatting there. Now Pawstown couldn’t get some of their rough and ready guardsponies, and dogs for that matter, to take care of a single minotaur? Handy called bullshit.
But lo and behold, there it was. He had entered the sheriff’s office to make his enquires, and the old stallion was a genial good old boy, which Handy approved of. What he did not approve of was the pony’s sheepishness when he started putting the screws to him about his guard force’s inability to deal with the minotaur, becoming incensed when he learned they had been paying the brute tribute. He gave the sheriff a right verbal what for. The fellow looked crestfallen, but Handy cared not. However, what really ticked Handy off was the imprisonment of the changelings. At first he thought it was a precautionary measure. Changelings flying near your town? Yeah, he could see the value in capturing a few and learning what the fuck was going on.
And while that was why they were initially captured, he was surprised to learn they remained in captivity… because they were changelings. In fact, the ponies and dogs seemed dumbfounded when Handy pointed out the injustice of such reasoning. Sure, changelings were dangerous, but this was racial profiling, which was just plain wrong. Not that Handy had a leg to stand on when it came to racism, what with his attitude to dogs and all, but he didn’t want them to be arrested just because. The sheriff had protested the idea of releasing them, stating they were going to be taken by the guards from the bigger towns to the east along with Hectoir. Nopony was going to pay their bail anyway.
So Handy did. The things looked starving anyway, not getting much love of any kind, and he couldn’t imagine cold indifference and barely concealed contempt tasted good. Needless to say, this didn’t make him a lot of friends with the guard, and the townsfolk were only further confused by the mysterious humans motivations, releasing the changelings who themselves were clearly frightened of him. So, the long and short of it, that was why Handy was now lying in bed this morning, half-asleep and lazing about.
He had to get up today anyway. Heat Source’s armour should be done, and he had been putting off visiting the tailors again. The creepy pair of mares that ran it finished each other’s sentences and generally put Handy ill at ease in their presence. Buuuut, it was overcast outside – looked like it might actually rain for once – and he was already pretty comfortable in his bed, so he was content to lie there.
And this was where you, dear reader, discover that the expensive brick was an asshole. And you should love him for it.
You see, the expensive brick had been rather unusually resistant to everything Equestria has put Handy, and by extension, it through. Sure, its screen was cracked and useless, but it still turned on. Sure, it hadn’t been charged in weeks, but the ambient magical energy in the atmosphere of Equestria proved more than enough to keep the little bastard topped up. Not that Handy knew that, or even cared, which was why the phone caught the poor man off-guard.
Remember how Handy considered it ironic that he had so much music stored in the device that he never got the chance to listen to and, or so he thought, never would again? Guess what the expensive brick suddenly decided it would be a perfect time to start playing? Some Vivaldi maybe? Maybe some songs from Les Miserables that Handy was so fond of? Mayhaps, just, mayhaps, some old traditional Irish tunes he had kept about for old time’s sakes?
Nope.
Swedish Metal.
“IN THE SKIES ABOVE THE ISLE!”
Handy almost literally jumped out of his skin, his head hitting the top of his four poster bed as he flailed.
“ACES IN EXILE PREEEEVVVVAAAAAIIIIILLLLL~!”
Handy landed bodily on the floor to the side of his bed as he scrambled, bleary-eyed, to find whatever was causing motherfucking Sabaton to break its way through reality. The phone blared Aces in Exile at an intolerable volume that shouldn’t have been possible for an S3 Mini, but there we have it. Handy felt the floorboards vibrate beneath his skin as he stumbled through his room, naked bar his underwear as he rummaged through the various detritus of his room, looking for the expensive brick that could be the only possible source of the music. He heard cries and shouts of alarm coming from the other rooms of the saloon. Shit!
He fumbled with a drawer by one of the windows and pulled it out. There the little bastard was – how did it get there? He quickly grasped it, and his fingers flailed uselessly at the lit screen, trying to figure out how to turn the music off. Eventually, he just settled for turning the phone off, which it refused to do. Handy glared incredulously at the rebellious device as he took the battery out… only for the phone to keep playing.
“MEN OF CZECHOSLOVAKIA, IN THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN
GUARDING THE SKIES OF THE ISLE~!”
“SHUT UP DAMNIT!” Handy said, smacking the phone on a hard surface. It eventually complied and ceased its shenanigans. Handy let out a breath but groaned as he heard a panicked-sounding knock at his door. He quickly put his robe on, sans belt, as he made to open the door. Yep, sure enough, it was the landlord and several dogs and ponies in bathrobes and nighties. Seriously, ponies, what the hell, guys? You of all creatures wore clothes to bed? Really?
“S-Sir Handy! We heard the most awful shrieking wails!” the moustachioed pony cried. “It sounded like demons were invading!” Handy rubbed his temple as he tapped his foot. Well, he could do without THIS headache. Still, at least he could count on absolutely nothing else going wrong today. Heat Source knew what she was doing, so at least when he got his armour, it would be in excellent form.
--=--
Heat Source took tremendous pride in her work, and her diligence was paying dividends. Sleeping only the bare minimum and eating only when strictly necessary, she spent almost every waking minute on her work, and it was paying off handsomely, getting the project completed in little over a week. She had some basic designs for the armour initially, but that was before she saw Handy put paid to the minotaur. Now she was fired up with inspiration and determined to make a suit of armour worthy of a dragon slayer. True Shot often gave out to her that she was in danger of getting ill when she got like this, but that stallion had no right to talk, traipsing about the Badlands like he did.
She had taken inspiration from Handy’s war hammer, which was solid steel but emblazoned with complex interlocking designs of silver across its surface. She took the extra care to use some metallurgy tricks of the trade to do the same to the surface of the armour. Of course, this meant reheating the finished pieces of armour just a bit to get it all to set in appropriately. For the extra finish, she did the same for the suit of chainmail. This was usually inadvisable… if you weren’t Heat Source, that was.
She had left the finished pieces to cool in a specially prepared area of her forge the night before Handy was due to pick it up. It was a delicate stage in the process, but it would leave the armour just as strong, if not stronger than it had been before, so long as absolutely nothing happened to disturb the settling metals.
…
So Grave Danger had defied his father and stayed up well past his bedtime. He was a stallion on a mission, the human’s words echoing in his head. The white and blue maned colt stalked through the streets of Pawstown. He tried his best not to make too much noise, struggling with pulling the bag of gems Handy had entrusted to him. The poor colt was utterly crestfallen to learn that over the course of the week, the crystals had all but completely broken and been ground down to fine powder.
However, he had learned something the day Handy fought the minotaur. He thought the world of the human, but he saw that even dragon slayers could die. He had been reduced to tears thinking Handy had died when he had fallen unconscious in the street from blood loss. Then a thought struck him. Maybe it was okay to fail once in a while? So long as you learn. Even heroes lose battles once in a while. He had failed to keep the gems intact, which was a shame, but Handy had told him that he’d know the right time to use them and that they were magical.
So, thinking it over long and hard, he reasoned, what if the magic in the crystals was still there, in the powder? Thinking it over further, he learned that Handy was having a suit of armour being made by Heat Source. That was when it clicked; that was when he knew, knew, that he had to use the crystals. Handy needed the armour, but he didn’t have any magic to help him. So now, with his mind made up, he dragged the sack of powder to Heat Source’s forge.
He had played near here many times over the years and knew the back way in. As quietly as he could, he worked the handle of the back door and snuck inside. The forge was still lit, but the candles in the front rooms were unlit. Heat Source had gone to bed. Perfect. He made his way past the balmy heat of the forge, careful not to snag his sack of fine powder on anything and search for his goal.
He had found the suit of armour lying carefully arrayed on a hard sheet of plywood over a silk sheet. It was in small dark room with a few pots of strange looking plants growing around large purple crystals which emitted a soft light. He could feel the heat coming from the metal as he approached it, giving the small room an ominous and foreboding air. He swallowed but bravely trotted on, dragging the bag in his mouth.
The metal was hot. He had learned from a few telling offs by Heat Source in the past that you should never touch metal when it was hot, as you could deform it. Oh, and also it hurt a bunch, but she added that as an afterthought. But that was okay, Grave Danger had no intention of touching the armour set at all. Well, not with his hooves anyway.
He pushed a small wooden crate over by the small dais the armour was spread out over and got on top of it. Looking over the armour, he hefted the bag up, his tiny limbs struggling for balance. “I hope this helps,” Grave said as he opened the bag and sprinkled the powder over the hot metal. When the bag was empty, Grave bundled it up and snuck his way out of the forge. As he left, the tiny crystal particles sizzled on the hot metal as they slowly sank into the mostly-solid form of the armour.
--=--
Handy gawked at the display before him, jaw wide open. Heat Source may have gotten… a tad carried away, one might say.
Let’s start with the helmet. It was a full-faced helm that covered his entire head with a long T-shaped slit that ran from his eyes down to his mouth, with only a thin strip of metal down its middle acting as a nose guard and the end widening out in a circle encompassing a small flame decal raised out of the metal. The helmet was winged, with two bladed wings sweeping upwards along the flanks of the helmet from the cheek guards and flared backwards, adding another two inches to his height. It also had a small ridge along the top of the helmet going down its back. Apparently, it was so Handy could attach a decorative ‘roman ridge’ if he felt like it. The best part was that as Heat was weaving the padding into the armour, she had placed a tight black cloth over the inside of the slit. It was enchanted to allow Handy to see out of it but meant people would only see darkness as they looked into it.
The cuirass was similarly fancy – strong and simple but awash with flowing interconnecting knots and designs made out in silver, not unlike those found on his hammer. Heat Source had gone ahead and added a number of very pony-esque designs: a few stars here or there, rearing pony silhouettes, all outlined by the same swirling patterns. However, the showstopper was the knotted heart on the breastplate superimposed over a dragon skull. That… took talent. The shield was a long kite shield, a simple piece of metal in comparison to the rest of the armour. It had an engraving of a double-sided hammer down its length ensnared in another swirling knot.
The pauldrons were large with wide shoulder guards designed to prevent blows to the neck. The greaves and vambraces had similar swirling patterns etched out in silver. In a word, it was stupidly fancy. Still, he was not complaining because he actually, to Heat’s horror, tested the metal with a swing of his hammer at the cuirass. There was a resounding clash, but the armour stood fast, and Handy grinned like a maniac. To top it all off, the chainmail hauberk was also silvered, but for all he knew or cared, it was probably painted because the iron rings held fast.
“A tad… excessive, Lady Source,” Handy said. Heat’s ears dropped with a sad look in her eyes. “I love it!” he exclaimed, and she immediately did a one eighty in her mood. Handy had thanked the blacksmith pony and given her another twenty coins for her trouble and immediately left the smithy before she could protest, taking the armour with him in a heavy sack, with the chain hauberk wrapped in a silk cloth under his arm.
The tailor ponies had his clothes ready and waiting for him, significantly reducing the time he had to spend with them, for which he was eternally grateful. They did, however, present him with an extremely large, jet black cloak with a red, velvet interior. The outer cloak had thin white lines running down its back length in a stark, simple pattern depicting a knot. Handy saw Heat wasn’t the only one inspired by the designs on his hammer. He thanked the ponies and quickly made his way back to the inn to sort himself out. In his excitement, he placed his clothes in the dresser and his packs securely under the bed. Both of them, for Heat Source was an honourable mare, and no shenanigans had occurred to his gold.
He was giddy with excitement and couldn’t wait to try on his new armour and see how badass he looked.
--=--
“BLARGH!” Handy blarghed.
Now, despite popular belief, heavy plate mail armour did not reduce a man to a snail’s pace. True, the armour did add roughly forty-four to fifty pounds worth of weight to Handy, but it was evenly spread throughout his body, so rather than carrying one large weight in concentration, he merely had to get used to the fact that his entire body just weighed more now.
“You are going to get up off of yer arse, Handy, you WILL NOT let this beat you!” he said to himself.
If you want a modern day comparison, the average weight of the gear a soldier had to carry into battle on modern battlefields, depending on specialization of course, weighed anything between fifteen to ninety pounds. As you can imagine, running, sprinting, and fighting with such weight with an appreciable speed, even with dexterity and grace, was well within the realm of possibility. So was carrying the rest of his gear with it, because there was no real room in his pack bags as he placed his new clothes in them. He was very likely going to have to wear his armour everywhere.
“Okay, one… two…. left… right….”
That said, Handy was not a soldier and most certainly never had to wear armour before. So he, rather wisely, took his armour and set out into the Badlands. When he was an appreciable distance from the town, with several hills in between him and the town, he got his first surprise of the day. You see, in the firelight of the forge when Handy saw his new armour, he saw it shine. Heat had polished the metal so it looked all shiny and new and awesome and cool and other words associated with good things.
However, when he took his armour out from under its wrappings and the sun came out from behind the clouds, the armour shone like a magnesium flare, blinding the human. Somehow, someway, whatever Heat did to his armour, he was now a walking talking solar flare. He had donned the armour anyway when the clouds had decided to relieve him of his suffering. Putting on his helmet, he was relieved and comforted by the darkness within it, for when the sun shone again, Handy lit up.
He could see the light making the already dry ground around him brighter and thanked God that whatever sorcery Heat Source had performed on his armour did not result him in being cooked alive. Indeed, he felt quite cool as he performed a number of initial exercises to establish balance to get him used to the armour. Swinging his hammer in wide arcs resulted in him losing his footing and crashing to the ground in a noisy heap. The darkness of the helmet prevented the light from blinding him thankfully, so long as he didn’t make the mistake of holding his gauntlet in front of his face while the sunlight hit it.
He was slightly concerned as this made him a hilariously obvious target in a fight. Then again, even without the gross incandescence, he was still a six foot knight in literal shining armour, so subtlety was not really an option. After a while, he decided to cancel his practice and put on his dark cloak. It wasn’t raining, but he now needed the cloak for an entirely different purpose: that of not blinding literally everyone he met. He cut a distinctive figure as he walked back into town and headed into the saloon. He avoided most questions, hoping not to draw attention to his hilarious predicament, but that was hard given he had to hold his shield outside of his cloak, leaving him with a glaring beacon of light on his arm. He apologised profusely to the dazzled ponies and dogs as he had hurried his way.
He didn’t bother taking off the armour, as he intended to go back out as soon as night fell so he could practice without any distractions. What he discovered next sickened him. While the armour had no real reaction to any kind of light, be it a lit candle or the soft glow of a unicorn’s horn when they were using magic, it certainly had a reaction with solar light… and lunar. So there he lay, silently fuming over his latest tumble, losing his balance when he swung his hammer while wielding his shield.
And he was fucking sparkling.
That was right – while during the day he lit up like a flare, at night, when moonlight hit him, he sparkled like he was dumped in a vat of fairy dust while covered in glue. So now he was Edward Cullen, the Milesian. He just lay there, fuming at the injustice of it all. It should be physically impossible to wear full plate armour this intricate and feel emasculated, but Handy found a way. So his choices in life if he wanted to use the armour at all were to either shine brighter than the sun or sparkle like a faggot.
"Bollocks," he swore. There was literally nothing that could—
Was that cloud moving?
Handy squinted and tilted his head forwards. Yeah, that cloud was moving alright, and so were several others. Funny, there was no wind tonight. What could—
Wings… hooves… tails…. Hey, he knew those pegasi! They were the ones from the town and they were… pushing the clouds. Actually physically pushing them. Hey, that one was actually walking on one. What in the hell? Then one of the pegasi bucked a cloud and a bolt of lightning shot out into a neighbour, setting off a chain reaction as a sudden downpour fell upon him. Handy blinked.
The pegasi just… just moved clouds and… caused them to storm. Handy lay there, processing the information for a moment. Joachim had not been not spouting nonsense… The ponies actually did control the weather! That meant all those storms, all those high winds, all those breezy days, and these Badlands lack of any cloud cover was… controlled and regulated… and nobody batted an eye at this. He lay there, absolutely still, trying very hard to maintain his calm.
And then the expensive brick started singing the song of its people.
Handy shook quite violently, and it had nothing to do with being cold.
--=--
“Now, I am not saying I’m disappointed…”
“I’m so so sorry! I have no idea how this could’ve happened! I checked and double checked and—”
“I am, however, somewhat surprised…”
“Sir, I SWEAR I did not do anything magical to cause this! The armour was never supposed to react like that—”
“I mean, I’m still going to wear it. It’s just a bit of an inconvenience is all…”
“*Sniff* Can you… Can you ever forgive me?”
Aaaaand that, by and large, was how the little chat with Heat Source went. He was left standing there, trying to calmly reassure a blubbering blacksmith that she was, in fact, not worst pony. In truth, he was still quite ticked off that he now had to wear the cloak by necessity whenever he wore his armour, still having no way else to store and carry it on his travels, buuuut Heat Source had put in such a good job, and she seemed genuinely distraught at how her work was now ‘ruined’. Handy sighed.
“Look, milady,” he said, getting down on one knee and placing a gauntleted hand on her shoulder. Heat Source briefly stopped her sobbing long enough to listen. “Truly, I am grateful for your craftsmanship. Tis a fine set of armour, no finer have I seen in all my days. I am not angry, nor am I disappointed, merely surprised.” She sniffed.
“You… You like it?” she asked, smiling sadly. Handy nodded. “You… You aren’t mad?” Handy shook his head. The pony sniffed before suddenly hugging Handy “Oh thank you thank you thank you!” the pony gushed, blabbering on about how she had worked so hard and was so concerned he would hate it and offered a full refund just in case. Handy calmly, but firmly, pried the pony off of his neck.
That was an awkward meeting, but he got no answers for his trouble. The mare clearly did not know how Handy’s armour got the way it was. Ah well, shit happened, he guessed. He merely sighed and tightened the clasps of his cloak about his chest, his hand lingering there for a moment. The scar still ached from time to time, and the exertion he’d been inflicting on himself was probably not helping that. He grumbled as the rain pelted his cloak and the wind plucked at it. His mail clinked as he trudged back to the saloon. It would take some getting used to. He had expected that, but now his limited vision was made worse by the hood worn over his helmet. Still, it would have to do.
He entered the saloon and was surprised to see it so empty. The barmare, who he STILL didn’t know the name of, was absent. There was the odd pony sitting at the tables. What drew his attention, however, were his employers speaking with a rather tired and wet-looking third griffon. The trio stopped their conversation to look at the armoured human as he shook the water from his cloak. He had a feeling this may have been the word Ivorybeak had been waiting on.
He walked over to the birds, lifting down the hood of his cloak. The newcomer griffon seemed to reach for something in bag he carried. Ivorybeak raised a claw to stop him. “Ah yes, this is the new… help I requisitioned. Handy, this is Herman Sunderclaw.” Handy nodded his recognition.
“Well met, good sir,” Handy said, not extending his hand. The griffon eyed him suspiciously. “It is as sera Ivorybeak says. I have been hired as additional security to aid in his endeavours.” The griffon continued to look at Handy warily before raising an eyebrow at Ivorybeak, who gave him a reassuring nod.
“Herman, surely you’d like to stay with us the night, at least until the storm passes?” he offered. Sunderclaw shook his head.
“Sorry, Lord, but I must relay word back home,” Herman replied as he eyed the human again.
‘Lord?’ Handy thought to himself. What was a Lord doing out here in the arse end of the world? Herman walked past the three of them towards the door, giving one last glance at the human. Handy decided he didn’t like that bird. He’d put him in the reserve shit list for potential shitlisters. You know, as a purely precautionary measure. Handy turned back to Ivorybeak. “Is there a problem, Sera?” he asked. Ivorybeak shook his head while his partner, Hirsild, idly cleaned the table they sat on returning emptied tankards to the counter.
“Good news, actually, we have word of our quarry.” Handy raised an eyebrow.
“Quarry, milord?” Interesting. Exactly who did this griffon intended on finding?
“Yes, you see my benefactor, Chief Gerhart of the Blackwing clan and King of Gethrenia, has tasked me with finding a… a missing person,” Ivory explained.
“The king of the griffons is your benefactor?” Handy asked, wide-eyed.
“Ohohoho, of course not. That would be High King Ironclaw, King Gerhart’s liegelord.” Handy nodded. He guessed it made sense. If what Joachim had told him of the clans and fierce pride of the griffons held true, and their country was as big as he claimed, it probably made sense they had a bunch of petty kings and archdukes or somesuch that the High King dealt with rather than directly ruled by an absolute monarch. Wait a tick…
“And this missing person?” Handy asked, having a sneaking suspicion but hoping he was wrong. “Did he have an injured wing?” Handy asked. Hirsild looked up, and Ivorybeak blinked.
“Well… yes! He injured it before he left. How did you…?”
“Bright white feathers, grey fur, silvery black feathers on his wings and around his eyes, red irises?”
“Yes yes yes! That’s him!” Ivorybeak’s wings flared as he stood on his haunches, claws clasped at Handy’s cloak. “Have you seen him before? Would you know where he is?!” Handy sighed internally. Joachim, Joachim, Joachim – what the hell did you do in the Griffon kingdom?
“I believe I have. The last I saw of him was on the road leading north from Foalsdale, on the west coast of Equestria,” Handy explained. He could practically hear the foppish griffon before him squee.
“Yes! I knew my instinct was right about you! Hirsild, we finally have a lead! We can finally find Prince Johan! This wonderful chap has come through for us!”
“Johan?” Handy asked, incredulity in his voice. The two griffons turned to him. “Last time we spoke, he called himself Joachim.”
--=--
They left town the next day. Handy packed his things and carried his two bags. He was now burdened by a substantial weight, but he had water canisters now, and somehow this armour worked great at keeping him barely below the lethal levels of heat. The three of them headed off towards the frontier station on foot, the griffons preferring not to fly for some inadequately explained reason. Something to do with being seen? Handy laughed at the idea. All they had to do to be seen was for Handy to take off his cloak and shine like the Vegas strip.
However, of course, it would not be that easy to just leave the town just like that. “Hey, wait!” a tiny and distressingly familiar voice called out. Why, if it wasn’t Handy’s number one fan! He was even less inclined to like the little bastard ever since that fight he picked with the bull on his behalf. But alas, there were ponies and dogs watching him as he left, and the two griffons turned to smile at the little tyke. Handy sighed – looked like he was going to have to put up a show.
“Yes, young man?” Handy turned respectfully, inclining his gentler voice when addressing the colt. He got down on one knee so he didn’t have to bend over quite so much to talk to him. That must’ve looked some sight. The giant in armour and the dark cloak bending the knee to speak with such a tiny creature as the armour that extended from his cloak burned with light. Grave Danger had to shield his eyes. Handy chuckled and pulled his cloak over so as to not to blind the little bastard, as satisfying as that would be.
“Are… Are you really leaving?” he asked sadly. Handy looked about. More of the townsfolk were listening in on the conversation, nosey bastards. He couldn’t just punt the little kid and be done with it. Handy smiled beneath his helmet, not that Grave could see it.
“Alas, but duty carries me elsewhere I am afraid. I am in the employ of these noble griffons who are in need of my assistance.” Handy inclined his head behind him. “But do not fear little one,” Handy said, “your town is safe and you have no need of me.” Grave looked down before turning to look up at Handy.
“When I grow up, I want to travel the world and help people, just like you!” That took Handy aback. Apparently the surprise was evident in his body language. He simply nodded and tussled the child’s mane.
“Hmhmhm.” He chuckled. “You’ll need to grow up big and strong.” Fucking hell, this conversation could not be over soon enough. Quick, think of clichéd shit to funnel into this kid’s mind. “And practice hard, but are you sure you couldn’t do better staying here? Helping out when you are older?” He didn’t want to be responsible for the kid wandering off and finding a poisonous cobra or some shit. “My life is not the safest, after all.”
“But I don’t care about my safety!” he protested. Well, not with a name like Grave Danger he doesn’t, Handy mused. “I hate being small and weak. I just want to help other ponies.” Well wasn’t that just fine and dandy. Handy sighed and put his hand under his chin, lifting his head.
“Chin up, little man. If it is what you wish, then I can only advise you to chase after your dreams. In time, perhaps, you’ll learn if it is the right sort of life for you. But not yet,” he said. “You have quite a bit of growing up to do.” The colt pouted.
“I’m not just some little kid!” he protested. Handy stood back up.
“I never said you were, did I? Have I not called you a man? That is my people’s word for stallion.” He took a sterner tone of voice. “I am treating you like a man and expect from you what I expect from an adult. You are young, and you have many a long year before you. If adventure is what you truly desire, then in due time, you will be ready for it. For now, grow, learn, live, for you will never again have days such as these.” Grave Danger looked up at him, unsure of how to respond. Good, then the storybook bullshit he was spewing was working. “Cherish them, then perhaps you will understand what it is you are defending when you come of age.” Handy turned to walk back to the griffons. “Goodbye, Grave, take care of Pawstown,” he commanded. He heard the sound of little hooves trotting away as he came back to the griffons.
Ivorybeak was smiling warmly at him. “Quite noble for a mercenary, aren’t you?” he asked with a knowing look. Handy turned to look at him as he fell in step beside him, shifting the pack bags on his shoulders.
“Well, I make no secret of my heritage,” Handy answered.
“I wasn’t talking about your airs,” Ivorybeak stated. “You know the name the changelings gave you is probably inaccurate, but maybe you do have a heart after all,” he joked, letting out a little laugh. Handy laughed with him, but under his helm, he scowled.
‘If only you knew, griffon, the darkness that lies in the hearts of men. My noble airs aren’t the only thing I am faking.’ They walked in silence for a bit before Handy realised something. Grave didn’t have that bag of gems with him. He turned to look back at Pawstown, the townsfolk milling about on their daily chores with no sign of the foal. He shrugged. ‘Kids. Heh, he probably dropped it somewhere and forgot about it.’ And with that, he turned, following his employers to the frontier station and to find his long lost feathery friend.
He smiled wryly as a thought returned to him. It was a funny thing, after all, shaking hands with a bird of prey.
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He's Solaire now, huehuehue.
I can see a potential use for this, just like I could use the blinding effect as a weapon.
Hell, he'd better be. I'd pay a metric fuckton to have armor like that, even if I looked like a sparkling faggot on top of being the largest target on a battlefield.
I need this.
Always have a plan, a backup plan, and a backup backup plan.
I am honestly wondering if he's going to blind with his armor as a fighting tactic now that I've pointed that little bit out...
you know, i want to make a 'Zombie Survival Guide' reference here, but im not sure how id relate it to your chapter...
3988396 Go ahead, I'm curious as to what reference you'd make
I thought he was narrating his adventures to Luna
3990681 My apologies, the hint at the prologue is not him recounting his tale to Luna, but rather a snapshot of the future. The narrator is talking to you, personally, as the reader, not Luna.
3990135 sorry, cant think of a way to make the reference make sense and still be funny. also i seem to have lost my copy. sadface
..... how the hell is 9,000 words a chapter, little.
3992211 Little by my standards.
3990893 hear one is
(use your head cut off theirs)
"And then the expensive brick started singing the song of its people.."
When I said my sides had reached orbit in the last chapter, you just had to go ahead and activate light speed, didn't you.
I was hoping for a little scene with the night guards. Wondering what happened with his blood.
Ah well, maybe next chapter.
Yay for the perks of vexing a late comer!
The expensive brick is the best character
My Brick is more expensive than yours
You see!? This is why you always get matte black armor with silver inlay! I don't are what those gems did, you can't make that shit fabulous. Only the silver will shine then.
I was listening to that song even before reading that.
Intend
'The' between 'in' and 'bag'
Our favorite pigeon shits a prince ?
Small world...
I call bullshit to the full plate being only fifty pounds. I wear and fight in a half-plate kit that, as the name implies, only covers half my body-ish, and it weighs eighty pounds, not to mention my aluminum heater*, another twenty or so pounds. A full steel kit would weigh upwards of 100, 125 pounds, especially if it has a chainmail hauberk. Despite what adventure books may make you think, chainmail is fucking heavy.
To be fair, not many modern people know this, so props to at least trying to make it realistic, especially with the whole heat-levels and the movement speed. That's closer to accurate, though heat gets bad if you are fighting or exercising for a long while.
*Style of shield typically seen on larger battlefields, similar to a kite shield, but generally wider and without the 'triangle' on the top.
6150293 Because magic
swedish! metalikaXD hell yeah! you just got a swedish fan good sir XD!
funny thing i lessoning to Aces in Exile while i was read this chapter. lol what odds of that. happening.
So there I was, reading along as normal, when Sabaton lyrics showed up. I already liked what I'd read so far, but now I like it even more.
1200 + 1 = Epicness.
Dude. Your story.
And thus the legend was borne.
So this is where the bastard first came in.
So far I'm enjoying this story very much. Before I found this one, I have been reading Diaries of a Madman over and over. When you read something as large as Diaries of a Madman 6 times, you go a little crazy. So, I'm glad I like this one because I really need another story to read while I wait for new chapters of DoaM. And then, if I like this story enough, I will read DoaM while I wait for new chapters of this.
FUCK YEA, SABATON IN A FANFIC? YOUR A GOD!
Just thought I should pipe in here and thank you (maybe a 100 times) for turning me onto Sabaton.
Thanks to that and Pandora, I now have a new personal song! THIS IS MY JAM!
6150293
it's probably enchanted, knowing ponies
Literally unreadable
Handy Hammer sounds good. Pale Handy too.. at least he stopped be Handy Basketcase
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and made of pure alumithrilum
I rolled with laugh at that one. So phones have own nation and they all are bob marleys?
Was a little confused at twilight reference until I remmebered bits of what i tried to read... a horrible book.
That phone be like DISRESPECT YOUR SURROUNDIIIIIIINGS!!!!!!
Also I’m picturing his armor to look like this but with a more clone trooper esq helmet btw. staticdelivery.nexusmods.com/mods/110/images/608-2-1321666082.jpg
I had an S3 Mini and it was indestructible.
“It is as ser Ivorybeak says. (This is something that I keep meaning to correct but never remember to post)
Is that his actual name!?
Rambling and possible spoilers ahead:
Another measure of how much Handy has changed over his adventures is how he interacts with children: specifically comparing his interactions with Grave Danger and Wren.
In both situations he trys to teach a lesson only semi-sincerely with the main differences being time and witnesses. Whilst Handy feels great animosity towards him the speech he gives Grave is inspiring, respectful and mostly responsible. Whereas his encounter with Wren gives him no reason to dislike him but he chooses to allow them to come to their own conclusion despite knowing the correct answer. Now perhaps he figured that letting Wren come to their own conclusion would be best in the long term but the way it's represented makes it come off as apathy.
With Grave Danger Handy considers the potential consequences of a child running off to seek adventure; with Wren he delivers a half-formed message and leaves, deciding that it's not his problem... Which I've just realised could be taken as a metaphor for bad parenting or absent parents: a lesson is begun with good intentions but for whatever reason is left unfinished for an inexperienced mind to piece together without clear knowledge of how everything is supposed to fit.
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9246462
The honorific thing is right, its rare, but it has been used.
9246478
Guys come on, the griffon is obviously of Dunmer descent, get it together.
I'm late to the party but I am thrilled at the Sabaton references, they are my favorite band. I am really enjoying this story, good work friend.
I now notice the foreshadowing...
He actually said milady.
According to the people I'm talking with on Discord, this kind of behavior continues to at least chapter 30 or so. I don't have that level of patience. This had an okay start, a very good follow-up with the Mines arc and the changeling arc– I really enjoyed the killing of the undead dragon and the shock that Handy was going through, but I'm not sitting through 400,000 words of neckbeard MC killing me with second-hand embarrassment.
11344383
That's perfectly reasonable, and I apologise that it has ruined the story for you. Essentially Handy was playing to a specific role that'd be expected of a foreign noble trying to pass himself off as such with a language he had supposedly just learned (Equestrian English) that is to say, being hyper formal to a painful degree. Which would be what you would expect a foreign noble to do, even though he is no such thing in reality. He does drop it for a majority of his informal conversations for the majority of the proceeding chapters such as in private conversations, or with characters he is more familiar with or, most tellingly, when he has completely lost patience himself in a given situation. Nonetheless, have a good one.