SGT Jennings dropped into New Mombasa to take over a Covenant cruiser. When a lucky Anti-Aircraft shot takes away his ability to control his pod, he careens end-over-end into a slipspace portal, and emerges in Equestria.

Be warned, there is more cursing in the beginning then there will be later, due to an all-military environment in the beginning.

I like to think of the Company as an island of order and sanity in a sea of chaos, selfishness and irrationality. My fellow soldiers tell me I'm a damn foal, and an idealist, and I white-wash the mercenaries of the Black Company in ways that doesn't serve either the Company or them. But I've been given the role of Annalist, in the absence of anyone better-suited and properly lettered, so until they take the Annals away from me, I'm going to write them as I see fit. The Company has been my home since it forcefully recruited me from my unending apprenticeship, and I've seen more interesting medicine in the years since then than a hundred apothecaries, a dozen chirurgeons, or three other doctors with, pfft, "degrees". Most of it screaming for its mama and bleeding out on my surgery table.

They call me Sawbones, and this is the story of the last of the Black Companies.

This story is a sequel to The Masks We Wear

Flicker Nicker has joined the Rat Catcher's Guild of Canterlot, the unsung heroes that keep Equestria from the plague. Changes are upon the horizon as disease becomes an ever increasing threat, and new enemies lurk in the deep, dark places where the vermin hide.

But Flicker isn't too worried about creeping death, the appearance of new enemies, or the coming of new plagues, just so long as he can wear his mask—the mask makes the pony, after all.

An entry in the Weedverse.