Nimbus
“You know,” Pathfinder began, absently examining the empty tankard in his hoof. “When I was a pup, I used to hate this stuff,” The old stallion nodded his head and pursed his lips. “Never for the life of me understood why my father would have a couple with the evening meal, or my brother with his mates at the pub. I just never quite understood it back then.”
Stalwart closed his eyes, his head swimming from the four New Equestrian brews that he’d ingested since sitting down. Pathfinder was on his, well, Stalwart honestly had no idea how many the old legionnaire was on. He was, however, rapidly becoming convinced that Pathfinder had no less than three wooden legs and possibly a second liver. How could anypony drink so much and still be standing?
“Now those unicorns down in Everfree,” Finder continued, seemingly oblivious to Stalwart’s plight, “they mix up those fruity wines that are too sweet and have no proper spirit to them. You can’t hardly get proper drunk off something like that, cause by the time you got a halfway decent buzz you gotta go piss it all out!” He slammed a hoof on the table, momentarily startling Stahl from his inebriated state.
“That’s charming,” Stahl mumbled, having no earthly idea what Pathfinder was talking about.
“Now the earth ponies,” Finder leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “They made a hardy mead from honey. Ohh, lad.” The old stallion licked his lips. “That’s some good stuff. Sweet, but not too sweet, full bodied with a good character. It’s a fitting brew for their breed.”
“Can I get you gents anything?” Cirrus asked as she wiped down the table beside them.
“I think my greenwing friend here needs another ale,” Finder said with a boisterous laugh.
“Gods, no!” Stahl sat upright far too quickly. The world spun around him for a few moments before he realized that he had fallen from his stool and onto the floor. “...Ouch.”
Pathfinder only laughed harder at the sight, one hoof pounding the table. Cirrus trotted to him after a moment to chuckle as well. Hooking her forelegs around his chest, she hauled him to his hooves and leaned him against Finder’s table.
“I’ll get you some water,” she said, patting his back with her wing.
“And something salty,” Finder suggested before toasting the two with his tankard.
“Another Cirran for you?” she asked with a knowing smile.
Finder placed a hoof over his heart to show his appreciation. “You’re too good to me.”
Cirrus scoffed and shook her head as she took his mug in a hoof. “Well the gods above know if I didn’t sell it to you I’d never afford to feed my family.”
“Bah, you’d be fine.” Finder set his mug on the table and sighed as he observed his reflection in the remains of his drink.
The flicker of candlelight caught Finder’s eye and drew his attention to the center of the table. There, placed on a beaten and warped metal tray, sat three candles moulded from pale beeswax. He watched the flames dance in seeming desperation about the wick as the reserve of wax ebbed away with every passing moment. It was all for naught though, as all too soon the flames would sputter out with no more than a gentle gasp and a wisp of lace-like smoke.
Candles had always fascinated Pathfinder, even when he was just a little colt on the shores of Altus. Back then in those bygone halcyon days he had wanted to be a candle maker. There was a peaceful simplicity in the process, much like how earth ponies described their connection to the plants and soil of the world. To a greater degree though, they reminded him of life. That dream didn’t last long, even before he joined the Legion. It took Pathfinder years to get near a flame again.
‘How long,” he wondered, the light from the candle dancing in his eyes. ‘How many years has it been...’
“Sir?”
‘What would you have done had it been you and not I? Would you be in my hooves now?’
“Sir?”
‘No.’ The old stallion shook his head, invisible weights seeming to pull the corners of his mouth into a disgusted frown. ‘No, you were always stronger...always faster...’
“Pathfinder?” Stalwart asked again, his hoof shaking the old pony’s shoulder.
“Hm?” The action pulled Finder from his thoughts, and he blinked several times as though to clear his mind. He saw Stalwart and Cirrus watching him with worried frowns and furled eyebrows. Finder put a smile on his lips and reached out with his rugged forelegs to pat both of them on the head. “Now, now, those sad faces won’t do! What’s the trouble?”
“You’ve been staring at those candles for twenty minutes!” Cirrus said, motioning to the wax sticks with her right wing. “The kid here thought you were dead on your hooves.”
“I never said that,” Stalwart mumbled.
“Haha!” Finder clapped Stalwart on the shoulder. “Everypony should be so lucky! Alas, I fear these old bones have a few years left in them!”
“They damned well better; you’re my best customer.” Cirrus chuckled.
“Say,” Finder said, looking around the Lookout to see that only a few ponies were left in the bar. “Where’d everypony get off to? Past their bedtimes already?”
“You know we’re quiet after sundown,” Cirrus answered, “Has been for years.”
“I suppose, I suppose.” Finder nodded, his hoof rubbed at his chin. “By the by, Cirrus, how are your little ones?”
“Grown up and gone from the nest, just like yours, old friend,” The mare answered, her smile at once proud yet sad.
“Bah, they’re only pups yet. They’ll be around, mark my words.”
“I’d certainly hope not! Little monsters eat me and Torrent out of house and home!” Cirrus laughed.
“Wait until they bring the grandfoals around,” Finder said with a quiet chuckle of his own. He let out a pleased sigh, his hooves absently playing with his long emptied tankard. “What about you, Stahl-For-Short? Do you have a family?”
The guard smiled and nodded. With one hoof he pulled at the heavy breastplate of his armor, creating enough space to reach in with his two longest primary feathers. Fishing around just above his heart, they emerged with a crumpled parchment which he set on a clean patch of the table. Finder had to lean forward, his eyes squinting to better make out what he was looking at.
The paper, a fairly small sized sheet, bore the image of two ponies. A young looking unicorn mare looked out from the charcoal sketch with a wavy mane that flowed around her neckline. She bore a kind, gentle smile and loving eyes. If not for the horn protruding from her head, Finder might have mistaken her for Dawn. In the mare’s forelegs was a young foal that looked to Finder like a very young colt. The boy, a pegasus judging by his little wings, slept through the portrait, his head nuzzled into his mother’s breast as the artist worked.
“Quite the artist you found for this,” Pathfinder noted in a matter of fact tone.
“There are many wandering about the Everfree City; that pegasus was one recommended by a friend of mine.
“A pegasus that works better with a brush than a blade, I never thought I’d see the day.” Old Finder chuckled and smiled at the drawing. Carefully taking the picture with his primary feathers he held it up for Cirrus to see. “They’re beautiful.”
“Aww.” Cirrus smiled at the picture like any mother would. “What a handsome son he is!”
“Thank you both!” Stahl grinned from ear to ear, beaming with the pride of a young father.
“How old is he?” Cirrus asked, returning the picture to Stalwart.
The guard smiled at the picture before tucking it safely away in his armor. “This is his third summer. His birthday was just last week, actually.”
“May he have many happy days to come,” Finder said, toasting with his empty mug. “How did you fall in with a unicorn though?”
“Her parents were friends to my father,” Stalwart answered before taking a drink of water. “It’s a rather long and not a very interesting story. Suffice to say I love her, deeply.”
Pathfinder nodded. “To all their own, I say. Though I should very much like to hear the story.”
Stalwart offered the older pony a simple shrug with his wings. “I don’t suppose you’ll settle for love at first sight?”
Finder loosed a boisterous laugh, his hoof slapping the table hard enough to rattle their cups. “That’s a good one if I ever heard it, Pup!”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I don’t see the joke,” Stalwart said in a dry tone.
“Let me tell you, there ain’t no such thing in this world or the next as love at first sight. Lust at first sight.” Finder nodded, leaning back against the wall. “Lust is what you had.” Pathfinder went quiet again, folding his forelegs across his chest as he gazed up to the smoke stained ceiling. “Not that there’s anything wrong with lust, mind you. Without a little lust we’d never have children. It’s our lust for another pony that leads us to love them.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Cirrus said, a hoof patting Finder’s shoulder while she scooped up his empty tankard with her wing.
Pathfinder smiled. “There’s no worse thing than to be in love, my dear. All it leads to is pain.”
“I don’t think so,” Stalwart said.
“Death is the only thing guaranteed in this world, son. If you’re lucky, you die first, or at least you don’t linger long after the pony you love is gone.” Finder scoffed. “Love. What a cruel joke of the gods that is.”
“Looks like you need another drink,” Cirrus said, her hoof sliding from Finder’s shoulder.
He looked up to her with a gentle smile. “No...no just give me water for this round, Cirrus.”
“Are you sure?” the mare asked, looking almost worried at the request. “It’s no trouble.”
“I know, and I thank you. But I also know that much more and I’ll fall off of this stool.” He grinned at Stalwart. “That’s just bad manners in front of a guest.”
Cirrus snorted and shook her head. “If you insist, you crazy old dog.”
“Insist I shall,” he said with a nod.
As Cirrus returned to her bar, an uncomfortable silence subsumed the two stallions. Stalwart looked to the old pegasus across the table and found his impression difficult to surmise. Finder struck him as a curious stallion, at once open and easy to converse with while at the same time displaying a fatalistic and acerbic edge just under the surface.
‘What,’ Stalwart wondered through the haze of alcohol that clouded his mind. ‘What makes him this way? Why does he hesitate now?’
“If you’ll pardon my asking, S—” Stalwart stopped as Finder leveled an annoyed glare at him. “Um, Pathfinder.”
The easy smile quickly returned to the old scout’s face. “Speak your mind, son.”
“You told me of these old places in the homelands. Of Stratopolis, Updraft and Atlus...Atlose?” Stalwart’s face twisted like he had bitten into a lemon. “That one place, by the water...or was it the lake?”
Finder chuckled and shook his head. “Altus, you lightweight. My home, the place where...well…” Lowering his head, Finder’s words faded from the air.
“S—Finder?” Stalwart leaned closer, his brows scrunching together.
“You know how this story ends,” Pathfinder said as he gazed into the flickering candlelight. The air seemed to chill around the older pony, as though drawn into a dark abyss.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I do. Not yet, at any rate.” Stalwart’s hooves dragged his cup close to his chest. He watched the old legionnaire carefully, as though even the shortest lapse in attention would result in old Finder disappearing into the cool night air. “What happened after you left Fort Updraft? When I first sat down you were only too eager to tell me about Cirra. Now you’ve been talking about drinks for half an hour.” Stalward sighed. “Please, Sir, I want to know what happened next.”
For several long moments, Pathfinder said nothing to Stalwart. He watched the candle dance in front of him with his eyes seeming to follow the rare, errant spark that popped free of the wick. Cirrus returned, placing fresh drinks on the table for them both in addition to a small chunk of bread.
“Nimbus, Stalwart,” Finder said in barely more than a whisper. “Nimbus happened.”
Built on a massive base of cumulonimbus clouds, the ancient city stood at the eastern edge of the Cirran Empire. For centuries it had stood as the indomitable wall between the Griffon hordes and the Cirran heartlands. The pegasi of Nimbus were borne to fight, and had a fearsome and well earned reputation in battle against both their griffon neighbors, and their Cirran cousins in the distant past.
The recruits of the Second Platoon marched into the city after their long flight from Fort Updraft. The ancient, loose, cloudstone streets crunched under their hooves like the winter’s snow. All around them were soldiers of other legions, interspersed with the civilians of Nimbus.
“Welcome to Nimbus, fillies!” Dawn said with a wide, boastful grin. “Home of the finest soldiers the world will ever know!”
“Long have we stood, and never shall we fall,” spoke Summer as she trotted beside her friend. “For we are Cirra’s spiked shield, and we shall never yield.”
Dawn chuckled and slapped her friend’s back with a hoof. “Summer, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you don’t have a future in poetry.”
Summer scoffed and brushed Dawn’s hoof off with her wing. “I suppose not, but I’m at least literate, unlike half those narcissistic bastards.”
“So you claim, I’ve never seen you read.”
“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Dawn.
“What does that even mean?” Dawn asked, her head tilting slightly. “I mean, how does one become an emotion?”
“Dawn, as your friend, and your doctor, stop before you break something.”
“I didn’t know you were so fragile,” Dawn said, feigning a concerned expression that quickly shifted to a playful smirk. “But I promise to be gentle.”
Carver’s remaining eye widened at the phrasing, though the action caused a spike of pain from the bandages that covered the remains of his right eye.
Summer looked at Dawn, seemingly surprised by the comment for an instant. She leaned closer to the smaller mare, a predatory smile pulling her lips back to flash her teeth. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t be.”
Dawn’s laughed quietly, her hoof slapping Summer’s armor.
“This place is amazing!” Finder said, in awe of the monolithic archery towers and thick cloudstone walls that kept watch over the city.
Dawn, marching just to Finder’s left, draped a wing across his back. The sharp metal scales of her wingblades scraped dully across the scales of his armor. “Just you wait, Finder, this is the greatest city ever built by pony kind. There’s everything you could ever want here with none of the preening senators and political harlots that infest Stratopolis’ rotten core.”
“Tell us how you really feel, Dawn,” Carver teased her.
“I am but a humble speaker of the truth.”
“Never have so many lies been crammed into so few words,” Summer mumbled.
“Everypony has a talent.”
“No, Dawn, that’s just what they tell the fillies and colts too dumb to realize they’re nothing but meat for the grinder.” Summer shot back.
“Somepony needs to shake the crabs out of her plot,” Dawn teased, illustrating her point by wiggling her rear, much to the eternal joy of the stallions marching behind them.
Around the column Finder saw the ponies of Nimbus gathering to greet the soldiers as they marched. Mares threw fragrant flower over the recruits while young fillies and foals trotted beside them, asking the soldiers nearest to them all sorts of questions.
“Have you killed any griffons?”
“Where are you from?”
“Can I be a soldier?”
“Are all swords that small?”
“You’re pretty, can I have some of your mane?”
Windshear almost tripped up half the column from the little filly’s question.
Carver caught a lush daisy in his teeth and promptly gulped it down. With a lick of his lips he flashed a grin to Summer. “Nimbans sure know how to treat a guest.”
With a playful chuckle, Summer shrugged her wings. “Every Nimban honors the Legion.”
“Second platoon, halt!” Skyhammer barked. “Right face. Attention!”
The platoon reacted in near perfect unison, their posture stiffening as they turned ninety degrees. For several long moments, Finder wondered what they had stopped for. He found his answer moments later as a line of litter-bearers and walking wounded silently passed them by.
Pathfinder’s eyes fell on the nearest soldier, and what he saw made his blood run cold. The soldier’s coat was the same shade of green as his own, though his mane was a washed out shade of blue caked with grime and dried blood. A filthy-looking damp cloth rested over the unconscious pony’s face, shielding him from the countless eyes watching him. An easterly breeze washed over the column, causing the cover on his face to shift. For just a moment, Pathfinder saw his own face peeking out from beneath the cloth, hollow eyes staring back from sunken pits. Bloodshot. Cold.
His right wing was gone, with only a protruding, cauterized stub remaining as a mass of black, boiled flesh. Perhaps more devastating were his hind legs, both of which had been severed just above the hock. What was left oozed blood into the hasty wrappings, leaving viscous stains of blood that glistened in the light. Dozens of flies buzzed around him, like he was nothing more than spoiled meat ripe for the taking.
Finder tasted bile in the back of his throat and folded his ears back as he forced his gaze away. The sight, the smell, the sound, it all made the young pony sick to his stomach. Summer quickly noticed his revulsion, and gave his side a sharp jab with a hoof.
“Don’t you dare look away,” she warned him.
“Give him a break, Summer.” Carver shot back at her, uncomfortably avoiding the macabre procession as well.
“Don’t you look away either,” she said. “These are the heroes of the Empire.”
“Centuria,” Skyhammer shouted again. “Salute!”
“We’ve taken Hengstead,” the scarred golden stallion noted, his words even and measured. “I wasn’t expecting so many losses on the southern flank.”
Commander Gold Moon scowled beneath his scarred brow at the map as his brown-muzzling secretary walked around the table. “But you were completely right, sir. Their forces were exactly where you expected, and their casualties were overall better than you predicted.”
The doors to the Cirran command room were bashed open with such force that they slammed against their surrounding walls. The secretary leapt into the air, where he stayed with wings flapping. Heavy hooves moved across the cloudstone floor, clicking with each step, but Moon felt no need to look up. “Move Red Tail’s forces forward to patch the holes. Good evening, Legate.”
“Good? I don’t enjoy having to come up here, getting you to sign my papers before I can wipe my ass!”
Iron Rain was something of a looming figure, taller than the average stallion, and certainly outweighing the way Gold Moon’s aging neck was struggling to stay aloft. She had a snow white coat and a wild, steel blue mane that was cropped short for a mare. When her hoof came down on the map table, the strength in her body was made apparent by the cracks that spread across the wood. The same force had also pressed a crumpled piece of parchment down, which she flicked in the commander’s direction.
He spared a quick moment to glance at the sheet; when he recognized his own seal at the bottom, he spared himself the need to read the rest. “I’m glad to see you’re in a good mood this evening, Legate,” Gold Moon greeted, finally deigning to lift his head and match the fury in her steel eyes with the gold of his own. Even the proud warriors of Nimbus shied away from her scowl, but the Praetorian wasn’t intimidated. He knew the truth; while her steel might win battles, his gold was what won wars. “Explain why you take issue that I denied your request.”
“It isn’t obvious?” Rain swept her hoof across the table, tossing to the floor the little wooden figurines Moon had been using to plan the advance on Angenholt. “Nimbans don’t stay home from war, Commander.”
“Watch your tone, Legate, or―” The secretary stopped abruptly, whimpering as Rain drew back a hoof. It was only her meager consciousness of terms like ‘political ramifications’ that allowed the slimy little stallion to scamper his way out of the room with his muzzle intact.
Gold Moon resisted the urge to smile at the stallion’s departure, instead preparing himself for a long and tiresome lecture that Iron Rain had gone far too long without receiving. When the doors to the airy room on the eastern wall of the Nimban basilica shut, he sucked in a short breath. “You, Legate, are tasked with defending Nimbus as the leader of its militia. A militia is a defensive force. It is a shield. In contrast, the forces you so kindly scattered,” he gestured with a wing toward his wooden figurines, “are legions. A legion is offensive. It serves as Cirra’s sword. Hopefully, even somepony as embroiled in personal battle as you can follow the metaphor.”
Rain released a growl from the base of her throat. “And Nimbus is Cirra’s spiked shield. We aren’t meant to sit here, waiting for the enemy to come to us. We can do more damage than any of your fancy Stratopolis legions, and make it out with less casualties.”
The scarred golden stallion took a slow breath, and walked to the far side of the room, where he found a bottle of brandy and a glass waiting for him. “Believe me,” he began, pouring his drink and avoiding Rain’s seething gaze. “I know exactly what sort of damage you ponies are capable of. A spiked shield is messy, imprecise, clumsy, and detracts attention from more effective weapons. In the face of a charge, it takes a fool to pull back his shield as a weapon. Legionaries who live brace their shields, and ready their swords.” The glass flicked back with brutal precision, tossing the liquid into the stallion’s throat without stopping across his tongue. For just a moment, he wore a smile at the sensation.
Then he continued. “I have no doubt that you and your so called ‘rainstorm’ would cut a bloody swath through Gryphus. Between your ridiculous composition and your patently disorganized tactics, I find it hard to imagine any griffons would be expecting you right up until the moment that your tiny berserker decided he was bored. You will find that I have no intention of deploying such an unruly force into my well ordered system.”
Rain stomped forward. “Do you think you can stop me?”
Gold Moon shook his head. “I wouldn’t waste lives making Cirrans fight Cirrans. But when you returned, you and your friends would find themselves stripped of their titles and branded traitors. I’m certain your father would be quite disappointed if I had to involve the emperor in our disagreement.” Again, the commander turned around to face the Nimban leader. “War is a machine, Rain, not a playground. We allow it to work slowly, ticking away at the griffon numbers, so that we know we haven’t left any behind in our advance, and so that we know we aren’t leaving ourselves vulnerable. Nimbus is the single best chokepoint separating Cirra from Gryphus, and emptying its walls would be a mistake of pure pride, leading to the subsequent inevitable fall. So, with that understanding I believe I have made myself clear. You and your forces will continue to defend Nimbus in the event that any of Magnus’ troops manage to slip past our advance.”
Rain ground her forehoof along the floor in a display of irritation, but she said nothing.
“Will there be anything else, Legate Rain?”
“No, sir,” she grumbled through gritted teeth. “I’ll be patrolling upstairs.”
Gold Moon nodded. “Carry on.” As the tired mare tromped out of the room, he turned back to his ruined table and sighed; his experience was that being a commander always ended with picking up the pieces.
The Nimban markets were never quiet, even before the war began. While the ancient city lacked the finery available in the legendary Forums of Stratopolis, Nimbas had more than enough of their own wares to sate the desires of its rugged pegasi. For the few things Nimbus couldn’t acquire or craft by itself, there was also a thriving trade district that garnered goods from across the empire for Nimbans to buy.
At the heart of the market, however, was the smithy. Renowned across Cirra for their work, the smiths of Nimbus produced the finest metalwork in the world. Their weapons were sharper, their armor was stronger, and ponies from across the empire flew to Nimbus to learn from its masters.
Leaning against the outer wall of the largest forge was a solitary mare. Her sandy-blonde coat and short white mane were dusted by soot and grime from her time near the forges. The mark on her flank, a thick coil of thorns wrapped around a downpointed sword, suited her well. At least that’s what her parents told her.
But really, what did they know?
“You done in there?” she called into the dark forge.
“Thorn, I swear to whatever god it is you choose to believe in this week that I will throw your sorry ass off the walls if you ask me that one more time!” shouted a deep-voiced and angry mare from inside.
Shaking her head, Thorn chuckled at the empty threat. “That’s cute, Rain. I’ll just forget to flap for a minute or three.”
There was a small crash as Iron Rain threw what sounded like a fairly heavy piece of armor across the smithy. Thorn rolled her eyes, though she did take some amusement from the indignant shout of the blacksmith inside. A moment later, Iron rain stomped out of the smithy, a mighty scowl carved into her face and her snow white coat encrusted with ash.
“You know,” Thorn began as she trailed after her friend. “It’s gonna make ponies talk if you keep smashing up shops.”
“I smashed nothing,” Rain protested. “I merely...erm…”
Thorn sighed. “You destroyed somepony’s armor, didn’t you?”
“Maybe?”
“Rain,” Thorn put a hoof on the taller mare’s shoulder. “I know you’re mad Gold Moon denied your request, but that doesn’t mean you can rip the city apart until you feel better.”
“I’d feel better if we weren’t trapped in these damned walls!” Rain shot back, her wings giving an angry flap. “We’re Nimbans, Thorn! Fighting is in our blood! Now here we are in the biggest war of our generation and Nimbus gets left out of it?! Our ancestors are rolling in their graves at this disgrace!”
Thorn nodded, keeping pace with Rain’s long strides and doing her best to dodge the various ponies in the market. “But it’s also a soldiers duty to follow orders, and the Legion wants us here, just in case.”
“Tsh,” Rain scoffed. “Sieges are more fun if you’re on the outside.”
“No argument there,” Thorn agreed.
“I should write Legate Brand,” Rain mused out loud as they rounded the corner out of the markets and towards the upper tier of the city. “She owes Father and I some favors. Maybe he can convince her to invite the Rainstorm to her Century as battle advisors.”
“Wait, let me get this straight,” Thorn started, her eyes warily observing her friend. “you’re thinking of asking your father to ask Legate Brand if he would let us attach to his legion for a month as battle consultants?”
“Well, that’s a bit of a simplification, but yeah. Pretty much.” Rain nodded as they casually walked down the streets of Nimbus.
Thorn looked unconvinced. “Legate Brand… isn’t she kind of crazy?”
“No,” Rain shook her head. “No. Nope. A little bit. No.”
“My friend, how your career in politics died is a mystery for the sages.” Thorn chuckled, her hoof clopping against Rain’s shoulder.
Rain started to laugh, at least until two young ponies crashed into her flank, knocking her onto Thorn. In the ensuing mess of tangled limbs and torrential vulgarities the four ponies eventually managed to separate. Rain and Thorn found themselves facing down a forest green colt and a young orange mare. The mare recognized Rain instantly and her expression shifted from amusement to abject horror.
“We are so bucked,” Dawn mewled.
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” Thorn said with an amused grin.
“Who are you and what the hell are you doing?” Rain demanded.
“Legionary Pathfinder, Ma’am,” The colt answered, snapping to a terrified salute.
“Field Surgeon Dawn Lighthoof,” The mare answered. “Eighth Legion Second Platoon, Ma’am!”
Rain leaned down until her nose was almost touching Dawn’s. “You know who I am, greenwing?”
“Iron Rain, Ma’am, Legate of Nimbus!”
“All right, Field Surgeon Lighthoof, where are you from?” Rain asked, though she easily recognized Dawn’s accent.
“Nimbus, Ma’am, North Quarter.”
“And you,” Rain turned to Pathfinder, whose cheeks had gone several shades lighter in the time it took her to switch from Dawn to him. “The hell are you supposed to be?”
“I-I’m with the Eigth too, Ma’am. Centurion Skyhammer’s cohort!”
“Replacements,” Rain all but spat the word. “Cirrans get all the fun.”
“That’s probably the gods telling you to be nicer to me,” Thorn teased.
“Not now, Thorn!” Rain smacked the smaller mare with her wing, which only earned a fit of laughter from Thorn. Growling in irritation, Rain turned her attention back to Dawn. “What’s so important that you can’t watch where you’re running, greenwing?”
Dawn gulped hard and nodded. “L-Lady Rain, we-my friend―I was just showing him around Nimbus and―well, we got excited and―well, we kinda weren’t paying attention and ran into...you…”
Iron Rain resisted her urge to groan. She took another look at Pathfinder, and the colt seemed to stand a hair taller at her glare. Her brow furrowed and she took a step towards him, peering down to get a good look at his face.
“You look familiar, have you been to Nimbus before?”
“No Ma’am!”
“Hmm,” Rain leaned back, rubbing her chin with a hoof.
Thorn stepped forward, tapping Rain’s shoulder. “Rain, leave the rookies alone. Let’s go find the guys and get a drink.”
Nodding, Rain shot Dawn and Finder one last glare. “Pay attention, greenwings.”
“Ma’am, yes Ma’am!”
“I’m so bored,” Finder moaned.
Carver, who was laying with his blind-side to Finder, didn’t bother looking over to his friend, though he did snort quietly. “You said that yesterday. And the day before that, and pretty much every other day in the last week we’ve been here.”
“Sorry.” Stretching out with his wings, Finder made a satisfied groan. “I never thought I’d miss Updraft. At least there we had something to keep us busy.”
“Was that before or after you were keeling over?”
Finder’s cheeks flushed and he turned away from his friend. “It was one time!”
The older pony chuckled to himself, his wings stretching out against the soft cumulous cloud they had found on the outskirts of town. From their positions, they could look out across the fields to the east where far away legions of pegasi were cutting their way through Gryphus. Finder wondered if his brother was among them, where he was stationed, or if he was even fighting on the front.
“Hard to believe there’s a war going on,” Carver said reflectively.
“Hm?” Finder looked over to Carver, having not been paying attention.
“Look at the fields.” Carver waved his tan hoof at the horizon. Finder followed the motion, his eyes looking out to the endless sea of golden grass bathed in the gentle glow of sunset. “The fields look the same as any other day, like there’s never been any wars, griffons, or pegasi. It’s just the world at peace and nature taking its course.” Carver sighed and leaned his head back until he was resting against a bundle of cloud he’d fluffed into a simple pillow. “Wouldn’t it be pleasant if instead of killing griffons we built schools and temples to teach their children our ways? If we cooperated with them to expand our knowledge of art, architecture, philosophy, and faith… If we engaged in meaningful dialogue with them about our mutual problems.”
“Probably,” Finder agreed with a little nod. He stretched out his wings and back until his spine made a dull pop.
“Just think,” Carver continued, his hoof rubbing at the sore half of his face. “What would the world be like if griffons and pegasi sat down and talked through their problems. How many ponies and griffons would still be alive today? What sort of things could we trade with them, how could we better each other through cooperation?”
Carver took a deep breath, his eye watching the clouds drift overhead. “How pleasing would the whole world be if everyone would only say ‘please’.”
Finder thought about it for a few moments before rolling onto his side so he was facing Carver. “It’d be nice, but it’ll never happen. We’re just too different, I guess.”
“I suppose,” Carver said, sighing as he did. “What a shame.”
From somewhere behind them, Summer’s voice cut through the air. “Just remember boys, pacifism is a nice idea, but it’ll get you killed.”
Both Finder and Carver jumped up in surprise, a few loose feathers drifting from their wings. Summer and Dawn stood a few feet away, their armor back at the barracks along with their weapons. They giggled to themselves at their successful ambush.
“The looks...” Dawn paused for another laugh. “The looks on your faces!”
Before Finder knew what was happening, he felt Carver’s forelegs wrap around his chest and heave him into the air. Pathfinder’s eyes went wide and he let out a startled squeak as he found himself suddenly becoming a very real meat shield. Carver balanced on his back legs, holding the shocked, wide-eyed colt in front of him.
“Back! Back, vile beasts! I’m armed!” Carver shouted, pointing Finder at Dawn and Summer in turn.
Summer looked to Dawn. “I don’t think he knows how to use that.”
“Yeah,” Dawn nodded in agreement, “last time he tried he took an eye out.”
“Can you let me go now?” Finder mewled.
“Have at thee!” Carver shouted, thrusting the unfortunate colt towards the mares.
Finder squawked his disapproval, his wings instinctively flapping against the motion. Only Carver’s superior size and strength kept him from losing his balance. Dawn and Summer merely laughed at the ridiculous effort.
“Let me down!” Finder shouted, squirming in Carver’s grip.
“Drop the kid before you lose something more important than an eye,” Dawn said, laughing all the while.
“You’re all no fun,” Carver pouted, releasing Finder from his grip and dropping back to all fours. “So, what can I do you for, ladies?” he asked, giving them his best smile and a dashing look. “Scars are sexy in Nimbus, right?”
Summer laughed and shook her head. “Call on us when you get a real scar, Carv.”
“What do you mean a ‘real scar’? I got m’bloody eye cut out!” Carver said, pointing to his bandaged face with a hoof.
“It certainly was bloody, but really, Carver, eye scars are so overrated.” Summer winked to him.
With a mighty pout, Carver sat on the cloud and folded his forelegs across his chest. “You suck, Summer.”
“At least she swall—Ow!” Dawn yelped as Summer’s hoof cuffed the back of her head.
“Brat. Anyway,” Summer began, a very noticeable flush in her cheeks. “His royal arsehole, Skyhammer, has decreed, I mean, requested that second platoon gather in Greenwing Grotto.”
“This place,” Carver held up a hoof with which he traced lazy circles in the air. “You speak of it like we should know it.”
“Tourists,” Dawn grunted.
“It’s a crappy bar where Cirran centurions think it’s funny to take their raw recruits.” Summer shook her head and gave a bored flap of her wings. “They don’t seem to know that it hasn’t been funny in about a hundred years.”
“Cirrans always were slow on the uptake,” Dawn said.
With a sarcastic laugh, Carver rolled his eyes. “Says the Nimbans who didn’t learn to read until last week.”
“Hey!” Dawn trotted up to carver, her small hoof jabbing him in the chest. “It was three weeks ago.”
Summer scoffed and shook her head, the tiniest of smiles pulling at her lips. She turned around and motioned with her left wing for them to follow her. “This way, greenwings, it’s not that far.” With that she gave two solid flaps to get airborne. Carver, Dawn, and Pathfinder followed after her, the red light of the setting sun washing over their backs.
When Pathfinder thought of a bar, his mind conjured images of the simple inn and tavern back home called The Anchorage. Built shortly after the first ponies settled in Altus, The Anchorage was a dark, almost cobbled together construction of logs that had washed ashore and rough hewn stones taken from gods knew where. The pungent stench of pipeweed, spilt ale, and fish bordered on overwhelming at the best of times.
The Greenwing Grotto had the similar stench of spilt ale and a few other choice fluids that seemed to permeate the cloudstone walls and floors. Unlike the Anchorage, the Grotto boasted a long bar and many finely crafted tables made of properly milled wood. Decades of use and countless thousands of hooves had polished the surfaces to a smooth finish that gave them a sort of charm even a pony like Finder could appreciate.
The stallions and mares of Second Platoon gathered themselves at the back corner of the bar around a long line of wooden barrels. Skyhammer himself was sat in front of the barrels as though to protect them from the greedy hooves that clamored for their alcoholic contents like foals fighting over the last sweetroll. Skyhammer seemed to be taking his usual perverse pleasure from their suffering, taunting his recruits with his very full mug of Cirran ale that he occasionally sipped at.
“Patience is a virtue, Greenwings,” he said, chuckling as he slowly gulped a mouthful of his drink. He made a dramatic sigh, his tongue licking pearls of foam from his lips. “Oh, gods that’s the stuff. Let me tell you poor, dumb bastards, this is some good ale.”
“Please, sir, just a drop?” one of the recruits pleaded.
Skyhammer’s answer was a self-satisfied smile and a firm “Nope.”
With Summer leading the way, Finder, Dawn, and Carver took their places at a small round table towards the back of the bar. Skyhammer taunted the recruits that hovered by the kegs for a while longer before shooing them away to their tables. Once everypony in Second Platoon was sitting, he allowed the barkeeps to serve an ale to every pony with the strict order that none were to touch their drinks until he let them.
Nopony was willing to try their luck, no matter how parched their throats were.
“All right you slovenly sacks a shit,” Skyhammer started once everypony had a drink in front of them. He stood up on his hind legs and leaned against the kegs for balance. “I’m not much for speeches that don’t involve a bit of grass drills,” Skyhammer paused for the very expected groan of agony that wafted up from his platoon. He smiled. At the very least, they’d never forget him. “That said, I have to say that I’m proud of most of you.”
He pointed back to Summer. “Except you, Celsus, you stubborn whorse daughter!”
“Your mother was a whorse too, sir!” She called back, earning a laugh from the entire platoon.
With a good natured laugh, Skyhammer seemingly let his guard down for a moment. For that single moment, he allowed his platoon to see the pony under the armor. Proud, strong, vulnerable, mortal. Closing his eyes and taking a breath, Skyhammer looked to his recruits with a smile tugging at his lips. “We came as individuals, we leave as each other. Brother to brother, there are no others. Honor the gods, stay with your wingpony, and we’ll be home in six months.”
Skyhammer stood up straight and snapped to attention. “Ante Legionem nihil erat.”
“Et nihil erit post Legionem,” his century answered, sixty-four voices speaking in a near perfect unison that filled Skyhammer’s gut with pride.
“Now then,” the centurion hefted his tankard. “Let’s get drunk!”
The raucous cheer that went up from the recruits was almost enough to deafen Skyhammer, at least until they started drinking.
Finder poked at his mug with his small hooves, regarding it more as a plaything than something to be consumed. Beside him, Carver easily slammed every drop of his own mug while Summer and Dawn downed at least half of their own drinks. Carver looked to Finder and curiously arched an eyebrow.
“Aren’t you gonna drink that?” he asked.
"I don't like ale," Finder mumbled, feeling a bit like he was admitting to a minor crime.
"It's liquid courage," Carver said with a chuckle and a hearty smack of his hoof against Finder's shoulder. “You should have some. It’s, um...it’s good!”
Dawn shook her head in amusement. “Carver, you’ve only had one! How can you be drunk?”
“I’m—I’m not drunk!” he stuck his tongue out at her. “You’re drunk!”
“Not yet, I’m not,” Dawn said through a chuckle before lifting her tankard to her lips.
“Bloody featherweights,” Summer mumbled, though her lips pulled into a small smile.
“You tell them, half-breed,” Dawn said, giggling from the potent ale.
Summer whirled around to the smaller mare, fire in her eyes unlike anything Carver or Finder had ever seen. “Don’t bucking call me that!”
“Whoa there, easy, Summer!” Dawn held up her hooves to placate her friend. “It’s all in good fun! No reason to get choleric.”
Finder gentle prodded Carver’s ribs before leaning toward his ear. “What’s choleric mean?”
“I haven’t got the slightest clue.” Carver shook his head.
“You know I hate that,” Summer continued, unaware, or unconcerned with Finder and Carver’s conversation.
“Your mother’s from Stratopolis, there’s no shame in that! Your father’s still one of the most honored ponies in the city outside of House Rain.” Dawn hefted the ceramic cup to her lips and swallowed another burning mouthful of wine. “I mean, look at the bright side: you get to live wherever you wanna live. You can be any pony you want to be. Not all of us have the privilege of property rights in the capital.”
Summer snorted, her eyes rolling in their sockets. “Because I get along so well with those self-obsessed Stratopolis mares who think the only things in life worth doing are throwing luxuriant house parties and whoring themselves to senators more ancient than Cirra itself.” She spat in disdain. “Pathetic.”
“I thought you liked spreading your legs,” Dawn mumbled, laughing as Summer’s hoof cuffed the back of her head.
“Why don’t you go spread yours for the kid?” Summer suggested, jerking her head towards Finder and causing the colt to feel an intense burn spread across his cheeks. “Hell, I’m sure Carver would be happy to keep your bed warm.”
Dawn’s gaze drifted to Finder and she gave him a gentle smile that sent a shiver down his spine. “Maybe I will.”
Finder's hooves shot to his neglected tankard and hefted it to his lips where he promptly gulped down several mouthfuls.
Carver leaned over, his eye focused on the mares at the opposite side of the table. With his elbow, he nudged Finder’s ribs to get the colt’s attention. “I think she likes you. You should go for it.”
“I can hear you, Carver,” Dawn said, shaking her head with an amused laugh.
“Seriously,” Carver continued, “She’ll make a stallion out of you.”
“We’re not really talking about this, are we?” Finder asked, wondering how long it took for the ale to work it’s magic.
Summer nudged Dawn’s side, a downright evil grin on her face. “I’m curious how red his face can get. Ask him if he’s a virgin.”
“Shut up, Summer!” Finder shouted, his face turning very red, much to Summer’s amusement.
Dawn laughed and shook her head. She slid her left hoof across the worn table and set it atop of Finder’s. “How’s about tomorrow, I show you the museums and take you around the north quarter where I grew up?”
Carver leaned over to offer his advice, only to get smacked on the nose by the back of Finder’s hoof. The colt smiled at Dawn, nervous, but also eager. “That sounds really nice.”
Just for the night, Pathfinder allowed himself to forget the war. In the morning he could look for Longbow. In the morning, he could explore Nimbus with Dawn as his guide. In the morning, nothing important would change.
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"Then everything changed when the Griffons attacked"?
Am I close to accurately guessing your forshadowed intent? X3
Seriously, just post the fucking Plankton clip again. I know you want to :P
I've never actually taken the time to thing about that, but, now that I do, I find it strangely true.
Ah, the humor, oh how I have missed thy presence. There were so many good bits in this chapter. And those last dozen or so paragraphs near the ending... hot damn, me likey. You see... it's a story like this that I wouldn't mind seeing a chapter of the more erotic nature. A long story like this where you get to know the characters, where you actually forge an emotional attachment to them, it makes those kinds of things so much more enjoyable. You make us fear for their safety, and just love them and their snarky replies to each other.
~SolidFire
I like Nimbus. I really do.
You forgot to capitalize "Rain".
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4062973
I think you both know it's coming.
Stalwart and a unicorn, eh? We're a generation or two past the Cirran exodus, it's easily believable that the various tribes would be mixing on a blood level by now.
Huh, that doesn't bode particularly well for how Finder goes from having this group of friends at the start of the war to having none left on screen by the time he shows up in the second mainline story.
I wish I had a better memory of what happened to Nimbus when it fell in the first mainline story, but it really feels like this argument between Iron Rain and Gold Moon has something to do with how it went down.
Hah!
Dang, Carver's ideas here. So much bloodshed and so many corpses could have been avoided in the Empire had taken that sort of approach with the gryphons. Definitely a philosophy ahead of its time.
64 pegasi in a century? Are they using base eight or something, or maybe it's a reflection of how understrength the Legion is? (Or maybe I'm just reading subtext that isn't there again, heh.)
I'm with Carver, Finder should definitely take a chance with Dawn. You never know what the future will bring.
Speaking of the future and things that don't bode well...
4068982
Cirra doesn't have the character '9'. I really shouldn't have been surprised you were the one who picked up on that subtle bit of canon.
Technically, Cirra doesn't have 7 either. Their counting goes:
I II IV V VI VII IX X
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
In contrast, Roaman Numerals, which are frequently used in the story following the Cirran Exodus, are in Base-10 under Unicornian mathematics, but hold to the Cirran system of symbols in keeping with that tradition.
BTW, for everyone's benefit: Roam is not a pun on the verb 'to roam', but rather, on the coloration 'roan' which occurs in horses.
4069816 Huh, that was just a passing thought as I saw that number and word go by, I'm glad I commented on it.
4068982
Pathfinder has just invoked the dread god Finagle and his mad prophet Mutphy.
Not so much "tempting fate" as it is "sneaking up behind Fate and kicking it in the nads with steel-capped boots".
Of course everything could very well go completely swimmingly the following morning. The afternoon however... (For maximum perverse irony, I imagine the excrement will impact the cooling device the moment Pathfinder and Dawn are in flagrante delicto...)
Gee Carver, how observant of you :P
This amuses the immature side of me. Which is about 95%, so I laughed.
Anyway, continuing this after having read A Song of Storms (at least the first SoS) gives all of this a very different context and feeling from before. I think it's definitely an improvement.
And since everyone is way too happy they'll all die soon, probably.
I've read OSLF and SaS, so i know this will end...
Good writing though! Keep it up!
I look forwards to the next update.
4100340
You know some things, but I assure you, I have plenty of surprises in store
Also, you have the best avatar pic on fimfic
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Thanks!