//------------------------------// // Chapter 1: Catalysts // Story: Prologues // by Broken Phalanx //------------------------------// They were an easily forgotten species, the first inhabitants in what would eventually be called Equestria; they hadn’t endured much conflict, in the beginning, and as such hadn’t cared much to develop. To them, life was simple, and any complication to that was an unnecessary effort. After all, why should they bother to build more than a house and a farm? Their children would inherit it, and the land was, for the most part, peaceful, so there was little need for large communities. It was, for all intents and purposes, a good era, an abundant era, if a bit devoid of artful expressions of beauty. And so it was that their natural passions were doused into cinders by the monotony of simple living unbroken by strife. Their existence itself was something of an abnormality; their natural lands were universes away, a realm that contained little magic save for what was made with words or actions, on a planet that had seen fit to make them the only sapient species within their biosphere. Their adaptation to this utterly alien realm was frankly anomalous, as their new world was sparing with its gifts; magic, for the most part, simply passed them by, thaumological evolution neither aiding nor harming their livelihoods, with perhaps one or two possible exceptions. Their inherent malleability, however, served them well enough. . . . until the frost came. They had long since forgotten the chill of a cruel, early, blizzard, and it was quite to their detriment they had become so accustomed to the pleasant evenings and limitlessly fertile lands. The unnatural snow ravaged the spring crops, and whatever semblance of society there was at that point frayed into nothingness when famine struck in the midst of that extraordinarily prolonged winter. They, at that point an unbelievably languid species, were suddenly confronted with a situation that demanded immediate pragmatism; with heavy hearts, they burned what few structures they had constructed in an attempt to appease whatever chilly god they had offended, then fled to the caves, where, desperately huddled around campfires and tightly clasping each other for warmth, half of the creatures died from either winter’s bite or gnawing hunger. The rest, however, experienced an evolution of sorts that would’ve made Lamarck proud; slowly, bred within them over the course of those long months, grew a flame within their souls from the few scant embers that remained from before the days of ease. It wasn’t of love, or harmony; it was hot, furious at the past and present, at themselves, at the world, and at the heavens above. It was the sort of blood-pounding lividness that could, and would, inspire a few thousand hungry and weakened individuals to push their way out of those icy caves when the snow finally stopped, if only to deliver a curse ridden oration to the clouds and sun itself. They left those idyllic lands behind, and with barely contained passion they migrated through what would eventually be called the “Ever Free Forest”, into the mountain surrounded land beyond. It was this new generation that the inheritors of Equestria, the three pony-kinds, would eventually find perhaps a century or so after the first Hearths Warming; while exploring the lands beyond Ever Free Forest, it came to pass that a Pegasus and a Unicorn pony, engaged in some sort of secret tryst, happened upon this civilization quite by accident. There are multiple stories on how the first meeting went, and how the proceedings eventually fell through, but the real story (and thusly the one least told) went something like the following: “Hey, Smeol, this is some high quality rabbit; you really have to show me how you-” Gasps of horror emanated from the forest; both Smeol and Turuk turned towards the source, the two ponies, Radiant Shield and Working Gears. The two groups began quietly and quickly whispering amongst themselves. “Turuk?” “Yeah, Smeol?” “What the hell are those?” “Radiant, they, they… killed a rabbit! And they’re eating its corpse!” “I don’t know, Turuk, they don’t seem to mean us ill-will. . . I’ll try and, uh, figure out what they want, but if anything happens to me, gut the bastards . . .” “I know, Working, but right now isn’t the time we can panic; get ready to run, one of them is getting closer. I’ll try to hold them off for a few minutes, so you can get a head start; I’ll meet you back at the fort!” “I… don’t feel so good…” Even when the story is told, it’s never made quite clear how first impressions soured. All that is for certain is that it involved a slightly charred rabbit turning on a spit, a great deal of overreaction on the part of either Working Gears or Radiant Shield, and Smeol retaliating rather angrily rather than trying to understand why, exactly, a pair of herbivores might be disgusted at being offered meat. All that history bothered to note is that negotiations ceased to exist before they even had a chance to begin. Of course, it’s perhaps best that history didn’t remember that little scuffle accurately; things escalated rather quickly when Radiant struck at Smeol with her wings, and Turuk, somehow, managed to set every individual, including himself and about a tenth of the surrounding forest, on fire from the embers of the cooking pit. It wasn’t quite the proudest day for anyone (or anypony) involved, even though the only thing that received any real damage was both parties’ prides. And so it was that generations would pass before any meaningful contact (beyond skirmishes) would occur between the two species again, well into the Age of Discord. In these ensuing years, it would be inaccurate to say that neither side attempted diplomacy with the other; it would however, be accurate to say that neither side tried particularly hard. Neither nation could even agree on what, exactly, was the reason for such high tensions; the Humans said it was the treatment of their then diplomat, Tahulin, and how the food he was served in Equestria was essentially purpose made for human indigestibility (save for apples, of which he gave a glowing recommendation when he finally arrived back home, verging on emaciation). The Equestrians, on the other hoof, maintain that it was the treatment of their own diplomat that resulted in strained relations, as Witty Words had the unfortunate experience of, using his own description (which, for the sake of expedience, is often remembered in a form that excludes his sobs of horror), “Finding the head of a fellow pony in my bed”. Of course, if there is to be a degree of fairness here, it wasn’t actually a pony’s head; it was a large doll that one of the human children had somehow lost. The tomatoes used to simulate blood, however, are not so innocently explicable. . . That isn’t to say there was a true war between the two sentient species, far from it; open conflicts have, at the least, easily presentable expectations. Instead, what followed was more akin to a cold war, with border disputes, bickering forts, and food being stolen back and forth, despite (for the most part) the lack of a mutual diet. It was a subtle game of manipulation, coordination, trickery, and, in a few memorable situations, outright idiocy. *** A pair of mares sat next to an alcove as servants bustled to and fro, the general movement so fluid that it smeared together and, to an unfocused gaze, looked like a river of color. “Beautiful weather we’ve been having. Shame it’s due to the sun being up for more than seventy hours.” A regal looking unicorn with an ochre coat and auburn mane paused for a moment, glancing at the purple and black unicorn beside her with a frown on her face, before adding, “What do you think, Ms. Neato?” “I think, personally, Lady Eventide, that the Dusk house will have it sorted out soon enough.” The reply was in the most neutral tone possible without delving into monotone. Eventide tsked. “Of course we’ll have it fixed. I wasn’t really curious about that nonsense.” “Sorry, your grace. I’m not much one for small talk.” “Clearly.” An uncomfortable silence ensued. “We’ll have the moon up in no time at all; it’s our specialty, after all,” Eventide said, in an attempt to evict the quietness that had become present. It failed. The silence stretched uncomfortably long, before, finally, Eventide tried again. ”Are you sure you have to leave?” she asked, her tone tinged with sadness. “She’s taken a shine to you, you know; it’s going to break her little heart.” “I’m afraid I have to; family business, your grace. I . . . enjoyed my time here, though. Thank you; you’ve all shown me far more kindness than I had any right to expect,” Neato replied, scuffing at the floor for a moment with her hoof. Eventide felt the edges of her lips twitch upwards. “Then perhaps you ought to expect more?” Neato frowned, her brow furrowed in questioning. Eventide sighed. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is, well, we love you.” An agonized expression flitted across Neato’s face for a moment, and, more like a desperate attempt to expel all air rather than actually communicate anything, she murmured, “Ah.” “Is everything alright, Ms. Neato?” Eventide looked alarmed, and more than a little concerned, as she watched the rapidly paling mare before her. “Yes! Yes, yes, everything is fine. I’m just . . . I’m just going to miss everypony.” The giggle that accompanied that statement was so obviously false, it took Eventide a few moments to realize that, indeed, Neato was trying to conceal something, and that this wasn’t an attempt at some newly found acerbic wit. “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Neato’s pained silence was the only reply Eventide needed. “She’ll be fine; if my useless sister proves to be incapable of raising her, she’ll have the misfortune of being raised by me.” For a moment, Eventide smirked. “I believe her mother’s fear of that particular outcome is more than enough to ensure the dear will be well looked after.” “I’m worried about everypony here, Lady Eventide.” “Surely you aren’t thinking Discord will target us, do you?” Eventide asked with an amused tone. “I’ve not had the displeasure of seeing him in some time, yes, but last I heard he was terrorizing the settlements beyond the Everfree forest; he so hardly puts thought into his little changes that I sometimes think he finds enjoyment in us changing some of his designs . . .” The explosion of air that escaped Neato’s lips would normally be associated with laughter, but her expression was anything but joyful. “It’s not him. It’s not even the humans, Lady Eventide; they’re at least a month’s travel away. I’m more worried about other ponies. Other royalty, if I’m going to drop all pretense of subtlety.” Eventide spent a moment simply staring at Neato, calmly taking an offered cup of water from a nearby servant and sipping it as she did so. “Who, and how did you find out?” “Perhaps somewhere more private, your Grace?” A room was cleared with remarkable haste, and the two mares carefully trotted within, the door closing behind them with reverberating solidness. Wordlessly, a letter exchanged hooves. Eventide’s magic aura briefly encased the envelope to open it, but Neato’s squeak of dismay gave her pause. “Why don’t you want me opening this, Neato?” Realization dawned. “You think they’ve got spies here.” “Relatively certain of it, your Grace.” “Well, then, nothing-” Eventide grimaced, and blinked unsteadily for a moment. “Strange. Don’t know what that wa-” She toppled over soundlessly, her eyes rolling up into her head and foam forming at the edges of her lips. Neato’s trembling grew in severity, until her knees were in danger of knocking together. She almost didn’t hear the door open, behind her. “It, it wasn’t supposed to be until next week. Why . . . how . . .?” “The servant and the water. It was simple enough,” replied a guttural voice. “I was to keep an eye on you, make sure you didn’t get caught or get cold feet. If you come with me now, I’ll sweep this under the rug; the boss doesn’t need to know about this little . . . incident.” Neato continued to stare at Eventide’s body, until, finally, the pony behind her sighed and asked with raspy intonation, “Don’t you have a brother to look after? Let the dead look after the dead; the living still have work to do.” By the Alicorns, this isn’t exactly the most romantic I’ve been, is it? I mean, yes, she did threaten the entire set up simply because she made friends with one of the marks, but, well, I did sort of poison her friend no less than a minute ago. Oh, Tartarus, she’s crying now. Somehow, I feel that trying to hug her isn’t going to help. Nope. She’s muttering oaths to kill me now, and is glaring daggers at me. Might be time to just take a few steps back now . . . Why can’t it be simple? ‘You want some coffee?’ ‘Sure.’ Bam, easy. But no, I get to basically poison nearly everypony she cares about as a first date. . . . I suppose this technically counts as a first date. Eeeeeehhhhhhhhh . . . no, that’s twisted, even for me. Let’s just get this over with. *** Deliriously, a stallion stumbled about, his gaze fixed upon the night sky; feverishly, his eyes flicked from the pinpricks of light, to the moon, and back again, almost in sync with his shallow breathing. Funny how all the stars just sorta swirl together; makes everything look real pretty. Sort. Of. And Really. Not this ‘sorta’ and ‘real’ nonsense. What would mother do if she heard that little breach of language? Well, besides lock you inna . . . in a . . . cupboard. The stallion, Whiskey, stumbled, tripped, and tumbled down a hill, far too distracted in his bleary glances at the sky to watch where he was going. He slid the last couple of feet, and moaned in pain as he reached the nadir of the knoll. That . . . doesn’t feel like a mattress. Wasn’t I just inside? Wait. Why would I be able to see stars from inside the fort? Wide-eyed, Whiskey desperately searched about, craning his neck as far as it could go. Where . . . is it? Oh . . . oh dear . . . Seeing a distinct lack of stone walls around him, he slowly trotted to a nearby rock and slumped to the ground beside it, sweating profusely all the while. “How’d I get outta . . . out of . . . there?” he mumbled, even as his gaze was drawn inexorably towards the full moon. “Where’s . . . ohhh . . .” The words died, unspoken, as he groaned and felt his empty stomach violently lurch. By the Alicorns . . . what in the world did I catch? Distantly, he was aware of shouting, and advancing hooves; regardless, his bloodshot eyes remained affixed to the Mare in the Moon. There were myths, of course, associated with the pattern; that it was the scar from some great and terrible magic, or that it was a natural formation due to whatever meteorological events happened to occur on the moon, or even that it was the end result of some pompous oaf’s from ancient attempt at historical immortality. They were all lesser legends, though, compared to the one that was running through Whiskey’s mind; it was the bread and butter, the staple of all stories mares and stallions told their foals. In the beginning, there was nothing. And, and then . . . Alicorns . . . Alas, your eloquence, it is stupefying, commented a small portion of Whiskey’s brain that wasn’t being fried from fever. And then the Alicorns came, and made everything. And . . . uhhh . . . One step in front of the other, my dear synapse; you’ll eventually finish in due time. It’s said it was a good time, when the Alicorns were around. The thinking, rational fragment of Whiskey’s mind was silent at that, and subconscious mental cogs began to turn in thought. And then the shouting voices drew nearer, and Whiskey felt protective hooves wrap around him and pick him up. For a moment, he smiled as their indistinct voices melded into a pleasant, concerned, background noise. He glanced blearily at his blurry friends, and tried to force his swelled tongue to comprehensible speech. Something that could’ve passed for, “I’m fine, I’m fine,” escaped his lips, before he slipped off into sleep. -------------------- Slowly, the more regally dressed man’s eyes cleared, and he ceased his trembling; he was consciously aware of having murmured something about a ‘Scalpel’ (whatever that may be), but otherwise shunted the new memories to the side; there was an issue that had to be resolved immediately, after all. The both of them stared within the storehouses, before, finally, the young lord picked up three apples and inspected them cautiously. “You say this has happened . . . how many times?” he asked, in an attempt to causally sidestep around any mention of his most recent vision. The other man, wearing a simple yet well cared for tunic, blinked a couple times; a futile attempt to try and forget the strange mood the lord had been in a few moments ago. “Aye, yer lordship, six times.” “Six times? Why hasn’t anyone been sent to tell us of this?” the aristocrat looked at his speaking companion with an expression of amazement and disbelief. “Well, frankly, yer lordship, we need all the help we can get fer harvest season.” “You were all needed for harvest season?” “Yessir.” “Harvest season.” “Yes, yer lordship.” For a moment, the tone bordered on condescending. “You felt that growing new crops was somehow more prudent than retrieving old food stores?” The man grimaced at that. “Like I said, my lord, it’s happened-” “Six times, no, I understand.” “We’re really not stupid people, yer lordship. It’s just that, well, Ol’ Coup told us that it was the ponies-“ “Yes, yes, I know that much. He, personally, told you as such?” “Aye, yer lordship. He said that; thing is, though, is that we didn’t really want to lose any more of the lads to fighting, so we reckoned that replacing the stores was the wisest option.” “Yes, well, you were right, except for one thing; crops don’t grow faster after a certain point, even if you work on them more. Besides, being robbed six times doesn’t exactly help. Did you or anyone else see where the horses went?” “Well . . .” “That’s a no, then?” “Yessir, but I know where they are.” The lord blinked, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “How exactly does that happen, if you don’t mind telling me?” “Ol’ Coup told me. They went straight back to their encampment, apparently” The lord groaned and face-palmed. “Is there a problem, yer grace?” “I don’t much enjoy getting all our info from that quasi-demonic reality breaker. Well, I’ll tell the King; maybe this won’t go as poorly as I think it will. . .”