//------------------------------// // Chapter 3: Ghosts // Story: Beyond the Sky // by Sight Watcher //------------------------------// My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is owned by Hasbro Beyond the Sky Chapter 3 Ghosts of the Past Celestia’s sun was like a sunflower hovering above the land spreading its warm, radiant glow. Throughout the forests below a cool morning breeze swept across the land, causing the morning dew to fall like beads of light. Small woodland creatures emerged from their burrows, birds from their nests, all answering the beckoning call of the morning’s light. This could be seen as epitome of tranquility and beauty to most to most, but not to Gilda. She flew miles above, drifting over the clouds which were to her as beautiful as the greens of spring to those who inhabited the earth below. Gilda hadn’t carried much when she left Cloudsdale. She’d set out for Validus after sobering up and catching a few hours sleep. Her jacket was all she wore, and it carried everything she had required. Pockets full of small possessions, some bits, and that was all. Her connections to the city which she had called her home for thirteen years was little more than memories which she now wished to leave behind. Even her current friends didn’t matter to her as she hadn’t even bothered to leave behind a note of her departure. By the time Celestia raised the sun she had left Cloudsdale far off in the distance without a single regret. No one would know what had become of her until she returned to them as a champion of the skies. Junior Speedsters Camp was where Gilda found her mind wondering off too as she sailed high above the surface of Equestria. Then everything was simple: Gilda and Rainbow Dash against the world. Those had been the days when optimism sailed boundless, unrestrained, and it had seemed like there was no limits to be set on reality. Life so seldom seemed to follow the path laid out by one’s dreams…or relationships. Only those who persevered could triumph in the end, and Gilda would be damned before she let herself become another complacent citizen of Cloudsdale wasting her life away reflecting on what could have been. Up here there was a beauty exclusive to those with wings. In was an empty expanse with little life where an individual could fly for hours without encountering another being, or so much as a bird. To many that was frightening, as a desert might be to those below. But to those who challenged it, who mastered it, the expanse was a paradise unsoiled by society. A hunger for freedom was at the heart of all true fliers and the sky was their buffet. Keeping her mind and wings sharp, dipping and diving, performing flips and barrel rolls, all while staying in the current Gilda stayed on her course. Nothing too complicated for one of the griffon’s talent, but enough to keep awake; to keep her mind active. On her life it had never been a question for Gilda as to what she was destined to, but how she’d achieve it. When one is born the child of two of the greatest fliers of a generation it was a given that the child should be the best. After several hours of aerobatics in the current above the clouds is where Gilda had found her freedom. It carried her eastward, allowing her to spread her wings and soar without ever having to put much effort into her movement. But something didn’t feel right. Tilting her wings ever so slightly she began to descend, bursting through the thick blanket of clouds which had been beneath her. When she had left the countryside had been dotted by busy roads and of cities but now as she looked down below her everything was beginning to become an indescribable blur of farmland. Gilda tried to find a landmark; a hill, crack, canyon, valley, or even an awkwardly twisted tree, but nothing rang a bell. The entire gamut was nothing more than an indescribable blur of green, yellow, and blue. “Stercus,” Gilda cursed under her breath in the tongue of her ancestors. Coming to a dead stop, wings moving just enough to keep her hovering in place she retrieved a crumpled map from her jacket’s front pocket. Gilda had flown many places, but she’d never been to Equestria’s Eastern territories before. She was used to knowing where she was that she’d been careless. She retrieved a clamshell pendant attached to a brass chain which had been in a secondary pocket. Opening it revealed a compass that’s design was not at all unlike that of a pocket watch, comparing the tilt of the needle to her map. After a moments speculation, accounting for the farmland below compared to the map, accounting for the direction the compass pointed, and the way the wind had blown she figured the current she’d hoped to ride most of the journey had veered off to the Southeast. It was embarrassing to admit it, but she was lost. With her enhanced sight she began scanned the ground below for any sign of intelligent life. “Hah!” she exclaimed in triumph. In the distance she managed to spot a settlement some twelve miles away. She immediately set her sights and began her descent. It was hardly a town, only having twelve buildings built around a main street with the largest at the end clearly being town hall, but there was bound to be somepony there who could steer her in the right direction. As soon as she landed she couldn’t help but notice all the eyes that intently watched her from every window and street corner. It felt as if the entire town had been drained of life the moment she set foot on the street. Hushed whispers like a soft wind, like a phantom spirit had taken the life from the settlement. “Mommy, isn’t that a-” “Don’t stare, Pierre,” the mare silenced her colt. “Huh…” Gilda exhaled uncomfortably. The griffon scanned the scene to single-out an individual pony. Her eyes fell on a homely country stallion stood hunched over a wagon with a stack of barrels to his right. His limbs were long, yet muscular, but his neck was crooked, bobbing outward in the middle before straightening up again just beneath where it connected to his skull. “Hey! You,” Gilda addressed the stallion, pointing a talon in his direction. “Who? Me?” He pointed a hoof towards himself in bafflement. “Yeah you. Something wrong with your ears?” Gilda stretched her wings out in full once as her body readjusted to being on the ground again. The action caused the stallion’s eyes to bulge. As she continued her approach a claw fished her map and compass from the jacket pocket. “I need to ask you something.” “You’re not from around these parts are ya?” The buck toothed stallion stared bug-eyed at Gilda’s map as she spread her map over the top of a barrel. “What tipped you off, genius?” Gilda blew out the corner of her beak, the force lifting her crest. “Griffons don’t usually come around these parts.” He answered the rhetorical question sincerely as his right foreleg’s hoof made a circle in the dirt beneath him. “Not that it’s at all a problem, I mean there are certainly stranger folk to come around when ya’ really think about-” A raised foreleg and outstretched talon silenced him. “Would you just tell me where I am?” Gilda groaned impatiently pointing to the map. “Altaiville…Home of the best oranges in all of Equestria! Also home of the Scorched Grove Memorial.” What is up with ponies listing off needless information whenever I ask simple questions? Gilda thought. The griffon had shut out the stallion’s voice the instant he’d spitted out the name of the town. Slowly Gilda ran a claw along the surface of the map, reading the name of each town. When she finally found the location that coincided with the name the stallion had provided she let out a loud groan. “Crap!” She’d strayed far off her intended course. The current she’d thought would take her eastward most of the journey had veered off at an angle roughly 20 degrees off the course she’d intended. If she hadn’t been so tired she might have checked her compass more often. Gilda had only gotten two hours sleep before she left Cloudsdale, so instead of observing her surroundings she’d allowed herself to fly on autopilot. “I’m off course,” Gilda indignantly remarked. She knew better than this: she was flying in territories she’d never flown before, thus constant vigilance should have been a given on her part. It would likely cost her a day’s flight. “That’s a mighty shame,” the stallion politely replied. “I’m sure some kind pony round these parts could help you on your way.” “I don’t need just somepony,” Gilda condescendingly replied. “Only a great flier who knows these skies like the back of her hoof could give me directions!” A hoof firmly planted on his chin the stallion seemed to think over Gilda’s statement. Gilda meanwhile was focusing on plotting her own path to Validus from the nowhere town she’d stumbled upon. “Orange Moon could help you!" “Who?” Gilda looked up. She’d forgotten the stallion was still standing beside her. “Orange Moon: She’s the regional mail mare. If any pony in Altaiville knows the best way to get where you’re going it’s gonna be Moon.” “She travel everywhere within a hundred miles of here?” “Yep.” “She fast?” “Yep.” Gilda folded the map, gracelessly shoving it back into her pocket. “Great! Where is she?” The stallion looked at Gilda then anxiously at the clock tower. “Well…you see, she’s out right now, delivering packages and such. But I reckon she’ll be back in a jiff.” “Fine…” Gilda looked down the street, spotting a market. “I’m going to see if you boonies have anything worth eating. Shoving the map into her breast pocket Gilda turned her back to the stallion, her tail coming close to smacking his snout. The stallion tried to stop her. “But, what if Moon comes back before y’er done?” “Tell her to find the only griffon in town. I’m sure it won’t be too hard.” “Oh…Naw, I reckon that won’t be hard at all. I’ll tell ‘er to find ya when she gets back.” Gilda began a sedate stroll down the street. A quaint, insignificant feeling seemed to be a constant factor in Altaiville. She had forgotten how quiet the countryside could truly be when one really left the heart of civilization. Each building must have been over a hundred years old, easy, but none of them seemed to be in any state of disrepair; a settlement standing proud as a living, breathing time capsule of a forgotten time. It was a town that Gilda would supposed had never changed a single rock over the course of its existence; it was untouchable by time’s hand. This place is a living breathing greeting card, Gilda thought. Spying an apple vender seated behind a stall Gilda decided to make her move. Gilda looked at the apple stand. She remembered the first time she’d eaten an apple. It was at her first Junior Speedsters Summer Camp… “What the hay is that, Dash?” “An apple; Try it, G!” “No! I am sooo not going to eat this pony crap!” “It’s only one apple.” “Griffons don’t eat things that come from plants. We eat meat, Dash.” “That’s why you should try something else for once!” “Fine- Damn! If it’ll shut you up I’ll eat it!” Gilda has eaten it to please her only friend, who she knew would never enjoy hunting down small woodland creatures for a meal. So she continued to eat what Rainbow Dash offered at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if only because she didn’t want to leave her friend’s side. Much to Gilda’s surprise, by the end of the camp she’d discovered that she had acquired a taste for apples, the glossy red fruit becoming a permanent fixture in her diet. Another favorite was lemons. Gilda had a fondness for the acidic, sour taste be it in baked goods or the fruit itself. The maroon stallion seated behind the counter of the apple stand was of an advanced age. He wore a straw hat with three holes in its brim. All that remained of his dark brown mane was fuzz-like stubble. Thick rimmed, walnut framed glasses rested on his head, and a corncob pipe limply dangled from the corner of his lip. Through his wrinkled, dusty hide she could make out a cutie mark in the shape of basket full of apples. “Hey old timer,” Gilda smiled as she greeted the apple vendor. “What you got for sale?” The old stallion at the apple stand seemed near-sighted, and Gilda figured it would be easy to slip some from him when he wasn’t looking. Already her tail was flicking over the base of the stand, searching for a breach in the design. “Nothing for your kind you damned big buzzard!” “What?” Gilda was taken aback. She’d treated ponies in demeaning fashions, insulted them, lied to them, but never before had a pony been openly hostile towards her. “I don’t cater giant pigeons in this ‘ere establishment. Your fetid paunteur shall frighten off all customers!” “Are you kidding me?!” Such indignant treatment had never befallen the daughter of Northwind. It stung and burned her from within. She’d been a bitch to many ponies, but no pony ever had judged her on the fact of being a griffon. This was a new scorn which she’d never before felt. Her body trembled as a volcano set to explode. Inside this stallion’s head was the thought that griffons were lesser than he. “I have the right to serve who I want. Now get out of my shop!” Gilda clenched her talons into fists. Her wings spread out in full, making the griffon appear twice as large. A gasp from the ponies in the market didn’t escape her ears, nor did the sight of a mother rushing off her children, but that didn’t matter. Right now all that mattered was giving this old coot a piece of her mind. She wouldn’t allow his behavior to go unpunished. “I’m a paying costumer! It doesn’t matter what I am, hell, must griffons won’t even think of buying a lousy freaking apple, but you’re going to tell me how to spend my money just because of what I am? My money is just as good as any other loser here, so get the turnip out of your ass! And guess what? This isn’t your shop, this is a street! You don’t own the street you useless sack of bones! If I was another griffon I might – Shit!” Gilda had to leap back as the stallion lunged forward from his chair, a small, cruel shaped blade clenched in his hoofs, narrowly missing her face. As she dodged she stumbled, falling upon her rear onto the dusty dirt below. “What the fuck?!” Gilda gasped, claws touching her face, afraid of the possibility that the blade had made contact with her flesh. “Try it, fiend! I killed ten of you turkeys in my day! One more won’t hurt.” Despite his frail frame, and his rigid, sluggish movements the stallion seemed to be utterly committed to following through with his threats if the griffon provoked him. Gilda looked around. A crowd had formed around the quarrel. None of the ponies acknowledged the crazed stallion, but they all looked scornfully on the griffon. They spoke in whispers, but their words could easily be heard by a griffon. “What happened?” “I think that griffon attacked Bouclier.” “You sure?” “Maybe he attacked her…” “He’s like 100 years old- why would he attack a –young- griffon?” “He always was kind of a kook…” “Look at the way she’s dressed! A hooligan if I ever saw one!” “Fine! I’ll spend my bits elsewhere!” The griffon turned tail, and with her beak held high stormed off by foot. She didn’t wish to fly off as that might seem the coward’s way out of the situation given that all of them were earth ponies. Gilda refused to be seen as a poltroon after she’d been so grievously disrespected. A sudden gust of wind kicked up the dust of the road. The ponies watched the griffon leave the market, but didn’t make a move to follow. It was not longer a ghostly silence, but a hushed silence, as if an entire group was holding its breath, waiting to exhale. Gilda didn’t wait for that exhale. She held her own silence until she’d left the crowd behind. “That old bastard!” Gilda maliciously cursed. “Shriveled prune: Who the fuck does he they think he is treating me like that? I should have smacked that knife from his feeble little hoofs then see how he liked being threatened!” It was all hot air, as Gilda knew she’d not actually attack the pony, but saying these things allowed still provided a catharsis of sorts. Sometimes talking to oneself is the best therapy. After walking for twenty minutes Gilda was outside the town. She wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings, still cursing to herself over the incident at the market. When she came face-to-face with an iron pony she yelped, jumping in the air with wings spread, ready to fly off at a moment’s notice. The towering statue displayed three ponies: one earth, one unicorn, and one pegasus each about three times the size of any living pony. They stood defiantly looking towards the western sky. At their hoofs an inscription read: “In memory of the Altaiville Militia” The fields that stood behind them was nothing but blackened soil and yellow thistles which crept up the monument’s base. Gilda looked over those acres of blackened earth and felt a shiver from head to toe caused her tail to twitch anxiously. It was griffons who had scarred this patch of land. This is where General Mort Finem had begun executing his scorched earth campaign against the ponies. Gilda admittedly wasn’t that good of a student, having mostly blown off all her classes, but every pony and griffon in Equestria knew about Mort Finem and the Black Talon. Griffon airships rained fire on fields and orchards across Equestria’s countryside, targeting civilians and agriculture whenever possible while the primary Black Talon fleet kept Celestia’s forces occupied at Cloudsdale and Canterlot. That was the way of Finem: to attack any and every sign of weakness he could see, disregarding all previous griffon standards of honorable conduct. What Finem lacked in decency he easily made up for in deadly efficiency. She’d never been much for history, but Gilda knew that Mort Finem had been perhaps the most notorious figure in Equestria’s last hundred years. The griffon general who’d overthrown the royal family, forced griffons to work in his industrial machine, before gathering an army under the banner of his Black Talon with the sole purpose of wresting control of Equestria and ponydom from Princess Celestia had come closer than any mortal being had ever been to seizing absolute power before his war machine crumbled at Canterlot, with many of his own officers turning against him. After Mort Finem griffon and pony relations had never fully recovered. Even with the return of the councils, the parliament, royal family, and three-quarters of a century’s worth of peace this place like so many remote agricultural spots still bore the festering wounds brought on by griffon forces. In a town where time stood still how could they forget the misfortunes the griffon had brought upon them when a constant reminded lay just a few steps down the road? No wonder so many ponies persisted that griffons were monsters: they still suffered under history’s lash, with a wounds still scorched into their land. Beside the memorial was a display with a grainy, black and white photo of the incident. A Talon Air Offense vessel spewing streams of fire, and plumes of smoke through an already blackened sky. Inscribed beside the images was the name of the stallion who had taken: Snap Cheertrot. The panel informed griffon that he had been killed by an artillery round from the invading griffon vessel shortly after the photos were taken. A bag fell beside Gilda with a thud. She’d been so lost in her own thoughts that she’d failed to notice that she was no longer alone at the site. The pegasus mare hovered above the ground. She wore a blue hat with the gold image of an eagle in the center. A mail bag hung from her side. “Howdy traveler.” “What is this?” Gilda picked up the bag, curiously weighing it in her talons. “Apples. I saw what happened back at the market. Pardon Bouclier most ungracious manner: He still hasn’t gotten over the war. Folk around here are ordinarily polite towards strangers, and I’d like to make up for any mistreatments you received back in town.” The mare landed in front of Gilda with her hoofs delicately setting down on the earth. She extended a hoof which Gilda shook after a moment’s hesitation. “Name’s Moon, Orange Moon; mail mare of Altaiville. You must be the griffon who needed some help with her directions.” “Suggestion, not help,” Gilda retorted. She slung the bag over her shoulder. “Well, whatever you need, if it involves directions I can steer you in the right way. Gilda couldn’t help but notice that the mare’s eyes were intently focused on her. “Have to say, I’ve never met a griffon in the flesh before.” Gilda noticed the mare was blushing ever so slightly. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped your staring. It’s freaking me out.” “I’m sorry: I meant no offense by it. Your wings just make ours look so small in comparison. Streamlined and dynamic, just like a bird of prey.” “Well, duh: Part eagle. Basic fact,” Gilda retorted with sarcasm, however she couldn’t help but spread her wings out in response to the comment, not passing up the praise. “Of course I knew that, but still: knowin’ isn’t seein’ with your own eyes.” The mare smiled. “Ya’ll know that seeing is believing.” Gilda only nodded in reply. “Where you from, anyhow?” “Cloudsdale.” Gilda would keep this simple by not using her place of birth. “Well, shoot, same story here!” Moon patted Gilda on the shoulder jovially. “What brings you all the way out here?” “I’m going to Validus,” Gilda puffed her chest out in a stoic fashion which was only enhanced by her jacket. “So you want to go to Validus? The mare put a hoof under her chin. “I’m trying to broaden my horizons, and the Mountain of Champions naturally seemed like the coolest place to start.” “Well them, I reckon you must be exceptionally skilled with those there wings of yours or you’re dumber than a rattlesnake that sneaks its head out in the peak of winter.” Gilda stared at the mare, not quite understanding the country saying. The mare either didn’t notice this, or wasn’t intent on explaining what she meant with her last comment. “Hmmm, well I’m sure if you’re half as good as you claim you are then it won’t be no trouble getting to Validus…You’re going to want to take a zig-zag path like so,” the mare ran her hoof along the map in an indicated path. “Catch the currents and just jump from region to region. When you get to the Echoing Forest and Validus itself is when things get tricky.” “The Echoing Forest?” “Ponies think strange things live in the forest,” Moon was chewed at the end of a long strand of grass. “Strange things happen around the forest; noises without sources, storms that come without sign; the entire region is dangerous.” “I thought ponies controlled all the weather in Equestria.” Technically griffons could too, but now wasn’t the time to be specific. “Not around Validus we don’t…something controls the weather of Validus and the Echoing Forest, but it isn’t ponies. That’s why no settlements that ever tried setting up shop within fifty miles of Validus have ever lasted long.” “Thanks…I’ll keep that in mind,” Gilda looked at the map with rising intrigue. Retrieving a red marker from another pocket she quickly began tracing the path the mare suggested. “Makes me wish I had fingers…” the mare said while watching Gilda. “You do that so much better than I could with a hoof or my mouth.” “We all have our own special talents,” Gilda replied, surprising even her by the fact that she didn’t inject too much sarcasm into the quip. Orange Moon looked to the clock tower in the distance. “If that’s all ya need I’d best get along my way. Still have letters that need to get to the right hoofs.” “That’s all I need,” Gilda looked over the map again. “Thanks again for the help… and the apples” “No problem!” Orange Moon was already hovering above the ground, prepared to leave. “And if you find yourself in Altaiville again be sure to say ‘howdy!’” With that the mail mare was off. Gilda folded the map. As she did she noticed the picture at the center of the display she’d been using as a surface for the map: A griffon airship immortalized in the grainy still seemed to cut through cloud and smoke as if it were the hand of Death itself. For so many defenseless ponies below Death’s scythe had taken the form of griffon fire and lead. Despite the age, and poor quality of the image Gilda was able to make out the title which graced the vessel in brass letters: T.A.O. Starwind was easily visible. “Damn ghosts of the past,” Gilda uttered under her breath before spreading her wings and leaving the monument behind. 00000 Vice Admiral Irene looked down the corridors of the fortress. The center of military strength in Stormhenge, hallowed out of the face of the mountain this was a structure which had survived for three centuries, making in two hundred, thirty-two years older than the city of Stormhenge itself. It had originally been an outpost to intended to protect the griffon cmines at the base of the mountain from the Diamond Dogs, but overtime had evolved into a commerce zone due to falling between five major cities. “Ma’am,” the griffon guarding the door cracked a salute. A pistol of ornate wood and polished bronze hung from a holster sewn into his jacket. “Esse ad pacem,” Irene responded, prompting the guard to put his foreleg at ease. The guard bowed his head as he opened the door to Commodore Skyward’s office. With grace Irene acknowledged the gesture with a tilt of her regal head before entering the office. Door closing behind her, Irene took in the surroundings. Skyward had collected many relics of griffon warfare which he proudly displayed within his office. Swords, spears, and shields dotted the furthest wall, a dagger stood on a stand at his desk, and behind the desk itself stood replicas of many notable griffon airships. Skyward’s uniform jacket hung from a hanger near the desk. “Commodore?” She called, her gentle voice echoing in the dark room. A soft orange glow produced by candles spread through the room was the only source of light in the room. Many of them went unlit, wrapping most of the room in shadow. Crack! The sound of a sonic boom echoed harshly. “Adsum, Vice Admiral Irene.” Skyward emerged from the far side of the room. In his right talon he held a grypium bullwhip. The braided leather thong ran what Irene estimated was six feet from its ornate handle. At the bottom of the handle was an ornate piece sculpted into the shape of a screaming griffon’s head, its beak sharpened to a lethal point; an effective implement for melee attacks. Irene acknowledged the male griffon with a nod of her noble head. “I take it you are aware that the Starwind cast off early this morning to begin its trip to Perdition, where it shall be refitted for service under the Stormbirds.” “Yes...I am aware.” Holding his whip tight he turned away from his commanding officer. “Why do you protest our decisions, Commodore?” Irene stood at attention, all four limbs anchored to the stone floor. Skyward allowed a long, melancholy sigh roll from his half opened beak as he turned to face Irene. She knew he would rather keep to himself than discuss the matter with her, but Irene wasn't content to sit idly by, merely speculating what troubled the commodore. “Vice-Admiral, my grandfather commanded the Starwind during the Sky War. Once more, it was a part of the Stormhenge defense. Although I admit I do not directly command the Starwind, I feel I deserved prior notification of the council’s decisions.” He turned away from Irene, raising the whip again. Crack! Irene stood at attention, far from the reach of the commodore’s whip. She wasn’t afraid, the commodore was loyal despite his belligerence, but there was no need for her to put herself within striking distance if there was an accident. Skyward was brash, with a trace of arrogance, but he wasn't traitorous. “Commodore, you know very well that Starwind has had twelve captains over eighty-three years and your grandfather was the fourth.” Irene’s expression and tone were stern and demanding. “While we are on the subject of history: Your grandfather was also a member of General Mort Finem’s Black Talon. Would you object to our attempts to destroy all remnants of the Talon once held over the Griffon Nation?” “Of course not!” Crack! “Talon was an evil group and blight on our proud history. My grandfather and vessels such as the Starwind represent our culture at its worst, and as such should have been destroyed. Quite simply: Transforming a vessel that once rained death upon the ponies of Equestria into a device for their amusement is a disgusting notion. Am I the only one who sees the fear and hatred many of them still harbor for our kind? If I were Celestia I’d receive Northwind’s letter as a backhanded insult!” “Fortunately for all of us you are not Celestia,” Irene said calmly. She ran a talon through her crest as she collected her thoughts. “The Starwind shall undergo a dramatic transformation. It will be completely cleansed from the markings of the Talon Air Offensive. What once represented death and destruction can now come to represent peace and prosperity between two species of drastically different biological design has come to accept one another. Pacem a chaos.” “Pacem a chaos? Cute,” Skyward sighed, placing his whip on his desk “We can all sit circled around the fire, hold each other’s respective limbs, and sing our campfire songs. For the medley shall we start with Griffon Over the Mountain or Pony About Town?” “Watch your tone, Commodore.” Irene’s eyes narrowed to predatory slits; however her tone remained maternally calm. “If one didn’t know you as well as I do you might be mistaken as a Talon Remnant with how much you talk of war between our kingdoms.” Skyward stopped all movement for a few moments as her words sunk in. His talons curled into fists. When finally he responded it was with anger. “Don’t be ridiculous! My only crime is undying loyalty to the Nation. Our culture is not the same as theirs! They see us as monsters due to the past, but more importantly due to what we eat! It is fundamental biological principles just as much, if not more so than our history that will always have us at odds!” “That is the nature of an alliance, commodore. Vivere, participes, aedificare, prosperabitur: Live, share, build, and we shall prosper.” Irene lifted a cigarette from her breast pocket to her beak and bit down. She’d been trying to buck the habit lately, but having the thin tube hanging out the corner of her beak still calmed her nerves. “No griffon or pony ever said our alliance wasn’t shaky. The events occurring early in the last century were an unfortunate blight that must be left behind us now.” “It doesn’t change that they are fundamentally different from griffons,” Skyward scoffed. “How so?” Irene inquired. “Elaborate for me, Skyward. I can tell you’re dying to lecture me.” This caught Skyward off guard as he’d honestly expected that there could be no counter-argument to what he felt was such a clear fact in the matter of the two species’ relation to one another. “Well, its obvious isn’t it? One can see everything that they’d ever need to know simply by looking at physical structure and diet. Fact of the matter is that they are herbivores and we are predators. While we have talons that cut, tear, and shred prey they have a hoof; a hoof which is a blunt instrument of complacency.” “Hoofs, which are attached to muscular legs capable of delivering a devastating blow which can shatter bone when the need arises; warriors who defend will defend their homes withal.” “Beaks which cut into the flesh of our prey versus a mouth meant to grind plant matter.” “And we all use our tongues to communicate to one another. Speech, that aspect of life which should be known the true sign of intelligence, and that most powerful element which links friends and allies is the key to our relationship.” “We gave them designs for airships. The one military advantage we had we willingly gave them the design to duplicate our most effective means of defense.” “That was for peace, and our ships still far outnumber those currently operated by ponies six-to-one.” “What does it matter when they have magic? That is an element we cannot duplicate, but already we know its effectiveness in combat.” Irene gently grabbed Skyward’s shoulder. “I know you wish to preserve our culture, Skyward, but you cannot protect our nation by promoting ignorance, and spreading hatred. Conflict is not a means to an end as we cannot afford to revert to those ways of our past. Those are the evils which came close to destroying the griffon.” “How long until we are forced into suckling at Celestia’s teat for our species’ survival; coerced to beg and bargain at their mercy same as the buffalo have done for the past two centuries? That cannot be the fate of the Griffon Nation. We have accomplished too much, built too much to become servile pawns in Celestia’s empire…Why allow ourselves to fall simply to make amends for the sins of our past?” Irene momentarily pulled the cigarette from her beak as she thought over how best to respond to the commodore’s concerns. “Why must you see everything as a struggle? Not all things in the world mean to destroy our culture, Skyward. We have been at peace for so long after the cathartic cleansing of the Great War. We purged from our nation those elements which had made us weak; that had corrupted our spirits and ambition. Celestia didn’t wage war on griffons. She waged a war against a corrupt soul that wished to plunge the world into darkness and despair. Princess Celestia fought and defeated General Mort Finem and his Black Talon. In the process she freed out kind from continuing along a treacherous path of wickedness and despair. You should be indebted to her kind for saving our honor; allowing us to rebuild as the proud species we have always been.” Her words stung, causing Skyward to wince. He knew that the female griffon was correct, but her words failed to ease his doubt. “I don’t trust them, ma’am…I can’t trust magic users.” Skyward looked out his window onto the docks where the Stormhenge fleet was still under repair. “All our power comes by our own claws. Griffons designed and built machines the ponies could never hope to match. We didn’t rely on magic, or near omnipotent princesses to solve our problems. If there was a problem we built the solution. All we’ve ever had is the will of individual griffons like you and me. Now I fear a future where more and more we come to rely on Celestia’s favor to keep our own culture alive; a process that could go on until the Griffon Nation is only a husk of its former glory. We need to seize that power we’ve lost. Griffons should stand as equals to the ponies as we once were.” “A philosopher once said that power is not a means, but rather an end to civilization.” Irene retorted without any malice, flicking the half-chewed, unlit cigarette into a nearby trash bin. “General Mort Finem showed us what absolute power does to a nation. It corrupts, violates, and destroys the citizens of a nation. Our people turned against Mort Finem after the Battle of Canterlot because they realized he was wrong; that his Ultimate Solution to Griffon Supremacy was a farce only meant to promote his own doctrine rather than the Griffon Nation. Griffons like my father realized that absolute power could not create new life in a civilization, but only destroy the lives of those who lived within its reach. That is why he and countless others lowered their ship’s colors at Canterlot and joined Princess Celestia. Thus, we griffons reclaimed our nation from a tyrant with the help of ponies. It wasn’t the other way around.” Skyward reached for his uniform jacket, swinging it around his body before feeding his forelegs through its sleeves. Taking a deep breath the griffon turned once more to face his commanding officer. “I know the history of the war, Vice-Admiral…and don’t ever think that I would commend the actions of a maniac. Griffons like my grandfather went against everything we stood for when he chose to fly the black and gold of a maniacal dictator who set out to see Equestria burn. Griffons who followed him would have destroyed all it was that made us great…Wounds left from his rule still hurt our kind. “Irene, I hate my grandfather, same as my father before me hated him. Growing up my brothers and I weren’t even allowed to say the bastard’s name. He brought pain, and devastation to our species’ image, and made a sham of our bloodline.” “If you hated him so much why does the Starwind’s reallocation disturb you?” Irene cocked the feathers of her brow in an expression of intrigue. “I wanted the Starwind to be destroyed, Vice-Admiral. Then I’d never be reminded of my family’s soiled blood ever again.” Irene gently placed both her talons on Skyward, offering him a genial smile. She saw his pain, and knew it would hold him back so long as he cradled it so close to his breast. “Commodore, you are not your grandfather. Despite all the baggage carry through your blood you have excelled fantastically. You succeed because you are talented, Skyward. But your arrogance is beginning to reflect poorly on you.” “It is hard to forget the old ways as I was raised on them…But I will improve, Vice Admiral. I will not overstep my boundaries, again. Just seeing my command in such disarray…I felt I had to put the blame somewhere.” “I see in your eyes that you care about the Nation with your heart of hearts, but you must let go of your anger. It will not service you in a time of peace. Especially given your tendency to direct it at our dearest of allies.” “Humilitas occidit superbiam, Skyward. The old ways do not dictate us to violence, as such quotes from our great scholars of old say. Remember the words of the ancients, for they provide guidance in trying times. To ignore reason would be to repeat history. Our mos maiorum is changing, but it is shaping our nation into one even stronger than before. “Of course…Sanguinum alas ferre nos ad mortem,” Skyward recited the verse in a somber tone. “Not sure I’ve heard that quote before, Commodore.” “A soldier said it after returning from the War of Division after watching the rest of his squadron die. It essentially translates to: 'Bloody wings carry us to death.' Those who seek violence out only lead themselves towards ultimate destruction.” Skyward finished buttoning his uniform jacket. “I was out of line the other day and should have known better. My words disrespected the council, and my own character. It won’t happen again.” “I’ll take your word on it.” Irene picked up Skyward’s bullwhip from his desk. “This is an old weapon of most expert craftsmanship…but seems almost without purpose given the invention of firearms by our kind.” Irene unfurled the whip’s thong, running her fingers along the thong's length. “I find that it keeps me sharp,” Skyward replied, taking a seat behind his desk now that his uniform’s jacket was fully fastened. “Weapons of our ancestors embody our codes of honor and conduct. Embracing them I hope to gain the wisdom of the ancients." “Indeed,” Irene balanced the handle in her left set of talons, letting the thong lick at the floor. She turned her head, focusing her eyes on a candelabrum on the other side of the room. “Too many have forgotten since the advent of steam and gunpowder that there is a special art in violence. The implements of war, the armor, and the technique employed by the warriors themselves…they killed, they died, but there was an art to it. Precision and fluidity that current tools lack.” Crack! In a single motion, with near imperceptible speed Irene had sent to thong of the whip through the air, snuffing out the flame of a candle on the other side of the room. It took a moment for what had just occurred to register in Skyward’s mind. “A collector's piece indeed,” Irene said, rolling the thong before placing the bullwhip back on Skyward’s desk. “Who manufactured this?” “It’s an antique,” Skyward said diligently. “The copper plated striking head at the bottom is a characteristic commonly found in weapons of the Fourth Empire; date on the handle claims it was made one hundred, fifty-two years ago.” “Astonishing: Feels like it could have been pulling Diamond Dogs up from their holes as early as yesterday,” Irene acknowledged. She then turned to him with a dour expression. “From now on I hope you keep your tongue as carefully as you do your collection, commodore." “You have my word as an officer and a gentlegriffon.” “Very good,” Irene checked her pocket watch. “Now if you excuse me I have five other meetings to attend to over these next three hours.” “Yes ma’am,” Skyward replied respectfully nodding his head. “Alis grave nil.” “Alis grave nil,” Irene bowed her head in return. After the two had exchanged the traditional farewell Irene left without a moment’s waste. Commodore Skyward was left to retire to his desk, where he returned to the day’s paperwork.