//------------------------------// // Umbra // Story: Wind and Stone // by Ruirik //------------------------------// The burning city of Nimbus vomited roiling plumes of smoke into the atmosphere, thick and gray. The unleashed rage of Gryphus ransacked homes, rended the once mighty cloudstone walls, and bathed the fields of Dioda in a sea of blood. The corpses of griffons and pegasi fell from the crumbling cloudstone platform, their bodies falling like rain at the foot of the mountains. Barely a mile east of the burning city flew two red pennants, tattered and soiled, which rippled in the hot summer wind that whistled through the fields of Dioda. Emblazoned with outstretched black talons as though reaching out to seize unsuspecting prey, they were the pennants of Gryphus. Under those rippling, proud, taunting, and victorious pennants, marched over two-hundred captured pegasi. They had been stripped of their weapons and armor, and those that hadn’t lost a wing in the battle had them broken by their captors. Pathfinder trembled, his body numb from pain and his mind blank. The griffons that had carried him from the throne room had torn away at his armor during the flight, the metal scales tumbled through the acrid skies like autumn leaves. More than once their hooked claws went too far and gouged deep trenches in his flesh that oozed blood into his coat. He hadn’t screamed much, the pain from his wings having pushed him in and out of consciousness for the majority of the flight. After arriving at the camp, he'd been carelessly tossed into a long line with the other captured pegasi from Nimbus. There was no conversation of any kind; only muffled coughs, cries, and sniffles as the prisoners slowly passed under the griffon pennants and into a hastily constructed prison camp. A palisade of heavy tree trunks, sharpened to points and lashed with coarse ropes, lined the entire camp. Watchtowers manned by griffon archers kept a wary eye for any signs of escape or revolt. Hundreds more griffons, clad in battered plate mail and armed to the teeth with swords, pikes, axes, and truncheons, watched them with hungry, scornful glares. Standing beside the gates of the camp was a large griffon decorated in blue war paint that stood in stark contrast to his snow white plumage and coat. His spiked armor was stained with dried blood and he bore a spear that reached six feet from the counterweight to the tip of the broad, leaf shaped blade. The shaft was lacquered black and carved with elaborate family markings from generations of use. In his left talon he held tightly to two ropes that leashed a pair of wolfish dogs, each of which stood taller than most stallions. The animals had matted gray fur and a half-starved look as they growled and barked wildly at the pegasi. Saliva and foam dangled from their mouths in thick strands, and their cracked yellow teeth gnashed at the shambling line of Cirrans that passed within feet of them. A smaller griffon moved from behind the dogs’ master. With a body covered in black fur and feathers and a long beak that was straighter than most, he bore a distinctly crow-like appearance. His polished steel armor trimmed in gold and his dignified stance stood in stark contrast to many of his soldiers. He regarded the beastmaster with a disapproving glance. "Halte deine Bestien unter Kontrolle, Gnade," he said in his low, rumbling voice. The white griffon stiffened ever so slightly and scoffed, his ice blue eyes staring deliberately forward. "Wir begrüßen lediglich unsere Gäste, Herzog Schäfer." ”Diese Soldaten haben tapfer und ehrenwert gekämpft, und wir werden sie mit dem nötigen Respekt behandeln. Bringt sie zum schweigen.” Gnade opened his beak to protest when a single look from Schäfer silenced him. He pulled hard on the ropes and snapped a command. The dogs choked and mewled, their heads bowing and their ears splaying out. An almost imperceptible nod was all the reward Schäfer offered as he returned his attention to the captured pegasi. ”Wir dürfen uns selbst nicht in diesem Krieg verlieren, Gnade." He motioned his taloned hand over the line of pegasi. "Zurückhaltung und Bescheidenheit bringen dich weiter als Angst oder Hass.” A low rumble escaped Gnade’s throat, but he held his tongue all the same. Both Gnade and Schäfer found their attentions drawn to a small green colt towards the back of the line. Like all the others his wings hung uselessly at his sides and blood seeped from the wounds he’d sustained in battle. “Cirrans,” Gnade said, all but spitting the word. “Wie armselig müssen sie sein um solche Küken in den Kampf zu schicken.” Schäfer almost smirked from Gnade’s comment. “Sag mal Gnade, kann es sein, dass du grade wirklich auf das hörst was ich versuche dir beizubringen?” The larger griffon clutched the leashes of his dogs tighter and scoffed. “Diese Küken zu töten bringt weder Ehre noch Ruhm.” Gnade's dogs growled again, baring their teeth and snarling at Pathfinder. Gnade silenced them with a tug of the leash and a curt reprimand. Schäfer and Gnade both took note of the colt's reaction, or—more specifically—his lack of reaction. Pathfinder looked to the beasts with hollow eyes and tear-stained cheeks before turning his gaze back to the trodden dirt path. Pulling his dogs close, Gnade placed a taloned hand between the nearest one’s ears and began stroking the course fur. "Ganz ruhig, Jungs. Ich füttere euch später," he whispered. Schäfer turned his gaze to Gnade, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth pulling down to a frown. Pathfinder didn't hear their conversation as he moved into the camp. The powerful talons of another griffon, his body covered in spiked armor, grabbed the back of his neck. Finder yelped as the claws pierced his flesh and pulled him towards a plain leather tent. For a moment his rear legs dug into the trodden dirt in an instinctive attempt to get away. Pain lanced through his thigh where Magnus had shot him with Longbow’s arrow and the limb gave away. The hybrid growled as Finder collapsed, its claws sinking deeper into his flesh and hauling him towards the tent like a lamb to slaughter. ”Verdammtes Pony,” the beast grumbled, brushing the canvas away and tossing Finder inside. Finder tumbled across the dirt floor, coming to a stop just in front of an old griffon who smelled of blood and aloe. He tilted his head and inspected Finder, his keen eyes the color of cold sapphires. Charcoal feathers, frayed and dirty, covered his wings, only slightly lighter than the feathers that had decorated Magnus’ body. When the griffon reached out to Finder with a taloned hand, the colt cried out in terror and scrambled backwards. The griffon stopped and raised his talons up, displaying his empty palms to Pathfinder. "Now, now, my little friend,” the griffon spoke in heavily accented Cirran. “There is no need to be running from me. I am here to help you. My name is Todesangst. I am apothecary. Do you know this word, little Cirran?" Pathfinder gave a quick shake of his head, his body trembling as the hybrid slowly approached him. The griffon, Todesangst, patted Pathfinder’s head gently. "It means that I do not like blood. I do not like sickness. I do not like to hurt ponies, or griffons. That is why I hope that we can be friends. I do not want you to hurt any ponies either, little Cirran.” He tsked softly, observing the oozing hole in Finder’s leg where the arrow had pierced him. “That must be painful, little Cirran. Please, allow me to help.” With a deliberate slowness, Todesangst reached into a brown leather pouch tied to his belt with a course length of rope. From the pouch he produced a small green chunk of aloe leaf which he worked a talon against to produce a paste-like yellow ooze. Gathering it into his palm, he pressed the substance into Finder’s wound, earning a cry from the colt. “Aloe, to help the wound heal,” he said, looking Finder in the eye and offering him a small smile. “Easy, easy. Try not to squirm so much or you shall make it worse.” Pathfinder could only grit his teeth and whimper quietly. He could see the faces of his friends, of his father, of his brother, all looking down at him in shame. Todesangst pulled his claw away from Finder, wiping the excess aloe and blood onto across a filthy strip of cloth hanging from his belt. “Now, what is your name?" Pathfinder hesitated. Todesangst frowned. "Very well. You do not wish to answer my questions? That is fine. I'm saddened, but I can understand. You must be scared, little one. Afraid. Perhaps alone? Come, let me introduce you to friend. Another Cirran." The apothecary placed a gentle claw over Pathfinder's shoulders, not actually grabbing him. The colt shuddered, but the grandfatherly griffon guided him forward. Around the corner of the tent's canvas, a stallion with wide eyes shuddered at the sight of the griffon. The stallion's legs were held in place with splits, and a thick white bandage was wrapped around his muzzle, with little wooden blocks holding his teeth open. One of his wings sat at an odd angle, and his right side seemed to have been scarred by griffon talons. "I think this pony's name is Sent, or Shent, or Sven, or something. Your language is awkward and his words are hard to decipher, yes?” Todengast smiled down at Finder. “He has hurt his jaw, you understand, and quite a bit else too. Today, we are going to help him feel better. Please, little Cirran, do not hurt him. Pain makes me... uncomfortable.” The apothecary shivered, the feathers of his wings ruffling from the motion. "This is why you are going to help me, little Cirran. We will talk, while I am performing a diagnosis. That is a large word, I know. It means I am looking for what is wrong with him. I like to be distracted, you see. It helps me not to see too many things wrong. Now, let us get started." Todesangst walked up to the restrained stallion's right forehoof. "For us to be friends, I need to know your name, little Cirran. What is it?" Pathfinder stood still. His tongue would not move. Todesangst let out a slow sigh. "Ah well, more to focus, then. Sven's hoof here is hurt. Do you see the little crack? I will help it. We only need to shave off a bit." The apothecary reached over to a nearby table, retrieving a tiny razor. With expert deliberation, he slid it under the stallion's hoof. The legionary let out a terrible noise, trying to scream with his mouth held open and his tongue restrained. His body shuddered in its bonds, but Todesangst held his hoof steady. "Please, little Cirran, you are hurting him. Do you see? I can make it better, if only you will answer me. What is your name?" “P-Pathfinder!” Todesangst rewarded Pathfinder’s answer with a kindly smile and a minute nod. “Pfadfinder, hm? That is a nice name. Much better than ‘Little Cirran’, don’t you agree?” He returned the razor to the table and instead took a stone mortar filled with ground herbs. Dipping a single claw into the paste he smeared it onto the bound stallion’s cracked hoof. The stallion’s bonds creaked as he struggled against them with a strangled cry. Finder cringed from the sound, squeezing his eyes shut until the noise had stopped. “You see?” Todesangst gently patted Finder on the head, placing the mortar back on the table with a soft click. “We make a wonderful team, you and me, yes? Now then, Pfadfinder, what can we do for poor Shent here? This wing looks like it’s bleeding very badly.” Todesangst tsked and patted the bound stallion’s cheek. “P-please,” Finder whimpered, his eyes clenching shut. “Please don’t hurt him!” Todesangst feigned a hurt look and moved back to the table where his eyes browsed over the collection of tools assembled there. “Pfadfinder, my friend, I wouldn’t dream of hurting a pony. I abhor pain and suffering, you see.” Scratching his cheek with the tips of his claws, Todesangst turned his gaze to Finder. “Where are you from, little friend? Pathfinder’s breath caught in his chest. If they knew of his home, would they come for it next? Would Magnus take his mother and father as well as his brother? The colt felt fresh tears burn at his eyes. It wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. “Nimbus! I-I came from Nimbus.” The apothecary seemed to frown, his talons stroking at the underside of his beak. He kept his pale blue eyes locked to Finder’s, studying the colt’s every detail. “Pfadfinder, my friend, I think you are lying to me.” A mighty frown pulled the corners of Todesangst’s mouth down. He placed his right palm over his heart and dipped his beak towards Finder. “That makes me sad, you see? And worse still…” He reached out with his talons and selected a worn bonesaw from the table. “It just breaks poor Sven’s heart.” Fear clenched Finder’s gut as his blood ran cold. Todesangst shook his head and moved closer to the bound stallion, who struggled against his bonds in a desperate attempt to escape. Tears fell down the once-proud soldier’s cheeks as a shudder wracked his body. “Nimbans smell of blood and steel and arrogance. You smell of fish and salt and fear,” Todesangst said, inspecting the bonesaw with a saddened expression. He turned his attention to the bound stallion who struggled to get free, but to no avail. “I am so sorry, Sven. Pfadfinder here seems to think we must amputate.” Todesangst gently patted the stallion’s cheek, which yielded a broken cry from his bound muzzle. “There, there, Sven, Pfadfinder may be cruel, but I am not.” Moving around to the stallion’s right side, he took the crippled win in his talons and ran the flat edge of the bonesaw along the base of his wing. Finder’s heart froze in his chest and his stomach did a flip. He saw Longbow on the ground, his wings being ripped from his body by the griffon emperor. The piercing screams echoed through his mind and drove his hooves to his ears. “Please,” he whimpered as he sunk to the ground. “Please—Please, I beg you, don’t hurt him!” Todesangst hesitated, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head at Pathfinder. He smiled at the colt once again and moved closer to place his palm on Finder’s head. “You have the power to stop this, little one. You alone have the power to help Sven. I must simply know where you’re from.” Todesangst smiled down at the sobbing colt, his talons stroking through Finder’s tangled mane. “It’s not so much to ask, is it? Not between friends, yes?” Finder shook his head desperately "I'm Nimban, I swear!" Todesangst sighed and returned his attention to the bound stallion. The pegasus' eyes went wide and he tried again to slip free of his bonds. The apothecary shook his head and took the stallion's right wing in his claw. "I'm sorry, Sven, but I don't see how we can save your wing. I'm afraid Pfadfinder’s mind is clear. Amputation is the only course of action left to us, yes?" “No!” Finder cried, his hooves grabbing at Todesangst’s rear leg. “Please! Please just-just let him go!” Shaking his head, Todesangst shook Pathfinder off, his talons grasping tightly at the stallion’s wing and pulling it into an outstretched position. The pegasus let out an unearthly scream, flailing desperately. “Hush, now,” Todesangst whispered gently. “It will all be okay, my friend.” He positioned the heel of the bonesaw at the base of the stallion’s wing, allowing the worn teeth to dig into the tattered feathers. “You don’t have to do this!” Finder pleaded, reaching again for the apothecary’s leg. “Please!” “Tell me where you’re from.” Finder grimaced, his tear filled eyes looking up at the helpless stallion. Ruby eyes looked back at him, silently pleading with the colt, but Pathfinder could only whimper and look away. The stallion cried out, sniffling and struggling in one last desperate plea. A sorrowful whimper was all the answer Finder could give him. Todesangst waited a moment longer until it was clear Pathfinder wasn’t about to change his story. He frowned like a disappointed grandparent and pulled the saw back. Pathfinder’s hooves shot to his ears in a desperate attempt to quiet the horrific scream. They did little to mute the tear of feathers and flesh, the grinding of bone, or the terrible cries so like the noises Longbow had made mere hours before. Todesangst hummed merrily as he worked, his saw chewing through flesh, sinew, and bone with ease. Finder curled into a ball, whimpering apologies until the screaming stopped and the stallion collapsed with a heavy thud. “Poor Sven,” Todensangst said, shaking his head and tossing the severed wing aside before returning his attention to Pathfinder. “I think you might have killed him Pfadfinder. What a terrible little Cirran you are to do that to a fellow legionary. Are you not like brothers to each other?” "I'm sorry," he sobbed, fresh tears staining his cheeks. His hooves covered his head and he curled into a fetal position, oblivious to the world around him. “Oh come now,” Todensangst said, crouching down and patting Finder’s head with a bloody talon. “Surely you must be stronger than that. You’re Nimban, after all.” He smiled at the weeping colt. “Isn’t that right, Pfadfinder?” Forcing his eyes open, Pathfinder looked up at the apothecary. Behind the griffon he saw Dawn, her lips curled into a disgusted sneer. “Nimban?” she said, blood dripping from her lips and the hole in her neck. “What a disgrace.” Panic gripped his heart like frozen talons and Pathfinder covered his head with his hooves, screaming for his mother.Todensangst rubbed his temple in a slow circle and let out a weary sigh. “You’re weak, Finder,” Dawn sneered, circling around the colt. “You’ve always been weak.” “Stop,” Finder pleaded, his voice scarcely more than a whimper. “Your weakness nearly sapped the life from your mother,” Dawn said, walking around Pathfinder in a slow circle. “Your weakness frightened off your father’s love.” “What is the matter, Pfadfinder?” Todesangst asked, his talons gently petting Finder’s mane. “Are you regretting what you did to poor Sven?” The griffon shook his head slowly. “It is too late to save him now, I’m afraid.” “You’re cursed, Pathfinder,” Dawn continued, blood dribbling from her lips. “Cursed to kill everypony you ever loved. You’ll never know happiness. You’ll never know peace.” The dead mare scowled, her lips pulling back to reveal broken, yellow teeth. “Only misery will follow you for as long as you live. “Please…” Finder begged. “Please stop…” “Your weakness killed me,” the spectre continued, passing through Todesangst who motioned for a guard, “you killed Carver, Windshear, Summer, and your own precious brother.” She stopped to look down upon the broken colt. “You’d make a fine griffon.” Finder curled into a tight ball, pain arcing through his broken wings at the motion. “Sorry... I-I’m sorry…” Pathfinder shuddered and tried to curl his body tighter, but the strong claws of a griffon guard grabbed him and dragged him like a sheep to slaughter. His scream turned into a pained cry as the guard’s claws left jagged tears in his soft flesh. The griffon paid him no mind, grumbling to himself while he hauled the thrashing colt through the camp. He carried Pathfinder to a large barn constructed of shoddy wooden planks hammered together with thick iron nails. There was no door to the building, only tattered strips of leather that had been nailed to the header board. Inside Finder saw almost fifty mares and stallions, all shackled by their necks to thick metal stakes hammered into the ground and walls. Most paid Finder no heed, their eyes glancing up at him only for a moment before drifting away. His captor hesitated for a moment and searched the crowded barracks for an empty shackle. Spotting one, he tightened his grip on Pathfinder's neck and pulled him to the row nearest the entrance. There, between a golden-colored mare and a teal stallion, the griffon dropped Pathfinder. He wrapped his talons into a fist and punched the colt in the stomach, knocking the air from Finder's lungs. Doubling over, Finder wheezed and choked on his cries. Indifferent to his pain, the griffon moved over him, his rear leg planting onto the small of Pathfinder’s back. He used his weight to hold the colt still while his talons groped for the shackles. “He’s a kid, you son of a—” The teal stallion’s shout was cut short by the back of the griffon’s hand slapping across his broken wing. He crumpled to the dirt in a heap, cringing and grimacing from the pain. It took the griffon a few moments to size the manacle for Finder’s thin neck, and he grumbled to himself the whole while. Even at its smallest the band was comparatively lose for Pathfinder, a small blessing that was lost on him at the moment. "Immer krieg ich die beschissenen jobs," the griffon mumbled as he fitted the shackle to Finder. "Jaeger, tu dies. Jaeger, tu das. Jaeger bewach die stinkende Pony Hütte. Verdammter Gnade. Ich könnte auch stachelige Rüstung tragen und gefährlich aussehen!" He gave the metal collar a sturdy tug to ensure Finder couldn’t wiggle his head free and left once he was sure the colt was secure. Finder hardly noticed, his hooves covering his head as he chanted a quiet mantra of apologies. To his right, the teal stallion stirred, cursing the griffon guard all the while. “Fuckin’ bastards,” the teal stallion hissed, slowly working himself upright. “Kid? Hey, kid, are you okay?” Finder shriveled tighter, his body shivering uncontrollably. The teal stallion reached out with his hoof, when a look from the golden mare on Finder’s opposite side stopped him. She scrutinized the colt for a moment before speaking. “You, colt. You were with Skyhammer’s unit, were you not?” Even in death, Skyhammer’s name made Finder’s ear’s perk and his throat clench. He looked up to the mare, his eyes widening slowly when he recognized her stern face and violet eyes. “C-Cent-turion A-Aurum?” He swallowed heavily, shaking his head in disbelief. “But...but y-your building! W-we saw you get o-overrun!” Aurum nodded once. Without her polished armor and plumed helmet, Pathfinder scarcely recognized her. Her mane, normally kept in a tight bun, flowed wildly around her shoulders while her left wing was severed at the base. Thick bandages were stained with slowly drying blood and wrapped around her torso. “We were overrun. The hybrids cut my wing off and took me prisoner. My platoon...” Aurum’s eyes closed and her head dipped slightly. “They were granted the mercy of quick deaths." She looked up after a moment, her eyes training on Pathfinder once again. “What about Skyhammer and your platoon?” A fresh shudder ran through Finder's body and he curled tighter. “Th-they’re all dead… S-Skyhammer…” Finder cringed, tasting bile in the back of his throat. “Th-they tore his th-throat out. M-my f-friends…” Finder choked on his words and buried his head in his forelegs. He saw the griffon’s beak piercing Dawn’s neck. He saw Carver and Summer disappear in the barrage of griffon artillery, and he saw his brother, desperately screaming as Magnus ripped his wings from his body. Aurum lifted her hoof and placed it gently on top of Finder’ head. “Pull yourself together, soldier. We are not going to show the enemy our tears.” “I strongly doubt they care about that,” the teal stallion said with a scoff. “That is enough, Cloudburst,” Aurum reprimanded the stallion. Shaking her head and returning her attention to Pathfinder. “Up now, colt. What will you think of yourself tomorrow?” “Aurum, the battle’s over, and we lost. Let the kid be, Gods know the rest of us aren’t feeling much better,” Cloudburst said, his chain clattering as he moved closer to Pathfinder. The Centurion sighed and shook her head. Gritting her teeth, she slowly shifted onto her side, attempting to find any position that was a bit less painful to lay in. She drew in a slow breath and let her eyes drift closed, mumbling a soft prayer for the fallen. “Mobius, Lord of Light, mercy be upon the souls of your soldiers. May your just vengeance fall upon those who have wronged them. “Garuda, Lord of Honor, guide the souls fallen to the great skies. May they be granted the peace in death they were denied in this life, and through your grace may we see our families again. “Galm, Great Healer, grant the wounded comfort and strength to endure. “Lūn, Goddess of Secrets, lend us your resolve in the face of torment and guard our minds that the enemy may not break us.” Several ponies joined Aurum in her prayers while still more dipped their heads in reflection. Cloudburst’s gentle hoof stroked Finder’s head in an attempt to soothe the colt’s cries. While he could barely reach Finder from the short length of chain that held him to a lead weight, he tried nonetheless. He offered Pathfinder no pretty words or hollow platitudes. They wouldn’t have helped anyway. Time passed slowly in their dingy barn. Most ponies kept to themselves. A few traded around the scraps of bandages they had been given in exchange for talking to interrogators. Aurum guided a few ponies through their prayers while Cloudburst did his best to comfort Pathfinder until the colt had cried himself to sleep. As the twilight light filtered through the slats of the barn, Finder began to stir once again. He let out a dry cough, pain arcing through his body from even the small motions. Cloudburst awoke as well, blinking the sleep from his eyes and letting out a cough of his own. “Hey, kid,” Cloudburst said, his voice quiet. “How you doing?” “W-water…” Finder said, his voice raw. He cringed and whimpered, his broken wings twitching against his sides. “Easy, easy,” Cloudburst said, motioning for Finder to rest with his hooves. He craned his neck and squinted his eyes in the rapidly dimming light. “Anypony got the water bucket?” “It’s over here,” a mare shouted from across the room. “Is there any left?” “A bit, yeah.” “Pass it over, would ya?” Cirrans shuffled about, their hooves making dull clunks on the damp wood as they pushed it along the dirt floor. The scraping edged closer and closer for a few moments before the bucket came to Aurum. She stirred from the gentle doze she’d fallen into long enough to push the bucket towards Pathfinder. “All right, just take a little,” Cloudburst said, his features lost in the dimming light. “Nice and easy.” Pathfinder grasped the bucket in trembling hooves, pulling it to his muzzle. His tongue flicked out to moisten his parched lips and his hooves tilted the bucked down. Dipping his head in, he drank of the warm, foul tasting water like it was from the purest fountain in Dioda. “Don’t take too much,” Cloudburst reminded him. “They might not give us more.” Finder shriveled from the comment, swallowing a third mouthful before he released the bucket and slid it to Cloudburst. He coughed once again and nodded to the older stallion. “Th-thanks.” “Don’t worry about it,” Cloudburst said, wincing when he attempted to shrug. “What’s your name, kid?” “Path... Pathfinder,” he answered between breaths. Cloudburst smiled to him, though the gesture was lost in the darkness of the barn. “Good to meet you, Pathfinder. I’m Cloudburst. I’ll be your prison buddy for a while.” Perhaps it was the exhaustion or blood loss, but Pathfinder laughed quietly from the glib jest. “Okay..." "You from Nimbus?" Cloudburst asked Pathfinder shook his head and wiped his lips on his foreleg. "Altus," he answered, his head dipping low and a sadness coming over him. "I'm from Altus." "Altus... Altus..." Cloudburst clucked his tongue and rubbed at his chin. "Where's that?" "It's right on the ocean, a few days flight from Stratopolis," Finder answered. His heart ached from the thought of his home. Pathfinder missed the sound of the sea, rolling waves crashing against the rocks and shoals. He missed the smell of his mother's cooking and the gentle songs she would hum while she worked. He even missed the pungent stench of his father's ale. Cloudburst nodded slowly, letting the subject drop. He grunted uncomfortably while he shifted to a less painful position. Aside from the occasional cough, moan, or sniffle, an uneasy silence settled through the prisoners. It was several minutes later when Aurum cleared her throat and took a deep breath before speaking. "Pathfinder, may I ask a favor of you?" The colt glanced up, surprised by the question. His eyes burned and his throat clenched, but he had no tears left to shed. "Hm?" Aurum lowered her head, her eyes closing. Her tone softened and her words came barely more than a whisper. “Will you forgive us? The Legion, that is.” Pathfinder recoiled a little, the question surprising him. “Forgive? W-what for?” Lifting her head, Aurum brought her eyes to Pathfinder’s. In her eyes he saw only pain and regret. “For not sending you away when we should have. Children should be safe at home, not malingering here with the beaten.” Finder glanced away. He had no reply for Aurum. How could he when he had gotten his brother and his friends killed? The crumple of leather and a sudden rush of light drew the attentions of the prisoners to the door. There, standing in the entrance was Gnade, his spiked armor silhouetted against the evening light and his hounds growling at the Cirrans. Pathfinder thought his heart might pound through his chest when their burning gaze set upon him. Gnade’s eyes moved from pony to pony, the corners of his mouth slowly twisting upwards. He lifted his claws high, showing the tightly grasped ropes to the trapped ponies. Time seemed to slow as his claws opened and the ropes fell free of his grasp. His single command, though spoken in a gentle growl, rang through the prison louder than any shout. "Esst!" The beasts charged forward, their teeth bared and their lips bordered by thick foam. Panicked screams filled the hall as the chained Cirrans pulled in vain at their bonds in a desperate chance to escape. The dogs paid no attention to most of them, their eyes set upon Pathfinder. He wanted to flee, wanted to scream, but his body was paralyzed. Golden hooves slammed into his side, sending him reeling into Cloudburst’s hooves. Aurum stood her ground, screaming wildly at the beasts. They leapt at her, teeth and claws sinking into her bloodied flesh. Aurum fought as best she could, her hooves shoving one of the beasts off, only for the other to bite into her foreleg and shake it’s head wildly. The other beast recovered almost instantly, it’s paws sending dirt and dust flying as it leapt for Aurum’s face. “Aurum?” Finder coughed, his eyes looking towards the centurion. “Aurum?!” Flesh tore. Aurum screamed. “Kid! Finder! Look at me! Look at me, now!” Cloudburst shouted, desperately calling to the colt. His shaking hooves clutched Finder’s cheeks, trying to get his eyes up. “MAKE IT STOP!” Finder pleaded, screaming out to the gods themselves. “MAKE IT STOP!” “Don't look!" Cloudburst shouted, his hooves covering Finder’s ears. "Think of Altus, think of the sea!" Pathfinder clung to Cloudburst, doing his best to think of home. He tried to imagine the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the feel of the seagrass crunching under his hooves, and the smell of salt thick in the humid summer air. It did nothing to drown out the bloodcurdling screams. “Next one,” Summer called, tossing used bandaging into a kettle and wiping her hooves on a bloodstained rag. The orderlies, who were mostly Nyxian volunteers, ushered Summer to another cot where an unconscious stallion lay, his neck wrapped in a thick bandage that was stained through with blood. Summer wiped her eyes on her foreleg and carefully lifted the bandages to examine the wounds. Frowning at the grisly sight and infected smell, she lowered the bandage and lightly tapped his cheek with her hoof. “Hey,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “Hey, can you hear me?” When the stallion didn’t respond, Summer extended her wing, using her dexterous primary feathers to open his eye. Seeing no pupillary response she next pressed her ear to his chest and closed her eyes. For several seconds she listened before rising up and sighing. Summer turned to the orderlies and shook her head. “He won’t be long. Take him outside, somewhere nice and let him at least have his last breaths be fresh air. One of you stay with him, keep him comfortable and bring a waterskin incase he wants a last drink. Take some hairs from his tail when he’s gone, ” “Yes ma’am,” the first pony, a young mare with a white coat and rosie mane answered. Her counterpart, and orange stallion with a blue mane, frowned. “What?” she asked. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, his ears splaying out slightly. “But…” he sighed and shook his head. “But wouldn’t it be kinder to...help him along?” Summer’s eyes went cold as the suggestion hit her like a cold bucket of water. “Get. Out.” The orderlies both tensed and nodded, taking opposite ends of the dying stallion's cot and easing it out of the medical tent. Summer closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath, banishing from her mind the memories of the battle. She didn't have time to regret, not when there were countless more ponies that would die without care. With a deep breath, Summer wiped her eyes again and glanced around for her next patient. In the hours after they had arrived in Nyx she’d organized all the medics she could to triage the wounded into three groups. Those who would live, those who would die, and those for whom immediate care might save them. The dying, patients whose injuries were fatal regardless of treatment, were marked with a black X on their foreheads and given wine for the pain. The patients whose injuries were not life threatening were bandaged and sent to a secondary care area where the walking wounded would be put to work and the ones who couldn’t were given a place to rest and recover. The rest were marked with a red line on their brows, and their care had been given the most priority. Far too many died regardless. There simply weren’t enough doctors and medics left. ‘If we just had a little more time, or a little more medicine...’ Summer lamented. Bandages had been easy to replace. The citizens of Nyx had willingly given all the fabrics they could spare to the cause; bedding, robes, tapestries, they had given it all to the injured and the homeless. However, their generosity could only cover so much, and the thousands upon thousands of Nimban refugees coupled with the thousands of injured soldiers had far outstripped their resources. Without aid from the rest of Cirra, the situation would degrade rapidly. Summer tried to push those thoughts from her mind. She couldn’t worry about food stocks or medicine. There were ponies to treat, ponies who would die without care. She would make do with the supplies she had. That was her way. That was the Nimban way. Willing her exhausted hooves to move, she made her way to the next bed where a young mare lay groaning. Summer wiped her eyes and shook her head. She forced herself to focus, to breathe and assess. A stallion’s voice called to her from behind. “Summer?” “Not now, Carver,” she growled, gently peeling the bandage from the mare’s head and inspecting the gash underneath. “Yes now, Summer.” Carver said, approaching her with Windshear and Salve in tow. All three had turned their armor and weapons over to the local smiths for repairs. The armor that had saved their lives in Nimbus could only do so much though, and their bodies were decorated with bruises and small cuts. “You need to rest.” “There’s still ponies to treat,” she answered mechanically. Her hoof gently stroked the young mare’s mane. “You’ll be fine,” she said to the groaning soldier. “We’ll take good care of you.” “And I promise there will be more when you get back, but you need to rest. You haven’t slept or eaten in three days,” Carver said, a sadness in his tired eye. “You need some rest.” “Carver,” Summer sighed and shook her head, finally turning to face him. “I can’t sleep. There’s too much to do.” She motioned to the rows of injured around them, their moans a terrible symphony in the evening air. “Too many injured, too little time.” “Go, Summer, I can take over for a while.” Salve spoke up, forcing a smile. Summer frowned, her eyes drifting to the splint around Salves left foreleg. “You can hardly walk, Salve. You should be resting.” “With respect, Summer, you’re the last pony that gets to say who needs rest,” Salve shot back. “My wings work fine, and I’ve had a bit of sleep.” “See, you’ve been relieved,” Windshear said, offering her a false smile. “Come on. You’re no use to anypony if you drop dead here and now. “I’ll be fine,” Summer insisted, looking for a waterskin. Carver stepped forward and put a hoof on her back, earning a fierce but weary glare from Summer. He held his ground, though, and carefully ushered her towards the city. “Salve is gonna stay here and take over, Summer. I’ve got a different assignment for you, and in this case it is an order.” Summer growled again, though her weary body was beginning to betray her. “What?” “I’m from here,” Carver explained, leading her out of the medical area with Windshear trailing a step behind to keep Summer from turning back. “My big sister, Nere, she’s had her first foal. Cute little filly too, name’s Aria. She’s about six months old, I think. Anyway, Nere was worried that she’s not eating enough.” “She should see her normal doctor, then.” Summer said, walking alongside him. Carver nodded in agreement. “She would, but he went to Stratopolis when the call to arms was issued. No idea where he is.” Carver looked to Summer, a small smile on his lips. “You like kids, Summer?” “Yeah,” she answered in a quiet voice. “So you’ll take a look at her?” “...Yeah…” Carver smiled again, his eye drifting down. “We all need a break from death.” “It’s still burning,” Haze said, his voice barely more than a whisper. His gaze was cast out to the distant field where Nimbus had been. The dense plumes of black smoke that stained the sky had thinned significantly over the week since the final battle. Still, faint tendrils remained, twisting through the air in a morbid dance for the proud city. Thorn looked up from the book she had been reading, her eyes glancing from Haze to the horizon. She sighed and gave a slow shake of her head. “Smouldering, maybe. More likely it’s hybrid forges scrapping metal for arms and armor.” She spat, lips curling into a sneer. “Assholes.” Haze looked to Thorn with a raised eyebrow. “Are you saying we wouldn’t do the same if we took Angenholt?” Folding the corner of the vellum page, Thorn tossed the book aside and drew her stiletto. The slender blade twisted through the air before she caught it with her opposite hoof. “This is the only blade I need. The only blade I’ll ever need.” “One day you’re gonna tell me where you even got that thing,” Haze said, flicking a piece of dirt from his hoof. Thorn’s wings rose and fell in a simple shrug as she slotted the blade into its sheath. She turned to look towards the bed where Iron Rain rested on her side, her head nestled on a soft pillow. The Legate’s flank was bruised black and purple where the warhammer had struck her and she had a similar bruise on her head from Red’s hoof. Since she had woken up in Nyx, she’d been a mere shell of the mare that her friends had known. The governor of Nyx, a fat stallion with a mighty chin and a receding mane, had graciously allowed Rain to rest in his guest suite. He had been less thrilled when Haze and Thorn insisted on staying with her, but Thorn was nothing if not persuasive. It was an ugly vase anyway. “Think she’s sleeping?” Thorn asked, Haze shook his head and frowned. “No.” A knock at the door drew his attention from the sullen mare. Haze grunted as he rose to his hooves and walked to the door. “I got it.” Pulling the door open, he quirked an eyebrow at the sight of a lanky stallion in scout’s armor. His canary coat was matted with sweat and stained black from ash. “Is Legate Rain available?” the stallion asked. “What do you need, soldier?” Haze asked. “I need to speak to the Legate!” he said, his wings flapping at his sides. “It’s urgent!” Haze shook his head. “I’ll be the judge of that, now tell me—” “We’ve uncovered the location of a griffon prison camp!” Iron Rain’s ears perked for the first time in a week and she pushed herself upright. She blinked a few times, her eyes dry and itching. “Haze,” she said, her voice rough. “Let him in.” Stepping aside, Haze motioned for the scout to enter, which he did hurriedly. The scout offered Rain a curt salute which she returned with a small nod. “What did you find?” Rain asked slowly. “Ma’am,” he began with a gasp. “My patrol team was scouting near the hybrid lines. We were trying to get an idea of where their forces were massing after they took Nimbus.” Rain winced almost imperceptibly, though Haze and Torn both spotted it. The scout continued, oblivious to her reaction. “We ran into a hybrid scouting party and trailed them back to a large prison camp about a mile west of Nimbus. We spotted Cirrans in the camp and counted four tents where they were stuffed in at the end of the day.” “What was the security?” Thorn asked. “Moderate,” the scout answered. “I’d estimate maybe one-hundred guards, could be more though. We heard dogs barking too, though I couldn’t tell you how many of those they had.” “Could you tell the condition of the prisoners?” Haze asked. The scout shook his head and frowned. “No, sir. We couldn’t get that close.” Thorn reached out with her hoof, gently shaking Rain’s shoulder. “What do we do, Rain?” The Legate offered her no answer. She instead drew a deep breath through her nose as her hooves clutched at the sheet that covered her lower half. Haze turned his attention from the scout to his oldest friend, concern furrowing his brow. “Iron?" "What will you do now, Iron?” Iron coughed, her sword clattering to the floor in front of her. The leather padding she wore for practice armor chafed her coat and made her movements stiff, especially in contrast to her brother, who wore the metal plates of a Centurion that had been fitted to his sturdy frame. It was far from the first of their training duels, and far from the first time Steel had amused himself by wiping the floors with her. The difference was this was one of the rare times their father personally oversaw their training. “Get up, Iron!” the tall stallion chided the filly. “You’ll never earn your name lying on your belly!” “You’re hitting me too hard, Steel!” Iron shouted. Her small hooves pressed against the cloudstone, her muscles struggling to lift her weight. Her brother frowned and took a step forward, disdain in his pale blue eyes. "You think a Griffon will hold back?" he shouted, kicking her in the ribs and sending her tumbling across the empty training hall. "You're weak, Iron! You will always be weak!" "Shut up," Iron hissed through gritted teeth. Her hoof grasped at her sword and dragged it to her mouth. Biting down on the leather-wrapped grip, she forced herself onto her hooves and looked her brother in the eye. "I'll show you," she said in a breathless growl. "I'll show you I'm a Rain too!” She charged forward, her small wings aggressively outstretched and her blade angled low, the tip nearly scraping the polished floor. Steel took a breath and angled the tip of his sword to the ceiling, waiting for the filly to slash. When she did he brought his sword down with all his might, knocking the blade from her mouth and sending her head over hooves across the floor. Iron groaned and coughed, biting back a curse as the heavy steps of her brother’s hooves approached her. He stopped and lowered his blade, the dented, blunt steel tracing her side from flank to cheek. Twisting the blade in his mouth, he gently slapped her cheek with the flat side, making her wince in shame. “You’re too predictable,” he told her, his voice a low rumble. “And now you’re dead, Iron.” “Enough,” Winter decreed. “Steel, thank you. Please put the swords back in the armory and speak with Downburst. He has work for you to attend to." Steel bowed his head low before gathering the blunted swords under his left wing. He paused in front of his sister, looking down at her with a soft frown. “Keep that fire in your eyes, Iron,” he said, reaching out with a hoof to pat her back. “One day you’ll be worthy of the name Rain.” Iron said nothing. Bowing once more to their father, Steel sauntered out of the room, whistling to himself as he pushed through the heavy doors and into the palace square. Winter’s eyes followed his son and waited for the heavy doors to close before he approached the still filly. Iron winced at hearing her father’s steps approach her. He sat down beside her and drew his hoof around her side, scooping her up to a sitting position with her weight leaning against him. “You’re improving, Iron.” Again she held her tongue, her eyes downcast and burning with shame. “What troubles you, Iron?” Winter asked after several moments of silence. “You should not be ashamed to lose this fight. Your brother is a mighty stallion.” “I hate my name.” “Oh?” Winter tilted his head, an amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Now why’s that?” “Iron’s weak,” she groused, kicking the floor with her hoof. “Steel is stronger.” “Steel may be stronger than iron, little wing. But it is rigid and fragile when wielded improperly. Iron is flexible, it can be shaped to best suit the needs of the time, be that a sharp sword or a sturdy ploughshare. It is the element core to the foundations of civilization, and flows through the blood of all living things. It is the bone of the Gods themselves, my daughter, and above all it is the most precious element.” Winter smiled and nodded to Iron, his wing unfurling to drape across her back. “Now, little one, what are the words of our house?” “Siccitates omnes in Imbre desinunt.” Iron answered without a moment’s pause. “That’s right.” Winter nodded once. “Now, Iron, can you tell me what they mean?” “All droughts end in Rain.” “That is what they say, but not what they mean, Iron.” Her gaze turned up to her father and her brows pinched together in confusion. “Dad?” “We are Nimbans, Iron. Famed for our tenacity in war above all else. In the cities and towns of Cirra we are considered wild barbarians, scarcely more civilized than the griffons on our doorstep.” Winter allowed himself a gentle sigh, his hoof reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. “War is the most terrible inferno, Iron. Left unchecked it will consume all in its path: the righteous, the wicked, and all the innocents caught up in the flames. “To be a Rain is to bear the burden of a promise. A promise that we will suffer the inferno, so that our people will sleep safe for another night. We will throw ourselves into it with glee. All this so that the droughts will be broken, the fire smothered, and peace may thrive." Iron’s ears drooped and her brows scrunched together. “I think I understand, Dad.” Winter smiled, his wing gently squeezing her. “One day, Iron, you will. You will.” “Siccitates omnes in Imbre desinunt.” Iron whispered. Thorn tilted her head slightly. "Rain?" “Scout, what was your name?” Rain asked, her eyes locking with the stallion’s. “Sunny, ma’am,” he answered, standing up straighter at the question. Iron Rain gave him a curt nod and pushed the covers off. With a pained growl she slipped from the bed and limped towards him. Thorn stayed close at her side, just in case she needed the assistance. “I have a new task for you, Sunny.” “Name it, Ma’am.” “Fly to Stratopolis and find Senator Dicentus Celsus. Tell him that the Legate of Nimbus needs to speak with him immediately. Our people need to be moved away from the front and the Nimban Militia is in need of provisions.” She saluted the scout with a hoof and smiled. “Now fly!” “By your command, Legate Iron Rain.” Sunny saluted her before leaping out the open window and taking flight for Stratopolis. "Thorn, Haze: assemble every Nimban able to fight." Rain said, limping over to the weapons rack. Her sword had been left at Nimbus after Red had knocked her out "We're going to bring our brothers and sisters home." Smiles pulled at the lips of her friends, and in unison they answered her. “By your command.” “Is there any water left?” Cloudburst asked, coughing dryly as he panted on the floor. Pathfinder groaned, forcing himself upright and checking the bucket nearest him. The bottom had a few drops left, dirty and warm, but wet enough to drink. He slid the bucket to Cloudburst, who took it in a hoof and tipped the bucket up to his lips, swallowing what little was left. “Thanks, kid,” Cloudburst mumbled, lowering his head onto his foreleg and closing his eyes. Finder grunted, too tired to talk. He couldn’t remember how many days it had been since the battle. An hour could well have been an eternity in the camp. There, time was measured in beatings and torture. It had been two beatings since he’d woken up and Todesangst had pulled three of his primary feathers for quills. He screamed when the first two were plucked, but managed to hold his tongue for the third one. The single bite of bread he’d been given in exchange had seemed worth the effort at the time. He couldn’t remember the last full meal he’d had. None of them could. The best they could hope for was watery soup that tasted vaguely of meat and occasionally had grass floating in it. If a pony was lucky they got an old leaf. Every pony that hadn’t died already could count their ribs, and a few had taken to trying to catch the rats that nipped at their hooves in the night. Even Pathfinder was starting to come around to the idea. A meal, even a bite of rat, would have been preferable to the pain of hunger that settled in his gut. There were rumors that in one of the other barns the griffons had made Cirrrans fight to the death for a chunk of bread or scrap of meat. Pathfinder hadn’t seen it, and the ponies that had been in those tents refused to speak of it. “Hey,” Cloudburst grunted, “Hey, Finder.” “What?” Finder grunted, not bothering to open his eyes. “Do you think griffons taste like chicken?” Muted chuckles rose from the couple dozen ponies left in their prison. Even Pathfinder couldn’t help a smirk as he cracked an eye open and looked to Cloudburst. “Never thought about it.” Cloudburst licked his lips and snickered. “You should. Those big, juicy, meaty wings brazed over an open flame? Perhaps cooked with some onions or garlic and a dash of wine?” The stallion shivered from the thought. “I bet they’re delicious.” “You’re really not helping,” whined a mare behind them. “Oh, come on,” Cloudburst said with a weary laugh. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it once or twice yourself.” “Fuck off,” she growled. Pathfinder nuzzled into his forelegs and tried to get comfortable. His wings had swollen where they had been broken and the constant burning ache had kept him awake for all but a precious few hours of sleep. He supposed he should be glad that he had been too tired to dream. He didn’t want to dream anymore. Sleep, or the nearest thing to it, had almost taken Finder when the sound of laughter approached their prison. Fear clutched at the surviving pegasi; the laughter of a griffon never boded well. Through the leather sheet that made up their door stumbled a trio of griffons, their armor and weapons removed and their bodies reeking of alcohol. “Now what?” Cloudburst growled, forcing himself into a sitting position. Finder mirrored the stallion’s actions. Rare was the time when a pony went unpunished for not standing when their captors entered the room. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as a sense of dread welled in his gut. The griffons almost didn’t seem to notice where they were for a time, too busy laughing at a joke nopony could understand and fewer would want to. When the hybrid eyes turned to the Cirrans, Pathfinder felt his hooves take a step back. There was hunger in their eyes. ‘Run!’ the voice in his head screamed, ignorant of the heavy shackle around his neck. “Can we help you fine gentlemen this evening?” Cloudburst asked, the sarcasm thick in his tone. They shambled forward, eyes drifting from pony to pony in the dark room. Finder envied the ponies in the back, the few that were still alive were well hidden in the shadows while he and Cloudburst were the only two left up front. One griffon reached out with its talons and cutched Cloudburst’s jaw, inspecting him like market produce before shoving him to the ground. Panic seized Finder’s mind, and he turned away from the beasts in a desperate attempt to run. His chain stopped him after only a few short feet, the steel band choking him and making him stumble to the floor. He coughed once and tried to pull at the chain, only to feel a hard pull on his tail drag him back. “Hey,” Cloudburst shouted, scrambling back up to his hooves. “Let the kid go!” One of the griffons snickered at Cloudburst’s anger and patted him on the head. The former legionarysmacked the claws away with his hoof. “I said let the kid g—” His words were cut off as he crumpled to the floor in a heap, his hooves clutching his right eye where the griffon had punched him. A second griffon circled around Pathfinder, it’s talons tracing over his body as it appraised him. Looking at the one holding his tail, the griffon nodded. Hooked talons sunk into Finder’s flanks and pulled him back... Pathfinder's words faltered, his hooves shaking and his eyes wide. The silence that filled the Legate’s Lookout hung heavily in the air. It hung over the few ponies that remained like a pall that threatened to smother the heat even from the flames that danced in the soot encrusted hearth. “Gods…” Stalwart uttered with a horrified whisper. Cirrus’ hooves covered her mouth and for the longest time she stared at Pathfinder, unable to find the words. Finally she reached out to him, her small hoof resting on his shoulder. He jumped at the touch, turning to face her with wide, panicked eyes. Cirrus pulled her hooves away as though she’d been scalded. “I…” Pathfinder swallowed heavily, his face looking pale and his trembling growing worse. “Excuse me,” he said quickly, stumbling off of his chair and towards the door. Stalwart and Cirrus exchanged a glance and followed after him at a distance, neither wanting to get too close for fear of setting the old stallion off. They paused at the door leading out to the cold Cloudsdale night, listening as the old stallion began to vomit.