https://boards.4chan.org/mlp/thread/41182690#p41239502

>Another night with the lads
>Well over a thousand stallions, placed under your command
>Most of them may live to see tomorrow's moon
>Maybe
>Among the revelry and jovial mischief, you elegantly climb onto the top of a wagon
>"Elegantly" is the operative word
>Their blackberry liquor has been known to stir spirits and exponentially bolster one's bravery
>You feel it righteously invade your system
>Enough to know what you're saying
>Enough to not care for the fallout
>Only when you ascend to what could be a crippling height do you plant your boots on a wrapped up banner and what feels like a half coil of rope
"MINIONS!"
>Your immense bellow causes most of the lads to shift their attention to you
"As you all know, tomorrow is bound to be glorious!"
>A number of stallions speak up
"Horrific!"
>More raise their voices
"A fucking massacre for all of those ruinous insects!"
>Half the camp roars out to match your vigor
>The other half may not be sober enough to tell this is your rousing last minute speech
"Our Princess, fairest of the night and our very own sweet release-"
>More raucous cheer and a few chuckles
"Have tasked us, this blasphemed rabble, without eliminating every bug from that little mound of shit!"
>You catch yourself at the last second
"With! They shall be... without their lives!"
>Given your own level of intoxication matching at least a third of the battalion, no one seems to care about the mis-step
"We are to wait until the rising sun. For our dearest lady's sister to guide us."
>You lean forward, nearly drooling from the alcohol and uninhibited urge to rip a living creature in half
"Now then... who wants to wait for some accursed morning star?"
>While the grand majority of stallions come from Princess Luna's realm, many are devout and joyous at the sun's ascension
>Most of the cheering you see, even from the Celestial soldiers, shows you that you aren't the only one with an itch
"Who wants to brandish arms, and rip out the beating heart of that villainous hive of love-struck whores?!"
>The feedback is beyond deafening
>If the changelings aren't high alert, they certainly are now
>The largely nocturnal Luna worshipping lads have always excelled at surprise raids and strikes
>Not excellent enough to not have casualties
>Each one has been replaced
>Each name has been burned into your skull
>Whether it's the overindulgence of alcohol, or the amount of furious spite, you feel something lurch up the back of your throat
>You manage to hold it in for now
"We're here. They're there. They've taken the form of our cherished, our beloved, and our friends."
>That rising bile isn't just bile
>It's hatred
>Sheer hatred
>You've killed your own friends and relatives so much you don't think you could even behold their true corporeal forms without flying into a frenzy

"They think!"
>Your voice could only quiver a fraction of your balled fists
"They think that will stop us! That we will falter! That we are sensible, passionate simpletons!"
>Some may call you stinking, blind drunk
>You may stink but it is rage that blinds you
"They think wrong! Every possible figure that has not stood before you this last month, and those who do not share our revelry and plain murderous glee, cut down!"
>The entire camp erupts
"C U T T H E M A L L D O W N"
>Without any further ceremony or care for preparation, within minutes the entire camp is destroyed through the sheer chaos of mobilization
>Your steed, Hollow Star, sees you to your saddle with your lance and trident
>An insistence on arms, as both fit for horseback combat and one makes it easy for even a blithering drunkard to utilize
>With inhuman, borderline demonic screams for vengeance and sheer hatred for other living creatures
>With moonlit dark fire and bright, omniscient blood
>You and your battalion crash into the hive
>Many take the forms of famous figures
>Mares of all kinds that beg for mercy
>Or foals that claim to need rescue
>Or even the Princesses who demand your hand and hooves
>All of them are shredded past the point of recognition
>From all that you care to gather, they change into black-shelled spawn once life leaves them
>Not all change back
>You've taught your legion well that some still cling to life, even if quartered
>Within hours you have led a horde of demons into what may as well be another layer of Hell
>The hive itself is lit aflame, providing enough vision to make anyone believe that the sun itself had crashed into the land
>You lackadaisically stroll through what isn't even a battlefield anymore
>A book smart mare asking you for help, skewered through the ribs
>A humanoid relative begging you to stop, head twisted off through the trident and pitched into the field of madness
>A copy of yourself, demanding you stop and take in the incomprehensible chaos that you have wrought under the command of a flawless being
>Stabbed and wrenched into a puddle that may yet turn into a collection of exoskeleton
>Only by the time the true sun rises is the deed done
>Casualties have rated maybe five, ten percent
>Most of which are the Celestian Guardsmares and stallions that faltered at the prospect of dispatching relatives
>Or
>Perhaps
>Were not familiar enough with your own that they were seen as enemies
>During the whirlwind of disgusting, wasteful expenditure of life you hardly bother to pay attention
>"We've set the hive's deepest nurseries to flame, commander."
>One of your most resilient stallions--whatever his name is--presents the information with a stoic expression
>The fatigue causes your body to twitch from strain and stress
>The murderous intent you had was professionally ejaculated onto the rather defensive opposition

"Good... those tan bags--charges."
>"Went off an hour ago. Unless they are able to burrow enough to escape the heat, they are no longer an issue for the Princess."
>That information brings such a solemn, borderline comforting breeze over your battered body
>Despite the punctures and blood loss, Equestrian unicorn magic has allowed you to last well beyond your natural expiration date
"Excellent... excellent."
>From where you are now, you can only hear cackling and the slow, gradual reclamation of good will and wit
>Many of the freshest transplants incur further casualties after the first exposure to doppelgangers and love starved bugs
>You can't blame them for such weakness
>It is what keeps them...
>Them
"It seems I have lost my wine."
>"And your arm, commander."
"Yes yes, minor details."
>Equestrian unicorn magic is magical indeed
"Bring at least the more entertaining one to me. As for the rest."
>You lift your only remaining arm, caked in blood and broken as it may be
>You don't feel it so that means it isn't a problem
"We return to camp within the hour. Once we rest and recover, we clean up and leave this mole hill a crater."
>"As you wish, commander."
>The stallion bows before turning away
>If you were quicker of wit, you may care about the green glimmer in the stallion's eye
>All the same, your work is done for now
>Maybe soon, you will be able to put this behind you
>Surely you will be able to move on and do as you've always wanted
>A peaceful little subsistence farm, with no concerns or stressors
>Surely you are not truly a half-destroyed monster that has become an avatar of bloodlust
>Surely