Long ago, when Discord ruled Equestria in a state of chaos, a great Arena was set up in the vastly populated town of Canterlot. It is here rich nobles pay to see peasant colts, kidnapped in their sleep, fight for their lives and freedom.
Rye Harvest, a colt just fifteen summers old, is kidnapped and forced, by law of Emperor Discord, to fight in the Arena. It is in the Arena where physically disadvantaged young colts face massive beasts of the forests and to be used as live dummies for Champion Fighters. But Rye Harvest is part of the longbowponies under Righteous Fury, an old Equestrian Lord faithful to the overthrown princesses Celestia and Luna. Righteous Fury, who still held a good amount of territory, had imposed the "longbow and arms law", a law requiring small colts from the age of seven summers to train themselves with longbow and melee weapon, in order to raise a versatile army capable of defeating Discord and restoring power. How will Rye do in the Arena?
Rye leant over the railings, watching as yet another young colt was sent into the arena. He knew that green maned colt, for he had seen him in the schoolhouse. Lightweight, he was called. That colt had always skipped training. The manticore roared, signalling its victory over the previous fighter. Lightweight's knees visibly shook. He tightened his hooves around the axe, his soft and smooth hooves clamping the rough hickory handle tight.
"PLAY!" The portly fight arranger shouted, waving a blood-red flag.
Lightweight backed away from the manticore, holding the axe out as if to stop the massive beast from advancing. The manticore gave a low growl, causing Lightweight to emit a tiny whimper. The audience shouted for blood to be spilled.
The manticore pounced, knocking the axe out of Lightweight weak grasp. Lightweight's bone-chilling scream echoed throughout the Arena as the audience in the front row were spattered with Lightweight's blood. The savage beast had torn open Lightweight's gut, causing intestines to roll out like wriggling snakes from a poacher's net.
"THE MANTICORE WINS TWO BOUTS!" The fight arranger screamed, whirling his flag around his head so hard Rye thought he was going to take off. He lowered his tone. "Who now can best this brutish monster of the forests? Who will show us a GOOD fight, worthy of song and poetry? Clean up!" The audience booed as two burly guards, clad in black plate, kicked the gutted colt off the arena, into a trench where rotting corpses of other slain colts lay. Rye thought about the slain colts' parents, and shuddered at the sorrow they would feel.
"You're up next, yellow one," Two more guards placed hooves on Rye's wide shoulders, pulled long by vigorous archery, and firmly led him down into the armoury. "This round you will have no armour, hurry up and pick your weapons, yellow prick." One of the guards told him. Rye turned to look at the weapon rack. The bloody axe had been returned to its place, alongside swords, warhammers, and various polearms. It was an all-melee round. Shields hung on the opposite side of the rack. Rye perused the selection. 'A boar spear?' He asked himself. 'No,' he thought, the manticore would simply snap it into two. He settled eventually, on a longsword paired with a sturdy little shield the size of a wagon wheel.
"Next fighter to face this fearsome adversary would be RYE HARVEST, FROM PONYVILLE!" The fight arranger shouted whilst turning back to the audience. They cheered, wanting even more bloodshed.
Rye trotted into the arena, gripping shield and sword warily. He had attended every training session the town held, and he felt reasonably prepared. But the odds of a young colt against a monster seemed stacked against him. He rapped the sword blade against the iron rim of his shield for courage. The thick stench of the corpse-trench filled the Arena's fighting circle. He made ready, bracing his shield and holding his sword low, ready to stab.
"PLAY!"
The manticore charged, emitting a roar that seemed to make the world tremble. Rye stood nervous, cold sweat running off his yellow coat and black mane.
"Kill or be killed." He remembered what Sir Cuir's, Ponyville's Lord had said. Sir Cuir was liege lord of Ponyville, faithful to the overthrown princesses. He and Righteous Fury were the stallions who imposed the "Longbow and Arms law" more than twenty summers ago. All colts from seven summers old had to learn to draw the great yew bow, and master close-quarters fighting. It was hard work, but it was crucial if Discord was to be thrown off his ill-gotten throne. The training then kicked in.
Rye strode three steps forth, using the momentum to swing upward his shield. The limewood shield slammed into the manticore's face, causing it to reel back, stunned. Rye took the opportunity to swivel his shield away and deliver a slash, delivered with strength not only from his sword-hoof, but from the momentum of his swiveling hips as well. His first blow caused blood, black in the summer light, to ooze down the manticore's face. The audience were cheering now, craning their necks for a better view. The manticore shook its bleeding head, and this time received another blow, a thrust of Rye's sword. The tapered blade sank in deep, causing more blood to spurt out, and onto Rye, staining his yellow coat a bright crimson. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils. The manticore now roared, not in victory, but in agony, its teeth stained red by its own blood. The monster reared up, both paws going to the face, but Rye denied him the action, and with an almighty roar of his own, drove the sword between the fourth and fifth ribs of the manticore, the blade puncturing the hide and sliding into its heart. The manticore now froze, its feral eyes wide open and jaw hanging limply. It made a mewing sound, and fell forward, yanking the stuck sword from Rye's shaking hoof.
The audience went very quiet. It was the first time a colt had won. Unhappy nobles drew out their purses in very bad grace, for they had all betted on the manticore.
"THE COLT WINS! AN ARENA RECORD!" The arranger screamed whilst the same black plate-clad guards pulled the dead manticore carcass, and rolled it into the trench. The first non-colt corpse. Rye, eyes wide open in surprise, confusion, and battle weary tire, held up a hoof in victory. The congealing blood of the manticore glistened on his coat. The audience, acknowledged a good fight, though not in their favour, with ringing applause, drumming their hooves on the floor of the theater.
Back in the armoury, Rye slumped against the wall, watching as guards returned his bloodstained longsword and shield to the weapon rack.
"I actually won." Rye meekly said, brushing at the dried blood his coat. The smell of sweat and blood still lingered about him. "I actually won."
"Don't get too cocky, luck one," The guard turned from the weapon rack to glare daggers at Rye. "If you win, you will fight in the next bout, and the next, and so on until you're nothing but another corpse in the trench or until the arena closes for the evening."
The magically amplified shouts of the arranger sounded a murmur to Rye, who sat still in the armoury, unsure whether he would see the sunrise tomorrow or lie dead and eviscerated in the corpse-trench. Rye sat for what seemed like eternity til another guard marched in through the door, and tossed a jingling grey mass at Rye's hooves. Rye looked at the guard.
"Mail." The guard simply said, and strode back out.
Rye bent, curling his forehooves around the mail. It was heavy, as he had discovered a couple of years ago when he had trained in Ponyville. It was decent armour, capable of deflecting a full-force slash and withstand sword thrusts to a certain degree. He pulled the mail over his head, struggling as his mane caught in the heavy riveted metal links. He eventually gritted his teeth and slid the hauberk over his body. It sat on his shoulders, them bearing the full weight of the armour. That was the problem with mail. Uneven weight distribution. Some colts back in Ponyville had lengths of belt or rope tied around their waists to help bear the weight, but here in the arena he had no such luxury. On the floor lay too, a steel skullcap. He scooped up the skullcap and stuck it over his head, lacing up the leather straps quickly and expertly.
"Weapons." The armoury guard said flatly, gesturing to the rack of weapons. He leant on the wall with an elbow, looking bored.
The colt looked at the rack. Now that he had decent protection, he could do away with the shield.
The guard interrupted his train of thought, "Oh, and your next contender is Squire Snowball, a trained fighter and son of a Manehattan noblestallion. You're not going to stand a chance, peasant." The guard had spat out the last word in contempt.
Rye now knew his enemy. A rich fighter, most likely armoured in plate. Snowball most likely had no need for a shield as well. Rye looked upwards of the rack, eyes darting back and forth, looking for a weapon to use. His eyes rested on a weapon, held in place by two hooks. It was a pollax. Rye immediately snatched the polearm off its hooks. A pollax, a veteran stallion-at-arms had told him, was a very good weapon. The head, nay, the three heads on the business end balanced the weapon perfectly. An axe head, a hammer head on the other side, and at the top, a spear point. The pollax Rye held even had a second spear point at the bottom, just in case.
The twin doors to the arena magically opened, and out came Rye. Once again the smell of death and decay assaulted Rye. On the other side, stood a gleaming figure in armour shining like the overthrown sun. Snowball was armoured, from head to foot, in shining steel plate, inlaid with brass and ivory. In his right hoof he held, the icon of nobility, a hand-and-a-half sword, which he tried to intimidate Rye with by swinging it in arcs overhead and figure-eights. His armet shone, both helm and visor inlaid as well. Plumage sprouted from the top of the helm, dancing along with his movements. Rye, refusing to be intimidated by this noble, stood tall, trying to make himself look bigger. The audience laughed in scorn at the pathetic effort. Snowball finally stopped posturing and stuck his sword on the ground, turning his muzzle up at the peasant colt.
"PLAY!" The arranger yelled, dropping his flag by accident. He bent to retrieve it.
Rye and Snowball circled one another, looking for an opening. Snowball struck first, gracefully swinging the blade at Rye, who violently knocked it aside by pivoting his left hand and using the bottom. The sword clanged off the bottom langets. Snowball, using the momentum from the parry he had received, swung the sword back, missing only because Rye had danced back a step. He swung the pollax, which Snowball had contemptuously flicked aside with a well-executed parry. Snowball the feinted a stab, causing his opponent to swing the pollax downwards, and quickly retracted the sword and swung at Rye's right shoulder. The mail stopped the blow, but a dull throbbing pain now crept from Rye's shoulder, down the length of his arm and down to his hoof, weakening his hold on the pollax. Snowball now flipped his sword, holding the blade in his armoured hooves. He bent, hooking the pollax shaft in his crossguard and pushed down on the blade, the sword sending Rye's pollax spinning wildly out of his hooves, disarming Rye very shortly for the well-trained peasant colt had lunged forward, snatching the pollax out of the air and with one hoof, swung it at the squire before he could flip his sword back. Neither hammerhead or axe blade stuck the adversary, the flat of the axe blade slapping against Snowball. The young squire flinched.
Rye held the pollaxe with his left forehoof and punched with his right, his bow-given strength slightly denting the breastplate. Snowball, knocked back a few paces, used the length of the sword to swing sideways at Rye, the sword barely nicking the mail. He brought the sword back for another swing, causing Rye to attempt to dodge. He crossed legs by accident, pulling the joint of his right knee out of position. Rye let out a pained shout. Snowvball, sensing an opening, swung the sword again, with Rye barely just meeting it with a weak parry. The tip of the blade glinted dangerously just a hoof's breadth from Rye. He pushed the sword off and kicked with his injured right hoof, the action paining him much. Snowball, thrown slightly off balance by the kick, flailed his forehooves in an attempt to right himself.
Taking advantage of this, Rye righted the pollax and swung again, the hammerhead crashing into the breastplate, dislodging several shattered pieces of carved ivory and causing the brass and steel to bend in, knocking the breath out of the noblestallion's son. Now the squire was on his knees, one forehoof on the ground. Rye swung again, and this time Snowball brought up his sword to block, catching the axe blade upon his sword's own blade. The axe blade screeched, steel on steel, a shrill ugly sound, and hooked on the crossguards. Rye quickly pulled, disarming Snowball and sending the sword sliding through the sand, past Rye's hooves. It stopped a considerable distance a little ways from Rye. Snowball parried another blow from Rye with his own left vambrace, the axe blade cracking through the armour. The squire screamed. Blood now oozed out from the cracked armour piece, which fell apart at the hinges. The vambrace clattered off his forehoof, revealing a cut so deep it had bit into the bone. The squire was crying now, his face which looked even younger than Rye crumpled and tearing. He pulled off the gauntlet from his ruined arm and held it up high with his good one, indicating surrender. Rye tiredly held the pollax up with both hooves, his shoulder and knee throbbing with a renewed sharp pain.
"RYE WINS AGAIN!" The arranger had long retrieved his flag and now waved it about wildly. The audience, once again, irately drew out purses to pay. They had once again betted on the wrong fighter.
Rye staggered back into the armoury, limping badly from a dislocated joint. His right shoulder ached. He threw the pollaxe on the floor with a clatter and sank on the benches, giving a weary sigh. The guard loudly cleared his throat on purpose, startling Rye.
"Next up will be your last fight for the day. Sun is setting, if you haven't noticed." The guard's voice sounded different. It sounded.... older. Rye looked up. He recognised the black armor, gilded with brass. The guard however, stood much straighter than he previously did. His back now bent backward, like a...
Longbow.
"Did you need something, little pup?" Raised a forehoof in enquiry. He held his hoof up for a short time, giving Rye ample time to look. The unmistakable black tattoo of a sun, the cutiemark and standard of Her Highness, Ruler of Equestria, and by the grace of herself, Princess Celestia.
"L-loyalist?" The simple enquiry risked Rye his life, for those shown to be openly loyal were declared heretics, and hanged.
The guard turned his head, protected by a black barbute and nodded.
Grey Fletch, longbowpony and loyal subject to Celestia." The guard warmly smiled and pushed out his barrel chest further, proud to be a Loyalist.
"Rye Harvest!" Rye replied, and ducked as Grey tossed him a spear. The spear clattered on the stone floor, a little ways from the pollax.
"Your next opponent is an ogre. Discord's cronies apparently yanked that poor bastard from another realm. Those things can't dodge for a half-bit, so jab the spear at his stomach, and you should be fine." Rye nodded, and picked up the spear. It was almost a pike, its head scraping against the ceiling. It needed two hooves to hold level.
"Oh, and Rye?"
"Yes?"
"Where do you sleep?"
"Second bed from the left."
"Prisoners' barracks?"
"Yeah."
"Sleep well and early, for at midnight, something big will happen. Something to change our miserable lives here, you, me and the rest of them prisoners."
"Got it, Grey." Rye ended the conversation, and strode out, holding the spear diagonally.
"THE LAST FIGHT OF THE NIGHT! An ogre, captured from the land of Nirn and brought here to smash this young fighter! Who will win? PLAY!!" The announcer, nearly asleep, hastily formed his speech and initiated the bout.
The doors on the ogre's side opened, and out stamped a being, twelve hoofwidths tall. Its two heads snarled and it's four eyes focused on Rye, narrowing in bloodlust. It bared it teeth, and bellowed, a wordless cry in an attempt to intimidate. Rye flinched. He had never seen this creature before. five appendages sprouted from the end of each forehoof, the appendages curling around a mace. The gargantuan, monstrous creature held the mace in one forehoof, and thumped his wide chest with the other. Rye focused himself on the fight, taking the opening this dumb monster was giving to jab the spear at the its stomach, as Grey had advised. The broad, sharpened head of the spear sliced into the flesh, drawing first blood. The ogre roared in pain, took hold of the spearhead and tugged it out, the force pushing Rye back a few paces. Rye pulled with the spear, bringing the broadhead out of the monster's grasp and cutting its strange forehoof deep. The ogre roared, wringing the injured appendage. Black-red blood spattered onto the sand, glinting in the light setting sun. Despite Discord taking over, he had still raised and lowered the sun on time. Rye had often pondered this. The ogre clumsily swung with its mace, the spiked head missing Rye by a considerable margin. As the twoheaded monster sluggishly brought his mace back up, Rye lunged, his right backhoof sending a lance of pain up his entire leg, and shoved the spear into the stomach again. With his bow-given strength he gritted his teeth and shoved even more, until the head of the spear ruptured through the ogre's back.
The ogre stopped in mid-track, his four eyes on his two heads widening, his mouth, nay, mouths opening in an 'o'. The beast, nearly twice as tall as Rye, fell to its knees, and fell forth, yanking the spear shaft from Rye's hooves. They chafed.
"And a quick victory!" The announcer scarce had energy to shout now, his voice ragged and weary. "Rye Harvest, leave the arena now, and rest! You've earned it!"
And so back through the armoury, and into the barracks he staggered. Grey gave him a curt nod as he passed.
That night, as Rye eased into his bed, one side sagged. Pulling back the straw mattress, he realised the cuboid block of oak that served as part of the bedframe had been removed, and sloppily tied in its place was what Rye scarce dared to believe it was.
Unmistakenly, in the dark, it was a long stave of yew, nocked with horn at each end. Gasping with disbelief, Rye ran a calloused and chafed hoof along its smooth varnished belly, the beautiful bicolored wood gleaming dully in the moonlight. Rye had not seen this weapon in nearly a month. Rolled around the great yew stave was a slip of parchment. The colt snatched it up and read.
"A stave of yew, tied on with bowstring,
Bodkins and broadheads hidden under the bed.
At midnight you shouldn't be a-sleeping,
But escaping as the guards all lie dead."
Rye looked around. He saw the occupants of the room do the same as he had, looking at similar yew staves tied to their beds, picking up the parchments and reading. Some were already asleep, eyes closed and waiting,
Rye lay down on the itchy yellow straw and shut his eyes.
"FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!" A guard bellowed into the barracks, startling awake the sleeping child gladiators. They stirred and instinctively sat up. Rye did so too, looking at the guard.
"Some dumb mule has set the arena's cooking quarters on fire, and it's spreading fast! Get your flanks off the bed and move!" The guard cracked his whip at a nearby colt, whose pained yelp was cut short by the very same guard yanking him off the bed.
The other colts hastened, for fear of physical punishment.
The guard raised his whip again, ready to lash it at whichever unlucky colt he chose to torment-
The whip clattered to the floor, the guard's face now in a mask of shock and pain. He fell forward, bleeding from his neck, the blood, black in the dim light pooling around his dead body. Grey kicked the body aside, a blood dagger in hoof.
"Bows, bows!" He reminded the colts. "Your arrows are under the bed, two dozen each! Arm yourselves, and follow me. And hasten, for any more delay will be fatal."
Rye knelt and fumbled with the bowstring, pulling it free as the yew stave fell into his outstretched hoof. He dropped the bowstring at his side, slipping a hoof under the low bed for his arrows. They clattered noisily in the linen bag as he slung the arrows on. He then scooped up his bowstring, braced the yew stave against the stone brick wall and strung his bow, taking a moment to admire the weapon as he passed the long bow to his left hoof and straightened. He saw a fellow colt, Blackhoof Fletcher grab the helmet off the dead guard and stick it on his own head, grinning as he adjusted his mane below the oversized barbute. He slid the guard's sword out of the guard's sheath before leaving. Rye hurried to follow, the press of colts trying to leave via a small doorway was almost suffocating.
The forty-strong group ran down the hallways, not before a passing patrol spotted them.
"Loose, loose! Anypony that stands in our way shall be struck down!" Grey drew his own sword with his other hoof, raising it high above his head.
Several arrows shattered and snapped on the stone wall, missing the guard by less than a hoof's width. More than four weeks without training with the warbow had not eroded the skill of these colts. The guard froze in place, shocked at the prisoners fighting back. Three more arrows buried themselves at the guard's throat, while another four slapped into his shining black breastplate. A last arrow stabbed into his eye, creating a dent at the back of his barbute. The guard dropped his spear, hooves rising to his ravaged throat, the pain like liquid fire. He vomited, a torrent of bloody puke, and fell face first into his mess, dead. Grey and the colts stepped over him, another stooping to pick up his spear and rescuing any arrows good enough to be reused. An arrow was a skillfully made, expensive projectile, of steel and varnished ash, fletched with goose feathers bound with sinew or silk. Any worth rescuing were worth the time taken.
Grey then led them down countless flights of stairs, instructing four of the colts closest to him to keep an arrow nocked. When he bucked open the oak door his instruction was proved useful, as the four colts presented their bows quickly and drew, loosing three bodkins and a broadhead, all chosen at random, at a trio of black-clad guards. The broadhead, propelled by nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of the raw power of the yew stave, crumpled upon impact, denting the breastplate and flinging the guard onto his flank. Another bodkin ended him. His other two companions had been immediately struck down by the bodkins, sent with the skill and experience of nearly eight years. The arrows had punched cleanly through the steel plate at close range, either drilling into the heart of ripping through a lung. The bodkins were re collected, along with the two swords and war axe. Rye too, itched to shoot and loot for himself a melee weapon, and so jostled his way to the front.
"Hey Rye." Grey said.
"Hey yourself."
The forty colts-turned-longbowponies gathered in the courtyard, joined by two more barracks of colts, led by Loyalist guards, all wielding the same yew bows. Some too, had guards' weapons. One even leant on what Rye made out to be a Danepony axe.
"There are two thousand of you little pups interned here, Rye." Grey said. "And the commander of this arena's garrison has only put in four hundred of his men to patrol this building."
''Then we're gonna get out easy." Rye grinned.
"Only because you've all got these." Grey gestured at Rye's warbow.
"Aye, that's a relief."
The double doors of a building, on the other side of the courtyard, was thrown open. Black armor glinting in the light of their torches, the guards filed out, until there were three hundred over of the black-armored Discordians facing the hundred and sixty strong escapees.
"Well." Grey quietly murmured.
"What do we do?" Another colt asked.
"We're obviously outnumbered." His companion hissed at him.
"Well I do know that." The colt hissed back. His companion opened his mouth, as if to reply, his words drowned out by a great shout.
"Longbowponies of Celestia! We strive to restore power to its rightful leaders!" Another Loyalist was bellowing. "To do that, we end those who have overthrown them!" He thrust his war axe in the air.
"Slay them all! Slay these traitorous beasts in the name of Celestia!"
And so the long arrows flew, the bowstrings sounding like Sombra's heartstrings. Rye nocked another arrow and drew, the sense of familiarity crashing into him. The long yew bow, tillered well, bent in a perfect half circle and sprung back to its vague 'D' shape as another arrow left his hoof, empowered by a smooth release. The arrows, dense as a healthy colt's mane, descended and struck the massed guards with a incessant sounding of steel on steel. The guards, harassed of the volley of arrows drew their own weapons and gave a ragged shout.
"For Discord!"
But longbowponies, Grey thought, were not given twenty-four arrows for nothing. They would loose every single one of their missiles, until nearly four thousand arrows either stuck into the enemy or into the ground.
A second volley of arrows struck home as well, mostly glancing off armor at the extreme bow range. Several of the Discordians staggered backwards from the blunt smack of the arrow. And still they ran on, towards the Loyalist line.
"Save your arrows! Use them only at close range, but keep them nocked!" The Loyalist with the war axe walked up and down the back of his lines, shouting out his orders. "And when those black-armored bastards arrive," He raised a horn. "I will blow with this here horn, three short blasts! These three short blasts will bring in for them a nasty surprise!" He grinned. "Now nock your arrows, you damned longbowcolts, they're closing in fast!"
True enough, the Discordians had slung and sheathed their weapons, and were galloping toward the Loyalist line at the fastest speed they could muster. And these were trained stallions. Their black plate glinted quickly in the light of the torches as they bobbed up and down, kicking up dust and closing the distance quickly. The clatter of arrows ensured that the Loyalists were prepared.
"Any moment now." Grey turned back and muttered.
The archers visibly straightened, ready to draw, and then flinched as three deafening, deep, short blasts penetrated the chilling night air.
Rye turned, looking as a mass of grey mail and gilded armor leapt and clambered over the walls of the encampment, the mass drew weapons - battleaxes, spears, hunting bows and flails and maces, a vast variety of killing tools, and rushed with great fervour and a mighty yell that intensified as steel, iron, lead and wood clashed in a cacophony in clangs and thuds and splinters. The Discordians, visibly surprised, recovered with haste and retaliated.
"Go, go, go!" Grey yelled, waving his sword in the air. "Now, strike again!"
And, with great pride and ferocity, went forth the Loyalists.
Rye stepped forward, bringing his bow to the full draw and loosed, sending a bodkin skewering into the elbow of a Discordian. He bellowed in pain, but was silenced as one of the mysterious allies drove a mallet into his helmeted skull. Matted fur and brain matter exploded everywhere. The other archers drew too, and loosed at close range with vicious speed and efficiency, sending their arrows spearing into torsos, limbs and even the eye slits of Discordian barbutes and hounskulls. By the time the Loyalist infantry too, piled into the melee alongside the archers, it was clear the Discordians were surrounded.
above: "The Surrounding of The Discordians", done by a chronicler in ink and paper nearly three hundred years after the original battle.
"You'll make a fine rug, bastard!" One of the allies snarled, as he thrust his bearded head into the barbute of a Discordian helmet, stunning the warrior. The mailed fighter then shoved his adversary back, and plunged a sword into the badly dented helmet, the muscles in his exposed sword limb twisting and flexing as he yanked the bloodied sword out and kicked the dead Discordian out of his way. Rye managed to tear his gaze from the fighter and concentrated on emptying his quiver upon the hapless Discordians who had scarce space to even swing their weapons. There were less than thirty of them now, fighting to their deaths as the Loyalists and their skilled allies pressed even further inwards, surrounding them in lines up to ten stallions thick. The pool of defiant guards were lacerated, shredded to ribbons as they shrunk inwards from the victorious Loyalists. As the last adversary fell, a jagged fork of lightning ripped its blinding way through the pitch black of the night sky, and with the clap of thunder that followed, a deep. mighty bellowing voice shouted -
"Ponies," The voice reverberated through the air, rumbling through the ground and all the way up into the hearts of the victors. "In a bloody battle, you have slain those of your kind, and through this screen of blood and fighting, I have seen a need to aid you. Come seek me out, near the Tree of Life." A second clap of thunder signalled its departure.
