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As the Misty Clears

Episode
**Gallery**
**Transcript**

**As the Misty Clears** is the fifty-third episode of *My Little Pony: Tell Your Tale*. It was released on June 1, 2023.

## Synopsis

Zipp is suspicious of Misty's behavior because of her necklace, which produces a bad influence on the Mane Five.

## Plot

Misty is playing with sock puppets to decide whether to act for good or evil when Sunny and the Mane 5 ask what she's doing. Misty tries to hide by saying she's admiring the grass but her necklace starts acting up. Opaline tries to contact Misty, who tries to hide her too, arousing Zipp's suspicion and in turn making her show the others videos of Misty's antics. Sunny tries to convince Misty to take it off, but Misty makes the excuse that it's special to her and makes Zipp even more suspicious.

Later, Misty finds a tree of Opaline's favorite berry, shadow berries, but her necklace gets caught on the branches preventing her from reaching them. When she sets it aside, Zipp steals it and shows it the the Mane 5. Izzy can't resist putting it on, but it makes her turn evil. Sunny quickly takes it off her, but it moves on its own and latches onto Hitch and then Pipp.

Misty is still looking for her necklace, afraid of Opaline's wrath, when she sees chaos in the Crystal Brighthouse. When she enters, she sees that the evil influence has leaked out of the necklace and corrupted all the Mane 5 at once. Misty bravely runs up to the necklace and draws the evil back into the necklace repurifying them. Misty takes them to the beach cliffs where she throws the necklace off and it breaks. As a result, Misty feels more like herself. Zipp tries to ask her who gave her the necklace, but Misty still doesn't want them to know about Opaline.

## Characters

* Sunny Starscout
* Izzy Moonbow
* Hitch Trailblazer
* Zipp Storm
* Pipp Petals
* Sparky Sparkeroni (Recording)
* Misty Brightdawn
* Opaline

## Trivia

* This episode shows Misty’s redemption.
* Because of the necklace's magical negative influence on the ones that wear it, we get to see each of the Mane 5 acting as their opposite:
	+ Izzy becomes mean towards her friends and starts hating arts and crafts.
	+ Hitch develops a hate for rules, especially when it comes to littering, even pressuring others to do it and taking a great satisfaction in it.
	+ Pipp becomes wild, not caring for the state of her mane and enjoying very loud and screeching music.
	+ Sunny starts hating teamwork, even going as far as tearing apart all the pictures of her with her friends.
	+ Zipp becomes prideful and vain with her title as the crown princess of Zephyr Heights.
* This episode takes place before the events of My Little Pony: Make Your Mark Chapter 4.
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Swept away like a leaf on the wind, the Rubrum Ariadne soared toward the open tear. Lightning and thunder ripped at the continuum of space and time, vast energies unleashing false starlight from the aether. Tendrils of the un-dimension, and the quivering mass of impossible beasts, spilled forth from the threshold between the universe and the immaterium.
The red vessel flung itself into their embrace, engines burning hard to maintain momentum even as shears of gravity shook the ancient hull. Claxons and primary systems screamed, consoles flashing bloody read, but the starship held its course and did not falter even facing the open maw of hell.

Then it was too late, impossible to turn away even if the living souls had wanted to. As they stared in fascination into the rift, the Gellar fields went up all around, a curtain of sanity in a world gone mad. Veils of a purple hue enveloped the ship hole and it was devoured by the storm, carried by the lightning projected from the ancient wreck. At last, the old reactor of the stranded vessel had turned the key and opened the gate into the Amanshai's passage.
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In the grand chamber of the Triumvirate's council, the message of the Amanshai was revealed. Much to the surprise of all the great world's emissaries, it was not a plea to bargain nor a threat, nor any word to resolve the stand-off at the Limes Gondwana.

The fleets of bother powers faced one another still on the very edge of civilized space, coming closest to contact where they banished a demon of battles past. The council had received word of the strange reappearance of the inquisitor they had sent. Schadland, of the inquisitorial lodge at Mogontiacum, had returned aboard the rogue trader's vessel Midas Maledicta, entombed in a machine of unknown origin. The reports issued by the Executor Admiral upon their interrogation had been most disturbing to them all.

But the message contained nothing of these things. Instead, it was a simple set of data, encoded to imperial standards. After utmost scrutiny by the priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus and under the supervision of an inquisitorial attaché, the data was reviewed and presented to the war council at last.

An image of the System Myriaden, and detailed tactical intelligence on its defenses being overrun by a chaotic incursion of unprecedented scale.

By any measure of protocol, the data transmission fits every standard of imperial intelligence. It would have completely appeared as such, if not for the fact that any and all contact to the system had been lost, days prior to the actual incursion taking place.

The data the Xenos had provided, was exactly the report the war council had demanded and the imperial reconnaissance had failed to provide.
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The whole of Sector Gondwana faced an enemy entombed and reborn among its stars, an ancient nemesis of old humanity, foe of wars that touched on its every world. The imperials of Gondwana and this ancient foe belonged together, they were bound by a fate more ancient than even the Imperium.
Only the brethren of Laurentia and their Chapter of the Hallowed Glaive had no part of it. They were strangers to these worlds, their history among these stars still young. But they had no shortage of ancient foes of their own. One above all, the eldritch beast that had first sent them on their journey. If not for the sundering beast and the destruction of their old homeworld, the Hallowed Glaive would never have come to Gondwana's rescue two thousand years before. But what had been the sector's blessing then, could now become a belated terror. For the eldritch foe had followed the last survivors of its celestial prey. It had come to Sector Gondwana and slumbered in the gulf until the sundering beast was awakened by the tremors of the Thetys Rift churning.
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Fire scorched the hallowed Ring of Cambria, where the gates had been thrown open and the Pale Blue Light escaped. An entire fleet and vast guardian armies succumbed to the arcane evil when it first broke forth and enveloped them. The fires ignited on this day would burn for twenty years, a raging storm of incandescent flames, eating the world away down to the Scrith.

And yet, neither radiant particles nor exotic energy could deter the efforts of the Adeptus Mechanicus to unveil the secrets buried at the ringworld’s heart. For all the catastrophe it had brought, the opening of the gates promised the priests access to the vault where unknown secrets of old humanity lay.

Thus, they sent expeditions, ones of such magnitude they might have overshadowed entire planetary crusades. Spearheaded by titans of the explorator-clade of the Alexandrian Heron Virintribia, the mission to go beyond the threshold of the Cambrian Gates pushed through the walls of living fire and forced a breach right into the heart of the storm.

In the fifteenth year of the raging fires, contact to the explorators was lost by the greater cult of the Omnissiah. And for five years more there would be no news of this mission, until the fires upon the Ringworld finally died.
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Space broiled with pearl-white lances and emerald trails, the golden, dotted lines of tracer rounds following the approach of corrupted vessels. Fireballs of flak and interceptor fire erupted over rippling shields, screens of white-hot energy bursting where generators failed. The energies unleashed enveloped the vanguard vessels of the imperial navy, as they charged at flank speed against the dark form of the abomination.
Along imperial battle-lines erupted salvos of cascading muzzle fire, thousands of macro cannons firing in unison at their officer's command. Helmsmen held their ship's course true, undeterred by the cataclysm unfolding all around. Xenos vessels were among them, firing, fighting, dying to the corrupted filth as both fleets met the demon beast as one.

Strike craft like swarms of fireflies moved in between the charging vessels, imperial lightnings burning side by side with the green blades of the Amanshai. Where they met the enemy, they were united in one battle. Hesitant at first, they became as one in the combat zone, where pilots knew only friend or foe.

And the foe was the same to all of them, the demon beast from beyond the veil. In the midst of the cosmic battlefield writhed its flailing form, oozing black vile from every wound and non-corporeal terrors into the minds of all who witnessed it.
Explosive salvos found its shape, digging deep into hellish flesh and bone, and tearing limb from limb. Each wound struck was answered by a psychic cry driving more souls into madness, but eventually, the great beast shuddered under the onslaught of two fleets united. Hordes of lesser beings spilled forth from the wounds the imperials had wrought, the marred flesh of the abomination curling and burning in the hostile universe. And yet it still clung to the corporeal existence, pushing further into the worldly realm to feed on living souls. It was fueled by the denied ambition of a thousand demons more who had been vanquished two millennia before, and it had such wrath as to gain the blessings of false gods, granting it the strength to reach further still.

Green fire split the depth of night, shots glaring brighter than the nearest sun.
Projectiles like comets, trailing tails of plasma and exotic energies, cut across the battlefield and drowned out all other light. Arrowheads of solid matter accelerated near the speed of light, bent very fabric of space and time by relativity, and wrenched it from the claws of the abomination. Hitting squarely at its point of origin, they emerald lines seemed to pass through cleanly at first, before the laws of the universe reasserted themselves in their wake, and cut the demon form apart.

Trembling, churning, screaming voiceless curses in the void, the thing of the warp collapsed into itself, banished by the raw forces of the universe, drowning in the sea of souls.
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Old warrior-gods were re-awoken in the battle fleet's spacious holds, ancient circuitry ignited by sparks of living, thriving energy from the torch-bearers of the Cult Mechanicus Cambria. Where the machines had once be set to rest in millennia of timeless slumber, they were now called back into the bloodied realms of physical reality, into the dark time of the forty-first millennium where the coming crusade of brass and iron awaited them.
Wrath surged in those ancient hearts, the beast-like minds of the machines who had spent eons in exile, banished from the battlefields where they had last fought during the age of the arch-heresy or the conquest during the advent of the Imperium. Renewed on the anvils of the Ringworld Cambria, returned to the living by the golden light, the first cohort of the Titan Legio Theomachia was raised from the machine tomb.

The titans were awoken in anticipation of a cruel war, one which could not be won in the theatres of the void alone. Worlds would be besieged and turned into battlefields and waiting for that time to come, the titans of old stood to wait, set upon the worlds of the No-Man’s-Land, as harbingers of doom.
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The human soul is a fickle and daring thing and inexplicably attracted to the unknowable and strange. Because of this, even the most unfortunate, unlikely, and unattractive circumstance will eventually catch the eye of some who cannot help but feel drawn to its entrapment. This was true even for the uncertain stand-off between the forces of the unknown, the Amanshai, and the stalwart defenders of the Imperial Navy.
What was to the soldiers stationed along the Limes Gondwana the most grueling exercise in patience and fear, attracted some eccentric and wealthy lookers-on from the great and noble houses of Sector Gondwana. At first, the estranged and rogue descendants of old blood-lines came, many on a quest for glory, seeking to restore their standing by some heroic act that this crisis in their eyes unquestionably called for. They were followed by more upstanding members of the aristocratic circles, some perhaps genuinely hoping to be of help, others seeking to profiteer from the conflict about to ensue. These were exalted members of the nobility, daring enough to leave the safety of their homes, but not so much that they would have become rogue traders. Their ships, golden and shimmering, could be seen from the limes bastions, hovering just outside the restricted zones and keeping a close eye on every event.
To the leaders appointed by the Triumvirate, the Executor Admiral most of all, they were thorns in their sides. Because of them, there would be no chance of secrecy with the coming developments, as they undoubtedly relayed all they saw back home. With them, the prying eyes of the Imperium's aristocracy had arrived and no soldier would be able to escape their glare.
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A vast field of debris and wreckage was left in the wake of the clash with a demon. Where the abomination had struck, ruins of once-proud imperial vessels littered the void. Much had been left behind in the hurried retreat of the imperial force, once the order of the Triumvirate of Gondwana had come. The survivors had claimed their dead, gathered what they could and gone. Left were only silent tombs for the dead, a graveyard of many ten-thousand souls who had perished at the hands of the immaterial horror.
Inquisitor Schadland was almost one of them. He lay sprawled across the listing deck of his broken vessel, eyes fixed on the airlock meant to facilitate his escape. Just before he could have made the last leap for his shuttle, the sudden force of an impact had brought a pillar down and crushed him.

He had held on for an eternity by will and faith alone, but the lifeblood of the Inquisitor was finally fading. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he contemplated fate. He had come so close to his penultimate triumph, to make contact with the ancient Amanshai, only to be struck down by the archenemy. In an act of cosmic irony, the very event to cause his doom had sparked an alliance of which Schadland could never have dreamed. They were now possibly closer to unlocking the secrets of the Pillar Worlds than ever before, and more in need of an ambassador to ensure the zealous wrath of the Imperium would not destroy this chance. And he would not live to see that day.
The inquisitor refused to go peacefully. Holding on to every breath, he warded off death against all odds, one second at a time, refusing to approach the darkness encroaching now.
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Waves of the enemy broke on the starship's stalwart prow as it charged into the fray. Flanked by fighters like iron valkyries, the gothic fortress sent a fire against the foes of humanity, and they crumpled and died, overwhelmed by holy light. There could be no greater display of imperial might, no greater show fo the Omnissiahs power than a battle among the stars. In the void, war was stripped of the grueling chaos of flesh and slaughter, distilled into a sublime contest of patience and skill, engineering and technology, iron will, and fate.
The imperial captains were assured of their capabilities and knew the spirits of their vessels would not fail them. The faith they had, the knowledge and experience garnered from centuries of service in the fleet, surpassed any of the enemies against which they stood. Cool resilience would ever prevail against blind range and zealous fervor, the calculating minds of hardened officers would ever triumph over the luck and fortune of overly ambitious rivals.
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The war-council of the Triumvirate of Gondwana acknowledged the battle of the Thetys Rift in eerie silence.
With all the fanfare of tradition, the tacticians projected an imperial victory. Within twelve hours of the last transmission, the last corrupted elements of the first fleet would fall, taking with them the last abominations the incursion had created.
None of the exalted leaders were blind to the implications of the records displayed in front of them.

Faced with a demonic aberration breaking through a tear in real space, the front-line commanders of the vanguard fleets had forged an alliance of convenience with the Xenos breed by the name of Amanshai. An astonishing turn of events, unprecedented in all recent history, which had allowed for the imperial victory and overshadowed it nonetheless. An inevitable question presented itself to them.
What of the Xenos, the enemy remaining?

Inquisitor Schadland had been reported missing in the early onslaught of the warp, the sole contact between the Imperium and the vessels of the Amanshai. His would have been the authority to decide on matters of life and death regarding the growing Xenos threat. With him lost, too many others had taken fate into their own hands, and the result would be irreversible.
What the council had seen and still saw, was relayed via a hundred beacons to their stations and uncounted other worlds. Far too many knew already, for them all to be quickly silenced. As it stood, knowledge of these extraordinary events would reach the commoners of the Imperium before long. It lay only in the authority of the Triumvirate to decide on how to end this first encounter.

Faced with the soon inevitable end of the battle, the council leaders were given no time for contemplation. Unwilling and unable to reach a hasty judgment call, they issued orders for all vanguard fleets to return to guardian stations. The Xenos vessels were not to be engaged unless they infringed on the Limes fort's defense perimeters.
It was an order to force all lower leaders of the fleeting, unauthorized alliance, to grant time for deliberations of the powers that be.
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Skies alive with black fire embraced the vessel of the first inquisitor, dark energies entangling it in the web projected by Xenos’s gravitic drives. The forlorn shores were roiling with exotic energies channeled by the alien machines, energies which mixed with the ruinous tides of the Thetys Rift. The growing mass of Xenos vessels, expanding far beyond the imperial auger range, created unique phenomena of its own, tears and vortexes at the mouth of their safe passageways, making it more difficult by the hour for new arrivals to come.
This was the first observation Inquisitor Schadland made. The fleets of the Xenos would soon reach a kind of critical mass. Whatever their purpose was, it could not be delayed much longer. Already, the fleets were nigh on collapsing into themselves. Their disorderly lines and broken formations spoke of no preparations for an attack. This was, so the inquisitor concluded, no prelude to a carefully staged invasion, but instead the beginning of mass migration.
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To see the Imperial Fleets assembled is to bear witness to the greatest martian prowess wrought by the hands of the humankind. War machines beyond number and scope gathered below the shining stars of the Glacial Nebula in Sector Gondwana, under the imperial High Fleet Command of Mogontiacum, a war-machine at the scale of an entire civilization in its own right.
Such was the size of the fleet formations that they would outnumber the stars visible beyond the glacial veils of cosmic ice and they moved with such grace and inevitability as the moving worlds of the celestial realm. Where they would meet the forces of the enemy, they would set the skies asunder and wage wars thundering through the very fabric of tangible space.

Great warships of old had been revived by the Administratum World Trantor, the imperial scribes leveraging countless old debts and favor to ensure their celestial fleets would be outstanding forces before the golden throne. Older still was only the relic vessels of the Adeptus Mechanicus, sent forth by the hallowed Ringworld Cambria to fight in the name of the Omnissiah with weapons of arcane might. And there were the lesser worlds, counting a dozen distinct fleets of note among their number. Offering central battle line formations as well as highly specialized auxilia, the system fleets of Sector Gondwana were set to complement every action the Triumvirate would undertake. Each carried the legacy of an entire world with honor, a monument to forgotten wars and the relentless pursuit of victory throughout uncounted centuries.

Compared to such might, any mortal soul could only bow and wither, fading in the golden light of those vessels charged with the Emperor’s holy crusade. It was a display of imperial power few living souls in the entire sector had ever seen, and it was certainly one they would remember before they would be extinguished in the coming war.
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Against all odds and judgment of the wicked gods, a voidrider of Immortan escaped the morbid roots taking hold of Myriaden . Aboard the raggedy vessel survived barely a few hundred souls, but their minds were ablaze with pure conviction and a strong will undeterred by both terror and temptation offered by the warp.
Navigating the clashing ruins of star forts and ships coming apart, the voidriders of Immortan drew from lifetimes of experience in the debris fields of their distant home. For generations, their kindred souls had lived in the unpredictable spatial graveyards of the Imperium, among the dead carcasses of voidships slain by the dangers of the void, the relentless hunger of time and some of the mortal enemies of all humankind. Those centuries among the dead had taught the voidriders well, and in the calamitous chaos of the star fort breaking, they fared better than any other vessel.
Thus, they were the only ones to answer the last desperate call from Castra Celestia.

In the last standing tower of their burning estate, the survivors of one of Myriadenburg's most prestigious royal houses were facing their demise at the hands of a festering horde. What had once been their loyal house guard and staff had been turned into a mass of lumbering bodies, half shredded and melting into one another. Death had come upon all who had laid eyes upon the abomination, and it wouldn't be long before it would take the last survivors too.

Less than a hundred survivors were taken aboard Immortan's vessel, in a frantic escape down the ship's umbilical. Minutes later, the final tower crumbled away and through its broken windows of stained glass welled the mass of throbbing flesh, the diseased abomination reaching out one final time before consuming the remnants of the Castra Celestia whole.
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Bravely into the maw, the fleets flung themselves upon their arrival at the imperial system Myriaden. At the edge of the region, a sickly mist awaited them, and it grew in its intensity, the deeper the vessels descended into the gravity well. From the mist grew spores and from those arose growths of various kinds, coiling in the void senselessly, some seeking, some avoiding the starlight. Within mere weeks of their arrival in this system, the seeds of chaos had sprouted into a veritable forest of un-reality, twisting and ridiculing the laws of the universe as they were known to the humankind.

Against such forces beyond nature, the captains of the fleet knew to do nothing but to ride them out. Unswaying from their course, the ships made their way deeper and deeper into the maze. In those dark spheres of chaotic influence, the nomad's vessels began to emerge as leaders. The navigators and helmsmen of the travelers seemed to have earned a kind of sixth sense on their travels, negotiating the ever-tighter open spaces with a skillful routine only direct experience could foster. Begrudgingly, the ships of the navy and castellum fleets fell in line, but only after the Adeptus Mechanicus had ordered its techno-vessels to do the same.
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Their journey took the pilgrims far and wide across the expanse of the No-Man's-Land, where many worlds greeted them with praise and gifts and anticipation. The retinue of the chapter grew as countless mortals joined the cause, and before long there was a great army in need of equipment and training.
To bestow upon these many eager souls the means to fulfill their purpose, the brethren of the Hallowed Glaive turned to their oldest ally. They presented to the Cult Mechanicus of Cambria, their million followers as willing subjects to order of the Omnissiah. These souls, so they promised, would provide the loyal flesh to wield the machines of the Mechanicus.

At first glance, this was no enticing offer to the Cult Mechanicus, for the flesh the Astartes brought was crude and weak, scraped from dozens of lesser worlds. It had none of the fiery devotion nor vat-grown measured properties, the priests of the Hallowed Ring had come to expect from their worker population. However, those among them considering the grander scope of things, recognized the vast potential. Should all those followers from the Forlorn planets swear fielty to the Ring of Cambria, they would establish inseparable ties between the Adeptus Mechanicus and their worlds. The whole of the No-Man's-Land would be then at the verge of becoming a vassal region to the Martian Empire, an expansion on the sector's stage that would tip Gondwana's balance in their favor.
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Trevrizent's Fourth Interstellar emerged victorious from the early battles, striking down the barbaric hordes upon the battlespaces of the Limes Gondwana. In the wake of their first triumphant campaign, battle groups of the Fourth were called by many honored commanders and governors to partake in the due ceremonial celebration. A victory, even though it had not yet been fought against the real foe, was a chance to be fully exploited, utilized to the utmost extent to grow the people's faith and morale.
All over the forlorn worlds of the newly awoken No-Man's-Land, chapels and fortresses alike raised banners of the Imperial Aquila and retold to the otherwise ignorant masses tales of bravery and valor and the glory achieved by those who had joined up to serve the Golden Throne in battle. They did so for the sake of their own authority and to raise recruitment numbers for their mounting war machine. For manpower was, at this point, the only factor lacking in the imperial defense. For decades now, the manufactories and forges had been working full capacity and in the arsenals of the sector, munitions and equipment for years of a bloody crusade eagerly awaited those souls destined to carry them.

But, all the glory and splendor bestowed upon the victors, all the propaganda effect they might have of the common citizenry, they paled before the one honor none thought they might achieve:
Among the first units to be allowed into the inner circles of their orbital space, the high commanders of the Forlorn Fortress World Gahmuret counted starships of the Fourth Interstellar Trevrizent.
For centuries, the fortress had stood in isolation, alone bulwark against chaos intruding from the Thetys Rift. It had defied the predictions of the Adeptus Administratum and survived against all odds the onslaught of the Thetys Surge and all incursions since. Over these long and bloody generations, the people of Gahmuret had devoted themselves wholesale to soldiery and granted no-one else the hospitality of their system.
Now, for the first time, their gates were thrown open, because they saw the coming darkness and in the mariners of the Fourth Interstellar worthy allies to be made before the war went fully underway.
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Many forlorn worlds were visited by the Samaritan Pilgrimage Fleets of Laurentia, receiving worldly blessings from the Astartes and their mortal brethren, as well as the holy word of the Emperor to soothe their troubled souls.
The nature of the pilgrimage had changed over the past eight decades since the Pale Blue Light awoke. Where before the pilgrims had traveled in lone vessels from world to world, they had now all joined in one ultimate procession, led by the first company of the chapter and followed by a vast transport fleet and combat formations.
Any soul willing to join the fight would be granted this chance and imperial honors, should they allow themselves to be taken aboard and assigned to an army aboard those holy pilgrimage ships. To join the crusade would be to leave all their world behind, to fight in the hopes of a distant victory, that might only be achieved in many generations. But it would also be to join a war by the side of the Emperor's chosen warriors, to march into battle alongside living legends, and there could be no greater honor than that.
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The dawn of a coming war gave rise to many forces half-forgotten, relegated to ancient reserve fields and archives in times when they had not been needed. Now, those old reserves were finally remembered and many lesser worlds awoke from centuries of silence. The banners of old fleets were flown once again, and new leaders approached the shipwrights and forges with contracts to renew the power of old.
For the first time in generations, proud flagships and heroic relics of the old navies could be seen, which had been dormant since their mothballing in the weak centuries. Carried by the Triumvirate's call to arms, these forces found their way back into the limelight of their world's populace. Governors and admirals of the lesser worlds were eager to prove themselves and seize the opportunity, many of them inspired by the actions of the Khan. This, to the Triumvirate, was a welcome revival of the Subsector's strength, and the old forces renewed were quickly re-organized and sent forth to the stars.
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The voidship of a lone rogue trader was the first vessel in a century to break the silence of the system Mekephau, where there dwelt the prophets of a forbidden pantheon. Dark and shrouded worlds revolving around an ancient sun, the uncanny realms of witches embraced the visitors and swallowed their vessel whole.
For the duration of its stay, the ship was seemingly snuffed out from existence, heeding no astropathic hail nor leaving any signature beyond its exit from the warp. Hidden behind the veils of solitude imposed by the unknowable magic of this system's kin, the fate of the ship and its trader were solely in the hands of their hosts.

The souls of those sailors arriving in the system remained benighted for a month at least, before the dark shroud lifted around them, and left them stranded in orbit around one of Mekephau's elusive pantheon worlds.
Those worlds, the legends say, are pale and ashen carcasses of former glory, capitals of once-great empires, fallen and washed ashore on the fringes of the streams of time. The kin of Mekephau dwell there, ferrymen of Styx and witches all, half enthralled in death and afterlife, half-bound to the living universe. There are secrets only they can know, answers for which the living plead. And those, like the lone trader, who make it as far as to come before one of the Pantheon, will be granted a prize of some kind for the determination burning in their souls.

What gift of knowledge was bestowed upon the lone trader who broke the silence, would not be revealed for another century yet, as it was a truth belonging to the forty-second millennium. Its mere existence shattered many of the vessel's feebler minds, leaving the rogue trader alone to make the daring journey back home.
Arpeggia

Main
**Merchandise**
**Gallery**

* Make Your Mark
* Tell Your Tale

**Arpeggia** is an unknown gender pegasus who appears in My Little Pony: Make Your Mark and My Little Pony: Tell Your Tale. Their first appearance is in the episode Bridlewoodstock.

## Apperance

Arpeggia is plum purple with light blue and dark blue shading on the legs and sparkly aquamarine eye shade. The mane is a slick mix of blue and purple. On the chest is a vivid pale blue lighting bolt mark.

## Media

### My Little Pony: Make Your Mark

First appears in Bridlewoodstock, Arpeggia is part of the Electric Blue band and gets invited by Zipp. At first the band was unsure, but Zipp promised them the headliner so they agree to play. Due to scheduling problems, Zipp, Sunny and Pipp went to his band's tent where Zipp convinced them to be the opener again but again run into another scheduling problem. In the end, Arpeggia and the band helped defeated the troggles and appeared at the end where they performed along with the The Dreamlands, Ruby Jubilee and Pipp for the song, Hooves Together.

In A Little Horse, the band Electric Blue prepares for a stream with Pipp Petals.

### My Little Pony: Tell Your Tale

First appears in Diva and Conquer, their band is preparing to preform in Bridlewoodstock while their tent fell into a sink hole and ruined everything. Arpeggia complains about having stinky mane so Pipp offers to do the band's mane.
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The blue nova was seen by the Triumvirate lords, having swept past the Limes Gondwana, leaving the first battles of the Crusade in its wake. Its pale color tainted the black void and shrouded the stars and it crept into the dreams of prophets, navigators, and astropaths. It was a terror like that of the eldritch realm, yet unfathomable, leaving no trace in the warp. Unholy, its presence poisoning the cosmic sea, it demanded the lords of the Triumvirate set an example against it.

On this day, when the blue light lit up their celestial realm, they decided as one to ignite the flames of war. To burn the pyres of all forts along Gondwana, and light the beacons along the old routes of power, would bring about the true beginning of the Brass and Iron Crusade. The whole of all imperial worlds of Sector Gondwana would go to war.

Hymns of glory and the Emperor's wrath sounded from every chapel and temple, in every cathedral of every world the bells were rung. The light of the Imperium, gold and pure, spread across the worlds of humanity, a promise of honor, faith and victory. Its flame would burn for as long as the heart of humanity was beating yet. For the glory of the Emperor, the warriors rode.
Crusade Impressions 091

*985.M41*

Through the frigid metal of the broken hull echoed drumbeats from the depths. Somewhere buried in the carcass of the stranded vessel, there remained a beating heart. Its pulse could felt on every deck, in every crumpled bulkhead and leaking piping. Much of the machinery aboard the crashed starship had refused to die.

When they had first entered the vessel through the pitch-black crack, all-encompassing darkness had devoured the Ruby Mariners. For a long time after passing over the threshold into the derelict hulk, their torches had illuminated only boundless voids and halls within the vessel. Only after searching for hours on end, had the scouts found entrances into the deeper innards of the ship. In those smaller corridors, lights had returned. Burning lanterns and flickering globes illuminated the halls, returning to life for a scant few seconds in intervals of every half an hour. In those surges of sputtering energy, entire sections of the vessel returned to life, doors and ventilation spurring to life once again, lights overwhelming the absolute darkness and revealing the horrors the ship had endured.

On their way deeper down, the Ruby Mariners followed those persisting intervals. With every deck they descended, the frequency of light and noise seemed to grow, and before long the spasms of energy shook the compartments beneath their feet, filled their vox casters with garbled transmissions and even showing them visions of barely projected memories.
Everything about them invoked a sense of direction, an eerie sense of something alive, and a hint of a warning in every screeching interval.
What was left alive of the ship after being stranded so long, would at best be a crazed remnant of what the vessel once had been. At the worst, they were walking right toward whatever cause had left it stranded on the moon.

At the lowest point surviving point of the ship, an entire deck, reinforced with extra armor and skeletal structure, had buried itself nearly thirty meters into the loose regolith rock of the moon. Within it, miraculously, the source of all these energies remained intact, but it was not the ships dying the main reactor.
The energy, so the leader of the Ruby Mariners reported amid prayers to the Golden Throne, was channeled directly through the warp engine, surrounded by a sphere of meager Gellar fields that held, but had done so at great expense for the past twenty centuries.
Crusade Impressions 063

*984.M41*

No-one saw the first vessel of the Amanshai turn, no-one knew what action or word compelled the others to follow. Suddenly, green lines and lighting pearls crossed the deep, dark night.

The expansive swarms of Xenos vessels, scattered and dying before, rallied unexpectedly alongside the first wave of the imperial charge. Massed formations of small and nimble vessels emerged out of the hopeless chaos of their first retreat. Their copper shells were glistening strangely in the new emerald light, cast by the bright trails of the shots they sent. Their projectiles overtook the phalanx of imperial craft, past their roaring engine torches and proud bows, without hitting a single one. Instead, they were aimed at the looming corruption, cutting into black tar and shapeless beings, crippling the first of the enemy.
Where imperial captains had been hesitant shooting down the ships of their brethren, relentless salvos of kinetic fire incinerated the carcasses of once-loyal ships. Blossoms of white and yellow erupted where the salvos had struck, shortly followed by the rich crimson fires set off by imperial explosive shells.
Brumbana III

The single most important world of its namesake sun was the once flourishing mining world Brumbana III. Now it has been barren for nigh one thousand years and glory of elder days is all but gone from the industrial ruins it's golden age has left behind.

## Astrography

### Star

The third star of Brumbana is elderly and spent, a husk slowly fading on the fringes of Subsector Cambria. For a million years the star has been dying, and the death throes of its swelling into a red giant will soon render the worlds in its wake entirely uninhabitable.

Radiation bathes all which lies within Brumbana III's gravity well and only in the shadow of its planets do starships still make the passage. Even then the journey grows more perilous with the centuries and fewer and fewer reasons remain for any living soul to visit those dying worlds.

### Planets

All planets of Brumbana III are swept by rousing winds of plasma fire. Despite their past significance, their names were buried among a million other, lesser worlds in the archives of the Adeptus Administratum. To the Mechanicus, they were never more than serial numbers, now deleted as their purpose is spent. And what names they once were given by the locals may never be known, for only the slightest fraction remains of the original population. All have gone away to better realms and left the worlds of Brumbana III to die nameless, forgotten.

Of these forgotten worlds, there are seven. Two are jovian giants, dwindling as the star's dying heat boils their atmospheres away. The remaining five are terrestrial, worlds of rock and stone, but barren now and burning.

## Culture & Civilization

Among these last is Brumbana III, the once-great capital of the mining system. Industrial ruins cover all its split and sinking continents and reach high into the airless sky. It has been stripped bare of anything and everything useful to the Imperium. What remains is the dead husk of an industrial world, inhabited by only a few thousand lost souls whose false prophets correctly declare the coming of the end of days.

The civilization once-prosperous on Brumbana III had a long and storied history dating back as far as the Dark Age of Technology. During the Weltenbrand, much was forgotten and still, it remained wealthy for a few thousand years before the resources of this world truly began to wane.

Of this old culture remains nothing now but the distant memories of a few noble houses which settled in the systems of Brumbana I and II. But to these, the fate of the third star is no matter, as their worlds are now greater than the old one ever was. And so the legacy of Brumbana III is gladly forgotten, a relic lost but never missed.
Crusade Impressions 075

*984.M41*

A glittering world lay beyond the looking glass, alive with a million lights of astral cities and machines, feats of arcane technologies the likes of which had not been seen by the denizens of the Imperium in untold centuries. These wonders were apparent, not alone in their sheer scope and magnitude, but made themselves known to the observer through some intangible quality. Though their wondrous perfection eluded the crude perception of the human eye, something in the Inquisitor's mind instinctually grasped the overwhelming nature of the world he saw: It was an artifact of old, a remnant restored to former glory.
Like a mortal soul trembling before the true face of divinity, like first savages of Terra might have looked upon the Emperor himself, the Inquisitor recognized in the images before him some older, greater truth. He recognized the preserved remains of something humanity had created at the height of its reign, harnassing forbidden powers during the Dark Age of Technology. His mind was entirely captured by the sight.
On the fringes of his perception, the Inquisitor heard the voice of the Trierarch wailing. The lonely rogue trader had fallen to his knees, his eyes seeing what the Inquisitors would not. What they refused to acknowledge even as it filled out the entirety of the looking glass.

The old world, the perfect world, the remnant ruin of humanity, was consumed by a halo of crimson fire. Flames licking up into the void burnt the surface of the world to cinders, melting ancient technological shells and incinerating the spaces in-between. Before the eyes of the inquisitor, vast swaths of the planet sagged away, crashing onto the catacombs of ancient knowledge and consuming them with a disregard of those ancient wonders he could not even begin to understand.

The two lone humans aboard the Xenos ship witnessed the fall of a Pillar World. Aghast with horror, they dared not turn away from it. Pain greater than any mortal would fill both of them, for they knew just barely enough to understand the loss implicit in these scenes. In these moments, they shared the horror of the Amanshai and the difference between them and the Xenos faded.
Crusade Impressions 004

*23.910.M41*

Word of the Gates of Cambria opening spread throughout the entire Sector Gondwana, carried from star to star aboard void ships and in the chanting choirs of astropaths. They cried out a warning into the void, foretelling the coming of the pale-blue light and the doom this omen would bring.

But some were reached by the news of those events in other ways, far different from the official channels. Among those were the more outlandish traders of Port All, corsairs in the employ of the Fiefdom of the Crimson Queen.
To them, the word was given by outsiders, entities from beyond the boundaries of known space. Agents of the Pillar Worlds, mercenaries and alien hunters in the void, all told their contacts tales of the events they had observed on their unimaginable travels. Alongside such news, they gifted the traders even more: Fragments of lore and knowledge, age-old scriptures and remnants of a story once told in the surviving civilizations during the Age of Strife, carried from generation to generation in the surviving realms.
Such ancient strands of knowledge eluded even the Crimson Queen and were carried back to her only now, nigh ten-millennia after she assumed the throne. Through her most trusted corsairs and their contacts beyond known stars, she gained an understanding of the events set into motion by the opening of the gates - one only barely paralleled by the most learned techno-magi of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Crusade Impressions 035

*513.982.M41*

The fleets of the forlorn worlds remained, bathed in pale blue light. Their cosmos overwhelmed by the nova beyond the rift, their stars blotted out by the artificial shine, the brave souls aboard held fast against the impending doom. With their own eyes, they saw the magnitude of the threat they faced. There was no enemy upon them, no fleets nor hosts of corrupted traitors, nor creatures or even abominations. The light broiling from the unknown regions had unleashed forces of nature as they had once been controlled by mankind, in a time before the advent of the Imperium, a time lost even to the deepest myths and legends.

In their hearts, they knew the line they had drawn was a mere gesture, a border upheld by means of valiant faith rather than then shield and weapon. More earnestly than ever in their lives, the soldiers and voidsmen of the vanguard fleets prayed, prayed for their forlorn realms and the Emperor's strength, for the insight of the saints and the courage of the martyrs.
Crusade Impressions 132

*986.M41*

In a galaxy of carnage, the bond of blood is humanity's greatest strength.
No matter the world from which they hail, no matter the lord of their fiefdom, no matter the tongue in which they swore their oath – all souls of humankind are children of holy terra and subjects of the one true God-Emperor of Mankind. It was He who forged the Imperium from the ashes of old worlds, and His word united the scattered tribes. Through him, all long lost lineages of human blood are connected and they can feel it, a primeval allegiance to the Golden Throne.
Just as He holds on through sheer force of his will, despite being scattered in a million shards, so too will humanity hold on, despite all divisions, feuds, and old rivalries. In the darkest hour, all mortal souls of the human race will defy the gods and fate as one.
Crusade Impressions 073

*984.M41*

The calamity of the Thetys Rift called for the strength of one peerless leader, the unifying authority of a soul anointed by the higher powers that be to lead the Imperial forces to their victory. Against demons conjured of the distant past, grown out of the resentment over the ruinous power's defeat, only a true echo of those days of old could truly stand. Legends of the foe must be fought with legends of imperial heroes.
This was the image of the Executor Admiral, as it was painted in sweeping declarations by the enunciators of the Administratum World Trantor upon the arrival of her golden ships. Her mind, so they proclaimed, was imbued with all the power and genius, experience and knowledge as they had been held by the great leaders of old. Not through descend in blood, but the technological wonder of the Administratum's all-seeing machine, she was one with the great leaders of the Celestial Fleet from those glorious days, and thus uniquely capabilities, no-other could match.
Far from the collective mind of Trantor's populace, she was sworn to enact the will of her kin and, in the name of the Golden Throne, claim victory on those battle spaces still littered with the dead of this first terrible battle.