//------------------------------// // Chapter 6: The Warning // Story: Frozen Hearts // by tilpin313 //------------------------------// “Our own would take the siege engines around and lay suppressing fire down from this ridge.” The withered old war map crinkled as a hoof landed on it, outlining the plan for the Chancellor. “Then, the eighth legion would follow around, taking the Royal force off guard-” “You've done well Radar, but, do you not think a decisive strike against the largest royal host at this time would be ill-advised?” Chancellor Grey Mare inquired. She was old, older than any of the earth folk had ever been, and ruler for most of those years. With her extreme age came the expected wisdom of one who had seen far too many battles, far too many soldiers falling, and far too many plans go awry. “This is a strong plan, well thought-out, well designed and cleverly laid out, but simply poorly timed young one.” A bright white smile light up her wrinkled dark brown face, framed by the parted curtain of gray hair. “You show extreme potential, more than many of our greatest generals at your age.” “Thank you, my lady.” He bowed his head in honor, feeling a sense of growing pride. “I am sorry to interrupt, please do go on.” She gestured to the map. “The eight regiment would circle around the mountainside, forcing the barraged magicians out of the cave cover they have found, and force them towards the lake where our S.E.P squads - Sea-Earth Pony -” He explained away the confused look on his Chancellor's face. “...would surface, blocking their escape route, giving them the choice to fight or to chance the mountains. Either we would drive them off our land or slaughter them in the snow.” He concluded with a shudder, feeling a chilly breeze whisper into the tent. The cool air seemed to vanish as a thumping noise came from the two short horizontal lines of his follow commanders, accompanied by profuse giggling. “It wouldn't wooork!” The words harmonized with inaudible music. A long pink head and neck shot out from the line, stretching beyond normal bounds. With a cartoonish snapping noise, the rest of the body joined the extended neck, leaving the pastel pink pony proudly presented, proffering powerful proposals. "Instead of the eighth try the...” she dragged out the last word, thinking. “First?” Her legs crossed, then bounced up and down. “Second?” The motion repeated itself, and continued to do so until she counted to the eleventh regiment. “Eleven!” The pastel jumped up and ran on the air, again in a very cartoon-like fashion. “Take the eleventh regiment instead of the eighth, oh yeah, definitely.” Her hair had sprung out in a more wild style than before, dancing for a few moments before settling. “Victory assured, without any causalities! Your plan would have been a massacre, and wouldn't have worked anyway.” She spoke with a wide smile, grinning at a joke only she must have heard. Chancellor Grey Mare nodded. “Very well.” Turning to Radar she said “Reassign your regiments to fit this revision.” Leaving the previously proud strategist shocked. “But, my lady-” Radar began in protest, angered at the intrusion of the pink one. “My plans are revised with every shift of the wind to accommodate any movement of the troops, every time a single unit of theirs moves I am told, every time a banner snaps in the wind, I know.” He stomped indignantly, jealousy and rage bubbling up to consume his old pride, but he fought to keep his face calm. “My plans never fail. Never.” The chancellor regarded him with the coolness he was lacking, waiting until she was sure his retort was finished. “You are newly promoted, yes? Then you wouldn't know. This,” Chancellor Grey Mare gestured grandiosely towards the pink pony, “is Pinkimena Diane Pie, the one reason we've stayed afloat in this campaign.” Pinkie waved excitedly to the new commander, but stayed quiet. “She was born with a gift of foresight; clairvoyance, if you will. Thanks to the blessing of The Earthmender, her body reacts, warding us away from danger. An invaluable general, and ambassador.” The Chancellor directed her speech to the rest of the commanders within the field tent. “That's right, she's the one going to parley with the others.” “Mmm-hmm!" The pink one agreed, "I was born ready to parley!” Hopping up onto her hind legs, Pinkie cheered, inviting the others around her to join in. Instead, she made only a hollow, awkward feeling as the other commanders stood, scuffing their hooves in the dirt. “Tough crowd.” She mumbled to the Chancellor before dropping back onto all fours. “Indeed. You are all dismissed. Our next meeting will be tomorrow morning until it is spoken otherwise.” Chancellor Grey Mare waved a hoof, beckoning them to take their leave. With nine well-practiced salutes, and whatever Pinkie did, they marched out, a thudding beat, interrupted by Pinkies own off tempo stomps as she followed behind the strategist she had upstaged. The stallion blocked her path, glowering down at her. Pinkie smiled at him, as she did every pony, but she felt that its almost magical properties seemed to have no effect on this stallion; an oddity for her. "My plan was carefully laid out, conspired since before you were born." The stallion's eyes grew narrower, and his face scrunched up. Pinkie craned her neck around the imposing pony, watching the rest of those who had attended the gathering canter off into the rapidly falling night. "Sorry?" She offered, slightly unsettled by the older horse. "Sorry?" The stallion mimicked her almost perfectly. New color crept at his eyes, a fell green flame flickering about the rims. The night fell suddenly, and the gas lamps that hung outside tents hissed on. This light was lost as the stallion's change began. He exploded outward, silently. Billowing green-black smog twisted in the air, released by the explosion. The smog imploded on itself, one second forming the shape of the pony that had stood there a moment ago, then was gone, now a simple pillar of smoke. The beast growled, his eyes were now only pits of green fire that flickered as the growl changed pitch. "You've been a thorn in my mistress' side for far too long, little one." The beast's voice was a chattering growl. "And now, you are ours." The bottom of the pillar shot out, wrapping itself around Pinkie until it encased her completely. "Sorry," He mimicked her again over her muffled cries. "But you've forced our hands." ------------------------------------- With a final glance back at her, the disgruntled Stallion stormed off into the camp, ramming his flank into the supply cart parked out front of the Chancellor's tent. Within a second, he vanished, swallowed by the crush of soldiers, merchants and base children. The entire camp was white, if not from the fallen snow, then from the tents made of the starkly bleached leather. A few fires smoldered outside tents, more smoldered in makeshift hearths within. The muddled dot that was the sun had long since began its descent, and now sat on the horizon, teetering on the edge of the world. Pets were being called by their children, and children by their parents. Soldiers vanished into tents, choruses of greetings followed their entrances. Soon, the crush had faded, leaving only empty carts and foot prints, quickly hidden by the snow. Pinkie moved in bounding leaps, a smile on her face and a light shining in her eyes. She made her way passed the tents, enjoying the happy noises that exuded from each. A few heads popped out as she bounced by, offering her dinner, company and, on a few rare occasions, thanks. She knew each face, every voice and name, their birthdays, children, and family. They liked her, far more than any other officer, she cared about them and had saved every one of their lives with her odd intuition. She called it; her Pinkie sense. The ability to predict future events before they occurred, a valuable skill for a strategist. Along with her ingenious, though some may argue insane, mind she made the perfect officer and soon - if the buzzing of rumors could be believed - general, if all went well. Once she found her way passed the welcoming families, she entered her own tent. Though the outside was the same white as all the others she had decorated the inside in the most extravagant way she could. Regular issued furniture, drab grey chairs, table, bed, and desk. The chairs had pillows of pink, adorned with flower prints and stars, the table had a cloth of similar fashion. Pink sheets and stationary were on her bed, the same paper was scattered about her desk. All of this was accented by the final piece; a floral pattered carpet, pink like the rest of the room. Pinkie made her way to the obtusely uncolored stove, coal black, offensively standing out in the almost glowing room. In a few moments she had kindled a fire, withdrew a pot, stuck her head out of the tent, gathered snow and placed it on the stove. Letting the snow melt and boil, she gathered vegetables from the assorted cabinets, a long blade with them. Fitting the hilt into her mouth, she swept her arms across the counter, pushing carrots onto the cutting board first. She hummed, creating a tune to match the rhythm of the crunching carrots and tapping cutting board. The water started to boil, telling her it was time to begin the mixing. Tossing the begging of the sliced carrots in before setting into the others. Once the pot was full, she stirred, creating a swirl of color that matched her chipper mood. Leaving spinning with one final powerful push, she grabbed her kettle, ran out of the tent and followed repeated the process that she had done with the pot. She sat down at her table, calmly awaiting the whistling of the kettle. Her thoughts drifted, erratically jumping from one thought to another. It had always been a struggle for her to hold onto one thought for longer than a few minutes, her frivolous mind refused to allow it. So she sat, humming her tune and tapping her hooves, her head bouncing back and forth with a smile painted across it. Old strategies shot around her head along with plans for base birthdays, battlefields mingled with festivals, war parties with engagement parties. The whistle was almost lost to the sound of long gone cheers and fresh screams. Pinkie reluctantly forced herself from the table, an uncommon lethargy now in her bones. Beside the burner the kettle sat on hung the teabags, freshly packed and sent to meet the army only a few nights before. Below them hung her mugs on a stand, little more than a shaved branch set upon a base. Emptying the kettles contents into her mug, her old excitement slowly came back, distracting her yet again, leading her to create a spillover from her pink mug. The hooves she had clasped around the mug shot back, scorched. The boiling sensation on her hooves reminded her suddenly of her forgotten meal. She spun quickly, her puff of a tail knocking the pot onto the pink carpet, sending the now mushy and wilted vegetables into a large pile as the water seeped into the stagnate earth underneath. She sighed, turning away from the mound of dinner to attend to her kettle. The mug was shattered on the ground, each one of her legs was coated in water, it’s heat being rapidly drained by the cool air that encroached into the tent. Unwilling to let the misfortune damper her mood, Pinkie grabbed a new mug, poured more carefully, drowned a teabag in the steaming water, and, in a feat that still impressed her comrades to this day, opened her mouth wide enough to engorge the entire pile of her spilt dinner. With a full belly and a full cup, she sat back at the table, relaxed, and slurping at her tea. After only three of her loud gulps did it occur to her “My Pinkie sense,” Her eyes grew wide and she faced the wreckage. There had been no warning of what was to come before it happened. No warning of falling objects, nor the spillover of boiling water. The taste of the tea died on her tongue. Hooves shaking, she set it down, a tightening in her chest. For the first time in years she felt fear. Suddenly, her hoof jerked, sending the second mug soaring into the air. Her whole body trembled, sending her flailing to the hard ground as her chair tipped over. Her hooves danced in the air above her, forming unfamiliar patterns and shapes with their elastic ability. Then something new to her clairvoyance, an overpowering foreboding. “General Pie, ma’am.” A voice came from the flaps at the front of her tent. She tilted her head to face the entrance, meeting the gaze of a young mare. She looked to be just older than a foal, her face still chubby with baby fat, making her blushed red cheeks stand out more on her blue body. As most mares in service, her purple hair was tied back in a bun. “The Chancellor wishes to see you.” The mare stated, clearly accustomed to Pinkie’s stranger behavior, more likely than not having grown up surrounded by the stories of the prodigy. “Immediately if possible, ma’am.” The calm solider cast her gaze about the tattered room, clearly unimpressed. “Though she may understand if you run a bit tardy.” The blue face vanished outside, letting the fabric slump back into place. Pinkie lay for a few more moments, watching the empty air, the foreboding still creeping slowly down her spine, seeping off through her nerves. She stood on nervous hooves, her stomach churning with unaccustomed worry. Leaving her mess, she stepped back into the night air, catching sight of a purple tale slipping just out of sight, into a massive bank of tents to her south. Not wanting any prying eyes supply for rumor, she forced a smile to her face and bounced along cheerily, following the path back towards the tent the strategists had met in not an hour ago. Before she was too far along however, she left the path and galloped onto one of the many branches within the camp. The streets were even more empty now than they were before, and the tents that had once been alight with jovial laughter and banter were silent as some slept and others lay passed out from a night of drinking. It stayed this silent for the majority of her trip, but as she trotted along, a new sound came as a murmur and gradually growing over time as she drew nearer to it’s source. The almost roaring tent lay near to the end of her trip, the tallest and widest by far. Within were hundreds of soldiers, their heads bowed in reverence and humility before the large, pure white stone before them. Rising from the earth was a statue, planted deep into the hard soil. Miraculously, a few budding flowers sprouted from the ground, only to be plucked and swept away by the keepers. “They will creep up the sides of The Earthmender.” They would say as the sprouts were torn by the roots. “That would be a disgrace.” Having never had the time for piety, Pinkie almost walked passed, completely ignoring the congregation. Something gave her pause, however, and she glanced into the chaplain’s tent, her eyes drawn to the eyes of the Goddess, seemingly able to follow her own. She bit her cheek, and nervously muttered what she felt was a prayer. “Earthmender.” She began softly. “This is Pinkie Pie. You may not know me. Or you may, I don’t know what we’ve decided you can do. But if you hear this, I need your help.” She quickly explained her situation to the statue, feeling more and more uncomfortable by the minute. “And, uh, I guess that’s it.” She finished, looking into the vacant eyes of stone. She waited a moment. Two. Three. Then the foolish feeling set in, luckily her blush was invisible on her pink face. turning on her heels, she took more leaping bounds away from the tent, but the earth trembling murmur followed her the entire way. Drawing nearer to the middle of the camp, Pinkie witnessed the security steadily increase with every leap. Fully armored ponies, standing so still, Pinkie was sure that they had frozen solid. She noted that there seemed to be more guards than usual, an unprecedented amount of mares and stallions watching over their chancellor. Coupled with her sense’s new form, Pinkie began to lose her facade of normality, if such a word could be used on her. Her bubbly jumps turned into a sprint until she was barreling passed the honor guard, sending the thick falling snow up in large clumps. Her optimistic mind began to weaken as worst cases made themselves known. Battling them off was exhausting Pinkie faster than her unending sprint as the chancellor’s tent seemed to get further away with every step. She stumbled into the tent, much to her own chagrin as the dozen guards within snapped to attention, surrounding her with forceful intent. “At ease. She is welcome here.” The voice of Grey Mare removed most of her fears, but brought about more questions than the single answer could provide closure to. “Pinkie, here.” The elder snapped, clearly frustrated. “Ma’am.” Pinkie was at her side in an instant, aware that her cavalier attitude she wore around the mare would not be as appreciated at this time. “You summoned me.” “We have a problem.” The old mare looked exhausted, though the night was still quite young. “A tremendous problem. I’m coming with you to the moot. The Warlord and King will be in attendance too.” Grey mare grated her teeth, her anger palpable in the air. Pinkie could feel the rage bubbling over. “This war was almost over. We almost had peace!” The chancellor shouted, though her face remained its normally tranquil state. Raising a hoof to press against her eyes, Grey Mare wiped the look away, her jaw was now tight and her eyes lit by a new rage. “What are you talking about?” Pinkie dropped the uncomfortable formality, her own curiosity and concern for her chancellor overpowering duty. “What happened?” “The Skychasers found a reason to extend this pointless war.” Pinkie had heard of the Skychasers before: A pair of twins in the pegasus military, infamous for their skills in combat. The two were rumored to share a brain; they moved like liquid together, making them twice as deadly as they were apart. What they were truly known for, though were their noses for information. One couldn’t call what they did torture. It was far more brutal. They could break a pony in less than ten minutes. That was without trying. They had a sixth sense, able to pick out who knew what, and could smell fear at the very mention of a word. “What could they have possibly-” “One of your ilk.” A deep voice commanded her attention now as a shadowy stallion stepped from the folds of the tent walls. Pinkie leapt at the sight of the shadow, but relaxed when she saw the eyes didn’t glow in the same fell way. The stallion was flanked by another pony, slightly shorter and the same color. They each bore marks boasting images of their tools. Nails was the stallion, Screws the mare. “She was keeping a whole stable fulla soldiers. We coulda killed her there, but we figured that-” “-since she was 'arboring every different breed, t’others needed ta be made aware.” Screws finished her brother’s sentence - as if they shared a brain.The two smiled in unison, bearing their filed teeth. “I forgot the thank the mud pony, though.” “What for, Nails?” “Well sis, without her... we’d be out of a job.” Thanks again to PesudoBob, as per usual, be nowhere without ya man. And I hope you all enjoy this, was a b***h to produce