Prologue
War. Some ponies say that war never changes.
They looked at the basics of war, saw ponies killing others over a multitude of feeble reasons, and decided that there was nothing more to it. That war, ever since Ponykind had discovered the killing power of rock and stone had always been the same. Murder in the name of greed, religion, even pure psychotic rage.

I knew differently.

I had seen how war had evolved, how vastly different it had become. When the Griffons first attacked, almost ten years ago, the battle was almost cordial. After one side had won, injured were returned, bodies treated with respect. Whether it be through necessity or vengeance, I saw that all change.

As the death toll rose, I witnessed the slow descent into savagery. I saw the massacre at Trottingham bridge, where foals and their mothers were little more than cannon fodder. I then witnessed the retaliatory massacre on the place now known as shattered egg mountain. Before it had been Rift, a relatively peaceful Griffon trading village. At least, as peaceful as Griffons get.

You see, propaganda works better on a population beset by war. You were taught to believe Griffons were the monsters. That they would show no quarter, and by killing them you were merely defending your home and family. I myself was none the wiser, until conscription was introduced. And I saw my relatively peaceful life as a blacksmiths assistant came to an end. I continued to believe them to be merciless, savage beasts whom even had claws, wings and a beak designed to kill ponies.

Then you saw the injured lying on the battlefield. No matter if they were griffon or pony; they all cried the same tears. Felt the same pain. Died the same way.

I witnessed the sacking of Canterlot, when Equestria truly began losing the war. The city was sieged for three weeks, until the shields cast by the princesses finally faltered and the city fell.

War was always changing. Everypony’s experience of war was different, from the ones who bled out slowly upon the scorched earth, to the lucky ones who were killed instantly by sword or claw. A crossbow bolt could kill you instantly, or leave you crippled for life. New weapons were being developed all the time. We strived to find better ways to kill each other, and we got better and better at it. I shudder at the thought of what might have been if the war hadn’t ended, the extinction of ponykind no longer seemed like a fanciful concept.

War changed even when we returned to our homes. Mine was gone, so instead I headed north to etch out a living somewhere. Anywhere. This war was fought in our minds, with memories and regrets as the enemy and insanity the viscous invader. Nopony returned home fully whole, whether it be in body or spirit, and no family went without loss.

You would have thought that we would have learnt our lesson, that war would be ended with the retreat of the griffons and harmony would be returned. But five years of bloodshed and the loss of the two monarchs that had ruled over us for little over a thousand years had caused something to snap in the collective consciousness of ponykind.

If it were up to me, I would see us recognise the six new virtues of ponykind: Greed and violence, Arrogance and Cruelty, Vengeance and Hate. For barely even a year had passed before we returned once again to war, this time pony against pony, brother against brother, friend against friend.

The north, its stubbornness forged in the bitter cold and freezing rain, never came to terms with the loss of the war. When the griffon “Thalmor” arrived to enforce the ban on alicorn worship, they were killed, the head proudly displayed on pikes from the stone walls of Stalliongrad. The southern guides that accompanied them returned to the south with a message. I knew it was all over when the “message” consisted of the disembodied head of the Thalmor ambassador. Tasteful. The north split from the south, and renamed itself “Skyrim”. The south sent its first legion with the aim of crushing this rebellion as soon as possible, pressured into action by some very angry griffons. I owed no allegiance to Skyrim, they could all burn for all I cared. But I was conscripted anyway.

The 1st Equestrian legion was pushed all the way back to the Heartland, we decided to pursue. We never expected the 3nd and 7th legion to be waiting, even after the toll the war had taken on Equestria they had to have mustered at least two thousand ponies. We had half that number, but consisting of experienced, battle hardened ex-legionaries. Neither side stood a chance.

This is where my tale began. Everypony has a tale to tell, and the only interesting parts of mine began, and ended, with a battlefield, surrounded by dead ponies of every colour and creed.

My name is Silent Bolt. Quite dramatic a name, I admit to choosing it for that very purpose. After I lost the need for any identity I once had.

I am neither a son of Skyrim nor a loyal legionnaire of Equestria. I am a pony who once had some semblance of what a normal life should be like, under the flag of harmony. But war changed that, war changes everything. This is my story.

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(Big thanks to myself, my mother and my dog. All credit for inspiration goes to Bethesda and Hasbro. Overdramatized? Too sentimental? If you find yourself a perpetrator of any of these accusations upon my fair prologue, I shall strike you down, with the power of one thousand Chuck-Kon Do backwards fist slaps. Or just accept it as fair criticism. Thanks for reading. )

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