Purple Skies

by Leafed Timberwolf

Sev'illah Cela Rising

Much has been said already about the why the Arua’illah believed to have the advantage, now let us turn to the Sev’illah, impetuous and possessed by the bloated god of war.

A conch bellowed, catching the attention of those in the flowery side of the field. The field itself was slightly raised, enough for each changeling to see over the head of the one in front of him; the Lekl changelings holding up their dead leader stood on the highest point.
They saw none other than Lord Perfeyadous emerge out of the forest afront his army, a scene comparable to what it would look like to trip on an ant hill and watching the numberless ants emerge slowly out of the dirt. The clearing between them must’ve been something like two hundred meters long, slightly more than two football fields.

The mountain changelings were said to possess loud, carrying voices, but even so, no one seemed to have a louder voice than the Cela Lord. He raised the obsidian-tipped spear he held tightly with the grooves of his foreleg. “Today we will fight as our forefathers did, in the mountains against those who sought to enslave us. Bite them! We will triumph, and add unforgettable glory to the name of our clan! The time approaches... Make ready!”

Loud, shrilling cheers erupted in the thousands. Confidence was infected even to those in the far back who had not heard him.

A conch bellowed twice. A slight breeze blew away from the Sev’illah and towards the other force, cooling the hot backs of the changelings and bringing forth the smell of vegetation. After this, the field was quite quiet, enough for the field’s insects’ ugly music to be heard, until the marching sound of hoovesteps replaced it.

The teeth of the ahuizotl, the spear throwers, advanced past their lord, all one hundred and eighty, and stopped. These clanschangelings were a cut above the average warrior, and were often the lynchpin of their lord’s battle strategy. The presence of the Cela Scorpions in the line of battle was plenty to raise the hearts of all those around them, making their determination to resist the heavy blows of their enemies dauntless. Perfeyadous knew they would hold, and had based his strategy around that fact. They were slightly more armored than the Enao’illah Arrtiss, they wore armor vests made of braided jute and hardened with brine, their helmets - since the scorpion is a small creature and one can’t say they can be ‘agape’ - looked like a big scorpion with its tail raised and with little claws coming out of the sides, and their spears were tipped with a scorpion venom that stiffened the muscles and made them feel heavy. Each one carried plenty of spears, one they fought with, and the others they threw with a tool known to the Southron ponies as the ‘atlatl’.

The factors which led the three groups to acquire such an exalted position within their clan’s warriors were hard to define: training and skill played their part, but spiritual and physical endurance were highly praised. It was thought that if the normal Cela kept fighting like a good changeling, even when the tide of battle was against him, their heroes had to be able to accomplish much more miraculous feats. Like charging into the thousands successfully. A lucky few carried such strength within, while the others emulated them because of their example.

Such colorful words raise questions of the possibility of their prowess. The mountain changelings’ fangs weren’t any sharper, nor their body any hardier, than the even the Arrtiss changelings’. What actually made them any more special, and their advantages any more advantageous, was their special ability, mentioned earlier.

Two thousand plus Sev’illah Cela stretched their napes, spread their wings, filled their lungs and let out a shrill cry. Again. And again. And again. And again. IIIIIIIAAAAAAAUUUUUUU!

The small Enao’illah, who made the front of the opposing force, gripped their spears tighter and skittered closer to a buddy here and there.

The Sev’illah let out another shrill cry, and one more. The air around each one became greasy, like a hot summer-day's haze. They began flapping their wings so quickly as to make them disappear in one’s vision, and the haze, which did not affect them, shifted and turned in an odd spectacle of swirling art, and it surged forward - aided by the breeze.

The Arrtiss looked at each other, so did some of the Lekl. Soon the mist would pass them, ever so slowly.

With another blow of the conch, the ahuizotl’s teeth advanced in a fast pace to get close enough to throw their spears, just as the mist reached the Enao’illah changelings. It felt, indeed, like a mist or light rain.

Their noses began to burn.

Their eyes itched a little.

Meanwhile, Luciferin came to stand next to Lord Perfeyadous, as he had requested, carrying something that also lifted the spirits of the clanschangelings: the Sev’illah Cela banner, made with amate paper, depicting a blue sky and a white, four-peaked mountain. Some of the warriors were painted with these colors, sky blue and white, and some of the youths even strapped poles to their barrels that had strips of these colors tied to them. Luciferin had become accustomed to the mist under his training with Perfeyadous, at least to were its effects were incredibly lessened, still, he covered his snout with a cloth he had wrapped around him all the way to his withers.

Their banner, or so he believed, was wrapped in leafs.

“The standard, Luciferin.” Perfeyadous held out a pole for all behind him to see, which he would slide through the middle of the banner.

What happened next made Luciferin feel a chill up his spine, for the banner, their standard, was not there. In its place, this banner was dark green with a four-leafed, white clover. There was no cheer. “My-my Kyat?”

It was they symbol of Sychopis and his ilk, or more specifically, their wild religion.

“We are winning today, my child.” He responded quietly.

Luciferin swallowed. He looked around, the Cela standard did appear with the capable Axul, but he felt it would be wiser to remain silent.

The ahuizotl’s teeth hoped, their spears sailed through the air like arrows. The Battle of Calara – meaning flowery - Field had begun.

The Enao’illah would not charge, the Sev’illah were close, but not close enough to consider giving up their defensive pose in their slightly raised ground - highest point of which was occupied by the Arua’illah. The ones in front of the Cela Scorpions must’ve seen something similar to what one would see looking up in a storm.

Some tried to dodge. Their noses and eyes burned with more intersity. Some tried to ‘dance’ their way off the spears’ path as they rubbed their eyes. Some put up their forelegs in the hopes that the shaft would not go through a hole. Some succeeded. Others were struck in their softer areas, then tried to palp the frighteningly cold-feeling sting off. Other more unlucky ones were caught around their necks and fell over dead after spewing a mixture of chunky red and white fluids. The idea of how quickly death seemed to come to those unfortunate few disturbed those standing next to them, no matter how brave they believed themselves to be. Those alive but struck began feeling weighted down and cold.

Some brave little Arrtiss decided to brake formation to charge them, but these few were quickly brought down in a hideous spectacle. Their bodies were unable to roll properly because of the spears sprouting out of their bodies. So they concluded the best course of action was to avoid the projectiles, as the alternative was running away towards the Arua’illah. An Arrtis further back rose and rallied his comrades, for it was clear to all watching: their resolve was shaken. The balance between their fear of the Arua’illah and their fear toward death was becoming upset; what did not completely throw it over was the knowledge that they were the force superior in numbers.

The front group of Enao’illah, each group a hundred or so, as the Sev’illah could see each one clearly, looked scarce, as did the group next to them. As their spears ran out, something worse began happening to the Enao’illah, all of them, not just the ones at the front, for the special ability of the Sev’illah was not only to make eyes water. Two separate conch bellows signaled the ahuizotl’s claws and the rest of the Cela forward.

The Arrtiss’s hearts began racing. Dark thoughts overwhelmed their minds. They shook their heads. They rubbed their eyes. They gasped. Some began fearing they wouldn’t be able to hold their composure.

The conch bellowed thrice consecutively. The Sev’illah’s shrill cried rung out once more. And they charged as they yelled.

The Enao’illah charged as well. The battle lines collided.

The Arrtiss looked exemplary brave. As if as one, they rose on their hindlegs, spears pointed forward, and poured onto whatever group of Cela they had in front. If they could catch a Cela off guard, they could stab him in multiple places and bring him down.

The Enao’illah’s reality broke apart, this happened to the ones at the front first. The sound of silence took over their ears, until it popped into whispers seeming to come from all around them. Erratic false signals had flooded their hearing. Their eyes, now speckled with dark splotches, fogged up. However, their vision returned quite quickly, as if fog had lifted. They opened their eyes to see, not what they knew should’ve been there.

What they saw seemed to be filtered through red water. Black figures with steaming silhouettes came towards them. They were around them. Their eyes looked like seething coals. Sound became like livid ash, except for the whispers that came from nowhere. No mountain changeling had ever experienced the effects of their own mist, but they believe that what happens to others is that they look through the eyes of Xicuruata, the ahuiztol blood-thirsty war god, and hear his voice.

So, the Enao'illah were introduced and the Arua’illah reminded of what made mountain changelings special:

Their ability to secrete a grave hallucinogen.

His opponent's spear pointed forward, a Cela warrior simply smacked it aside, then thrusted his own spear forward. Dodge and thrust, dodge and thrust. Gurgle and the color red. Another Cela stopped a charging Arrtiss by taking stabs at his hooves, then taking a stab toward the neck. By then another Cela had rushed past the Arrtiss, stricken him with his spear in the snout, and continued forward, allowing the first Cela to finish him off. The Cela’s charge was as devastating as had been expected. They lunged forward and speared through whoever was in front.

Little fountains of blood appeared here and there, and they grass became pockmarked in thick red smudges.

None had it worse than the Arrtiss at the center, as expected. With their reflexes heavily hindered, and pitted against the agile Cela, their numbers began to dwindle. One of the Cela Scorpions was particularly quick; he had speared through one, parried, speared through another to the left, hoped back, thrusted his spear towards another’s hooves making him jump back, and flown towards him with blinding speed, and speared his jaw through - another Arrtiss emerged from the right, but, before he knew it, he had a Cela biting down on his snout, snarling.

The Arua’illah’s strategy began to fall, and it fell like dominos. The Arrtiss in the back became affected like their comrades at the front were, but they, now in the chaos of fighting, lost track of which smoky figure was friend or foe, and which sound was a cry for help or bloodthirst. They could not make sense of anything behind or around them, for it was shrouded in shadows and ominous whispers, and they could make little sense of what was before them. One by one, they began to accidentally attack their friends, and more and more followed in their confused and violent wake.

Two more signals from a conch rose above the shifting cries in the battle. The ahuizotl’s claws charged above the battle line, towards the Arua’illah line, along with Perfeyadous and his bodyguard. From the left, with the Cela warriors, Ale’kal blew on the conch once more. “Fooooowaaaaaaard!”

The Enao’illah were no longer a concern, for they had begun to break. Those able to flee considered what they wanted, to live, and they fled one by one, until they began spiriting and flying out of the battle in groups. Those still thrashing about behind enemy lines would be finished by the skirmishers. Some with giant cacti.
The conch bellowed once more. From the back right of the Cela army, the canyon changelings flew forward, their snouts covered as best as they could.

Meanwhile, the Enao’illah realized they were losing ground. They turned around to look at the shaman near Ipnickeri. His body was lowered, and the shaman leaned ceremoniously to place his ear slit near the corpse’s mouth. He yelled with his foreleg pointed forward. The Arua’illah needed nothing else, they charged.

As their heavy hooves stomped the flowers under them, they realized a peculiarity in the air.

Their noses began to burn.

Their eyes itched a little.

They gripped their obsidian knifes harder, determined to power through. Cela sprang into the air, hitting the ground galloping and meeting them with spears. Fighting a hill changeling was like fighting a boar, hard, but nothing impossible.

They charged through, ramming into whomever they had in front and slashing away. A Cela had to suffer seeing his friend being knocked off his hooves after a Lekl collided headfirst into his chest, trampled his face while he still stood, and stabbed him in the barrel. Another was able to ram into a Cela, gut him, then grab onto another’s spear, tackle him and hack away at his withers before he was brought down by two spears to the barrel. They were very successful against the canyon changelings, a Cela later claimed to have witness a Lekl ram into one, beat his jaw bloody, then break another’s spear after which he grabbed onto is neck, which he also broke but not before he had been speared, yet he continued on his rampage. He hacked away at another canyon changeling until a spear went through his neck - thanks to a screaming canyoner. Even though they lacked experience, the canyon changelings joyously went on surehoofed, keeping close, their spirits carried by religious fervor. Soon the canyon changelings’ reformed a spear wall, which hundreds of Lekl tried to break, only to fall under it. Where the Lekl did not fare well was where they had begun to lose ground and where the Cela had advanced the fastest: the center.

In the brief moments were the battle seemed even, the ahuizotl's claws flew undaunted over the main line of fighting. The Coyote Cela warriors were armed with the macauhuitl, a club edged with obsidian blades: a weapon that could hack through plates considerably well, they were alos the only warriors to use shields, not out of tradition, but out of lack of resources. Their shields were emblazoned with symbols and colorful feathers to strike the Lekl in the face with. One of the Coyote Cela punted a Lekl in the head as he charged, the Lekl then rose on his hind legs and struck him the snout but he quickly hacked at his foreleg, swung up, and drove down the obsidian blades completely through his neck, cutting the Lekl’s head off in a mess. He also ruined one side of the weapon.

Pefeyadous, though having reached half his life, was quite adapt in fighting. He always went for the face, it was said, with his spear held high above his withers. He was easily recognizable, and he showed every warrior that fantasied on killing the Lord of the Cela that he was quite wrong, and that he would not live to tell he had fought him. Many Lekl would blink and rub their burning eyes, only to find that the Cela would give them no such luxury. Suddenly the Cela seemed to be everywhere, splotched with red. Luciferin was quite nimble, he had already dodged more than a dozen charged and even taken down a hooffull of enemies.

The Arua’illah began losing their grip on their senses. Perhaps it would be appropriate to say the last thing they remembered was seeing Lord Perfeyadous make his bodyguard haul hind to catch up to him. He flyhopped his way over enemies, completely disregarding them, to reach the dead lord.

Now in the middle of the fight to keep the Arua’illah steady, Ipnickeri’s bodyguard had also charged. Perfeyadous eyes were said to have looked obsessed at that moment. Luciferin struggled to fly over the enemies slashing at him.

It happened very quickly.

Perfeyadous landed, rose on his hind legs, and let out a shrill yell as he beat his spear against his chest. Ipnickeri’s guards flinched. He charged. One of them left the group and attacked the Cela Lord, but he, in turn, speared his face through, jumped over his withers, lunged at the dead lord, and pulled on the platform.

Luciferin sprinted. He was breathing hard. He arrived just in time to push off a Lekl guard lunging at his lord. The dead lord fell off the platform and Perfeyadous began stomping on his head with morbid joy as he yelled and screeched.

Crack

The remaining guards were left eye-wide as it became clear that the putrid, thick-black, seeping remains of their leader would protect them no more, or had never protected them at all. So, these 'bravest' Lekl guards turned tail, fled for their lives, without so much as bothering with Luciferin.

Seeing this, the hundreds of Arua’illah changelings around lost their resolve. By this point, however, those not fighting behind them were clustered, custered behind their falling comrades, unable to charge anywhere. They began to hear things. They began to see things. Those fighting quickly fell, unable to orient themselves. Those behind them lost track of who was friend and foe. Resolve was lost, as was clarity, and the battle.

A Lekl rammed into his buddy and slashed wildly. He fought back. Those around them pounced at each other. Those further back realized the only way out was to flee.

The conch bellowed five times, signaling the final blow of the Sev’illah army. The ahuizotl’s tail, the Cela Iguanas, charged from the back left, opening another front and throwing the Lekl into further confusion.

Soon, what remained of the Arua’illah Lekl army found itself on full retreat. When no one was left fighting against the Cela, that was completely sure of whom they were fighting, the conch bellowed six times. A cheer finally rose from the Cela. Jubilant, they punched the air before them and chanted.

Looking back all the field’s flowers had been trampled, and only rows and waves of bodies decorated the field.

Perfeyadous raised their standard. “Come my brothers! Let us enjoy the sweet juice of the rarest fruit: victory!”

Curiously, it would be worth mentioning that whoever survived the Cela’s mist was left with a mango taste in their throat afterwards.

And so, the Battle of Calara Field ended: with the Sev’illah Cela hunting down and capturing whoever they could before they where too far away. This was a grand sport to them. In the end, more than three thousand six hundred of the Arua’illah’s force perished, with around eight hundred and seventy of the allied forces of the Sev’illah having layed down their lives for the Cela cause - most of Sychopi’s forces included.

*

Now we find a still bloody Ale’kal, a clean Luciferin and Perfeyadous on a hill, surrounded in vegetation arranged for them to sit on comfortably, with a large fire burning in the distance. The sun is beginning to set.

“These are the best news I've heard since Topoch Ico declared it was still Cela territory. I almost can’t believe news of our victory traveled so far so quickly.” Ale’kal marveled. “The cliff clans will be great allies against the interior clans, not to mention what we will be able to do now that the mountain clans have joined as well. Never in the history of the Black Palace has an entire race declared themselves part of a clan.”

“So will we allow all the mountain changelings to join the Sev’illah Cela?” asked Luciferin.

“Of course we will!” Ale’kal exclaimed with enthusiasm. “The news of all the mountain changelings united under one banner alone will make the interior clans use the name Cela to scare naughty younglings into obeying!”

“This is the start of a new era.” said Perfeyadous. “The misery our brothers are forced to live in will be no more! No longer will clans pay tribute to the central clans of the Black Palace. We will rule.”

“Absolutely.” said a new voice. Luciferin frowned. “My Kyat,” Sychopis bowed. "I have even greater news."

“Greater than all the mountain changelings joining the Cela? I highly doubt that.” Spat Luciferin.

“What is it?”

Sychopis looked past Luciferin now. “Many of your subjects wish to convert now, after your glorious victory, my Kyat.” He bowed once more. Luciferin turned to look at Lord Perfeyadous so quickly, Sychopis felt it correct to add to his previous statement. “They seem quite taken, my Kyat. Surely this is an important day for us my Kyat, it has been full of Mother’s blessings.”

Mother, Luciferin thought bitterly. Mother, the god. Pah.

“Excelent.” Perfeyadous rose. Luciferin started, he turned to look at Ale’kal, who looked immediately away.

“Mother gave us victory today, Luciferin.” Sychopis grinned. Luciferin opened his mouth to speak, but he cut him off swiftly. “Is that not true, my Kyat”?

"Yes… I had a dream, my brothers.” he said addressing the general and Luciferin. “I was thirsty, alone in the desert, but here was nothing than barren sand for miles. Suddenly a bush covered in dew appeared before me. Mother’s voice then spoke to me, and she told me that if I flew her banner today, she would give me the Black Place. So, I woke.” He stood now next to Sychopis, who was slightly taller. “Truth is my brothers, I saw my own father mutilate himself to get our gods’ help before we fled to the Tenemachili when I was young. Defeat after defeat, the gods seemed to have forgotten about my father. He even... cut off a piece of his tongue. He died... later you know I ordered that poor princess skinned, all to make sure they would hear my family once more... but what did I end up having to do? Drag my clan to a piss hole to live in safely, that's what!" he roared. "And for fourteen years we remained in the isle. It wasn’t until Sychopis showed me the truth that a comet streaked through the skies.”

“But my Kyat,” Luciferin blurted out. “Tonatlaan sur-”

“Tonatlaan is dead! Dead!” Perfayadous yelled furiously. “Where was Tonatlaan when my father could no longer talk to me? When we were in exile? Where?!”

Indeed, shortly after Perfeyadous's father Toni'rrivadous Cela, died of an infection,

Luciferin shrank. Perfeyadous had hardly ever yelled at him. Ale’kal froze.

“The old gods have had their time. I have seen the truth. All the souls in the Black Palace will be saved, and even you will be compelled to kneel before Mother in time.”

Sychopis smiled.

“My Kyat,” Ale’kal rose. “I beg you forgive me, but I haven’t eaten since before the battle, and I am starving, surely Luciferin is too, and we must check on the moral of the Cela. Plus, I keep thinking of how brave the Enao’illah were, and it makes me even hungrier.”

“You’re not eating some of the Lekl, are you?” Sychopis said as he wrinkled his nose.

“Of course not the Lekl.”

Perfeyadous nodded.

Ale’kal nodded back “Come Luciferin.” Both turned to leave.

“Oh, what’s the matter with me?” Sychopis gasped in untrue shock. “I haven’t even said the best news yet.”

“What, Sychopis?” Luciferin spat back.

“Mother has sent us another sign, from beyond the desert.”

“Nothing crosses the desert.”

“Not something, but someone, and she did.”

“She?” Perfeyadous asked.

“Mother has called us today to go beyond what any clan has gone, in her name. She has sent us a leader to follow.”

“Follow to what?”

“To a place that will bring us closer to her... For this, she has sent us…” he made a sweeping gesture with his foreleg. “... A queen.”

If there was something every changeling in the Black Place knew, it was that there were no royal changeling types. Not since the times of the old gods.

Luciferin mouth went agape for a second, and for a second he looked at Sychopis and looked as if he was about to growl and bare his fangs. Ale’kal shook his head. “My Kyat, we will go eat now. Come Luciferin, come!” He grabbed Luciferin by the withers and dragged him down the hill with him.

“Nothing crosses the desert. Nothing crosses the desert.” Luciferin kept muttering. “No… Nothing crosses the desert." he cried. "No one can cross the desert!”