Plot 005: A Matter of Choice

Grange’s hooves echoed on the stone streets surrounding the Crucible as he made his way farther and farther from the pit. Taavi had insisted that his pet slave go find him some tasty snacks, and as it stood, Grange was on his way to finish that very errand. With the new year’s festivities going on all around, it would be easy to find a food vendor that sold the kind of tarts Taavi liked so much. While Grange technically belonged to the twelve year old colt, Taavi’s mother – Lilith – was prone to giving him orders as well. She had yelled some remark about getting her a sausage….but Grange wasn’t sure if she meant food, so he ignored that order and focused instead on finding Taavi’s treat.



He found a vendor in the middle of restocking a display of tarts and cakes, and smiled at his good fortune. At this rate, Grange would have Taavi’s snack in moments, and be ready to rejoin the foal and his mother. Not that Grange was excited about spending time with Taavi and Lilith, so much as he was about getting to see the fighting down at the Crucible.



Grange would not, however, have the chance to purchase said tarts for Taavi. As he stepped up to the Vendor’s tent, a sudden, deafening crash rocked the Pit. Stricken by the sheer force of the blow, Grange fell to his knees as a bolt of magic whizzed past, striking the earth and leaving a crater in the stone of the pathway. Grange’s ears were ringing, and his head pounded from the aftershock of the magical bolts. His gaze was hazy from the brightness of the magical discharge that had so closely missed him.



Unsteadily, Grange clambered to his feet, shaking his head to stop the ringing in his ears. As the sound faded, more sounds rose to fill the silence, echoing off the stone walls of the Crucible. Screams. War cries and shouts of terror filled Grange’s ears, as the sudden, iron scent of blood filled his nose and mouth. A cursory glance down proved that he was not bleeding, but that the scent was being carried on the wind to him. It wasn’t far for the scent to travel; Grange was still rather close to the Pit itself. So close, in fact, that as a stream of what he could only assume were attackers ran past, one of them brushed against Grange, knocking the stallion to his knees for the second time that day.



Rising, Grange felt panic finally set in. There were horses attacking his home. There was bloodshed. More magical bolts whizzed past, this way and that, as horses began to engage in combat. Unicorn horns, pegasi wings and common hooves flashed past Grange, and it dawned upon him that if he was going to survive this, he needed to get to safety.



Grange felt the familiar tug of his Blessing run down his spine as he shut his eyes, his ears, and his nose to the chaos around him. He needed to focus. The white-hot adrenaline surging through his veins helped. It gave him something to focus on. Then, the change began. It felt like ice water was being poured down Grange’s spine as his Blessing took over. His form shifted and wove, rebirthing itself as that of a large whitetail stag. The stag shared Grange’s champagne coloring, and his antlers were formed of the same open air, raw bone that formed Grange’s own unicorn horn. Icy lavender eyes glowed slightly as Grange forced himself to keep it together, to keep his Blessing under his control.



The stag turned his head, the dangerously sharp tips of his antlers glittering in the magic-doused ruins of the Crucible. Grange’s own thoughts were dimmed, and his instincts began to take over. The loud noises caused his large ears to flick backward, and his legs bunched beneath him. With a mighty leap, Grange pushed himself away from the chaos, careful to avoid the pitted ground and writhing bodies around him.



His gaze was focused directly ahead, and he cared not for anything except protecting himself from the madness that reigned around him. While Grange wasn’t selfish enough to wish harm on his companions so that he might escape, he really paid no attention to the other horses – attackers, lords and slaves alike. In his mind, escaping from the danger was the only important thing at that moment. But, as he ran, Grange couldn’t help but notice that other horses, some apparently slaves like he, were running about in the chaos. He wanted to keep running; really he did. But he could not leave them alone to their fates.



Raising its head, the stag bellowed, his voice echoing even through the chaos of the battle. “THIS WAY,” he cried, not caring who heard him. Either his fellow Aodhians would make their break for safety, or else the attackers might kill him quickly and deliver him from this hellish nightmare. “FOLLOW ME,” the stag added, tossing his antlers to garner the attention of those frightened souls flooding the Crucible. Without a glance behind him, he turned and bounded away from the fighting, hoping whoever could follow would.



The streets of Valore stretched out ahead, beckoning the champagne stag to their relative safety. In the back of his mind, Grange knew that the city itself would not be safe if the Crucible was already compromised. But, he supposed, it couldn’t be as bad as it was here. A flash of someone’s gift sparked past, singing the stag’s tail as it sped towards the Crucible, landing and blowing yet another hole in the once solid rock. That close encounter was enough to speed Grange on; the steer bunched his muscles, darting here and there to avoid other such attacks from Aodh’s enemies.



Grange had no idea how long he ran. In all honesty, it was probably only a few minutes, but adrenaline and his deer instincts warped his perception of time. As the high left Grange’s body, he slowed, feeling fatigue now that his adrenaline was no longer keeping him afloat. His legs began to drag, and the edges of his shape blurred, until they faded completely, and an exhausted, sweat-sided unicorn stallion stood in the stag’s place, panting heavily. With great effort, Grange raised his head, looking over his shoulder. He could make little sense of what was going on. A small, rag-tag group of horses seemed to have followed him. Good. At least his bellowed warning had done some good.



“In here,” Grange panted, turning away from the other horses and ducking below a low, open doorway. It was dark inside the building, save a cracked back door, which Grange knew could be used as an escape route should he and the other horses be discovered. Turning, Grange dropped to the ground facing the door, resting his head on the earthen floor as he waited for the others in his little band. Watching them pour in, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen next.

Grange nodded his head to Viona, acknowledging her presence in the room, and her harrowed thought.  His eyes also fell on the newcomer, yet another mare, who seemed to be in the throes of exhaustion, leaning against the wall at the back of the building.  Grange had a sense of familiarity about the mare, as though perhaps he had seen her once or twice before, but never made contact.  He supposed that, given the mare's vague familiarity, perhaps she was a slave as well.  Grange's eyes twitched back to the center of the room, and his brows furrowed in thought.  It seemed that they had an interesting situation on their hooves.  A group of slaves, unmastered and unmonitered, away from the chaos of the city, hiding inside an abandoned building.

Certainly, they could all return home, go back to lives of drudgery and servitude.  Or, they could choose freedom from their masters.  A very difficult choice to make for these slaves.  Grange knew that some horses, like himself, lived in relative ease and comfort with their masters.  But some....some were mistreated in every fashion imaginable.  He could not disagree with any horse that wanted to run.  But, as no one had spoken up thus far, other than to ask questions or supply names, Grange assumed it would be up to him to lead the conversation in the correct direction.

"As far as I know, we all belong to one master or another," Grange said, choosing his words carefully as he glanced around the room.  "Which brings us to the question: what are we to do without our masters here?"  Grange fell silent, letting the question fill the room for a moment, before he spoke again.  "We can venture into that mess, try and find them, without being caught or killed in the meantime," he stated, lining out the first option.

"Or," he added, beginning to pace as he spoke, making small tracks across the floor of the room, "we can go."  He paused again, quite liking the dramatic effect it gave.  "There is no one to stop us," he said, motioning with his horn at the open doorway.  "And no one forcing us to return.  I could not blame anyone who wished to go, but if we choose to stay, we need to stay together for safety's sake."

Letting his gaze fall on each horse in turn, Grange asked them, "So, what do you choose?"


[WC: 409]