Aryanne Doesn't Gas the Griffons

“It is hard to believe,” spake the demure Earth Pony. “All the time, all the effort, all the opposition. Alas, purity of heart and mind is as moss on the bark of the tree of proper Equinity, so I do not-- cannot fault them. It was, after all, in defense of the sanctity of that most pristine philosophy that we all have worked. And I do sincerely mean it when I say ‘we’, Glorenfel.” Her bright smile shone even in the dim light of the room, starkly contrasted by the disdainful conviction in her smugly set and piercing blue eyes. Her gaze was directed at a smartly dressed Griffon sat at a table across the room, his wings bound and body tied securely to a chair.
“You’re evil,” he spat, echoing defiance but unable to cut wholly from his tone the stark terror he strove to mask. An effort that became all the more difficult as the target of his fear strode genially toward him, booted hooves clacking dully against the tiled floor to the tune of passing seconds from a clock nearby. “Evil!”
A tittering, airy and feminine, passed her lips. She stopped at the table, opposite Glorenfel, and drew one of the manila folders thereon to hoof. “Evil. Griffons are so base of thought, so crass of word; I am hardly surprised their General is nothing short of a reflection of their squalid masses’ impoverished character.” She flipped through the documents, scanning their contents – battle reports to do with the start of the war. She placed a report before Glorenfel, and her smile faded. “The Siege of Cloudsdale,” she stated plainly. “A severe wildstorm from the Everfree scattered much of the city of Cloudsdale, and what of it had held together went over Horseshoe Bay and far across the sea, whereupon they issued scouts to ascertain their current whereabouts, at which point your Griffon scouts, having tracked them back to the remains of the city, returned and reported to your superiors of an invasion.”
Glorenfel snarled. “An entire Equestrian city appeared on our doorstep. Ought we have disregarded our soldiers’ warning and met in the open? Ought we have opened ourselves to the blade of deceit? Foolish! Foolish and evil.”
“And that is every reason your kind should have been put to rest long ago.” The pony’s mouth soured. “Your cagey nature, your natural distrust, it is antithesis to harmony. Worse, it wrought the death of many of my kin, many whom I consider to be friends, some family. For your fears they died, defending their homes and kin. For them the innocents died, shielding their staunch protectors with their own bodies as they fell to exhaustion or wounds. They showed compassion even in the face of absolute brutality; they flew and fell as true Equestrians, brothers and sisters to the bitter end. You animals showed no such valor.”
Glorenfel made to rise, but his bondage held him fast. He was utterly trapped. “Our empire is home to warriors without peer! We race the lightning, first to strike and last to flee, and never a foe our backs may see!”
“I will not deny you were first.” The pony trotted over to the one curtained window of the room and parted it. Beyond the window lay the capital of the realm, Griffonstone, seemingly ravaged by a storm of fire and wild gales. There were ponies patrolling the scored streets and flanking the entrances of homes that still stood, each one with spear in hoof and dire resolve in their heart. “In fact… perhaps I should thank you for it.”
“First you castigate and now you congratulate. You are mad.”
“On the contrary,” she said, turning to face the lone griffon with a sneering smile, “had you not struck at all, or had you offered them your filthy claw in friendship, I might never have gained such power as I have now. I had spoken of the evils of your kind since I was young, told of your natural inclination toward treachery and scoundrel souls. None had lent me their ear, not until you bared the cruel nature of your race for all to see. Then?” A look of purest satisfaction washed over her face, stray locks of her blonde mane draping messily over her eyes. “Then everypony listened. To me. To you.”
“I did what I thought was right!”
“And never once thought of others!” she cut in sharp as a sword, such that Glorenfel balked in his chair as his heart skipped a beat. The pony made her way toward him again, hoofbeats a uniform stamp, stamp, stamp as her face contorted in white hot rage to match her coat. “Never once did you consider their being there could be a mistake, never once did you think to extend an olive branch, or even the basest courtesy of word nor warning! Instead of breaking bread you broke the bodies of young mares and stallions, then of fillies and colts to sate what remained of your bestial war-lust! What you thought right every pony from birth knows to be needlessly savage in their heart of hearts! You call me evil for what I must do to muzzle your razor beak and keep it from shearing more innocent souls from this mortal coil!”
Glorenfel was speechless, flabbergasted. He had been hardened against death and tragedy long ago, seeing his people swept away had done little to him, but this pony had a terrible fire in her glare. No, he thought, not a fire. Too big, too terrible. Too much. Not a fire, Ancestors no! His beak was agape, and sweat beaded on his brow as he was stuck in the stare of the looming Earth Pony. His brain fumbled for words, any words at all, but the only thing that he could bear to get out was a shaky, “Who… what are you?”
The pony struck an imperious pose, head high and mane seeming almost to wave in the same ethereal wind as if she were herself one of the godly Princesses. “I am the Sword of Equestria, and I am Her Shield. I am Her hate-fire’s kindling, Her wounded heart’s balm. I, who have seen the cruelty of this realm, who will die before I let it mar the beautiful soul of my dearest ponies, and who has by their will been uplifted to serve as guardian of their purity, Righteous Defender of their spirit, have no need of a name. I am the vengeance for those you slew, and bear in me the gratitude of the legions to come who will not suffer life under threat of your evil. But if in your barbaric traditions you must give a name to your executor in your heathen hereafter I shall grant you that pittance. I am Aryanne,” she finished, and swiftly drew the shotgun hitched it to her saddle, chambering the first round with a dreadful cha-chikk. “And you, Griffon scum, are dead.”
Before Glorenfel could speak the blast came. One of his lungs collapsed and he looked down to see a gaping hole in his chest. Cold sweat broke out on his face, and he looked pleadingly across the table at Aryanne, gasping frantically. The mare flinched for a moment, then snarled viciously. She cranked out another shot. And another. And another.
Her eyes went wild.
Another shot.
Spittle flew from her drawn lips.
Another shot.
Monstrous growls nearly set her teeth chattering with their sheer volume.
Another shot.
The inferno of her glare faded, the hate in the back of her mind, that had bubbled up in that moment of madness, eased back into its usual dark haunts. She was panting, heart racing and body shaking. Before her, where Glorenfel had sat was now a pile of shredded meat and tatted dress uniforms. The wall behind him had been painted in his blood and bits of bone, brain and other viscera littered the floor. She spat on what was left in the chair, and muttered a venom-laden, “Arschgesicht”, under her breath.
	Aryanne took a moment to center herself and calm her breathing. It took a moment, but soon enough calm came. This war is over, she thought to herself, and now we must prepare for the next.
With no further business Aryanne cycled the last shell from the chamber, flipped on the safety, fed the unspent ammunition into the mag tube, and kept the barrel safely downward as she left the room, her uniform remarkably free of any trace of carnage. She asked that one of the guard ponies that had been posted outside the room relay orders to the sergeants for a cleaning detail to handle Glorenfel, and trotted calmly back to her quarters, nodding politely and greeting ponies along the way.
Once there she laid her shotgun by her bedside and laid down, still fully dressed. She produced a covert notepad from her uniform and took up a nearby pen, flipping through the pages until she found what she sought; a list of the names of various creatures, Griffons at the very top. With child-like glee she crossed them out, secreted it away once more, set aside her pen, and laid her head down to dream of what destruction she might yet have the chance to wreak, and what creatures she might next get to cross off her list.