Under different circumstances, it would have been the sort of early morning which served as a reminder that winter was coming. The sky over the training grounds was partly cloudy, and the sunlight which got through was warm enough. If she stood within brightness, made sure her entire body occupied one of the shifting patches of heat, it was possible to gain a temporary degree of comfort -- right up until the instant when the wind hit her. Each sharp gust felt as if it had inflicted an invisible wound, and fifteen crucial degrees bled out from her body.
(One of the few concessions Cerea was willing to make towards the Fahrenheit system was that the larger numbers could feel more impressive: saying she'd just lost something closer to twenty-seven degrees was closer to the spirit of the thing. The not-at-all hypocritical flipside of that argument was that she sometimes wished for her measurements to be taken in inches as a means of downplaying everything -- but that only worked when she was among those who were used to metric and couldn't actually see her.)
There was no way to anticipate the hits, especially since the wind seemed to be changing directions almost at random. If she was close enough to the treeline or paying special attention to the grass, it was occasionally possible to get a moment of warning: leaves rustling, green blades shifted in a new direction -- but that still wasn't enough to allow a dodge, and there was no way of blocking the impact. It was chill expressed as knives, cutting away at the warmth of the world. Carving autumn into winter, as a reminder that even a continent could experience its own form of death.
Cerea had learned agronomy: every mare in the herd studied the subject, and the stallions had been easily convinced that there were few better ways of showing off their strength than plowing and pulling the tiller. She understood the necessity of winter: that her little part of the world needed to rest for a time. The natural decay of leaves, a good solid snowpack -- it all had its part to play in refreshing the soil. As a farmer of sorts, she respected the long nights and quiet landscape, along with the chance to warm her body near a fire while the newest book tried to do the same for her soul.
The farmer respected winter. The girl hated being cold.
She didn't always mind the briskness of autumn: there was a special quality to the air in the heart of that season, something which ignited a different kind of fire within her lungs. She just couldn't pay attention to it for all that long, because doing so would begin pushing that flame through the rest of her body. Her legs might start to canter in place, her body preparing itself for the gallop, and there would be so many times when she found herself turning towards the south...
The girl had wondered if there had been a time when centaurs had been a migratory species, with the approach of winter setting off instincts which told them to travel into lands where the grass would still be green. (She knew Papi felt the urge: it had taken significant effort to keep harpy existence secret, and some of that labor had been provided by nearby liminals who spent crucial weeks every year in blocking the fliers from leaving those gaps.) If so, there was still enough left of that primal call to make her turn.
(Spring could be worse. It was a technical truth that centaurs had no mating season: the species had evolved beyond estrus. But spring was when the world around her began to remember the necessities of creating a next generation. There was always at least one spring night when the children of the gap were locked away in their bedrooms, with curtains covering the exterior of the glass and punishments for leaving the home. Nights which you were only allowed to learn about when the herd decided you were a full adult, and ready to bring that next generation forth. Ready to be told about what was required. And it almost always happened in the spring.)
(Unseen hoofsteps had gone by the girl's window on such nights.)
(More than hoofsteps.)
Crisp autumn air could refresh the body. But this was a day with autumn sun and winter wind. There was no way to truly dress for that kind of weather: shield herself against the cutting edge of air and it would very carefully not come for a time, allowing heat to build up under her clothing to the point where she wanted to push back sleeves, raise fabric away from her upper waist and even risk shifting her skirt just to let some of it out -- which, of course, was when the wind would come back. Putting on something lighter as a dare to the very world issued an invitation for the chill to move in. There was the option to add and remove layers: the main sticking point was that you spent your day carrying ten kilos of clothing, not all of which were actually being worn.
It was the sort of weather which made you alert, because you were constantly on guard against the next gust. She suspected the sergeant had arranged the conditions with exactly that in mind.
It was the kind of environment which made it feel as if the very world was attacking her and in that, it echoed almost every day of her life.
The Sergeant had been waiting for her to arrive. (He always got there first, and the presence of somepony whose default posture suggested stone made her feel as if no matter what the clock might claim, she was actually horribly late.) He'd let her approach to something near normal speaking distance, and then he'd ordered her to tell him what she'd learned of Blitzschritt.
She'd done so from a standing position, body unmoving as she carefully relayed everything Nightwatch had told her. As far as the wind was concerned, it made her into a stationary target.
Cerea had just finished. She wasn't sure what to do next or worse, what the Sergeant wanted her to do. But she'd told the story, and so there was more than one reason to fight against the urge to shiver.
She was expecting him to demand the voicing of perspective. What had she learned from that portion of history? Did it make her want to leave the training grounds? (Because he'd made it clear that she could leave at any time, of her own free will. She just couldn't expect to return.) Was there a lesson inherent in what had happened on that distant day? Did she understand why he'd told her to study Blitzschritt?
But he existed as something which thwarted expectations.
"Most recruits wind up with some questions," the stallion evenly said. "Might have a few of the answers. If there's anything you feel like asking."
She didn't blink with surprise. She wanted to, but suspected he would have seen it as a sign of weakness. Plus she'd recently been told that she had certain tells in combat: trying to work out what they were before he provided the indignity of filling her in currently had Cerea paying far too much attention to every other physical reaction.
The girl did have questions: she just didn't think they were the right ones. But the Sergeant had a way of letting her know when she'd asked a stupid question: namely, he told her so. But he'd also stated that very few questions could qualify, at least when they came from her. And then, if it was possible, he answered them anyway.
Another wind gust hit her: from the back, this time. Her arms automatically twisted, hands interlocking at the base of her upper spine. One more layer of inadequate shielding, along with a way of keeping the stallion from seeing her fingers wringing against each other.
"What are things like between ponies and ibexes today?"
He looked up at her. His gaze was completely steady, matched the utter fearlessness of his scent, and suggested that only the accident of physiology was preventing him from something more level.
"Couple of ways to look at that," the earth pony decided. "One's personal. The other's international. Normally, I could tell you to search the books on it, but you've still got some problems there."
She nodded.
(She had a thought then: a way to study more quickly, while she was still learning to read. But she didn't think the solution applied to any material so dry. Still, it was something she could mention to Nightwatch later. Just in case.)
(It would be less than twelve hours before she began to create another little change in the world.)
"There's classes in school about the other species and nations," Emery Board began. "They start pretty early, because the foals have to understand there's more to the world than Equestria." He snorted. "Maybe too early, because a lot of them seem to forget most of it by the time they're adults. Mazein is our oldest ally. Every generation of ponies wound up with minotaurs willing to guard their tails if anything went wrong. And if you send the average Mazein citizen down the main street of a small settled zone, you're still going to get at least two ponies running for the nearest door and locking themselves in until the monster goes away. It's been a problem for centuries. For species, Equestria's a mixed country -- but that's just barely. For citizens, last census had us as about ninety-eight percent ponies. A few of the smaller settled zones... anypony who stayed there their entire lives might never meet another fully-sapient species. Just tenants."
Tenants? It instantly created a dozen questions, and that led to a frantic scramble of internal herding as the calling words were locked into their pen to await Nightwatch.
"And that's a problem," the Sergeant stated. "When all you know is tenants, it gets harder to see a full sapient as being just that. It took centuries for the palace to get the nation fully integrated on the pony races, and we still wound up with a few near-holdouts at ground level. Had to brute-force a place near the east coast last year: set up an earth pony as their new chief of police because that was the best way to make sure the other new arrivals could look for justice. And it's too easy for the pegasi to isolate themselves, when it takes spellwork for anypony else to come up to a cloud city and stay up. We've got enough problems getting some ponies to live together. When you've got a nation with barely anyone else to integrate..."
The aged head slowly shook.
"Means we're missing a lot of potential," the old stallion told her. "When Protocera gets into a crisis, they can draw on nearly everything. Just about all we've got is ponies. The Generals have been trying to encourage more immigration, but it's not easy. Most of the ones who do come in aren't the first of their species. But they know that if they pick anything but the largest settled zones to live in, they're probably going to be the only. Which keeps them out of the smaller towns -- and that just makes things worse."
He didn't sigh. His ribs didn't shift in a manner which would have indicated regret, while the tail didn't move and the hat, as always, stayed exactly where it was. There was simply a brief waft of scent which represented all of it, and Cerea forced herself to remain still.
"Wanted to take you the long way around to the first part of your answer," he continued. "So you'd understand the why. Your average pony read a few pages about ibex way back in their school years, and more than a few of them held onto what they read just long enough to get past the test. Some adults could dredge up the species name after a while. A few of the dumber ones would just ask what an ibex was, and when they'd been discovered. Some would say there wasn't any such species, and if they hadn't heard of them, then they didn't exist. So our end of the relationship, on the personal level -- it's pretty basic. We've forgotten them. They stay in their lands, and most ponies don't have any reason to travel through the mountains. We don't go to see them, and they might never come down again."
Her fingers weren't wringing against each other now. The girl's hands had simply clenched together, the reciprocal grip steadily tightening until skin began to flush white.
Cold assaulted the base of her tail. She barely noticed.
"Doesn't quite work the same way with them," the Sergeant added. "Couldn't show you one of their textbooks and as I understand it, a lot of their history is oral. Makes things worse, because it's harder to keep an oral history from distorting. Once the original witnesses are gone -- that's when the tale gets spun to suit the teller. So I can't tell you exactly what they say about us now, and writing's out. But I've got the core of it. Their kids get told just enough to believe we're dangerous. And that's not just ponies: it's pretty much every last other species. They respect the buffalo a little, because that's a society with traditions. And earth ponies -- we get the best of it from them, because they see us as the most steadfast. But I went through the mountains, after I got decommissioned the first time. Went there when just about nopony else does. And when I'm planning to go somewhere, I study part of the language first. So I'll know what the curses are."
The girl's next blink got through her defenses.
"Soldiers curse," Emery Board steadfastly observed. "Some of them do it almost constantly. Mutter the words under their breath when they're keeping watch on a cold wet night and the nearest weather control is a dozen gallops away. Learn how a species curses and you can pick those sounds out of the dark. Gives you a little more warning. And when I'm going somewhere hardly anypony ever goes, where being seen as a little more steadfast doesn't mean anyone likes me -- I want to know what the locals are saying. About me and around me, when they're sure I won't understand. And with Ibexian, that wasn't easy. No native speakers left in Equestria, or anywhere else. But there's a few Archive types who kept the right records." This snort was rather small. "Records. Not recordings. Meant adjusting for accent."
His eyes focused on the silver wires which stretched across the surface of her skin.
"Take that off," he instructed.
"Sergeant?"
"Just for a few seconds," he clarified. "Because this is where it works against you. If I say it right now, you'll just hear the translation. I want you to get the actual sound."
Her hands came forward and up, reluctantly forced the disc to move as another gust of wind used the opportunity to hit her from the front. She was used to taking it off and on for language lessons, because the Sergeant was right: that was the only way to truly hear the pony intonations. But...
She knew it was self-charging, took magic from the very air in order to sustain power. It didn't keep her from dreading the moment when that charge somehow ran out, or having the device's magic neutralized. Something which would leave her barely understanding one word in every twenty, unable to communicate or recognize what others were trying to tell her.
Helpless.
The tips of the wire parted contact with her ear. (It sometimes felt sore at the end of a long day, and she'd wondered if that was because the wires made it harder for that ear to flex normally.) The Sergeant nodded, took a breath, and reminded her that he wasn't a centaur.
She could have replicated the sound almost exactly, if she'd heard it from the natural source: something which seemed impossible. He had been among the native speakers, and he didn't have a centaur's vocal chords. The Sergeant tried -- but there were still hints of neigh audible within his effort, and a touch of sharply-descending whinny.
Still, he had tried, and his effort was enough to let her hear what happened when a pony tried to recreate a rather complex sort of bleat. Something which would have had a sort of music within the sound, if it hadn't been for what felt like a permanent infusion of snicker.
He nodded to the disc. She put it back on.
"The actual word is changewinds," he told her. "When they use it normally, it's a shift in the mountain air -- but it's also an omen. It's supposed to signal a time when they have to stand fast against the world again, because the planet is going to try and take the mountains out from under their hooves. But if they say it about a sapient -- it means you're unstable. You can barely walk because the next second, you might try to fly instead and if they're saying it about a pegasus, they mean 'through rock'. They can't trust a changewind because whatever we do, it might not be exactly the same thing we did before. An ibex calling you a changewind thinks you're a leaf in a dust devil. You can't control where you're going. If you think you're directing the movement, it's delusion. Not that they expect a leaf to think much. One ibex calls another a changewind, it's begging for a fight. But they can say it about us without reprisal. All of us. Every last member of every other species, even earth ponies and buffalo, because that's all we've been to them for decades. We can go through their mountains, but it isn't exactly like they've set up a hotel industry. Sleep where you can, in the cold, on whatever halfway-level part of the rock you can find. And once you understand what they're saying -- you won't stay."
She didn't know why she felt so angry. She didn't understand why it all seemed so sad.
"Pretty much gives you the international picture," the stallion calmly added. "They're on their own: no alliances, no formal ties. They think they're better off that way. There's a little trade, but that's just about all going up the slopes: individuals who know they can't get some resources at home, and they're ashamed of it. They don't send much of anything back down. If you see an ibex creation in Equestria, it's either smuggled or it's been here for a long time."
"No alliances at all?" The liminal gaps had been isolated, and some of the species within had cordially loathed a few of the others. There had even been small, hidden battles over portions of safe territory -- but if the humans had come, they all knew the only hope was to band together --
-- all of us against their billions.
It might have bought the combined liminal forces three extra minutes.
The Sergeant shook his head.
"That was part of the reason for the last trip," he stated. "Issuing an invitation. Because Blitzschritt had come down, and she was still an ibex. Maybe that would make them feel like it was safe to add a few official representatives, on the government level. We knew they were nervous -- but things between us were as good as they'd ever been, and it felt like it was time to ask again. There was a site set aside for them, waiting on Embassy Row. Now it's a little park. The kids of the ambassadors play there. A dozen species getting together without thinking about it any more than it takes to adjust game rules for hands and hooves."
Her eyes closed.
We sent out exchange students. Teenagers. Young adults.
Maybe it should have been foals.
"...what was she like?"
The resulting snort was almost loud enough to jar her eyes open again all by itself. Nightwatch having provided the olfactory context for bemusement did the rest.
She told herself that she was mostly looking at him to see if there were any hints of the emotion in his expression and posture. There weren't.
"I'm not that old. And I wasn't assigned her as my Guard when I was going through training. I got Rampart -- wipe that look, Recruit. Got enough trainees who think I just grew out of the ground and somepony spotted a naturally-sprouting sergeant, so they built some training grounds around me and then went in for the harvest. I had parents. Guessing they had sex somewhere along the line, and kept having it until the spell took. So born. Not grown. Didn't show up at the heart of a meteor crater when the space rock cracked like an egg either."
Artificially-aided medical conception? It made sense. There were certainly ways in which the local magic substituted for technology.
"Knew I wanted to be part of the Guard early on," he continued. "Early enough that I figured it was going to wind up as my mark. But that wasn't all there was to me. I liked my teachers. I told them I wanted to be in the Guard, and there were four of them who gave me extra time after the usual classes wrapped up. Books and personal lessons, just so I'd have a little more of what I needed when I got there. I respected that more than anything, that they'd invested something in me. They cared about what happened to my life after I wasn't part of theirs any more. I thought about that, and I thought about being a Guard, and I wasn't sure which was more important. What was better for the world, because they were both good ways to serve. Then I realized it wasn't a choice between one or the other. And when I started acting on that..."
His gaze steadily moved along his left flank, to the icon of a megaphone with its rim pattern of alternating hoofblades and rectangular stone slabs...
...she followed that line of sight. When it came to looking at a pony, she was doing so for what wasn't exactly the first time. There were little icons, and the images served as something to regard. But for the most part, she had been treating it as an extra level of identifier: if there were a lot of, say, deep blue pegasi around and she couldn't quite get a look at their faces or pick out a scent within twisting air currents, then there was always the icon.
She looked. But unlike everypony around her, she didn't treat the image as an extension of the pony, let alone a visible portion of the soul. She hadn't been thinking about those icons...
...until now.
There were no stone slabs in the image. They would generally appear that way at first glance, but... you had to pay attention for a moment before spotting their spines.
Hoofblades and books. It was just that for the latter, every edition had come out in what could charitably be described as Extreme Hardcover.
"-- I got my mark. But the mark doesn't get anypony into the job all by itself. Still had to fill out the application, go through training, and I had my own Sergeant. She was harder on me than anypony else, because she knew that when she stepped down, I had to be ready to take those reins. And when somepony comes along with my mark, or one of the variations I know to look for -- that's the pony who gets assigned Drillbit as their Guard. So they'll carry her forward. Not planning to take it easy on that pony, either. That's not how she'd have wanted it."
A single extra second of looking at the symbol, and then his head smoothly came forward again.
"And that's not even the whole of it," he added. "Hear how I phrased that just now? With the mark. That's assuming my successor is going to be a pony. Might not happen that way, and maybe we're better off if it doesn't. But even if they don't have a mark, I figure I'm still sharp enough to spot the right person, if they show up while I'm around. BUT IT IS NOT GOING TO BE YOU, BECAUSE YOUR SKILL SET IS COMPLETELY DIFFERENT AND MOSTLY SEEMS TO INVOLVE SHOUTING AT YOURSELF! BUT THAT IS WHEN YOU ARE OPERATING ALONE! LET US SEE HOW YOU PERFORM AS PART OF A TEAM!"
The last word spent some time rebounding off the mountain, and so almost completely managed to drown out the sound of ponies coming over the ridge. It took one more stab of wind to truly alert Cerea to their presence, and she automatically turned to see --
-- just four of them, this time, and she only recognized two. It was the wrong time of day to expect Nightwatch, and that was because 'day' had gotten involved. So she didn't know who the older pegasus mare was, and the unicorn stallion was equally unfamiliar. But the multiple layered hues made it easy to spot Acrolith, and when it came to the second pegasus...
She'd gotten a good look at him during the last stage of the fight. Looking up towards the darkest of clouds, scenting his terror and knowing there was no way to avoid the oncoming surge of electric death.
The fourth pony, looking exhausted, shaken, and wearing armor from which all silver had been stripped away, was Squall.
The quartet moved forward, stopping when they were parallel with her flanks: the new pair on the right, Acrolith on her left, and Squall on her very-very-very-very far left.
"Today, we are going to begin the process of learning about group maneuvers!" the Sergeant announced. "This rather naturally requires a group, and so I have assembled one! Two are volunteers! One did not need to be asked whether she was volunteering! And Mister Squall Scud is present because he must be!"
I'm supposed to practice a combat maneuver with somepony who almost electrocuted me?
She couldn't survey every pony's expression, not with the group spread out to the sides: the twisting wind made it just as difficult to gauge all of their scents. It meant she didn't recognize the agreement until the earth pony mare spoke.
"Squall's on probation," Acrolith's too-calm voice stated.
The Sergeant nodded. A shadowed portion of Cerea's heart darkly composed a few thoughts regarding a system which felt the best way to punish somepony who'd nearly killed her was through putting him on probation.
She looked at the young pegasus. Every last one of his feathers was shaking.
"Should somepony on probation," the earth pony mare almost sedately continued, "really be participating in this exercise?"
Cerea was expecting a shout. Something along the lines of DO NOT ASK QUESTIONS! felt reasonable.
"If he ever wants to get off probation," emerged as something which would have needed about forty extra decibels just to approach a dull roar, "then yes."
The "Why?" only served as an echo for everything going through Cerea's mind.
The Sergeant took a breath, and everyone else waited for the mountain to shake.
"The Recruit is progressing through her training," the old stallion firmly said. "Let us say, for the sake of theory, that she completes it and joins the ranks of the Guards. Under that situation, exactly what should our Mister Scud do? Switch to whichever shift she does not occupy, and hope unto Sun or Moon that nothing ever happens which would temporarily require them to be on the same squad? Does he request embassy duty? Assignment to the Empire, to occupy space until the Crystal Guard has sufficient trained natives to fully fill the ranks? Or should he QUIT?"
He didn't bother waiting for the flinching to stop.
"There is the very real possibility of having a centaur as a Guard! This means every other Guard may find themselves in a position where they must operate alongside her squad, or see her assigned to theirs! Every single Guard must be ready for that! Should she pass, she will swear her oath, the same as every last pony here! That is what makes a Guard! Not form! Not species! Devotion and duty! And if you are not willing to accept that as truth, you can leave right now EXCEPT FOR YOU, SQUALL!"
Wings slowly folded back in, or mostly so. The young adult didn't seem to have full control over his own limbs, and it left several feathers hanging low enough to obscure part of his belly.
There was a moment when Cerea, whose mind was looking for something to do which wasn't repressing the ongoing surge of anger, wondered if pegasi teenagers used that to conceal a loss of personal control. Then she decided that it was even more visible than the crouch-walk, and went back to being furious again. He'd nearly electrocuted her, Nightwatch had wound up redirecting the strike, and now she was supposed to be doing something at his side...
How was she supposed to trust him? A flying, soaring, shocking bundle of fear moving close to her flank. Or worse, above her, where she couldn't readily see what he was doing. And she knew there were ponies who were afraid of her because of what another had done: at least she was judging Squall by his own actions --
Almost casually, "-- problem, Recruit?"
She wondered what her posture had been, to create the question -- or if her own rising miasma of fury had just reached the point where pony senses could recognize the reaction. But she already knew there was only one acceptable answer to the old stallion's question and unfortunately, it was "No, Sergeant."
"Then let us consider how to begin!" Limbs almost audibly twanged into fresh positions as he began to march: left to right, about ten meters each way before turning around again. "Due to certain recent interruptions, the Recruit has yet to be issued a tactical guide! This will be corrected by evening! So she is unfamiliar with how Guards move as a herd! It means we need to start with something basic, especially as none of you are aware of how to keep in step with a centaur! And those of you on the ground will need to hustle, while she might need to hold back!"
He glanced at the section of the training grounds which typically held the practice dummies. There were several in place -- but the wooden forms seemed to have been rather haphazardly scattered around the area. Cerea's initial approach had found tight clusters in some locations, with a few single manikins (ponykins?) placed in locations which seemed to make the greatest danger into tripping over them. The totality wasn't anything close to an organized formation.
"However, as it turns out, the Recruit is not only fast, she is also larger than any of you! Which allows us to begin with something which the graduates have practiced for!"
The wind shifted, and so allowed her to pick up on the moment when the scents from the older pegasus did the same.
"We will begin with a Sunpiercer scenario," the Sergeant announced. "Recruit, this represents one of the standard formations. It is something which presumes your Princess is in a situation where she can neither fly nor teleport, but is still capable of both ground movement and doing whatever she can to assist the group. The number of ponies surrounding her is a variable, which means we can practice this with varying herd populations. And as this scenario sees the Princess as an active combatant -- is there something YOU would like to share with us, Quickstrike?"
The older pegasus took a very deep breath, and let all of the outrage ride the wind.
"She's going to be playing the Princess?"
"On the first run," the Sergeant verified. "And every fifth run thereafter. It will add a degree of reality to the exercise, as she takes up roughly the same amount of space as the General --" Cerea began to blush "-- and there will be times when the rest of you need to cover her. So the practice --"
Quickstrike's wings flared. Feathers beat against the air with raw fury.
"That's blasphemy!"
There was a single moment of silence.
"Oh, no..." the unicorn muttered: Cerea's ears just barely managed to pick up on the words. "Here we go..."
"A centaur," the old stallion placidly stated, "playing the part of a Princess, qualifies as blasphemy. I think you have forgotten what true blasphemy is, Quickstrike, possibly because it has been too much time since your previous encounters! Would you like to hear some blasphemy?"
The mare's wings slammed against her sides.
"I -- Sergeant, it was just --"
The Sergeant inhaled.
Cerea was never able to entirely reconstruct what happened after that. There were words, and then there were more words. She lost some of them as the wires hissed in a desperate attempt to keep up, but the majority got through. Her vocabulary expanded in new and profane ways, then gained extra density and kept on doing so until it began to collapse in on itself in a manner similar to a dying star becoming a black hole, only with somewhat more heat and acting mostly in self-defense. A number of trees tithed leaves as the bribe required to make it stop: the more desperate threw in some small branches. Clouds lost cohesion. Most of the wind seemed to pick a new direction, which was Anywhere That Isn't Here. Both pegasi spontaneously developed feather fade, which rather literally paled in comparison to what was happening with their skin. The unicorn raised a personal shield: this accomplished absolutely nothing in the way of protection, but did at least show her what his corona hue was. And most of the surrounding grass died. Again.
It took a while for the echoes to fade away, which coincidentally equaled the time she needed to figure out whether it was possible for her own tail to blister.
"Consider yourself refreshed on the subject!" the Sergeant offered. "Gather together! Stay close to her, as today, she is your Princess! No more than two body lengths away on any side! You will be running a route through the obstacle course, attempting to avoid or deal with the enemy barrage! We will judge your success by the degree of sullying on the other side! You have five minutes to plan, and then we begin!"
Gather...?
She didn't really approach ponies or rather, when she did, she usually got to witness their first attempts to gallop backwards. It left her awkwardly turning in place for a few seconds, with no leg entirely sure which way to go -- but then Acrolith slowly closed part of the gap, and the others eventually followed suit. With Squall, the 'slowly' aspect had been magnified.
Quickstrike was the third to reach her -- or almost so. The older pegasus stopped about two meters away, and seemed unlikely to come any closer.
"I didn't mean --" she began.
"Shut it," Acrolith pleasantly decided. "Cerea, we've been through this drill before. There's going to be more pegasi showing up in a few minutes. That's part of the barrage: they're going to be dropping things on us from above. If the Sergeant's in a good mood, we're looking at water-soluble fur dye. If he's pissed off, they're going to switch up to itching powder. It might be a mix. And since Quickstrike just pissed him off, try to deflect as much as you can. The standard bombardment spheres are enchanted to be altitude-sensitive: they only go off when they hit the ground. So you can swing the sword at them and try to knock them out of the way." A brief pause. "Try to make it look like you aren't aiming anything towards Quickstrike. The Sergeant doesn't like that. At least, he doesn't like when it's easy to spot."
"Hey...!"
"Did I say to unshut?" the earth pony temperately inquired. (The pegasus shut up.) "We may also get unicorns field-lobbing things in for angled attacks. So you have to look high and around, while keeping an eye on everypony else close to ground level and moving forward the whole time. You're the Princess in this first gallop, and that means you can't stop. The rest of us can be dropped: the real test is if we get you through. If one of us gets judged out, you leave them behind. Do you understand?"
On the instinctive level, she did: the actual brain was scrambling to keep up. "What if you fall close enough to me that I can pick you up on the gallop and drape you across my lower back? I should be able to carry somepony out --"
"-- and how are we holding on?" the unicorn asked. "Jaw grip on the skirt?"
The centaur winced.
"I can still carry one of you," she tried again. "Just with my arms --"
"-- and that means you can't use the sword," Acrolith cut in. "You're the Princess: you leave us. Because on the gallops after this, we may wind up leaving you. Just do everything you can to protect us. We'll be looking out for you, on this gallop as the Princess and on the others as a Guard." Which was when the mare openly glared at the two pegasi. "Everypony got that?"
Quickstrike forced a nod. Squall, from his position four meters away, just vibrated in place.
"Squall..." Acrolith warned.
"I know this is a punishment," the young stallion just barely choked out. "For what I did --"
"-- it's a training exercise," Acrolith cut in. "One you need --"
"-- but how am I supposed to do this? You... you were there, Acro. You were right behind me when it happened, I survived because you saw me going down and jumped high enough to knock me into the water. I... I know what the Sergeant wants, but --"
His scent was becoming overwhelming and in this case, it meant the ponies were picking up on it. The other pegasus had just pulled back, the unicorn's breath was beginning to quicken --
"-- I know what the therapist said about confrontation and exposure, about just being around her. But how am I supposed to think about working with her? How do I think about anything except what he did to me?"
It was, in many ways, a perfectly legitimate question. It was certainly a viable concern, and there were ways in which Cerea would have normally had sympathy. It was just that in this case, her end of the bargain was to work with somepony who had recently tried to electrocute her.
She spent every day trying to minimize the fear which was induced by her presence. The girl also did everything she could to be a good guest. Cerea genuinely wanted to reflect well on the palace for the kindness they had shown her: more than that, she wanted to earn it. And she was incapable of seeing that as one of the problems: that she had viewed kindness as something which she needed to earn.
Cerea was polite, often overly formal, did whatever she could to work within the rules, and tried to maintain dignity in the face of chaos, human stupidity, and far too many torn blouses. There were many ways in which she could simply be described as a good mare. It was just that...
It didn't come out often, and she was generally ashamed of herself afterwards. There had been very few incidents in the herd. The emotion had expressed itself in the household and when it came to the arachne, it had cause. And she had to hold herself back among humans, because 'at all costs' meant knowing what the price was for failure: losing the one she'd cared about forever.
She was a good mare. But she was in the company of somepony whose fear had nearly killed her.
Her head tilted slightly to the right, and did so as her ears assumed a position of total relaxation. Four long legs shifted forward, and the young pegasus stallion jumped, coming down in almost the same place he'd started.
"Did you ever realize," Cerea peacefully asked, "that you have wings?"
She was a good mare.
"...what?"
But she had a temper.
"Did you ever really think about that?" she placidly inquired. "Two whole limbs, just hanging off your sides. How much strength does it take to keep them off the ground? Because you don't seem to be doing a very good job of that right now. Is it something to do with the joints? How many joints are in there, anyway? Have you ever tried counting them? What about thinking about each one, individually, as you try to refold? You should really count your joints sometime, because they're part of those heavy, heavy wings. And your flight feathers! I know it might feel like they just adjust their position as needed, but really, you should be keeping an eye on them! Because they're so small compared to your body, and being asked to support so much of you. Ideally, you really need to be adjusting them one at a time. By thinking fast enough about each one to stay in the air, without dropping, during every flap you take. You should really think about that. About the feathers and joints, which have to work together, in those heavy wings which are just going to be hanging off your sides for the rest of your life."
His jaw dropped. So did a pair of limbs, all the way to the ground. Cerea simply turned away.
"So," she asked the unicorn, "what's your name? And is there any way to make that shield mobile?"
The young pegasus stallion, whose legs were sore because he'd never been able to get any part of himself further off the ground than was allowed by the most desperate (and failed) of jumps, tried to shake the itching powder out of his feathers. This failed. It probably wouldn't have worked if he hadn't been shifting them one at a time.
Squall glared up at the girl. He had no other choice. A direct line of glare would have required hovering.
"I hate you."
She tilted her lightly dye-splattered head the other way. Smiled.
"Are you sure you hate me?" the centaur asked. "Or is it Tirek?"
"You."
Cerea's smile widened.
"Good."
"I shouldn't have done that," she sighed, which allowed some more of the bath's steam to do its worst with her lungs. "I shouldn't..."
Nightwatch, floating a short distance away, answered with a shake of her wings. Then she shook them again, one joint at a time.
"...sorry," Cerea miserably offered. "It's sort of a verbal explosive. It can take out just about anyone in the vicinity." Another sigh. "It'll wear off after a while."
Another, somewhat desperate wing shake. "How do you make it wear off faster?"
"By giving your mind something else to focus on." The centaur's shoulders slumped. "I usually had to bank a fetlock into something."
"Banked fetlocks," the little knight said. "Um." Her feathers twitched. "That's still better than this. How did Squall get through it?"
Hands cupped together, gathered water and splashed more of the bright red dye out of blonde hair: the results thinned out across the surface of the water and vanished. "He lost track of his wings once the powder had him so itchy that he had to stop and hit the showers. After that, he just kept glaring at me. It didn't help when the rest of the Guards kept snickering at him. And there were a lot of Guards. The Sergeant kept cycling in fresh ponies from the bombardment team."
"That's standard," Nightwatch explained. "Keeps the group a little more fresh. How many times did you have to rinse off?"
"Twice," was the shameful answer. "The dye wasn't so bad, but even when there isn't a direct hit, the powder just -- goes everywhere. I should have dodged faster --"
"-- twice?"
Cerea forced the nod.
"How many hours did you run the exercise?"
"Not counting the rinsing? Three."
"And you washed off twice."
The girl's head went down.
"That's better than you think it is," the pegasus gently offered.
"I would have died twice. And I was part of the Guard group both times. My Princess..."
She stopped. More water was splashed towards her face.
"I'll show you the tactical books," Nightwatch eventually said. "Um. Read them to you. Part of them. There's a lot of diagrams, but there's also a lot of words. It's going to take a while."
Cerea sighed.
"I almost wish there weren't any diagrams."
"They're necessary. So you know who moves where. Um. Or how the movements start, because when anyone sees you moving in formation, they try to break it up. So there's variants."
"I know about playbooks." The wire didn't hiss. "And military maneuvers, and how no plan survives first contact with the enemy. So the diagrams are necessary. But you've had to read me a lot of things. Too many, and it takes a lot of your time." The sigh was starting to move into the dominant verbal position again. "You need to do it for the diagrams. But for some of the things which are words only, we should probably ask the Archives for some audiobooks --"
The wire hissed, and kept doing so for some time.
Black ears twisted.
"Stories," the little knight finally said, "read out loud by professional actors, recorded on gramophone albums?"
Cerea blinked.
"You don't have them?" She knew that ponies had means of recording sound: the movie had been in black and white, but it had also been what the early days of human cinema had termed as 'a talkie'. And the most recent sentence had just provided her with the state of musical capture: no computers meant no files, magnetic and optical recording were out -- but there were records. The disc having rendered 'gramophones' suggested hoof-wound springs. And still, even at that level of advancement... "They're fun! Some of them are read by a single performer doing multiple voices, but the best ones use full casts! Or a really good performer. Like Stephen Bri --" stopped. "Like someone I heard once. And sometimes there's sound effects. It's a way to just listen to a book, while you're doing something else. A movie where all the pictures are in your head."
"Um," Nightwatch carefully began -- but her eyes were bright. "Um. Books can take a really long time to read. The biggest albums only hold about ninety minutes of sound. You'd have to cut the book down to --"
"No abridging," Cerea firmly said.
"But --"
"No abridging," repeated the girl who had needed to scavenge stories from the ancient offerings of library remaindered sales, and so considered the foulest literary curse in any world to be Reader's Digest Condensed Edition. "Stacks of records. As many as it takes. You really don't -- ?"
The pegasus swam closer.
"Tell me more," Nightwatch requested. "Slowly."
It took the rest of the bath plus all the time Cerea needed to get dressed, and that was just to get them through cassette tapes and how a single snag could destroy eighteen previous hours of listening, generally five minutes before the climax. (That was another one of the problems with what the herd received in the bulk shipments: things which had been used to just before the point of self-destruct.)
"I want to think about this for a while," was next to the last thing Nightwatch had said before leaving to go on shift. "Um. And don't tell anypony else about them, because the wrong pony might tell too many other ponies, and then there's a whole lot of ponies who say they all had the same idea. And none of them are you."
"I don't understand --"
"-- just don't tell! Please?"
"...okay."
And then the Guard was gone, leaving a confused Cerea to try and settle onto the blanket nest.
...at least it won't keep me awake. She was tired out from the exercises, and tomorrow had been assigned as a forge day. A crucial one, because she was going to start on the gauntlets. She had to make sure the joints would flex properly. It was arguably the most delicate part of the process.
She took off the disc, carefully set it aside. Folded her arms under her breasts, closed her eyes --
-- and a hoof awkwardly knocked at the barracks door. This was immediately followed by a whinny.
The last sigh of the night was kept fully internal, and she reluctantly reached for the wires.
"Nighwatch went on shift," the centaur called out.
She smelled the hesitation before she heard it.
"No," the unseen mare said. "It's a message for you. From the Princesses."
She was already starting to stand up, and fast-opening eyes were searching for something more formal than a nightgown. "I'll come right up! I just need to put on --"
"-- just a message."
Her legs stopped unfolding.
"All right," Cerea said. Waited.
Stone eyes could not blink away falling snow.
The elevation for this part of the gardens was artificial: careful manipulation of the atmosphere thinned the air just enough, with establishment of the border and general maintenance performed by those who cared to remember. The night's extremely localized snowfall could be regarded as equally unnatural, in the sense that it had been crafted by a different use of pegasus magic. But the flakes were real, and stone eyes had no way to clear them. It was the reason another technique had been permanently placed, making sure the statue would always be at least one degree warmer than the critical mark. Cold stone -- but not so cold as to let anything accumulate upon granite fur.
The eyes could not blink, and there was nothing within the statue which was capable of watching as the centaur slowly climbed towards it, one hand pressing the half-sphere against her own nose. The other arm was -- twisting. Moving in what almost seemed like random directions, sent into an endless succession of strange angles by the pressure of inner agony.
It was deep into the night: the girl had been up for hours. Deep and dark, in gardens which had no need to be cleared. There was a rather singular girl, a statue, and memory. The memories had the bulk of the girl's attention, and it made her hooves stumble somewhat as she tried to approach.
There was nothing in the statue which could watch. But the girl had recently learned that ponies believed in an afterlife. A single key word had nudged open the door to future inquiry: shadowlands.
The statue could not watch. But the little knight went to that which was made in memory when she wished to truly think. And if the ponies believed in an afterlife -- then perhaps something lingered in the vicinity of this statue, curious as to whether any would visit. It might have seen the girl approach once before and been justifiably curious about what was going on. Staying to see if any further visitations occurred would be natural --
-- or perhaps there was simply a statue. The girl doesn't know, and she didn't seem to be feeling much in the way of faith. But when it came to thinking about things -- her only friend wouldn't be available for hours. One Princess was asleep, the other occupied, and she couldn't just ask for their time...
She didn't know if anything could watch and listen. But when it came to finding anyone she could speak with, she was just that desperate.
It took a while for her to clear off enough of the stone for resting: the process was much more awkward with one hand. And then she tried to sit near the statue's base, already feeling her body's heat being stolen away. It also seemed to be pulling the center out of her voice. Leaving behind something hollow.
"They found a class which was willing to meet me."
She wasn't aware of how formal her tones had become. But when viewed as a form of respect, the statue could be said to have earned it.
Flakes drifted down, settled into the girl's hair and tangled in her tail.
"There is no date set," she added. "That is still being worked out. But they will come. They are going to come. The Princesses are going to put me in the same room with children, and... I..."
There were no stars visible through the clouds. Strange constellations had been cloaked and in that sense, there was one less constant reminder for the strangeness of this world. Something which didn't matter, because the girl was speaking to a stone statue while holding a half-sphere which focused the air she needed to breathe.
She had never been so far away from her gap. That didn't matter either. The memories followed, and every time she closed her eyes against the falling snow, she was in France.
The uniforms.
The yellow vests.
Everything.
"...it is going to go wrong..."
Again.
While I strongly disagree with this sentiment, I can understand where she's coming from. After all, she's never been able to ski.
Earth horses have an 11 month gestation. If centaurs are the same, this would mean that the infants were born in spring when it's less likely they'll freeze.
I think the seargent was enjoying himself today. He got to shout loudly, he got to teach, and nobody died.
The tape recorder is an application of rust covered sticky paper tape to the Bell telephone at its simplest? The biggest advancement was something that could act as an amplifier, folowed by bias?
I wonder if the Ibex feel anything about the change at the statue?
Og, that's a good line.
Wow, you are on a roll this chapter.
Somewhere in the universe, Twilight Sparkle feels a sense of affirmation.
Emery must be giggling to himself every time Cerea beat a record or perform really well in an exercise. There must be a certain satisfaction for a military trainer with the idea of building such a great talent and releasing it upon the unsuspecting world.
And Cerea mean trick about making someone conscious about their own body is absolutely evil and I love it. It's a very effective technique to use against Pegasus apparently!
And Audiobook? Oh my, that's a nice concept to introduce into the world. I wonder what Twilight will think of them. In my mind she seems like a purists, paper only.
You know, Cerea reaction when she will meet the Prance diplomats is something I look forward to. I don't know if she will be intrigued or will want to have absolutely nothing to do with it...
The intrigue at the end! We haven't heard a lot about her time in France. At least, that I'm remembering off the top of my head.
The class trip promises to be interesting for sure. Especially with some kids planning some vengeful schemes. Wonder how many in the class are in on the act.
I thought the chapter flowed really well reading it. The history was interesting and so was Emery discussing his mark. Cerea making Squall mad at her specifically instead of just from her association with Tirek was a good move. Her temper moment was pretty good too. Clever. And judging how Nightwatch reacted to the idea of audiobooks, she's looking to get a jumpstart on an enterprise before the industry catches onto it. Smart side-hustle! Fun characters all around. Usually don't like OCs very much but yours are charming (when they're not assholes).
Really enjoyable chapter! Thanks for the update. Take good care of yourself and get a well-earned rest.
Huh. I'd be surprised, but we didn't have full-length audiobooks until *checks notes* the 1970s, and they weren't particularly popular until the 80s. On the other hand, even LPs have less than an hour between both sides, (for example, Harry Potter and the Scorer's/Philosopher's Stone, would need 10 LPs, assuming 25 minutes per side. The unabridged biography of Alexander Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton, by Ron Chernow, would need a whopping 44 LPs.) while 90 minutes, while still extremely impractical for many sorts of traveling (though something like a first-class or private train car would probably work out nicely), it would work quite well around the home (Harry Potter would need 6 of these; Alexander Hamilton, 24. This is still a lot, but keep in mind the former runs at 8 hours and 18 minutes, and Hamilton at 35 hours and 58 minutes. Considering we were doing it from the get-go and the real issue was wax canisters only had 4 minutes, and records before LPs had 20 minutes total, at best, I, for one, think that they have no excuse, but I'm not going to complain because I'm really, really curious when this particular gun will get shot).
I see you have fallen afoul of the Reader's Digest Condensed Edition as well. Its censoring er um abridging of books to insure conservative christian values to the masses regardless of authorial intent is well... persistent at least
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I think it's been...touched on seems a little too strong, but I don't have anything better, once. It implied that the general reaction from France (not sure if it was the people, govt., or both, though this chapter implies the former more than the latter) was...less than hospitable. (Seriously the line was something like "Cerea wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to think of herself as French again." Not in the sense of deportation or whatever, the other way you'd interpret that.)
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If or when they finally meet, I'm curious as to how the
twothree (unless I'm forgetting more) resident bibliophiles will think of each other, and their tastes.10456229
I don't know, I think Estee managed to master the art of writing "charming assholes" very well.
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That tracks with what I remember as well. Not a lot good associated with France, for sure.
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This is true. That's a distinct third category I neglected to mention. Spot on.
Oh hey. It's not every day these little parentheticals give me more hope than dread.
After living in an apartment with as many species as tenants after a life spent hiding from everything, it makes sense that this kind of xenophobia rubs her the wrong way. The ibexes are practically trying to become a liminal species.
That's probably just one of the more popular rumors for Sergeant Board's origin, but it still sounds like a suspiciously specific denial.
Also, it's interesting that he mentions a conception spell. He can't have two mothers; that spell only produces female offspring. I suppose there are others out there.
Some areas came back to life, only so they could get killed once more. This process repeated several times.
Kindness, to paraphrase a being who is in a completely different Equestria, is the right of all sapient beings.
Oh, that is evil. Centipede Dilemma applied to wings.
Honestly? It is. Anything that can psychologically separate her from Tirek is progress, especially with regard to Squall.
Emery Board is an amazing drill instructior, but Cerea could really use someone who doles out a bit more positive reinforcement. (So, you know, a nonzero amount.)
Hmm. Another try at "centaur steel," only with something that isn't associated with monstrosity and death?
And that last bit... At least Cerea's in the right mindset for dealing with Cheerilee's class. The question is how it's going to go wrong.
Am I a bad pony for eagerly waiting for it all to go wrong😋
In the words of an old song
"Slander, libel.
Words you'll never find
in the Bible."
The centipede’s dilemma verbally delivered as an attack.
She truly is a monster...
I legit laughed out loud.
... Man, I really got to read the DLWMG manga or watch the anime sometime.
Because this... this is new. I never heard of Cerea or centaurs from her world having the ability to just plain shout someone into a jinx/curse. Did she pick that up from Emery, or her mom?
Edit: Also, I'm a bit confused about what grounding Squall for the excercise would do to decrease his overall terror of her. Seems to me like it would be just as scary for him.
While cool, the entire situation was a bit weird to me. What was that, and HOW did it create that ideal response?
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That's why they were named "albums". They were the size of photo albums. & If you think it's bad with 33s, you should see the old 78s. You needed 3 or 4 just to record the songs from movies, never mind the movie.
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Well, ya. Rhapsody in Blue didn't get a really good record for years because, since it typically clocks in at between 15 and 18 minutes, and 78s could only have about 10 minutes on them, it was abridged and sped up (to be fair, this was (barely) good enough for the live version of Sing Sing Sing, which is not a short recording, and the vast majority of songs, be it pop, jazz, blues, country, western, bluegrass, etc. but it still meant quite the collection of records if you wanted a decent musical selection).
Still kinda surprised no one thought to at least try poetry or other sort things, considering we did that basically as soon as the technology existed, and on wikipedia there's even a quote of someone complaining that they'd need a wheelbarrow full of wax cylinders to listen to even a short story, which tells me audiobooks were one of the first things people thought of when it came to recorded sound, there just wasn't any practical way of doing so.
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Under a lot of circumstances it would be a horrible idea. I'm pretty sure they're doing it because, as Emery Board said, he for most intents and purposes, either has to quit, or learn to deal with Cerea, and the best analogy I can think of is having someone want to join who has an uncanny resemblance to your abusive father or pedo uncle or some other example of human garage that abused or traumatized you, and the two of you are forced to work together so that you can get to know the person for who they are so who they remind you of kind of becomes something in the background. Not necessarily going to ever be good friends or anything like that, but at least you won't get a panic attack from their mere presence.
"...kept having it until the spell took..."
Ah, he not only has "a" mother (contrary to the expectations of most Cadets) but he had *two* of them. A very Special Spell child. (Now I have to wonder what his mothers were like)(corrected by commenters who point out the foal of a Most Special Spell is always female, so unless he's had some surgery in his past... No. It's still fun to picture)Oh, you know about the Cutie Mark Crusaders, then. Like Madeline, times... well, there are some cubes and factorials in their trouble rating.
"In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines..."
2.bp.blogspot.com/_vqvrCz_OYTo/SXY71_G2tZI/AAAAAAAAC9Y/9Xo1OvXGf2M/s400/mad+0.jpg
FYI: There is at least one story that is *better* (in my opinion) as a Readers Digest Condensed Book: Don Quixote U.S.A by Richard Powell (later made into the movie Bananas). There's just so much crud in the whole story that trimming it down made it much more readable. I think Kon-Tiki and La Balsa benefited by some RD pruning too, but I'm a Kansas native, and that much seawater really starts to drag fairly quickly, so YMMV.
Oh, hey, Trotter’s Falls.
So we have a temporal reference now.
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YOU ARE NOW BREATHING MANUALLY.
Are you? You are aren't you.
It takes a while to get that to wear off, and when applied to an autonomic reflex as complicated as flying, well...
He's been doing it without thinking for so long that he's rather forgotten how to do it deliberately.
As to the irritation, by making it personal Cera distances herself from Tirek's associations. "That's the #÷^@& who grounded me during a training exercise " rather than "that's the centaur who nearly killed me".
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Ah... on some second reading, the whole thing DOES make a bit more sense, and doesn't seem as scary when looked at it that way. And, in a way, that's really something you have to train to avoid doing! Now Squall knows better than to get caught by a manual breathing trick!
Ya know, after the Sarge's little ... speech on blasphemy, I almost expected either Celly (with a stern gaze telling Sarge, 'what did I say about using that line?') or Luna ('Could you repeat that, I missed the beginning ...' [though I'm not sure on the original volume])
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Unless the Sergeant is a trans-stallion, he can't be a Most Special Spell child, because that spell only produces fillies.
HIT THE DECK!
Excellent chapter!
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Two things:
First, IIRC, The Very Special Spell only allows for fillies. Now Emery Board could be trans, but I'm not sure if Estee has ever touched on that subject, be it IRL or in-universe.
Second, I've never heard of that book before. What's even the point of it? Original Don Quixote was a deconstruction/criticism of the then-popular Chivalric Romance genre. I don't get the impression it was a similar thing but for some other genre or for various American ideas or myths that an author might want to criticize or deconstruct.
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Don Quixote USA
Arthur Peabody Goodpasture is a young Bostonian who joins the Peace Corps and gets involved in the Republic of San Marco revolution. Only, there is no Republic of San Marco revolution. Not really. This political satire takes aim at the values many Vietnam War-era Americans held dear, and continues to make readers laugh and think about our political system.
Emery used Roar!
Critical hit!
It was super effect--waitasecond
Roar doesn't do that!
I'm sure I don't know what you mean, darling. Of course it does.
No, I think she's right. Uproar is probably what you're thinking of.
No, it isn't.
I have the move list here! Let me find--
Emery used Roar! And it was a critical hit!
Um.
And super-effective!
Whose side are you on, Pinkie?
The winning side?
That's a matter of debate, dear.
More like the cheating side.
If I have to use Hyper Beam, I promise I'll be terribly shaken up about it.
No ya won't.
No, not really.
Is it time for Solar Beam yet?
NO!
Sunny Day first! Sunny Day first!
I still think it was Uproar you were--
Super effective!
Well, of course. Celestia has already openly declared that only actual murder of a centaur constitutes a crime. For a mere attempted murder, he legally shouldn't have been punished at all. (Unless his actions violated some other law or Guard regulation.)
And Cera introduces an entire new entertainment industry to Menagerie
"I will teach you to hate ME. Then you will not hate the thing that I AM, you will only hate ME. And in hating ME, you will find an opponent that you are willing to stand up to, and do your job. And when that happens, I have won."
Quick, was that inner monologue coming from Sergeant Emery Board, or from Recruit Cerea?
Nice. For some reason while I was reading this, "Oceandeep" by Beast in Black started up in my head. I'm not sure why, beyond it being a melancholic lovesong, probably based off an 80's anime.
"The tips of the wire parted contact"
"The tips of the wires parted contact"?
"a centaur's vocal chords"
"a centaur's vocal cords"?
"she didn't treat of the image as an"
"she didn't treat the image as an"?
"to bank a fetlock"
"Banked fetlocks"
"bang" and "Banged", or is this a usage I'm not familiar with? I think the meaning comes through clearly enough if it is just hitting the fetlock against something or the like.
"they try to break up it."
"they try to break it up."?
"for her to clear away enough of the stone"
"for her to clear off enough of the stone"?
Well. That's... a bit worrying, the ending.
But the chapter, as usual, I found good; thank you for writing. :)
Cerea and Nightwatch are going to corner the market on a new entertainment craze! More money that she won’t know what to do with...
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Full length audio-books might have taken a while, but instructional recordings were a thing for many decades before that, and I’d kind of love to see Cerea try to listen to some of those to learn about Equestrian society. Looking up the subject, I found a BBC article that delves into the history somewhat, mentioning that HG Wells predicted the gramophone would be used for language instruction, and that Language recordings for the public go back to the wax cylinder days. Apparently JRR Tolkien was recorded playing the role of a customer asking for "50 cigarettes and two ounces of tobacco please" in an English Conversation course record offered back in 1929. Then you get into recordings that teach “modern” idioms and slang to immigrants that probably were out-of-date as soon as they were pressed, self-improvement recordings, assertiveness lessons, dance lessons, sleep learning, training budgies to talk...
This is just evil.
I approve.
So she wouldn't have died while playing the Princess? Sounds like a 100% win ratio to me.
Heh, nice double meaning there. For an earth pony, singing death into the earth would indeed be the ultimate blasphemy. Convenient that the only other earth pony present is Acrolith, who speaks such blasphemies regularly.
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Try, nothing. They effectively are are a liminal species, save for them getting visitors.
All of Emery'sreinforcement is positive. He'sgivingher a piece of his mind, after all. That's a gift!Any amount of praise would be disingenuous to Cerera's ears. She's never better than second, after all.10456317
We did, however, eventually work out how to put video on vinyl. Unfortunately, this was after the development of the Laserdisc.
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That’s kind of exactly what I was getting at. I was expressing my disappointment in ponies, since we started to make the most out of even just 4 minutes right from the get-go, and ponies have90 minutes and still no one’s thought of it. Least no one with any connections.
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Wire, singular, is the correct word there.
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Not necessarily, in theory it sounds like it also could be used as an aid for an infertile stallion.
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I agree with your point, but find you so condescending and annoying that I've decided to become a vocal Earth Pony supremacist just to keep from being on your side.
So just what did Emery say I wonder?
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Oh, dear, I think you're right; thank you!
So, sorry about that!
"The tip of the wire parted contact", then?
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Yeah, I think so. :)
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Thanks. :)
It took me two readings to realize that Emory was letting her hear what the Ibex language sounded like.
yep, back in school, in autumn I would have to wear a winter coat in the morning, and carry it home in the afternoon.
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And I think part of the problem is that Emery has a really hard time grasping the way Cerea thinks of herself. This level and particular facet of self-blame, the belief that anything short of overwhelming, flawless success is to be counted as a failure, might not be something he's ever encountered before, especially not this deeply ingrained into someone's psychology.