After the wonderful reception for my blogging of "The Motorwagon Orb", I decided to occasionally share other bits of writing that I have done for my Fallout: Equestria roleplaying campaigns. Again, please remember that these are not canon (they are headcanon at best), so please to not fret if this clashes with anyone else's games or side stories.

The orb below was actually used in both of my campaigns. The orb's purpose was two-fold. I needed to give the player's characters in-game knowledge of things Littlepip learned about through a memory orb that the game's PCs could not possibly have access to. At the same time, creating this memory orb allowed a glimpse at the actual warfare -- a view from the battlefield.

As before, the memory orb is written in second person, present tense.

Enjoy!

<-=======ooO The Morale Officer Orb Ooo=======->

Your senses rush back to you, hauling you out of brief oblivion. Your host’s body aches from over-exertion, her muscles fighting strain and fatigue. You feel the press of riot armor, separated from her coat by a film of sweat and grit and the helmet crushing her mane, a small microphone hovering before her muzzle. The world smells of blood and burnt flesh and dirt. The air feels oppressive, the dark clouds blanketing the sky above holding an impending rainstorm that just won't break.

Your host’s ears catch a high-pitched whine, and then are deafened by the explosion that sends gouts of fire and a storm of dirt into the foxhole. Your host rolls, covering her eyes and muzzle. Her ears are ringing, the voices of the other ponies clad in combat barding sound distant as they call out to her and each other. One of them picks his assault rifle up in his teeth and scoots over to the embankment.

Your host follows, rolling back over and peeking up out of the foxhole. On the hillside ahead, beyond the broken bodies of pony and zebra corpses, beyond the burned-out husk of an Equestrian tank, looms the bulk of a zebra walker. The zebra battle machine rests at an odd tilt between grass and sky. The walker’s spider-like legs are little more than wreckage, turning what was once a mobile firing platform into an oddly-canted pillbox.

Muzzle-flashes light up inside the gunnery windows, spraying a hail of bullets towards the foxhole. The bullets slam into the dirt, hissing little plumes of smoke, as your host dodges back into safety. The bullets are on fire.

Your host catches the muffled-sounding “Woohoo!” of one of the soldier ponies behind her as a dark figure shoots overhead, trailing a cloud of smoke. The world seems to shake as an explosion rips apart the landscape where the “pillbox” used to be, a mushroom-shaped cloud bellowing upwards as a ring of electrical static washes across the sky above the foxhole.

A moment later, the figure of a rainbow-maned Shadowbolt zips into view. “They’re on the run now! Forward!”

Your host hops up, shucking on the battle saddle laying next to her – a battle saddle not filled with firearms and ammo, but bristling with musical instruments -- and kicking a lever by her left hind hoof. “You heard Her, everypony!” she calls out cheerfully to her companions, her voice sounding odd over the ringing in her ears. You can feel something stir along her back. She glances behind her as the pole rises up from her battle saddle, the flag of Equestria unfurling.

Galloping forward out of the dirt pit, she cries out, “The day is ours! To victory!” Her voice, filled with happy patriotism, is amplified by speakers on her battle saddle. Several of the instruments begin to play, performing a rousing anthem. “For Stalliongrad!”

Suddenly, PAIN! Your host screams as you feel her armor and body perforated, her internal organs catching fire. She collapses, fighting back the tears as she shakes in growing agony.

It lasts forever. You witness as the flames consume her eyes, turning the world black. And it keeps getting worse. Then… finally, mercifully, the fire begins to fully consume the mare’s nerves, killing off her ability to feel the torture.

Oblivion reaches out to consume your senses once again…

…then withdraws. But with it, so does the pain and the darkness. Your host gasps, staring at mud and grass, feeling the odd bits of her armor that did not burn fully away, and the drops of rain that fall against her coat where it did.

Her ears are not even ringing anymore. The sound of the battlefield is eerily silent.

Then, somewhere in the distance, she hears clearly the voice of the rainbow-maned mare crying out:

“What did you do?! Fluttershy! What. Did. You. Do?!”