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This piece has had its ups and downs, but I think it's finally presentable: The Iron Saddle

Author's Notes The Iron Saddle Diomedes “To be sure, it’s not the typical interview.” Captain Fletcher gently set his empty pint glass down upon the wooden booth table as he spoke, nudging at it with his magic until it slowly wobbled and worked its way out of the milky pool of light cast by the faerie lantern above. The strikingly blue unicorn eyed the ruddy pegasus stallion across the table with a mixture of quiet curiosity and healthy suspicion. Astutely aware of his observer, the older stallion merely sipped his drink, a distinct aura of smug nonchalance—outright arrogance even—subtly coloring his demeanor. “I expected a more formal setting,” the Pegasus said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were taking her out on a date.” His salt and pepper mane and subtle wrinkles reflected his age, but his frame suggested much tougher military service than he currently occupied. The smooth solidity of his movements gave ample indication of his alertness and vitality. Old he was, but over the hill he was not. “I keep my personal and my professional life very much separate, Colonel Ironwing,” Fletcher said flatly, turning his nose slightly at the implied snideness of the Colonel’s remark. “Furthermore, I’m the one conducting the interview. You’re just the babysitter.” Fletcher glanced out the window as he spoke, idly watching the fluffy white flakes fall outside. The windowpanes were frosted over with condensation, blurring the already ethereal yellow glow of the gas lamps in the streets with crystalline iridescence. The unicorn twirled his empty pint glass with the soft violet glow of his magic, mindful of the chill outside. As if to underscore the thought, the aetheric tendrils reached out, gently adjusting the lay of Fletcher’s ushanka, scarf, and topcoat on the rack at their booth as they dried from their prior excursion in the snow. “If by babysitter, you mean conscience, then yes, very much so,” Colonel Aristotle Ironwing replied without missing a beat. “Just remember that OPCENT takes accountability very seriously.” “Then OPCENT needs to talk to the REIN spooks more often.” “Just keeping you on your hooves, Captain,” the Colonel said, taking a sip of his drink before continuing. Fletcher bristled at both his detached indifference and the foul smell of Griffon liquor in the Colonel’s glass. “But I do insist that you just call me Aristotle. I’ve been out of the Army several years running.” “Yes, of course,” the unicorn said, waving a hoof dismissively. “You told me on the airship here. But old habits die hard. It’s not every day I meet a full-bird.” “Former full-bird,” the Colonel chuckled. “You know, Fletcher, you remind me a lot of my son Diomedes. He never hesitates to remind me that I’m over the hill. Of course, I never hesitate to show him that I’m not.” Fletcher shook his head. It was hopeless. The old warhorse talked in circles. He was arguably more arrogant than Fletcher, but there was no denying that his wit was as sharp as ever. As much as Fletcher hated having an OPCENT watchdog looking over his shoulder, he was certain that Aristotle’s skills set might become useful later. But for now, having a snarky, wisecracking observer was going to be quite the thorn in his side. “If you’re going to keep this up, I’m going to be another drink,” Fletcher tossed over his shoulder as he departed the booth for the bar. The Iron Saddle Tavern was less a tavern and more a cozy hideaway for the middle-class citizens of Stalliongrad’s Island District. Atypical of establishments of its kind, the interior was spacious and airy. Private booths, tables, and sitting areas were illuminated by soft lightning divided by virtual cordons of shadow. The usual miasma of tobacco smoke was strangely absent, which was a cause for shock to many a working-stallion on his way up the corporate ladder. A large fireplace with stone mantle adorned with Matroyshka dolls, wool ushankas, and miniature painted pewter replicas of Ostrov’s multicolor onion-dome spires stood in the center of the great room, warming the entire hall with its glow. Though a distinct, smokey pungency lingered in the hall, any hazardous smoke was directed up and away from the sitting area by iron ductwork. The bar itself was set by a standard hardwood counter, polished and varnished to a sheen, but still showing plenty of nicks and dings from the wear of biersteins, shot glasses, tumblers, eating ware, and less than sober patrons’ hooves. Row upon row of liquors and flavorings lined the back wall of the bar, sporting fare from as far away as Aquellia and Unyasi. Less harsh spirits occupied their own rack in the corner, housing dandelion wine from Solstice Heights and Garden Gait’s famous Riesling, as well as more arcane brews from Canterlot proper. But while the foreign liquors were plentiful, the local fare took center stage: a poster for Stallianoya, the finest in all Stalliongrad, fit for a princess but strong enough for the working-stallion, so the slogan went. A smattering of half-empty bottles labeled with less prominent brands peppered the center stand. Finally, the taps with faded labels running to kegs of various local and imported brews occupied the center of the counter, standing watch over patrons eager for some time off. All of this passed quietly under Fletcher’s watchful eye as he slid onto one of the cushions at the counter and idly tapped his hoof on the counter. The bar was run by a grizzled-looking hippogriff who tended to patrons’ requests with speed, efficacy, and a certain elan that could only come from a native Stallian well-acquainted with his drink. “Barkeep, Caballo’s and tonic, easy on the tonic,” Fletcher said, ordering his old standby of gin and tonic in the native tongue. Hearth’s Warming Eve. OPCOM Central had insisted he make the trip up to Stalliongrad on Hearth’s Warming Eve. Holiday pageantry, décor, and Stallian spirit seemed to permeate the very air, much like the falling snow outside. The captain had largely tuned out the hustle and bustle of the city, preferring instead to focus on the task he had been given. Having been trained as a marksman, focusing was his specialty. Despite this, Fletcher found it difficult to concentrate. Stalliongrad was an evocative city. Everywhere a pony went, there were sights, sounds, smells, textures, and in some venues, tastes. To a unicorn, it was even more scintillating; the very aetheric ley lines seemed different, especially in the Island District, the gleaming jewel in Stalliongrad’s crown. Further compounding the matter was time. It had been five years since his last visit. Five years since the last tour and five years since the grand game that Fletcher played had fundamentally changed. Despite the passage of time, there were still memories here—some good, some bad, all powerful. “I would recognize that terrible accent and that equally terrible choice of drink anywhere.” Fletcher smirked. The voice was immediately familiar. Speaking Common thick with the Stallian accent, the mare’s speech was husky and weathered but fully of vitality. Pink-coated with violet and teal-streaked mane and tail, Master Sergeant Novaya simultaneously oozed femininity and embodied the tough fighting spirit of the Stallian Guard. Her cutie mark, a blue gentian flower superimposed on an eight-pointed star exemplified the fusion of both to a tee. Curvy, but far from portly, Novaya was able to take her share of hardships right alongside the stallions of the VSS elite. “You haven’t changed one bit, Novaya,” Fletcher chuckled. “Nor have you, Fletcher!” the pink unicorn laughed heartily. “You don’t look a day older than you did on your last tour here!” “You flatter me, Sergeant,” Fletcher replied, plinking a few bits on the counter for his gin drink. Before he knew it, Novaya embraced him, lifting him off the cushion and squeezing him in a big bear hug as she stood. Fletcher blustered for a moment before he realized his social faux pas. The captain returned his friend’s embrace, kissing her once on each cheek as was customary for greeting close friends and family. “Have you forgotten the greetings already?” the pink unicorn laughed, slipping back into Stallian. “It’s been a while, I admit,” the captain said, sheepishly fixing his rumpled mane with a hoof as he steadied himself on the ground. “Cut me some slack.” “Only after vodka, my friend! Barmen, Stallianoya! Davai!” The two unicorns shared a laugh, with Novaya quickly chatting up the bartender as he went to retrieve a fresh bottle of vodka from the ice box—warm, friendly smalltalk; the kind that the Order team and ISU ponies all enjoyed in the tavern after a mission or drill. The barkeep worked swiftly, returning with two shot glasses, each filled to the brim with Stalliongrad’s finest spirits. “Only the finest in all Stalliongrad...” Novaya said, taking her glass from the barkeep and floating it in the air between them. “... for the finest in all Stalliongrad!” Fletcher finished the toast, knocking his glass against Novaya’s before downing his share of the local firewater. Fletcher’s eyes watered and his throat burned at the taste. Stallianoya had a harsh flavor with a shockingly smooth texture, akin to drinking a razor blade. Its pungency was that of rubbing alcohol, but thankfully with a sweeter finish owing to its peculiar distilling process. The captain hacked and hemmed at its intensity, choking on the fumes as Novaya clapped him on the back with a hoof. “You are going soft, tovarishch!” she chortled merrily in her native tongue. “Barmen! Another ro--” “Stop, stop, no!” Fletcher coughed, waving the barkeep off. “As much as I’d love to, I can’t afford to drink. I’ve a meeting in half an hour.” “A meeting?” Novaya mused, resting an elbow on the counter, propping her head up with a hoof, listening with great interest. Her entire demeanor changed, acquiring a new one akin to a school filly intent on picking up the latest gossip at the school cafeteria. “Skazhite. Tell me. I am listening.” “OPSEC,” Fletcher responded flatly. Operational Security was important. Not that ISU-143 would poach his assets, but there was comfort in keeping standard operating procedure in-- “Oh I see how it is,” Novaya laughed, pressing her nose against Fletcher’s. “It is fine, magyosha, you can tell me all about your little adventures in Stalliongrad!” Fletcher stared at Novaya for a moment, puzzled. The use of a pet name colored what Fletcher had assumed would be a conversation about their professions with a distinctly more personal tone. The shift was both jarring and perplexing. Unless-- The realization hit him like his hoof upon his face. “It’s not a date, Novaya!” The pink mare looked at him quizzically, waving her hoof motioning to the patrons around the room. “Of course it is a date! This is where you bring a mare on a date, comrade. And on Hearth’s Warming Eve, no less!” “It’s business, Novaya,” Fletcher sighed. “Canterlot wants it done yesterday.” “Business is for the barracks and the bedroom!” Fletcher sniffed at Novaya’s mock consternation and her equally jagged joke. The warm feeling in his belly had finally subsided and the cold austerity of his task had returned. Why of all times to run into her did it have to be now? Fletcher liked Novaya as a friend, but she was the embodiment of everything Stallian and sometimes—make that a lot of the time—it was not what Canterlot would call professional. “It’s an interview, Novaya,” Fletcher said, leaning in to speak with her. “Building assets. Making connections. You know how it goes.” “I am a Molot, tovarishch-kapitan,” Novaya said. “I am not of the Keepers. I leave the secrets and lies to the Strazha.” Molot, the local name for Novaya’s unit, ISU-143 of the Stallian Guard, had a fierce reputation as the fighting elite of Stalliongrad’s guard forces. Translating roughly to “sledgehammer” in common, the name was highly appropriate for a guard detachment that spent much of its time searching airships, apprehending criminals, and seizing contraband. She brings a bit of the one-four-three with her wherever she goes, Fletcher mused. But Strazha would probably hate her guts. “Canterlot does things differently, Novaya,” Fletcher said. “So it seems,” Novaya remarked quietly. The pink mare paused for a moment to drain the full shot glass that had just been placed there by the bartender. Before the bartender could move on, however, Novaya caught the hippogriff’s claw with her hoof, flatly issuing in Stallian, “Just give me the bottle.” The hippogriff nodded, going to fetch the bottle of Stallionoya while Novaya turned back to address Fletcher. “How is marefriend Cadenza then? I remember her picture made all the stallions in the One-Four-Three jealous!” Fletcher frowned, mentally facehoofing at where the conversation was going. Yes, baring your soul to a friend, especially one who you had not seen in a long time, was customary. But Cadenza’s departure was still very much an event that he preferred not to revisit. Why did Novaya have to ask now of all times? “Yes about that…” Fletcher trailed off, exaggerating the tone of disapproval in his voice and hoping that Novaya would get the hint. “Oh, no.” “It’s a long story, lemaya,” Fletcher said, doing his best to redirect the conversation. He even resorted to the local diminutive for a unicorn mare, hoping the personalization would lend weight to his words. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not here to trouble you.” “Don’t give me that, Fletcher,” Novaya said, the mock scowl returning to her voice. “You need to—” “I DON’T.” Fletcher snapped. Novaya was clearly taken aback, recoiling at the sudden increase in volume. Even above the usual chatter of the bar, Fletcher’s voice seemed to linger, drawing wary glances from the bartender and several of the patrons at nearby tables. Fletcher bruxed his teeth. This was not what he had planned, but it seemed the only way to get through Novaya’s bullishness. “I don’t need to talk about it,” he said emphatically, looking the mare dead in the eye. “Forgive me for being blunt, but Cadenza is very much a sore spot that I would prefer not to address at this time. Do I make myself clear?” “Fletcher—” Novaya started. “I thought I was dropping enough hints for you, but apparently not,” Fletcher cut her off. “Am I not making myself clear? Am I sending the wrong signals in Stallian?” Novaya did not avert her gaze as he thought she would. Instead, she merely put her hoof on his and maintained eye contact. Fletcher sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. Novaya had always been transparent. Boisterous, vocal, always wearing her heart on her saddle; it was just the way she was. It made her ideal for the one-four-three; the ponies under her command trusted her, her quarry feared her. Tetushka, the younger ones called her—Auntie Novaya. Looking back into her eyes, Fletcher could see the wounds that his piercing remarks had left. By profession, Fletcher was not a sentimental stallion. He was the bridge between the military and the spies. He guided the things that went bump in the night. An operator such as himself could not afford sentiment and silly frivolous pursuits. Yet, here he was. “I’m sorry, Novaya,” he said flatly, his ears drooping slightly, “that didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.” His apology hung in the air, suspended in space like a single wind-borne flake caught in the currents that ran through the streets of Ostrov’s forest of glass and steel. The moments stretched uncomfortably. Surely, she had heard him? Surely this would end with neither a cold shoulder nor a hoof to the face? Finally, Novaya broke the silence, drawing an ever so soft sigh of relief from Fletcher. “Listen, magyosha,” she said softly. “I am not trying to be insensitive or mean-spirited. I am just trying to cheer you up. That is what friends do, is it not?” She was right. Friends—comrades—looked out for their own. It wasn’t just the military way of doing things, it was the Equestrian way. Fletcher suppressed a frown. Had he really forgotten? Had it really taken 5 years of service with V Order for him to realize his own shortcomings? “You are always so serious, so focused,” Novaya continued. She spun Fletcher around, draping her front leg over his shoulder as she pointed with her free hoof out the nearest window. “You need to learn to enjoy yourself. This is Equestria! Look outside! It is a land of magic, a land of opportunity!” Again, Novaya was right. The fluffy flakes were not the only things dancing in plain view. The strains of a wafted gently to his ears, as couples on the floor stepped in time to strums of the balalaika and strokes of the bow on a fiddle’s strings. All around, the Hearth’s Warming Eve crowd gathered at their tables and booths, laughing, drinking, and making merry.“I know that things have happened in your life that you are not happy with, and I would be a bad friend to say that such things will never happen again,” she said, turning them back to face each other. She firmly placed both her front hooves on his shoulders. “But no matter what happens, I am always here for you. I am happy and proud to be your friend and comrade.” Novaya’s words gave Fletcher pause. On the one hoof, he was genuinely moved by her show of emotion and camaraderie. On the other, his cheeks were very obviously burning at what would have been an embarrassing display of sentimentality in other circles farther south. But this was Stalliongrad. What did the spooks in Canterlot care? Fletcher embraced Novaya. “Thanks, Novaya,” he whispered. Novaya chuckled softly before Fletcher finally released her from his embrace. “Listen, I’ll probably have a day or two to spend in Stalliongrad after I finish the interview and paperwork. We need to catch up. Five years is far too long.” “That would be wonderful, Fletcher.” Novaya said, finally cracking a smile. She nuzzled his cheek. “But for now, I go. You have business to attend to!” “Yes, business,” Fletcher echoed. “Business that involves neither the barracks nor the bedroom!” “That is the spirit, magyosha!” Novaya laughed as she slipped off the bar cushion, sweeping her remaining bottle of Stallionoya into her saddlebag while simultaneously plinking down enough bits to cover the both of their drinks. “I expect to hear from you tonight!” “Tonight?” Fletcher caught himself blustering again, but smoothed it out with a confident smirk. “Tonight it is, Novaya.” The pink unicorn winked at Fletcher before slipping away amongst the tables and the fresh patrons entering the Iron Saddle. For what seemed like an eternity, Fletcher continued to watch the door, even though he knew Novaya was long gone. He almost didn’t notice the ruddy red warhorse arriving at the bar, taking up the seat that Novaya had just vacated. “Has she melted your cold heart?” the Colonel asked with his trademark nonchalance. “Who said that only Windigos ran in my veins?” Fletcher retorted with a smug grin. “Nopony,” Aristotle chuckled. “I was just concerned that you had forgotten you were a pony before you were an instrument of the state.” “I am both, Aristotle,” Fletcher said, being careful to address the Colonel without his rank. “That is a duality that I can and must live with. I just needed a reminder of what I’m fighting to protect.” “Never forget it.” “I can assure you I won’t,” the captain replied, downing the remnants of his gin and tonic. “Now come. Verity will be here any minute. I need you back at the booth.” Nodding, Aristotle slipped away, returning to the booth with refilled pint glass, leaving Fletcher to wait for his charge alone. Business would always be business. Operations would always be operations. But behind the business, behind the operations, behind the Shroud, were ponies. Sometimes, even Fletcher needed a reminder of that, a reminder that could only come from a friend.

Novaya No matter how dark the night or how cold the winter, there is always hope. I want to be that hope to anypony who makes their home here. Name: Command Sergeant Major Novaya Sex: Female Age: Mare in her prime Species: Unicorn Coat Color: Pink (#E10586) Mane/Tail Color & Style: Purple (#521AD1) and Teal (#0F89CA) in alternating streaks. Mane is mid-length, tied back in a bun and tucked under a ushanka when on duty, though she usually lets it run rampant when off duty. Eye Color: Auric (#F1CB17) Distinguishing Marks: Two titanium earrings in her left ear. Removed for duty. Usually carries a small, wooden, bird charm tied to her topcoat or load-bearing gear. Cutie Mark: A silhouette of a blue gentian flower in blue overlaid on an 8-pointed star in purple, representing her toughness and tenacity but also her appreciation for beauty and growth in adverse conditions. Physique: Curvy, but fit. Tough and strong from military training. Origin: Stalliongrad, Chenya District. Occupation: Senior enlisted mare, Command Sergeant Major in Gamma Squadron ISU-143 Roleplay Type: Mane RP Motivation: Keep the skies and the streets clear of pirates and criminal scum. Make a difference in the world. Likes: A job well-done, straightforwardness, Stallianoya, beets, pumpkins, woodcarving, the beauty of the Frontier, the military life Dislikes: Pirates, interrupted leave, excessive bureaucracy, dishonesty or shadiness, bugs, desk work, peppermint, egotism, entitled ponies Character History Novaya is the product of three generations in the military, the only child of a Guard NCO and a Chenya schoolteacher. Her upbringing was multifaceted, often seeing the city streets with her mother but also going into the wilderness with her father when he returned home on leave. From her mother, she learned to understand her charges before making judgments and from her father, she learned to stand strong in the face of adversity-- be it the worst that nature had to throw at her or the darker side of Equestria rearing its ugly head. A young Novaya often talked with her father about cases he had dealt with during their wilderness treks. Novaya was infuriated by the depths that some ponies could sink to, but at the same time heartened by the hopeful endings that her father delivered. Even in the darkest of times, there was hope. Her father’s dedication to ensuring that the ponies under his command and under his jurisdiction had hope left an indelible impression on her that she carries to this day. An uneventful childhood ended with Novaya following the family tradition and joining the Stallian Guard, eventually being assigned to 5th Battalion. With 5th Battalion, Novaya endured both patrol work in the streets of Stalliongrad and airship rotations patrolling the frontier. Her years in the service were merely routine; her dedication and work ethic allowing her to slowly climb the enlisted ranks. Eventually she was promoted to the rank of Master Sergeant, a promotion that came with a letter authorizing her transfer to ISU-143. Going by the local name Molot, ISU-143 has a fierce reputation as the fighting elite of Stalliongrad’s guard forces. Translating roughly to “sledgehammer” in common, the name is highly appropriate for a guard detachment that spends much of its time searching airships, apprehending criminals, and seizing contraband. Their no-nonsense approach to their mission and the dynamic nature of their operations suited Novaya perfectly. She has dedicated her life to the “One-Four-Three,” always holding in her heart the desire to make a difference. Novaya’s shining moment with Molot came during Operation Storm Hammer, an anti-piracy operation centered around taking down the sky pirate known only as Skopa--the Osprey. The operation was meant to both apprehend Skopa and send a clear message to any would-be pirates that Stalliongrad would not be a haven for criminals. The mission was successful; the joint task force successfully defeated Skopa, capturing the pirate crew and mothership. Upon their return to Stalliongrad, Novaya and Fletcher, then the leader of the I Order boarding party, were hailed as heroes. Since Storm Hammer, Novaya has been promoted to Command Sergeant Sergeant Major and is the senior enlisted mare in her ISU squadron. She continues to serve Stalliongrad with the 143 and train incoming VSS recruits at Stabil Krasnyi during garrison rotations. Personality Novaya is first and foremost straightforward. Her bluntness and unwillingness to equivocate makes her an ideal NCO, but virtually excludes her from ever switching to officer track. Still, she has the respect of her command and the confidence of her KOG superiors due to her skill, tenacity, and the firm trust her charges put in her. When she is rotated back to Stabil Krasnyi to train incoming recruits, it is not uncommon to hear “Tetushka Novaya” uttered among the enlisted stallions-- Auntie Novaya. While she is far too attached to her city to be a true survivalist outdoorsmare, Novaya is able to hold her own in a survival situation. The lessons taught to her by her father during her fillyhood were not lost on her. On occasion she still makes treks into Vysokii district, camping on the peak of the Gor Zarya, where she can watch over her city from afar. Novaya treats those under her command as alternately her best friends and her finest students. Off-duty, she is loud, boisterous, and talkative, always enjoying carousing at bars or in the break room. On-duty, she is relaxed but far from lackadaisical, not always adhering to SOP, but always keeping the mission in mind. Novaya is not a micromanager. She trusts her command to accomplish the mission, even if it is not always done by the book. Novaya does not deal well with entitled high-society ponies, finding their “proper” mannerisms, sycophant tendencies, and obtuse focus on things she deems unimportant greatly irritating. After a life of being strong, self-sufficient, independent mare, Novaya feels insulted by the “upper-crust” ladies who make their living pandering to their patrons. By extension, Novaya is also wary of military bureaucrats high up the chain, as she does not trust them to fully understand the situations that the field forces encounter on patrol while they remain cozy in their heated offices. Special Forces (ISU) commanders are excepted, as Novaya sees them as already having proven themselves through service. Despite her reluctance to weave tangled social webs, Novaya has a complex relationship with Captain Fletcher of the Honor Guard. They grew close during their service together during Operation Storm Hammer and have kept contact on and off since Cadenza’s departure. Novaya finds Fletcher’s opacity insufferable at times. Likewise, Fletcher finds Novaya’s forthright manner and bluntness abrasive, especially after his transfer to V Order. Still, it is apparent that each cares deeply for the other, even if they have very convoluted ways of showing it. Novaya carves small wooden sculptures in her spare time, most of them being avian-themed. Spellbook Combat Spells Brightlance. Precise, short-ranged, high-intensity luminous burst of aether that can sunder armor and burn targets. Can be tuned for less-lethal effects such as blinding or stunning. Novaya’s signature spell. Animate Drone. Imbues one of Novaya’s carvings with minor animus, giving it flight and allowing Novaya to see through its “eyes” for a short time. Utility Spells Light. Basic unicorn illumination spell. Telekinesis. Basic unicorn “mage hand” for fine manipulation of objects. First Aid. Basic triage spell taught in Magus training. Can be used to clean wounds, disinfect minor cuts and scratches, and stop bleeding. However, serious injuries such as broken bones and blood loss still need to be treated by a medical expert. Slow fall. Utility spell taught to all unicorns who serve in airborne units. Allows the user to generate a cushion of aether that greatly reduces the chances of a fall from height becoming lethal. Skill Set Wilderness Survival. Having been on patrol with 10th Battalion during their pirate-hunting operations, the chances of being shot down or stranded with a crippled airship are on every service-mare’s mind. Thus, wilderness survival in the harsh and bitter country outside Stalliongrad city limits is a critical skill. Command. While not on officer track by profession, Novaya is friendly and receptive and has a talent for getting her troops to trust her. VBSS. Part of ISU-143’s job is visit, board, search, and seizure operations on airships, which often involve maneuvering, inspecting, and sometimes fighting, in confined spaces and over short distances.

Genderbending is the wrong word for this. What you are referring to is "Rule 63." For what you are suggesting, crossover/FFA would be the most appropriate place for the character, if you intend on playing him as the male counterpart to Rainbow Dash. Hope that clears things up.

Hi, I just thought I'd remark that I see a lot of solid story and background information, but I see little describing her actual personality. What quirks or tics does Firefly have? Does she have an affinity for a certain food or drink? Any peculiar habits? Any signature catchphrase or flourish that she does? Does she have any other hopes and aspirations not tied to the Wonderbolts or the Shadowbolts? How does she relate to other ponies? These questions are by no means an exhaustive list, but answering them will help us get an idea of how you want to play the character and give you a more solid foundation to write RP on. Who knows, in the process of answering them, you may even come up with a few of your own!

All of this connections seem sorted and his skill set and quirks will make him an interesting and dynamic character in RP. It will be interesting to see a brash, roguish, character like Will Traval's thief character in Leverage. I'd like to think that deep down he has a heart of gold and genuinely wants the best for his country and countrymen, but ultimately, that's the player's job to decide PS: He can possibly expect to work with Captain Fletcher sometime soon

There was a glitch with the tags, but that has since been corrected. I've taken the liberty of fixing the prefix for you while I was looking at the application. Trading Post has quite the story! Stealing for the challenge and the thrill makes for an interesting dynamic above that of the usual avarice. However, at the moment that is all I can see in her summary. I always like to see more about a pony's psychology, a glimpse inside their heads as it were. It helps us as staffers evaluate the character's suitability for RP and also helps you as the player get an idea of what is important to the character, which in turn helps you play her well. What makes Trading Post, Trading Post? Does she have any personal quirks? Any odd habits? Any specific thing she does or likes to do that gives her actions and choices a unique flair? Does she ever feel sorry for whom she steals from? Are there any ponies she targets specifically? These are not an exhaustive list of personality questions, but I hope they'll give you an idea of what we like to see.

“It was the only way I could protect her.” Virtue visibly bristled at the statement. Protect? Protect? Rich Tea was either lying or daft, or both. The knight held is temper in check, however, only replying with silence and a piercing gaze that dissected the blackest of souls. Rich Tea’s tale continued-- a tale of mercenaries, of angry mob bosses, and Rich Tea’s part in an unsavory plot to trap Cherry Dawn. “I lost myself in the moment, I-I forgot about everything when I was with her, nothing mattered because I was so happy just to be with her again. And then those two caught up with us at the hotel, and so did everything else.” A moment of weakness ruined a villainous plot. Virtue didn’t know if he should have been ecstatic or disgusted. There was something to be said about dedication to duty, even if the plan was outright detestable. The pale stallion had the dubious dishonor of foiling a kidnapping with his own wretched vices. Rich Tea hung his head in shame, sighing deeply before making one last pleading request. “I know I’m not in any position to be asking favours from you, but please take Cherry away from here while there’s time. Help her hide. Get her somewhere safe were Azure can never find her... please...” Virtue had every reason to knock Rich Tea senseless. He had brought this upon Virtue. He had brought this upon himself. Last but not least of all, he had brought this upon Cherry Dawn. A coward. A cad. A mewling, worthless individual without respect for self or others. Rich Tea was all of these, but somehow, his final plea struck a resonating chord with Virtue. There was a strange earnestness in his request, an honest resolve that wasn’t there before. For once in his life, Rich Tea wanted to set things right; as far as Virtue could tell anyways. The Destrier cocked his head in quiet curiosity. For the moment, his wrath had been stayed. But even as Rich Tea hung in proverbial limbo, Virtue began breaking down the situation into its constituent parts. Cherry was still very much at risk. The mulberry filly must have meant something to Azure, whoever he was. A ward, a child, a witness, something... less benign? Virtue suppressed a burst of rage at the thought. Why else would he go through the trouble of attempting to recover her by force? Whatever this was, it ran much deeper than the thugs in the alleyway had even begun to suggest. “You have stayed my hoof for now,” Virtue said, his fiery rage fading momentarily to detached quiescence. “As miserable an excuse for a stallion as you are, Cherry’s life still depends on you. I need everything you know about Azure... and I need it now.”

“Double cold pressed, if I am not mistaken... kapitan.” “Finest in all Stalliongrad,” Sturmovik chuckled in reply, his deep, baritone laughter seeming to carry on the wind itself. “But only for working stallion. If ask you me, Lema, that is plenty good.” Sturmovik’s use of the colloquial for “lady unicorn” made it clear that the conversation was as informal as informal could be. Her command of the native tongue was excellent, though her accent was difficult to place. Vysokii upper class? No; no upper crust industrial mogul-- or even the daughter of one for that matter-- would be caught dead hanging around the docks. Perhaps a Reya artist? Well-crafted bone pins tucked into her saddlebag straps, a worn look to her equipment, and a practical steel workman’s lunchbox would mesh perfectly with the artist’s milieu. “But I am being rude. I am Captain Sturmovik. Artorius is my ship,” the captain remarked, briefly gesturing to the ship behind them. He then extended a hoof to shake. “Kak vy nazvali? How are you named, Lema?” The wind shifted, subtly fracturing the high altitude cloud cover and allowing rays of golden sun to filter through. Gilded rays bathed the dock in faux warmth and soft white luminosity. Sturmovik exhaled slowly, his breath forming a tiny cloud of misty fog that quickly dissipated in the chilling wind. But out of the guttering of sailframes and the drone of engines, came the clip-clop of more hooves on iron. Sturmovik gave a sidelong glance, away from the unicorn mare to the approaching pony in the signature longcoat and ushanka of a VSS patrolmare. "Zdravstvuite. Good day. Yest'problemy, ofitsera? Is there a problem, officer?"

Research. As much as Fletcher enjoyed reading, he had to admit that the papers and theses locked up in the library stacks were nothing short of dull and exceedingly uninteresting. This was less of a repository for knowledge and more of a mausoleum for graduate students’ university careers. The blue unicorn chuckled. He’d skipped that stage a long time ago, electing instead to go where the REA might send him. He’d never looked back. But after years in the field, he had returned. Canterlot, the city of magic, the capital of all Ponydom. Canterlot, city of libraries... and office work. The captain snorted as he returned to the task at hoof. The REA was a far cry from the life of excitement that the recruiting posters promised. Most soldiers never saw combat, as was well and good in a land that was at peace. But there was that tiny fraction of missions in which bad things did happen. There was that tiny fraction of cases in which bad ponies were apprehended. They were few, but they happened. As a member of the Honor Guard, it was Fletcher’s job to deal with those cases. Fletcher slammed the book shut, allowing the sound to reverberate in the stacks before the echoes were dampened by a million parchment leaves. The latest case came in the form of a memo referencing the recent changing of the guard in the von Hoofington family. Ordinarily, the Honor Guard would not concern itself with such tabloid fodder. But the von Hoofingtons had attracted the eye of the the local REA garrison commander with reports of suspicious activity and tenuous ties to a local artifact-dealing ring. Furthermore, the heir-- one Bell Curve von Hoofington-- to the von Hoofington estate had all but vanished after the death of the head of the family. The heir later resurfaced in Cloudsdale and was again responsible for several suspicious occurrences there, again dealing with magical artifacts. Though much of this Bell Curve von Hoofington’s haul was minor and harmless, the fact that it had gone undetected for some time was deeply troubling to the REIN spooks; the fact that there was no conclusive evidence of guilt or innocence was even more troubling. To them, it was only a matter of time before something valuable or dangerous, likely both, got through the pipeline. Thus the onus fell firmly on Fletcher’s shoulders to research potential archaeological sites that might be targets for this Bell Curve von Hoofington’s shady business, building a case for the eventual Honor Guard takedown. Fletcher mentally reviewed the dossier he had been given. Bell Curve himself was apparently quite the character. A stallion of fine fashion sensibilities, he left a paper trail in boutiques across Equestria as long as Fletcher’s reach with a bow. Fedoras, suit coats, ties, and finely tailored appointments had become Bell Curve’s trademark. The faint clip-clop of hooves on hardwood flooring instantly attracted Fletcher’s attention; specifically the fact that it came from many sets of hooves. On days like this, it wasn’t unusual for him to have the stacks to himself. Perhaps one or two Canterlot University students would wander in, but having so many newcomers all at once was suspicious. The captain immediately shouldered his saddlebags, tucking the book into them and slinking along the stacks to get a better look. A group of stallions, all tall and muscular, strode down the center aisle like they owned the place. Two, four, six, eight. Eight heads. But there were more than 8 sets of hooves; Fletcher could discern a lighter tapping in the midst of the small herd. Suddenly, he saw it. Between the slats in the stacks, there was a flash of blue overlaid on deep spruce green punctuated by a smattering of blonde. Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. Blonde mane. Green coat. Fine suit. Speak of the devil. This had to be him. Floating a quill to a loose leaf of stationery on his table, Fletcher scrawled instructions for the librarian who would be returning shortly. The captain made haste to track the entourage, using the stacks to conceal himself as he advanced. The escorts’ hoofsteps proved loud enough to conceal his movements. Through the forest of parchments he slinked, darting between shelves, until finally the gaggle of ponies stopped at the rear of the archives. A careful twist of a lamp brazier revealed a cleverly concealed passage behind a set of idle shelving. Without a word, the stallions filed in, clearly focused on their task at hand. No time to wait for backup. Looks like I’m going this alone. The Librarian should be dispatching REA garrison forces as soon as she finds the note. Waiting for the ponies to pass, Fletcher slipped in behind them, concealing himself with shadow and echoes as they descended into the depths of the library’s hidden passages.

The Doctor’s explanation brought Celestia much needed respite. She breathed easier knowing that the manasprites were not malicious; for a brief moment she feared that they would attack and consume magic-using creatures with the fury of a hungry manticore, but the relationship was less predatory and more mutualistic. Celestia’s countenance softened at Luna’s stuttered response. Eons of experience did nothing to dampen the raw, visceral, fear of the unknown, nor the unnerving nature of many magical creatures’ shadow in the aether. A faint smile tugged at her lips at the mention of her diminutive name from a time long past. “We’ll do as we’ve always done, Luna,” the Sun Princess replied, gently nuzzling Luna’s cheek. “Make our way through the chaos together.” The sound of creaking hinges made Celestia’s ears perk up. The princess whirled around in time to see the brown earth pony crack open the door. Her horn glowed faint lavender again as she prepared to stem an oncoming tide and rebuke a foolish... SLAM! The door was closed just as quickly as it was opened. In the Doctor’s hoof was a single manasprite, looking just as confused as Celestia. "They're terribly guarded against magic - attacking them directly with spells will just make them multiply, make them stronger. But...” he smashed the thing against the ground. Rather than the crunch of an insect meeting its demise, there was a loud pop and a fountain of blue smoke and crimson sparks. “...a little impact will disperse them back to the magic they're made of. But the bad news is, if you do that to all of them at once... it's kinda explosive, unless you have some way to contain or absorb all that magic." Celestia’s incorporeal senses tingled as the fountain of sparks slowly subsided. While the lone manasprite was a mere pinprick of void in the aether, the sparks from its disintegration made her hair stand on end. The aether had palpably changed, becoming charged with energy very suddenly with just the tiny explosion. “This is dangerous,” she said, “An explosion of manasprites would not only cause physical damage, but have serious repercussions in the aether as well.” As the doctor went on, Celestia continued to pace, studying the heavy iron-studded doors of the conference chamber with quiet curiosity. Magic offered no purchase against the manasprites, but wood and stone and iron proved quite the impediment. The dungeons were honeycombed with these passages, built for transit and housing in the event of war or some other disaster. The oldest structures probably dated back to the time of Discord. Somewhere in these passages was the source of the manasprite infestation lay. “Hmm... doctor,” Celestia began, turning to address the stallion, “I once read of a species of ant that farmed aphids for honeydew. It appears that the manasprites are doing the same with the guards for magic. In addition, their current behavior suggest collective consciousness, like the ants, and in that... a queen.” Celestia turned once more to face the exit farthest from the door which now held the manasprites at bay. “If memory serves me correctly, there is a large cistern a few levels down which was used to store fresh water in the event of a siege. It is large enough and well protected enough to support a queen and any of her manasprite attendants.” “We should be able to descend through that door,” Celestia said, gesturing towards the exit on the far wall. “We cannot afford to remain here for long, so I suggest we move immediately.”

Ready for evaluation.

You're a mean one, Mrs. Scotch.

I will approve this with the following caveats: I like the cutie mark for the boat wheel and crossed cutlasses much better both from a stylistic standpoint and a thematic standpoint. Let's go with that as opposed to the jolly roger. I will trust that you will include crew relations after they have been approved. I would include this in a relationship section and remove all the parenthetical notes just to clean up the formatting. Finally, as an interim ruling, airships will be treated as mobile RP locations. They will not be engaged in combat or action against a city or another ship until rules have been fully hashed out for this. For now: