You are Midnight Blossom, Lunar Captain of the 31st Interdiurnal Night Guard Division.
That'll be all for introductions. You’re not one to go off on a tangent in your own head.
You’re currently camped in the Hollow Shades, roughly 15 klicks north of your current objective.
The swirling viscera of the chaotic magic above the Foal Mountains is… concerning. Ominous even, some mares would say. But it serves as nice stimulation to occasionally look at through the canopy of trees, keeping your eyelids from drifting shut.
No hostiles to report. Just the odd cricket here or there chirping, and the gentle trickling of the nearby stream.
It’s peaceful, you guess. Objectively so.
You wouldn’t know, though. The many emotions boiling in your blood can be described by many words. All of which are antonyms of the word "peaceful."
You are going to kill Furtive Wind.
It’s not that she almost immediately abandoned her post while the rest of her team was vulnerable. It’s not that she made you pick up the slack and stand watch for four hours in the exhausting afternoon sun. It's not that she openly talks about how she only joined the Night Guard for, quote, "some hot Daydweller hilt, ma zigga!"
Tartarus, it’s not even that she planted that erotic magazine in your grotto so her own can pass inspection, only to immediately steal it back, get caught on the way back, and start those rumors.
Which you were not mad about.
At all.
You swear.
No, it isn't because of any of these reasons. It’s because she made you feel an emotion you absolutely hate.
Worry.
You tilt your head upwards and gaze into the purple, star-studded sky. An hour more, and it’ll be time to leave. And she still isn’t back.
Going off to look for Wind isn’t an option; at least, sending a chunk of your team big enough to make an effective search party isn’t an option. You need every mare you can get for this mission, and with how meticulously you and your team had moved behind the Elements, you can’t risk any setbacks. Just one more flight, and you’d be at the Foal Mountains just before the Elements are scheduled to arrive.
You personally aren’t sure why you’re supposed to remain hidden from the Elements. The more numbers they have on their side, the more likely they are to achieve their goal, you figure. Still, like every time before, Princess Luna politely asked you to stay out of sight.
That’s enough for you.
Would you have to mount a search party for Wind after the mission? That would be a nightmare. The mares tend to get insubordinate after missions, wanting to go off into the nearest town to blow off some steam. One guess as to what that implies.
”I’M A PRETTY PONY, SHORT AND STOUT!”
”I’m a pretty… pony… short and… stout…”
Your ears twitch as a pair of distant voices echo through the forest. A hopeful smile twitches at the corners of your lips, but you stop that dead in its tracks. The last thing Furtive Wind needs is positivity, after the guano she just pulled.
”YOU INSULT MY HAT AND YOU’LL HEAR ME SHOUT!”
”You insult… hah… shout…”
One of them is definitely Furtive Wind, but who’s the other?
”HERE IS MY MUZZLE, HERE IS MY SNOUT!”
”Muzzle… hah… hah… snout…”
…Oh, great.
A stallion.
”IF YOU BOOP ME ON THE SNOOT THEN I WILL POUT!”
”…buck me up the ponut with a cactus…”
And from the sound of things, he’s a particularly vexing one.
Yes, vexing. Whimsical is a word lovestruck schoolfillies and virtue signaling cowards use.
You remain silent as the sound of panting, chanting, and foliage parting draw closer. Eventually, two ponies emerge from the green-golden haze of the forest.
One of them is the mare of the hour herself, drenched in sweat and plant life unlucky enough to be stuck to her dark violet coat. With the amount of her white mane falling over her face, you wonder if it's even worth it to have that bun atop her head. Her sea blue eyes are reduced to a cold, dead blue as she stares forward, her irises never latching onto anything in her vision.
The pony with her, you don’t recognize. He's a red stallion with an unkempt, brown mane and tail. His face seems to be a little boxier than most stallions, as if his cutie mark was in sticking his jaw out and frowning. Speaking of said cutie mark, it seems to be some kind of... rocket? You think that's what the Daydwellers call it.
That's what Cloud Skipper called them, at least. Some experimental Solar Guard weapon.
As the two draw near enough to see you, you don’t make a move, regarding them with a cold gaze. Furtive Wind locks eyes with you and immediately freezes.
You can’t help but smirk. You love it when they know they bucked up. Makes that slow, guilty walk to you all the more—
”waaaahhh-YAAAAAAAGHHHH!” The bastard child of an injured animal’s screech and an orgasmic moan escapes Furtive Wind’s mouth as she leaps forward and grovels at your hooves. ”I’M SO~O~O~ORRYY FOR ABANDONING MY PO~O~O~OST!” she wails between looking up at you and kissing your hooves. “I’LL CLEAN THE TOILETS FOR THE NEXT MONTH! MOON ABOVE, I’LL CLEAN THEM FOR THE NEXT YEAR! JUST PLEASE, NO MORE DISCIPLINARY PHYSICAL TRAINING! I JUST WANTED MY SCHNITZEL WIENERED! THAT'S ALL I WANTED -- I ONLY WANTED A STALLION TO WIENER MY SCHNITZEEEEEEEEL!"
Your attempt to save a small smidge of the mare’s dignity by moving your hooves away from her smooching lips is only met with Furtive collapsing into the fetal position.
”Oh, sayyy can you seeee,” you hear her whisper to herself in a sing-song sotto, “By the daaaawn’s early liiiiiight…”
You tentatively reach a hoof out to the shaking mare’s head. However, since her mane is drenched with sweat, dirt, and sap, you opt to just paw the air above her mane.
“…There there, Private Furtive Wind," you mutter coldly.
”THAT’S your name, Private?!” the stallion commands, earning a flinch and a frantic nod from Furtive. “My God! I thought I just misheard you the first time, and I was too embarrassed to ask for clarification! My apologies, Farting Wind!”
Furtive Wind makes a sound that you guess a pony could make… if you really stretched the imagination.
”Alright, back to business!" the stallion exclaims, puffing his chest out and stamping a hoof in the dirt. "ATTENNNNNN-TION!”
A few surprised squeaks and some annoyed chittering from behind tells you the rest of your team has just woken up. Furtive Wind, meanwhile, lets out a choked sob before shakily getting up on her hooves and into proper form.
…Did Furtive Wind just follow an order? The first time?
”MA’AM," the stallion shoots off without even taking a breath, "PRIVATE FARTING WIND HAS SOMETHING SHE’D LIKE TO DISCLOSE CONCERNING HER DISAPPEARANCE FROM HER POST! ALTHOUGH, BEFORE SHE STARTS, I BELIEVE IT IS WORTH NOTING THAT HER DISCIPLINARY PUSHUPS AND IMMEDIATE SUPERSET WITH A TEN-MILE HIKE, IN WHICH THE NEED OF REST IS PUNISHABLE BY FIFTY BURPEES, HAVE ALREADY BEEN COMPLETED! HER MANE IS LUSTROUS WITH SWEAT AND FRAGANT WITH THE SWEET STENCH OF HARD WORK AND DEDICATION! I ALSO REQUEST THAT SOMEBODY TEACH ME HOW TO DELICATELY AND ADEPTLY BRAID A PRETTY PONY’S MANE WITH HOOVES! MA’AM!”
The stallion salutes you, Furtive Wind immediately following suit with a thousand-yard stare that would give most veterans a run for their bits.
As Furtive Wind explains herself and the situation, you eye the red stallion beside her.
He certainly talks like a soldier.
You didn’t know affirmative action held such a grip on the Solar Guard they’d put stallions in field roles.
Oh well. Night Guards: 1. Solar Guards: 0.
As the minutes tick by and you’re enlightened by Furtive Wind’s exploits, the stallion beside her doesn’t move an inch. You’d be impressed by his dedication if you weren’t too busy being suspicious of everything else.
Furtive Wind continues to babble on with, ”--And that’s when he told me ‘no man left behind!’ and picked me up, and I thought he’d keep hiking with me on his back, but he instead started doing weighted pushups and—"
“Thank you,” you interrupt her, holding the stallion’s neutral gaze. “That’ll be all. You are excused…" You eye Furtive Wind with a cruel smirk. "Farting Wind.”
The traumatized mare lets out a high pitched “g’uh!” before scrambling into camp, probably dead set on catching whatever morsel of sleep she can pry before nightfall.
”She’s a good kid!” the stallion chuckles deeply before walking past you into camp.
Or, attempting to walk past you into camp. You put a hoof up against his chest and stop his advance, earning a tilted head from the stallion.
“Name and rank?” you ask coldly, keeping the stallion at bay.
The stallion taps his chin thoughtfully before he suddenly brightens up. Daydwellers really are too expressive for their own good. Well, makes catching them in a lie all the easier.
”Soldier and soldier!" he replies cheerfully.
...You stand corrected.
You sigh through your nostrils, letting out an annoyed trill too high pitched for Daydwellers' ears. "Let me rephrase," you murmur, leaning in close to his face. "And look me in the eyes as you answer. Why are you here, instead of with your team?"
The stallion's blue eyes stare into your own. To his credit, you don't see a hint of intimidation or fear. You guess he wasn't lying when he said he was a soldier of some kind. But whether he's on your side remains to be seen.
"I have no idea where my team is," the stallion rattles off without even a twitch of dishonesty in his face, "And I want to say hi to my roommate!” He points a hoof in the general direction of the Foal Mountains, a proud grin on his face.
You blink, your hoof retracting from his chest. You squint at the stallion, your face twitching into an annoyed, confused glare. "Ke catźo?" you mutter under your breath, slipping into Thestralian.
”Why hell-o, handsome!” a voice coos from behind, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes.
”Handsome?” the stallion ponders, before his eyes widen. “Handsome! PRETTY BOY! SPY! WHERE IS HE?!”
The stallion whips his head this way and that before it snaps toward the approaching mare. As sickeningly smooth as a snake, Specialist Quickthistle saunters in from your peripheral. Your fur feels cold as she slides in from beside you.
Oh look. She’s already done her makeup. You’d be surprised if she doesn’t sleep in it just for an occasion such as this.
”Aww, he’s playing the oblivious role!” Quickthistle susurrates as she circles the stallion like the vulture she is. “It looks like Furtive Wind finally contributed something of value to the team. I, for one, would be happy to help this poor stallion. How about you, Midnight Blossom?”
You really… really don’t need this right now.
“Quickthistle,” you say hard enough to make her stop her gait. She peers at you with those annoying, flirty azure eyes. “Stallion or not, he’s an Unknown. And we have a strict schedule to keep with to stay ahead of the Elements. We can’t waste our time foalsitting.”
”But isn’t protecting civilians part of being a Guard?” she asks.
You narrow your eyes. If she’s referring to what you think she’s referring to…
A hoof on your withers makes your wings give an instinctual flap.
”Quickthistle,” another voice cuts in from behind. “Take the colt into camp. There’s still an hour left until nightfall. We’ll decide what to do with him until then.”
”Oh, but don’t I need my captain’s permission?” Quickthistle sneers, giving you a face that you wouldn’t mind one bit punching the moonlight out of.
“Take the damn colt into camp,” you mutter.
Quickthistle gives a squee that grates on your ears before escorting the stallion into camp. ”Come with me, handsome. It's okay now. Let this brave group of mares take care of you.”
”Wait,” the stallion suddenly mutters. “Were you referring to me this whole time?”
You could practically hear the lecherous smile spreading across Quickthistle’s face--
“I AM NOT HANDSOME!" the stallions roars. You whip around and stare at the commotion, every thestral in the camp following suit. "NOR AM I A CIVILIAN! I AM BATTLE-HARDENED! SCARRED! BURLY! RRRREADY AND WILLING TO THROW DOWN!" The stallion marches toward Quickthistle with a speed you would never expect from a Daydweller. Quickthistle falls on her flanks as the stallion gets in her shocked face. "DO YOU TAKE ME FOR SOME PRETTY BOY-FRENCHIE-BASTARD?! DO YOU TAKE ME AS SOME PRISSY, DOMESTICATED LITTLE PONY?! A FOAL THAT COWERS AWAY FROM THE HUNTER?! NO! I STARE THE HUNTER DIRECTLY IN THE EYES AND DARE HIM TO PULL THE TRIGGER! I ENGAGE IN HONORABLE BATTLE WITH MY PREPUBESCENT GIRL OWNER! BY GOD, LADY, IF THE NEXT WORDS THAT COME OUT OF YOUR MOUTH ARE ANYTHING BESIDES, ‘MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES, SIR! WOULD YOU ACCEPT A HOOFSHINING AS ADEQUATE COMPENSATION FOR THIS GRAVE, GRAVE GRIEVANCE?’ YOU AND I ARE GOING TO HAVE A HELL OF A PROBLEM!”
If anypony else wasn’t awake in the camp, they sure as the Moon above are now.
The sight of Quickthistle on her rump, eyes as wide as saucers, definitely woke you up.
The stallion gives a gruff huff before marching past the dazed mare, into the camp.
”You know you should’ve immediately let him in," the mare at your side says.
You give her a glare. “I repeat,” you enunciate to Silhouette, like an older thestral teaching a pup to avoid biting her lips while speaking Ponish. “Unknown. Strict schedule. And how are we even supposed to help him, Sillow? The nearest town is Baltimare, and the influx of Baltimarean refugees back at Canterlot doesn’t scream ‘safe place.’”
”…Well, he’s still a stallion” she concedes. “We should at least try to help him.”
A spike of anger stabs at your chest.
“Buck off,” you grunt, brushing the mare off as you trot into camp. “You’ll be on watch for the rest of dusk. I’m going to go handle this colt.”
”You can’t get this mad every time!” Sillow calls from behind.
You half expect her to finish that sentence with "or you'll never get a stallion," but by the grace of the Moon, she grants you mercy. For once.
You ignore Silhouette as you trot into camp. The rest of the mares are now awake, inspecting the newcomer a little too closely and giving you questioning glances. Everypony except Furtive Wind, of course. She’s fast asleep, hanging upside down from her branch of choice.
”Hello, everyone!” the stallion grabs everypony’s attention with a big smile and a wave. “Apparently I’m here to be rescued by you!”
“That has yet to be decided,” you warn as you approach the stallion.
”Oh, thank God!” he chuckles. “I’m not very good at playing the rescuee! Hell, I’m not even good at playing the rescuer! I’m usually the one people are getting rescued from!”
One by one, each pair of eyes shift from the stallion to you, with various levels of incredulousness. You see Quickthistle in the crowd… barely. She’s currently hiding behind Serendipity.
Speaking of Serendipity:
”…A-are we going to be… escorting this stallion, Captain?” she squeaks, and you grimace at the hopeful tone of her voice. “Aren’t we supposed to get to the Foal Mountains before midnight?”
Serendipity glances back towards the mountains in the distance, looming over the camp like a silent predator.
You narrow your eyes as you think. Now’s the time to come to a decision, Midnigh—
”Ohhhh, THOSE are the Foal Mountains!” the stallion exclaims. “I was headed there anyways to pay my good ol’ roommate a visit!”
“Your… roommate?” you ask mechanically.
”Yep! Ol’ Merasmus! He’s an evil wizard whose diabolical machinations threaten all who he deems worthy of the eternal embrace of death! Isn’t that neat?”
You narrow your eyes. That same, stupid grin on the stallion’s face is looking more and more punchable by the second.
"You have a vivid imagination, I'll give you that," you murmur.
“Imagination?" the stallion asks innocently. "I assure you my roommate is as real as those pointy fangs sticking out of your mouth, Captain Mid-height Bosom!"
This earns a few giggles from your team. You quickly silence that with a glare.
“Midnight…” you enunciate, leaning so close your muzzles are almost touching. “…Blossom. And you?”
”I already told you!” he exclaims. “Soldier!”
This is bucking infuriating.
You don’t have time for this.
Everypony here might go out of their way to make time for a stallion like this, but not you.
“Okay, Soldier,” you sneer, eyeing every detail of his face for that single, errant ounce of dishonesty or doubt. “I'll ask you again. What. Is your rank?”
”Also Soldier!” is his chipper response, and you have to physically restrain yourself from rearing back and punching this colt right on his Luna-damn, colt cheek. The rising laughter from your team certainly isn’t helping. ”You see, after I applied at the recruiting station, they told me I was MENTALLY UNFIT TO HOLD A RIFLE! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?! They didn’t even run any tests! Said they didn’t need to; their brief ‘encounter’ with me was enough to decide on the spot! Well, how the Hell was I supposed to know that maggot behind the counter with a German accent wasn’t a Nazi scumbag?! And what the Hell’s an inter-national diplomat, for that matter?! Anywho, you know what I did? I bought a plane ticket to Germany with all of my life savings, and a life threat to the conductor, and starting killing those sons-a-bitches on my own time! I DID IT SO WELL AND FOR SO LONG, I WAS STILL KILLING GERMANS FIVE YEARS AFTER THE WAR! I DON’T SPEAK GERMAN SO I NEVER GOT THE MEMO! And by God, if that doesn’t earn me the rank of Soldier, I don’t know what does! Gee, miss Bosom, you’re really red in the face! Are you alright?”
Your team – your team of traitors -- are a mess of laughing, whooping thestrals.
You expected this from civilians, giving a stallion this much slack. You expected this from the affirmative action-peddling Solar Guards -- them and their pretty colts standing around at the castle. Yet you also have to deal with this laissez-faire attitude from your own thestrals?!
You take a deep breath, closing your eyes. Reminding yourself of Princess Luna's words. "Frankly, Captain... this attitude towards stallions disgusts me as well."
A simple, off-hoofed comment she said to affirm you after you were just scolded by a Solar Guard for being a little "too rough" with a male thief. Yet it echoes in your mind like a core memory.
“…Calm down, Midnight,” you breathe out. “We are on a mission... We will get to the Foal Mountains before any conflict starts—"
“CONFLICT?!" the stallion shrieks like a stallion because he's an annoying bucking stallion. "There’s CONFLICT going on here?! And you’re headed straight for it?! WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO?! THAT SOLVES BOTH OF OUR PROBLEMS! I’ll just accompany you mares while we make the hike to the Foal Mountains, and I can help out with Merasmus!”
“NO!" you bark, pushing your muzzle into the stallion's own. He doesn't shrink back in the least, but neither are you. "IT WON’T BE A HIKE. WE WILL FLY. AND YOU WOULD SLOW US DOWN, REDBACK.”
One or two mares gasp at your language, but a quick death glare in each of their directions is enough to silence them.
”Aw, come on!" the stallion chuckles, and your glare zips back to meet his face. "You pretty pony ladies could USE somebody with some war-time experience! I wouldn't want any of you cutie-pattooties to get hurt, so I'm coming with!"
Time slows. You start seeing red. Your eye starts twitching.
Disrespecting the Night Guard.
Not disclosing his identity.
Making light of a magical disaster that has left thousands homeless.
Stolen Valor.
And every Luna-damn mare in your team is laughing.
They’re laughing. He’s disrespecting everything you’ve worked for and they’re laughing.
Everypony’s laughing… but you.
This is all too familiar.
Every bucking time, with these stallions. EVERY BUCKING TIME, THEY'RE JUST BEING WHIMSICAL, AND YOU'RE THE ONE WHO NEEDS TO CALM DOWN!
EKO TSEK'KE K'ISTSENNI TŹOLLO CLOUD SKIPPER!
You slam your hoof into the ground, showering the stallion’s chest with dirt. You bare your fangs and spread your wings, your hackles raised and eyes slitted.
“NNUELLO!” you shout.
The jovial laughter of the camp transforms into dead silence. The stallion, the Daydweller bastard, of course doesn't recognize your native tongue. NO Daydweller ever even CONSIDERS learning Thestralian, yet every member of the Night Guard is required to learn Ponish -- a language meant for a tribe with no fangs!
"Tsi tzinno a nnuello," you snarl through your grinding teeth. "I challenge you to a NNUELLO!" You raise your voice so everypony understands you, crystal. Clear. “A duel, until one of us is rendered unfit or unwilling to continue. No magic, no wings."
”Captain, you lecherous mare!” Quickthistle cheers from somewhere out of your focus. “I always knew you were the type to wrestle a stallion to the ground!”
Ah, there it is.
It took her a while to bring it up.
It all comes back to bucking stallions.
Stallions. Who your life is supposed to revolve around. Your only aspiration as a mare, you’ve been told since birth.
Never told directly, of course. Ponies are too cowardly for that. They prefer to say it indirectly:
“Wow, you’re really strong, Midnight! But stallions don’t like bulky mares, you know.”
“Why’re you aiming so high in the ranks, Blossom? You make enough already to support a family!”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make your Thestralian wake-thing, Blossom. His family needed comforting. I mean, could you imagine losing a son?”
That stray memory plunges a knife of grief into your chest, but your anger easily overpowers and consumes it.
You hate it.
By Luna, you hate it.
You want nothing to do with stallions anymore. One was enough.
You don’t have to justify anything.
You’re going to knock this Daydweller, sun-bucking redback’s teeth out of his skull.
“If I win,” you continue lowly, drinking in the stallion’s suddenly wide-eyed reaction. He talks big game, but he’s probably never even chipped a hoof. You wouldn’t be surprised if that scar on his cheek is cosmetic. “You turn tail and find your way to the nearest town on your own.--”
You give the few mares who voice their objections a glare, shutting them up, before continuing.
Yeah, he talks big game, but you figure all it'd take for him to crumble is to witness real soldiers working.
“—If you win," you grit out, chuckling at the absurdity of the prospect, "You can accompany us on our mission. Do you—”
”YES!”
…What?
”YES! YES! A MILLION TIMES, YES!” The stallion screeches and bounces up and down, a giddy, ear-to-ear grin on his face.
"...Midnight, did you just propose to him?" Serendipity squeakily asks from the sidelines. You ignore her words, still staring at the stallion in confusion and a growing sense of nervousness.
“I’VE BEEN ITCHING FOR A GOOD FIGHT!" the stallion laughs, "This new body is DISGUSTING! Not a battle scar in SIGHT!” The stallion catches a glimpse of himself through the stream, and zips over the surface of the water, glaring down at his reflection. “Spotless! Well-kept! Absolutely disgraceful-- Hey, look! A scar!”
The stallion… is laughing.
Manically so.
He turns back to you—no, wait, somepony behind you.
”THANKS FOR THE SCAR ON MY CHEEK, PRIVATE FARTING WIND!” he yells.
If Furtive Wind could see the many death glares being sent her way right now, she’d probably melt into the floor.
Luckily for her, she’s out like a light, snoring raucously and giggling in her sleep.
You turn back to the stallion, who—
Oooooooh, you don’t like the way he’s looking at you.
“…T-tradition states that the challengee is the one who picks the time and place,” you say, cursing yourself for the stutter. “I’d prefer to get this over with as soon as—”
”RIGHT HERE, THREE SECONDS, THREE-TWO-ONE GO!”
He’s on top of you.
He’s not rearing back to charge, he’s not galloping towards you, he’s just… immediately on top of your barrel, your back is pressed against the dirt, and you feel woefully dizzy.
…and now he looks unsure of what to do.
”HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GRAB YOU WITH THESE DAMN, COMMIE HOOOOOOOOOVES?!” he screams at the sky.
You quickly recover from the stallion’s speed and use your gaskin to knee the colt’s backside. He loses his balance and topples over you, shooting out his front hooves for support. They're barely there for a second before your own front hooves snake around his right elbow and you jerk it to your side, making him lose balance and topple onto you. He grunts as you wrap your forelegs around his back, rocking to the side to topple him into an easy submission.
You have to resist the urge to grin. This was too easy. The Solar Guard really needs to add martial arts to their training. Guess that'll make a few stallions cry, though, huh?
The stallion, as if hearing your thoughts, lets out a cry as well... but this one isn't from pain. It's a war cry, and your eyes widen as you feel his muscles harden to stones, and your back is no longer laying on the ground. He picks you up off of the ground, using nothing but his hindleg strength.
And then, gravity returns ten fold, and your back slams against the hard earth beneath you.
"OOOOOH!" the thestrals all let out in unison, somewhere far away, past the ringing in your ears and your own coughing and hacking.
The stallion's war cry joins the blurry amalgamation of sounds as he screams, using his forehooves to beat against his chest like some sort of ape. You don't have time to react before he jumps onto you, smashing your chest into your spine. You let out a high pitched squeak of pain as the stallion suddenly becomes just as disjointed as you. He begins flailing with all his hooves in a way that is vaguely reminiscent of a pony trying to throw punches, as if this were his fourth day using his body and he wasn't fully used to it yet.
As the two of you roll on the ground with each other, you use the opportunity to smash your forehead into his cheek, keeping his eyes off you. You use a foreleg to lay punch after punch into his side, but something must be wrong in the stallion's head, because he is not registering the pain.
Something crashes into your own side, and it feels as if every internal organ in your body switches places at random as the stallion falls atop you once again. You stare down at your body as you silently gag to see that the stallion jammed his back knee into your barrel. As the stallion is still finding his hoofing, you take your chance to scramble away from him.
The ground seems to sway underneath you as you struggle to keep yourself on all fours, but you're not giving up. The stallion also staggers to his hooves, and takes a moment to find you. He has a competitive grin on his face, and you have to admit, he isn't as frou-frou as you originally thought. All that combat training in the Solar Guard must have gone in through one ear and out the other, but he can definitely roughhouse with the mares.
He's earned himself an escort back to the nearest town, you decide. But he is not winning this nnuello, and he is NOT coming with you to the Foal Mountains!
By the Moon above, you are not giving up.
Your thestrals are still staring at the duel as the stallion eyes you up and down. Quickthistle has a self-assured smirk on her face as she sneaks a peak at the stallion's flanks, before Serendipity gives her a whap of her wing to get her to pay attention. Silhouette, too, is looking at the fight.
Her eyes are trained on you, and they home a shameful, disappointed squint as she slowly shakes her head.
You snort, pawing at the ground with your hoof. The stallion's grin widens as he lowers himself to a crouch as well, his tail giving a flick of excitement.
No... You are not losing.
Your eyes narrow, your fangs are bared, and you let out a war cry of your own as you gallop at the stallion.
You lost.
It’s hard to think of anything else.
You lost, and now you’ve got some stallion you don’t even know the name of following you into a potentially life-threatening situation, involving the six most important ponies in Equestria, surrounded by thirsty bat mares.
…Well, he isn't helpless, you’ll admit.
Stallion can fight.
Or, rather, can run in screaming and flailing his limbs, occasionally getting the odd, powerful punch in. He’s unpredictable that way.
So, he… can’t fight, and that’s how he… can fight.
It’s confusing when you put it that way.
You don’t know if you even want to try to rationalize how you lost. Would it be more embarrassing that you lost to a stallion who couldn’t fight, or that a stallion could fight better than you at all?
…Look at you, going off on a tangent in your own head. You're starting to remind yourself of Furtive Wind.
You let out a snort, sending a cloud of warm vapor into the crisp night air. The sounds of the rest of your team shuffling into their armor, the natural symphony of nightlife, and a pair of hoofsteps approaching you from behind are the only sounds—
Buck.
”That was a wonderful fight, young lady!" a masculine, gravely voice rumbles. "Why, I haven’t had a challenge like that since I challenged that racoon leader for the alpha position!"
You give the stallion a deadpan, not saying a word. He's like the male version of the Element of Laughter, from what you've seen of Pinkie Pie thus far. But more violent.
...Dear Goddess, he's going to be in close proximity to Pinkie Pie within the day.
"Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any hedge clippers around here, would you?" the stallion continues. "I’m putting the finishing touches on Furtive Wind’s mane! And don’t you worry, the other girls helped me out as well, and I've been told by them it’s a cultural haircut! She’s gonna be so excited when she wakes up!”
You resist the urge to gag and turn away sullenly.
Why, out of all your team, did it have to be this. Bucking. Stallion.
Oh great, you’re already thinking of him as a member of the team.
…He can’t even fly. You’re all probably going to be late to the rendezvous. What the buck were you thinking, even putting him joining on the table?
You're starting to get why Sillow gave you that disappointed glare.
"You know," the stallion chuckles deeply, "Somebody I knew told me you never truly know someone until you fight them. Guess they were right!”
“Oh, really?” you feign interest. “Then who am I, oh Socially Fluent One?”
”Thank you! That’s the first time I’ve ever been called that!” ‘Soldier’ laughs.
…Yeah, no. You’re not calling him Soldier. That’s not his name.
”You’re a mare with something to prove!” the stallion proclaims, proud of his lucky guess.
You scoff. “Pretty pathetic, huh? Trying to prove myself by beating a colt.”
Silence pervades the conversation, THANK LUNA, and you go back to what you were doing.
Staring into the dark forest, festering in your own dark thoughts.
“I know—” the stallion beside you starts, but suddenly grows silent. “--…knew a kid who fought just like you. He was a little guy, but he didn’t let that stop him from making a difference on the battlefield. It’s a quaint fighting style. Respectable!"
“Can you just do me a bucking solid and tell me your Luna-damned name, AT LEAST?” you snap, whipping your head to stare at the stallion at your side.
The stallion’s eyes are calmer than you’ve ever seen them. His lips are creased into a genuine smile, and his blue eyes are shimmering in the moonlight. ”Sorry, ma’am,” he says with a tone of voice you’d never expect from him. “I’ve been called ‘Soldier’ for so long I can’t even remember my real name! Tell ya what. If calling me by an occupation isn’t your style, you can just call me Jane Doe!”
Jane Doe…
You back off from the stallion, scanning his face for any signs of dishonesty. Daydwellers are always easy to read... except this one. Unless he's actually been telling the truth this whole time.
…No nervously looking away. No uneasy smile. No sweating or ears flicking down to his skull.
Either he’s telling the truth, or he’s secretly part-thestral.
Goddess, thestrals are good at lying.
Too good.
You sigh, shaking your head. This mission is going to be a disaster, you just know it. You’re going to be late, dragging this colt through the forest. Tartarus, if you’re really unlucky the Elements will catch your team keeping an eye on them...
…That’s going to happen, isn’t it?
Regardless, this is your new set of circumstances, Midnight Blossom.
You don’t trust this Jane Doe. Not one bit.
But… he doesn’t seem like a bad stallion. A reckless, socially retarded, and vexing stallion, but not a bad stallion.
"…Doesn't that hurt?" you find yourself asking absentmindedly, gesturing to the lack of a top half of Jane’s right ear.
Jane, to your horror and bemusement, doesn't even hesitate before saying, "Son, after enduring all kinds of horrible fates including but not limited to: burning to death, being decapitated, falling into an endless abyss, getting stabbed in the back, et cetera, you develop one Hell of a pain resistance!"
Once again, no signs of dishonesty on his face.
Yeah, no. He's just insane.
“…Well then,” you sigh, gazing towards the Foal Mountains. “Welcome to the team, Janefilly Doe.”
”HEY!" Jane snaps, "Mispronouncing people’s names is very rude!”
You can’t help but look at this stallion, who you once despised with every bone in your body, and feel – maybe for the first time in a long time – genuine amusement. Not the bitter, snide amusement you’re so used to, but something more genuine.
It’s not enough for a wholehearted laugh, of course. You’re still a Lunar Captain, and you still have to maintain your dignity.
But… a little snicker won’t hurt.
You turn back to the forest, mentally preparing for the trek ahead with renewed determination.
It won’t be easy, but you’re sure--
”WHO THE BUCK SEWED A PINEAPPLE IN MY MANE?! eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”