Description:
It was cold. Lance Corporal Sunny Days blinked dully, staring at the dusty ground in front of her muzzle. The dust of Epsilon Sigma Delta was a dusty grey, save for where some dark patches of moisture had soaked into the thirsty soil. That seemed odd to the guardsmare.
It was a good thing Commissar Cheerilee wasn’t here. The horrible mare would probably freeze Lance Corporal Sunny Days with a disapproving glare and order her to her hooves with some platitude about 'only in death does duty end'. And frankly, Lance Corporal Sunny Days didn't feel like standing just yet. Celestia, but it was cold…
Sunny coughed wetly, shivering against the unnatural chill in the air. She shook her head and tried to concentrate. She was forgetting something important. Something to do with the wet patches. Was it raining, finally, after two months of sun-baked rock and blast furnace gales? That might explain the cold.
“Still alive, Lance Corporal?” barked a sharp voice at her side. Sunny Days froze and looked up, struggling to focus on the blur of red and black which had floated into view. After a moment it resolved into the grim features of the regimental commissar, the mare’s scarred face set as always in its unforgiving near-scowl.
Buck. The commissar had caught her. Sunny’s back ached dully at the thought of another unavoidable lashing. She still bore the marks from the last time the earth pony had applied the whip so expertly— and then awarded then-sergeant Sunny Days with a demotion and three weeks of latrine duty, effective immediately.
Sunny tried to rise, but flopped back onto the soaked dust like a sack of parsnips. Her throat was so dry. “M-ma’am, it’s not what it—”
Cheerilee waited for the mare’s wet coughing to stop, then crouched to speak into her ear with surprising gentleness. “Lance Corporal Sunny Days. Focus on me.”
Despite the numbing cold, Sunny felt an icy tingle run down her spine. The commissar seemed almost… sad? “Yes ma’am. F-focussing.”
“You have served the Princesses well, Lance Corporal.” The dark mare reached slowly into her storm coat and withdrew a bulky, squat shape— her bolt pistol.
“B-but—” Sunny’s sluggish mind turned over. She blinked dust out of her eyes and looked over her withers. Her guts didn’t churn at the sight. They couldn’t— not sprayed across the landscape like they were. How was she even still alive? She—
Thinking became an impossibility as the pain finally found the wailing guardsmare. Her eyes rolled, bloody foam frothing at her mouth as her head whipped back to focus on her commissar. Cheerilee’s mouth tightened— as did her hoof on the bolt pistol’s trigger. The screaming cut off, leaving a blessed, desolate silence.
Cheerilee let out a breath and re-holstered her pistol, then deftly wiped the blood from her muzzle. The gray dust turned it into an ugly smear. It had been… so long since she had rested. Perhaps she could lay down for just a moment.
“No… Not just yet. Only in death does duty end.” An uncharacteristic smile tugged at the corners of the earth pony’s scarred mouth. Reaching down, she secured the dead Lance Corporal’s ident tags, then moved on to the rest of the shattered squad. If she hurried, she might be finish before the next attack.
· — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — ·
Sometimes I feel bad for the people who commission me. Don't get me wrong, it's not related to the drawing itself (I think? Maybe? Please let me know!) but to the after-drawing, the upload and sharing part, the moment where I burst into their office slamming the drawing on the table and go "GIVE ME A FLAVOUR TEXT TO GO WITH IT!" and they lift their hands up like they're in a gangster movie as they go "I just wanted a drawing, I'm no writer-OH PLEASE GOD DON'T HURT ME I HAVE CHILDREN!" and looking at it from this perspective I realise I've been really rough on many of you lately. I'm an artist, not Stephen King's publisher, I have no right to demand a novella worth of text from you guys.
But that being said, :iconfernindt: has been knocking it out of the park with the writing for these, so I hope you guys are looking forward to some really good flavour text, and perhaps some alright drawings. One day I will explain why I keep putting myself down all the time, it's not out of some sense of false modesty, trust me. It's a bit more complicated like that.
It was a good thing Commissar Cheerilee wasn’t here. The horrible mare would probably freeze Lance Corporal Sunny Days with a disapproving glare and order her to her hooves with some platitude about 'only in death does duty end'. And frankly, Lance Corporal Sunny Days didn't feel like standing just yet. Celestia, but it was cold…
Sunny coughed wetly, shivering against the unnatural chill in the air. She shook her head and tried to concentrate. She was forgetting something important. Something to do with the wet patches. Was it raining, finally, after two months of sun-baked rock and blast furnace gales? That might explain the cold.
“Still alive, Lance Corporal?” barked a sharp voice at her side. Sunny Days froze and looked up, struggling to focus on the blur of red and black which had floated into view. After a moment it resolved into the grim features of the regimental commissar, the mare’s scarred face set as always in its unforgiving near-scowl.
Buck. The commissar had caught her. Sunny’s back ached dully at the thought of another unavoidable lashing. She still bore the marks from the last time the earth pony had applied the whip so expertly— and then awarded then-sergeant Sunny Days with a demotion and three weeks of latrine duty, effective immediately.
Sunny tried to rise, but flopped back onto the soaked dust like a sack of parsnips. Her throat was so dry. “M-ma’am, it’s not what it—”
Cheerilee waited for the mare’s wet coughing to stop, then crouched to speak into her ear with surprising gentleness. “Lance Corporal Sunny Days. Focus on me.”
Despite the numbing cold, Sunny felt an icy tingle run down her spine. The commissar seemed almost… sad? “Yes ma’am. F-focussing.”
“You have served the Princesses well, Lance Corporal.” The dark mare reached slowly into her storm coat and withdrew a bulky, squat shape— her bolt pistol.
“B-but—” Sunny’s sluggish mind turned over. She blinked dust out of her eyes and looked over her withers. Her guts didn’t churn at the sight. They couldn’t— not sprayed across the landscape like they were. How was she even still alive? She—
Thinking became an impossibility as the pain finally found the wailing guardsmare. Her eyes rolled, bloody foam frothing at her mouth as her head whipped back to focus on her commissar. Cheerilee’s mouth tightened— as did her hoof on the bolt pistol’s trigger. The screaming cut off, leaving a blessed, desolate silence.
Cheerilee let out a breath and re-holstered her pistol, then deftly wiped the blood from her muzzle. The gray dust turned it into an ugly smear. It had been… so long since she had rested. Perhaps she could lay down for just a moment.
“No… Not just yet. Only in death does duty end.” An uncharacteristic smile tugged at the corners of the earth pony’s scarred mouth. Reaching down, she secured the dead Lance Corporal’s ident tags, then moved on to the rest of the shattered squad. If she hurried, she might be finish before the next attack.
· — · — · — · — · — · — · — · — ·
Sometimes I feel bad for the people who commission me. Don't get me wrong, it's not related to the drawing itself (I think? Maybe? Please let me know!) but to the after-drawing, the upload and sharing part, the moment where I burst into their office slamming the drawing on the table and go "GIVE ME A FLAVOUR TEXT TO GO WITH IT!" and they lift their hands up like they're in a gangster movie as they go "I just wanted a drawing, I'm no writer-OH PLEASE GOD DON'T HURT ME I HAVE CHILDREN!" and looking at it from this perspective I realise I've been really rough on many of you lately. I'm an artist, not Stephen King's publisher, I have no right to demand a novella worth of text from you guys.
But that being said, :iconfernindt: has been knocking it out of the park with the writing for these, so I hope you guys are looking forward to some really good flavour text, and perhaps some alright drawings. One day I will explain why I keep putting myself down all the time, it's not out of some sense of false modesty, trust me. It's a bit more complicated like that.
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