Freebie Mondays: My Little Domerin – Episode 7: Act 1

I promised my twitch chat I would take Domerin, the grumpy elf main character from the Aruvalia Chronicles, and turn him into a pony if they helped me pay for my replacement computer. I never thought we’d reach that goal – but of course we did. Because my twitch chat continues to be the most generous community out there.

For more details on the project, check the intro. (There are pictures of my characters converted into ponies there as well.)

This story is meant to take place in the same world as “My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic,” though it’s unlikely any of the characters from the show will appear in the story. I have attempted to adopt the style of storytelling used by the show (including an episodic format and a ‘season’ instead of chapters in a novel). And some of the ponies that appear were created by donators from my chat. VoDs of the writing sessions are available on my youtube channel!

I hope you enjoy this crazy, silly little romp!
. . .

Domerin’s only thought when he passed through the portal was: I shouldn’t do this. The last time he traveled through time, he’d messed things up so spectacularly, he still wasn’t sure it could be fixed.

But he had been the one who spent their rest interval digging through every book in the queen’s personal library, scouring the indexes and firsthand accounts of Aruvalia’s ancient history for clues that might help him handle the situation the next time it arose.

It was impossible to be ready for a journey like this. But he was as prepared as he could be, and he had to take comfort from that – he didn’t have anything else to hold onto.

The good thing about arriving twenty-four hours before their first attempt to handle this situation was that they beat the storm that would soon lash the mountains. While the sky was grey and heavy with cloud cover, the day they presided over was merely dreary, which allowed Domerin and Crescent to descend the mountain slope in half the time.

Domerin was vaguely disturbed by the fact that the mountain path now felt familiar. But he supposed he had walked this way only two days before, so it made sense the path would stick in his mind.

There were hoofprints cleaved into the hard-packed earth now that there was no rain to wash them away. And when the captain of the Royal Guard banished his fear that they belonged to him and his partner – an impossibility since they had not yet passed this way – he realized they must belong to the locals. Probably to the guard patrols Ryland had mentioned being absent when Domerin reported the imminent approach of the warband.

Some of those guards were waiting at the gate this time when Domerin and Crescent arrived at the entry to the small mountain village nestled in the wild valley about to be pummeled by the incoming storm. For a moment, butterflies danced in Domerin’s stomach as he realized he had no paperwork or official information he could offer to explain his or his partner’s presence in this out of the way territory. But to his great relief, they were asked few questions.

Erring on the side of abundant caution, Domerin identified them as scouts seeking shelter from what appeared to be an oncoming storm. And when he was able to correctly identify one of the local factions – thanks to his studies – they were permitted to pass without being asked for any form of identification.

It had been a simple matter to rent a room in the inn above where they originally met Ryland and wait.

Or at least, it would have been a simple matter if Domerin was any good at waiting.

With a curt swipe of one hoof, Domerin pushed aside the curtains veiling the small space he shared with Crescent. Then he glared into the gloom that lurked beyond the thin window.

It should have been just about noon, but the sky was so choked by storm clouds, it felt as though it was the hour just before dawn. The rays of sunlight that penetrated the gloom were thin and too widely distributed to offer much in the way of illumination. And as Domerin watched, the first fat, heavy raindrops of the storm spattered against the window panes.

“It’s nice to not be out in it this time,” Crescent murmured, drawing Domerin’s attention to the bed where his partner lounged.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Domerin grumbled as he abandoned the window – leaving the curtain open this time – and resumed his pacing. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to have to slip out into that storm at some point.”

Crescent scrunched his nose and stuck out his tongue to express his displeasure at that suggestion. “I thought the whole point was to avoid alerting anyone to the fact that a war was about to start.”

Because they had to let the war start. Everyone agreed that, without the struggle, Aruvalia would never exist otherwise.

“We can’t interfere directly with the course of history,” Domerin agreed. “But this is also the time period where the machine originally sent us. If we hadn’t preempted our arrival – or whatever – we’d be out there right now tromping through the gloom. That must mean that whatever pivotal event sets us on the course for disaster in the future starts very soon. And when it does, we need to be near it.”

Domerin did not want to tromp back and forth through the time portal using trial and error to set things right. Especially since it seemed they would have to return farther and farther away from their critical moment every time they made another trip.

In order to minimize their chance to cause damage they had to move swiftly, hopefully through the day’s ample shadows, and discover the truth about this sordid tangle.

Crescent sighed and slumped on the bed with his forelegs stretched in front of him and his hind legs hanging off the edge of the bed. It was clear the last thing he wanted was to don a cloak and trudge into the storm building to a crescendo outside their window. But he only lay in his flattened state for a moment before he pushed up and reached for his cloak in order to do exactly that.

“Do you have any idea where we need to go?” he demanded as he wound the thick fabric about his shoulders and fastened the hook. They had both taken the time to acquire water-proof cloaks this time, so they should hold up against the weather a little better.

“West,” Domerin replied. “And north, in the direction we walked down from. My understanding is that the warband is going to come through that same pass and strike at the village. Ryland’s troops will defend it, but not without difficulty.”

Domerin’s understanding of events as they were supposed to play out was that the difficulty in securing the city against threat would cause the knightly pony to summon help from all the nearby settlements, and their decision to offer aid would be the first step in the pact that ultimately formed Aruvalia’s core.

“So what do you want to do?” Crescent pressed. “Watch the battle happen from afar?”

Domerin’s ears twitched at the idea, and he gritted his teeth. It would be incredibly difficult not to turn the tide of battle if he watched every historical event throughout this war unfold.

But luckily, that wasn’t his plan.

“No, I think we need to look around the fringes of the first confrontation for some kind of disaster that could be prevented. The conflict about to take place has been building for years. The only way to stop it would be the advanced warning we inadvertently gave this town’s guardian the last time we tried this. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t some small thing that blows up later. And I think that’s what we need to find.”

“So wade into the world’s worst storm,” Crescent recited and glanced over Domerin’s shoulder at the rain pelting the window to drive home how unpleasant that was going to be. “Skirt the edge of the burgeoning war and look for something so small no one ever thought to mention it in their recounting of history. That’s the plan?”

“Yes,” Domerin confirmed grimly, though he was no more thrilled about it than Crescent. “Though there’s one more detail you forgot about,” he added as he grabbed his own cloak and tossed it hastily about his shoulders.

“Which is?” Crescent demanded.

Domerin shot him a sharp look. “If at all possible, we should try not to let anyone see us.”

“Oh, so this whole thing is only slightly more impossible than it was two minutes ago,” Crescent muttered as he swept forward and out the door.

*   *   *

There was nothing Crescent hated more than feeling soggy. It wasn’t so bad when he emerged from a bath laden with the weight of water, because that experience was refreshing and it was easy to towel dry. In the storm, beneath the lash of the wind and the constant pounding of sheets of rain, all trace of the inn’s comforts vanished.

Crescent curled his neck forward as much as he could and tucked his chin to his chest. But he had to keep his eyes on their surroundings.

With the thunder cracking like a highway crash and the rain bouncing off the rocks, his ears were almost useless. He couldn’t have heard shouts or screams if he wanted to. And Domerin had found no sign of tracks in the mud. The recent passage of any ponies had been erased by the ferocity of the storm.

But they were close to where they entered this timeline the first time. Crescent recognized the tree under which they had sought shelter during their initial descent. And as he glanced at it, contemplating whether they might find a brief respite beneath its limbs again, he noticed the stirring of some bushes a little way farther up the path.

Instantly, Crescent nudged Domerin’s shoulder and pointed his muzzle in the direction of the movement.

Domerin spun, crouched and side-stepped with Crescent until they were huddled in the shadow of the tree’s limbs – though they were high enough off the ground they offered no real concealment.

Crescent hadn’t imagined it. When the two ponies focused their gazes on the rain-drenched undergrowth, it became clear the branches were shimmying against the direction of the wind. Domerin made a soft hissing sound, and the two ponies skittered into the nearest undergrowth.

Having spent several years working in a position that required stealth before he became a diplomat, Crescent easily shifted the way he set his hooves against the ground in order to conceal all sign of his passage. Domerin did the same, and the two of them flattened into the mud at the base of a clump of bushes so that they could peer through the tiny gaps in the undergrowth at what might be happening.

When it was clear that no one was about to pass immediately over their hiding space, Crescent took a moment to adjust first his cloak then Domerin’s so that the fabric fell in a way that enhanced their concealment rather than revealing it.

He finished just in time; as soon as his muscles stilled he caught a glimpse of mud-spattered fur as a group of ponies emerged from the trees into the clearing that overlooked the town below.

With a start, Crescent realized this was probably the place where the confrontation with Ryland’s troops had taken place in the alternate timeline they inadvertently created. If he had time to prepare, this was the most likely place to make a stand.

Instead, the gathering of hill folk spread across the flat rise so they could peer down at their target. Several of the ponies at the front of the pack spat over the edge of the ridge, and their saliva quickly mixed with the rain. Several others paused to bend their necks and stamp the ground, kicking up more mud.

Crescent clenched his muscles against the urge to cringe or shift away from the splatters that coated him and Domerin in more muck. Beside him, Domerin did the same, relaxing to the point where he might have looked like a discarded log hiding among the undergrowth.

A quick glance in his lover’s direction revealed, however, that Domerin was watching every event unfolding in front of him with keen interest. He was taking mental notes and comparing what he saw with what he’d discovered in Aruvalia’s various histories, marking certain actions as potentials and others as off limits.

The hill folk didn’t pause for long before a terse shout passed from the front of the line. It was repeated so that those in the rear ranks could hear over the rain. Then the group began to shuffle forward again.

They didn’t march with the organization of a modern army. This was a small group of angry ponies moved by sheer determination. In fact, the warband was much smaller than Crescent anticipated, which explained how they had been overwhelmed when the townsfolk were prepared to meet them.

Yet that did not mean the ponies marching down the slope were not intimidating. Each was armed with a heavy axe or longsword strapped resolutely to their hips. And beneath the spatters of mud were thick splashes of paint that remained in position even against the unrelenting wash of the rain.

As the rear of the warband made its way over the edge of the hill and began to vanish from sight, a last group of stragglers burst around the corner. These were younger ponies, mostly in their teens. Crescent estimated that most of them had only just received their cutie marks. And if he had a clearer view, he would have expected to discover that some of these ponies were blank flanks – ponies who had not yet discovered their unique and personal calling and, thus, had not yet received their cutie marks.

The tallest of these figures was laden with supply packs, mostly tucked into heavy saddle bags. But a few also carried extra weapons clearly meant to make them available to the warband when the fighting started.

Domerin tensed beside Crescent, clearly unhappy about the idea that children would be involved in this struggle. Especially when the last of the stragglers emerged from the trees and Crescent realized the foal was no older than Rainbow Heart.

What were they thinking? Crescent demanded silently of these ancient ancestors of the hill folk that still troubled his kingdom in the present day. Who would bring a child to a struggle like this?

Or did they not realize they had been followed? For even as the stragglers at the back of the pack hustled over the edge of the ridge in an attempt to catch up with the rear of the marching lines, the youngest of the figures tripped and sprawled in the mud.

No one noticed. The rest of the ponies tromped on, heedless of the struggles of the youngest to rise back to his feet. And so, the little pony fell further behind as he rose and slipped twice more before giving up and deciding to lay sprawled flat on his stomach for a moment or two.

Crescent glanced in Domerin’s direction and found Domerin’s dark eyes staring back at him.

It was impossible to tell who this pony might be based on his coloring. Without a cutie mark, it was also hard to say what skills might lay in his future, as yet unrealized.

But the death of a pony this age could lead a lasting mark on any civilization – especially if he was the son of someone important.

So Crescent didn’t protest when Domerin pushed up out of the mud and shook free some of the muck that clung to his stomach. In fact, he hesitated only a moment before mirroring his movements.

Together, the two ponies crept from the undergrowth, careful to splash so the younger pony would know they were coming.

Domerin nudged his cloak with his nose so the fabric at the base would conceal the cutie mark on either side of his flank. The crossed swords were quite distinctive in their time period, but they would also identify him as a warrior to anyone who lived in this time. And if this youngster knew all of the warriors of his clan, Domerin’s cutie mark would be the first indication of potential danger.

The youngster looked up at them without concern, however. In fact, the light of hope glimmered in his eyes.

Domerin bent and supported one of the youth’s front shoulders while Crescent bent and supported the other. With a little effort put into balance, they were able to help the pony onto his feet. Then he grinned up at them as if they were the saviors of the universe.

“Thank you for the help!” he declared politely. And it looked as though he was about to dart down the hill until Domerin cleared his throat.

“What are you doing out here, little one?” he asked quietly. “The weather is awful.”

“My father is on his way to war,” the young pony declared in a tone that indicated absolutely no understanding of what that word meant. “He told me to wait back at the camp, but I want to be part of the battle.”

The little pony leaned forward until his nose almost swept the ground and raised his tail into the air so he could wag it almost like a wolf – or a puppy.

Domerin and Crescent glanced at each other over the youngster’s shoulders, and Crescent took it as a sign he should inch around the smaller figure so that he could speak to Domerin in private.

“There was something in a few of the books I read,” the warrior murmured when Crescent pressed his damp ear close to his lover’s muzzle. “Something about how one of the princes of a prominent hill clan went missing in the early days of the war. When his body was discovered, it was assumed to be an intentional kidnapping and murder perpetuated by Aruvalia’s troops as a deterrent.”

“A tactic which obviously failed,” Crescent murmured. He glanced again at the young pony then sighed. “Do you think-“

“This could be what we were sent here to prevent?” Domerin finished. “It seems likely.”

The warrior’s eyes grew distant for a moment as his thoughts no doubt drifted over the hill toward the fight that was about to happen. Without a warning, the people who lived in the village would struggle to find shelter and the troops meant to protect them would arrive disorganized and tired to the defense.

That had to sit poorly with Domerin who could no doubt think of a dozen ways to turn the tide and salvage the situation.

Instead, he turned to Crescent and said, “If we’re swift and careful, we can sneak this little one back to his family without being noticed and hopefully return in time to make sure the end of the battle proceeds according to history as we know it.”

This was a gamble, and Crescent recognized how difficult it was for his lover to assess which side of the gamble he should risk. If saving the life of this youngster was, indeed, their main purpose, then leaving him to his own devices would be disastrous.

They knew the battle in this valley needed to happen, and probably without their interference. But even Crescent couldn’t banish a nagging sensation that it required some form of oversight.

Whatever happened here today, it was as perfect a storm as the one that raged over their heads, dumping endless sheets of rain onto the mountain slope. It was unlikely that their mission could be resolved by targeting single fault point – their first attempt had taught them that. But Crescent wondered just how much time and effort it would take to truly unravel this tangle, and if it could even be accomplished by two men trying to dance along the delicate line that wouldn’t alter their future.

“Little one,” he said, turning to the young pony rather than answering Domerin’s unspoken query.

The pony had begun splashing in nearby puddles while the two of them had been talking. He took one last leap toward the largest of the pools of murky water and giggled when he kicked up a tiny wave of water.

“Yes?” he replied when it was clear Crescent was waiting for an answer.

“Do you know how to get back to your camp? We… have an important message to deliver and we don’t want to risk being delayed.”

“I can help!” the young pony answered with a gasp, clearly indicating that his only desire for the day had been to prove useful. A desire that made sense for one so young who had no doubt noticed the flurry of activity in the lead up to today’s big event. “You can give it to my mom,” he added as he turned back in the direction he’d come from. “She’s in charge while my dad is gone.”

Now that he had been given a task, the young pony practically pranced up the slick path that led back into the thick cover of the trees. Domerin and Crescent had no difficulty keeping up since their legs were longer, but they often paused to allow the younger pony to outpace them.

The trek up the mountain beneath the lash of wind and rain was far more difficult than the descent had been, and Crescent often caught Domerin glancing over his shoulder, clearly worried about the events at the base of the slope. There would be no way to hear the clash of steel on steel from all the way up here, not with the thunder making such a racket over their heads. So there was no way to know how things were going until they got there.

Crescent was tempted to tell Domerin to go ahead. He could see to the delivery of this youngster without difficulty, especially since he was the better of the two of them at sneaking. But the two of them had made a pact not to split up before they crossed the time threshold the second time. They each believed that it would be easier not to make mistakes if the other was present to offer reminders. And so Crescent reminded himself that it would be easy to make a quick descent if they dispensed with stealth and allowed the slick mud to assist.

Luckily, the journey to the camp wasn’t as long as either man anticipated. Their young charge led them through the underbrush in many locations – calling the detours shortcuts. The root systems of the high and hearty trees protruded from the ground, offering places where their hooves could catch even against the slick damp deposited by the rain. And the canopies of tents appeared among the foliage well before either of the time travelers anticipated.

Crescent froze in his tracks and nudged Domerin back into the undergrowth. The warrior hesitated for only a moment before swooping low in Crescent’s wake.

The diplomat trucked tight against a tree, then shimmied behind another set of thick berry bushes. Domerin’s considerable bulk made him look almost comical while he squeezed in behind and beside his partner. But when they both stilled to watch through the gap in the bushes, it was easy to see.

They watched as their young charge broke through the foliage behind which they hid with a loud, “Ta da!” that drew the attention of several full-grown ponies milling nearby.

Moments later, a tent flap flew open and a broad-shouldered mare barreled out of the shadows beyond. “Where have you been?” she demanded as she loomed over the pony. “I’ve been worried sick over what you’ve gotten into! Today is no day to be playing in the woods.”

No sooner were the words spoken than did the mare grasp the foal by the scruff of his neck and drag him into the center of the camp while muttering about all the chores she had in store for him.

The youth tried a few times to protest that there was an important message to be delivered. But when no messengers appeared, his mother obviously wrote the claims off as a game.

Crescent exchanged one last glance with Domerin who arched an eyebrow as he contemplated what they had just done.

There was no way to know if this act would change the entire course of history. And if it did, they couldn’t be entirely certain it was for the good. But they might have just saved a young pony’s life. And if they had, Crescent would have a hard time feeling guilty about it.

Of course, there was always a small possibility this youngster had nothing to do with the reason they’d come. In which case, they’d allowed themselves to be distracted and possibly missed the golden moment they’d been searching for.

But this ticked all of Domerin’s boxes, Crescent reminded himself. Something small and unnoticeable that could lead to lasting consequences.

However, that nagging sense of doubt clung to his senses just tightly enough that, when Domerin shimmied out of the undergrowth and suggested they make a speedy descent, Crescent wasn’t inclined to argue.