Second Offensive: 1 - Questions of Command
Greetings to all my little ponies and friends of Equestria alike. it is my honor and privilege to begin the third book of this massive undertaking, seeking to recount the rise of Firefly and birth of the Bolt Knights in the context of the Great Pony/Gryphon War.
'Tis not by choice, but by necessity. Whilst Captain Firefly sees both her adopted son and firstborn daughter off to the Gryphon Kingdom, the former traveling with his family between school sessions and the latter traveling alone to join a private expeditionary force sent to secure a remote gryphon colony, ‘twill fall to me to pick up the pen in their absence. In truth, ‘twas offered to another, but he has declined, saying that his station and reputation means that whatever he says would be suspect. And that his words would simply not have the same authority mine did.
He further notes that though he has followed these works “with some mild interest”, he sees no reason for him to appear in them yet “beyond simple ego,” which he will not indulge given he has both royal duties to attend and a sword school to run. ‘Tis true that his responsibilities on both fronts consume most of his waking hours, though mayhap he will make time later to contribute.
I still play chess games with him weekly, where we have discussed this work and his potential role in it at some length. For now, he declines to pen any entries, though he wishes me to at least say that he considers his occasionally controversial role in the war to be a simple question of royal duty—which he hastens to add upon reading this 'tis not to say he sought no glory for himself or his line in it.
By happenstance or by design, he would gain it, but at the start of the war, he was neither soldier nor commander. With his sire’s death only sixteen months past, the title of Crown Prince was now his. And though the role might have been but ceremonial most of the time, there was now a distinct chance that I would fall and he might well ascend to be ruler of all Equestria.
Signed,
—Celestia Daybringer
Princess of the Sun
Diarch of Equestria
Canterlot
Canterlot Castle, East Grounds
Canterlot
September 4th, 1139 AC
1200 hours
Visitors to Canterlot Castle are oft shown all but the eastern wing, which contains my private quarters and ‘tis reserved exclusively for my own use. ‘Tis my sanctuary and retreat from the pressures of palace life, as well as being the place from where I normally raise the sun.
Technically, ‘twas reserved for the entire royal family, which would have once included my sister Luna. But with her lost to me, the only other pony who was allowed in there other than a few trusted maids and advisors was Prince Blueblood.
He, too, had his own quarters there, and though he deferred to me most of the time, he made use of the garden spaces to practice his magic and sword art, or hold an occasional private party when I was not present.
Our interactions were generally short, as royal duties kept us both busy and I admittedly had some mild distaste for him at that point in time, but we had extended meetings every week where we normally discussed various matters over lunch and a game of chess.
With the outbreak of war, I had initially canceled that week’s meeting, explaining that the renewed gryphon offensive and reestablishing our broken chain of command continued to demand my full attention. But he replied by noting that “even you require rest” and that “routines must still be observed in wartime, for the sake of appearances if nothing else.” Methinks I would have still declined, but then he said “he had an offer to make” and an important request of me “that concerns my role in this conflict.”
Methinks that piqued my interest somewhat—I couldn’t imagine what offer he could make or what role in the conflict he would wish, given he had no military training or fighting skill outside of the unusual unicorn sword art he had pursued.
A sword art I arrived at midday to find he was practicing before our lunch, wearing fencing attire with several targets set up and his sword wielded in his aura.
“Prince Blueblood,” I acknowledged my honorary nephew with a nod. ‘Tis worth noting he was in fact the fourteenth Blueblood; directly descended as all his ancestors were from the original Blueblood, whose title passed only to the firstborn son. His cutie mark was the same as all his forebears, earned by successfully navigating the castle maze to reach his family monument in a feat that ‘tis far harder than it sounds. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Good afternoon, Auntie.” He greeted me with the informal title he used for me and a low bow, dipping his sword as well as his forequarters. “Auntie” was simply a form of address he and all the Bluebloods used, shorthoof for the many-Great Grandaunt I actually was to him. “Yes, if you wouldst be willing to indulge me first. I will be with you as soon as I’ve completed my training, and the chefs have completed our meal. I have asked them to make our personal favorites.”
“We are supposed to be conserving food, Prince Blueblood. And why can you not train at the academy?” I challenged him, wondering where his head attendant was.
“Because they are starting the mass training of unicorn soldiers—a pointless endeavor in my opinion, given their arts require a level of power and focus few possess—so the advanced classes are canceled. Between that and the initial attacks, I have redoubled my personal training efforts since the war began,” he replied as he limbered himself. “I will not be caught off guard again should another assassin come calling.”
“Another assassin?” I had received a brief message from the PSD that the Prince was safe on the first day of war, but nothing else. “Then you were—“
“Yes,” he confirmed without a hint of fear or any other emotion. “My own majordomo and a PSD mare turned on me. The former tried to slay me in my sleep and the latter came at me with her blades, throwing and slashing. So I killed them both,” he said matter-of-factly.
I blinked hard. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asked coldly as he continued his warm-up routine. “They forfeited their lives the instant they turned traitor, and as my servants, ‘twas their duty to sacrifice themselves for me anyway. Their fate was well-earned, so I will not mourn them, and neither should you.”
“They were under mind control, Prince Blueblood,” I admonished him with a frown. “They were not responsible for what they did.”
He gave me a level look. “So out of some misplaced sympathy, I should not have slain them? I should have allowed them to succeed in their attempts to slay me? Or perchance you think I could have somehow spared them when I knew not if more traitors were coming or if they could detonate a bomb on their bodies?” he said in a contemptuous tone; one I would have reprimanded any other pony for taking in my presence.
“I regret nothing, Auntie, and methinks I know enough of military matters to say that such ridiculous notions of compassion or mercy will lose this war. Methinks far more killing lies ahead for both of us, and I for one intend to be ready!”
I wondered idly if he would hold to such sentiments if ‘twere my sister there before him, abandoning Canterlot along with all its populace—including him—to a fiery fate in order to crush the gryphons, before returning with the entirety of the Equestrian armed forces to fight the dragons. But I said nothing, taking the opportunity to observe his well-practiced drills and techniques.
His boast about being ready was not an idle one. Much to my surprise, over the past eleven years he had become an avid and very advanced student of the La Verdadera Destreza unicorn sword style, whose masters did not make exceptions for the grueling training and advancement exams even for the Crown Prince of Equestria.
Known as the One True Form of the Sponiard sword arts—a title that was, to be certain, claimed by many rival schools—he had even commissioned his own custom Montante longsword blade at very great expense to channel his attacks, which he had christened the Hojazul in a slight mistranslation of blue blade into Sponish. But even when informed of it, he decided to keep the title anyway, saying he simply preferred the way it rolled off the tongue.
Like most unicorn blade arts, the One True Form was characterized by using the sword to channel spells to various effects, both offensive and defensive, dramatically strengthening the blade and enabling it to slice through armor or obstructions on the one hoof whilst rendering its bearer much more impervious to enemy attacks on the other. But what made the True Form technique unique from other unicorn sword arts was two main differences.
The first, more minor one was that instead of the practitioner staying still as their aura manipulated the blade, the One True Form required the user to move with the blade, in the belief that adding a component of physical movement in concert with the magical one enhanced both.
That aside, the art taught proper form, parries and strikes like any sword school would, and the Prince indeed began his workout by practicing a series of them. As I watched, he wielded his sword skillfully against the target dummies arrayed before him, leaving him already breathing harder and starting to sweat as he completed his initial training sequence; cutting, cleaving and occasionally outright decapitating the pony and griffon-like figures before him.
But the second and far more major difference was La Verdadera Destreza’s true difficulty and claim to glory—the special sword strikes that enabled it to tap into powerful magicks that were well beyond the capabilities of most unicorns to cast. They consisted of a crescendo of attack techniques characterized by a succession of increasingly complex geometric patterns; ones that utilized very potent but extraordinarily tricky runic spellcasting.
‘Twas here where the heart of the art lay, and why ‘twas so incredibly hard to learn, let alone master. Most runic practitioners had the time to make their designs perfect and cast their spells from them at leisure, but the One True Form required runes to be rapidly etched into the air itself with the tip of the sword, which, channeling the magic of its wielder, would leave a glowing trail behind that lasted but a few fleeting moments.
In order for the techniques to be used and the strikes to succeed, you had to perfect the drawing of the runic shapes required to channel the spells in that short time, and do so flawlessly.
‘Twas a feat that was hard to master even for simple runes, let alone the more complicated ones that required ever more speed, focus, and precision. But the Prince was well along in his training by then, and as I watched, he went through each special technique in turn, starting with the simplest such strike but increasing in complexity and lethality with each level attained:
The circle-and-thrust Cone Cleave was the most basic form. It could both parry a strike and then pierce any shield with a magic-aided thrust. Its rune was but a simple circle, but in order for it to work, the curving arc drawn from the sword tip had to be perfect or the strike would backfire.
The three-point Triad Technique was likewise designed to both shield from ranged attacks and then rapidly penetrate an opponent’s defenses with a magic beam fired from the sword tip, enabling the unicorn wielding it to strike an enemy from range like an archer from behind a castle battlement.
The four-point Diamond Draw from an initially sheathed blade formed a sharp-edged shield around the caster; one meant to defend instantly at close quarters against an ambush or assassination attempt and then allow for a rapid counterattack. ‘Twas this I assumed the Prince had used to thwart the attempt on his life, mayhap along with his next technique:
The five-point Star Strike could cut down multiple opponents with not just the sword itself, but charged bladelike waves of magic emanating from the steel. ‘Twas said to be excellent at clearing a room and only exceptionally strong counterspells or steel could deflect it.
The slashing six-point Hewing Hex was an even more powerful version of the Star Strike. ‘Twas considered the mark of an advanced student as it could carve up an entire mob of attackers in a matter of moments, and only the most powerful of shield spells or enchanted armor could defend against it.
I did not approve in the least of the seven-point Septasnare, which channeled a form of dark magic and had been known to corrupt or even consume those who cast it incorrectly outside the presence of the art's unicorn masters, called Maestros.
But its mastery was an important milestone for an advanced student, the current Maestro Supremo of the Art had insisted to me when I attended one of Blueblood’s rank advancement tests, as it required great focus and self-discipline to cast correctly but not be overcome by it. And my greatest grand-nephew indeed had both by now, as neither his focus nor the purity of his power wavered even as a series of black and ugly obsidian spikes erupted out of the ground in front of him in a spreading fanlike pattern.
The black magic blocks the technique produced were more ethereal than real. But they were far from harmless; they could either immobilize all enemies within their paralyzing snares or simply destroy their very spirits, rapidly eroding both their ability and will to fight from within.
Then there was the indiscriminate and immensely damaging eight-point Octovolley. Electrically charged with rune-generated elemental lightning, it acted like a volley of scattershot bolts fired from a line of storm clouds and, like its Corps equivalent, could lay waste to an entire charging regiment at close range.
To wield it, you had to rapidly inscribe a very intricate eight-pointed runic form into the air that was well beyond the ability of most students. But even accomplishing that unlikely feat was not enough to make you a master. For the only way to earn the title of Maestro and the black sash that came with it…
Taking a deep breath to center himself, he faced away from the castle into the garden as a bead of sweat rolled down the left side of his face. He then held his sword vertically in the air for a moment, charging it with a succession of spells. Having readied himself as much as he could, he then attempted the supremely difficult but utterly deadly ten-point Decadragon.
‘Twas so-named because if successful, it tapped elemental fire and channeled it into a dragon-like gout of fierce flame that could rival the real thing, exceeding anything a gryphon mage could generate by incinerating all it encountered as it reached out to a distance of nearly two hundred paces. But the speed and precision required to create it in enough time was almost impossible to attain, and for all his skill and practice, Blueblood was only able to get halfway through it before the lines he drew skewed and the runes vanished with only a brief puff of smoke.
The sword slipped from his magical grasp and fell to the ground with a clatter, its metal hot enough despite the failed attack to burn the short-cut grass of the garden. “By your Sun, Auntie, I still can’t do it!” he announced in frustration as he slammed his hooves down on the ground hard, sweat glistening on his forehead as he found his magic momentarily spent.
“Despite that, I offer my highest compliments, my dear Prince,” I told him sincerely, not offering to help him up as I knew he hated being given advice or assistance, particularly on matters he considered his own to deal with.
In truth, methinks I knew of several possible ways he could yet achieve the technique, but I held my tongue. Not just because I knew ‘twould not be appreciated, but because one of the requirements of passing the Maestro test was that the student found their own solution to the seemingly insurmountable obstacle the Decadragon presented.
Which was not to say I could not offer him some well-earned encouragement. “‘Twould seem you’ve broken through your previous barriers and are now progressing rapidly. You’ve improved your sword skill considerably just over the past twelve months. ‘Twas only a year ago you could barely manage the Star Strike. But now you can do the Octovolley with relative ease,” I reminded him.
“Thank you, Auntie. But the ability to make the ten-point attack still eludes me!” He sighed as his slightly nervous servants attended him, cleaning him up whilst quickly stripping him of his sweaty gear. “I simply cannot forge the runes fast enough and know not how to create them any quicker!
“’Tis a pity—I would love to turn the master-level attacks on those vile beasts orbiting so arrogantly overhead,” he said with a nod upwards to where the menacing shapes of the Kalator clan were visible through my shield and the dark smoke beyond it. The latter was a poisonous veil that shrouded the sun and kept the light level over the city reduced to a sickly yellow pall, like an eternal twilight had settled over the capital. But four days into the siege, my power had not yet dropped appreciatively, but ‘twas certain to me I would start feeling its slow ebb within a matter of days.
But as there was little I could do about it for the time being, 'twas little point in dwelling on it. “As would I,” I agreed as lunch was served; a decadent mixture of toasted oats and cream-covered peaches topped with a minor amount of molasses for me, whilst the Prince had his favorite paella de verduras with a side of plantains—his interest in his sword art also extended to the history, food and customs from the land it came—and a mango mimosa.
He shared the latter with me, taking pains to pour a glass for both of us but making sure mine came first. He was always big on protocol, even back then, but ‘twas not a one-way street with him. As lower classes and ranks would serve him, he would in turn serve me, who was the only being other than perchance his art’s Maestros he recognized as his superior.
“But what you have would not be enough against a full-grown dragon. For methinks even the Maestro Supremo herself would be hard-pressed to bring down a single adult drake or dragoness, let alone an entire clan of them,” I pointed out, still uncertain how I was going to ultimately deal with them or fulfill my vow to slay the Dragon Lord himself.
“And methinks you are incorrect, Auntie,” he sniffed as he took a towel in his aura and patted it to his forehead, then accepted his robe and his mimosa, taking his place opposite me. “For ‘tis certain to me that were the original Maestro Supremo, the great Hoja Benevolente herself still amongst the living, she could indeed have challenged them using her untaught arts.
“But ‘tis said she only passed on her most powerful techniques to her second-ranked master, who in turn only passed them on to his, and so it goes to this day. In fact, ‘tis rumored there are no less than seven unseen master techniques of blade and runic magic. Techniques of such incredible reach and power that not even a dragon could stand against them. Techniques that not even you know of,” he finished almost wistfully.
“Perchance ‘tis true…” I offered only half-placatingly, for on the face of it, he could be correct. ‘Twas indeed rumored that the One True Form possessed even more intricate and powerful runic constructs whose reach and effects went far beyond even the dreaded Decadragon, but no documentation on them existed; ‘twas said, as the Prince stated, that they were only passed from older to younger Maestros when the former deemed the latter worthy. And of this moment, only three Maestros existed. “So what did you wish to offer me?”
“My services,” he answered simply. “But as I am sure you have not eaten much more than simple fare since this barbaric business began, let us sit down to a properly civilized meal before discussing it over a game of chess...”
I will pause my efforts here, as one thing has not changed in the past thirty years, and ‘tis certain never will—royal duties, including a long-planned diplomatic meeting, require my attention this day, though at least that meeting is genuinely looked forward to far more than most.
But more on that later—much more, methinks. For now, I shall pass the quill back to my beloved friend and Captain. Before she left to escort her offspring on the first leg of the journey, with the group departing from the General Squall Line Memorial Airship Field outside of Aerial Corps HQ, Captain Firefly left a new section of her own behind.
I offer it up here as an interlude before I continue my tale, as I’m sure readers are more interested to know the aftermath of Gavian’s duel with Thunderbolt.
—Celestia Daybringer
One thing life has taught me is that difficult partings can happen in both war and peace.
The former are all too often the final goodbyes to comrades lost, whilst the latter are seeing beloved foals and cubs off to unknown fates. So I do this day, awaiting the scheduled departure of my adopted son and eldest daughter, the former with his family but the latter traveling alone.
They will journey together by Equestrian airship, at least as far as the Canarian Maritimes where the only remaining gryphon colonies on this continent lay. And from there they will go their separate ways, as a private transport awaits Firehawk whilst one of the Kingdom’s naval airships will bring Gavian to his never-seen homeland and capital of Arnau, courtesy of the Queen herself.
Though I know in my head they are fully capable adults with plenty of combat action already under their wings, all my heart can see are the needy and helpless fledglings they once were, wanting to hold them close forever even as I know I must let them go to find their own way in this world.
‘Tis a trying time right now, not knowing when or even if they will both return, so methinks I will salve my nerves and sadness by continuing the story of Gavian’s duel with Thunderbolt into its immediate aftermath. ‘Twill be somewhat difficult without Gavian himself here to offer his insights, but as he has said repeatedly, his memories of it are quite sparse, and in his own words, “recalled only as if through a fever dream.”
‘Tis worth noting that, as our anonymous Raven hoped, much praise has been heaped upon Gavian from the gryphon side for the telling of this story, which was kept deliberately secret in wartime—except, of course, for what rumor might escape Cloudsdale from those who had seen it. ‘Twas kept quiet for several reasons, which some may guess but will become clear in due course.
For now, though, I wish to focus on the immediate aftermath, and an overdue confrontation which happened in its wake.
—Captain Firefly
Bolt Knight Captain Emeritus
Military History and Tactics Instructor
Equestrian Officer Academy
Canterlot
Captain’s Quarters
EAS Loyalty
Cloudsdale, Central District Airship Anchorage
September 4th, 1139 AC
2250 hours
The duel was done. And ‘tis certain that at the moment I recognized Gavian’s incredibly unlikely victory over Thunderbolt, I was every bit as spent emotionally as he was physically.
We saw him announce his triumph and spare Thunderbolt at the Captain’s request, followed by him taking but a step towards us before passing out. His eyes rolling back in his head, he fell hard to the cloud surface from some combination of the accrued damage he suffered and the expiration of Typhoon’s astonishing technique.
Getting closer, the damage to his young form became even more apparent and ugly, leaving me no idea how he’d withstood it all. And ‘twas certain I felt every one of the burns and wounds I beheld on his painfully young body as keenly as if they were my own.
We rushed him to the Loyalty’s sickbay after that; the healers levitating him inside whilst Still Way stayed with him the whole way. ‘Tis certain the strain was very visible on his face as he struggled to maintain a healing aura on him in transit as I followed close behind with Swift Strike, though Blindside and Fell Flight were not present as they took an even more gravely injured Thunderbolt to a different room.
But I had no concern for his fate at that moment; only for Gavian’s. ‘Twas but a minute more before my son was laid down carefully on an operating table whilst the ship’s healers attended him, preparing for whatever surgery he might require. But their initial prognosis was not good, and I understood little else of their jargon discussing him beyond the long litany of his injuries they recited.
In the end, Still Way himself asked us to depart, promising me that with him present, Gavian was out of immediate danger. But he also told me that the intense emotions he could sense from me were clouding his technique, and the fewer distractions to his healing arts, the better.
I did so reluctantly, caring far less about Gavian’s victory than the ordeal he had endured and the horrific injuries he had suffered—an ordeal that was, in my view, unjustly forced upon him. In fact, ‘tis certain I was so distraught that I never even noticed Captain Typhoon, not realizing he was beside me until I heard his voice.
“Forgive my immediate absence, but I was speaking to your second about Thunderbolt. How is Gavian, Master Sergeant?” were the first words that left his lips.
My ire rising from his mere presence, I refused to meet his eyes whilst Swift Strike saluted and departed. He excused himself by saying he should stand guard by the entrance to the infirmary, perchance recognizing what was to come. Wishing to wound my Captain, I recited Gavian’s long list of injuries—injuries I held him directly responsible for.
“Broken ribs, a cracked skull, a great deal of internal bleeding, severe electrical burns on his chest and extremities, innumerable external injuries that range from bruises and cuts to deeper slashes... and ‘twould seem he tore every muscle in his right foreleg and shoulder when he made that Coiled Cobra assassin’s strike at the end,” I recited bitterly, using the gryphon term for the quick-draw attack he had felled Thunderbolt with. Seeking additional targets for my wrath, I even found myself angry with Swift Strike for having taught such a technique—worse, a Raven technique—to him.
“His heartbeat is very irregular and he is unresponsive; he is also starting to run a high fever. Even with Still Way present, the healers say ‘tis possible he will not survive the night.”
“He will,” the Captain said with surety, seemingly unstung by my words. “From surviving abandonment to a fight with Thunderbolt himself, ‘tis certain his will to live is strong.”
“With all due respect, you don’t know that… sir,” I told him through clenched teeth, my anger surging again. “Anymore than you knew that Gavian would win the fight!”
He gave me a level look. “And just what are you saying, Master Sergeant?”
“Methinks you know perfectly well, Captain,” I bit back.
He stared at me for several seconds longer. “Very well. If you have something to say to me, I will listen. Follow me,” he invited, leading me back to Captain Shady’s office. When we arrived, he left me standing at attention before her desk as he walked around the back and sat down behind it, regarding me cooly. “You have ten minutes before I must depart for Hollow Shades. We are in private and this office is soundproofed. So say your piece, Guardsmare. And be quick about it”
Even though I was ready to explode, I maintained just enough military bearing to not do so immediately. “Permission to speak freely, sir.” I stood at rigid but trembling attention.
“Granted.”
“Methinks ten minutes ‘tis far too little time for all I have to say, so for now, perchance you wouldst answer me honestly, sir—“ I paused to make sure the invective with which I pronounced the honorific was heard “—What chance did you truly give this whole sick and sordid scheme of yours of succeeding?”
He gave me a level look over pursed hooves. “Fifteen percent.”
“What?” My jaw fell open in shock—I had expected him to offer an outright lie on the order of eighty percent, or at least some passable equivocation like sixty percent; methinks I was not prepared for such a brutally honest assessment! “You risked my son’s life when you knew he had an eighty-five percent chance of dying?” Methinks I was so angry I was ready to challenge him to a death duel on the spot, even though I knew I had no chance.
“No. I mean there was a fifteen percent chance of Gavian both defeating Thunderbolt and redeeming him. Though the former condition has been met, the latter remains to be seen,” he corrected calmly despite my aggressive stance. In hindsight, he was indulging me to a very high degree at that moment, given he could have thrown me in the brig for threatening a superior and conduct unbecoming on the spot.
But he wasn’t done yet. “If you must know, I put the odds of Gavian actually winning the duel at about thirty percent, with the odds of him both surviving the fight and the aftereffects of my technique at around one chance in four.”
I stood speechless for a moment at the frank statement; had I been less angry I might well have admired the sheer size of his horse apples for telling me this to my face, regardless of whether I was his subordinate. “So you forced him to fight when you knew he had a seventy-five percent chance of dying!”
I was so enraged some small sparks started spontaneously arcing over me for the first time from my own still-undeveloped lightning affinity. For a single, fleeting moment, methinks I wanted badly to generate a lightning bolt on the spot as Thunderbolt could and fling it at him. But thankfully, given my Captain’s likely response, such was still well beyond my beginner abilities.
Despite the display, he didn’t move, though he watched me closely; in hindsight, methinks he was mentally preparing the strike he’d used to disable Thunderbolt for use against me as well if needed. “I forced him to do nothing, Master Sergeant. I had no authority to order him to do anything. If you may recall, I merely presented the option to him, and to his great credit, he accepted it despite the risks. Why can’t you?” he asked me directly.
My eyes blazed at the blandly delivered statement even as I forced the electrical currents back within me, reminding myself sharply that whatever restraint the Captain was showing would evaporate instantly if I assaulted him. “Because you lied to him! Gave him a false sense of his chances! Encouraged him to do this even though you knew his odds were poor!”
For the first time, his eyes narrowed dangerously and a sudden breeze came up around him in direct reflection of his own growing anger, reminding me uncomfortably that my Captain’s well-developed wind affinity dwarfed my then-weaker lightning one. “I suggest you mind your tongue and manners, Guardsmare,” he warned me, indicating I was taxing his already strained patience to the limit.
“What I told him was that defeating Thunderbolt was within the realm of his unleashed powers, which was true—the outcome of this duel was proof enough of that. I further told him that using my technique, he would be Thunderbolt’s better, which was also true—at least in terms of speed.”
“But?” I prompted with my lips tight, recognizing from his final equivocation that there was more.
He considered me for a moment before answering, and to his credit, he did so honestly. “But—’twas possible and perchance even likely that his speed advantage alone would not suffice. That Thunderbolt’s far greater combat experience and lightning affinity would be decisive, or that Gavian being a bit faster would not be enough to disrupt Thunderbolt’s ability to predict his strikes. Methinks there was also at least a slight chance Thunderbolt would identify and exploit the flaw in Gavian’s technique, but ‘twas no real danger of it in hindsight.”
I’d been ready to launch into another rant, but then blinked. “Flaw? Gavian has a flaw?” ‘Twas certain I’d not noticed any in our most recent sparring sessions, nor in the battles he’d fought.
“Indeed. Methinks Thunderbolt has been so well-served by his own speed and ability to predict strikes that he has come to over-rely on them, losing in turn his ability to dissect an opponent’s strengths and weaknesses,” he mused, then went on without my prompting.
“Gavian’s flaw is that he can only wield his blade with his dominant arm—his right. This leaves a slight blind spot or slowness to react at his lower left side, as he cannot defend that area as quickly or effectively,” he noted with an idle air. “’Twould not matter facing lesser opponents against whom even his normal speed would suffice, or against those sparring partners he knows well and can anticipate, like you or Sky Sergeant Strike. But against an elite but unfamiliar enemy who is not blinded by rage, it could well be fatal to him. Methinks he will have to address that weakness when he recovers.”
“If he recovers…” I corrected his words bitterly, and this time my lip quivered. “Tell me, sir—have you any idea what ‘twas like for me to watch that?”
His face softened slightly. “I am a parent myself, Master Sergeant. And were my own offspring at risk in such a scenario… then yes, I imagine I would be feeling much the same as you did. And still do,” he granted. “But our feelings betray us in war, and must be set aside in matters of command—particularly in regards to a single soldier whose mere presence could potentially swing many battles in our favor. So I’m sorry, but ‘tis certain I cannot be swayed by familial sentiments. And ultimately, neither can you.”
I glared at him again despite his small concession. “So you wouldst have sacrificed Gavian—my son—on the altar of the war effort for some small chance of success?” I asked scornfully.
“Though I would have mourned his loss... yes. Without hesitation. And the reason is very simple.” He leaned in close before speaking his next words, forcing me to meet his gaze: “Thunderbolt is worth at least a hundred elite soldiers to that war effort. Truth be told, he is even worth a hundred Gavians,” he informed me bluntly, causing me to recoil as if I’d been slapped.
His upraised wing stopped me before I could launch into another tirade. “’Tis not a slur against your son, Guardsmare, whom I immensely admire for both his honor and warrior heart. ‘Tis simply the fact that Gavian could only fight once for ten minutes at Thunderbolt’s level. But Thunderbolt can do so in each and every battle he enters, and also bears a well-developed lightning affinity that can even defeat gryphon mages!
“‘That makes him the ultimate soldier and a very powerful weapon of war against the gryphons—but only if his demons can be controlled, else he would be just as destructive to our own side,” he reminded me again.
“With those demons hopefully slain thanks to your son’s supreme skill and heroism, perchance he can finally be that weapon of war. For we need Thunderbolt the soldier, not the slayer. And even if there was only a fifteen percent chance of reclaiming the former from the latter at the cost of a single life, then for the enormous battlefield benefits we stood to gain, ‘twas a chance worth taking,” he told me unrepentantly. “Even if that life was your son’s.”
His words were yet another slap to the face, and I found anger and sorrow trying to rise up within me again. And yet, methinks the worst part was, I knew deep down he was right. But still—“You wouldst not say that were Gavian your son, my Captain!”
“True. But as he is not, ‘tis why I can look at the situation dispassionately, and ‘tis also why I am not ordering your arrest right now for insubordination and conduct unbecoming. For I understand you are reacting as a parent, and not as a subordinate,” he explained somewhat shortly, a growing edge to his voice. “But there are limits to my patience, Master Sergeant, and ‘tis certain you are rapidly reaching them. My time runs short, so are you quite through?”
“Almost,” Methinks I realized that I was in very thin air with him at that point, but I decided to press my luck just a little further. “And what, by the sun, would you have done with Thunderbolt if he was victorious and Gavian died? Slain him yourself, I suppose?” I suggested in some disgust.
“No. Knowing he was irredeemable, I would have allowed him to leave Cloudsdale to go attack the gryphons as he wished. Overconfident and unsupported in his efforts, ‘tis certain he would have been dead by daybreak, having claimed mayhap another one or two centuries of their soldiers before falling—if we were lucky,” he said with a shrug.
“He would then no longer be a threat to us, yet remain a hero in the eyes of all Equestria—a paragon of warrior glory who would hopefully inspire many others in this fight. Methinks ‘twould be some small penance for his crimes, at least, and a way he could serve us even in death.”
“Even though ‘twas all a lie?” I dripped contempt on the last word.
“’Twas not a lie, Guardsmare!” he reprimanded me sharply, his teal eyes flashing as a sudden gust of wind ruffled my short-cut mane. Taking a deep breath, he went on. “Perchance you are unaware, but Thunderbolt did act heroically when Cloudsdale was attacked! He single-hoofedly slaughtered the Ravens and organized an effective civilian resistance, saving hundreds of lives at the weather factory in the process—including your second’s sister!” he informed me, causing me to instantly fall silent.
“You are more than welcome to read Rolling Thunder’s battle report if you wish—‘tis an utterly astonishing account, full of supreme skill and sacrifice by military and civilian alike—but in short, his efforts not only saved countless weather workers but cost the gryphons dearly, buying enough time for Corps reinforcements to arrive and turn the winds of battle irrevocably against them!
“For that, he is a hero, and ‘tis certain that nothing that happened this night—or even last night—changed that. Know that even had I slain him myself, ‘twas my intention to ask Our Princess to award him the Defender of Harmony medal for his actions here.”
I blanched hard, finding the idea of Thunderbolt sharing space on that podium with Windshear incredibly odious. “You cannot be serious.”
His eyes flashed and he stood up out of his seat. “Enough, Guardsmare! You forget your place and I have tolerated your insolence for long enough! Whether you agree with what I did or not, ‘tis done, and you should be proud of your son for his incredible courage and accomplishment, not attacking me for it!” he silenced me on the spot with his vehemence and a sudden blast of wind that scattered his papers.
This time, ‘twas his turn to take a deep and calming breath, which he exhaled slowly out his nostrils. “Our talk is finished, and I have a difficult night of negotiations with the Nightborne ahead of me. But such is my duty and not yours. So return to your son, and be at his side where you belong. We will speak again upon my return tomorrow from Hollow Shades, but before then, I expect you to consider my words well. Especially the ones to follow.”
He then stalked around the desk of Captain Shady to loom over me, his gaze boring into mine. “Know that I have not punished your insubordination thus far because I understood what endangering your son was doing to you. But as of this moment, that time has passed. I do not regret my actions, and were we to ask him, I’m sure that neither would Gavian. So you are now on notice, Guardsmare, that I will not indulge your selfish flights of familial anger again,” he warned, his tone dark.
“When next we meet, you will check your tongue and your temper, or I will not hesitate to reduce your rank and throw you in the brig for a week. Your achievements are outstanding, but they do not excuse you from respecting my rank, and I will not brook your backtalk or questioning my command again. Is that clear, Master Sergeant?” he asked, his voice ice-cold.
“Clear, Captain,” I grated out, not wanting to listen even as I knew he was right. Nevertheless, recognizing I’d pushed him as far as I could without incurring his threatened punishment, I came to attention and saluted crisply. “Request permission to rejoin my son, sir?”
“Granted. Dismissed.”
‘Tis a difficult discussion to recall, even now. In truth, there were times I considered not including an account of this meeting, as ‘tis assuredly not my finest hour of military service—‘twas a time when, as the Captain said, I was forgetting myself and allowing my emotions to dictate my actions, which I had been taught by everypony from Windshear to Sundiver to Silent Night not to do.
Worse than his reprimand, however, was knowing that he was right—that in the end, Gavian had agreed to this, and ‘twas his decision to make. That Thunderbolt was far more valuable than Gavian to the war effort, and for the former to lose to a gryphon was perchance the only way to reclaim our future founding Bolt Knight member as a usable soldier. So he had presented his plan and left the choice to Gavian, who had listened to both sides of the debate and finally accepted it even knowing he could die.
Even knowing that he would be defying me to do so, which in hindsight, only made it harder for him and not easier, perchance making his defeat and death more likely.
‘Twas a hard thing for me to accept, that even my son’s life was ultimately expendable in the war effort. That to be a successful military commander required setting aside all sentiment; that too oft it required a pony to make choices that could be extremely distasteful but no less necessary.
In the end, he indeed wagered Gavian’s life, but for the battlefield benefits we eventually reaped, ‘twas the right decision to make. And as I think about it, Gavian himself would remind me in no uncertain terms that he chose this course, and does not regret it, especially since it served the purpose he sought as well—restoring his spirit even as it broke his body.
Regardless, methinks the Captain had every right to come down very hard on me for my attitude issues that day, but he did not. Nor did he owe me any explanation, but he nevertheless gave me one before laying down the law with me.
‘Twas not, to be sure, the end of my raw emotions or resentment, but methinks he tore the heart out of it in that short ten minutes, and reminded me of both the burden of command as well as what a good leader truly was.
—Firefly
Thank you, my Captain. I can well imagine how hard this entire evening as well as the preceding day was for you. Though I have no offspring, familial relations I do possess through the Blueblood line, and ‘tis surprisingly hard for me to lose any of them, whether to old age or to battle.
One of the latter had already happened, I had learned just a day earlier, leaving me planning to honor her sacrifice in a formal decoration ceremony later. But Prince Blueblood had his own form of honor planned, and ‘tis one I was quite surprised to hear.
—Celestia Daybringer
Canterlot Castle, East Grounds
Canterlot
September 4th, 1139 AC
1300 hours
Our lunch finished, our table was being rapidly cleared and reset for our usual game of chess, which admittedly had become one of the high points of my typical week as the Prince advanced in skill and started to give me a real challenge. ‘Twas here we customarily discussed matters of state or personal requests, and such it was in this instance.
“Very well, Auntie. Now that our meal is done, let us both play chess and chat,” Blueblood offered as he waited for his customary post-lunch goblet of brandy to be poured, whilst I stuck to my typical tea as the jade-carved board was set before us. As always, I took the diamond-sculpted light pieces of the Celestial War’s Solar side whilst Blueblood commanded the opal-carved dark pieces in the form of my former sister’s Army of the Night.
“As you wish,” I granted, awaiting his first move, which we alternated with each game. “So you said you ‘wished to offer me your services’. And what, may I ask, did you mean by that?” I wondered aloud, knowing it could imply anything from arranging an under-the-table shipment of my favorite forbidden alcohols to taking the bulk of my duties over for me so I could have a day off—which I’d learned from long experience generally meant he had an ulterior motive in mind, seeking my authority with which to arrange import of some of his own illicit substances or to humiliate a noble who had slandered him.
He raised an eyeridge at my slightly suspicious tone. “‘Tis nothing selfish or sinister, Auntie. Quite the opposite, in fact. I have decided that I wish to serve in the war. Not as a common soldier, mind you, but as a leader of them.” He moved his first piece forward.
“I see,” I said cautiously as I did the same. “As Prince, you are one of the few exempted from military service, given you may well need to assume the throne of all Equestria should the war go poorly and I fall to the dragons. May I ask what sparked this strange request?”
He glanced up from the chess board to give me a level look. “Sterling Silver.”
I glanced up in surprise, recognizing the name from both past meetings and Admiral Coral Torch’s latest Naval reports. “Your cousin?”
“Yes,” he said as he moved another pawn forward, and I knew him well enough to recognize the barest hint of regret in his eyes, despite his attempts to appear impassive. “I have learned she died at her post on the Duty, commanding it in the stead of her absent captain and then destroying it to spite the gryphons, taking a large number of them with her. If a minor member of my noble line was willing to do that, then the Crown Prince of all Equestria can surely do no less.”
I looked up sharply again as I moved my own pawn to counter. “That information has not been disseminated. How did you know the nature of her death?”
He merely shrugged. “I read the reports of the battle and was singularly impressed by them—which, as you know, is not easy to do. In fact, methinks I was impressed not just with her, but by the entire conduct of the battle, as commanded by acting Commodore Shady. ”
“You read the reports?” I blinked again. “How? Those are classified and not given for general release!”
“I have my ways,” was all he would say as he advanced a lunar knight out of his rear rank to back his pike-wielding thestral pawns. “And ‘tis unimportant. The point is, I wish to both defend Equestria and honor my cousin by serving in the Navy as well, for bringing glory to her name and my family’s lesser line. And in truth, after reading the reports of the battle, I find myself fascinated by its course and the conduct of naval warfare in general.”
“I see,” I answered neutrally as I moved another pawn, freeing a bishop as a prelude to a castle move. Then you wish to follow in your cousin’s hoofsteps by being assigned the post of first officer on an airship?”
“Hardly anything so pedestrian,” he replied as he developed his dark-squared bishop by moving another piece with his magic, hemming in a rook. “I do not wish to be given a purely symbolic post, Auntie, and I will be nopony’s second. I wish to be given command of an entire naval battle group.”
‘Twas not often that I was caught off guard by a simple request, but this was such a time, as my aura froze in the middle of moving a piece. “You wish to be made a Commodore? With no Naval or combat experience?” I could scarcely imagine the reaction of Admiral Coral Torch to such an outlandish suggestion.
“Come now, Auntie. Even with the outbreak of war, most current Naval officers have little in the way of actual naval or combat experience, excepting perchance the Stalliongrad group. But I do not seek to usurp them. I wish instead to be given command of one of the new Naval groups you are standing up. In fact, I believe you are planning to recommission the Polaris group here at Royal Naval headquarters in Canterlot?” he pointed out. “Methinks I would be the ideal commander for it.”
I gave him an askance look as I blocked the advance of a bishop with a knight. “That order was not for general consumption, lest Imperial spies saw it.”
“Then ‘tis quite fortunate that my own intelligence network is not made of Imperial spies,” he said easily as the first exchange of taken pieces followed, leaving us vying for control of the board’s center. “Whilst new capital airships of improved classes are built at Stalliongrad, you are planning to bring older museum ships back into service as a stopgap, including the Yoketown and Polaris. Give me command of the latter,” he requested again.
“In doing so, let our subjects see that their Crown Prince is willing to risk himself in this conflict, even in the face of those odious and ugly lizards flying overhead. If nothing else, methinks you will receive far less squawking from entitled nobles about conscription if you do.” He raised an eyeridge at me as he performed a castle move of his own, shielding his Lunar King—the moon itself—from my march of pawns.
“’Tis true,” I granted, having already received and read several protests from various members of the noble class about forcing them into military service, to say nothing of the deprivations they were already starting to suffer with Canterlot cut off from greater Equestria—a state that would last at least until new underground supply lines could be opened around Diamond Dog interdiction. “Nevertheless, your request is a difficult one, Nephew.
“I grant you are well-learned and have become a skilled wielder of a very difficult sword art, but that does not teach strategy or tactics, let alone naval warfare or how to command even a single airship,” I noted as I moved a rook to back its companion on the same file.
“After ten years of playing it, I am nearly your equal in chess,” he replied as he endangered a Solar Sage knight in turn, threatening to unhinge my right flank. “Does that not teach strategy and tactics? And as far as the naval arts go, I see no reason why I cannot learn them quickly.”
“Battle is not like chess,” I felt compelled to correct him as I made another rapid exchange of pieces with him, leaving me with only a slight advantage in the center.
The Prince, however, was unperturbed. “I fail to see why. Both sides have pieces in the form of units. Those units can be of different types and have different strengths and weaknesses; different levels of mobility or striking range—just like chess pieces. Battlefields tend to be bounded—just like a chess board. And ultimately, the objective is not to eradicate an enemy’s pieces so much as to simply trap and topple the king, which could be either seizing an enemy capital or killing their commander. Or on a smaller scale, gaining a key resource or position,” he mused, then moved his Lunar queen—I hated the fact that she was in the guise of Nightmare Moon—to a new file, thwarting my rooks. “Check.”
I instantly moved my King—the Sun itself—out of danger. “Well reasoned. But with one crucial flaw.”
“Enlighten me, Auntie,” he invited as he advanced his next piece to launch a double-attack on a Knight with a discovered check on my King.
“Very well,” I replied, impressed by his strategy, sacrificing my Knight to escape the trap and block his route to my King. “In chess, the piece that moves to take another automatically wins it regardless of type or rank. That means that a simple pawn could topple a queen. That is hardly the case in warfare.”
“So the piece with initiative—the piece that moves first—has the advantage,” he smoothly countered; ‘twas clear he had anticipated my question and thought this through. “And a well-placed pawn in the form of an assassin could topple a king even in real life, through careful planning.
“In the same way, a single saboteur could take out an entire airship. Or an entire army could be held back by a thinly held chokepoint, as was the case at Thermarepylae,” he further pointed out, emphasizing his point by creating one with a fresh phalanx of his remaining pawns that hemmed in the entire left side of my board.
“Tis true…” I granted again as I realized my odds of winning had now grown quite slim, and thus ‘twas best to play for a tie. Much as I hated to admit it, he not only had a point, but he had learned from his earlier defeats quite well. “You have clearly thought this through, my young Prince.”
“Thank you, Auntie. Though methinks another point you made is valid—that even with initiative, the outcome between two units meeting in combat is not guaranteed as ‘tis in chess. But that does not nullify my analogy. I do know strategy and tactics from simple mastery of this game, and I’m certain such skills would translate easily enough to the Navy. Once I understand well enough the roles and capabilities of the various ships, guns and flyers I command, that is.”
I stared at him for a moment. “Methinks you are truly serious about this,” I realized in renewed respect.
“Of course I am. When have you ever known me not to be?” he asked dryly, offering up an amused smile for the first time as he raised his goblet of brandy to me in toast. “These are trying times, Auntie, and I will not sit on the sidelines whilst gryphon and dragon vultures gather. ‘Tis my intention to fight them, and a Royal Navy Commodore is the capacity I wish to do so in.”
“I will consider it,” I said at some length as our chess match perchance inevitably ended in a draw. “But methinks I can promise you this much—you will not simply be installed as Commodore. My sister would never approve of such a thing in her service, so if you truly wish it, you must earn it—you must learn the knowledge necessary and pass every test and exam given you.”
“And ‘tis certain I would have it no other way, Auntie,” he said as he stood and bowed low before me as our match and meeting ended. “Just as I received no special treatment from my sword school, I expect none here. ‘Twill be some time before the Polaris group is ready, so I will immerse myself in Naval texts as much as my swordsponyship in the meantime. And by the time ‘tis ready to be crewed?”
He stood to attention and drew his sword, sketching me a salute with it. “Be assured I will pass all tests, including the Bridge officer, Captain and Commodore exams. As well as any others you or Admiral Torch herself may seek to surprise me with...”
My initial inclination to this request was to decline it. And yet, the more I heard from him, the more it reminded me of when he’d initially decided he wished to study the One True Form sword art, reeling off to me and his sire a list of facts and figures of it, even sketching some of its basic techniques before us with a toy sword. I thus gave my blessing to his attempting it, even though I did not expect the arrogant and impatient 14-year old colt he was to last long in it.
But eleven years later, he had not only stuck with it, but he stood on the verge of mastering the art’s highest form and earning the rarely granted title of Maestro. And listening to him speak of his latest desire, it struck me that I heard much the same tone and determination from him with regards to joining the Navy as he had shown a decade earlier. Thus, ‘twas certain to me even then that he not only meant what he said, but that he had the ability, desire and will to do it.
I again offered the Prince the pen for at least some closing remarks, but he has yet again declined, content to let me describe our meeting. He promises that he will speak eventually, but “not until the appropriate time”. I know not what he means by that, but I will take him at his word. Though ‘tis certain he can be tactless and undiplomatically direct at times, ‘tis very refreshing considering the doublespeak I oft encounter in diplomatic meetings.
Thankfully, the latest one I attended was anything but. ‘Tis my pleasure to announce that at long last, I met Queen Scylla Lepidoptes IV, longtime Sovereign of the Lepidoptes Hive and arguably the savior of Equestria, in what can only be considered an official state visit.
I will not extend this chapter to describe our encounter, but will devote more time to it—and to her—later. I will simply say for now that I found her more than worthy of her title and crown; as intelligent, caring and noble a being as I have ever met. A true peer, and a being I am now very proud to call my friend.
—Celestia Daybringer
Princess of the Sun
Diarch of Equestria
Canterlot
“The game of chess is not merely an idle amusement. Several very valuable qualities of the mind, useful in the course of human life, are to be acquired or strengthened by it. Life is a kind of Chess, in which we have often points to gain, and competitors or adversaries to contend with.”
—Benjamin Franklin
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Taking a break from killing myself writing my new story to write a comment for Best Warfic.
Wearing this!
camo.fimfiction.net/fTHgiXfawPXcV04tSs5gz7-Uskvc_uqJBlCBM0BqvwI?url=https%3A%2F%2Fimages-ext-1.discordapp.net%2Fexternal%2FDV6REQnmT-8s4a50LIBpWobJt01og9hf3Zz7ROLBrzg%2Fhttps%2Fderpicdn.net%2Fimg%2Fview%2F2014%2F12%2F12%2F783474.png%3Fwidth%3D376%26height%3D300
You're going to be waiting for a while, BB. The Red Team sous chefs are doing your dinner and making a right mess of things. One of the guys forgot the lamb sauce, another one got made into an idiot sandwich, one of them is literally a donkey and the bass is fucking raw.
Headcanon accepted.
A foolish decision in the extreme. Unicorns are just about the most versatile unit you have in your arsenal, more so even than pegasi given the loss of the weather factory.
And this is Blueblood's honorable ancestor! Some things never change...
So long as he gets to tell people his name is Inigo Montoya before killing them, the pronunciation is a trivial matter!
This is an outstanding basis for a school of magic and I'm curious what inspiration you drew from to create it.
Perhaps absurdly, this word reminds me of sectumsempra which is a sword-strike magical attack in Harry Potter that is also based in dark magic. Just knowing this causes me some concern. What's next for me, voting for Joe Biden? Virtue-signaling on Twitter? Unpersoning someone for writing Aryanne? Fedposting at some guy posting edgy memes in my Discord chat?
It takes some serious balls to use magic that can wind up killing you with ease. That attack better be freaking amazing is all I can say!
A nagging, soul-destroying force, even more devastating than Karen.
The Soviets boasted they could charge through any minefield but never faced the might of the Claymore mine.
It could be worse, it could be the Pink Cloud from Fallout Equestria, which this whole Canterlot trap does remind me of quite a bit...
Time to go to bed. I'll finish my comment tomorrow.
I like this Blueblood. Smart, resourceful, dedicated.
This was a great chapter and I liked Typhoon's reasoning because it makes sense. This Blueblood is also interesting and I'm curious to see what will follow.
Time for part 2.
"So long and thanks for all the fish." -- The Gryphon Kingdom
It's a good thing magic exists in Medieval Equestria because in human medieval times, lacking knowledge of germ theory, Gavian is completely screwed.
Oof!
Yes, I know about the Sabaton version. I prefer this one, honestly. This isn't the kind of sentiment to be pumped up to 11, honestly and I prefer the original.
God, you're so negative! I said he had a 15% chance of winning!
If Thunderbolt would have been thinking, he'd have simply punched Gavian in the dick. It worked for Frieza, you know!
Remind me never to go up against Typhoon in a war. This guy's got it all figured out. The soldier's lives mean nothing; it's a numbers game and always has been.
Over the course of the Thunderbolt saga, you've completely sold me on Typhoon's gambit. I suppose one could still come out with some moralistic argument but morals don't create griffon corpses which is what Typhoon's point is. There can be no war crimes when war itself is a crime. People who argue otherwise have the benefit of not having to fight for their lives but stupid abstract bullshit concepts such as universal equality, freedom and liberty which are only ever held up by inequality, total lack of freedom, and censorship.
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The analogy between actual battle and chess fails on two grounds: that the numbers are never equal between armies and the chessboard ignores terrain. However, there are two reasonable counters to these two claims I've made. The first is that in an air battle terrain features matters far less since a great deal of leverage is given to the commander to ignore the terrain entirely. The second is that the overall numbers involved in set piece battle ignores a far more decisive element in determining victory in a single battle — the numbers engaged at the point of contact where two armies meet. This important factor explains why, in 1941 after getting their asses kicked in battle after battle against the Wehrmacht despite overwhelming numerical superiority, the Soviets were able to hold off the blitzkrieg near Moscow with equal numbers.
The American Civil War gives us perhaps the most fantastic examples in the history of warfare of small armies holding off larger ones by defeating them in detail.
Alright, time to finish off my story. It's been wearing me out but I'm almost done. Twilight Sparkle is really going to enjoy herself!
I have to disagree with the insoburinate part. she had every right to be angry especially now knowing the odds. the captain was out of line to even berate her on it
10405325
Thanks. That's what I'm going for. You'll see him at his best and worst before all is said and done.
10405702
Thank you very much. I'm glad you liked Typhoon's explanations, blunt and uncomfortable though they occasionally were. Blueblood will be developed over time, but suffice it to say, I do have some interesting things for him planned.
10406100
According to The Best Night Ever--an excellent Blueblood fic if you've never read it--the modern Blueblood is the 52nd, but that's a little too large a number for this one being the 14th who lived 700 years ago. So I'll say the current one is somewhere around the 30th.
10406191
Sorry, but I have to disagree with you there in turn. Whether or not she had the right to be angry, she doesn't have the right--ever--to take it out on her superior. That's not the way the military works. You always respect the rank even if you don't respect the one holding it, and the chain of command requires adherence to orders and carrying them out even if you don't like them. There is no "I'm upset over what you asked my to son to do" exception to that; the chain of command must be respected and due respect shown to superiors at all times. Otherwise, what you end up with is a non-functional military that can't fight.
Blueblood, this is why chess and battlefield tactics are not identical.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsHwUvmrVIo
10406861
He seems nice.
Needless to say, Blueblood would beg to disagree, probably just before handing this guy his head.
10405285
Thanks as always for the compliment! Sadly, it'll never have the readership of being it.
Rarity would be scandalized!
Well, GR did receive the MLP treatment in an episode!
pm1.narvii.com/6126/cf84dc0a1703cf6488b8d83f27ff778a715663ff_hq.jpg
Actually, given his name, they should have made him a ram. He's always butting heads with people, after all.
Cool. There's even been a minor reference to him in Nightmare Night. The modern Blueblood stated he was keeping his security-bypassing crystal behind the portrait of Blueblood XIV.
Agreed. But in fairness, at least they're trying to do their bit for the war effort. Though they'll have to modify what they're doing to be anywhere near effective in enough time.
Honorable remains to be seen. But effective, definitely.
You know we're going to use that joke at some point!
This is an outstanding basis for a school of magic and I'm curious what inspiration you drew from to create it.
Oh, come on. Such things would never happen!
As for Septasnare, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't thinking of the Sectumsempra (is that one word or two?), but I wanted an entirely different effect, and given we'd already seen examples of dark magic in this universe, there was no reason I couldn't borrow it.
It's not a direct attack; more an indirect one, but it's devastating to both individual and group will and leaves you easy pickings even if you're not immobilized.
Wait! You don't mean... the spell forces them to watch the DNC speeches on a endless loop???
Devastating directional mines like might very definitely given them some pause with human wave attacks.
Thankfully, it will not have the same ending, however.
10406098
Time for part 2.
RIP, Douglas Adams. Comedic novels are very hard to pull off, but you did it repeatedly.
Not just in human medieval times. We didn't have people washing their hands or anything in the way of antibiotics until pretty much until WW2. US Civil War or even WW1? Forget it. Unsanitary conditions and post-op infections took a ton of lives. Hell, in the former, deadly diseases in camps took far more lives than combat. Something like nearly three times as many.
Having listened to both versions now, I agree with you.
In poker terms, the implied odds of hitting an inside straight were so high as to justify the bet. Sometimes it is; sometimes you can actually justify going all-in on a 15% chance just because the pot you could win is so big. Such it was here.
*Gavian, after felling Thunderbolt with his final attack* "That... was for... muh dick." *collapses*
And for better and for worse, he knows this well. Only problem here is, Gavian's a civilian. He would have felt guilty if he died, but he also wouldn't have really regretted it.
It's true we've lived far too sheltered lives for too long. I can't help but wonder if that's now changing. I just had a rather uncomfortable talk with my work manager about what might happen if things go south even here.
I'm totally stealing that.
You could make the argument that terrain for airships is clouds and weather, but yes.
Also known as Concentration; a principle of war. Numbers only matter if they're where they're needed.
That and the fact that the Germans were exhausted and at the end of their logistical rope. And also not really ready for winter because they thought they could win the war before that.
Stonewall Jackson's Shenandoah Valley Campaign was indeed a clinic in maneuver warfare and defeating numerically superior forces in detail. Sadly for the South, he was killed by friendly fire in the battle of Chancellorsville after he'd outflanked Hooker and crushed his right wing. If he lived, the subsequent invasion of the North that led to the Battle of Gettysburg might have had a much different outcome. He was that good.
She'd better! I'll resume my reading of it this weekend, now that the first Firefly chapter is out of the way, though I do still need to do some editing work on the second one belonging to DB.
I really wish Blueblood would have to start as ensign/midshipmare(colt?) and risen through the navy officer ranks..
11181802
Unfortunately, there’s no time for that, and he’s not about to subject himself to starting at the bottom, either. This version of Blueblood really is smart enough to learn what he needs quickly. In time, he’ll become a naval leader the gryphons hate facing simply because he’s an ice-cold commander who doesn’t give a damn about anything except completing his missions. As such, he won’t hesitate to sacrifice his crew and soldiers like chess pawns.
They really could need some DBZ Senzu Beans
Can't say if i like Blueblood cold calculated mind or not. I critic Celestia before, but i had time to think about ot and take only population into account. I ignored not willfully the lost of 'knowlege, culture, Infrastructure, research and development focused on the Capital'...
Than again i rather lose Canterlot than all of Equestria...
I like Blueblood want to earn it. Since time is running out i see why he want hus position once his tests are done and successfully pulled through.
Damn... I must say i can be cold and calculated in the comments, but i doubt i can actually pull it through if real life was behind my actions
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Sadly, such Deux Ex Machinas do not exist here, though unicorn and gryphon healers can certainly mend both wounds and broken bones far faster than we can.
Blueblood is Blueblood, for better and for worse. I’ll simply say for now that his calculated mind will be one the gryphons do not like facing later, simply because he won’t give a damn about casualties or the lives of those he commands.
So would Luna if she was here. She’s far more cold-blooded and offensive-minded when it comes to matters of war. That’s reflected in the relative roles of both the Celestial sisters and their services before Luna’s fall (and after her eventual return). Celestia and the Royal Guard are the Equestria’s shield. Luna and the Royal Navy are Equestria’s sword.
I promise that you will.
Me too. I can write about it, but actually doing it would be a whole different question.