“After the battle, when night had fallen and the air was silent but for the soft moans of the wounded and dying, the Princess would take wing. All would cower, and rub their sun-dics for luck, to avoid the cold gaze of the Princess of Night. She would float over the battlefield, with a soft song escaping her lips, and ponies shuddered. For who could take such joy in the horror of war?
In truth, only a few ponies ever followed her to the field. These rare ones, not afraid of the night, knew the truth. Her song was not in exultation, but in lament. A flower for the wounded, a song for those who had fallen, a tear for the final dreams of the dying…”