ArguingPizza's Scrap Files

by ArguingPizza

Unnamed Roman Civilization Deleted Scene

Across the Mareibbean Sea, the moody expanse of water that marked Equestria’s Eastern coast, the wide expanses of the Zebrican Plains were soaked with blood. Thousands of two legged creatures and Lion bodies filled the air with the sound of clashing steel and screams of pain. Somewhere among the confused tangle of men and beast stood an armored Centurion. His armor was scratched and dinged and his tunic was soaked in blood, whether it was of his men, the enemy’s, or even his own he was unsure of.

The Centurion pulled his sword from the corpse of the lioness he had just slain and stepped back into the ranks of his men.

The Centurion pulled his sword from the corpse of the lioness he had just slain and stepped back into the ranks of his men.

“Shields!” he bellowed. The ragged knot of men around him reformed themselves into a hollow circle and, as one, braced themselves and interlocked their large, rectangular shields. Those who still held their spears pointed them through the small gaps in the formation towards the swirling feline horde that surrounded them.

The Centurion edged his way back to the center of the formation where his standard bearer stood. Long bloody claw marks cut deep into the young soldier’s right arm, exposing the white bone beneath. The Centurion barely acknowledged him, as dozens of wounded men covered the ground around him.

The few wounded able enough did what they could to assist their comrades, but perhaps on in five was able to move on their own. Only a small detachment of archers, long out of arrows, were able to provide any real help, and even that was limited. The Centurion’s eyes took in the sight of dirty, ragged strips of cloth being from the archer’s own tunics soaked through with blood. Not even the soil beneath them was spared the gore.

“Sir! Orders?” The Centurion turned towards the voice. When he did, he saw the haggard form of his second in command, Knight Optio Varsus. Varsus was barely half the Centurion’s age and hardly came up to his chin, but he was a tough soldier and a good man.

The Centurion spared his second a glance before again surveying their position.

The phalanx, barely two hundred strong, was all that remained of the IV Legion. The Legion, over a thousand strong, had been ambushed during their march to the Lion city of Leona. The assault had come from nowhere, all of a sudden the savannah grass had simply erupted Lions. Before the Legion could get into formation the fastest Lionesses were already in their ranks.

Only The Centurion’s unit, last in line and farthest from the ambush’s initiation point, survived even remotely intact. Had the Lions waited only a few minutes longer, the entire Legion would have been annihilated. As it was, the trailing Century was able to brace themselves and act as a place for the rest of the survivors to flee towards.

Small rises surrounded the road they were centered on, but the remnants of the Legion had far too many wounded to attempt a move to high ground. In every direction, steel armor reflected sunlight and served to mark the long trail of bodies that was once the most feared force in Zebrica. Somewhere among the carnage and circling Lions was the Legion’s standard, a gold-plated Patrian Falcon.

“Sir?” Varsus repeated. The Centurion looked back at him, then towards the heap of wounded men all around them. A few yards away, the line of soldiers shouted as a particularly bold Male darted in and attempted to smash through their shield wall. A half dozen swords punctured his hide before he retreated, limping and with his mane tinged red.

Author's Note:

An abandoned attempt at a rewrite starting at the Centurion's intro scene.