//------------------------------//
// Chapter Seventeen: The Battle of wet Gunpowder and Smoke 
// Story: The World is my Sandbox 
// by PoniesMine 
//------------------------------//

“Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.”
—Ephesians 6:11, the Bible
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Chapter Seventeen: The Battle of wet Gunpowder and Smoke 
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[15th of November, 989. 5:00 pm]

Everything went wrong.

Every—Thing. 

Not a single commodity was drawn in Shrewd Preparation’s favour.

One would normally say, ‘Well, sometimes you just need to make the most of the cards withdrawn.’ That, however, becomes exceedingly difficult when four of the cards equate to a six high. No matter how much luck you have, the best hand you can achieve is a pair. The only way to make the best of the situation is to limit your losses. There is no winning. Only avoiding defeat. 

The time was 1700 hours, the sky was stained a dark grey, rain drenched the surrounding environment, flowing in extreme aggregates as it collects into streams and rivers. The water caused the clothing on the Republican soldiers to sag down, and bounce off in loud Pings off the enforced steel helmets. 

The hastily constructed underdeveloped wooden barrier (consisting of a variety of logs) in front of these soldiers, seemed to sink into the mushed ground, trampled from the hundreds of boots that marched upon its soil. Soldiers were organised in ‘companies’, each stood in comparison to each other, contributing to create a direct line. Muskets were positioned outwards, obscurely vibrating, as the incredible fear seemed to take hold of every soldier. 

The companies consisting of Matchlock muskets consistently had to reignite the burning match, as the high humanity, and rainfall smouldered the fire. Gunpowder transformed into unusable clumps, refusing to ignite from the burning wick, as the chemical reaction required a larger amount of heat—activation energy— in order to initialise.      

The opposing army—only just visible due to the vast, never-ending darkness— seemed to stretch on forever, an unending swarm of griffons who seemed all but unbeatable. 

The small, 2000 strong Republican army could never withdraw, even if they wanted to, they needed to delay the enemy, at any means necessary. To buy time for the rest of the invading force to retreat before encirclement. If they were to retreat now, half of the entire Republic army could be utterly destroyed, practically vanquishing their effort to win the war. 

The supply shortage of ammunition, combined with the unreliability of matchlock muskets in the current weather, lead to depending on old, outdated weapons on site at the time for supplementation. These included; crossbows with iron bolts, and steel long swords. 

Soldiers with a large degree of pedagogy were re-equipped with these crossbows and blades, while others with a high amount of experience with muskets, were given the new flintlock mechanisms. Every resource was assigned to an overwhelmingly efficient degree, to somehow, create a somewhat small advantage for the upcoming battle.

Swordsmen and the remaining matchlock muskets dotted the front, fluctuating between the two. Blades rotated to point forward, while the griffons withholding the muskets, seemed to use these people as living shields, hiding a majority of their body behind them. This seemed to allude to the idea of ‘Pike and Shot’. Several meters behind them, was another line of flintlock muskets, while at the complete rear, was located around 300 crossbowmen, forming two independent groups.

The beauty of all of this was that each company and battalion could act independently, allowing each commander to make their own decisions, to allude to what they believe will have the largest positive impact over the entire battle. In the end, however, every branch was tied together harmoniously under Major General Shrewd Preparation. 

At that time, he was situated at the front, his confident facade completely unwavering. Though, in his thin skull of his, relayed a swirling motion of repetitive and fading thoughts. To put it simply, nevertheless;

He was worried.

No. That doesn’t even begin to describe his current thoughts.

He was terrified, a raw, uncontrollable emotion. 

Though, soon enough, his line of thinking was broken by his subordinate, the same Lieutenant that alerted him about this upcoming mess, “Sir,” he began, “A group of enemy soldiers seems to be approaching the middle, they’re holding the green flag.”

He appeared to pause for a brief period, “Should I send in a team to meet them?”

Preparation turned his gaze onto his subordinate, “Definitely,” he confirmed, “Gather them here, I’ll be going with them. Negotiation could be a possibility.”

The Lieutenant nods, and sprints off to complete his orders. 

Soon enough, the small number of soldiers —around six— gathered in front of the wooden barrier, analog side the Major General. One of their own soldiers, also withheld the green banner, though it refused to move in the mild winds as the rain-induced it to sag and drip down the side of the wooden pole. 

With the General at the front, they marched in a perfect triangular foundation, despite the ground being hard to navigate through. The outlines of the enemy group congregated in the centre of the field, appeared to be slightly ominous, their features, completely unknown to any of the Republicans. 

Naturally, the gathering came into clear view, composing around ten clearly disciplined soldiers in glistening steel amour, despite there being no sunlight to do so. There —what seems— to be the enemy commander, already patiently waiting. It didn’t take long to come to a stop directly in front of them.

The unnamed enemy commander took the initiative to start the conversation in light hearty voice while shouting over the intense water shower, “Welcome!” He sits on his backside, and spreads out his front claws, as if exaggerating the conversation, “To a military exercise of the combined effort of the 3rd, 4th, and 5th divisions. How may I be of service to you?” 

This seemed to derail Shrewd Preparation’s expectations, propping him to be completely off guard, but his quick wit and thinking allowed him to play along with this ‘act’ to a certain degree, “I was wondering if you could move your ‘army’ somewhere else, this is restricted private property of the Griffon Republic.”

“That’s funny,” the other griffon said, “I was just about to say the same thing!” And he busts out laughing. Though this was short-lived, finalising as he wiped his moisturised eyes, and breathed rather rapidly to stabilise himself. 

Though even stranger, his facade transformed to the polar opposite of the previously mentioned expression, “Now that introductions are over,” he professionally pronounces, “I would like to take this opportunity to apologise for our current predicament.” 

This surprised Preparation even further, just before he seemed to mock him, and now, he’s apologising? What is wrong with this griffon? 

“We would like to offer temporary armistice terms, surrender all of your equipment, and we’ll let you all go.” He seemed to pause, as if expecting an answer, “That’s it, no catches.”

“So, what?” Preparation vocalises, “You’d just let us go?” 

“Yes, I’d appreciate if you would. I’d prefer not to go into a rather nasty wet battle.” 

The Republican seemed to consider it, “And would this ‘arm-stance’ apply to the rest of our army? How long does it exactly last?” 

He sighed, “You, and your division alone, would have two days to evacuate out of the area.” 

This was a massive deal breaker for Preparation, as it would only lower the resistance the Empire had to trample through. No, he needed to provide a strong conflict, even if it could slow the enemy down by a day, he would consider it a successful endeavour.

“I’m sorry,” the Preparation Major announced, “But I’m not going to agree to those terms, I’d rather die than surrender to the Empire.”

Other Major didn’t seem surprised, “Very well,” he turned around and started to march back to his army, “Good luck.” 

Yet, another surprising characteristic of the enemy General, perhaps he is sympathetic towards democracy? Preparation mentally hopes he will survive this conflict—along with the rest of the war. It’s rare to come across somegriffon that’s understanding and compassionate. 

After that quick metal note, Shrewd Preparation rotates on his paws/feet and leisurely walks back to his own army, ready for the upcoming battle. It’s obvious, however, that is troops are literally scared shitless, he needs to somehow raise their spirits, perhaps, a speech may be imperative. Despite him never performing one in his entire career, he'll just have to wing it. 

He, sadly, was required to raise his voice in order to be recognised over the bellowing rainstorm, as a consequence, only a small percentage of griffons were able to hear him, “Soldiers of the Republican army!”   

He walked back and forth, to keep the adrenaline from shaking his entire body repeatedly, “Let me ask you a question, are you ready to fight?!!”

He got no answer.

“That’s fine,” he shouted, “Because I agree, perhaps we can’t beat this army, perhaps we may all die, and perhaps, we may live under the tyrannical rule of the Empire.”

“But one thing that I know will never change— is our spirit.”

Preparation turned towards his soldiers.

“Even when we’re on our knees! We will continue fighting! Even when our throat has been cut, and bleeding everywhere! We will continue fighting! Because no matter what!” He paused for dramatic suspense (though, technically he was thinking what to say next.). “We will always heal! We will get back up, and punch that living piece of shit called the Empire out of existence!”

“Our throats are made of steel! Our hearts from pure gold! And our will— our will, from the living embodiment of God. God, so pure, and forever internal, that as long as he exists. So will we!”

“Soldiers! Allow me to ask you again, are you ready to fight? For your family? For your loved ones? For your freedom? And the for the Republic??!!”

There was now an applause, it wasn’t great, but it continued to exponentially increase in volume, as the soldiers who didn’t hear the speech, too slowly began to clap, as the griffons that surrounded them was also performing the action. This resulted in one, massive, title wave.

Despite a majority of the griffons not apprehending the speech, what they did recognise, was hope. Confidence and hope lanced throughout the atmosphere. Although everygriffon was still scared down to the bone, each attempted to put on a brave face. For their family. For their loved ones. For their freedom. And especially, for the Republic.

Muskets still shook, and facades still wavered, it was, however, much more controllable.

They needed to fight back— no, wanted to, fight back. To put up a resistance worthy for the remembrance through history, and by God. 

It didn’t take long to hear a commotion coming from the other side, it was obvious that the enemy soldiers were getting rivalled up about— something. Perhaps their patriotism was too strong, one thing was clear, however, the battle would begin very, very soon.   

Republicans swore they could hear the words ‘Empire, and Glory’ from the mouths of the opposing soldiers. Veteran soldiers from the first and second battles knew this as their particular war cry.

A few seconds following, brought forth a reasonably loud, horn bast. Through it was barely recognised by the Republican soldiers due to the current rainstorm.  
  
Then— they saw them. All of them.

A huge gathering—no, army, of griffons whose outlines appear as shadows sent by the devil. Ran— there was no organisation— with all their might. The rapid scampering literally shook the ground, the sheer amount of soldiers was on an entirely new level. 

Where exactly did the Empire get these sort of numbers?

And to further amalgamate these unnatural sounds spiting from the earth, another was added to the mix; 

BOOM! Boom! Bo~! boom! BA~BOOM! 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AF-frCxHCuE
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdSVpRyk6AY


Muskets fired from their barrels in surprising succession. Companies created what’s now called the ‘machine gun’ effect, as each collection of soldiers fired one after the other down the line. This proved to be quite useful, as at the time, at least twenty-four muskets were firing each second. This was demonstrated as a useful technique preferred by the Crystal Empire several months down the track. That is until they replaced it with actual functioning machine guns.—Black Firepower (1067). The Battle of Wet Gunpowder and Smoke. Griffon Civil War 989. CanterlotWarTimes. pp 167. 

Matchlock and flintlock muskets alike fired from their respective weapons, though a majority of the soldiers withholding the matchlocks failed to fire, either the wick was burnt out, or, too much fluid was located in the gunpowder and firearm. This seemed to frustrate a lot of these soldiers, who repeatedly attempted to fire the weapon, but was continuously rewarded with several ‘clicking’ sounds. 

Flintlocks, on the other hand, were the opposite, they had little to no trouble firing in this weather, the ammunition was protected by a covering, and the firing mechanism relied on flint and steel to create sparks, something that can easily be achieved in wet weather as long as each comment was respectively sharp enough. 

These weapons were fired over the shoulders of the matchlock musketeers.

Smoulder expelled from in huge amounts from these barrels but refused to collect in murky plumes of smoke as the rain heaved it downwards, clearing it out of view. This was, perhaps, the only positive impact of the current weather, as the soldiers could still continuously recognise their respective targets. 

Gold spheres ripped through the air, and crashed with a ridiculous amount of acceleration into the confronting army, much faster, and more impactful than the matchlock muskets, as the flintlock system allowed for what is considered ‘a bigger punch’.

Monarch troops dropped in surprising succession (from left to right) as the machine gun effect took hold, many of these ‘green’ recruits transformed into pure shock, as the pain the bullet enacted easily overcame their overconfidence and patriotism. The adrenaline running through their veins was the only chemical substance that kept them alive long enough to recognise their shameful predicament.

This was all futile, however, as the ridiculous number of troops simply replaced those that fell, their morel, completely unwavering, comforted by the surrounding troops, and the possible protection they provided.  

300 crossbows located behind the Republican lines fired from behind, the bolts flew through the air like a hail of death, each cut through the atmosphere like butter and accelerated by 9.81m/s^-2 down towards the earth— the army.

Bolts hit their targets as they rammed into the majorly unprotected skulls of the Monarch soldiers, those that did wear helmets, only provided protection for half of the time, as bolts found weak spots in the hastily produced armour, and embedded into the squishy cerebral matter.

This too, proved to be rather naught as, in the end, only around 180 soldiers were actually affected by it.  
   
The flintlock muskets counted to pump, round, after, round after round, of gold projectiles into the incoming army. Bodies piled on the ground, but that was all but major obstacles to the still, running enemy soldiers. They simply ran on, ignoring them as if they were already apart of the earth. Crossbows performed a similar action but ran out of bolts after two successions. They remained at the back and as a result, was assigned as reserves.  

A majority of those Republican musketeers with the matchlock system gave up on working their weapons, instead, positioning their bayonets outwards like small pikes or skewers. Most were kind enough to give their ammunition to the still firing flintlock muskets, as it was obvious that their own rounds, would run out reasonably soon. 

Major General Shrewd Preparation knew this endeavour was futile, all he could do is reduce their own loses, and enact the largest death, and destruction on the enemy army before they arrived, he shouted at his adjacent subordinate messengers, “Alert the battalion commanders of a change of plan! Tell them to aim their muskets at the centre of the incoming army! And to NOT hit any friendly soldiers under any circumstances!”

Many of these messengers were confused by this prospect, why would he do something like this? What is the point? 

They did it anyway, despite doubting their superior’s orders, there was literally no time to lose, they couldn’t afford to waste a single second.

He turned to another messenger, “You! You tell the crossbowmen to quickly pick up anything sharp, whether it be a stick or sword, tell them to meet me here in exactly 13 seconds!”  

She ran off too. 

Not a moment too soon, a large percentage of the muskets were directed roughly towards to middle, manufacturing a hugely dense storm of gold projectiles, this created a somewhat of an ‘indent’, generating a shape, not unlike a concave appearance. 

It took exactly 12.3 seconds for the crossbowmen to gather next to their commander, so, Preparation hastily addresses them, “I want you guys to run into that opening in the centre of the incoming enemy army. Congratulations! You will experience honour and glory!” 

Let's just say, they were not happy about this prospect at all, they thought they would remain behind the friendly lines, out of direct combat. Why didn’t he just gather the soldiers standing at the front? Or at the very least, the matchlock musketeers?

The answer was rather simple really, it would produce disorganisation, a military’s worst nemesis. Oh. And the fact General Shrewd Preparation doesn’t value crossbowmen, he believes they are still obsolete, it was just this particular circumstance for the battle which temporarily removed that aspect. 

Many realised the shortage of time, so they quickly redirected their efforts to push through the military ranks, and running onto the killing field, the bloodiest, and most brutal, conflicts at the time.  

They poured into the front like disembodied water, dripping into a burning hot fire, only to evaporate, and disappear into the atmosphere.

This new development seemed to confuse the enemy soldiers at the front, why would they deploy a mere, 300 soldiers carrying—wait, are they sticks?!!—directly at them? What could they possibly achieve by doing that? Wouldn’t that just be wasting soldiers? Sacrificing them? Absolutely disgusting!    

Since the advancing army was only a little more than 100 meters away at the time, it didn’t take long for the nearly unequipped, and untrained militia to meet the enemy soldiers. They clashed, stabbed, and poked the soldiers in the indent. Blood was sprayed in all directions, eyes were stabbed with sticks, swords slashed heads clean off, and intestines spewed out of holes from the stomach. Griffons literally got covered in head to toe in gore, their fur caked with the sticky red substance. 

This in actuality, slowed the enemy down, as instead of advancing, the disorganised mess decided to attempt to kill off the confronting soldiers. The republican crossbowmen were slowly being entirely enveloped, it appeared as though the army was swallowing them whole-fully. It didn’t take long for the Republican battalion commanders to realise there were friendlies in the centre of the killing field, and as such, as according to their order, redirected their shots to eliminate the sides of the enemy army.

Of course, the crossbowmen, once they registered the horrible predicament they were placed in, attempted to flee the battlefield, but the enclosing living spike walls stopped them before any even had a chance, turning their organic matter into a bloody red stew. 

Nobody escapes the meat grinder. Never in a million years. Once you put your hand in, it’s all but impossible to pull it back out. Their sacrifice wasn’t in vain, however, as the extended delay allowed a few more volleys to expel from the firearms. 

“Don’t stop firing!” Some battalion leaders would say, “Hit them harder!”

“What are you doing??!!” Others would shout, “Why have you stopped firing??!” 

“I’ve run out of ammunition sir,” they would respond, “I’ve got nothing left.”

Before they could expel another sentence, however, fellow soldiers thrust ammunition into their paws, allowing them to continue to fire their weapon for another one or two rounds in succession. 

It didn’t take long for every crossbowman to be slaughtered like a pig in a butcher house. Many green recruits of the Monarch army persisted with stabbing the remains despite all the soldiers— sorry, my apologies, I meant soup—being clearly dead. Perhaps they were scared, or complete and utter psychopaths, we will never know. What remains important, however, is that they’re remains, not alive. Dead. 

It was at this stage that the disorganised mess called an army continued to sprint in the direction of the Republicans. Naturally, the distance between the two was less than 60 metres, so evidently, it didn’t take an extended period of time for each side to come in contact with one another. 

Bayonets and long sword were already positioned outwards, flintlock muskets still fired over shoulders, but instead of the almost harmonious ‘group firing’, it was all just a disorderly mess. Musket bangs exploded at irregular initials, becoming more and more desperate as time goes forward. The atmosphere eventually, sounded more alike kernels crackling into popcorn.

It was at this time both sides crashed irregularly and at full force, the aggressor taking the brunt of the potency as the wooden modifications acted as a temporary barrier. Overeager monarch soldiers transformed into fresh kababs as they skewed onto the sharp metal sticks known as swords and bayonets. Republican soldiers quickly shook them off, ready to stab another.

Blood sprayed on these frontline soldiers as they stabbed, twisted, and repeated. Some soon found it difficult to see and was forced to wipe their eyes before they could continue the onslaught. Bodies began to pile on top of one another, creating a sort of impromptu ramp into the Republican army.

Flintlock muskets still continued to fire, but at much lower intervals, as many decided to use their own, freshly manufactured bayonets to contribute to the stabbing fest. And those who chose to continue to fire ended up blowing at point blank range. Often the head was the most likely candidate, the sheer force of the gold projects ended up causing these heads to explode like a decayed watermelon. 

It may seem the Republicans have the advantage, and your right— to a certain degree. Yes, the attrition rate was drawing in their favour. Yes, they had a favourable defensive position. But the sheer number, and what’s the word?…eagerness of the monarch soldiers is scary enough to induce foam in the mouth.

Republican soldiers at the front slowly dwindled, their own blood spraying on their comrades as the enemy impaled, and jerked out their swords. Griffons hauling matchlocks and flintlocks alike attempted to fill these spots as quickly as possible. Over time, this ‘small number’ of Republican deaths transformed into what most people would consider, a ‘large amount’.            

It’s like a paradox, the more Monarch soldiers you kill, the higher ground they gain (due to pilling dead bodies) and thus, the larger advantage they had. In fact, the situation became so bad, that some of the Monarchs ended up jumping on top of the Republican troops, this obviously, scared the shit out of those below. 

All these variables cause the freedom fighters to be pushed back, at first it’s a rulers length, but that turns into meters, and meters turns into tens of meters. And yet, as this is occurring, even more, enemies could be seen coming over the horizon, like a massive, in a distorted hoard of zombies.  

At this point, Major General Shrewd Preparation knew it was practically over, the results of this conflict was already decided from the beginning. Nothing could have changed the outcome of this battle, no matter how many tricks he had his metaphorical sleeve.

And so, he hastily addresses his remaining messengers, “I want all the Flintlock musketeers to retreat, tell the others to remain behind.” He sighed, “and continue fighting, until the very bitter end.”

They nodded slowly but ran off quickly. 

Not even four seconds later, a piercing whistle cuts through the rainstorm, “Flintlocks retreat! Those remaining; persist with fighting until the bitter end!” 

Almost in an immediate fashion, around 400 troops evacuated from the area, carrying their weapons, and foreign blood with them. They ran as fast as they could, attempting to get away from that horrible bloodbath and achieve the sweet relief of safety. 

“Sir,” one of Shrewd Preparation’s subordinates states, “don’t you think we should take you to safety?”

“I do,” he replied, but continued to look over the still hopeless ongoing battle “But sometimes, one has to take in the full picture of exactly how many deaths he is reasonable for.”

The Major paused, “So that next time,” he shook his fist, “so next time, he can fully understand exactly what he is getting into, and the consequences thereof making mistakes.” 

“For when somegriffon understands what may be lost, they will do everything in their power to keep a strong grip on these items, to not let them slip away.” 

He gazed back at his subordinate, “Sorry about my little rant, I needed to get that out of my system.”

He nodded towards the unknown, “Let’s go.”

As he flew away with a small gathering of minimal protection, he glances back, recognising the slaughter of his troops, and yet, their will never seemed to waver, standing in a line to create a somewhat recognisable phalanx. He swore one face of a soldier looked at him directly in the pupils, but the eyes didn’t seem to withhold anger or regret. But, confidence, and hope.

Hope that when there is a will, there is a way.
———
“Sometimes by losing a battle, you find a new way to win the war.”
—Donald Trump
———

Editor's Note:
So, this ends the 3rd Battalion’s last stand, yes I just made up the name so what? Anyway, imma gonna play my game for another 2 weeks, but can't tell you the name. Why you ask? Because I hate getting cum in my mailbox 

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