Beginnings

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In the timeless era before time began, there was nothingness. The Maker, seeing this, stretched forth His hoof and began to paint upon the canvas of the void. He painted into being a world bright and clean, filled with wonders in all directions - fields brimming with new grain, verdant forests of good fruit and vast jungles teeming with animal life, lakes of water the purest blue and rivers running silver with shining fish, high mountains of magnificent beauty and deep seas filled with wondrous creatures. He painted into being the guardians of that world; the majestic Stag, the fierce Rhinoceros, and the noble She-Hawk. And finally, He painted into it creatures to dwell there, to see and to enjoy the wonders of His creation and labors.

Unto the creatures the Maker painted, He gave a gift. The world He had given them was vast, with many realms within it to explore, and so He gave unto His creations, His children, the powers needed to visit them. Unlike the other creatures of the land, limited to those places made for them or forced to change the land itself, the Maker’s children were given the power to adapt, to change themselves to partake of the lands as they were made. For this reason, He called His children ‘Changelings’, and bid them to enjoy the lands which they had been given. And for many years, it was so. This was the First and Golden Age, an age of light and song.

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For long eras, all seemed peaceful within the land, but eventually a Darkness began to take hold. Some claimed it was the last touch of the nothingness before the creation, trying to erase the Maker’s work, while others claimed it was a rival or enemy of the Maker, trying to stain His masterpiece. Either way, the Darkness took root and grew, blighting woods, fouling waters, and most dangerously, hardening the hearts of the Changelings and turning their thoughts toward wickedness. Eventually, the Darkness took root within one of the Queens of the Changelings, the Lady Wintersong, and she began to rebel against the Maker’s order, seeking to blot out the light of the sun as a weapon of conquest. This was the Second Age, the Age of Obsidian, of darkness and fear.

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However, though His hoof no longer painted upon the canvas of the world, the Maker’s eyes were never far from it, for He had not forgotten His children. When the Darkness seemed about to devour the world, strangers arrived, strangers from other realms, other worlds painted by the Maker, to join in the battle. The mystical warriors of Zebrabwe, who fought with potion and pestle as much as spear and shield. The Diamond Dogs of Vargard, with their cunning knowledge and mastery of metalwork. The noble Griffons of Altai, whose speed was as the lightnings, and whose forces numbered enough to cover the sky.

These, and many others, came to the aid of the Changelings against the Darkness, but the tide of battle finally turned with the arrival of the Steeds of Al-Andalus, called ‘Arabian’ in their own tongue. These valiants, as gentle of spirit as they were fierce in battle, knew the Darkness of old. They were wise to its clever tricks, and so noble of heart that the Darkness could not break them as it had so many others. And they, unlike so many of the others, knew how to fight against it. This was the Third Age, the Age of Steel, of fire and war.

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Finally, the Darkness retreated. It did not die, for such as that cannot pass away, nor did it flee. It still awaits, ready to devour those unwary souls who do not recognize it for what it is, or who are foolish enough to willingly listen to its tempting murmurs. But its power lessened, and the world began to renew itself. The land began to regrow, the seas and rivers and streams to be reborn. The nations of people who came to the aid of the Changelings began to settle where they deemed best, to live their lives in this new land whence they had been called. And for some, that was to settle with the Changelings, to join them in their days and years. This became the Fourth Age, the Age of Silver, of hope and the bonds of friendship.

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As she finished her tale, Queen Elytra turned to her children. Young Tulpar was already asleep, head tucked beneath one of his feathered wings, and it was clear that his elder sister wasn’t far behind, her horn sparking fitfully as she tried to stay awake. Only Takhi, at ten summers her eldest and in miniature the spitting image of his father, remained wakeful, and she nodded to him. “May you fare well through the night, my children,” she said, rising to her feet from her spot in front of the hearthfire. Takhi nodded back, mumbling a brief ‘good night’ to her before settling himself down. Elytra carefully backed out of the tent, turning toward the night sky.

From behind her, a voice arose. “‘So noble of heart that the Darkness could not break them.’ I think you’re giving us just a bit too much credit, ‘Lytra.”

A ring of flame encircled Elytra, hiding her golden chitin beneath tan fur like unto her mate's own gray as she leaned into his side. “You sell yourself short, Cloudy. I still remember what happened that first day we met on the battlefield, even if you don’t seem to want to.”

“That was sheer stubbornness, nothing more,” he said, leaning over to nibble on her ear. “I just refused to let that thing have the satisfaction.”

“If you say it,” Elytra said demurely, “then surely I must accept it.” In response, Cloudy simply laughed.

“Here’s to the future, then. To an age of peace and harmony once more, for our friends, ourselves and our little ponies, and for all the generations yet to come.”