The Legends of Avalon

by Sunsette

Chapter 1: The Grey Rangers

"Move along now, the Wall is only a day away!" Shouted the leader of the raid party towards his troops. They have treaded upon the cold earth for hours now, never stopping; for the Direwolves and those damn Wildlings are always watching them, waiting to strike at the right moment. The many Ponies and Griffons among this party all wore heavy fur coats from the wolves and light leather armour underneath them. All of these ponies and griffons were hard and rough people, drinking countless jugs of mead and alcohol in one night.

Young Palven Nos Elwë, the youngest of the garrison being fifty himself (fifty is quite a young age in a time where most ponies would live up to 400 years old and Griffons even longer), shivered even after being coated with countless coats. He had joined the Grey Rangers a decade ago, yet the cold always gets to him, the harsh winter wind caressing his already frozen coat. The people on front of him were laughing and grumbling towards one another, discussing about the small errand the Captain-General—Jörb Gålid—had did a few moons ago, saying that he slayed a monstrous Direwolf—large creatures with strong paws and teeth as sharp as knives—on the way back to the wall.

A hoof punched his shoulder, causing him to jerked towards the side a bit. He looked up at his 'attacker' and puffed: It was that bastard, Ròtharíen the 'Mighty.' He had targeted Palven ever since the first day he was stationed on the Wall, tasked on keeping an eye on something that would never come. He would come up with lavish pranks and shout insults at him—most of them related towards his 'Mother' whom he have never met, for she and his father died during an accident in the roads near the damn Everfree forest. Some ponies say that they were mauled by the nearby Timberwolves, who would sometimes march out from the Everfree forest to get fresh meat for their younglings. Unfortunately, his parents were one of the many victims that have been taken away from the safety of the road towards the dangerous and dark forest of Everfree.

He glared at Rò coldly and snarled. "What to you want, Rò" He said alas, with venom on his voice. Rò laughed mockingly at him and just smiled smugly. "Don't want my favourite 'buddy' to die of frostbites, do I?" Although Rò was an imbecile and snobby, he can be incredibly charming. Probably because he was the King of Eobôr, Atùrias', favourite great grandson (or so he says). In court, he would often drool over the many ladies and mares that would visit the King and beg their thanks. Often times, he would go to the tavern and pick up some lads to hunt over some mares to fuck with. Nonetheless, the King one day ordered his ponies and Ròtharíen to the great Northern Wall to join the Grey Rangers.

"I am doing just fine, Rò, thank you very much!" He exclaimed, stomping over thick piles of snow with his hooves. Rò only sniggered before going back to his lads, tall and stupid most of them. Palven sighed and muttered: 'Damn fool' and 'Gods' under his breath and continued to walk along with the band.

"Open the gates!" The great gates of the Wall opened up for the warband—50 warriors strong, bringing booty from the nearby forest. It never stopped to amaze Palven: a true marvel of engineering, made by the ponies of Old. Jör looked upon his warriors and grunted, signalling them to go in without him. Palven walked in with the rest of the band into the wall, and the first thing he sees were soldiers, decked with Golden armour and long silver spears protruding from their backs, marching. They were among the finest troops the South can provide. They were the Visculis Knights, great warriors from the Principality of Udàin—a strong vassal below the Eobôr Empire—that would send shivers down a Dragon's spine.

His eyes were as wide as saucers as they marched onwards towards the many castles that dotted the Wall, those being: Castle Faith, Solaris Fortress, and the Unicorn Citadel, a citadel decked with the finest ballistas and trebuchets ever produced. "Scramble and share tales of your adventures, young las!" Shouted Jö, and soon the warband dispersed towards the nearby Tavern: Drunken Mare. Palven smiled with glee and trotted his way towards the Tavern, his hooves already covered with wet mud. He reached the tavern and creaked open the door, but the people that were in the tavern care nought of this disturbance of peace and continued to drink and sing great tales:

Palven shivered in thought of drinking blood—what is he, a Wildling? He shrunked back to his fur coat and snuck his way towards the corner of the tavern. There, a broad and old Griffon—probably in his middle ages—drank a jug of Whiskey, produced by a brilliant alcoholic, Bröm the Drunk. He drank his whiskey with pride and all the other younger ponies and griffons watched in awe as he finished the jug of whiskey in one take. Some ponies begin to clap their hooves and the Griffons just continued to watch him, eyes as wide as saucers and mouths gape opened. Palven chuckled and approached the old Griffon.

The Griffon eyed Palven with his sharp eagle eyes and laugh merrily. "Why, Palven Nos Elwë" He shouted gleefully, happy to see his old friend. "Long time no see. Say how long has it been: 5 years? A decade?" Palven laughed softly and shook his head. "No Uncle Jär, it's been three decades since we last saw each other. If I recall, I think the last time we saw each other was in Hoofshire, where you and my uncle talked about your past and how you were happy to see him again." The old Griffon smiled and nodded. "He was a fine lad back in those days, always cheering up the squad whenever we're feeling down. Hell, I even think he's related to that old bard, Pinkie Pie." Palven listened on to his stories—which always intrigue him, since he was the type of pony with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, always wanting to learn more. Thus, his uncle had bought him countless books ranging from ancient history, to fables and legends.

Palven thought deeply, for something has been troubling his mind for the past few months; a question, a question that must be answered by a true veteran. He looked up at the old Griffon and asked: "Can stallions be brave, even if they're afraid?" Jär stopped what he was doing previously—that being drinking a fine jug of whiskey—and pondered. He sighed, a grim look over his previously happy and old face. "That is the only time a Stallion can be brave, my dear Palven."

In the middle of the room, Rò was arguing among his friends about something rather major (For them at least). "All I'm saying is, that the old Monarchs might still be around!"

His griffon friend spat out his drink and laughed. "They!? The damn Celestial Monarchs? They're long gone, Rò. The old tales said so themselves!" His voice was rough and course, just like any other Griffon. Rò slapped his face with his hooves and groaned rather loudly. "Yeah, and it also says that they were immortal. They're Alicorns, you imbecile!"

"Says the pony that once had sex with a cow! You were so high on weed, you didn't knew who you were fucking!"

"That's it!" Rò climbed over the table and punched the griffon in the beak, staggering him. He fell back to his chair, as it topple backwards. Everyone stopped at stared at the duo, gasping. Some of the ponies begin to crack their necks in anticipation; for they knew what comes next. The griffon stood up and scratch Rò in the chest with his sharp talons, his chest now coated with blood. He groaned and slammed a wooden chair at the Griffon's head, knocking him out.

A mule stood up and shouted: "Tavern fight!" The many ponies, griffons, mules, and zebras ran towards each other, their personal weapon in their hooves and talons. They clashed one another, and soon the brawl was at its peak. Blood was everywhere, and dozens of unconscious colts were on the wooden planks of the tavern; and poor Palven crawled his way out from the Tavern—without Jär of course, for he was too busy knocking some bastards off their feet. He opened the door and ran as fast as he could, never looking back.

Jörb Gålid entered the tavern and shouted loudly at them. All of them stopped their fighting and shared worried glances with each other, for the Captain-General wasn't all that pleased whenever he see's his troops fighting amongst each other. He picked up a Griffon by his neck and shouted at his face: "By Celestia, what the fuck happened!?" He asked, but the Griffon was too afraid and dizzy to reply to him. Jär approached to Jörb and patted his shoulders with his talons. "That fool," He pointed at Rò, "started the whole fight, arguing about the 'Old Monarchs' and how they could still be around." Jörb laughed mockingly, wiping away a single tear from his eye.

He sighed happily, smiling at Jär. "That bastard's a fool, old Griffon. The monarchs are long dead, and that's that!" He patted Jär in the shoulder with his stubby hooves, and walked out from the tavern. Jär glared coldly at them, nodding. And soon the many soldiers in the tavern returned to their previous business—that being drinking merrily with their lads, of course.

Palven stood on top of the wall, watching the stars in the night sky twinkle brightly. He had read from a book that each of these stars were created by the gods that made Avalon, and tasked these stars to guide their children towards the right path of salvation. Of course, that was false—well to those who read ancient books—for each one of these stars were suns, not some guardian that watched over them.

He sighed, content on living in the north. The snow fell on his shoulder, covering it with white puffy snow for him to play—or blow—around with. A bell sound throughout the wall, signalling the guards to go back to the common hall to sleep. He peaked over the wall and smiled, before retreating back to the common wall.

He opened his eyes once again, and stared at the ceiling. He woke up to the sound of his roommate snoring loudly, as he shift around the bed—that was another reason. He rubbed his eyes and yawned softly, not wanting to wake up his roommates. He left the room and trotted towards the mess hall. As he walked, his hooves created loud creaks on the withering wooden board, for it has been there for countless centuries.

For a while, there was peace. Palven sat alone over the corner of the room, eating a meal of hay, a common delicacy for many ponies, zebras, and donkeys. He mused to himself by humming a song that he has heard a few weeks back, what a beautiful song it is. He finished his meal and lay the plate on a table.

He walked out from the mess hall, his belly full with hay. He was content with the things he have, and smiled proudly as he walked out the common hall and towards the wall. And at that moment, something popped up in his head: "I wonder what kingly deeds, Atùias, is he doing right now?"

In the grand castle of Windhelm, an old pony—long grey beard and bushy eyebrows—sat pridefully on top of his iron-throne, made out of hundreds of swords all clumped together to make one giant iron-throne. Although it was uncomfortable, it can be easily solved by a comfy pillow and a long—and thick—blanket below the sitter. On front of the old pony was a young Zebra, sharing the king about his noble deeds and how he was worthy to take his daughter, Evening Star, as his bride. The king only puffed, and ordered his troops to escort this 'noble' zebra out from his court.

As his troops drag him along the stone floor, he shouted at the guards, saying that they were not worthy. "Mark my words, King Atùrias: You won't last a day when my army marched upon your gates!" The king snickered, and commented how much of a fool he would be to attack the most heavily defended city in the south. The zebra seemed offended and tried to charge towards the king, only to be stopped by the hooves on his shoulders. He screamed loudly, only to be muffled by the large golden gates that closed on front of him.

The king ran his hooves and stroke his long grey beard, deep in thought. His wife, Lady Viamìr, approached him and patted his shoulders. He looked up at his lovely wife, her golden mane reaching down to his hind-legs, her kind smile shining at him. He sighed happily and pecked her lips. "Just another day in court, love, that's all." Not happy with his answer, she grabbed him by the cheeks and stared at him. She whispered to him: "Maybe we should sail towards the Pniä Republic; I heard that the waters are at its warmest this time of the year." He thought about the idea of a vacation a few moons ago, but dismissed the thought after a Dragon attacked the major port city of Coltvania, near the strait of Mare's Deep, a thin bridge of land that connects the North with the South.

He sighed sadly and hung his head low. "I can't my love, the threat of the Dragons returning is far too great. I can't just dismiss it." He told her, and she smiled sadly. "It's alright dear. But promise me one thing: we will run towards the shimmering sunset one day and we will stay there for the rest of our lives." That was the promise they gave to each other when they were married; a promise they would hold until the end of time. He grabbed her hooves and kissed her passionately. He stared at her blue eyes, smiling. "We made that promise to each other for three hundred years, and I intend to fulfill it for you, my love." They hugged each other, before she parted off to their six kids: three girls and three boys.

His eldest child, Arachîr, approached to him and bowed politely. "How's your day, Father? I heard that Zebra shouting insults at you across the castle." He asked kindly, patting his back. "It's the Queen's bastard son, Faèdin. He thought it could barge into my castle and demanded the king of the Eobôr empire to give up his eldest daughter—who is only 16, just to clear it out." He replied, and Arachîr was smiling back at him. He noticed a scroll in the peripheral of his vision and levitated the scroll from across the room. Ever since the Great Battle, the Unicorns have been on a decline, as the magic that surrounded Avalon disappeared with the Dark Lord. For thousands of years, those who were born as a Unicorn had two options: Become the king of a new kingdom, or be apart of the Council of Magic with some of the most talented sorcerers, magicians, and warlocks, the Nine Kingdoms have to offer.

He read the scroll rather quickly, for as an apprentice of a Zebra apprentice, he had to read countless books and tomes to understand the concept of potion-brewing and casting. He gave his father a grim look, and sighed. "The Principality of Udàin has been attacked by a large dragon, and would no longer give troops to the alliance," He read out loud, and the king cringed. "And addition to that: the Akmârians (Changelings) have declared war against the Vale of Bòn-Gålid and have form a blockade around the vale, intending to starve them out to submission. We are still gaining an additional fifty thousand gold-bits annually, thanks to the trade between the Pniä Republic and the Minathràwl Kingdoms—though the Akmâr have ceased trade with us for some time now." Arachîr continued, and he soon noticed that his father seemed to be sad and frustrated at the same time. He patted his back and give him a peck on the forehead. "There, there, Father. Dismiss those troubling thoughts from your head. Those thoughts will only frustrate you more." The king gave out a heavy sigh and hung his head low.

He stared at Arachîr with his old eyes, and smiled sadly. "I'm old, Arachîr. I can't do warring or throw lavish parties in the name of honour anymore. Oh, Arachîr, what would I do without you" He lay his head on Arachîr's shoulder, letting out the tears he had build up for the past few minutes. The unicorn patted his shoulders and smiled at him. "It's alright, Father. We all grow old eventually. But look on the bright side: you rebuilt the empire to its former glory, you secured countless trade agreements and alliances with the neighbours that despised us in the past, and the people of the empire will remember your history: A simple farmer to a King of an empire. Imagine all the foals wanting to grow up like you, Father." He said assuringly, making his sad father smile proudly. He fixed his posture and hugged his son tightly, sighing happily. He parted from the hug and stared at him in the eyes. "Thank you, my dear son. The gods gave me the best son a pony could have." Arachîr hugged his father again, smiling with glee.

"Thank you, father." He parted from his hug and walked towards the porch. There, he saw the golden sun shimmering upon the white city of Windhelm, a city built in the ashes of Canterlot. Over the years, the terrain of has changed drastically, with the valley down Canterlot now filled with salty water. The sea of the Endless. In the distance, he could see a golden statue of the god, Artemis—the father of Celestia and Luna, and the creator of the sun—looking down on the denizens of Windhelm. The great port of Windhelm was busy, shipping in and off luxuries such as fur coats from the north and Dorwinion wine from the Minathràwl Kingdoms in the far south of Vynarîa. He sighed happily, and trotted away from the porch, leaving behind the grand city of Windhelm behind his back.

Palven stood proudly on top of the wall, the calm winter breeze blowing against his coat. It had been two weeks since the bar fight, and everything seems to be going just fine—except for Rò and his Griffon friend of course. A friendly hoof patted him on the back. He turned around to see the kind smile of Thomas, a young lad in the age of sixty two. They met each other one day on top of the wall, where they were both stationed on the same day. They talked for a while and found out that they have much in common—though he was undoubtedly stronger than Palven, able to lift dozens of swords and hammers on his back. "How 'ou doin', Palven? Dazzin' or Shimmerin'?" He asked him nicely, his long hair covering much of his round brown eyes. "I'm doing just fine, Thomas. The weather is nice up here, not to cold and not to hot, and with you around my day just got a bit better." He replied, a smile on his previously bored face. They both laugh merrily and sighed. They stared at each other before Thomas patted him in the back. "Don't stare off the wall for too long, young Palven. Might give 'ou the shivers!" He shouted with his thick accent, a common accent in his village of Edinmare. Palven smiled at him and returned to his duties: staring at the...unknown, the great tundra of the North. He had heard tales of that land, telling him that there were large beasts made out of iron and rock lurking in the heavy mist, looking—and sniffing—out for any fair meat.

He eyed the tundra with great curiosity before going back to his duties.

Night fell on the north and the cold harsh wind returned to haunt the hearts of ponies and other beings alike. The mares from the nearby village of Hjärib, ran towards the mist, their hooves leaving imprints on the thick piles of snow that has already been piling up. Palven shivered under his fur coat, as he sat on one of the stools on top of the Wall. The cold up on the wall was even worse, thanks to its high altitude and how close the clouds seemed to be.

A snow flake fell on top of Palven's muzzle, causing him to sneeze. He continued to shivered, his teeth clanking to one another. Suddenly, a bell rang all across the wall, waking up the sleepy troops and ordering them to get out from their beds. All of them put on their armour and trotted down below, while others stood on top of the wall, waiting for further orders. From the distance, they could hear something approaching the wall. The sound of wood creaking. The troops drew out their swords, axes, and spears in fright, clenching onto their weapons tightly.

In the distance, they could hear a warcry. "Let those dogs face the wrath of the Narsìl ponies!" Soon, dozens—if not hundreds—of ladders landed on the wall, spilling out ponies cladded in black armour with crude—yet sharp—swords, hurling towards the rangers. Some of them gulped loudly, while others prepared for battle. Palven drew out his bow and loaded it with Black Arrows, forged in the fires of the nearby forgeries. The attackers charged towards them, their shields raised to protect them from the hail of arrows that were befalling on them. The Grey Rangers stepped back a few steps, and soon the Narsìl ponies were upon them.

Swords were clashing with one another, and loud warcries and insults were sent hurling towards the other ponies. A fat mule was running towards them, shouting: "The Wildlings are here—" An arrow whistled across the air and landed upon its target: The mule's fat and ugly head. And from the mist, were ponies—and diamond dogs—with nasty teeth and hard faces, covered with scars and tattoos. "Az' fàr!!" Shouted one of the Widlings in a language none of the Grey Rangers could understand. The mist cleared away, showing dozens of Wildlings charging at them, their weapons and tongues out for blood. Some of the Grey Rangers begin to run, only to fall to their deaths. Soon, the Wildings clashed the Grey Rangers with their dangerous weapons at their hooves. Some of the Wildlings leaped into the air and stuck their sharp and deadly teeth into the flesh of the Grey Rangers, eating their red flesh.

Palven send his quivering arrow towards a large and muscular diamond dog, the arrow whistling past his fellow lads and the formidable Narsìl and Wildlings. A loud crack echoed throughout the wall, and soon the lively beast came falling down on his comrades. An uproarious cheer came from the Rangers and soon they fought their attackers with great tenacity, sending savage blows with their heavy swords and axes. They climbed over the pile of bodies on the ground and pushed against the enemy, far more harder than ever. Some of them began to slip off the wall and fell to their deaths. Then silence. It permeated the Rangers as they watch their helpless foe fall to their deaths. Some began to laugh, others muttered prayers to Artemis under their breath. Nonetheless, the Wall is devoid of any Narsìl or Wildlings...for a time.

A horn echoed across the mountains, a loud and ancient horn: The horn of the Ancients, created specifically for Unicorn Citadel. The Citadel is under siege. A zebra put on his golden helmet, dented and covered with blood, and barked out orders for the Rangers: 3/4 of the Rangers on front of him to aid the garrison, and the other quarter to warn the south. The Zebra pointed a hoof at Palven, and asked him to join the other quarter. He complied of course and ran towards the lift.

"Women and Children first!" Shouted a Ranger, as he helped the nearby villages to evacuate to the nearby forest: Everfree, that dark and wretched place. Dozens of ponies flocked towards the gate, running and stomping their heavy hooves upon the ground. Apples and hay fell out from their baskets and they were smashed—or stuck unto the ground—from the stampede of hooves. The Ranger was forced to move back a few steps to let the flow continue. A fireball smashed against the Wall, causing the ground to tremble. He stared at the wall: a massive stone chunk falling towards the tavern. He screamed silently, as the boulder smashed against the tavern, sending splinters everywhere.

The ground began to shake again, and then it stops. There it is again; and deep in his guts, he knew that trouble is coming. Then the wall came tumbling down to the ground, sending huge chunks of rock unto the many buildings that surrounded the wall. Ponies and Griffons ran out from their homes, shops, and taverns and fled towards the forest. Dust was everywhere, as the winter breeze blow harshly against the ponies, the mist covering much of the land below. The Ranger coughed violently as he wave his hooves in the air, clearing away the dust on his face.

In the midst of chaos, a loud and scruffy voice shouted in the distance: "DEATH!!!" At this point, all the citizens have been evacuated to the forest, giving them time to catch their breaths. They raised their weapons into the air and rushed into battle. But what they didn't know, was the Ice Dragon that sent it's chilly breath towards the Rangers, freezing them. Unfortunately, our Ranger was also frozen along with his lads. A shadow blocked the light over him, and the last thing he knew, was a claw smashing unto his frozen figure.

Fear. Fear overtook Palven, as he run away from the battle. He had dropped his gear—except for his trusty bow and arrow of course—and rushed towards the forest, caring nought for the battle that was all over him. Suddenly, a fist punched his face, staggering him back a few steps. He shake his head and focused on his attacker: A large and formidable Diamond Dog. He drew out his bow and pulled the string, the bow shaking with him. The Diamond Dog smiled smugly and sniggered. He raised his fist high up into the air, but Palven released his arrow and sent it flying unto the Griffon's fist. It pierced through his hand and the Dog shrieked in pain. He let out a mighty roar and charged at Palven, only to be block by a mighty shield blocking his savage blow against Palven. He looked up to his saviour and gasped: It was Rò, cladded in leather armour and fur coats, his black mane flowing along with the air. Rò looked down at Palven and uttered one thing: "Run." With that, Palven got up unto his hooves and ran as fast as he could.

Jär approached Rò, his armour shining glamorously in the dark. He nodded at Rò and they both drew out their weapons. Rò turned to face the old Griffin and smiled sadly at him. "I'm sorry, for all the bad things I've did to you and Palven." Jär only smiled back and put his forehead against his, and soon they were both clashing their sword against the Dog's mighty and large hammer.

Palven ran as fast as his hooves can go. He could feel snow dropping down to the ground, soft and puffy as usual. He slowed down and panted heavily. He had ran for hours, and the sun was starting to dawn. He looked to his back and saw black smokes coming from the Wall, Dragons flying up in the air. He sighed sadly, as he made his way deeper into the forest.

He lay down his weapons and what little armour he has onto the ground, as he slowly erected a tent. He stifled a loud yawn and rubbed his eyes, heavy black bags under it. He gathered a batch of logs and threw it onto the ground, and lit the logs on fire with his clever wits. He chuckled softly and lay under his make-shift tent, his eyes finally closing for the day, as the sun send it's rays upon his sleeping figure.