Freebie Mondays: My Little Domerin – Episode 8: Act 2

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.) You can also find links to the first half of the story here.

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 woke the morning after the battle feeling bleary. His head throbbed and his temples ached. They were the sort of sensations he normally would have assigned to a hangover, but he knew he hadn’t drunk anything aside from water – maybe he hadn’t drunk enough of that.

He recalled feeling the same way after their first jump through time, the one that had carried them to the Aruvalia of the future – that he had nearly erased with his carelessness the first time he and Crescent ducked backward through time. And he wondered if the sensation could be associated with temporal displacement – a term he had never even thought about before.

There was no time to linger in bed or even bathe to shake off the sensation, however. Almost the second Domerin rolled free of the bed he shared with his partner, Ryland appeared at their door to whisk them downstairs.

In the common room that served as a public house for this sleepy mountain village, Domerin was introduced to so many ponies, he initially thought the entire town had turned out to meet him. But it turned out several groups of knights that had already been stationed nearby in anticipation of a potential assault had galloped through the night in order to answer the need of their fellow.

Hooves slapped Domerin’s back heartily as his host paraded him between tables to introduce him to the new arrivals, and Ryland’s recounting of their recent battle never grew less enthusiastic even after a dozen repetions.

By the time he managed to settle next to Crescent to consume the plate of breakfast his partner secured for him, Domerin was bone weary. He felt as though he hadn’t slept at all, and the day was just getting started.

There was to be no rest for him however – nor anyone else for that matter. Because war did not sleep even when its participants were tired, and there were now war matters to be managed at all hours of the day.

The first matter of business was to scout the area surrounding the town for strategic defense points. Knights were stationed at each of these with small contingents of warriors. Lookouts and scouts were established to make regular rounds and reports. And a duty roster was established so that the tasks would be shared among those available.

For those that weren’t currently serving a duty shift or sleeping off the exhaustion of staying constantly on high alert, there were other tasks in need of tending. Trees were felled from the nearby forest, stripped and cut into planks. Those planks were used to reinforce the meager wall surrounding the town as well as to reinforce important buildings and even block the windows of the outermost facing structures.

Yet more wood had to be stripped for the fires that would have to be lit in watch camps, not to mention the hearths that kept the houses in this sleepy mountain village warm. And for those not busy with the defenses, there was the sharpening of weapons, the making of spears and arrows and the tending of damaged armor to see to.

Domerin drifted between these tasks without thinking too heavily about which he should focus on. His expertise was such that he could help a little everywhere – and did according to the needs he perceived during his rounds. Ryland quickly took note of his eye for details and assigned him to serve as his right hand.

As the days wore on, more ponies poured into the valley, swelling the village to four times its original size. Tents were pitched between buildings and along lesser used roadways to keep everyone contained within the protective barrier constructed during those initial days. But eventually, the camp spilled beyond the confines of its protections.

This place was never meant to serve as a major outpost, and it clearly wouldn’t serve as a center of war operations. But with the clan folk massing in the mountains and continuing to prod the scout teams sent to observe their activities, it was clear the danger remained here – at least for the moment.

Domerin greeted each new group of knights that entered the village and directed them according to their skills to the areas which most needed reinforcement. Luckily, the messengers who carried word of the war also drew blacksmiths and carpenters, so the skilled labor of building a war machine wasn’t neglected.

By the end of the first week, the idyllic mountain village to which he and Crescent first arrived bristled with the metal spikes pikes and spears added to its outer defenses. It billowed with the thick canvas of many tents crammed into its no longer open spaces, and it was choked by the traffic of many armored ponies moving between various stations.

The central square was cleared in order to create a massive communal mess. The villagers ate there as well as the soldiers, and the food was supplied by the public house – though also supplemented by the supplies of the knights and the locals with pantry stock to spare.

Having arrived early and now being considered so valuable to Ryland, who remained the primary organizer of Aruvalia’s efforts, Domerin was allowed to maintain the room he shared with Crescent at the inn. But he became aware with every day that passed it was only a matter of time until they would have to abandon this place for a proper war camp. Then they would be sleeping rough beneath drafty canvas tents and living in true fear of constant attack.

And all the while, he would have to be alert for any action or event that could possibly alter the precious future he was trying to recreate.

Every night, Domerin sank into the bed he shared with his partner so drained from exhaustion, he fell instantly into deepest oblivion. He was aware it would take effort to rouse him – and he was aware that would be dangerous when they left here. But all he could think about, and all he constantly dreamed about, was the desolate future he had created by ending this war too soon.

For the sake of Aruvalia and for every pony that had ever called it home, he must do this right. He must become the Nirem Truestrike he had worshiped as a child and he must do justice to the man’s considerable legend – even though it still broke his brain to think he and that venerable pony were always meant to be one and the same.

*   *   *

Their departure from the valley came sooner than expected. It was spurred by the arrival of a frantic messenger warning that the latest band of incoming knights had been waylaid on the road by a swarm of hillfolk.

Domerin’s immediate reaction was to wonder why they would put so much effort into attacking such a small group – but the answer came to him without delay.

To drive them from their stronghold and make them vulnerable.

It was the warning he gave Ryland as soon as he found him among the sea of mustering ponies donning their armor and sheathing their weapons.

“We cannot charge out of here at full force and simply run them off the road,” Domerin insisted with a heavy snort and pawed the heavily churned ground at his feet with his left forehoof.

“According to the messenger, we have superior numbers,” Ryland replied with a patience that was obviously growing strained. “If we form a shield wall with all of the knights that have arrived since the last assault-“

“We will be doing exactly what they expect us to do,” Domerin insisted, exasperated.

That gave the leader of their warband pause.

“We must assume that some have slipped into the forest to hide,” Crescent interjected as he appeared as if from the ether at Domerin’s side.

Crescent had spent much of the initial muster assisting the scouting parties. It had allowed him to keep an eye out for the kind of small events that might trigger a subtle shift in future events while Domerin was bogged down by making sure the war efforts proceeded without incident.

“Exactly,” Domerin agreed triumphantly and stomped his front feet for emphasis.

Ryland hesitated, and a deep frown marred his expression. It was clear he had been about to dismiss Domerin’s objections and barrel forward, but Crescent’s interjection made the gears in his head spin in a new direction.

“What do you suggest?” he asked at last, turning somewhat forlorn eyes in Domerin’s direction.

It was not the first time the leader of this warband had glanced to him for confirmation or advice, and Domerin didn’t allow himself to feel the discomfort that swam in his gut at realizing how deep a trust had been fostered between the two of them in such a short amount of time.

He needed that trust but also felt wholly unworthy of possessing it since he was displaced from his own time.

Now was not the time to let a guilty conscience turn him aside, however. Not when clear and decisive action was required to keep this war on track.

“We should do as they did,” Domerin replied and exchanged a grin with Crescent who danced eagerly beside him.

“We’ll take archers and lighter armed knights into the woods and swing wide in both directions around the ambush,” Crescent agreed. “When their reinforcements leap out to assist-“

“We follow in their tracks,” Ryland finished, his eyes now alight with a sense of triumph. However, the spark faded after a moment as somber thought set in. “We have little time,” the knight mused, looking uncertain. “How will we divide our forces appropriately?”

“Leave that to me,” Crescent suggested. “I already have a fair idea of who would be good at slipping quickly through the foliage.”

“Then the two of you shall lead the secondary team,” Ryland declared decisively, sealing the assignment with a curt nod. “I shall lead the charge as originally planned, though with a smaller set of knights than anticipated.”

His confidence flagged after he finished, and he glanced uncertainly in Domerin’s direction, once again seeking confirmation.

“We should do at least partly what they expect,” he confirmed. Then he spoke a quick list of names – his recommendation of which knights Ryland should take front and center with him.

Every soldier had a specific way of fighting, after all. Domerin favored a quick strike and retreat combat style which allowed him to take advantage of the weaknesses of other fighters without taking massive risks. But he also knew when to adapt, when to push and when to give way.

Some warriors – especially knights – were particularly stubborn. They resorted to brute force and brute force alone, trusting strength and tenacity to carry the day. Those were the knights that should lead this charge, while the cleverer and less sever soldiers would do well striking from cover.

Satisfied, Ryland spun and charged toward the town’s front gate, getting ready to organize the warband as they passed beneath the open arch. Domerin, meanwhile, fell into step with Crescent, who darted easily through the crowd, tapping shoulders and flanks to draw his chosen ponies aside.

So as not to clog the road of the charge gathering outside the front gate, Crescent led his chosen forces out the rear side of the village, through the small fence gates that faced the forest and were largely utilized by the villagers providing raw materials for all of the defenses that needed to be rapidly constructed.

There, they divided the ambush team between them. Domerin agreed to swing wide around the village and rush to catch up while Crescent used stealth to keep pace with the charge that had just begun marching down the main road.

“Thank you for the assist, by the way,” Domerin murmured when he stooped to steal one last kiss before his partner could disappear into the shadow dapples of the space beneath the forest canopy. “I’m not sure how I would have convinced him without you.”

“I feel like I haven’t been around much,” Crescent replied sheepishly. “So it was the least I could do.”

“Nonsense,” Domerin retorted and grinned. “You’re always there when I need you. That’s the most important thing.”

For a moment, Crescent’s face twisted as if Domerin had kicked him – and he couldn’t fathom why. But the expression vanished so quickly, Domerin thought he might have imagined it. His partner grinned, performed a mock bow and then disappeared into the undergrowth.

Domerin spun and charged to the head of his small team in the same moment, hissing orders even as he led the way into the now familiar forest surrounding the village.

They made good time. The steady march of the knights tromping down the main road to interject on behalf of their fellows easily masked every twig snap and leaf shuffle produced by the speed with which Domerin’s team was forced to move.

Once he estimated they were free of the village’s protective radius, he swung wide again, filtering deeper into the forest and motioning for his people to slow down and move more carefully. He kept his eyes peeled for signs of hoof prints, and he kept his leading line behind any he encountered.

They needed to leave enough space for the first portion of the ambush to spring, after all.

By the time had filtered his ponies into position and received the signal flash from Crescent’s daggers that indicated he, too, was in position, the battle on the road had already been joined.

Ryland marched at the center of a shield wall, braced along with the ponies that marched three abreast on either side of him to repel the first round of assault by the hillfolk aggressors.

Arrows broke against the polished steel that protected the knights as they surged into the fray to form a protective barrier around the beleaguered ponies at the center of the struggle.

It was clear they had been caught completely unaware, which meant they might have traveled all night and been dazzled by the early morning sunlight when their attackers appeared.

With a swiftness that stole the breath, Ryland and his troop tromped to the center of the fray and took up defensive positions around the three knights and the small number of troops still holding off the clan’s assault.

They hadn’t even completed their shield circle when a cry went up from the trees and a fresh swarm of clan warriors surged into the open.

This time, there were far more colors present on their identifying sashes – a veritable rainbow wave of color combinations – which confirmed Domerin’s suspicions that the hillfolk kin had called for aid even beyond their initial family ties.

And there were so many hidden among the trees, it shocked even him, who had been expecting this push.

Had Ryland marched with the full might of his forces in the open, they would have been crushed beneath this charge. Even with heavy shields protecting the outskirts of the march, the sheer number of arrows that flew from the bows borne by the newly revealed warriors would have wounded a significant portion of their forces.

And when those forces fell, they would trip others, causing a cascade that would have turned this rescue into a slaughter.

With fewer forces on the road, it was easier for those not occupying protective stances to scatter. Ponies were injured; that was inevitable. But those that fell didn’t careen into their fellows and take more warriors down with them.

Instead, those that bore the heavy shields shuffled into protective positions, allowing their fellows to rise.

They were still surrounded, still cut off from the direction in which they’d come – but they were up and fighting.

Crescent didn’t waste any time. As soon as the hillfolk closed their circle, he unleashed a cry of his own from the woods. Domerin leapt to his feet and whistled to his team and, together, he and his partner charged at the head of the final attack team to join the fray.

There was always a possibility that the enemy had held some of its forces in reserve. If they anticipated this kind of counter strike, they could also counter it in turn.

But it was instantly clear by the shocked looks on the assailants’ faces, they hadn’t anticipated this.

Daggers flew from the tree line to imbed in the necks and flanks of the ponies on the outskirts of the ambush. A fresh set of arrows flew, their trajectories carefully measured so they wouldn’t soar over the hillfolk and into the second line of Aruvalian defenders.

What started as a simple, straightforward fight between two sets of heavily armed foes became a sea of unmitigated chaos.

And Domerin waded into the center of it with grim determination.

The horn on his forehead glowed with dim light as he summoned his swords from their sheaths and set them dancing among the enemy. The hillfolk swarmed so thickly against the shields held up by his allies, it was easy for his steel to find purchase, and his focus narrowed to opening a path for his allies to connect.

All around him, warriors darted in and out of the tree line, striking ankles, calves and thighs, then disappearing before the enemy could respond. Arrows flew thickly in all directions, though most ended up sticking out of trees or diverted by the shields that still protected the heart of this struggle.

Voices grew ragged as they shouted over the din, and the calls of the dying were lost among the trampling of hooves and the clanging of steel against steel.

Domerin’s blood sang as it pumped through his ears in time with each of his strikes. His nimble legs carried him out of the way of danger, and his quick reflexes allowed him to parry several strikes that might otherwise have found critical organs through the joints in his lighter leather armor.

Somehow, at some point, Crescent managed to navigate the thick of the chaos and appeared at his side, using several daggers he had recovered from the fallen to protect his partner as Domerin continued to work his way along the outskirts of the fray.

For all that Ryland seemed one-sided in his method of fighting, he was an able commander. He pushed outward while Domerin and Crescent’s forces pushed inward, and they soon created a path by which the defenders could evacuate their injured comrades and join the outside of the circle.

From there it was simply a matter of compressing the hillfolk until they spooked and tried to run. Domerin carefully left an opening near the thick forest foliage. The enemy would have to work to pass through it, but the hope of escape should keep them from becoming desperate.

A frozen hour passed while the knights and hill clans remained engaged in combat. The position of the sun shifted with such agonizing slowness, it felt as if the day lasted forever. But at last, the enemy began an organized retreat, and Domerin signaled for his people to back off and allow the route to happen.

He was backing along the edge of the road, near pack of tightly clustered trees, when his hoof came down on something soft and a slight yelp reached his ears.

He almost dismissed it. Chances were an animal had been hiding in the shadows and darted into the distance when his proximity startled it free of its stupor.

But he was also on the lookout for any small thing that might make a difference in the timeline he was trying to cultivate. Once already he and Crescent had plucked a youngster from the edge of a battlefield and returned them to their family – and it was clear with a careful scan that not every member of the ambushed party had made it to the center of the protective circle. Debris spread out in the wake of the initial struggle. Canvas and supplies had been scattered along the side of the road.

And when Domerin turned to glance more closely at the edge of the tree cluster, he noticed a splash of blood.

Eyes narrowed, muscles poised for action, Domerin motioned to Crescent who quickly melted into the shadows beside the cluster of trees. Then Domerin reached out and gently parted the branches of the bushes that grew thick along the side of the road.

Instantly, he caught sight of a bundle of rags shivering at the base of the tree trunk. Had it not been for a bright tuft of blue hair gathered at one end of the bundle, Domerin might have taken it as the contents of a discarded pack shimmying in the breeze.

This, however, was clearly a pony hiding from the fray. And Domerin guessed his hoof had come down on the tail, causing the cry of pain.

The warrior cleared his throat then bellowed, “Identify yourself!” so he would be heard over the battle’s dying din.

A second yelp greeted his command and an eye appeared between the creases of the rags. It was surrounded by soft grey-brown fur and full to brimming with fear.

But the young pony clutching the pile of rags around their figure must have taken note of the patches that adorned Domerin’s armor. They were modern patches, but no one seemed to notice the subtle differences in the heraldry compared to those worn by Aruvalia’s proper knights. In fact, it seemed they were attributed to embellishments woven by the people of a far away land.

Relief swept over the blue-haired pony and they swept the rags free of their form, revealing the wiry frame and spindly legs of youth.

Domerin thought the pony standing before him must only be a few years older than the blank flank he rescued on the day the war kicked off. In fact, he might only have had his cutie mark for a few months.

Not that Domerin could see the symbol that adorned the youth’s flank. It was covered by the sash and adornments he had been wearing at the start of the fray, though they were now tattered and covered in dirt and mud.

“Thank whatever gods there are,” the young pony murmured as he hurried across the circle to join Domerin on the road. “I thought I was finished when they started moving this way again. But I can see you are a defender of the realm of my birth.” The youth’s eyes darted again to the patches that adorned Domerin’s armor.

Domerin responded with a stern glance. But it was clear this young pony meant him no harm. He returned his swords to the sheaths at his hips and pawed the ground between him and the younger pony. “And you are?” He prompted again.

“Oh!” the young pony gasped as if realizing his oversight. “I am the squire of Lightfoot the Great.”

Realization tingled in the back of Domerin’s memory, and his breath caught in his throat. “I think your master may have been injured,” he replied, recovering quickly. “It’s safe now, you’d better hurry and catch up with him.”

The younger pony bowed his head and turned to comply, but hesitated before he ran off. “Before I leave, may I know the name of my rescuer?”

“Nirem,” Domerin replied without hesitation. “I am not yet known to your master, but I am known and trusted by the others here.”

That didn’t seem to be of any concern to the youth, however. He grinned then turned and pranced in the direction of the tight cluster of ponies helping the injured prepare for the journey back to town.

By the time Domerin turned back to the cluster of trees, Crescent’s head had appeared from the undergrowth, and he arched an eyebrow. “Recognized him, did you?” he demanded.

“Not him,” Domerin admitted, speaking in an undertone so no one would overhear. “The name of the knight he serves.”

Crescent pursed his lips and shimmied free of the undergrowth so that he could press against Domerin’s side, allowing the warrior to speak more softly.

“It wasn’t a large detail, but it was noted in one of the history books I skimmed before we came back here that Lightfoot the Great lost his squire early in the struggle. It meant that his banner never passed on. It died with him during a later battle.”

It was a minute detail of the sort that might not relate to the day’s struggle. After all, both Lightfoot and his squire could still fall at a later date.

But the sparkle in Crescent’s eyes suggested skepticism the two instances were unrelated. “Do you think this is the sort of thing you might have overlooked the first time?”

“I still don’t actually know how I got here the first time,” Domerin hissed, unable to mask his frustration.

He still expected the real Nirem Truestrike to dance out of the shadows and demand to know why someone was impersonating him.

But he drew a deep breath to calm the sudden rapid beating of his heart and shook his head. “But I suppose it is possible, given all the chaos, that even if I had noticed the cry I might not have stopped to investigate if looking for tiny details hadn’t very much been on his mind.”

Why, though, if he had been driven backward through time once before – or sometime in the unknown future – had he not been looking for these same sort of details?

It was a question for which he might never get an answer.

“This makes two potential changes,” Crescent whispered softly, and he sounded excited.

“Indeed,” Domerin agreed. “But without returning to the future, we have no idea how it might have affected the timeline.” And since he couldn’t leave until the war was done, he might not know if this made for a positive or a negative spin.

The twist of agony once again crossed Crescent’s face as Domerin spoke. But it was gone so quickly, he didn’t have time to wonder why.