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To Prevent All Other Breaking (Big Mac)1,434 words
I Departed and Sought Mountains (Zecora)1,406 words
Where Stallions Win Glory (Soarin')1,216 words

I Departed and Sought Mountains (Zecora)

I Departed and Sought Mountains, With My Father on My Back

Your Majesty,

I write to you now free from that ban which has stayed my tongue and fettered it joyfully since the day I was born. When I rested in my mother’s forelegs, the village shaman beat his drum and whispered over me a chant, for I was the child born to a child that was born to a child of Jecora, and the time had come for another searcher of stars to be taken from our line.

But I am freed from that curse and blessing for the moment. What I need now is not forced, careful thought, but rather swiftness.

Princess Celestia, Sun-Mother, I am leaving my abode in the forest and returning to the place of my birth, below the mountain Arafat, to attend a Congress of the College of Shamans. You welcomed me into your country, when I wandered lonely, and for that I thank you. May I ask you now to extend me another hoof in kindness?

I ask only that you read my letters. I will ask you for a single boon, and at that time I pray that you will give me an answer.

As you know, the deserts are on fire with madness. Mothers and foals die in the streets of Damasca as sacrifices to the Mad God, or so they tell me. As I make the journey to my homeland in the highlands, I will see for myself, and I will tell you of what is true.

My Princess, I begin to fear that more than war is on the horizon, for there has not been a Congress of the College in two hundred years.

I am leaving now, as soon as this letter is in the hooves of the courier. I take with me the ancient hoofblades of my grandfather and the little idols of my house, for I believe that I may not return. At least, not for a long time.

Your Majesty,

Today, I cross over into the borderlands.

Already, I notice the wrongness. I am in the tribal lands of the Gori, a free tribe, one independent from the King. I had expected the grasslands of the Gori to be free of the scourge of war, and perhaps on the surface they are. Usca, the town I am in, has no barricades in the streets. Refugees are here, but they blend in with the unfortunate souls that live on the streets of every town. Were it not for my performing the duty of my College towards the poor, I would never have realized how many there were. They are quiet. They do not cry, and they do not speak to even one such as I. They stare and they shiver with some secret fear. These poor indigents are scarred, and their coats are burnt by some fire that they will not speak of.

The tribal zebras here regard me with little fear, but I know that the garments of my order protect me from their harsh gazes. Yet their gazes are different from when I last passed through, when I first came into your realm. When I was younger, they greeted me in the streets. The zebras here smiled. Now, they hurry and do not call out to me. There are fewer children here. There is a shadow over this town.

Your Majesty,

The desert. Even before the Mad God, I had no love for this place.

I was born in the highlands, in lush jungles. I am accustomed to life and green surroundings. While your ponies in Ponyville feared the Everfree, I found it to be not much different from my own home in Zebrahara. You might imagine, Song-born, how the desert would be alien to me.

The royal road that I knew in my youth has changed, and yet is still the same in many ways. Travelers still go down it. Tribal patrols still watch for bandits.

It is the nature of these pilgrims that shows the difference. The King’s gold-barded soldiers trot briskly through the wide road, and all part before them. They look stern, but exhausted. The refugees here stare at me like those in Usca.

Your Majesty,

I write you as I sit in the ruins of the Manni settlement of Edessa. I want to tell you about it, Song-born, if you will let me.

It was a walled town, a circle of safety in the desert. Its streets were clean, and its houses were sturdy. The Manni zebras who lived here loved jewelry, and their mares developed a system of propriety for the wearing of ornaments. As a young mare, they wore certain things and colors. As mothers they wore other things. Respected, older females wore yet others. A whole language grew up, a nonverbal way of communicating, and males could see into it only vaguely. They knew when a female’s ornamentation broadcast her availability, and when it proclaimed her taken or in mourning. But a mare could tell who she wanted, her profession, her age, everything. I learned only a little of it, when I stayed here for a month in my youth. Their shamans excelled at medicine and alchemy, and the articles of their enchantments sold at high prices even in Equestria. I believe you wrote me once, when your student was new in Ponyville, that the Manni gifted you with the necklaces that bear the elements?

The Manni were a peaceful tribe, but they were proud and brave. The Manni never won wars, your Majesty Song-born, but they always survived. No zebra could wound their spirit. None could kill the bright star of the Manni heart, and so they lived.

The Mad God came himself to Edessa. The blood in the square is his own, torn from him as he danced. It is also from three zebras of the village. I assume they are virgins, as the dark rituals often hold fascination for, but I have not checked. There was no need. I buried them outside the walls.

The King’s army came and they fled like shadows before a torch, but they are not gone for good. They linger, and I know that eyes have watched me.

Your Majesty,

I have heard rumors of the Mad God and his warriors, but I only now begin to separate fact from fiction.

I have seen his zebra warriors with my own two eyes. They scream long, shrill things. Cries that are not words at all but rather simply the sounds of hell pouring out of them. Their eyes are almost red with fury, and do not think that to be exaggeration. Their eyes are bloodshot, cursed by whatever foul weed or potion it is their master has given them that they might become the monsters they are. They file their teeth into points and growl like manticores. Their manes and coats they cut haphazardly as though drunk, and their war paint bears no sign of tribe or village. It is swirling madness in red, and it tells me nothing of note about their origins. They look familiar, but I will not trouble your Majesty with my idle speculation.

They attacked me at dawn on the road from Edessa. By the code of my order, as you know, the hoofblades of my family stayed in my pack, and I was sorely pressed. Against three of them, my kicks and blows were almost no match.

But the sun smiled on me.

They do not fight with skill as I am accustomed to. They fight with brute strength, and it is a different kind of dance entirely. The dance of hoofblade and kick is usually a kind of chess for my people, all speed and quickness. But they fought more like Equestrians, sweeping wide and putting more force into every movement than I would’ve thought a zebra warrior ever would.

Your Majesty,

I have never missed Equestria more dearly than now. This place is not the home I left. Yes, the highlands are still days away, but it has all changed.

Two more villages burned, and a third scared to death.

More signs of ritual slaughter and rape. Blood in the streets and painted on the walls in swirling patterns that almost form images but never quite do. They suggest but delight in disappointing.

I will write you again when I know more.

Author's Note:

One of two Zecora letter sequences.

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