//------------------------------// // A diplomat and an inventor (edited) // Story: The Iron Chancellor // by Radical Centrist //------------------------------// Otto Von Bismarck laid bedridden in Friedrichsurh; surrounded by family. He had long deluded himself of his perfection; bringing back memories of his great achievements during his prime, yet deep down he knew of his terrible shortcomings. For he had failed to predict the coronation of Kaiser Wilhelm II and knew that his boisterous and impatient attitude would spell doom for the German Empire he had so slaved away to build. He had neglected his child, his family and his own life to dedicate himself to the work of ensuring Germany's stability and prosperity. But now, it all seemed wasted. He had lived a life of infamy; hated by all, and understood by none. He had pushed the stretches of the Concerts of Europe to fit Germany; not realising that he was the only one trying to keep their glorious empire alive. He had failed to imagine a world without himself; a German Empire without its diplomats. For a state so infamous to serve only the will of the army, it seemed so foolish that he didn't realise sooner. Bismarck shut his eyes the last time- struggling to prevent his tears from escaping. He had so many regrets; mistakes that he would amend if given a second chance. But he was no fool. As for all he had done, he knew the lord would not be merciful. For he could already sense the devil awaiting his death. His lips twitched to a deep frown. "Only the deepest of hells will harbour me for what I have helped to unleash... He thought, "A Germany... Led by a thoughtless warmonger..." -July 30th 1898- Death of the "Iron Chancellor” Paul Mauser slowly peered outside his window, feeling the rays of light stinging against his exposed, wrinkled skin. He had not long to live. He could still vividly remember the days of his prime; when he would frequently go abroad to demonstrate and license his masterpiece; the Gewehr 98. Despite all his journeys and appointments with significant individuals, he never thought much of his legacy, as he always assumed he would perpetually remain a travelling artisan and inventor. However, it would all change after the day of Bismarck's death. He could still remember the day in the finest of detail; the sudden proposal by the German army to adopt his Gewehr 98 to become its standard service rifle. At first, he was speechless, then overjoyed, but then somehow- depressed. For he became self-aware of his age, -being 60 years old. He had barely the time nor energy to write a biography nor create his legacy. He had no children, and his only relative was his brother, Wilhelm Mauser who had long since passed. He scribbled on a blueprint that was splayed over his table; attempting to distract himself. Throughout his life, he had worked on many designs and blueprints that deviated from war and had accelerated such studies at the age of 61, -expecting to die doing what he always loved- inventing and designing. But now, 15 years had passed, and each year he would regret not writing his biography. He scolded himself for continually having doubts of his survival, as he had convinced himself every year to forgo writing one as he REALLY thought he should've died by now. But no, he was still breathing and was sketching blueprints with such terrible handwriting that no one but himself would be able to interpret them. His mouth twitched into a frown. "This is so pathetic..." He depressingly reflected, as he dropped his head on his arm and began sobbing pathetically. "If only I had no doubt... Paul whimpered. His sobs continued long throughout the day, and only slowed as the sun began to fall towards the horizon. Paul drifted off to sleep- A sleep he would never wake up from again... -May 29th 1914- Death of the founder of "Mauser" Megacontinent of Equis: Equestria Commander Hurricane sat tiredly on his cloud stool; glancing at a report compiled by his pegasi scouts. He sighed. Ever since their migration south to escape the windigos, their new neighbours had been eyeing them suspiciously. But once the period of surprise and suspicion decayed, they had begun to see their pony neighbours differently; as a source of opportunity. The Zebrican tribes to their east had begun accelerating their ambushes of caravans and remaining refugees; causing their makeshift roads to become deathtraps, and the earth ponies lose trust in their pegasus 'guardians'. The griffon hunter-gatherers; also to their east, were harassing the farmers, and picking off any unsupervised fillies to an unknown fate; causing the earth ponys' harvests to become barer, as they focused more on protecting their foals than to their fields. The deers to their west regularly raided their villages and cities via rivers, with ships so fast that it was impossible to intercept nor chase by ground. The list went on; for Hurricane to describe their situation as being chaotic would've been an understatement, as currently, they were again on the brink of annihilation due to rampant famine, distrust, and ethnic tensions, which seemed poised to doom them whilst the windigos had failed. So, he had been forced to make 'difficult' sacrifices; intentionally leaving the patrols for earth ponies bare whilst repositioning them to station more 'important' locations to ensure their client's safety. They would normally gauge the 'importance' by bits, but protection was also offered to those who would support the pegasuses during the three tribe councils; their most infamous client being Chancellor Puddinghead, who would readily betray her own kind for own benefits. Commander Hurricane also had another problem regarding the professionalism and discipline of his troops, as their deadly march southwards had not only rid him of his veteran troops, it had also virtually destroyed all of their capabilities in training new recruits, as their old guards had been all but annihilated. And so, he had to resort to employing irregulars to fill in the ranks and perform regular duties; degrading their already diminishing reputation and tarnishing their image as an elite, disciplined force. Their once professional, invincible pegasus army was now a shell of its former self; their squads now primarily consisting of recruits with little to no training or combat experience. And so, he would have to painstakingly watch as countless battles against far insignificant forces would end in his army routing; either due to the mere smell of blood or the death of a single ally. But for him, the most unforgivable, baffling and incomprehensible act was when one of his advisors had dared ask whether the earth ponies should be allowed to defend themselves. He would promptly sack and replace the advisor for suggesting such a heinous and idiotic idea. "Arming the mud ponies? An unthinkable fantasy." Hurricane thought, as he continued glossing over the report. He had a long day ahead of him. East of Equestria: The isolated Griffon Lands Beyond the eastern mountains bordering Equestria, there lied a fractured land in constant war with another; all engaged in pointless feuds and wars which all seemed to achieve nothing. The sheer barbarism and violence present in the lands would've made any other creature faint into a comatose status immediately, however, it would have little effect on its native griffons. They were all broken; desensitised from the ceaseless generations of constant bloodshed and loss. Their spirits were completely shattered; their dedication to any cause absent. Countless generations of the land had grown up only seeing war; the scenes of genocides and massacres initiated by warlords becoming normalised in their consciousness and minds. They would be oppressed, forcefully conscripted, foalnapped into slavery or pressed into servitude. The lucky few would simply wake up dead or discover that their entire village had been massacred, meaning starvation would soon take them too. As a result, social connections and relationships between griffs were discouraged, as any investiture of time or emotions between griffs would yield nothing but heartbreak, despair and depression. And soon, the very concepts of friendship and love would all but disappear out of necessity. Many had attempted their escape; countless disorganised parties and expeditions crossing the western mountains to the lands beyond, only for them to disappear and leave not a single word behind. All semblance of hope; crushed before its inception. Cultural and societal norms disappearing. And eventually, their very history becoming forgotten. The broken griffons would march under numerous arbitrary banners; their identity becoming moulded by the warlords who ruled them. They would raze and terrorise the countryside; doing whatever they were told. It did not matter whether their targets were family or their birthplace; the warlords told them what to do, and they knew the costs of disobedience. Endless indoctrination. Continuous degriffonisation. Ceaseless bloodshed. Eternal screams. War was waged against every neighbour; their justification being extracted from petty tribalism, as the warlords would exploit every minute differences between griffons to form a casus-beli. Nothing seemed to halt the trend of violence, as the downfall of a warlord seemed to only inspire two more to replace them. Many would promise peace and stability at first, but devolve to serve themselves; beginning the cycle anew. The ordinary griffons learned to not believe; their wishes to entrust their loyalty to an individual having long been smothered by the boots of lies from the warlords. The ordinary griffons learned to not question, as the curiosity of knowing one's motives or goals had only yielded executions. Silence would save their lives and protect them from insanity. Nogriff was safe; death was imminent, every second, everywhere and anytime. Yet, paranoia had never plagued them, for their entire existence knew only of fear and the looming threat of death. With minds so broken and disillusioned, the very fabric of society tore down; paving the way for any opportunistic figures or entities to completely restructure it to their benefit. Illiteracy was rampant and most days simply devolved into a struggle for survival. Writers, artists, historians and contributors to culture became lost for the focus of survival. A Dark Age loomed over their lands; technologies and culture devolving into their primitive forms. Memories, records and monuments of their past becoming lost until there were no more. They truly had lost everything, and now, they were mere parasites to their own decaying carcass; consuming everything and anything still left; uncaring of their self-destruction. At this very moment, they were the most malleable; able to be transformed, reshaped and morphed into anyones' image. They were like a blank canvas; begging for a brilliant painter to fill its empty whites. A canvas so barren yet with such potential; able to project and display an image so foreign to this world. However, such a staggering task would require a brilliant artist; for not everybody could manipulate such a void and large canvas to create something; no less a masterpiece. No griffon could even dream to accomplish the tasks of uniting or stabilising the region; the requirements of creating a unifying identity and culture being almost baffling for a region that had used the opposite to wage war and incite violence. Only the most genius and brilliant minds seemed to be able to remedy their impending destruction; unfortunately, their lands lacked one; the griffons being too preoccupied with war and survival to pursue education or innovations. Thankfully, their saviours wouldn't be griffons. Perhaps externally. But not internally. Much like how their region would end up becoming. The isolated Eastern griffon lands: An unspecified village There sat a miserable village, located in the most northeastern warlord state. Their houses were mere charcoal silhouettes of their former selves; their wooden frames having been burnt to crisps. Their fields had been razed and sacked; not a speck of green or yellow remaining on the ruined soil. Rares sights of intact houses sparsely dotted the village; their exteriors smudged with black spots from the fires they desperately smothered. But strangely, there were no griffons inside those homes. For in the village centre, stood its elder; an old griffon named Franz Tercio. He stood upright; his torso vertical and his hindlegs parallel; exerting as much height to garner the villagers' attention. Everygriff had gathered around him, from the lifeless children, the crying mothers and the workless husbands; all limping themselves out of their burnt fields and homes. Among the enlargening crowd, new faces emerged; many of them being deserters or refugees that had fled from the face of death, starvation or worse. Nogriff paid them any mind though, for it was just another day for the villagers. Franz Tercio desperately tried to calm his nerves; the responsibilities and expectations the villagers had of him weighing on his conscience. While most elders would've fled to escape such situations, Franz stood firm; providing a slimmer of hope to the despairing villagers, that maybe, he would be different. But they were no fools. They knew nogriff could be morally altruistic and be competent as well; either characteristic seemingly only being interchangeable and never complimentary, as only two archetypes seemed to spawn: the competent but morally evil, or the altruistic fool. And Franz began to believe he was the latter. Thankfully, nogriffs were injured or killed during the raid; a miraculous gift to many, but a curse to the realists, as now, they had more beaks to feed. Their farms had been annihilated; their fields razed and trampled beyond salvage. Clouds were a rare sight in the north; meaning rain was scarce, and their soil would not recover as a result. It did not help that the closest rivers were a mountain away, meaning transportation of water was infeasible. It seemed like the village was destined to starve and die; no farming tools, no materials to rebuild, lack of food, lack of motivation, lack of hope, burnt shelters, burnt fields. They had nothing, and they needed everything. Upon this reflection, Franz contemplated giving a speech to reinvigorate his fellow griffs, but stopped himself once realising a pattern. He wasn't the first to give a speech, nor would he be the last. Many elders had been in similar situations; contemplating but in the end, proceeding with their speeches. Meaningless, pointless and ultimately futile speeches. He and the villagers knew all speeches resulted in the same outcome: nothing. And so, Franz lowered himself to his fours'. He closed his eyes, as he sank lower to support himself on his elbows; both claws clasped and held on the tip of his beak. He prayed. The villagers stared at their elder silently; his prayers seeming so generic and futile. Yet, for some reason, this felt different... The villagers could feel something off... Not particularly bad... But mysterious... It was as if somegriff, -rather some being was watching over them, as the elder continued to pray. Soon, everygriff began to pray; mimicking their elder's gestures and actions. And as they did, they could feel something... Something which told them... Everything was going to be okay... Franz briefly opened his eyes and looked up; staring at the skies with such determination that one would swear that he was glaring at god himself. He muttered quietly; through his clenched, tight beaks. "Please, somegriff... Please help us..." ... ... ... Atop a hill nearby the village, a ray of light would shine across the skies and strike the earth below; illuminating the surroundings. The light would slowly subside, revealing two unconscious figures emerging from the receding light. They would be the villagers' hopes and dreams manifest; two of the greatest minds in the bodies of griffons.