“POW!!” Bosonn's fangs flashed at the climax of his onomatopoeia. “The drones exploded in burning acid all over their stupid, wrinkled teats!” He grinned sadistically. “It wasn't a slow death either. No, brothers. T'chyrym's Flux must have been bubbling rather insidiously that cycle. The dumb bitches melted slowly... agonizingly. For over an hour they screamed across the battlefield. Like foals. The Sergeant almost considered wasting artillery runes on them just for some peace and quiet!”
“Hah hah hah hah!” Hyggs hovered on leathery wings. “Serves them right for enlisting in the cesspool that is the Third Root!” The wooden rafters of the Central Operations' interior hung low above his leafy ears. He—and several other Sons of Nightmares—were gathered in a circular chamber. Cold amber rune-light and a smattering of torches illuminated a large round table made out of polished white moon stone that loomed between the jovial cluster of warriors. “No training! No tenacity! No teeth—”
“Pffft...” Bosonn made a goofy face. “No teeth?!”
Hyggs pointed back at his twin. “At least none that's been cut on the edge of brutal combat!” He turned to smirk at the other Bloodwings. “Am I right, brothers?!”
“Ywm, s'lyrym thyn'al rym'sym!”
“Hahahaha!”
“Eee-eee-eee!”
Sypher stood—cold and deadpan—within the raucous heart of the group. There was a slow rise and fall of his withers, and he merely hissed through his silver neckpiece.
“You have a point, there...” Bosonn paced confidently around the lunar-white table. All slitted-eyes moved with him. “The officers of the Third Root only get to where they are because of entitlement.”
“Also estrus!” shouted a random stallion from the back.
The group was already laughing as Bosonn pointed at the figure from afar, grinning into the torchlight. “Limp ladies of Lyw'Malaak and nothing more!” He crouched low in mid-trot. “And you know—as I do, beloved brothers—that the only reason there've been so many promotions in that division is because the Mistress of Military Malady herself can't keep her most elite of elites alive long enough to catch up with the First Son!”
Cheers and stomping hooves.
“Much LESS gain any ground against our enemies!” Hyggs added.
More cheers and applause.
“Or exterminate a single hive!” shouted another random warrior.
The heart of Central Operations shook with uproarious thunder and hissing.
At the end of this latest tumult, a poor waif of a soul spoke up in an annoyed voice. “You know...” Lukaas' pale ears flicked as he frowned into his task. The Fifth Son sat at one rounded end of the table, scribbling madly through layer after layer of scrolls and paperwork. “...for all the pleasure that you take in Lyw'Malaak's lack of competence...” His slitted eyes twitched as he gnashed his teeth in frustration, scribbling faster and harder. “You all are certainly doing a huge number on mine.”
“Ehhhh—but you don't need any help being awful there, now do you, Sy'lukas'ymb?” Hyggs squeaked, beaming.
“Hah hah hah hah!”
“Ywm! Vy'nlywm l'wysyl ryk ryk, Wyl'hyggs'ym!”
“Hahahahaha!”
“Eee-eee-eee!”
Lukaas groaned, hanging his head ever so slightly over the unfinished paperwork. “You know as well as I do that I can't leave all of this requisition work to the New-driveling root sludge of the Tree! Why do you agonize me so, brothers?” He looked up, his pale brow furrowed. “There are plenty of places besides Central where you can engage in your bloodcoltish antics!”
“Bloodcoltish antics!” Hyggs hovered closer to the ground. “How eloquent and high-polished! Just like a maria matriarch!” He looked back at the others. “Somebody best check between Sy'lukas'ymb's rear legs! I think a little something got hacked off at the ring!” The group was already laughing before he finished. Hyggs waggled his eyebrows and nudged Sypher.
Sypher stood dead still. Another slow shrug, and he hissed yet again.
Lukaas bore a bittersweet smirk aimed in the outspoken soldier's direction. “Bosonn...”
“I'm Hyggs.”
“Bosonn,” Lukaas repeated, summoning thin chuckles from the group. “You are—at best—a lightweight grunt with the tactical proficiency of a cavern sponge. The only reason Lexxic keeps a lopsided meathead like you around is to absorb the farts between him and Masser'myn.”
While that insult summoned a good bit of laughter, Hyggs was quick to retort—all the while bearing a mock look of dismay: “By the Narrow! I thought that was Azarias' job!”
“Yeah!” Bosonn spoke up. “How else you think he got those scars?!”
“Hahahhahahah!”
“Eee-eee-eee-eee!”
Hyggs mounted the table on all fours, leaning over Lukaas' paperwork to leer in his face. “Even the flatulence of the Third Son has more marks of battle than you!” His slitted eyes narrowed as his fangs showed. “Damnable grandfather! How's life now that you've traded blades for cushions?!”
“Off...” Lukaas pointed at Hyggs' hooves. “...the Moontable.”
“Pffft!” Hyggs leaned back with a huff. “Why should I care about an old turd of the ancient matriarchs—?!”
“Because Lexxy'kyn cares.” Lukaas' good fang glinted. “Don't make me sick Sypher on you.”
There was a prolonged hiss in a quiet portion of the room. Hyggs' ears flicked to it, and his tail ducked between his legs. A few warriors laughed as he limply flapped his wings and drifted off the table.
“That's much better.” Lukaas calmly composed himself, crossing his front fetlocks as he looked at the lively stallions gathered throughout the torch-lit chamber. “Unlike your... brutal engagements with the T'chyrym'lynna and the N'shydym—which are poetic, glorious, but brief bouts with circumstance at best—my war never ends. For I am constantly and unceasingly having to guard myself against the barbs and the stabs and the thrusts that you feculent bastards make at my position upon every blackening of the bleaks!”
Bosonn threw his hooves back in mock surrender while his fellow stallions chuckled merrily.
“Far be it from me...” Lukaas stood up, tall and proud. “...to wield protocol as my only defense against your barrage of virile insults. But we all know that Lexxic chose for me to continue my waning years as his permanent attache here in the Roots. Here in the... Shadow of Our Beloved Mothers—” He spoke these last few words in a melodramatically pretentious voice, awarding him with cheers, jeers, and chuckles. “Yes, I am old. And despite all the battles I've survived, won, and suffered through... I respect the fact that you would consider the continued breathing of this loyal Bloodwing to be my greatest frailty—and pounce upon it!” He nevertheless pointed angrily at Hyggs. “But even if I live to a hundred winters—and waste my once-honorable flesh upon the drool of breeders until I drown—I still will amount to more amongst the Numbered Nightmares than you. You... a sniveling little pile of runoff from a bloodcolt's first night of seeding... that couldn't even sustain the honor to emerge on your own!” He flashed a dumb grin at Bosonn. “You had to share it with an even duller half!”
Bosonn winced—but threw on a flushed-yet-awkward grin as he found the entire room hissing and jeering at him.
Lukaas barked, waving a hoof. “And even the two of you combined can't fill a single rune etch with all the blood you've—” His ears twitched as he tapped a pen to his lips. “Just how much blood have you shed for the Sons of Nightmares, anyway?”
There was cat-calling. Shrieking. Hooves dancing on the floor. Bosonn and Hyggs toed the ground, looking decidedly deflated.
Lukaas rode the crest of the wave he had summoned even further. “Why—that's hardly First Root material! If you ask me—you'd make fine recruits for Lyw'Malaak! Hmmmm... I wonder whose job it is to request transfers?” He perked up, grinning wide and pale. “Oh wait! That's mine!”
“Wait, brother—!”
“Now just hold on a seco—”
“It'll just take a signature and a stroke here and you're both Third Rooters!” Lukaas rummaged through several papers, holding his pen up threateningly. “I mean—why not! She'll be needing the reinforcements!”
“Hah hah hah!” A Bloodwing laughed in the direction of the floundering twins. “The Fifth makes a good point!”
“I wonder if a couple of jesters could fill in for twelve cowardly traitors!”
“Let's wait! They can replace the entire Root!”
“Don't say that! Lyw'Malaak doesn't need to win any more sympathy from the High Polished!”
“Hah hah hah hah!”
Hyggs and Bosonn were red as beets—not that they'd have the wherewithal to know what beets looked like. Between the two of them, somepony almost summoned the energy to retort against the whole room that once belonged to them.
But a group of bodies marched in firmly: Masser, followed by the scarred and serious visage of Azarias.
“EEE-EEE-EEE!” Azarias' echoed into the room, reverberating off Central Operations' metal-and-stone support struts. He spread his wings darkly, blotting out portions of the runelight. “Lexxy'kyn symma thry'sym!”
Immediately—as if the world split in two—the loose band of merry militants thudded into formation. They stood tall, still, and silent. All laughter, smiling, and tittering had completely and utterly ceased.
Lukaas—despite his best efforts—stumbled ever so slightly to tighten his weary wrinkled limbs from where he was positioned at the table. Nevertheless, he swiftly locked himself at attention. Sypher remained exactly where he had been standing the entire time, as if he foresaw Azarias' entrance an hour ago and forced the company to form rank around him.
Azarias took a survey of everypony in the room... and he appeared satisfied enough. He and Masser took sidesteps in opposite directions, forming a path for the First Son of Nightmares. The moment that Lexxic's bone-white helm—and his matching forward half—kissed the torchlight, Azarias let out a new shriek.
“Syl rymyn ry'ssa thym krym'yl wrym!”
The gathered group hollered in resounding chorus: “Vrym Lexxy'kyn syl vytt! HYTT!!!”
A collective stomp of their hooves—all in one salvo—and they faced their Commander's entrance.
The First Son in question lingered curiously in place, his pale helm reflecting the torchlight in a cold sheen. “By the Narrow, that's loud.” His lips curved beneath the tombstonish accessory. “Relish it every time.” He approached the table, followed promptly by Azarias and Masser. Standing across from Lukaas and Sypher, Lexxic took a good, scrumptious look at the might and muscle gathered. “... … … at ease!” he rasped, as if alarmed that perfect protocol was being followed.
The group melted back into warm murmurs and mutters. Only Hyggs and Bosonn appeared wrought with trailing anxiety—which was ironic enough.
“Fifth...” Lexxic placed two pale forelimbs on the table's edge and rested his weighted front half against it. “If you would be so kind as to illuminate me on the... festive gathering here.”
“I... simply n-needed to get some belated forms filled out, Lexxic,” Lukaas spoke, his composure tightening the further that he formed words. “This... mob appears to have congregated around me.”
“I see. A most rowdy bunch.” Lexxic nodded with a vague look of amusement. “Surely they haven't been distracting you...?”
Chuckles rumbled through the room.
Lukaas sighed. “No worse than I'm used to dealing with, First Son. As it is—I did not feel like it was in my place to dismiss them.”
“Oh?”
The Fifth's eyes flitted to the side. “I felt that fell upon Sypher's authority.”
Lexxic tilted his helm in the direction of a prolonged hiss. “Fourth, you surprise me! Allowing a riotous display to transpire within the inner sanctum of the Vigil's strategic headquarters? I suppose you're just that talkative, Myl'sypher'ym. Like company tends to follow suit.”
The room broke into laughter. Sypher's slitted eyes narrowed; but he made no further move—not even an ear-flick of registering emotion. Across from him, Azarias mirrored his state—albeit smaller and with a deeper frown. Masser—in the meantime—was merrily chuckling his head off.
“Verily!” Lexxic clapped the table with both front hooves, silencing the room just enough for his loyal fighters to hear his voice. “I cannot fault my brothers for your insatiable restlessness. With so many Roots of the Vigil called back to the Tree, it must be gnawing at you that our enemies go uncontested across the vast blood fields. Narrow-knows, it gnaws at me as well.”
Random warriors spoke up:
“It's completely idiotic!”
“Flexing their so-called muscles at a time like this!”
“They're spitting on you, brother!”
“They haven't even recalled the Third Root! It's just the First Son's most elite branches!”
“To think that they rest all their faith on Lyw'Malaak! It's baffling!”
“If nothing else, that over-dressed breeder is only abetting the enemy!”
“You should see what it's like in the Lower Roots! There's a pale glimmer in the sludge's eyes! She's giving them the false pretense of hope!”
“It's madness, brother!”
Lexxic folded his forelimbs, tilting his helm upwards in the torchlight. “The disdain in this room for our lofty matriarchs' prized pawn is... beyond palpable!” There was a sniffing sound beneath the lower plate. “I can practically smell the bone piercing her skin. Is a feast in order, brothers?”
The room filled with squeaks, shrieks, and laughter.
“Why—you should have arrived sooner, brother!”
“Yeah! We were just talking about how awful the soldiers are who work under Malaak!”
“Hahahah! Yes! So many hilariously awful stories!”
“Is that so?” Lexxic smiled. He looked towards Lukaas. “Care to elaborate?”
Lukaas cleared his throat. He turned his head towards Hyggs and Bosonn.
Lexxic's head tilted in the same direction. “Ah yes. The Twinequity. I should have known.”
Chuckles.
Hisses.
The two identical sarosians shook between shivers and nervous grins.
Lexxic pivoted his weight against the round moonstone table. “What—perchance—did these terrible tales of jocularity involve? Hmmm? Rampant bureaucracy? Redundant military tactics? Sexist military preferences? Disproportionate resource management as a means of throwing authoritarian weight?”
The chuckles grew raspier, thinner, and sprinkled with abject confusion.
Hyggs and Bosonn look no less perplexed. “Did... uh... didja hear about the mares who melted to death in their armor after being ambushed by burning drones?”
A few more thin laughs.
Some of it belonged to Lexxic. “Splendid. Splendid!” He grinned. “Such noble... strong warriors—to take absolute pleasure in the dramatic highlight of an entire military division imploding upon itself and losing territory to the enemy.” His grin persisted as he waved a hoof towards the entrance to that central chamber. “Perhaps—then—as a show of your tenacity, you would care to continue your heartless prattling before our honored guests here.”
On cue, Azarias let out a shrill whistle.
Two Bloodwing guards exited the room. Seconds later, they came back in—escorting an entire spectrum of color. The laughter of the entire room died within milliseconds upon seeing Rainbow Dash and three female specimens entering the chamber. Wildcard shuffled in last, but he could just as well have been invisible. Every velvety face, every slitted eye, every petrified expression was locked on the petite pegasus standing behind Azarias.
“... … …” Masser—still as a stone—glanced in curious silence between Rainbow Dash and the flabbergasted hall full of muted meat. If he was waiting for something, it'd likely take a century, for the pindrop silence that persisted was positively haunting.
Fitting, perhaps, that it was Lexxic's eerily soft voice that broke the ice once again: “This—dear brothers—is Rainbow Dash. Some of you have met her before. For those who haven't had the honor, she hails from the Seared Lands of the Solar Deceiver.” His helm tilted forward and back in a strained nod. “That's right. They are Penumbral visitors from across the plane. And if that mesmerizing accomplishment of migration isn't sufficient enough to warrant respect, Rainbow Dash has been specifically ordered by the matriarchs of Gibbous Sanctum and above to accompany me in the forthcoming duties of the Dark Vigil. This includes all business that transpires here in Central Operations—as well as in the blood fields beyond.” He turned his head towards Azarias. “She has also been invited to join us for the regular feasting at the Hall of Honor.”
Azarias nodded. His ears flicked to the sound of surprised murmurs and squeaks—evidently reacting to Lexxic's last bit of revelation. The Second responded with a threatening glare that scraped across the room.
Lexxic sensed the gesture, and he raised a hoof before Azarias. “I know that this must come as a shock to many of us. Such is perfectly natural. This isn't the last stunt that will be pulled by our High Polished Superiors, and I find it highly doubtful that it will be the last. But you and I, brothers: we are far better than spiteful, vindictive little Bloodcolts. The Narrow defines us, and by the Narrow we achieve victory. We keep our eyes front and center. We pursue victory ahead of us. And we leave defeat behind. So I expect each and every one of you—with faith and integrity—to follow my mandate and my mandate alone. Never mind what the High Polish insist or do not insist. The fact of the matter is...”
He turned as much as he could afford to, aiming his helm—daggers dull and docile—in Rainbow's general direction.
“So far, Rainbow Dash—this curious creature from the Seared Lands—has honored our customs. She has honored the matriarchal chain of command. And—most importantly—she has honored my authority. And until that changes—a most unprofitable choice at best—I intend to extend the same honor to her.” Lexxic turned to gaze across the table. “I mean... root sludge, brothers! She even roughed up the Fifth a little! I'd say that puts her in the same basket as you fine fighters!”
Masser had a good chuckle at that.
Lexxic's head pivoted towards him. “And must I remind the Third how we first encountered her?”
Masser wheezed his last few laughs and cleared his throat, blushing through his raised tattoos.
“And the same respect shall go to her companions...” Lexxic pointed at the one in particular with a glowing horn. “...one of whom—as you may notice—is an Imperial Clerk from Gibbous Sanctum.”
Shriike sweated slightly. A slitted eye or two darted up from where she was scribbling persistently at a scroll of floating parchment.
“Who—as you may notice—is writing down every single word I say.” Lexxic faced her. “I say.” His threadbare ears flicked from behind the helm. “I say. I say. I say.”
Shriike bit her lip, ears drooping as she repeated the same penstrokes over and over and over and over and—
“EEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-EEE!!!” Lexxic pronounced.
“Gaaah!” Shriike jumped in place. Her pen and scroll fell. She caught them in an emergency field of telekinesis, huffing and puffing.
A few anxious chuckles lit the room as Lexxic beamed. “She hasn't gotten out much, as you can see. Needless to say, beyond that...” Lexxic faced the massive group of stallions once again. “...if she is harmed or harassed, you'll answer to me. Or—even worse—you'll answer to Azarias. I can't think of much worse fates. Can you?”
Azarias folded his forelimbs in steely silence—matching the group.
Frowning at Lexxic, Shriike opened her muzzle to speak her mind—“Mrmmmff??” The Imperial Clerk looked at the pony whose hoof was muffling her.
Ariel slowly shook her head with a cautious glare. Returning her hoof, she stood silently beside the sarosian unicorn.
“That being said, you may wish to guard your words,” Lexxic continued to address the crowd. “It is a sad irony that our blood shed on the battlefield isn't what immortalizes us in the archives of Gibbous Sanctum. Alas, here we are.”
Silence.
More silence.
“What are you? New-speaking dullards?” Lexxic waved his hooves towards himself. “Out with it, brothers! I know you're simply boiling to release your thoughts and feelings!”
The room instantly flooded with a bombastic surge of incredulous outbursts:
“S'rylyssa thym ryk-ryk!”
“Hry'mlyn syl w'lymma thykka sym!”
“Eee-Eee-Eee-Eee-Eee!”
“This is madness!”
“Have you lost all decency, brother?!?”
“Lexxy'kyn, she's a breeder!”
“They all are!”
“Why are they in this room?! Why are they in our camp?! Why are they even breathing?!?”
“Have the elders threatened the campaign even more?!”
“Why would we even allow this?!”
“This is absurd!”
“Deep root guano! All of it!”
Shriike winced, struggling to parse words from the manic, toxic outburts that were worth recording.
Ariel's brow furrowed as her every muscle tightened angrily.
Seraphimus leaned over towards Wildcard. “Well... at least he and his subordinates are up front with one another.” Her headcrest perked. “One must admire the transparency...”
Wildcard barely nodded. He kept his goggled eyes locked on the whole room while his metal talon rested anxiously on the tip of Bard's bo-staff.
This whole time, Rainbow Dash stood still and resolute behind Azarias. She spent the tense seconds of furious cacophony studying the warriors in the room. All muzzles were wrought with frowns, and there were very few of them that weren't glaring venomously in her direction. She pondered what the likes of Rarity or Fluttershy might think about all this iron-thick hate. However, due to the proximity of Lexxic—none of her friends were perceivably around to share thoughts with. It occurred to her that she was more worried about how her friends felt than this entire growling room full of angry, murderous stallions. She breathed easier—not with relief—but with curiosity. She had spent the better part of the last few years running into large groups of ponies who had nothing but hatred to throw at her. Such a common happenstance; Rainbow's skin had grown strangely comfortable with it. She found herself too intrigued by it all to feel the barest modicum of anxiety.
At some point, Azarias turned his head to steal a glance at Rainbow. The Second Son seemed mildly surprised that the so-called Avatar of Luna hadn't a single tremble to give while under so much scrutiny. It was the first time Rainbow saw a hint of confusion in the otherwise stalwart stallion. One by one, the strongest and most elite members of the Bloodwings were looking less like unshakable rooks to Rainbow Dash, and instead just like any other goons she had ever butted heads with in her life of travels.
Thus, when the banal barrage of angry outbursts eventually melted into one sustained monologue, Rainbow Dash rolled calmly with it.
“Brother, this is the absolute worst time that we can be saddled with some... p-political puppet from the matriarchs!” A nameless stallion spoke boldly from the crowd. The fact that the rest of the stallions gave him enough silence to take center stage was a testament to how they all shared the same headspace. “They've done everything they can to hamper and sabotage your efforts! Why... the very moment they sent you to rendezvous with this Seared soul—they began pulling back the Fourth and Fifth Roots! Don't you see what's going on here?!? It's a distraction! The elders are trying to shift the core of the war effort back to that insufferably feeble Lyw'Malaak! Her and her... m-mewling Third Root full of cowards, traitors, and geldings! They want her—a female, and a very pathetic broodmare at best—to be Commander of the Dark Vigil! Just like the old days!”
“We can't return to the old days!” another stallion barked, receiving several nods and grunts of approval. “All of that suffering and bleeding and dying! But with no victory?!?”
“The Vigil did nothing but lose ground and sons to the War when it was under the matriarchs!”
“Malaak... the Elders... the High Polished—and every breeder just like 'em! They're too selfish and weak to win this war!”
Ariel blinked hard at that.
“Do they just want us to give up the Sarcophagus to T'chyrym and the N'shydym?! As we speak, hives are multiplying and those damnable monoliths are scouring the furthest bleaks!”
“All the while—Malaak lies in her tent! Gorging on rations and providing aid and comfort to saboteurs!”
By now, the random speakers had brought the room once more to a wild tumult. The cacophony was ear-splitting, and Shriike struggled to accomplish her task.
One hoof rose slowly and calmly amidst the bedlam. It was easy to miss—which is why Azarias let out a loud shriek, silencing everypony so they could stare in silent reverence at Lexxic's raised fetlock.
“All these things—and more—I am quite aware of, dear brothers.” Lexxic rose and fell in a pale breath. “And despite the suffocating trivialities that have multiplied all around us—on behalf of our transient godmothers—I take immense pride in the fact that each and every one of you are astute enough to make these observations and bold enough to mention them to me. But temper your anger into strong swords, not panicked fans of knives, and stand by.”
Lexxic stood tall and resolute as he spoke on.
“I am the First Son of Nightmares. I have walked the very fabric of horror. I have communed with tools of madness by personal sacrifice and sheer resolve.” His fangs glinted in the torchlight. “I am no mere grunt to be trifled with—neither by enemies abroad nor by sycophants within. And all the slings and arrows of malice thrown by cravens with intrigue as their only equalizer will have no power in bringing this campaign down. Why? Because it is comprised of you—my brothers, and I have trained you all well. We are built out of the bones of terror, with tendons that stretch from this bloodsoaked world into the blissful black of the Narrow beyond. No, we shall not be distracted. No, we shall not give the Dark Vigil over to damsels and wet nurses. No, we shall not sacrifice the Sarcophagus of Ages that we have lost all of our friends, brothers, and courageous souls to.”
WHAM! Lexxic slammed his hoof atop his end of the round table. Rainbow Dash noticed several old dents around the same spot the First Son had made contact. Lukaas didn't even pretend to protest.
“From horror we emerge!” Lexxic proclaimed thunderously, timed well with the reverbeation of his slammed hoof. The otherwise soft-spoken sarosian's ability to raise his voice within a heartbeat truly surprised the Heraldites. Including Seraphimus. “Unto horror, we render ourselves! And unto horror—we return!”
The group collectively murmured with a singular nod: “Unto horror—we return.”
“Nevertheless...” Lexxic softened back to his confident calmness, but his jaw muscles remained tight. “...our war is a struggle on two fronts. We can and will allow this dance, so long as it suits the ones who dictate our resources. It is for the sake of the campaign that I make the concessions you have witnessed as of late.” He slowly shook his head. “I care too much about you—my brothers—to do otherwise. Would you doubt this?” He waved a hoof towards Rainbow and the Heraldites. “As it may be, I make no show of pretense over how I feel—or how the whole of you may feel. And why should we?” His lips curved under his helm. “We know what's at stake. Our guests? That remains to be seen. But for the time being I consider them as much the victims of the High-Polished as we are.”
Wildcard and Seraphimus exchanged glances.
“And... if the presence of breeders...” Lexxic paused... if only to turn aside and throw a facetious smile at the griffons in the room. “...even those of the especially Seared variety...” He turned to face his compatriots yet again. “...if they bother you so damnably much that you cannot contain your ire, then I permit you to simply... depart from their presence. And mine.”
The ensuing silence was awkward—in that there was even a silence to begin with. Quite clearly—to Rainbow Dash, at least—the company of Bloodwings did not expect Lexxic to end there. And as his proposition dangled in the air, a noticeable few soldiers—the most anxious of the bunch—began squirming more and more as the seconds limped away.
But the barest moment that any bodies made a move for the exit—
“Just be sure to consider...” Lexxic's head was bowed, as if he was talking straight into the moonsilver of the round table. “...the true measure of your courage. If a few feeble creatures with extra orifices are what it takes to push you away, then just what sort of tenacity remains for the battlefield? Hmmmm?” His front fetlocks rubbed limply together, as if he was battling a migraine. “Just what precisely do I have to rely on?”
And just like that—the silence gained the weight of concrete. All those same bodies immediately shifted back. A few fumbling souls simply anchored themselves in place, hoping to hide the fact that they ever made a hint of a move to begin with. Many refused to look across the table, as if gazing upon Rainbow and her friends would be irreversibly damning.
Azarias took a deep breath. If nopony else, she appeared satisfied with the culmination of the discussion.
It must have silently signaled Lexxic. For Rainbow noticed him un-slouching into a confident swagger, bearing a coy grin to match.
“Now...”
The First Son of Nightmares cracked his neck muscles under the stain of the tombstonesque helm.
“...it may please you to know that the Twelve are on their way to the Hall of Honor.”
Just like that, any and all tension in the room melted—replaced with a titter of interest and resounding excitement. Judging from the occasional growls and hisses, Rainbow could easily tell that the subject was sprinkled with more than a little bit of righteous disgust.
“Ah...! So quick we are to assume doom and gloom, dear brothers!” Lexxic chuckled. “That's our weapon to wield, not our bog sink in.” He waved a hoof nebulously towards the camp outside. “As I speak, they're being corralled into the fringe roots. Just in time for a little rendezvous of our own.”
“They should go straight to the pit!” blurted a stallion from the far end of the chamber.
“Ywm!”
“Ywm!”
“YWM!”
“Eee-eee-eee-eee!”
The Central Operations building blew up once again in uncontrollable, testosteronical bedlam as the whole host of warriors spat and growled and jeered their vitriol all at once.
Before Azarias could silence them again—
“Oh for Narrow's sake!” Masser barked. His huge lungs sent his words barreling through the chamber, shaking stallions off their hooves—much less silencing them. “Upstart milk-drinkers! Murder in the field of battle is our specialty!” He pointed, frowning. “I struggle to see a single one of you who can actually wield wisdom and judgment over a proper execution!”
“Any one of us would be a better candidate than you, Third!”
“Hahahahah!”
“Do any of your tattoos bear the judicial verses of the Book of Saros, brother?!”
“You must have teats to be a judge, Masser'myn!”
“Hah hah hah hah!”
Masser merely gnashed his teeth, broiling red with frustration at the barbs.
Lukaas folded his forelimbs, hiding a subtle smirk of amusement at the Third's behest.
“This is not the case for a judge, brothers,” Lexxic calmly said. “Nor is it an execution.”
That summoned a collective gasp—swiftly turning into a cloud of murmurs.
Lexxic allowed the stallions to stabilize themselves before adding: “I have claimed Rite of Blood before the Imperial Council and the representatives of the High Polished. This is the reason for my brief absence after arriving with Rainbow Dash. And do give the Third Son credit, dearest brothers.” He waved at Masser, smiling coyly. “As much as I enjoy the sound of his predictable blood rushing outside of battle, I can only lend him respectable commendations in this instance. After all—it was his personal intercession with the clerks of the Mid-Roots that barred the manipulators of Gibbous Sanctum from enacting sanctuary before the Rite could be claimed. The Cowardly Twelve are ours. And not even the matriarchs—and the fiercest allies of Lyw'Malaak—can do anything about it.”
While this genuinely improved the mood of the room, many of the warriors still looked at each other with stupefied expressions.
Even Masser blinked curiously at Lexxic.
Ultimately, it was Azarias who rolled his eyes and finally spoke up in a raspy tone: “Y'ryly sylna ryk ryk! It states in the Book of Saros that practice of military judgment falls upon the field commanders in a time of war, unless those who stand to be tried are given sanctuary by the direct representatives of the Mother of Nightmares first!”
A collective “Ohhhhhhhhhh” rippled through the crowd, passed swiftly between nodding heads and slitted eyes.
“And—as you well know—we have been and continue to be at war, brothers.” Lexxic held his front forelimbs together beneath a placid expression. “Don't be so quick to despise all the multi-faceted colors of tradition. It's a greater weapon than most of us give credit for. After all—it is written in the Book of Saros: 'The Mother's blessing is our blessing.'” He finished these last few words through a cheekish grin.
A brief round of cheers filtered through the room, accompanied by stomping hooves.
Rainbow Dash looked aside at Shriike.
Shriike's lensed eyes returned a brief glance at her. In the middle of her consistent writing, she managed an affirmative nod.
Rainbow looked back at the group.
Just as the latest commotion dissipated, Hyggs poked his head up from the crowd and stammered: “But brother! The Cowardly Twelve are... are... th-the Cowardly Twelve!”
“How very astute of you, Bosonn,” Lexxic purred.
Chuckles. Snorts.
Hyggs nevertheless shook it off and pleaded: “Do they not deserve the pit? Or something worse?”
Voices rumbled and gurgled in communal agreement.
“At some point or another, 'something worse' awaits us all.” Lexxic said. He spoke further into an enveloping silence: “But I'll be damned if I spend a single cycle damaging this late, great army of the Sons of Nightmares.”
“What of the Third Root?” asked a voice from the crowd.
Lexxic pointed. “I speak of the branches that count.”
Laughter.
“No, brothers...” Lexxic swiftly took command of the room once more. “Even the most despicable warrior is still a Son of Nightmares. Each of the Twelve was robbed from the Narrow just the same as the rest of us. I do believe they deserve a chance at redemption—so long as they earn it. Thankfully, we—and they—have the means to accomplish this. Something the High Polished could never—and would never—touch.” He tilted his head back. “Surely you know that of which I speak.” He turned to face Lukaas across the table. “Perhaps you would do the honor to elaborate, Fifth?”
Lukaas cleared his throat and looked up towards the ceiling. “Wry'symma syln Rym'ly'Mylndym.”
The reaction to that was slow and measure, but soon built into an enthusiastic tumult. Seraphimus, Wildcard, and Rainbow Dash could only exchanged curious glances.
“My dear brothers...!” Lexxic waved a hoof, tilting his helm so that it glinted in the torchlight. “I suggest we make swiftly to the Hall of Honor. The Twelve await us as much as they await themselves.”
Shrieks and cheers and grunts of approval filled the room. As a whole, the crowd of warriors made for the outside world.
It was right then that Ariel spoke up: “And is there any chance that we'll find out who these 'Cowardly Twelve' are?”
Just like that, the energy and enthusiasm had been sucked out of the room. Several Bloodwings lingered in their tracks—but the whole of them were forcing themselves to glare at the ground, the wall, each other... anything and everything but the pony who just spoke.
Ariel's eyes narrowed. “Or this much-hated 'Malaak' as well?”
Further silence. Further struggling. Most of the militant specimens in that room refused to accept the fact that the mare even existed.
Rainbow Dash bit her lip. But before she could try to salvage the situation—
“I mean... Rainbow Dash here is kind of in the dark.” Ariel frowned, waving at the group as a whole. “And in case your boss here didn't give you the memo, the Elders want us included in your little pow-wows.”
Slowly—but intimidatingly—a surly and reprehensible growl rolled through the entire room.
Azarias spoke up, choosing to look away from Ariel. “It is you who is misinformed. So... in the name of diplomacy... I must tell you now that you are not to speak unless you are spoken to first...”
“Pffft!” Ariel's wings stretched out incredulously. “What is this? The Five Limb club? We deserve answers—”
“You deserve...” Azarias flashed Ariel a savage, scarred sneer. “...a muzzle and a bludgeoning, breeder!” Eyeslits and fangs flickered in the firelight. “I have grown sick and tired of shouldering the Elders' sick charade! If you do not respect the sanctity of the Bloodwings by silencing your insipid tongue, I will personally rip it from your jowls and put it to better use in the pit!”
Ariel barely flinched from that. If nothing else, her steely resolve intensified. Rainbow could see her muscles tightening, as if ready to pounce on the Second at any moment—
But then Rainbow's vision rippled—like fog rolling over a mirror. She teetered slightly, only to have Wildcard steady her. By the time she blinked back to the waking moment, she saw a pair of chaos-metal daggers floating in front of Azarias. However, they weren't pointed at the stallion, but instead pressing lengthwise against the furious Bloodwing's neck and chest. Slowly—with the grace of a surgeon—Lexxic telekinetically coaxed the seething soldier back at a passive distance from Ariel.
“Most honorable soldier...” Lexxic reached a hoof out to grace Azarias' scarred shoulder by the time they were neck and neck. “As always, I admire your zeal. I would be absolutely lost without it. But think with that rational mind of yours that I respect... that I see so much of myself in.” He smiled beneath the helm, even as it loomed so close to the Second that its shiny surface almost reflected the hard lines in his coat. “Meditate. Mull. And ascertain. Considering her Seared circumstances and the uncontested path taken to arrive in our presence, it's only natural for her to wield such... comically offensive and self-destructive naivete. That deserves a bit of grounds for patience and forgiveness. Don't you agree?” Lexxic's jaw tightened. “Did you—yourself—not receive the same consideration?”
Azarias seethed and seethed and seethed and... hung his head with a long-winded sigh. “I am sorry, brother.”
“Don't be!” Lexxic leaned back with half a haughty expression. “No brother of mine should ever feel sorry for expressing their righteous anger! But some things in this world simply aren't worth losing your control. After all...” He patted Azarias' side and smiled into what remained of the crowd. “She's only a breeder!”
“Hahahahahah!”
“Ha ha ha ha ha!”
“Heheheheh!”
Lukaas, Hyggs, and Bosonn all shared a collective chuckle—as did most of the warriors. They left slowly—still chuckling—with a silent Sypher following in a steel march behind.
Ariel clearly burned behind her ears. She shook visibly, and looked about to bark something else—
—when Seraphimus clamped a cold talon around the back of her neck. Ariel locked into place, her ears drooping. She was about to look apologetically at Rainbow Dash, only Masser stepped in the way.
The large, muscular stallion smiled awkwardly at her. “I don't think it's... uh... quite so bad... y'know...” He rubbed the back of his mane. “...you smell... pretty good f-for a breeder!” He put on a hopeful smile.
“... … ...” Ariel merely glared.
Masser blinked. His smile melted as he visibly pondered what he had said wrong.
“Third! Sound out the call, brother!” Lexxic spoke.
“Erm... r-right away!” Masser took wing and stumbled quickly out of the chamber, knocking a few fellow soldiers over in the process.
Lexxic and Azarias were the last at the door, motioning for Rainbow and her companion to follow along. “It would be prudent that you follow,” the First Son said. “Your talkative female is right, Rainbow Dash. I suppose some answers are overdue.”
Rainbow Dash took a deep breath. “I was hoping we wouldn't have to beg for some info.”
Azarias murmured something in Lexxic's threadbare ear. His posture was anxious.
Lexxic responded out loud. “Let's not kid ourselves, brother. This entire escapade is but a taste of what the elders have in store. A meal that I suspect we will be forced to have on our plate for a while. But that's all well and good.” Lexxic smiled in Rainbow's direction. “As good... honorable ambassadors of the Seared One, no doubt you can settle for a... spirited exchange in palate.” His jaw tightened. “And if your illustrious honor truly proceeds you, then further exchanges may very well be in order. This is a strenuous exercise for us both, Rainbow Dash. I'd challenge you to prove me otherwise, but I doubt either of us can afford it.”
With that said, the First Son of Nightmares bowed, and exited. Azarias lingered at the doorframe, looking both bothered and impatient.
“Dude really likes to talk a lot,” Ariel muttered.
“So does somepony else.” Rainbow spoke without looking. “Jordan? You're the closest. Would you mind?”
An approving whistle. Whap!
“Ouch!” Ariel rubbed the back of her head. “Was that really necessary?”
“Do I even have to go there with you, girl?”
“Rainbow—they're clearly a bunch of murderous misogynist flankholes who treat mares like mud!”
“Very nice!” Rainbow nodded. “I'm glad you noticed! Jordan?”
Another approving whistle. Wh-Whap!
“Augh!” Ariel buckled again. “Dang it! Don't make this a thing!”
“We'll talk later.” Rainbow looked at Shriike. “You done writing?”
“That depends.” The clerk was already rolling up a huge scroll of freshly-scribbled paper. “Are you done blabbering?”
“This is... off the record.”
“I was not informed that there would be such a thing.”
“Cool. Answer me this...” Rainbow squinted. “What was that thing Lexxic had the Fifth say earlier? Whatever it is that the 'Cowardly Twelve' are about to go through?”
“'Wry'symma syln Rym'ly'Mylndym?'” Shriike adjusted her spectacles. “It's the Challenge of Worth and Wrath.'”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand...” Rainbow leaned in even further. “...that isssss?”
Shriike shrugged. “I could not tell you.”
Seraphimus stuck her head in. “Are you not Gibbous Sanctum's most informed archivist of midnighter culture?” Her charcoal brown eyes narrowed. “How can you not know of this... function?”
“Because I don't!” Shriike shrugged even harder. “Why should any of the High-Polished be bothered with the morale-boosting banalities of Lexxic's murderers and plunderers?”
Wildcard exhaled heavily. The Desperado gave Rainbow Dash a look of abject exasperation.
“Shriike... girl...” Rainbow rested a hoof on her shoulder. “You've got a thing or two to learn about a thing or two.”
The clerk merely blinked. “Like what?”
“Enough of this,” Seraphimus grumbled, marching towards where Azarias anxiously waited. “We've trespassed on the fringes of this company's tolerance long enough.”
Rainbow sighed, turning to follow her. “Maybe it's a good thing that I'm swiftly losing my appetite.”
Flash!
Pinkie Pie appeared before Rainbow Dash in a lavender blip, followed by the other four in the wake of Lexxic's absence. “Did somepony say something about food, Dashie?”
“Heya, Pinks. Care to be my vomit bag in a moment?”
“Is that a trick question?!”