Moss Moon and the Lunar Spring, Part 18

>You are Anon, a human warrior
>And the world has gone strange to you
>Thick smoke writhes all around, plumes like tortured spirits
>In it you can sense – not see – the forms of men
>Those soldiers that survived the sunroot explosion
>This sense – this perception of shadow – is new to you, like a shade over your eyes, your mind
>It had come on suddenly, moments before Moss Moon had sprung her plan into action
>The water your companion gave you had awoken something within
>A presence you have not fully felt since your submersion in the Spring, when you were at Death’s door... and then sank into her parlor
>“...and you will kill those enemies...”
>Your skull throbs
>“...until they have been stricken from the earth...”
>You stagger into the smoke
>“...and my children are safe again.”
>You’re not sure where Moss Moon is
>She snuck over to the opposite side of the structure before setting off her concoction
>The sense of shadow doesn’t give you an idea of her position
>It does, however, reveal the location of a stunned soldier as he wanders blindly toward you
>Around his form you can detect the fringes of something dark and translucent, a shaded mantle that clings to his body
>“I gave you the power of the dreaming,” growls the voice in your soul.  “You would do well to make use of it.”
>You struggle to shake it off, to force her out, as you draw your weapon
>The dead man’s longsword is of fine quality, better even than your old blade
>With ease you dispatch the soldier, gaining only a glimpse of his tangible form through the thick smoke
>A gout of blood paints the rocky earth, and the man falls dead at your feet with barely a cry
>The cacophony is deafening; the yelling of the other men, and the screeching of the trapped bat ponies in the warehouse
>The shadow sense gives you no image of the bats, but you can hear them well enough
>What you can see is another guard nearby; swiftly you stride toward him
>This man seems more aware than the previous, and whirls wildly to face you, but he fares little better
>Unable to see your sword, the soldier fails to parry once, then again as your weapon slashes his thigh
>He collapses, just as you become aware of two other soldiers fleeing into a side street, before they vanish completely from your perception
>“Anon!”
>A welcome voice
>Behind you, the smoke is thinner; turning your head, you can just make out the small gray form of Moss Moon
>She’s breathing heavily, her mane in disarray
>“I wasn’t able to get them all,” she pants, “We have to take out the others –”
>“They’ve already gone,” you say, your voice sounding abnormally strained
>When you indicate the direction where the two survivors fled, Moss Moon curses
>“The orphanage is that way,” she says, “Anon, I – ”
>“Get going,” you grunt.  “I’ll finish up here.”
>A long moment stretches between you
>Perhaps it is the strange new sense, or perhaps it is merely your own cognizance, but you detect something in her golden eyes as she looks up at you through the drifting smoke
>The beauty of her spirit, shining onto you
>“You better be careful,” she says.  “Who will I share mangoes with, if you go and die?”
>“After this, I’ll take you to Sun-Ne’er-Set,” you reply, “and we’ll share a hundred mangoes, if that’s what you’d like.”
>At first she simply smiles, the scar across her eye moving with her skin
>Then she embraces you, a flash in which her forelimbs wrap around you, and her heart beats with yours


[“Don’t worry,” he said cheerfully, after breaking away.  “We’ll see each other again.”]


>The exchange takes only a few seconds, but to you it feels much longer
>She relinquishes her hold, and with one last look back, she runs off into the side streets and disappears
>You feel a lump in your throat, once she has gone
>Returning to the corpse of one of the men you killed, you kneel down to search him for a key, but find nothing
>Bat ponies are pounding on the door to the warehouse, screeching for release
>With the pommel of your sword you smash the lock, striking it repeatedly until the metal has deformed enough to open
>The door swings ajar
>The bat ponies, at first seemingly eager to escape, now hold back in fear, fixated on your terrible silhouette standing in the doorway
>“You are free,” you declare.  “I am not here to hurt you.”
>No response is forthcoming, until finally an older bat stammers out: “What have you done?”
>You stare down at him, unsure of how to respond
>“Calamity will come here now,” he continues, “reprisals.  The Asperi will bring down their wrath a hundredfold upon us, for what you have done –”
>Several of the ponies burst into tears, and begin to wail, as the elder mutters on
>Where you had expected gratitude and goodwill, instead you are greeted only by despair
>“My children have been robbed of their courage, and their hope,” hisses the dark voice within you.  “I will see those responsible burned to ashes, no matter the cost.”
>As if linked to her emotions, you can feel an insatiable bloodlust rising, making your skin itch
>And perhaps you will have the chance to slake your shared thirst
>For in that moment, you become aware of six men rapidly approaching, their shadows stretching toward the warehouse
>Alone, you step from the doorway, and prepare to meet them

>You are Anja, bat pony warrior of the north
>And you feel a fight coming on
>With cold eyes you had watched the explosion from the orphanage window, the rising burst of flame as red as the mushrooms you once picked in the forests around your village
>This was magic, you knew; dark magic, that only a witch could command
>All the orphans were screaming around you
> “Foals, quiet,” you had ordered, as you’d snatched up your spear.  “Hide in room, make no sound.”
>You weren’t sure what was going to happen next
>Cutter had ordered you to “watch” the foals, but you knew that this was merely a pretense to separate you from the Stronghold’s more able-bodied civilians
>Not that it would’ve mattered; the ponies here are not fighters
>You knew his reputation, and what he would do at the slightest provocation
>If battle had come to the Stronghold, then he would be certain to exercise his cruelty on every stallion, mare, and foal he could
>No matter what, you had already resolved to defend these orphans to the death
>While you were still alive, you would not let that butcher or his men harm them
>As usual, your instincts prove accurate
>Watching covertly from the window, hiding just out of sight, you see two soldiers sneaking down the street, their weapons drawn
>“It has to be done, ol’ top,” says the fatter, balder of the two.  “You’ll thank me later.”
>His companion is barrel-shaped, with a slack face.  He wields a broadsword. “It just don’t feel right,” he replies, scratching his head.
>“Ain’t nothing right or wrong about it.  Pep up, it’ll be easy.  Like drowning kittens.”
>The trampled garden in front of the orphanage is wide open; there is nowhere to hide
>Your only opportunity for a sneak attack would be to let them blunder inside, but you do not want them to enter the building
>Instead, you decide to face them head on
>They look fat, and weak; if you’re lucky, you can intimidate them into a retreat
>Both men jolt backwards when you slam the door open and trot outside
>“By the Prince’s frozen balls!” exclaims the bald one.  “Don’t you got any manners?  You gave me a damn fright.”
>You level your spear.  “That is not all I am giving,” you say.  “Leave.  Now.”
>The man is taken aback.  “Apologies if I’m mistaken, but ain’t we on the same side here?”
>“No more.  This day, you will hurt no foals.”
>At first, the bald fellow simply glares at you, but then his face twists into an obsequious smile
>“Now, now, there’s no reason to get all bent out of shape about nothing–”
>“She knows,” interrupts his slack-faced companion.  “She knows and she ain’t gonna let us in.  Let’s just get out of this damn hellhole, they ain’t gonna come looking for us –”
>He is silenced by a slap to the back of the head
>“Shut the hell up, ol’ top,” the bald man growls.  “You got to calm down and think rational about this.  Cutter loves skinning things alive, and who d’you think he’ll be cutting into when he finds out we ran away and let all his prisoners escape?”
>The man continues speaking, gesturing toward the orphanage.  “We can still make sure these runts don’t get away.  Slicing them up is our best ticket to staying alive, you understand me?  Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little pony.  If you wanna drown some kittens, sometimes you gotta kill the cat first!”
>You know you should feel anger, or fear, or even anticipation of combat, but instead you feel only cold
>You’d seen these men before; not their faces, not them, but their fear, their desperation
>Dozens of times, you’d seen it, cowardly men willing to do anything to save themselves, when suddenly they find themselves completely and utterly alone
>Men pushed so close to the edge that they can see nothing but the precipice
>And many times, you have been the one to give them that final push
>Enough, in fact, to know how quickly they will abandon their imaginary brotherhoods to sacrifice their friends in the name of survival
>Which is why you make your first threatening jab at the slack-faced man
>His paper-thin loyalty shreds in an instant, punctured by the shining point of your spear
>With a yelp, he turns and runs, leaving his balding companion to fend for himself
>“I’ll kill you, ol’ top!” the man screams after him.  “You’re a dead man!”
>Despite his rage, the soldier readies himself for single combat, drawing a wicked curved blade
>Wordlessly you circle him, keeping him at a distance
>“It ain’t gonna take long,” he taunts, stepping with you, switching stances to match the position of your spear.  “Step aside and I’ll even tell ol’ Cap’n Cutter that you helped me.”
>You smirk
>“In hell,” you say, “you are telling him hello.”
>With a single beat of your wings, you launch yourself into the air
>The man’s look of confidence melts immediately into one of resignation
>“Shit. Forgot you could fly.”
>With grim concentration he attempts to beat away your jabbing spear strokes
>Though he protects his head, he leaves his shoulder open; you pierce it with icy precision
>The man lets out a cry of pain, and immediately drops his weapon
>“You got me!  I yield!” he says, lifting his hands.  “I ain’t gonna do it, all right?  Let me go, I’m just gonna walk away – ”
>Even now, he cannot accept the end
>You finish him off without hesitation, and leave his lifeless body on the ground
>Hoping to do the same to his fleeing comrade, you fly down the alley into which the man absconded
>Instead, what you find surprises you
>A broadsword laying on the ground, and beside it the man’s corpse, his slack-jawed face bashed in
>Over him stands the bound witch, staring wide-eyed at the body
>She notices you hovering above her, but does not jump in fear; rather, she simply stares at you, breathing hard
>You’ve seen that face before as well
>The face of someone new to killing, someone who hardly understands the feeling of taking a life
>“You are powerful witch,” you say.  “What is it you have done?”
>“The orphans... are they...?”
>“Safe.  Now tell.  What was fire?”
>“It was a mixture, some kind of alchemy.  I don’t – don’t understand it completely –”
>“For what you used it?”
>“We – Anon and I, we set them free,” she says, fumbling.  “We used it to free the townsfolk.”
>“Anon your friend?”
>“Yes, but –”
>“Important to you, yes?”
>“Yes –”
>“Then why you here?  Anja tell you, Anja guard foals!  Go back!  Your friend in danger, stupid bound!”
>You are surprised when the witch grits her teeth, and your blood runs even colder when she speaks
>“I came for the orphans,” she says, “but on the way, I saw him fighting.  He fights alone on the high road, against Cutter and his men.  Your captain, Hunter Killer.  He’s the one in danger.”
>For the first time that day, you feel fear, your limbs suddenly paralyzed
>“Why are you still here?” the witch barks.  “Go!”
>Your heart races, and your grip tightens on your spear
>Without another look at her, you beat your powerful wings, and soar above the village, spiraling in search of the one you love