>You are Anonymous.
>It’s getting darker in here, the night closing in. It’s getting colder and, although your gear is prepared to deal with low temperatures at high altitudes, it isn’t helping enough with this kind of weather.
>After flying low for a while, you’re still looking for someplace to land on.
>Is this area completely depopulated or what?
>You’d heard tales about the Germans doing awful stuff around Belgium, but blowing towns out of existence wasn’t one of the things mentioned in such stories.
>And the area next to the Western Front in France has its fair share of tiny villages.
>You should encounter one soon enough.
>Granted you’re still in Belgium or France.
>Or Europe.
>Or Earth.
>Now that you think about it, perhaps… you have been transported to another world? By dying?
>Wait, that easily? And isn’t the afterlife supposed to be about angels? Or about demons and fire and brimstone?
>Well, perhaps the afterlife is just another world.
>A completely empty and snowy world.
>Or perhaps you’re still on Earth and all of this sudden snow is the result of some experimental weapon by the Germans?
>Yeah, that’s a good one. Who knows what the Kaiser scientists are capable of?
>What if the Martian invasion has begun?
>Ok, now that you think about it that sounds pretty crazy. Where did that last one come from?
>Perhaps you should stop reading those H.G Wells books.
>And stop talking to yourself.
>Getting some damned sleep would help too. Battle operations begun damn too early this day.
>You stop your internal monologue for a moment and look around, waiting for the inevitable disappointment when you discover that the land you’re flying over is still devoid of any sign of intelligent life.
>But then you see it.
>It’s almost hidden next to a great patch of forest terrain, but there it is.
>Some faint lights in the distance, along with a couple columns of smoke. Tiny forms of houses and a little road.
>Civilization, at last!
>You calculate it’s only some kilometers away, so it shouldn’t be a problem reaching it, you guess. You turn your head to check on the fuel gauge…
>…only to discover that, apparently, you have no fuel left.
>As soon as the realization hits you, you hear some worrying noises coming from the engine.
>The propeller’s movement starts to slow down.
>Then it begins to stop in pauses, in harmony with the noises your dying engine keeps doing from time to time.
>Quite predictably, you drop and begin to lose altitude fast.
>Real fast.
>Also, those trees don’t look like the best place to land a plane on.
>Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…
>You manage to grab seize of the flywheel and try to turn; looking for some clear land, but it’s a hopeless task.
>It’s forest every fucking where.
>The tree tops keep getting closer and closer and the only thing you can do is level your plane and brace for the oncoming impact.
>This is gonna be one rough landing.  
 
 
--One crash-landing later…
 
>You’ve been walking for a while now, in the general direction towards where you presume the village is. Even with your leather overcoat buttoned all the way up, you are shivering lightly from time to time while striding through the snow that covers the ground.
>What’s worse, the sky has already darkened enough and it’s getting difficult to orientate.
>Now that you think about it, you were real lucky to survive your forced landing with only a few scratches and cuts.
>Your biplane, on the other hand, wasn’t.
>You had to leave your beloved Sopwith behind, wings and fuselage dented in numerous places, the tail nearly torn apart after crashing against a tree’s trunk and the propeller broken beyond repair. It pained you to see it in such a bad shape, but that was to be expected after landing in the middle of a goddamn forest.
>After recovering from the impression, you climbed one of the highest trees around and scouted the horizon until you located the columns of smoke, rising a bit far away from your current position.
>So you set for the tiny village, in hopes of getting some help from the locals.
>You hope they have a telephone, that way you could contact Saint-Omer quarter’s in no time. If they could give you a mechanic or help you pull your plane out of the forest, it would be incredible. But you feel that might be a little difficult, if not impossible, to get.
>Also, just in case you’re in Belgium and you’re in for a nasty encounter with some Germans, your semiautomatic Webley Mk1. hangs by your side.
>Apart from the pistol and a few magazines, you aren’t carrying much more.
>Your wallet, containing a few pounds and francs.
>A small, cheap pocket watch.
>Some photographs of you and your friends in squadron 29.
>And that’s all.
>No need to pack lots of things when you’re on pilot duty, really.
>You carry on with your march, now walking through a less dense area of the forest when…
>…wait, are those…?
>Oh, yes, they are.
>Some lights shine and twinkle in the distance through the tree cover. The village must be nearer than you previously thought.
>Yes, finally!
>You continue walking in much higher spirits than before.
 
 
>A good distance away from a certain human strolling in the woods, and several hundred feet up in the air, four really nervous pegasi guards wait in a meetings chamber, with almost two dozen of their superiors staring down at them from their high cloud-made seats.
>The upper ranks in the Military of the Pegasi Junta are fairly represented with these mares and stallions. There’re some generals, a couple corporals and even one sub-commander, all of them sporting looks of outright indignation, incredulity and disbelief.
>They are now divided between muttering to themselves and quietly discussing with their colleagues.
>”It is a joke, it is clearly a joke”
>”It has to be. Have you ever…?”
>”Flying minotaurs… Can you even imagine that?”
>”Dragons… in green armor?”
>”Unicorns at…”
>”I had heard tales of some Hooflite recruits sleeping and drinking on their guard duty, but this takes the cake!”, one of them finally speaks aloud, glaring at the four assembled guardsp0nies.
>Nightgale, the unfortunate who picked up the shortest straw and now stays at the front of the group, cowers.
>”Sir, if only I-”, he blurts.
>”Silence, guard!”, the same officer from before harshly interrupts him, “We’ve heard enough from you! It pains me to see what has befallen the Hooflite Guard, seeing what kind of “soldiers” they welcome amongst their ranks now”
>”Well said, corporal Steelwind! A shame indeed!”
>”With all due respect, sir-”
>”I said SILENCE, son! Are you disobeying direct orders from me now?!”
>”Drunkenness, sleeping on guard duty, insubordination… my, my, you truly are a piece of work, guard”
>”What should we do with this one, sub-commander Darkshine?”
>”Ummm…let, me think…”
>Nightgale is now sweating profusely under his armor, his eyes fixed on the ground and his legs shaking.
>”And YOU, yes, the three of you…don’t you think you can escape from this”, the one referred to as Darkshine says to the other three guards. Cloudtamer, Skyranger and Thunderslide, who were trying to sneak quietly out of the chamber, freeze on their tracks midway to the entrance. The officer speaks again, “you will remain here while we discuss the terms of your punishment. It shall be exemplary enough so nop0ny can even think of pulling something as offensive and disgusting like this again”
>”See, jerk!” , Cloudtamer hisses under his breath to Thunderslide next to him, “We told you nop0ny would believe us!”
>”And now we’re in this mess because of you!”, Skyranger follows in the same poisonous tone.
>”Wait, dudes, calm down…everything’s going to be-”
>”Wrong! Very wrong!”
>”Calm down, we still can get the commander to listen and-”
>”You want Hurricane to know about this? Are you insane?”
>The chamber doors open quietly.
>The three guards don’t notice the discussion between the high-ranking officers ends up abruptly, so lost they are in their own.
>”With these guys, we will end up in the joint for a few weeks at worst, or, if we have some luck, we’ll just be sent to a less pleasant guard post”
>”On the other hand, I can see bad things coming if Hurricane learns about this”
>”If I learn about what?” , a stern voice asks, just behind Cloudtamer. The three guards freeze in fear and turn their heads, slowly, to confront the serious mask of Commander Hurricane’s face.
>A few seconds pass before they regain their composure enough to strike a salute at the Supreme Ruler of the Pegasi Junta.
>”Rest, guards”
>The trio of guards lower their hooves once more and the commander passes by then. She then takes out the ornamented crested helmet, and lets out her luxurious mane before addressing the members of the improvised military council.  
>”What’s all this about?”
>”Commander”, the officer named Steelwind salutes before continuing, “we were just addressing some unimportant matters here. Nothing you’d want to keep your hooves-“
>”Do unimportant matters require the presence of so many high-ranking officials, Steelwind?”
>”It wouldn’t normally, commander, but this is the result of a… sad incident”
>”An incident, you say?”
>”Yes, with these…poor excuses of guards!” ,Steelwind accusingly points at the four guardsp0nies, “Their incompetence is the main reason behind this parody of a council!”
>”What did they do?”
>”I suggest it’d best if they tell you themselves… Guard Nightgale! Tell Commander Hurricane what you told us!”
>The guard shivers and quietly whimpers when the eyes of the commander lock with his. He tries to speak, but no sound leaves his mouth.
>”What are you waiting for, imbecile?! The commander is waiting for your explanation!”
>Nightgale makes a last attempt at speaking before beginning to faint. Commander Hurricane gaze doesn’t change the slightest as Thunderslide rushes to Nightgale’s side and supports him with his own body. Cloudtamer and Skyranger walk up to them, feeling the glares of all the high ranking officers on them.
>”If I may speak, comman-”
>”You weren’t given any permission to speak, you-!”
>”It’s alright, Darkshine”, Hurricane cuts her off, “Your name, guard?”
>”Thunderslide, my liege”
>”You may speak, Thunderslide, as your companion doesn’t seem…”, Hurricane’s eyes pass over the limp form of Nightgale being taken apart by his two companions, “…much able to do so. You must have had a rough day”
>”…I guess you could say so, commander”
>”Any reasons for it?”
>”Well, you see…”
>The awkward explanation goes on for like five minutes, all the time Thunderslide narrating and Hurricane listening, ignoring her officers’ comments like “This is a waste of time!”, “It’s ridiculous” and, of course, “Flying without beating its wings, ha, that’s a good one!”
>When it ends, Hurricane stares down at Thunderslide for a few moments, her magenta eyes locked with the guard’s. The guard returns the stare, fearless. He knows he’s telling the truth, after all.
>”Was that all you saw, guard?”
>”It was, commander”
>More moments of silence and staring.
>”So… what’re we doing with them, commander?”, Darkshine asks, “Shall I suggest being sent to-?”
>”Well done, guard Thunderslide”, Hurricane says, completely ignoring the officer’s remark, “You and your fellow guardsp0nies have done a great service to the Junta”
>Murmurs of disbelief and wariness echo in the chamber, only to be silenced by Hurricane imperiously rising his right hoof.
>”Where was this “thing” headed for the last time you saw it?”
>”Commander, you can’t possibly believe what these-“, Steelwind interjects.
>”Silence”
>”But-“
>The glare Steelwind is receiving would be enough to freeze ice itself.
>”I believe it was heading south-west, commander”, Thunderslide says after thinking for a while.
>”Towards the Unicorn’s Princedom, uh? Any posts or villages around where we can observe from?”
>”…the village of Trottingheim is the nearest, my liege…”, a recovered Nightgale timidly replies, “…it is a frontier village. The unicorns don’t have any presence there. It’s mainly griffins and some earth p0nies”
>”Excellent”, the commander smiles, “Guards, you are dismissed for now. Go rest to the barracks and wait for my orders there”
>The four guards salute before taking leave, still not believing their luck, as the military officers of the Junta are left dumbfounded, silently wondering if Commander Hurricane has gone completely mad.  
 
 
 
>You are Anonymous.
>And, boy does that village look weird.
>There’re no lampposts on the main street, not even one in what appears to be the main square.
>The houses, also, are a bit odd. Stone walls and wooden roofs, some of them even covered in… straw?
>You haven’t seen any telegraph or telephone posts either.
>You pass by some farming lands as you continue your advance, but no there’s no sight of tractors, just old wooden plows stuck in the dirt.
>The whole place seems a bit backwards...like, Middle Age-backwards.
>But there’s some light and noise coming from one big building at one end of the village, so there you go, hoping to finally know where you are.
>On the way there, you find small wooden sign, but when you go to read it under the light of the moon, you find out it’s not only written in another language, but in an entirely different alphabet than the one you are used to.
>What.
>You shake your head and go on.
>The weirdness of this day is starting to annoy you.
>Just when you are entering the main street of the village and striding between houses, their windows and door tight shut, a silhouette appears from one darkened alley, walking on four little legs.
>Your mind goes racing to the horses you thought you saw in the sky a while ago, before calming down.
>It’s just a p0ny. Some farmer must have let the stable doors opened, you guess. Nothing to worry about.
>You continue walking until a grave male voice stops you.
>”Halt! Who goes there?”
”… uh… What?”
>You look around and see no one.
>Who the hell is talking?
>A light flashes a few meters away from you.
>When you turn around, you see a lit lamp hanging in the air, held by…the…pony’s hoof?
>You suddenly take notice of the creature’s big, bulging eyes, their expressive and colored pupils fixed on you. Its mane, its fur, the colors of both…it’s like the pegasus you saw, all over again… only without the wings.
>Wasn’t it a dream or a hallucination?
>Perhaps it’s a really strange p0ny breed… yeah, you’re going with that. It’s gotta be that, right?
>The same grave voice interrupts you again. Much to your amazement, the voice comes from where the strange p0ny stands. More concretely, from its mouth.
>”Who are you? What is your business in Trottingheim?”
”…Tro…ttingheim”, you manage to stammer, your brain busy with laughing at the bad pun that this village’s name is while trying to cope with the absurdity of this situation.
>”Yes, Trottingheim, that’s the name of this town. Now, who are you and why are you here?”
>You don’t give the p0ny any answer, your brain currently off-line.
>”Er… you all right there, fellow?”, the p0ny says while giving you a strange look, “You look sick. Are you lost or something?”
>Lost… The word manages to snap you out of your current state of mind. You remember… yes, you’re lost… you need help. You manage to say, as naturally as you can:
“Yes, I’m a… bit lost here. And I was wondering if…”, you point to the big building with the lights on. The pony follows your finger’s direction.
>”Ah, the inn! Yes, they might help you out there. I wish I could, but I’m on guard duty”, the p0ny taps his side and you notice a sheathed sword strapped with some leather bands to it, “Gotta keep an eye around here, you know”
“Aha…”
>”Are you some sort of minotaur?”
“…eh… what?“
>”I’ll take that as a no, then. Anyways, you aren’t here to cause trouble, are you, outsider?” , the p0ny eyes you warily.
“No! Err…I mean, not at all… I want some information, that’s all”
>”Fine with me then”, the p0ny smiles, “have a pleasant stay in Trottingheim, outsider”
>You nod weakly before resuming your walk.
>All the way up to the inn, you keep asking yourself the same inevitable questions.
>Did you just speak to a p0ny?
>How was the p0ny holding that lamp?
>How could a p0ny be a guard’s village?
>Why was it speaking in perfect English?
>Thousands of explanations for the event literally fill your mind, each one exponentially more absurd than the last. Half way to the inn, however, you choose the most logical one.
>Shell shock.
>It happened from time to time to some of the soldiers in the trenches. The artillery, the constant machine-gun rattle, bombs falling, bombs exploding, bombs blowing your pals to pieces before your very eyes…
>Not everyone can take it.
>And so, they suffer from shell shock.
>And now that you think about it…
>The visions! The delirium! Talking to a p0ny!
>That’s it! How can’t you have noticed before?
>You had quite the stressful day after all. It shouldn’t be a surprise this is happening.
>It’s shell shock. Definitely, it has to be.
>Having realized the cause of your temporary madness and that every weird thing you’ve experienced through this day was nothing more than an elaborate dream, you whistle happily as you reach the inn’s entrance and push a wooden door open.
>However, the moment you enter the building and your eyes adjust to the sudden light, you are greeted with a vision that surpasses all of this day’s surprises so far.
>The inn is spacey, well-lit and provided with dozens of wooden tables and chairs where patrons are enjoying their drinks and talking loudly amongst themselves.
>A fire roars in a chimney not far away.
>Familiar, welcoming, fairly comfortable place, aside from the fact that all the patrons appear to be directly taken out of a fairy tale.
>There are p0nies-yes, p0nies!-sited down all over the place, grabbing jars and glasses, holding them with their hooves in ways you don’t want to know.
>You also notice what at first sight look like giant eagles, but turn into something else when you see paws and lion tails hanging from their seats.
>Griffins?
>There are also some gigantic figures gathered in the dense shadows at the far side of the place, away from all the other patrons. You don’t see much of them, but you make out the silhouettes of bovine-like heads crowned by two horns.
>You remember the word the guard from your vision-because it was a vision, right?- used before.
>Minotaurs…
>Ok, the shell shock must have hit you bad.
>Real bad.
>You’ve heard of people going insane, but this beats all the tales by a long way. This can’t be real. It is dream, is it? You must be in a coma or something like that to think about this, and see all of this cr-
>”Hey, you!”
>The sudden noise snaps you out of it. Like a zombie, you turn on your heels to see that one of the eagles/griffins/whatever has turned its head and is glaring at you with its big avian eyes.
>”You mind closing the door, pal?! It’s getting cold in here!”
“… y… yeah”
>You close the door and take a few steps into the place, finally realizing that nearly all of the creatures are looking at you. The silence is overwhelming for a few moments before they start talking amongst themselves.
>As for you, you are beginning to think it’d be best to give up finding anymore crazy explanations for this.
>Whatever the reason behind all of it, there’s little you can do. If this is shell shock trauma or you’re in a coma, you will wake up when ready, no point in trying to force it.
>And if this is a dream, might as well try to enjoy it.
>But if this is no dream and everything is real, then…
>Before you can start wondering anymore, you spot the bar, where a tan-colored p0ny is busy tending to some clients.
>You make your way slowly amongst the sea of tables and chairs, feeling the stares of the locals on you all the time. You also manage to hear some words and phrases on the way…
>”Look at that!”
>”Those weird clothes…”
>”What do you think that is?”
>”Whatever it is, it must be a noble for sure…look at all the clothes it’s wearing!”
>”A noble, here?”
>The only ones who don’t seem to talk much about your entrance are the bulking minotaurs near the far wall. However, their heads move in unison while following your advance towards the bar.
>The p0ny there looks at you with a mix of strangeness and amazement before composing itself. Then, it speaks in a mature woman’s voice.
>”Yes, how might I help you, Lord…. ?”
“Anonymous…”, you blurt out, “My name is Anonymous”
>”Anonymous, right… that’s quite the name, milord”
“I am told that a lot, yeah” , you chuckle. Then you notice something, “Wait, what is with this “milord” thing?”
>”Well, Lo-, Anonymous, the clothes you wear… they cover all of your body, so you must be very rich to pay for them”
>You suddenly realize that none of the creatures wear any real clothes, just a few ornaments in the case of the griffins, or hooded capes in the p0nies’.
“Well, I am not a Lord… and these clothes are simply a uniform, I need them for my job as a pilot”
>”Pilot…?”, the p0ny repeats the word in wonder, “What’s a pilot?”
“A pilot is…well, you know,… I am sent to fly on missions along the West-“
>”Wait!”, the p0ny seems suddenly startled and surprised. A pair of griffins at your back also seem interested in your conversation, “You said you fly? But you don’t have any wings? Or are they hidden under your clothes?”
“Wings…? No, I don’t have any wings”, the p0ny stares at you in amazement, as do the two griffins, who are starting to call the other patrons over and telling them to give ear, “I usually fly in my plane which is… well, anyways, I’ll explain later…”
>You came here to ask for help and indications, not to tell the history of your life to some impossible creature. It’s time to check if this Fantastic Land sort-of exists within the real world, or at least knows a bit about it.
“I’m currently lost and I was wondering if I could ask you for any indications”
>”Oh… certainly, Anonymous!” , the bartender says, flashing a smile.
“Thanks a lot. Where is the nearest outpost, ma’am?”
>”I believe it’s the Hooften outpost you’re looking for”, she replies after thinking for an instant.
>Hooften… you don’t remember any base or post with that name. Wait, perhaps it’s a German outpost!
>You lean in, much to the surprise of the bartender, and whisper.
”Excuse, ma’am, but how many boches are in there?”
>”Ex-excuse me?
“Boches, you know… The Germans?”
>”I beg your pardon? The Hooften outpost is part of the Unicorn’s Princedom. What are these “Germans” you’re talking about?”
>She doesn’t know what a German is. Oh, and she also said something about a Unicorn Kingdom? This is just messed up.
“Please, ma’am, tell me, and I mean it seriously… tell me we’re in Belgium”
>”Belgium? I’ve never heard of…  Is it that the name of the land you come from, sir?”
>You’re starting to worry, and the patrons at your back notice it as well as the bartender. A group of griffins silently stands from their table and begin to walk towards you.
“No-no… I come from the United Kingdom”, you wait for the bartender to recognize the name, but the p0ny just blinks
“Beyond the Channel?”
>Nothing.
“Liverpool? London? Birmingham? Does that ring any bells?”, you ask desperately.
>”You must be from a very far away land, sir…”, the p0ny finally says.
“Yeah… I think so”, you begin thinking that, perhaps you’re in another world.
>”Hey, you heard it boys!”, a loud voice says at your back, “He isn’t from around here!”
>You turn in time to see a group of five griffins standing a few meters from the bar, all of them encircling you and bearing amused expressions. The rest of the patrons, you realize, are slowly backing away from the griffins’ position, hard wood tables and chairs groaning as they are moved.
>The griffin in the center, clad in a black cape, speaks again, twisting its beak in what appears to be a wide grin.
>”So… Anonymous, was it? Perhaps this p0ny here hasn’t told you, but there’s a tax that all newcomers to Trottingheim must pay”
“A tax? I don’t remember hearing anything about a tax”
>”Oh, you know, some p0nies can be so forgettable when talking”, he laughs, “Anyways, I suppose you have money, being an important guy as you seem to be”
“Look, Mr.…”
>”Leopold is the name, Anonymous. And, if you do have money, I suggest you pay me and my boys thirty golden pieces”
>Golden pieces, he says? What the heck?
>”If you don’t have any money, we’re more than willing to accept other forms of payment. I suppose that strange cloak of yours would look well on me, don’t you think, boys?”
>The other griffins nod in agreement, and their grins expand. You look around for help, but none of the patrons seem too willing to give any outsider a hand (a hoof? a claw?) in dealing with what most likely are the local thug boys.
>Fortunately, the bartender seems to be another kind of p0ny.
>”You, Leopold, stay away from him. This is a decent house!”
>”Stay out of this, p0ny, and nobody will get hurt”
>”I’ll call the guard!”
>The griffins laugh at the bartender’s words.
>”Ah, that won’t be a problem at all”, Leopold says with a triumphant grin, “Good old Icepeak and me are going half and half. That’s precisely why he allowed this outsider into the village in the first place”
>The guard … the fucker… you’re starting to get real angry.
>This situation seems the perfect excuse to get a release from all this day’s weirdness, after all. Leopold speaks again.
>”So, you’re going to make the right decision and pay…or are we going to have to take you down? Are you gonna fight… or perhaps you’ll fly away with those imaginary wings of yours?”
>Both he and the other griffins share a laugh at that last joke. The other patrons, p0nies and griffins alike, join too, but their laughs are forced and don’t sound very convincing.
>You glare at him.
“I won’t fly away, Leopold, there’s no need to”
>”You’re paying? I knew you were smart”
“No”
>”Oh, you don’t have the money. Don’t worry, as I said, we c-“
“No, Leopold, you don’t understand. I’m not paying at all, not with any money I have, neither with my clothes”
>Everybody gasps at your words. The whole place now seems full of hanging jaws/beaks and eyes wide open in surprise. You even hear some sort of surprised grunt coming from the minotaurs at the back.
>As for Leopold and his minions, the grins they were sporting on their beaks vanish. As one, all the griffins pull, seemingly out of nowhere, several clubs and daggers.
>”Well, Anonymous”, Leopold says, while balancing a stylized blade between its clawed fingers, “looks like somebody has to be put in his place. Boys, do take care of this one”
>His four minions begin to slowly advance towards you, their heads low, like lions stalking its prey.
>The griffins barely reach your chest, but they seem confident in their numbers.
>Unfortunately for them, numbers won’t count here at all.
>You pull your Webley gun out of its holster and point it at the griffins.
>The four griffins stop on their tracks and look at your firearm with great curiosity and strangeness. Perhaps they’ve never seen one. They look indecisive and turn to their leader for guidance.
>Leopold observes the pistol for a few moments before snorting.
>”Do you think menacing us with that little chunk of metal you’ll gain anything, Anonymous?”
>”Boss, we don’t know what that is… perhaps…”
>”Nonsense… this noble is trying to scare you like fledglings away from the nest”
>”But what if-?”
>”Nonsense, I said!”
“Ma’am”, you whisper to the barp0ny at your back while the griffins talk amongst themselves, “I truly apologize for anything that might happen from now on”
>Leopold is finishing his discussion with his men and, as if making apparent that everything is under control, he turns to grab a beer jar from one of the nearest tables.
>You wait until its claws encircle the jar.
>You cock your pistol and aim carefully.
“Ok, birdie, you asked for it!”, you hiss before pulling the trigger.
>The ceramic jar explodes in the griffins’ claw, staining its plumage with beer.
>Much to your satisfaction, Leopold lets out a pained screech and raises his now bloodied right talon.
>Quite predictably, everybody gasps at the sudden event, some of them releasing cries and screeches of fear.
>But you have the feel a shot won’t be enough to scare these birds out of here.
>Also, you’re mad.
>The griffins turn to see the smoking barrel of your gun, but one of them turns too slowly.
>So you reinforce the lesson you’re giving them by driving your fist down on the creature’s head.
>The griffin drops to the floor, his body gone completely limp.
>His companions look ready to react, but freeze when your gun is pointed at them, then drop their weapons shaking in fear.
>Meanwhile, Leopold is cradling his wounded claw while glaring with intense hatred at you.
>”You… you… disgusting creatu-“, he spits and trembles with barely controlled fury.
“Beat it, Birdboy”
>”How dare you order me around?!”
“I said beat it”, you point the gun at him, “Or the next will go right through your brains”
>There are a few moments of silent tension before the five griffins move quickly, two of them carrying their beaten comrade between them while the last one helps his wounded leader out of the inn. All the while, Leopold looks at you, his eyes shining with rage, silently promising vengeance.
>As for the other three griffins, they look fearful, but also relieved to abandon the place.
 
 
>Behind all of the scared patrons, a group of minotaurs is quietly thinking about what they have just seen.
>One of them turns to their companions and whispers.
>”He’s good, isn’t him?”
>”He is, yes. He took that griffin down with only one punch”, one next to him replies.
>”What do you think that thing was? There was this light and then that Leopold bastard had his claw all fucked up!”
>”Looks like magic to me”, one interjects.
>”Yeah, I say it’s magic, too…”, another nods sagely, before turning around, “What do you think about this, boss?”
>A really large figure emerges from the shadows. A bronze nose-ring shines under two dark eyes that lock on the outsider’s figure. Then, a grave and old-sounding voice speaks.
>”Boys, I don’t know if it’s magic or not and, honestly, I don’t give a shit about it”, the minotaur snorts, “He’s strong and resourceful enough. What I’d like to know is if the guy is the right one for the job”
>”Wait, boss… you mean…”
>”Yes, I mean the job”
>”…”
>”But how are we going to get him do it?”
>”Yeah, how will he help us?”
>”Don’t worry about that. He certainly isn’t from around here and sure is lost. And after what he did to Leopold and his boys, I bet the griffin will wait for him to drop the guard and slit his throat at the slightest opportunity”
>There’s a few moments of silence.
>”Don’t you get it, boys? Now, he needs us”
>”Does he really?”
>”Indeed, boys. Just because he hasn’t realized yet, doesn’t mean that it isn’t true”
>Several horned heads grunt in approval and nod in complete agreement.
>”Yeah, so then we…”
>”We offer him our help when dealing with Leopold and finding his way back to wherever he comes from… THEN, he gives us a hand with the job”
>Even in the pitch black darkness, everyone can make out the glint of several ferocious smiles.
 
 
 
Meanwhile, three hundred miles or so away from Trottingheim…
 
>…shit, what was that?
>What happened?
>You were doing fine, just trying to take down one of the Britons and then that incompetent of Ludwig left himself get hit, leaving you alone to chase down the enemies of the Fatherland.
>And then you committed a mistake that would have ashamed even a rookie.
>Anyways, you almost had the bastard when the second one you forgot about caught you by the tail.
>You tried to roll out of the action and then…what?
>Ah, right. The fire, the smoke…how could you forget?
>Then why are you alive, safe and sound?
>And why it’s so cold around here?
>This makes no sense.
>You open your eyes and find yourself still inside your cockpit.
>When you see the front of your plane, your surprise widens.
>It’s true, the metal frame of your engine appears blackened, the yellow paint around the plane’s nose scrapped and wasted, burnt away like the rest of the front.
>But, from what you remember about your last moments before becoming unconscious, the damage should be worse, far worse.  
>Oh, well. Luck favors you, for once, and gives you another chance to continue fighting for the Fatherland. God must really be on your side.
>Now, if only you can get your Fokker up in the air again.
>Now that you wonder…where in the world are you?
>You look around and see yourself in the middle of a snowed clear, some rubble and piles of earth and snow scattered all around the area. Trees pop at a certain distance and you wish you could see more, but a dense white fog impedes your vision.
>Snow and fog? In August?
>It doesn’t make any sense.
>Where could you-?
>You’ve got to focus! Get your priorities right!
>Check plane problems now, deal with your location issue lately.
>Efficiency is of utmost importance here!
>You’ll have to find out later where you are.
>You unstrap your seat belt and go check how much damage has your beloved triplane really sustained. You hop out of the cockpit and land safely on the ground.
>The landing gear, just like the fuselage in the underside of the plane, is in really bad shape, wheels half-torn out of their place and a nearly broken axis. You hope you get a mechanic soon, if there’s any around here.
>The wings appear almost intact, except for a weird bending on the far right side and some snow and bullet holes.
>The engine, on the other hand…it pains you when you see the real extent of the damage.
>Half of it is burnt out, its internal gears cogged in between piles of charred and molten metal. As for the fuel conducts, all holed up, some of the precious liquid spilled on the ground and the other previously lost in the air.
>You were too optimistic to hope you can get up in the air with ease.
>You’re gonna need a really good mechanic.
>You sigh and walk to the side of the Fokker. Then you clear some of the snow that’s covering the fuselage to reveal the Iron Cross.
>You’re lost on an unknown part of Belgium, or perhaps France, where the skies are covered, and there’s fog and snow in August for some reason. You plane is wrecked, also.
>What do, what do?
>Think, think, think…
>”Hey, I think it fell down there!”
>The sudden voice startles you to no end. But, before you can recover from your surprise, another answers.
>”I saw it too!”
>”Come on, this way! We must be really close!”
>”Prepare yourselves! It could be dangerous!”
>The chorus of voices, male and female, is getting closer now.
>What are they speaking in? The language, it sounds like… English?
>Oh, not the Britons again…or perhaps they are Americans. You cannot tell. The voices have some weird accent you can’t seem to locate.
>But this is not the time to deal with linguistics.
>You level your hand to your waist and grab hold of your reliable Mauser revolver.
>You look back at the Iron Cross and inhale deeply. Time to show your unrelenting love for the Fatherland.
>You cock the hammer of your Mauser and point the weapon at the direction where the voices are coming from.
>”Did you see it?”
>”It looked like a comet!”
>”Comets don’t fall from the sky!”
>”It was a meteorite, then?”
>Along with the voices, you hear the sound of hooves taping on the ground and paving through the snow.
>Are you dealing with Cavalry here? Are the English still using that kind of troops?
>Doesn’t matter.
>It’s not your business what kind of units your enemies bring to battle.
>Luckily, you’re an educated man and, as so, versed enough in the language of the Anglo-Saxons. So you ready yourself and shout, in your best English.
”Kome here if dare, British and American dogs!  For here stants zee most loyal pilot in all of zee Luftstreitkräfte!”
>Kaiser Wilhelm would be proud of you.
>The voices stop for a moment, before resuming again.
>”Did you hear that?”
>”What in the world was that?”
>”Who‘s there?”
>”Show yourself!”
>”That weird accent…”
>”It sounded like a griffin, didn’t it?”
>What? Are these soldiers stupid? What are they mumbling about now? Griffins?
>This is getting ridiculous!
“Shtop viith your games and show yourselfes!”
>The sounds of hooves come closer and closer, and then, one… no, two… perhaps four or six small silhouettes appear amidst the dense fog.  
>That doesn’t look like a horse…it’s not big enough…
>P0nies, perhaps?
>Then, one by one, a group of beasts appears and enters the clear.
>Really little p0nies, with huge eyes and strangely shaped heads, their furs brightly colored. Some of them wear some sort of armor on them, the others have hooded garments on them. You also notice that all of the beasts have what appears to be a bony protuberance (a horn of sorts?), located on their foreheads.
>You don’t know much about equines, but you’re sure even the most renowned experts in the field would have trouble classifying these.
>What are the Entente scientists doing? Cross-breeding p0nies with rhinos to create abominations? Perhaps to emulate the unicorns from the legends?
>Typical from them.
>And speaking of them… we have the mounts here, but where are the riders?
>You are getting tired of these stupid soldiers, of their domesticated mutant p0nies and their antics. This is no way of getting an honorable death in the service of the Fatherland.
“Vhere are you?! Show yourselfes, dogs!”
>A few seconds pass before you get an answer.
>”…umm…we’re not dogs and we’re right here, minotaur”
>You look around, hoping to see shadows lurking behind the trees, while wondering if the last word you heard was “minotaur”.
>First babbling about griffins, now about minotaurs… these British/American soldiers must be completely mad.
>”Over HERE”, the voice from before calls you again. This time, you notice that it sounds closer than you previously thought.
>For a moment, you return your attention to the semicircle of p0nies that stands before you and notice the looks they’re giving you with those big eyes of them.
>You haven’t seen many horses, or p0nies, during your life, but you don’t remember them as being able to stare with such intensity. It’s almost as if they were actually…observing you?
>Then one of the weird p0nies moves its mouth in a way no equine’s is supposed to move and the words-oh, yes, words!-leave its mouth.  
>”Who are you? You better start speaking or…”
>The others, much to your dismay, start speaking too. Is this a dream? Perhaps you’re delirious or something…
>”It doesn’t look much like a minotaur. Look at him, it’s all furless!”
>”Where are his horns?”
>”What kind of clothes are those?”
>”Hey, look at that thing behind him!”
>”It’s what fell from the sky!”
>”It’s like a metal bird!”
>”But birds don’t have wings on their heads!”
>”Or six wings!”
>Ok, this is now like living in one of Baron Munchausen’s stories, only that this feels real…very real.
>Just when the siren call of madness starts to ring in your head, the practical part of your mind comes to save the day.
>Focus, man! Get your priorities right!
>Your plane first! Weirdness later!
>These creatures seem intelligent enough. Perhaps you can reason with them and get some help.
“Eh….greetinks, my quadruped friends”, you manage to say.
>Your declaration is received with what you suppose are mixed looks of incredulity and strangeness.
“Fear from me not, for Ich am your friend” , you add, lowering your Mauser and smiling in a conciliating manner.
>”For the last time, minotaur!”, one of the p0nies in armor says, lowering his head and pointing its horn at you, “Who are you?!”
“Not a minotaur, Herr P0ny. Ich’s merely a man, lost in zees land. Zee name is Namenlos Von Anonym”, you bow lightly, “att your service”