Penumbral Song (temp title, proto)


                                            >Once upon a time, in the magical land of Equestria, there were two regal sisters who ruled together and created harmony for all the land. For her part in all of this, the eldest used her celestial powers to raise the sun at dawn; and the younger brought out the moon to begin the night.

                                            >As time went on, the two maintained balance for their kingdom and their subjects: all of the different kinds of ponies. Over time, cracks began to show in all that they had built together with their little ponies.

                                            >In a noble effort, the two sisters attempted to stymie the growing tensions— but as time went on, the younger sister grew resentful. Most little ponies relished and played in the day that her elder sister brought forth, but shunned and slept through her beautiful night and woven stars.

                                            >Those that didn’t, her beloved thestrals— the bat ponies— suffered discrimination at the hands of her eldest sister’s little ponies. As pressure mounted, one fateful day Equestria erupted into disharmony as the younger sister refused to lower her moon in order to make way for the dawn.

                                            >Though the elder sister tried to reason with her, the fermenting bitterness in the younger sister’s heart had transformed her into a wicked mare of darkness: Nightmare Moon. She vowed that she would shroud the land in eternal night in order to simultaneously force her sister’s little ponies to appreciate her night; and to provide a safe place for her own.

                                            >The revolution that ensued burnt for years, until the fateful moment where the elder sister had her chance to harness the most powerful magic known to ponydom: the Elements of Harmony! Armed with their magic, she defeated her younger sister and banished her to the moon; forced to take on her responsibilities alone…

                                            >With the nudge of a hoof, the book is shut— and you look up from your desk with groggy eyes as the sound is amplified by the sound of the door opening. Who are you, again—?

                                            >“Sanguine Moon? You’re still awake?”

                                            >Your wings ruffle at your sides, and your head sways as you ogle your aggressor in her appearance at the door— a dark-coated unicorn with a ponytail coloured like a peppermint swirl. Her sea-blue eyes are just as tired-looking as yours are, a shared weight to the two of you.

                                            “… Ye— yeah, Corporal Tumbler— er, Petty Officer.”

                                            >The dissonance of ranks between Solar and Lunar forces is going to confuse you for a long while, isn't it? You know roughly where they both stack up, but knowing which one to use with which force is something else.

                                            >Her muzzle wrinkles before she stifles a little laugh and steps in properly, fumbling her way over to her rack to rest her haunches.

                                            >“How’s reading practice going?” Her head tilts, while her horn glitters alight with magic— at first, you suspect she’s trying to snag the book that you’d just had open, but instead she’s starting to ditch her gear— starting with the uniform frock coat and her scabbard belt, both of which are hastily folded and sat aside.

                                            “It’s… going—?”

                                            >Reading was never your forte, even before enlisting in the Royal Corps of the Moon— it originally wasn’t a very big deal in this slice of the service, either, or so you’d heard, but a lot of reforms have been trickling down the line. You were a farmpony once, dedicated to your cornfields and gleefully awaiting each harvest moon, but now you have to tackle so much more than that.

                                            >The Royal Corps of the Moon is subject to new uniform regulations, new training requirements such as ‘literacy’— which you’d gotten in just before they made it into effect— and an uplifting primer to foment esprit de corps: that was what you’d cracked open to struggle your way through the words on paper… not that you haven’t just re-read the same initial lines time and time again until they’ve been committed to memory.

                                            >“Really? I’m glad— and you should be glad that you don’t have to go to these annoying meetings,” Sugar Tumbler pushes her words through a yawn, head swaying as she does. Her things have been set aside, and you catch a good look at her cutie mark while she tries to make herself comfortable on the bottom bunk. Your bunk.

                                            “Really? They’re annoying?” Though your tone is definitely curious, you can’t help but feel a little disingenuous in asking. You’re honestly interested in the meetings that leadership has to sit through— curious about the topics and discussions therein, and the ways decisions get made that trickle farther down from the overhead regulation shifts.

                                            >“Yup. In my case, it’s just a whole lot of the same-old crud— making sure that I’m readjusting well to the changes in regulations and that I’m not so… stiff-backed.”

                                            >Her words are accentuated with the sequential pops that follow a good stretch, before she finds herself laying on her side on your rack— blue eyes staring back at you.

                                            >There’s nothing between the two of you, but you’d be lying to say that you weren’t more than acquaintances. You’re a fresh enlist to the Royal Corps of the Moon, and Sugar Tumbler turned coat from the Royal Corps of the Sun just before she made grade as a Sergeant… which you’re still trying to rack your head about.

                                            “Are things really that different on the day shift?”

                                            >“Definitely— for starters, I haven’t been wasting hour after hour standing post outside of a tunnel into the palace or trotting between guard shifts for the same-old reports. They have me on with the supply staff until we mobilize, though.”

                                            >Sugar Tumbler’s lazy smile is impressively relaxed for someone who’s dealt with what sounds like the worst in strict tedium.

                                            “— jeez. Are they really thinking about shipping us out already?”

                                            >“Company command after, uh— ‘gentle negotiations’ on behalf of somepony higher decided that they’d let the lower leadership in on the general meeting: they’re thinking about sending us out to the fringes for a while. Field exercises, meet the local ponies… handle some— I dunno’, wildlife stuff?”

                                            >Easy come, easy go, huh? The Royal Corps of the Moon has been a reservist force since Princess Luna’s banishment at least a thousand years ago— it makes sense that your deployments aren’t exactly going to be high-risk forays like those of your Solar peers that’re getting shipped out to Stalliongrad for whatever recent conflict is brewing over there.

                                            “Wildlife stuff?” You echo after a moment’s consideration.

                                            >“There’s been some strays leaving the Deepfall Forests, apparently— that’s out north-east, by-the-way…”

                                            >Out north-east? If you remember your geography all that well – which isn’t great, personally, you’re better familiar with actually seeing the lay of the land from on high as you glide than you are figuring things out on a parchment map – then that means Hollow Shades is along the way.

                                            >Truth be told, you haven’t been— but some of your cousins live there, having left the networked cities of Esther on the cusp of the Badlands’ border generations ago. Others left for Zebrica, headed out to follow in the hoofsteps of some forgotten enclave or another—

                                            >You’re promptly robbed of your thoughts of bygone exposition by the wave of a book in your face in lieu of a hoof, the unicorn responsible just across the room from you while you perch on your stool.

                                            >“You were listening, right?”

                                            >Blink, blink.

                                            “Totally!”

                                            >Something grows behind her lazy smile, but Sugar Tumbler doesn’t carry on— instead, the unicorn waves a hoof and queries, “Sooo— weren’t you gonna’ ask me to help you with something earlier?”

                                            “— R— right, right! Right. I, uh, I was. As you know, I can’t really…”

                                            >You manage an act of dexterity, a wing unfurling from your side to pluck loose a quill from where it sits in an empty bottle on the desk. The curl of its third-finger is uncomfortable but brief as you wave the quill around, before it slips loose of your grasp and finds itself caught in glittering indigo instead.

                                            >“Keep a grip on something?” prods Sugar Tumbler, turning over the quill in the air as she brings it closer to herself for an inspection.

                                            >Your response is a little flatter spoken, eyes faintly narrowed.

                                            “… Write with ink. I can’t really hold a quill like I could a pencil, and writing a letter in pencil isss—”

                                            >“Not socially acceptable?”

                                            “Not when you actually care about the recipient,” you clarify, feeling yourself shrink briefly on the stool. Still, you find it in yourself to sit up a little more, resting your hooves between your legs.

                                            >“I’m sure I can play ghostwriter, or, uh— scribe for you, just for a bit… still not afternoon yet, anyways.”

                                            >You smile, and mull it over again— you wanted to write a letter to your inspiration, a neighbour of yours who had been an officer of the Royal Corps of the Moon just like yourself (or at least, you'd like to be an officer one day), to let them know how you were getting along. It’s a stark change, going from cornfields every harvest moon, even if you're just attached to the Night Guard for now.

                                            >A couple of generations of your family were actually somewhere in the ranks, with even one or two names showing up in the annals of history of the Order of Old Canterlot, but the one pony on your mind is…

                                            >“I’m ready whenever!” chimes Sugar Tumbler, waving a quill and parchment around as she levitates an ink bottle closer to herself.

                                            “Dear Princess Cele—”

                                            >Something tightens in your throat, and you flinch at the words that squeezed their way through it as your muzzle scrunches: that wasn't right! You clear your throat and try again—

                                            “… Dear Lieutenant Commander Penumbral Song…”


                                            >Come evening, ponies had yet to stir within the castle wing of the Royal Corps of the Moon— they served Equestria’s nights, and so daylight wasn’t their usual fare. Transfers such as Petty Officer Tumbler were  uncommon, but not unheard of: as a reserve force, they were much less strict on regulation at the lower levels than their Solar peers.

                                            >Anonymous was no pony. To quite the contrary, he was a man— or, rather, is a man. Many ponies considered him akin to a minotaur, if one was lithe and lean and without fur: an odd choice for a Princess’ royal advisor.

                                            >Then again, he was asleep until just one moment ago— before he heard that damned knocking on his door.

                                            >You’re doing it again. You’re self-narrating in your head like some sort of a crippling autist, Anon.

                                            >The night sky blooms in from the window as you turn over in your bed in order to push yourself up to take a seat, glancing around the austere room that you’ve been using for an office and quarters for the past several months.

                                            >A bed, a desk, some comfortable chairs— bookshelves upon bookshelves with nothing in them beyond one or two library books that’re probably overdue by now. The hat stand from which hangs your tie, scabbard belt and holsters…

                                            >You’ve been hard at work for the last several months, trying to pick up the pieces of Princess Luna’s Royal Corps and to help them find their footing again. Canterlot’s aristocracy and Princess Celestia’s council, over the years, slowly eroded their potential— left them little more than a night shift of the guard, a legendary knighthood and a bunch of mothballed reservists stuck on garrison duties.

                                            >It’s thanks to you that tides are changing, but it’s thanks to all of the gratuitous effort, paperwork and politicking that these bags are growing underneath your eyes. You pluck up your uniform blouse and start to shrug it on, lifting your voice just a little—

                                            “Come in!”

                                            >— just as the hoofbeats strike the door again, and their cause finally presses the door open. Standing a little ways shy of what you remember as Princess Luna’s height – about as high as your chest – is a lithesome pale mare with bat wings at her sides, covered from neck to haunches in darkly coloured, ornately filigreed plate armour. She steps in and bows her head politely as she does, dexterously reaching back to thump her hoof against the door— shutting it in one easy motion.

                                            >It’s a stark difference from the typical armour you’d see on the Night Guard, better befitting her status as a knight.

                                            >“I hope that I am not interrupting anything, Minister?”

                                            “I wish that you were, Lady Commander,” you smile wistfully as you make way for your desk, buttoning up your blouse as you go. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

                                            >Lady Knight-Commander Evening Star is the closest thing that you have to a peer in your position, in her own as the head seat of Princess Luna’s own council.

                                            >Her title as Lady Knight-Commander isn’t just for show, either— back in the days of the Lunar Uprising, Evening Star was one of Princess Luna’s trusted advisors – just as you are now – even after her fall to Nightmare Moon.

                                            >“Her Majesty will be pre-occupied with the dreams of the daywalkers, soon— but, she expressed concern that you weren’t present for the rising of Her moon. Thus, I am here.”

                                            >Her pale silver coat is accented with a graying mane that frames her face, and her eyes – a piercing blue – drift around the room as she makes way for the chairs before your desk, in order to occupy one.

                                            “I’ve… slept in a little late. It’s a wellness check, then?” You ask, head canting faintly as you stiffen a little in your seat.

                                            >She wriggles her way into one across from you, reaching a more conversation-friendly height of roughly face-to-face— she’s a tall mare compared to any little pony, but Princess Luna still stands a good head over her.

                                            >“A wellness check,” she echoes in agreement. “You look awful.”

                                            >Well, fuck. She calls it as she sees it, doesn’t she? It melts the tension out of your back, and you almost shrink into your seat. Just a little, as a treat.

                                            “… It’s… not that bad, is it?”

                                            >“Your eyes are sunken something fierce, Anonymous. How is work?”

                                            >She’s a particularly stoic mare, but after a few months, you can finally see a little bit of emotion through her stony features— the amused twinkle in her eyes.

                                            “It’s work,” you answer unhelpfully, before finding a clarification, “— but it’s a lot of it. Paperwork, for the most part, with all of the shifts in regulation and administrative edicts…”

                                            >“I am familiar. You have put in a lot of effort, of course… but… does somepony need to teach you how to delegate, Anonymous?”

                                            >Your brows furrow at the mare’s input.

                                            >“Delegation,” echoes Evening Star in evident presumption. “It is a rather important skill for a good leader, is it not?”

                                            “It— is, it is. I know how to delegate, it’s just…”

                                            >“It has slipped your mind, no? I cannot say that I blame you. You feel the need to be, eh… how would you say…?” Her piercing gaze has softened considerably as the conversation bounces back and forth, and her eyes trace from your face down to your now-folded hands as they rest on the desktop before you.

                                            “… hands-on.”

                                            >“… Yes, hands-on. It took me quite a while to… sit back and to allow my Knights their autonomy. I am sure that stress would have given me much worse than a gray mane had I not appointed my Captain,  and they their Lieutenants, and their Sergeants— and so forth.”

                                            >You garner the importance of what Evening Star is trying to convey, in her years of seniority— this mare is venerable. When the Order of Old Canterlot was founded in the wake of Princess Luna’s banishment, some of its core members were “blessed” by the Solar diarch – with extended lifespans, though to what extents are not exactly known – so that they may await their beloved Princess’ return.

                                            >Her venerable age is as good as any reason for why she speaks so formally, isn’t it? She’s from a time where it was thee’s and thou’s, and it’s frankly amazing that you haven’t been subjected to those by anyone else other than Princess Luna thus far.

                                            >You nod, finally, and notice something strange on her countenance— the slightest flash of her fangs in the pale moonlight. It’s almost intimidating, if you hadn’t realized why they were being shown— her lips are pursed thin in something of a meager attempt at a smile of reassurance.

                                            >“You are doing well, but your efficacy should not come at a cost to your health, Anonymous. What recent plans have you put into motion, if I may inquire?”

                                            >You reach for a drawer, tugging it open with a hand so that you can gather up a folder and bring it to the tabletop, to review its contents—

                                            “The Royal Corps of the Moon is undergoing some organizational changes – the Corps is of two divisions, which are themselves of regiments – wherein the first regiment’s worth of either division have been been broken up— a battalion of detachments, each.”

                                            >Evening Star tilts her head curiously, and you take that as a nudge to elaborate.

                                            “A battalion of detachments, mh— they’re detached companies, ones that can operate within the absence of an overarching command. It was a popular choice in my world under some well-known officers,” you start to explain, drawing on your well-read (mostly Wikipedia) knowledge. This was, candidly, a little bit of Sharpe mixed with a little bit of reading into Arthur Wellesley one night.

                                            “Often times, this would be done with companies from battalions that had left them behind, corralling multiple companies in the… same metaphorical boat to create battalions from several different host units.”

                                            >“But in this case, one may say that they are from the same cut of cloth, yes? How do you plan to handle what would have been their overarching command at the level of a battalion?”

                                            “These battalions of detachments will focus on specific regions— for instance, the… Princess’ Own Volunteers, headquartered in Amethyst Basin, will be deployed to the north.”

                                            >You wish that you had the foresight to bring out your map, but Evening Star hums along, contented with your explanation all the same.

                                            “The companies of the detached battalion will spread throughout the region as needed, but their leadership will establish a headquarters central.”

                                            >“And should a crisis necessitate it, the detached battalion may reform at a moment’s notice?”

                                            “Essentially.”

                                            >“I see. As an aside, has Argent Covenant brought your Corps the supplies that you requested?”

                                            “— She has. The Light Company has been busy with supply intake and re-establishing the armoury in this wing, so that it isn’t practically just—”

                                            >“A pile of pikes and swords?”

                                            >You smile, and nod in agreement.

                                            >“Should it please you, I may ask the Minister to visit and offer their aid?”

                                            “I’d like that, Lady Commander.”

                                            >The Minister of the Order of Old Canterlot is a civilian position, you recall – their steward and quartermaster, the one who oversees the Order’s chapter house and the fiefdom entitled to them – you’ve had yet to actually meet their incumbent. Maybe they were just as swamped with work as you’ve been?

                                            >“I will be sure to let them know— have you any questions for me, Anonymous?”

                                            >You pause just long enough to consider the offering at hand, and the talks of the night thus far (though short) have been all business and while Evening Star is a very stoic, business-minded pony with her position, she shows (well, evidently) a modicum of care for how others are doing.

                                            >So, rather than badgering her with question-after-question, you pose an innocent curiosity: a speed-ball, perhaps.

                                            “… Well, while you’re here— do you have any… light-hearted stories of the old days?”

                                            >A pale, tufted ear flicks curiously as you make your question known. Her silence is palpable and conveys her consideration well, and her thin-lipped smile grows a little more in the process.

                                            >“I am sure that I have something you may enjoy hearing.”


                                            >Closer to midnight, there’s finally a stirring in the barracks of the Lunar wing as ponies start to gather themselves for their duties— for the most part, this means gathering for “breakfast” first and foremost. This is something that Sugar Tumbler was looking forwards to, judging from how quickly she stumbles down from the top bunk of her rack.

                                            >‘Ass over tea-kettle’ was almost a reasonable description of how badly her stumbling worked out for her, leaving her flank in the air as she tries to pull herself together.

                                            >You’re only really stirring from all of the noise— the past few days since your graduation, you’ve been such a heavy sleeper that the Petty Officer was close to resorting to pots-and-pans at wake-up hours.

                                            >Well, Tumbler’s tumble was almost as loud as pots-and-pans. You stare at her like a deer in headlights as she lifts her head, trying to find her hooves again.

                                            >“Why… do you have the bottom bunk, again, exactly?”

                                            >She eyes the ladder that she has to struggle her way up on the daily just to catch some rest— an obstacle that you could just render moot with your wings to begin with.

                                            “… I… don’t know?”

                                            >You never really thought about it like that.

                                            >Then again, you were focused on studying the uplifting primer and waiting for some semblance of marching orders, too.

                                            >You stand from your bunk, reaching out to help Sugar Tumbler get back to her hooves— and for the first time in a while, pay some modicum of attention to her cutie mark.

                                            >It’s a cocktail shaker rimmed with what look like sugar crystals or fragmented peppermint – maybe both, even?

                                            >She offers up that lazy smile once she’s back to standing… mostly properly.

                                            “We, uh, could talk about swapping out later?”

                                            >“… Over breakfast with the section, maybe,” Sugar Tumbler prods at you with a hoof. “Your assignment’s so fresh that you haven’t met the others, have you?”

                                            >You blink, momentarily baffled by the question: surely you’ve met them? There’s Petty Officer Sugar Tumbler, and…

                                            >… and…

                                            >You cast a momentary look towards the book on the desk, but Sugar Tumbler’s laughter stirs you back to the present as she beckons you along— furling a hoof around your withers to usher you with herself.

                                            >You’d been assigned to the Petty Officer’s bunk on short notice, anyways, just as she arrived— it… makes sense as to why you don’t know everyone else in your section, right? But then why does she know them already?

                                            >The two of you traipse out into the hall, leaving your bunk behind. Just as your door shuts, another opens across the hall, and Sugar Tumbler’s lazy smile brightens up as another unicorn and an earth pony mare slip out into the hall.

                                            >The unicorn is taller than the lot of you by a little smidgen, powder blue coat accentuated with a silvery blue mane with mint green eyes – her cutie mark, though you don’t get a good glance at her flanks, is some sort of a deep blue hued orb with a flickering flame at its base – and a disinterested stare.

                                            >The earth pony is actually smaller than you to a surprising degree, her coat a golden shade with a white mane and tail and grassy-green eyes. If she weren’t so broad and her flanks weren’t already adorned with the mark of a shovel and broken soil, maybe you’d have mistaken her for a filly?

                                            >“Enlists! Good to see you’re awake— c’mon, sooner we get to the chow hall is the sooner that there’s still left-over mango juice… wait, where’s the third one?”

                                            >Three of them, two of you— that makes… five to a section? You think?

                                            >A thinly-built bat pony catches your attention as she emerges from between the pair, with a cream-coloured coat and golden mane. Her eyes are squeezed shut, to which your brows furrow— are they super-sensitive, or is she just tired? She stands close to your height.

                                            >“Alright, there we are—! Come on, trot-to…!” barks Sugar Tumbler, some confident authority eking into her tone as she unfurls from around you in order to take the lead.

                                            >“Hey, what’s your name?” asks the earth pony as you fall into line— “I’m Pally!”

                                            >She says it like ‘Polly’, and for a brief second you can’t be sure whether or not it’s an accent. All the same, you smile and respond in kind.

                                            “Sanguine Moon. Youuu’re, uh— an enlist too, right?”

                                            >“Sure-as! I graduated a few months back, and they’ve had me working on… lessons.”

                                            >“I’m… a pretty good digger, so they have me working on, uhm— helping enforce good routine with prolonged digging, and fortification lessons. Liiike— trenchwork, in its military and civilian applications.”

                                            >Civilian and military applications? The closest you’ve ever gotten to digging a trench, yourself, is sowing a field or when your family taught you how to make a primitive aqueduct, but that was always a lot of work. River taps, drop shafts, tunnels and bridges…

                                            >It would’ve saved a lot of time and have been a lot easier to get some help with redirecting rain clouds every day, but that kind of weather was scarce around the Badlands— at least you weren’t one for dwelling so far underground that you couldn’t see the moonlight, right?

                                            >“— and I’m nothing special,” adds the powder-blue unicorn. “Cobalt Stain.”

                                            >That’s… an odd name— and she seems keen to leave your mind to race as you consider what very last facet of her being could mean, starting with her name and the pondering of her orb.

                                            >But then, Pally reaches out to nudge away your attention with an extended hoof.

                                            >“Whaaat ‘bout you? A name like Sanguine Moon is kinda’… Omi-nous.”

                                            >Is it really so ominous? You crane your neck for a split second, glancing back to the harvest moon that adorns your flanks— but the smell of the chow hall reaches you before your train of thought can reach the station.

                                            >Fruits, maybe some sorts of cakes and grains…

                                            >Sure enough, food’s close to being the only thing that you can think of— and with a pep in your step, you trot onwards at a measured speed that overtakes Sugar Tumbler soon enough.

                                            >Pally calls out, “He— hey, wait, don’t dodge the question!”

                                            >“You’re not getting all of the mango juice just because you broke rank, Enlist!”

                                            >You’ll see about that.

                                            >Soon enough, you find yourself seated beside Cobalt while staring across the table at Sugar Tumbler. Pally sits beside her, and on the other side of Cobalt is your fellow bat.

                                            >Yet, there’s only one thing on your mind as the Petty Officer stares you down, seated in front of her own cup of pomegranate juice…

                                            >Siiiiiiiiip.

                                            >Your lips curl around the straw, and you draw your healthy fill of the last cup’s worth of mango juice in the chow hall, your declaration of breakfast warfare for no doubt decades to come.

                                            >Cobalt busies themselves with a berry-clustered pancake, yet Pally continues to stare you down even as she munches into a hashbrown.

                                            >“… Sssoooo… ominous, right?” Pally echoes herself from earlier— but what’s ominous? Mango juice?

                                            >… wait, no.

                                            “Ri— right, right. I was a farmer! But, uh, my usual fare was mostly… well, sweet corn. Did you know that corn is actually a fruit?”

                                            >Botanically speaking, at least!

                                            >“Wait, so does that make you more of a… fruit bat?”

                                            >You go to lean down for a slice of pear, pausing in your indirect attempt to confirm the status quo.

                                            “I… mean, it’s— I guess so? Kind of?”

                                            >You retreat with your chosen slice, head tilting in thought. It’s kind of like how a strawberry isn’t actually a berry, isn’t it?

                                            “— I dunno’, actually, but you’ve got me thinking about corn again— did you know that it’s actually an important part of stuff like ciders?”

                                            >… As it turns out, breakfast speeds on by when you have a chipper bat pony rambling about corn and all of its uses— you can make ciders with corn sugar, or you can make potato-and-corn chowder, casseroles, salsas, baked goods like biscuits, bread and crackers…

                                            >Your guess your interests are a little corny?