“Citizens of Bernese, war is upon us! The Equestrian menace and their allies have mobilized their hordes for conquest of our lands! They wish only for our destruction, to raze our cathedrals and break our families! But we will fight them every step of the way! We will fight them on the shores, in the skies, in the seas, and even in the very streets of Canterlot if it means our nation's survival! But fear not, for we have allies of our own and many of our sons and fathers have answered the call to the highest honor! And you, too, can join them in the ranks of one of the finest armies in the world! Enlist now and join the fight to preserve our way of life and strike down the iron hoof of the Sun Tyrant!”

Rotes finds himself staring at the picture of his family once again. He has done it for hours on end after he sent Cutter off to Equestria for his crucial task, and every time he stares at the painting he goes through three phases. First, hoping that Cutter is faring well; second, longing for his father, even though he knows he will never see him again; and third, blankness. He is currently on phase three.

He does not hear anything, not even his own thoughts, as he looks at his father's proud stature and crisp uniform depicted on the canvas. He wants to think of something about his father, but all he remembers is a hug and his broken promise of coming home, and then comes the void. His ear turns slightly when he thinks he hears someone calling him, but he tells himself that it is just his imagination. But the second time brings him to descend from his trance, and the third time convinces him to turn his head. It is his mother talking to him.

“Rotes, are you okay?” asks his mother worryingly.

Rotes looks back at the picture, silently nodding while the radio plays some soft music from the kitchen. Only now does Rotes realize that there is music in the house, and he figures that it must have been his mother who turned it on.

“I'm fine, mama,” says Rotes , but inside he knows he is not. He has not been okay ever since the griffins invaded Bernese nearly thirty years back.

The couch shifts from Ms. Leinen sitting next to him, and he looks down at the floor. He can feel her tension without looking at her, and when he glances at her out of the corner of his eye he can see her burden. It pains him to see his mother at the brink of tears from the fear and sadness swirling inside her, and he cannot blame her. He cannot blame anyone for their uneasiness in the face of the travesties to come, but it is something that must be done.

“Rotes, be honest with me, did you have something to do with what happened in Equestria?” asks Ms. Leinen.

Rotes hesitates. “I do not dictate the actions of others.”

Ms. Leinen searches Rotes' face, and the longer she stares the more uncomfortable he becomes. Seconds later, he averts his eyes just so she can't see into them, and his whole body deflates when his mother leaves his side. He dares to watch her leave with her head down, passing Gilda on her way to the kitchen.

The cyborg griffin watches Ms. Leinen until she is completely out of sight. Once the elderly ibex is out of sight, she turns her attention to Rotes, and he looks down at the floor again.

With the poisonous fumes of disappointment polluting the manor's atmosphere, Rotes is finding it harder to look at the painting or the medals and flag displayed by them. He can't quite explain it, but for some reason he feels as though the lifeless picture is ashamed of him.

“You know, when I made my mom cry, my old man nearly slapped my beak off,” says Gilda.

“I am sure you learned your lesson, then,” says Rotes, his eyes still on the floor.

Gilda snorts, which sounds like a broken wind tunnel trying to push air out thanks to her breathing mask, and she takes a seat next to Rotes. He shifts away from her to the other side of the couch just so he can't touch her, since her being closer leads to him realizing that she is filthy. Her feathers and fur are covered in dirt and now that he has a closer look at her mechanical talons and the stone imbedded in it, he sees faint traces of blood. The blood helps outline a strange symbol on her stone, too. It is shaped like an eye with what he is guessing are two hooks on each end.

Gilda turns her mechanical hand to herself, and she snarls behind her mask as the joints faintly whir and click in response to her balling the hand into a fist. Rotes looks away after that, but his attention goes back to her when she folds her arms across her chest and casually stretches out her lion like legs on the coffee table. Despite the blond ibex's best attempts, his face still contorts to a disgusted scowl as flakes of dry mud fall loose from Gilda's paws and land on the recently cleaned and polished table.

“Why did you name this whole thing something as stupid as Storm Cloud?” asks Gilda, her tone trying to hide her curiosity with snide.

Rotes' eyes drift back to the oil painting with his disapproving expression remaining. The feeling of being a symbol of family shame still lingers, but he knows that only good things will come after Storm Cloud ends. Once it is over then the shame will be replaced with pride and the Leinen Family will be marked in history as the ones who saved civilization from itself.

“Storms purify,” says Rotes, his tone distant as his disgust shifts to longing. “They remove the weak, preserve the strong and cleanse the air of filth. It is nature's way of making things better, and I am following its example.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rotes sees Gilda looking at him for a few seconds before she turns to her metallic talons. She flexes her enhancements, watching with regretful disgust as the metal claws move and bend like a real hand. It amazes Rotes how far technology has come within the last eleven years, and it amazes him even more that Gilda is able to live with all of her attachments. Though, just from watching her little twitches and quiet seethes he knows that she is in constant pain.

“What happened to you, if you do not mind me asking?” says Rotes.

“I do mind, so don't ask,” growls Gilda, and then she turns to glare at him with her unnaturally green eyes. “And just so we are clear, I will come after you and the Painter if Grim or Nasty are iced for this shit cause. I've lost too many good griffins to this kind of BS.”

Rotes looks at Gilda, slightly concerned about the passionate fire burning in her eyes. He returns her hostility with a neutral look, and he finds himself caught off guard when he sees a slight shade of light amber tainting her green eyes. He then cautiously looks down to see her metal talon aimed at his heart.

“If you do not wish to be a puppet, then why play the role?” asks Rotes without breaking eye contact from the talon.

Gilda's eyes narrow. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Yes. That is why I asked.”

Gilda balls her mechanical hand into a fist and retracts it from the androgynous ibex without taking her eyes on him while a growl rumbles through her throat. “Smart ass, huh?”

Rotes studies the mechanics of the false arm, listening and watching with great interest as it moves and reacts as a real arm. A part of him even wonders if she can feel anything in it, as if she was born with it. And as Gilda's fingers clutch around the strange stone, he starts becoming curious as to its purpose with the augmentation. He only breaks from his thoughts when he hears Gilda mumble under her breath.

“I should've just taken Hell,” she says quietly, then she says in her regular, distorted voice: “You ain't getting shit. But I'm telling your right now, you're a dead goat if you get my friends killed.”

Hearing this, Rotes lifts his eyes to meet hers, keeping his expression neutral. “I will understand if you try to take my life. But now it is my turn to warn you. If you try to harm me, my comrades, or my mother, you will only succeed at quickening your end.”

Rotes stands up and brushes himself off, ignoring Gilda's harsh stare and low growl. After finishing wiping off the invisible enemy on his clothing, he looks at the once beautiful griffin with pity.

Rotes knows that the wrath inside Gilda is powered by her suffering. The loss of her friends. The constant pain of machine fused to flesh. He can see it all. Every movement brings a quiet wince from her, and whenever she is not busy Rotes sees her staring at the augmented arm, yearning to be returned to normal. And Gilda's constant questions about Grim and Nasty Hick are a reminder to Rotes that she is still loyal to those she has left. He can admire her for that and relate to the feeling of wanting something that cannot be obtained, even if a father is different from an arm or better lungs.

With that thought in mind, Rotes looks out at the snow covered forest. Many associate Winter with death, which does not surprise Rotes, but Frost Forest's frozen beauty silently reminds him of the cycle that will come.

There is no doubt in his mind that suffering is coming to him and everyone around him for the rise of the Gold Star. But once Winter passes, Spring will come, and renew everything with life and plant new beginnings.

Rotes just hopes that the Winter from Storm Cloud will pass quickly so everyone can enjoy the Spring that is coming with the Gold Star.

Forcing himself out of his thoughts, Rotes looks back at Gilda, sighing softly. “Let us put this confrontation behind us. We do not need this kind of hostility in a time like this.” He starts walking towards the front door. “Help yourself to a meal. You look famished.”

The androgynous ibex does not hear Gilda's response because he is quick to step out onto the snow covered patio and close the door behind him. It is just him and nature, now. No noise pollution of clunky heaters, creaking floorboards or voices of the house guests are there to keep him from enjoying the scenery, and that is just the way he likes it.

Rotes closes his eyes, takes a deep sniff of the frosty and raises his hoof with an imaginary mug in his grip in celebration of the new Spring that is coming soon to replace the cold grip of Winter.

When he opens his eyes, he does not see a world of frozen trees and gray clouds, but a lush, warm place where everyone can play under the clear sky with no worries. No worries about food shortages, no threats from banks taking their homes, no anxiety about being laid off, and no bigotry because of the number of horns on a head.

The new Spring of Perfect Harmony is coming, and that brings a smile to his lips.

“To perfection,” whispers Rotes.