Teacht
The belly of the good ship Mercy was divided into three broad areas. The first, near the stern of the craft, was home to the various mechanisms that drove the ship’s engines, making sure that the great craft’s wings kept beating and that the balloon was kept inflated by means of spells of heat and air. The second, largest section was the cargo bay, normally full of trade goods or provisions for the crew. It was rather light on this trip, as Mercy had been pulled from exercises to fetch its real cargo from Ponyville.
The third and smallest section was near the bow, where the passenger cabins were. It was here that the Mercy’s passengers had spent most of their stay, far away from the other areas of the ship, including the crew berths, which were located more towards the cargo hold. The problem with the cabins at the front of the ship was that, while they were small in order to accommodate more passengers, they were still only a few in number. Only twenty were there all told, and they saw rare use. The crew cabins were all full, meanwhile, which left sixty soldiers from what might as well have been a foreign nation with absolutely nowhere to lay their heads at night.
A solution had been proposed after much hemming and hawing, and so cargo netting had been strung from the walls and beams of the ship, forming crude hammocks. Rope ladders were formed, Pegasi were shuffled to the topmost berths, and so, with a bit of complaining, the journey had passed in relative silence from the personal guard of Serale Everstar. It wasn’t a total silence, as sixty soldiers with little to do will find some way to amuse themselves, and an early incident involving an enterprising private and a misplaced socket wrench had resulted in the engineers of the ship to demand something be done to keep the passengers occupied before another engine blew out.
So they had trained. They had not trained with rifles, or with their bayonets, in fact their weapons were under lock and key while on board the vessel. They had not done any physical training, nor had they set hoof above decks aside from the hour of free time they had after the evening meal for a week. They, and indeed all the captains, had spent the intervening time catching up on what they were required to learn before landing in Dawndale.
“You call that a bowline knot?” Afi bellowed at the unfortunate mare who had left too little rope on the interior of the knot. With a sharp tug, the knot unraveled in his hooves, and he tossed the strand of rope contemptuously back in her face. “If you’d tied that knot on your tent camping on a mountainside, you’d be halfway down the slope before your sorry arse woke back up!”
The mare blanched, alternating between babbling an apology, scrambling to get the knot tied properly, and cringing away from the irate Ranger that had whirled away from her to round on another unfortunate and begin to berate him for another, almost impercievable slight. The rest of the ponies, about twenty all told, began to work even faster to get their knots right, fumbling with the lengths of rope, twine, and fiber they’d been given to fiddle with.
Another group, farther up the hold (though “farther” was perhaps a generous term), was engrossed in the task of packing and re-packing kit bags for a long march. Such assorted goods as socks, tinderboxes, ammunition packets, and rations, lay in scattered heaps, having been dumped out for the fourth time this morning after the unfortunate Guards still could not managed to get their packs closed and balanced properly.
A Gryphon strolled among their ranks, pointing out their flaws and offering gentle encouragement or mild reprimand as the case may be, a far cry from his more boisterous compatriot. Though they hadn’t managed it yet, his class of perhaps a dozen had gotten better each time at making sure their packs were both well-packed and well-balanced, which any seasoned campaigner knew was of great importance in preventing the kind of soreness which could prove unpleasant in the short term and fatal in a fight.
The rest of the ponies in the hold were engaged in perhaps that most time-honored of traditions, performed for the first time upon receiving their dress uniform and hated every time it was performed afterward; the clipping of strings and the shining of boots and buttons. Some among their number grumbled and groused, while others seemed to be resigned to their fate as they perused the seams of their jackets for even the smallest of strings. One or two existed in a state of serene contemplation as they clipped, their minds far away as they combed through the legs of their pants and scrubbed gently at their shoes with bootblack. A lucky few had brought butane lighters, a relatively new invention, for the purpose of smoking pipes, but they served well here for singing away the sad remnants of curled string-stumps.
They engaged in this activity because, in less than an hour, they would be given the call to rise with the rest of the ship as the sun came up and they arrived in the city of Dawndale, and Captain Fidelis would be damned if they turned out in anything less than full parade, in lockstep, and putting their absolute best hoof forward. Anything less would be considered an insult, both to their hosts and the Lady they served. And so it was that, by the light of lanterns and rising before the sun, the sixty soldiers of the brave Royal Guard clipped strings, with the only thing to look forward to afterwards being yet more lessons and briefings.
Upon completion, the Guards raised a hoof, at which point the junior captain of their number would approach them and examine their uniforms with a critical eye, noting the flaws and making last-minute adjustments. Currently, he was engaged with two unicorns who were attempting to sew on loose buttons.
“It needs to be a half-inch lower,” Vino said to Private Moon, “Or else it’ll tug at the button-hole and make the uniform bunch up. Aside from that, this jacket is flawless. Have Sergeant Antler use a starching spell before you put it on.”
Private Moon nodded as Vino straightened up with a groan. He’d been up more than an hour before his troops, making sure his own uniform was in order and that his bags were packed in the still darkness of the hold, before meeting with the captains, themselves more than a little disheveled, and receiving his assignment, a predictably lousy one.
The news of Vino’s admonishment had spread quickly through the enlistees, proving the old adage that the only thing which spread faster through the ranks than a venereal disease was a rumor. More than once over the past day or so, he’d caught watchful eyes cast his direction, a few whispered mentions of his name, and at one point, Corporal Hopper had approached him and respectfully told his captain that he thought he’d made the right decision at the bridge.
At least, Vino thought, the ponies under his direct command seemed to pay a little more attention to their uniforms than most. Perhaps it was because he’d gone over the regulations with them and helped them pack, or maybe it was their own personal initiative and pride. Either way, he’d had to spend half as long on any member of the 4th Rifles as members of the other squads.
“Sir Hedera!” a sharp female voice called, and Vino roused himself from his reverie to see that Kore was speaking to him, her sharp features distinguishable even in the dim light of the hold. As always, he found himself a bit captivated by her unusual eyes, red slitted pupils over green irises, and so he forced himself to stare instead at a point directly below her horn.
“Aye?” he called back, moving through the crowd to meet her. He noticed that she was garbed in her armor, mace slung at her belt.
“You’ve been relieved,” she said, perhaps a bit contemptuously. Of all the captains, she seemed to have taken the most pleasure in the announcement that he’d be mentored by the others. “Captain Fidelis says to change into your armor and meet him on deck. Armor, not uniform jacket.”
Vino replied with only a nod, grateful that he’d taken the time that morning to arrange his armor as well as his regular uniform. “Please check with Privates Flora and Granite,” he replied. “They need another check on their boots. Aside from that, most of the Guards have been assigned their final preparations and will be ready to march when we land.”
Kore grunted, shunting him to one side. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “Go strap on your armor, unless you need assistance.”
Vino simply walked away instead of replying to the barb, pretending he didn’t hear the challenge in her voice. He was quite mystified as to why she seemed to harbor such dislike for him, as he hadn’t done anything to warrant such a disposition, but it seemed she had settled on him to be the recipient of her most vitriolic criticism, though she wasn’t exactly sociable with the rest of the captains. Not for the first time, Vino wondered why she had bothered to volunteer for service in the Guard. She didn’t show any special love for the Lady or the Crown, and a warrior of Kore’s skill could undoubtedly find better work in a less stifling job. Still, she was here, and if half of what Vino had heard about her was true, he was glad to have her along.
Vino’s bunk was close to one side of the ship, and as such, he had a bit more room to stow his things. His uniform jacket, untouched since he had left, was placed carefully back in the proper bag, and the smallish box containing his armor was opened instead. Normally, there would be a stand for such a thing as plate armor, but there hadn’t been any room for it, and Vino had worn the armor on the move to the train anyway, so instead, it had been placed in a wooden crate filled with straw, which his brushed from the pieces as he withdrew them one by one.
It was perhaps a bit more dusty than it needed to be, but as Vino inspected each piece in turn before putting it on, as a knight was trained to do, he felt that the armor still shone proudly enough to warrant wearing in the ranks. There was a certain comfort in the ritual, not just from knowing that the armor would provide protection, but in the familiarity of donning the pieces themselves. When Vino wore the jacket of the Guard, he was a captain, holding a modicum of rank, but in the end, nothing more than a cog in the great machine of the Evening Kingdom’s Guard. When he wore the armor, it was a mark of his being part of an ancient and honorable brotherhood, charged with protecting the weak and pursuing justice, honor, and a nobler calling. Any pony with drive could become a captain, but it took a special sort to become a knight.
Buckling the last pieces into place, he turned to leave, but before he did, a thought came almost unbidden to his mind. A green length of fabric lay folded at the head of his bed, more as an afterthought than anything else, but Vino reached for it and drew it over his shoulders, buckling it into place as he did so. The tabard fell perfectly, displaying the white vines and trio of three-pointed leaves that made up the ancestral mark of Vino’s own House.
He and Aura had their differences, he mused, but on one thing they did agree. It had been too long since the House colors had been flown in defense of their Kingdom, and it was high time they did so again. He only hoped that he would do them proud. He grabbed his helmet, put his bladeband around one foreleg, and deemed himself ready to move.
So garbed, he made his way back through the crowd to the cargo hatch, and ascended the stairs to the deck, there to ready himself for the arrival in Dawndale.
Dawndale was a city in the same way its princess was a pretty mare. The statement was technically true, but it didn’t really do the subject any justice. Dawndale surpassed the idea of a “city”, and was instead a piece of beautiful art that happened to house ponies. Buildings of beautiful wood, carved meticulously by fine artisans, dotted the wide avenues, paved in frescoes of heroic deeds, romantic images, and breathtaking spectacles of nature, swirling together in magnificent harmony. The high roofs of the houses and shops were sloped sharply to avoid caving in under the weight of winter’s heavy snows, and the lintels were often embossed with metal that shone brightly in the mid-afternoon sun.
Though they lay partially barren, the multitude of parks that dotted the landscape held plants that thrived year-round in abundance, and even in the chill of the winter breeze, ponies could be seen strolling through the lush greenery from the deck of the Mercy as she soared overhead, making her was to an airship spire that curled upward like the horn of a unicorn, all grace and delicate, hidden strength. Nor did the beauty of Dawndale stop at the foot of the massive peaks, that loomed over the city like long-posted sentinels in coats of purplish-black and caps of gleaming white. Houses clung to the side, seemingly in defiance of gravity, with wide balconies overlooking the city and curiously curved roads meandering lazily up the sides of the mountains to their doors.
Even the mines, from which Dawndale and the rest of Cadance’s holdings took their nickname of “The Crystal Kingdom”, were beautiful in and of themselves. They glittered in a hundred colors, decorated with some of the finest gems its workers pulled from the depths of the great caves that wound their way back into the roots of the earth. They would close soon enough, socked in by snow, but a few late minecarts could be seen making their way in caravans down the steep slopes, aided by unicorn magic and cunning engineering, tracks that wound in and around and down the mountainsides that were pinnacles of craftsmanship in their own right.
The city itself was situated in a deep valley, with fields of barren farmland at the mouth giving way to spotted settlements and proper suburbs as one approached the end of the gap. At the very end was a plateau, a natural outcropping of the mountain that had been smoothed out centuries prior, and upon that plateau was the Palace of the Dawn, though it was commonly known as “The Bower”.
The Palace was the crown jewel in a city comprised of precious gems, though underneath its beautiful exterior was a military history which showed to the pony with a trained eye. The stone walls, meticulously kept and painted with scenes of sunrise and rebirth, towered above a path that switched back and forth across the face of the cliff, allowing defenders to pelt would-be conquerors with arrow shot and rocks. Hidden in the cliff face were holes, through which hot sand, oil, and water could be poured. The Palace’s grounds, while palatial, were designed to break up enemy advances, placing gates at opposing sides of the complex, so the first breached gate would lead to a deadly trek around the keep to the second, and from there back towards the third.
The keep itself, surprisingly modest, was comprised of three towers rising out of a low villa. Red brick, with round white-tiled roofs, every window was made of stained glass. From each tower, a flag in bright and cheerful pinks, yellows, and blues flew. Strewn between the towers, visible even from such great heights, were small magelights which burned in shifting colors and swayed in the breeze, giving the impression of dancing fireflies who sang in more than yellow and green.
It was past this palatial estate that the Mercy swung, her decks alive with activity as her fins began to flutter faster than normal. Mercy, too, was a more graceful and jaunty frigate than her Kingdom counterpart, keeping to the old designs of airship. She was sleek, with a flat deck suspended below a great balloon in white and gold, and resembled a seafaring schooner more than a cigar. Indeed, she could be put down in the water if need be, and carried sails for just such an emergency. Thankfully for her and her crew, the landing went without incident, and they had no need to put her down in the lake which spread to one side of The Bower. Instead, her wings fluttered a bit, and then a bit more, and an arm, wrought in brass filigree, swung from the tower to catch her in a perfect grip. Gangplanks were extended as ties were tossed, and with nary a sway to mar her docking, Mercy was once more at home.
A bell began to toll from the tower, and faint cheers could be heard from the city states as the inhabitants of Dawndale welcomed back one of their own ships. It was not just for the safe return of their crew that they cheered, though that was certainly part of it. The ship could now be put to its most useful purpose, and ship gems to Fillydelphia in exchange for the grain and supplies the city would need to make it through the winter in comfort. Answering bells rang out over the city, musical chimes that laughed and boomed and shrilled in exultation, and a great crowd began to form near the tower base. After all, news traveled fast in Dawndale, and gossip fastest of all. And rumor was that there was a member of the Kingdom royalty on board.
Serale reached the bottom of the tower steps and made haste to the door, not wanting to hold up the line, and stretched in a decidedly unladylike fashion, glad to be back on solid ground. The airship was not necessarily confining, but she had felt the nagging sensation of being in close proximity to others for a week, and she was glad to have some room to spread out and enjoy not having to walk with her head tucked in order to avoid banging it on low doorframes.
The unloading was proceeding apace, made easier by the assistance of her Guards, who, while not able to lift heavy things such as equipment for fear of mussing their dress coats, were at least able to assist with baggage. Already a good twenty of them were approaching the gate, rifles slung but not loaded, conversing with customs officials and minor dignitaries about the contents of the more robust cases. The two Guards flanking her seemed to be relieved to not be handed the task of haggling with bureaucrats.
Idly, she wondered where Libra and Cobblestone had got to, and was just about to go looking for them when she caught the eye of a young pony wearing what appeared to be a doublet and tight blue leggings. He began to approach, and Serale steeled herself for whatever inanities were about to fall from his mouth. He did not disappoint.
“My Lady Serale,” he said in a voice like melted butter, warm and smooth, “It is my highest honor to welcome you to Dawndale.” He pronounced his words strangely, with “it” as “eat” and no “h” and choked-upon “r”s.
He bowed deeply, doffing the feathered cap he wore, and averted his eyes, wings ruffling as he did. “My name is Sir Nimbus. I have been sent to greet you, and to convey my Princess’s regrets that she was unable to greet you in person. She is preparing for tonight’s New Year feast.”
Serale blinked. “It’s the new year already?”
Nimbus smiled tolerantly. “Oui,” he said. “At least, after tonight it will be. As you will be dining at the Princess’s side instead of the long tables, I have been sent to procure your choice of entrée for the evening. Tell me, would you prefer a pie of mushrooms and root vegetables, or a potato roast in garlic gravy?”
Serale, after perhaps a moment too long of hesitation, said “The pie sounds fine.”
“My Lady has good taste,” Nimbus said. He bowed once more, practically scraping his nose in the dirt. “I shall relay this information at once, if my Lady would allow me to leave? Of course, should you desire my company, I would be more than happy to oblige.”
Serale suppressed a shudder at the thought of having to walk all the way to the Palace with this boot-licker at her side, polite though he was being. “No,” she said, “That’s fine, you can go.”
Nimbus straightened up with a beam. “Then go I shall,” he said. “This is my Lady’s first time in Dawndale on the New Year, non?”
“Oui,” Serale replied. “Why?”
“There is a…tradition,” Nimbus said. “A harmless one, I assure you. I would not spoil the surprise, but I would recommend that the Lady informs her companions and soldiers to ward their clothes against stains.”
With that, he took to the sky with a single pump of his wings, nearly clearing the height of the tower before speeding off towards the Palace. Serale watched him go, a curious feeling of foreboding in her chest. Without delay, she focused on the pendant on her throat, grateful that her time being covered in foul liquid had forced her to learn about cleaning spells at least.
“Lady Serale?” one of the Guards asked nervously. “What did he mean by ‘tradition’?”
Serale shrugged and lit her horn again, dousing her escorts in the same magic she had used on herself. “I’m not sure,” she said, “But they do things differently here and Aunt Cadance loves a good joke. Spread the word among the ranks. Mages cast warding spells and nopony is to even think about levelling a gun, no matter what happens on the way there. I’ve just arrived; I’m not going to start a diplomatic incident before I get to the Palace. And somepony find me Libra.”
After nearly a half hour of preparation and unpacking, the throng of soldiers that had gathered in the courtyard of the airship spire formed themselves into ranks, harangued by their captains and moving with the practiced nonchalance of the truly experienced. Sixty dress uniforms, pressed and sharp, clothed each soldier, with boots that shone like still water and rifles with bayonets affixed, slung over the right shoulder in perfect alignment.
Halfway through the column stood a smaller, more disorganized group of ponies. Two were clad in robes of black cloth, recognizable to any who saw them as mages of the Everfree, and two were clad in armor. Between them all, at the center of the procession and clad in her House colors of purple and crimson, stood a young mare of poise and refinement. A pendant with a diamond, flickering with a strange green flame, hung around her neck, and a small diadem of bronze and amethyst rested upon her brow. This was who the ponies of Dawndale came to see, and with a nod of her head, Serale Armonia Everstar, first of her name, gave the procession its marching orders.
In perfect lockstep they marched down the broad avenues of Dawndale, to the simple tap of a drum. It was not the way of the Evening Kingdom to march with pomp and circumstance. The ponies of Dawndale filled that role admirably, a half-dozen fifes and trumpets sounding tunes from the rooftops as ponies cheered and welcomed the young Evening Lady. Normally this would have been all that awaited her, but there was a tradition among the ponies of Dawndale, one especially popular with their children.
With a sharp whistle, no less than forty cakes, ranging from small tea cakes to a frankly enormous three-tiered cake, came flying from windows, rooftops, and innocuous passers-by. Some fell short or wide of their targets, but the foals of the city practiced months in advance to properly welcome New Years’ guests, and the vast majority hit squarely in the ranks. Icing in green and blue and red and every color besides splattered jackets and painted the cobblestones, causing a few minor slips. A hat was nearly knocked from a head, saved only by the strap beneath that Pegasus’s chin.
The drum clattered to a halt as the ponies of the procession attempted to work out what happened, and the crowd shrank back a bit, perhaps only now realizing that the ongoing rain of pastry was perhaps not the best way to greet dignitaries. Gradually, the pastel barrage slowed as the procession ground to a stop. And the air was poignant with silence.
With all eyes on her, Serale examined her dress, now buried under copious amounts of whipped cream. Perhaps a bit mystified, she ran a hoof along the front, examining its contents with a frown. Her face was as inscrutable as only a royal’s could be. Inquisitively, she licked a small amount off of her hoof, and nodded, as if in understanding.
“Guards!” she called. The crowds lining the streets shrank back a bit more. This was the daughter of Lady Everstar, after all. The Evening Sage was famous for avenging slights to her dignity, and the same might apply to her progeny.
They needn’t have worried. An impish grin spread across Serale’s face, and she barked a command. “Return fire!”
At those words, the unicorns in the ranks lit their horns, and the Scouring Spells they had applied to their comrades activated with gusto. A wave of cake, frosting, fondant, and other assorted baked goods flung themselves at high speed from the once more pristine coats of the Guard, covering instead the onlookers in a fine mist of sugar and fruit preserves.
Cries of surprise and laughter issued from the crowd, and Serale finally let herself relax a bit. “Carry on!” she called, and the drum began to tap once more, leaving a much-cheered crowd in their wake. The procession began to move once again, and soon, instead of attempting to coat the ponies with cake, the foals of Dawndale were bouncing the cakes from the roofs off of their backs into the crowds below.
“Did I handle that well, Libra?” Serale asked as they marched.
Libra smiled, a mischievous grin almost identical to Serale’s. “You handled it beautifully,” she replied. “I’ve been here on the New Year before, it took me a week to get the stains out of my robes. This way, you keep your dignity intact and make a few friends among the common folk. Well done.”
Thus prepared and with good spirits, the processional Guard of Serale Everstar wound its way through the streets of a foreign capital, each step taking them closer to the beating heart at the center of the city, the goddess known to Serale as “Aunt Cadance”.
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Serale was pelted with forty cakes. That's as many as four tens. And that's terrible.
6178430
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Not really sure what we're getting "Access" to, unless it's their entry into the city. Now I'm starting to get paranoid that Lady Hedera might have some kind of far-seeing charm of that tabard. For what better way to spy than to have someone unknowingly carrying a camera for you.
And I've got to say that must be one of the craziest traditions I've ever heard of and it doesn't make one bit of political sense to me. Unless it started as a way to keep Blueblood from dropping in.
"You live by the cake you die by the cake"
-Fluffy
Gotta love a good march, for some reason I feel like the soldiers' uniforms are reminiscent of confederate uniforms ...
6179392 I wouldn't be surprised if it ties in somehow to the fannon running gag about Celestia and cake.
Maybe Cadance decided to hit Celestia with a cake as a prank the first time she visited and it became a running thing? Airstream, feel free to tell me how wrong I am.
Serale: And now I activate my trap card!
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"which his brushed from the pieces" - he?
"making her was to" - way?
6178430 I knew it!
The second I read that line I knew it was a work of Luthor.
~Leonzilla
I think I'd love to live here.
Celestia's Empire seems rather . . . sketchy.
Twilight's nation doesn't seem too bad, but Cadance's is a lot more relaxed and happy, in a lot of ways.
I'm still unclear on whether Luna is the ruler of her own country, but if she is, I'd love to see it.
7098781 As far as I remember Luna's place of rule is still on the moon.
It didn't strike me until this read-through, and maybe Serale and her aura of 'visiting royal' and 'weird crystal horn' draw all the attention, but... Shouldn't Kore get all kinds of side-eye and raised eyebrows here in crystal pony territory?
I realize it's been four hundred years and 99% of the ponies who ever saw Sombra face to face are probably dead and dusted by now, but shouldn't a mare who looks like she's cosplaying the local equivalent of a combination of Hitler and Freddy Krueger draw some remarks?
(The above is an unsubtle reminder that I'd really, really love to know what Kore's deal is...)
7425126
Yeah, I think in this timeline, Sombra probably got gutted like a fish and fed to the diamond dogs before they were driven underground. These princesses don't play unless its for keeps.
7425126
8350018
I don't even think Sombra exists in this universe. Remember, these are not crystal ponies. Cadance's lands are nicknamed "the Crystal Kingdom" because of the gem mines, and that's pretty much the only connection.