//------------------------------// // IV // Story: My Iron Warriors: Ordinance is Magic // by Perturabo //------------------------------// “I worship nothing. I believe in nothing.” -Perturabo, Primarch of the Iron Warriors. “You do totally have a crush on Spike!” “I do not!” “Yeah you do!” “I-I don’t…” “Then why are you blushing?” It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, but to Zuko it felt like these squeals of righteous indignation had been going on for hours. He tried his best to shut himself off from it, but somehow they found a way to penetrate even his finely-honed mental blocks. It was all he could do to trudge forward and pretend they weren’t here. “A-anyway,” Sweetie Belle’s voice cracked slightly, “He’s a Dragon.” “Yeah.” Applebloom countered, “but not lahk, one of tha’ scary ones!” “Besides, you know he’s already into girls like you.” Scootaloo said, and Zuko assumed it was with a cheeky wink. “R-really?” She tried to play it down, but it was clear to Zuko that Sweetie had become distinctly more excitable. Or at least, it would have been were he really listening. Which he wasn’t. “Yeah.” Applebloom agreed, latching onto whatever joke apparently was there. “Yah know how Spahk is around ‘classy girls’.” That one was definitely with a wink. “What are you girls talking about?” Sweetie Belle asked, confusion evident in the young girl’s voice. The barely-perceptible sound of Scootaloo and Applebloom’s hooves in the deep snow came to a complete halt. When they spoke it was in unison, and seemingly incredulous. “Seriously?” Before she could respond Sweetie Belle stumbled into something cold and hard. She moaned in pain as he head collided with the Power Armour, and she rubbed her sore horn gently. The other two stopped before repeating her mistake, looking up with some trepidation as Zuko stood dead still. The snow fell lightly now, but the wind still whipped across the arctic tundra. The fluttering motions of the cape were the only thing that proved Zuko wasn’t a statue. “Shut up.” He growled, deep voice bludgeoning through the roar of the elements. “Just…shut up. Please.” He finally acknowledged the presence of the three fillies with a red glare. They stared back up at him in incomprehension. “You’re not even meant to be here, for damn’s sake.” He muttered the last bit, but somehow they still heard. “Ah told you, everypony else has gone tah summer camp!” Applebloom explained with a smile. “We were gonna go, but then we Scootaloo here found out that you were goin’ somewhere an’ that sounded much more excitin’, so we told Ms Cheerilee that we were stayin’ home instead and followed you!” The Space Marine processed this information. “Your families do not know you’re here, do they.” Applebloom’s smile faltered as the winged one, Scootaloo, took it upon herself to answer. “Well…not exactly.” Before this whole affair, the Iron Warrior may have been tempted to bring his Power Fist to life and take his chances. Now, he merely sighed, and tried his best to resist reaching for a cigar. Desperately searching for a way to kill his rising headache, his eyes fell upon the saddlebags the three wore over their burgundy capes. “And I suppose this is the part you make me feel much better by telling me you packed a full survival kit in there.” For a moment they stared at him dumbly, before a spark of comprehension seemed to flicker into Sweetie Belle’s eyes. “Oh, they’re just the bags we’d packed for camp. We’ve got extra capes, stuff to keep us entertained on the journey-“ “-but no food.” He finished. Their silence told him everything. He sighed again, slamming the palm of his oversized gauntlet into his face and shaking his head sadly. “Lorkhan is going to kill me…fine. If you’re going to stay, at least have the grace to be quiet and not bother me. If anything happens to you don’t expect me to care.” He turned and began to walk deeper into the storm, and to be fair to them they did listen to him for two whole minutes. “I know Spike’s not one of the scary Dragons now, but what if he turns into one?” Sweetie asked. “But he wouldn’t if you just admitted you liked him.” Scootaloo insisted. They seemed to consider this for a moment, before the inevitable happened. “Hey Mr Zuko, have you ever seen a real Dragon?” Flashes of a green Dreadnaught played before Zuko’s eyes briefly. He didn’t sigh for a third time, seeing the pointlessness of it, and instead forced himself to roll his eyes and let them ask their questions. “Yes.” He admitted. “Of a kind. We used to own two.” “You gahs owned Dragons?!” Applebloom said, her voice full of awe. “How’d ya catch ‘em? Ah bet y’all need a really big net?” “We didn’t catch them.” The Astartes explained. The snow drifts were getting deeper. “We made them, or the Warsmith did I guess. Took…bad things from the Warp and bound them inside Dragon-shaped bodies of iron.” This time the three ponies were more prepared for him to stop suddenly, but there was no admonishment forthcoming. Instead, Zuko merely stared off into the grey darkness as if locking eyes with something only he could see. “Bodies of iron…” he muttered. The words pricked something inside of him, but for once in his life the Iron Warrior realised he didn’t quite know what. Then he was gone, striding forth into the storm and speaking no more. ----------------------------------------------------------------- He drummed his fingers impatiently on the shaft of his waraxe, but it didn’t make the unease go away. “This will not work.” Lorkhan growled, eyes locked on the stone statue sat in the middle of one of the Olympian Suns’ arming bays. The Iron Warriors had formed a loose ring around ‘Discord’, even Vortun and his warped brother coming to stand watch (whilst giving the masonry a wide berth, of course), but even their distrust of what they were planning was evident. “I say, your pessimism does you no credit my friend.” Mordecai chided, not looking at the Warsmith. Alone of the group he stood slightly within the ring, similarly focused on the mismatched creature before him. He’d left both his axe and pistol in his chambers, but hadn’t gone quite as far as to neglect his black and glowing rune blade. “Don’t smother me with false concern, witch.” Lorkhan hissed, tightening the grip on his weapon slightly. “This will not work.” “Indeed?” The Sorcerer asked, favouring his commander with a sidelong glance. “Why ever not?” “Because I say it won’t.” Lorkhan said simply. “Besides, you know I hate things like this. Even we don’t grovel to…them.” This last line drew a few murmurs of assent, and surprising as they were the Warsmith took a moment to revel in the unusual feeling of his brothers agreeing with him. “Chaos, you mean?” Mordecai asked, brining an icy hush to the room. “Oh come now, do not be childish. We are all grown men here, and besides, surely it is no different to the creation of Daemon Engines?” “No. Creating a Daemon Engine is as much about science and well…engineering as binding the thing, and even then it relies on the Neverborn being in our power.” Lorkhan explained through gritted teeth. “It’s a skill I’ve had to learn through my own efforts, not ritual dictated by insane ‘Gods’.” Mordecai’s response was to chuckle and shake his head, although the Warsmith wasn’t sure if it was in despair, mockery or something else. “I shall endeavour to provide satisfaction to your exacting standards, sir.” Before Lorkhan could respond the Psyker had unhooked the large brown book that was chained to his belt and opened it, ignoring the dust that fell from the pages. Lorkhan recoiled slightly as he glanced some of the runes etched onto the pages as they writhed and flickered before him. Deep down, Lorkhan knew he was not popular; he’d never been popular throughout the Legions, nor the IV, or even his own company. He also knew that no matter what else he might have been-a pirate, a marauder, a murderer, and maybe a bit slow on the uptake sometimes-he was still an Iron Warrior. Vortun didn’t have much choice but to pay the Ruinous Powers homage, but the devotion shown by Mordecai and to a lesser extent, Rorke towards them was always a sore point for him. It was not that the Warsmith suffered from any religious crisis per se-he knew the Gods existed-but he never paid them any more than the most grudging homage, and saw their servants as tools to be exploited and nothing more. They’d never been inclined to speak about it, but he didn’t think Zuko saw them even as that. Mordecai began to speak in an awful, piercing-yet still strangely cultured-snake tongue, extending his free hand towards the statue. Immediately change began to warp it, lines of black light coursing all across the cracked marble. As he began the other Iron Warriors as one dropped back into firing stances; Rorke twirled the power sword in his hand almost hungrily whilst Barbus yanked the catch on his autocannon back and braced. Lorkhan took his axe in a two-handed grip and crouched slightly, Mechantendrils snapping at air, as Mordecai concluded his incantations. Light began to stream from ever growing cracks in the stone, and before any of the Space Marines could react something that sounded like an explosion ripped through them. To a man, the Obliterators included, they moved to shield their eyes from the radiance. When Lorkhan looked back, what remained of his one organic eyebrow raised as his jaw dropped open. The thing that hovered before them was…not what he had expected at all. Far from some maniacal chaotic demi-god, complete with mindless hunger and apoplectic rage mixing in its eyes, the creature seemed almost amused by them. Sure enough, in full view of the bemused Iron Warriors it locked its mismatched fingers together and stretched away from its chest with a yawn, before chuckling whilst scratching its arse. “I have to admit,” he said, and even its voice sounded wrong for what was supposed to be a fragment of pure madness, “I was expecting old Celly to roll out the welcome wagon once again, but you gents seem far more interesting than that old fuddy-duddy.” He waved his hands downwards in a dismissive gesture on the last words, eyes literally rolling out of his head. Lorkhan had to blink a few times to make sure this was actually happening, but decided not to comment. Barbus apparently did not share his restraint. “…this is a joke, right?” Lorkhan shot him a look, but the strange creature-Discord-just giggled childishly. “Oh, if you look hard enough I think you’ll find most things can be construed as a joke on this or that if one looks at things from the right…angle.” On the last word, Discord’s head began to twist on his neck, still speaking. In seconds it had rotated 180 degrees to what must surely have been a neck-breaking angle, although it didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest. Several of the Iron Warriors recoiled in disgust, but Discord wasn’t done. With a snap of his fingers a light began to glow around Barbus. When it dissipated, the fearsome and murderous Traitor Astartes of the Iron Warriors legion stood with…with a bright red nose somehow attached to the front of his helmet, a rainbow-coloured afro wig, and a pointed party head to top it all off. The Iron Warrior came as close as he ever had in his life to yelping, tearing the clownish apparel from his head and taking aim with the autocannon. A staccato burst of heavy calibre fire erupted from the tip, the bullets streaking towards Discord. And yet, not one connected; the Draconequus had disappeared, and the autocannon rounds struck wildly into the wall and over the heads of ducking Space Marines. Lorkhan was the one to put a stop to Barbus’ rampage with a forceful backhand slap. “Oh, I was right, you boys are fun.” Came the mocking voice, disturbingly close to the Warsmith. Lorkhan almost stumbled back as Discord appeared on his shoulder, elbows resting petulantly on his shoulder. The Iron Warrior made a grab for the creature, but again there was nothing to grab. “I don’t even need to deharmonise you, you’re all doing such a fine job of that yourselves.” There was that voice again. It seemed to Lorkhan that they’d finally managed the impossible and found something as irritating as Mordecai. “Now see here, old fellow.” As if on cue the Sorcerer spoke up, although Lorkhan found some solace in the fact that for once he sounded as nonplussed as the rest of them. “I’d argue that we’ve done you a jolly good turn by releasing you from stone imprisonment, and I dare say that something of a compromise is in order between our two parties.” Discord looked at him for a moment, stroking his chin sagely as if considering the proposal. “Well I suppose some thanks are in order. It did get horribly dingy in there, something I wouldn’t mind repaying those bothersome six ponies and their ‘Elements of Harmony’.” He admitted at length, and although it was framed at a joke the Warsmith thought he detected an element of bitterness in those last words. “Except the Pink one.” Discord mused. “I think she had potential, you know?” Lorkhan’s hands curled reflexively, as if the fingers were tightening around a neck. Before he could reply, enough brain cells fired simultaneously in Rorke’s head to elicit a response. “Elements of Harmony? For fuck’s sake, is everything on this planet disgusting?” Discord laughed, at once both mirthful and cruel. “Well I think I like you most of all. Just anarchic enough to be entertaining, but stupid enough to present no bother.” Lorkhan groaned internally as Rorke roared and swung his power sword down in a right-handed sweep. The energised blade sliced through the creature’s talon, slicing it off at the wrist. Part of Lorkhan was hoping that this would elicit some kind of response, and sure enough Discord did give a wail so melodramatic it would have put Fulgrim to shame. Equally predictably, the wail swiftly subsided into a manic chuckling as another, identical talon burst from the stump. Discord smiled and twiddled the claws, waving at Rorke as the furiously thrashing Champion was dragged back by his two of his brothers. “Where have you gentlemen been all my life?” he asked, cranking up the melodrama again. “Had I known you were around I’d have ditched Celestia a thousand years ago! Although if I might suggest something,” he added, seemingly deep in thought again. “You could do with a bit of…oh, I don’t know, let’s say sprucing up.” It was unfortunate for Basikor that he was the closest when Discord snapped his fingers, the now familiar light enveloping him. When it dissipated it took all Lorkhan’s restraint to hold back. Gone were the familiar horns and steel plate, replaced by immaculate golden yellow. A black, clenched fist took the place of the Iron Skull. “G-get it off!” Basikor squealed in a most un-marine like fashion, dropping the Icon as he stared down at his yellow gauntlets. It was too much for some of the other Astartes. “GET HIM!” one screamed, sprinting towards ‘Kor. Two more joined him, and the last Lorkhan saw of Basikor was the now-yellow Marine fleeing from his companions down the darkened halls of the ship. It elicited another internal groan; when Zuko was back, Lorkhan resolved to acquire a cigar from him. Discord, for his part, was literally rolling on the floor laughing, clutching at his sides as tears trickled down his face. “Oh good heavens, this is just TOO good! Y’know part of me thinks you’re actually doing this on purpose, except-“ The grating voice was abruptly cut off by the crunch of an immense Power Talon. Lorkhan flinched back as Discord was hauled from the ground by his neck by Vortun. With contemptuous ease, the Draconequus’ struggling meeting with no success. Lorkhan wondered in the back of his mind why he didn’t just teleport away, but the answer came moments later. “Your abilities are commendable.” The Obliterator rumbled. “And I can see vhy ordinary creatures think you so wild. But ve are not ordinary creatures, are ve Herr Diskord?” Even with the odds against him, Discord was seemingly still in the wise-cracking mood. “Well…when a..gentleman of such…attractiveness meets a mind…such as mind, things are bound…to get Chaotic.” “Chaos?” Vortun growled, and something in his gut told Lorkhan that the Obliterator’s usually aloof demeanour was cracking. “You think vat you are Chaos?” He tightened the grip of his claws, drawing Discord closer to his face as the creature spluttered and pawed weakly. “You are not Chaos, mein comrade. Look at me.” Something akin to fear began to creep into Discord’s eyes. Vortun would not be dissuaded. “LOOK AT ME.” Slowly, Discord complied. The Obliterators’ face was, for once, utterly without change. “You speak of Chaos as if you know it. As if you are ve Arbiter and…and god. But you are none of zese things you freak, nothing but a pathetic vurm who somehow borrows our power.” “T…The Ponies…I…” Discord managed to stammer. “You vat?” Vortun cut him off. “You made zem angry? You hurt zere feelings? Tricks. Jokes. Not Chaos, which is vhy you cannot escape us-cannot escape me. Ve are Chaos. I am Chaos. Look around you, mutant. Vhen vis is done, zey vill be so very more than angry. Do you have any idea vhere you really are?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you have any idea who ve really are?” And at last, Discord finally seemed to notice the skulls, chains and eight-pointed stars that were hung around the room and its owners. When Vortun released his hold and dropped Discord to the ground, something changed within him-the extinguishment of some mischief, the realisation of what exactly was going on. He cowered-actually cowered as Mordecai approached. “I regret to inform you that there may have been a mistake, my Lord.” The Sorcerer said at length. He sounded almost disappointed. “Our friend here is no Daemon, certainly not one of any substantial relevance.” “Then what is it?” Varvillon asked. “If it were up to me, dear brother, then I still believe that the Ruinous Powers are at work here; the Warp is weak here, as we know, yet it is possible that these mutants act as a funnel of sorts. In essence, a reservoir of Warp Energy, even if he is not aware that is what he is.” Lorkhan absorbed this information in silence. “You know more or less what we’ve got left on this ship, right?” Mordecai stared at him for a moment, cocking his head to the side in mute questioning. “Indeed sir.” Lorkhan took a deep breath. “Is the Burdened still bound?” An even greater hush fell over the remaining Iron Warriors. Even Mordecai seemed momentarily taken aback. “Yes, Lorkhan. He is.” The Psyker finally said. Lorkhan was still for a moment, before casting a look around-to Barbus still aiming his autocannon at the Draconequus, the other Obliterator and his wildly mutating flesh, a furious Rorke still being held by two other Astartes. He looked back to Discord, and nodded once. “Introduce him.” Discord’s eyes widened, but before he could make any attempts to escape Vortun’s claw held him again. The Obliterator plodded away slowly, flanked by the other Iron Warriors. Lorkhan stayed behind for a moment, hearing the creature’s muffled screams as he was dragged away and staring down at his silver gauntlets dumbly. Then he turned and moved as well, following his brothers into the darkness that always stank of blood. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It took some luck, not to mention the expenditure of carefully hoarded resources and creative application of a plasma pistol, but eventually Zuko found he was able to get a fire going. He sat motionless for a moment, red optics staring into the flames as he let the heat seep through his armour. Not for the first time he found himself bemoaning Lorkhan’s rushed job with the bionic legs-they were Astartes grade and so amongst the best of their kind, but the slap-dash nature meant they had a habit of threatening to freeze up in the harsh weather. By now the moon had firmly entrenched itself in the sky, and the snow had at least stopped coming down as furiously. Zuko of course had been ready to keep going, but the Crusaders weren’t holding up so well, complaining of tiredness and cold. Part of the Iron Warrior considered pressing on anyway, but eventually the logical half reasserted itself and he relented-having to bury them out here would have caused far more problems down the line. Behind him, he heard one of them fidget slightly. They had long since fallen asleep, and turning the Marine saw Applebloom and Scootaloo curled up next to one another by the fire, capes draped over themselves. The one that had moved-Scootaloo, he guessed-mumbled softly and smiled as the warmth played over her, but did not wake. Zuko watched them for a moment, before shaking his head despairingly and turning to stare back into the flames, pulling his own cape tighter around his colossal frame. Without warning, his enhanced Astartes hearing picked up the faintest sound. It was a sound Zuko knew well from years spent with the likes of Mordecai and Varvillon-the sound of pencil scratching on paper. Curiosity overtook him, and he turned around to spot a small white shape at the edge of their makeshift encampment. It was hunched over, cape blowing in the gentle wind, and the bag it had packed lay open beside it. Zuko stood and padded over to it, apparently unobserved. He was watching Sweetie Belle’s progress for about a minute before she spotted him, squealing and dropping the paper she held. Zuko was on her in a second, gauntlet clamped over the pony’s mouth. “Do you want everyone to know we’re here?” he growled. She shook her head rapidly, and with a sigh the Iron Warrior removed his grip. His gaze turned down to the paper as he sat down beside the filly, arms resting on his knees. There were some crudely drawn shapes on it; a small white horse with pink and purple mane that Zuko guessed was Sweetie herself, a larger white pony that looked like Rarity, Mordecai’s friend-and who, Zuko suddenly realised, was Sweetie Belles sister-and beside the small horse a small green and purple lizard thing. He decided not to think on that too much. “You didn’t bring any food, but you did remember colouring supplies?” he asked incredulously. Sweetie Belle clutched her drawing to her chest protectively, face a mask of shame as she looked down. “I-I’m sorry…” she mumbled sadly. Zuko shook his head, although even he wasn’t sure what it meant. A moment’s silence reigned before she spoke again. “Are you…are you mad at us?” Zuko didn’t reply immediately, staring out into the blackness with glowing red eyes again. “I’m a ten thousand year old, genetically engineered super soldier who lives purely to kill, whose only remaining home is literally Hell and who is locked in a war with a corrupt Empire that I truly believe is wrong and needs to be destroyed, and yet can never win or even strike a meaningful blow against as long as I’m forced to live like a common pirate.” He said without emotion. “I’m mad at everything.” She looked at him for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words. It was only when a tiny white hoof extended and rested on his thigh did Zuko look back down at her. Sweetie’s face scrunched up as something seemed to occur to her. “Wait…ten thousand? But that can’t be right, there’s no way anyone can be that old! That’s even older than Princess Celestia!” “I’m not actually Ten Thousand.” Zuko answered, mildly grateful for the change of subject. “Time doesn’t flow normally in the Warp, and that’s where the Company has to spend most of its time. Ten Thousand years have passed in the real world, but it can’t be any more than a few centuries for me since…since Terra’s walls came down.” He wasn’t sure why he told her that last bit, but it was accompanied by a strange sensation; almost the lifting of weight from his shoulders. She didn’t pick up on it in any case. “You guys keep talking about that ‘Warp’ thing.” Sweetie said. “What the hay is it?” He hesitated, unsure of how to explain it to a child, or even if he wanted to. “The Realm of Chaos. The font of our power. The mirror. The Empyrean. The Great Ocean. Or like I said, just plain ‘Hell’. It’s an alternate realm that coincides with the real one, and according to Mordecai it’s made from the emotions of sentient creatures. Ships can travel through it to reach real places quicker.” “It sounds scary.” Sweetie whimpered, ducking behind her cape a little. “It is.” The Iron Warrior confirmed. “Bad things live in there.” “B-bad things?” she whimpered again. “Do you fight them?” “Sometimes.” Zuko said awkwardly, unable to ignore the spikes bolted to his armour. And most of the time, we are those bad things sailors tell stories about. “Oh…” the Pony said contemplatively. She seemed to think for a moment. “So…how old are you?” He was about to answer when something stopped him; the dropping of a penny, the flicking of a switch in his brain bringing revelation. “i…I don’t know.” “You don’t know? How can you not know how old you are?” she asked with a trace of indignation. Zuko didn’t answer immediately, and for some reason the unnerved feeling he’d got when he made the discovery didn’t leave. “I know I was in one of the last batches of Marines to leave Olympia during the Crusade, maybe fifty years before it ended, but I guess I just…lost track along the way.” “So do you not know when your birthday is?” Sweetie Belle inquired. Her face had changed, a distinct expression of sadness crossing it. Zuko gave his best attempt at a shrug. “I never have. We’re not supposed to remember things like that.” “Everyone should have a birthday.” She said quietly, seemingly to herself. “Your Daddy must have given you SOMETHING. And you’ve got so many brothers, they can’t all have forgotten.” That seemed to perk her up slightly, little white ears snapping back to attention. “You’re so lucky to have so many brothers! I mean, you’ve got loads here, but Rarity says the wizard guy told her there’s even more up in space! Do you have sisters, too? That must be quite scary-Rarity’s like, the coolest pony ever, but I’m not sure I could handle thousands of her.” Hearing the Lord of Iron referred to as ‘Daddy’ was enough to bring a shiver to Zuko, but he shrugged it off. “It doesn’t work that way.” He explained. “We’re not actually brothers in a genetic sense, we’re…it’s complicated.” Another thought struck him, and once again he found he couldn’t stop his mouth moving. “I did have a sister once. Before all of this, back ho…back on Olympia.” He stared out blindly into the storm again, unaware of Sweetie’s concerned eyes burrowing into the side of his helmet. “I don’t remember much of my early life, but I remember that she was older than me. She had golden hair, blue eyes. She had a nice smile, but she never used it on me.” He chuckled little, though there was little humour in it. “Hated me, always said that I was the worst little brother in the Imperium. But when the Legion came, she cried with my parents, and hugged me and told me that Father would look after me now.” Her words had been ‘him’, he remembered, but few normal Olympians had ever called the Lord of Iron by his name, even in private. “What was her name?” Sweetie asked, entranced. A shadow seemed to darken Zuko’s helmet, making the already grim metal seem black. “I don’t remember that, either.” Silence reigned for a moment, eight foot tall killing machine and tiny Unicorn sat side by side as the wind began to howl again. When she spoke again Sweetie’s voice had lost its usual chirpy, almost squeaky edge, but somehow it penetrated through the gale. “Why are you up here, Mr Zuko?” He too was still for a moment, and when he did speak Zuko sounded even more tired than usual. “Because I was told too. Because I’m an Iron Warrior. That’s what we do; we follow orders, no matter how much we might not want too. It’s the reason we said nothing when the Angels and the Ultramarines and the Fists were given the glory, whilst our sole depiction was being literally ground into the mud and the shit-by our own side. It’s the reason we fought the Great Crusade, and the Long War after that. The Thousand Sons did it because they had no choice, the World Eaters because they wanted to, us because our betters told us, and me because…because I really thought we could make the galaxy a better place.” He snapped, not bothering to hide his bitterness. “Because I wanted to be a hero.” It was a few moments before he felt the press of tiny hooves on his leg again, but this time they were much keener. Zuko looked down at her, and found Sweetie Belle smiling innocently back up at her with large green eyes. “I think you’re a hero.” She said simply. Zuko met her eyes for a moment, his iron mask as unreadable and emotionless as it always was, and had been for ten millennia. Eventually he stood up, turning to stalk back towards the fire where Applebloom and Scootaloo still slumbered. Sweetie Belle watched him go as she worked up her courage. “Since we’re both Cutie Mark Crusaders…can I please ask you a question?” He stopped, cloak whipping in the wind. “You can ask.” She looked at the snow all around them, trying to choose the right words. “Well…it’s just, all your friends take your helmets of sometimes, and Rarity said that she saw even your leader’s face at the Grand Galloping Gala. So…why do you never take your helmet off?” He gave her a long, sidelong glance. The light of the flames flickered off his silver armour, making the ceramite plates almost shine. “I told you.” He said at last. “I’m an Iron Warrior. This is the only face anyone ever cared about.”