Omake: Just One More Pony (Non-Canon)
In fact, have an omake on the insurgent ponies thing:
***
Sharp quill peaked around the corner. She had been sneaking through the city for hours and it was getting to her. She hadn't been a young filly when Sombra took over and she was positively old now. Every step hurt even before she started. But this was nothing to the decades of forced labor she survived. She has been insensate. Catatonic. Suicidal. Until the Gryphon showed her the miracle metal, made into horseshoes.
Something burned in her now, in her belly, in her chest. She would not stop. She would not stop until the very last living cell in her heart burned out.
Finding isolated ponies to ambush. Soothing the hysterics or using the sedatives she was given to calm them.
The battle raged over the wall, the explosions and screaming rising even above the storm. Seven times she went in over his head and took on a group to large. She was strong though. The Qilin knew their alchemy well.
Bruised, with broken ribs, numerous cuts and with a badly wrapped semi-frozen bloody bandages on her hind leg she had the strength to limp on. The drums of war spurring her on. One more. She could certainly do one more.
She'd get a glimpse of others like her in the far off streets. While the slaves could not, were not allowed to think enough to tell, she could see the subtle difference between her brothers and sisters in this madness. From time to time she would see helmet-less ponies running, in vaguely the direction of closest hidden exit.
There, a filly barely into adulthood limps along the road, dirty, matted yellow fur. A broken bone cutie mark and a limp. A twisted, badly healed foreleg. New helmet, marching soullessly to toward the breeding pens mineshaft. One more.
It was easy to limp toward her. A strong grab, a second or two of solid contact and the filly goes limp in shock, the enchantment failing and her knees buckle. They both fall. The helm slips off and the old mare freezes as she sees the amethyst eyes of the filly half hidden behind the short rose color bangs. For a second they are blank, empty and Sharp Quill's heart spikes with pain. Then a person appears in them, a consciousness. A horror which stops even the drums of war for a moment.
"What." The filly utters in confusion, a voice hoarse and the martial hold, turns into a hug as a sob escapes her.
"You are free." Sharp Quill speaks into the filly's ear, tapping two hooves together when she moves back somewhat. The low, dense clang of her shoes rings but she can hardly hear it over the howl of the wind.
"Do you know where the old distillery is?"
With tears in her eyes the filly nods.
"There will be dogs there, a way out."
Then the filly's eyes widen and the old mare looks back. The drums beat. Stronger. Louder. A patrol of three, rounding a corner into the alley advancing. The old mare drags her old carcass up and steps towards them.
"Go Apple Blossom, tell them Sharp Quill died free." she shouts and pushes her filly towards the other exit. She obeys.
She was already tired, from the pain, and the blood loss, but the burning white determination in her chest would not yield yet. There was one more thing to do. One more.
A fight is hard, she got some bare training but she was never a fighter. She could endure though and it's not like it would be long now.
It takes a moment or two of contact for the anti-magic stone to work. She gets stabbed as she frees one, it's just a leg. A hit to the head when she frees the second. Her skull is tough enough.
She's too tired to dodge or attack the last one. Her chest is like a living burning thing. Her vision blurry and her breath sharp. A pony is circling around the last slave. Her legs wobble, and won't really listen. But she was always good at hugs though.
"Horseshoes." She barks an order. The freed stallion helps you touch the helmet of the last slave you have hugged. The burning pain is like the sun. The drums discordant. But there. One more.
Good.
The rocky road is cool in the night. The storm isn't howling. The burning in her chest has stopped. The drums are silent, broken.
The soft hiss of snow, for a moment. She was a grandmother.
Harmony.
***
He never met the mare this old. There were wispers. In the pens, at calibration. Ponies used to grow so old their hair grew white, with just a hint of red. Alwas far away, in the fields. Never in the city.
He had no words for what she did, and dying with that peaceful smile on her face. He gently closes her empty amethyst eyes. Looks at the smaller stallion next to him. "I won't fit those shoes but you can."
And glances back down on the old mare. He didn't know her name but he will carve that cutie mark into rock forever.
His brother nods. He'd seen how effective they were.
"What do we do now?" The mare asks.
"I know where to go." A voice behind them. A familiar young mare. Practically a filly peaks out from around a corner.
"We'll follow."
"Maybe we can find a few more ponies on the way."
Edit:
@Questor Forgot to tag the qm as suggested
***
Sharp quill peaked around the corner. She had been sneaking through the city for hours and it was getting to her. She hadn't been a young filly when Sombra took over and she was positively old now. Every step hurt even before she started. But this was nothing to the decades of forced labor she survived. She has been insensate. Catatonic. Suicidal. Until the Gryphon showed her the miracle metal, made into horseshoes.
Something burned in her now, in her belly, in her chest. She would not stop. She would not stop until the very last living cell in her heart burned out.
Finding isolated ponies to ambush. Soothing the hysterics or using the sedatives she was given to calm them.
The battle raged over the wall, the explosions and screaming rising even above the storm. Seven times she went in over his head and took on a group to large. She was strong though. The Qilin knew their alchemy well.
Bruised, with broken ribs, numerous cuts and with a badly wrapped semi-frozen bloody bandages on her hind leg she had the strength to limp on. The drums of war spurring her on. One more. She could certainly do one more.
She'd get a glimpse of others like her in the far off streets. While the slaves could not, were not allowed to think enough to tell, she could see the subtle difference between her brothers and sisters in this madness. From time to time she would see helmet-less ponies running, in vaguely the direction of closest hidden exit.
There, a filly barely into adulthood limps along the road, dirty, matted yellow fur. A broken bone cutie mark and a limp. A twisted, badly healed foreleg. New helmet, marching soullessly to toward the breeding pens mineshaft. One more.
It was easy to limp toward her. A strong grab, a second or two of solid contact and the filly goes limp in shock, the enchantment failing and her knees buckle. They both fall. The helm slips off and the old mare freezes as she sees the amethyst eyes of the filly half hidden behind the short rose color bangs. For a second they are blank, empty and Sharp Quill's heart spikes with pain. Then a person appears in them, a consciousness. A horror which stops even the drums of war for a moment.
"What." The filly utters in confusion, a voice hoarse and the martial hold, turns into a hug as a sob escapes her.
"You are free." Sharp Quill speaks into the filly's ear, tapping two hooves together when she moves back somewhat. The low, dense clang of her shoes rings but she can hardly hear it over the howl of the wind.
"Do you know where the old distillery is?"
With tears in her eyes the filly nods.
"There will be dogs there, a way out."
Then the filly's eyes widen and the old mare looks back. The drums beat. Stronger. Louder. A patrol of three, rounding a corner into the alley advancing. The old mare drags her old carcass up and steps towards them.
"Go Apple Blossom, tell them Sharp Quill died free." she shouts and pushes her filly towards the other exit. She obeys.
She was already tired, from the pain, and the blood loss, but the burning white determination in her chest would not yield yet. There was one more thing to do. One more.
A fight is hard, she got some bare training but she was never a fighter. She could endure though and it's not like it would be long now.
It takes a moment or two of contact for the anti-magic stone to work. She gets stabbed as she frees one, it's just a leg. A hit to the head when she frees the second. Her skull is tough enough.
She's too tired to dodge or attack the last one. Her chest is like a living burning thing. Her vision blurry and her breath sharp. A pony is circling around the last slave. Her legs wobble, and won't really listen. But she was always good at hugs though.
"Horseshoes." She barks an order. The freed stallion helps you touch the helmet of the last slave you have hugged. The burning pain is like the sun. The drums discordant. But there. One more.
Good.
The rocky road is cool in the night. The storm isn't howling. The burning in her chest has stopped. The drums are silent, broken.
The soft hiss of snow, for a moment. She was a grandmother.
Harmony.
***
He never met the mare this old. There were wispers. In the pens, at calibration. Ponies used to grow so old their hair grew white, with just a hint of red. Alwas far away, in the fields. Never in the city.
He had no words for what she did, and dying with that peaceful smile on her face. He gently closes her empty amethyst eyes. Looks at the smaller stallion next to him. "I won't fit those shoes but you can."
And glances back down on the old mare. He didn't know her name but he will carve that cutie mark into rock forever.
His brother nods. He'd seen how effective they were.
"What do we do now?" The mare asks.
"I know where to go." A voice behind them. A familiar young mare. Practically a filly peaks out from around a corner.
"We'll follow."
"Maybe we can find a few more ponies on the way."
Edit:
@Questor Forgot to tag the qm as suggested
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