//------------------------------// // A View to a Quill // Story: From Stalliongrad With Love // by LoyalLiar //------------------------------// X A View to a Quill - - - September 18th, 1452 A.S. Ponyville Schoolhouse 1402 Hours         The looming reptile roared, blasting back Ink’s mane and sending ripples of wind through his jacket.  He stood his ground staunchly, even having the gall to smile at the creature.         “Pff.  You think you can intimidate me like that?”           Emerald flames washed over the pegasus stallion.  Ponies screamed and cowered, until the smoke had cleared.  Ink brushed his jacket off rather casually, making a point of the utter irony in the motion.  Despite its mundane nature, it seemed undamaged.         The dragon lunged, but his bulk was no match for his would-be prey’s agility.  Ink leapt to the side, and rolled across his back to return to his hooves as quickly as he could manage.  A razor-sharp claw slashed through the air mere inches from his neck.  He ducked before a second could decapitate him.  And then he spoke what could only have been magic words.         “I was lying.  They are all chocolate coins.”         With a rather uncomfortable sounding twisting and snapping, the looming dragon’s bones grew shorter, and his scales paler.  In a matter of minutes, Spike was back to his usual self, and the only sign of the battle was the pile of planks and splinters that had formerly been Cheerilee’s desk.         Spike seemed rather disappointed as he stared at the little cloth sack clenched in his tail.  “...really?”         “Really, really,” Ink answered.  “You can keep them, though.  For being a good sport.”  And then, without missing a beat, he turned to the class.         Most of the foals were hiding behind a barricade of overturned desks and chairs that would, in reality, have been entirely ineffective at stopping Spike’s rampage.  He could see their eyes peeking out from behind the woodwork.  “Now, class... what have we learned from this?”         “Never give Spike money!”  Scootaloo yelled.         “Stay away from dragons,” Rumble added.         Ink couldn’t help but chuckle a bit.  “Really?  I think Spike seems nice enough.  Isn’t he cute?”  He placed a rough hoof on the ridge of green spikes that crested the wyrmling’s head and rubbed them teasingly.   Spike replied by gently ramming his elbow into Ink’s exposed groin.  “Watch it, pal.” After regaining his vision, Ink struggled to play off his loss of balance as a piece of loose wood on the floor.  It was clear nopony was buying it.  “That isn’t what I meant, class.  What did we learn about dragons?  Perhaps about how they work?” “Ooh!  Ooh!”  Twist’s hoof emerged from the fortress. Ink sighed.  “Yes, Twist?” “Ith it that dragonth grow when they get money?” It was the answer Ink had been hoping for, even if the little facsimile of a teacher growing in his heart had been hoping for somepony else to come up with the idea.  “Ah, but do they?” There was a long awkward silence, until Ink growled and walked over to the structure.  “All of you, come out of there.  And in the future, you don’t need to worry; nopony gets hurt in my class.  I am a guardspony, after all.  In fact, I’m the best guardspony.”  He picked up two desks with his hooves, and another with his wings.  The class emerged from the ensuing gap, only to awkwardly shuffle around in the wide-open space that had formerly been populated with their respective seats. Once Pipsqueak had made his way out of the fort, Ink casually tossed the furniture back onto the pile.  The fort collapsed under the unexpected impact, producing a rather thundering noise.  It wasn’t a true explosion, but on principle as a true action hero, Ink turned his back to the structural collapse and walked away slowly.                    “Now,” the ‘teacher’ muttered once the noise had died down.  “What did we actually see happen here?  Twist says dragons grow when they are given money.  Is that true?”         Rumble raised his hoof, but didn’t actually wait to be called on before speaking.  “Nuh uh.  ‘Cause, like you said, Mr. Ink, you didn’t actually give him any money.”         Ink smiled.  Had he been a great deal more self-aware, he might have been impressed or confused by the amount of joy he derived from Rumble’s insight.  After all, the question involved no mares, no alcohol, and no violence.  Alas, Ink was never the type of pony to examine himself in such philosophical detail, and so his only actual response was to exclaim “That’s right, Rumble.  Now, here’s a tricky one.  If it isn’t that I gave him a huge bag of money, what do you think caused him to grow?”  There ensued a long pause, and Ink sat silently hoping that somepony would produce his answer.         “Does it matter if it’s actually money?”  Applebloom asked with her peculiar accent.  “Maybe it don’t matter if the coins ‘re chocolate or gold.”         “You would think that, wouldn’t you, blank-flank?  Gold is way more valuable than chocolate.”  Diamond Tiara thrust her muzzle in the air.         “Hey!  Watch―”         “Uvazheniye!  I will not have any more shouting in this class,” Ink shouted.         “Sorry, Mr. Ink,” Applebloom muttered.  Ink waited for Diamond’s apology, and settled for a dip of her head.         “Also, Diamond, I don’t want to hear ‘blank-flank’ anymore.  Plenty of successful ponies earned their cutie marks at Applebloom’s age.  Now, you are both on the right track.  Anypony else have guesses?”         There was still some great delay as gears churned in young minds.  The pale lavender hoof that rose on the side of the class earned just a little smile from Ink.  “Yes, Dinky?”         “Is it because he thought there was money in the bag?”         Ink couldn’t resist pumping his foreleg.  “That’s it!  Good work, Dinky.  That’s what I wanted you all to understand before we got started on the next history lesson.  Dragons do grow up with time, but it takes a very long time, and also a great deal of magic.  Most ponies think that magic comes from gold, but that isn’t right.  The coins aren’t magic; the magic comes from the dragon.” “So if you make a dragon think something is gold, it will make them big and strong?” “Not just gold,” Ink explained.  “The item does not matter.  All that matters is what the dragon thinks is valuable.  For example...”  Ink let the words hang in the air as he scanned the room.  “Diamond, how much is your tiara worth?” “One-thousand, eight-hundred bits” Once more, Nightmare Moon’s record for history’s longest-distance spit was saved only by the fact that Ink had nothing in his mouth at the time.  “It’s a hat!” Diamond scoffed.  “Clearly, Mr. Ink, you have no taste in jewelry.” “Maybe that’s why there isn’t a Mrs. Ink,”  Silver Spoon replied, earning chuckles from both fillies. Ink managed to ignore their comments, and return his attention to the lecture he had initially settled on.  “Alright, class.  I want you all to imagine that you have two-thousand bits.  You can buy whatever you want.  How many of you would buy an eighteen-hundred bit tiara?” Exactly zero hooves rose into the air.  Ink nodded.  “Glad to see we all have some common sense.  That, though, is what ‘value’ actually means.  It determines what you want, and what you’re willing to do to get it.  Now, Spike here clearly values money.”  Ink nodded.  “Makes sense; I’m a pretty big fan of money to.  But some dragons are very different.  Take, for example, Zagatka... or, I guess, Zagadka?” Загадка         The chalk moved quickly in Ink’s native tongue, especially given his nearly prehensile wings.  He turned back to the class.  “The name means ‘riddle’ or ‘enigma’.  If you remember, Draconic and Stol’nogradsky are very similar languages.  Zagadka was a dragon who very much loved magic, and so she collected books.  She had thousands.” “Sounds like Twilight...” Spike muttered. “How big was she?” Dinky called out. Ink stretched out his wings as far as they could reach, shook them for a moment in thought, and then nodded.  “Her fangs were as long as I am... her whole body would probably fill the market, if she were coiled up.” “What?” “No way!” “That’s huge!” Ink chuckled and nodded, basking in the foals unknowing phrase.  “I can remember, her wings were as wide as this schoolhouse, and her heart would probably fill up half this room.” Most of the foals had wide eyes, but Pipsqueak had the clarity of mind to ask a rather troublesome question.  “Uh, Mister Ink... How’d you know how big her heart was?” Abruptly, the class stopped to contemplate the entirely legitimate question.  Ink rubbed his hooves on the floor awkwardly, until Twist had the gall to cut open the silence with the same visceral intensity that had once guided a younger Roscherk Krovyu to disembowel a grown wyrm. “Ith it becauth you uthed to be a guardthpony?  From the Dragon Warth?” Ink coughed into his hoof.  “Well, uh... that’s half-right.” “You were the pony from the thtory about Thtalliongrad?”   The ‘parallel universes’ theory of quantum mechanics dictates that every choice, or event determined by probability, is a branching point from which as many as millions of worlds can spawn.  In that moment, seven-million such worlds spawned as the result of Twists’s sentence.  In six-million, nine-hundred ninety nine thousand, nine-hundred ninety seven of them, Ink would be dead within ten minutes. Our Ink wasn’t so lucky.  Also, he hated quantum mechanics. “I thought we had talked about this.  None of you can say my name without making me want to lose my lunch, so Mr. Ink will be perfectly fine.”  He growled in his throat at the thought of all the ‘Raw-sharks’ and ‘Crow-views’ in his near future, and then regained his focus.  “ Yes, I am Roscherk Krovyu, from our earlier history lesson, if that is what you are all looking for.” “So did you really break off the Baron’s horn?” Rumble called out, earning a potent wince from the unicorn members in the class.   Ink wanted to run across the room and give Rumble a high-hoof for being a badass, but his calmer and more rational mind told him that would be a bad impression for the foals.  Instead, he settled for a cold nod.  “There are more civilized ways to take away somepony’s magic, but at the time that was what I knew how to do.  But now we aren’t talking about me.  We’re talking about dragons.” “I thought you said you wanted me here to talk about the Dragon Wars,” Spike muttered.  “If you aren’t gonna get on with it, can I go?  I’ve still gotta reshelve a bunch of books from last time Pinkie came over...” Ink covered his face with a hoof as some of the students got far more excited. “We’re gonna talk about the Dragon Wars?” Rumble called out. Pipsqueak shared his enthusiasm.  “Miss Cheerilee always said only big ponies got to learn about that.  Did you fight in the Dragon Wars?” “No, I did not,” Ink grumbled.  “I was nine when the dragons attacked Saraneighvo, and...”  Ink took a deep breath.  “We’ll have to start again on Monday.  It looks like it’s almost time for you all to go.  Over the weekend, I’d like you all to write a one-page paper on what you value most.  We’ll use it to talk about the Dragon Wars, so the more work you put into it, the more of a part you’ll get to have on Monday.  And finally...”  He glanced at the sloppy writing on the inside of his left foreleg, made no easier to read by the dragon fire that had minutes earlier spread across his body.  “I’ve been asked to invite ‘yah ahwll’ to help with the apple harvest at Sweet Apple Acres tomorrow.” “Like, eww,” Diamond Tiara voiced.  “Who’d want to spend their weekend doing farm chores?” “Maybe ponies who’ve had to work a day in their lives,” Applebloom muttered. “I’ll be there,” Ink drawled with an inspiring lack of enthusiasm.  “In case anypony feels like giving me some company.” “Well, ya don’t gotta say it like that, Mr. Ink,” the farm-filly muttered.  “There’s gonna be pie ‘n cider ‘n stuff.  Granny says we got the best harvest we’ve had in years, and we’re gonna need all the hooves we can get.”         “Delightful.  Well, that’s it for the week.  See you Monday.”         As the class poured out of the room, Ink followed them into the dirt street.  He had intended to fly off that very moment and get some flowers for Fluttershy, but his attention was stolen by a tugging on his foreleg.  He looked down to see Sweetie Belle standing next to him.                  “Yes?”         “Now that we know your real name, will you tell us your Cutie Mark story?”         “No.  Even if it were appropriate, you aren’t the sort of pony who would get a talent like mine.” “What he’s trying to tell you, blank-flank, is that you don’t have any talents.  You should probably just―” Ink stepped up to Diamond Tiara, and the gray filly that seemed to be joined at her flank.  “Thank you, Diamond.  You’ve just given me a great excuse to miss helping out at the farm tomorrow.” “Uh, like, what’s that supposed to mean?” “It means you and I are going to have Saturday detention,” Ink told her with a sadistic grin.  “I’m sure you weren’t doing anything meaningful anyway.” “Hey, you can’t just do that.  My dad will never let you.” Just as Ink had predicted, Silver Spoon came to her equally vile friend’s support.  “Yeah, Mr. Ink.  Just... go away.  Nopony actually likes you except the blank flanks.” “Ah, I’m glad you spoke up, Silver Spoon.  I’m sure Diamond would have been lonely alone.  You should both probably wear something warm.  I’d suggest leaving your jewelry at home, if you don’t want it getting dirty.” “What?!” “Relax, Silver.  He can’t actually do anything.  Daddy will stop him.” Ink scraped the ground, and his feathers flared every so slightly.  “You think your dad is going to stop this?  Do you remember who I am?” Diamond didn’t miss a beat.  “Yeah.  You’re a washed-up, second-rate guardspony who Twilight Sparkle’s brother threw out for being... oh, how did Daddy put it?”  She put a hoof to her jaw, feigning a poor recollection, before allowing her eyes to widen.  “Right!  A scumbag!” Ink’s hooves dug the earth of the road, and all mirth in his expression disappeared.  “Alright, Diamond.  I’ll be at your home at seven tomorrow morning.” “I’m sure our butler will be there to get rid of you,” Diamond answered.  “Come on, Silver, let’s go get ready for our skiing trip.” The fillies had no idea what sort of a firestorm they had unleashed. - - - Sweet Apple Acres 2056 Hours “Aww... I thought I had it that time.”  Applebloom pulled the blindfold off her eyes, only to immediately be smacked in the face by a tennis ball on a long string.  She swatted the offending hairy ball away with obvious disgruntlement. “Why do I have ta wear this thing anyway, Resistant?” The enormous farm mare, whom Applebloom did not know to truly be the guardspony renegade known as Stoikaja, went back to laying out the huge wooden barrels that would hold the next morning’s harvest.  “If you try to dodge with your eyes, all I’ll be teaching you is how to win at dodgeball in school.  Endura takes time, and you might not even have the ability to begin with.” “If I can’t do it, how come I have to keep playing with this stupid tetherball?” “I suspect you can do it.  The Endura is strong in your family, Applebloom.” “Applejack can dodge stuff?” ‘Resistant’ chuckled.  “Not quite.  Your brother is the one I was referring to.  He also seems to have a preternatural sense toward avoiding your grandmother in my company.” “Why would he want to avoid Granny?” “She seems to think I ought to become your sister-in-law.”  The mare’s mind flickered back to an inordinate number of barely-comprehensible comments about her hips and her work-ethic.  She chose to interpret them in a flattering light, though she couldn’t help but also find the Apple-family matriarch amusing.  “It’s not gonna happen, but she just doesn’t take no for an answer.” “She is kinda stubborn,”  Applebloom agreed.  “Just like Applejack.” The towering mare sat down and stared up between the apple branches to the starry august sky.  “You have a good family, Applebloom.  Stick close to them.” Applebloom may have been young, but she wasn’t completely stupid.  “How come you’re sayin’ that, Resistant?  Are you leaving?” “After the harvest tomorrow, probably.”  Resistant’s shoulders rose and fell with smooth motion.  “I have one more... acquaintance to catch up with.  Then I’ll probably go to Canterlot.” “Do you have family there?” “My...”  She hesitated longer this time than in her previous sentence.  Rather than malice, the hollow pause was filled with regrets and mixed feelings.  The word she settled on surprised Applebloom.  “...coltfriend.” “You’ve got a coltfriend?”         “Well, you don’t have to say it like that, Applebloom.  I know I look like a colt.”  She feigned a sob, and received a sheepish expression for her efforts.         “Sorry, Resistant.”         “I’m teasing, Applebloom.  I knew what you meant.  But now, I think it’s time for bed for young mares.”         “Aww...”         “We’ve all got a big day tomorrow; all your friends and your sisters friends are going to be here.”         “Yeah.  Well, all except Mr. Ink.  He gave Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon detention for making fun of Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo and I.” Resistant’s ears perked.  “Is that so?  Well, thank you for letting me know.  I’ll have to head to the schoolhouse and talk to Roscherk.” Applebloom’s face widened just a bit.  “You know his real name?” “Everypony from Stalliongrad knows his name.”  Resistant chuckled at a stray thought before continuing.  “Y’all just do well ‘n remember that Ah’m from San Palomino City, if’n anypony asks ya.”  The accent died beneath a metaphorical guillotine.  Thankfully, it was not replaced by a corresponding haughty Prench Revolution era accent, as that metaphor might have been wont to suggest.  “You head back to the house now and get to bed.  I’ll be in once I’m done out here.” Applebloom ran off, and Stoikaja turned around to monitor the orchard.  It had been years since she last worked a farm through the night, but she wasn’t about to let her chance at ‘Mr. Ink’ slip away. - - - September 19th, 1452 A.S. The Second Estate 0700 Hours         The Rich family home was a rather large structure, glorified enough in its architecture to have such unnecessary features as distinctly separate wings and a mezzanine.  The word offended the approaching teacher in the same sense that words like proletariat and chartreuse unsettled him.  The fact that they were all of Prench origin was mostly a coincidence (or perhaps, if one was to split racist hairs, a corollary)―he despised them for their stuffy pretentiousness.         Also, if one were to split racist hairs, one might have an excellent non-biological explanation for the increased frequency of baldness in elderly stallions.         Ink knocked twice on the double-doors to the mansion, and then once on the butler’s face.  In a tragedy that pervaded a society of Jeeves and Alfreds everywhere, a thousand-year-old monocle fell to the ground and shattered.         “Oh.  Sorry.  Didn’t see you there.”         “No,” muttered Silver Platter.  “I must imagine you did not.  No decent pony would notice a door open and continue to knock, after all.  I must assume you are here for the young mistress?”         “Yeah.  Are you okay?”         “I am quite well,” Platter replied.  “I assure you none of the glass entered my eye.  Now―”         “No, I mean your nose.  Do you have a cold or something?  You sound kinda...”  Ink made a vague motion in front of his muzzle with a hoof.  “Anal?”         Platter’s flat stare turned into a glare.  “I had been told by the young mistress that your Equiish was not of social usability.  The term you are looking for is nasal, and I assure you that I am quite fine.”         Ink hadn’t meant ‘nasal’.         “Right.  Well, where’s Diamond and her friend?”         “They will not be accompanying you.  Master Rich has informed me to see you off the premises, and to inform you that he will press charges and bring this incident to the attention of your superiors if you do not accompany me.”         “Superiors.  Heh.  That’s a good one.”  Ink rolled his shoulders, stepped forward, and shoved the aging earth pony butler out of the way.  “Rich!  Get your flank down here now and talk to me like a stallion!”         “Sir, you are trespassing and―”         “Shut up, Jeeves.  As of right now, this is an Honor Guard investigation.”         The clopping of hooves on the fine marble floor of the foyer preceded a new entry to the conversation.         “An investigation of what, Mr. Krovyu?”  Filthy Rich’s hair was as immaculate as the golden money-sign on his tie clip.  He came to a stop a few feet from Ink and helped his butler up from the floor.         “Filthy... you said it right.”  Ink couldn’t help but be amused.  “Well, to answer your question, the Honor Guard has decided to emphasize its investigation of bullying and discrimination-related crimes.”         “I suppose I’ll have to repeat myself.  What?”         Ink’s carefully laid trap came to life with the help Twilight had given him the previous afternoon.  His wing retrieved from within his jacket a huge tome.  “This is the most recent edition of the legal code of the Domain of Canterlot.  If you’ll look where I’ve bookmarked, you’ll find the domain’s laws on bullying.”         “My daughter is a perfectly behaved filly.  Perhaps she has a bit of a wit, but I don’t see how any of this... unless you intend to tell me she physically attacked somepony else―”         “Not quite, Filthy.”         “Mr. Rich.”         Ink ignored the complaint.  “See Clause, uh, C.”         Filthy Rich read aloud.  “Discriminatory hate-speech constitutes...  Ink, what are you trying to pull.  I know my daughter hasn’t said anything like this.  We’re earth ponies, for Celestia’s sake.  It’s not like she’s going to tease unicorns for being ‘inferior’.”         Ink didn’t respond aloud.  Instead, he flipped the book to another page, where Twilight had placed a bookmark at a particular line.  The earth pony father read it aloud.  “...includes speech targeted on the basis of race/breed, gender, sexual orientation, or special talent...”         “Or lack thereof,” Ink added with a smug grin.  “Do you give up?”         “I wouldn’t let you walk off with my daughter in a thousand years, Black Cloak.  Even if this is the law, you don’t have jurisdiction here.”         “Ah, but that’s the thing.”  The next book Ink produced was far older, and he handled it with greater tenderness.  “Ahem.  The Honor Guard shall be a special third contingent of the Equestrian Guard, managed separately from the Royal and National Guards.  Its purposes shall be the protection of the Princess, and the protection of the greater nation in that order...  yadda, yadda, perpetual state of military readiness... yadda, yadda... Aha!  Here we are.”  Ink flipped the book around, and gestured with a wing at the line he’d been searching for.         “The Honor Guard shall have universal jurisdiction within Equestria to perform any legal functions otherwise assigned to the Royal Guard or the guard or police of a domain in pursuit of their objectives, as determined by the Princess or their captain―”         “Guess who?”  Ink offered as he shut the weighty old codex.         Filthy Rich’s nostrils flared. “So that’s it?  You’re holding my daughter for ransom over some old laws and your military rank?”         “I’m not trying to take your daughter away, Rich.  But she’s growing up into a huge bitch, and she needs a lesson in respect.  So I’m going to teach her what she needs.  And if you won’t let me teach her, I’ll have you arrested.”         Filthy Rich stared at the ground for a moment before gathering the courage to speak.  “I... I haven’t always had the time Diamond needed.  Perhaps the way she’s growing up is my fault.”  Then remorse became steel.  “But if I hear so much as one word from her about you... behaving poorly with her, I’ll be the one holding all the law books.  Do I make myself clear?”         “Of course,” Ink replied, somewhat too nicely to seem genuine.  “Now where is she?  And, for that matter, is her friend here too?”         Filthy Rich sighed slowly as he turned toward his butler.  “Platter, can you go get the girls?  I’ll have them meet Mr. Krovyu at the schoolhouse.”         “No, actually, I had different plans.  Have them meet me in front of Sweet Apple Acres.”         The comment seemed to calm Filthy’s nerves.  “Oh, that’s what you’re planning.  I was worried you were going to do something... well, something drastic.”         “Who, me?” Ink asked, placing a wing over his chest and feigning shock.  “Why, I would never.” Fundamental falsehood had never tasted so sweet. - - - Sweet Apple Acres 0739 Hours “There you girls are.”  Ink stopped tapping his hoof on the dirt road as Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon approached.  “Glad you decided to make it.” “Shut up, Mr. Ink,” Diamond mumbled.  “Just let us do our farm work and go home.” “Farm work?  I don’t recall saying anything about farm work.  I was planning on going for a nice walk and telling you both a story.  And then, at the end, I’ll have a simple activity for you.  Doesn’t that sound much nicer than farm work?” “Whatever,” Silver Spoon droned.  “Maybe the other foals in class think you’re ‘cool’ because you used to be a guardspony, but we don’t care.” “You might want to pay attention to this one, girls.  It might save your life.”  Letting the words hang in the farm air, Ink wrapped a wing over his face, and ripped out two of his own primary feathers.  Moving with amazing speed, his hooves danced over the tips of the feathers.  Silver Spoon was surprised when his action yielded a pair of sharpened quills.  Diamond Tiara was more concerned with the fact that their teacher was wearing a pair of razor-bladed, solid steel shoes.  He offered one of the improvised writing implements to each of his students.  They took them with some hesitance. “What’s this for?” Diamond asked.  “Do you want us to write an essay?” “All I want, Diamond, is for you to write your names.  But that’s later.  Right now, we’re going for a walk, and I’m going to tell you a story.  It begins with a little foal in Stol’nograd, nineteen years ago.” “It’s you, isn’t it?”  Silver Spoon asked bluntly.  “Just like all your other stories.” “Yes, Silver, it is me.  Also, shut up.  Now... nineteen years ago...” - - - April 24th, 1433 A.S. Tsyklongrad, Saraneighvo Oblast 11:45 AM         “You are, without a doubt, the worst student I have ever had the misfortune of working with, Mr. Krovyu.” “Yeah?  Well, screw you, Mr. Trotstoy!”  Roscherk slammed the door.  “Come on, Polnoch.  We don’t wanna learn his dumb language anyway.”   The six-year old colt pulled his jacket tighter around himself in the early spring snow.  Beneath the heavy fabric, it would have been hard to tell that the younger brother had his cutie-mark before his blank-flanked older brother, or that he had the maturity to go with it.   “Roscherk, isn’t dad going to be mad?” “Dad’s probably gonna be pissed,” Ink replied.  “But I’d rather deal with him than this stallion.  Let’s get going, Polnoch.” “If you say so, big brother...”  Polnoch huddled close to the older, larger stallion as the two turned back to the road toward Saraneighvo proper.  “But this was your idea if Dad asks.” “Whatever you say,” Roscherk muttered.  Huge clouds of steam escaped his nostrils with every breath, and the wide spread of his wings marked his emotion.  “Let’s hurry.  I don’t want to get caught in the woods.”   ‘The woods’ in Stalliongrad were something worth being intimidated by.  Rather than the gentleness of Equestria’s quiet places, the icy domain was most easily compared to the Everfree Forest.  There were monsters and magic things that lurked amongst the trees, waiting to gobble up colts who went wandering alone.   There were yetis and wights and stranger things.  Creatures from the horror stories that parents in happier parts of the world would tell their foals as a way to scare them into cleaning rooms and going to sleep at night.   In Stalliongrad, that sort of story would be too grim, and too true to teach such a lesson.   The two foals made their way toward what they thought was home, with only each other and their bags for company.  Or so they thought.  Then the ground rumbled, and split, and out emerged a creature that froze the colts’ blood in a way the ice never could.  It had huge claws, and a dense white coat, and sharp, horrible teeth. Roscherk and Polnoch knew it instantly.  A vargr—a warg in Equiish.  A sort of bigger, more vicious ‘wolf’ to a diamond dog’s ‘dog’.  It spoke to the foals. “Two little ponies out in trees.  So alone.  Who wants go first?” The older brother took stock of his belongings.  He had a coat, but it wouldn’t save him from fangs and claws.  He had a book of Equiish that wouldn’t be of much use even in place of a rock to throw.  And, finally, he had a quill, fashioned from one of his own molted feathers, and sharpened to a rather piercing point.  Then— - - - The Everfree Forest 0812 Hours            “Roscherk!”         Ink spun toward the woods with a song of ice and fire in his heart.  That is to say, his blood vessels were murdering each other wholesale in pursuit of becoming the one true king of his circulatory system.  But that tale of intrigue and violence hardly pertains to this one, with its intense screaming of hated Stalliongradi names.  Then again, it wasn’t the name that had been spoken that earned Ink’s reaction, but the voice of the speaker.  “Stoikaja?”         The enormous earth pony mare walked slowly out of the magical forest toward the stallion, blocking off his way out of the woods.   “Fillies,” the mare growled with heavily accented Equiish.  “You should run away.” They didn’t move, frozen in something like confusion or fear.  Stoikaja slid a razor-sharp steel shoe off of her right forehoof, and stomped on its edge.  Like a coin, it popped up into the air.  The same forehoof that had launched it into the air delivered it a terribly powerful backhoof, sending it flying in the direction of a nearby tree. A strong pony like Applejack might have lodged the steel cleanly in the wood of the trunk.  Stoikaja wasn’t merely a ‘strong’ pony.  When the shoe she had launched stopped its motion, it was on the other side of the tree, trailing a line of splinters and sawdust.  A great creaking and then a sudden thunderous crack marked tree’s fall.  “Leave.  Now.”   They ran past her, somehow knowing that screams would do them no good.  The earth pony let them pass unhindered as she searched a leather pouch at her side for another sharpened shoe.           Ink watched them go, and then adjusted his jacket.  “I wasn’t expecting you to catch up to me so soon after Baltimare, ‘Soldier On’.”         “I would have waited,” Stoikaja replied.  “But I’m not letting you kill somepony elses’s foals.”         “It was staged,” Ink muttered.  “I paid off one of the local Diamond Dogs to—”         Ink felt the wind on his cheek, as one of Stoikaja’s bladed shoes was bucked over his shoulder.  He’d barely managed the shift of his weight to keep it out of his throat.  He leapt to the side, lit his wings on fire by sheer willpower, and prepared to dodge her next shoe.         In retrospect, he probably should have been more concerned about the toppled tree she was launching toward him. - - - Sweet Apple Acres 0815 Hours            “‘n that’s why ya gotta hit the tree nice and low.  Y’all follow?” Applebloom nodded vigorously, though she already knew the basics behind bucking trees.  Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle were less-than-engrossed. “Why are we doing this again?” the pegasus whispered. “We might get apple bucking cutie marks.” Applejack adjusted her hat.  “Somethin’ ya don’t understand, girls?” “Uh, no, it’s just...  well, we’ve got it, Applejack.” “Alrighty, then.  I leave you girls to it.  Don’t be ‘fraid to stop and grab a drink if ya get tired.”  The grown cowpony wandered away, and the girls set to work on the ripe fruit of Sweet Apple Acres. Their task didn’t last long uninterrupted.  Scootaloo had looked up after three bucks toward the distant edge of the Everfree forest.  “Is that Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon?” Applebloom made a sort of snorting noise.  “We should just ignore ‘em, Scoots.  We’ve got work to do, ‘n we don’t need those bullies in our way.”         Sweetie Belle grabbed the earth pony filly by the shoulder.  “No, Applebloom.  Look; something’s wrong.  I think they’re crying.”                  Applebloom would likely have still decided to ignore the two bullies, had they not also spotted the crusaders and turned in their direction.  Despite the distance to the forest’s edge, it didn’t take long for the two groups to meet.         “Where’s your sister?” Diamond Tiara asked of Applebloom.         “What’s it to ya?”         Sweetie Belle gave Applebloom a disappointed glare.  “What’s wrong?”         Diamond was panting from the distance they had run.  “Mr. Ink’s... fighting... in the forest...”         “What, fighting a monster?”  Scootaloo waved a wing.  “He kicked Spike’s flank, and he beat that hydra that came into the market.”         Silver Spoon shook her head.  “Not a monster...  It’s a mare...”         “She bucked a tree... down!  By throwing her... shoe at it.”  Diamond wiped off her brow.  “She had these sharp shoes... like Mr. Ink’s.”         Scootaloo held up her hooves.  “Whoa, whoa, hold on; what were you even doing in the Everfree forest?”         “He... was telling us this... story about how he... Ah, Silver, you tell them.”         Silver spoon adjusted her glasses, and took a moment to steady her breathing.  “I think it was his Cutie Mark story.  He fought a Diamond Dog or something, with one of his feathers.  He gave us these.”  She tossed a blood-colored feather in front of the crusaders.  “He wanted us to write our names, or something.  Now where’s your sister, Applebloom?”         Applebloom turned and pointed.  “She’s over there, somewhere.”         Diamond and her friend moved off at a slower, but still hurried pace.  Applebloom moved to follow, only to be stopped by yet another hoof on her shoulder.  She turned to Scootaloo’s smiling face.         “I just had the best idea for getting our cutie marks.”  The clarity of the sentence was impressive, given the blood-colored quill clutched between her teeth. - - -         “No, Scootaloo.  That’s a terrible idea!”  By convention, Scootaloo’s statement might have been precedent for a scene-ending cliffhanger, but unfortunately, Applebloom was quick enough to catch the transition.  “Mr. Ink’s a guardspony.  We don’t wanna go looking for danger!”         “I’m with Applebloom,” Sweetie Belle stated, as firmly as the gentle filly could manage.  “I don’t want to get in trouble with Mr. Ink either.”         “Well, what if we got them to stop fighting?  Mr. Ink would be super proud of us, and maybe he’d let us be guardsponies too.”  Scootaloo gestured at the woods.  “Wouldn’t that be way cooler than any of the cutie marks we’ve tried so far?” “Well, I dunno...” “Think about it for a second.  We’re never gonna have a chance to do this again.  Rainbow Dash would say ‘it’s now or never.’  I say we go now.” The following nods came slowly compared to the speed of the hooves galloping toward the forest’s edge. - - - Ruins of the Everfree Palace 0829 Hours Stoikaja huddled behind the huge stone orrery that had once held the physical forms of the Elements of Harmony.  At that moment, all she could think of the chamber was the fire scorching her body.  She could barely move without actually sticking a limb into the inferno, and she knew Roscherk had more than enough fiery Empatha left to keep her that way. He was standing somewhere at the far side of the room; she couldn’t even peek her head out to spot him without burning away her coat.  All she could hear was his voice, and the way his broken left wing dragged along the floor.  The nearly-crippling wound didn’t seem to be bothering him beneath the focus he was putting on his magic. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long, Stoikaja,” he growled over the pops of the fire on the overgrown mossy structure, and the drips of the slowly melting stone itself. Facing her mortality, the mare couldn’t help but wonder aloud at questions that had haunted countless sleepless nights.  “Is the power really worth it?  Were the spoils worth the blood?” Roscherk actually had the gall to laugh, sounding like a fictional tyrant, or his Daring Do counterpart.  “You think I still care about the spoils?  Didn’t I make myself clear on the Wall?”  His voice went from an amused speech to a furious roar.  “This is about Polnoch!” Stoikaja’s ears were filled with the roar of the fire, which grew tighter around her, burning her coat and steaming away the tears building in her eyes.  She barely heard the scream, until the fire lost its intensity. It came again a moment later, echoing against the churn of molten stone.  The screams of fillies in the forest, somewhere nearby. Red Ink turned back, toward the entrance to the crumbling stone ruins.  “Girls?” He turned to Stoikaja’s hiding place for just a moment, and then back to the forest.  The decision he made was split second, as much of instinct as it was of conscious thought. Somewhere behind him, in a fit of Stalliongradi fury, Stoikaja stepped forth from her hiding place and stared at the fleeing stallion.  Her words were short, and trite, and layered with a heavy, masculine Stalliongradi accent. “Someday, Roscherk, I will break you.” - - - At the Bottom of That One Cliff where Applejack Demonstrated that ‘Honesty’ Meant Asking Your Friend to Trust You and Throw Themself to Their Probable Death Instead of Explaining that Rainbow Dash is There to Catch Them Like A Rational Pony Would 0834 Hours         The titanic Timberwolf (likely fused from dozens of smaller timberwolves that somepony had probably bashed into pieces once) closed in on the Cutie Mark Crusaders, huddled at the foot of a huge stone cliff.  There was nowhere to run, and only a slight outcropping of stone to save them.         The creature roared, fishing for the fillies with its wooden claws.  Applebloom smashed its toe with a stone, causing the creature to momentarily draw back in howls of rancorous pain.  Soon, though, its digging continued.  Sweetie Belle found a rather large, femur-shaped stick, and shoved it into the creature’s mouth.  At first, the beast seemed stuck, but before the fillies could escape, the plank was shattered into splinters by larger and more animate branches.         “Hey!  You there!”         The creature stopped paying attention to its small meal, and then turned.  From between its towering legs, the fillies could see their savior.         Red Ink stepped forward with confidence, yelling at the Timberwolf.  “Yeah, you, morning wood!”  Ink paused a moment, and then slapped his own face.  “Girls, when you tell everypony about this, tell them I said something more badass than that.  I must be out of practice.”         The Timberwolf roared, as wolves are often inclined to do toward prey.  Generally, however, the prey does not respond by charging at them and taking a huge chunk out of their forepaws with overly-developed muscular forelimbs.         Sweetie Belle, who had gained a great deal of confidence from the recent adjustment to her personal actuary tables, called out.  “What do you want us to say?”         “Tartarus, I don’t know.”  Ink flared his good wing, and set the limb on fire.  This action seemed to intimidate the timberwolf, though the creature still had the advantage of size.  “What do you think of ‘You worthless beech!’?”         “I don’t get it,” Applebloom muttered.  “What’s the ocean got to do with him?”         Ink waved his fiery wing forward, and the beast was driven back for a moment.  Then it drew back its rapidly regenerating forepaw and swatted Ink’s entire body across the clearing at the base of the cliff.  He rolled twice in a mass of red and black, before coming to rest on his hooves, bleeding.         “It was a bad joke anyw―  Shit, my ribs.”         “Are you okay?” Scootaloo shouted.         “Better than ever!” Ink lied through gritted teeth.  “Try this one.”  He leapt aside to dodge another swing of the timberwolf king’s paw, and immediately regretted the strain on his side.  “Make like a tree, and leaf!”         Somewhere, despite the violence, crickets chirped audibly.         The timberwolf seemed to have heard that one before, and like any good monarch, it was not amused.  Moments later, pinned to the ground by roots that gnarled up out of the ground around his hooves, Ink realized that he wasn’t either.         “I get that one!” Applebloom cried out.         “Great!”  Ink ripped a hoof out of the entangling roots, silently cursing druids everywhere, and delivered to the timberwolf a masterfully cooked hoof flambe.         The timberwolf seemed to lack an appreciation for the finer points of Stalliong― sorry, Stol’nogradian cuisine. Now, for those of you reading at home who are familiar with my language, yes, that should be ‘Stol’nogradsko’  But in the time since all of this happened, I’m afraid I’ve had to learn to live with the some butchery of my language for the sake of allowing others to understand.  As long as it doesn’t contain the pun, I will survive it with my lunch intact. Now where was I?  About to die or something? The giant timberwolf seemed to lack an appreciation for getting punched in the face.  It roared, shook its nose until the fire went out, and then turned its eyes toward Ink.  No longer was the battle for a meal; the battle was for survival.         Of course, it was at that point that things really went wrong for Red Ink.  There is a sort of sound that a proper magical airship engine makes when it has decided that, frankly, enough is enough, and its tired of all this work it does for these ponies who don’t even belong in the air anyway.  It usually starts as a sort of rumbling, that then becomes a grind, before sort of ‘farting out’ accompanied by a steamy hiss.  If the pilot of the airship is unlucky, the next noise they hear is the screams of the passengers as the vessel lurches and dives out of the air.         Ink’s wings skipped the first two steps, and jumped straight into half-hearted sputtering of dying flame.  Realizing his predicament, Ink decided to utilize the single permissible Equiish instance of an otherwise forbidden word in stories for foals under the age of 17.  “Well... fuck.” It was really quite impressive how far a giant wooden wolf could throw a flight-capable creature, given the motivation of said foe not being likely to ignite said wooden beast.  Rather than rolling onto his feet, Ink slid on his side.  His precious black jacket was shredded, and stained by red ink, seemingly flowing from the quill on his flank.  He briefly tried to stand; the scream of pain when he put weight on his right hind leg told the fillies otherwise. “You know, your bark just about exactly as bad as your bite. Are you gonna make me carve my name in your back with my feathers?” "Uh, what?" Scootaloo asked. Ink growled, clearly in pain from his ribs. "It's how I earned my Cutie Mark. Why I never told you the story. I didn't want you running off in the woods trying to kill monsters. I guess we're past that point now." "You foughta monster with a feather? When you were our age?" Sweetie Belle squeaked. For once, Ink didn't find the noise infuriating. He found it inspiring. "Badasses are not made, Sweetie Belle. They are born."         What many ponies do not realize about timberwolves is that they are not stupid animals.  Well, most ponies realized they weren’t animals, given that they’re made of wood.  Rather, most ponies assumed that they were stupid plants, or stupid magical constructs, or something similar.  The point of this rather extended diatribe, however, is that timberwolves are not intrinsically stupid.  Their ‘leadership’, in particular, can be quite cunning.         The creature turned away from Ink altogether in the course of his short dialogue, and placed a paw on the cliff over the little outcropping that held the crusaders.  For a beast two dozen feet tall, toppling the cliff to pin them would no doubt be a trivial action.         Ink had only a moment, but for somepony like him, a moment was all it would take.  Flapping his functional wing took the weight off his leg as he ran toward them.  Time seemed to slow to a crawl, building tension as the scene dragged on.  Would Ink make it?  On a broken leg and a broken wing, was he fast enough?  Could he save the Crusaders from certain death? In the time it took the narrator to gasp for breath, Ink leapt under the falling stone, and extended his wings to cover the fillies.  Rocks fell, but surprisingly, nopony died.  The snapping of bone and the stallion’s gasp of intense pain cut off what might have been a joyous moment. “Are you okay, Mr. Ink?” Ink looked down at the Crusaders with tears in his eyes.  “Girls, I want you to run.  And don’t look back.”         “What about you, Mr. Ink?” one of them asked.         “I’ll be fine, girls.  Don’t worry ab―!”         The terrible truth of ‘heroes’ is that, so often, that last monologue is left unsaid.  Though perhaps he wasn’t to be called a true hero, Ink went the same way.  The Stol’nogradsky commandant-turned-teacher was ripped out from over the fillies by a mouthful of gnarled teeth and bark fangs.  The stallion had always imagined he would have the strength to die without screaming or crying, but reality had a way of shattering such dreams.         The timberwolf seemed to smile as the last of the black fabric slid down its blood-stained gullet, and it took its paw off of the cliff. “Mr. Ink!” the best crusader shouted, in a moment of poignant loss and emotional agony. “Come on,” Applebloom yelled, grabbing the former pony and dragging her along.  “We need ta run!” - - - Sweet Apple Acres 0942 Hours Chaos ruled the farm outside of Ponyville.  Thankfully, this wasn’t in the sense of dancing buffalo in tutus and chocolate milk rain, but rather, a more controlled sort of military chaos.  Families were gathered tight around their foals.  A crowd had gathered, still not sure exactly what was going on.  And in the center of it all, the Princesses themselves had arrived with a contingent of guardsponies.  One such stallion stood before the sisters, remarkable only for the jagged crack running down the length of his horn. “The scouts haven’t found any sign of her, your majesties.  Some of the stone in your old castle was melted, but she wasn’t anywhere around there.  Crack thinks she might have jumped in the river to get away.” “If she is strong enough to survive the current, we won’t catch her now.”  Celestia sighed.  “We’ll have to trust Captain Armor’s assessment that she isn’t a threat for now.” The stallion seemed appeased by the comment, and gave a stiff salute.  Then he wandered off into the crowd, and immediately set his eyes on three mares who ran the Ponyville flower stand.   “Incorrigible stallion...” Luna muttered. Celestia chuckled.  “He’s quite the mare’s stallion, but at least he’s cunning about it.”  Then the princess realized the looks her laugh had earned her, and she whispered to her sister.  “Now I feel like a terrible pony for laughing.  Have you heard any word about Ink?” Luna shook her head.  “We fear you will soon be delivering his soul to the Summer Lands, Celestia.” The elder princess didn’t have the heart to correct Luna’s archaic language.  Instead, their eyes wandered across a crowd of shocked and semi-mourning acquaintainces.  Saddest of all were the students in Ink’s class, gathered together in a group just staring at the forest and hoping their teacher would somehow come back alive. A distinguished gray mare began to play a brutally sorrowful cover of ‘Summer Lands’ on a violin far smaller than her usual fare, accompanied after a moment by a fedora’d stallion and his guitar.  In a way, the tune seemed fitting to the passing of a pony who had so fully embodied the racial stereotypes of Stalliongrad. “I know a place where the water is warm, When it falls on your nose from overhead. Birds join in song and the trees sing along, In the Valley of Dreams that lies ahead. No fear of ice, for the feeling is nice, When you lay down to rest on a soft green bed. I want to go, there's no ice, there's no snow, Just the warmth of the sun and a soft green bed. No more need for sad goodbyes We’ll run together ‘neath sunny skies...” “Yes, that’s all... very nice, and I'm sure you'd like to hear the end of that song... but... I’m still bleeding to death over here.” Everypony gasped, as though the protagonist’s survival were somehow surprising.  Other ponies might have waited until the end of the song to pop up, but Ink had never been one to really like the idea of a tragic montage.  Also, as he had pointed out, time was of the essence.  The urgency was emphasized when the stallion collapsed on his side, nearly beyond the treeline of the Everfree Forest. - - - “I’m gonna get you, big brother!” the little colt shouted.   The elder pegasus shook his head.  “Not if I get you first.”  Carefree hooves pushed at the younger stallion, but he was too quick to get bowled over by his burlier brother. “Please be careful,” Predvidenie warned, adjusting his scarf.  “We’re trying to get a portrait here, not wrestle.” Roscherk rolled his eyes.  “We’ll be fine when the photographer’s set up, Predividenie, but―”         In his distraction, Ink hadn’t seen the younger pegasus sneaking up on his side.  He was bowled over, and found himself ‘pinned’ by Polnoch’s forelegs.         “I got you, big brother!”         And then the bright bulb flashed, and the unposed moment was captured forever.  Everypony laughed, the way a family was supposed to.  It felt like a fairy tale. Canterlot Rehabilitation Clinic Woodland Park September 30th, 1452 A.S. 2:25 P.M.         “I hope I’m not interrupting, Captain.”         Ink nearly dropped the old photograph in shock.  “Princess Celestia?”         The regal monarch nodded slowly, and walked over to sit beside the stallion.  Ink’s hind leg and both wings were held in firm braces, but he seemed to be supporting himself rather well on the little bench at the edge of the woods.  “I recognize your older brother, but who’s the colt?”         “His name was Polnoch,” Ink answered with a sigh.  “It meant ‘Midnight’ in Equiish.”         Celestia smiled sadly.  “The Revolution?”         Ink shook his head.  “Afterward.  He was a great pony.  And a lot more popular than me.  We’d intended the Black Cloaks to only be monster hunters, and to have him run the police force.  But when Stoikaja...”  Ink closed his eyes, and then opened them again.  “Sorry, Princess.  The doctors were warning me about my blood pressure.”         “It’s sound medical advice; I’m glad you’re listening.”         “I don’t think they care about the medicine...” Ink muttered guiltily.  “Somepony may have lit the therapist’s couch on fire.”  Ink was surprised when Celestia laughed with him.  “Doesn’t that bother you?”         “I’ve never been much of a fan of those couches, Captain.  Frankly, I never seem to fit.”         Both ponies shared a laugh that died slowly and calmly.  Finally, though, Ink was ready to ask the lingering question.  “You called me Captain.”         “Yes, I did.  If you’re not too attached to being a substitute teacher, I think you finally learned the lesson I wanted you to learn.”         “Which was?”         “What it really means to be a guardspony.  You had a choice, Rowshirk―”         Ink winced.  “Ink, please, Princess.”         “Apologies.  In any case, Ink, you had a choice between revenge on Soldier On, and saving somepony’s life.  The stallion who I put in charge of the Honor Guard out of desperation several weeks ago would have chosen the former.  But you did what I expect of my guard.  You made the right choice.”         Ink cocked his brow.  “Then what was the point of the ‘Friendship Reports’?”         Celestia looked away, and Ink though he saw a glimmer of a blush on her face.  “Well, to tell you the truth, I had a rather good laugh at the expense of your broken Equiish.  I was rather disappointed when Twilight had proofread them for you.”         Ink nodded with a little smile of his own.  “Alright.  Dear Princess Celestia, today, I am learning valuable lesson.  For many years, I am being think of myself as soldier; where to be killing and winning and defeating enemy is most important.  But that is most wrong approach.  Being guard is not being soldier; it is being protector.  Control is of more important than power.  So now, I am coming back to Canterlot... from Stol’nograd, with love.”         Celestia was laughing quite vibrantly by the end, though she calmed herself quickly when he was done.  “Why don’t you say ‘Stalliongrad’?”         Ink winced visibly.  “Because it is a butchery of a good name, for the sake of a stupid pun.”         The Princess huffed.  “Well, I resent that, Captain.  I’ll have you know, Cyclone thought I was quite clever when I came up with that pun.”         Ink’s gaze slowly narrowed.  “You made that pun?”         Celestia nodded.  “I’ve always been something of a fan of puns in place names.  Canterlot.  Vanhoover.  Manehattan.  But I must say Stalliongrad was probably my best...  Do you smell something?”         Ink glanced back at the melting plaster on his wings, and then gave the princess a flat stare.  “No, I don’t think I do.”         “Well, if you say so.  In any case, Captain Krowvyou, I’ll have an assignment for you in December.  Until then, take your time recovering.  The Honor Guard will be glad to have you.”         Ink’s wince lasted for most of the Princess’ departure, but he couldn’t let her go on such a note.  “Princess Celestia?”         “Yes, Captain?”         “The name’s Ink.  Red Ink.”