Brutal
He should not have reminded Cerea of her mother.
Physically... perhaps there was a pony with the fur hues and bearing to invoke that mare, and he wasn't it. Emery Board was patterned in camouflage colors: Cerea suspected that under normal lighting (as opposed to what currently existed at the Guard training grounds), he would readily vanish into the majority of spring and summer forests, and she occasionally had trouble distinguishing his hooves from the grass. Her mother was fairly tall for a centaur, something where Cerea actually took after her parent: the sergeant didn't come close to matching the height and bulk of most earth ponies. He was the first pony she could internally describe as being wiry, and the movements of those legs came with the suggestion of metal having been pulled into new positions, ready to snap back at the moment effort ended. Some of his body postures indicated a precisely-adjusted statue.
His age was mostly indicated by subtle aspects within his natural scent, all of which Cerea could readily distinguish because
why isn't he
there was nothing else in the way. There was a certain tendency towards crags within his features, but they didn't look like the result of weathering years so much as they came across as a lifelong refusal to accept anything in the way of softness. His eyes had the brightness of a younger pony, along with the narrowed lids of someone who didn't like anything they were seeing and was prepared to spend the next six hours explaining exactly how you'd been doing it wrong. He spoke in quick shouts and direct orders: get up, make sure you meet your escort (which turned out to be a new unicorn, one who had teleported Cerea directly to the training area shortly after sunrise and far too soon following breakfast) precisely at this hour, then approach me and do exactly what I say! And keep doing it, even when you know that nothing you do can ever be good enough and the only thing you can accomplish is the triggering of the next demand!
Her body had responded to his orders on something very close to instinct, with reflexes honed by the endlessly-turning grindstone of inadequacy. He had led her to a new section of the training area, one which had a population waiting to receive her. They were well-padded, motionless, mindless, and bore an aroma which said they'd been through all of this multiple times, generally without cleaning.
He'd also had a sword waiting for her. Not her sword, because that had to be moved separately, and... there was a reason the light was strange at the training grounds, and she sometimes found her hooves lightly cantering against any available stones in an attempt to block out the distant, muffled sounds which the inciting cause was still producing. They weren't as far out as they could have been, there had been places near her arrival point where she would be able to see them if she turned and if she turned...
She didn't know what they would do. But she knew what the sword was for, and so she'd taken it up on his order. An edgeless practice blade made from what he'd told her was called black ironwood: something she'd never previously encountered, and so it might have been from a tree which was only known in this land. It had a pleasant aroma to go with a surprising density: she'd never seen so much plant mass contained in a relatively small area, and it gave the fake sword something which was very close to a proper heft.
He had ordered her to gallop into the field of wooden practice dummies and attack them. To treat everything about that as if it was a real battle. She'd just barely managed to ask if there was some kind of magic involved (because she'd been picturing animation of the unliving, joints manifesting to let them fight back) and he'd looked at her for a single second before the next shout had threatened to wither autumn-weakened grass.
So she'd followed orders. Because in form, there was nothing about him which should have made Cerea think about her mother. But the words...
With the matriarch, the words generally weren't expressed as orders. They didn't have to be. Every sentence was a direct order: including that sort of tone just made things redundant.
You couldn't meet her standards and if you somehow came close, those standards would be moved.
You couldn't satisfy her requirements.
And on your best day, you would still come in second.
She'd just finished. He'd told her to step out of the dummy field -- she'd retreated to the western edge, head already lowering with shame -- and now he was trotting around the mannequins. Examining the chips of freshly-gouged wood which were strewn across the grass.
Finally, he looked up at her, and did so in such a way as to suggest that no matter what their respective heights might be, he was actually looking down.
"There's problems," he stated.
That was the worst part: having it be a statement. That the fact of her failure was so obvious as to remove all need to shout.
Slowly, the sergeant trotted closer. He stopped at a distance which allowed him to maintain precise eye contact, and his silent regard suffused air which was closer to spring than autumn. Unseasonably warm (which had put her in a blouse instead of a sweater), and none of the snowfall from the previous two days had landed here. There was nothing for that heat to melt.
So much like spring, at least for one day -- but there was no breeze, because that was impossible. And none of the warmth reached Cerea's heart, as her fingers began to go limp on the sword's grip and her shoulders sagged forward. Pressed down by the weight of failure.
"Heard about the fight in Palimyno." The disc rendered it into something which came with an audible shrug, but the forelegs and shoulders themselves never moved. Every part of his posture simply maintained, and the tilt of his neck had done nothing to shift the ancient hat. "Starting to see why it ended that way."
"I'm sorry --" was automatic. Unstoppable. Very nearly vocalized in the pony form, even with the disc on, just to prove she could do something right --
"-- shut up."
Just like everything else, it had been an order, and so she stopped talking --
"And open your eyes."
She forced herself to look at him again. Waited, forcing her breathing to be steady, which just let her take in more of the odors and
he isn't
She didn't know why. And it should have been a comfort, to have that true of someone other than the Princesses. To know that there was anyone who...
...but then, she'd just shown him there was no need to be.
His gaze moved a little. Up, then down, and finally went back to looking into her eyes.
"For starters," he stated, "you've got the same problem as the General."
"I haven't met --"
The sergeant snorted. "The Princess. Princess Celestia, this time. You won't hear the other title much. But it's the same problem." He broke eye contact, began to trot back towards the array of splintered wood. "Can't fault you for not knowing how to fight back against magic, because you didn't know that existed until about three seconds after you cleared the bushes. Sounded like you figured out some of the basics in a hurry. But this is about the part you didn't compensate for. Still haven't."
He turned. Looked her up and down again. Mostly up.
"Size," he told her. "Pretty easy for you to get swarmed, isn't it? Takes a lot of ponies to fully surround you. But if they can get the oval and keep you from jumping out of it, you're going down. Because they can keep attacking your legs. More length, more to go directly after. Having your knees that much higher just makes them an easier target for bites and charges. The General's been dealing with that her whole life. But she's got options you don't."
He slowly shook his head.
"Same could be said," he added, "going the other way." Broke eye contact, trotted up to a training dummy, and examined a small gouge. "What happened here?"
It seemed to be taking all of her strength to prevent the shaking, and most of what that proved was that she didn't have all that much true strength to begin with. "I don't know what you --"
Looking at her again, with enough intensity to cut off her words, and there was no discernible expression within the brown eyes.
"Been traveling, since I was discharged." Another snort. "Honorable discharge. Big turnout to see me off. But I couldn't retire. Figured there was still a need for me, and if Equestria thought I was too old to keep going, then there's enough other nations out there to give me a place. Best thing about you being here so far? That's over. The General reactivated me, and it's not like anypony can override her. Traveling wasn't bad, though. Got to learn a few things. Saw some stuff which most ponies don't."
The lack of pause stood out.
"You play sports?" he immediately asked, and waited.
She wasn't sure how to answer. The herd had its games. But when it came to athletic competitions, just about everything was head to head. You competed, and you did so as an individual. That made it so much easier to lose --
-- but it had never been playing. Playing was something you chose to do. Something you enjoyed, and so play had never been any part of it.
He took her silence as denial, and snorted again. "Probably thinking you couldn't explain it to an old pony if you wanted to. Centaur sports. Four legs and two arms: that's got to change a few rules --"
"-- racing," she quietly said. "Obstacle courses. Fights. Jousting."
Patterned ears twisted.
"Last one didn't come all the way through," the sergeant said. "Charging at each other with spears?"
"...lances. Blunted," Cerea finally tried to explain. (Her own ears were twisting, because the silences were letting too many of the distant sounds reach her, and it was the wrong time to canter in place.) "While wearing armor. It's..." She had to force the breath. "...something we're supposed to do with a partner, because the impact is... our shoulders..."
Stopped, as her newest failure reached ears which had just tried to hide beneath unbraided hair.
"...there's supposed to be someone on our backs," she finished. "A rider. But that wasn't possible until about a year ago, and... there aren't many riders." And once the possibility had finally opened up, it turned out that there weren't very many who were willing to be ridden.
It got her a bare nod, one which suggested the neck was being forced to shift against basic design principles, and artificial highlights shifted across his fur. (She was trying not to look up. Looking at everything which that twisted light had created was bad enough.) "So let's see if this comes across. There's this sport called --" and the wire hissed "-- baseball/cricket/boring/rounders --"
Cerea blinked.
Baseball was a primary sport in Japan, and so Cerea had briefly studied the game before traveling. She hadn't been all that impressed: long periods of doing nothing followed by split-seconds of activity, followed by doing nothing all over again. Baseball, when played on defense, seemed to mostly be good for standing within what was admittedly a beautifully-maintained outfield while indulging in long thoughts -- and she'd found that out directly because there had been a day when her beloved
he never could have loved
had taken the household to a public park to let them see how it all worked. Eventually, the amateur team practicing on the diamond had become curious enough to ask the spectators if they would be interested in taking the field -- or at least, that was how they had tried to explain it: Cerea suspected they mostly just wanted to see the girls trying to play the sport, with some hopes of torn blouses. Of course, there weren't enough girls for a full squad, and not all of those present could play. (Meroune, when on land, was confined to a wheelchair, and Papi was quickly proven incapable of gripping the bat.) So some of the amateurs had filled in the vacant slots, and... well...
...there were ways in which liminals almost fit into human society.
"She's just taking a lead off first."
"It's a five-meter lead!"
"So?"
"She's still touching the base!"
Sports weren't among them.
Miia had been the first to be banned. (It wasn't just the havoc wreaked on the basepaths by a body seven meters long. The human torso could be boosted into the air by a snake tail which usually seemed to be about eighty percent muscle, and when it came to leaning over the fence to recover a potential home run...) Cerea had been second --
"-- you got something from that," the sergeant checked. "A sport which involves taking a swing at a moving object."
She nodded. He looked her over again. Up and down, lower sternum to tail.
"Biped sport, mostly," he continued. "Some ponies play their own version of rounders. Never cared for it myself. But traveling meant I got to see my biped squads play. How they swing." And the abrupt, brief chuckle could have been seen as a sign of something within the stallion which made him relatable -- but the perceived darkness of that joy blocked it. "And when you see how they play, it tells you something about how they fight. Strengths and weaknesses."
Still looking at her, as if he was waiting for something.
The sun shifted across the sky, and greenish rays played across his face. Because there was a shield covering the training area, and just barely. The top of the dome was so low as to skim the treetops. It was the only thing keeping the protesters out because the training grounds were apparently public and they had known she would need to use them, so they had arrived before she had, set up signs and marching lines and chants....
It kept the breezes out. It flickered sometimes, especially when Cerea heard distant hooves pounding against light. It looked as if it might vanish at any moment, it brought back a certain amount of spiritual claustrophobia, and it was just another kind of gap set into the world.
"I don't understand..." She knew it wasn't the answer he wanted. Failures tended to be cumulative.
This snort was louder.
"They swing," he told her. "Trying to make contact. And some of them miss. I saw some of the strongest ones swing so hard, they spun their whole body around. One of them did two circles and dropped into the dirt. That's torque. They've got the upper-body strength, because they've got an upper body. But there's only two legs, and when the top half twists like that -- the legs get dragged along. Told me how easy it is to make a biped overcommit. Get him off-balance to the point where maybe I don't have to drop him, because he just did it to himself."
He looked at the ironwood sword.
"Swing it. Hard."
It was an order from the one who was about to reject her, and so she obeyed. She brought the wood back as she raised it, channeled physical effort into what she felt was a fairly hard swing. There was more force put into it than the ones she had directed against the mannequins, air whistled across and around the false blade and she used the followthrough as the start of the flow required to bring it back into a resting position --
-- he nodded, and the next words emerged at something close to normal volume. It made them feel strangely soft, if only for decibels: the tone remained harsh. But there were other aspects rendered by the disc --
"Watching you, when you were in there." His tail indicated the cellulose army. "All of you. Got some interesting things going on with your joints, don't you? More range than most. Upper waist musculature was interesting. You twist further than a biped does. Naturally, without pain. And in the end... two arms. Four legs. Gives you something they don't have. Bracing. You can't twist yourself into the dirt, because you've got more support."
-- curiosity.
Evaluation.
Fascination.
Miia had been the first girl banned from the game. Cerea had been second, because she had come up to the plate, ready to take her swings. And perhaps they had simply been waiting for the sight of a braless centaur galloping around the bases -- but they had been robbed of that, because there had been no need for her to hurry.
No one had ever found the ball.
"For your size, your strength... you can commit more effort into a swing than anyone," the sergeant told her. "I should be seeing sundered limbs. Decapitations on all sides. SO WHY AM I LOOKING AT SOME PITIFUL LITTLE GOUGES? Every one of these woodheads should be in pieces! WHY DIDN'T YOU COMMIT TO THE ATTACK?"
The sheer force of the shout drove her back, and that wasn't the only thing making her legs go into reverse: the sergeant had his own aura, it was the first time she'd sensed it at all and he was marching towards her, hooves harder than stone driving into the earth as everything about him pushed against her --
"-- you said -- you said to treat it as if it was real -- as if they were ponies --"
"-- and if they were ponies? You would be DEAD! Why didn't you --"
"-- I've never killed!"
Her head dropped at the same instant as her tail, and her fingertips closed just in time to keep the practice sword from going into the dirt.
I wasn't allowed to fight.
I tried to defend him against humans and all I could do was -- stand there. Because as soon as I did anything real, I lost him forever.
I tried against liminals, and... I failed. Over and over...
He had stopped moving. Only his words crossed the five meters between them, and did so on a current of personal calm.
"Had a yes to that. Once."
"...what?" Her vision was blurring. Ears twisting in all directions --
"-- a recruit. Who'd killed. Before ever reaching me." A plain statement of purest fact. "And that's why she came here. Because she felt like she had to spend the rest of her life making up for it. And she got through."
Don't shake, please don't shake, on top of everything else --
"Didn't think you'd killed," he told her. "Fought for your life in Palimyno, didn't kill. They're all pretty much recovered now, even if some of them are lying about it. Killing is easy, recruit. Putting somepony down without killing -- that's harder. Takes more skill, discipline, and knowledge you don't have yet. Best-case, you get through your whole life without killing. Guards die for ponies more than they kill."
Nothing about the solid posture changed when he said that: not a single strand of fur twitched. But a new scent rose from him, only to be banished again. Carrying, if only for a moment, what his words could not.
"Can't completely tell yourself it's real, when you're fighting wood. It's not the same. The wood wasn't fighting back. And if this goes far enough, we're going to have you out here against ponies --"
"Ponies," emerged as exceptionally stark.
"That's when you show me how you don't kill. Because you'll be fighting volunteers."
"Volunteers," mostly saved her some effort in trying to find an original word.
"I'm still their sergeant," felt like a very vicious observation, and it almost curled the far left corner of his lips. "I can get volunteers. Fighting ponies, fighting whatever else I can get out here. Whatever and whoever. Standard for Guards. But this is wood, trainee. On wood, you show me force. On sapients, you show me how you hold back. Because the goal is always the same: make the other one stop fighting. Killing stops that, and killing's easy. Killing is the last stop. Wounding... if there's a group, and they care about each other, wounding one can take out more than that. They have to get their friend out of there, so you get a couple more to leave when they evac. But just making them drop, or putting them in so much hurt that they have to stop... that's a skill. And you're here to learn. But today is wood. So swing harder."
His head tilted slightly to the right.
"Don't remember giving you permission to stare."
She often seemed to have very little control of herself, when around the ponies. Emotions. Posture. Words.
"...why aren't you afraid of me?"
Because she could scent his age and for a single second, it had been joined by his sorrow. But there was nothing else. And outside of the Princesses, he had been the only one.
He snorted.
"I don't see anything worth being afraid of -- still staring." The right foreleg gestured, directed her towards the mannequins. "I traveled. Wasn't in Equestria when it all went down. Heard the reports. Came back and --" (she tried not to let her nose wrinkle, to show any sign that she'd picked up on it again) "-- saw mine off. So I didn't meet him. Might have been a shorter fight if I had. Or might have just been one more goodbye. Can't say. Could have thought of a tactic, could have gotten stomped before anypony could use it. Doesn't matter, because I can't make the past come out a different way."
Trotting steadily towards the practice area, and she forced herself to follow.
"Didn't meet him," he repeated. "Just you. And you're not him --"
Eight hooves had stopped, and the forward four only halted when he realized she had.
"You haven't been hearing that a lot," he decided. "Or at all. But that's how it is. You're not him. The fear's there for others, and maybe there's ways we can use that. Right now, it's just not justified fear, BECAUSE YOU ARE NOTHING WORTH BEING AFRAID OF! NOW GET BACK IN THERE! KEEP YOUR LEGS MOVING, BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT KICKING ENOUGH AND UNLESS YOU ARE BRACING TO SWING OR KICK, IF THEY ARE NOT AT FULL CANTER, THEY ARE TOO MUCH OF A TARGET! I WANT TO SEE YOU SWINGING LOWER! KEEP THE SPACE AROUND YOU CLEAR! AND IF THERE AREN'T AT LEAST TWO DECAPITATIONS, WE WILL DO THIS AGAIN! AND AGAIN! AND AGAIN! I HAVE MORE DUMMIES, WHICH CURRENTLY INCLUDES THE GIANT SPECIMEN WHO SHOULD BE MOVING ALREADY! IN THE EVENT THAT YOU FAIL TO LEARN FROM OR RETAIN YOUR TRAINING, I DO NOT KNOW WHERE TO GET ANOTHER CENTAUR! I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO LET A SINGULAR OPPORTUNITY REFLECT POORLY ON MY RENEWED CAREER! NOW MOVE!"
The vocal blast whipped against her flanks, made her jump, sent her into the midst of false melee at full gallop, she was swinging before she had the chance to realize she was swinging at all, and then --
He was looking at the debris, and doing so on the move. Kicking pieces of false limbs as he circled the remaining torso.
"Going to have someone cut you a staff," he decided. "Cap one end in iron. Maybe pad the other. Could give you a little more range and it's better for sweeping the area, but it ties up both hands. I want to see how you move with one." The sergeant briefly deigned to glance at her. "Had the sword made to match the size of the real one. You use that one-handed most of the time. Grip allows for two. Still means we should be doing something with the other hand occasionally. Biggest new problem is that you don't have full tail control. We can try to build up the muscles there."
"I know how to keep my tail away from the enemy." Having it come across as a protest would have required strength she didn't possess. "I just... if it's that horn light, they can pull it away from wherever I tucked it --"
"Corona. Field," the sergeant instructed. "Problem for anyone fighting unicorns, and that's why we're going to talk about backlash tomorrow. But that's not what I meant. You don't have enough tail control to mount a razorwhip. Not sure if you're going to be good for one anyway, because not everypony can master them. They're tricky. There's going to be a book of tail exercises in the barracks tonight. Have Nightwatch read it to you."
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes... sir?"
"YOU DO NOT CALL ME 'SIR'! THERE HAVE BEEN NOBLES WHO TOOK UP THE LIFE OF A GUARD, AND YOU WILL NOT CALL THEM 'SIR' OR 'DUCHESS' OR ANY OTHER TITLE, BECAUSE THEY ARE GUARDS! YOU CALL ME SERGEANT!"
"...yes, Sergeant..."
"I CANNOT HEAR YOU! SOUND OFF LIKE YOU'VE GOT A PAIR!"
Several questions were instantly raised.
"I'm --" She had voluntarily left the herd, found herself in a new nation, lived among humans who barely recognized what centaurs were, and she still hadn't needed to explain this part. "-- I don't have --"
"I AM LOOKING DIRECTLY AT THEM! THEY ARE RATHER HARD TO MISS! I AM ASSUMING THAT HAVING ALL THAT WEIGHT OVER THE RIB CAGE EXERTS SOME PRESSURE ON THE LUNGS, AND SO AIR CAN BE EXPELLED ALL THE FASTER! SOUND OFF! AND GET BACK IN THERE!"
Six limbs.
Four legs. Two arms. No matter how you worked the math, it added up to six. Cerea was fully aware of that and, after a day spent under the shield, had reached the point where she was aware of very little else.
Legs were trembling sticks which, for some strange anatomical reason, had been asked to bear up a mass which they had no business supporting: this was matched by the current amount of interest they had in actually performing the job. Arms were dragging weights attached to a pair of zones which were normally designated as 'shoulders': however, Cerea had been considering that terminology and, after some reflection, was prepared to redefine them as something more appropriate. This might mean needing to intensify her language studies, because her current choice took too long to say in French and there was a chance that in the pony tongue, 'a horrible mistake' was one word.
The rejection of the braid gave her hair more freedom of movement. It also meant that the sweat which had soaked through her garment eventually reached those strands, and they had plastered along her back. In Cerea's opinion, the effect of the moisture along the front would allow her to win any wet T-shirt contest which happened to be taking place in the area: something she saw as automatic even with the bra on because in any case, she would mostly be winning by default.
Her ears were drooping. Her upper torso had been reminded that swinging a sword was considered to be fairly intensive exercise, reaped some of the benefits, noticed the use of 'reaped', seen where it was going before her conscious mind did, and soon began begging for a stop. She had strained muscles she wasn't aware she had, which at least gave her the dubious benefit of knowing where they were now. Cerea had no idea how to stop being aware of them and all things considered, being told that you had a tongue in your mouth was an improvement.
They had only stopped when the sergeant had spotted froth beginning to slide down her legs. She liked the froth. It was cooling, it didn't judge her, and if it had been allowed to continue for a while, it would have potentially killed her. Death would have meant an end to the training and when viewed from that perspective, she was no longer certain why it was bad. But the stallion had simply sent her into a cooldown phase, which proved that he didn't want her to die and from that same perspective, made him into the single worst pony she'd ever met. Nopony had read her the articles, and yet she was fairly sure Wordia Spinner might want her dead. This meant Wordia Spinner was the better pony.
Six limbs. One, two, three -- there was a series of numbers along the way and so recalling all of them wasn't strictly necessary, as long as you knew what the last one was. The important part was that she had six limbs, and every ache told her that was just too many.
Also, her tail hurt. He'd decided to start some of the exercises early.
The pain would continue into the night. It would intensify as she continued her efforts to clear some part of the barracks, and then it directly affected the language classes because upon hearing what had happened at the training grounds, Nightwatch would decide that what Cerea really needed to feel better was some appropriate vocabulary.
Unknown to the centaur, the younger Princess would be within her dreams that night to observe the results in the name of both monitoring her condition and answering a question which the sergeant had been careful to ask. Those results would be reported as a positive. Because with hours in which she could do very little but ache, it was the pain which directed the majority of the centaur's nightscape -- and so Luna would, in what she decided wasn't truly a violation of her code, be able to tell the stallion that his streak was intact. For even with a class of but a single sapient to train, someone had dreamed of killing him.
But that hadn't been the whole of it. And Luna didn't tell him about the remainder, because there was a code, and...
Did she know the girl better than anypony? Did Nightwatch? Luna was at least the regional expert on the girl's past, and still felt that she didn't know anywhere near enough. There was something they had yet to reach, missing information which felt as if it might be the key to so much. But she had seen something of the girl's former life.
You had to be careful about your interpretations, when it was the nightscape. Even memories could be tinged by personal belief, and some were capable of tricking themselves into full visions of a false past. But the younger didn't believe Cerea was among them, and...
She'd seen more, when it came to the centaur. The girl, and those who had been around her. Enough to see some of what had been missing.
Cerea would dream of killing him on that night, because he was her sergeant and in a very real way, creating those dreams was his job. He wore it as a badge of honor, at least for those times when he hadn't taken it as a cherished token of horror. The sergeant had chosen a life where he would forever be the source of fear, where the girl had not. The Princesses (or rather, the Generals) had spoken to him about that, before everything had begun.
But something happened before she left the training grounds. Something which meant the dream of fully-justified vengeance was brief, and which carried the stallion's image into some of the dreams that followed.
"Cooldown's over," he gruffly stated. "Go wait by the cottonwood. Your escort should be here to teleport you back in about ten minutes. You can rest until then."
Something about the words bothered her, and it took several seconds of forced examination through blurring waves of ache before she spotted the implied singular.
"...you're not coming?" Because he had been waiting at the site when she arrived, the shield would have to be dropped eventually, and the protesters were still out there...
He snorted. "Don't like teleports. Tactical use, that's fine. Casual travel, I'll take the trot. Plus I just got reinstated. Anypony wants to tell me they've got a problem, they can talk. Anypony tries to show me, they're assaulting a Guard and I could use the exercise. Under the tree. Leave the ironwood here."
Collapsing into the cool shaded grass should have made her feel better. It didn't. It just created awareness of several new strained muscles along her barrel, along with establishing the horrible knowledge that eventually, she would have to get up again.
Her upper torso leaned against the trunk. Rough rivers and striations of bark registered through the soaked blouse as extra aches against her skin. The day felt too hot and nopony was doing anything about that. And she was showing weakness in front of him, but they had been going for hours, even centaur endurance only went so far, there was just about nothing left in her after a day of going again and again and again, failures stacked on top of each other because manure wasn't the only thing which could go that high, she was tired of failing --
-- he was looking at her. He was always looking at her, and having sunk so low just about put the two of them on eye level. She just wanted him to stop.
...he said something.
"Better."
Blue eyes just barely managed to focus upon brown.
"You got better today," Emery Board informed her. "You'll be even better tomorrow." And with that, the old stallion turned, silently trotting away.
He shouldn't have reminded Cerea of her mother.
He never did again.
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Is this the first compliment she ever received from a perceived parental figure? If so, damn.
I wonder how he'll react to the hug when the training's over
Sgt. Emery Board : Brutal compassion incarnate.
10147454
Pretty much, yeah. Her mother is the sort where "better" means "slightly less disappointed then usual".
Granny Weatherwax: "Good isn't the same as nice. Let's do some good."
10136095
You should have given a rib kick in on FATAL if you wanted up votes.
Of course it does have that over Dungeon: one could never call FATAL boring. Tedious, stupid, and ass blisteringly awful from conception to birth BUT NEVER BORING (at least until one is actually tries to play by its obsessive personality disorder ridden rules to find its just a Tolkien clone. Of course anyone who can manage that and still able to go through their days on earth and not desperately want to make themselves a bleach cocktail is one with whom is not to adult snuggle.)
Welp. A military training exercise should not leave me with warm fuzzies, and yet here we are.
ARE YOU ATTEMPTING TO SUFFOCATE A SUPERIOR OFFICER, BOOT, OR JUST BLUDGEON ME TO DEATH?! FIFTY LAPS AROUND THE CASTLE! GALLOP TIME! BACK LEFT, BACK RIGHT, FRONT LEFT, FRONT RIGHT!
Some have suggested that it technically makes centaurs insects, though generally not anywhere where pegasi or griffons can hear.
This isn't the first time I've described something as "heartwarmingly brutal," but it may be the first time Isabelle and the Doom Slayer weren't involved. Brilliant hope spot amid all of the turmoil.
Welcome to Brutal, Inc.
In your time here you will learn pain.
You will learn to bring that pain to those who would bring you pain.
And you will prevail.
I love this fic, and the Rachnera one. So nice to see Monster Girls in Equestria
Oof, that last line. What an interesting dynamic. I love Emery Board so much, he could be so good for Cerea. And if I read the section right, she seemed to dream about him interacting with her own past. Wonder how her mom dealt with him, or if we'll see him take on a bigger role in the story, or just see how this develops. Really looking forward to your next update.
That chapter was really satisfying. Maybe it's for the same reasons I like training chapters in Martial arts Manga...
There is potential with Cerea and I am glad Emery sees it. Already thinking about what to improve and what to try.
Now... if there wasn't so much other stuff to cover in detail I would say next chapter would be the perfect place for a 'Montage'.
How much do you want to bet that Emery leaves just a few of those bisected training dummies around when the cocky Royal Guard come to spar with the oddball mare.
"Oh, guys! Don't worry about her. She's huge, but she's so timid she shakes like a leaf whenever-- Oh my STARS! What chopped these apart? That's OAK!"
There are people who look at their Sarge like the parent they never had.
Cerea just found a pony-parent. Just the right kind. He's the goddamned Gordon Ramsey of drill sarges, the kind that not only pushes you, but shows you why and recognizes success when it's needed. If she ever ends up home, it'll be night and day after some time with Emery.
I know what’s intended by the scene, and I really want to get how this actually serves to create a mutual relationship of respect and discipline, but I think for me, it’s sort of fallen short.
Everything about the story has been a serious emotional narrative, with a great deal of internal drama supplemented by a great deal of extremely detailed world-building (in that the ramifications of a centauress into Equestria is treated with a clear understanding of how social forces and human agents react to real or perceived threats).
This scene for me though comes off more cruel than encouraging (which might just be that I lack the military experience or training to normalise this kind of scene). I find it might be because of how desperate and lost Cerea’s been for most of the scenes leading up to this, but this kind of harshness seems terribly bullying, like kicking her while she’s already down.
Again, I suspect it’s more a perspective issue on my part, (a sort of values dissonance perhaps) but the yelling (capitalised and in bold) sections is surprisingly heavy-handed for a piece which has done a enormous amount to flesh-out nuances in the conflict between an individual and a largely hostile society, as well as that individual’s own emotional baggage and internal conflicts >.<
I love the story so far. It’s just that there are a lot of moments in this one chapter that make me wonder if I’m reacting to it as intended is all >.<
10147534
That's the Dungeon Series of fantasy novels overseen by Philip José Farmer, not any sort of RPG. Lupoff wrote the first and last books.
Also, read Natural Ones. Estee already set FATAL on fire.
10147681
I know, I merely recommend a daily dose of rib kickery on FATAL to maintain ones mental and spiritual health
10147566
There's a Rachnera one? You have piqued my interest.
Somepony -- possibly whoever cast to make the translator work -- was never exposed to that, I guess.
10147566
I guess you mean this one?
https://www.fimfiction.net/story/433944/along-came-an-arachne
10147740
Estee,
I'm genuinely sorry, and I promise this is the last one, but... it feels like I kind of have to, now...EDIT: I have bought you a Ko-Fi and am thus no longer obliged to be sorry.
"So! You're the new Recruit that the General has sent my way! She informs me that YOU --" Emery paused for a suitably derisive snort, and then went on. "-- will BREAK me! That you have capabilities even I am not prepared for! I look forward to PROVING HER WRONG OVER THE SOUND OF YOU SOBBING LIKE A FOAL!"
The wiry Sergeant's barrel rose and fell with a mixture of implied outrage and anticipation of venting same, and he stepped up close to the unassuming new Recruit. "For now, I only want to know two things, Recruit! One, your name! And two, what TARTARUS-CHAINED FOOL REPLACED MY TRAINING DUMMIES WITH A BUNCH OF DOORS!"
10147654
That's the thing with military training. They break you down to build you up.
10147851
This is my Ko-Fi jar.
I read that.
You owe me a Ko-Fi.
10147832
Yup
10147856
Or in some cases, just break you down.
10147858
I still apologise for nothing!
I like to think that Cerea will appreciate his training seeing how much stronger she will be in the future.
As a previous military veteran, you hate your Drill Sergeants initially, but you feel your forever in their debt when it counts.
10147856
While I really liked those last two lines, she's already pretty broken down. I can't argue that it could have reasonably gone nicer or that he was behaving improperly, but I hope this arc is short or that the actual 'drill Sargent-ing' scenes are short.
I bet that if any of his former recruits saw this they’d say he’s gone soft.
Or maybe his other recruits didn’t feel they had as much to prove.
Either way, I suspect Cera becomes the recruit that gets under his skin as his most cherished.
10148110
I don’t think they would say he’s gone soft. He had a soft touch with Fluttershy in his previous appearance. He seems to have the capacity for empathy and positive reinforcement when it is needed to get results. He might be the crisis, but he knows when to push and when to support, I think.
Training is about breaking you down and building you back up. If he couldn’t facilitate the second part, he wouldn’t be the best.
Emery reports to the "Generals" would be interesting. Is opinion on her progress, potential and his impression of her might be something we will see in the future. Humm, there might be a need to include the current Captain of the Guard in the conversation since Cerea will end working under his/her order.
Do we know who is the captain of the guard in the Verse? Since Shining followed Cadence up north, they needed a replacement.
So in this story did the plot arc where she confronts her mother amd her mother gives her approval and explains herself not happen? Not that I'm saying that would resolve her issues instantly, but the added context and understanding would certainly help, and might have her in a better place for this story.
Glad to see Emery is exactly as good a drill seargent as I thought he was.
10147856
I do understand that conceptually, but again I’m not sure if it’s because I myself lack the experience or cultural background that it hits the wrong notes with me. I just wonder if it’s just me, or if other people (who don’t have ties to any sort of military background) also feel this.
It’s more with Cerea’s earlier experiences, it would look more likely that she’d break down completely rather than be built up again. Like in Full Metal Jacket, with the relationship between Hartman and Pyle. YES, Lee Emery gives an amazing performance as Hartman. The ‘but’ is that the relationship isn’t meant to be taken as a positive one, hence Pyle’s mental deterioration under pressure and shooting Hartman in the head during the face-off in the latrine.
Do centaurs play Polo? If not, why, they’d be brilliant at it.
10147587
You do realise that description could be Fluttershy if she took up body building.
10147851
I don’t follow, but I get the feeling I’d find it amusing if I did. Is it an in-joke?
Forgot to say how much I love reading a good tactical analysis.
10148205
It is a reference to Estee's greatest creation and lasting legacy within the fandom. An OC whose name, profession, identity, societal role, and fate are all one word.
Doorfucker.
GREAT job with Emery, he was tough but gave out positive encouragement as well. I think Cerea is about to have an eye-opener to just how terrible a teacher her mother was, or with that last line, it's possible she already has.
I get that in canon Cerea's mom actually loved her, but that doesn't change the fact that she did a shit job expressing it.
And like some of the others mentioned, I hope that someday we might get an omake featuring Emery's PoV. Maybe after Cerea graduates? I am really curious as to his thoughts throughout this.
I honestly think the mähne would be the perfect weapon for Cerea.
Thanks for the update!
I have seen so many people try to write a hard-ass Drill Sergeant and fail miserably at touching the reality because they think Full Metal Jacket is reality. So well done.
10148185
One of the big differences here is that the Sergeant isn't tearing into Cerea just to belittle and deride, as Sgt Hartman was oh so won't to do, but is deliberately breaking down pre-conceptions on how she is supposed to move and act, AND he's explaining why AND giving encouragement. These are all key points that are not present in Full Metal Jacket, but are present on actual training fields.
I hope we'll get a real conversation about Cerea's sword later in the training.
The ponies fear it because it nullifies magic to a horrendous degree, but if memory serves, Cerea has never really explained it.
Their reaction when she tells them it's just a blunt sword shaped piece of plastic that isn't fit for combat in any form is going to make their jaws drop.
10148425
Ahhh~ I see. As I say, I don’t have the experience to know, so when I first read it, I suspected that I wasn’t getting something. Reading it again with your comment in mind though helps a lot with understanding the actual dynamic of the chapter. :) Thank you for explaining!
10147858
What's the involvement of Trixie with the Bearers and the Princesses? Is she on parole after the Amulet incident?
10148297
I thought I’d read all of Estee’s works. How in the name of Jack Robinson did I miss something something like that?
10147681
Oh, DAMN, I missed that! (As I don't have the mature filter off most of the time.) Good to know, I'd hate to have not read that!
10147721
I remain convinced that Procedure 110-Montauk is in fact, "just" reading FATAL cover-to-cover to SCP 231. Repeatedly. That's more horrific than anything else I can think of.
10148456
You're welcome. This has to be one of the best depictions of a tough drill sergeant I have ever seen in fan-fiction and matches quite well with my experience.
10148607
That'd be because it wasn't a story. And frankly it'd be a travesty if it remained hidden there, away from the eyes of Estee's adoring fanbase.
Nice. :)
edit:
...
Also.
I have FIMFiction whitelisted since I don't have the money to support it on Patreon.
Which means ads appear at the bottoms of chapters.
...This one?
A piano dealer. :D
Great bookends on this chapter.
10148185
You're not alone.
10147567
What makes you like him?
I mean this as an honest question. The last story he was in left me with a burning desire to forget he exists. I hate that character archetype. Hate how they get to act like the worst people and always come out on top regardless. So many have a Gary Stue-like quality to it, really. Yet people love them and I don't understand why. Can you help me understand?
That "have a pair" joke is the best