Reference Maps
Equestria: https://derpicdn.net/img/view/2017/10/6/1553160.png
Ponyville: https://cdn.twibooru.org/img/2020/7/12/247566/full.png

---

Part I: Ponyville 

1
>Your story begins on the banks of the River Ponyville.
>Its roots trace far earlier than that, to be sure, but in the years to come, none would ever dare to claim it began anywhere other than where your feet lay firmly planted now.
>The soft mud sinking beneath your weight, you raise your binoculars and peer out at the edge of the town.
>Straw roofs of the residents' homes poke out from behind the towering wall of fortifications.
>Though "fortifications" would be putting it kindly — it was scarcely more than a loose conglomerate of cobblestones, reclaimed wood, and sheet metal.
>You smile at the thought of the villagers laying out kindling for you to raze.
>Yet despite the ramshackle appearance, the wall was still a more sizeable defense than you'd anticipated.
>It seems the town came together swiftly to prepare for your arrival, going so far as to break down their wagons and market stalls to forge the ramparts, symbolically sacrificing their livelihoods in defense of their homeland.
>The entire southwest border of the city is fully blockaded.
>To your east is the Everfree forest, marked by treacherous and flat-out impassable terrain.
>To the west are rolling hills, which, though easily navigable on foot, leave you alarmingly visible and vulnerable to a pincer movement from both Ponyville and Cloudsdale.
>No. The road to Canterlot lies through Ponyville.
>Just in front of the blockade, their militia had set up camp.
>A large central campfire blazed, surrounded by tents, casting light on their troops in the otherwise dark of night.
>The ponies wore plain cloaks, presumably to conceal their figures and the true extent of their numbers, but their faces were just barely visible through the lenses of your binoculars.
>One face in particular.   
"Hmmm."
>A voice, silent up till now, speaks up at your side.   
>"What is it, sir?"
>You watch the figure direct troops with lofty authority, directing the efforts to forge makeshift weapons and bolster defenses.
"Their commander."
>"It's not the Princess, is it?"
"No. She's holed up in the castle, no doubt."
>"Sir."
>You finally lower your binoculars and look down at your valet, his yellow coat and bright orange mane glimmering in the starlight.
>"I don't mean to question you..." he begins uneasily.
"Speak your mind."
>"I can tell when something's wrong."
"And why do you say that?"
>"The fact that we're standing here. The legates warned you to send out scouts, but you chose to go yourself?"
>You crouch down on the riverbank and stare out at the city pensively.
"I can't trust scouts with this job."
>"You had no problem trusting them in Appleloosa."
"I trust you, Tax, which is why I'll say this. This is more than a crusade for me. It's a vendetta."
>He frowns. "I don't understand."
>Rising back your feet, you ascend up the bank, minding your footing on the rocks and slippery mud.
"That commander. We have a history, she and I, and I've waited thirteen years for this moment."
>Tax follows you without another word.
>You return to the castrum, the encampment which will be your legionaries' home for the foreseeable future.
>You observe each contubernium, a squad comprising ten legionaries and two laborers, pitching their tent as you make your way through.
>You pulled from the Roman model in structuring your army; it made the most sense for Equestria's stage in civilization.
>Eight contubernia formed a century, led by a centurion officer. Six centuries made up a cohort, headed by the most senior centurion.
>The legion, your largest divisible formation, had ten cohorts and was commanded by a legate, the highest rank you could honor a soldier with.
>Your centurions were battle-hardened, stately creatures. The standard legionary, on the other hand...
>Though you've never said it aloud, they're an ugly lot. Anthropomorphized beasts of every animal imaginable. Fish, rat, pig, lizard, bird, zebra — every race under the Equestrian sun, save for pony. Tax stands unique in that regard.
>Detestable as they are, they understand fealty. Each one kneels as you pass, venerating the ground upon which you walk.
>Tax trots close behind, as if anxious to stray too far from your sphere of influence.
>You don't blame him, being what he is. Your troops are prejudiced.
>After all, you're the one who instilled it in them.
>You reach the imperial tent, your mobile base of operations, just as the final stake is driven into the ground.
>The tent is split into two sections. The war room, where your business is conducted, sits towards the front. A curtain door leads to your private chambers in the back.
>A praetorian pulls the flap aside for you, and you duck your head to enter. Your legate Harald stands, arms crossed, beside the war table.
>Whereas your legionaries were beasts in the derogatory sense, with Harald, you mean it as a term of deep respect.
>A meager chieftain when you found him, his race was in disarray after the deposition of their king. They were little more than an assortment of tribes in what used to be the Storm King's Realm.
>It was only when your army of Klugetowners, just a thousand strong at the time, sailed over and extended an offer that he found his true purpose. With your aid, he brutalized the rival chieftains and unified the storm creatures for the first time in years.
>In a show of allegiance to you, he cast aside his former name and accepted the title of Legatus Harald.
>Being nine feet tall and hairier than a gorilla, you named him after the viking Harald, once-conqueror of Scandinavia.
>He wasn't your most skilled legate, but he was by far the most fearsome, and for that reason you enjoyed having him around. He enhanced your image in ways no other could.
>Approaching the table, you lay your palms upon the massive, intricately-carved topographical map of Equestria. The table was jointly sculpted by a master craftsman and a cartographer, from a single massive sequoia that your troops cut down while harvesting timber for the war effort in the Pine Needle Barrens.
>Harald raises a fist to his behemoth chest in acknowledgment of your arrival.
"Have we taken inventory?"
>"Runners are tallying up the counts now," he booms. "The ponies carted off what they could, but we took Appleloosa quickly. It wasn't much."
"And the fire?"
>"Swallowed most of the West Orchard. Extinguished now, but we got here too late to save any more than half."
>You dig your nails into the table. That they would rather burn their ancestral trees to the ground than see the fruits of their labor fall into your hands is not the sort of pragmatic behavior you expected from ponies.
>They're prouder than that. It's a weakness you were keen on exploiting.
>You know instantly that this was her doing. The Princess would never go for it. The commander, on the other hand... this cold, calculated move has her name written all over it.
>"Permission to enter," a voice squeaks from outside. "I have the final count."
"Granted," you announce, not taking your eyes off the table.
>A small storm creature enters the tent and scampers up to Harald, handing him a piece of paper before seeing himself out.
>Harald raises the parchment to his face and squints.
"What's the tally?"
>"3,600 bushels. Roughly."
>Tax scribbles some quick arithmetic into his notebook. "With proper rationing, it's enough to last us..."
>He pauses.
>"Fifteen days."
>You slam your fist on the table. Sweet Apple Acres was meant to feed your troops comfortably for over a month. You timed the attack perfectly to coincide with harvest season.
>Now, because of the ponies' bull-headedness, your lifeline's been severed. You'll need to create a new one if you want to have any hopes of pressing on.
"Get me Zenobia."
>Tax hurries out of the tent just as another legate enters.
>Ramses approaches you, clad in his trademark breastplate, plastered with pages torn from old Earth paperbacks.
>You never, not for a moment, saw the minotaur without his armor. In his mind, it made him a better tactician.
>Seemingly, it worked. Never have you met a more brilliant military strategist. As far as you were concerned, he could wear a clown suit all day long, so long as he kept steering your centurions right.
>Ramses bows his head in respect upon reaching your side. "What did you see?"
>It was against his advice that you personally scouted out Ponyville's defenses.
"They've blockaded the city and blown two of the footbridges..."
>Taking your knife to the table, you carve out the two smaller rectangles along the Ponyville River.
"...leaving a single choke point on the main bridge where they've deployed a regiment."
>"Did you probe for weaknesses in the fortifications?"
"Too dark to tell. Send out the scouts and have them report back after dawn."
>"We secured the farmhouse. No one—"
"Burn it," you interrupt him.
>Ramses frowns. "Pardon?"
>You point the tip of your knife at the tiny model of Sweet Apple Acres.
"Burn this farmhouse. Raze this barn. Bury the ashes. Let there be no indication there was ever a home on this accursed plot of land to begin with."
>"Sir..." Harald protests.
>He, himself, was a brute, but even he recognized needless violence. The pre-existing structures would serve good use to the castrum.
>You didn't care.
"Do it. I'd burn the trees, too, just to send a message, if we didn't need them in the coming months."
>Tax returns with your third legate.
>Of the three, Zenobia is your least favored. Like most felines, she thinks too highly of herself, and you suspect her oath to you was born mostly of personal convenience.
>But her cunning far exceeds your own, and you're not one to put pride above recognition of skill. War is won just as much by words as it is by swords, and she has a way with both.
>As she saunters in, you waste no time issuing orders.
"Send a message to Klugetown. Get the governor to expedite the fall harvest. I want the entire first yield on a convoy here within a week."
>She inspects her claws nonchalantly. "Capper's not gonna go for that."
"I appointed him specifically to heed my will. You can tell him if he wants to start thinking for himself, he can go back to peddling street grifts. Practically every male citizen he represents is in my legion, and it's his job to keep them fed."
>Her lip curls. "What do you mean 'I' can tell him? Send a messenger."
"A messenger can't enforce orders, and Capper won't follow through unless we make him. Ponyville plans to win this siege by starving us out."
>"This is absurd!" she yells. "You're sending a Legate to play envoy?"
"I am. Because on your journey back, you're stationing at Appleloosa."
>"Absolutely not."
"You will. Ponyville is trying to buy themselves time to mobilize the rest of Equestria, and I will not lose our first major foothold in the region to a counterattack. It's too important to leave in the hands of centurions. I need a Legate holding the city. Take a cohort with you and be gone."
>Knowing it a pointless endeavor to resist further, she turns and leaves the tent, her tail flicking out from beneath her coat as if to express her disdain for your unilateral decision.
>"The game has changed now," Ramses says.
>Harald taps at the bridge you etched away. "I knew this was coming. If we split off from Appleloosa like I suggested, my legion could've circled around the Everfree and cut off the city entirely."
>"No, we did the right thing. It would have taken you east through Dodge Junction—"
>"A village of less than a hundred, no bigger than Appleloosa."
>"Numbers are not the issue. It brings you too near the coast. If Baltimare and Fillydelphia had moved to intercept, you would've been decimated."
>"Baltimare and Fillydelphia have no standing armies!" Harald bellows. "The whole strategy relied on moving too fast to give them time to assemble. Now we're sitting ducks."
>You stare down at the table while your legates argue over tactics. They were both right, in their respective ways. The commander of Ponyville's response simply caught you off guard.
>You underestimated her. You didn't expect her to roll over and take it, but nor did you think her capable of mobilizing troops, fortifying the city, strangling your entry into the city, and ravaging your bounty — all in the span of a day's march from Appleloosa.
>But now every second spent recouping your losses is a second gained for her to raise an army, something it took you years to accomplish.
"It's time for Plan B."
>You were hoping it wouldn't come to this, but she's left you no choice.
>As both your legates fall silent, you turn your gaze to the vast region to the southeast.
"Let's make some allies."

>After a long deliberation with Harald and Ramses, you exit the imperial tent to check on the status of the castrum.
>The surviving orchard provides excellent cover, but makes navigating between tents rather difficult.
>Yet this is the price you must pay if you seek to conceal your numbers. They will undoubtedly send out pegasi scouts tonight, if they haven't already.
>A tall, thick plume of black smoke extends upward, blocking out the stars of night.
>As you make your way to it, you feel the intense light and heat of the fire impress upon your skin.
>What poor family that once made this site their home will have it no more.
>Watching the farmhouse buckle and collapse as its charred beams give out, you walk over to a pair of creatures also observing the scene.
>Kyra, a zebra, serves as your quartermaster. She's respectful toward you, and knows her place. In another life, she was quite skilled at smithing. You had no issue entrusting her with your munitions.
>Your ancillary, Laurel Leaves, however, is another story. She's a rogue Kirin who travelled to the mainland as a young girl, wanting to see the world. She has lofty aspirations, but lacks the mettle to achieve them. There's no place for a lady like that in your army.
>She and you go further back than almost anyone else in your legion. You met back in your civilian life in Klugetown. She was the only Kirin; you were the only human. From that isolation, an ironic kinship was born.
>You're not sure why you ultimately decided to keep her around. Maybe she represents what ponies ought to be. Maybe it's something less profound than that.
>Whatever the case may be, she makes a decent ancillary. Combat may not be her forte, but logistics are just as important, and she's proven capable thus far.
>The only thing that ever gave you pause was her penchant for snark.
>The two of them bow their heads as you come up.
"I want you two to oversee the construction of an arsenal and depot here after the debris is cleared."
>"Oh?" Kyra indicates. "We have the wagons cordoned off."
"It's looking like the castrum is going to be more than temporary."
>Laurel smirks. "Told you."
"You weren't the only one," you reply dismissively. "We all knew this was a possibility. Until we can take Ponyville to establish a fortress, we'll need to raise structures here. Starting with the arsenal."
>Kyra wears an unsteady expression. "We'll need materials, sir. We might be able to reclaim some from the fire, but—"
"No wood. All stone."
>You're not taking the chance. If you're putting all your eggs in one basket, it at least ought to be built from sturdier stuff than wicker.
>"We passed a quarry on the road here," Laurel says. "Two, three miles back."
"Use the legionaries. Laborers will be busy with their support duties. The centurions can rotate their troops between labor and drills."
>You look about the orchard, the stench of soot filling your nostrils. Most trees in this section have been torched beyond saving. With the leaves burnt up, they'll hardly provide any aerial cover.
"And have them get started on clear-cutting these snags."
>Laurel kicks her rear hoof at the dead tree behind her, cracking the brittle bark. "They're no good for timber."
"It's eating away at our footprint. The contubernia are pitching tents haphazardly wherever they can squeeze in. The blueprint is there to keep us organized. I want them following it."
>As she nods affirmatively, you turn your attention to Kyra.
"Go unload the stockpile. I want the arsenal operational by dusk tomorrow."
>She bows once more and trots off to do your bidding.
"Walk with me," you command Laurel.
>She follows after you as you return to the imperial tent.
"Plans are changing. The legates and I each have a role to play in the coming days. We can't be bogged down with upkeep."
>"That's why you have me," she beams, self-assuredly.
"It means I'm entrusting you with more responsibility than originally planned. You'll have run of the castrum while we're gone."
>She stops in her tracks, her coy demeanor evaporating. "What? What if we're attacked?"
"Harald will be nearby, but he'll be occupied with something far more important than overseeing the troops."
>You open the flap to your tent, motioning for her to enter. After a brief pause, she obliges.
>"What scheme are you cooking up?" she asks.
"You're on a need-to-know basis. I'm already reluctant to give you this much authority so soon, but we're stretched thin."
>You look over at Tax, standing by to assist you.
"Parchment and the stamp."
>He fetches both items for you.
>Taking out a quill, you dip it in an ink vial begin scrawling at your desk.
"You'll be conferred the title of 'Praefectus Castrorum'."
>She raises an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to know what that means?"
>You internally wince at the disdain she shows for the honor you're bestowing her. Any one of your officers would kill for an opportunity like this.
>She's a typical civilian.
"It means I'm giving you de facto command over the centurions for all non-militant operations."
>She stares at the page, watching in disbelief as you scribble away. "That would put me at the same level as the legates."
"'Non-militant' being the operating word. The slightest skirmish breaks out, and all your authority is deferred to Harald."
>You tenderly pour a circle of wax upon the bottom of the page, then slam down the imperial stamp upon it.
>With that, you offer it up to Laurel, who only smiles.
>"You trust me."
"I trust you as far as I can throw you. Establishing the arsenal is essential to holding this position."
>"You asked me to serve under you," she asserts. "Everyone else in Klugetown was clamoring to organize beneath you, but I was the only one you had to ask to join the campaign."
>That's not remotely true. You had to work far harder to earn Ramses' respect than he had to earn yours.
>But you better than to contend with her. The two of you will be at it all night. It's happened before.
>Gesturing toward the parchment, you offer it once more.
>Her horn glows as she levitates it out from your grasp, wearing a sly grin. "You know I'd do anything for you."
>What she lacks in decorum, she makes up for in ability. Much as you hate to admit it, she's capable of things your centurions aren't.
>Besides, with this new development, you need each unit battle-ready.
"Prove yourself worthy of the title Ancilla, then."
>She folds the parchment delicately and places it in her satchel. "Of course, my liege."
>Before you have time to react, she brings her lips to your hand and gives it a peck.
>She gives you one final glance before turning and exiting the tent.
>There's a fine line between cheeky and serious, and that Kirin plays jump-rope with it.

>It's a restless night. You can't well sleep, knowing what lies on the other side of that river. The fate that awaits you.
>Just before dawn, Tax bursts into your tent without warning — the only non-legate privileged to do so.
>"Sir, you're going to want to see this!"
>In less than a minute, you're leaving your tent, whispered commotion from the troops surrounding you as you pursue Tax, darting and weaving through the mob.
>The crowd parts as you walk up to a small object on the ground. Kneeling down, you inspect it.
>An arrow, plunged into the earth, a scrap of parchment tied to it with a ribbon.
>Ramses pushes through to join your side, speaking up. "We have a wide perimeter, sir, there's no way an archer could have breached it."
>Noting the steep entry angle of the projectile, you glance up at the sky above.
"You're right about that."
>As you reach to undo the ribbon, several voices warn you against it.
>"It could be poisoned," Kyra warns.
>Harald squints. "Or cursed."
>You ignore their warnings, knowing the ponies to be above such petty tactics.
>Unrolling the parchment, you hold it up to the light of the torch, reading off three simple lines:
>Parley.
>One hour.
>T.S.