Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. — Dylan Thomas
A patch of air above a barren, wind-swept section of cold, northern heath shimmered for a moment as the outline of a lone figure resolved. A second later a light-brown pony with a scruffy, gray-streaked mane and tail stood where the shimmer had been, his black-trimmed, white cloak whipping in the wind.
He slowly opened his eyes and looked down at his forelegs, then back over his shoulder at his flanks, cloak and elegant, curved sword tied to his left hip. He furrowed his brow and gazed around the emptiness surrounding him, noting that he was hovering slightly off the ground. He shook his head and settled onto the frozen turf with a soft "crunch."
“So now what?”
Suddenly he tipped his head to one side as if listening to a far-off voice. He began to walk—unsteadily at first, glaring down at his hooves—in the direction of some undefined call or beacon or summons. A few minutes later he crested a low ridge and saw another pony lying badly injured among the cold, rain-slicked stones at the bottom of a gorge.
The cloaked pony slowly approached the injured one, and could tell she would not last much longer. He watched as the horn projecting from her pale-blue forehead began to glow a faint gold. She cried out in pain and died as her horn sputtered and went dark.
The cloaked figure looked down at the pony's body, noting the crude image of a flower on its flank. He closed his eyes, and a few seconds later a horn pushed out from his forehead. He bent down to touch the other's body with it, and a faint mist arose from the dead mare. The mist disappeared after a moment, and the cloaked pony again tipped his head to one side as if heeding a summons.
He gazed off into the distance, then closed his eyes, smiled grimly and nodded: “I understand, now—Death's lackey; I guess that's fitting. Well, I'd better go see what happens next...”
The cloaked now-unicorn faded from view just as a symbol began to take shape on his flank. The circling vultures descended toward the dead pony as the threatening, shadowy form dissolved away.