All right, troops! Welcome to the briefing for the group's first event. Season Seven is upon us, no doubt poised to fill our heads with enough canon to blow a bridge sky-high. No doubt you will already be seeing your fan-preferred visions make it through the minefield... or blown to bits. So it goes.

What does this have to do with one arbitrary historical figure? Well, history has a connection to the present status quo, be it through simple cause-and-effect or through the complex interplay of what past and present people deem (or deemed) should (or should not) be the case, by what could have been, and by what they think ought to happen next. Everything starts somewhere.

So let's kick things off with the theme of...

This is the starting point for most wet-behind-the-ears rookies. Write an extremely short fic depicting a scene to do with both Private Pansy and the theme of "training". This challenge is all about practice, learning, and embarrassing yourself in the name of progress and/or those bloody stupid ideas you just came up with. As discussed in previous threads, the word count won't exceed one thousand words, so there's no need to go through all the palaver and publish your own fics for this challenge. Just post it in a comment here. There are, however, various difficulty settings:

Easy: Between 501 and 1,000 words. Allows plenty of expansion of a scene.
Medium: Between 101 and 500 words. Balances the demands of the extremes.
Hard: Between 50 and 100 words. A test of concision and focus.

While I have previously indicated that the deadline is the end of May, it occurs to me that a lot of significant life events are likely to occur around this time of year, so I intend to be even more generous. Instead, the deadline is now the end of August, granting us four months plus the rest of April (or basically Spring and Summer). Members can drop by at any time between now and then to take part.

If you accept, then post the comment below with a title, an indication of which of the three settings you went for, and the actual writing. No prizes save for the pride and satisfaction in a job well done. And don't feel rushed or pressured; the aim is to keep things laid-back and easy, break the ice, and flex those writing muscles. If all goes well, some bigger challenges will arrive in the future.

May Celestia be with you! Company! Dismissed!

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One 'orrible little man reporting for duty, sah, and wIshing to tender the following Medium-grade piece of silliness for the company's reckoning!

The Theory of Crossbows.

Take crossbows.

Pansy knew the idea behind them. Jam a hoof into the stirrup, pull the string back into the stock’s notch with your teeth, and slap a quarrel into the groove. Heft it up, observe something you didn’t like, aim, and pull the rear lever to reduce the number of things you didn’t like in the world by one.

That was the theory. In practise…

“Try again, private,” said Commander Hurricane wearily, hovering by the range set up atop the cloud. “Thirty-seventh time’s the charm.”

“Y-yes, Commander.” Pansy flushed and scooped up a quarrel lying atop the thick cloud. There were plenty to choose from, embedded everywhere except the distant and smug-looking bullseye. She attended to the stirrup, and tried to pretend she didn’t hear the other recruits jostling for space behind a particular thick bank of cloud.

“What do you lot think you’re doing?” she heard Hurricane bellow in their direction.

“Exercising the better part of valour, Commander!”

“Hah!” Hurricane snorted. There was the flap of wings, and Pansy felt the tickle of breath against her ear. “Alright,” the Commander said, more softly than usual, “what’s going wrong here?”

“I … I slip at the last step, I think, Commander. Every time.” Pansy whispered the words, stumbling over them, burning with embarrassment. “I … it’s just, every time I pull the lever … I can’t help but think about the quarrel flying off and hurting somepony.”

“That’s generally the point, private.”

“I know, Commander,” Pansy replied in a low, miserable voice. “I know.”

Hurricane paused. Then, “Scares you, does it?”

“Yes, Commander.”

“Good. It ought to make you a little trepid, that sort of power in your hooves. Key’s just to keep plastering over the trepidness till the plastering comes natural. And to mind how much more afraid the crossbow’ll make your enemy than you. Many a fight’s been yielded when a quarrel whistled overhead. Nothing like it to inspire surrender. You think you could do that? End a fight before it even begins?”

Pansy swallowed and nodded. Hurricane gestured at the bullseye. “Prove it. Fake the steel till you’ve got it. And breathe.”

Pansy slotted the quarrel into the groove. She raised the crossbow and sighted down at the bullseye. And just as the tremble set in at the thought of pained screams, she breathed out, aimed for just over the bullseye, faked the steel, and pulled.

The quarrel shrieked out and dipped in the air, punching right into the heart of the bulleye and ripping down into the cloth covering its padding. The whole thing wobbled, and with a clatter and the faint wheeze of tortured fabric, it collapsed, dripping tufts of padding onto the cloud's surface

Pansy stared aghast, nervous applause came from behind the cloud, and Hurricane whistled. “Well, I shan’t lie, that’d scare me. Good job, private. We’ll make a soldier of you yet.”