The Frayed Feathers, the Moss Wall, & the Stifle of Skin
One crisp morning at the cusp of the new year, as the sun blazed clear and cold through the fogged window, Cinquefoil awoke and could not remember his mother’s name.
He’d grown accustomed to the sudden forgetting or remembering of things, the way one gets used to a limp or a missing tooth, but this was a different matter. Before his time in the Caulkins, Cinquefoil knew only Heartstrings and Star Swirl, but a long, long time before that, he’d had his kinfolk. There’d been four of them living near a sleepy river: his mother, his mother’s mother, his father, and himself. He couldn’t recall the names of his grandmare or father, but both of them died early in Cinquefoil’s youth (the former from age, the latter from either tetanus or dragons, depending on who was telling the story) and he only knew their names from headstones.
His mother, though, had always been fresh in Cinquefoil’s mind and for the most part, still was. He remembered the spiny cadence of her voice, the gnarl of black steel-wooly hair, the strict glint of her eyes, her hatred of blueberries, and her talent for melting into shadows. Yet he could not remember her name. It troubled the little pony deeply. Names were important.
It’d been short and as sharp as she was. As Cinquefoil curried his coat, he recalled that it started with an S or a C sound. As he brushed his tail and cleaned his hooves, he remembered that her name also had something to do with light. No more came to him, though he did his best to try.
Finally, despondent and frustrated with himself, he put the matter aside and went downstairs. Heartstrings and Star Swirl sat adjacent to each other at the longtable, one eating her oatmeal and the other staring into his notebook. Both looked in fair spirits, if not a little sleepy.
Heartstrings was the only one who looked up. “G’morrow, lad. How was your night?”
Cinquefoil grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and sat beside her. “Morning, all. It was fine, far as I can tell. Did I wake anypony up?” He looked sidelong at Star Swirl, who sat absolutely still, chin resting on his hooves. “Can he hear me if I wish him good morning? Looks like he’s in one of his… Star Swirly moods.”
“Oh, I’m sure he hears well enough. Listenin’s another matter altogether. And no, ye slept sound as the dead.” She brushed her mane from her face, sipping her tea with an expression somewhere between hopeful concern and sad respite. “Same as it’s been for a fortnight.” Heartstrings blinked up at the ceiling and sighed. After a moment she asked, “What are your plans for today? Lightheart tells me the miners and farmers are on some sort of holiday.”
“I suppose. I was told we had the day off, though nopony told me why. I wish it weren’t so.” He took a small bite of apple and sighed. “I like to keep busy. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise what?”
“Otherwise I stay here. When I’m still for too long, my head drags me places I’d rather not be.”
“Hm. Well…” Heartstrings fiddled with her tail as she hesitated. “Have ye given thought to why it takes ye where it does? Perhaps… though they’re places ye don’t want t’go, they’re places ye need to go.”
Cinquefoil glanced at her, frowning.
“Nopony ever slayed a dragon by stayin’ at home.”
“Ponies don’t slay dragons.”
“No,” Star Swirl said. His eyes were focused, thoughtful, and still. “No, they don’t.” He snapped his notebook shut and sat up tall. “You are away to Mount Sill, are you not? To seek out Sunshower?”
“Well...” The earth pony shuffled his hooves. Sunshower went to him all the time, so he figured it’d be nice to pay her in kind for once. “Is it that obvious?”
“A fortnight with your muzzles in each other’s manes? Nay, not the least bit obvious.” Star Swirl rearranged his cape with a little jingle. “I wish to accompany you. There’s no more research I can scrape from Sill’s shell, so I’d like to take a gander inside.”
“Why?”
He stroked his beard and glanced at his notebook. “’Tis a mount with an… interesting magical composition. I require a closer look, but I would like permission to do so before I begin.”
“I could just ask for you.”
“Ha! And tell me what comes of it when you return at eventide, assuming you remember at all between the nuzzles and sunset picnics? No thank you. I’ll not take all that long, just—”
“You can come along if you like, Star Swirl.”
The unicorn raised a hoof to prepare a counterargument, then stopped and blinked in surprise. “Oh? Oh! Well, wonderful, then.”
Cinquefoil shrugged with half a smile. “Besides, it’s been a while since we’ve talked.”
“Aye.” Star Swirl smiled back. “It has, hasn’t it?”
“Hold a moment!”
Cinquefoil tossed his head and groaned. “Oh come on, I’m not even at a canter. Barely a trot!”
Star Swirl gasped as he hauled himself over the rocks, tongue dangling from his mouth. “You…you call this a trot?”
“Well, I know it’s not a gallop.” He flicked his tail as the unicorn finally met him shoulder to shoulder. “I thought you said you climbed up and down Sill every day for a month. What happened?”
“Nothing happened! I just walk and take my time is all. ‘Tis a research expedition, not a race.” The unicorn peeled the wet cape off his shoulders to let his coat get some air. “And you’ve always had a gift for stamina I’m hard-pressed to match.”
Star Swirl brushed the soggy mane from his face so he could look Cinquefoil in the eye. “You recall this, do you not? The last time you and I ran together?”
The ponies went on, at a walk this time. Cinquefoil took a moment to think the question over. “I do. In a wood of young trees with red little leaves?”
“The very same. Do you recall why we were running?”
“I saw something in the distance and I didn’t want to waste any time getting there. I also remember the old mare kept up better than you did.”
“What can I say? The range of a scholar’s run is one end of the archives to the other. I admit I was surprised at your stamina.” There was a quiet, clever light in Star Swirl’s eye. “Perhaps I’d forgotten what you were. But I do wonder: what was it you saw?”
“What?” Now it was Cinquefoil who lagged behind.
“In all our travels together, I never saw you run until that moment.” The unicorn’s voice was gentle but firm. “What made you run, Cinquefoil?”
The earth pony looked upwards, not answering at first. The tip of Sill frothed like heady cider, shifting, shifting, shifting. The White Roc was still here. Odd. It’s usually long gone this time of day. But now that Cinquefoil thought on it, the last time the walls bent under the Roc was dust storm season. It hadn’t left since winter arrived soggy with sleet and steam. I wonder why.
“I ran because I wanted to. And because I could.”
“That’s not exactly what I…” Star Swirl paused at the curious expression on Cinquefoil’s face. “What’s that look about?”
“It’s the strangest thing,” said Cinquefoil. “I remember you were smaller then. Not shorter, just smaller. But that can’t be. Not unless you learned a shrinking spell when I had my back turned.” The Mustangian tried to laugh it off, but the sound faltered before it left his lips. “It’s ridiculous, yet so clear. Clearer than my head’s felt in ages. Isn’t that strange?”
The stargazer’s pink beard trailed in the wind. “Maybe not as strange as you think. Suppose t’was not I who changed size, but y—”
“Star Swirl, can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Did I ever tell you about my mother?”
“Oh. Um… once or twice, I think.”
“What did I say?”
“You told me that she knew more than you did about the city and she knew all about… I think you called them electrics? She made your home light up, like in that picture you showed me in the barn. You also said I’d have liked her.”
Cinquefoil edged closer. “Did I tell you anything else?”
“I’m afraid not.” Star Swirl frowned, concerned. “Why do you ask?”
It was several seconds before he answered. “I was just wondering.” His voice was very quiet.
The unicorn reached out with a sympathetic hoof. Cinquefoil leaned away and picked up his pace.
Star Swirl pulled his hoof back and drooped his ears.
Cinquefoil’s coat rippled as he shuddered. Not looking back, he said, “It’s not you.” As the miasma of clouds touched his shoulders, something somewhere shifted.
Something in the mountain rocks made his solid hooves feel watery and clumsy. A subtle, skulking vibration coiling under his horseshoes that snaked into his shoulders and hammered behind his eyes. The Mustangian’s skin shuddered as if eager or anxious and pulled tight against his bones. His ears would not stop twitching, though there was nothing to hear except the wind.
The earth pony snorted and wobbled into a brisk amble to shake it off.
The amble became a canter.
The canter kicked into a gallop.
It did him no good. Where his distress slipped from his shoulders in Caulkin’s rounded mounts and jagged gorges, they stuck fast at Sill. He felt the press of clouds and went faster. The pressure in his chest swelled and stretched at his heels like a shadow.
The wind bit him until he felt it in his marrow and the chill hurt his throat. Finally, the little pony slowed to catch his breath. The uneasy buzz eased but didn’t vanish. Cinquefoil felt it clot in his fur like a bloody wound. He could neither outrun nor outlast it.
Cinquefoil groaned and shifted his shoulders. The stargazer mentioned something like this once, asking if his new bones (why would they be new?) were hurting him.
“Say, Star Swirl?”
Cinquefoil looked at the miles of rock behind him and the mass of drifting cumulus below.
“…Oh. Right.”
The earth pony’s ears drooped. Poor Star Swirl was likely still at Sill’s midpoint, wondering where Cinquefoil had gone and hurt by his rudeness.
He peeped over the mountainside to get his bearings. No caverns in sight. There were more clouds below than above. In fact, there were no clouds at all. Cinquefoil squinted in the bright sunshine to see Sill’s tip scrape the pale blue sky.
Something felt strange… missing. His nose twitched. There was a faint scent of iron in the air. Iron, smoke, fresh water and another familiar scent Cinquefoil knew but could not name. But he did not smell rain. The sky was blue and clear and it seemed as if it had always been. His wet hoofprints were already fading on the sun-bleached rock. There was an eerie gap of silence where rainfall used to be.
Cinquefoil noticed the extra shadow and realized he was not alone.
“Good morning. How long have you been there?”
General Yarak opened one brass eye. “Too long, colt.” His voice rumbled like thunder in November and scratched the air with a whetted rasp. “Too long.”
The pegasus sprawled on the mountainside, wings limp and splayed flat over the rocks like a discarded cape. Frayed primary feathers bent at the wrong angles and curled in the breeze.
The other eye opened as he lifted his head. “She is not here.” Yarak’s teeth grit together as he rose and slowly folded his wings. His spine popped like embers. “She departed early to stay a thunderstorm before it starts. I doubt she will succeed. Regardless, you would not have found her at this elevation. Sunshower lacks the mettle.”
Cinquefoil lashed his tail and frowned, but said nothing.
“Truths are truths, regardless of your opinion. Sunshower has flown the tip of Sill twice and it was more than enough for her. She is far from Sill more often, I have noticed.”
Yarak cocked an ear. “She slowly drifts in flight. When at rest, she does not fidget. Impatient huffs have become sighs. When she believes nopony is watching, she smiles to herself. My daughter is not as she was.” Stringy mane curtained the old stallion’s face as he leaned forward, back bent. “That is your doing. Your sort alters everything they touch.”
Cinquefoil frowned. “My sort, sir?”
The general’s ear perked at the word ‘sir’. “Yes. Change is your only constant.”
Cinquefoil flicked his ears and looked himself over. “But earth ponies are always constant. Constant and steady as the soil. And I haven’t done anything to your daughter. I do share her company and I don’t deny that I feel something for her. I can’t speak for Sunshower’s feelings, but whatever they are shaped at her will, sir. Not mine.”
“You are sharp for what you were, but slow for what you are. I am unsurprised. Love, I think, caught more of you than the Roc did. It makes you rethink what you know, ignore instincts, abandon plans.”
“Pardon?”
Yarak slowly turned to the Mustangian, dragging his eye over the brown withers, neck, and croup. The near-black eyes and curly mane, the shivering dandelion on the flank. He twitched his ears again and made a soft sound at the back of his throat. “Well crafted. The Order of Masquerade would envy it. Who made it? Your jingling stargazer or your elderly minstrel? I do not think you did it by yourself, but I have seen stranger.”
“I don’t understand you. Who made what?” The earth pony knitted his brow and frowned. “Topsoil made my horseshoes, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The breeze tugged Yarak’s mane away. Cinquefoil saw every sagging line in the general’s face pull taut. The fierce gleam in his eye was dreadfully familiar. The old pegasus flicked his tail and stepped forward. The earth pony took a step back and averted his gaze.
At the edge of the Caulkins, a great mass of clouds twisted at the edge of the Caulkins, slowly shifting from light grey to dark violet, as if forming a bruise. A gleam of yellow sliced through them, arced into the sun, and dove in again. There was a quiet protest of thunder.
Cinquefoil watched Sunshower work, shivering in the sunlight as the wind hissed through his mane. He wished that the clouds would settle so she could finish early and return to Sill. Or if not return, at least look in his direction so he could feel warm again. When had it become so cold?
“You answer to a name that is not your name. You wear a skin that is not your skin. Still I know you, pantomimist.” Yarak’s voice softly rumbled like an empty stomach. “I doubted for a time, but there is no mistaking you. The dart of your eye, the scraping of your sigh, the click of your hoof on the rock.”
Against his better judgment, Cinquefoil looked behind him. The pegasus was so close he could count the pale scars running along his side or clustered in the crook of his wing.
“I am too old for games.” General Yarak pulled himself to full height and cast the earth pony in his shadow. Joints creaked, muscle flexed under wrinkles, and pinions reached for the sky. Where age should have withered, Yarak had calcified. “I tell you this once: do not taunt me. I know you. And I know your purpose.”
The Mustangian blinked up warily. Yarak waited for a response, but would not accept Cinquefoil’s denial. But he had to say something. He glanced at the feathering at the general’s hooves and observed, “You’re a draft pony.”
“I was.” The old cob pricked his ears and turned away. “The wind is turning. Come.” He turned on his heel and strode up the mount.
The certainty of Yarak’s sanity fell away by the second and Cinquefoil was sure now that the danger of Sill lay not in the sharp loose stones, nor the lightning, nor the Roc. He lingered back and debated a frantic dash back down the mountain.
The cumulus swept under and over them like river currents, milky and thick. For a moment the Mustangian thought he saw a talon the color of dishwater.
“I do not suggest running. The moon waxes and the Roc is sleeping but he will wake at the hoofbeat of fleeing quarry. Try it if you like, I will not stop you.” Yarak peered over the sharp edge of his shoulder. “The end will be the same.”
Cinquefoil took a cautious step forward and paused for one final look towards safety. He searched for a bit of yellow in the sky, did not find it, and went on ahead. He trailed in silence, a pace or two behind the general’s tail.
“I don’t see why the Roc would quarrel with me, I’ve never bothered it. And Sunshower told me it doesn’t eat ponies, just moonglow and water vapor.”
“Correct, in part. He consumes moonlight and vapor—the sheen of lightning and the glitter of diamond dust as well—but it does not sustain him. They keep his feathers bright and his bill sharp. But the White Roc is nourished on something else.” The general cut off Cinquefoil’s question before it was asked. “There is another, black as he is white. She nests at the bottom of the world as he once nested at the top of it. When his time is done here, he will go to meet her and then they both will part. I will have gone home by then.”
“Home, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mean Pegasopolis? Or the Islands?”
“Neither. And I cannot and will not go unless I am sent in the proper way of a pegasus.” Yarak’s wings shifted on his back, down and up again. “It is my hope that you, or one like you, will grant me that. It is a gamble, as all things are with your sort. You do things how you will, where you will, when you will. It is a foolish hope. I have it all the same. I do not think it a greedy request for a stallion of my efforts. It is no more than any draft pony would ask.”
Yarak’s left wing sagged, and for a moment, looked feebler than he was. “I wonder if they know. …If they refuse me out of spite.” He looked over his sagged shoulder and blinked slowly at the earth pony. “Have you spite for me?”
Cinquefoil lifted his eyebrows and looked over his own shoulder in confusion. “Me?”
“You.”
“Um. No, sir. Why would I? I’ve barely met you. If you must know the truth, I don’t think anything of you at all besides…” He rubbed his teeth with his tongue. “Besides wanting you to act a little kinder towards your daughter.”
Yarak’s ears went up, surprised. “Clarify yourself. I am not unkind to Sunshower, I treat her as any of my kin.”
“Maybe, but there’s more to kindness than simply not being unkind.” Cinquefoil trotted on ahead so that they walked gaskin to shoulder. “She is lonesome and frets over your opinion of her. At the least, you could toss a kind word to her more than once a decade. Though I think Sunshower would be happy to hear any word from you, kind or not.”
“Indeed. One of many things that would make her happy. Just as many things would make Thistle Whistle or Maelstrom happy as well.”
Cinquefoil frowned. “Yes, but neither of them live with you. Thistle Whistle has hundreds of pegasi to talk to. Sunshower only has one and that one won’t give her the time of day.”
Yarak blinked. “If Sunshower keeps no clocks or sundials, that is no fault of mine.”
“But surely you can see how she hurts, sir. And…” Cinquefoil rooted for some logical trump card to throw down but his deck was empty. So instead, more frustrated with himself than the situation, he asked, “Don’t you care?”
A grey ear twitched at the sudden edge in the Mustangian’s tone. “To the necessary extent. The girl has been under my wing for a score of years. I fed her. I fledged her. I kept the rain off her feathers. Sunshower’s wings are uninjured. She is not ignorant of direction. She is under no contract with the Empire, nor the miners. If Sunshower finds no happiness in the Caulkins, that is Sunshower’s concern.”
In the east, a ray of sunlight cracked through a raincloud. The cloud dissipated, then reformed. A yellow speck buzzed around it, attacking from all sides.
“Her sire, I expect, was some unnamed envoy called into the mountains in the heat of spring and gone home again. The dam dead or unwanting. There is little warmth in Sill. Littler in myself. But Sunshower is a pegasus and my kin. Hence, I allowed the foal residence of my mountain.” Yarak’s wrinkles sagged as he frowned. “If I have been unkind, it is in that action. No more. No less.”
The raincloud hadn’t vanished but was a paler shade and a little smaller. A pegasus perched on its side to inspect it, kicking to file down the extra fluff and waiting to see if it would reform. After a few moments, the pegasus kicked off the cloud and darted away.
The earth pony flicked his tail and watched the sky until the flicker of yellow got smaller, then vanished. He turned back to Yarak. The elder pony’s expression was stale but amused.
“What?”
“I suspected a ruse at first: allying with the enemy’s offspring to dig for clues. An attempt to ruffle my feathers by putting your nose in my daughter’s, perhaps.”
The Mustangian looked away. He couldn’t help remembering the flawless angle of yellow feathers around his shoulders, the smooth gold sheen they took in the firelight, how they brushed against his nose and made him sneeze, which made her laugh. His coat took on a ruddy tinge. “You saw that?”
“Among other things. It was an interesting turn of events.” The general’s ears flicked. “It made me wonder. I should thank you for that. It has been a long time since I have been incorrect.”
“Um.” Cinquefoil fidgeted under his ruddy, constrictive coat. When else were eyes upon him? When he ran or ate or gardened or lay wide-awake in his room? The thought knotted in his throat and grew mold.
“How long have you been here, Cinquefoil?”
Something in the way Yarak rolled the syllables of his name made Cinquefoil want to snatch it from the air and hide it. It sounded flat and dry, like dead leaves in the wind. It sounded brittle and uninspired and false. Keeper of the mount or no, what right had Yarak to it?
The earth pony flattened his ears and steadied his eyes. “I have been here three months, two weeks, and five days. Sir.”
“Hm.” The general blinked slowly. “There it is,” was all that he said.
The sun grew weaker as they went on, the pat of rain stronger and bolder. A curtain of rainfall crashed up ahead, a solid line of water separating the soaked and sun-bleached rocks. Cinquefoil cautiously stuck a forehoof into the wet air, half expecting to bump against a wall of glass or magic.
Yarak walked on ahead, shoulders in sharp relief under his wet mane and dripping coat. His pace didn’t change, yet he seemed to move faster. Sensing an unasked question, he said, “The sunlit area is not unlike a hurricane eye. Rain falls all places but there.”
“Why does the rain fall like that?” Cinquefoil shivered and deeply regretted leaving his cloak behind. “Is it wild?”
“No. The clouds are not tame, nor are they wild. Both, perhaps. Weather patterns do not behave in their presence.”
“Whose presence?”
“You know whose.” Yarak’s tone never changed, though the muscles in his neck went rigid. “It comes of magic and the lack thereof pushing against them. The clouds do not know what to do. I suspect witchery is involved as well. But I do not know for certain.
“Witchery…” Cinquefoil tilted his head slightly. “You mean like unicorn magic?”
“I do not.”
The wind pitched in fierce, piping little gusts and long moaning blasts. Somewhere far below, Cotterpin’s terrier barked himself hoarse. General Yarak’s ears stood rail straight, his jaw slack. He leaned into the wind, spread a wing, and breathed it in.
The general stopped at a place where sheets of rock split and fractured with long crooked scars of empty space and hollow holes. When the breeze brushed over them, old Sill whistled and sang like a silver flute. When Cinquefoil moved his head just so, the sunlight leaked through the wall of rain and gave the grey stone a strange violet sheen.
Yarak’s wings fanned flat at his sides. “There they are.” His scraping voice rose and shook, feathered and soft as a new fledgling. Brass eyes sparked and grim wrinkles eased into smile lines, though the stallion did not smile. He stood over a great crevice just big enough for a skinny pony to slip through, a straight drop down into the mountain’s core. A grey hoof inclined towards the thin patch of drowsy cirrus just below them.
Slowly, surely, the wind brushed the cirrus to the side to reveal the mountainside. Cinquefoil edged forward and blinked at it. A few feet off and slightly to the right, the cavern mouth yawned down and down and down into Sill. It looked nothing like the caves he passed on the way up. The opening was saw-toothed and precise, as if a great chunk of the mountain was ripped away. Topsoil’s house could squeeze through it easily, smithy and all. The inner walls were mossy and dripping, and echoed with the squeak of bats. Massive sheets of shifting cloud lounged above and below, white and grey and glutted with rain.
Yarak stared into it the way hollow-bellied urchins stared at restaurant windows or dragons beheld their heaps of sapphires and fire rubies. His old wings flopped limply, completely drenched, though the water should have bounced off his feathers.
“There they are,” he repeated, louder this time. “All there were, all there are, stuffed down Sill’s throat. Every grasping hand, every conquering foot, every squalling, defiant voice is mine. I choose to keep them. ”
Cinquefoil stretched his neck as far as it could go. He saw the wet moss and walls of violet stone sloping downward. He saw a colony of fruit bats dozing in the corner; a little green one blinked berry-red eyes at him. Far below something glinted silver, perhaps water, and a long stretch of green, likely more moss. The wind shrieked in his ears and the rock hurt his hooves, but he saw nothing more.
“There was a time,” Yarak said, “When I presumed to keep them for the sake and safety of my kin and all other pony tribes. I am no scholar, but I have read the scrolls: the slaying of Tirek, the hags of Gloom. The little dragonslayer, the lord of the gem mines, the banishment of Grogar. The fifty-league crater North Star and Lofty found over the rainbow bridge. But stories are stories. I know what I have seen. What they—what you—are capable of.”
The earth pony’s ears pricked and looked at Yarak, who looked back at him. It was not a direful or suspicious sort of look. He watched him with a calm neutrality, as one watches dust motes drift in the air or ripples in a pond.
“Stories are stories, songs are songs, and ponies say many things. They say you destroy and ruin everything you touch. But this, I know, is untrue. I trust the testimony of my eyes. They do not destroy. They conquer. They change. They corrupt and they claim. And they allow nothing to exist in any way other than they see fit. Destruction is the corollary, not the cause. A casualty of the campaign. I have seen them burn and kill and ravage simply because they will not allow another to take what they have. The old firebrands are a covetous and stubborn sort. I do not blame those that shiver in the places they have been. Indeed, it is wise for little ponies to be cautious in their shadow.
“They are not fiends, I think. But they are dangerous. And so, for a time I kept them in the name of caution. I was certain this was my reason. To ward was my duty, the only duty I had ever known and thus I knew it to be true. I was younger, then. I did not know truths could change.”
Cinquefoil’s tail snapped in the wind as a cloudburst rolled overhead. He shook himself, wet and shivering. The white clouds puffed like feathers as the old stallion’s gaze sliced through skin.
The general nocked an ear, water dripping from sharp little spikes of fur on his chin. “There was another time, a longer time, when I kept them for the sake of themselves. They create more than they destroy. I saw some of the things they made. The cracking ruins of cities, the proud abandoned sprawl of unruined cities with great towers and aqueducts. I saw the strange mechanical beasts of burden they rode in or upon by land and sea and air. I liked their steel beast of the air. I saw them keep to each other, much in the way little ponies do.”
Yarak sighed or blinked or the wind leaned against him in a different way. Gradually or all at once, Cinquefoil saw him change. The traces of indigo sparkled in his grey coat, the creak of lonely bones became kinetic and swift. His eyes shone, young and starving.
Cinquefoil took a step back. Yarak’s ear twitched but made no move toward him.
“I saw that even in their greatest numbers, not one of them was the same as the others. Not one! There were similarities—in the shade or texture of fur or skin, in action or thought or strategy—but I never saw the same one twice and in an instant any one of them can remake themselves. The loss of even one was unacceptable.” Yarak’s thin mane fluttered as it hung from his neck like a row of fishing lines. “It is a poor world for them now. They endure and adapt, but all things have their limit. It would benefit them, I thought, to have a place where they would not be troubled by an encroaching pony town or raided by marauding dragons. A preserve, of sorts. It was a noble idea and I liked it.”
His chuckle was the low creak of a galleon shifting on the waves. “But ponies of our tribe are poor liars, even to ourselves. No, I choose to keep them because it is within my ability and suits me to do so. I keep them because I can.”
The strange feeling in the rocks came back with a vengeance. An old ache bent Cinquefoil’s back. He pulled his forehoof close to his chest, gritted his teeth, and tried to focus on something else. Something besides the acquainted scraping drawl of Yarak’s voice or the terrible press of clouds. The Mustangian groaned and peered over the mountainside. Jackdaws swept through the clouds in black arcs and carried Sunshower’s laugh in their beaks.
The corners of Yarak’s mouth tightened and stretched like ill-fitted leather. It was his first smile in eight years. “In the first years they arrived, I watched them sun up to sundown from my place on a high inner crag or low cloud floating. They threw objects when I was low enough to hit, hid themselves when I was not, and shushed their voices to speak with their hands. Hiding spots often changed, but if I was conscious then I was there. I would watch them still, but the clouds will not hold me and my wings cannot carry me in.”
He eyed his feathers, cracked and greyer than the rest of him. “I once heard your people say nothing is free. They are right.”
Cinquefoil looked away from the old cob’s smile. Looking at it too long gave him the ghastly feeling that the two stallions shared some sort of common ground. He pawed the rock and frowned, unsure how to respond. “I don’t… think I understand. I don’t see anything in there at all.”
“Hm.” The general stepped closer and peered into the great gap of mountain. “Yes, it is a poor view from here. The angle is poor, distance high. Still, some days I will see them. A glance of one walking by or climbing the rock face to stare at the sky, wondering if they see clouds or Roc feathers. They crouch an arm’s length of freedom but dare not breach it yet, unable to tell the difference. I see them often now: younger ones born not caught, who know nothing of the Roc’s touch and everything of Sill’s walls. I see them sitting on the high crags with the sun on their young, flat faces. They do not flee or break my stare when I see them. The Roc kept the humans at bay for a long time but lately...”
He blinked at the little earth pony poking at his mountain. “Lately, they seem restless. I wonder if they sense you.”
Cinquefoil flopped his soaked tail and looked at himself. “Me?”
The pegasus nodded.
“I...” The earth pony hesitated as Yarak stepped closer. A slippery mountain top was not the place to try this pony’s patience. “I… doubt that, sir.”
“It is only a possibility. One of many. Indeed, there is always something new to be found in humans.”
Cinquefoil’s mouth went dry as the air turned uneasy. He shuddered from eartip to tail and swallowed the lump in his throat.
“I have known ponies. I have known the griffons and the minotaurs. The diamond-dogs, the deerfolk, dragons of all colors and sizes.” Yarak gave a dismissive snort. “They bleed into one another. Even when they surprise me, they are predictable. Never with humans. They are as varied as they are proud.”
The general jumped to loom over the cliff face. Battered wings spread out like a rain-soaked book as his muscles coiled. The Mustangian leaned away from him and looked down. For the first time, he noticed strange markings that scarred the back walls of the cave. As if carved. A familiar chill ran down his spine. Yarak leaned closer.
“Ah, but what makes them strong makes them weak.” The old pony’s smile returned. It had teeth. “Fitting for a contradiction creature, isn’t it? It goads them into conflict and it complicates. I was amazed to find they even spoke in different tongues. The pony tribes, the Arabians, and the donkeys are worlds apart, yet the only difference in our language is dialect. Humans are all the same species, yet have more languages than they know what to do with. An individual knows two or three at most. I had every human on the planet cloistered in Sill, yet many could not share a sentence between them, and without a common voice, they could not organize themselves.”
General Yarak paused for a moment, his face unsettlingly close but his eyes far, far away. Sour breath puffed on the velvet of Cinquefoil’s nose. He stepped away and turned his head towards the clouds. The earth pony sighed in relief.
“And then… and then, one quiet summer night, when the wind was high and the rain was low, I heard them. The high and low voices, young and piping, old and creaking. I heard the quiet, frightened pleas and the wild, outraged demands and the hopeless sobs and the defiant yawps. They sounded out all at once, every voice different but the same as they joined in harmony. Many in one. One in many. It was a song. It had no words, for there was no need.
“I hovered in the air and listened as the sound lit the night like a bonfire. I felt the embers of each note in my chest. I may have cried, I do not recall. Even now, their fire song is wild and new and frightening to me. Even after so many years. They sing out every week. Sometimes all of them. Sometimes just one or two. And I hear them on the wind.”
General Yarak’s eyes wavered and became very soft. “I knew humans were fierce and I knew they were clever.” His jaw went slack and quivered as if preparing to laugh or cry. “I did not know they could be beautiful.”
A familiar fog drifted at Cinquefoil’s shoulders. The empty wind scratched his ears and his stomach sloshed as it twisted in on itself. An old black terror that had skulked in the shadow of Sunshower’s brightness came from hiding and roused itself tall. Unnamed nightmares drifted in the wind, unashamed of fair daylight and boosted by Yarak’s voice. There was no doubt of it. The old cob was mad as a frothed hound. Cinquefoil didn’t think Yarak even saw him anymore.
“The first time I saw one was in the eve of the war. The griffon army had encroached as far south as the Unicorn Kingdom. My company was at the border, I think, for the few horned ponies we saw were travelers. We were investigating reports on an anomaly. The night before, a local town reported pegasi suddenly falling from the air as if made of stone. Dozens of warriors smashed against their cobblestone and rooftops, strange arrows sticking from their necks. Similar rumors floated among our kind as well, but ponies of all tribes like to hear themselves talk. This was the first time we had a witness.”
Cinquefoil sank to his knees and stared at the sheets of grey rock. His hooves couldn’t touch the mountain for more than a few moments. It was no longer an aching buzz. It felt like biting ants writhed on his skin from the hocks on down. Yarak glanced down at him and flicked his tail.
“We saw the griffon at sunset. Not an army. Not a scouting party. Just one. He was a great fellow, but he was outnumbered and unarmored. Whip Wing and Sanguine Song fell first. Like stones, as the unicorns said. And Spindrift a moment after. I swung away and upwards as the griffon went into a stoop and my blade found his neck. Yet as I veered away, I heard not one voice cry out, but two.”
Yarak’s wings limply rose and fell upon his back. His smile returned, small and wondrous. “I rose high and beheld her: a human female falling through the air. No more than six or seven years out of childhood, dressed in leathers black as the griffon feathers she clutched. A dark braid whipped over her shoulder and she stared back at me through a strange green visor that gave her the look of a dragonfly. So stuck was I in spirit, my focus failed me. I did not realize she’d nocked her bow.”
The grin widened as the pegasus chuckled in disbelief. “In mid-fall she swerved around and hit me.” He stretched his right wing out, the crook marked with a pale scar.
“I must admit, it was a good shot. The three of us hit the forest hard. If my wingblade did not kill the griffon, then the fall certainly did. Without my armor and the pine trees to slow my fall, I am sure I’d have fared the same. I spat the blood from my muzzle, found my legs. The human lay a few yards away. She held herself up by her shaking arms. She bled badly; shards of bone jutted from her legs, and her pale shoulders were dark with bruises. The human rolled slightly and I saw the great tear in her side; by the blood loss, I knew she could not be long for the world. Her green visor had broken, eye cut or blinded with blood, I could not tell. But not fully blinded, for as I stepped forward, she looked at me.”
General Yarak blinked down at Cinquefoil. “And do you know what she did?” His grandfatherly tone was too warm for Sill.
The earth pony stared back emptily. “I don’t.” He was soaked and shaking and cold. His skin strangled him. His head hurt as it fought against itself. Cinquefoil kept his breathing slow and light to ease the pain in his chest. It was a struggle, for the wind bade to steal every breath. He needed rest. Just a bit of warmth, a minute of silence to put his head together. That was all he needed. That was all.
Yarak and the gale blew on, relentless.
“Why, without a thought she reached into her quiver! Out she pulled an arrow, steel shaft and iron head, just as the unicorns said. Orange pegasus feathers flared at the end. It shook as she struggled to aim.” Yarak’s wings clapped as he pawed the rocks. “I could not understand it. The fight was lost. Her comrade was dead. In her current position, the bolt would just bounce off my chest plate, even if she could manage the shot. Yet, I saw no hatred in her eye. Resolve and sorrow, yes. But no hatred.
“Fallen griffons did not act this way. Ponies did not act this way. Dragons did not behave this way. There was no honor lost in her death and nothing more to gain. I wanted to understand, so I lowered my blades and I asked, ‘Why do you persist?’
“In an accent I could not place, she said to me, ‘I can still hold my bow’. Never had I felt so honored, nor found an opponent so worthy.”
Cinquefoil squirmed. Yarak stared after him in the anxious, eager way of hounds at the hunting horn.
The earth pony looked away. His eyes settled on a bald patch near his fetlock. It was marked with a strange pattern. As if it had been bitten. But it looked nothing like the scars left by a dog or snake. The teeth that left this weren’t sharp. Cinquefoil’s mouth went dry.
“It was a month before my wings healed. Grounded miles from anypony, I rested deep in thought. If there was one contradiction creature in league with the griffons, there must be others. Griffonic forces clashed with my tribe before, but never had they reached so far beyond their borders or hit so hard. Nopony but I had seen their secret weapon and lived. I lay in the lichen and remembered the city of Hoofshire bright in orange flames and the air thick with ash. I recalled Sanguine Song’s bright laugh as we touched noses and red feathers under my chin. I thought of the Pegasus Empire, hungry and spent from an eight-year war. My wing mended and I flew north to seek the White Roc.”
The Mustangian pricked his ears at the sound of sand falling on sand. Carefully, slowly, he eyed the mass of still clouds above him and shuddered. He did not think they were clouds at all.
Yarak followed his gaze. “He was smaller then.”
Cinquefoil gulped. Despite his discomfort, he had to ask. “What is the Roc?”
The general lifted an eyebrow as if the answer was obvious. “The White Roc is the White Roc. Element of the sky, given feathers and form. He was not hard to find. For those that seek him, he never is. He peered from his nest and considered me: a stallion just past the prime of his life that flew to the top of the world and looked in his eyes without flinching. He asked me what I wanted.”
“I didn’t think the Roc could speak,” said Cinquefoil.
“He cannot,” Yarak said. “But we understand each other well enough. I told him I wanted to end the war. That I wanted to ensure my brothers and sisters did not die without cause. The White Roc blinked and waited. He knew before I knew that was not all I wanted.
“So I sat and thought. I told him: ‘Another. Another contradiction creature. Another and another and another until I have all there are. Until I am beaten and sent home’ I did not fully know why I wanted them. I did not know what I would do once I had them. But neither of us cared about that. The Roc agreed.”
Cinquefoil huddled his neck in his shoulders as he curled to get warm. His hooves were numb. “Why? What did it have to gain?”
“You asked of me what the White Roc eats.” Yarak spread his wings and indicated the long shining scar that ran from barrel to throat, straight across the ribcage. “Hearts. He does not need many. Just one. It beats now in the depth of the Roc’s gizzard. So long as the bargain is unsettled, it beats still.
“The war was over in four days. One for the griffon emperor and his elite guard. Three to gather the humans in his territories. The first catch was the hardest. I did not yet know how to hunt or corral and humans are a tricky catch.” Yarak’s wings rose like a plume of smoke. “Oh! But what a catch it was. For the time, I was satisfied. I returned home.”
The Mustangian pricked his left ear, though the wind still hurt him. But he had never before met anyone who left their home and managed to return. He had come to believe that like carrying water in a sieve or weaving a rope of ashes, the task was impossible. But if Yarak could do it, anypony could. Anybody could. Cinquefoil lifted his right ear and gritted his teeth as the wind hissed and bit.
The old cob’s wings drew back in to drape limp at the shoulder. The color in his fur sank, drowned in grey. His body slumped with his frown. He waited a moment before speaking again. “My brothers and sisters did not approve. They did not understand. In the rubble of the war, the focus was reconstruction, to tend to their relics and rainclouds. I could find no comfort there. I was hungry and I was frustrated. The war was over. I’d naught left to do but retire. Or tutor foals. My efforts were praised, of course. But when I spoke to them, it was not as it was before.”
Cinquefoil lowered his ears again. He knew two things: he was wide awake and pegasi were poor liars. Never had he been more frightened for himself. Too soft even for himself to hear, he said, “Your home was not your home.”
“They seemed… almost afraid of me. The pegasus frowned and looked back at Cinquefoil. The youth in his eyes shriveled into dust. “I, their own brother. An older, keener brother than the one that left them, but their brother still. They were unsurprised when I left, though Free Fall was sorry to have it so. Of course I left. How can anypony rest behind their walls, knowing what lies beyond them? Home was not enough.”
The general’s snort clouded in the air. “A permanent nap in the clouds from illness or age. What sort of death is that for a pegasus? No. We end as the day ends: cast in red.” In an instant his face snapped back into hard lines and sharp creases. Yarak was himself again.
Cinquefoil lay his head on his hooves with a tired, relieved sigh. The pressure in his chest finally loosed. One foot on his neck, not four. He felt well enough to stand again, though his legs still felt a little rubbery.
Yarak absently pawed at Sill. He peered downward as long ropes of cloud piled at the cave mouth until there was nothing more to see than cumulus on cumulus hugging the edge of a mountain. The shrieking wind settled into a dull, malcontent breeze.
Not looking back at the earth pony, he said, “I flew with him or a long time. I do not know how long. Before Sunshower arrived but after my coat grizzled. I went with him until I could go no longer. The time spent watching what I fought to catch sapped the air from my wings. It is alright. I was still there for the greater catches: the travelers I caught in iron carriages speeding away by land, by sea, by air. Some I found socializing in the minotaurs’ labyrinth city or laboring in diamond dogs mines or studying potions with zebras in the hotlands. I enjoyed the taking of a great cluster kept by a dragon in the far west.”
Yarak twitched an ear in thought. “Or the humans kept the dragon… the difference was hard to tell. And I remember others. Some fought. Some ran. Some did both or neither. I purchased a few, bargained for a couple of them. One way or another, I gathered and kept them all. ”
General Yarak peered over his shoulder. The glint in his eye settled on Cinquefoil as a dagger settles upon a neck. “All but the one that walked to my doorstep.”
Cinquefoil folded his ears and took a step back. The muscles tensed to break and run. He took another step, stumbling and jerking back his hoof when it met empty air.
He glanced back at Yarak. The old shoulders braced, hooves set to spring, wings splayed as if still bladed. He’d seen Sunshower take the same position just before she ran off the feral hounds. But Cinquefoil was no snarling predator, no fierce combatant, no mythical creature. He was only himself, a little brown pony alone on the mountain, feeling ill and wanting for home. Why was the general looking at him this way?
“Sir. Sir, truly, I want nothing of you and I’ve no—”
“Don’t.”
Yarak’s ears snapped against his skull. He reared and crashed, brown water splashing at his fetlocks. “Don’t you dare.” His eyes were wide and shaking, full of frustration and doubt and waiting for something, though Cinquefoil did not know what. It was a look the earth pony knew well. Star Swirl once had it.
“I know the lie that crouches upon your tongue.” The general stood at full height, the earth pony in the shadow of wings spread to strike. “I asked you once not to taunt me.”
“I’ve been nothing but honest with you.” Cinquefoil shook his head. The fog built again, pressing against his skull until he felt the shape of his eyes. “I-I don’t know what else you want me to say. I don’t know what you want of me!” He stared up wide-eyed, fearing what would happen in the time it took to blink. What he would see when he closed his eyes.
Yarak’s wings snapped shut. He sniffed and glowered at the little pony cowering in the shadow of Sill. His neck creaked as he tilted it to look at the dandelion on Cinquefoil’s flank. He swished his thin tail, creased his brow, and looked the pony over again. “Your stance has changed”, he said. “And your eyes—no. I am not mistaken.” The grey cob rumbled in his throat and swung his head away. “I am not.”
If Yarak said any more, Cinquefoil did not hear, and he did not see when he left. The grumble of oncoming thunder was the cavernous stomach of the manticore; the towering shadow of the Caulkins were skeletons of steel and walls of brick wasting away, wearing down and down and down where white touched them; the obsidian digging into his hoof were thorns, vicious and dark, rimmed with red. The breeze rang with the song of a seapony, far away and very sweet and worse than all the terrors put together.
Somewhere someone told him, “Come away.”
Cinquefoil did not catch his breath until he felt something soft on his shoulder.
Star Swirl nudged again with his muzzle. “Come away and be still. We should head back. ‘Tis a thunderstorm coming and Sunshower told me it brings hail.”
“Oh. I...I, uh. Did…” Cinquefoil took a deep, tremored breath and ran his hooves through his mane. He remembered he was soaked to the skin and shivered. “Did you ask her about the caves?”
“I found her as she was leaving. She’d no objections, but I think that was just because she was in a rush. Ha, but an agreement is an agreement, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“Nevermind it, let’s away to Topsoil’s quickly. ‘Tis a colossal storm, I hear, and my footing’s not as sure as yours.” The unicorn stood and waited for Cinquefoil to move on ahead.
Star Swirl peered over the edge of the mountain, stroking his drippy beard. “Not above nor below, far away and close, faring well and poorly, not above not below, but inside. I wonder how many…” He stepped back, frowning slightly. The stargazer blinked down the path he’d seen Yarak follow, where the rocks were smooth and crags along the sides bent to shelter a pony from the wind. He looked back to Cinquefoil, brown in the grey with no cloak to keep the rain from his back. Star Swirl sighed and trotted down to meet him.
As the two ponies passed Sill’s midpoint, Cinquefoil twitched his ears in the breeze and said, “Sconce.”
Star Swirl looked up. The clouds were so dark only the white of his eyes and the bright pink of his beard was clear. “Pardon?”
“My mother’s name. It was Sconce. I remembered while I was atop the mountain.”
“Ah.”
“I think I was right. You would have liked her. I don’t think she’d have cared much for you, though. She didn’t like strangers much. Star Swirl?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Sunshower is disappointed I didn’t show up today?”
“…I don’t know. I’m a poor judge of ponies. But I think she’d understand.”
Star Swirl’s cape flapped as the wind grew colder. As the dim embers of light from Topsoil’s house came into view he asked, “Cinquefoil?”
“Yes?”
“Did you remember anything else?”
Cinquefoil blinked back at him in silence. He leaned against the unicorn for warmth, tired and missing the sun.
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Well we knew the guy was crazy. This just shows how crazy he is.
Oh great. He's having an identity crisis. So much for completing the quest.
Yet another chapter, filled with such description and vocabulary. Marvelous work you have done here, sir. I've been soaking up every word since the first chapter.
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Well hello there, my favorite song from the movie! How are you today?
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No, he's very sane. Broken, but sane.
Its all in the metaphysics. We are what we are not, and change things in passing. We changed him, and as a result he was made into what he became. he see truly, and doesn't bother with lies. If he seems mad it is because the listener is missing the context for understanding.
As always a sublimely sad work. It is good to finally have some history to apply to the pony who summoned the Roc.
Now we definately know he is not the last human maybe the last free human turned pony but not the last human
Now if he could only remember what he wanted to do in the first place
At first I was sad that he became a pony but more and more I find I like him as a pony as well
The question is now which form do I like better...
A Pony human hunter, heh.
I have never seen "The Last Unicorn." Read about it, yes, come to understand the general plot, yes.
But I have never watched it. Except for one scene. This scene.
You did justice to the original work and your own story.
Well done.
Your way with words is beyond compare. Every time I see one of these new chapters I do a little happy dance haha. The wait is well worth it!
I really wish I could remember in more detail the origional story. I know Ive watched it, I know I have the book, and have read it. I wish I could remember.
If the General and Roc together are the equivalent of the Red Bull, he says he wants to sleep, be sent on his way, but Pegasi are placed on a cloud? or does he mean that only when his task is done, will the Roc finally consume him whole and his destiny will be complete?
What then of Babylon?
Aahhhh.... I love this story.
When I saw this got updated, I immediately decided that the bagel I was half-done eating was no longer top priority. Ima gonna eat that bagel now.
Honestly, this is my Third favorite story ever. As in, all books, not just from Fimfiction.
GOOD JOB AGAIN! Awaiting next update with extreame joy!
4022202 no, it's Luna. no offense, but it's kind of obvious.
Wonderful as always ... but now we seem to be getting close to the heart of the matter. And I swear I didn't even think about the pun until after I had written it.
Nitpicks:
Perhaps… though they’re not places ye don’t want t’go, they’re places ye need to go.
I think you'll find there are one too many negatives here.
I can’t speak for Sunshower’s feelings, but whatever they are shaped at her will, sir.
You may disagree, but I don't feel that "are" can pull double duty here. That is, unless Cinquefoil is simply tripping over the sentence; speakers aren't grammatically perfect, after all.
And I cannot, nor will not go unless I am sent in the proper way of a pegasus.
Double negative again. I believe either "and will not," or "nor will I," would do.
berry-red eyes at him at him.
Double trouble.
and yet another amazing chapter. makes me wonder if Cinquefoil will ever go back to being human or if he'll want to forever stay in his current form
Damn... good shit.... MOAR!!!!!
And now we have the term "Contradiction Creature" better defined. Apparently, the thing about humans that truly made them different wasn't their cleverness, or their machines, or their cities, or their magic (or lack thereof)...
But that they could decide who they were.
And that they could change their minds about that.
We are a scary race...
Wow, as he was talking about hunting humans, and the things he describes with humans living with the other creatures of the wold. I saw tribesmen of africa, monks of Shaolin temples, Greek and Germania imagery, and so much more. I take it the griffin was either being the mount to the human, or she was on some kind of glider or something. This makes me wonder, what started off as an obsession for the general, turned into something for more profound and disturbing at the same time for me. This all stems from something, and now that we know where it came from I want to know where it started from. I say this because this war that was happening between the Griffin kingdoms and unicorn kingdoms seems to have been the spark that set of the general, it makes me wonder what started this war between the two and how did the humans get involved. It makes me wonder who was the aggressor and who was the victim, the ironic wouldn't if it turns out that somebody a tact the Griffins because of the humans. If that's the case and they were defend themselves the irony here would be kind of thick. Not to mention that this has got me curious about certain events prior to this humans journey and the general's in fact.
God job with the imagery that you depicted, you have quite the imagination and creativity to bring about such contrast and wonder together in such a beautiful and disturbing picture. It all makes me wonder more and hunger for more of the history that went on, what took place, what has to place, and what will take place. Good job and keep this up, you did this part of the story better than the movie did, when you I've only seen the movie. I wonder if the book was better than the movie at least in this scene and if you match it or exceeded it, I'm guessing you may have exceeded the book.
Something is nagging at me though this chapter is as excellent as the rest... How could the human archer have ridden a flying Griffin? Wouldn't the griffins be affected by the humans' abilty to dispel magic and fallen from the sky like the pegasi?
4032170 Not if the griffin's wings were strong enough alone to actually fly without magic.
Exquisitely done as always. Even I know of the scene that led to this one, and you carried through on it masterfully. Eagerly looking forward to more.
Well this is definitely one of the best stories I've read in a long time. I love the descriptive nature of the writing, though it can drag on a little too long at times, and I love the fact that the story isn't as straight forward as it could be. I really am fascinated by the situation CinquefoilI(no idea how to pronounce it) has found himself in. On one hand he has finally found where the humans are, but now he's starting to find himself fitting into pony society. Not to mention things are getting serious between him and a beautiful pegasus. It would be a difficult situation to be for sure.
4032170 May be the bigger Wings let them actually fly?
Wow, my mind is numb trying to understand all that has been said in this chapter.
Great work though, cant wait for the next upload
I still think of the madness in the eyes of Yarak's human counterpart. He was creepy, but Yarak seems to actually want something other than to be the only one possessing a human. To be sure, he wants his own death, but I prefer dealing with this version.
I rather dislike how this story slowed to a complete creep until now but even then I bearly know how far this chapter made the story progress.
He had a chat with the old pegasus and we confirmed where they are but when will there be a chapter when something happens? Of a peculiar importance. When I. will the 3 discuss the info they have or when will cinq change his form or any of so and such. I know I'm being impatient but when I started reading this had a much faster pace and quicker change up until they all settled down on the mountain side to have bad dreams and fall in love. Ofcourse tho ill read on, the suspense is killing me
I'm still reading Yarak in Christopher Lee... rolling letters and all. its kind of fun
Well well well, once again amazing chapter and another chapter where our human now pony is now sinking deeper into his disguise. Reminds me of a line from my favorite book, The Name of The Wind by Patrick Rothfuss:
“You see, there’s a fundamental connection between seeming and being. Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see. We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be.” -Bast
I find that it fits just so perfectly with this portion of the story.
I have to say, I have trouble seeing Yarak as a pegasus. I keep imagining him as an old war veteran Griphon. It is slightly maddening
Ok. Holy Shit. This is probably the best story/fic I've ever read.
But, damn. English is not my mother tongue. And your vocabulary is so hardcore.
I just hope I understood everything correctly. Sometimes I am confused while reading this. (Sometimes I understand what it says but not what i means, so I have to read it again. But! That doesn't mean I want you to lower the standard you use)
Keep on the good work. I love it.
4022411
Indeed. As Pyrite hid miserably in a blanket of delusions of grandeur, striking out at anyone who came at him with the truth, Yarak is keenly aware of what he's done and what's become of him as a result. He knows much of what he's done isn't justifiable or even logical, and his obsession's cut him off from his fellow pegasi, a fate his fellows consider a fate worse than death. He's probably the sanest character in the story.
4026372
Well, any pegasus citizen that dies quietly at home (from age or illness) is gonna die in clouds, since it's where they live. When the task is complete, just the heart will be digested in full.
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Thank you muchly. I really had my work cut out for me this chapter. Haggard's speech is certainly one of the more memorable scenes in the text and ties with Molly's intro for the best scene in the film. Christopher Lee really knocks it out of the park.
4041504
I don't blame you, I had to make a concentrated effort not to do that myself. Reading the book, I don't necessarily hear Jeff Bridges in Lir or Mia Farrow in the Unicorn, Lee IS Haggard. Early on, I had to find another voice to imagine to make sure I didn't accidentally just rewrite Haggard all over again and make sure Yarak was his own character.
4028922
I actually have a healthy amount of backstory that covers in more detail rounding up the rest of the humans and the alliance with the griffons, but it was way too much to use in this chapter. That and Yarak would have no way of knowing most of that stuff. (I'm kind of fancying some sort of side-story collection to expend on it, and maybe also the other stuff that happened before and after this particular story. Or make a blog. Something.)
The short version I can share is those humans and griffons were already in alliance before the war started. It was not unlike how the ponies of Dream Valley had their own human allies long ago.
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Y'all got it. Griffons can fly on wing power alone, though carrying a human is still tough since humans are pretty heavy. That's why the mounted griffons are exceptionally strong to start with and the only humans that ride run light and small. Neither are heavily armored, which helps a bit. The real problem is a slower speed and the griffon can't land on clouds... or many other places besides the ground, really.
4041793
What a neat coincidence, I just started that book last week!
4054402
Really? I hope you enjoy the book. It's great!
I'd love to discuss it with you when you're finished.
4054402
Personally, I would love reading a collection of backstory short stories. (Short backstories? Back short stories?)
GAAAH! WHEN WILL HE REMEMBER!? WHY WONT LYRA, OR STAR SWIRL TALK TO HIM ABOUT ANY OF IT!? AAAAAAAAAAAH! URG! HE MUST BECOME WHAT HE ONCE WAS! TO COMPLETE HIS JOURNEY HE MUST! FOR THE FATE OF HUMANITY RESTS IN THIS.... HANDS? HOOVES? I don't know... I just really want the human back.
The narrator is lost. The text is unclear. The characters are real. The amnesia should begone.
I want to see how this ends.
I'm attached to this story.
Chinquefoil's amnesia bothers me.
Maybe someone should show him that Chekov's Gun that they still totally freakin' have. Or did it disappear?
I'm unsure what they're still doing here, in the Caulkins. I mean, sure, haven't gotten what they came for, but geez, look at what happened to all of them.
So... Yarak committed genocide... Just cuz? He didn't want humans around, or he didn't want anyone else to be able to associate with them, so made a deal with the devil (roc) and sealed away every human on the planet bar one. Roughly 7 billion of them if were drawing a parallel to reality here. Having difficulty matching sufficient motivation to action here.
God, what great use of language. I'm so seriously impressed by the marvel of your prose, it just flows and flows and speaks volumes without using any words whatsoever. It's pretty goddamn majestic.
4264397 By this point their were not that many humans left. Their was a war and then a plague.
This whole scenario with him forgetting himself is VERY interesting. I'm on the edge of my seat waiting to see if they do somethings g to help him remember, let him be happy in his ignorance with his new life, or simply leave it be.
me."
I'm starting to wonder if this piece isn't above my reading level, which is frightening to contemplate. c.c But the only other option is you made some poor choices in how much you obfuscated the meaning of just about everything going on here. I always feel like, for every detail revealed in this story, at least one is hidden from me.
But black leathers and a dragonfly mask? Were the griffins allied with a Kamen Rider or something? >.>
It is clear that Yarak is completely insane and he himself has no justification for continuing to imprison humans after the war was over. I doubt he actually knows what he really wants.
Seeing the core of Yarak's reasoning reflect Haggard's was good, and why this story's equivalent is still truly evil. (If you ever still considered those side-stories, I wouldn't mind reading them.) Also, I like laughing at the people who haven't seen the movie as I read the comments.
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He clearly doesn't know what he truly wants. He's an old soldier scarred by battles in which he had fought, so much so that the calm after the storm is alien to him.
The author did a great job in portraying his character. A war veteran desperate to find meaning once his purpose had been fulfilled, and the twisted conclusion finally dawning upon after he snapped out of it for just a minute.
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Oh, wow. What a chapter. You've left me at a loss for words.
It's been a while since I've felt such life and energy within a story. Truly incredible stuff.