From Canterlot with Love

Chapters

Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
Chapter 5

Chapter 2

Few ducks are as discerning of taste as those to be found in Canterlot’s streams and ponds. Fewer ducks still are as out of shape, though ‘out of shape’ might not be the appropriate phrasing, for they certainly had plenty. In an environment where survival and scavenging were no more than genetic memory, the birds had become gourmets and gourmands of the day-old sweet pastries of the surrounding pâtisseries. In one particular park, on this particular afternoon, they were currently ignoring the offerings of a pair of white ponies lying couchant on a picnic blanket at the water’s edge.

Nomde Plume frowned. “Hmph. They’re only doing themselves a disservice.”

She levitated a piece of whole-grain bread in front of an enormous, unimpressed drake. The bird narrowed his eyes at the roll, quacked in disdain at the nutritional value, and made like an ocean liner for a cruller bobbing in the water across from a mare and her corgi.

“I doubt ducks worry too much about their waistlines,” Storm Stunner remarked. “If anything, a bit of extra padding probably helps them stay afloat.” He helped himself to a piece of Nomde’s bread, thinking it a shame to let it go to a watery grave.

“Maybe in the water, but not in the air. I doubt these birds could fly across this pond, let alone south for the winter,” Nomde grumbled, willing the spurned roll to her lips and taking a bite.

“Well, with the added insulation, it’s not likely they’d have to worry about the cold. Hm…”

Across the pond, Storm watched as a paddling of younger birds took their picks from a selection of waterlogged shortbreads. Other ducks in their proximity took notice of the meal and came to join them, and they were allowed in without second thought. It was the sort of scene one could only find in the city. There was no urgency, no competition; these ducks had it made, with more than enough (or more accurately too much) of anything they could want for. Even in colder weather, would they be willing to give up such a niche?

Storm felt a warmth lean up against him. He looked down to see Nomde’s face close to his, a corner of her mouth bent upwards and an eyebrow arched.

“‘Hm…,’ you say. Often one can find a lot buried beneath a ‘Hm…’ Something on your mind?”

Storm pursed his lips in thought for a moment and then decided he might as well throw the idea out there. “Actually, yeah. Yeah, there is.”

“Oh?” Nomde tilted her head. “Care to share?”

“You know Princess Luna?”

“The name rings a bell.” Nomde smirked. “How is Her Royal Highness?”

“She’s doing very well. Aaand it looks like she has a mission of some sort lined up for me and the guys.”

“Mm, a mission? Sounds important.”

As Nomde said it, Storm resisted the urge to preen; he knew her just a bit too well.

“Think it will get another stock photo of one of your coworkers into Equestria Weekly, ‘Mr. Stagger’?”

“Ha! Hopefully one that isn’t mid-sneeze. But no, what she has lined up sounds pretty low-key, actually.”

“And what exactly would it be?”

“Well, apparently she wants us to do some travelling, sightseeing, one might call it, and to report back on our findings.”

“Sightseeing? Hm, sounds more like a vacation. Do you know where?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest; we haven’t gotten any details, yet.”

“Uh-huh… interesting. And do you know what kind of findings you’re expected to report on?”

“Um, she didn’t really get all that specific. I’m under the impression she wants to know the state of things out there, outside of the city. I guess, you know, whatever stands out to us?” Storm finished lamely.

“Mm-hmm.” Nomde rested a cheek on a hoof. “Well, as long as you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Storm rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Anyways, what I wanted to know was how you’d feel about it.”

“Me?” Nomde asked.

“Of course. If I decide to go on this venture, I may be away for a while. Are you okay with that?”

Nomde laughed. It was pleasant, but unexpected, and it made Storm cock his head. “Storm, that is incredibly thoughtful of you, really it is, but you know I’m not going to stand between you and your job. You don’t need to ask for my permission.”

Storm placed a hoof under his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully for effect as he considered Nomde from the corner of his eye.

“…Ohh, I don’t know if I entirely believe that.”

A bread roll bopped him on the top of his head.

“Moving on, you said ‘if’ you go.” Nomde lowered the bread between them. “Were you given a choice in the matter?”

“Yeah, Luna gave us this weekend to think about it.”

“And have you?”

“I suppose so, but it’s a tough decision. On one hoof, it’d be nice to see some more of the world outside of a map. Still…”

Storm extended a wing and draped it softly over Nomde.

“I’ve come to like it here, and that might be worth the other three.”

“Ugh, you’re so sappy,” Nomde groaned, but it didn’t escape Storm’s notice that her cheeks had taken on the subtlest shade of pink.

With that, the two just lay there wordlessly by the water and let nature fill in the silence with its rustles, burbles, and the occasional quack. It was one of those rarer moments in life where all that mattered was the one you spent it with, and everything else was just background noise. It was a little cheesy, it was a lot saccharine, and it was just to Storm’s tastes; he wouldn’t have had it any other way. A moment like that could take forever to pass, and you would still feel shortchanged when it did.

After some time, and with a bit of reluctance, Nomde spoke.

“…‘Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind,’ it has been said. I think you have a great opportunity before you, if I were to be honest; a bit of adventure is important in one’s life.”

Storm gave this thought the consideration it was due.

“…Yeah, you’re right, I know. Heck, this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve left familiar territory, and it’s worked out so far. But are you sure you’ll be alright during those long weeks and lonely nights without your bold, daring, and might I add dashing member of Equestria’s Royal Guard?”

This time, Nomde’s laugh was fully expected, and he grinned widely as he pulled her in tighter with his wing.

“I think I’ll manage somehow.” Nomde nestled against him. “At any rate, if I’m not mistaken, those long weeks lie on the other side of a weekend. Let’s enjoy it while it lasts.”

The two stood and gathered their items, but left the rest of the bread at the edge of the pond, just in case one of the ducks decided to be a bit adventurous as well. As they left, they fell into light conversation about how to spend the rest of the day. There was plenty of it left, and it would have been a shame to waste it.

In an older part of the city, a part tucked away behind gilded gates on the rolls of well-manicured hills, Check Mate wound his way up a road’s gentle slope. The cobblestones, freshly paved, felt cool and smooth against the bottoms of his hooves. In this neighborhood, the thoroughfares were kept in a permanent state of renewal against the infrequent wear of traffic over them. Pristine roads were a point of pride; however, change ceased at their edges. Beyond them, a stasis persisted, around which time flowed like a river around a bend. Far off at the end of private drives, venerable manors stood invariant across the years, younger only than the families that dwelt in them.

As Check Mate walked, studying the ancient residences, he pondered on them. They imparted a feeling of isolation, he decided. Unsatisfied with being bubbled only from the rest of the city, the properties were further cocooned, separated into singularities via stone walls, thick topiary, and distances that made each home an island, afloat on verdant seas. ‘Good fences make good neighbors,’ he had once read in a verse; like its author, he was uncertain if he agreed.

Check Mate paused as the texture beneath his hooves abruptly transitioned into a familiar flatness, the cobbles yielding to tumbled marble at the base of a long, steep stairway. Eyes fixed upward, he began the climb, slowly counting down the steps. As he neared the top, his destination began to come into view, slowly rising above the crest of the hill like a sunken continent.

A sober roof shingled in slate breached his vision first, sloping down into pale masonry matching the stairs leading up. Round top windows of various sizes followed, all transparency lost against the strong daylight. Then, in varnished oak and bright as a beacon against the backdrop of the chateau, stood the door. Check Mate adjusted his posture, took a deep breath, and closed the distance with an even cadence. Taking the bronze knocker in his magic, he rapped twice against the door.

Muted by the wood, the slow sound of hoofsteps grew before abruptly falling silent. The door opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges, and behind it stood a spotted unicorn of august appearance. His head was held high, and his eyes were so lidded from years of practiced scrutiny that the whites could not be seen. An immaculately groomed moustache draped down his snout like a curtain of shadow; it rustled, lips presumably moving somewhere underneath.

“Hmmm, yes… May I help you, sir?” he spoke in the coldly cordial and definitively daunting tones one would use to address a solicitor and hint that they should try another address.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pennyworth,” Check Mate said warmly. “If it is no inconvenience, I would like to come in.”

At the sound of his name on that voice, a thin fissure of white and violet cracked beneath Pennyworth’s eyelids.

“…Sir?” Risking impropriety, he hazarded a glance at one of the visitor’s haunches. Even with the gray pelt, there was no mistaking the chess piece. “Master Check Mate, is that you?”

Check Mate bowed his head in a small nod. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Pennyworth’s tone quickly went from adverse to avuncular, and his moustache bristled into a smile. “My word, welcome back, sir! Goodness, you’ve certainly filled out in your absence, haven’t you? Ah, where are my manners? Come in, come in!” Pennyworth opened the door fully, ushering Check Mate inside. “And your coat, sir; I daresay you look like a whole new pony!”

“In some ways I am, Mr. Pennyworth,” Check Mate laughed. “Are my mother and father home?” He walked with Pennyworth through the entranceway, a narrow hall decorated on either side by paintings of unicorns in dress of increasingly modern vogue, with expressions cut out of stone. Two portraits, one of a bespectacled, chestnut stallion, and another of a black, silver-maned mare, ended the series, before the hall terminated at the entrance to a sitting room.

“Sir Magnus and Lady Marequessa have been out since this morning attending a recital, though I imagine they shall return soon. In the interim, you must be hungry, sir. May I prepare some sort of collation; perhaps some asparagus, or…,” and here Pennyworth might have winked, though it’d be impossible to tell, “…maybe a wedge or two of mandarin? I do believe it to be a certain young master’s favorite.”

“Only if you’ll have some as well, Mr. Pennyworth; I would appreciate the conversation. Thank you for your trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all, sir.”

As Pennyworth withdrew through the other end of the sitting room, Check Mate remained at its entrance, caught in reminiscence. The pungent sweetness of cassia hung in the air as it always had, wafting from a bowl of potpourri placed by his mother near the door leading in. From the far left corner, his father’s antique, brass gramophone sighted inwards like a blunderbuss. Lacquered urns, marble works, and other antique show conquests filled in the empty spaces across the room.

And then there were the books…

Sources of Check Mate’s entertainment and edification, shelves of gold leaf hardcovers lined the right wall, convenient to a square of velvet sofas arranged around a low, wooden tea table. Magical things they must have been: they had somehow painted colorful worlds for him, using only lines of black and white. The unicorn briefly considered taking one down but decided against it, choosing instead to have a seat and wait for Pennyworth’s return. He didn’t have to wait long.

Pennyworth entered the room with a tea service and dishes of food balanced effortlessly in his magic, and arranged them neatly about the table. After a moment of inspection, he tutted in disapproval before turning the tray of asparagus a couple of degrees clockwise.

“There we go, yes; shall we, sir?”

Pennyworth took a seat across from Check Mate and the two began their meal. The former took bites of asparagus in measured decorum, and this decorum would have to be measured with a magnifying glass. Pennyworth was a pony that thrived on formality and would have starved if he didn’t. He took an imperceptible sip of tea and carefully dabbed from his lips whatever moisture may have actually escaped the cup.

“Tell me, sir: how has military life been treating you so far?” he asked.

Check Mate leaned his head back into his seat and considered his answer. “Well, it has been a procession of interesting experiences. It was difficult at the onset, as I’m sure you would suspect. There were times that our exertions on the training field either left me insensible, or wishing that I was.”

“Be that as it may, it has had an incontestable effect, sir,” Pennyworth commented. “I’d wager that you’d make for quite the scrapper. Hm, speaking of which, it didn’t come to that during the bedlam earlier this year, did it?”

“Ah… you know about all of that, then?”

“It was rather hard to miss, sir,” said Pennyworth matter-of-factly. “If one managed not to look to the sky that day, they needed only to look to the paper the next. I shan’t forget the headline I read: ‘Storm Stagger, Check Mate, and Crack Shot — The Guard Does Something Right!’”

Check Mate laughed. “It was serendipity, nothing more. I merely had a firsthoof view of the events as they transpired.”

“If you say so, sir. Those fellows that were with you, then. Good lads?”

Check Mate nodded. “My closest friends.”

“Ah, agapai; it is invaluable, sir.”

The conversation was interrupted by a pair of voices coming from the entranceway. Check Mate took a second deep breath.

“…was a stellar performance on the part of the players, but it just wasn’t the proper venue. So much space and not enough sound to fill it. Say, Pennyworth old friend, are you around?”

Pennyworth and Check Mate stood to greet the approaching voices. “Indeed, sir! And we have a guest!”

“Oh? A guest?” came a female voice, followed by its owner, a unicorn mare wrapped in a gossamer gown. Her mane was tressed into silver ringlets that bounced like springs as she walked into the room. She paused for only a second to take in the visitor, before her eyes widened in recognition. A mother always knows.

“Oh! Check Mate, darling!” Marequessa rushed toward her son.

“Check Mate?” the male voice, Magnus, inquired. The stallion gazed disbelievingly at the pony in question through a pair of round-rimmed spectacles. Plucking a handkerchief from a jacket pocket in a violet glow, he wiped his lenses and looked again. “That’s our Check Mate?”

“Hello, father, hello, er, mother—” Check Mate fidgeted awkwardly as his mother’s head craned this way and that, checking him over. She gasped, lifting a hoof of his with her own, and he bit his lip. An inch or two long and well hidden beneath his fur, a pink score the width of a pencil stroke ran down the side of his foreleg.

“Oh, Checky, what have they done to you?!”

Check Mate shook his head.

“Now, mother, it is just a cut, an excoriation, the end result of a simple slip of a spear. Nothing to fret over,” he said, attempting pacification and grimly aware of the futility in doing so.

“Speared, you say! You never wrote to us about this! Well, whoever did this owes both an explanation and an expiation; is that the sort of peril you face in this line of work you’ve chosen?! Magnus, do take a look at this!”

“I assure you, mother, this peril you imagine really isn’t—”

“Honestly, to be out there accumulating scars: couldn’t your mind be put to better use?”

Check Mate went silent. In less than a few minutes it had already begun.

“Oh, there are so many other options!” she went on. ”You could have chosen politics, business, medicine—”

“—But I chose the Guard.” It came out just a bit too sharply. Check Mate rubbed his face, shutting his eyes and himself away from his mother’s wounded stare. “I do appreciate your concern, mother, I do. But, again, I have no regrets about the life I’ve chosen. It’s one that—”

“Goodness, that wound is deep, isn’t it?”

Check Mate’s eyes snapped open, catching his father staring intently at the mark on his leg.

“Oh, not you, too! The blade didn’t even damage the dermis; this ‘wound’ will not even exist in a day or two!” Unfortunately for the guardspony, the reunion with his parents wasn’t going at all as he had hoped, and precisely as he had expected.

“Perhaps,” Pennyworth interjected, “the lord and lady would be more at ease if I were to fetch some dressings to treat the young master’s, er-hem, injury?”

“Ah, yes, of course; if you would. Thank you, Pennyworth,” said Magnus.

Check Mate, grateful for the intervention, gave his thanks as well, and Pennyworth bowed his head just slightly before leaving the room.

“Still, Check Mate,” Magnus continued, “could you not consider your mother’s words? Both she and I do worry; perhaps gallivanting off as you did was a bit hasty? ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ they say. We only want what’s best for you.”

And the problem was that he was being completely honest. Neither of Check Mate’s parents had come from families in which leaving the nest was given serious thought. That wasn’t how it was done. You kept the nest primmed and padded, you married and consolidated nests, and you then passed the nest down to the next generation so they could repeat the process.

“I know that the both of you do, and I’m indebted to you for the attention and care that you’ve given me,” Check Mate responded. “But know that I want what’s best for me, too.”

There was nothing to be said to that, and a leaden silence followed. It was a match point to a bout that Check Mate hadn’t wished for, and it weighed on his parents, their heads hanging low.

“…Mr. Pennyworth informed me that you were attending a recital,” Check Mate said, hoping to lift the mood. “How did you find it?”

Magnus blinked. “Oh, erm, excellent. Yes, it was an excellent performance, acoustics notwithstanding. It was one of Beethoofen’s trios; the performers were meticulous about each note and nuance, yet unafraid to add this unique vivacity to it.”

“You would have enjoyed it,” his mother added.

“I am sure that I would have,” Check Mate said sincerely.

“You do still have the opportunity to listen to the classics, don’t you, dear?” Marequessa asked. “Your colleagues haven’t had you listening to that, that, oh what is it? You know what I’m speaking of, don’t you, Magnus? That raffish new jangle.”

“Ah, yes.” Magnus wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Rocking roll.”

“I doubt that any of the others are even familiar with the genre,” Check Mate answered evenly.

The two older ponies sighed in relief.

At that moment, Pennyworth returned, orbited by gauze, linen bandages, and antiseptics. “Alright then, let us see that hoof.” He lifted Check Mate’s foreleg and stared at it for a moment. Apparently one moment wasn’t enough, and he opted for another.

“About three inches up from the coronary band, towards the outside,” Check Mate whispered.

“Right, sir.”

Pennyworth dabbed the gauze with antiseptic, placed it over Check Mate’s cut, and tightly wrapped the foreleg with enough linen to be convincing.

“There we go, right as rain, sir.”

“Much appreciated, Mr. Pennyworth. See? Good as—”

Check Mate flexed the hoof and stifled a wince at the constriction.

“—new. Now, returning to our earlier topic, I would like to allay these concerns of yours about my contemporaries, because they are also my companions.”

He paused, allowing this to settle in.

“Each comes from a different background, and accordingly each has their own predilections and proclivities, but they’re all in the Guard for a reason: to protect and to serve.”

“If you say so, dear, I suppose we’ve no choice but to defer to your judgment…” Marequessa relented. “But let us set that aside for now. Now that you’re home, a celebration is in order, is it not? How would you feel about dining out tonight? Perhaps at La tour de l'excès? Their cocarde au sirop is marvelous. …You won’t be leaving before this evening, will you?” There was a brittle hopefulness in her voice.

Check Mate bit his lower lip. “…No, not before then; I shall be available. That sounds like a wonderful suggestion.”

“We may have to find some formal attire more in your size, though,” his father noted. “I wonder how long it would take to get something fitted. Do you know if we have anything larger in one of the guest rooms, Pennyworth?”

“That I shall ascertain, sir.” Pennyworth removed himself from the room once more.

“How long will you be home for, Checky?” Marequessa asked.

“If it’s no trouble, I would like to spend the weekend here.”

“Trouble?” Marequessa’s laughter chimed. “Never would we consider your presence trouble. I know your days must be busy and that your… your friends likely desire your presence during holidays to, err, jive to bebop or whatever it is they do, but it would be nice to see more of you. If it’s not too much to ask.”

Check Mate shook his head. “Of course it isn’t.”

“Lovely! In fact, if I recall correctly, your father and I were invited to a dinner party next weekend. Would you be able to fit it into your schedule?”

Check Mate hesitated. “Perhaps we could discuss this at dinner.”

Castle Canterlot is a living thing. It has a central nervous system, the Princesses; an immune system, the Guard; and it reacts to the world around it, as it acts on the world around it through, for example, the entertaining of petitions and the enactment of policies.

Presently, word was spreading about the three guardsponies’ upcoming journey, moving like a bolus through the castle’s arteries; Crack Shot was making sure of that. Continuing with the analogy, it had just made its way to the stomach.

Small groups of guardsponies on their lunch breaks filtered into the cafeteria, replacing others as they left to resume their patrols. The low drone of multiple conversations filled the room as Rosetta and Crack Shot waited in line for a shot at the fruit trays, the two of them contributing to the din.

“Wow, a special mission from Princess Luna? What exactly will you be doing?”

“Just travellin’ to different places, I guess. Sounds kinda like we’ll be makin’ a ‘while you were gone’ retrospective for the past thousand years.”

Rosetta paused midstep. “Huh,” she said. She thought on it, tried again, and still it came out, “Huh.” She shrugged and, taking her turn at the buffet, loaded a tray with a mix of berries and celery and balanced it on her wing. “Where will you guys be going?”

“Heh, no clue actually. Sounds like Luna wants us to take a walking tour of Equestria. Hopefully somewhere happenin’.”

Crack Shot plucked a pair of apples from a bowl by their stems, flipped them into the air, and made a game of keeping them airborne by juggling them between his wings and the bridge of his nose as he followed Rosetta to a table.

“Wow…” Rosetta stared up dreamily. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t envy you a bit. To see new places, maybe to even hear new languages… that’s quite the opportunity!”

“Huh, I suppose it is.” Crack Shot took a seat, catching the apples by their stems and setting them on the table. “You’ll get the chance, I’m sure; it’s a big world, I doubt the three of us could cover it. Heck, I could bring back a souvenir if you’d like.”

Rosetta’s expression could have lit a darkened room. “Really? That’d be awesome! Promise it won’t be something tacky like a T-shirt or a saddlebag?”

“Picky, picky.”

Rosetta leaned sideways and waved. “Oh, heya! Have a seat!”

“Eh? I kinda already—gah!” Crack Shot had followed Rosetta’s gaze and nearly fallen over. Behind him stood a pegasus, one side of his mouth beginning to bend into a scowl. “Geez, dude, somepony should put a bell on you!”

Featherstep rolled his eyes as he took a seat at the table next to Crack Shot. “Don’t you have the day off? Why are you still hanging out here?”

Crack Shot took a bite from one of his apples. “Food’s cheaper. Speakin’ of which, aren’t you gonna eat anything? My folks always said to never keep a gift course from your mouth.”

“Don’t worry about me, Sender and Ikebana are picking something out; I’m just grabbing us some seats.”

As he finished speaking, and with impeccable literary timing, three trays appeared on the table in a burst of green light, complete with salads, fruit bowls, and glasses of water. After a second or two, long enough for an afterthought, three smaller flashes followed, and a trio of lemon wedges dropped into the beverages. Soon afterwards, the unicorns Ikebana and Sender approached the table. Featherstep waved a wing.

“Compliments to the chefs!”

“I’m just the server.” Sender gestured with a tilt of his head towards Ikebana. “Direct all praise to this one here; he picked out the good stuff.”

Ikebana shrugged. “It’s an old family recipe. Take three parts tray and add cafeteria fare to taste.” He took a seat across from Sender and nodded towards the two other guardsponies. “Hey Rosetta, Crack Shot. How’s it going?”

“Pretty interesting, actually,” Rosetta said. “The Sergeant here is going away on a special assignment with Sergeants Storm Stunner and Check Mate, by order of Her Royal Highness, Princess Luna. He promised me a souvenir,” she added.

“Oh? Is that right?” Featherstep looked sidelong at Crack Shot, and an eyebrow slowly rose and disappeared beneath his champron. “What kind?”

“Uh, the assignment or souvenir?” Crack Shot was acutely aware of, if not knowing eyes, then assuming ones upon him, and of the fact that, in the absence of certain female company, half of them would be winking. So this was what it was like to be on the other side of it.

“I think he meant the latter, but do feel free to elaborate on the former.” Sender’s smile corrupted into a grin.

“If you’d like, I could even help you pick something out. I’ve an eye for this kind of thing,” Ikebana added evilly.

“You know, I could probably make you do laps or something,” Crack Shot said.

“But you probably won’t,” Featherstep countered.

“And what exactly are you three insinuating?” Rosetta smiled sweetly. Her voice was calm and promised a storm if they kept it up; she didn’t need to be multilingual to read the body language, or the footnotes between the lines.

‘Nothing!’ and its variants quickly issued from Sender, Ikebana, and Featherstep.

“Anyways, about this assignment,” Featherstep continued. “You say you’re getting sent away; is there something going on outside of Canterlot? Some kind of trouble?”

Crack Shot shrugged. “There’s something goin’ on anywhere, and same goes for trouble, but nothing like what you’re thinking, at least as far as I’ve heard. We’re just gonna be travellin’, takin’ notes, and showin’ Luna the world of today.”

Sender was aghast. “And you’re getting paid for this?”

“Pretty sweet deal, huh?”

“Now, I don’t mean any disrespect, but if she was interested in the ‘world of today’, wouldn’t it be easier if Her Royal Highness, say, got a newspaper? Or a magazine? Or a history book?”

“Eh, maybe they leave something out? I’m sure she’s got her reasons.”

That evening at La tour de l'excès, small groups of smartly dressed ponies clustered just inside its beveled doors, waiting for their parties to be called in for slightly fuller stomachs and markedly lighter wallets. The restaurant boasted an appeal to the connoisseur and so charged accordingly; the speed at which a diner could eat through their riches at La tour would make a dragon question his appetite. Marequessa and Magnus, tailed by Check Mate in a tightly fitting jacket that had seen better days (and probably better decades), moved between the minor crowds towards the maître d’ to see about getting a table. Check Mate’s parents had managed to get a short notice reservation by pulling a few silken strings.

The maître d’ looked up from his podium and sized up the approaching ponies; he found himself somewhat impressed. For a start, these ponies weren’t afraid of him. Most guests approached him timorously, afraid they’d commit some unwitting faux pas, and that in retaliation he’d strike their names from the reservation list, or, perhaps if they were the ones to be saddled with the bill, move them up on it. Not these ponies. The couple in the lead strode forward as if they owned the place, or, if not, like they could do so after a quick stop at the bank. He put on his warmest smile.

“Bonsoir et bienvenue a La tour de l'excès,” he greeted, expending most of his knowledge of the language. “Your party name, s'il vous plait,” he finished, exhausting the rest.

“It would be under my wife’s name: Marequessa.”

“Marequessa…” The maitre d’ looked down his list. “Ah, yes. Marequessa, party of three. Follow me, s'il vous plait.”

The maître d’ took some menus from his podium and led the three away to the chorus of slighted murmuring from the other patrons, many of whom who had spent the evening waiting to be seated, towards a helical staircase cut with floral motifs in its alabaster guards. As they climbed, he went over the evening’s specials, while with every turn upwards Check Mate caught each inimical glare below as they disappeared beneath the railing.

“Now tonight I would personally recommend the pumpkin bisque to begin with. It is made with only the highest quality of cream, and the head chef can avouch for that, the cows that produce it being personal friends of hers…”

Check Mate stopped paying attention. Instead, he turned his attention to the steps of his hooves, and to the bandage peeking out from beneath an ancient cufflink.

‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ his father had said. Check Mate frowned at the remembrance. Moss. Clout, influence, power, puissance, call it what you will. In trying to amass it you could find yourself buried by it, in thrall to it. What was wrong with rolling, as his father had put it? What was wrong with tumbling over and down life’s hills and valleys, being buffeted by the storms it threw at you, and facing the wear? What was wrong with accumulating the chips, the cracks, and, of course, the scratches? You might not have the moss at the end, but you’d have had the journey, and, after all of the polish, might you not find yourself, clarified and glinting in the detritus? Check Mate had missed home of course, but now he found himself missing his barracks, and he realized with some disconcertion that they had somewhere along the line taken the title of ‘home’ in his heart. He felt a twinge of filial guilt.

At some point the steps ceased appearing beneath him. He paused his introspection to look around.

Ponies dressed similarly to his parents sat around covered tables topped with candelabra and floral centerpieces, engaged in quiet conversations. Forming the walls behind velvet curtains, great panes of glass extended to the ceiling, turned into mirrors by the night behind them. Savory aromas tempted the appetite and menaced the purse. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings simply because they had to; the rest of the décor demanded chandeliers.

The group came to a stop at a table nestled in a corner of the restaurant; it was a spot clearly chosen for its intimacy. The maître d’ drew the seats for Check Mate and his parents and carefully placed their menus before them.

“Your waiter shall be out shortly. I hope that your dining experience at La tour is a pleasant and memorable one, s'il vous plait.” The maître d’ bowed and then took his leave.

“What will you be having, Magnus?”

Magnus adjusted his frames and studied the menu. “Hmm, well, the white truffle au gratin is tempting; I think it would be a fine accompaniment to that pumpkin bisque. How about you, dear?”

“I’ll be having the cocarde, of course. How about you, Checky?”

“Hm? Oh—” Check Mate gave the menu a passing look. “The white bean soup seems appealing.”

“Will that be enough?” Worry carried in his mother’s voice.

Check Mate thought quickly. “Ah—the repast Mr. Pennyworth prepared this afternoon didn’t leave me with much of an appetite, I’m afraid.”

Marequessa looked unconvinced. “Well… if you change your mind, don’t hesitate to order something else. And I’ll be happy to share some of my dish, if you’d like.”

“…Thank you, mother.”

“Ah! Returning to this afternoon’s conversation,” Magnus spoke up. “Do you think you will be able to attend the dinner party at Bijou’s with your mother and me next weekend?”

Check Mate took a breath in and held it for a moment. It came out as a sigh. “I am sorry to say no. I’m… going to be away, on royal business.”

“Oh…” his mother whispered. Then she registered the second sentence. “Away?”

“Yes… and likely for quite some time. I’m afraid that any future visitations will have to wait until my return.”

And so began the moment that Check Mate had been dreading; he could see the question forming on his mother’s lips as she measured his words and his lassitude. It had been there since the day he had left, and, stagnant, it must’ve eaten at her like rot. It wasn’t coaxing, censure, or rebuke that he had feared upon delivery of the news of his upcoming travels—

“Have we… have I… driven you away?”

—It was breaking his mother’s heart.

“No, never!” Check Mate shook his head. “As parents you’ve both been irreproachable, and it is my fortune to call you mine. Never doubt that.”

“But you’re leaving, disappearing again!” His mother’s eyes misted. “We must’ve been lacking… what was it that we failed to give you?”

“Nothing at all.”

Then, because sometimes words just aren’t enough no matter how big your vocabulary, he stood from his seat, walked around the table, and pulled his mother tightly into a hug.

“You’ve provided me with shelter and education, love and affection. You’ve helped shape me into the pony I am today, and it is one that I am proud to be.”

His mother sniffed. “But, but we could be overbearing, I’m certain.”

“Perhaps… and perhaps I could be distant. But I would never begrudge you your idiosyncrasies, nor, I hope, would you begrudge me mine.”

“Would you… promise to write more often? Real letters, filled with the good and the bad?”

“I promise.”

Marequessa sniffed once more and pulled out of her son’s embrace. Her eyes were red and wet and raw, but below it all and however small, there was a smile.

Then there was a blush as her eyes flitted to the waiter standing sheepishly away from the table, shifting his weight from side to side and sneaking the occasional glance to see if the scene had ended. She hastily levitated a napkin from the table to dab her face with. The waiter waited for the two ponies to take their seats before approaching and taking their orders. After he had left, conversation resumed.

“Do you know where you’ll be going?” Marequessa asked.

“As of this moment, no; however, I presume that we will be informed of those details upon our return to duty next week.”

“‘We’? A number of you will be going?” Magnus lowered his glasses below the level of his eyes. Naturally, it did nothing for his vision, but he found it did a fine job of imparting a sense of inquiry.

“Just two others: Storm Stunner and Crack Shot.” Check Mate waited for his parents to turn this information over in their heads.

Finally, his father said, “Those would be the two pegasi that were with you during this year’s earlier hullabaloo, right? One of the papers said they weren’t from Canterlot originally.”

“That is correct, they aren’t,” Check Mate affirmed. “Nor did they receive private educations or come from prominent families. But they’re honest, kindhearted, and clever.”

Marequessa nodded, keeping that little smile on her son. “We shall look forward to learning all about them, then.”

Nomde’s horn shone as she began to release the spell keeping her bookstore sealed. The faint hint of runes, morphemes of an ancient script, shimmered and pulsed about the door; threads of light limned the grain of the wood in the shapes of frozen ripples; and a low hum began to resonate from its surface. The runes soon resolved into distinct shapes, into cryptic prose that burned just brighter than the door itself. Magic erupted and danced and flared into the air as the wood came alive with light and an ethereal heat. Then there was a dull click and the door swung open. Nomde reasoned that all of this was a more convenient alternative to remembering a key.

As Storm and Nomde stepped into the darkened interior, a dim glow began to build along the walls, as one by one the fireflies stirred awake in their lanterns, curious about the intrusion. Upon recognizing their owner, those nearest the front began to shimmer more energetically, and the excitement spread through the rest of the shop, filling it with light.

“Wow,” Storm said, looking about the empty shop, “it’s weird to see this place so busy.”

To his disappointment, Nomde didn’t rise to it.

“What did you need to pick up here?” he asked.

“Well, I was thinking of giving you a gift to take on your journey.” Nomde removed a jar of nectar from beneath her counter and began to distribute it among the lanterns. “Although, I might be thinking better of it after that little quip.” Storm grinned inwardly and silently applauded himself: success after all.

“A gift?” he said out loud.

“Mm-hmm. Just wait right there while I go fetch it.” She disappeared towards the back of the store.

While he waited, Storm decided to browse the new releases on the front tables. Stacked on one was the latest installment in a popular series: Daring Do and the Deus Ex Machina. It looked a bit thinner than some of the earlier books, and there were quite a number of those. He found it odd that he had only heard of the series just recently, for how popular it seemed to be.

Nomde came back down the aisle of shelves with a book floating just ahead of her. As she set it before Storm, he noticed there wasn’t a title on it.

“I thought an atlas or a travel guide might make you look too much like a tourist, although I seem to recall a certain somepony having trouble with directions when we first met,” she said teasingly. “Also, I think this book will prove much more interesting in the long run.”

Curious, Storm turned to the first page. Then to the second. Then he flipped all the way to the middle.

“Huh. There’s not a word in it.” He traced a hoof along the book’s empty pages.

“Very astute of you, Storm.” Nomde moved alongside him and placed her hoof against his. “You’ll be the one to add them.”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever kept a journal before, but thank you.” He kissed Nomde on her brow. “I’ll try to fill this one up.”

“I’m glad to hear that; I think you’ll have many worthwhile things to say.”

“Now there’s a bold claim.” Storm chuckled. “Anyways, the stars are out, and I believe Princess Luna has a new constellation somewhere among them. What do you say we go out and add the first page?”

During his flight back to Canterlot Castle the evening before the start of the new week, Storm noticed a familiar gray figure walking the hilly road below him. With a slow, circuitous descent, he landed in a trot beside him.

“Good evening, Storm,” Check Mate greeted.

“Hey, Check, how’d your weekend go? Parents doing alright?”

“They’re doing well. It… was a worthwhile visit. And your weekend with Miss Nomde?”

Storm noted the pause, but let it pass. “It was nice. We tried unsuccessfully to feed the ducks. They didn't much care for our bread.”

Check Mate laughed. “Yes, it seems this city is full of epicures in every form. Did you come to a decision about Princess Luna’s proposition?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go for it. Nomde talked me into it.”

“I’m glad to hear that; it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

By the time the two arrived at the castle, night had fallen and the moon was well overhead. Two unicorns in ebon armor saluted them from the towers and vanished from sight to lower the drawbridge. When Storm and Check had crossed, they were greeted by the pair.

“Evening, Sergeants, and welcome back,” the guard on the left spoke. “Are you prepared for your journey tomorrow?”

Storm hadn’t expected that. “Not yet. But if I may ask, how did you hear about it?”

“It’s the talk of the castle among the Guard; Sergeant Crack Shot has been quite vocal on the matter, sir. He said the three of you would participate in a task to go ‘Luna knows where’ to do ‘Luna knows what’.” After a moment he added, “His words, sir.”

Storm rubbed his forehead. “Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but I suppose it’s true enough. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is, would you?”

“Last I had seen, the Sergeant was waiting for your return in the castle antechamber. I believe you may find him there.”

“Ah, thanks then. Shall we, Check?”

Storm and Check Mate entered into the dimly lit halls of the castle and proceeded to look for Crack Shot. Counter to the buzz of the day, silence as thick as soup suffused the corridors of Castle Canterlot. The only sounds to be heard were the muted rumble of snores from the servants’ quarters and, of course, the occasional hoofsteps of a patrol: the Guard never slept. Moving into the antechamber, they found Crack Shot providing counterevidence to this claim. Check Mate gently nudged the pegasus awake, who in turn greeted his friends with a groggy yawn as he stood up.

“’Bout time you guys got back.”

“What’s the matter, get tired of waiting?” Storm grinned.

“Ugh, dude.”

“Why were you waiting here, anyways?” Storm asked. “If you were sleepy, you could’ve just made for the barracks.”

“Nah, that wouldn’t do. The both of you are down to do this whole Luna deal, I’m guessing?”

Storm and Check Mate nodded.

“Yeah, so I figured we might as well let her know that while she’s probably up,” Crack Shot said as he popped his neck.

“Hm, I must say, that’s very provident of you, Crack Shot,” said Check Mate.

“Heh, thanks. I think. Anyways, wanna go track her down? She’s gotta be lurking around here somewhere, right?”

Check Mate frowned slightly. “I would not say that one of the Princesses ‘lurks.’”

“Yeah, not enough syllables, I’m guessing,” Crack Shot teased, bumping Check Mate on the shoulder. “Come on, we don’t got all night.”

The trio left the antechamber to begin the search for Princess Luna, which turned out to take longer than expected. She was not to be found in her throne room, her bower, the libraries, or anywhere inside of the castle. It was on one of the tower balconies that they finally discovered her, entirely by chance. She would have been unnoticeable, enveloped seamlessly into the endless scatter of stars, if not for the subtle ripple of her mane. She looked back towards the three and graced them with a small smile, before turning once more towards the world below her; she spoke in a reverent whisper after a moment, as if not to disturb it.

“It is a different world that I’ve returned to, you know. Looking at this city, it isn’t difficult in the least to see how it stirs: it beats steadily like a heart. There was a time when these moonlit hours seemed to me as nothing more than a period of transition, an intermission between wakefulness, activity, and gaiety. To consider them thusly used to make me so jealous…”

The three guardsponies said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

“But… that was never really true, I’ve come to understand. Then, as is now, those that close their eyes to consciousness engage in a special enterprise, and they use my night as a stage. It is that they dream, and it is in this dreaming that they breathe life into myriad new worlds, beautiful, terrible, treacherous, treasurable, each a reflection of a sum of experiences, and each as fragile as a soap bubble.

“When they awake, these phantom lands that they’ve constructed from the mortar of their imaginations, populated as richly as they are by familiar faces and passing strangers, rocky foundations and kingdoms of cloud, all of them they’ll leave behind for the waking world. That my night is fecund ground for such creation… it really is an honor, isn’t it?”

Luna turned to face the guardsponies, the small smile still on her lips.

“But I go on. Have the three of you had ample opportunity to consider the task I’ve set before you?”

Crack Shot, Check Mate, and Storm Stunner exchanged nods.

“We have, Luna; all of us accept,” said Storm.

Luna’s smile grew. “Wonderful. In that case, let me give you this.”

A stream of shadow wisped about her horn, and a folded slip of paper floated out from beneath her chest piece, enveloped in umbra. It trailed towards Check Mate, who took it in his own magic, unfolded it, and looked at its contents: it was a map. In it were the areas north of Canterlot with certain landmarks circled, but there was no further instruction written upon it.

“Those are areas that I would like you to visit,” Luna said, as Check Mate’s eyes traced across the paper. “Wherever else you would go is up to your discretion, as is your method of doing so. However…” Luna smirked. “I would recommend you visit the farrier first: there will be a fair amount of walking. For now though, you should get some rest; you’ll wish to be refreshed when departing on the morrow.”

Bidding farewell to the Princess, the guardsponies descended into the castle towards their quarters.

“Phew, Luna must have a lot goin’ on up top, huh?” Crack Shot mused. “I guess when you’ve lived as long as the Princesses, you get a lot of time to think about things; it’s kinda cool that they can see so much come and go, on and on, and still think so much about keepin’ it goin’.”

Storm and Check Mate hummed in agreement.

That night, after penning another entry in his journal, Storm slept deeply, and in his sleep he dreamed. He dreamed of flickering stars and of grassy hills, of unpaved roads and of bright white unicorns. He saw himself, younger, bright-eyed, and ruddy, flapping about unsteadily with a tree branch clenched firmly between his teeth against a childhood villain made real and vicious in the world hidden behind his eyelids.

When he awoke the next morning, he recalled nothing of the dream, the remnants of his phantasmagoria swept away by a blink, along with the sand.

At the castle armory, the guardsponies were outfitted with new shoes to carry them on their journey. Although gilded and ornate in the style of the Guard, there was no doubt about their sturdiness. Calked, resilient, and lightweight, they were made to go not only the distance, but the return trip afterwards. The three chose to keep their original armor, however: a pony got attached. Leaving the smithy, they were met by a cherry unicorn with an impatient air about him. The impatient air had a brothy ripeness to it. He looked them over and scoffed.

“It’s about time you three got out of there. Don’t tell me you had trouble picking outfits,” said Febre, indentured assistant to the castle’s newest (and potentially oldest) relic and wizard, Gray Mane.

“You were waiting for us?” Storm asked.

“Yeah, the old buzzard caught wind of your little trip and wanted your help in testing something.”

“What kinda something?” Crack Shot’s eyes narrowed. Gray Mane’s experimental spells always worked one way or another, and often one way other than intended.

“One that should leave fur where it’s supposed to be and none where it shouldn’t, I promise.” Febre considered his wording. “I honestly believe,” he amended. “At least hear him out, won’t you? Otherwise, he might make me clean out the lab.”

That was all he had to say to get their consent; cleaning out Gray Mane’s laboratory was a punishment nopony should ever have to suffer: it would be a lifetime sentence.

The corridor leading to Gray Mane’s laboratory wasn’t regularly frequented by members of the Royal Guard. There simply was no need to do so. Over time it had evolved a natural defense against intrusion in the form of a miasma that could bring tears, show said tears a thing or two about saltiness, and corrode metal. The gold plating may have protected the Guard’s armor, but it did nothing for their noses. The three guardsponies bade fond farewells to fresh air and followed Febre into the funk with shallow breaths.

As for Gray Mane’s laboratory itself, it would be more aptly called a lair, and it most certainly had layers; to enter into it, one would have to step up. Countless compacted noodle cups formed a polystyrene shelf, and if one were to chisel through the strata they’d find a history of brands, flavors, and, only if they went down far enough, the floor. Arranged on stations about the lab, odd chemicals in flasks and beakers bubbled, often over, and multiple experiments lay in various states of completion; in a corner an athanor was steaming, though a few dry noodles stuck around its base betrayed its purpose.

Then, in the center of the maelstrom, stood the master of it all, muttering to himself as flashes of magic outlined him in bright green. Gray Mane was dressed in a manner that would leave no uncertainty about his profession, though plenty about his fashion sense: there was the tall, pointed, bell-tipped hat stitched with all the necessary ringed planets and stars; a similarly styled robe with all the unnecessary soy sauce stains and encrusted noodle bits; and a number of baubles and pendants to finish the look, with maybe a phylactery thrown in for good measure.

“Hey, old timer; I brought guests!” Febre called out. The flashes ceased and Gray Mane turned towards the disturbance. When he saw his visitors, he grinned with teeth too straight to be his own.

“Ach, the gold backs! Good work, lad,” he brayed from beneath his pointed hat.

“Is, uh, there something we can help you with, Gray Mane?” Storm asked, dreading an affirmative.

“Aye, that there is. Word about is that yer goin’ off aways, puttin’ ye in a good spot to test out a creation o’ mine. A brand-new means o’ long range communication, you’ll see.”

Crack Shot’s eyes flicked once between the wizened wizard and the mess around his hooves. “If it’s two cups and a string, I think the idea’s a little dated. Though, I suppose you’ve been around long enough to have snatched the patent, eh?”

“Pah!” Gray Mane would’ve spat if there were any moisture in him. “If yer gonna make smart remarks—and I’m surprised to hear one comin’ from you, mind ye, ye scunner—I’ll just let Febre here do the field testin’. Whad’ye say to that, lad?!”

“Is travel recompensed?”

“Pah! It’d do ye good to show more enthusiasm for our mystic endeavors, I’ll mind ye, lad. Ye oughta work hard, for when I’m gone, all of this will be yers!”

“Is that a threat?”

“Anyways, what ye boys will be doin’ is simple enough; I’ll show ye how it works, so watch carefully!”

Gray Mane returned to his work station and levitated two innocuous stone tablets, each divided by an etching into a pair of panels, and an emerald-tipped quill in front him. As the guardsponies watched, he began to scribble across the lower panel of one of the tablets in an illegible scrawl; wherever the quill ran, a thin line of green luminesced from its trail. Once he was satisfied with what he had written, he took as deep a breath as he could muster and blew across the stone. His words evaporated in wisps of glittering smoke into the air and rippled towards the other slate, where they reformed on its top panel. Gray Mane noticed the looks he was getting and the question behind them.

“Frozen dragon fire,” he said, believing this an answer.

“How in Equestria do you freeze fire?!” Storm asked.

“Well, ‘tisn’t easy. It helps if the dragon has a cold.”

It wasn’t an explanation, but Storm knew it was all he was going to get.

“If you are looking for our assistance in particular, you must be looking to characterize this device’s function over distance, correct?” Check Mate said.

“Right ye are. It oughta be a win-win fer the both of us. I get to test the range on my smart stones, ye three get an easy means to write back home, assumin’ all three of ye can write.” Gray Mane narrowed his eyes at Crack Shot, before turning back towards Check Mate. “And I know with a dandy like you in the group, I won’t have to worry about it bein’ mistreated.”

Check Mate frowned. “Such shining approbation.”

“Hold up a sec,” said Crack Shot. “Those things only go back and forth, right? If we’re writin’ to anypony else, how are they supposed to get it? Are you gonna be doin’ delivery?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Gray Mane laughed with a sound like a rock tumbler. “Febre will.”

After a stop at the treasury, it was close to noon by the time Storm, Check, and Crack Shot were about ready to take their leave. With sturdy shoes on their hooves and bits in their bags, they needed only to plot their course of action. The three gathered at a quiet table tucked into one of the castle libraries, and Check Mate removed Luna’s map from his bag to open it for the three to review.

“As you can see, it would seem that Luna has charted a northbound course for us to travel,” Check Mate explained.

“Cool, cool…” Crack Shot said. “So what’s north? Any big cities on the way?”

Check Mate scanned over the circles on the page. “Not where we’ll be going, it appears, though there are quite a number of farming communities. Interesting.”

Crack Shot’s face screwed up. “Farms? Really? Farms. There’s gotta be, like… Farms?”

“Yes, but that’s not what catches my interest. If you notice some of these areas farther up the way…”

Storm took a closer look. “Hm, some woods, mountains… They don’t really look like centers of society, do they?”

“My thoughts as well.”

“So is this gonna turn into a camping trip, then? I was kinda hopin’ we’d get, like, you know, hotel rooms or something. Ugh, this is starting to sound like work.”

The other two ignored that.

“I think it’s too early to say what it will turn into,” Storm said. “Let’s just take things as they come, one hoofstep at a time.”

“Or perhaps by locomotive, at least to start? We may be able to save ourselves the initial peregrination; the EqueRail no doubt ferries passengers that way,” suggested Check Mate.

“I’d be down for a train ride; that’s somethin’ ponies do on vacation. We’re not gonna have to pull it, are we?” asked Crack Shot.

“This one will have an engine for that purpose.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Storm.

“Hey, are you guys getting ready to leave?” a voice called.

The guardsponies looked up from the map to see a unicorn guard approaching their table: Ikebana.

“I think we’re just about set; now it’s only a matter of stepping out the door,” said Storm.

“Hm, I’m glad I managed to catch you, then. Perfect location, too, really. Before you take off, let me grab something real fast.”

Ikebana disappeared into the stacks and returned shortly with wood-covered book. Its pages were thick and bound in stitches rather than glue; it was a book that was made to go anywhere, an all-terrain text.

“This is Mare Grylls’s Pandect of Plant Life Pabulums and Panaceas; it is the bible on anything fungal or floral. I doubt you’ll need it, but it might be interesting reading material.” He set the book before Check Mate.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Ikebana; it may yet prove useful. Thank you.”

“Ha, don’t sweat it. Consider it thanks for the vote of confidence the other day. Enjoy yourselves on your trip, best wishes wherever you end up, and good luck if you need it. Now, if you’ll pardon me, duty calls.”

Ikebana tipped his helmet at the three and left to return to his duties.

“That was nice of him,” Storm said. “Looks like you left an impression with that pep talk you gave him, Check.”

“…Really, now? All I did was state the truth…”

At the gates of Canterlot Castle, Storm Stunner, Check Mate, and Crack Shot waved to the guards in the towers as they set off towards the city and what lay beyond it. Storm carried the journal that Nomde had given him in the pocket of saddlebags she had insisted he buy months ago; they were well-sewn with a sensible, inconspicuous burlap, though he felt they lacked the kitschy charm of the souvenir bags he had first arrived at the castle with so long ago. Besides Luna’s map, Check Mate carried Gray Mane’s smart stone and stylus, the book Ikebana had suggested, and his trumpet strapped to his armor. However, Crack Shot travelled light, and his bags were mostly empty, save for the bits; he planned on bringing them back full with souvenirs.

“So, have you ridden this line we’ll be taking before, Check Mate?”

“I have not; my family was never really one that travelled. Nevertheless, EqueRail has an exemplary reputation; some claim one could set a timepiece to their schedule.”

Crack Shot shrugged. “Hey, as long as the seats are soft and the food is good, they can take as long as they’d like.”

Storm Stunner glanced upwards. It was a beautiful day and the blue went on forever; it was as good a day to start a trip as any. He nodded towards Check Mate and Crack Shot.

“Well then. Shall we get going?”

Chapter 3

The Canterlot EqueRail Station was the type of location that came with a buildup. Long before the glazed front of its head house came into view, one couldn’t help but become acutely aware of its presence. A few miles from the station, Storm Stunner, Check Mate, and Crack Shot had begun to notice young, entrepreneurial foals flattening coins into unspendable discs on the tracks (in the economy of youth this was actually lucrative industry, and on the playground, a well-pressed bit could bring in thrice the cost of materials), and soon made out the tell-tale chorus of distant train whistles.

Farther along, hotels began to rise around them, taxis started crowding the streets, throngs of ponies ambled about with bags of luggage, and souvenir vendors found a nice niche selling Canterlot memorabilia, little of which was actually produced in Canterlot. Crack Shot panned his head about, taking in some of the hustle and most of the bustle.

“Jeez, what a mob scene!” he said. “I wonder where all these ponies are comin’ from and where they’re goin’.”

“Honestly, it could be just about anywhere,” Check Mate replied. “As I’ve heard, Canterlot is one of the primary junction stations of the EqueRail Company; long-distance commuters from different regions of Equestria stop here by necessity, and often they take advantage of the chance to see the city while they’re here.”

“All roads lead to Canterlot, huh?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking. It is more a matter of the efficient usage of resources. Rather than having a tangle of lines between every individual station and the profligacy of iron and lumber such construction would entail, and rather than attempting to reform great tracts of land, it’s more prudent to have individual nexus between key loci, and from those divarication.”

Crack Shot paused in place for a moment. “Twenty-bit word for ‘branching’, right?” he said at last.

Check Mate gave an embarrassed chuckle. “Er, sorry, yes, branching.”

“Heh, no need for apologizin’; not many ponies can say they’re friends with a word-a-day calendar. But I guess that’s the trouble with readin’ too much, dude,” Crack Shot mused. “You forget which words you’re not supposed to know. So one of those lines is gonna be divaricatin’ our way, I take it? Where were we goin’, again?”

“We’ll be travelling to Fiddler’s Plain, and we’ll be able to further plan our course once we arrive at the station; there they’ll be able to advise us on the appropriate route.”

Storm scanned the crowds. “Hmm, well whatever that may be, I hope we packed enough for it.” Seeing so many ponies struggle with their bags brought home how weightless his felt on his withers.

“Aw, we’re good, dude. Heck, my grandma always used to say it’s a good idea to pack light, just in case you ever need to skip town in a hurry.”

The guardsponies walked on in silence for a while, Storm and Check Mate sharing a look. Crack Shot began whistling.

“I take it the Guard hasn’t traditionally run in your family, then?” Storm asked carefully.

“Hmm? Nah, not that I know of. It might’ve run after a few of ‘em, though.”

As the road wound down a few more blocks, the crowds of peripatetic ponies grew thicker. Farther still, more and more businesses felt it necessary to include words like ‘tracks’ and ‘railway’ in their names, in the event that after a multi-hour train ride, anypony needed a reminder. Finally, turning at a corner, the guardsponies came to a signpost that did little else than reinforce what the rattling of rails and patterns of whistle code had been announcing in vivid, aural detail. Ahead of their approach, nested at the end of the cobblestones, stood the EqueRail Station, and its buildup was entirely deserved.

There were many features which could be used to describe the exterior of the Canterlot branch station. There was its aforementioned façade, formed of great panels of glass which were kept so impeccably polished that the savvier city birds had long ago learned not to bother with the area around the building, pointing their beaks elsewhere if they wished to keep the lengths of them. There was the steam and smoke which billowed and trailed from the engines in thick plumes off in the distance across the autumnal sky, to and from the station like a private, miniaturized weather system. There were the brightly colored, woodcut, split-flap displays keeping track of each arrival and departure in a series of clacks. There were also quite a lot of clocks. They appeared high beneath the eaves, grouped on brass posts, and in the following bit of philosophical thought:

There is an expression: ‘Even a broken clock is right twice a day.’ Now, if one were to allow for consideration of an exact Equestrian time based on solar position, along with the picoseconds, attoseconds, yoctoseconds (somehow the term minutiae doesn’t feel quite apropos), etcetera that could define it, nailing it twice in a day begins to sound a little more impressive; a clock that runs just a bit slow or a tad fast might do so once if it’s lucky. Things get even trickier with the added variable of Celestia sleeping in that morning.

To solve this nonissue, a clever group of clockmakers with too much time on their hooves decided the next logical step would be to expand on what they termed the Broken Clock Principle, further exploring the potential usages of non-functionality. The culmination of this thought process eventually led to the development of a specialized species of clock: one whose hands spun as quickly as current engineering would allow, in essence causing them to lap the correct hour (and picosecond, attosecond, yoctosecond, etcetera) millions of times over the course of a day. These clocks were technically accurate at more instances per diem than any other to be found in Equestria. They were also, of course, entirely devoid of meaning or readability, although they did make for very good blenders.

The clocks to be found in the EqueRail Station were of the more traditional, pragmatic design, but they were well-crafted, painstakingly calibrated, and you didn’t need a tachometer to count the ticks. When faced with picoseconds, attoseconds, yoctoseconds, etcetera, they rarely, if ever, gave the exact Equestrian time based on solar position.

But they came very, very close.

In ignorance of all of this, Storm said, “Looks like it’s about a quarter ‘til one; shall we head inside and see about getting some tickets?”

The head house’s foyer was even more of a sprawl than its outside, with a polychromatic sea of ponies ebbing and flowing between destinations, before and beyond the main ticket gates. However, the guardsponies had no trouble spotting the colorful banner of an information kiosk across from the entrance. More interestingly, they had no trouble approaching it. Unlike outside where everypony had been drifting in a kind of Brownian motion anyways, it was clear that as the guardsponies moved forward, ponies were making a subtle, but not unnoticeable effort to move out of their way. Like it or not, that was the buffer the Royal Guard barding provided: about a quarter inch of steel, a micron of gilt, and ten feet of distance.

“You know, sometimes I wish they wouldn’t do that,” Storm said conversationally. “Every once in a while I’d like the chance to say, ‘Pardon,’ or ‘Excuse me,’ though they’d probably think I was about to interrogate them.”

“I know what you mean, dude; armor’s like, I dunno, a reverse magnet.” Crack Shot tilted his head from one side to another as he weighed this theoretical concept. “What would you call that anyways, a mag-not?”

Check Mate bit his tongue. “…I wouldn’t, personally.”

“Maybe it’s just movement that does it,” Storm mused. “If you’re standing still, say outside of an important-looking gate or a special engagement, then nopony has any qualms about getting up close and looking up your nostrils or posing for a photograph.”

Crack Shot shrugged. “I figure it’s like this: if ponies see us on the beat, they assume that we’re on the lookout for trouble, right? And heck, that we might not have that much trouble, well, finding trouble if we wanted to.”

“And just how would we do that?”

“Easy, dude, you’d just have to call ‘em on, I dunno, loiterin’. Or conspiring to loiter. Or conspiring to conspire to loiter. Something like that. Maybe they figure one of us’ll go on a power trip if they get on our bad side or get in our way.”

“That’s terrible! None of us would do that!”

“Yeah, but they don’t know that.”

Storm sighed. “Come on, let’s just find out about these tickets.”

A path clearing itself through the ponies ahead of him, Storm strode briskly towards the kiosk with the purpose of getting on the tracks as soon as possible. This turned out to be more purpose than the pegasus standing behind the counter was prepared to deal with from a pony clad in official gold, and she gave him a worried look.

“Is something the matter, sir?” she asked, steeling herself. She had thought so little of taking the odd quill or two from work, and now here she was, found out and royally plucked.

“Huh? No, not that I’m aware of; I was just hoping you could give us a hoof with something. My friends and I are trying to get to Fiddler’s Plain.”

“Oh? Oh. Oh! Well, I can help you with that, no problem! Just one moment, please”—the pegasus ducked beneath the counter and resurfaced exactly one moment later with a brochure between her teeth—“and here you are, sir. Now, your best bet heading up that way is going to be the Borealis Byway; it passes through Fiddler’s Plain on its journey northward. Information about rates and amenities is listed inside, and tickets are available at one of our many booths, though of course I’ll be happy to answer any questions that you may have.”

“I believe this should be just fine,” Check Mate said as he levitated the brochure from the counter. He smiled gently at the mare. “Thank you very much for your assistance.”

After the Royal Guardsponies had disappeared once more into the throng, the pegasus exhaled deeply in relief. She then reached backwards and, with a slight wince, plucked a pinion from her wing and placed it in the quill holder beneath the counter. She had gotten lucky with the law and felt no sense in tempting fate twice.

Away from the kiosk, Check Mate unfolded the brochure, as Storm and Crack Shot gathered on either side of him to get a better look.

“Ah-hmm, it would appear that locomotives bound for Fiddler’s Plain only run thrice daily during the week, and that we’ve already missed the morning departure; however, there is another at 3:15,” Check read.

“Sounds good, let’s shoot for that one,” said Storm. “How much is it going to run us?”

“A one-way Economy ticket is listed at fifty bits, though as members of the Royal Guard it claims that we’re eligible for a ten percent discount.”

“Fifty bits?!” Crack Shot spat.

“Forty-five,” Check Mate corrected. He continued to read down the page. “Oh, how nice— foals under the age of six ride gratis.”

“Yeah, we might be a little big to pass. Yeesh, talk about friggin’ railway robbery; I thought it’d be like twenty bits, tops. I mean, the train’s already goin’ that way anyways, right? It’s not like we’d be askin’ it to hop tracks to make a detour.”

Storm leaned past Check and grinned. “You know, Crack Shot, if it’s going to make too large a hole in your wallet, we could always just follow by wing. It might make for a nice warm-up.”

Crack Shot rolled his eyes. “Eh, if I’m hurting for gold, I’ll just chip a bit off of my armor or something. Those seats better be comfortable as heck though, or I’m asking for a refund.”

Just as the pegasus at the kiosk had said, there was an abundance of ticket booths. Now, intuition would dictate that this would mean the benefit of much shorter queues due to additional hooves. This is because intuition does not work in customer service. Instead, the more senior ticket agents had long since decided that a much better benefit of additional hooves would be more hooves to pass the buck to in favor of a longer lunch break. And at one in the afternoon, everypony’s stomach was rumbling like the tracks. The guardsponies took a spot at the end of an extensive line that snaked between a serpentine length of red velvet rope towards a sacrificial ticket clerk.

Storm’s gaze drifted inevitably towards one of the station clocks. With a little over two hours, logic dictated that he and his friends had plenty of time to purchase their tickets. However, the line was inching forward rather slowly, seating space would be limited, and the interminable cadence of the seconds hand was drowning logic out. It was hard not worry. He glanced to his side and saw that Check Mate had removed the field guide lent to him by Ikebana from his bag and was eagerly turning through its pages. That set Storm at ease; if Check wasn’t concerned, that counted for something.

“Anything of interest in there?” he asked. As Check Mate looked up from the book, Storm saw that there was a newfound shimmer in the unicorn’s eyes.

“Everything!” Check exclaimed. “I’m currently reading through a section on dangerous and bizarre species, if you’re curious. Have you perchance heard of amanita phalloides, the mushroom also known as the death cap?”

“Uh, can’t say that I have,” Storm answered.

“Well, it’s notable in that it has a rather innocuous appearance; here is a picture if you’re interested”—Storm noted with mute horror how very similar in appearance the mushroom on the page was to the kind he’d eaten on a salad the other day—“and a pleasant bouquet and taste; however, as one might surmise from its colorful sobriquet, it is highly toxic.”

“I, um, I guess we’re talking a little worse than a stomach ache, then?” Storm chuckled uneasily.

“Oh, it’ll begin with a stomach ache; that’s the first sign of deterioration of the internal organs.”

Storm, his coat as white as it was, somehow managed to pale. “That’s uh… are there a lot of plants like that, out there in the rough?”

“Well, mushrooms aren’t technically a plant, but absolutely! According to an earlier entry, red maple leaves, while no danger when fresh on the branch, become erythrocytotoxic—that is to say they poison the red blood cells—as soon as they begin to wilt, due to a chemical breakdown during their decomposition.”

“Er, learn something new every day, eh?” Storm learned that he wasn’t going to be looking at maple syrup in the same way any time soon.

“So, any recommendations on what we can eat?” asked Crack Shot. “You know, just in case we don’t find any take-away places out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Mm, well, I haven’t gotten far enough in the book yet to find many recommended comestibles, I’m afraid.”

“What about grass?” Crack Shot asked. “Grass is alright, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, certainly. Though caution is recommended when dealing with”—Check Mate flipped back a few pages—“arrowgrass, kleingrass, and sorghum to name a few.”

“Right,” said Storm miserably, “it’s nice to know that Mother Nature never wanted kids.”

“It is important for us to be aware of potential perils, lest they surprise us otherwise,” Check Mate said severely. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, which may be difficult, if not impossible, to procure in such quantities, I might add.”

“Got it; discretion is the better part of breakfast. Just be sure to let us know what we can eat when we come across it, eh?” Crack Shot said.

“That I shall do.” Check Mate stuck his nose back into the book, his eyes widening in interest at the entry marked Cordyceps.

The line continued to move slowly, but move it did, until at last the guardsponies were at the head of it. With an absence of protest from Crack Shot, the three purchased their tickets at forty-five bits apiece and proceeded through the gates into the heart of the head house with over an hour until departure.

Despite having never taken a train ride, Storm nevertheless had certain expectations regarding the constituent parts of the process. There was, of course, the train; one couldn’t forget that. From there, one then needed the tracks, the ticket booths, the station, and to put all of them together in a way that got ponies from Point A to Point B, with perhaps a layover at Point C so everypony could stretch out their hooves. This was the limit to Storm’s expectations, so the sprawling pseudo city now unfolding before him came as a surprise.

Between two floors of prodigious expanse was a layout that would have given Canterlot’s shopping districts a run for their money, if it didn’t already catch potential patrons right at the starting gates. A number of famous Canterlot clothing retailers, restaurants, and even appliance dealers had storefronts within the station to lure in travelers off of the rails and off of their budgets. Souvenir shops like those outside of the station thrived inside of it as well, many offering an additional service where, for a nominal five-bit fee, they would use a specialized clockwork contraption to flatten a coin into an unspendable disc. There was even a bar or two tucked away for those ponies more eager to hit the salt than the road, and who knew that there was always another train coming. As they continued through the station, so did the storefronts, selling anything a pony could imagine and even some items beyond that.

The guardsponies eventually located the concourse at the other end of the station; the platforms jutted perpendicularly from both sides of it, just outside sets of double doors, like teeth on a two-sided comb. Comparing one of the station clocks to a nearby schedule board, Storm saw that a train destined for Ponyville was due to depart in a couple of minutes. Curious, he watched the seconds hand.

It struck the twelve once.

It struck the twelve twice, and there was the sound of a whistle and faint rumbling felt in his hooves. A part of him felt nonplussed; perhaps he had been inured to Corporal Kickstart’s unique take on time commitments, but there was just something unnatural about such reputable dependability.

After identifying their platform, and with plenty of time to kill, the guardsponies decided to pass it by returning to the enormousness of the station mall and squeezing into a nestled-away magazine shop-cum-café with the hideous name of CaBOOKse, claiming a table as soon as it freed. Storm noted dutifully to himself that the literary portion of the shop wasn’t nearly as nice as Nomde’s, by fault of, well, not being Nomde’s, although she would probably appreciate having such a ready source of caffeine nearby. Still, a brief scan of the selection was enough to validate this assessment. Aside from the magazines and newspapers, the written work available for purchase was comprised of nothing other than best-sellers. Storm smirked upon a recollection this stirred.

One night, when Nomde was locking up her shop after an hour or two of reorganization, Storm had decided to ask her a question about one of her store policies. Although she would give new releases a week at the front of her store, Nomde absolutely refused to keep a shelf for best-sellers. Often this lead to her shop getting disorganized in sloppy searches by ponies who, although they didn’t make it a habit of reading, nevertheless realized the pleasure in being able to say, ‘The book was better,’ and made their choices based on advertisement and celebrity recommendations.

Storm had asked her why she didn’t just set up a shelf to get such ponies in, out, and away from her, to which she had replied, “If I make them search for popular books, maybe it will hit home that other books exist. There are innumerous wonderful literary pieces out there that go unknown for not having had the benefit of an endorsement, so this is my way of leveling the playing field.” Then, after the spells binding her door had cooled, the two had gone on their way, and from there the memory was muddled into a pink haze of the whispers and teases and laughter of the rest of the evening.

He wondered what she was up to.

Check Mate was once more poring over his book, when Crack Shot nudged him on the shoulder.

“Hey, you mind if I check out that thing the geezer lent us?”

“Hm? Oh, but of course.” Check Mate levitated Gray Mane’s smart stone and stylus from his bag, and set it on the table before Crack Shot.

“Sweet, thanks!”

Crack Shot took the stylus in his mouth, gagged slightly at the adsorbed flavors of talcum and soy sauce, and then wrote across the small slab the words, What up, dude? He then blew across them, watching them wisp away in glittering green.

A few minutes later a reply coalesced on the upper panel in a hastily scrawled script.

Gray Mane says, and I quote: ‘Is that the layabout? If so, tell ‘im to pass over my bloody smart stone back to the nancy before he damages it.’

“Oh, what?!” Crack Shot picked up the stylus once more and scribbled furiously. Storm and Check Mate looked towards him in interest.

What the heck, Febs?! How’s he even know it was me?!

And so the momentous first exchange of this novel new mode of communication continued.

I imagine it would have been your distinctive diction. And I’d appreciate if you didn’t refer to me as ‘Febs’. Now, do you want something? For whatever reason, the old coot is working on a method to turn gold into lead to see if he can reverse it. It’s keeping me busy.

You said that you’d make sure that any letter we wrote would get sent out or whatever, right?

Gray Mane said that, but yes, I believe I have been corralled into such a task. Why, do you find yourself suddenly needing to send a letter, literally only hours after you’ve left the castle?

Sure, why not?

Miles away, a heavy sigh went unheard in Castle Canterlot.

Fine. By all means, go ahead. I’ll fetch a quill and parchment to transcribe it in the meantime. I do hope it’s important.

Crack Shot thought on all of that which he could include in this missive, and, deciding that brevity was, after all, the soul of wit, wrote the following:

Dear bro,

What up, dude?

-Crack Shot

It took a while for the response to arrive, but when it did, the penmanship had thickened noticeably, as if its writer were trying to carve it into the stone.

That’s it?!

Yep, short and sweet. Anything else you need?

Perhaps an address and, to avoid the inevitable ambiguity, a recipient that is identified a bit more specifically than ‘bro’?

Oh, whoops. Dude’s name is ‘Skyway’, and I guess you could send it to the Wonderbolts. They oughta make sure he gets it. Anything else?

That will be fine. Now if you’ll excuse me, one of our work tables has started galloping about the lab, so I would appreciate no more disturbances for the time being.

Sure thing, dude, TTYL.

“Huh, thing’s not too shabby.” Crack Shot slid the stylus and smart stone back across the table towards Check Mate. “Febre sends his regards, by the way.”

“That appeared to be quite the discourse between the two of you,” Check said as he returned the devices to his bag. “I imagine that he and Gray Mane are pleased with the functionality of their invention, though?”

“Ha, you wouldn’t know it by askin’ ‘em. Anyways, I hope that thing does work out in the sticks, because that’d be the only thing goin’ for it. The customer service kinda sucks.”

Crack Shot stood up and stretched.

“Alright, I got an extra whole five bits burnin’ a hole in my saddle bags from our royal discount, so I’m gonna head on over to the counter and see if I can afford part of a chai, if you guys wanna join me.”

When the EqueRail clocks struck five minutes ‘til three (with remarkable synchronicity, their engineers would have you know), the guardsponies gathered their saddlebags, departed from CaBOOKSe towards their platform, and were immediately stopped by a strained voice.

“Um, pardon me, but are you three members of the Royal Guard?”

The guardsponies turned to see a unicorn stallion looking at them, his brows knit with worry and sweat.

“What gave it awa—mmph?!” Crack Shot was silenced by a thrust of feathers into his face.

“Yes, that is correct,” Storm said, lowering his wing. “How may we help you, sir?”

The stallion noticed the saddlebags slung over each of the guardsponies’ withers. “Er, I won’t be putting you out of your way, will I?”

Storm snuck a glance at one of the station clocks. “…We’ll worry about that, sir. What seems to be the problem?”

“Well, you see, it’s my son.” The stallion’s throat bobbed. “He’s gone missing.”

The guardsponies’ eyes widened. A crowd like the one filling the station with its mass and its noise was a beast. It would swallow you.

“When and where did you become aware of his disappearance?” Check Mate asked.

“It-it must have been no more than ten, fifteen minutes ago, back towards an information desk near the entrance gates.” The stallion gestured with a shaking hoof in its general direction. “I thought he was right there with me, I know he was! B-but when I looked down—”

Storm placed a hoof on the stallion’s shoulder. “We’re going to help you find your son, so please try to stay calm. What’s your name?”

“…D-Deckle. And my son’s name is Landscape. We came from Trottingham to visit his grandparents, you see.”

“Alright, Mr. Deckle, what can you tell us about Landscape?”

Deckle gave a brittle smile that cracked at the edges. “Well, let’s see… he’s bright. He’s exceptionally bright. He once snuck into some watercolors I had left out and, well, he was a natural with them! Such an eye for it, and at such a tender age—”

“That’s wonderful. You should be very proud,” Storm interrupted gently. “However, would you be able to tell us a little about what he looks like?”

“Y-yes, of course, what was I thinking? He’s an earth pony. His mane is blonde, and he has a brown coat. He just turned three a few days ago, though I suppose he’s a bit small for his age. Oh, and his eyes are green if that helps. I’ve been asking everypony I’ve run into if they’ve seen him, but nopony has seen hide or hair…”

“I see. Alright, my name is Storm Stunner, and these two are Crack Shot and Check Mate.” The other two guardsponies nodded soberly. “Check Mate, how do you feel about Crack Shot and me continuing to spread word about Landscape, while you look around with Mr. Deckle?”

“I think that would be for the best, Storm; there is some more information I would like to learn about young Landscape. If that is alright, sir.”

“O-of course!” said Deckle.

“Okay, we’ll go and alert the station staff. If we find anything out, we’ll come and find you.” Storm nodded to Crack Shot. “Shall we?”

“Aye-aye, dude.”

The two pegasi leapt into flight and shot off across the head house to the sudden surprise of those ponies below them.

“Pardon me, sir,” Check Mate said, drawing Deckle’s attention from the spectacle, “you mentioned that your son has begun to paint, and that he had an eye for it. Could you clarify?”

“About his artwork? Well, yes, I suppose. Er, how would I put it…? He notices things, if that makes sense. He doesn’t know terms like value or chroma or crosshatching, but he incorporates them. He catches little details and communicates them.”

“I see. And has he also begun to read?”

“Well, he plays with his letter blocks, but that’s about the extent of it. He, erm, he hasn’t actually really begun speaking yet, though I make sure to read to him nightly.”

“But it’s possible that he does recognize letters, then?” Check Mate put a hoof to his chin in thought.

“Er, as far as I’m aware, that may be the case. Listen, I’m a proud father, but is this line of questioning really, well, critical? You know, er, given the current situation?” Deckle asked, anxiety strangling his voice to a piccolo pitch.

“Right now, yes. I believe they are the most salient questions I could ask.”

After a whirlwind trek spanning both floors of the station, Storm and Crack Shot reunited outside of a Pony Joe’s Express. At some point the clocks had struck three-fifteen to the muted accompaniment of whistles and engine noise from outside the building, but neither pony had noticed. Both had received assurances from the station staff that they would do everything in their ability to locate the missing foal. However, between the shapes, colors, sizes, and, most importantly, number of ponies passing through the station, none of the staff had taken special notice of a colt matching Landscape’s description prior to the guardsponies’ asking.

The two pegasi hadn’t any luck with an overhead view either: trying to find a pint-sized pony beneath the mishmash of manes was like attempting to find a sapling beneath a canopy. Storm cursed beneath his breath.

“Jeez, what a mess. You have to feel bad for the kid, huh?” he said. “All alone, separated from his dad, and probably no idea where he is.”

“Mm, yeah, I dunno, maybe…” Crack Shot had a distant look in his eyes, as if caught in some deep cogitation. Storm, completely unused to this, found himself unsettled.

“’Maybe’? Crack Shot, the kid has to be terrified!”

“Eh, could be, but I doubt he’s showin’ it, or else somepony probably woulda found him by now. A kid freakin’ out is one of those things ponies notice.”

Storm admitted to himself the possibility. “So what do you think he’s doing, then?”

Crack Shot watched a pair of ponies race past them towards the concourse. “Well, he might be tryin’ to figure out where his dad is.”

Storm waited for Crack Shot to continue.

“Like, a lot of ponies have it in their head that kids are dumb. And heck, maybe some are, but so are some adults, right? I think it’s more that they’re just caught up in tryin’ to figure out how things work. You know, like how two plus two is four, and four plus four is eight, and then how it just so happens that two fours are the same as four twos, and the next thing you know they’re tilting the plus sign over on its side and doin’ multiplication?

“The kid’s dad said he’s smart, right? Maybe he’s tryin’ to find his dad as much as his dad is tryin’ to find him.”

“So you think we should try to think like a foal would?”

“Why not, eh? Most ponies say that’s what I usually do.” Crack Shot stretched his wings. “I’m goin’ to check some other places out. Wanna go hunt down Check and see how they’re doin’?”

“Sure, I can do that.” Storm watched his friend as he prepared to take off once more. “You really think you know where he might’ve gone?”

“It’s just a hunch, but at least it’s something.”

Upon returning to the CaBOOKSe, Storm noticed the glint of Check Mate’s armor moving towards the concourse and flew up to catch him; Deckle was still beside him, a mess of misery, fear, hope, and determination. Check Mate acknowledged Storm with a nod, but didn’t slow his stride.

“Did either of you meet with any success in your inquiries?” Check Mate asked.

“Nothing, I’m afraid, but the word is out. Crack Shot did seem like he had an idea about where the kid went, though.”

“Yes, we saw him flying back towards the concourse in quite the hurry. I wonder… perhaps he has made a similar conjecture about Landscape’s whereabouts as we have.”

“And what is that?” Storm asked.

“Mr. Check Mate believes that my son may be on our platform looking for me,” said Deckle.

“But which one? There’s over a dozen!”

“Mr. Check Mate thinks that he might’ve seen where to go from one of the destination blinds, that he might have seen ‘Trottingham’ and recognized the word. Wouldn’t that be something? My own son reading at three years of age…” Deckle smiled weakly, pride for the moment topping the pit in his stomach that had been filled in with panic.

“Indeed it would be, sir,” said Check Mate with a charitable smile. “And should this assumption prove correct, we’ll have the both of you on the train home, reading together once more.”

As the crowds broke ahead of their stride, Storm snuck another glance at a schedule board for the next Trottingham departure. He looked at a clock. If Check Mate was to be correct, they would have to look quickly.

Crack Shot flew above the lengths of platforms, scanning them one-by-one and growing increasingly frustrated. Although a few of them were empty, most of them were already being crowded by ponies eager to be the first on their trains when they arrived.

“Dang, no sight of the ankle-biter so far,” he muttered to himself. “Jeez, that’s what, like, the fifth horseshoe cutie mark I’ve seen? It’s like these ponies are repeating themselves…”

He noted with annoyance that farther ahead a train had been so inconsiderate as to pull into the station and drop off another crowd of ponies to complicate his search. After moving back towards the concourse over another platform, Crack Shot flew over the top of the station and began scanning the next one, continuing his crisscrossing hunt, but meeting little luck.

Check Mate, Storm, and Deckle stepped through the doors for the Trottingham departure, whereupon the latter began pushing ahead through the crowds and shouting his son’s name. Farther down the rails, his train came into view. It was still a steaming point on the edge of vision that appeared nearly stationary, distance belying its speed.

“Still no sign of him so far,” Storm said.

The train signaled its approach with a low whistle.

“It would seem so...”

Check Mate took a deep breath and began to think carefully. Then he narrowed his eyes and searched. There was no seeing past the immediate line of ponies as they shuffled to watch Deckle struggle through the crowd, so he shifted his gaze to the other platform. Ponies waiting on the other side of the tracks for another train were beginning to turn towards Deckle in curiosity as well. Following the length of the platform, there only seemed to be more of the same—

—Check Mate’s eyes shot open, and he raced as quickly as he could towards Deckle and pressed a hoof tightly over his mouth.

“Mmff?!”

“Deckle, I ask that you be quiet and pay close attention. Move into the crowd, hide yourself, immediately.”

“Wh-why?”

Deckle found himself moving backwards, putting up little resistance against Check Mate’s press, until he caught a glimpse over the guardspony’s shoulder and froze in place. After a distressing, harrowing search, he had finally found him. There Landscape was, huddled under a bench at the end of the platform on the opposite side of the tracks. Unfortunately, Landscape had also spotted him. The colt’s green eyes lit up, and he quickly scrambled from beneath his hiding spot and scampered clumsily, frantically towards his father. Towards the tracks. The seconds stretched into terrible infinity.

Deckle was no longer thinking, operating on adrenaline and paternal, animal instinct. He was pushing past the guardspony and screaming at his son to stay put, and he was forcing his body to move, forcing it to run, forcing it to cover the impossible distance between them, and his son was tumbling down from the platform into the gravel, stumbling on the tracks, freezing in the face of the iron beast racing towards him, and others were screaming around him, but he was screaming louder, releasing a wordless, throaty cry that was swallowed by the bellow of that horrid engine and the futile screech of its emergency brakes as still it overtook him to overtake his son, and it was all happening too damn fast and he was too damn slow and—

—And then there was a flash of gold.

“Friggin’ yikes! Talk about cuttin’ it close! Didn’t your pops ever teach you to look both ways?” Crack Shot clutched the foal tightly between his hooves as they hovered above the rails. “I tell ya, it would’ve sucked to get plowed by that thing; I mean heart-shaped windows and pastel colors? That’s just—eugh!”

Landscape looked down towards the train which had very nearly ended his life.

“Hey, uh, you doin’ alright there, kiddo?”

Landscape tilted his head up towards the concerned face of his savior, the sun limning a halo around his helmet. Then he started screaming like crazy.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

“Whoa jeez!”

Crack Shot quickly descended and alighted next to his fellow guardsponies, whereupon little Landscape rushed into the hooves of his father to the sound of cheers and applause from all who had witnessed the spectacle. Station workers rushed onto the platforms, making sure there were no injuries inside or out of the train, and issuing assurances and apologies.

After the commotion and a preliminary inspection of the train, it was announced that the Trottingham departure would be delayed by thirty minutes to make sure that the train was fit to run after its sudden deceleration. It would be the first time in decades that a locomotive had ever run off-schedule from an EqueRail station. However, after seeing father and son reunited, the tears staining their cheeks and the soft sobs wracking their bodies, nopony was about to complain. His son pressed against the inside of his foreleg, Deckle looked towards the guardsponies with reddened eyes.

“Thank you. Heavens, thank you.”

“Aw, no worries, dude. We’re just doin’ our job.” Crack Shot gave a salute, with a wink added for good measure.

Once more Deckle’s eyes gravitated towards the guardsponies’ saddlebags. “We, er, um… you’re certain we didn’t put you out of your way?”

Crack Shot watched the foal pressed up against his father’s leg, trembling with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. A corner of his mouth bent upwards softly.

“Heh, nah. There’ll always be another train.”

The doors to the Trottingham-bound train slid shut, and with a belch of steam and smoke, it began rumbling down the tracks. After detailing the incident to one of the station workers, Storm joined Crack Shot and Check Mate to send it off. From a window, Deckle waved farewell to the guardsponies, and, for his part, so did little Landscape. As the train picked up speed and disappeared behind a roll of hills, Check Mate retrieved the Borealis Byway brochure from his saddlebag’s pocket and unfolded it.

“Well, that was excitin’,” Crack Shot said. “Now, how long until we take off?”

“According to the schedule,” Check Mate read, “the next and final departure should be about four hours from now, at 8:30.”

“8:30?!” Crack Shot’s mouth dropped. “What the heck, dude?!”

“Well, it wouldn’t be sensible for them to run their trains too closely together, after all.”

Storm gave Crack Shot a commiserative pat on the back. “If it’s any consolation, after speaking with the station staff I found that for your daring act of heroism they won’t require us to purchase a second set of tickets.”

“How generous of ‘em…”

The guardsponies entered back into the concourse and began walking towards the heart of the headhouse.

“Still, that was a pretty impressive dive back there,” said Storm. “Where’d you learn to pull something like that off?”

“Eh, growin’ up with a brother that wants to be in the Wonderbolts will do that to you.” Crack Shot grinned. “At least if you don’t want him to do anything to you after you drop a bucket of paint on his head. Call it a crash course in the school of hard knocks.”

“Nevertheless, that was truly laudable work today, Crack Shot; words do not suffice.”

Crack Shot shrugged. “No biggie. Still, four feather flippin’ hours! We better not have to pull off any more last-minute rescues today, or else we’re gonna have to find some benches to park on for the night.”

“I doubt we’ll have to worry about that; I think the station staff are going to be watching everypony like hawks after that scare.” Storm smiled. “Anyways, we’ve got four hours to pass. Come on; let us buy you another chai.”

A few hours later, when the gloaming turned to night as the last of the daylight bled away behind the hills west of Canterlot, the guardsponies finally boarded the train to Fiddler’s Plain. After showing their tickets to the steward, he directed them to the Economy cars and to their seating. The seats themselves weren’t much to look at, consisting of nothing more than plain, yellow, corduroy cushions a couple of feet off of the hardwood floor, but they were something soft to put one’s back to. After placing his saddlebags and armor at the base of one, that is precisely what Crack Shot did.

“What’s the verdict?” Storm asked.

“They can keep their bits,” Crack Shot answered, as he rolled over onto his side.

Storm shrugged off his items and took a spot behind him near a window, while Check Mate, field guide suspended before him, sat close to the aisle under a reading lamp. Other ponies began to file into the car, and soon it was filled with the low murmur of small talk as everypony waited for departure. Storm noticed a magazine resting in a sleeve to his side and pulled it out. The first several pages advertised products remarkable in their worthlessness, such as solar-powered sun lamps and shoes which could double a pegasus’s flight speed the moment they took them off. Further in, he found a crossword puzzle with a few of the blocks filled with some creatively spelled entries; he didn’t bother trying to complete the rest of it and instead replaced the magazine in its sleeve.

“So, Check, that brochure say anything about places to stay?” Storm asked, staring out the window and waiting for the scenery to start moving. He had to admit to himself that he was more than a little excited about the train ride.

“Unfortunately, it had little insight regarding amenities. However, I’m certain that we will be able to find additional information at our terminus if need be.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. It’d be nice if we weren’t arriving in the dead of night, though.”

At 8:25, the conductor called out a final boarding call, and then five minutes later the Borealis Byway was on its way northward, descending into a range of hills. As the train began to pick up speed, and the world immediately outside his window crawled, then rolled, then whipped past, Storm couldn’t help making the comparison between the ride and the act of flying. It was closer to the ground, obviously. Yet, beyond that…

The wind was missing. Now, that wasn’t necessarily a terrible thing, per se; after all, the wind flowing through your mane also happened to be the wind blowing in your face. But it was a part of flying and, for a pegasus, a part of travel. It was a constant companion, sometimes aiding you, sometimes hindering you, and always there. Also gone were the subtle smells of rain, pollen, and ozone, replaced by the scent of air freshener mingled with that of his fellow passengers. It wasn’t better, it wasn’t worse, but it was different. Outside of his window, the stars stood still, while the world went blurring by. A voice behind him drew his attention.

“Say, any of y’all know an eleven letter word for ‘beauty’? Starts with a ‘P’ and ends with an ‘E’?”

The question came from a cream-colored earth pony with a friendly face. A green, paisley handkerchief was tied around his neck, and the same railway magazine as Storm’s lay open at his side.

“Pulchritude,” Check Mate answered without looking up from his book.

“Pulchritude? Hmm, pulch-ri-tude…” The pony said it slowly, tasted the word on his lips, and then stuck out his tongue. “Don’t know what they were thinkin’ when they put that one in the dictionary, but I’m much obliged for the help.”

He picked up a pencil between his teeth, marked the word in, and then set the magazine down. He shifted in his seat a bit and stared out of his window; after a moment, he tapped on Storm’s shoulder.

“Say, mind if I ask you somethin’?” He nodded towards the recumbent Crack Shot. “Are y’all two brothers?”

Storm had heard that one enough to have developed a reflex.

“Only in arms,” he replied.

“Huh. Dang if you two fellas don’t look alike.” The pony crooked his head towards Crack Shot once more. The pegasus’s head was draped over the side of his seat, and a line of drool was rolling from one corner of his mouth. He had begun to snore. Storm frowned.

“Well, I’d like to think there are some differences.” He shifted forward and nudged his friend awake. “You’re going to get a cramp sleeping like that.”

“We there already?” Crack Shot sat up with a yawn, popped his neck, and looked out the window. To his dismay, a stunning expanse of moonlit wilderness was still unfolding outside of it. “Ugh, dude, I was havin’ the best dream.”

“Where y’all headed anyways?” the earth pony asked.

“A place by the name of Fiddler’s Plain, if you’re familiar with it.”

The pony’s smile widened. “I’d say that I am! Sounds like we all got the same destination! And since we’re gettin’ off at the same stop, we might as well make introductions, I figure. Whaddya say? The name’s Kettle Corn.” The earth pony extended a hoof, and Storm took it.

“I’m Storm Stunner.”

Check Mate set his book down and turned to shake Kettle’s hoof as well. “My name is Check Mate. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Crack Shot. Nice to meet ya.” Crack Shot leaned across the seat, in between Storm and Check, and bumped hooves with the pony who wasn’t too certain about what to make of the gesture, but was content to take it in stride.

“So, ‘brothers-in-arms’… Guard folk, huh? Guess that explains the similarity.”

Kettle stared out of his window for a moment, and then pursed his lips in thought.

“Actually, no it don’t. Why do y’all look the same? They grow y’all in a lab or somethin’?”

“Nah, let’s just say it’s part of the uniform,” Crack Shot said gnomically.

Kettle let out a warm chuckle. “Fair enough. And what brings these uniforms out our way? It’s not often we get y’all stoppin’ by. Or anypony else, for that matter.”

“Call it a bit of sightseeing in between destinations,” said Storm. Yeah, that sounded better than: One of the princesses wishes to know how life is being conducted outside of her immediate observation. We may be taking notes, but please, don’t mind us.

“Well, I can’t imagine it’ll be as excitin’ as life in the city, but I reckon y’all oughta have a good time. You got it figured where you’re stayin’?”

“Not yet,” Storm said with a lilt of interest at what sounded like the beginning of an offer. Perhaps lodging would be easier to find than expected.

“Tell you what, then. Stick with me once we get off at our stop; I’ll getcha situated.”

Storm smiled. “That would be very kind of you, thank you. Is there anything we can do in return?”

“Well, extra hooves are always welcome back home if you’re willin’, but don’t y’all worry about that right now. And say, once we roll into town, whaddya say I show y’all the night life around our parts? See how it compares to the city?”

“When you say ‘night life’, you’re not talkin’ about, like, owls, are you?” asked Crack Shot, still uncertain about all of this impending nature and feeling suspicious.

“Heh, you’re a wit, ain’tcha? No, I’m talkin’ about good folk and good music. Call it a chance to meet some of the locals.”

“And such a congregation will take place so late on a weekday?” Check Mate asked. “I was under the impression that an early awakening was de rigueur for an agrarian lifestyle.”

“Well, that’s the norm for some, but it ain’t the rule. Take Monday: see, the name comes from the word ‘moon’, right? It’s only fittin’ to stay up and honor that.”

“So then what about Sunday?” Storm asked, adopting the Royal Guard poker face instead of the smirk behind it. He had a feeling Kettle was the type of pony to have an excuse for every day of the week.

“Now that’s a special case; weekends are meant for sleepin’ in, after all,” he stated as a matter of fact. “And iffin’ you get up late, you might as well stay up late, since you’re gonna be too keyed up to even think about goin’ to bed with the chickens.”

“You sleep with chickens?!” Crack Shot asked, leaning forward with huge, horrified eyes.

“It’s an expression,” Kettle said, meeting the pegasus’s stare with a flat look. “Means callin’ an early night?”

“Oh, uh, heh, my bad.”

“Anyways,” Storm interjected, “I’d be happy to take you up on your offer if these guys are. What do you say, Check? Crack Shot?”

“It’d be a discourtesy to reject such a gracious offer,” Check Mate said.

“Ditto,” Crack Shot followed.

“Swell! I’m sure everypony back home’ll be sure to give y’all a warm welcome.”

The ponies conversed idly for a few minutes more, before eventually returning to their own pursuits. Check Mate returned to his book, Kettle returned to his puzzle, Crack Shot returned to his dreams, and Storm returned to the window. The hills had disappeared, and in their place inky, sylvan stretches slowly crept past in the distance, their boughs swaying gently in a breeze separated by the glass. Outside of the window, the stars stood still; however, out of competition with the lights of the city, they shone just a bit brighter.

One of the stewards walked down the aisle of the guardsponies’ car, announcing the imminent arrival at Fiddler’s Plain. A few minutes later, the train pulled into a station which by a first glance showed that it wasn’t worth a second one. A stark contrast to the Canterlot station, it was nothing more than an unvarnished, wooden platform opposite another, with a lone ticket booth placed at its end near a squat set of stairs. Within an ancient lamp post at the base of the steps, a candle burned the last of its wick, casting a tawny light that did nothing but accentuate the darkness.

After fitting on their barding and gathering their bags, the guardsponies stepped with Kettle out onto the platform. It creaked in protest beneath this sudden new weight, obviously unused to such a surge in traffic. Inside of the ticket booth, a pony was stirring to wakefulness at the clamor of the locomotive’s arrival. The train sounded a final whistle before departing from the station, a line of lighted windows tracking its progress northward through the night. Kettle crossed the platform to greet the pony in the ticket booth, the guardsponies following behind him.

“Evenin’, Barley,” Kettle greeted. “Busy night so far?”

“Not until you showed up, Kettle.” Barley gave a lazy wave. “Who’s that you got with you?”

“Oh, just some fellas from the Guard stoppin’ in from Canterlot, to hear tell.”

“Uh-huh. You didn’t get yourself in any trouble now did you? Your sister ain’t gonna let you hear the end of it if you did.”

“Nossir. Well, least no trouble I wasn’t lookin’ for.” Kettle gave a grin that was a white slash in the darkness. “Anyways, these three are guests of mine, so you be sure to welcome ‘em proper, you hear?”

“That’s my job, ain’t it?” Barley coughed theatrically and drew a deep breath. “Welcome to Fiddler’s Plain; there either ain’t a whole lot to see, or more than enough to fill your days with, depending on your perspective. I’d ask where y’all are off to now, but seeing as y’all are with Kettle, I’ll bet the first stop’ll be Pimento’s.”

“Now, now, Barley, ya know ya ain’t supposed to assume.”

“I think I know you well enough to be past the point of assumptions, Kettle. Pimento’s, then?”

“Pimento’s,” Kettle conceded.

“Mm-hm. Well, I imagine they’re keepin’ your seat warm for you.” Barley nodded towards the guardsponies. “What do y’all go by?”

Storm, Check, and Crack Shot made their introductions.

“Alright, Mr. Stunner, Mr. Mate, Mr. Shot, it’s a privilege. I hope you boys have a good time, a memorable stay, and, since you’re goin’ to Pimento’s, that you can handle your salt. Have a good evenin’, you hear?”

Kettle gave a short nod. “Will do, Barley. Don’t work yourself too hard now.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Barley waved the ponies off down the road, then returned to his ticket booth and immediately fell back asleep.

Although the light of the train had done Storm’s night vision no favors, after about fifteen minutes of following Kettle down a dirt road, the dark, purple shapes around him gained some recognizable details. The road they were walking had deep grooves cut into it, no doubt from the passage of load-bearing wagons towards the rails. If a cart got its wheels lodged into them, its path would be as fixed as the train’s. Perhaps therein lay the inspiration for the modern rail, Storm mused. In the tussocks and scant trees on either side of them, a chorus of unseen night creatures filled the air with unidentifiable whistles and calls, although, admittedly, you got that in the city as well.

“Ain’t much farther until we get into town now,” Kettle said.

The road began to rise and fall in gentle knolls, simple wooden fences appearing on either side of it, and civilization started to show itself reluctantly, one structure at a time. Kettle identified each as they passed by. First was the post office; it was stone-faced and dug into a hill beneath the canopy of a grove of oak trees. Kettle explained how the earth above and around it made for steady temperatures year-round. It slowly disappeared from view as they walked on, the moonlight rippling in waves through the long grasses around them as a soft breeze swept by.

Around another bend, Kettle pointed out the schoolhouse, a single room cottage with a bell inside of a cupola on a grass-covered roof; swings had been fashioned from liana hanging from the surrounding ashes. It wasn’t large, but it apparently served Fiddler’s Plain’s small population.

As they walked on, it continued in that vein; any instance of architecture, whenever it happened to show itself, was built to take advantage of the nature around it, and, it appeared, to allow it its space. Storm felt that Kettle had been somewhat liberal with the word ‘town.’

Eventually they came to a hill that, while not particularly tall or particularly steep, still rose above the others. At its top stood a building that showed the first signs of activity the ponies had seen since they left the station, and more than made up for the lack. Erratically spaced windows on the first floor winnowed a hazy, flittering light, as shadows danced on their drawn shades. A warbling, rusting tune carried down the hill, riding on the sound of raucous laughter. Storm detected the faintest trace of something spicy in the air.

“Now last but not least. Here”—Kettle turned towards the guardsponies and extended a hoof in a flourish—“we have Pimento’s!” Once more his smile widened across his face.

Crack Shot stared at him. “Hey yeah, no kiddin’?”

“Aw, come now! Ain’t you got no flare for the dramatic?”

“Dude, we’ve been walkin’ for like an hour, and I’ve been goin’ for longer on an empty stomach. It’s hard to have any kinda flare when you’re runnin’ on fumes.”

“Yeah, you know you coulda just nicked somethin’ off the side of the road, right? Though I’m sorry to say it don’t come on a plate or in a plastic wrapper. Anyways, let’s head on up; Pimento oughta have somethin’ good to fill you.”

As the ponies neared the tavern, Storm saw that it was covered in what appeared to be pepper plants of a number of different species that he couldn’t possibly name; they grew out of the surrounding loam, from pots placed on windowsills, and even up the sides of the building. Kettle pushed open the door, one decorated appropriately enough with a woodcut bell pepper, and the music, laughter, and shouts exploded out in a roar.

“Howdy!” he called out over the din. “Y’all miss me?”

“Kettle!” The tavern at large turned as one creature and cheered his entrance.

Then the guardsponies followed in after him, the candlelight making their armor burn red and orange as they did so, and everypony went silent. In the sudden awkwardness, Storm noted glumly that at least the music was still—

—there was a record scratch. He couldn’t believe there was actually a bloody record scratch.

“Kettle Corn, what did you do?!” shouted an olive-colored unicorn standing behind a counter.

Kettle quickly put a hoof up in a peaceable gesture. “Relax, will ya?! They’re with me!”

“We can see that!”

There was a general feeling between the three guardsponies that something should be done to disarm the situation, and that they were the ones to do it, but before Storm or Check Mate could say anything, Crack Shot said something first.

“Caught him loiterin’, sir.” Crack Shot made a show of adjusting his champron and strutted out onto the sawdust-covered floor, a serious look on his face.

“Loitering?!” the tavern shouted, Kettle included.

“Psst— who’s Lloyd o’ rings?” somepony in a corner hissed in a slurred susurrus that managed to fill the room.

“Naaah, ‘s not a who. Means like… like leavin’ rubbish where ‘s not supposed to be; outside of the bin and all that,” the pony beside him replied knowledgeably.

“Well, conspirin’ to loiter, if you wanna be more specific. A pretty serious offense, you know, with a pretty hefty fine.”

“What’s he doing?” Storm whispered.

“Well… I believe that he may be working the crowd,” Check answered.

“…And what’s that?” Kettle asked, watching the guardspony carefully.

Crack Shot put a hoof to his chin and gave a meaningful glance upwards, before stepping up to the counter, removing his helmet, and shrugging off his bags down beside him.

“Whatever the house special is and a plate of sea salt oughta cover it.”

Silence reigned once more as everypony in the bar processed this turn of events, or at least those ponies that hadn’t been temporarily short-circuited by an excess of electrolytes. Then there was an uproar of laughter, and the mood from before the guardsponies had entered returned. Storm and Check moved to join Crack Shot, somepony put the needle back on the record, and music once more came to life, only to die an early death as it was drowned by the clamor of conversation.

Kettle clapped Crack Shot on the shoulder. “I gotta give it to ya, pardner; you really had me goin’!”

Crack Shot grinned. “Heh, when opportunity presents itself, eh? Don’t worry about buyin’ my dinner by the way; I got the bits.”

“No way, no how. Y’all are my guests tonight, and I’m treatin’ y’all as such. PIMENTO!”

“Ugh, I’m right here, Kettle.” The unicorn behind the counter set down a dirty dish and walked towards the group. “What can I get you boys?”

“It’ll be the usual for myself. As for these fellas, how about your spice rack chili and a round of sea salt like the gentlecolt asked for? Put it on my tab, iffin’ you would.”

“As long as you pay it,” Pimento replied, not bothering to write the order down. “You boys want that chili mild or wild?”

“’Mild or wild.’ A difference in capsaicin, I would hazard?” Check Mate asked.

Pimento gave the guardspony a curious look. “Yeah, partly, but most folks would just ask if one is spicier than the other. It’s not just heat though; consider it an overall step up in taste.”

Check Mate nodded. “Well then, consider me sold. I shall have the chili wild, please.”

Pimento grinned. “That’s what I like to hear. Same for you two?”

One couldn’t really say no, and neither Storm nor Crack Shot did.

“Alright, I’ll have your orders ready in just a bit.” Pimento retreated into the back of the bar through a pair batwing doors.

Storm took a cursory glance around the bar. The patrons were largely ignoring them now, having already enjoyed dinner and show, and were now playing card games (though as to which games they were, four players at a table would give four different answers), going through salt faster than a de-icer, and making for a night to misremember and a morning to regret.

Crack Shot was making conversation with Kettle, but Check Mate was quiet and seemed to Storm to have something on his mind, his chin resting on a hoof as he watched the excitement.

“How’s it going, Check? Everything alright?” Storm asked.

“Oh, yes.” Check Mate paused for a moment before speaking once more. “This establishment’s habitués are, erm, certainly a lively lot, aren’t they?”

A group of ponies casually lifted their plates from their table as a pegasus came crashing down on top of it.

“…Yeah, one could say that.”

“I will admit that I wouldn’t have expected the physiological response to an increased uptake of salt to be so pronounced.”

“Hmm… well, that’s more of an effect of the general atmosphere, I’d say.”

“Oh?”

“Well, like here everypony knows each other, music is playing, it’s a, uh, ‘Moon celebration’, apparently.” Storm still wasn’t quite ready to buy that last one. “But the point is that getting salted is an excuse to cut loose, to act ridiculous. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“Yes, it does. I suppose setting aside one’s inhibitions for an evening may prove cathartic. Oh dear—” the previous pegasus attempted to roll over onto his back and ran out of table. “Goodness, I hope he’s alright.”

“He’ll be fine,” Storm said without looking back. “Anyways, it can be interesting, though I wouldn’t say it’s worth the headache if you overdo it.” A question came to Storm’s mind. “Say, Check, you’ve never gotten salted before, have you?”

“No, no I’ve never had the experience.” The unicorn stared forward at nothing in particular. “I don’t know if I’m particularly eager to do so either, to be forthright. I hope that doesn’t make me seem dour or unappreciative of our host’s hospitality.”

Storm gave his friend a friendly bump on the shoulder. “Nah, that just makes you you.”

Pimento returned from the kitchen with the ponies’ orders hovering before him and dropped them unceremoniously onto the counter, before announcing last call to the rest of the tavern. Along with the chili, the salt, some glasses of water, and a stuffed bell pepper for Kettle, were baskets loaded with rolls, labels on the wicker marked ‘Emergency Bread.’

“What’s that all about?” Storm asked, reading the print.

“Just have a bite of the chili first and you’ll know if you need it,” Pimento said, before walking off to attend to another part of the tavern where a guest still had a sense of balance and was looking to amend that while he still had the opportunity.

Storm looked into his bowl and a bit of his courage left him. In it was a dark pitch which seemed to swallow light and burn it alive. Unidentifiable, thickly cut vegetables bobbed to the surface and then sank back down like prehistoric beasts in a tar pit. For some reason the chili was bubbling. He couldn’t understand why it could be bubbling: there was no fire beneath it. Storm leaned down, took a tentative taste, and had the answer branded onto his tongue.

“Gah!” Storm immediately lunged for his glass of water and quaffed it; napalm spread across his taste buds. “GAAAH!

“Yeah, water’s just gonna make it worse,” Kettle noted between bites of his bell pepper. He tossed over one of the bread rolls. “Here; eat that.”

Storm bit into the bread roll and felt relief build slowly as he chewed. The chili was, beyond a doubt, the spiciest thing he had ever eaten, and he suspected it’d hold the title well into the future. But as the heat subsided, his traumatized taste buds hesitantly registered the other flavors. There was a smokiness which could be expected after that five-alarm fire, but there was also a sweetness and a strange, savory undertone. It was… it was…

…It was actually pretty dang good. The chili may’ve had an aftertaste like an afterburner, but past that there was a harmony of flavors that made the crucible worthwhile. Storm panted; his nose ran and a bead of sweat had formed on his brow.

“Phew! That’s a flank kicker for sure, but that stuff’s not half bad!”

“Indeed, it is piquant.” Check Mate replied as he dipped a piece of bread into his dish and took a bite, notably unfazed.

“Yeah, I’ll thay,” Crack Shot added. His bowl was empty, and he was now licking his plate of salt.

Storm felt a twinge of betrayal at this bilateral expression of nonchalance, but he shrugged it off and adopted Check’s style of dining. Taking his time, he eventually finished his meal, and his mouth was left with a satisfying numbness from the sensory overload. His salt still lay in front of him. He doubted that he’d be able to taste much of it, but if this tavern was like any of those found in the city, the salt would include a nice mix of calcium, potassium, and other exonerating minerals to excuse the type of overconsumption that leads to stumbling through the front door at an ungodly hour without bothering to unlock it first. He took a few licks for his health and decided to call it good.

By then, the tavern had settled into calmness as the other patrons walked or were carried out into the night. The music still played, but it had lost its off-key accompaniment of hollers and belches.

“Hmm, the salt not to your likin’, pardners?” Kettle asked of Check and Storm, looking at their unfinished plates.

“It’s just been a long day,” Storm said. “I think we’re all ready to call it a night. Or morning. Whichever.”

“Yes, and I’m not really one for salt in large quantities,” Check added.

“Huh, fair enough, I reckon. Let me go square the bill up with Pimento and see about gettin’ us put up for the night.”

The guardsponies collected their accoutrements and waited by the counter, while Kettle went to pay the tab, lifting the gramophone’s needle as he passed it. In the sudden, quiet stillness of the tavern, the song of cicadas and other creatures began to filter in.

“My, what an amicable pony,” Check Mate remarked.

Storm nodded. “Mm, they do seem pretty chummy out here.”

“Yeah, for real; it’s weird, isn’t it?”

Across the room, Kettle shook hooves with Pimento then waved the guardsponies over towards a banister.

“Okay, I got us set up with a room apiece right upstairs. Things ain’t too formal around here, so y’all grab whichever ones suitcha, and I’ll see y’all when the sun is up.”

The three gave their thanks then followed him up the stairs into a narrow, dimly lit hallway with numbered doors on each side. Kettle took the first one on the left, wished them a good morning, and closed the door behind him. After saying their pleasantries, Storm, Check, and Crack Shot separated into rooms of their choosing as well.

Storm had often heard the word ‘cozy’ used as a convenient euphemism when ‘small’ wouldn’t sell, but he conceded that his room was decidedly cozy. Taking up most of the floor space was a large poster bed, with a pair of down pillows and a patchwork quilt that must’ve been hoof-stitched. As a precaution, he pressed a hoof against the mattress and found it pliable. Prior experience had shown that he could never be too careful. He placed his armor and bags at the base of it and fished his journal out of the latter.

In a corner near a window stood a small, wooden desk; a large candle had been set upon it, along with a box of matches. Storm set his journal down on the desk, struck one of the matches, and lit the candle’s wick, sending sharp, black shadows jittering across the room. Turning to the second page of his journal, he mulled over what to write, and then realized he hadn’t brought anything to write with. He made a quick search of the room, but found neither lead nor ink. He briefly considered putting off the day’s entry, but putting it off once could easily turn into putting it off twice, and then into putting it off entirely. He’d feel better if he wrote something down.

Bugging Pimento at this hour was out of the question, but there had to be something he could come up with if he just took a moment to think about it. Well, at least finding a quill wouldn’t be a problem for him; it was just a matter of finding a pigment. What could he fashion that would do the job?

The candle flickered.

Inspiration struck.

Storm plucked a feather from one of his wings and held the tip of it in the flame momentarily; an acrid smell filled the air as it blackened and shriveled, but such was the price of invention. Putting it to the page, he was pleased to see it leave a light but distinct mark, and he managed to write a few characters down before needing to burn another bit of it. He wouldn’t be able to write anything substantial unless he was willing to give up flight for a week or two, but he could at least keep a commitment. If only it hadn’t been such an eventful day, and if only he hadn’t such a limited means of describing it.

Deciding compromise was in order, he marked the date at the top of the page, and then wrote his third entry.

Dear Journal—

I’ll tell you all about it later.

It wasn’t much, but it was a promise he meant to keep. Storm closed his journal and returned it to his bag, before blowing out the candle and climbing into bed. As he lay in the darkness, moonlight painting a distorted imitation of the window’s shape across him, the thought came unbidden that it was an awful lot of bed. He had grown used to his simple bunk at the castle, and to sharing a bed on the weekend; it felt strange having this sudden stretch of space without a certain warmth beside him.

But, it had been an eventful day, and any thoughts or protests he may have entertained softened and blurred about the edges as drowsiness took him. He pulled the counterpane over himself and, as the nocturnal creatures continued to sing their lullaby, drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 4

Early the next morning, while the day was still young and dark and undecided about what it wanted to be when it grew up, the faint timbre of a reveille began to filter into Storm’s room through the glass. Though it was scarcely audible, his ears flitted in response to it, and a small part of his mind, a part that never really slept, began to stir his body into a Pavlovian set of motions. He sat up, groggy and not entirely conscious, and dragged himself, along with most of his bedspread, off of the mattress and around to the foot of his bed where his barding lay. His body slipped into its peytral; his head ducked into its helmet. Then eventually the rest of his brain, feeling left out, caught up and overrode the autopilot. He blinked a few times and took in his surroundings, before placing his helmet back down and his peytral beside it. No bunks, no barracks—only the alarm tone was the same; it was coming from outside.

Storm approached his window and pushed it open with a dubious splintering that he hoped wouldn’t echo in the cost of checkout. Brisk, predawn air wafted in, and he breathed it in deeply, feeling some of his lethargy leave him. Above, a few of the more stubborn stars glimmered softly; below, a few yards down the hill, Check Mate played his trumpet, his back turned to the building.

Carpe diem, Storm thought to himself. I guess one way to seize the day is to lie in ambush until it finally shows up.

He left his room for the dimness of the hallway, just as Crack Shot also happened to do so.

“Morning,” said Storm.

Crack Shot, bleary-eyed, stared at him. “Is it?” he asked.

“I know how you feel. But since we’re both up, we might as well head downstairs and say hello.”

The two ponies descended the stairs into the tavern of Pimento’s, where they found the pony himself sweeping the floor of spilled food, spilled salt, and maybe even a bit of sawdust that happened to be mixed in. A few candles had been lit to supplement the low lighting from outside. When he saw them coming down, he gave them a firm nod.

“Mornin’, fellas,” he said.

“Is it?” asked Crack Shot.

“Morning, Pimento. Getting ready to open?”

“Nossir, I won’t be opening properly until later in the evenin’, after everypony’s recovered from the last one. I just prefer to make an early start of it when I’ve got guests stayin’ the night.” Pimento leaned his broom against the wall. “Speaking of which, your friend is outside if you’re lookin’ for him. Bit surprised to see him up so early though. The beds alright?”

“No problems here,” said Storm.

“Yeah, but it was nicer when I was actually in one,” said Crack Shot.

“I see. Well, that’s good to hear. Tell you boys what: since y’all are up, I’ll start fixin’ something to eat in a bit.”

“It won’t be any trouble, will it?” asked Storm.

“Don’t you worry about that; as Kettle will tell ya, a complimentary breakfast comes with the room, though usually by the time he gets up, it’s a complimentary lunch. You go on and catch up with your buddy now. I’ll get things started cookin’.”

“Will do.”

Pimento once more picked up his broom, and Storm and Crack Shot exited the tavern, their breath curling in gray wisps outside of it. As they followed the sound of the trumpet, Crack Shot yawned largely. His breath clouded and expanded into nothingness before him.

“So, did you do the whole pied piper thing when Check started playing, too?” he asked.

“Heh, yeah.”

“Freaky stuff, dude.”

They found Check Mate on the eastern side of the hill where Storm had first spotted him; Crack Shot called out to him, interrupting his performance.

“Hey, Check! I think the roosters got it covered out here!”

Check Mate lowered his trumpet and turned to face them. He gave a wide wave then trotted up to meet them.

“Good morning, Storm, Crack Shot,” he said brightly.

“Morning, Check,” said Storm. He looked at Crack Shot expectantly.

“Eh,” said Crack Shot, shrugging. “Anyways, what’s up with the wakeup call, dude? I don’t think they’re expectin’ us at PT.”

“Ah, I apologize. You see, I had hoped to keep my proficiencies whetted while we are away, which is of course why I brought this.” Check Mate levitated his trumpet; Crack Shot eyed it like a smoking gun.

“I suppose I wouldn’t expect anything less of you,” said Storm. “Still, nopony would hold it against you if you slept in, especially after a day like yesterday.”

“Which, you know, also included part of today,” Crack Shot added. “Technically speakin’ and all.”

“Well...” Check Mate’s face flushed slightly and he fidgeted with a forehoof.

“Well?” repeated Storm.

“Well… I also thought that, perhaps, you two would appreciate the opportunity to watch the sun as it rises?”

“Ahh, gotcha.” Storm smiled and took a seat on the grass beside his friend. “Well, what the hay, that sounds alright to me.”

“Heh, fine. But you do know we’ve got sunrises back home, right?” said Crack Shot, sitting on Check’s opposite side.

“Yes, I know. It’s just that, well, I’ve never seen one anywhere else before.”

The three of them made themselves as comfortable as they could in the chill, and looked towards the horizon. A mist hung over Fiddler’s Plain, making both the hills and the farmlands they framed dreamy and ghostlike. It hid everything farther out, save for the shadowed mountains in the distance; it drifted and pooled, waiting for the sunlight to come and melt it all away.

“Dang, would Celestia hurry it up already?” said Crack Shot with a shiver. He didn’t have to wait much longer.

The navy backing the mountaintops began to ebb from them like a tide, and soon the flickers of the remaining stars extinguished like candle flames, washed away along with it. Slowly and smoothly, the sky became a rising gradient of grays, on top of pinks, on top of salmon oranges. Then, finally, the sun crested the faraway peaks, spilling light, rich and red and indomitable, across Fiddler’s Plain and bringing out all of the colors the guardsponies had missed when they had arrived late last night. Crack Shot whistled appreciatively.

“Wow…” Storm breathed, now that he saw it all for the first time. The hills were covered in tiny wildflowers, patched over with mottles of purple and white. In fields, what he assumed to be wheat caught the sunlight and turned it out in umber and brass. Beyond them, as the mists vanished, thick evergreen woods revealed themselves, the distance dulling their color into verdigris. And above it all, the sky was clear and blue. There were so many colors! He felt like he had been given a glimpse of nature’s palette.

It was remarkable.

He remarked.

“Alright, that was definitely worth getting up for.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” said Check Mate. “And tomorrow the sun will rise once more, over and across infinite horizons, subtly, or markedly, but in one way or another different from today. Just think; by dint of location, or company, or seasonal vicissitude, each day it is a phenomenon wholly unique and irreproducible. And it will hold true for all of our yesterdays, for all of our tomorrows, long before we were here, and long after we are gone…”

“Check,” Crack Shot groaned, “it’s way too early, and my stomach’s way too empty for you to get all philosophical.”

Check Mate laughed. “I apologize; I didn’t mean to upset you. What I mean to say is just that I’m glad to have experienced it with the both of you.” He stood up slowly. “Well, shall we head back inside?”

The three returned to the tavern, where Pimento had laid fresher and lower sodium sawdust across the floor. A sweet aroma wafted out of the kitchen, and the inside of the tavern had warmed since Storm and Crack Shot had left it, no doubt from Pimento’s cooking. At the sound of the door closing, Pimento stuck his head out of the kitchen to greet his guests.

“Good timin’, boys. Take a seat where it pleases you, and I’ll be out with your vittles in no time.”

The guardsponies took a battered table near a window; Crack Shot exhaled onto the glass and began tracing figures where it steamed. After a few minutes, Pimento approached the table with a tray full of wooden dishes and set it between them. Round, folded pastries of some variety that Storm couldn’t identify were placed on small plates, and beside them a serving bowl of pecan rolls. There were stacks of pancakes topped with minced walnuts, strawberries, and large, softened pats of butter (there was also maple syrup, though Storm did his best to ignore it). A large, dewing pitcher of iced cider stood in the middle of it all, along with three mugs. There were even some bowls of muesli-topped yogurt to give the illusion of healthfulness. It was the type of breakfast that would get you through a long day, providing you took a nap immediately afterwards to recover from it.

“Just holler if you need anything else; I’ll be in the back washin’ up.”

Pimento returned to the kitchen, leaving the guardsponies to figure out where to start with the gargantuan meal. Check Mate took one of the yogurt bowls, Storm took one of the strange pastries, and Crack Shot took one of everything.

“Pimento’s a bit gruff, but he sure makes quite a spread, doesn’t he?” said Storm. He took a bite of the pastry; it tasted like a mix of cinnamon, apple, and what he guessed to be some sort of minced sweet pepper.

Check Mate sampled his yogurt and smiled. “Quite. With culinary capabilities such as his, he could do very well in the city.”

“I dunno,” said Crack Shot. “Maybe if he served stuff in smaller portions with a two-digit price tag. Oh, and a sprig of parsley on the side.” He took a deep draft of his cider and set it down with a gasp. “Dang, that’s cold!”

Eventually they finished their meal with nothing left on the table, save for the tray and dishes. Check Mate had finished first, satisfied with just his yogurt, though Crack Shot had been happy to eat whatever he didn’t finish, and whatever Storm wasn’t quick enough to get to. Check stood from the table and levitated the dining ware to the counter.

“Thank you for a delightful meal, Pimento!” he called out. “I’ve left your tableware up here, if that is alright!”

Pimento stepped back out of the kitchen. “That was quick. Everything to your liking?” He looked at the empty bowls and plates and gave a toothy grin. “I’ll assume that it was. You know, I like fellas like yourselves: ponies with big, hearty appetites.”

“Er, ah, ahem, yes. Well said,” agreed Check Mate, with a level of innocence that leads to indictments.

Pimento gave him a sidelong glance. “…Right. Anyways, it’ll probably be another few hours at least until Kettle’s up. What are y’all gonna do until then? Know anywhere you wanna go around here?”

“Back to bed,” Crack Shot announced. Three pairs of eyes watched as he marched up the tavern’s stairs and out of sight. There was the sound of a door closing.

“…Well, I guess you can’t really blame him,” Storm noted. “But since you ask, would there happen to be a store around here?”

“There’s Hazel Nut’s about a couple of miles or so south of here. You’re not lookin’ to buy anything too fancy, are you?”

Storm wasn’t sure what constituted ‘fancy’, but he said, “Just a bottle or two of ink.”

“Hazel’s your mare, then. Gotta let you know though, she can take you aback if you aren’t ready for her. She’s a bit of an, uh—“

“Nut?” Storm suggested.

Pimento frowned. “I was gonna say intimidating character. Anyways, don’t let me scare you; she’s honest and she’ll cut you a good deal if she likes you.”

“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind, thank you. What do you say, Check? Care to do some shopping with me?”

“Certainly; that would also allow the other half of our ensemble ample time to catch up on their rest. However, before we depart—Pimento, would there be somewhere to freshen up?”

“Upstairs, left, the two doors at the end of the hall. There should be towels in both of ‘em.”

“Ah, good to know there are showers out here—”

Storm caught himself, feeling he could’ve worded that better; Pimento’s basilisk stare confirmed it.

“—erm.”

“’Showers’? Oh no, I don’t know none o’ that fancy city talk. Round here, folks just mosey on down to the crick once a month and—yes, we got showers!”

Storm’s ears pinned back. “Aheh, um, sorry about that; that didn’t come out right at all.”

“Mmhm. Well, don’t fret over it. But yes, we do have the luxury of running water.”

“Well, sure, I didn’t mean to imply that—“

“Just ain’t any of it heated.”

The shower hadn’t been as numbingly cold as Storm had expected it to be. Numbing would have been welcome. No, every single nerve of his had remained fully responsive, screaming to let him know as such. But after it was over, and only after it was over, he felt it a satisfying shower. It would leave a stallion with a sort of triumphant feeling of masculinity; at least after they had toweled off, found a warm spot in the sun, and finally gotten their teeth to stop rattling.

The towel that Storm had found was made of a thick, absorbent cotton; however, he had a thick, absorbent coat, so the furthest from wet that he was able to get with it was damp. He gave himself a good shake behind the shower curtain, pushed his mane out of his face, and slung his bags over his withers; the bits in them clinked noisily as he did so.

After hanging his towel to dry, Storm stepped out into the hall to wait for Check Mate to finish his shower. It was not long before the sound of running water was silenced by the squeak of a knob, and soon afterwards the unicorn exited into the hall, a thin cloud of steam billowing just ahead of him. This last fact was not lost on Storm.

“Hey, I thought Pimento said there wasn’t any hot water,” he said conversationally.

“I did find that to be the case; I merely improvised.” Check Mate tapped the side of his horn.

“Hm. Convenient.”

“And a notable cardiovascular stimulus.” Check smiled. “A warm-up by two interpretations of the expression.”

By the time Storm and Check exited Pimento’s tavern, the chill had left the air, and it looked to be the beginning of a clement, unnoteworthy day, the kind of day that’s found at the intro of so many narratives with no idea how it got there. The road leading south turned out to be even less of a road than the one coming in from the station, if it could have been called a road at all. As it traced the curves of the hills, it was in many spots either crowded by long grasses into nothingness, or fragmented by subsidence, making it guesswork to follow. Storm flew just above it to make sure they kept to it. After they passed over another section of overgrowth, he called down to Check.

“Hey, Check, did you finish that book of yours yet?”

“No, I’ve still a ways to go, though I did read a few more passages when we retired to our quarters last night.”

“Yeah? I was just thinking about what Kettle said to Crack Shot. You know, about nicking something off the side of the road? You think he was serious?”

“I do not think he had any reason not to be. However, we may see…”

Check Mate unfastened the one of the flaps to his bags and levitated from it the Pandect of Plant Life. He took a long look at a flowering patch of grass growing to the side of the path, then began turning through the pages.

“Ah, here we are,” he said, gesturing to a picture, “andropogon gerardii, colloquially known as ‘bluestem’. According to this, it is indeed edible.” Then he surprised Storm by leaning forward and taking a small bite of it, chewing it thoughtfully. “Hm… a bit coarse, but slightly sweet. Interesting.”

“Really?” Storm landed beside Check and eyed a stalk, before taking a tentative bite. “Hey, that’s not half bad.”

Its rough texture made it so that he had to work for the taste, but it was satisfying enough to make a meal if it came to that. Thinking of a buffet just growing everywhere around them, of living off the land, would take some getting used to. He felt like he should be given a bill. After swallowing the bit of grass, he took to the air once more, keeping an eye on the broken road.

In a valley at the base of a hill, Storm and Check found a log building with a roof thatched in straw or some other dried, unsettlingly flammable-looking plant. Behind it was a grove of what Check identified as hazelnut trees, along with a pumpkin patch full of yellow and orange fruit. It reminded Storm that Nightmare Night was not that far off. In the middle of the garden was a scarecrow dressed in a stereotypical farmer’s garb: overalls, plaid shirt, and a straw hat. A pair of crows had made a nest of it.

“Think this is Hazel Nut’s store?” Storm asked. If it was a market, it didn’t seem to be advertising itself as such. It didn’t seem to be advertising itself at all.

“Possibly, if the trees are any clue. Either way, there’s no harm in asking, yes?”

The two approached the door, an unvarnished slab of wood with a knob stuck in it as an afterthought. Storm knocked on it, and then cursed to himself as he began picking out the splinters that had snagged in his fetlocks. There were the clops of firm hooffalls, and then the door swung open, revealing a smiling earth pony mare that filled most of its frame.

Now, to say that she filled the door’s frame implies that she was fat. She wasn’t. In fact, she didn’t look like she had an ounce of fat on her. But she was big, like the word ‘matriarch’ had been coined with her in mind, and would’ve included her picture in the dictionary if it’d fit. She was the dark red of cherry wood and looked like she was carved from it, with a mane of platinum curls that rolled past her shoulders. She looked like she could carry the weight of the world and do it for reps. Royalty aside, Storm didn’t know ponies could come in that size. He realized that he was staring, and, to his embarrassment, that she had realized it too. She winked at him.

“Well, I’ve never seen you two before. Can I helpyou boys?” she said in a deep hum, one as rich as honey.

“Ah, yes,” Storm began, once the red had left his face, “we heard that there was a market down this way, run by a mare by the name of Hazel Nut?”

“And just who told you that?” The smile deepened. Storm swallowed.

“A pony by the name of Pimento,” said Check Mate. “He runs a tavern just north of here?”

The mare nodded, satisfied. “That sweetheart… I’ll just have to give him a discount next time I see him. And by the way, just ‘Hazel’ is fine.” Hazel turned in the doorway and waved them in with her tail. “Well, come inside.”

Walking in, Storm wasn’t sure if he and Check had just entered an agricultural supply or an armory. Arranged in rows or hung on walls were enough pitchforks, scythes, axes, and species of saw to satisfy even the most discerning class of maniac. He walked past a sinister-looking set of hooks that were far too large for hanging towels. He asked about their usage.

“They’re for hay bucking,” Hazel explained. “You hook them into a bale so that you can toss it wherever you need it to be. It’s not easy work though; a good-sized bale of hay can weigh over a hundred pounds.” She gave the two ponies a long, appreciative, lingering look. “Although I doubt that’d be a problem for a couple of strong-looking stallions like yourselves.”

“My word…” Check Mate whispered.

“So, you’re staying at Pimento’s,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“For the moment, though that might change. I think our tour guide might be bringing us home with him,” Storm said.

“Tour guide? Now who would that be?”

“A stallion by the name of Kettle Corn. Do you know him?”

Hazel let out a warm, full-bodied laugh that shook the windows. “Oh, everypony around here knows Kettle; that one could charm the skin off a snake. Say… I don’t want to take advantage of you boys, but since you might be the only ponies I see out here for a while, would you be willing to lend a lady your assistance with something?”

“Uh, what kind of something?” Storm asked.

“There’s a deceased tree in my garden that needs to be felled. It’s a bit much for me to handle, so I’d appreciate the help. If you would be so kind.”

Storm quirked an eyebrow. He was surprised that Hazel would need the help with something like tree felling. He doubted she’d need a tool for it. Heck, he wagered that if she wanted to, she could wrap her tail around it and yank it out by—

“But of course,” said Check. “We would be remiss as gentlecolts were we to refuse.”

Well, that settled that.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest thing? In that case, let me show you two dears where it is.”

Storm and Check set their bags down and followed Hazel through another door into her garden, and towards the hazelnut grove. The pair of crows eyed the two strangers carefully as they walked past.

“Huh. Aren’t scarecrows supposed to, you know, scare crows?” asked Storm, as eyes like garnets stared into him.

“Maybe your slower crow, but they’re actually quite intelligent creatures. Especially those two.” Hazel extended a foreleg and whistled sharply. The two crows took off from their perch on the scarecrow and made a new one of her leg. “This is Hugh and Mooney. Say ‘hello’, boys.”

Hugh and Mooney cawed loudly.

“These two keep a handle on the termites and other pests, as well as any rotten fruits or seeds. I couldn’t ask for a better pair of gardeners. Okay, off you go, boys!” She swung up her foreleg, and the two birds rode the momentum into flight, squawking what might have been a farewell. “Alright then, where were we?”

The dead tree stood near the end of a row extending into the area of orchard opposite Hazel’s store. It didn’t need to be identified. The few leaves left hanging from its branches were dry, brittle, and dotted with blight. The tree itself was ashen, and black spots had erupted like sores across its bark. Hazel looked at it, saying nothing for a while. A breeze swept past, tossing her mane like silver cords and stripping the tree of a few of its branches.

“…I’ll leave the two of you to it, if I may,” she said at last, before turning to return the way they had come.

Storm took in the task laid before them. There was probably a tool for it, an axe or something, and it was probably back in the shop. Another gust of wind sent a few more branches tumbling down. An axe might’ve been overkill.

“So, should we buck it, or let the weather do the job for us?”

“I’ll try to loosen the roots,” Check Mate said, as his horn began to glow. “As I do so, perhaps you could find some leverage farther up the trunk?”

“Alright, that sounds like a plan.”

Storm took to the air to find an angle of assault that wouldn’t tip the tree into the branches of another. If he had known he’d be doing this, he wouldn’t have left his armor back at the tavern.

“You ready down there?!” he shouted.

“Ready!” Check answered.

Although midair, Storm tried to square his shoulders as best he could and took a deep breath. Well, here goes nothing.

“Tiiiiim-ber!”

Gritting his teeth, he dived towards the tree with forelegs extended, braced himself for impact, and almost went headfirst into the ground. It was only by a reflexive wing beat that he broke his momentum and avoided another taste of the local flora, landing roughly but thankfully on his hooves. The dead hazel had put up zero resistance, and tore as easily from the earth as a dandelion. Storm stood up shakily and brushed the dirt and shreds of grass from his coat.

“Are you alright?” Check rushed over to inspect him.

“I’m fine, though I think I’m going to need another shower. Still, that was a lot easier than I thought it’d be. Do you really think Hazel needed our help with that?”

“I wonder.” Check Mate looked down at the fallen tree. “Well, I believe we should relocate this, lest its blight spread. Would you care to take the other end?”

The two ponies carried the tree towards the shop, Check supporting the trunk in his magic, and Storm holding a thicker bough in his hooves as he hovered behind. After setting the tree in a patch of grass well away from the shop’s log walls, they once more went inside. Hazel was waiting near the door in an aisle of seeds, staring at a hoofful of them.

“All taken care of,” said Storm. “We set the tree a few yards away from the building, just in case whatever it had was contagious. Is that alright?”

Hazel dropped the seeds back into their bin and looked up, then down slightly to Storm’s eye level, and smiled at him. “That is just perfect, sugar; thank you. Now, I should have asked this first, but what brings you two by?”

“I was hoping to buy a bottle or two of ink if you carry any.”

“And I am merely along for the journey.”

“Really? Is that all? Well, go ahead and take a few bottles; they’re all in the aisle over.” She pointed towards it. “Also, help yourself to some quills and a holder if you need them; I’d hate to see you forced to prune those handsome wings,” she purred. Storm swallowed.

“Eheh, er, thanks? Also, when you say ‘help yourself’—”

“They’re on the house, sugar. Consider it my way of saying thank you.”

Storm placed a couple of ink bottles, a paper wrapping of quills, and a long, tin quill holder in his saddlebags; he then gave his thanks and left with Check Mate for Pimento’s. After seeing the two ponies off, Hazel stepped through her shop and into the garden, where Hugh and Mooney flew down to accompany her. She paused to observe the fallen tree and sighed. It was old, its time had come, and no amount care would stop that clock from ticking. She said a final farewell and moved forward into the hazelnut grove. She looked carefully through the leaves, then, with a satisfied hum, plucked a seed from one of the branches. Finally, tucking it into her mane, she walked down a row of trees, where an empty spot awaited it.

Halfway to Pimento’s, Storm and Check decided to take a moment to relax on the side of the road and make a light repast of the surrounding wild grass. Storm imagined that this was the kind of thing they did in those youth scout organizations, in addition to tying knots, rubbing sticks together to start fires, and whatever else it took to get the foals out of the house. Not too different from the Guard in some ways, all things considered.

“May I ask why you purchased the ink?” Check said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you guys, did I? Nomde gave me a journal. Speaking of which”—Storm nosed into his bag and pulled out the object in question along with his new implements—“I still need to finish up yesterday’s entry before too much of today happens.”

“Ah, a journal! What a fine idea. Hopefully it will fill with fond remembrances.”

“Yep, as long as I remember to write them down.” Storm opened the packet of quills and tore a strip from it, setting it to the side. “How about you, Check? Do you keep a journal?”

“I have in the past, though the pages always seemed to fill so quickly.”

“Heh, I can imagine.”

Storm removed the stopper from one of the ink bottles and set it gently on the strip of paper, away from any dirt or other contaminants. After dipping the tip of a quill, he began to write. He wrote about the Canterlot and Fiddler’s Plain EqueRail stations and the differences between them; he wrote about Crack Shot’s heroism and their train ride; he wrote about Pimento and Kettle Corn. He wrote until he ran out of page.

He replaced the stopper in its bottle and put the used quill in the tin holder, but left his journal open, allowing the ink to dry.

“And that’s that until tonight. By the way, how long do you want to stay here in Fiddler’s Plain?”

“You mean before continuing northward?”

“Right. We’ve got a fair bit of territory ahead of us to cover after all, don’t we?”

“That is true; however, perhaps we should save this discussion for when the third member of our party is present?”

“Good point. Do you think he’s up by now?”

“I imagine he will be by the time we return.” Check Mate gave a conspiratorial smile. “And if not, I wouldn’t suffer for more trumpet practice.”

Both Crack Shot and Kettle were awake and downstairs, playing a game of cards, when Storm and Check stepped through the tavern door. Crack Shot waved them over.

“Hey, ‘bout time you got back, guys! Me and Kettle were just playin’ a few rounds of ‘Go Fish’.”

“Yep, on account of it bein’ the only game you know,” Kettle grumbled.

“Now now, don’t get pissy just because I’m winning. Got any threes?”

Kettle grumbled a little louder and slid a card across the table.

“Booyah! Heh, you’re lucky we’re not playin’ for bits.”

“You fellas want to join in?” asked Kettle, after Storm and Check had sat down at the table.

“Thank you, but I’m content to watch,” said Check.

“Ya sure about that? Not like we’ve got a shortage of cards or anythin’.”

“He doesn’t wanna play because he knows he’ll wipe the floor with us,” Crack Shot explained matter-of-factly.

“Oh, a card shark, huh? Gotta admit, I wouldn’t have had ya pegged.”

“Shark? Pssh, he’s more like a, uh, well I don’t know what eats sharks, but whatever they are, he’s one of those. Check—”

Check Mate sighed. “Yes, Crack Shot?”

“Care to give a demonstration?”

“Very well.”

“Sweet. You’re gonna love this, Kettle.”

Crack Shot drew ten cards from what was left of the deck and began turning them face up one by one, arranging them in a line.

“Alright, I bet you’re all familiar with Three-card Monte, right? Well, this oughta be a little more excitin’. Keep your eyes on the three of clubs.”

Crack Shot tapped the three of clubs for emphasis, turned each card back over, and proceeded to make them dance across the table. With feints and flourishes and flying hooves, he turned the space in front of him into a blur of white and red. Storm tried to follow the card, but Crack Shot wasn’t making it easy. Sometimes it would switch places with another, sometimes a hoof would glide over it only to snatch away a neighbor. He struggled not to blink. To blink would be to lose it.

After another minute or two, the cards finally came to a rest, indistinguishable rose patterns arranged in a row once more. The second from Crack Shot’s left, Storm thought. It had to be that one.

“Alright, Check, how ‘bout it: were you able to keep track of the three of clubs? ‘Course, knowing you, that’s more of a rhetorical question.”

“Yes, I would say that I was.”

“Heh, right on, dude. I’d expect no less of you.” Crack Shot grinned. “So then, can you tell me where the ace of spades is?”

Kettle burst out laughing; Storm watched and waited.

“Third from your right. In between the two of diamonds and the eight of hearts, to be more precise.”

Crack Shot turned the three cards over, revealing their faces. On one was a pair of diamonds, on another was a crowd of hearts, and in between them a single, stylized spade.

Kettle went wide eyed. “Now ain’t that a caution! I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that before! You play the tables at all?”

“No, and I must admit I really have no care to gamble. I would feel it dishonest.”

“Heh, that’s right noble of you, I reckon; I’m impressed.” Kettle turned towards Crack Shot. “So you gonna show us where the three of clubs is?”

“Beats me, dude. I was just movin’ the cards as fast as I could; I don’t have any idea which is which.”

“It would be the second card from your left,” Check Mate said. And, of course, it was. Storm was content to have at least gotten that one.

Crack Shot began reshuffling the deck. “So, Pimento said you two went shopping,” he said.

Storm nodded. “He said right. I needed to grab a couple of things to write with.”

“Down at Hazel’s place, I’ll wager,” Kettle noted. Then, he leaned forward and added in a low whisper, “Did she talk about Pimento at all?”

Storm tilted his head. “Not all that much, really. Why?”

“Well… just between you and me, it’s more-or-less common knowledge that she has a thing for him.”

Hazel had a thing for Pimento? Storm wasn’t sure how Kettle or anypony else had determined that little piece of gossip. Judging by her behavior, she might have a thing for everypony she laid eyes on. How could one tell?

“Dude, what the heck was that?” Crack Shot stared flatly at Kettle.

“Eh?”

“You can’t be all like, ‘Ooh, just between you and me!’”—Crack Shot waved his hooves in front of his face while forming an ‘O’ with his mouth—“actin’ all secretive and then followin’ it up by telling us it’s common knowledge! It’s not a secret if everypony knows!”

“Now dang it, would you relax and keep it down?! If ya listened carefully, you’da noticed I didn’t say everypony knows.”

“Yeah, well who doesn’t?”

“Pimento.”

Crack Shot raised a hoof as if to say something and then just said, “Ah.”

“Yep, he don’t have a clue. Which is kinda funny if ya ask me, since general consensus is that he’s soft for her too.”

“Really? Why doesn’t one of them make a move?” Storm asked.

“Matters of the heart are tricky things. I reckon they will in due time.”

Deep down, Storm knew that he wasn’t one to talk. It was months and a city-wide crisis before he dared to show his feelings to Nomde. Theirs wasn’t the most traditional courtship.

“And some of us regulars have a pool goin’, so I’m hopin’ that ‘due time’ is between twelve and one on a Sunday.” Kettle grinned at the groans this received. “Anyways, how ‘bout we take off after a couple more rounds? We may not be playin’ for bits, but I’m gonna win back my pride.”

After a few more games, the four ponies returned to their rooms for the last time in order to fetch their belongings. Pimento was asleep in preparation for the evening, so Kettle took the initiative of setting his payment in the till. When the guardsponies went downstairs to meet him, clad once more in their armor, he gave them a look over.

“Decidin’ to go in uniform, eh?”

“We might as well,” Storm responded. “It’s easier to wear than to carry in a set of saddlebags, after all.”

“Fair enough. Well, since we’re all ready to hit the road, what say we do?”

While on a road running northeast from the tavern, the guardsponies learned that they were going to a farm owned by Kettle’s sister. They were not surprised to learn that it specialized in corn. The trip itself was uneventful, and after about an hour they arrived at the lane leading to her farmhouse; it was an off-white, two-story building with a covered porch. Fields of tall corn lined both sides of the lane, as far as the eye could see. This was because the eye couldn’t actually see all that far, the corn being as thick as it was. Nevertheless, Storm got the impression that there was quite a lot of it.

The ponies crossed a freshly-trimmed lawn, the air sweet from its clippings, and stepped into the shade of the porch. Kettle was just reaching for the door handle when it opened inward, revealing a mare that, save for the femininity, could’ve been his twin. Storm thought about this for a moment. She was probably Kettle’s twin. She started back from the ponies standing right outside her door, but quickly recovered when she recognized the one in front, and a warm smile graced her lips.

“It’s about time ya got back,” she said, pulling Kettle into a hug. “Your nephew and nieces missed you, and I suppose I might’ve too.”

“Sorry, to keep y’all waitin’, sis. I brought guests, by the way.”

Kettle’s sister pulled out of the hug and turned her smile on the guardsponies. “I can see that; Salisbury said you found some interesting company. Are you going to introduce me?”

“Ah, where are my manners? Crack Shot, Storm Stunner, Check Mate, this is my sister, Allie.”

The guardsponies greeted Allie in turn, each shaking her hoof, save for Crack Shot who bumped it. Allie looked to her brother, who gave a small shrug.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you three. I imagine y’all have been asked this plenty, but might I ask what brings you down our way?”

“Mainly sightseeing,” Storm said.

“In plate armor?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, heh, well, it never hurts to be prepared, right?”

Allie stared in curiosity at Storm, weighing this notion, before finally the eyebrow lowered. “Can’t fault the logic, I suppose.” She turned towards Kettle. “I need to go pick up the foals from school. You mind fixin’ supper for when we get back?”

“If you don’t mind eatin’ it. Got any preferences?”

“There’s some spinach in the kitchen. Think you can make a salad without burnin’ it?”

Kettle grinned. “I can sure as heck try. I’ll see you in a bit, Allie.”

She pulled him into another quick hug. “Take care, Ket, and welcome back. And you boys make yourselves at home, you hear?”

Allie walked down the drive and rounded a corner, disappearing from view. Kettle stepped inside and beckoned the guardsponies to follow.

“Wipe your hooves and come on in, fellas; I’ll give you the guided tour.”

Allie’s living room was like living rooms anywhere. Among other furniture was an old couch with large, twill cushions, the kind that can last for generations on nothing more than the occasional patch-up and a steady diet of spare change. In front of it was a wooden coffee table splotched with ring-shaped stains and topped with unused coasters. Beneath these was an ornate scatter rug, probably bought for its aesthetic appeal and then appreciated for its ability to hide a stain. As a living room, it felt very lived in.

On the mantle over a fireplace were a number of picture frames. One in the center drew Storm’s gaze. It was a color photograph of Kettle and Allie, along with a dark-colored stallion; the two siblings looked a few years younger. Allie was leaning her head against the darker stallion’s shoulder. Storm wondered, but didn’t dare ask.

They followed Kettle into a large kitchen which, judging by the table placed in one corner of it, also served as the dining room. The smell of coffee hung in the air, laced with the pungent hint of old smoke; Storm noticed that the ceiling and the perimeter of wall near it were stained a darker shade than the area of wall below. The spinach Allie had mentioned sat in a large bowl on the counter.

“If you get hungry, here’s where she keeps the vittles. ‘Fore you clear out the larder though, let me show y’all to the guesthouse to drop off your things.”

Crack Shot’s jaw went slack. “She’s got a friggin’ guesthouse?!”

“That she does,” answered Kettle as he pushed the back door open.

“Like, not a barn, right? Like an actual, whole separate house?”

“Well, she’s got both actually, but guesthouses ain’t all that uncommon ‘round here. I take it you didn’t see many of ‘em back home?”

“Dude, where I grew up, we didn’t even have a guest room.”

Across a wide patch of bare earth stood the barn, swarming with hens, and near it, the guesthouse. The guesthouse, which was the same off-white as the main house, which was also the same off-white as the barn, was unsurprisingly smaller. Like the main house, it also had two stories; however, compared to the main house, Storm thought those stories abridged. Inside, he learned that the first floor was comprised of only a bathroom, a tiny living area, and an empty pantry; it all looked spotless, unused. The second floor was comprised of bedroom. A bedroom. Eight beds were divided into two rows spanning its entire area. It was a very familiar layout.

“Hey, how about that? It’s just like our barracks,” said Storm. He pressed a hoof into one of the mattresses.

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Kettle. “Anyways, I’m gonna head back to the kitchen and work on my battle plan for supper. I’ll let y’all fight over who’s bunkin’ where.” He gave a wave then disappeared down the stairs.

Storm took the room in and didn’t take long to do so: every bed was identical and they were the only thing to be seen. There were no lamps, no candles, no drawers. He chose a bed near a window overlooking the barn, and Check Mate took one across from it. Crack Shot made a hmph, drawing their attention.

“Okay, what the heck is goin’ on?” he asked as he dropped his bags and barding by a bed.

“Huh? What’s wrong?” asked Storm.

“Like, everything! I mean, seriously—dinner, the inn, a whole friggin’ house to ourselves”—Crack Shot swung a hoof in a wide arc, trying to encompass the room—“without askin’ for anything? Who does that? Who is that nice? I feel like a jerk gettin’ all of this without doin’ anything!”

“Hmm… well, perhaps Kettle and Allie do not need a reason?” said Check. “Perhaps an act of altruism is reward in itself for them.”

Storm nodded. “Yeah, I’m with Check here. Besides, don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same thing if you could. I know you would.”

“Well, yeah, maybe… but I doubt most ponies would.”

Storm cocked his head to the side. “There are a lot of ponies, Crack Shot. Do you really think you can speak for the majority of them?”

“It’s—well—gah, whatever! I’m gonna go and see if Kettle wants some help burnin’ that salad or somethin’. If I’m gonna get a free lunch, I’m at least gonna lend a hoof with dinner.”

Crack Shot marched down the stairs and out of the room in a huff.

“Huh,” said Storm, as the door below slammed shut. “So much for getting his vote on when to leave town.”

“But he did make a good point. Although I doubt that our hosts would consider accepting a pecuniary compensation, should we not try to demonstrate our appreciation in some other way?”

“Yeah… yeah, we probably should, shouldn’t we? Hmm, want to join Crack Shot and see if we can help out with dinner as well?”

“Although it is probably a bit early in the afternoon, that would be a nice start. You’re not concerned that too many chefs might spoil the salad?”

“Not at all. Nopony would ever consider me a chef.”

Kettle was in no rush to begin preparing supper with an hour or two before Allie returned with the foals, but he wasn’t opposed to having a few extra hooves to help gather some additional ingredients in the meantime. He sent the guardsponies to retrieve some produce from a smaller garden near the house, things like tomatoes, cucumbers, apples, and cranberries, and the three had split up to accomplish the task, with only a little trouble. Crack Shot had run into a snag trying to find the tomato trees, but Check Mate was happy to direct him a little closer to the ground.

When Kettle judged that Allie would be arriving soon, he began peeling and dicing the items and tossing them over the spinach. He told Storm and the others to relax in the living room and make themselves comfortable, so Storm did what so many do when given such an offer in an unfamiliar home and sequestered a corner of couch, resolving not to move from it unless told to do otherwise. Check Mate took a spot on the other side of the couch, while Crack Shot took a seat on the floor by the coffee table and began spinning one of the coasters with the tip of his hoof. Their heads snapped towards the front door as it flew open and a tiny earth pony colt charged into the living room.

“Uncle Kettle! Uncle Kettle! Uncle—” the foal skidded to a stop when he spied three unfamiliar faces in his house, each of whom was now staring at him.

“Now now, Flip; I know you’re excited, but you know better than to go stormin’ into the house like that,” came Allie’s voice, followed by the mare herself and two fillies, a pegasus and a unicorn, who didn’t look to be much older than their brother. When she saw the guardsponies, she gave them a weary smile. “Sorry ‘bout that, boys. Flip, what do you say to our guests?”

“Who are you?”

The younger of the two fillies, the pegasus, started giggling, while her sister rolled her eyes with all the embarrassment due younger siblings. Crack Shot snorted.

“No,” Allie said with a patience that only comes with parenthood, “you say ‘hello’ and introduce yourself.”

“Oh. Hello.”

Storm decided to give up his spot on the couch and stepped forward, extending a hoof to the colt. “Hey there!” he said. “I’m Storm Stunner. And you are?”

The colt’s face bunched up. “Mom said it twice already. Are you stupid or something?”

Allie gasped. “Flip!”

Crack Shot buried his head in his hooves on the coffee table and started trembling; Check coughed politely and looked away.

“See? She said it again!”

Storm lowered his hoof. “Er, yes. Nice to meet you… Flip.” His face felt hot and he was sure he was blushing. He should’ve stayed on the couch.

“I’m right sorry about that, Storm,” Allie sighed. “He’s still at that age where honesty is, without exception, the best policy. Er, not to call ya dumb or nothing.”

“It’s alright; I’ve been called worse.”

“And as for you, young pony,” Allie said with the sternness that came packaged with the patience. “Apologize. Now.”

Conquerors would cower before that tone of voice, and mountains would crumble into the sea. Flip pouted. “…Mmsorfercallinyastupid,” he muttered, hanging his head.

“What was that?” asked Allie in a warning voice. To Flip, the sound of a weekend filling up with chores resonated within it.

“I’m sorry for callin’ ya stupid, Mr. Storm Stunner sir.”

“Apology accepted,” said Storm. He smiled and extended a hoof once more; this time Flip reached up and shook it.

“Pleased to—Uncle Kettle!”

“Huh, what?”

“Howdy there! I thought I heard y’all comin’ in!”

Kettle stood in the entrance to the kitchen, a few bits of fruit skins caught in the fringe of his mane. Flip and the pegasus filly scrambled past Storm and the other two strangers and leapt towards him, wrapping their forehooves around his front legs. The unicorn filly stayed near her mother, but gave a smile and small wave.

“Hi, Uncle Kettle!” Flip and the younger filly sang.

“Whoa, there! Good to see you too, pardners! I see you’re makin’ new acquaintances?”

“Yep!” said Flip. “That’s Storm Stunner, Uncle Kettle, and… uh…”

“Heh, why don’t I let ya finish up first?”

Flip turned to the closest pony, one who happened to be giving him one half of a grin; he raised his hoof towards him.

“Howdy, mister, what’s yer name?”

“Crack Shot, little dude.” Crack Shot bumped Flip’s hoof. The little colt seemed to think it was just about the coolest thing ever.

“So are you and Storm brothers or somethin’?”

“Only in arms,” Storm said with a chuckle.

Flip’s face bunched up once more. “’Only in arms’? Well what about the rest of ya?”

“It’s an expression,” Kettle interjected, preempting a discussion on genealogy by parts. “Him, Crack Shot, and Check Mate over there are in the Equestrian Royal Guard.”

Flip’s eyes widened.

“Whoa!”

“Pretty neat, huh? Now how ‘bout lettin’ your sisters say hello as well?”

With her uncle’s encouragement, the giggly pegasus filly skipped forward and introduced herself as Airy. The guardsponies returned her greeting and she giggled again, once at Check Mate’s formality and once at Crack Shot’s utter lack of it. Her sister, Sprite, was the eldest by one or two years and thus obviously above such childish displays. She smiled politely as she said her hellos.

With introductions out of the way, Kettle called everypony into the kitchen for supper. The salad was divided between eight plates arranged on the two long halves of the table, with plenty more left in a bowl in the center. Kettle and the guardsponies took one side of the table, Allie and the foals took the other, and all of them waited for somepony to say something and get the meal started. Kettle looked around and realized this somepony was him.

“Well,” he said, “it ain’t gonna get cold but you don’t want it to get warm, so dig in.”

While Kettle began talking to Sprite about her day at school, Storm started into the salad; he was not at all disappointed. He bit into a tomato, and it was tasting a tomato for the very first time. Life in the country would be worth it for the menu alone.

“What’s it like in the Guard? Is it excitin’?” piped up a filly’s voice.

“Mm?” Storm looked up from his plate. Airy was staring at him and the other guardsponies with doe-like eyes. “Oh, it can be at times,” he said. “Usually it’s pretty calm though.”

“Really? Aren’t y’all busy breakin’ up evil wizard cults and stuff?” Airy asked. She had been read many bedtime stories about daring knights in fanciful armor, and she wasn’t about to pass up the chance to check facts.

“Colts…? Oh, cults! Uh, I can’t say I or anypony else in the Guard has run into any lately,” Storm answered, puzzled.

Airy faltered. “Really? Huh, I woulda figured you’d have your hooves full with ‘em…” She decided to try another avenue. “What about princesses? Ya rescue any from any towers lately?”

“Er, the princesses we know actually prefer the towers. I think they appreciate the view?” Storm had the certainty that he was falling short of some very lofty expectations.

“What about fire-breathin’ dragons then?” Airy asked desperately. “Don’t tell me you ain’t fought none yet!”

“…Sorry. I’ve only seen one dragon, and the only time he breathed fire was to mail a letter.”

Airy frowned deeply as the fundamental rules of reality as she understood them were dashed one by one. What kind of sad, boring old world was it where deadly cults didn’t go around threatening existence, and knights didn’t slay fire-breathing dragons? Who’d even want to live in a world like that?

“Then what the heck do y’all even do if ya ain’t fightin’ wizards an’ dragons?!”

“Airy, manners,” Allie chided.

“Well, there’s guarding—”

“Phoenix taming,” Crack Shot chimed in.

“…Phoenix tamin’?” Airy’s eyes narrowed, but curiosity tinged her voice.

“Yep, you ever heard of a phoenix?”

Airy shook her head.

“Huh, now how can I explain one? Think like… like a firefly only a hundred times bigger!”

“Whoa!”

“Crack Shot, I don’t think that’s exactly–“

“And they’re smart. Like a hundred times smarter than a firefly,” Crack Shot continued, not one to waste a perfectly good analogy. “There’s one that lives in the castle, and one of the things we have to do is watch over her and make sure she doesn’t cause any trouble.”

“Really? Does she fight with ya?”

Crack Shot nodded gravely. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

While those two continued their tête-à-tête on the perils of pet ownership, Flip called to Storm as the guardspony took a bite of his salad.

“Hey, ya mind if I ask ya something?”

After he finished chewing, Storm swallowed and said, “Sure, by all means.”

“How’d ya get to be in the Royal Guard?”

Storm thought for a moment. That was a question that could have a very long or very short answer. He decided to go with the latter.

“Hmm, I really just signed up for it and went from there.”

“Really? Was it hard?”

“Parts of it, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

“Well… “ Flip rubbed his hooves together sheepishly. “Are ya hirin’?”

Storm raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Why? Are you looking to join?”

The little colt’s face brightened like a cherry tomato.

“What’s so funny ‘bout that?!”

“Oh nothing, nothing… you might be a little small though. I’m not sure we have any armor that’d fit you.”

Flip knitted his brows. “I’ll grow. I just need a year or two.”

“Is that all, huh? Alright, I’ll tell you what: how about we compromise? You finish school, get good grades, help your mom out with the chores, and I’ll put in the good word for you. A sergeant’s word. Sound good?”

“Hmm…” Flip eyed Storm with all of the gravity of six year old. “Ya promise?”

Storm placed a hoof over his chest. “I promise.”

Flip gave a large, gap-toothed grin and said, “Deal!” Then, to Storm’s dismay, he spat into his hoof, pulled himself onto the table, and thrust it out at Storm. “Let’s shake on it!”

“Flip! Rear legs off the table!”

“But Mom!”

“No ‘buts’, buster, now give me that hoof.”

Flip offered his hoof grudgingly, and Allie wiped it down with a cloth napkin. Then she went even further with this insult by adding a kiss to his cheek, much to his horror.

“Sorry again, Storm,” she said. “As ya can see, he’s a bit of a fan of the Guard.”

“I was the same way at his age; it’s a compliment really.”

“Really? Well, better a compliment than a hassle. So, I haven’t asked about how y’all ran into my brother. Was it at Pimento’s?” she asked with mock disapproval. Kettle looked up from his salad if only to roll his eyes.

“Actually, we met him on the train from Canterlot. We shared a car.”

“Comin’ in from Canterlot, eh? That reminds me, how’d things go over there, Ket?”

“Couldn’t have gone better, sis. All of our current contract holders renewed, and some of ‘em even increased their order size; I even managed to wrangle a couple new ones. Whenever you’re ready to harvest, we got ourselves ponies ready to buy.”

“Hah, that’s my brother! Heck, things as they are, maybe we could do some hirin’ and get shippin’ even faster.”

“Yeah, but that might be easier said than done. It's been a good year, and I reckon that all of the farmers are snatchin' up help as it comes.”

“Are you guys looking for some additional hooves to help?”

Storm had said it without thinking about it. As if he were offering to help wash the dishes. By the look on Kettle’s face, it was clear that he also realized this.

“Uh, you sure about that pardner? We’re not talkin’ about mowin’ a lawn here. We’re talkin acres. That ain’t an afternoon job.”

Storm turned towards Check Mate and Crack Shot; the latter shrugged, and, after a moment, the former gave a small nod. That was sure enough.

“Yeah, of course. It’d be our pleasure.”

“Hmm, how’s ‘bout this then: after we finish supper and get everythin’ all cleaned up, I’ll show you how we go about it, and you can decide after havin’ taken a stab at it?”

“Sounds good to me. How about you guys?” Storm asked.

“I’ve no qualms.”

“Yeah bring it, dude.”

“Well okay then… I hope you fellas know what you’re gettin’ yourselves into.”

“We’re no strangers to physical labor.” Storm took another bite of his salad and leaned back in his seat. “Just how bad could it be?”

In flagrant disregard of all comedic protocol, it wasn’t bad at all.

After he had learned the basics of it, Storm found harvesting to actually be kind of fun. Once he had gotten familiar with sweet corn and the way it milked when it was ready for harvest, familiar with popcorn and flour corn, he attacked the activity. Kettle had warned him about pacing himself, and Storm had happily ignored him.

With his magic, Check Mate was a natural at husking; he built up a steady rhythm with Crack Shot wherein the pegasus would toss him ears of corn over the stalks as he cleared through them.

By the time the sun began to set on Fiddler’s Plain, the guardsponies, Kettle, and Allie had only gotten through part of an acre between them, but it was more than either brother or sister had expected for a few hours’ work plus training. In the kitchen, Kettle and the guardsponies relaxed over glasses of ice water, while Allie and the foals played upstairs.

“Hoo-boy, I gotta say you fellas delivered,” said Kettle. “Still, it ain’t too often one finds folks willin’ to spend their vacation time workin’ the fields. Y’all are absolutely sure about this?”

‘Sure, dude,” said Crack Shot, “how often is that a pony gets to pick corn from somethin’ other than their teeth?”

“Heh, you’re askin’ the wrong pony. Anyways, we both appreciate it. Here’s to hard work and new friendships.”

Kettle raised his glass to the air and the guardsponies did the same. After they finished their drinks, Kettle went upstairs to spend some time with his nieces and nephew, and the guardsponies returned to the guesthouse to wash up.

“Well, I guess we’re here a little longer, eh?” said Storm. Sitting on his bed, he stared through the window at the barn; it had gone from white to purple in the dusk, and soon it would be a shadow against the sky. He decided he would best make an entry in his journal while he still had the light to do so.

“Indeed we are,” replied Check Mate. “Say, although we have free reign in this venture, how would you two feel about informing Luna about this course of events?”

“Fine with me, dude. You gonna wire her by dragon fire?” asked Crack Shot.

“I had planned to use Gray Mane’s device, yes.”

“Heh, good luck.”

Check leaned over his bed and levitated the smart stone from the pocket of his bags, setting it at the foot of his mattress. He then placed the tip of its stylus against it and began to write in a prim copperplate.

Greetings, Febre, I’ll assume. I hope this evening finds you well.

The reply did not take long to come.

My, my, two in as many days. You guys really are wasting no time in wasting mine.

My sincerest apologies, Febre, I did not mean to cause a distraction. If I am interrupting your research, I shall leave you be.

Relax, it was just a joke. Wasting time is one of the biggest parts of research, in between all of the accidental discoveries. So judging by the decorum, I’ll presume this is Checkers I’m speaking to?

Check Mate frowned slightly. Crack Shot caught it and snickered.

I do share the first syllable, yes. But names aside, I was wondering: may I trouble you with the task of conveying a piece of correspondence to Princess Luna?

Maybe. But then again, maybe you can tell her yourself. I bet Gray Mane would be willing to let a princess try this thing out.

Perhaps.He does seem to show a particular respect for them.

Check Mate was too polite to note that Gray Mane was so particular, that this ended up being the only respect he ever showed.

That, and he also needs to win some brownie points for turning some of your coworkers’armor into lead. I’ll go see if I can find her.

You have my thanks.

Storm returned his journal to his bag and noticed that Check had stopped writing as well. “Finish leaving that message for Luna?” he asked.

“No, but I may have the chance to communicate with her directly, rather than by proxy. Febre is going to deliver his stone to her, presuming our fellows allow him past. It would appear that they have reason to be cross with him and his mentor.”

“No surprises there,” said Crack Shot. “What’d they do?”

“Apparently Gray Mane performed some manner of transmutation of some of their barding. According to Febre, he turned it to lead.”

“Oh hey, he nailed it; good for him.”

As they waited for Luna’s reply to come or not to come, the sky deepened and darkened, and night fell like a diamond-studded shroud once more over Fiddler’s Plain. Obviously she was up. Yet, there came no response. Check Mate was about to place the smart stone back in its pocket, when a delicate, emerald script began to burn in thin lines across its surface, filling the room’s gloom with green light. He began to read it.

This is a teſt miſsiue. If you haue receiued it, pleaſe ſend a reſponſe informinge me ſo.

Hello, Luna, this is Check Mate. Indeed, I have received your message. Are you well this evening?

I am, thank you, though I was ſurpriſed to haue beene preſented ſo ſuddenly with this creation. It is ſtrange, but faſcinatinge, and I ſhall haue to learn more aboute it. Are your trauels goinge well ſo far?

They are, Luna, though that is a matter I had wished to speak about. The three of us arrived in Fiddler’s Plain last night, and I believe I speak for all of us when I say that we have found it charming. Like Canterlot, it is beautiful, and unlike Canterlot, it is beautiful. A more bucolic lifestyle is practiced here, and everypony shares a familiarity with each other which I have never observed in the city. In less than two days’ time, we have made friends here, and these friends we would like to assist. Would you be opposed if we were to spend some additional time here to this end?

Check Mate waited patiently in the dimness of the room for Luna to consider his words and send her response. Eventually, the stone lit up once more.

Abſolutely not. Your journey is of courſe to be conducted at your diſcretion, but this is a courſe I would haue recommended if you had asked. Aſsiſt your new friends, do as friends would do, enjoy yourſelues, and do not feele ruſhed.

Very well, then; I am gratified to hear that. We shall do as you say.

Wonderful. Now, did you haue any other preſent concerns?

One more thing, if I may?

Yes?

It took a couple of minutes before the reply came, and it cast little light for its brevity.

Check smiled in its faint glow.

Now, I shall distract you no more for the time being, Luna. Thank you for taking the time to address our worries.

It was no trouble at all, and I wiſhe you luck in your indeauours. But before I returne this contraption to its owner, do you know if it has an off-ſwitch? I do not wiſh to waſte its energies.

Not that I’m aware of, Luna, but Gray Mane gave the impression that power should not be a problem, at least if it is to function for the duration of our travels.

Is that ſo? Truly a faſcinatinge deuice, indeede.

Check replaced the smart stone and looked across the room at his companions. Storm was asleep, most likely for having gotten up so early, and Crack Shot was as well, most likely for having nothing better to do. Check Mate turned onto his side and pulled his thin bedding over himself, deciding to join them.

“COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!”

“What the heck was that?!” screamed the voice of Crack Shot.

It was nearly pitch black in the room; the only things visible were the stars through the windows.

Storm yawned and pulled himself up. “I… I think it was a rooster,” he said.

“Did its internal clock get reset or somethin’? It’s the middle of the freakin’ night! Aren’t they supposed to wait until the sun comes up?”

“A common misconception,” came Check Mate’s voice. “A rooster may crow for any number of reasons, though generally those reasons hinge on one central justification.”

“And what’s that?” asked Crack Shot, skeptical.

“They feel like it.”

“Figures. Well, I don’t think I’ll be fallin’ back asleep any time soon. Mind hittin’ me with a night light, Check?”

“Certainly.” Check Mate’s horn began to glow, revealing the guardsponies and their surroundings. “May I ask why?”

“I figured we could head down and get some fresh air or somethin’.”

“COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!”

“And maybe tell that thing to shut up.”

Storm, Check, and Crack Shot lay on the roof of the guesthouse as the rooster continued to crow intermittently from the barn. Crack Shot had told it to be quiet; in response it had given him the most recalcitrant glare a rooster could give, before crowing even louder. Above them, the moon had begun to wane, craters filling like black pools as its shores sank into a depthless sea. They stared into the stars as the night air began to cool.

“Hey, Check,” Storm said, “Nomde and I tried to find that new constellation that Luna had mentioned before we left, but we didn’t have any luck spotting it. Do you know where it is? Or what it is?”

“Truthfully, Storm, I couldn’t say. The stars are always shifting subtly and there are so many of them that it would be hard to identify any additions to their number. There are ponies that have dedicated their careers to them.”

“Yeah, I suppose so…”

“I don’t get constellations,” said Crack Shot. “They never look like what they’re supposed to; it’s like the most messed up game of connect the dots ever. ‘Cept for the Big Dipper, that is; I get that one. Maybe animals just looked really weird back when Luna was doin’ most of her decoratin’.”

For a moment, only the cicadas’ chirping filled the air.

“Hmm… maybe she didn’t come up with them,” Storm said after a while. “Maybe it was other ponies that dreamed those constellations up, and then those dreams got written down.”

“I dunno, dude. She did tell us she was makin’ a constellation, didn’t she?”

That was true. Storm thought about it.

“Perhaps there is truth to what both of you say. Although there may be certain predetermined arrangements of stars, certain designs, it could be that she left a number of them to us, or ponies like us: ponies who perchance find themselves one night gazing into a cloudless sky. Perhaps she was interested in what we would create, what we would see.”

“Huh. Sounds like the world’s biggest inkblot test,” Crack Shot mused. “Think we oughta ask her?”

“Mm, no, I don’t think so,” said Storm. “I think that’d be asking her to tip her hand. Life needs its mysteries.”

“Point taken, dude. But maybe we could at least ask her where to look? Maybe one of the stars is colored funny or somethin’.”

“That would probably be alright to ask.”

The guardsponies stared silently into the sky as Fiddler’s Plain sang its chorus.

“Hey, that rooster finally shut up. Wanna head back down?”

The guardsponies descended from the rooftop—Storm and Crack Shot with their wings, and Check Mate with a blink—and reentered the guesthouse, their home for the time being. In their room and in their beds they made themselves comfortable, and one by one sleep took them; the rooster did not crow again for the rest of the night. As they slept, above them a scattering of stars traced a new shape in the midnight sky. Or, perhaps, it was another one entirely.

Chapter 6

An explosion erupted from Gray Mane’s lab, which came as no big surprise to anypony. Folks had gotten used to this kind of thing. Since the alchemist, arcanist, wizard, or whatever Gray Mane was had been interred in an isolated wing of the castle, a distant detonation or two had just become part of the background noise. Within weeks, the other denizens had learned to accept each boom, bang, burst and blast without bother, and each expulsion and explosion without explanation. If a few days went by without some ground-shaking disaster, it would be as if the birds had stopped chirping or the bees had stopped buzzing. Somepony would probably feel compelled to go and make sure that everything was alright.

The source of this most recent reinforcement of the status quo had occurred when an alembic filled with a volatile reagent was knocked from one of the work tables. This was after another table had leapt into it.

“Ach, will ye hold still, damn you!” Gray Mane loosed a spell towards the errant furniture as it tore around his laboratory; the magic soared harmlessly over it, and less harmlessly into a shelf of beakers. There followed the crystalline sound of shattered glass.

“Hey, uh, boss. Are you sure you’re going about this the right away?” asked Febre from where he hoped was out of firing and trampling range. In short order, his mentor and the table had reduced the lab to shambles. Well, maybe they had. Whether or not the new mess was an improvement over the old would be a point of debate. Either way, it was making it hard to get work done.

“And what would ye suggest?!”

The table charged towards Gray Mane, and he attempted to duck out of the way. His joints, well past the use-by date for daring dives, stiffened and sent him tumbling only a few inches out of the few yards he had aimed for. Fortunately for him, the table was much spryer than he; it leapt over him and towards the doorway where it collided heavily with the frame. He began preparing another spell.

“For one thing”—Febre winced as the spell took out an autoclave—“I don’t think the magic is having much of an effect.” He looked around the wreckage of the lab. “At least not one that we’re looking for. Maybe we could just get one or two of the guards to smash this thing up? Er…” Right after he had said it, the table had turned sharply towards him; even without eyes, its glare bored into him. “…Or maybe not.”

“Pah, that would’na work. Back when I was about yer age—and further in ability, I’ll have ye ken—I tried that with a rogue broom and ended up floodin’ my mentor’s laboratory for my trouble.” Gray Mane took another shot while the table was distracted, but it sprung away just before the spell made contact. “Will this bloody thing nae stay in one place?!”

“They had laboratories back when you were my age? Wasn’t everypony still too busy discovering fire?”

“’Tisn’t the time, lad!”

“Wait—if you’ve seen this happen before, how’d you deal with it back then?”

“My master cast a disenchantment, leavin’ us with a closet filled with more brooms than we started with. Hah—take that!” Gray Mane fired off another futile spell.

“But you tried that when this happened less than a week ago, and I don’t need inform you that it doesn’t seem to have taken!”

Gray Mane went quiet. The table tried to squeeze through the doorway again.

“…Aye, aye, I reckon it was similar.”

Febre stared. He knew Gray Mane well enough to tell the difference between a stammer and a brogue, but there was a much larger red flag whipping at the end of that sentence. The stare narrowed into a glare.

“What do you mean by ‘similar’?”

“Well, when yer researchin’ innumerable arcane mysteries, delvin’ into unknown and dangerous arts, compilin’ countless forbidden words that your laypony can nae ever hope to understand, well, sometimes…”

“Sometimes…?” Febre prodded.

“Sometimes… ye might misremember a couple.”

“You forgot how to do it?!”

“I didna forget, I misremembered, ye fouter, and the spell still lasted nearly a week! Now, if ye’d lend me some assistance in rootin’ this thing into place, perhaps I could make it last.”

“Whatever. Did you at least, by some divine providence, happen to remember how to do it?”

“I’ve got some very good guesses.”

“Why can’t you ever, just for once, be completely certain about what it is you’re doing?”

“Because then there’d be no point in doin’ it, lad. Now make yerself useful and distract it!”

Febre groaned in compliance, making sure that it was known how put upon he was, and stepped towards the table. A flicker of flame began wisping around the fluting of his horn, before darting towards it. The flame extinguished itself on the table’s lacquered surface without a mark, but succeeded in drawing its attention. The table gave up on the doorway and faced this new attacker; it edged along the wall away from him.

“Hey,” said Febre, his horn beginning to glow once more. The table crouched into a defensive stance. “I suppose some sharp one-liner would be apropos at this moment. Maybe something about plywood legs, or your father being an elderberry bush, though, to be honest, I’m not sure what would be considered biting commentary to a piece of furniture; something about termites to be more literal, perhaps? Or what about something about your grain, or how well you were leveled, or—oh good, that takes care of that.”

Febre relaxed his magic as the table thrashed about fruitlessly under the effect of Gray Mane’s; its legs were anchored to the floor (which was to say the styrofoam strata above it) with a set of glowing binds.

“You got this, boss, or are you going to have another senior moment?”

Gray Mane shushed him. “Quiet, lad. I’m workin’ with two spells now, and I need total concen—”

“Hey, you two, is this a bad time?”

The binds evaporated and the table sprung away.

“Fantastic,” said Febre.

“Bloody!” Gray Mane spun towards the doorway, where one of the pegasus guards was watching the entire scene with a grin so wide and bright it would’ve been right at home on a jack-o’-lantern.

“Ye daft, plated scunner!” shouted Gray Mane. “Don’t ye know better than to sneak up on ponies like some kind of brigand?!”

The pegasus whistled as he took in the scene and the cause of it. “How about that; you guys decide to get a pet?”

The table crouched near the rear of the laboratory in a scattering of broken glass, watching the three ponies, at least as far as they could tell.

“’Tis not a pet!” Gray Mane spat. “’Tis a thing of evil! Of wanton destruction!”

“Really? Then you ought to get on swimmingly.”

“Featherbrain, right?” interrupted Febre. “Is there a reason you’re here instead of standing in front of a door somewhere?”

Featherstep shook his head and stepped inside. “You do that on purpose, don’t you? For your information, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have a reason; you can trust me on that. It just so happened that I was unlucky enough to draw the short straw. A letter came in addressed to Crack Shot, and word is that you’re handling these. Do you want it now, or should I come back at a better time?”

Febre sighed. “Just set it on a table. One that isn’t moving. I’ll deal with that once we’ve dealt with this.”

Featherstep plucked the letter from within his barding, and set it down.

“So what is up with that thing?” he asked. “Did you create it as a bit of extra help?”

“’Create it’? Ha! That creature happened, and has been a source of mayhem since,” said Gray Mane. “Also, yer being here is of no help, a nuisance, and entirely undesired,” he felt it necessary to add.

“Hmm…” Featherstep ignored him and began walking noiselessly through the sea of broken glass and ruined experiments toward the table. He had come within a few yards of it when it began to retreat backwards. “Mayhem, huh?” he whispered to himself before turning towards Gray Mane. “Say, a question: how long have you been trying to corral this thing?”

“If ye must know, it has been for the better part of a half hour, and not for the first time.”

“Uh huh. And from the look of the scorch marks all over the walls—those are new scorch marks, right?—you’ve probably tried all kinds of tricks and spells to do so.”

Gray Mane managed to roll his eyes despite a lack of lubrication. “’Tis not the most difficult deduction to make. Does this line o’ thought have a point at the end of it?”

“Have you tried not doing all of that?”

“What, just wait for it to tucker itself out and curl up in the ruins of my labors?!”

“Hmm, well… have you ever dealt with animals before? Have you ever, say, owned a cat?”

“I can’t say I’ve had the displeasure.”

“Really? Not even as a familiar?”

“Not the time, tin can.”

“This is just a guess, mind you, but could it be that the reason this thing is tearing around your lab and tearing up your lab is because it might be terrified?”

“Hrmm…” Gray Mane scratched his chin, careful not to scratch too hard lest it catch fire. “I suppose it does seem a tad more sentient than the broom did.”

This was lost on Featherstep who had trouble imagining the desiccated old wizard using a broom for anything other than to fly on. Besides, he reasoned, if a broom had been given a spark of intelligence in this sty of a lab, it would’ve fled the moment it had seen what it was up against.

Puting these musings aside, he said, “Here, let me try something.”

He returned his attention to the table, which, he assumed, was still eyeing him warily. He tried not to stare at it, keeping his eyes soft and low.

“Don’t worry, nopony is going to hurt you. Relax,” he cooed softly. He removed a gilded shoe, extended a forehoof, and prayed that this would work. He’d had success as a colt with the neighbors’ cats, but never had the chance to practice with furniture. Visually, the similarities stopped with the number of legs. However, as for the behavior…

Featherstep waited. The table didn’t budge, but neither did he. He would let it take its time. After a few uncertain minutes, it took a tentative step forward, only to quickly flinch back. Still, he did not move. Cautiously, the table circled around him, finally stopping a small distance away. Just within reach, Featherstep noted. Ever so slowly, he eased his unshod hoof towards it and, when it didn’t start away, began to gently pet a corner of it. He had no idea if the table enjoyed the gesture or not, but at least it wasn’t running away from him or, more importantly, running over him. It pressed up against his hoof. Alright, maybe it did like it after all. No doubt the whole scene looked ridiculous; Featherstep would allow himself the embarrassment later.

“See? Just a big misunderstanding.”

Gray Mane grunted in grudging affirmation. Then, to both Featherstep’s and Febre’s surprise, he apologized. “I misjudged ye,” he said to the table. “I’m sorry fer tryin’ to exorcise ye when, against all natural law, ye sprung to life and made a damn bloody mess of my laboratory.”

Nopony would say he was very good at it.

But, in its own funny little way, it was sincere. Gray Mane practiced his style of universal hatred more out of habit and hobby than genuine malice. He was curmudgeonly, but he wasn’t cruel. The table seemed to accept his words, and, albeit somewhat hesitantly, moved towards him. Gray Mane frowned slightly, but gave it a pat.

“Aww, now isn’t that just the sweetest thing?” Featherstep grinned as he walked past Gray Mane towards the doorway. “Anything else I can do before I go?”

“Actually, now that I think about it, yes.” Febre rooted through a sheaf of notes and retrieved two envelopes. “Would you mind sending these off?”

“Oh? What are those?”

Febre stared at him. “They are letters,” he said slowly.

“Yeah, I got that far. From whom?”

“Check Mate and Storm Stunner this time.”

“Yeah? How are they doing, anyways?”

“They have gotten themselves waylaid for the next couple of weeks as unpaid farm laborers, so about as well as can be expected.”

“Mm-hmm. I’ll assume there’s more to it than that, and that maybe I’ll find out later.” Featherstep tucked the letters behind the breast of his barding. “For now though, I’ve done what I’ve come here to do, duty calls, and so does my lunch break before that. Since I’d like to have an appetite for it, and since that requires fresh air, I’m going to say so long.”

“Ach, away with ye and show yer face around here no more,” said Gray Mane noncommittally, but when he turned to face the guardspony, he had already vanished into the hall. “Pah.”

He looked over the ruins of his laboratory. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad. It was a shame about the broken glassware, but that would be replaced by funding out of somepony else’s pocket, and all of the small fires were taking care of some of the clutter he wouldn’t have bothered to clean up otherwise. Every cloud had a silver lining, so maybe the smoke and fumes that were currently filling the laboratory did as well.

“Looks like this thing is still in one piece,” said Febre, after freeing the smart stone from beneath some debris and removing it from its case. Gray Mane was charitable enough to ignore the disappointment in his voice.

“So it would seem our cohort has grown by one more,” he said, considering the table, as it seemed to do the same to him.

“Yeah-huh,” Febre replied, not really paying attention. He picked up the letter that Featherstep had dropped off and looked it over. It was pre-stamped with the address of a Wonderbolts training facility in Cloudsdale. He opened it, began to read its contents, and frowned upon making it down a tenth of the page. He hadn’t needed to read any farther.

On the leaf of Wonderbolts stationery was written:

Hey CS—

Not a lot is up with me. What’s new with you?

-Skyway

Febre grumbled. This was clearly going to become a thing. He decided to wait until the evening to relay Skyway’s message, along with some choice commentary, when the guardsponies were most likely to catch it.

“And I suppose it’ll need a name if we’re to be addressin’ it, and if it’s to make itself useful,” continued Gray Mane, still musing over the table.

“What about ‘Table’?” suggested Febre, intending to save any creativity for Crack Shot’s later invective.

Gray Mane looked at the table—or Table, rather—which bent its legs in a wooden approximation of a shrug. “Hrm, it doesn’t seem to mind the capital letter.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Though, I suppose it’ll be an additional responsibility as well. It’ll be needin’, er, varnishin’ I suppose? Maybe walks to… to keep the oak limber, perhaps. Hrrm. ‘Tis hard to say what exactly should go into its caretakin’.”

“I would imagine.”

“I’m certain that ye’ll have no trouble figurin’ it out.”

“Great.”

Featherstep moved through the castle like a breeze, unnoticed by those he passed on his way to the gardens. He wasn’t sneaking, of course; that would be amateurish. Anypony with the slightest experience in subtlety knew that there was nothing less subtle than trying to skulk about on the tip of your hooves. You might as well have been wearing orange. No, the trick was nothing more than a relaxed gait, an unassuming expression, and making sure you happened to always be where nopony else was looking. Easy as breathing, really. Was it necessary? Probably not. But it was practice, and it made patrols interesting. Speaking of which…

“–can’t believe they wouldn’t let us in, just ‘cause it was ‘off-limits,’” said a unicorn stallion to his shorter friend, who grunted in agreement. “’Sides that captain of theirs with that bubblegum barrier of his, what do they even do outside of acting pushy?”

“Hah, don’t forget getting shown up by a bunch of mares from out in the sticks! I bet their job is just to make those six look good.”

“I say that the Princesses oughta replace the lot of them with marble and save the taxpayers some money. It’d probably do the job just as—“

“Greetings, sirs,” said Featherstep, just behind the taller unicorn and his friend. “Enjoying your time at the castle so far?”

The two ponies stiffened. Slowly and against all better judgment they turned towards the voice and then instantly wished that they hadn’t. Behind them and well within listening distance stood a guardspony; his face wasn’t readable, but then it didn’t really need to be. The taller one blushed, the shorter one blanched, and Featherstep grinned internally. The taller one thought quickly and began to speak. Unfortunately for him, thinking quickly was not the same as thinking cleverly.

“’H-hey, eerr, I—“

“’O’ and ‘U’, sir, and sometimes ‘Y’. Yes, the castle will leave you speechless,” said Featherstep, enjoying this immensely but managing not to show it. “Anyways, I wanted to let you two know that you won’t want to go down this way for the time being,” he added, pointing past them down the hall towards one of the gardens. “A couple of us will be training through there, so it will be off-limits for the time being. But other than that, may you enjoy the rest of your time here, sirs.”

Featherstep then walked off, leaving the two ponies to gather their wits since they probably wouldn’t have had enough to spare otherwise. He sighed. Ponies like them were all too common. They noticed the big crises and ignored the small, enjoying peaceful days in the city and showing no comprehension of the fact that, in a city, peace was something that was kept, that it was a day-to-day job. No doubt when he was gone and their chests had stopped pounding they would have plenty of unkind things to say about him as well, though he’d wager that they wouldn’t dare speak them without glancing around a few times as they did so. But that was alright; you didn’t do this job for the appreciation. He continued down the corridor towards the garden, where he intended to meet Ikebana. The other guardspony had had a meaningful discussion with the Staff Sergeant regarding his knack for floral arrangement and was interested in discussing with Featherstep how it could be applied in matters of camouflage. And who knew? Depending on how much of the garden they used, a bit of camouflage could prove useful once the topiarists found out.

It was not only in the gardens that guardsponies were trying to fit a bit of extra training into their lunch breaks. In the courtyard, a dozen or so had gathered for an impromptu session, discussing ideas, putting them into practice, and seeing what worked and what didn’t. From varied and unpredictable locations Cacopony’s bellows exploded, making the whole area feel like a minefield of sorts. On a relatively quiet patch of grass, Rosetta and Sender talked.

“You’re absolutely certain about this?” asked Rosetta.

“Yes,” said Sender.

“You know exactly what you’re doing?”

“Yes.”

“It won’t go wrong in some terrible way?”

“No.”

Rosetta paused. “…Is that a ‘no’ as in ‘no, it won’t go wrong in some terrible way,’ or a ‘no’ as in ‘no, your statement that it won’t go wrong in some terrible way is, in fact, erroneous’?”

Sender sighed, rubbing his face with a foreleg. “The first one.”

“But what if, say, a fly got caught along with me in the teleportation?” Rosetta continued. “My wings won’t be turned into some sort of weird, chitinous things, will they? Could you imagine that: giant, translucent wings, blurring and buzzing as they flapped?” She stopped to imagine this in greater detail. “Hmm, I wonder what that’d be like.”

“No, I can promise you that won’t happen.”

“Really? Are you sure about that?” she asked, having begun to warm to the idea.

“I am positive. Now look; I can teleport myself with no complications whatsoever. Watch—”

Rosetta managed to shield her eyes before Sender vanished in a burst of green light.

“As you can see,” he said from a few yards away, before disappearing again.

“—it is no—”

Pop!

“—big—”

Pop!

“—deal,” he finished, once more in front of her. “See? It’s simple.”

“Well, yeah, teleporting yourself should be no problem, I would think. You’ve had a lifetime to get used to how you’re all put together. Are you absolutely, positively, one hundred percent certain that you can do this with another pony?”

“Yes. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Rosetta pursed her lips. “… Alright, fine. I’ll give it a go. But if I end up inside out or upside down or in some other dimension filled with eldritch horrors, you’re going to regret it. Probably not as much as me of course, but I’ll find a way to haunt you.”

“Trust me; you’ll be fine. Are you ready?”

Rosetta took a deep breath. “Alright,” she said. “I’m ready.”

Sender’s horn began to glow, and Rosetta closed her eyes for all the help that’d do, which wasn’t an awful lot. Green light enveloped her; however, it did not stop there. It suffused her and it saturated her. It shone not just through her eyelids, but from behind her eyelids, from her corneas, and from her retinas. It wasn’t blinding this time, but it was omnipresent, and, for that sliver of a moment when the light bled from every atom of her, she wondered if this was what it was like to be a star.

“See? What’d I tell you?” came Sender’s voice from some distance away and below. “Not bad at all right?”

As Rosetta’s eyes shot open they filled with blue, the courtyard walls nowhere in sight. Looking down, she found that she was standing on a swath of cloud, her hooves making small dimples in its surface. Over the edge and a few hundred yards down, she saw Sender, the size of a dot, looking up towards her. She reeled back and fell onto her haunches. The experience had not been at all what she had imagined, and she had imagined a lot of things. There was no sensation of being torn into a million tiny pieces and then reassembled, no feeling of being stretched atom-thin across time and space; heck, she didn’t even get that knotty feeling in her stomach that came with moving really fast. She was simply there one moment and here the next, as if somepony had flicked a switch to change the scenery around her. The sheer normalcy of it was disorienting; it had all happened in an instant, but what an instant it was. After taking a few minutes to process it, she stood back up and looked over the side of the cloud.

“Hey!” she shouted down.

“Yeah?”

“Do that again!”

That evening, a pair of guardsponies was enjoying a low-key end to their day off, sitting at the counter of a small salt bar nestled away in one of Canterlot’s alleys because that was the only place anypony would be willing to put it. The place could have been called a dive, but that might imply that it had further to fall, and the place was clearly at rock bottom. It had floors you would eat off of after having seen the plates, a health rating pulled from somewhere near the back of the alphabet, and standing room only because nopony would trust the furniture to support its own weight, let alone theirs. However, it did have couple of things going for it. One was a decent sel gris at a price unbeatable anywhere else in the city. The other was an uncommonly relaxed atmosphere, given the kind of place it was. Unlike other similar disestablishments, never was there a fight, fracas, or even an affray. The Staff Sergeant’s presence tended to have a mollifying effect.

“Everypony’s really gettin’ into the new trainin’, eh, Effie?” said Kickstart. And at that moment it should be said that he was just Kickstart. When off-duty he made a practice of hanging up the ‘Corporal’ alongside his armor. He was picking at a plate of wilted, brown strips that might’ve started life as lettuce, kelp, or possibly a dish cloth.

The Staff Sergeant swallowed a mouthful of water and said, “Don’t call me ‘Effie.’”

Although also technically off-duty, she’d prefer to say plainclothes.

“What about ‘FB’?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Budgie?” He grinned, earning a glare from the Staff Sergeant.

In strong relationships, such as friendships, kinships, courtships, or, as between the Staff Sergeant and Kickstart, battleships, individuals learn to read each other. They pick up on the little tells. In this case, the Staff Sergeant’s glare was telling Kickstart to shut up.

“Fine, fine, jeez, I’m sorry,” he said, raising a hoof in a placating gesture. “So how about turnin’ down the death stare? There are civilians present, and you wouldn’t want to turn one of them into stone.”

The Staff Sergeant rolled her eyes and returned to her glass of water.

“Moving on and continuing your earlier thought, I agree, Corporal. It’s satisfying to see everypony attacking the activity; I look forward to seeing what strategies they come up with in making use of their talents.”

“Heh, jaywalkers and litterbugs beware. By the way, as much as the fact irks you, you know we’re off-duty; you don’t have to call me ‘Corporal.’”

“I don’t, you say?”

“Come on—we’ve known each other long enough.”

A rare smile crossed the Staff Sergeant’s features. “Alright, I’ll grant you that much, KS.”

“Oh, that’s just not fair.”

Kickstart took another bite of his salad, which for the sake of future appetites the Staff Sergeant tried to ignore.

“I don’t know why you insist on coming here,” she said. “That can’t be palatable. It’s probably not even edible.”

Kickstart swallowed and said, “Nah, it ain’t bad; it’s kinda like kimchi without all the pepper, and with its own vinegar. I think it’s pretty good.”

The Staff Sergeant shook her head. “I think you’ve been wearing your helmet too tightly.”

“Heh, maybe. Say, on the subject of helmets, what do you say about leading a PT session without one?”

“What would be the point of that?”

“Looks cooler.”

“Looks cooler,” the Staff Sergeant echoed flatly.

“Definitely. Think about it: in books, pictures, movies, you name it, you can always tell who’s a flank kicker by if they’re helmetless, preferably with their mane billowing in the wind or something. It’s cool looking.”

“It’s idiotic and asking for a head injury. I’ll take utility over some vain—”

“Barkeep! Salt!”

Kickstart, the Staff Sergeant, and the rest of the patrons turned towards the holler and the slamming of the bar’s front door. A pair of unicorn stallions stood in the entranceway and, by the look of their swaying, this was not their first stop that evening.

“Just a minute,” said the barkeep as he polished one of his dishes. He gave a satisfied smile once he could make out his reflection, which, given that the dish was made out of wood, probably should have been a cause for alarm. “Now then, what would you two gentlecolts like?”

“Somethin’ cheap,” the taller of the stallions slurred.

“Mm, low sodium might not be a bad idea, either,” the barkeep muttered to himself. Out loud he said, “Coming right up!”

“Now tha’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout—service! Much better than a’ the friffin’-frig-friggin’ castle!” The stallion banged a hoof against the countertop, oblivious to the disapproving stares this earned from the other patrons, or perhaps just not caring.

“Yea’s right. Stupid gold-plated pansies,” the shorter stallion agreed, sneaking a glance behind himself as he did so.

Kickstart looked at the Staff Sergeant and raised an eyebrow. She shrugged and took another sip of her water.

“Freedom of speech,” she said as she set her glass down. The stallion banged the counter again, tipping her glass over into her lap. “And now I will exercise mine. Hey—”

The two stallions spun towards her, then fell into each other when the room kept on spinning without them.

“What?!” the taller of the two managed after pulling himself up.

“A number of us are trying to enjoy a peaceful evening out, so I would appreciate it if you’d quiet down some. Please.”

“Oh, sod off!” the stallion sneered. He turned towards the bar and banged the counter once more. “Barkeep! Where’s that salt?!” He was starting to sober up and was not happy at all about the fact.

“This is what I am referring to,” continued the Staff Sergeant, calmly, “storming into the place, making a scene, and being generally rude. I would recommend that the two of you return to wherever you’re staying and get a good night’s sleep. You will be glad for it in the morning.”

“’You’ll be glad for it in the morning!’” the shorter one mimicked in falsetto. “I think we’ll be glad to stay right here, actually! What do you have to say to that?!”

The Staff Sergeant said nothing.

By now an audience was starting to gather for this unexpected bit of dinner theatre, and the bartender had wisely given up on getting those plates of salt. Kickstart was stepping back, getting some distance. She was being civil. Celestia help those two idiots, she was being civil. That meant one thing: in the aftermath of whatever was going to happen next, she wanted it clearly known that she hadn’t instigated it, that she had tried to talk it down. And these two dolts thought it just meant that they had found somepony to bully.

“What, so quiet all of a sudden?” The shorter stallion leered and took a stumbling step towards her.

“I ask that you keep your distance,” the Staff Sergeant said. “I will defend myself.”

“Yeah?” The stallion took another step closer and, as he jabbed a hoof roughly into her chest, added, “A pretty thing like you? I’d like to see you—hey!”

The Staff Sergeant stepped to his side, thrust a foreleg beneath his raised hoof and over his neck, and pulled him headfirst into the counter with a dull thud. He slumped to the floor with a low groan as entire star systems erupted across his vision. A helmet would've helped with that, she thought to herself.

“Oh! You nasty, little—”

The taller stallion reared up, intent on bringing his forehooves down upon the Staff Sergeant, but she was with him the moment he rose, driving a hoof into his sternum and sending him sprawling heavily onto his back. Her hoof remained in place, pinning him down.

“Are you finished?” she asked. Her tone of voice hadn’t changed in the least.

The stallion attempted to say something, but everything came out in coughs and gasps. The Staff Sergeant waited patiently for him to catch his breath. A few moments later he turned his head away from her, his face hot and red and twisted into a grimace. “Hmph, and where’s the damn Guard when you actually need them?” he growled.

Silence followed, broken by a few snickers and an embarrassed cough from the peanut gallery.

“Corporal,” the Staff Sergeant said, and the face of the stallion beneath her paled at the sound of it, “return to the castle and bring back a couple of soldiers to collect these two.”

“Yeah, will do,” Kickstart sighed. He maneuvered between the spectators and out the door into the coolness of the alley. With a strong flap of his wings, he was in the air like a shot.

The stallion pinned beneath the Staff Sergeant’s hoof tried with no luck to break free; beside him, his colleague still lay out cold.

“So then,” she said, “disturbing the peace, as well as assault, although you didn’t quite manage the battery: it looks like we know where you’ll be getting that good night’s sleep.”

As Kickstart raced towards the castle, he frowned. This was going to mean paperwork and witness reports. This was going to mean an early end to his day off and the start of a long night ahead. All because a couple of headstrong dolts had the indecency to go and get their flanks kicked by Effie. He sighed to himself once more. Sometimes he just had the worst of luck.

While Kickstart was speeding away from the scene of the crime and what only he would call a dinner, back in the cafeteria of Castle Canterlot many of the guardsponies were beginning theirs. As a rule, the castle cafeteria saw continual activity during the day, with guardsponies coming and going between breaks carefully scheduled to keep patrols and sentries in place. However, now was especially busy. It was a period of transition, one when many would be ending their day, while others would be starting their night. It was a time for those who had performed the Day Guard and those who would perform the Night Guard to say ‘good evening’, ‘good work’, and ‘good night.’ And to those who would be performing a double shift, ‘good luck’ was also thrown in for good measure.

“The black armor looks good on you guys,” said Featherstep to Ikebana and Sender, rather charitably. Ikebana still had bits of twigs and leaves stuck in his mane from the afternoon's training, and Sender had met with little success in trying to brush his down into the signature swoop of the Night Guard. It stuck out at several odd angles, and a couple of even ones, too.

“Uh-huh, right,” replied Sender absentmindedly as he fidgeted with his barding. “Engh, dangit—it feels like the chest strap got twisted around all funny,” he muttered.

“Yeah, I like it,” said Ikebana, looking himself over. “It looks edgier, dangerous.”

Rosetta tilted her head one way and another as she scrutinized her contemporaries. “Mm, well it does have a few more pointy bits, that’s for sure,” she said. “The both of you might want to give your manes another brushing, though. Yours looks like a small garden, and I think Sender’s longs for its native helmet.”

Ikebana reddened and ran a hoof through his mane, snagging a couple of burrs. “Er, to be fair, we did gear up in a bit of a hurry.”

“Alright, that does it,” growled Sender. His horn flickered and flashed, and his barding blinked onto the table. He leaned forward and untangled its fastenings. “What?” he said when he noticed the stares.

“All that for a knot?” asked Featherstep.

“Better than having it pressing into my side all night.”

“What about you two?” said Ikebana. “What are you guys going to do for the rest of the evening?”

Rosetta canted her head upwards. “Actually, I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said. “I might just call it an early night.”

Featherstep retrieved the letters tucked into his barding and said, “I’m going to deliver these. It looks like Sergeants Storm and Check are writing home.”

“Huh, so that old ghoul’s invention really does work,” said Ikebana, resting his chin on his hoof. “Huh.”

“Surprisingly enough. You know that one of his work tables had come to life when I dropped by?”

This might’ve gotten more attention if the guardsponies didn’t know Gray Mane so well.

“So you’re going to deliver those letters?” asked Rosetta.

“I might as well,” said Featherstep. “They’re addressed locally, and it’ll be faster than waiting for tomorrow’s mail pickup. Why not save the castle the cost of a couple of stamps, right?”

“Mm… hey, I know!” Rosetta sat up straight. “Why don’t you send them, Sender? You can do that right?”

Sender took a sip of his tea and shook his head. “Doubt it,” he said.

Rosetta sagged forward, pouting. “Aw, laaame—why not? I thought that was your thing.”

“These are letters we’re talking about, and letters go in mailboxes. That’s a tall order.”

“Hmm…” Rosetta tapped the tip of her hoof against the table. “You could get close though, right?”

“Close only counts in horseshoes, and only if you’re throwing rather than wearing them.”

“Nonono. Well, yes—but no. What I mean to say is you could get one of us close right?”

“Ahh, I see. Yeah, I’m sure I could do that.”

Rosetta turned to Featherstep. “What do you say? Want a hoof delivering those letters?”

Featherstep pursed his lips for a moment then shrugged. “Yeah, what the hay, why not?” he said, before sliding the letters to Sender. “You recognize these places?”

Sender read over the addresses. “One of them. The apartments Storm is writing to will be no trouble at all, though Check Mate’s addressees will be more of a ballpark shot.” Sender divided the letters between Featherstep and Rosetta. “And you guys’ll have to fly back, of course.”

“That’s fine with me,” said Featherstep. He placed Storm’s letter into his barding. “What about you, Rose?”

“Sure, no problem here!”

“Alright then, take care, you two,” said Sender. His horn began to glow. Then, in a grand burst of green, the two pegasi were gone. He gave his head a good shake afterwards, and took a deep breath. “Phew, that’ll take it out of you,” he said.

Ikebana looked at their empty seats. “Uh, don’t you think you should’ve let them finish their dinner first?” he asked.

Sender looked at their full plates. “Hmm, good point.” In another flash of green the plates vanished as well. “No harm, no foul, right?”

When Featherstep’s vision cleared, he noticed that he was at the entrance of a two-story apartment complex. He didn’t notice much more about it than that. He certainly didn’t notice a dinner plate clattering onto the ground next to him a moment later. This was because the very next thing he had noticed was a pair of mares, a unicorn and earth pony with bags on their sides, staring at him wide eyed from a couple of yards away, as if he had just popped out of thin air. He decided to play it straight.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said with a small nod, tapping the brow of his champron.

“…Hi there,” said the earth pony. She leaned into her friend and whispered, “Hey—is he the one you’re seeing?”

The unicorn slowly and subtly shook her head.

“Ah.” The earth pony looked Featherstep over. “So… how can you tell?”

“Ugh, don’t be so tactless.”

“Oh, you know I’m teasing. Anyways, if that isn’t him… dibs.”

“Villa…”

“Oh, don’t you ‘Villa’ me, Nomde,” the earth pony whispered back. “Why should you be the only one that gets one?”

At odds with no doubt being the subject of a conversation he couldn’t quite hear, Featherstep coughed and said, “Well, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ve got some business to attend to here, so I’ll wish you both a pleasant night.”

“Aww, taking off so soon?” said the earth pony. “What kind of business? Maybe we can help.” She stepped closer with a sly smile. “I’m Villanelle, by the way, and this is Nomde.” She gave a small toss of her head back towards her friend, who was dragging a hoof down her face in embarrassment. Not that Villanelle noticed, her eyes fixed on Featherstep as they were.

“Ah, it’s nothing too trying, really,” said Featherstep, hours of training keeping the red from his face. “Just delivering a letter is all. To somepony in this complex named—” he took the letter from his barding and read the front of it. “…Nomde Plume, it would seem.” Well, wasn’t that something.

Villanelle clapped her hooves together. “Oh, how serendipitous! Say, why don’t you bring it up with you? Nomde can make us some tea, and you can tell me about how you made that neat little appearance, and maybe what you’re doing later?”

“Oh for the love of—I apologize for her,” said Nomde as she magically plucked the letter from Featherstep’s grasp.

“No, it’s-it’s no problem, though I should be on way pretty soon. But… Villanelle, was it?”

“Call me Villa,” she purred. “And to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

Featherstep smiled and introduced himself.

Nomde rolled her eyes. “I’m heading inside,” she said. “Will you still be joining me, Villa, or will your evening plans have changed do you think?”

“Just a minute!” Villa sang. She ducked into her bag and pulled out a pencil and piece of notepaper. She jotted something down and said: “This is a charming little tea house that I like to visit every now and then. If you’re ever free, we should visit it some time.” She took the note between her lips and winked when Featherstep took it in his. Those hours of training were powerless against something like this, and his cheeks reddened with a vengeance.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she whispered, before turning with a flick of her tail and following her friend into the apartment complex.

Featherstep watched her trot off and waited for his heartbeat to slow; it wasn’t often that he was the one being caught off guard. He placed Villa’s note in his barding and, noticing the castle cafeteria plate beside him, picked that up too. Then he took to the air like a whisper, with Villa’s still echoing in his ear.

The inside of Nomde’s apartment could have been accurately described in one word as a shelf. However, that doesn’t mean that her apartment was dirty; like many ponies she told herself that she’d clean the place up, and unlike many ponies she actually did. Regardless, her books tended to quickly migrate onto any relatively flat surface that would hold them, and this often included the floor. It wasn’t that she didn’t have bookcases. No, she had plenty of bookcases; in some rooms they formed the walls. Books just didn’t stay on them for very long.

Nomde exited her kitchen with a wooden serving tray topped with a pot of coffee, a pot of green tea, and two china cups for the sake of civility. It would be just enough caffeine before bed to ensure a good night’s sleep. She pushed a couple of softcovers on her living room table out of the way and set the tray down, before taking a seat across from Villa in a cotton papasan.

“So, about just now. You’re incorrigible; you know this, right?” she said as she poured a cup from each of the pots.

“What?” asked Villa, with faux innocence. “I only invited him out for tea some time. Life’s too short to be bashful.” She blew on her cup, which Nomde recognized as preparation to shift the conversation. “So, what’s in the letter?”

“I will find out as soon as you’ve gone home.” Nomde smirked at Villa’s huff. “Moving on, how are things at the Digest? Any interesting new submissions come in?”

Villa set her cup down and rubbed her forehead. “Ugh, don’t ask, Nomde,” she said. “I swear: if I read one more time that somepony ‘released a breath they didn’t know they were holding,’ I’m going to rip the page in twain.”

“‘Twain,’ Villa?”

“What? It’s a word.”

“Mmm…” Nomde took a sip of her coffee.

“What about you? Have any new projects that you’re working on?”

“I was invited to write something for an anthology about the seasons. If I decide to do it, I was thinking of trying my hoof at Winter.”

“Oh? Chestnuts roasting over an open fire and that sort of thing?”

“A characterization, actually. I’ve got this image of her in my mind as this sterile beauty: aloof, taciturn, and, in others’ eyes, pitiless.”

Villa poured herself another cup of tea. “Well, as they say, ‘Write what you know.’”

“Hush. I was kind enough to buy that tea you’re drinking, wasn’t I? It was imported all the way from Neighpon.”

“It’s lovely, thank you. So continue with your interpretation of Winter. I notice you said ‘in others’ eyes’.”

“Well, I see her as doing the ‘necessary’ tasks. Covering the world in snow and frost, so that Spring and Summer can turn it into snowmelt; giving nature a chance to rest and catch its breath, so that trees will fruit for Fall; doing all of those unpopular bits of work that ultimately make everypony a little happier when she’s gone. I think it’d work best as a poem.”

“Mm, poor thing. It sounds like it would be a rather melancholy piece.”

“I suppose it could be. However, I’d like to think that she would do it out of love, that she would shoulder the burden so her sisters wouldn’t have to. But, we’ll see if it goes that way, if I even decide to write it.”

“Well if you do write it, I’d love to take a look at it.” Villa drained her cup of tea, the last of the pot, and stood up. “For now though, I must say good bye; I’ve got a bit more reading to do for work. We’re featuring romances next month, and I’ve got a running tally of how many courtships begin with a forced kiss and an awkward apology.”

Nomde smiled. “Have a good night, Villa.”

“You too, Nomde.”

After Villanelle had stepped out the door, Nomde brought their used cups and pots into the kitchen, washed them, and hung them to dry. She then returned to her living room and took the letter from her bags, reading the outside of it by the dancing light of a firefly lantern. The address lines struck her as odd: they said Storm Stunner in the top corner, but the writing was off. It looked too neat. There was also the matter of the letter coming from the castle when Storm was supposed to be away, but perhaps answers to those questions lay in the letter’s contents. She opened the envelope and pulled out a folded piece of paper that smelled faintly of vegetable broth.

She read the first couple of lines and smiled. There was no doubt about it: such a dopey introduction was Storm through and through.

“Oh, Storm,” she said with a small laugh. “It’s better than starting with the weather at least.”

She continued on to the second paragraph and, as she read into it, felt her cheeks warming. “Oh, Storm…” Did he really read her that well?

She read through the letter, then, once she had gotten to the end, she read it again. She refolded it carefully and brought it with her into her room, setting it on a nightstand. She then took a seat at her desk, arranged paper and ink, and, beneath a firefly’s glow, started to write her response.

Hello, Storm, she began, and…

…And wasn’t this ironic? Here, surrounded by words, she found herself at a loss for them, uncertain about what to write. Still, she placed the quill down, in the hope that those words would come.

After coming down from the thrill of another teleportation, Rosetta had been confronted with the knowledge that she had no idea where she was. She found some very large homes that were very far away from each other, with very fancy street numbers that were very hard to read. She had spent a few minutes trying to decipher one in the dimming light before realizing that it was actually a name. As she followed the cobblestones, she came under the distinct impression that if a pony didn’t know where they were going in this neighborhood, they probably weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. She followed the road as it curled through the hills, wishing she had a map, and wishing she had the light to read it by.

After about a half hour of counting up the house numbers that actually were numbers, she at last came to one greater than what she was looking for and backtracked. This brought her to a giant staircase cut of marble, and for the life of her she couldn’t think of the point of it. Did the occupants go up and down this climb every day? Maybe they liked the exercise. Maybe they thought the mailpony needed it. She flew to the top of it and whistled at the behemoth of a building that rose into view. She had never seen a house that big in her life. Heck, she didn’t know that houses came that big! Surely at some point it stopped being a house and started being a castle?

She flew to the front door and found the address number she had searched for plated to its side. Given the distance between the door and the street, this seemed a terrible placement. She tapped out a simple rhythm on its brass knocker, wondering just who Sergeant Check Mate knew that lived here. She also wondered if anypony had heard the knock, since it seemed like there was an awful lot of house for the noise to get lost in. After a long minute, she heard the sound of approaching hoofsteps. The front door swung open and she was greeted by a moustache.

“Good evening, miss,” said the unicorn behind it. “How may I assist a member of the Guard?”

“Um, let’s see.” And how did he see anything, she wondered; it looked like his eyes were shut. “Would this happen to be the residence of a Magnus and Marequessa?”

“Indeed it is.” The unicorn’s eyes opened slightly. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh no, not at all,” she said quickly. “I’m just here to drop off a letter, and after that I’ll be out of your ‘stache. Mane.”

“Is somepony at the door, Pennyworth?” came a female’s voice from somewhere inside.

“A member of the Royal Guard, madam,” the pony named Pennyworth called back. “She is here to deliver some correspondence!”

“Oh! Invite her in, then!”

Pennyworth turned back towards Rosetta. “Please pardon the interruption just now, miss. May I invite you in to give the lord and lady the pleasure of your company?”

“Ah heh, well… well sure, I’d love to.” She hadn’t expected that; maybe she should have just slipped the envelope under the door.

“Excellent, miss. And how shall I address you?”

“Rosetta will be fine,” she replied as she stepped inside, uncertain of what she was getting herself into.

As she walked through the entrance hall, her eyes wandered from left to right, taking in the paintings hung on each side, just above the wainscoting. Previous masters and mistresses, she presumed, judging by the fashion choices and the grave expressions. She imagined their eyes following her as she turned away, like something out of a ghost story. Pennyworth came to an abrupt stop at the entrance to the next room, and she narrowly avoided colliding into him.

“Please allow me a moment to make known your entrance. Until then, please make yourself at home.”

“Thank you, Pennyworth was it? I shall,” said Rosetta, keeping the word ‘try’ from the end of that sentence. ‘At home,’ he had said; she felt like she had just stepped into the main exhibition of a museum, with marble busts, porcelain, and figures of brass and silver crowding the impressive space. It was expansive, certainly expensive, and she didn’t trust herself to distinguish between the antique furniture and the just plain antiques. She decided that the safest place to wait in that room was right there at the entrance.

“The settees nearest the bookcases are quite comfortable in particular, if I may remark,” said Pennyworth, before disappearing into another room. Rosetta took the hint and picked out a small velvet sofa where he had indicated. After removing her plated shoes, she took a seat and waited for his return. She took the letter from her peytral momentarily to read the front of it once more.

‘Magnus and Marequessa.’

Was it really just the two of them in all of this house? Well, and Pennyworth, of course. Still, it sounded lonely. But what did she know? She chose not to worry about it. The air had a sweet, pungent scent and she decided to focus on that instead. It reminded her of cinnamon, whatever it was; it smelled delicious.

Rosetta heard hoofsteps and quickly rose from her seat to meet them. A unicorn couple entered the room, just behind Pennyworth, and even without an introduction Rosetta would have recognized them as the masters of this palace. The mare had an aristocratic poise and a mane like spun silver. The stallion’s was swept back into an immaculate coiffure, a match in color to the gold-rimmed spectacles resting on his nose. Rosetta stood a little straighter.

“Lady Rosetta,” said Pennyworth, “allow me to introduce you to the lord and lady of the house, Sir Magnus and Lady Marequessa.”

“Just Rosetta is fine, thank you.” Rosetta extended a hoof to Marequessa. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Marequessa.”

Marequessa stared at the hoof for just a moment, her mouth half open, before giving a small smile and reaching up to shake it. “Rosetta it is, then. Charmed,” she said.

“Welcome to our home, Rosetta,” said Magnus, as he shook her hoof in turn. “So, a member of the Royal Guard; may I assume then that you serve with our son, Check Mate?”

So he was their son. “Ah, yes, that is correct,” she said. “In fact, the letter that Pennyworth told you about is one that I’m delivering on his behalf.”

Marequessa’s eyes lit up. “Is that so? May we see it?”

Rosetta took the letter from her armor, whereupon Marequessa quickly levitated it away. As the older mare read the front of it, she quirked an eyebrow.

“This is from Check Mate, you say?”

“I believe so. Why, is something the matter?”

“It’s just that his writing looks odd. It seems a bit… messier than I recall. Oh dear, I hope something hasn’t happened to him!”

“Ah, I think I know why that may be,” said Rosetta hastily, hoping to snuff this flicker of maternal worry before it could flare into maternal panic. “After he and the others left the city, they started using this invention of one of the castle magicians to keep in touch. Sergeant Check Mate and the others are able to send messages from anywhere in the world, supposedly, whereupon those messages appear at the castle for transcription and mailing out. It sounds a bit roundabout, but apparently it happens in an instant.”

“Really?” said Magnus, adjusting his glasses. “If what you say is true, it would be interesting to see how communication evolved, were such technology to be commercialized.” He blinked. “Pardon, did you say ‘Sergeant’?

“Oh yes, you weren’t aware? Although a few of us have a bit of trouble understanding what he’s saying at times, he’s much respected by everypony. He’s tremendously bright and extremely well mannered.”

Marequessa preened. “I appreciate your saying so, I really do. To be honest, I had feared those facets of his personality would’ve gone unnoticed, unappreciated, or worse when he left to join the Guard: that his savoir vivre would become the bête noire of his fellows.”

“‘Qu'il donnerait de la confiture aux cochons,’ so to speak?”

Marequessa’s eyebrows rose. “Very impressive, my dear. You’re bilingual?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Rosetta, with an embarrassed smile. “Why stop at two, I figure.”

Marequessa and Magnus exchanged a glance. “Would you be free to stay for tea?” Marequessa asked.

Rosetta put a hoof to her lower lip as she considered the offer. “Well, I won’t want to be away from the castle for too long since I’ve got a morning patrol, but… sure, I would be happy to stay for a cup before going on my way.”

“Splendid! Pennyworth, would you be a dear and be so kind as to brew us a pot of silver needle?”

“But of course, madam.” Pennyworth bowed low and marched out through the other side of the room.

“I wish we could have invited you to dinner,” said Marequessa. “However, I’m afraid that we finished just prior to your arrival.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright; I already had a bite,” said Rosetta, which was a bit more honest than her stomach would have preferred. “Was your dinner the source of that wonderful cinnamon scent I smell?” she asked.

“Ah, well, that would be the potpourri, my dear.”

“Er, I see.”

“I’m pleased that you like it though.”

Beneath Castle Canterlot, in long corridors cut into the base of its mountain, was a quiescence as old as the world. In these corridors silence reigned, and it could even be said that it poured, filling the subterranean spaces and washing away the sounds of the outside world as one plumbed their depths. The Staff Sergeant marched down one of them, the click of her hoofsteps and the clinks of her armor echoing off of the rough-hewn stone, giving the quiet passageway a pulse. She walked alone, with only her shadow to keep her company; it fell behind and darted ahead with every candle she passed. It was rare that this particular hall got traffic, and she would have preferred that it stay that way, but there were times, such as this, when she would make the trip down it. She hoped that it would be worthwhile.

She came to a heavy iron door watched over by pair of guardsponies. The Staff Sergeant knew that they probably hadn’t been happy taking such a dismal post, but if so they did not show it. That was to be respected. The guardsponies saluted, and the Staff Sergeant returned the gesture.

“Good evening, ma’am,” said one of them, Peony, “is there something we may assist you with?”

“Just the door. I am here to visit our guests.”

“Understood, ma’am. Will you want an escort?” she asked, though only out of formality; the Staff Sergeant never did.

“No, I will be fine.” The Staff Sergeant nodded towards the door. “If you would, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Peony unclasped a large key at her side and worked it into the door’s lock, creating a tattoo of metal clicks as the tumblers slid into position. A dull clang reverberated down the halls as she turned the key, and the door fell open with an ancient creaking. An irritated grumble soon followed from behind it; the Staff Sergeant went to meet its owner.

The taller stallion from earlier that evening sat at the end of his bed, glaring through the iron bars of his cell. His companion lay on the opposite side of the cell, snoring loudly.

“Hello,” said the Staff Sergeant; the stallion’s eyes narrowed when he recognized her voice.

“Ugh, what do you want?” he growled. “Did you come to gloat?” Gone was the salted slur, replaced by a coherent, deliberate disdain.

The Staff Sergeant took a seat in front of the bars. “No, I came to talk,” she said.

“Alright, then go ahead. In the meantime, I’m going to try to sleep off this headache you gave me earlier tonight.” The stallion fell back into his mattress, crossing his hooves over his chest.

“Is this really the kind of behavior you want to define you?”

“What? Trying to enjoy the abundant peace and quiet a jail cell affords?”

“No, I’m talking about earlier tonight: menacing others and starting fights; acting like a bully, a thug, an abuser.”

The stallion sprung back up, his face red and his teeth clenched. “Oh don’t you act like you know who I am, that you’ve got me all figured out! Where do you come off?! You only saw one unflattering side of me tonight, and that’s just because I wasn’t able to think straight at the time!”

“You’re right: I did, and you weren’t. But you know what they say about first impressions, and I doubt that I’m the first pony you’ve given such an impression to.”

The stallion scowled, a deep, embarrassed scowl, but said nothing. The Staff Sergeant continued.

“Since this is a first offense, since the injuries were minor, and since they were yours, you two will be free to leave in the morning after you’ve rested up. You will be fed. However, if I ever see the two of you in here again, for the same reasons as tonight or similar, I will be unforgiving, and I will see to it that you are sent somewhere built for a much longer stay. Understand? You don’t have to behave like you did tonight. You can be better than that. Be better than that.”

“Whatever…”

The Staff Sergeant stood up and returned through the iron door, and bid the two guardsponies a good night. She shook her head. Pride could be a good thing. It could let you know how far you’ve come in life, how far you can go. It could also rot into stubbornness, into a willing ignorance, which was the worst kind of all. Maybe those two would consider her words. Maybe they would see those words as the self-righteous drivel of some gold-plated bint. But she had said her piece. Their future was theirs to decide.

There was a knock on the door to Gray Mane’s laboratory, meaning a second guest that day, which was in and of itself a wonder. Febre opened it to find a guardspony clad in the armor of the Night Guard; he looked him over.

“Benihana, isn’t it?” he asked. “Can I help you with something?”

“Ikebana, actually. Is it true then that you’ve got a direct line between here and wherever Check Mate, Crack Shot, and Storm Stunner are? Via some magic gadget or something, I hear?”

“I wouldn’t call it a gadget, but yes, we do. Why?”

“Can I use it?”

“Who’s at the door? Tell ‘em to get lost,” said Gray Mane in greeting from across the lab.

“A guardspony,” said Febre. “He wants to send a message using the smart stone.”

Gray Mane shambled towards them, followed by Table. It was carrying an open tome, along with some bubbling flasks that were bubbling over onto its pages. Gray Mane shifted the book out of the spill zone and patted Table absentmindedly on its corner, and, unnoticeable in the gloomy lab, Ikebana raised an eyebrow.

“Hrm, well I suppose that’s what it’s fer,” said Gray Mane. “Aye, feel free to leave yer message with Febre here, and then get lost.”

Ikebana frowned. “If you’re talking about leaving something written on a piece of paper, I don’t have that,” he said. “From what I’d heard, I thought you just had to write on this thing of yours to send it off.”

“Aye, aye, ‘tis how it works, more or less. Alright, I’ll allow ye to intrude fer a bit to send off whatever thoughts are rattlin’ around that pot on yer head. Febre—”

“Yeah?” said Febre as he took the smart stone from a desk.

“Fetch ‘im a piece of paper.”

“What?”

“Oh, and a quill,” said Gray Mane, already shuffling away. “Don’t know why ye need me to tell ye these things.”

“Any reason I couldn’t, oh I don’t know, let him use the stone himself?”

The geography of Gray Mane’s face gained a few new crevices as he knitted his brows. “Aye, I suppose that might work as well. Assumin’, of course, that he’s not too simple to grasp the simplicity of it.”

Febre presented the stone to Ikebana and gestured to its panels with its stylus. “Read here, write there, send by blowing across the words. Make sense?”

“As much as it could,” said Ikebana. “I think I got it, thanks.”

“Great. Go nuts.”

Ikebana levitated the smart stone and stylus before him and eyed each item in turn. The tip of the stylus shimmered with a faint green, like a precious stone. He tried penning an experimental scribble in a corner of the panel Febre had indicated; his eyes lit up along with the scrawling.

“How about that?” he mused, before trying for actual words.

Hey, this is Ikebana. Anypony awake out there?

He blew the line away, and a few minutes later the conversation began in earnest.

Ah, it is a pleasant surprise to hear from you, Ikebana! This is Check Mate, I should mention. I am glad to see that Gray Mane is willing to allow others the opportunity to use his invention. How are you this evening?

Hey, Check Mate. Things are going fine on my end; it’s a slow night. How are things where you guys are? Are your travels going well so far?

To be honest, our travels are, well, in abeyance for the time being, but things are going happily otherwise. Storm Stunner and Crack Shot have just now requested that I send their regards, by the way.

Yeah? Tell them I said hello. That reminds me, Featherstep and Rosetta went out to deliver a couple of letters of yours and Storm’s earlier tonight, and, if I recall correctly, one arrived for Crack Shot just this morning. Did he get it?

Oh yes, the response from his brother; just a moment ago he received it from Febre. Well, perhaps it would be more apt to say that Febre let him have it, so to speak, not that I think that Crack Shot paid much attention to his censure. But disregarding that, please extend our thanks to Featherstep and Rosetta for those deliveries, and allow me to take the chance to thank you once more for sharing with me the Pandect; it has been a splendid read so far.

Really? I’m glad it’s a hit. Has it been helpful at all?

Already it has helped Storm and I find lunch, and an avid young scholar with her homework. It has been a boon.

Ikebana chuckled. Were you supposed to transcribe a chuckle, he wondered. Clearly there was an etiquette to this that he had yet to grasp. He decided to go for it anyways.

Heh, I’m happy to hear that. Hey, I’ve got to get back to work, but be safe out there and keep in touch.

That I shall do. Take care, Ikebana.

Ikebana set the smart stone and its stylus on a clutter-free section of an immobile table.

“All finished, then?” asked Febre.

“Yeah, thanks. That’s a pretty nifty device, isn’t it?”

“Yes, one would think so, until they had to take notes from it. On that subject, would you mind taking a letter from Crack Shot along with you when you leave?”

“Sure, that’d be the least I could do.”

Febre took an envelope from the top of a pile of papers and presented it to Ikebana. “They say that words have weight,” he said. “If that were to be taken in a literal context, you’d still have no trouble carrying this.”

Ikebana looked it over; it was addressed to one Skyway of the Wonderbolts. He tucked it into his armor.

“Ah, all finished it looks like,” said Gray Mane from across the room. “If that’s the case, ye may feel free to get lost at any time, ye ken?”

“Yeah, yeah, I ken, you geezer,” said Ikebana as he stepped out the door.

At the end of the corridor leading to Gray Mane’s laboratory he met Sender, who nodded in greeting.

“How’d it go? Did you get to talk to the others?” Sender asked as they began their patrol anew.

“That I did. It seemed like Gray Mane was in a good mood tonight.”

“Really now? Huh. I hadn’t thought he’d heard of those.”

Lighting their way with the glow of their horns, they moved through the hallways of the sleeping castle. The shadows flitted and retreated before them as they walked, but beyond that nopony stirred within them. It looked to be just another quiet night, and they would do their best to make sure it stayed that way.

Chapter 7

The days that followed in Fiddler’s Plain ran by and ran together, running into weeks. Each day was a little shorter than the last, a little cooler, and more and more the manifold colors of Fiddler’s Plain yielded to the reds and golds of fall. Over the course of those days, responses to the guardsponies’ letters trickled in, adding some flickers of green as well.

Nomde began her letter to Storm by telling him about all of the exciting things that had happened since he had left, and did it in one very short sentence, because she didn’t think there were any. She made mention of her friend Villanelle, mainly in terms along the lines of ‘predatory coquette,’ and warned Storm that she was preying on one of his coworkers. He assumed that the tone was written at least partly in jest, though without hearing her deadpan or seeing her flat affect, it was hard to tell when she was joking. Nomde then went on to tell him that her fireflies had been a bit listless in his absence, that it seemed that they missed him, and perhaps, just maybe, she might even miss him as well. She ended the letter by asking how his journal was coming along. Storm, wishing to read her words in her writing upon his return, asked Febre to store the letter somewhere safe. When left by Febre to puzzle over just where that would be, between the warzone of Gray Mane’s lab and the hooves and, more importantly, eyes of his cohort, he eventually requested that the letter be mailed back to Nomde, deciding it to be the safest place to keep it. He added a few sweet words to go along with it (to which Febre, of course, replied with sour), adding a promise to share his journal if Nomde didn’t mind about twenty pages of corn.

Check Mate’s parents were relieved that his travels were going well, though he was dismayed that they didn’t express any thoughts about travels of their own. However, he was surprised to learn about their impromptu meeting with Rosetta. They sang nothing but praises about his fellow guardspony, telling him all about a discussion of theirs regarding discrepancies in nuance between original and translated texts. But, it wouldn’t be a letter from the parents without some small embarrassment at the end. It came in the form of his mother noting how wonderful it was that there were other intellectually stimulating ponies in the Guard’s ranks, and how Rosetta was such a lovely mare, and had he been seeing anypony lately because he was of an age where it would be perfectly normal to think about it, and, again, Rosetta was such a lovely mare.

Although he was in a small part impressed by the not-so-subtle suggestion of what would be considered mésalliance in his parents’ circles, he was for the most part flustered. He decided to save his next letter home for when he knew what to do with it. In the interim, he continued his chess game with Luna during the nights, and kept her apprised of his and the others’ plans.

As for Crack Shot’s dialogue with his brother, Skyway let him know that the weather was, in fact, decent where he was and asked if it was the same for him. Crack Shot then pushed the discourse into previously unplumbed intellectual depths by asking if the Wonderbolts uniform ever rode up.

And between all of these letters, a harvest somehow managed to occur as well. As it finally came to an end, it left everypony feeling proud, accomplished, and, most of all, grateful that it only came once a year. However, although the fields were cleared, that didn’t mean the days to follow weren’t occupied.

One afternoon a week before Nightmare Night, a pair of pegasi crossed the skies above Fiddler’s Plain with heavy bags slung over their withers, as they had been since that morning. In appearances they were nearly identical; however, if one were to take a closer look at their pale coats (and inadvertently violate some personal space in the process), they might notice a difference in coloration appearing near the roots. One of the two lagged slightly behind the other.

“Engh, how many of these trips do we need to make, dude?” Crack Shot shouted. This was to Storm, who was flying just ahead of him.

“Well, let’s see—they’re expecting about forty or so foals to show up at the farm, right?” yelled Storm, without glancing back.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“And we’re picking up enough for sixty so that we have extra to spare, right?”

“Ugh, yeah.”

“And we’ve already made four trips so far, so that puts us as good for thirty-two, right?”

“Dude, what—are you giving me a pop quiz?!”

“Consider it a work out for your mind as well as your wings. So, how many trips are left?”

“Too many!”

The two of them had just departed from Hazelnut’s shop, laden with pumpkins stuffed into large hessian saddlebags. They were large, heavy pumpkins: the kind a foal could hollow out, carve a face into, and perhaps crawl into for use as a hiding spot. The two pegasi were ferrying them, four apiece, back to Allie’s farm.

Crack Shot spied a creek coming up below them, and beat his wings quickly to come alongside Storm.“Hey, let’s drop down for a sec,” he said. “I want to grab a drink.”

The two alighted by the small ribbon of water and shifted the pumpkins off of their withers. Crack Shot then plunged his snout between the cattails of the creek and drank contentedly, something he would not have done at the start of their journey. It had taken a fair amount of work on Kettle’s part to convince the guardspony that the water found winding through miles of idyllic hills from distant snowcapped peaks might be potable without going through a few hundred yards of old plumbing as well. Eventually Crack Shot had relented, taken a sip, and admitted that it wasn’t bad, albeit a bit lacking in a pleasant metallic aftertaste. Now, after quaffing several large gulps, he threw his head back with a satisfied gasp.

After wiping his lips he asked, “So, how’d we get saddled with this job, anyways?”

“Probably because we can do it the fastest,” answered Storm, in between sips of his own. “Though if we take too many breaks, that’ll be up for debate.” He looked up with an evil smirk. “It’s not too much work for you, is it?”

“Nah, not after picking all that corn. It’s just, like, so many friggin’ pumpkins, dude, and they’re huge. And we don’t even have a wagon that can get airborne so we could at least cut down on our trips. Couldn’t they, I dunno, like settle for some squash or somethin’?”

“Maybe, but that’d be missing out on part of the spirit of Nightmare Night, wouldn’t it? Didn’t you ever carve a pumpkin in celebration of it?”

“Eh, sorta.” Crack Shot shrugged and fell back into the wild grass beside the creek, closing his eyes as he nestled into it. “My folks liked to wait until after the holiday to buy the pumpkins. Matter of savin’ some bits and all.”

“Huh. That’s… pragmatic.”

“You know it. Though after we got done carvin’ them up, it meant pumpkin for dinner for the next few days, and that gets old fast. Always had to make sure we had enough trick or treat candy to balance out our diet.”

Storm took one last sip from the creek then brushed a hoof across his lips. He lay back into the long grasses beside Crack Shot, listening to the water gurgle softly as he stared into the sky. A pair of frogs hidden somewhere in the reeds lent its chorus, one of the last for the year. The sun was farther south than when they had left Canterlot, and it left colored spots in the corners of his vision when he closed his eyes. A few clouds drifted slowly to the west, taking their time in going wherever it was that clouds went.

“Hey, Crack Shot,” said Storm.

“Sup?”

“Does that cloud look like a rabbit to you?”

Crack Shot opened his eyes and shielded them with a hoof. “Which one, dude?”

“That one right there.” Storm gestured with a forehoof towards a spot of cumulus.

“Hmm…” Crack Shot narrowed his gaze. “Mm-hmm… Yeah, I’d say it looks like a cloud to me, dude,” he said with finality.

Storm stuck out his tongue. “Oh, har har.”

“Heh. A rabbit though, huh? I don’t know about that. Kinda looks more like a hare to me.”

“A hare?” Storm raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you’re splitting hairs?”

“Ugh. But yeah, hares are supposed to be bigger right? Cloud seems a bit big to be a rabbit.”

“Well, yeah. It’s a cloud.”

“My point exactly, dude.”

“We could ask those guys we're meeting a few days from now, see what their artistic vision was.”

“Nah, that takes out the point of guessin’. ‘Sides, one’d probably say it was meant to be a chinchilla or somethin’. Hey, what about that one”—Crack Shot pointed just east of the cloud in contention to another scudding behind it—“it sorta looks like a turtle, don’t it?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Crack Shot,” said Storm in mock uncertainty. “It might be a bit big to be a turtle. You sure you don’t mean a tortoise?”

The two pegasi spent another few minutes like that, calling out shapes, picking out the cotton menagerie that exists if one bothers to look for it. The turtle, or perhaps it was a tortoise, gradually overtook the rabbit, or perhaps it was a hare, and the sun kept pace behind the both of them, imperceptibly following the hour. Eventually Storm stood and shifted his pumpkins back over his shoulders, and Crack Shot reluctantly followed suit.

Storm stretched out his wings and gave them a few flaps. “Alright, we’re more than halfway done, so let’s get back to it,” he said. “We don’t want to keep Allie or Hazel waiting.”

“Hey, speakin’ of Hazel,” began Crack Shot, as the two of them took flight, leaving the melody of the creek behind them, “Ket said a while back that she’s got the hots for Pimento, right?”

“So he says.”

“And this is the same Hazel that waved us off just earlier by winking and blowin’ us each a kiss?”

“The very same.”

“Huh. How the heck does Pimento not catch it?”

“I think you might’ve answered that question already.”

“Gosh, how that heck did I miss that?”

Storm rolled his eyes. “It makes sense if you think about it—”

He paused as a breeze began to pick up, and turned into it, riding it higher into the sky. He waited until Crack Shot had caught up before continuing.

“—If she’s that, well, friendly with everypony, Pimento probably wouldn’t catch on if she wanted to be extra friendly with him.”

“Maybe. Still, if he’s interested, he should step up his game. I mean, the two ravens and that kickin’ bod—how cool is that?! She looks like a freakin’ war goddess or something!”

They flew for another minute or so before Storm cleared his throat. “Crows, actually,” he said.

“Huh? Wait—are you still on this, dude?”

“Well, I’m just saying. They’re a bit small to be ravens.”

Meanwhile, in another part of Fiddler’s Plain, two unicorns, a stallion and his younger companion, were taking part in a nature walk. This was not wholly remarkable, because in Fiddler’s Plain a nature walk was what happened when you walked more than fifty yards from your front door. But, the two of them had packed trail snacks, water, and the Pandect of Plant Life, and they were set to get as much walk and as much nature as they could. Sprite had a thick, gray, woolen scarf wrapped around her neck; Check Mate followed with bags slung over his withers as she led the way into a wood of aged oaks a couple of miles south of the farm. The oaks’ gray bark was painted green with colonies of moss, and shelf mushrooms climbed their hollows like the rungs of a step ladder; beneath them, wild currants rose defiantly in their shade. Sunlight, stained amber by the aging leaves above, filtered down in golden patches onto innumerable species of flora. With the Pandect floating shakily before her, Sprite made a point of naming every one.

“Hmm, lessee…” she began, tracing a hoof across a linen page, “‘Oyster mushroom. Species name, um, plea-your-ought-us… ohs-treat-us’?”

Check walked beside her and knelt by the mushroom, lifting it to examine its gills and stem. “Yes, I do believe that you’re correct,” he said with a nod. “Although, I think the correct pronunciation is ‘pleurotus ostreatus.’”

“Aww, dang it.” Sprite kicked at the ground. “This’d be a heck of a lot easier if all these letters sounded a lick what they look like.” She looked up from the book. “I was close though, wasn’t I?”

Check smiled and nodded once more. “Yes, yes you were. And I’d add that you did an exemplary job of finding its entry all on your own.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sprite paused. “Uh… exemplary is good, right?” she added, causing Check to chuckle.

“Ah, pardon me. One meaning of ‘exemplary’ is ‘worthy of imitation.’ So yes, it is very good.”

“Exemplary…” Sprite repeated, getting a feel for the word. “Neat. So, I gotta ask: how’d ya pick up all your fancy jargon? You use a dictionary as a pillow or somethin’?”

“Heh, no, not exactly. When I was younger, around your age, I relied primarily on my parents’ library to entertain myself. Whenever I encountered an unfamiliar word, I made a habit of learning its definition, writing it down, and using it in conversation.”

“Yeah? To impress teachers and friends and what not?”

“Honestly? Not really. There would have been better ways to do that. Verbosity doesn’t turn heads so much as it turns them on their sides.”

“Huh. Then just for the heck of it?”

Above them a gentle wind stirred the canopy, causing the faint, diffuse shadows around them to skit and dance to its psithurism. Check Mate looked up, watching the branches sway with a slow rhythm.

“Yes, that would be one way to put it. Hmm… how else would I explain it? For instance, did you know that there is a word for the rustling of leaves? That there is a word for the scent of freshly fallen rain? Ponies must have thought that such phenomena were important enough to be given names, and even if these names have fallen into desuetude, that is to say disuse, I still think they’re valuable. They represent conscious efforts to communicate our world.”

Sprite leaned her head to one side and then to the other as she weighed this notion. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Though I figure the world does a pretty good job of communicatin’ those things itself.”

“Ha! Perhaps you are right.”

Another, stronger gust blew through the boughs above, scattering a few leaves from their perches. Check watched one spin and weave through the air, then took a step forward and extended a foreleg, the sole of his hoof turned upwards. The leaf landed neatly within it.

“Say, I’ve read about an event called ‘The Running of the Leaves’ taking place in some more bucolic communities,” he said, as he let the leaf slip to the ground. “Supposedly they herald the end of fall by clearing the trees of their dead leaves through a race. Does Fiddler’s Plain have such a tradition?”

“Yep! Mom and Uncle Kettle do it every year with the rest of the older folks, and someday I’m gonna do it too. Why’d ya ask? Don’t they have one back in Canterlot?”

“Not that I have experienced. Canterlot is more architectural than arboreal. Although there are gardens and parks scattered around the city, there are more than enough joggers to take care of those incidentally. We do not have woods such as these.”

“Really?” Sprite furrowed an eyebrow, trying to imagine living somewhere that didn’t have a spread of woodland to get lost in. “Then what the heck does anypony do for fun?”

Check smirked. “Oh, somehow we manage. There are museums, theatres, and many other cultural features. It is also the seat of a great deal of magical study. In fact, Princess Celestia herself heads an academy for especially talented young unicorns, which has produced a number of notable magicians. Have you perhaps heard of it?”

“Erm, a couple of my teachers might’ve brought it up… Is that where you went to school?

“No, not I,” Check chuckled. “I didn’t have the ethereal affinity to qualify.”

“The what now?” asked Sprite.

“My magic wasn’t strong enough.”

“Huh?!” The pages of the pandect fluttered with Sprite’s surprise. “With that big ol’ brain of yours, how could you have trouble with somethin’ like that?” She immediately bit her tongue. “Um, no offense,” she added, “but I’ve seen you usin’ spells.”

“Don’t worry, no offense was taken. I’ve since added to my repertoire and I know how to be clever with it. But yes, my magical ability has never been particularly noteworthy. When I was around your age, I could barely light my horn, let alone levitate a heavy book as you’re doing right now.”

“Er—” Sprite’s face flushed, and the book hit the ground with a dull thud. “Sorry. I ain’t tryin’ to show off or nothin’.”

Check quickly shook his head. “Sorry? Don’t be! That’s a wonderful gift of yours. There’s no need to be embarrassed about it.”

“I guess…” Sprite looked down as she dug the tip of a hoof into the forest floor. “It ain’t all that great.” With her head ducked, she didn’t notice Check raise an eyebrow.

“…Well, I shall not press the issue. Anyways, we’ve been hard at work for a while. Shall we find somewhere to enjoy the lunch that your mother was kind enough to prepare?”

Sprite gave a small smile. “That sounds good.”

The two of them followed the wooded path until they found an area of undergrowth with a decent patch of sunlight cutting through the foliage above. Check removed a blanket from his bags, checkered red and white in picnic tradition, and laid it out. He then placed a small basket, wicker woven in picnic tradition, on top of it. All of this picnic tradition didn’t go unnoticed, and a number of squirrels began to gather around from the nearby oaks, looking as expectant as squirrels could look. Sprite took a small parcel labeled ‘Varmints’ from the basket and tossed it towards them, which they quickly tore into, scattering afterwards with several sunflower seeds. One of them returned a moment later and left a few acorns behind at the edge of the blanket.

“A show of gratitude?” asked Check, as he levitated the acorns for scrutiny.

“Uncle Kettle says they believe in free trade,” said Sprite, picking her piece of bread apart.

Check shrugged, leaving it at that before dividing a couple of pieces of cornbread between them.

“Are you looking forward to the upcoming holiday?” he asked.

“I dunno, I guess,” replied Sprite.

After a few seconds she added, “But I ain’t dressin’ up in a costume or nothin’.”

“Oh? And why is that? Won’t your siblings be doing so?”

“Yeah, but they’re little kids. I’m gettin’ too old for that kind of foolin’ around,” she declared.

“Even though you’re only about a year older than your sister, correct?”

“I’m older than that,” she huffed. “It’s a year and four months.”

“Ah, well that is quite the difference,” agreed Check, solemnly. “And how did you come to such a momentous decision?”

“Neither Mom or Uncle Kettle ever dress up. Not really, anyways. It doesn’t seem like somethin’ that grown-ups care about that much.”

“Mm, you might be surprised. You may not know this, but Crack Shot already has a costume prepared.”

“Oh.” There was another pause as Sprite pondered over how to form her next response. “But he’s not really like a grown up,” she said carefully. “More like a giant colt.”

Check laughed, startling both Sprite, and a flock of robins from the branches overheard.

“What’s so funny about that?” asked Sprite, slightly upset.

“Aha, pardon, you must forgive me. It was just a very forthright statement that was very true in many regards. Crack Shot is indeed quite childlike.”

“I thought that was a bad thing. Folks always say you shouldn’t act childish.”

“Yes, one would do best to avoid being childish. However, being childlike is different. There’s a slight nuance there.”

“What’s so good about bein’ like a child instead of, um, ish a child?”

“Well, there’s an audacity, a daringness, inherent to youth that seems to get lost as we get older. We begin to worry about appearances. We don’t want to look silly, we don’t want to say incorrect things, we don’t want to ask simple questions, we don’t want to be wrong. To paraphrase somepony somewhat liberally, we find it better to keep our mouths closed and leave ambiguity as to our foolishness, rather than open our mouths and remove all doubt. Crack Shot doesn’t have these fears. Even if some think that he’s a fool, and there are certainly those that do, he is smart enough not to give them any stock. And he’s certainly not afraid of being too grown up to wear a costume for Nightmare Night,” Check added with a wink.

“Hmm…” Sprite lay forward and crossed one hoof over the other, resting her chin in a tail of her scarf. “What’s he goin’ as? Y’all aren’t just tradin’ off digs like my mom and uncle, are you?”

“No, his costume is entirely original. He was given an old bedspread by Miss Hazelnut, and he has cut five holes out of it for his eyes, wings, and tail,” said Check. “I believe he means to go as a ghost, though it will be a unique interpretation of one, if I may say so.”

“I dunno, that sounds kinda standard to me.”

“Perhaps.” Check poured some water from a canteen into a small wooden cup and took a sip. “Though, I don’t know how many ghosts have calico patterning.”

Sprite giggled. “What about you? Are you gonna wear a costume too?”

Although he had not given any great amount of thought to the idea prior to that day, Check said, “Yes, I believe that I will.”

“Hmm…” Sprite lay in thought, watching one squirrel chase another that had cheeks bulging with seeds, apparently anxious to debate the current distribution of wealth. “Maybe I’ll do it too then, I guess,” she said. “At least for one more year.”

“I think that is a fine decision. Such moments will become memories, and you’ll have your whole life to worry about growing up.”

Afterwards, the two continued their lunch, peppering it with small conversations about Sprite’s coursework, the types of plants they had encountered, and a little about Canterlot. By the time they finished, their small patch of sunlight had shifted away from them and diminished into a small, reddening spot, and the whisper of wind above began to speak of a chill. The afternoon would soon turn into an evening. Sprite stood up and pulled her scarf a little tighter, and Check started gathering their supplies. After everything was packed away, they began to make their way back.

“So do you got what you’re gonna be for Nightmare Night all lined up?” asked Sprite, fidgeting and trying not to shiver as the air cooled.

“No, not yet.” Check levitated the picnic blanket from the basket and draped it over her. “I imagine that inspiration will strike some time before then.”

“Ah, okay.”

Sprite followed Check in silence, the undergrowth crunching and snapping beneath their hooves.

After a couple of minutes she added, “And if it doesn’t, I bet we got some white sheets we could loan ya. If you wanna be a proper ghost an’ all.”

The afternoon a couple of days before Nightmare Night, Storm found himself sitting alone on the twill couch in the main house living room. Kettle had left to pick up the foals from school, Check and Crack Shot were out gathering costume materials for the former, and Allie was working on the foals’ last-minute costume selections (to their credit, they had gotten their orders in earlier than normal; usually it was the night before, or, as on one hectic holiday, the day of). Although Storm had considered going with the other guardsponies to pick up whatever it was that Check needed, he ultimately decided to help keep an eye on the fort. As a guardspony, it wouldn’t do to get rusty after all. So there he sat, skimming through the pages of a large scrapbook that he’d taken from one of the shelves, and listening to the colorful language that filtered down from upstairs whenever a piece of fabric got snagged or a thread got tangled.

The scrapbook was a mishmash of random things as scrapbooks always are: drawings and fallen feathers, photos and songs that didn’t quite rhyme, all of the little sentiments and memories which add up to make a life. He flipped ahead towards the latter pages, which he found to be mostly blank, but there were a few that held a stray photo or letter. If there was an order to the arrangement, Storm couldn’t tell what it was. He returned to where he had left off, a photo of an embarrassed Kettle in front of a smoking stovetop, and turned the page. He found one of Sprite’s report cards; it had straight A’s which didn’t really come as a surprise to him. It was certainly different than those that he had gotten when he was younger, which were at times a bit more representative of the rest of the alphabet. The next page had a sketch by Airy which was pretty good for a kid her age; in its sketchy charcoal lines he could recognize others such as Kettle, Allie, and her siblings. Both of the latter had been drawn with horns, although her brother’s were of the more demonic variety, and she had taken the liberty of giving him a spaded tail. The page that followed had a slip from one of Flip’s teachers; apparently he had tried to bring a beehive into the classroom. On the next page Storm’s eyes widened. Dried and pressed into it was a single blue flower.

“The first one he ever gave me, though I’m glad to say not the last.”

Storm spun towards the voice. Looking over his shoulder was Allie, who quickly took a step.

“Whoa there, sorry ‘bout that, Storm. Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya.”

“Oh, it’s, uh, it’s fine, no worries… ‘He’?”

“My husband.”

Allie walked around the sofa towards the fireplace, and carefully removed the photo of her, her brother, and the darker stallion from its mantle. She sat beside Storm, set the photo down for him to see, and traced a hoof over its glass.

“His name was Gentian. My gentlecolt.”

Gentian… Storm recalled the flower wilting in his saddlebag pocket and suddenly felt very aware of having committed a great trespass. The flowers, the tree, the symbol carved into it that he thought had been a ‘6’, the number below which he was now realizing could have been a date—

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I think I may have taken something of his, of yours.”

“Oh?” Allie looked up from the photo and tilted her head.

“A couple of weeks back or so I found a hill near the edge of the fields.” As he said it, Allie closed her eyes and gave a small nod. “I’d never seen flowers like those before and so I picked one… I wanted to know what they were. I didn’t know whose they were.”

“Mm, I think he would’ve been flattered that you took an interest. Those flowers were his pride and joy. Well, one of four, I suppose.” Allie’s gaze returned to the small frame and its contents. “That hill you found is a special place. It’s where we ended our first date and where he eventually proposed… Now, it’s where he finds his peace, and I like to think where he still tends his flowers. I’m glad it was able to bring you some happiness as well.”

“What—er…”

“What happened to him?” asked Allie, finishing the thought that Storm didn’t dare to.

“Excuse me. It’s not something I should ask.”

“No, that’s natural. Even when I learned the answer I still found myself askin’ that question. I spent a long time thinkin’ about the ‘what’ and the ‘how,’ tryin’ to work my way towards a ‘why.’ A long time bein’ very angry and very sad, lookin’ for the sense in somethin’ that didn’t have any.”

She took in a breath and let it out, staring up at the ceiling and at nothing at all.

“It was his heart. Later, after it had happened, the doctor named things like aneurysms and arrhythmias and all kinds of other reasons that didn’t do a lick to lessen the shock of findin’ him in the middle of our field, collapsed and not breathin’ and never to get up again.”

“That… it must have been terrible.” Of course it was terrible. Storm chided himself for saying it. He wished he could have said something wiser, something more meaningful. “I’m sorry,” he said once more, sincerely, and wondered if that was enough.

“Yeah, I ain’t gonna lie. Ket took it just as hard as I did. He and my husband were close as could be growin’ up, and when Gentian popped the question, I think he was just as excited as I was to have him in the family.”

Allie gave a small smile as she picked up the photo and stood from the sofa.

“Heh. Sometimes I think that if Gentian hadn’t ever proposed to me, Kettle would’ve gone and proposed to him himself.”

“Were the foals alright?” asked Storm. “Jeez, I can’t even begin to imagine what that must’ve been like for them.”

“Truth be told, I don’t think they really understood what had happened at the time, but kids at any age are gonna pick up on when somethin’s wrong. Sprite was about three and just thought that her father had gone off somewhere far away. Kept askin’ where he went. But, I made sure to love ‘em twice as hard, and to try to keep the smile on my face until the rest of me agreed with it. Kettle’s always been great about bein’ there for us as well. I don’t think it really hurt the little ones too much, because they just didn’t have enough time to know who their father was.”

Allie replaced the photo on the fireplace mantle.

“…I really wish they could’ve though.”

She looked at the photo in silence for a moment more, before turning towards Storm with a small apologetic smile. “Sorry ‘bout that, Storm,” she said. “I just talked your head off, didn’t I?”

“What? No, not at all!” Storm stammered. “I’m, well… I’m honored that you’d share all of that with me.”

Allie’s smile warmed. “It’s kind of you to say so. Sometimes it’s nice to talk about these things. …Hmm, I’ve been wonderin’ somethin’. When you boys first arrived, it didn’t seem like y’all had a whole lot of stuff with you. Are y’all really set to be out roughin’ it?”

Storm, lost in thought, was caught off-guard by the shift in conversation. “Oh, uh, I think we will be, though there are a few things we’re going to buy before we leave.”

“Hmm.” Allie tapped her chin in thought before placing her hoof down, having come to a decision. “Mind comin’ with me for a moment?”

“…Yeah, sure.”

Storm stood up and followed Allie as she led the way out through the kitchen. A group of hens scratched at the ground nearby, paying little attention to the two ponies that stepped outside when it was clear that they had no food to give.

“You said you had a mare waitin’ back home for you, didn’tcha?” asked Allie as they rounded the house.

“Yeah, her name’s Nomde Plume.”

“Nomde Plume… that’s a nice name.”

A few yards from the house, Allie came to a stop at the wooden doors of a cellar. A simple piece of wood was placed through each door’s handle, pinning them shut. It was all the security that was needed in Fiddler's Plain. Allie bent down, yanked the piece of wood free, and pulled the doors open, allowing the afternoon light to flood inside.

It was cold down in the cellar, and there was a strong earthen smell; motes of dust stirred to life as they entered, flittering in the sunlight like the flakes of a snow globe. Stacks of firewood dominated one corner, adding the pungent scent of dry timber. It was near the back that Allie found what she was looking for: a large canvas bag with bulging pouches on its sides; it had a strange bouquet of its own, a floral scent like linseed. She beckoned for Storm to take a closer look at it.

“Gentian liked to be out more often than in, and before Sprite was born he loved to go camping during the summer months. Heck, he didn’t really mind the other months for it either, now that I think about it.” Allie thumped a hoof against the bag. “This was the gear that he used: it’s got an oilcloth tent that’s dang near as tough as a dragon’s hide, along with a canteen, blankets, some cookware, and flint. If it would help you boys out at all any, I’d like you to take it with you when you go.”

Storm’s mouth fell open. To his credit, he was quick about trying to make some words come out of it. “Wow, that’s—are you sure about that?”

“Without a doubt. Do me a favor though if you do?”

“Yeah, of course. Anything.”

Allie placed a hoof on Storm’s shoulder and, with a smile, said, “Just bring ‘em back in one piece.”

Storm returned the smile and nodded. He lifted the bag of camping equipment over his withers and fastened it into place, feeling out the balance of their weight. Once he had finished, he followed Allie back out of the cellar. Outside, a set of high voices began to carry faintly from the lane in front of the house.

“Sounds like Kettle and the little ones are back,” said Allie. “I’m gonna go on ahead and greet ‘em.”

“I’ll do the same in a bit,” said Storm, “just let me put this upstairs.”

“You betcha.”

Allie waved him off and trotted back towards her kitchen, while Storm walked to the guest house. Upstairs, the bags that he had taken with him from Canterlot sat at the foot of his bed. He unfastened Gentian’s camping equipment and, very carefully, set it beside them. Tough as a dragon’s hide, Allie had said, and perhaps that was true. Storm still felt it appropriate to treat it with due reverence.

When Storm returned to the main house, he found Kettle and Sprite in the kitchen trying to make a meal of some plants the latter had gathered with Check’s field guide. Kettle gave a quick greeting then returned to trying to help his niece turn a random mix of grass, leaves, mushrooms, and no small amount of dirt into something presentable and, hopefully, edible. In the living room, Flip and Airy were already busy telling their mother all about their day, and Allie was trying unsuccessfully to get them to take turns. When Flip saw Storm enter the room, he decided generously to let Airy have their mother’s other ear and trotted towards the guardspony. He looked up and gave a firm salute.

“Just the stallion I was lookin’ for,” he said. “Well, one of three, actually.”

“Hey there, Flip, what’s up?” asked Storm.

“It’s a matter of my future mill-tree career,” replied Flip, maintaining the salute.

“Ahh, I see! How can I help you with that?”

“Well, the way I figure it is that if I’m gonna get in, I’m gonna want to have a competitive edge.”

“There’s no harm in thinking ahead, I suppose.” Storm noticed Flip starting to wobble on the forehoof not placed against his brow. “Uh, at ease, soldier.”

“Thinkin’ ahead at ease? What the heck kinda edge is slackin’ off supposed to give me?”

“I mean you can stop saluting.”

“Oh.” Flip placed his hoof down. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

“Anyways, what kind of edge are you talking about?”

“I figure it’d look good if I could show the Guard some fightin’ techniques.”

“…Fighting techniques?”

“Yeah, you know! Like a secret move where you poke somepony in just the right spot, then when they take five steps their head explodes?” Flip thrust a hoof into some imagined foe, shouting a war cry that’d be more at home on a playground than a battleground.

Storm winced at this grim sciamachy. “If we have any secret moves like that, they’re a big enough secret that I haven’t heard of them. Why in Equestria would you want to do something like that?”

“To keep the bad guys from runnin’ away!” said Flip with a frown, as if this should have been patently obvious. “Ain’t nopony gonna run if their head’s gonna blow; heck, you wouldn’t even have to lock ‘em up! So you’re tellin’ me y’all ain’t got nothin’ like that?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Storm.

“Well, dang!” Flip stamped at the floor. “But there’s gotta be somethin’ you can teach me right? I wanna make an impression!”

“Hmm… maybe I can. That depends on a couple of things, though.”

“Like what?”

“First, you have to promise that if I teach you an attack—and it’s still an ‘if,’ mind you—you’ll treat it as a last resort and use it only in defense of yourself or others. No using it to threaten or bully, okay?”

“Of course not!” Flip looked affronted. “What kinda stallion do you take me for?”

“Secondly—“

“Name it.”

“—You need your mother’s permission.”

“Got it. MOM!”

“Indoor voices, Flip,” said Allie automatically as she looked over a drawing that Airy had done that day. She glanced up and asked, “What do ya need?”

“Is it alright if I go practice the Royal Guard’s secret killin’ techniques with Storm?”

“Secret what now?” Allie quirked an eyebrow.

“I was thinking I could teach him to throw a kick,” answered Storm with a shrug.

“Really now?” Allie’s eyebrow climbed ever farther. “Hmm, well as long as you promise not to do it inside the house, Flip, go on ahead.”

“Yeah, yeah, I promise, Mom,” said Flip. He rolled his eyes. “Jeez, with all these rules I ain’t ever gonna get to use anythin’ I learn.”

Storm tussled Flip’s mane. “That would be a good a thing. Now, you heard your mother: let’s head out back and I’ll teach you a move.”

Storm and Flip walked back through the kitchen, where Kettle watched with uncertainty as his niece employed the tried and true culinary strategy of drowning everything in butter and garlic. Storm paused in the doorway and took a look back. In the living room, Allie was giving Airy’s drawing a place of honor in their scrapbook. There in the kitchen, Kettle was, while trying to stay out of her way, helping his niece to cook. Here was a family that had been wounded but not broken, a family tempered by tragedy and proven strong as wrought iron.

As they walked outside, Flip tapped Storm on his side. Storm looked down and a corner of his mouth curled up: looking back up at him was proof that Allie and Kettle had done an excellent job so far.

“Yeah, Flip? What’s on your mind?”

“I was just wonderin’: does ‘self-defense’ include when one of my sisters—”

“No.”

“Dang.”

For such short notice, Check Mate felt that his costume was coming together rather well. The trip to Hazel’s shop had provided all of the necessary components, and she herself had taken a special interest in the project. She waved off Check’s offers of remuneration since most of what they had used had been things that she couldn’t sell otherwise, and instead contented herself with being among the first to see the final product. Crack Shot had watched with a befuddled amusement as the whole thing came together. Watching his friend try it on, he fought to keep his mouth shut.

“Thank you, Hazel, for your assistance and for your generosity,” said Check, admiring their handiwork and how it fit on his withers. “I must admit that this came out even better than I had expected.”

“My pleasure, sugar,” said Hazel. “It’s been a slow afternoon so far, and you made it at lot more interestin’ than it would’ve been.”

“And my thanks go to you two as well, Hugh, Mooney,” he added towards her two crows. “This project would not have come off the ground if not for your contributions.”

Hugh and Mooney each squawked loudly and gave a flap of their wings.

Crack Shot scratched the side of his head. “So, uh, what are you goin’ as again?”

“Something fitting to my character,” said Check. “I shall be playing the role of a chess piece. A knight, to wit.”

“…A knight, eh?”

“Indeed.” Check beamed. He turned in place, showing off the large sable wings fastened to his back. “I had first considered playing a bishop, but, given our profession, I felt a knight would be more apropos.”

“Huh.” Crack Shot curled in his lower lip. “…Wouldn’t have been my first guess…”

“Oh? What would that have been?”

Well, there was no use keeping it in. “Yeah… you’re kinda rockin’ the princess vibe, dude.”

“W-what?” Check froze in place, and his cheeks began to pinken.

“Mm-hmm,” hummed Hazel. “When you said you were makin’ a pair of wings, I figured that was what you were goin’ for.”

Hugh and Mooney cawed in agreement.

“B-but, in both traditional and contemporary designs, wings are prominent features of the knight game piece.” Having conquered the territory of his face, Check’s blush now advanced upon the tips of his ears.

“Yeah, I’m willin’ to take your word on that.” Crack Shot gave Check a commiserative pat on the shoulder. “But the point is, well, the point is stickin’ out of your forehead, dude. Horn. Wings. Princess. Dunno how you of all ponies didn’t see that comin’. Seriously, how many ponies do you know that are workin’ all of those features?”

“It’s very progressive, if you ask me,” said Hazel, helpfully. Hugh and Mooney cawed again.

“But there—well, I suppose that’s true—but there must be some way to distinguish myself. Perhaps if I were to fashion some sort of greaves or criniere to match? Some sort of dark accoutrement to clarify my role as a black knight?”

“I dunno, dude. Addin’ fancy digs might be one step forward and two steps back.”

Check sighed. “I’d prefer one step forward and two steps left. Oh well… should I be thought a, er, princess as you two suggest—”

“—You totally will, dude,” said Crack Shot.

“—There are worse figures to emulate. I suppose I should take no offense.”

“Ha! Well said, sugar.”

“Thank you, Hazel, for that and for everything. Now Crack Shot and I should be on our way soon. May I once more try to offer recompense for your services?”

“Honey, to help a cutie like you get his wings, a bit of glue, some branches, and molted feathers are worth the price of admission. Mm, you know, you’re even cuter when you blush like that.”

Check swallowed. “Erm, thank you, Hazel. I wish you a pleasant rest of the day.”

“You are most welcome. You boys take care now!”

Crack Shot waved a wing. “Peace out, Haze. You too, H and M.”

After Check had placed his faux wings into his bags, being careful not to dislodge their feathers, he and Crack Shot began their return to Allie’s farm. Crack Shot started to whistle as they trudged through the grasses of the hill leading towards the main path. He took in Check from the corner of his eye.

“Just a heads up, dude: if your face gets any redder, ponies might just think that you’re goin’ as a fruit bat instead.”

“Knights, princesses, and now fruit bats. Who would have ever imagined that I’d fashion such a versatile ensemble,” grumbled Check.

“Just lettin’ you know. Hey, on the subject of princesses, what’s Luna got goin’ on for Nightmare Night? Is she gonna kick it in Canterlot this time around, or go out and terrorize another small village?”

Check shook his head. “Honestly, Crack Shot.”

“Oh, relax, dude. Last I heard she was a total hit over there in, what’s it, Ponytown?”

“Ponyville, and I suppose you are right; she was. In fact, as I understand it she shall be visiting there this year as well.”

Crack Shot nodded. “Classic Nightmare Night strategy: goin’ where you know. Back when we did it, me and my brother had worked out all the houses that gave out jumbo-size candy. By the end of the night we’d always have a couple of pillow cases packed with the good stuff, guaranteed.”

“You’re rather serious about this holiday, aren’t you?”

“Heck yeah, it’s the best!”

“Better than birthdays or Hearth’s Warming Eve?”

“Oh, they’re fine. I’ve just never gotten an IOU for Nightmare Night before. Anyways, why don’t we leave a message with Febre and the geezer wishin’ them, Luna, and everypony else a happy holiday or somethin’ when we get back?”

“I think that would be a very nice idea,” said Check. “Presuming the sentiment does not get lost in translation.”

Dinner was… well, it was a dinner, debatably. It was presentable. It was, by definition, edible, in that it wouldn’t kill you if you ate it, though you’d wish that it had. It may be said that all of the flavors blended together, though this would be because there were only two flavors to speak of, those being grease and garlic, and they didn’t have a choice. It also had texture, another important aspect of gastronomy. Crunchiness, chewiness, and stickiness all harmonized to add to the gustatory experience as would, say, biting into a gum eraser which had been dipped in epoxy and thrown into a gravel pit.

All said, it wasn’t very good.

All said, Sprite had worked very hard on it.

Everypony made sure to eat every single bite.

After they had all finished, Sprite was the first to get up from the table, happily gathering every empty plate with her magic and depositing them in the sink.

Allie fought back a hiccup and said, “Sprite, thanks for… thanks for that.” Sprite beamed. “Now, if you, Flip, and Airy are keen on it, y’all can go on up and try on your costumes after you’ve bathed and brushed your teeth. Sprite, Airy, I just finished yours up this afternoon, and you can find ‘em sittin’ on the table in my room.”

“Yes, Mom!” sang the two fillies, before scampering upstairs.

“What about mine, Mom?” asked Flip.

“It should still be hangin’ in the closet where you left it. I haven’t touched it since last year.”

Flip nodded, satisfied, and trotted on after his sisters, his mother following behind him.

Kettle approached the sink and began scrubbing a dish. “So how’d it go over at Hazel’s? You fellas find what you were lookin’ for to put together a costume?”

Check took a spot beside him and dried the dishes as they came to him. “We did. In fact, the finished products are sitting within my bags just in the living room.”

Crack Shot began putting things away as Check passed them over. “You know, it’s kinda funny. I don’t think any of us has actually paid for anything in all the times we’ve gone over there. What about you, Storm?”

Storm, wishing to be helpful, pushed in a chair. “Actually, I can’t say that I have.”

“Heh, sounds like Hazel for ya. It’s a wonder that she stays in business.” Kettle passed another fork to Check and fished his hooves around the soapy water. “Looks like that’s the last of ‘em.” He unplugged the drain and rinsed his hooves. After everything was put away, the four of them retired to the living room. “So how ‘bout that costume of yours?” he asked Check. “Mind if I see it?”

“Certainly. I’d be happy to receive your critique.” Check levitated his bags from beside the front door and unfastened their buckles. As he pulled out the wings, Kettle whistled appreciatively.

“Hoo-boy! Y’all really did a bang-up job with those, didn’t ya? They look dang near like the real thing!”

“Thank you, Kettle. Creating them was actually quite trivial. The greatest difficulty was in finding two branches of an appropriate size which also matched a pegasus’s skeletal structure.”

“Well, ya done good. So I take it you’re goin’ as Princess Luna or somethin’?”

Crack Shot snickered.

“That,” sighed Check, “seems to be along the lines of the current consensus.”

Storm craned his neck forward to get a better look at the wings. “Really? Knowing you, I would’ve figured something chess related. In this case, like a king or a knight.”

Check turned to Storm, his eyes wide and bright. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you!”

“Or a queen,” added Crack Shot, cheerfully.

“Oh, hush,” said Check, as he put the wings back in his bag.

They were interrupted by the sound of scampering hooves from the second floor, and a moment later the source came tumbling down the stairs. They were met by a gold-painted garden pail with two mismatched eye slots cut out, a set of tin armor and boots to match, and, somewhere in the middle of it, by Flip.

“Hail!” he shouted. He then threw a salute. He threw it a little too hard, in fact: the pail rattled and spun around his head.

Crack Shot hopped off of his seat and walked towards Flip to take a closer look. “Hey, lookin’ good, little dude!”

A “Thanks!” echoed out of the pail. “I made the helmet myself!” reverberated after it.

“So.” Crack Shot scratched his chin. “What are you goin’ as?”

Flip spun the pail back around so that his eyes were visible and proceeded to narrow them. “What the heck do you mean ‘what am I goin’ as?!’”

“Easy, buddy, I’m just pullin’ your tail. Like I said, the armor really does look good.”

“Just like the kind you guys wear?”

“Yep. All you’re really missin’ is the mane and coat color.”

“Oh. Well I’ll bet we got some paint in the barn—” Flip made a gallop for the kitchen before his uncle stepped in front of him.

“Nuh-uh,” said Kettle, scooping up his nephew with a hoof and depositing him on a spot of couch beside him.

“Why not?!”

“I think it’d be for the best if you kept your costume limited to somethin’ you can take off at the end of the night.”

Flip, not about to allow incidental minutiae shoot down a good idea, decided to argue his case. “Paint thinner’d take it off,” he said.

“Paint thinner’d also take off your coat.”

“So? It ain’t like I don’t got another one of those growin’ in all the time.”

“No, Flip.”

“Dangit.” Flip pouted. Wasn’t that just typical adult behavior? The minute you try to plead your case, to use logic, all they gotta do is say ‘no’ to completely kill the argument. It just wasn’t sporting.

While he fumed over what was now to him an incomplete costume, Sprite and Airy came cantering down the stairs in theirs. Sprite wore a wide-brimmed, floppy hat with straw sewn into its inside like long, stiff strands of mane. A pair of overalls and a checkered flannel shirt complimented the look, with extra straw sticking out of the latter. Airy wore a brown leotard covering her body and all but a lock of her mane, and four feline paws over her hooves; behind her, a barbed tail bounced every which way as she walked. Flip pulled himself onto the back of the couch and appraised his sisters.

“Hey, Sprite, I thought you said you weren’t gonna dress up this year,” he said.

Sprite gave an embarrassed smile. “I, um, changed my mind.”

“Glad to see ya came to your senses.” Flip then looked at Airy and his face bunched up. “What the heck are you supposed to be?”

“I’m a manticore.” Then, because she thought this should’ve been clear, she added, “Duh.”

“‘Duh’? What do you mean by ‘duh’?!” Flip’s ears flattened and his tail began to swish; Kettle sighed and pinned it down with a hoof.

“It’s short for dummy.”

Flip leapt at his sister and made it about a foot before learning that his tail wasn’t coming along for the ride. “Let go! Lemme at her! The honor of the Guard is at stake!”

“Is it?” asked Kettle.

“I don’t know. I think the Guard’s honor has faced worse insults than that,” said Storm.

“Yeah, like any time we’re stationed in a public area,” added Crack Shot.

Flip pulled himself as far over the couch as his tail would yield and pointed an accusing hoof. “Ain’t manticores supposed to have a mane?!” he shouted.

“The girls don’t, dummy!” Airy stuck out her tongue.

“Don’t call your brother dumb, Airy,” warned Kettle.

“Yeah! And besides, what you said don’t make any sense. You, Sprite, and Mom have manes!”

Sprite, wishing to stay out of this debate, pulled her hat as far down her head as her horn would allow.

“But we ain’t manticores,” explained Airy, irritably. “Nightmare Night excludin’. Are you sure you even know what a manticore is?”

“Course I do. It’s a scorpion with some wings and lion bits stuck on the front.”

“Yeah, and them lion bits is why the girls don’t have a mane!”

Flip noted with horror that he was losing this argument. He tried a different tactic. “Well, I don’t think manticores can talk, either, and you sure are flappin’ your gums a lot!”

Airy growled. This had nothing to do with the costume; she would’ve growled anyways.

Kettle stood up. “I think,” he said, just loud enough to let the foals know trouble might be on the horizon if they kept it up, “lion linguistics aside, your mother worked very hard on each of your costumes. Do y’all really wanna fight about the job she did?”

Flip and Airy hung their heads, their ears pinning back. Their uncle had come into a sticks and stones level argument and just dropped a bomb on it. Flip’s tail sagged; Airy’s scorpion barb continued bouncing because that was just the way it was attached, though it did so a little more listlessly. “…No,” they said in unison.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Kettle smiled. “Now, it’s gettin’ late and y’all got one more day of school tomorrow, if I ain’t mistaken. Why don’t y’all go on and brush your teeth and get cleaned up and ready for bed?”

Flip and Airy shared a look before staring at their uncle.

“We already brushed our teeth and cleaned up,” said Sprite.

“…You did?”

“Mom asked us to, right after dinner, remember?”

Kettle looked to the guardsponies. They each nodded with varying degrees of subtlety.

“And they’re given us the three-day weekend,” said Airy.

“And it’s only, like, five o’clock,” added Flip.

“Huh. Well, dang.” Kettle scrunched his face on one side and scratched his head. “That really just felt like one of those moments. One where there’s a tussle followed by a lil’ bit of catharsis, and ya can just go, ‘Now scamper on up to bed, ya lil’ rascals,’ you know?”

They didn’t. They continued to stare at him.

“Eh, you’ll understand when y’all are raisin’ foals of your own. Speakin’ of which, where’s your mother?”

“I think Mom’s lookin’ at the scrapbook,” said Sprite. “She brought it upstairs with her.”

“…Gotcha. Well, tell y’all what: how ‘bout we all play a board game to pass the time?”

The foals definitely understood that. With peace restored, Flip and Airy ran upstairs to fetch their favorite game and put an end to it.

This time, it was not only Flip, Airy, and Crack Shot playing. Sprite, Storm, Check, Kettle, and, a little later on, Allie decided to join in as well.

They played late into the evening, that game and others, burning through lamp oil and neglecting bedtimes.

But, that was okay.

After all, it was one of their last opportunities to do so.

When yawns had begun to dominate the conversation, and heavy eyelids caused young heads to dip, Allie decided that it was time for everypony to get some shuteye. Kettle had decided this about an hour ago and lay snoring in his chair. After tossing a blanket over her brother, she wished the guardsponies a good night, and the foals groggily did the same.

Upon snuffing out the paraffin lamps of the living room and gathering Check’s bags, the guardsponies made for the guesthouse, Check’s horn lighting the way with its dim glow. Once inside, Storm struck a match to light a candle, one from a surplus meant for the jack-o-lanterns, and then went upstairs to retrieve his journal and quills from his bag.

“What have you got there?” asked Check, pausing on the way to his bed and casting some illumination onto Storm’s newest bag.

“Ah, Allie lent that to us. It’s camping gear.”

“Really? How thoughtful of her! What does it include?”

“Um, let’s see. A tent, pans… bedding among other things, I think. I haven’t really taken a look inside.”

“All the bare essentials, eh?” said Crack Shot. “Nice. That oughta make us look like we know what we’re doin’.”

“Goodness. I hope she didn’t put herself too far out of her way.”

“Yeah… so do I, Check,” said Storm, leaving it at that as he walked back downstairs. It didn’t feel like the moment to tell the others about Gentian. He wasn’t sure when that moment would come, if it were to come at all. He set his journal in front of him, turned to the next empty page, and began to write, grateful to have a means of pouring out his thoughts and clearing his mind.

Upstairs, Crack Shot threw himself onto his bed and tapped a rear hoof against the headboard. He stopped as a thought came to mind.

“Hey, we didn’t send a holiday message to everypony back at the castle yet. Mind if I bust that out?”

“By all means.” Check levitated the smart stone and its stylus from his bag and over to Crack Shot, the light from his magic cutting the darkness of the room into ribbons of shadow.

“Shweet,” Crack Shot slurred around the stylus after snatching it out of the air. He started writing.

Hey, Febs. You there?

He blew the message away and waited.

After waiting about fifteen minutes or so with no response, Crack Shot started tapping the upper panel of the smart stone. “Hey, do you think this thing is busted?” he asked.

“I think it is more probable that Febre hasn’t yet taken notice of your message.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. Man, it’d be nice if these things rang or somethin’. Maybe I oughta bug ‘em about adding some more bells and whistles.”

Storm came back up the stairs and, after feeling around for his bags in the gloom, placed his journal and writing utensils back in their pockets. He climbed into his bed and rolled onto his back, fanning his wings out beneath him. “What are you guys up to?” he asked.

“Crack Shot is sending holiday salutations on our behalf to those at the castle,” answered Check.

Storm yawned. “Mm, that’s nice,” he said.

“Yeah, if Febs would friggin’ respond.”

“Hope he doesn’t take too long,” said Storm. “We’re meeting those weather pegasi tomorrow afternoon, remember? We’ll probably want to be fresh.”

“Yeah, yeah. What’s that all about again?”

Storm rolled onto his stomach, wrapping himself in his sheets. “I’ve got no idea,” he said. “Something about helping with the Nightmare Night festivities.”

“Huh.”

A faint emerald glow lit the underside of Crack Shot’s face.

“Oh hey, finally.” Crack Shot looked down at what was written.

That is a question I could not answer honestly in the negative.

You know, you could always just say ‘Hi.’

No, I couldn’t. What do you need, Crack Shot?

Not much, dude. Me and the guys just want to wish you and everypony else a Happy Nightmare Night!!!

Oh. Well, thank you.

A minute passed.

Then appeared: What do you mean by ‘everypony’?

You know: Luna, Celestia, the other guards, anypony else I’m missing. Heck, I bet old Gray Mane must *love* the holiday. He probably doesn’t even have to dress up.

I see. And in your well-wishing, how exactly am I involved?

You’re sending out our messages, right?

…And you want me to go through each and every hall and wing of this castle, meeting with every single pony to let them know you say hello?

No, that I say ‘Happy Nightmare Night!!!’ And yeah, if you could.

It took a few minutes for Febre to reply, but the reply he eventually gave was a lot more pleasant than it could have, and perhaps would have been normally.

Fortune smiles upon me, because one of your fellow tin soldiers, EKG, I think it was, has just shown up asking how you three are doing. See about getting him to run this ridiculous errand; I need to teach Table the difference between a beaker and a graduated cylinder.

Okie doke.

Crack Shot thumped a rhythm against his mattress and waited for the hoofwriting to change.

Hey, Crack Shot, right? This is Ikebana. Febre just shoved that stone of his in my face and said you had a job for me?

Hey, dude, yeah, the three of us wanted to wish you and everypony else a Happy Nightmare Night!!! Can you spread the word around?

Is that all? Huh, the way Febre was acting so worked up, I thought it’d be a bigger deal. Yeah, I’ll let the guys know.

Don’t forget the princesses. It’s Luna’s big night, right? Maybe you could get her a card.

Uh-huh. Well, I don’t know where I’d get one at this hour, but, if I somehow get the chance, I’ll tell her that you wish her well.

And that we say Happy Nightmare Night!!!

I don’t think it’s physically possible for me to convey that many exclamation points. Is Check Mate there?

Yeah, just a sec.

“Hey, Check, it’s for you. Ikebana says hi.” Crack Shot flung the smart stone and its stylus towards Check, whereupon they landed on his bed a couple of inches from his face. Check didn’t flinch, but he did frown slightly.

“You should really be a bit charier in how you treat those,” he said.

“Relax, dude,” said Crack Shot, as he kicked his covers over himself and splayed out. “It’s not like I’d have missed.”

Check shook his head and picked up the stylus.

Greetings, Ikebana, this is Check Mate speaking. It is a pleasure to hear from you again. Have you some news to share with us?

No, I just thought I’d hazard stopping into Gray Mane’s lab try to say hello. Crack Shot just asked me to wish Princess Luna a ‘Happy Nightmare Night!!!’ on behalf of you guys, though. Should I drop this rock off with her so you can do it yourself?

If you would like, though I think she might appreciate hearing such words as well, and, if she is occupied with preparation for the holiday, hearing them may be more convenient for her.

I don’t know. Delivering this thing seems more like ‘official business.’ Disturbing her just to wish her a happy holiday? Not so much. As a princess, she might not appreciate the informality.

Perhaps. Though, as a pony, she might. I will leave it to your discretion. Anyways, it has been while since last we spoke, so tell me: how do things fare?

Well, the upcoming holiday has things getting pretty lively. The Staff Sergeant is going to have more of us out on the streets. Just in case anypony finds themselves in the mood to give part of the city an egg yolk patina.

Vigilance where it is due, I see. But what about you?

Me?

Yes, how have things been for you in particular?

A few minutes passed.

Pretty good, actually. With our new training, I found a pretty awesome way to make use of my talents. Thanks to Feathers, we’ve come up with what we think is a really effective ghillie suit design. Not sure if we’d ever need one, but still. I’m proud of it.

That is splendid, Ikebana! And have you also been able to practice your talents beyond military applications?

Do you mean floral arrangement?

Yes. If I may inquire, that is.

Another few minutes passed.

Yeah, I do when I have the chance. It’s trickier this time of year when things are going out of season, but I make do with what I can find. At least when I’m not busy training and patrolling and those kinds of things, you know.

I am glad to hear that. While ghillie suits are well and good, I would be disheartened to learn that you had abandoned a passion if you felt it unsuited to your career.

And once more, a few more minutes passed.

How about you guys? I hear you’re all finally hitting the road again in a couple of days. Are you excited?

To be honest, I’m not sure how much actual road there will be to hit, but I am looking to forward to seeing where Luna’s map takes us.

Will you guys be set on shelter, water, and that kind of stuff? It seemed like you left the castle a little light-hooved.

I believe we shall be prepared. A town on the periphery of civilization seemed likely to have the means necessary for venturing outside of it, and indeed we’ve been able to acquire most of what we would require. As for comestibles, I shall trust in the knowledge I’ve gleaned from Ms. Grylls’s work. It was as comprehensive as you said.

Did you read through that entire book already?!

Indeed, although it took a bit longer than average, to be honest, in between its level of detail, and the labor we found ourselves engaged in on the farm that is hosting us.

Wow. If I had more of a heads up, I could’ve just given it to you for the weekend and saved you the trouble of lugging it around. Well, I hope it still proves useful to you guys.

It has and it shall, I am certain.

Time passed without further communication and so, thinking the conversation may have ended, Check folded his hooves together and rested his head upon them, closing his eyes. He had begun to drift into a light sleep when a faint shift of color behind his eyelids stirred him once more. He blinked to clear his vision and peered down at the smart stone.

Hey, I went and spoke with Luna. She sends her thanks, and wishes for you guys to have a pleasant holiday as well. I’m surprised that she’s so approachable. Not that I’m complaining. She also asked me to tell you ‘Q-E-7.’ Any idea what that means?

Check yawned and then thought for a moment. “Oh dear,” he whispered, before picking up the stylus.

It means that I’ve just lost a bishop.

After some small conversation, Check wrote his farewells, put the smart stone away, and closed his eyes once more.

Outside, a rooster announced what was, technically, the start of a new day, but the guardsponies slept too deeply to hear it.

It was pleasant late in the following afternoon. In fact, all of the afternoons had been pleasant. Since the guardsponies had arrived in Fiddler’s Plain, it had been all sunny days with just enough clouds to give the sky some texture. This, of course, could be credited to the local weather team. So argued Hop Seed, de facto leader of the weather pegasi tetrad by virtue of being the loudest. From their perch on a cloud high in the sky, he was currently pontificating to Storm and Crack Shot on the subject.

“And, as I’m sure you two can imagine, the four of us here always got our work cut out for us, simply as a matter of course,” he said, his head held high and proud. The other three weather pegasi were shaking theirs. “There’s a balance to it, including, but not limited to—”

Storm watched him speak with fascination. He recalled Hop Seed as the pony that had slammed into the table the very first night they had arrived. In fact, he had learned in later visits that this was not an uncommon occurrence, and there had been some especially nasty crashes which had made even Storm’s feathers clench. However, that first night stood most vivid in his memory, which shows that there is something to be said for first impressions, particularly when those impressions are left in a hardwood table.

Hop Seed continued. “—and you two probably wonder how we can manage so many consecutive days as fantastic as this one.” This was untrue. “You wanna know how we do it?” They didn’t.

“By gettin’ the first day right and leavin’ the rest of ‘em alone until somethin’ needs fixin’.” This was from Maple Seed, Hop Seed’s sister. Hop spun towards her and gave her a dark look. She met it with half of a grin.

“Dangit, Maple! Say it like that and you’re gonna make us look lazy!”

Maple rolled her eyes. “Dunno who you think you’re foolin’. They’re pegasi. I’m sure they got an idea of how it goes.”

Another stallion, Whirlybird, spoke up. “Nah, Hop, there’s no use tryin’ to dress it up. Still, we do keep busy one way or another. As for myself, I’ll sculpt a cloud every now and then, try to shape it into whatever’s on my mind.”

“Like a rabbit?” ventured Storm.

Crack Shot elbowed him in the shoulder. “Or a hare?” he added.

Whirlybird looked upwards, bit his upper lip, and slowly shook his head. “Mm, nah… I go more for things like, mmm, like ennui… or solipsism.” He pursed his lips. “Folks never do seem to recognize ‘em, though…”

“Now don’t forget the growin’ season,” continued Hop, not to be deterred. “There are acres of farmland around here which need just the right blend of sunlight and hydration.”

“Naturally, the irrigation helps with that.” This came from Jacaranda, Jackie to her friends. Maple snuck her a smile.

“Stop makin’ it sound like we just sit on our flanks, would ya?! We still need a good rainstorm every now and then—not just for the crops, but for everypony’s general mental wellbein’. Y’all know how nice it is when it’s pourin’ buckets outside, beatin’ a rhythm on the roof, and you’re all wrapped up in a blanket with a good book.”

“A book? When’s the last time you read somethin’ that didn’t have a centerfold?”

“Dangit, Maple!”

“Heh, alright, that was a bit of a low blow.” Maple turned toward Storm and Crack Shot. “But our job probably ain’t nearly as excitin’ as half of what y’all see in your line of work”—Storm and Crack Shot each decided not to address that—“occasionally we gotta reel in a thunderhead or two if one rolls over the northern mountains, but that’s about it.

“Thunderheads?” asked Storm.

“Just a part of livin’ on the edge of civilization,” explained Jackie. “With nopony to control the weather out there, it kinda controls itself. The mountains usually keep it fenced off, but when they don’t, it’s our job to go in and bust it up.”

“Unless of course we can use it, in which case we all just take the day off,” said Whirlybird. He bit his lip once more and got a distant look in his eye. “Tends to be more usable on weekends, I reckon…”

Hop dragged a hoof down his face.

“So… why are we here?” Crack Shot asked him. “You said somethin’ about Nightmare Night when you caught us at Pimento’s, unless that was the salt talkin’.”

Hop perked up. “I’m glad you asked!” He snuck a sideward glance at his companions. “…Real glad you asked. For the holiday, me and the others like to help set the mood for the young’uns by givin’ ‘em a dark and stormy night—”

“The night helps a bit with the dark part,” added Jackie.

“—and we wanted to know if you fellas wanted to join in.”

Crack Shot shrugged and said, “Sure, why not?”

Storm, a little less certainly, agreed as well.

“Great! Now we ain’t got no thunderheads ready to go, but there’s a pond nearby we can pull some vapor from to saturate some of the cumulus around here, or to make a few new ones if we need to, though I don’t think we will. Me and the others will round some up, and you two can take the one we’re standin’ on. Afterwards, we’ll charge ‘em and see how they fire. Sound like a plan?”

“Yep!”

“Uh, okay.”

“Alright, we’ll be back in a jiff!”

The Fiddler’s Plain weather pegasi took off in separate directions from the cloud, leaving Storm and Crack Shot alone for the time being. Crack Shot turned to his friend.

“What’s up, dude? You look more like you’ve got a cloud over your head than under it.”

Storm rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Yeah… clouds are one thing that I never really got down,” he said.

“Huh. No kiddin’? Didn’t you once say you did weather work?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t say I was good at it. Whenever I tried to make a cloud by hoof, I’d just end up with, well, fog, my snowflakes always came out as hail, and don’t get me started on lightning.”

“Pfft, don’t sweat it, dude. Doesn’t sound like we’re actually makin’ clouds, let alone snow, and lightning’s all in the hooves. You got this.”

The weather ponies returned a couple of minutes later, pushing swaths of cloud before them. Hop’s head popped over the top of one them.

“Y’all ready to do this?!”

Crack Shot lifted an eyebrow at Storm. “Ready?” he asked.

Storm inhaled, held it, and let it out.

“As I’ll ever be.”

In the end, it was the lightning that did it. Actually, it didn’t just stop at the end. The lightning pretty much did it everywhere, Storm’s front, sides, top, and bottom included. Crack Shot and the weather ponies winced collectively as Storm Stunner tried once more to buck out a bolt, only to have it curve elegantly through the air, around the cloud, and into him.

“He, uh, doesn’t have any metal fillings in his teeth, does he?” asked Maple.

Crack Shot shook his head. “Nah, don’t think so,” he said.

Jackie hissed as the cloud zapped Storm again. “And just so I’m not mistaken, his name does end in an ‘r,’ right? Not a ‘d’?”

Again, Crack Shot shook his head.

“Still, you’d think that with a name like Storm...,” she trailed off.

Hop Seed was on the border between pity and pride, feeling bad that Storm couldn’t manage the thundercloud, and feeling great that the Royal Guardspony from Canterlot couldn’t do it better than him.

“Well, it’s just like I was sayin’, isn’t it? It ain’t an easy job that we do out here, nossir.” He was punctuated by a thunderclap. “Phew, dang if he ain’t persistent though.”

“Think we oughta do somethin’?” asked Whirlybird. He had used the Common We, the antonym of the Royal We, which is to say Anypony BUT Me.

“That cloud can’t have that much more of a charge in it,” said Maple. She shielded her eyes too late against another flash and blinked away the stars. “Huh. Didn’t think lightnin’ could arc like that.”

The cloud eventually gave off its last spark, and Storm, singed and sullen, slumped into it. Crack Shot landed beside him. The cloud crackled just slightly as he did so.

“Nice try, dude,” he said, patting Storm on the shoulder and getting a minor shock for it. “’A’ for effort.”

“Seems like ‘A’ for amperage might be more fittin’,” whispered Whirlybird. Maple and Jackie shushed him.

“…I don’t think lightning is just in the hooves,” Storm groaned. “I think it was everywhere.”

“You were probably just overthinkin’ it, dude. We’ll work on it some time.”

Hop Seed alighted behind them, followed by the other weather ponies. “Not a lot of time between now and tomorrow, though,” he said. “I don’t mean any offense, but uh, you might want sit Nightmare Night out, least on the weather end of things.”

“Yeah… I guess that’d be for the best,” Storm sighed.

“Now don’t feel too sore about it,” said Hop, quickly. “They could probably use some help on the ground. Heck, maybe you could dress up in a scary costume or something; you know, spook the foals a bit! I bet they’d love that!”

“If it’d help, I guess I wouldn’t mind. But I don’t have a costume, let alone a scary one. I’m not sure what I could throw together by tomorrow.”

Crack Shot stared into the distance, as if weighing a great decision.

“…You… you could borrow mine, dude,” he said at last, soberly.

Storm stared up at Crack Shot blankly for a second. “You mean that bedspread with the daisies printed all over it?” he asked.

Crack Shot nodded. He looked like he might cry.

“I’ve got an old gorilla mask lyin’ around that I ain’t been usin’ lately,” interjected Whirlybird. All of the ponies turned towards him.

“Why the heck do you have a gorilla mask?” asked Maple.

“Mind your business, Maple,” said Whirlybird. “Anyways, you could use it if you’d like. I just gotta rinse it out.”

“Uh, thanks. I think,” said Storm, scratching his head in between smoothing his frazzled mane.

Whirlybird tipped his head.

After that, there was nothing left to do but call it a day; the weather ponies went on their way and the guardsponies went on theirs.

“So that’s what you meant about lightning, eh?” said Crack Shot, breaking the silence.

“Ye-p.”

“Still, that’s pretty impressive, dude. There aren’t a lot of ponies that can get zapped like that and keep on kickin’. Speakin’ of which, why did you keep on kickin’ that cloud?”

“I wanted to see if I could get it right, I guess.”

“Huh. You know, if this guardspony thing doesn’t work out, you could always try gettin’ a job as a lightning rod.”

For the first time since that futile endeavor, Storm smiled.

“Heh. I’ll remember to use you as a reference.”

The flight back to Allie’s farm was a quick one, and a helpful breeze made it even quicker. The yellowing rows of corn stalks and the paths winding through them lay silent and still but for the stir of the wind, awaiting their last day of activity before winter came to claim them. As the guardsponies passed over the main house, they spotted two small figures in the back yard: Flip and Airy, the two of them in their Nightmare Night costumes. They were hunched over something. Storm and Crack Shot landed a few yards away, though the foals were too focused on what they were doing to notice.

“Sup, guys, what’cha up to?” asked Crack Shot. As he approached them, he saw. “Ooh… ouch.”

Between the two foals lay the flattened remains of Flip’s tin helmet. Flip was trying to whack it back into shape.

Storm took a seat beside the two. “What happened?” he asked.

“Nothin’ I can’t fix,” said Flip, his face screwed up with concentration as he worked. “Me and Airy were messin’ around, my helmet fell off, then she rolled over it with her big butt.”

Airy opened her mouth to say something, before thinking better of it. She had smashed his helmet, so that earned him a pass.

“Your mom gonna be happy with you guys gettin’ dirt all over your costumes like that?” asked Crack Shot.

“I don’t see why she’d mind,” replied Airy. “I bet livin’ out in the wild, manticores get covered with all kinds of things. A bit of dirt prolly adds some authenticity.”

Flip lifted his helmet; it had become less a piece of armor and more a piece of shrapnel. “I think it’s lookin’ a lot better,” he said.

The guardsponies stayed their tongues. Airy, like most foals that have just witnessed a sibling doing their absolute best at some difficult task, said, “Here, you're doin' it wrong—get outta the way and let me do it.”

Flip hugged the smashed tin close to his body and fervidly shook his head. “No way! You’ll ruin it again!”

Airy crouched low and ready to pounce, her wings flared and her scorpion barb bobbing behind her. “Come on, give it!”

“I’ve got another idea,” said Storm. “Wait right here.”

The foals ceased arguing as Storm walked off towards the guesthouse, curiosity dwarfing contention.

Inside, Storm bounded up the stairs and to his saddlebags. He had already been given or lent so many things; there was no reason he couldn’t pay it forward. He pulled out his champron from within his bags, gave it a loving polish, and brought it with him outside. Flip’s eyes widened when he saw it.

“Whoa! Is that for real?” he asked.

“The genuine article,” said Storm. “And if you promise to be careful with it—no rolling on top of it—you can borrow it until after Nightmare Night. You promise?”

Flip sat there, stunned, before nodding so rapidly he would’ve shamed a woodpecker.

“Okay then, take good care of it.”

Storm presented his champron to Flip, who looked at it as though it would at any moment turn into steam and melt away. The colt lifted it with both hooves and lowered it carefully, reverentially, onto his head, which promptly disappeared inside of it.

“I think it might be a little big, dude,” whispered Crack Shot to Storm.

“Mm, maybe,” said Storm. “Wear it with pride, Flip.”

“Will do!” Flip threw a salute, which clanged against the top of the helmet. His mouth, the only feature of his face still visible, split into a grin at the sound. It was a far cry from the old tin-bucket rattle he was used to. “Dang, I can’t wait to get one of these of my own.”

Nightmare Night started early in Fiddler’s Plain. It started so early that it probably didn’t deserve the second part of its name.

Allie, Kettle, and the guardsponies had just finished breakfast and started to set out the pumpkins, tables, and carving supplies from the barn, when a pair of foals and their parents arrived. Flip and Airy had leapt from the couch to meet them, and the four foals had then run out back to discuss this year’s costume selection. The parents thanked Allie for her hospitality and gave her a tray of glazed carrot bread. Allie graciously accepted it and set it outside, where it lasted for approximately five minutes before the foals had destroyed it.

A few of Sprite’s friends arrived next. Upon seeing her scarecrow costume, there was a moment of hushed whispers and glances which made her tilt her head. Afterwards, and by unanimous decision, they declared her costume as ‘okay,’ ‘not bad,’ and ‘alright’, none of which actually mean ‘good.’ They all agreed, however, that it would have been so much cooler and much more fitting if she had gone as something like a wizard, or a mage, or a thaumaturge if they had known the word, given that she could use magic. She smiled, nodded, and led the way outside, her sagging tail the only thing betraying her feelings.

Over the course of the day, zombies, demons, eldritch horrors, and of course their parents as well filtered in, and by the late afternoon the Corn residence was a din of conversation, shouts, and laughter.

While Allie spoke with one of Sprite’s teachers, Kettle and Check Mate went outside to help the foals get started with their pumpkins. There was a knock at the front door, which must have been solely for appearances, because right after it ended Hop Seed stepped inside, followed by Maple, Jackie, and Whirlybird. Storm and Crack Shot, who was draped in his costume, went to greet them.

“Howdy, Storm,” said Hop. “And, uh, that you under there, Crack Shot?”

“Heya, dude,” replied Crack Shot, muffled slightly by the cloth hanging over his snout.

“I take it you’re goin’ as a mattress or somethin’?”

“Nah, dude, a ghost. Man, ponies have been sayin’ that all day.”

Hop tilted his head. “Iffin’ you say so. Anyways, once the sun sets we’re gonna go grab those thunderclouds and start settin’ up. Your, uh, costume ain’t gonna get in the way, is it?”

The front of the floral-patterned lump that was Crack Shot wagged, which Hop took as him shaking his head.

“Speakin’ of costumes, here’s that mask I promised ya,” said Whirlybird. He pulled the gorilla mask from a bag and offered it to Storm.

Storm took it and looked it over. It had yellow, bloodshot eyes set deeply beneath gray brows, and a sharp-fanged grimace which stretched and folded into different expressions of malice as he turned it over in his hoof.

“You ain’t gonna feel left out when we’re makin’ the thunderstorm, are you?” asked Jackie.

“Nah,” said Storm, not completely honestly. He tucked the mask behind a wing.

“Well, we’ve still got some time before we gotta get to work,” said Hop. “I say we rustle up some grub before we’re stuck having to bob for it.”

“I’d figure you’d wanna save room for the salt at the after party,” said Maple.

“Ah, hush up.”

The pegasi stepped outside to kill the time and their hunger, walking past the tables where most of the foals were working on their pumpkins, and where the chickens were gorging themselves on the pulp and seeds. Flip had finished his pumpkin early, having settled for carving out a crude disc and calling it the moon. Airy was still at work on hers, and had just finished sketching the two-point perspective of her preliminary draft. With foals coming and going from the tables and scattered through the yard, nopony had given thought to the absence of a single unicorn filly.

“Hey, Check!” Kettle called out, “You mind grabbin’ another pumpkin? Cabbage here needs a do-over.”

Cabbage, an eponymously dressed earth pony filly, stared with a quivering lip at the remains of her masterpiece and the pieces it had become.

“Certainly,” Check called back. “Just give me one moment—” Check returned his attention to the filly he was assisting. “If you’ll pardon me, I shall return shortly to assist you in carving out your pumpkin’s grin, young miss.”

The filly smiled up at him and said, “’Kay, Your Majesty!”

Inside of the barn, the remaining pumpkins sat in a large pile in the corner closest to the entrance. He sorted through them, appraising each one carefully, and finally settled on a fruit that was squat with a wide, flat base; the only way it’d roll away would be if it were turned on its side like a wheel. He was about to step back into the yard, when a faint noise on the opposite end of the barn caught his attention. He stood still and listened.

Sniff.

He set the pumpkin down and approached the location of the noise, the sound of his hoofsteps muted by the straw spread across the floor. Behind a haystack he found its source: there Sprite sat, whimpering and plucking the straw out of her hat as it floated before her.

“Sprite? What’s the matter?” he asked, taking a seat beside her.

She didn’t look away from her hat, but she began to speak in a quavering, uncertain voice. “Can I ask you a question, Check Mate, sir? About magic?” She sniffled once more and plucked another straw from her hat.

“Well… yes, of course. I will try to answer it to the best of my ability.”

“You said that they study magic a bunch in Canterlot… how many kinds of spells are there?”

“How many? Goodness, I don’t think I could give you an exact number. There are spells to conjure illusions, to alter the perception and flow of time, to animate objects, and there are always more being discovered.”

Sprite nodded slowly, imagining possibilities. “And are there spells for changing things? For turning one thing into another?

“…Why do you ask, Sprite?”

Sprite swallowed and looked up at Check with reddened eyes. “Are there any that could turn a unicorn into an earth pony?”

“Sprite… what happened?”

“Lots of things,” she answered, dabbing her eyes with her hat. “My friends treat me like a magic show, my teachers keep sayin’ I should go to Canterlot to get tested, everypony acts like usin’ magic is so great. But they don’t get it! There are things you can’t do with it! I wouldn’t be able to grow a whole field of corn on my own…

“I remember last year, Mom gave each of us a pot with some parsley seeds in it that we could grow for her garden. I watered mine every day, gave it fertilizer, kept it in the sun, sang to it, and still it didn’t even come close to measurin’ up to how Flip’s grew! He didn’t even do it right! He poured hot coffee in his in the mornings to ‘wake it up,’ and kept it inside at noon so it wouldn’t get sunburned! It grew because he wanted it to!

“I don’t care about spells, I don’t care about fancy cities, I care about this place, and it’s like I don’t even belong…”

“Because you don’t feel that you could tend to a farm like your earth pony relatives?”

“Yes. No. Well kinda. There are all these incredible flowers and trees and mushrooms and grasses growin’ around here, and it’s all ‘cause of ponies like Flip and Uncle Kettle and Mom and everypony else. They’ve got a link to nature that I’ll never have.”

“Perhaps…”

Sprite’s head sank into her hat.

“…but you still were able to grow your parsley, weren’t you? Everypony has limitations, Sprite, and yes, sometimes they can hurt. Very much so, in fact. But that is only if we let them. My two closest friends are both pegasi: they’ve each the ability to explore the heavens in a way that I cannot.”

Sprite sniffed. “Is that why you’re dressed up as a princess?”

“Er, that was more that I appreciate the utility of the chess piece represented by my cutie mark, though I haven’t been very successful in getting the point across. But that is irrelevant. Even though I do not have wings, that does not mean I cannot fly. For instance, I could take to the air in a dirigible. Or, my friends could carry me.

“If your dream is to stay here, to make things grow, I do not think that is beyond you. You may have to work harder, but if given water, light, the proper soil, and care, a seed will sprout, regardless of who tends it. And remember that you are surrounded by those who would help you. I don’t think you should discount that.”

“I guess…”

“Also, although you may not think highly of your magical abilities, others around you do, and it would be unfair, and perhaps unwise, to dismiss their opinions so readily. Be wary about how quickly you cast your gifts aside, for they could be additional arrows in your quiver. They may be worth fostering.”

Sprite’s eyes widened in horror. “Are you sayin’ I should move to Canterlot?!”

“No, but I am saying that you should have an honest, candid discussion with your instructors and your mother about the development of your talents. Perhaps she or your uncle could even take you to visit Canterlot so that you would have a stronger basis for your thoughts about it before coming to a decision. I don’t think it’s such a terrible place.” Check smiled. “Having spent some time there myself. Will you promise me that you’ll at least talk to them about your concerns? And that you’ll at least leave a few pieces of straw in your hat? I do believe the floor has enough as it is.”

Sprite blushed, and the glow around her hat dissipated, allowing it to drop softly into the straw spread across the floor. “…Alright, I promise. Can I ask you somethin’ else, though?”

“But of course.”

“Is it true y’all are leavin’ tomorrow?”

“Indeed it is. Our duty calls.”

“Ah…” Sprite reached down to take her hat in her hooves. “I’m gonna miss identifyin’ plants with you.”

“As will I, Sprite. Now, there is a young mare waiting outside for her pumpkin, and I would be remiss to keep her in anticipation. Will you come with me and rejoin the others?”

“Yeah, alright.” Sprite placed her hat back on, its brim creasing around her horn. “And I guess maybe I could carve a pumpkin too. For plant identification purposes and all.”

“Of course.”

Check levitated Cabbage’s new pumpkin, Sprite levitated one for herself, and the two of them returned to the festivities. After giving Cabbage her pumpkin, Check weaved between groups of foals and adults towards the guesthouse and made his way upstairs, where the smart stone lay on top of his bags. He picked it up and wrote a brief message, before taking another item from his bags and returning downstairs to help a filly give her pumpkin its smile. The message read as follows:

Hello, Febre. If you would be so kind, please request that the castle treasury deduct the price of one copy of Mare Grylls’s Pandect of Plant Life Pabulums and Panaceas, 5th edition from my wages for payment to the castle library. If there are any issues with this request, I will do whatever is possible in order to mitigate them, and accept any reprimand this may incur. Also, please tell Ikebana that I send my apologies; there is somepony that could use his book even more than I.

As night fell and with it the sun, the weather pegasi and Crack Shot brought their thunderheads over the corn maze of Allie’s farm. This was not as impressive to the foals as Hop Seed imagined. This is because one can squeeze a considerable amount of sky between and around just five clouds. However, the clouds did make a lot of light and a lot of noise, and their parents seemed to hate it, so the foals gave them their tacit approval.

More impressive was the moon hanging grand and imposing above the eastern horizon. It was bright, full, and honey colored, a cabochon of clouded amber. Luna had outdone herself. And, because the full moon wasn’t actually due for another few days, she had done it early.

Storm had been lurking through the corn maze, stalking unsuspecting foals and leaping out to frighten them, deriving an amusement from it that he promised himself to feel guilty about later. He crouched behind a bend and awaited the approach of his next victims. After about ten minutes he was about to give up and change locations, when he heard the clop of approaching hoofsteps. He tensed himself and listened. They came closer, closer still, and once they were right at the corner he leapt.

“GOTCH”—WHACK!—“AUGH! Jeez!”

Storm stumbled to the ground, his left forehoof knocked from beneath him.

“Eat that, monster!”

Storm tore off the gorilla mask and lifted his head to face his attacker, who was just turning back around to do the same. Knelt down, Storm was at eye level with him, not that it would matter for the gold-plated helmet blocking the view.

“Flip? What the heck was that for?!”

Flip pushed the helmet up, and his pupils shrunk upon seeing the recipient of his deadly blow. The helmet dropped back down. “Uh. Self-defense, sir?” he suggested.

Behind him, Sprite had her hat pulled over her face in embarrassment, while Airy, no stranger to sibling scraps, swished her manticore tail excitedly and waited for Storm to take a swing.

“Self-defense? That seemed pretty offensive to me!” Storm shook out the stricken hoof, the pain ebbing into a dull throb.

“Well when somethin’ comes leapin’ out at ya, there ain’t a lotta time to think!”

Storm rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Point taken. I probably deserved that anyways. Jeez, that smarted.”

“So, uh…” Flip hesitated.

“Yeah?” asked Storm, giving his hoof another shake.

Well, the damage had been done. Flip decided to see how it rated. “That means my kick was, um, pretty good then, huh?”

“I’d hate to be on the other end of it when you’re older.”

“So why are you down here instead of up there makin’ lightning?” asked Airy. “You’re not afraid of it are ya?”

“Of course he ain’t afraid of it!” yelled Flip.

“How do you know, Flip?!”

“Easy guys,” said Storm, stepping between them. “As for your question, Airy, it’s not that I’m afraid. I like lightning just fine. The problem is that it likes me just a little more.”

“Huh,” she said, wondering how that could possibly be a problem.

“Anyways, do you guys know how to find your way out of here?”

Sprite nodded. “If you always go left, you’ll find an exit. I think.”

“I thought you were always supposed to go right,” said Airy.

“Why don’t we try goin’ right and left?” suggested Flip, trying to economize their efforts.

“Tell you what,” said Storm, “how about I walk with you guys? It might save me the trouble of getting another hoof to the shin later on.”

“You don’t need help gettin’ out, do you?” asked Airy. “I mean…” She flapped her wings for emphasis.

“No, I’d just like to take a walk through here. We’ve got topiary mazes back in Canterlot; who knows, maybe I could bring back some suggestions,” he added with a smile.

“You’ve got mazes like this one?” asked Sprite.

“Sure, though they’re made of hedges rather than cornstalks and they can get pretty tall. We’ll run through them every now and then for practice.”

“Wow,” said Flip. “I bet if you can do that, you could find your way around anywhere!”

“…You’d think that wouldn’t you?”

Storm followed behind the foals as they ambled through the maze, keeping his mouth shut whenever they debated on which way to go. For most of their trek the air had rumbled with the sound of thunder, but by the time they reached the yard behind the house it had ceased. Crack Shot and the weather ponies had finished up, and it was time for Nightmare Night to come to an end for the foals of Fiddler’s Plain. After a few protestations made hollow by the yawns that came after, they followed their parents down the lane from Allie’s farm, a strange and unlikely cast of creatures and characters off to rest until next year. The flickering grins and three-corner eyes of their jack-o-lanterns saw them safely off, as did the honey-colored moon just above.

Nightmare Night at Pimento’s was like any night at Pimento’s. Hop Seed had already crashed into a table, and things were in full swing. The faces were all the same except that half of them had masks on them, and Pimento hadn’t bothered with a special menu because he didn’t see a problem with the one he had. Some of the regulars who were probably more regular than was healthy were surprised to learn that it was a holiday.

Kettle called out a toast to the guardsponies, lauding how the Royal Guard put out some of the best dang corn harvesters he’d ever seen, and everypony joined in with shouts and cheers, even if they all weren’t entirely sure of what they were toasting. Hop then added, “But not some of the best dang weather ponies!” which came out as, “But-dang-whether-ain’t-no-cloud-GUHAW!” and then he rolled onto the floor.

Storm excused himself from the others to look for the more coherent of the weather ponies, so that he could return Whirlybird’s mask. He found Jackie and Maple Seed seated in an isolated corner of the tavern sharing a mug of spiced cider. When they saw him approaching, they waved him over.

“Howdy, soldier, enjoyin’ the party so far?” asked Jackie.

Before Storm could answer, Maple blew a raspberry.

Jackie frowned. “What? You get a piece of hair caught in your mouth?”

“’Enjoyin’ the party’? That’s such a stereotypical question, Jay,” teased Maple. “You gonna talk about the weather next?”

“Nah, I won’t talk work at a party. Beg pardon, Storm, pull up a seat if you’d like.”

Storm smiled and shook his head. “I won’t intrude. I was actually looking for Whirlybird. Have you two seen him?”

“Mm, he’ll probably be droppin’ on by a little later,” said Maple.

“Ah. Well in case I miss him, can you give this back to him?” Storm unfurled a wing, dropping the gorilla mask onto the table.

“Can do,” said Jackie. “So how’d it go down there? A little less painful, I hope?”

“Ah, heh, yeah, I’m not too sure about that.”

Meanwhile at the guardsponies’ table, a stallion had stumbled over to offer to buy Her Royal Highness a plate of salt, and Check Mate had given a polite, though clipped, refusal. Beside him, Crack Shot spotted Hazel Nut stepping through the tavern doors across the room, followed by Hugh and Mooney, a broad-brimmed hat shading her face, and a dark cloak cascading off of her body like a river of ink. Recalling earlier conversations, he came to a decision. After taking a swig of water to clear his throat, he stepped off towards the bar, the edges of his costume leaving a trail in the sawdust on the floor. He lifted the sheet over his head and tapped on the lacquered wood to get Pimento’s attention.

Pimento looked up from a tray he was working on. “Can I get you somethin’? You want another bowl of chili to inhale?”

“Nah, I’m good, dude. I’ve got a question for you, though.”

“Ask away.” Pimento continued carefully levitating bowls and glasses to the tray.

“Why don’t you make a move on her?” Crack Shot nodded towards Hazel.

A consummate professional, Pimento didn’t drop a single dish. However, his cheeks did get a lot redder.

“Uh, is your face burnin’ up because you’re embarrassed or gettin’ pissed off?”

“I ain’t decided yet, but let’s bank on the latter. What business is any of that of yours?”

“I’m just wonderin’. I heard that you like her, and that she likes you, so what the heck, dude?”

“Heh. ‘Likes me.’ So the mattress—”

“Ghost.”

“—is playin’ cupid, huh? Well, you’ve seen how she talks to other stallions.”

“Pfft, don’t know why you’re even freaking over that. Sounds like that’s how she talks to every stallion.”

“Every stallion but me.”

“Oh.” That little detail could’ve complicated the conversation if a pony was complicated enough to let it. Crack Shot powered on. “Well, so what? Carpe diem, dude. Or noctem. Or whichever—the point is, why don’t you give it a shot?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business?!”

Crack Shot saw that he was getting nowhere with this. He would have to try another strategy.

He turned around and started walking towards Hazel.

“What are you—dangit, get back here!”

Crack Shot ignored Pimento and called out to Hazel, who smiled warmly upon seeing him.

“Hey there, sugar,” she said. “Glad to see you could make a costume of that old sheet, though I’m even gladder you’re not lettin’ it cover your handsome face.” She followed this with a wink.

Well, Crack Shot assumed it was a wink. She was wearing an eye patch over the other eye, so he couldn’t be certain, but it definitely felt like a wink.

“Hey, I just want to double check somethin’ here,” he said. “Is it true that you’ve got a thing for Pimento?”

Hazel’s face reddened as much as Pimento’s did, but Crack Shot doubted there was any anger behind it. She seemed like the type to consider anger a waste of energy in lieu of other passionate expression.

“…Well, now. Where did you hear that?” she asked.

“Let’s say that a little bird told me.”

Hugh and Mooney tilted their heads.

“Neither of those two.”

“Well… I suppose there’s truth to that. Pim’s frank, hard workin’, and who doesn’t like somepony that can cook? I don’t think it’s reciprocated though. At least, he’s never hinted otherwise and he’s the kinda pony that always speaks his mind.”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause you kinda flirt with everypony else?”

Hazel let out a full-bodied laugh, which, with a body like hers, filled the room with its melody.

“I consider it well-meant teasing, bein’ silly,” she said. “But Pimento, well, that’s a serious stallion. He wouldn’t appreciate it.”

Crack Shot gave her a flat stare. “Have you tried? Heck, he’s probably all spazzin’ out right now because I’m talkin’ to you about this.”

Hazel would’ve leaned around Crack Shot to get a better look if she weren’t able to look right over him. She made sure that the brim of her hat was low over her eyes as she snuck a glance: Pimento, while putting together an order, kept biting his lower lip and pausing to sneak glances their way.

A smile crept unbidden to her lips. “Well, who woulda figured…”

For the sake of diplomacy, Crack Shot chose not to answer that question. Instead, he gave her a pat on the shoulder (although he had to reach for it) and stepped out of her way. She took a minute or two, perhaps to gather her courage and work out which words to trip over, and finally strode towards Pimento like a model down the catwalk. Crack Shot doubted she could do it any other way. ‘Cupid,’ Pimento had said, which hardly seemed fair. Crack Shot no doubt had much better aim.

As he went to rejoin the others, another thought struck him.

He tapped a stallion on the shoulder. “Hey, dude, do you know what time it is?” he asked.

The stallion took a sip of his cider and said, “Well, I reckon it’s just about time to get a watch.”

“Awesome, dude, you know you coulda just said no?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Crack Shot tried again with somepony else and was told that it was about 12:37 in the morning, which would have made it a Sunday. That was around when Kettle had wagered, wasn’t it? Or maybe Pimento and Hazel were twelve hours early. Kettle never had specified AM or PM. That was the trouble with civilian time.

Back at his and the others’ table, Crack Shot knocked back a bowl of the jet fuel Pimento called chili and, assuming that Pimento wasn’t tied up with Hazel (which would be a rather big assumption), resolved to order two more if he got the chance. It was a party after all, and he had just done his good deed for the day less than an hour in. If that wasn’t something worth celebrating, what was?

The day after Nightmare Night, for the very first time since the guardsponies had arrived, a rooster crowed at daybreak. Storm Stunner and Check Mate slowly sat up and rubbed the sand from their eyes, and, for the lack of an available snooze button, Crack Shot did the same. After putting on their armor and making sure all of their items were secure in their bags, they made their beds for the last time and stepped outside into the cold dawn air.

Allie and Kettle were already up and in the kitchen, working on a breakfast of grits, muffins, oats, coffee—everything, really. The foals were still asleep upstairs, but as the scents from the kitchen wafted into their room, their minds filled with dreams of cinnamon buns and powdered toast, and their stomachs rumbled for the reality. Minutes later, with everypony seated at the table, they ate, and talked, and took their time, allowing the day to warm up. When the meal was finished, the dishes washed and put up, and there were no more excuses to stay, the guardsponies shouldered their bags. Together with Allie, Kettle, Sprite, Airy, and Flip, they stepped outside and walked off to the northern edge of the farm.

“I guess this is it, then, huh?” said Kettle. “Gotta say that it’s been a pleasure havin’ y’all.”

Allie nodded. “Thanks for all of your help,” she said. “Y’all really went out of your way, in all kinds of ways.”

“We’re glad we could,” said Storm. “Thank you for the warm welcome, the hospitality, and everything else.”

He extended a hoof to Allie, to which she laughed. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said, before pulling him into a hug. “Be safe out there,” she added as she let go.

More words and embraces were exchanged between each of the ponies. Even Flip, who thought this all was reprehensibly mushy, eventually relented and joined in. Their farewells finished and with the Corn family waving goodbye, the guardsponies turned towards the northern mountains and began the next leg of their journey. Check Mate took their map from his bag and began reading it over as they trotted towards the tussocky expanse swaying in the breeze ahead of them.

“Aw, crap,” groaned Crack Shot, as they walked, “I totally forgot to get some souvenirs.”

“Well, at the very least you’ll have some new stories to tell,” said Check.

“Yeah, maybe, but I should probably grab something some time to go along with ‘em.” Crack Shot glanced back and waved one last time.

“We’ve still got a ways to go,” said Storm. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, though I doubt there are any gift shops on the way. Hm, you know somethin’ else, guys?”

“What’s that?” asked Storm.

“This probably would’ve looked so much friggin’ cooler if we were walking into a sunset.”

Chapter 8

It was late in the afternoon which had marked the start of the next leg of the guardsponies’ journey, and they were trailblazing, albeit not by any particular choice of their own. This was because there was no trail for them to follow. After all, a trail is not something that happens on its own. There is a reason for the expression ‘a beaten path’: a trail is, in essence, nature grudgingly getting out of the way. As the guardsponies trudged their way northward, the wild grass sprang back up defiantly behind them, though often a bite or two shorter than before.

“Thif ith awethome!” said Crack Shot between—and during—bites. “Ith like a buffet!”

Check Mate winced and turned away as his friend tore into another hunk of hapless grass. “My word… perhaps we should’ve brought along a morral.”

“You oughta try thome, ‘ude.” Crack Shot nodded towards a clump of shoots and waggled his eyebrows.

“No that’s… that’s quite alright. I’ve no appetite at the moment.” This was technically true, although he did have an appetite earlier. It was light and meager, and Crack Shot’s had murdered it.

“I think I recall something from Check’s book about some grass getting toxic late in the season,” said Storm. “Are you sure taking bites out of everything in sight is safe?”

Crack Shot swallowed and nodded. “I’m absolutely positive, dude.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“Check woulda said something.”

Check gave a lopsided frown. “I don’t know if I should feel flattered or put upon.”

“Why settle for one?” asked Crack Shot, before swinging his head like a reaper’s scythe and rending a few more blades of grass.

Storm turned towards Check. “While we’re on the subject, I’m surprised I haven’t seen you bring out your field guide yet.”

“Ah, yes; I left it behind with Sprite. It’s a bit of a story, but in summation I believe that she had a greater need for it.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Storm, impressed. “That was awfully nice of you.”

Crack Shot swallowed once more and added, “Yeah, and look at you with your helmet still on your head. Tsk, tsk, dude.”

“I think there’s more grass that you could be eating. Anyways, I’ll trust your judgment, Check, though that book looked like it could’ve been a few thousand pages easy. Seems like an awful lot to try and remember,” he added uncertainly.

Check smiled. “Yes, indeed it was.”

Storm opened his mouth to say something, then shrugged and continued walking on. Behind them the community of Fiddler’s Plain had long since disappeared behind the crests of hills beyond it, and Storm wondered about what they’d see next. Well, the view in front of him said quite clearly that there’d be some mountains, though it’d probably take a day or two before they reached them. At least it would by hoof.

It was easy, as a pegasus, to make a trip without making a journey. From a bird’s eye view, the world rolled out beneath you like a carpet, blending colors and textures and forms. On the ground, measuring the miles one hoofstep at a time, you got to notice the smaller details, a fact that Storm had come to appreciate. The scents, the sights, the sounds, and, as Crack Shot would attest to, the tastes. It was nice to hit the roa—

To hit the trai—

It was nice to be travelling again.

“I think it would be wise if we found a location to make camp for the evening while there is still light to work by,” said Check. “Would either of you mind scouting for a suitable site?”

“I’m on it, dude!” said Crack Shot. With that, he took to the air. From about a hundred meters above, he spent a few minutes scanning the hills rolling from northwest to northeast. After this careful inspection he looked down and shouted, “What am I supposed to be looking for?!”

“Water, if there is any in our proximity! And a flat areato erect the tent!” Check called back.

“Oh. That’s it?” Crack Shot descended and landed beside the others. “Well heck, dude, there’s a big spring just a little ways away. Or a pond, maybe. Whichever.”

“That’s convenient,” said Storm. “Lead the way.”

And Crack Shot did lead the way. It was after about a half hour of this leading, that Storm finally had to ask, “Exactly how far is a ‘little ways away’?”

“I dunno, dude. About three or four miles I guess?”

“…So not as convenient as I thought.”

It took another half hour to get there, and what the guardsponies found wasn’t so much a spring or a pond, so much as it was a lake. Nestled in a low part of the valley, it must have stretched for at least a mile across, mirroring the darkening sky and hills of the opposite side. Various plants jutted from the littoral, a meter or so away from a tree-lined shore that rose a foot above the waterline. Beyond them the lake floor was visible meters below the surface, a promising sign for a potential water supply. It would probably be described as crystal clear by somepony that had never been bothered to look at an actual crystal for long.

Storm whistled at the sight of it. “Crack Shot, you really need to work on your sense of scale.”

Check Mate walked towards the water’s edge and willed a stalk of one of the aquatic plants towards himself. After looking it over he smiled. “I think this location will prove most satisfactory,” he said. “Shall we prepare our habitation?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Storm.

He unstrapped the camping equipment from his withers and placed it down carefully, following suit with his saddlebags and armor. From the camping bag he removed the oilcloth tent, several pole segments, and the stakes to go with them. Between the three of them, it didn’t take long to clear away a spot and get the tent pitched. Afterwards, they stepped back to observe the sum of their labors. They didn’t have to step back very far.

“Huh. I kinda thought it’d be bigger,” said Crack Shot.

“It does appear rather, hm, cozy,” said Check.

The tent would be cozy for three ponies in the way that a pod was cozy for peas or a tin was cozy for sardines. It’d make sense that Gentian wouldn’t lug around anything bigger than necessary, Storm reasoned, although that did leave the question of who would—

“Dibs on the left side,” said Crack Shot as he removed his barding and saddlebags.

—be stuck in the middle. Storm looked to Check who said, “If you wish to have the opposite side of the tent, Storm, I fully understand and will relinquish it to you without protest,” which just wasn’t fair at all.

“No… no, that’s fine. It’s all yours,” said Storm, though he had enough foresight to add, “for tonight.”

“We’ll see, dude,” said Crack Shot. “But now that that’s all settled, mind comin’ with me for a minute?” He nodded for Storm to follow.

“Hm? Sure, where to?”

“Just over the water. This is the perfect chance to practice workin’ on some clouds.”

“Oh! Well… uh, we could if you’d like. Do you mind waiting up, Check?”

“Go on ahead,” said Check as he began removing cookware from the camping bag. “I shall be able to keep myself occupied.”

Storm nodded. “Alright, let’s give it a shot then, I guess,” he said to Crack Shot. “Uh, no promises, though.”

“No worries, dude, you’ll get it hammered down. Practice makes perfect, right?”

“Yeah, but it’ll probably make fog first.”

“Pfft, what’s fog but a cloud with a weight problem and fear of heights? Come on; let’s hit it while we can still see what we’re doing.”

The two pegasi took flight towards the center of the lake, flying low enough that ripples formed in the water beneath them. Once they had arrived, Storm asked, not overly enthusiastically, “Alright, how should we get started?”

Crack Shot crossed his hooves and looked at Storm thoughtfully. “Hmm, lemme ask first… when you tried to make clouds by hoof before, did you ever have anypony tryin’ to help you out?”

Storm thought back to those miserable hours spent laboring after school, coming home frostbitten, thunderstruck, and covered in distilled rainbow from the harrowing experience in nominal character building that his father would call, ‘nothing like the satisfaction of a job well done now is there, eh son?’

From that dark pit of unpleasant remembrances he was able to pick out a recollection of a number of fruitless lessons, and so said, “…Yeah, I did a few times.”

Crack Shot hummed to himself. “Right, I figured as much. And you tried to follow all of the advice they gave you, right?”

Storm canted his head. “Well, yeah. Of course.”

Crack Shot clapped his hooves together. “That right there is your problem, dude.”

Storm raised an eyebrow.

“It’s like this,” continued Crack Shot, “everypony has their own idea on the best way to do, like, anything, right? You always just need to relax, or to focus, or to be precise, or to stop tryin’ so hard, or to try a little harder, and everything’s just supposed to click into place. And everypony is technically kinda right, because whatever that idea is, it worked out just perfect for them. It’s like learning to whistle, or…” He tried to think of another analogue. “…Your folks are pegasi, right? Did one of ‘em ever try to teach you to fly?”

“Yeah, my dad did, actually.”

“And how’d that go?”

And back into the pit. Storm would have been about seven or eight at the time. He recalled hearing shouted the words, ‘And remember, son: wings turned counter upwise! Counter upwise!’ And at that point he had been shoved off of the roof of a two-story building into a swimming pool.

He frowned and said, “It could’ve gone smoother.”

“But once you did figure out flyin’, on your terms, I bet everything you were told made perfect sense afterwards.”

“Eh, I don’t know if I’d say—”

“Anyways, I figure this is how we could do it: I’m gonna start flyin’ around and makin’ some clouds, and you can do the same. I won’t tell you how to do it though, because then you might end up listenin’. But, what you can do is glance over every now and then if you wanna compare techniques. Sound good, dude?”

Storm lifted both forehooves in a shrug. “Why not?”

Crack Shot grinned. Then, with a strong flap of his wings, he shot forward, speeding just above the surface of the water. He let his hooves dip just slightly into it, sending a fine spray into the air. However, rather than sprinkling back down or evaporating into nothingness, it clung to the top of the lake in a trail of thick, wisping plumes behind him, colored a dull red by the sky above. Crack Shot leaned into a turn, now gathering and layering the mist into an ever-tightening gyre as he rose with it into the sky. Several meters above the lake he at last broke away, leaving a neat, delicate feather of cirrus behind. He had made it look so easy, so effortless, so second nature…

Wasn’t it just disgusting?

Well, who would Storm be to not try and rise to the challenge, hopefully with a cloud rising beside him? He took off across the water.

An hour later the sun had set, Storm had gotten nowhere, and fog had gotten everywhere, spilling out beneath him whenever he tried to pull it into the air. What was he doing wrong? Probably what he had always done wrong, whatever that was. He tried once more, spiraling in what he was sure was a tight, clean precession, yet it was like trying to lift water with a sieve. He stopped to watch Crack Shot, who was, no doubt for Storm’s sake, still going at it.

As Crack Shot skimmed the water, Storm observed, he would let his hooves skip across its surface, rather than cut through it. It was a delicate touch, one meant to blend enough air with the spray of moisture to make a mist light enough to get airborne.

Storm made a go of it. He tried to keep his hooves light, to keep the tension out of his muscles. It was clumsy at first, and the splash back soaked his fur up to his withers, but slowly and shakily he started to get it. The mists trailing behind him were lighter it seemed, but were they light enough? He began circling around them, building them taller and taller so that they peaked like a meringue…

…Only to have them all collapse. He stifled a curse. He had been so close he could feel it! And now he just felt wet, soaked from his head to his—

Storm hovered in place for a moment. Would something like that work?

He took flight once more, letting his hooves dance across the water as he had done just moments earlier. When he started into his turn, however, he began whipping his tail into the mists, trying to mix as much air into them as he could. The wind fought him—oh, how it fought him—trying to keep his tail pulled back in its currents. But he was not one to tire and he would not be one to give up, not now; he kept his tail thrashing in a fevered motion. Uncertainly, doubtfully, hopefully he spiraled into the air. And as he did so, the fog climbed with him. Only the thing was, several meters into the sky, it was no longer fog, was it?

Storm flew back a few feet to assess his work. It hadn’t been pretty, it hadn’t been graceful, but it had worked. He could just discern what it was in the low light: a small, dense swath of nimbus. Against the night sky, it was a thing of moonlight and shadows. Was that really all there was to it? That was what had eluded him for all of those years? His shoulders began to tremble.

“Hey, uh, everythin’ alright, dude?” asked Crack Shot, his brows knit with worry. He flew beside Storm and tapped him on the side. It was like tapping a powder keg.

Laughter erupted from Storm, great peals of it bursting out in irrepressible paroxysms. He laughed and laughed, until his eyes misted like the air in front of him.

“Ahahahaha,” added Crack Shot because he didn’t know what was going on.

“Hah… ahh… sorry about that,” said Storm, relaxing. “It’s just that when something has never happened, and you don’t think it’s going to happen, then suddenly it happens, it’s just...”

“Heh, yeah, it’s nice when that happens.” Crack Shot flew beside Storm’s cloud and craned his neck around it. “Not too shabby, dude; looks like a nice little rainmaker. For a while there I thought you were gonna drain the lake.”

Storm looked around and gave an embarrassed chuckle. He had made a soup bowl of the lake’s low valley, a pale fog drifting just above it. “Well, it did take a bit of experimentation. …Thank you, Crack Shot.”

“Hey, no prob, dude! What are friends for? Anyways, this baby looks like it’s good for a thunderbolt or two. Want to give that another go?”

Storm did, in fact. After one success he was ready to try for another, and so he lined up a buck towards the cloud.

It is a commonly heard piece of advice that one should not push their luck. Noting this, it’s probably not a good idea to kick it, either. From the shores of the lake could be heard a crack of thunder, which would have followed the flash powder flicker of a pegasus lighting up just seconds prior.

Check Mate had kept himself busy during the others’ brief absence. Despite the influx of fog and low visibility with it, he had successfully perused and gathered some of the local vegetation (enough for dinner, dessert, and a few days ahead), gotten a fire started, written a letter to his parents, and sent his next move to Luna (pawn to g4, for the curious). The clap of thunder let him know the others would be joining him presently. As he replaced the smart stone in his bags, Storm and Crack Shot landed beside the fire. Without a word, Check lifted a kettle from beside the crackling wood and poured some steaming water from it into a smaller tea pot. After allowing it to steep for a moment, he poured its contents into a tin mug which he levitated towards Storm. “Perhaps you could use this. I apologize that I do not have any porcelain to serve it in.”

Storm took the mug. A warmth seeped into his hooves that nearly matched the warmth creeping into his cheeks. “Ah, heh, thank you… so I guess you saw what happened over the lake, huh?”

Check returned his attention to the campfire, lifting the lid from a large, steaming cast iron pot to check its contents. “No more than the coruscation. However, couple that with the scent of ozone you seem to have acquired, and it is enough to put the pieces together. How is the tea?”

Storm set the mug down. “Really good, actually. What is it?”

Check smiled and poured another mug. “Goldenrod; there’s a patch of it growing just up the hill. Would you care to try it, Crack Shot?”

“Sure, dude, thanks.” Crack Shot took the mug as Check passed it to him and had a sip. “Hey, not bad at all!”

“I am pleased to hear that. It isn’t too mild?”

“Not at all, dude. Heck, I might have to pick up a few bags when we get back.”

Check froze. “Er, bagged tea?” he asked. “With the, erm, fannings and stems and dust and such?”

“Or you know those instant powders you just mix into some hot water? That’d be good; maybe if they got it with some of that lemon flavor mixed in.”

“L-lemon flavoring? A substance that may only be referred to as ‘lemon’ or any other member of the genus Citrus by dint of a creative anagramming of its chemical composition?”

Storm, seeking to interrupt Crack Shot before he risked further blasphemy by asking for a spoonful of sugar or something, quickly asked, “So what’s in the pot?”

“Wha? Oh, er, pardon; I forgot myself. Well… hopefully it is dinner.” Check removed the pot from the fire, set it between them, and lifted the lid. A warm, pleasant aroma drifted out. “There’s quite an abundance of wild rice growing just off the shore. I attempted boiling some of it, along with a few hopniss tubers I discovered while fetching our firewood.”

“Wow,” said Storm. “And here I thought we were going to just be eating grass the rest of the way.”

Check gave a small laugh. “There will be plenty of that, I’m sure.” He set out a service of mismatched dining ware—a couple of plates and a bowl, and began dishing out servings from the pot with a large metal ladle. “I hope it is alright. It is admittedly a bit of an improvisation.”

“Dude, this is great!” said Crack Shot after having a bite. Coming from him, this meant that it was edible, or at least not immediately poisonous, though it was nice to hear all the same.

Storm took a taste and was quick to take another. The larger pieces, what he deduced to be the hopniss, had a starchy, nutty flavor that complemented the mild sweetness of the wild rice. For an improvisation, it didn’t leave much room for improvement.

“Yeah, this is fantastic,” said Storm. “Thanks, Check.”

“That my endeavors are well received is thanks enough. There are also some wild blackberries to serve as a light dessert.”

Crack Shot brushed a hoof across his lips. “Man, who’da figured that roughin’ it would be so posh.”

The meal ended quickly, and afterwards Storm and Crack Shot rinsed the dining ware in the lake, while Check prepared another pot of goldenrod. After they had reconvened around the campfire, mugs of tea all around (well, two mugs and one bowl), Crack Shot broke the silence with a question.

“Hey, you guys know what we totally forgot to do yesterday?”

“We forgot something?” asked Storm. He felt that sudden, chilly, unbidden rush of fear known to all travelers; that feeling that perhaps, for example, you had left a candle lit, and that it had perhaps burned down the length of its paraffin into the dry, wooden furniture underneath. It was completely unreasonable of course, but trying telling it that.

“Scary stories,” continued Crack Shot. “I’m pretty sure they’re like a Nightmare Night requirement, and the same goes for sittin’ around a campfire. Plus we got this creepy fog everywhere, courtesy of Storm over here; why don’t we tell some?”

“Ah! I’ve never had a chance to participate in such a tradition, and it does sound entertaining,” said Check. “I think it’s a fine idea.”

“Sweet. You in, Storm?”

Storm fought back a yawn. “I suppose I could go for one or two. Since it was your idea, are you going to lead us off?”

“Sure, dude. I got one that my brother told me that’s pretty good.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

“Just a sec. Hey, Check—mind tossin’ me the geezer’s rock?”

Check Mate did not toss it. He gently removed it from his bag and levitated it, along with its stylus, into Crack Shot’s lap, who then began scribbling on its bottom panel until most of it glowed.

Crack Shot then stretched his neck and jaw, coughed once dramatically, and held the smart stone below his face. Its glow created deep shadows beneath his eyes and gave him a sinister smile. He began his tale.

It was a dark and stormy night.

“Why do you always start your stories like that?” interrupted Storm. “With ‘a dark and stormy night.’”

“Dude!” Crack Shot lowered the stone, leaving a much less sinister frown.

“You do it a lot. Remember when you told us about how you got your cutie mark? Or when you dropped your helmet in the pond outside the castle? Or how about the time you got your tail caught under a cart wheel at the Summer Sun Celebration?”

“There is precedence,” said Check.

“Yeah, because it’s an awesome way to start a story.”

“I’m just saying you could mix it up a little,” said Storm.

“Fine, fine, I’ll do it over. No friggin’ interruptions this time around though.”

Storm and Check nodded. Crack Shot cleared his throat once more.

It was a stormy and dark night, and the world had exploded in ghosts.

Killhoof stared at the remains of the city. No, the town. A ghost town! Once it had belonged to the living. Once the world had belonged to the living. ‘Cept like graveyards or somethin’, I guess, I dunno. Anyways, he was standing on a train that was headed straight for the edge of a canyon.

“It ain’t easy killin’ what’s already dead, but these ghosts have kidnapped the mayor’s daughter, and if I don’t save her in twenty-four hours, thirty city blocks are gonna blow,” he grunted. “They’re pushin’ it to the limit, so I’m gonna have to max it all the way to eleven.” He spun his ghost-killing spear in a way that was like friggin’ awesome as anything, and, dude, you’d just have to have seen it. “And they don’t stand a ghost of a chance.”

“Hasta la ghosta,” he whispered.

“It’s hunt or be haunted,” he said.

Crack Shot paused, half of a frown crossing from one corner of his mouth to the other. He furrowed an eyebrow.

Storm and Check were staring. The former asked, “What the heck was that?!”

Crack Shot groaned. “Aw crap, I can’t remember how the rest of the story goes.”

Storm, not entirely sure of how the beginning of the story had gone—save for figuratively and literally towards a cliff—didn’t know what to say.

“One of you two go ahead,” continued Crack Shot. “It’ll come back to me.” He tossed the smart stone and its stylus towards them. Check Mate sighed and plucked them out of the air.

“Well, you’ve got the stone, so how about it, Check?” asked Storm. “I bet you’ve read a few good horror stories. Heh, maybe we’d even understand a few of them.”

“I suppose I could. Although like you allude, there is the concern that the tone and prose of a number of them may be considered a bit… euphuistic by the modern audience.” Check gave Storm and Crack Shot a long, meaningful look.

“Ah heh, well, you never know, right?” said Storm weakly.

Check Mate did, but he went ahead anyways.

It is when the gibbous moon hangs low over the foetid wastes of ancient Kadatherong, its wan light painting the ponderous and decaying sepulchers of Mnat in grim pallor, that a strange, repellant, squamous race rears itself upon the land from putrefying mires, engaging in a queer and guttural colloquy.

From somewhere nearby, a scene-savvy cricket chirped conveniently. It would have been nice if a tumbleweed could’ve rolled by as well, but it just wasn’t the right part of the world for it.

Check noted the polite, vacant looks from Storm and Crack Shot, and a small smile crept across his face. With a chuckle he said, “My apologies. I couldn’t resist the chance at having a bit of joke of it at first.”

Crack Shot continued staring for a moment. Then his mouth widened into a grin, and he clapped his hooves together. “Nice, dude, I didn’t know you made those!” he said, which earned an expression from Check that dampened the heat of the campfire.

“Anyways,” Check continued, “if you’ll indulge me, I do have a more contemporary story that I would share. Hopefully it will prove fitting as a campfire narrative.”

This is a tale about two brothers and a dare.

To know them is to know how they knew each other. The younger of the two would call the older ‘big brother,’ or ‘Hayloft.’ The elder of the two would call the younger ‘twerp,’ or ‘crybaby,’ or, if he was feeling charitable, ‘Dandy.’ Dandelion, no older than ten, was just old enough to wish to be thought an adult; Hayloft, no older than thirteen, was just old enough to believe himself one.

Hayloft had woken his younger brother earlier one night, after their parents had retired to their bed. He had said that they had an errand to run, in tones that left no room for argument. They had snuck out of their parents’ house, leaving no note or other clue about their absence.

“Where are we going?” Dandelion had asked, not for the first time that night, not for the last, although his brother’s answer would not change.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

That would have been an hour prior.

It was moonless, the night that they left the firefly lamps of their village behind them, and the stars did little to light their way. In deserted fields, abandoned farmhouses rose intermittently on either side of the road. Their windows were lightless, hiding whatever may’ve lain, or may’ve lurked, behind them. Often Dandelion stumbled and tripped, struggling to keep close to his brother as he was led down the darkened trail, farther and farther from home. Strange noises and cries and cachinnations filled the air around them, and he tried to imagine the creatures creating them. Owls and foxes, bats and crickets. Natural things and nothing more.

As they continued on, trees began to rise around them, first one by one, then in groups; it was not long before they were in a forest, the canopy robbing them of the scant starlight. The trail grew even more precarious, with hidden roots and stones threatening to catch an unwary hoof at every step. Dandelion fell several times.

“Maybe… maybe we should head back, Hayloft,” he said. “At least until tomorrow when it’s easier to see.”

Hayloft said nothing at all.

“H-Hayloft?”

Dandelion spun around. In every direction he was met by the same sight, a darkness cut into shadows and phantom shapes. The night noises grew louder, more insistent, closer.

“H-H-Hayloft?!”

Suddenly his breath was stolen as something large bowled into him, pinning him to the ground. He tried to shriek, to call out to his brother, but the weight pressing into him reduced his cries to nothing more than strained gasps. Tears ran down the sides of his face as he felt a hot breath waft over it, and he screwed his eyes shut.

“Ha! You’re such a wuss, twerp!” The dark shape of Hayloft stood and pulled his brother up by his nape.

Dandelion, his heart pounding with fear and embarrassment, tried to say something biting, something cutting in rebuke, but it all came out in stutters and whimpers. “Y-you…”

“Oh, get over it. Come on, we’re almost there.”

Hayloft walked a few feet ahead then stopped, waiting for Dandelion to catch up. Dandelion wanted to stop right then, to tell his brother off and to walk—no, to run back in the opposite direction. But even more, he wanted to impress his brother, to earn his respect. He hastened after him, deeper along the wooded path.

As they walked, Dandelion became aware of a silence. A heavy, suffocating silence as cold as a stone. Whatever creatures populated the forest behind them found no quarter, no shelter here. The woods were thicker now, and different. There was something wrong about them.

“Here we are…,” said Hayloft, though whatever landmark he had used to determine that, Dandelion could not discern. There was a smile to be heard in Hayloft’s voice, and it was not a kind one.

“Um, w-what is this place?” asked Dandelion. “What are we going to do here?”

“What are you going to do, you mean.” Hayloft nudged him forward. “You’re going in there.”

“W-what?! Why do I need to go in there?!”

“To prove to your big brother how tough you are. You ever hear of a moonflower?”

Dandelion shook his head, although one would have had to strain their eyes to see it.

“It’s just what it sounds like: a flower that glows like the moon. I hear there’s a whole grove of them in there, but you can only find them when the night is at its darkest. A night like tonight. If you go in and get one, you’ll prove to me just how brave you are.”

“Is… is that all? I just need to get some flower?”

“Well, there is one little thing…” There was that cruel lilt again. “This is just a rumor, of course, but some ponies say that there are weird things lurking around this part of the woods.”

“What k-kind of things?”

“Beats me; nopony knows. I suppose—assuming it’s true, of course—that if you were to actually run into one… well, you can probably guess. Of course, I think it’s just a load of horse apples. You wouldn’t believe a dumb rumor like that, would you?”

Dandelion wanted to say yes. He wanted to run home, to bury himself beneath the sanctuary of his covers where no fell apparition real or imagined could find him. He was just a tiny, vulnerable thing, and all of this was too much. “…N-no,” he whispered, fearful of not looking brave.

“That’s what I thought, Dandy. You’re a lot smarter than you look.” Hayloft mussed his mane. It was a small gesture, but it was rare to Dandelion and as such it was a treasure. “Go on in and take a look if you’re not chicken. I’ll wait right here and give a whistle every now and then so you can find your way back.” Dandelion swallowed audibly, nodded, and began into the heart of the wood, trying and failing to hide his hesitation.

Dandelion crept along cautiously, taking slow steps along a tortuous path, trying to avoid colliding with any unseen trees or their pointed branches. It felt like hours since he had gone on alone, and he had found only darkness. The only sounds to be heard were the snaps of dead branches beneath his hooves, and the shudders of his breath. This was a prank, he concluded. There was no moonflower garden, there was nothing stalking in the shadows, there was only his brother playing a very mean trick on him. Well, no more. Dandelion was going to head back and let him know just how he felt about all of this.

Only he didn’t know which way to go.

Hayloft was supposed to have been whistling so that he could find his way back! But of course he wouldn’t be, not if this was all some terrible joke. Dandelion’s careful trot became a canter, became a gallop. He had to get out. The decaying forest floor protested with cracks and snaps as he raced blindly in one direction or another, his lungs beginning to burn.

Then, a glimmer of white caught his eye through shadowed brambles. Could it be?

He slowed as he approached its source, a scattering of luminescent blossoms growing out of the rot. Moonflowers… his brother had spoken the truth. He stopped beside one and bent down to smell it; it was odorless and felt like breathing in frost.

There was the snap of a branch behind him, causing him to start. He felt himself become very angry.

“Alright, Hayloft, you had your fun, and I found your stupid flowers, so quit being such a jerk!”

There was a whistle in the distance.

His brother’s whistle.

Dandelion’s breath caught in his throat as another's came in a rasp, right beside his ear.

Hayloft had decided that his little brother had probably gone through enough. He had meant to allow Dandelion to get himself lost for ten minutes or so, before finally showing mercy and calling out to him. But then he had heard the little wuss running like mad, probably in some spastic panic. No doubt his parents would learn about this if he let it go on too long. He gave a shrill whistle. The response he received chilled his blood.

It wasn’t a scream. It was what would have been a scream if it had been given a chance to become one, if it hadn’t been suddenly, abruptly cut short. Hayloft felt fear then, a deep, mortal fear for his brother. And so he ran into the heart of the wood after him…

“And then a skeleton popped out!”

“Er, beg pardon?” said Check.

“That’s how my story was supposed to end,” said Crack Shot. “A skeleton pops out! It’s a total plot twist.”

“And what plot was there, exactly, for you to twist?” asked Storm.

“Remember how Killhoof had that ghost-killing spear?” asked Crack Shot, patiently.

“I recall, yes. What about it?”

“Like, ‘ghost-killing’ doesn’t say anything about skeleton killing.”

“Ugh, fine.” Storm turned towards Check. “So what happened afterwards?”

“I’m afraid that’s where my story ends, Storm. The dénouement is left to the listener’s imagination.”

“Oh… I see.”

Check topped off Storm’s tea; Storm hadn’t realized it had gone cold. “But for now, it has come to your turn, if you’ve a story to share.”

Storm blew some of the steam from his mug and took a sip as he thought. “Hmm… nothing’s coming to mind at the moment.”

“Really, dude?” said Crack Shot, arching an eyebrow. “That kinda surprises me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you did hook up with a librarian—”

“Writer,” Storm corrected. “Slash bookstore owner.”

“—so I’d have figured you two would spend a lot of time reading. How else are you gonna spend your spare time?” At that moment, a particular part of his imagination chimed in from the gutter. “Whoop,” he said, “never mind.”

Storm rolled his eyes. “Sure, we read together now and then,” he said. “But not all of the time. There are other things like running, stargazing, conversation—and you can stop giving me that look, Crack Shot.”

“Regardless,” said Check, “if nothing comes to mind, do not feel pressed. This is just a diversion, after all.”

Stormed hummed to himself. The campfire popped and hissed as the three of them sat quietly, sipping their tea. Before they smothered the fire and put away the dishes and cookware, he’d like to tell some kind of story over it. He pored through his memory.

“Actually, pass me the stone. I think I do have a horror story I could share.”

“Yeah?” asked Crack Shot, his ears perking up.

“Maybe. I never did tell you guys about Blueblood’s art exhibit, did I?”

Later that night, as Storm lay between Check and Crack Shot beneath a shared duvet, he felt glad that he had written his journal entry beforehand. If he hadn’t, he might’ve felt obligated to write about lying between Check and Crack Shot beneath a shared duvet. If Nomde could only see him now. He smirked. On the other hoof, who knew: maybe she’d be jealous of the other two. But, the nights had gotten colder. Even if there wasn’t much room to toss and turn, it was warm, and there was a roof over his head, albeit one made of tarpaulin. Storm closed his eyes. A hoof landed heavily on his face as Crack Shot turned over in his sleep. Then again, maybe there was something to be said about sleeping under the stars.

The next morning, the guardsponies made a quick, simple breakfast of some grass. Afterwards, they left their camp to visit the areas that Check had scavenged, in order to supply their saddlebags. When they returned to pack away the remaining camping equipment, they found that they had a visitor. Perched in a tree nearby was a raptor of some sort. Its head was cocked to one side, and it considered them with keen, golden eyes. Of note were its beak, talons, and plumage, which were each as black as a raven’s. Or a crow’s, if one wanted to argue the point.

Crack Shot walked to within a couple of meters of the tree and said by way of greeting, “What the heck are you?”

It merely regarded him with its piercing stare.

Check stepped beside Crack Shot for a closer look. “Hm, I’ve never heard of one having such stark coloring, but judging by its size and the shape of its beak, I believe it may be some sort of kite.”

“Nah, that can’t be right,” said Crack Shot. “It doesn’t have any string.”

“A kite being a type of bird of prey.”

“Oh. Didn’t they know the name was taken?”

“Do you think it’s here to fish?” asked Storm. “I wonder why it’s staring at us like that.”

“Well, if we’re intruding on its territory, it may be wondering whether or not to consider us a threat.”

If the bird had any thoughts on the matter, it kept its beak shut.

Crack Shot bit his upper lip in thought. He reached into his bag and plucked a sprig of blackberries and tossed it upwards, where it landed on the branch beside the bird. It cocked its head to the other side as it glanced at them. “Fastest way to somethin’s heart is through its stomach right?” he said. “We just need to let it know it can trust us.”

“Maybe if it’s something they’d actually ea—oh.” Storm watched, surprised, as the bird ate one berry, then another, until it had picked the sprig clean. Afterwards it returned its attention to the guardsponies, boring into them with its honey-colored stare. The guardsponies stared back for a minute or so.

“I think it worked,” said Crack Shot.

Storm shrugged. “If you say so. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to feed wild animals like that, though.”

“Why’s that? I doubt that they’d complain too much about it.”

“Because…” Storm thought for a moment then realized he didn’t have a convincing answer.

“Besides, ponies feed the ducks in Canterlot all the time, dude.”

“I don’t know if that counts.”

It should be said that the ducks of Canterlot would have been insulted to be lumped into the category of wild animals. Storm was certain that he had once seen one wearing a bib.

“Either way,” said Check, “it would probably be for the best if we were on our way. Still, I’d be interested in learning more about its species after our travels have ended. I wonder what other creatures we might encounter.”

The tent came down faster than it went up, and within a few minutes the guardsponies were continuing their trek northward along the lake’s shoreline. Behind them, the kite continued watching until they had disappeared behind a hill near where a tributary fed into the lake. Then, with a graceful dive from its perch, it was off.

The tributary the guardsponies followed was a stream that might’ve been a river in an earlier part of the year. The wide, silty banks on either side of it said as much, marking the borders where it would have surged with snowmelt in the summer months. Now, winding down the valley with a gentle, low gurgle, it seemed to be winding down for the year.

But, there was water enough to drink from, to wash by, and it was going their way. Storm thought about where they were headed, what they might see, where’d they camp next.

“Dibs on the left side of the tent,” he said, since it was now on his mind.

“Dude, you can’t just call dibs like that!” said Crack Shot. He was flying just above the others, scouting the way ahead. “You gotta wait ‘til we figure out where we’re camping first.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! Otherwise you could just call dibs now for the rest of the trip.”

“Hmm… I don’t know, that sounds like a good deal to me,” said Storm, with half of a smirk.

“We could always decide with a coin toss,” suggested Check Mate, getting into the spirit of the conversation.

“Hah! No dice, dude. And no coins, either. ‘Sides, between the two of us, it might not be fair to Storm here. So callin’ dibs is off limits until we first figure out just where we’re kickin’ it for the night.”

“And how will we know where that is?” asked Storm.

“I’ll let you know when I see it.”

As the end of the day drew near, Crack Shot in fact found no small amount of difficulty in identifying a camping spot, if only for all the trees blocking his view. The stream had led into a forest of dense pine, large and red and imposing. Their needles were verdant and would remain so through the winter season, and no doubt the trees had been through hundreds of them. Pine cones littered the soft forest floor, just the right size to turn into a bird feeder—at least for a day or two, after which it’d become a squirrel feeder, or, if the birds were especially unlucky, a cat feeder. Visible in the near distance, just above the tree tops, were the tips of the mountain ridge they’d cross the next day. They rose like jagged teeth, and a warm wind rolled down them into the forest like a breath.

“So we've got water,” said Crack Shot, nodding towards the stream. “What else are we lookin’ for this time?”

“Just space should suffice. We’ll want area enough for the tent, as well as for digging a fire pit if we’re to have a cooked meal. The latter will take some time, and we’ll want to be sure of its depth, so somewhere nearby would be preferred.”

Storm scanned the forest floor, wondering how deep the strata of dry pine needles and branches went. “At least there’s plenty of kindling to use.”

“Yes,” said Check, “though ideally not all at once.”

“I’ll fly up and take a peek,” said Crack Shot before taking off upwards, a rain of needles and branches falling behind him.

“Hopefully he’ll keep his search within a few hundred yards this time,” said Storm, stepping away from the sudden shower of sap and twigs. He turned to find Check meandering about, examining the pine trees. “Looking for something?” he asked.

“Just for additions to our provisions,” answered Check. “There is a small knife in one of the pockets of the camping bag. Would you mind if I made use of it for the moment?”

“Sure, which pocket?” asked Storm. But, before he could look, the knife was already floating from the bag. “Ah. Glad to be of service.”

Check scored a long, thin rectangle into the bark of a tree and began to worry it free with the flat of the blade. With a bit of effort it peeled back in a single strip, revealing a length of white flesh. Check began scraping bits of it off.

“Bark?” asked Storm.

“Indeed. When boiled or fried it is supposedly quite pleasant. Perhaps if we can find some pine seeds I could attempt the latter. Some fresh pine needles should also make for a pleasant tea.”

Storm was surprised once more, pleasantly so, by what nature had to provide. Although he’d never admit it now, if he’d been asked what ponies survived on in the wild prior to the trip, marshmallows and trail mix would’ve ranked at the top of the list. They might have been the list.

From nearby and above the tree tops came the call of “Dibs!” which meant that Crack Shot had found a spot to set up camp. As Storm and Check began to walk off toward it, a shock of violent red caught the former’s eye. Storm glanced down to see a mushroom, red capped with bright white spots. It had a strange richness to its color, a redness that stood out even when the setting sun painted everything else in kind.

“Hey, Check—what kind of mushroom is this?” he asked.

“Hmm, it appears to be a fly amanita… although I must say I had no idea its colors would so vivid.” Check knelt down to take a closer look. “Oh, this is curious–its gills are blue. Hmm…”

Storm took a closer look as well. After a moment he concluded that there was nothing informative he could say, and assumed that going with, ‘they’re not much like a fish’s then, are they?’ wouldn’t pass intellectual muster. “…I take it they’re not supposed to be blue,” he said, for the purpose of conversation.

“Not for a fly amanita, although they may be perfectly common for this species, whatever it may be. I saw no mention of anything like it in the Pandect.”

Storm stood up. “Well, there’s a lot of world to try to fit in one book. Maybe the author just missed this little bit of it?”

Check gave a small nod and stood as well. “…Yes, I suppose you’re right. Another small mystery, then; they do seem to be adding up. Regardless, it’d be impolite to keep Crack Shot waiting. Shall we?”

Crack Shot was as good as his dibs. The spot he’d found had room enough for the tent and a fire, and there were even a few fallen logs to sit on if one didn’t mind the sap (and he certainly didn’t if his appearance was any indication). There were just enough minutes of sunlight left to pitch the tent, prepare a fire pit, and to get a dinner sizzling above it. Night fell, and the depths of the forest darkened. In the light of their fire, the camp felt more insulated, more isolated to Storm, like an island of orange in a sea of black and indigo. Check’s story came to mind and, along with it, its uncertain ending. Although it wouldn’t have fit, Storm wanted to believe it would have been a happy one.

There was the sound of rustling feathers and branches stirring overhead. Nearly invisible against the night was a kite, a familiar kite, perched just above them. Its golden eyes stared down from out of the darkness.

“Hey, look who’s back!” said Crack Shot. He began fishing through his saddlebags.

“Do you think that’s the same one from the lake?” asked Storm.

“It may be,” said Check. “If so, I wonder why it would follow us. Could we still be within its territory?”

Storm lowered his gaze and found Crack Shot pulling another sprig of blackberries from his bags. “Ah. I think I might have an idea.”

Crack Shot whistled to the kite and tossed the blackberries towards it. It snatched them out of the air with ease.

Check Mate pursed his lips as he considered this. “Hm, it couldn’t just be for those berries; they were not in rare supply. If the bird had an appetite for them, it could have easily sated itself at one of the bushes near the lake.”

“I think it’s like when you feed a dog out of your hoof,” suggested Crack Shot. “Even if it’s the same stuff they always eat out of a bowl, they go friggin’ nuts if you hoof feed ‘em. It’s because of instinct.”

Crack Shot whistled once more and patted the log beside him. The kite stared at him warily. Then, to Storm’s surprise, it listened. It flew down and perched beside Crack Shot, who offered it more berries as a reward.

“Heck, this guy’s pretty chill; maybe we could bring it back to Canterlot with us and see if it can get Philomena to take a lesson in not bein’ such a freak. I bet it’d be like the taming of the shrew.”

“I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to remove wild animals from their natural habitats, either,” said Storm, in an act of conversational necromancy.

“Why?”

“Because, well…” and he was again without an answer. “…Because you just aren’t!” He then thought to add, “It could stress the animal out or something, I think.”

It was an argumentative leap of faith, but judging by the doubt crossing Crack Shot’s features, Storm had stuck the landing.

“Yeah, I could see that, I guess,” said Crack Shot, imagining what effect prolonged exposure to the phoenix might have on the poor kite’s mental wellbeing. “‘Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster,’” he said, gravely.

“Neightzsche. I’m impressed,” said Check.

“Thanks, dude, but I got it from a fortune cookie so I think it’s actually Neighpon. Anyways, since its hangin’ with us, why don’t we set it up with a dinner bowl? That tree bark edible yet?”

Check Mate lifted the pot’s iron lid. “Very soon. In fact, I would give it only a couple more—”

With a precipitous flapping of wings, the kite was gone.

“…minutes. Hm.”

Crack Shot scratched his head. “Huh. Guess it thought the same thing I did when you told me what we’d be eating.”

On that odd note, dinner began, and the rest of the night passed without incident. Well, Check and Storm had to shove Crack Shot into the stream to wash the sap out of his fur before crawling into the tent, but that can hardly count.

The guardsponies rose just ahead of the sun the next morning. They had a long hike across the mountains awaiting them, and it’d have to keep waiting until they’d gotten through the rest of the forest first. As they worked their way through the pines, the wind running off of the mountains grew stronger.

“What do you think’s waiting for us on the other side?” asked Storm.

“The map does not name any specific location, although it does mark one,” said Check. “I presume there will be a landmark of some sort to identify our destination.”

“Well, Luna did say she was curious about the lay of the land, so there must be something worth seeing.”

“Huh… about that. I’ve been kinda wonderin’ about somethin’,” said Crack Shot.

“What’s that?” asked Storm.

Crack Shot stopped walking and turned to face the others. The wind whistled through the branches overhead as he mulled over how to articulate his thoughts. “Like… why us? Why are we out here?”

“Are you having second thoughts about this trip?”

“Dude, we’ve been gone for what—like a month? I’m probably up to hundredths now. But no, the trip’s cool and all. I’m just wonderin’, like, what does she need us for? It’s not like anypony’d tell her off if she wanted to take a week to go sightseeing.”

“I don’t know,” said Storm. “Maybe it’s not just about visiting Point A and Point B. Remember when Check told her about how we were going to help Allie and Kettle? She seemed pleased to hear that we were doing things like that.”

“Oh, come on, dude. Don’t tell me you thought she was expectin’ that like some kinda puppet master.”

“No, but she did give us free rein, right? Maybe that’s because she trusted us to do some good with it.”

“I am sure she has her reasons, and her reasons are her own,” said Check. “However, she has entrusted us with a task. Rather than ask ‘why us?’ may one perhaps ask ‘why not?’”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Crack Shot. He kicked a pine cone; it flew between a tangle of branches and landed in a tree’s hollow. “It’s just when I think about it, it seems kinda crazy that we got picked, you know? Seems like the kinda thing that happens to other ponies.”

Storm smiled and gave his friend a pat on his shoulder. “Maybe. But, we did get picked, so let’s get going.”

There was no distinct border between forest and mountain, but gradually the ground began to incline, to harden into slate, and to leave the pine trees behind. Soon the guardsponies were climbing a steep path of rock, following the stream which now burbled and splashed in a succession of small waterfalls. Moss and scant shrubbery, ignorant of all of the soft and fertile soil it could be growing in at the base of the mountain, sprouted from the broken and wetted stone instead. This proved that nature will find a way just about anywhere, often because it is unaware of the options. The wind grew thin, biting, and cold the higher the guardsponies climbed. It whipped away every steaming breath they took.

Hours into their trek they at last stopped beneath an outcropping of rock, out of the wind. The sun, now hanging in the southwest part of the sky, lent a weak but welcome warmth. Their vantage afforded them a fine view. They could just make out the edge of Fiddler’s plain and Allie’s farm. The distance dulled the colors of her fields into pale browns and yellows. Beyond it they saw portions of the lake they had first camped by, much of it hidden by its surrounding hills. But most of all, they saw just how far they’d travelled. It put their trip in perspective.

“Aw man, ith that it?” asked Crack Shot through a mouthful of blackberries. “I coulda thworn we walked fahtheh than that!”

“Come on—would you at least swallow first?!” said Storm.

“Actually, I believe our pace has been more than adequate,” said Check. “If we maintain it, we should be on the other side of the ridge well before nightfall.”

“I hope so,” said Storm. “I wouldn’t want to have to spend the night up here. The ground as hard as it is, I doubt that we could set up the tent. And that’s assuming it wouldn’t blow away.”

Crack Shot nodded. “Yeah, not to mention how much it’d suck to try and sleep on a bunch of rocks.”

Storm, who had experience with Canterlot’s cheaper lodgings and as such considered himself an expert of sorts on the subject, merely shrugged. He helped himself to some leftover pine bark.

“Still, it is quite the view from here, is it not?” said Check. “I wonder if the other side will rival it.”

After finishing their late lunch, the guardsponies resumed their march. Ice began to appear along their path, running down sunless facets of rocks in sheets, like waterfalls frozen in time. Storm found them beautiful and foreboding things: crystalline, glittering proof that this was not a hospitable place. The stream eventually diminished, bifurcating and disappearing beneath old snowdrifts hidden in shadowed places, but it had served well as a guide. From where it had ended, the top of the ridge’s saddle, the end of their ascent, was only a few hundred meters away.

“Looks like this is it, guys,” said Storm. “Just a little farther up and it’s all downhill.”

“Dang, how ‘bout that? I never woulda imagined I’d ever actually hike up a mountain.” Crack Shot flapped his wings. “All things considered, I mean.”

Check gave an uneasy laugh. “…Hopefully I’m not slowing things down too much,” he said.

“Nah, not at all, dude. Heck—if we’re ever pressed for time, I could always just pick you up and give you a lift.”

“Oh! Well, ah, heh, thank you, Crack Shot. For now though I am content to place one hoof in front of the other.”

“Huh. What about the other two?”

“Just an expression, Crack Shot.”

“Come on, guys,” said Storm, quickening into a trot to cross the remaining distance. “Let’s see if we can spot where we’re supposed to… to go…”

“Oh dear…” added Check as he and Crack Shot stepped alongside him.

“Uh, I doubt that we’re gonna be able to do that, dude, unless we’re supposed to be headin’ somewhere a few thousand feet off the ground.”

What the guardsponies saw was neither hills nor dales nor lakes nor plains, because if there were any, they were hidden beneath the cloud cover. Black, violent thunderheads poured in from the horizon—were the horizon—, enormous and ominous. They were dark but for the flashes of lightning, advancing like an army with fusillades firing. They rolled and swelled over each other as they tumbled forward, rain spilling beneath them. They were coming their way.

“I think… that we should descend forthwith,” said Check, which as a rallying cry lacked a bit of punch.

“You want to go down into that?” asked Crack Shot.

“It’s better than being up here in that,” said Storm, before shifting the camping gear from his back, placing his forehooves through its straps, and stretching his wings. As a quick afterthought he checked to make sure his journal was in a watertight pocket. As Check began galloping ahead, Storm turned towards Crack Shot, who was still staring at the weather in awe. “Are you coming?”

“…Yeah, fine. Whatever. After bathing in creeks and lakes for the past coupla days, a shower oughta be a nice change of pace.”

But, a sheer, dizzying descent would have to come first. In mountain climbing (though not exclusive to it), going down is usually easier than going up, but only when there isn’t too much down at once. Crack Shot was about to ask Check if he was having any second thoughts about that lift, but the unicorn was already galloping down the side of the mountain, as fast as his hooves and gravity would take him without harm. Storm and Crack Shot flew close to him, ready to dive if he lost his footing.

“Guess you’re good then huh?!” yelled Crack Shot over the roar of wind and distant thunderclaps.

Check said nothing as he raced downward, saving his breath as he jumped from cliff to rock to crag to ledge, over thin fissures and chasms, taking the semblance of a path winding downwards only when it wound his way. His mind was nearly entirely focused on his momentum, how it shifted and carried him, and on the next ten steps, the next ten leaps to make. The part of his mind that wasn’t focused on this perilous dash was figuring out how to creatively muddy it in the letter home.

At the base of the mountain, after Storm had thrown the camping equipment back over his withers, the three of them took off into the valley ahead of them, Crack Shot flying in the middle. The thunderheads were upon them now; they collided with the ridge behind them, belting them with rain, and turning the sky to night.

A dark and stormy night.

But the thing about a dark and stormy night is that, if it is truly stormy, there is nothing dark about it. Lightning arced and forked through the sky, striking the ground in actinic columns.

“Not so high, Crack Shot! Keep to the ground!” shouted Storm over a crash of thunder.

As Crack Shot dropped into a run beside him, Storm thought about how one could measure the proximity of a lightning strike by counting the seconds until the thunder, and wondered how you were supposed to do it now, when it came like an omnipresent and staccato drumbeat. He wished he wasn’t wearing a set of metal armor. With another deafening crack the rain redoubled, making it hard to breathe without swallowing it. Storm lowered his head, narrowing his eyes as water sluiced over the brow of his champron. Then, suddenly, the tattoo of rain was above him, and the flush of water before his vision ebbed. A couple of feet ahead, the rain still came down in cataracts. He turned towards Check, whose horn was glowing faintly.

“Check?”

“I will not… be able… to maintain this… for long,” said Check through grit teeth. His brows were knit and he was breathing heavily. He may’ve been sweating, but it would’ve been impossible to say for sure.

“Dudes… over there!” Crack Shot nodded his head forward. Visible through the deluge only by the flashes of lightning was the shape of rising land and trees, about half a mile ahead. Shelter. Their gallop became a sprint. “…G-guys!” gasped Crack Shot, desperately.

“What’s wrong?! What else did you see?!” Storm began scanning the sky, the ground, for any obstacle or threat.

Crack Shot swallowed, taking in as much air as he could. “D-dibs!” he shouted.

“Now?! Really?!”

Crack Shot, panting, gave an affirming nod.

As they closed the distance there was a fluttering between them, drawing their attention toward a small form of pitch and beating wings. The kite.

“H-hey! It’s back!” Crack Shot gave a weak grin.

“And it picked a heck of a time to visit,” said Storm. He glanced upwards, where the rain was pelting an unseen barrier. “Do you think it’s trying to avoid the rain?”

The kite didn’t turn its head, but still it stared at the guardsponies, measuring them with those piercing, golden eyes. Then those eyes rolled upwards. “Ye boys sure did pick a fine day to stroll over the bealach, didn’t ye?!” it said in a female’s voice.

“Did… did it just talk?!” one of the guardsponies could have said, but they didn’t, because it would have been stupid. The bird’s enunciation had been perfect, albeit with a strong accent, and they had more important things to do with their breath, such as running.

The kite flew on ahead, shouting, “Come on then, follow me!”

And they did. Because between the rain and the cold, the lightning and the thunder, and a bird suddenly speaking to them, how could they not? She led the way into the woods, weaving deftly between the trees, but not going so fast that she left the guardsponies behind. Check gave a weary gasp and rain fell on the guardsponies once more, though thankfully mitigated by the canopy now above them.

As they ran, Storm became aware of spots of a familiar red, of hints of white and blue. The mushrooms that he and Check had found yesterday had begun to dot the route the kite was taking. He looked towards Check, a question playing on his features. Was there a meaning to this? Check met his glance and gave a small shake of his head. He had no idea either.

The trees opened up ahead of them into a glade, and it was apparent immediately that it was an odd glade indeed. A ring of the strange red mushrooms lined its border of trees, as if fencing off further encroachment into it. The storm clouds billowed above and burned with lightning, but no rain fell within its borders. The peals of thunder seemed to mute as they neared it. The guardsponies stepped inside.

There was a shift in the air.

There was the sound of wood chimes in the wind.

There was the whisper of unknown words.

There was a ‘POOF!’ which really didn’t seem to fit.

And they were gone.

“What was that?” asked Crack Shot, shaking his head and sending water splashing in every direction from his mane and helmet.

“More importantly, where is this?” asked Storm, staring upwards.

They were in a glade, but it did not look to be the same glade that they had stepped into. The sky above had cleared and left something strange in its place: a swirling, mixing mass of greens and blues and brasses, an innumerability of bright pinpoints that danced and flickered and could have been stars.

“I think a more salient question…,” began Check Mate, slowly, “is who are they?”

Storm followed his friend’s gaze. His widened. From the trees, dozens of pairs of golden eyes were watching them, set like citrines into the ebon faces of birds, of squirrels, of a whole host of serried creatures. From within their ranks, one that they recognized flew down from her perch and landed before them. The kite. But not for long.

She began, then, to grow. To change. Wings became legs and talons became hooves; a beak became a muzzle and tail feathers lengthened and thinned into hair. The eyes remained sharp, intelligent, and golden in color, but they were larger now. A smile formed beneath them.

“Céad mile fáilte,” said what, for appearances, could have been an earth pony mare. “That is to say, ‘Welcome.’”

“Welcome to where?” asked Storm, guardedly. The many eyes continued to stare down at them. His shoulders tensed and his ears pinned back.

The smile turned into a grin. “Fer now, let’s just say a long way from home.”

Chapter 9

“Well, yeah,” said Crack Shot. “We’ve been away for like weeks now.”

Multiple eyes, of multiple shapes and a single color, stared down at him from the trees. He met them with a shrug.

“I mean it sounded spooky and all if that’s what you were goin’ for; I can’t knock the delivery. ‘Oooh!’”—and it was here that he made air quotes with his wings—“‘Let’s just say a long way from home!’”

The mare’s smile climbed on one side. “Ya know, for a fellow with wings, yer pretty unflappable, aren’t you?”

“I don’t believe, in this case, that a ‘long way’ is a metric of meters, or miles, or anything like that,” whispered Check.

“Aye, there’s no slipping one past ya, is there?” said the mare, staring at and, it felt, through him. “You three have the special honor of visiting a realm that yer kind has not seen in centuries. I imagine this sort of experience must be unfamiliar territory.” She winked. “So to speak.”

She then narrowed her eyes at Storm; in this new setting they seemed to glow with a wan yellow light. He held his ground, fighting an ancient urge to start stamping a hoof in warning.

“…Not for you though, eh?” she said. “This isn’t yer first time taking a step outta yer little slice of reality, is it?”

“What would you know about that?” he asked, his voice low.

“Oh, my kind has got its ways of telling. The smell of it clings to you. Oh, and ya can relax, by the way; I ain’t gonna bite ya.” She flashed a toothy smile. “If I were, I’d have gone with a sharper set of teeth.”

“You’ll have to pardon me,” said Storm, in a manner that was not in the least apologetic, “but we had a bit of trouble with your kind back home. An attempted invasion, if that rings any bells.”

The mare canted her head to the side and may have raised an eyebrow in the darkness of her countenance. “Noo… I can’t say that it does. And my kind, ya say—just what kind is that? What do you think us to be?”

“Changelings.” He dropped the word like a gavel; it was an allegation, an accusation, a condemnation. He flared his wings, slashing them into the air with a sound like the whisper of a blade, sending a spray of water from his dampened feathers into the air. He lowered his stance and tensed his muscles in preparation for whatever would come next.

“Oh, aye, that’s us!” The mare stomped the ground in approval. “Ya hit the nail right on the head, didn’t you!”

Storm hadn’t prepared for that. His wings sagged.

“But,” she continued, “that’s a wee bit general in the nomenclature, I might say. We might as well call you and yer muckers ungulates.”

“Hey!” shouted Crack Shot. “You take that back!”

Check leaned towards Crack Shot and whispered, “We are ungulates. That is to say, ‘hooved.’”

Crack Shot frowned and whispered back, “And how do our gullets play into it?”

Storm pressed on. “So we’re to believe there’s more than one type of changeling.”

“Oh yeah, yeah, in all shapes and sizes—though perhaps that’s not saying much. But we’re not unused to that title and others as well. We’ve accumulated many. Changelings, shape-shifters, fae, faerie folk—”

“Don’t forget trouble!” cheered somebody above.

“Heh, aye, that as well and worse. But again, it’s all very general.”

“Then how shall we refer to you?” asked Check.

“Well, you’ll see all different spellings for it if anybody had a mind to write it down, but I suppose such is fitting for us. So if you want a name that seems to have stuck in spite of all of its varied incarnations, you may call us pookas.” Though the guardsponies showed no recognition, the mare’s smile betrayed no offense. “Now, as for how ye can refer to me... well to be truthful, names tend to roll off of us like water from a duck’s back, speaking from experience, but how about Síofra?”

There came a noise from the trees that sounded to Storm an awful lot like snickering. It quieted when he glanced upwards, squirrels and sparrows blinking innocently at him.

“Very well then, Síofra it is,” said Check, and again there was the snickering from overhead. “And as you’ve shared your name, though transient or spurious it may be, I feel that I owe you the same. My name is Check Mate.”

“And I’m Crack Shot.” Crack Shot waved a hoof at Síofra and the assemblage above.

Storm sighed. His friends really could have been more nonplussed about all of this. “…Storm Stunner,” he capitulated.

“A pleasure to put names to the faces,” said Síofra.

“Now then,” continued Check, “would you be willing to entertain another query?”

“My, yer proper, aren’t you? Go on, shoot.”

“Why have you brought us here?”

Síofra’s smile uncurled and flattened into a thoughtful look. “Ah… I suppose you have yer pick of answers to that one, don’t you?”

“Why don’t we run down the list?” asked Storm.

Síofra nodded. “Well, near the top of it would be hospitality. Yer friend there was kind enough to invite me into yer camp and share a bite.” She turned towards Crack Shot and her grin returned. “Crack Shot, eh? Yeah, you certainly seem craic to me.”

It sounded like a compliment, so Crack Shot returned the smile and said, “Thanks!”

“Aye. Who’d I be to leave you and yer friends out in the cold with the heavens lashing, after being treated to a breakfast and a dinner?”

Storm began tapping a steel-shod hoof against the strange loam beneath him. “And you’d prefer eating blackberries over, say, another’s love?” he asked.

There followed silence, heralded by a snort from Crack Shot. It was a thick silence and Storm’s words hung in it like fruit in a gelatin, with all of their unintended implication, suggestion, and innuendo. In the trees some of the larger members of the menagerie covered with wings and paws the ears of the smaller ones. Storm blushed. Síofra coughed.

“Er, blackberries are a favorite among us, aye, though that’s a bold question to be asking in public, wouldn’t ya say?” Mercifully, she carried on. “But setting matters of dietary preference aside, ya might be surprised to know that we’ve got some questions about you three.”

“Oh?” said Storm.

“Aye. Y’see, the three of you are something of a curiosity to us.”

Síofra moved forward and began stalking around the guardsponies, examining them. They each watched her closely from the corners of their vision.

“It’s rare that we get ponies coming our way. Incredibly rare. A few years back there was a fellow that’d camp south of the mountains ye three came over, but nobody—nopony, I’d suppose ye’d say—ever comes any farther than that. Keeping that in mind, I must say it came as a real surprise when you boys didn’t turn back the other way when ye saw the storm brewing ahead of you. It was like there was somewhere ye really needed to be.”

“Well, we are on a journey, I won’t deny that,” said Storm, leaning away slightly as Síofra came around beside him. “I wouldn’t think that a few travelers heading north would be so strange.”

A male voice came from above: “They would be when they’re wearing decorative plate armor, innit!”

“Man, everypony keeps bringing that up,” whispered Crack Shot.

The owner of the voice, an eagle or something similar at the moment, leapt from his perch into an easy glide and descended in an arcing path around the trunk of an enormous black tree. He disappeared behind it near its base and stepped back into view a moment later in the shape of a pegasus stallion. Storm wondered how many times the pooka had to practice that one in front of the mirror before getting it right.

“It’s all very exciting!” the pooka continued as he stepped beside Síofra. “Three champions—a very auspicious number I might add—venturing forth from foreign lands into our part of the world in search of conquest and plunder! And right around Samhain, no less, a very portentous timing indeed!”

The guardsponies shared a look. Crack Shot voiced that which they were all thinking, which was, “Uh?”

“Oh yes, yes,” the pooka went on. “And what we hear from, heh, Síofra here is that the three of ye got a map that yer following?”

For a fraction of moment, Check froze. Of course as he was already stationary, it was easy enough to accomplish. All that it required was a cessation of breath, a brief skip of the heart, and the realization that a terrible misunderstanding had taken place. He said, “…Yes, that is true.”

“May we see it?” asked Síofra in a voice as honeyed as her eyes.

Check said nothing and his eyes did not leave Síofra’s as a pocket of his saddlebags opened, and the map levitated towards her. The pooka beside her blew a raspberry as it floated near.

“Pah, would ya look at that? It’s not even burned around the edges or anything like a proper adventurer’s map. Ye could’ve at least given it few rips or some water damage for verisimilitude.”

“Would ya settle for a few stains of ink?” asked Síofra as she studied it. “Like the circle ringing our little valley on the other side of existence? Ya know, Storm Stunner, it was a funny thing earlier, you mentioning invasions.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Crack Shot took a step forward, his eyes widening. “We’re not invading anything!” He leaned towards Check. “Right?”

“No,” said Check, “we would have been told if we were, I am certain. You must have been observing us rather adroitly, Síofra.”

“We try to keep an eye on our borders, a policy I’m sure ye understand keenly. But it’s also another reason that ye’ve been allowed knowledge of this place, rather than be left mucking about in the rain. To be honest, military accoutrements and damning maps aside, ye three just don’t carry yerselves like the scouting party of an invasion force. Ye don’t seem dour enough, like yer not taking the whole thing seriously.”

Storm didn’t know whether or not to take that as an insult, but that debate was pressed to the back of his mind by the weight of a bigger question. “I find it a surprise that our demeanor alone would convince you to bring us here,” he said. “Like you mentioned, we’re military: members of the Equestrian Royal Guard. Yet, you’ve allowed us to come to a place that you just said earlier nopony has visited in hundreds of years. So that makes me wonder…”

“Aye?”

“Are we allowed to leave?”

Síofra said nothing. The pooka beside her shifted his gaze away and began whistling.

“Well, are we?!”

“Oy! Hold yer hor—er, yerself. I’m trying to think of how to delicately word it.”

Storm’s eyes narrowed. “So we’re prisoners then.”

“Maybe it’d be better to think of yerselves as guests, for an as of yet undecided period of time. As I said, we’re all very curious about you three, and we’d like to learn a few things prior to sending ye off.” She turned towards the pooka beside her. “Mind taking these three off to put their heads down? They’ve had a long day.”

The pooka nodded and said, “Oh yeah, no problem at all”—he opened his eyes as wide as he could, lifted his head, and then slammed an eyelid closed like a shutter, tilting toward her as he did so—“Síofra.”

He had turned the act of winking into a full-body exercise. If there was any element of conspiracy to it, it would have been the whistleblowing at the end. He began walking off and beckoned with a wing for the guardsponies to follow. “Come on, I’ll give ye the grand tour, or at least that bit of it that’s on the way to where we’re headed.”

“Engh, fine,” grumbled Storm.

He started after the pooka. He stopped. Something didn’t feel right. He rolled his withers and felt the camping bag’s contents shift, much looser than they had been before he had arrived at this odd place.

“Hold on a minute.” He unstrapped the bag and set it down. As he prepared to sort through it, Síofra’s voice interrupted him.

“If yer wondering what’s missing, it’d be that large cooking pot and any other iron implements ye had with you. It wouldn’t have made it past the glamour that carried ye here.”

Storm grimaced and took a deep breath. He looked up from the bag and, as calmly as he could, said, “Those items were not mine to lose. I would very much prefer to not leave them outside to rust. If you’re worried about us using them as weapons—a ladle as a sword, a lid as a shield, or something equally ridiculous—I’ll tell you right now that we could do a whole lot worse with our shoes.”

Síofra stared at him, her eyes casting a thin golden light, for a long, uncomfortable moment. “…Ye’d be surprised,” she said at last. “Now go and get dried off, get rested, make yerselves comfortable. There’ll be plenty of time for talk later.”

Before Storm could demand an explanation, she reared into the air, extending her forelegs outwards. They once more became wings, feathers replaced fur, and she returned to the form of a kite as easily as she had left it.

“Slán go foill, boys,” she said, before taking flight and leaving Storm with the ambiguity of her words and the worry for his things. The pookas gathered in the trees above flew or scampered away as well, leaving the guardsponies alone with their escort.

“That means ‘so long,’ by the way,” the escort said, as he led them away from the glade.

“Yeah, we figured,” said Crack Shot. “So what should we call you, dude?”

The pooka shrugged. “Ya can if ye’d like.”

“What? Oh. Nonono.” Crack Shot shook his head. “I mean, like, is there a name we can call you?”

The pooka hummed. “Names have never been something that I’ve ever really given a whole lot of thought to, though I suppose it could be craic.”

Crack Shot shook his head again. “Nah, dude, that one’s taken.”

“…Perhaps I could get you a list of common phrases,” the pooka said to himself. “But hm, a name, a name… gosh, what a concept! Well, I suppose I could always change it later. Why don’t ye call me Dorcha?”

From the glade, Dorcha led the guardsponies into a forest the likes of which Storm had never experienced. This alone was not remarkable, because outside of the one he and the others had stayed in the previous night most forests fit this category. But, he had seen pictures, and he was sure that none of them had looked like this.

Above, through a canopy of white and black filigree, the flittering stars continued to whirl and weave in the tempest of the sky’s many colors. The hues mixed and smeared and ran together like a painting reinventing itself. If there were clouds, their forms were lost to the maelstrom.

Unlike the ancient trees of the pine forest which had stood like columns, venerable and uniform, those found here showed their age differently. They were knotted and wizened, with great, black, gnarled boughs, and roots that rolled and rose in knolls and arches. Around them hovered strange phantom lights, like the ghosts of lanterns.

And once more, there were the mushrooms. Here, their vividness was redoubled; they shimmered with a phosphorescence that lit the forest floor beneath them in blue, and the mists above them in red.

Of course Storm, irritated about what he considered no more than a cordial act of abduction and mistreatment of personal property, wasn’t about to let any of this surreal beauty impress him. It was probably all poisonous, like one of those colorful species of frogs. A forest wasn’t supposed to glow like this. It was too showy, and it had to be bad for your eyes. From nearby, he could hear the chitters and chirps of what he would have thought to be mere wildlife if he didn’t know better.

“Hey, Dorcha,” said Crack Shot. This was met with no response. “Uh, Dorcha, dude? Anypony home?” He tapped the pooka on the side with a wing, which was met with a jolt.

“Oh! Right! Dorcha! That’s me, isn’t it? Though… to be honest, I’m not really feeling like a Dorcha at the moment. How about Ciar? That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Uh, sure I guess. Anyways, I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

“By all means, ask away,” said, apparently, Ciar.

“Like, what are you guys? Besides changelings or pookas or whatever, I mean. Are you a type of pony? A type of squirrel or bird? A lizard?”

“Ahh…” Ciar tilted his head left and right in thought, weighing the question as he led the guardsponies down a winding path through the enchanted wood. “That’s about right, aye.”

“That wasn’t an aye or no question, dude. I mean, is there a shape you guys default to at the end of the day?” Crack Shot looked up into the churning mass of sky. “Assumin’ there is an end of the day here.”

“Well, I suppose it all depends on what shape seems most appealing at the time. But to answer your question: no. Setting favorites aside, a pooka’s natural form is whatever they’re using at the moment.”

“Really? That seems like it’d get complicated. How about when you’re born? Like where do you guys come from then?”

“Heh, I’ll assume you’ve already learned about the birds and the bees by now, eh?”

“Well, yeah. Wait—you guys don’t take that literally, do you?”

“Ha! No, not that I’ve heard of at least, but it’s not something to really go around asking, innit?”

“Also, how do you keep track of who’s who? It’s gotta be tough havin’ to deal with the whole identical color scheme thing.”

Ciar looked from Crack Shot, to Storm, then back to Crack Shot. “Do tell,” he said.

Crack Shot waved this off with a hoof. “Ah, that’s just the uniform.”

“Is it now?”

“Yep. Like, my natural color is actually yellow, Check over there is really sort of a light pink, and Storm is kind of a, uh… a dirt brown.”

“Hey!”

“Relax, dude, there’s nothing wrong with dirt. Plants grow out of it.” Crack Shot returned his attention to Ciar. “Anyways, that’s not my point. Like, even with guys like us, you can figure out who you’re talkin’ to pretty quickly by the way they smile or how they carry themselves. What do you do when the mouth that’s smilin’ can change shapes on you?”

“It’s really no problem at all; there are mannerisms ye can pick up on and they tend to cross over. The way a fellow wags their tail is often quite similar to the way that they rattle it.”

“And the name thing? How do you get somepony’s attention without gettin’ everypony else’s?”

Ciar pointed towards a clearing where a group of three wolfhounds was gathered. “Oy!” he shouted. “How’re things, ya bogger?!”

One of them turned, grinned with a pair of sharp white teeth, and yelled back, “Deadly! Yerself?!”

“Sound!” replied Ciar. He smirked at Crack Shot. “See? No problem at all.”

“I dunno,” said Crack Shot. “He could’ve just been speakin’ for the group.”

In response to this Ciar turned back towards the wolfhounds and shouted, “And how ‘bout you?!”

Another of the three responded, “Fine, thanks!”

After a few seconds the third barked, “And yer just going to forget about me, then?!”

“See?” said Ciar. “What’s in a name?”

“I guess,” said Crack Shot. “Who’d wanna get called ‘you’ all of the time, though?”

Ciar pursed his lips and hummed thoughtfully.

Crack Shot shook his head. “Nope. That ain’t happenin’. And no more than one name change a day.”

The four of them crossed a fallen tree over a stream of sparkling, turquoise water; it was like a ribbon sequined with sapphire. Storm scowled at it. Since when was a stream ever that blue? Again, probably poisonous.

“If I may, erm, Ciar,” said Check, “I also have a question I would like to ask.”

“Aye, go ahead.”

“It is related to the magic that brought us here. The glamour as it was called. Síofra said that it prevented the conveyance of iron, yet the three of us seem to be quite healthy.”

Ciar gave Check a sidelong glance. “Huh. I wouldn’t have thought that to be a point of complaint.”

“Oh, it isn’t, not compared to the alternative. I would think that if all iron were prevented passage, my friends and I would each be suffering a fatal case of anemia. I was wondering how the distinction was drawn between our cookware and our hemoglobin. Does it relate to how the iron is bound in the blood?”

“Ah, that’s an easy explanation!”

“Oh?”

“Aye!” Ciar nodded sagely. “You’re overthinking it. It’s glamour.”

Check’s expression went flat. “Ah. Right. Of course. How silly of me.”

“Not a problem, though I don’t know why ye’d bother with something as dubious as scientific theorizing when ye’ve got something as reliable as good old superstition. Can science explain a shooting star or the colors of a rainbow?”

“Easily.”

“Pah, well then probably not the pot of gold at the end of one. Or yer winged friends.” Ciar gave an experimental flapping of his wings, only to stay firmly planted to the ground. “If they’re able to get airborne with that wing-to-body ratio, then a special kind of glamour’s got to be involved and no mistake.”

“Hear that, dude?” said Crack Shot as he nudged Storm. “We’re glamorous.”

Storm frowned as he extended and examined a wing. What did Ciar know? It wasn’t your wingspan, it was how you used it.

“How about you, Storm Stunner? You’ve been awfully quiet. Ya got any questions?”

He did, and none of them had to do with pennon size. What kind of information were he and his friends expected to provide? Were these so-called pookas truly different from the creatures that had attacked Canterlot? Was Fiddler’s Plain in any danger? They looked different, but appearances could be deceiving. They didn’t seem threatening, but they could be two-faced.

He asked, “Since we didn’t have any choice in the matter, can I assume we won’t be charged for our stay at least?”

“Heh, that’s right... your kind uses money, doesn’t it?”

Ciar lifted a hoof into the air, shook it out, and presented the sole of it. It was empty save for a couple of crushed blades of grass. Then, with a wink, a flick, and a flourish, he swiped it through the air in a wide arc. He finished the display with a graceful bow and the sole of the hoof turned upwards as it had been originally. Within it sat a pair of faceless gold coins.

“Money isn’t something we really make any use of, but we wouldn’t hurt for it if we did.”

“Hm. That was more than mere legerdemain,” said Check.

“Aye! Glamour,” said Ciar as he tapped his brow. “Unfortunately it won’t last for more than a day, but I’d imagine it’d still be good enough for a night on the town.” He tossed the coins over his withers, where they landed unceremoniously in the path behind them. “And on the subject of living it up, tell me: what’s a champion’s life like? I imagine it must be very exciting.”

The guardsponies exchanged a glance.

“That’s twice you’ve used word ‘champion’ for us,” said Storm. “What exactly do you mean by it?”

“Oh, ye know, the usual,” said Ciar as he waved a hoof. “Famed warriors renowned in their lands for indomitable martial prowess. Adventurers that have braved ineffable perils and recovered ancient treasures. The basics. Of course being of divine or noble birth is a given.”

The guardsponies exchanged another glance.

“And you think that describes us?”

“Well, doesn’t it?” asked Ciar, uncertainly. “Why else are ye three adventuring, dressed to the nines as you are in gilded raiment?”

“Again, that’s just the standard-issue uniform,” said Crack Shot. “As for why we’re out here, I think it’d be most accurately described as a work-vacation-errand thingy. But, uh, I don’t know what to say about that checklist of yours. I’ve won a couple of horseshoe-throwin’ tourneys, if that counts. Oh, and I once found twenty bits in an old jacket, though my brother claimed it was his, which was a total lie.”

Ciar bit his lip. “Any of ye ever at least escaped from a collapsing dungeon, leaping out into the fresh air the moment the foundations crumbled in on themselves?”

Storm and Check shook their heads. Crack Shot asked if pillow forts counted.

“Well… what about tragic pasts? Are any of ye orphans? Maybe one of ye watched a parent die in front of ya at the hooves or claws of some sinister stranger, perchance?” he asked, hopefully.

“Goodness, no!” gasped Check.

“Oh well that’s a shame.” Ciar frowned and placed a hoof to his chin. “Guess they just don’t make champions like they used to.”

After a few more bends in the trail, Ciar and the guardsponies at last came to a stop. Storm wasn’t sure why exactly they did this. There was just more forest which looked the same as all of the previous forest. “Well, here we are!” said Ciar, which further added to Storm’s confusion.

“…Where?” asked Storm.

“Where ye three’ll be staying, of course! There’s a tidy little bower just a few meters in.”

Ciar led the guardsponies off of the trail into the center of a thicket. As they moved farther in, the woods grew ever denser around them until it was like walking through a hallway. Soon, despite their crooked shapes, the trees grew closely enough to form something akin to walls around a modest circle of thick grass. In between those gaps where the trunks themselves did not make contact, thin branches wove together like gratings over a set of glassless windows. Above them the branches further came together, leaves and limbs forming a meshwork ceiling and obscuring the sea of colors overhead. Near each trunk floated one of the uncanny lights of the forest, coloring the space in a faint green. Staring at them, Storm was reminded of Nomde’s fireflies. For a moment he found himself missing her terribly.

Below them rose large mounds of turf. Each was topped with a thin, simple coverlet; they were the closest thing to normalcy that Storm had seen since entering the glade and leaving his world behind. In the center of the bower was a hollowed trunk piled high with cut wild grass.

Ciar stepped back into the entrance of the enclosure. “I’ll be off then. Get comfy, get cozy, and help yerself to the grass if ye get hungry. She went through the trouble of gathering it from yer world, after all,” he said.

“Who did?” asked Storm.

“She.” Ciar’s eyes lit with realization. “—fra. Síofra. Gosh, how do ye get used to that?” he asked, before trotting out of sight.

“Hey, no bars, locked gates, or balls and chains,” said Crack Shot, looking around. “That’s a good sign, right?”

Storm let out a heavy sigh and fell back onto his haunches. “I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his face. “Check, what do you think about all of this?”

“Honestly, I am not yet certain. You’re apprehensive, Storm, and with due cause. We do not know our hosts’ intentions, if they’re being forthright, or if they are as well-meaning as they seem.”

Storm nodded, glad to know he wasn’t alone in these thoughts.

“Still… did you notice the behavior of those near the path we followed here?”

“You mean those giant dogs?” asked Crack Shot. “They seemed like they were just chillin’ out.”

“Not them, Crack Shot. There were many others observing us, though mostly hidden from view.”

“Well. That’s creepy,” said Storm. He placed his bags down and searched through them to make sure their provisions had survived the trip. If he was going to eat any grass, it’d be that which he brought with him.

“Mm, perhaps. But again, I am not so certain. If you would, keep an eye open for them when we next have the opportunity, and share with me your impressions. As Síofra noted, our map did direct us here. Luna wished for us to find something.”

“Yeah, but is it the same something that would’ve been here a thousand years ago? You’ve got Gray Mane’s stone with you. Maybe we could ask Luna herself.”

“Hm… yes, I suppose we could try.”

Check removed the smart stone from his bag and wrote a short greeting across it. No more than a second had passed after he sent it off, when a reply came wisping back. He read it, reread it, and reddened across his cheeks.

“That was quick,” said Storm. “What does it say?”

Check clenched his eyes shut in a brief moment of inner turmoil. He opened them once more, sighed, and quoted: “‘If yer readin’ this, ye dobber, it means ye have nae got reception. To remedy this issue, I’d suggest first pullin’ yerself out o’ whatever pit ye’ve fallen into, and then pullin’ yer head out of yer—’ Alright, I absolutely refuse to read any more of this!”

“Uh… nice job on the accent,” said Crack Shot in a desperate show of optimism.

“So we won’t be hearing from Luna, or from anypony else for that matter,” Storm growled as he kicked at the ground. “This is just great.”

Crack Shot walked beside Storm and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I think you oughta relax, dude. Think about it this way. These guys outnumber us like twenty to one, and they can turn into all kinds of sharp-toothed and sharp-clawed things. If they had wanted to, I bet they could’ve pulled off a totally nasty interrogation. Probably by pullin’ off a few limbs.”

Storm looked up at him and gave a flat stare. “Somehow that doesn’t really make me feel all that relaxed.”

“I’m just sayin’ that these guys might have some super-secret evil plan or whatever, but then again they might not. In the meantime look around, dude—have you ever seen anything like this place?”

“No… I can’t say that I have.” Storm prodded one of the mounds, what he guessed was to be one of their beds. It was softer than he expected.

“Right. So I say we hit the hay and leave your worries ‘til the morning if there is one.”

“I agree,” said Check. “With rest comes clarity of thought.”

Crack Shot removed his equipment and climbed onto a mound, and Check did the same. Storm removed his journal from his bag and stared at its cover. It had begun to soften and smooth and become shiny from use. An entry a day, he had promised. Would he be able to keep track of them here? He turned to the next empty place in the journal, dipped a quill into an ink well, and proceeded to turn the page black. Afterwards, he crawled on top of a sheet and felt it absorb some of the dampness of his fur. It was warm here, warmer than it had been for the past few weeks, and he wondered if here they ever saw the passing of the seasons. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, wishing that the sun would be there to meet him when he opened them once more.

The sound of shuffling and of hushed voices roused Storm from an uneasy sleep. He fought the urge to leap from his bed and confront them; instead, he slowly cracked an eyelid and peered towards the entrance of the bower. In the pale light he saw two figures, though between their distance and his narrowed vision he couldn’t discern their exact shapes. One was taller, but not by much.

The taller of the two whispered something to the smaller one. It was loud enough to be heard, but in a language Storm didn’t understand. The two walked a few feet towards him before the smaller creature hesitated. The taller shook its head and hissed something in an annoyed tone, before walking—no, hopping, Storm could see that now—towards him. It was a young hare. Its companion—a fox kit, Storm hazarded—reluctantly joined it.

The hare hopped around Storm’s mound and looked him over. Then, with strain twisting its face, began to change shape. Its long lagomorphic ears shortened, its muzzle lengthened, a pair of wings sprouted from its back, and soon in its place stood a pegasus colt. He grinned at the fox kit and again whispered something in unfamiliar words, this time in a more encouraging voice. The fox nodded and attempted to shift its form as well, but from the sounds of it, it met with more trouble. This was because of how loud the sounds were. It gave a number of gasps and grunts right beside Storm which he felt elevated the act of feigning sleep to playing dead. But, at the end of it, she had taken the shape of a pegasus filly, albeit with less success than her companion. The colt giggled and pointed at the filly’s mismatched wings—a bat’s on the left and a bird’s on the right—and her still-vulpine tail. It was then that Storm rolled over, pretending to stir in his sleep.

At that moment the two pookas finally said something that Storm did understand, that being, “Eep!” before scrambling out of the bower. In the silence that followed, he thought back to Check’s earlier words. He sat up, took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh. It was time to go for a walk.

Stepping outside of the timbered hall, Storm found that the colors of the sky had darkened into deep violets and reds; maybe it was a measure of time in some way. Still, there was no nighttime chill; it seemed that he and his friends really had left autumn behind. He began walking, keeping his eyes ostensibly to the trail while concentrating on everything off of it from the periphery of his vision.

As he expected, golden eyes gathered to watch him from boughs and bushes, and conversations quieted as he neared. In a few instances a voice would come louder than the whispers, followed by choked laughter and hurried shushing. None of this surprised him. What truly caught his notice were the eyes that turned away. Birds and hounds ushering away chicks and pups into deeper parts of the forest. Then around a bend in the path he came upon the back of a wolf; slumped in front of it were a hare and a fox kit.

The two small creatures sat glumly with flattened ears as the wolf, by the sharpness of her voice, scolded them. Their eyes wandered listlessly as she continued her reprimand, but when they full upon Storm they widened. With high-pitched cries they huddled up against the wolf and began to shiver; the fox kit lifted a trembling paw to point at him. The wolf, puzzled, turned towards the source of their sudden fright and gasped. Immediately she sprung to all fours, her hackles bristling and her teeth bared, causing Storm to freeze. But, it wasn’t the length of her claws, the sharpness of her fangs, or the strength visible in her coiled muscles that gave Storm pause. It was the look in her eyes. In those wide, golden wells was moored fear. Storm could see, in that stare, that in a forest full of a medley of different creatures she was looking at a beast. She growled a quavering warning in words that needed no translation. They cracked the language barrier like a rock breaker.

Storm gave a small wave of his wing and a weak smile that did little to placate her, before turning the way he had come. He had seen enough. He made his way back to the bower, his eyes to the trail, and noted those eyes that stayed to watch him and those that turned to flee.

Storm awoke to find Check and Crack Shot already up and in mid-conversation with a pooka that had taken the form of a unicorn. Ciar, or whatever he was calling himself now, by the sound of his voice. Crack Shot was peering intently at a large, green leaf.

“Ken chow-ee a bi-fool to,” said Crack Shot, slowly. Storm sat up and canted his head.

“Close!” said Ciar, generously. “‘Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú.’ Kay. Khwee. A-will. Too.”

“What the heck, Dorcha?!”

Okay, so it was ‘Dorcha’ again.

“Do you guys just like throw in ‘b’s and ‘n’s cause you feel like it?” continued Crack Shot. “And where’d that ‘w’ come from?”

Dorcha waved a hoof dismissively. “Oh, it isn’t that complex. Ya just need to mind the lenitions, the eclipses, which vowels have a fada—also the broad and slender vowels, while we’re on the subject—and ya also might set aside some of yer prejudices about the way ya think certain consonants work. Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?”

“Tá mé go measartha maith,” replied Check.

“See? He’s getting it!”

“He doesn’t count; this is tough and you know it.”

“That’d be ‘tough’ spelled with an ‘f,’ wouldn’t it?” said Dorcha with a sly smile. “Or maybe not, though it ought to be, right?”

“Okay, point. I’ll admit that ‘g’ and ‘h’ do weird things together, and you could probably just ignore ‘em half the time.”

“Aye, and I’d imagine a bit of helpful disregard is useful for learning any language.”

“Heh, fine. For now though, let’s just say I’ve got an accent.” Crack Shot set the leaf down and noticed that Storm had been watching. “Oh heya, sleeping beauty, glad to see you’re finally up. Dorcha brought us a phrase guide.”

“Huh, I see… hello, Dorcha.” Storm stretched his neck then rolled off of his mound onto his hooves. “Is that what brings you here?”

“Actually, I came to extend a breakfast invitation. Síofra says she owes ye as much and she’s eager for a chance to talk. Gather yer things and meet me out by the trail when yer ready.

Dorcha stepped out of the bower, leaving the guardsponies to themselves.

“You didn’t have to let me sleep in,” said Storm.

“It was no biggie, dude,” said Crack Shot, as he put on his peytral and flipped his helmet onto his head. “It’s not like we were in any rush to go anywhere.”

“You were restless last night. Did you sleep well?” asked Check.

“Eventually. It took getting up and having a look around. I think I understand what you were talking about.”

Check gave a small nod. Crack Shot looked between them. “What’s up?” he asked.

“I did what Check suggested last night, and paid attention to the folks here,” said Storm. “For the most part they just watched me as I walked by, and some I’m pretty sure made jokes.” He picked up his helmet and met its empty stare. “But more than a few of them were, well, scared. Terrified, I’d say. They tried to run when I came near, and a few even cowered… I got so hung up on the strangeness of this place that I forgot that we’re the strangers here. And to them it must look like we’re dressed for war.”

Crack Shot shrugged his saddlebags over his withers. “Maybe, dude, but look at it this way: plenty of folks back home are scared of us too. It’s nothin’ new.”

“But it is a new experience, is it not? Being the Other,” said Check.

“The other what?” asked Crack Shot.

Check smiled. “It is just a reiteration of what Storm has said. Now, shall we be off? Perhaps we can learn how we may go about convincing those here that their fears are unjustified.”

Outside of the bower, the guardsponies found Dorcha standing a little farther down the trail, back the direction they had originally come from. Storm glanced upwards. There was no sun to be found, but light pinks and oranges and yellows gave the impression of one. As the four of them walked towards their next destination through a forest of black and silver trees, he wondered if it was the sky’s panoply that sustained it.

Dorcha took a fork in the trail down an unfamiliar path. “Not too much farther from here,” he said.

“So, does Síofra run things around here?” asked Crack Shot.

“No, we here believe in self-governance in the truest sense of the term, though I can see how ye’d get that impression. Since she’s the one that suggested bringing ye three here, she’s taken responsibility for you.”

“And what about you, dude? Any reason you’ve been so involved?”

“Aye. She’s a friend and it helps her, so that’s reason enough, I figure. I’m sure our customs aren’t so different that ye couldn’t understand that. Besides, ye three are the first visitors we’ve had in ages and more; how could I miss out on something as interesting as mucking around with ye a bit?” Dorcha stopped at the base of a hill. “We’ll be meeting her just up there.”

Just visible over the crest of the hill were the tops of an arrangement of stones. As they climbed towards them, the stones rose like pillars in a great monolithic circle. They were easily meters tall, must have weighed tons, and some pairs even had an additional stone laid across them like the lintel of a door frame. There were so many of them! Storm wondered what meaning they held. Was there a magic to them like the mushrooms’ glade? Did they mark a place of ceremony or serve as a calendar of sorts? What was their purpose? He decided to inquire.

“They’re easy to see from far away,” explained Dorcha.

“Ah.”

Within the center they found Síofra in earth pony guise, waiting beside a round granite table; it was topped with a number of food bowls and, notably, a large, empty crystalline pitcher. Among the rest of the dishes, it seemed out of place. She greeted them by way of the same wry grin she had used to introduce them to this world. Dorcha gave her a nod.

“Good to see ye boys again,” she said.

“Hey, cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?” asked Crack Shot, which might have been more impressive if he didn’t immediately follow it with, “Did I get that right?”

“In answer to both of your questions, not bad at all!” Síofra clapped. “I see you and him have been practicing.” It took Storm just a second to realize she meant Dorcha. “Anyways, feel free to have a seat and a bite; there’s a bowl of grass and blackberries for each of ye.”

“Really?” asked Crack Shot. “I was kinda wonderin’ if we’d get a chance to eat pooka food.”

“Aye, and ye do. What do ya think that is?”

Crack Shot looked at the size of the bowls. “An appetizer?” he asked, hopefully.

“Just be grateful she didn’t actually cook something,” said Dorcha. “She has a way of taking perfectly innocent and amicable ingredients and inciting them into civil war.”

Síofra gave Dorcha a glare like a heat lamp. “If I were of a mind for it, I bet I could make a meal fit for a king,” she said.

“Oh aye, I agree,” said Dorcha. “That’s why they’ve got food tasters.”

“Just hurry up and eat.”

And so they did. The meal ended quickly, which came as no surprise, though perhaps as a disappointment to Crack Shot. It was merely the precursor to the point of the gathering. The guardsponies waited for Síofra to tell them what it was.

“I’ve got a means for ye to prove yer character,” she said, wasting no time.

“And what means is that?” asked Storm.

Síofra leaned across the table and slid the pitcher towards the guardsponies. “First I’ll need ye to fill this ewer with water,” she said.

“Alright, I think we just might be able to do that,” said Crack Shot. He turned towards Storm. “You still got the canteen on you, dude?”

Síofra gave a curt shake her head. “Not just any water! I’m talking about a very particular water, from a very particular well.”

Crack Shot raised an eyebrow. “Any reason in particular?”

“Aye,” she said. They waited for her to continue. “Now, the other thing ye’ll need to do is recover a certain antique, a notched spear—”

“Hey, hold up!” interrupted Crack Shot. “‘Aye’ is not an explanation!”

“Aye,” said Síofra, looking him in the eyes, “it isn’t.

Storm steepled his hooves on the table and rested his chin on them. “So grabbing a bucket—”

“A ewer,” corrected Síofra.

“—a ewer of water and some beat-up old weapon will tell you everything you need to know about us.”

“Aye.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, sure we can,” Dorcha chimed in, “though we don’t always choose to.”

“This is why we were requested to bring our equipment, I’ll presume,” said Check.

“Aye. I figured ye’d want yer belongings at yer disposal. At least those that made it with you,” she added, garnering a huff from Storm.

“I see,” said Check. “Still, these tasks seem to be, if not menial, tangential to substantiating our motives. I can’t help but wonder what they could prove outside of our abilities as couriers.”

“Yeah, this sounds like a total fetch quest,” added Crack Shot. “If you wanted a spear, we’ve got a ton of ‘em back home. But I’m guessin’ this one’s particular.”

Síofra nodded. “And it’ll be yours to keep,” she said. “But first ye need to bring it back.”

“I don’t see why ye three are so skeptical about this,” said Dorcha. “Haven’t ye ever read a tale? Sending unknown heroes off to recover a macguffin or two is practically a narrative tradition!”

“We’re clearly going to be doing some walking,” said Storm. “How will we know what we’re looking for?”

“A fine question,” said Síofra. “The well can be found in a grove of hazelnut trees to the south. I’d highly recommend that it be one of you winged boys that visits it by the way; it tends to overflow.”

“Should we have brought a plunger?”

Síofra ignored this and continued. “As for the spear, it’ll be inside of a dún to the north of here. Finding a way there will be a test of sorts.”

“A dune, huh?” said Crack Shot. “Wouldn’t have figured there’d be deserts around here.”

“That is to say it’ll be inside a castle,” explained Siofra.

Crack Shot, his train of thought fixed firmly on its rails, assumed she meant one made of sand and was intrigued to learn that they might be visiting a beach instead.

“These are the tasks before ye. That we’re sending you off on yer own to do it may seem a sour deal, but take it to be a show of trust.” Síofra clapped her hooves together. “So. Are there any other questions?”

Crack Shot raised a hoof.

“Aye?”

“Um, which way is north?” he asked. “Normally we’d go by the stars or somethin’, but uh…” He looked upwards. “Here they don’t seem to wanna stay in one place.”

“Er, right,” said Síofra, “that is to say, ‘left.’” She pointed towards a path leading out of the stone circle. “If that’s all, then we’ll leave ye alone to figure out the logistics.”

As she stepped beside Dorcha, she paused for a moment, something having crossed her mind seemingly. She whispered something in his ear to which he nodded.

To the guardsponies she said, “Oh, uh, by the way—I forgot to mention this, but ye boys might not want to dawdle too much about doing this.”

“We hadn’t planned on it,” said Storm. “But is there a reason for you saying so?”

Síofra gave an uneasy chuckle. “Ya know, it’s not something ya really notice or think about when yer used to it, but I suppose I should inform you that time can tend to work a wee bit differently here.”

“...In what manner?” asked Check.

“In fits and starts, really,” said Dorcha. He looked towards Crack Shot. “Ya said ya had a brother, right? Was he older or younger?”

“Uh, older,” said Crack Shot. “Why?”

“Well… there’s a chance he might not be when ya get back home. Or he might be more so! It’s hard to say.”

“And you’re just telling us now?!” screamed Storm.

Síofra gave an infuriating shrug. “As I said, it’s not something we really think about. But as it stands, I’d suggest ye hurry. So long and ádh mór ort!”

“That means ‘good luck,’” whispered Dorcha, before the two of them left the table and the circle of stones.

“It’s probably spelled half the same too, I bet,” mused Crack Shot.

“Why aren’t you upset?!” shouted Storm at this traitorous show of levity.

Crack Shot gave Storm a pat on his whithers. “‘Cause it probably wouldn’t help, dude. So, how do you guys wanna do this?”

As much as Storm didn’t like the answer, he was forced to admit he didn’t have a better one. “…Alright. In that case, it sounds like you or I will be the one to find that well,” he said. He turned towards Check. “Whatever Síofra was hinting at about it, it seems like it might be wise for you to sit that one out.”

Check stared down the southern path for a moment, following it to where it disappeared beneath a trilithon, before returning his gaze to the others. “Perhaps so. Although, I do wonder if it is not ill-advised for us to divide our number. I’d much prefer that we perform these tasks together…”

“It might not be so bad, dude,” said Crack Shot. “Plus, if you and I are out grabbin’ the spear while Storm gets the water, you won’t have to worry about sittin’ around spooking the locals while waitin’ for us to fill up that ewer.”

Storm pulled the ewer toward himself and took a look at it. The workmanship was impressive, with impeccable facets and floral embellishments that would’ve given a lapidarist pause. Storm, who wasn’t a lapidarist and might’ve needed a dictionary to confirm that they weren’t the ponies that worked with bees, noticed first and foremost that it didn’t have a stopper. At least the camping bag would serve him for the first half of the trip. He went about putting the ewer inside of it.

“Well,” he said, as he turned to face his friends, “we better get this over with then.”

Check nodded. “We wish you luck, Storm.”

“And here’s hopin’ you won’t need it.” Crack Shot lifted his hoof. Storm smiled and tapped it with his own to the sound of metal clink.

“Same to you guys,” he said.

Crack Shot and Check Mate turned towards the northern path and began on their way, discussing the task ahead of them. The last thing Storm caught before they moved out of earshot was a worry from Crack Shot about getting sand in his shoes. Storm shifted the bags on his withers, adjusting to the new weight of the crystal ewer. With any luck, it’d be replaced by that of Allie’s—of Gentian’s cast iron pot soon enough. With any luck, it’d still be ‘soon’ when he and his friends returned to get it. For now though it was time to gather some water and, hopefully, some answers.

Chapter 10

Somewhere to the south, although Storm couldn’t say how far, a mysterious well awaited him. Though, he figured, it probably didn’t care either way. He stood at the perimeter of the stone circle, his eyes tracing the southern path for as far as they could follow, which was not far at all: thick, black forest swallowed it and obscured it in its mists. Near its wooded edge grew colonies of the spotted red mushrooms; their red and blue glow teased at something in Storm’s memory, though what this was eluded him at the moment. Silver-leaved branches stirred in a warm breeze. The forest was beckoning him to step, to disappear into its depths.

“Yeah, like that’s happening,” he said, as he shifted his camping bag between his forehooves and took flight.

After all, he was on the clock, and he didn’t know how fast that clock was ticking. There was no point in traipsing through and tripping over a bunch of trees and roots when all he needed to find was the spring-shaped hole in the middle of them. Plus, he felt confident that he’d be able to identify the hazel trees that marked it, having flown headfirst into one.

However, upon climbing higher into the air and gaining a greater vantage over the tree tops, he let out a low groan. Less than a mile ahead, the mists rose above the canopy, and the silver forest disappeared into a silver fog, killing Storm’s hope of winging it. Looking down, he had to admit that the stone circle really did stand out as a landmark though, which was a bit of a silver lining.

He descended and tightened the camping bag over his withers once more. Flight might not have been an option, but he did have a back-up plan, which was to run as fast as he could until he hit water. He broke into sprint, galloping down the path into the forest.

Meanwhile to the north, Crack Shot and Check Mate were moving at a more reasonable jog over hills that rolled like the waves of an emerald sea. And on the subject, Crack Shot was still waiting for that beach to show up. There had yet to be sign of any dunes, and he was beginning to suspect that he might have been possessed of a misconception or two.

“So, this castle they’ve got us lookin’ for,” he began, “what do you think it’s gonna be like?”

“I could not begin to suspect,” said Check. “It is a curious thing though; the pookas, from what we’ve observed, have not seemed prone towards masonry or architecture outside of their ring of monoliths and trilithons. If those were even of their creation. It makes me wonder just who or what might call it home.”

“Heh, maybe it’s haunted,” whispered Crack Shot, grinning and widening his eyes.

Check hummed in thought as they crested another hill. Crack Shot raised an eyebrow.

“You think it might actually be haunted?”

“Well, I wouldn’t actually expect it to be. However, I think that by now, in this world, I’m not ready to rely on expectations. For whatever may await us, we should remain vigilant.”

“Yeah, no doubt. Heck, if I had my choice of places to haunt, it seems like it’d be hard to go wrong with a castle. All of those echoin’ chambers and chandeliers to rattle? Pretty sweet gig, if you ask me.”

Check gave a laugh. “Yes, you may be right.”

“…Then again, I know that Dorcha said that the pookas didn’t put anypony in charge, but if there’s anything like royalty around here, I bet you’d find it there.”

“Royalty, now?”

“Yeah, why not? A castle seems like the best place to shove it.”

Check shook his head. “Goodness, Crack Shot, to ‘shove it’? As a member of the Royal Guard, you should really try to speak of royalty with a bit more decorum. If I may proffer the suggestion.”

Crack Shot stuck out his tongue. “I’d prefer not to worry about it, dude. You gotta relax a bit about that kind of stuff. If you act too serious, ponies are gonna think you’re… mm, what’s a good way of saying ‘hella lame’ without being a jerk about it?”

“Square?” suggested Check.

“Ha, what?! Dude, nopony says ‘square.’ Saying ‘square’ is square. It’s like a squared square. It’s a cube.”

Check smiled. “Actually, I believe a squared square would be a hypercube, or a tesseract.”

“You know you’re totally makin’ my point here, right?”

Check gave another hum as they approached another hill. “Though, on the subject of fourth dimensions, I have been pondering over something. Did you notice anything odd about our hosts’ demeanor prior to our departure?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Mm, the furtive whisper that preceded their caveat about the flow of time here comes to mind.”

“Ah.” Crack Shot nodded in tacit agreement. “You think there’s some romantic tension there.”

“What?! Of course n—well, it’s not really my place to say—but I do not suspect that to have been a susurrus of sweet longings or anything of that sort.”

The two guardsponies leapt over a patch of tussocks crowding the saddle between hills.

“So what do you think it was?” asked Crack Shot.

“I’m not entirely certain, honestly.”

“No kiddin’? I didn’t think the light bulb over your head ever burnt out.”

Check rolled his eyes. “There is little worth to a conclusion that is hastily drawn. It may very well be that I am reading too much into it, but I nevertheless found it strange.”

The guardsponies came to the top of the next hill which was, it would appear, the last of them. From its vantage, an expanse of gray land laid itself out ahead of them. It was an inordinate gray, with no hint of any other shade or hue; it looked as if in response to all of the rich and varied color around it, it had decided not to bother. In the grass near its edge, several yards down the hill’s slope, stood a white figure: a tall, well-built stallion, by appearances, for what little those were worth. He was facing away from them, and beside him lay a large wooden wheel.

“Huh, wonder who that is.” said Crack Shot. He lifted a hoof to his mouth and shouted, “Yo! Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?”

The stallion turned towards them and waved. “Tá mé go hiontach!” he roared back. “Sláinte agus saol chugat!”

“Oh, jeez,” said Crack Shot. He turned to Check. “Line?”

“Perhaps ‘hello’ might suffice?”

The guardsponies made their way down the hill towards the stallion, whereupon Crack Shot gave it a try. The stallion considered them with eyes like polished chalk as they neared. He was smiling expansively, and they saw that even the inside of his mouth was pale, distinguished only by the shadows within it.

“It’s about time ye showed up,” he said, his voice booming with a deep earthen timbre, like the rumble of a tectonic plate. “I’ve been waiting for ye!”

“For us?” asked Check.

“Really?” followed Crack Shot.

The stallion pressed his lips together in a thin, white line. His irisless eyes might’ve shifted to the side uncertainly.

“For somebody, anyways! Pretty much all I do is wait here, ye see. And I figure since ye’ve shown up, why can’t it be that I was waiting for the two of you.”

“Oh,” said Crack Shot, sharing a glance with Check which came back as skeptical as it was given. “Been waitin’ long then?”

“For as long as it took. And ye intend to cross the mires ahead. I could tell the moment I sensed yer approach.”

“The moment you sensed our approach?” said Crack Shot. “Dude, you had your back turned when we came over the hill.”

“Aye, but still I sensed ye. I sensed the sounds of yer voices, the aim of your steps.”

“That is to say you heard my friend call out to you, and upon turning towards us saw the direction from which we came?” asked Check.

“Aye, there were many ways in which I sensed ye,” the stallion said. He grinned mysteriously.

“Dude, what?”

“And I must warn ye that these mires”—the stallion arced a colossal foreleg over the view of gray—“form no other than the Plain of Ill Luck.”

“‘Plain of Ill Luck’? Huh, no wonder nopony’s been comin’ by. A name like that’d kill the tourism industry here in no time.”

“But it has earned the name, for it presents terrible dangers. Those ashen flats ye see are part of a great quagmire, a morass of clay and hidden depths that will snare those foolish enough to step foot into it!”

“Huh.” Crack Shot scratched his chin with the tip of his shoe. “I dunno…”

“DO YOU DOUBT ITS PERILS?!” the stallion bellowed.

Crack Shot’s ears folded back in self-defense, or were possibly blown back by the blast. “Jeez, turn it down, dude! I get enough of that back home.” The stallion subsided just a bit. “Anyways, it’s just that, you know, it doesn’t seem all that unlucky. Getting your hooves stuck? Sounds more inconvenient, really. The Plain of Inconvenience.”

“I highly doubt that anybody would hear a name like ‘The Plain of Inconvenience’ and treat it with the gravity it deserves.”

“Yeah, I guess,” conceded Crack Shot. “It does sound awfully plain.” His eyes lit with inspiration. “Hey, what about calling it that—”

“We appreciate the warning,” interrupted Check, before the conversation was drowned in this wellspring of creativity. “However, sir, you imply that a nontrivial span of time has elapsed while you’ve waited here, yes?”

“Aye, but time is a trifling thing for one such as myself.”

“Yes, but not for clay.” Check walked down the hill and tapped a gilded hoof against the flats to the sound of a dull click; he took a few steps out. “I do believe the ‘Plain of Ill Luck’ may have desiccated.”

“Must be our lucky day,” said Crack Shot.

The stallion went aghast. “That’s not supposed to happen!” he whinnied.

“The evaporative processes involved would disagree,” said Check.

“No, this is no good at all!” the stallion continued, stamping a hoof into the grass and sending a fine cloud of white dust drifting inexplicably into the air. “It throws everything all out of whack! Yer supposed to use the wheel to cross the Plain, not just go mucking across it, tossing caution to the wind!”

“Yeah, about that,” interrupted Crack Shot. “Shouldn’t that wheel be attached to something? Like a cart?”

“No, no… ya just roll it ahead of ya, and it takes care of the rest. Or at least it would’ve.”

“How would that have helped?”

In answer, the stallion stood the wheel up and gave it a halfhearted kick that still managed to send it flying several yards into the air. The wheel spun towards the plain and, upon landing on it, burst into a corona of flame and light that the guardsponies had to shield their eyes against. It sped into the distance at an impossible speed, a towering, brilliant conflagration flaring behind it, before reaching the other side, whereupon it exploded.

“How would that have helped?” repeated Crack Shot.

“It was meant to harden the clay and make a safe trail to follow,” the stallion said in spite of all evidence to the contrary. “To be a guiding light, ye see?”

“One that you’re not supposed to look at directly?”

“Well, it’s not like it matters now…” The stallion sulked, his huge shoulders collapsing forward like a landslide.

“If it is any small solace, we could traverse the plain along the wheel’s course,” said Check. The air above the wheel’s burning path rippled in its intense heat. “Erm, once it has stopped smoldering, of course.”

“Would ye? Gosh, I’d really appreciate that.”

“And I would wager that the scorch marks will make it trivial enough to follow,” added Check, encouragingly.

“Aye, that they will! Just… mind the fumes, if ye would; the clay tends to release them when it gets hot.” Before this could be questioned, he continued. “Now, if yer crossing the Plain of Ill Luck, that means yer also going to be travelling through the Perilous Glen.”

Crack Shot snorted. The stallion looked towards him with a stony glare. “Do ya find something odd about that name, too?” he growled.

“Hehe, yeah.”

“Well, ya shouldn’t! There are dangerous beasts which prowl its cliffs, ravenous and mad for prey. Ye’ll need something to protect yerselves.” The stallion ducked his head deep into the grass at his hooves and plucked from it a round, golden apple. “Lucky for you, I’ve got just the thing.”

Crack Shot looked at the large piece of fruit and asked, “Where is it?”

The stallion probably rolled his eyes as he barked, “Just take it,” through clenched teeth.

“So we’re bringin’ them dessert?” asked Crack Shot. Then his eyes drifted towards the other end of the clay flats, where a shallow, charred crater marked the end of the wheel’s journey like a giant, black punctuation point. He looked at the apple. He took a step backwards.

The stallion exhaled. “It ain’t going to blow up,” he said. “It ain’t even going to bruise. It’s indestructible.”

“So in other words it’s inedible?” asked Crack Shot.

“Aye, that’d be true,” agreed the stallion.

“Then isn’t that worse?”

The apple dangled from its stem like a pendulum as the stallion stared at Crack Shot. “Eh?” he said.

“I’m just thinkin’ that if we might be dealing with starving monsters, maybe it’d be nice if we could add another option to the menu besides us?”

“If it comes to that, ye’ll figure out what to do.”

Crack Shot looked towards Check, who gave a small shrug. “If you say so,” he said, before reaching back to open a saddlebag pocket. He reached out a hoof to take the apple, then tossed it into the air with a flick of his foreleg. It landed cleanly within his bags, jingling the bits at the bottom of them. “Thanks.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Check.

“Aye,” said the stallion. “And thanks to the both of ye for dropping by; I was long overdue for a lie down.”

The guardsponies said their goodbyes and began the march across the Plain of Ill Luck, following the blackened trail left by the stallion’s wheel and trying not to breathe in the stench. A few minutes into their trek, Check looked backwards and saw a curious sight. Covering a large portion of the grassy hill they’d descended was a figure outlined in chalk. It was crude, but he could make out four white legs, an eye, a tail. The stallion they had met was no longer standing in wait behind them. Check would’ve wondered where he had gone, if he hadn’t felt certain of the answer.

Storm’s hooves would have thundered if the path wasn’t so soft. His breath would’ve steamed like a train engine if the air wasn’t so warm. His mane would have billowed if not for the helmet pinning it down. As it stood, the circumstances weren’t at all conducive to descriptions of speed, but these were the things that would have happened in a proper narrative. But, he was running fast and showed no sign of slowing, maintaining a sprint that in others would have required a runner’s high located somewhere in the mesosphere. The problem was that he didn’t know where this sprint was taking him.

For over an hour he had run, finding no clue, no marker, as to the location of the well. Everything looked the same, and the forking road just kept on forking! He had tried to rely on the method of solving a maze, of choosing one direction, left in his case, in the hopes of working towards an exit. However, that method depended on all erroneous paths ending at some reasonable point. He wasn’t sure that a forest path would follow this rule. Uncertain of how deep into the forest he had gone, he decided to gamble on a right turn at the next opportunity to see where it would take him; it wasn’t as if he could get any more lost. When the next turn came, he found it opened into a clearing. The stone circle stood not far into it. He greeted the sight with language not fit for print, before dashing back into the forest to try for round two of the trip, hoping it wouldn’t be so round of a trip until he got to the well.

He had gotten as far as a split in the road and was considering just barreling straight through the bramble between it, when a call caught his attention. He skidded to a stop and turned towards the direction it had come from. A white mare approached him, thin, pale eyebrows knit with worry. Her eyes were as green as the sea and they shone with concern.

“An bhfuil tú caillte?” she repeated more softly. It looked like she had been swimming: water dripped from the tresses of her mane, making them frame her face. She wore a bridle that appeared to be woven with reeds of some sort.

“Um, sorry,” said Storm. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She blinked once. “Oh! I mean to ask, ‘Are ya lost?’”

Storm hadn’t expected her to understand him. “I think I might be,” he said. “What gave it away?”

“Well, ya have run past here no fewer than a dozen times.” A shy smile crossed her face. “Unless yer just doing laps, of course.”

“Er, not deliberately. I’m still trying to find my bearings.”

The mare gave a small, melodic laugh. “What is it that yer looking for?”

Storm didn’t answer immediately. There was the question of who he was speaking to. There was the question what he was speaking to. But, he decided, there was little harm in saying. Besides: by the look of her, if anypony knew where water was, she did.

“I’m trying to find a well,” he said. “It’s supposed to have some hazelnut trees around it, but I don’t know any more about it than that.”

“Ahh! I know just what yer talking about!”

“…You do?”

“Absolutely. And no wonder ya got lost; yer not going to find it following any road.”

“Well, I wish I could blame getting lost on that, but—”

The mare laughed once more and waved this off with a hoof. “Oh, and yer humble!” She lidded her eyes. “A very charming trait indeed. Come along, then—I’ll show ya the way.”

The mare stepped off the trail into the thick overgrowth, water trickling off of her body and wetting the foliage she brushed against. Storm swallowed once and then left the trail to follow after her.

As Crack Shot and Check Mate continued on their way after crossing the Plain of Ill Luck, the character of their surroundings began to change into something hostile. The grasses thinned and wilted and died, leaving the ground barren and rugged. Large, jagged rocks started to rise around the two guardsponies, jutting skyward in grotesque spires. And the sky itself was not immune to this corruption. Much of it had dimmed into deep, bloody reds and purples, and other parts of it had blackened into something darker than night, something starless and empty.

“Figures this place would have mood lighting,” said Crack Shot, glancing up with a frown. “So what makes a glen a glen, exactly?”

“It is a type of valley,” answered Check. “I believe they are distinguished by their narrowness, as opposed to, say, a strath.” He glanced from side to side at the steep hills and cliffs surrounding them. “Although, I might consider this to be more of a ravine.”

“A perilous one?”

“Mm, cheerless, perhaps,” said Check. “Bleak, dreary, forlorn, tenebrous. As for perilous, however—”

A piercing howl from nearby stabbed a hole in their conversation. The guardsponies’ gaze turned in the direction it came from as their ears turned in all the others, alert for any threat that might be nearby. Another, nearer howl answered the first from behind them, followed by a throaty growling. They spun towards it. Yet, there was nothing to see, nothing that could have hid it, only the uneven, sterile soil. It had sounded like it was only feet away. A few final howls echoed from off in the distance; for a few minutes the guardsponies waited, but that was the end of them for the time being.

“…as for perilous, this place may yet earn that distinction,” Check finished in a whisper. “Let us hold off on further conversation until we’ve made our way from it.”

Crack Shot nodded, and the two continued on in a silence broken only by their hoofsteps against the craggy earth. The path formed by the cliff walls bent frequently, making it impossible to see where it led next. It narrowed, creating the worry that those cliff walls might eventually close in. Farther on, the sky blackened further, and the gap between the cliff faces narrowed such that it was no longer possible to walk abreast. Check led the way as best he could, in spite of the dark, uneven footing; he didn’t dare light his horn.

Once more there came a series of howls, but they were far off and soft as whispers. They would have only been heard if one was making the attempt, as the guardsponies certainly were.

Crack Shot was tempted to share his relief, but he opted to keep his mouth shut. Check did the same. There would be no celebration until they were certain they were in the clear; it would be foolish to behave otherwise. That’s why what happened next felt so terribly unfair.

Around the next bend, the path widened suddenly, like a yawn, into a space ringed by the cliffs that had funneled it. And atop those cliffs were the creatures that had been making all the noise.

“Tesseract,” swore Crack Shot.

Deeper into the forest the mists had grown thicker, lending to the otherworldliness of the place. The black, gnarled trees blended and disappeared into its grayness, and Storm felt like he was walking through the world of a charcoal painting. The mare had moved in a determined yet seemingly aimless manner, meandering around fallen logs and dried creek beds. The trail had long since fallen out of sight, and its location out of memory; Storm doubted that he would be able to find it again. The thought of that alone did not trouble him, given that ‘west or east’ was not an issue with ‘up’ a wing’s beat away, but he did wonder: how would he have been expected to find this well, as hidden as it was proving to be? Each step he took was like a metronome’s beat, like the tick of a clock, echoing Síofra’s warning.

“It’ll just be a short ways away, now,” said the mare. “It’s a lucky thing that I found ya; who knows how long ya’d have been out here otherwise.”

“I appreciate it,” said Storm. “Sorry to put you to the trouble.”

The mare turned and gave him a contented smile. “It’s no trouble at all; I consider it a pleasure. Now I might be forward in saying so, but yer certainly not from around here, and ya must not have been here long because I know I’d remember a face like yers.”

Storm flushed slightly. Was she flirting?

“What business is it that ya have here?” she asked.

“Actually, right now I’m just trying to find a way back home for my friends and me. Somehow this well’s water will enable me to do that, don’t ask me how.”

The mare sucked in her lips and shifted her gaze upwards. As she did, more water ran in rivulets down her brow; Storm marveled how it was possible that she hadn’t yet dried. “I suppose I can see how that’d work. But…,” she continued, something akin to disappointment creeping into her voice, “I hope ya aren’t in too much of a rush to leave. I’d be interested in getting to know a bit more about ya.” She hummed. “Ah, I think I got the wording wrong. I’d be interested in getting to know ya a bit more.”

“Uh, I’m really not that interesting. I’m probably one of the least interesting ponies you could meet.”

This earned another small smile. “Again, so humble…”

A little farther ahead, the soft forest loam rolled into a gradual slope. A few meters below where they stood, clear water washed up against a rocky shore, just visible through the mists. The mare made her way down and took a seat on a large, smooth stone. It was well above the water’s surface, but water began to puddle where she rested nevertheless. Storm walked to the water’s edge and was about to remove the ewer from his camping bag when he remembered what else he was looking for. He scanned the nearby shoreline. Plenty of trees ran along it, but none of them were hazels. He stepped beside the mare; she looked up at him with a soft expression.

“Er, are you sure this is the right place?” he asked.

The mare turned away as a blush crept across her features. “I… might have taken us on a wee bit of a detour,” she said. Storm winced at this unwelcome revelation. “…But, I thought you might not mind if we stopped here,” she continued. “A lovely sight, isn’t?” The way she said it, the way she looked at him as she said it, Storm was certain that she wasn’t talking about the water. She took a small step toward him; he took a small step back, maintaining their distance.

“Listen,” he began in a quiet but firm voice. “I really appreciate your willingness to help me. And yes, this is a very lovely”—she took another step forward, and he took another step back—“place. But I don’t have time for this! And it’s not just my world that I want to return to, it’s the ponies in it. And there’s a very important pony waiting for me; I need to hurry or else she might not be there waiting for me when I get back!”

“Oh…” The mare put her lips together in a moue. “A mot?” she asked.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“A sweetheart,” she sighed.

“Ah. Then yes.”

The mare looked crestfallen. Storm wondered if her eyes had begun to tear up, or if it was just the water dripping from her mane. Why was it still so wet? Compassion nearly compelled him to pat her back or pull her into a hug, but he felt that such a gesture would be inappropriate.

“…I suppose I won’t be getting a thank-you kiss from the strange, dashing winged visitor then,” she said eventually.

“Sorry…” Storm rubbed the back of his head. “Would a thank-you hoofshake do?” he asked. “And perhaps a name? I think we might’ve forgotten introductions.”

The mare gave a fragile smile and said, “Well… I suppose that’ll do at that.”

“I’m Storm Stunner.” Storm removed a shoe and extended forehoof. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The mare stood and touched it with her own. Storm immediately became aware of a number of things. Her hoof was clammy and cold, deathly cold, with a chill like the bottom of the sea. When he tried to pull his away it held fast to hers. And her smile, which had been so small, shy, demure, was widening now, opening, and its teeth were far too sharp.

“Now, a girl needs her secrets, and I’m just a tad too shy to go sharing mine right away, but don’t worry,” she whispered beside Storm’s ear, “we’ve got all the time in the world.” Then she threw herself back towards the water, yanking him along with her. There was a glass crunch as he slammed against the shore’s rocks, but it was lost to him as the wind was knocked painfully from his lungs. He had only a fraction of a second to draw another breath before he was dragged beneath the water’s surface.

They were huge canine shapes, looming from the cliffs above Check and Crack Shot, with fur as white as snow and ears as red as arterial blood. They stared down from their perches with eyes like burning coals (which is the wont of many supernatural and infernal creatures, next to the ever popular ‘sulfurous glow’). One by one they bared their teeth and by the trembling of their lips seemed to growl, although it was as faint as the wind. A pair of them leapt from the cliffs, a distance dozens of meters high, and landed with a soft patter. They began padding towards the guardsponies.

Crack Shot flared his wings and turned towards Check. “Ready for a lift?” he asked.

Check’s ear twitched. He threw himself as hard as he could into Crack Shot’s side, sending them both tumbling just as another of the giant beasts flew through the spot where they had stood. It landed noiselessly and spun back around to face them, as the other two hounds came beside it.

Crack Shot leapt to his hooves. “Jeez, too friggin’ close!” he gasped. “How’d you hear that thing coming?!”

“It was just that—I didn’t!”

Check stood, facing the direction they had come from and the source of another unnatural silence. It stood there, a bloody eared sentinel blocking their path. Check realized that it, along with its partner, must have been following behind him and Crack Shot for quite some time, quietly ensuring that they would have no means of escape.

The two guardsponies stood together, turned in opposite directions as the hounds circled them. More of them waited at the edges of the nearby cliffs, ready to throw themselves down upon them should they try to fly.

Crack Shot hissed and his ears pinned back. “So much for that air lift, huh?”

The hounds began to move together, slowly closing the distance and tightening the circle. Their growls, unheard, began to resonate instead within the guardsponies’ chests in a cold pitch of dread. Perhaps they were waiting there to reunite with their owners’ teeth.

“Well… we do have another option.”

Crack Shot nodded uncertainly. “If you think it’ll work, dude.” In case it wouldn’t, he shifted a hoof beside one of the nearby stones, prepared to make a missile of it for what little it would do.

“We can only hope. Pardon the intrusion—”

Not letting his eyes leave the approaching hounds, Check unfastened Crack Shot’s bags with his magic, removed the golden apple, and held it out in front of him, an unlikely aegis. All of the hounds came to an immediate stop, freezing at the sight of it. As each of them stood there fixed in place, their hellish eyes flitted down towards the ponies, these intruders into their territory. The roar of instinct echoed in the rush of blood running hot through their veins, demanding that they rend the ponies to shreds.

Their eyes returned to the round, golden object floating just away from their quarry. For a minute, neither they nor the guardsponies moved.

Then, instinct shifted its focus. One of the hounds began to wag its tail.

“Well, I… I can’t say I quite expected that,” said Check. He levitated the apple towards Crack Shot, the smoldering eyes of the hounds following it. “Would you, er, care to do the honors?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Crack Shot spun around and gave the apple a swift kick, sending it flying. The hounds immediately scrambled after it. “So uh… should we keep goin’ then?”

“Yes… yes, I suppose we should.”

As the hounds fell into a pile over the apple, the two guardsponies stepped gingerly around them, making their way from the circle of cliffs. Crack Shot glanced back as one of the hounds rolled over with the apple secured happily within its massive fangs.

“Huh,” he said. “I guess an indestructible fruit would make for a pretty good chew toy.”

“Seemingly so, and better it than us.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’.” Farther away, the calls of the white hounds gradually grew louder as the guardsponies left them behind. “I hope Storm’s havin’ a better time of it than we are.”

“As do I, Crack Shot.”

Tiny bubbles of trapped air bled in a cloud from Storm’s fur and feathers as the mare pulled him deeper into the water, farther from land. Lower and lower the two of them sank, until finally they settled on the silty lake floor; thin aquatic plants rippled and brushed against him. He vaguely registered the wet, muted noise of a splash, but underwater each sound seemed to come from all directions. Why was he being pulled underwater? What had he gotten himself into?

Despite the obvious peril of his situation, a part of him tried to deny it. He wanted to rationalize it and excuse it. He wanted to believe this to be a game, a misguided show of affection, a joke in bad taste on the mare’s part. He was unable to accept, to wrap his mind around the idea—

“My, ya can yer hold your breath,” she purred, her voice as silken in the water as it had been on land. “I wonder just for how long.”

—that she was going to kill him.

She was going to kill him.

Nopony had ever tried to do that to him before.

The revelation nearly stole his breath, though thankfully he kept his mouth shut. Somepony that he had known for no more than hour or two, for less than a day, was going to rob him of all his tomorrows. And she was going to do it with a smile on her face. The thought of it burned in his mind like a fuse. He began, then, to kick his rear legs and beat his wings; they churned through the water with a force and fierceness defiant of viscosity. The mare’s eyes widened; Storm met them with a glower which he turned towards the water’s surface. He briefly caught sight of a black and gold shape nearby before hastening his climb.

It is said that there are five stages one faces when confronted by their mortality, and Storm had been confronted by his. There is, first, denial of the circumstances, followed by anger at its perceived causes. Bargaining and depression come one after the other, leading finally to acceptance of its inevitability. Storm had decided that he’d only bother with the first two. Neither the heaviness of his armor, the awkward and restricting mass of the bags on his withers, nor the unearthly pull of the mare could match the weight of his fury. He erupted from the water like a depth charge, sending waves rocking off into the white haze around them.

As water showered around and off of him and the mare, as the mists twirled and trailed in their wake, as the rapid-fire beating of his heart pumped a jet-fuel mixture of blood and adrenaline through his body, Storm released in one great exhalation the breath that had him lasted minutes. It came out as, “What the heck is wrong with you?!”

“Oh my,” breathed the mare, dangling from his forehoof, “and yer strong too.”

“For the love of—stop that! Stop flirting! And let go of me!”

He took off across the water, weaving wildly through the air in an attempt to shake her free.

“There’s one way to get me to do that, but ya might not like it!” she shouted. “It really depends on how attached to yer hoof ya are.” She gave a wink above a dagger-toothed grin. “Although, yer hoof would need to be a lot less attached to you either way. Now why don’t we head back down? The water’s fine, and—not to disparage my weight—ya can’t be keeping this up for long.”

“Don’t be so sure—we’re on my turf now.” Storm spun around, trying in vain to find a tree top to fly into, trying to find the land on which it’d grow. Had they really gone this far from shore? He picked a direction and flew towards it. Then, knowing his luck at guessing directions, he flew the opposite way.

“‘Turf’?” yelled the mare over the rush of wind, watching his wings beat awkwardly against his larger bag. “Be it far from me to correct ya on yer own language, but I doubt that air and sky would be considered turf.” She tutted. “Well, at least ye’ve got beauty if not brains.”

“Whatever!” shouted Storm, immediately wishing he had come up something wittier. “I had a sinking feeling about you!” he added, desperately. It wasn’t much but it would have to do.

The mare laughed again, that siren song of a laugh. “Ya might be having another one,” she said, before swinging her free hoof upwards as Storm’s wing came down, latching onto it. “And ya really shouldn’t feel so sure about things yerself.”

Storm cried out as his wing was pinned, and the two of them spun back down towards the water. He struggled against the mare’s grip, to gain lift or at least a glide, but it was futile. He grit his teeth as the lake’s surface flew towards them like a wall of glass. Maybe he could swim, maybe he could fight back somehow without getting further immobilized. Maybe if he were more delusional he could actually believe any of that. Robbed of fight and flight he braced himself, prepared to crash into the lake and prepared for nothing beyond that.

“Oy! Lig dul dó, ya kelpie bogtrotter!”

Storm’s ears swiveled towards the voice, and his head immediately followed. A blur of black swept past his vision, just over the mare, and stole away with her bridle with an audible rip. Storm felt the grips on his wing and forehoof weaken and fall away, and he quickly beat his wings to correct his free fall, thankful to be beating the both of them again. Stabilized, he surveyed the aftermath. Below, the mare stood on the surface of the water, a hate-filled glare on her face. A few meters in front of him hovered a golden-eyed kite; it was clutching the mare’s bridle in her talons.

“…Síofra?”

“Are ya alright, Storm Stunner?” she asked. “Ya sure know to pick yer company, don’t ya?”

“Uh.” Storm just stared at her for a moment, an influx of thoughts of the sudden turn of events numbing him as his wings dutifully kept him aloft. “Wow, um… good timing.”

“Hey!” shouted the mare. “Give that back! Give him back! I saw him first!”

“Now that’s a fiction!” Síofra yelled back. “And even if it wasn’t, I doubt that he’d want that ya saw him last!” She turned back towards Storm. “What do ya say we scatter?”

“No complaints here,” he said. Then, as he flew towards her, the contents of his camping bag shifted with a clinking of broken glass, just over the clinking of his bits. Both he and Síofra paused. “The ewer!” he hissed. “It must’ve shattered when I got dragged down those rocks.”

For a very long minute, Síofra said nothing. Then, finally, she neared Storm and held out the mare’s bridle towards him. “Do ya mind holding this for a moment?” she asked in a strained voice.

Storm nodded and took it.

“Thank you,” she said, clippedly. She then narrowed her eyes at the mare and plunged into a dive, screaming something that Storm couldn’t understand, but that he wagered would require a very particular kind of language dictionary to translate. Most likely the kind that’d be sold from the top shelf, purchasable only by matured ponies of immature tastes.

The mare stared upwards as a razor-sharp beak and knife-tipped talons flew towards her. Of course, there was also the swearing bird attached to them, although she didn’t command quite as much attention as the previously noted points of interest. She made a decision.

She looked towards Storm with a wistful expression, and mouthed what looked like a good-bye. For a moment the whole of her form appeared to ripple. Then she simply dissolved into water and mist, disappearing into the lake as Síofra buffeted into it. She had done so as easily as she might’ve taken a breath; Storm wondered if that was something she ever needed to do. In spite of himself, in spite of what had transpired, he felt a sudden, small pang of sorrow for her; he would not have been able to say why. Síofra flew back towards him.

“She’s right lucky she fled before I turned those green eyes of hers black,” she fumed, breaking him from his spell. “And yer lucky too, by the way. That one’s kind is extremely powerful; they could put ya in thrall just by shedding a tear on ya.” She cocked her head to the side, staring at Storm with eyes as bright and hard as gemstones. “And yer sure yer alright? She didn’t weep on ya, did she?”

“…No, I’m fine,” Storm replied. “What was she?”

“A kelpie. Or an aughisky, maybe.” Síofra tilted her head to one side. “…Or a ceffyl dŵr, or a shoopiltie, or—gosh I feel like a gobdaw for getting them all mixed up.” She noticed Storm was staring at her blankly. “None of these names aren’t ringing any bells, are they?”

Storm shook his head. “No, sorry… is all of her kind like that?”

Síofra gave as close to a shrug as a bird could give midflight. “I couldn’t tell ya; I haven’t met all of them yet. But the ewer…,” she groaned, shaking her head.

Storm thought back to the task he had been given, of how strange the ornateness of the ewer had seemed compared to everything else he had observed here. “Was it magical?” he asked. “Or glamorous?”

“What? No, it wasn’t glamoured…”

“Er, then what’s the problem?”

Síofra’s beak fell open. “Did ya see it?!” she yelled. “It was a really nice ewer! It had all those little fancy flowers cut into the side and it caught light like nothing else—they don’t grow on trees, ya know!”

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry. But… then why’d you give it to us?”

“It’s big enough to carry the amount water that we’d need, and I didn’t think any of ye would go and get yerself dragged into a loch, but imagine my surprise.” She took a deep breath and sighed it out. “No use cribbing about it, I guess.”

Síofra led Storm through the mists to the rocky shore of the lake and alighted on one of the larger stones, taking an earth pony’s form as she did so. Storm set the tattered remains of the mare’s bridle near the water, glad to be rid of it. Nearby, he found his discarded shoe, which gave greater credence to a question that had been forming in his mind.

“By the way… how did you know I was in trouble?” he asked. “What were you doing out here?”

“Following ya, actually. At least until you started running in a circle, at which point I buggered off to grab a bite. It figures ya’d pick that moment to break out of yer loop. Of course being a shape-shifter leaves me with a few shapes that are just fine for tracking, so all I had to do was sniff out yer trail.”

“Er, I see. But still—I recall you saying that you were going to trust my friends and I to take care of these tasks on our own.”

“Aye, that I did.”

Storm followed as Síofra led the way up from the shore towards the path he had left behind, still unsatisfied.

“Then how do you explain what you were doing?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Síofra stopped to turn and look Storm in the eye. “I lied, of course,” she said without an ounce of guile. “Pretty convincing, wasn’t it?”

Storm frowned. “You know, most ponies wouldn’t be so proud of that.”

“Huh, really now? Well a pooka wouldn’t worry about it. In fact, they’d take pride in doing such a good job of it. Ya aren’t trying to tell me that ponies don’t lie, are ya?”

“No!” Storm lied. “That is to say… we try not to. And we’re not so celebratory about it.”

“Well I suppose that makes it alright then.” Síofra smiled. “But I must say I’m impressed. The path is pretty much a straight shot to the well and it only breaks in two spots which are connected to each other. Yet, ya still managed to get lost. How exactly does one pull that off?”

Storm bit his lower lip. “I figured if I just kept going left I’d get there eventually, I guess.”

“A fine strategy if yer not running so fast that ya miss the first left.” Síofra ducked her head beneath a low branch and leapt over a fallen tree. Unlike the path of the one she had identified as a kelpie (et al.), the path she took was as straight as the crow flies, possibly in thanks to personal experience. “I suppose it’s on me for trying to give ye boys a kick in the rear.”

“‘A kick in the rear’? Wait—are you talking about—”

“At the worst ya might lose or gain an hour when ya leave here, depending on if we’re leading or lagging the moment ya step back into the other side.”

“So all of that panic was for nothing?!”

“Well it got ya movin’!” Síofra scratched the bottom of her chin. “Though not in the right direction and bit too much in the left one. But at least ya can take solace in the fact that we were technically telling the truth then.”

“Ugh. I guess it’ll be no different than Daylight Savings Time, then.”

Through more underbrush, the trail finally came into view.

“So then what about this well water?” asked Storm. “Is there still any point in fetching that, or could I just shake out my coat over a bowl and say that I’ve suffered enough?”

“There’s still a purpose to that. Losing the ewer really throws a kink in it, though.”

Storm thought for a moment. “I’ve got a canteen if that would help.”

Síofra stopped walking and turned to face him. “Really? That might do it.”

Storm unfastened the camping bag, set it down, and removed the canteen from one of its pouches. Upon seeing it, Síofra shook her head.

“No, I’m afraid that’ll do no good unless yer willing to make a few trips, and I’ve got the feeling ya won’t. We might not have a choice though.”

Storm tapped a forehoof against the ground in thought. “So, this well water is special… but it’s still water, right?” he asked.

“Aye, that it is, why?”

“In that case, I think I have an idea.” Storm swung the camping bag back over his shoulders and began down the trail.

“Really, now? Well, I suppose ya could give it a shot. One thing though, Storm Stunner?”

“Yes?”

“The well is in the other direction.”

“Ah.”

The ridges of the Perilous Glen softened into hills, and eventually flattened altogether. However, Check and Crack Shot found that they had not yet left the cliffs behind, but had only gone from the bottom to the top of them. They now stood at the precipice of chasm. Hundreds of meters below, black ocean water swelled around pointed rocks and crashed against its walls, and long, dark shapes slithered within its depths. A baleful wind resonated with the crush of the waves, creating a mournful soughing which filled the air like a wail. Crack Shot had found his beach and he was not pleased with it one bit.

On an island plateau on the opposite side they spied their destination: a fortress that stood like a shadow against the horrible light of the sky outlining it. Unembellished and warlike, the closest thing to ornamentation would have been the crenellations at the top of its parapets. It might’ve been able to pull off a gargoyle or two, but, then again, those probably would’ve cheered up the ambience too much. It was a stark reminder that beyond ceremony, beyond symbolism, a castle was a line of defense. If those stony, somber walls could talk, they would have said, ‘No solicitors.’

Nearby was a wooden bridge that appeared to have been added as an afterthought, and most likely a grudging one. It was narrow, and its planks were so thin and spaced that if it were disconnected at one end it could have served as a ladder. Crack Shot shook his head as he stared through it at the fall below.

“I don’t trust this thing at all,” he said.

Check Mate kneeled down to examine the posts anchoring it in place. “I can find no obvious wear in the ropes, or rot in the wood, but it does seem needlessly precarious, doesn’t it?”

“You are wise to be wary of the Buckling Bridge,” purred a voice from behind them. They turned to find a tall, black cat sitting behind them, his tail curled around his paws; a white shock of fur the shape of a diamond stood prominently on his chest. He gave them a cheshire grin. “Are ye surprised to hear a cat speak?” he asked.

“Nah,” said Crack Shot. “What’s up with this—engh—Buckling Bridge, though? Seriously, these names.”

“As ya might surmise from the title, it buckles. Observe.” The cat stalked forward and placed a paw on the first plank of the bridge. Immediately it began to bow and bend, and soon it was rippling like a plucked violin string. “Of course, there is a trick to crossing it…”

“No doubt,” said Crack Shot. He turned towards Check. “Second offer on that lift, dude.”

Check stared across the bridge, judging the distance. “No, I do believe I will be alright. But thank you, nevertheless.”

“But I won’t share that trick for free,” the cat continued. “How would ye two feel about a game of riddles, a wager of—”

“Actually, I think we’ve got this,” said Crack Shot as he flew up and off across the gorge. “Thanks for the heads up!”

“Hey!” the cat shouted, his fur bristling and his tail twitching. However, although he had been thrown off guard for a moment, he naturally landed on his feet. He turned towards Check and said, “I suppose that means yer going to be solving two riddles then, yers and his, and each is going to be twice as difficult because of it. And if ya get them wrong—”

“Oh, I would love nothing more than to partake,” interrupted Check with an apologetic smile. “But, we truly are harried at the moment. However, any other time I would have been delighted to engage you in a mental spar. Pardon our hasty departure.”

With a flash of light he disappeared, reappearing less than a second later on the other side of the bridge. As he gave his head a shake to clear the spots from his vision, Crack Shot landed beside him. There was a caterwauling behind them which they both chose to ignore.

They approached the heavy wooden gates of the fortress, which must’ve been at least two stories tall. They gave the impression that if one were to give them a knock, it would take at least a second for the sound to travel to the other side. Check noted that each was made of a singular black slab of wood: no boards or nails had been used to fashion them. He wondered what sort of tree could have possibly yielded them, how ancient it must have been. A gruff voice came from above.

“Liath Macha? Dubh Sainglenn?” it called down.

The guardsponies looked up to see two pinpricks of red within a small silhouette staring down at them from the fortress’s ramparts.

“Heya!” answered Crack Shot. “Sorry, but we didn’t understand that!”

“Really?” The silhouette cleared its throat and shouted, “I said, ‘Liath Macha? Dubh Sainglenn?’”

Crack Shot looked at Check, who gave a small shrug. Crack Shot turned and gave a larger one in case their conversation partner had missed it.

The silhouette continued to stare at them. Then it said, “Guess not. Who are ye and what do ye want?”

“I’m Crack Shot, and this is Check Mate. We dropped by because we heard that a spear we’re lookin’ for was in a castle up this way, and we were wonderin’ if this was the place. You wouldn’t happen to have any lying around would you?”

“Aye, we’ve a few,” said the silhouette. It disappeared from view, before returning a moment later. “Are ye looking for a pike, a halberd, a partisan, a lance?”

“We are told that the spear we seek is notched,” said Check.

“Notched…? Ah. Ah!”

“Ah?” said Crack Shot.

“I think I know what yer talking about, and it’s a quite the request, coming from a couple of strangers. Unless…” High above there was a flash of white, which may have been the figure grinning. “Say, ye two wouldn’t be planning on sieging the dún, would ye?”

“No, not that we know of,” said Crack Shot.

“Really?” replied the silhouette, sounding slightly disappointed. “Why not?”

“Well for one thing, it seems needlessly pugnacious,” said Check. “I also doubt that the two of us alone could mount a viable siege.”

“Now, now, don’t sell yerselves short! If ye’ve gotten here, that means ye two are no ordinary plonkers. Ye would’ve had to forge through the morasses of the Plain of Ill Luck, to overcome the cŵn annwn of the Perilous Glen, to listen to that tosser that skulks around by the bridge prattle about the secret of crossing it—”

“What is the trick to that, anyways?” asked Crack Shot.

“Ya jump over it. Anyways, I bet ye could mount a great siege if ye really wanted to!”

“But we don’t want to!” said Check.

“…How do ye feel about infiltrations? I could cover my eyes and count to thirty if ye’d like.”

“Can’t you just let us in?” asked Crack Shot. “We’re not kickin’ down the door, and it’d probably take like a year if we tried.”

“Bah, where’s the fun in that? Do ya know how boring it can be, waiting around in a fine dún like this with nobody having the common decency to try to raze it? It’s a waste of good workmanship!”

Crack Shot groaned and dragged a hoof down the bridge of his snout, before spreading his wings. “I’m gonna fly up there and talk to this guy.”

Check nodded. “Very well, but be careful.”

Crack Shot took to the air and circled upwards until he was level with the top of the ramparts, and there he was met by the red-eyed stare of a stallion’s face. The first thing Crack Shot said was, “Er, where’s the rest of you?”

The floating head of the stallion crooked an eyebrow in confusion for a moment, before his eyes lit up with realization and no small amount of red glow. He gave a snort of laughter which sent a small gout of flame shooting from his nostrils.

“I must’ve left my body back down in the courtyard,” he said with another flaming chuckle. “Like they say: ye’ll forget yer own head when it isn’t bolted to yer neck, and my mind does tend to wander.”

A pony could not be blamed for being unnerved by all of this, but as the stallion seemed to find it normal, Crack Shot figured, well, why couldn’t he? He was about to ask why the stallion was so intent on having him and Check storm his castle—or dún or whatever—when the stallion suddenly leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. Or maybe he leaned. Without the neck it was hard to say, but it definitely felt like a lean.

“What is that yer wearing?” he asked.

Crack Shot was sure he knew the answer but looked himself over anyway, because it’s just about impossible not to when asked that question. “Armor?” he hazarded.

“Aye, but what’s that all over it?”

In spite of himself, Crack Shot looked again. “Uh, gold?” he ventured.

The stallion reared back, or at the very least gave the impression of it. “Guh!” he cried. “And ya let it touch ya?”

“What the heck is with everypony here freakin’ out over metal? Like, don’t any of you have anything like a tetanus shot?”

“Get it away!”

Crack Shot flew back a few feet, and then recalled why it was he had come up here. “Heh, wait a sec. Weren’t you just beggin’ us to bust into this place?”

“Aye, but that was before I knew ye were gold plated! That changes things! That changes everything!”

“What if my buddy and I were to set our gear down outside? Would you let us in to talk about that spear?”

“…Let ye sneak in?”

“Dude, come on. It’s been a long day.”

“Engh, fine, I’ll go and let the others know yer coming in,” said the stallion’s head, before floating towards a staircase, grumbling all the way. “…Here these two come in pursuit of an ancient treasure, and they’re not even willing to kick down a door for it…”

Crack Shot flew back down and landed beside Check who asked, “Was your discussion fruitful?”

“Yeah,” replied Crack Shot as he began kicking off his shoes. “He didn’t seem too happy to hear that we wouldn’t be tearin’ down his dún, but he agreed to meet us if we left our gear outside. He wasn’t all there.”

“Well I should think not, if he earnestly desired that we behave like vandals.”

“Nah, dude, like, he literally wasn’t all there. You’ll see.” Crack Shot ducked his head down, allowing his champron to slide off next to the pile of his shoes, before moving on to his saddlebags and peytral.

“Also, that is an odd request regarding our armor, is it not? If he wanted us to play the roles of warriors, why wouldn’t he want us accoutered as such?”

“Something about gold, I guess. For some reason it’s a total fashion faux pas; it totally freaked him out.”

“Hm, I see.” Check followed Crack Shot’s lead and began removing his equipment. After some consideration, he removed one of his bits from his saddlebag and tucked it within his mane, just behind his ear. A tiny amount of magic and a larger amount of concentration were needed to keep it in place, but he had enough of each to spare. The enormous doors creaked open with a labored, wooden groan, and he saw just what Crack Shot had meant. He stifled a gasp.

There in the portal loomed the sable body of a stallion, a head above the guardsponies even without the head. It stamped a hoof against the stone beneath it, kicking a shower of sparks into the air; they created an orange light that briefly lit the entrance corridor and was lost into the darkness of the stallion’s fur. The body began stalking towards them. It yawed slightly to the right, walked into one of the doors, and fell over.

“Oof, I really need to watch where I’m going,” came the gruff voice from a short distance away. A pair of red eyes appeared from around some unseen corner and drifted towards the stallion’s body, which was just now sitting up. The body reached out a hoof and pulled its head towards it and onto its neck. “There we go!” the stallion said with a grin, now that he was in one piece. “Alright, come with me.”

“Uh, it’s kinda dark in there, don’t you think?” said Crack Shot, squinting for the brief second it took to realize how counterproductive this was.

“Really? Can’t say I ever noticed,” said the stallion, stepping back into the darkness of the dún. “But this is the Island of Shadows—”

“Aw, jeez.”

“—so ye’ve got to expect that there’ll be shadows.”

“Sure, shadows,” repeated Crack Shot, stretching the final ‘s’ so far it nearly straightened into an ‘ſ.’ “Not one big, fat one, though.”

The stallion sighed and stamped a hoof, causing rows of torches along the walls to come to life with a black flame, revealing a severe stone hall. Spears and blades hung from mounts along it, not as ornamentation, but to be grabbed at a moment’s notice.

Crack Shot, awestruck, pivoted his head from left to right as the flames danced. “Whoa, awesome. I didn’t think fire could do that.”

“Aye, but unfortunately it’ll make yer teeth glow all yellow.”

Check quirked an eyebrow at the other effect of the flames: the shadows they left were brighter than the light they cast. He glanced back towards the door as it slowly closed behind them; he could see no obvious mechanism by which it operated outside of whatever powers were at play in the dún. He filed these thoughts away and said, “You asked us something earlier. Or two things, perhaps. ‘Liath Macha? Dubh Sainglenn?’ I believe it was.”

“Ah, aye, just a case of mistaken identity that was. From far off, ye two looked like a couple of other feens from a long time back, chariot pullers like me and the others.”

The stallion turned down another, shorter corridor, and another line of torches ignited along their path.

“You pull chariots, eh?” said Crack Shot. “So does our other friend and me. We oughta swap stories.”

“Just one chariot, really, and I doubt that it’s like any you’ve ever seen.”

The stallion ended it at that, leaving the guardsponies to guess at his meaning. Ahead of them, on one side of the passage, was another wooden gateway; it was large, though nothing compared to the main gate.

“But it is a strange coincidence, the two of ye looking so much like that pair,” the stallion began once more. “Given what yer here for, that is to say. Anyways, the others’ll be outside in the courtyard, killing time.” He stopped at the gate, where muffled yells, cries, and the clashing of weapons resonated through it.

Crack Shot’s ears pricked up. “Time and what else?”

The stallion reared up and slammed his hooves against the doors, shoving them open and spilling the sounds of violence into the hall. In the sooty courtyard, beside the wall of a squat central keep, two stallions as phantom-like as the guardsponies’ host were circling each other, while three others cheered them on. Long pale blades were clenched in their teeth. With a scream and a snort of fire, one lunged forward with a swing that was only narrowly parried. The guardsponies watched with shock as the defending stallion feinted forward, ducked beneath the responding strike, and came up with a lash beneath the chin that sent his opponent’s head flying.

“That puts it at four to four,” said one of the bystanders casually, as she scored a tally into the dirt.

“Feh, lucky shot!” shouted the bested stallion as his head flew through the air, his body ambling after it. His sword fell blade first and stuck several inches into the ground.

“My… my word!” gasped Check, as the stallion’s head rolled towards his hooves. It grinned up at him; one of its eyes was sealed with a scar, and the other one winked.

“Mind lending a hoof?” it asked.

“O-of course.” Check levitated the stallion’s head towards his body.

“Ooh, fancy trick, there,” said the stallion, as he took his head from Check and placed it back onto his neck. “Much obliged.” He then wrenched his weapon from the ground and leapt at his opponent with a muffled ululation; their blades met with not a clang, but a loud, dull crack.

“What the heck is going on?” whispered Crack Shot.

“Just a bit of dueling,” said the gatekeeper. “It’s great craic. Oy!” he shouted. “Wrap it up for a second, ye mogs, and come greet our visitors!”

There was a bit of grumbling as the group dispersed, peppered with a few last playful swings of their weaponry at each other. They gathered around the guardsponies and thrust their swords, their spears, and, in one impressive feat, a shillelagh into the hard earth. Four and half pairs of lambent eyes considered them, before their owners at last grunted and cussed out various greetings.

“Erm, charmed,” said Check in response.

“Really?” The mare that had been keeping score looked between her companions. “Wasn’t me.”

“‘Ey, ye all knows who they’s looks like?” said the stallion that had won the earlier death match. His eyes were a deeper, darker red than the others. “Those two ponces what dropped off that spear. Ya know, that spear.” He took a step forward and narrowed his eyes at Crack Shot’s wings and Check’s horn. “‘Cept these ones gots some extra bits stuck on them.”

“Aye, that’s what they’re here about,” said the gatekeeper.

“The extra bits?” The dark-eyed stallion cocked his head at Crack Shot, who gave a confused look in return. “Huh, looks like ya stopped leaking red out o’ yer eyes too, eh? ‘S a pity.”

“I meant the part about the spear, ya gom! They’re here to collect it. I swear that yer as dim as yer eyes, sometimes!”

Another mare, the one that had slammed the shillelagh a foot into the ground, gave the guardsponies a glare like a heat lamp. “And ye think we’re just going to give it to ye?”

“Would you?” asked Crack Shot. “That’d be, like, really convenient.”

The mouth of the mare fell open in disbelief.

“My friend asks a valid question,” said Check. “Is the spear something you would willingly relinquish?”

The mare sneered and spat a tongue of flame from the corner of her mouth. “Not bloody likely.”

Check and the mare stared at each other in silence. With no other competition, the wailing of ocean wind filled the courtyard like a dirge.

“Would that mean, then, that the only option left to us is to seize it?”

The mare’s grimace bent into a half of a grin, a dare. “Aye, I suppose it is at that, though I wouldn’t make it sound so easy.”

The coolness of Check’s gold coin tickled the spot where it pressed behind his ear. He turned towards his fellow guardspony. “Crack Shot?”

“Sup, dude?”

Check began towards the gates leading back into the outer halls of the dún.

“Let us go. It seems that we are finished here.”

“…Really?” asked Crack Shot, and it would seem he had an echo; the others were just as surprised as he was.

Check looked between the six black… not ponies… Fae, were they? Or something else?

“We are not thieves, and we are not thugs,” he said. “And, ultimately, the spear is not ours. We are not going to take it just because we want it.”

“Boo!” shouted a third mare. Unfortunately, she had no real distinguishable characteristic for the purpose of this busy dialogue, such as a scar or speech pattern, and she’d have to settle instead for a number for the sake of narrative convenience.

“Aye! ‘S what she said, ya ponce!” said the dark-eyed stallion. “‘S boring, ‘s what it is!”

“Hey!” shouted Crack Shot, flaring his wings. “Nopony calls him whatever that is!”

“What about a contest then?” interjected the stallion with one eye. The stern-faced mare turned the heat of her glare on him. “What?” he said. “It’s not like we’re using it. A contest might liven things up a bit around here.” He bit his upper lip. “Hrm, poor choice of words there.”

“What manner of contest?” asked Check.

Above the head of the dark-eyed stallion, a candle flicker of inspiration guttered and burnt out. “How’s ‘bout a raffle?” he said, which was met by five colorful variations of ‘shut up.’

“If they’re interested in the spear, then I say it should be a test of aim,” said the scorekeeper. “It is meant to be thrown, after all.”

This was much more permissible expression of creative thought among most of the group, and a general sense of agreement rode the grumbling that followed. A grin didn’t creep across Crack Shot’s face so much as it leapt out and waved.

“If that’s all, bring it on,” he said. “I’m definitely cool with that.”

“Hmph, without even so much as hearing the terms,” said the stern-faced mare. “How bloody bold. In that case…” She stepped towards Crack Shot, and her scowl curled upwards into something predatory. “…I’m going to put that boldness through the wringer, and it might end up bloody. Do you match the weight of your words?”

Crack Shot shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Is this with or without my shoes on?”

The mare gave a humorless chuckle before turning towards the others. “If ye all are going to insist on giving such a prize away for the spectacle of it, then I’m going to set the rules about how we do it. Any complaints?”

If there were, none of the others’ faces belied them. If anything, they looked more than interested in seeing where she was going with this. She walked to where one of their spears had been stabbed halfway into the ground and plucked it free as easily as a feather. She dropped it at Crack Shot’s hooves, who flicked it into the air with the tip of one of them and balanced it on his sole as it came back down on top of it.

“Wow, not heavy at all,” he said, as he curled his foreleg up and down, testing its weight and looking it over. In contrast to the black wood of its shaft, the spear’s blade was a dull, yellowish white.

The mare gave another laugh, chilly in spite of the flames that carried it. “They’re made with something far lighter than metal. But that’s unimportant. Let’s see if yer daring holds out once ya learn what yer going to do with it—the two of ye, actually.” She pointed down the length of the courtyard. “Thirty paces away or so is where yer going to be with that spear, but don’t go rushing off yet.”

She turned towards Check and stepped towards him. “As for yer part in this, ya see these rocks strewn about?”

Check lowered his gaze to the ground momentarily, where a number of stones lay scattered, each no larger than a walnut; they might have better been called pebbles. He nodded. “As well as I can in this light.”

“Ya think ya can balance one on yer head?”

“Ah. I see.” Check levitated a stone and turned it over in his magic, brushing the dirt and dust from it. “I would have thought a piece of fruit, an apple perchance, to be more traditional for such a ghoulish exercise.”

“Heh, ya catch on quick, don’t ya? So that’s the game. Ya may win yer prize. Or…” Her fiery stare bore into Check’s. “You may lose yer life”—she leaned her head towards Crack Shot—“and you may end it, and have that on yer hooves for the rest of yers.

“Of course, I leave the choice up to the both of ye.” The grin resurfaced. “Of course, yer always free to turn the offer down.”

Crack Shot, the spear slung over his shoulder, looked to Check and raised an eyebrow. “You cool with this, dude?”

Check levitated the stone and set it on the poll of his head, just out of line with his horn. “Yes, but I would be grateful if you were mindful of grazing my mane.”

“No prob, dude.” Crack Shot looked in the direction the mare had indicated. “Feh, paces,” he said, before flying a few dozen meters away.

He considered his throw. Check was watching him impassively, the rock resting on his head; in the gloom it almost looked like a second horn. Or a third ear, maybe? Either way, it looked like a target. Crack Shot flipped the spear into the air, caught the end of it in the sole of his forehoof, and let it soar.

For his part, Check didn’t so much as bat an eye or flick an ear as the spear tip struck the stone, split it in half, and sailed past him a few more meters and buried itself in the ground. He turned towards the others as Crack Shot came alongside him.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

The group fell into whispers for a minute or two before breaking up.

“Ehh… well… not really,” said the one-eyed stallion. There were murmurs of agreement.

Crack Shot’s mouth fell open. “What?!”

“Now don’t get me wrong; it was a great shot—”

“Yeah, ‘s fantastic, ‘s what it was,” added the dark-eyed stallion.

“—but ya did it so fast! Ya didn’t let any dramatic tension build whatsoever! How are we supposed to be at the edge of our seats if ya don’t even give us the chance to sit? Ya made it look too easy!”

“Uh, sorry, I guess,” said Crack Shot. “But it’s not my fault you had me do something that I happen to be really good at. How do you think I got these?” He nodded to the red bull’s-eye on one of his flanks.

“I figured it was ringworm,” said mare number three.

Crack Shot gagged. “Ugh, what?! Gross! No! It’s my friggin’ cutie mark, not worms!”

“Actually, despite what the name implies, ringworm is a fungal affliction,” she said knowledgeably.

The scorekeeper blinked. “Cutie mark? And ya call it that with a straight face then, do ya?”

“How’s ‘bout another run o’ it?” said the dark-eyed stallion. He picked up a stone and balanced it on his head. “Go on and give it another shot, but this time lets the moment steep in the drama for a little longer, eh?”

“Hey, careful there,” said gatekeeper. “Ya might end up losing an eye like someone we know.”

“I didn’t lose it,” said the one-eyed stallion matter-of-factly. “I know exactly where it went.”

“Ya might end up missing an eye,” corrected the gatekeeper.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I miss it, either.”

Check looked towards the stern-faced mare, the voice of, if not reason, at least constancy. Although, her face wasn’t looking so stern now, and looked to have gone from blatant disdain to reluctant acceptance. This was encouraging. It had seemed earlier that the only thing that could have left an impression on that steely countenance was a metal press.

She didn’t bother with congratulations or approbations and said, simply, “Very well then, come with me,” and beckoned them towards the gates of the central keep.

For hours Storm and Síofra walked, though, as Síofra had claimed, the trail had no other branches for the rest of its length, save for those hanging above it from the trees. It was a fortunate thing, for the farther they travelled, the thicker the mists became, until the trail revealed itself only a few meters at a time. The charcoal painting became more and more like an empty canvas. Storm considered that the mists might grow thicker still, that Síofra would drift out of sight with the trail soon after. He considered that he might be left with only her voice to navigate through this pale void, where even their hoofsteps were muted. And then, with another step, the mists broke around them.

The world opened suddenly as they stepped from the trail into a field of wild clover. Storm noted that several had four leaves, and he smiled at the memory of Sprite chasing her brother after he had eaten hers. A few meters in front of them, the gentle ripples of a pool lapped at its banks. The swishing ebb and flow rang with an uncanny clarity to Storm’s ears: not loud, but unmistakable. Trees were spaced equidistantly around the edge of the water—nine, he counted—which he recognized as hazels. Behind them the mists rolled against an unseen and unfelt barrier that ran in a circle around the well; it stretched upwards into a homogeneous whiteness, into a ceiling or into infinity. The whole place felt sacred.

“Wow…,” he breathed. “There’s no mistaking this place, is there?” He approached one of the hazels and watched, curious, as each of its hundreds of nuts fell in one instance from its boughs, bouncing and splashing into the water.

“Don’t eat any of them,” warned Síofra from behind him.

Storm nodded absentmindedly. From where the nuts had fallen, small, pink petals began to unfold from the branches, and soon the tree was covered in tiny flowers. He walked along the water’s edge to another hazel tree. It still had nuts on its branches, and he could swear that they were ripening before his eyes, reddening like a slow blush. If only Hazel were here to see this. After a few minutes, they too spilled from their tree, rolling into the pool. Looking from tree to tree, from bough to bough, was like looking at a progression of stills through the seasons. Storm imagined them to be the hour markers of a large clock, each rain of hazelnuts a measure of time.

“And don’t drink any of the water, either,” added Síofra.

“Alright,” said Storm, as he shifted his attention from the hazel trees to the well. “Any reason why, though? It looks pretty normal to—” he was silenced once he saw his reflection. “…Never mind.”

“Aye,” agreed Síofra, as she stepped beside him.

What Storm saw in his reflection, what had given him pause, was himself. He saw himself as he stood there at the bank, a gold-plated champron above a widening pair of blue eyes. But beneath that, beyond the water’s surface, he saw a much younger pony, bright-eyed and ruddy. As the water rippled, the image distorted like an old memory. Something stirred in Storm’s mind, something lost, buried, and forgotten. He watched as the scene unfolded.

He was flying, weaving through the air and darting around clouds (and sometimes through them) with pure, reckless delight. Others’ voices, youthful in their timber, were warning him not to go too high, not to go too far, to wait up, but he was cheerfully ignoring them. Something had him too excited.

Another shower of hazelnuts disturbed the surface of the water. When it had settled, the scene had advanced.

Storm had flown far beyond where his friends had dared and far beyond where they could reach, but he was not alone. Just above him, just beyond his grasp, shooting stars were zipping across the night sky, bidding him to join them. He wanted to see if he could catch one: surely, it’d be worth a lifetime of wishes. In school, his instructors had warned of the risks of flying too high when they had listed the different -spheres that formed the layers of sky; their names, number, and order he could not recall. His instructors had gone on at length about how the air would grow thin and cold and dangerous; he wondered if they had been exaggerating.

He climbed higher and higher into the night sky, until it seemed there was not enough air for his wings to push beneath him to take him farther. His lips were chafing, his ears were numb, and each draw of breath tickled his throat, but it was all worth it for the view. He could think of nothing better than to have the stars raining all around him in brilliant streaks, there on top of the world. That is, until one struck him on the back of the head.

His unconscious form fell through the sky like so many meteorites, plummeting through several layers of cumulus, before this inglorious descent finally ended with him landing face first in a pile of compost, his hind legs dangling from it limply. His flanks began to glow.

And another tree released its contents into the water, ending the memory and leaving Storm’s embarrassed reflection to stare back at him.

“Uh, you didn’t see all that, did you?” he asked Síofra.

Síofra smiled and shook her head. “The well will show all manner of different things. Whatever ya saw, I likely missed it. But what I did see makes me think I can trust ya.”

“So you didn’t see any scenes with rotting fruit or vegetables or…” Storm shuddered. “…worsesubstances?”

Síofra’s smile flipped on itself and she tilted her head to one side. “Noo… I didn’t. But now I wonder if don’t wish that I had.”

“What did you see?”

“What the water always shows: the truth.”

Storm remained by the water, staring down into it. An enormous fish, the largest he had ever seen, slowly swam towards him. It settled in a deep portion of water near the shore and stared up at him.

“Hey,” said Storm. “It doesn’t look like drinking the water has given this guy too much trouble.”

“Ah. Yer looking at perhaps the smartest salmon in all of existence.”

“Oh?” Storm stared down at it. It didn’t seem particularly smart, but, then again, it didn’t seem particularly dumb; he hadn’t met all that many fish.

“Aye. Within those hazelnuts and within these waters rests omniscience. It’s what ya might call a well of knowledge, with the power to grant those that drink of it insight into the past, present, and future of here, elsewhere, and anywhere.”

Storm was about to voice his doubts about such a thing, when he thought about what he had just witnessed. “That sounds like a lot to try to fit in one head,” he said.

Síofra nodded.

“But if it does as you say, why didn’t you or the others know about my friends and me? I mean, given what you’re saying this water can do.”

“Ya pretty much answered yer own question there, Storm Stunner.”

Storm gave this some thought. What would omniscience mean? It would mean never being surprised again. It would mean never being excited by a piece of unexpected news, never wondering. It would mean an end to life’s mysteries, big and small.

“I see,” he said, watching the salmon. “Still, for an omniscient fish, he seems to be behaving pretty normally.”

“Aye. I guess that after having all the options available for consideration, he decided that normal was the happiest thing he could be.” Síofra stepped away from the bank. “Now, ya said that ya had an idea about how to bring more of this water back?”

“Ah, yes, I did.” Storm raised his wings. They pressed into the sides of his camping bag.

“And yer going to be able to fly well enough like that? Yer really going to want to be able to fly.”

Storm brought his wings down and lifted a few feet into the air. “It’s awkward, but I’ll manage,” he said. “Plus, I need my hooves free.”

“Alright then. I hope ya don’t mind, but I’m going to get a bit of a head start.”

Behind Storm there was a rustle of feathers. The salmon watched him for a moment longer, before swimming towards the center of the well and disappearing into its depths. Everyone was ready, it seemed. Well, there was no sense in keeping them waiting.

Storm took off over the water. He repeated his motions from a few days prior, skimming the water with his hooves, drawing it up into a trail of vapor. Although it took adjustment to account for the camping bag on his back, he managed to build a thick mass of fog over the center of the pool. He lashed his tail into it, saturating it with air so that it began to lift from the water’s surface. That’s when everything beneath him began to tremble.

It started with a swaying of the hazel trees, which soon intensified into a violent rocking as the earth began to rumble. The ripples of the pool grew into waves, then into white breakers which crashed into the shore and did not recede. The well was rising.

“Ya might want to speed it along!” called Síofra from above.

“Almost got it!” shouted Storm, the wind whipping away his words.

Storm tightened his circuit, trying to stay just above the water as it reached towards him, forcing his eyes open as the tears streamed from them. In the center of his gyre the cloud billowed and darkened; thin, bright lines of electricity crackled across it.

“I really insist that ya speed it along!” repeated Síofra’s voice from higher up.

Averting his focus from his work, he saw the reason for her urgency. The wall of mist surrounding the pool had been replaced by a wall of water in his vision, and it was much, much closer. It crested high above him, high over him, and was about to crush him. He swept beneath the cloud and raced with it skywards as the waves above him came crashing down, contact with the cloud creating a tingle that started in his hooves and ended with a copper taste in his mouth. He beat his wings as hard as he could, flew as fast he could. But with gravity on its side, the water was just a bit faster.

The rush of it swept into his lower body before he could clear it, threatening to pull the rest of him down. Threatening to fill him with its swell, to drown him in knowing, to wash away who he was in a tide of omniscience. Then something firm pressed into his back before he could sink, buoying him against the surge and tug of the well water’s flood. He glanced back to find the salmon beneath him, pushing him upwards. With a numb nod of thanks towards it, he flapped his wings and brought himself the rest of the way above the water, receiving a helpful talon from Síofra. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Phew, that could’ve gone a lot worse!” said Síofra, brightly. She looked at the cloud Storm had created. “Probably would’ve been easier just doing a quick drain with the ewer though, eh?”

“You said that it overflowed,” said Storm, quietly. “I think that was an understatement.” He stared into the water, where the dark blue silhouettes of the hazel trees wavered and distorted with the roll of its ripples, far beneath its surface. Its rise had formed an ocean below him and Síofra.

“Maybe ‘deluge’ would’ve been the better choice of word?”

“I don’t know if there is a word that properly describes what just happened. Does this occur every time water is drawn from here?”

“Aye, though it can be a bit fickle. Sometimes it’ll go off if you walk around it widdershins too many times. I think it’s got a personality.”

“Not one that’d win any friends.” Storm’s attention fell to the cloud floating beside him. “It really makes you work for it, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps, but ya won’t find a better price. I hear that at other like places, if a draught of water doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, it might at least cost ya an eye.” Síofra flew a few feet ahead. “But with that taken care of, I suppose we’d best be heading back, Storm Stunner.”

Storm flew alongside Síofra, dragging the rain cloud beneath him. They climbed through the mists, breaking free of them into her world’s version of night. After everything he had been through that day, Storm found the chaotic mix of colors and motes of light a welcome view. Several miles away, he made out the tiny shape of the stone circle. He realized at that moment, truly realized, how close he had come earlier that day to never seeing it, or anything else, again.

“…Just Storm is fine,” he said. “You don’t have to say my whole name each time.”

“Heh, now that’s a funny thing, ain’t it? Here yer kind deals with the whole hassle of naming yerselves, and then ya don’t even want to bother with half of yers.”

They flew on in silence for a minute more.

“Thank you, by the way,” he added. He couldn’t believe it took him so long to say it.

“Aye, don’t worry about it, Storm.”

They continued on, the stone circle growing ever larger. Storm wondered how Check and Crack Shot were faring.

Upon stepping inside of the central keep, Check and Crack Shot had learned that the reason for its short height was that it had merely been built in the other direction. Cut into the earth were steep, treacherous, uneven staircases, likely designed to slow the descent of would-be intruders (or possibly to speed it up). Farther down the air dampened, and Check considered that they might have descended beneath the waters that surrounded the island. Similar to the entrance hall, the walls of the lower catacombs were adorned with harsh, utilitarian makes of weaponry. They wouldn’t have served well as conversation pieces, but they could have easily gotten an interrogation underway.

More black torches cast their umbra as the guardsponies and their hosts descended, revealing the way down if not exactly lighting it. It all led to an unassuming chamber where an even more unassuming spear hung from its rack. Dust plumed into the air as they entered, lending an odor of age and decay.

“Boys, yer prize,” said the mare.

Crack Shot approached it first, curious to know what was so special about it. His eyes traced its length, which was covered in a thick layer of the same dust that filled the air. It was straight, more or less, which was always welcome in a spear. The spearhead was, in fact, notched as was to be expected from the name. But other than that…

“Not much to look at, is it?” he said.

Check hummed as he appraised it. “That may be; however, I don’t think we should put stock in appearances alone.”

“Ahh,” responded Crack Shot, knowingly. “Artistic merit, right? Kinda like that one exhibit you dragged me to with all of that junk on display with the weird names—found art, or whatever it was. What’d they call that one snow shovel they had on display? ‘Broken Leg Waiting to Happen,’ or something like that?”

“Ah, er, it was something close to that, yes, though I feel that we are veering slightly off the topic.”

“You know, they could’ve just called it ‘Snow Shovel.’” A thoughtful look crossed Crack Shot’s countenance. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t be fine art if it made any sense.”

“Wait,” said the mare, stepping in front of them. “Do the two of ye mean to say that ye came all this way to get this weapon, and ye don’t know what it does?”

“It does stuff?” asked Crack Shot. “Like, besides bein’, uh, notched? Honestly, I was kinda goin’ with the idea that gettin’ it was all just some sort of weird, messed-up version of capture the flag.”

“Ah, then allow me to explain.” The mare took the spear from its rack, spilling the dust from it in a thin cloud, and held it up reverentially. “‘The Notched Spear,’ though not its only name, is a name as subtle and insidious as the appearance of the weapon itself. Aye, as you said, it is not much to look at…” She held it up, the thin glow of her eyes illuminating its short, narrow blade, staining it red. “…That is, until it sees usage.”

She lowered the spear and met the stares of the guardsponies. “Are ye two familiar with how the roots of a tree travel?” she asked. “The way they coil and twist, through soil, through stone?”

The guardsponies nodded.

“Think of this spear’s blade as a seed. Once planted, its roots will spread, growing and grasping until there’s no more space to fill, tracing every nerve, every vessel, radicating and eradicating. No matter where or how shallowly sown, all of its wounds are mortal.”

“Whoa,” said Crack Shot, his eyes widening.

The mare held the spear out to him. “Go on then; take it. It’s yers.”

Crack Shot shook his head and gently pushed the spear away. “Sorry, that was more of a ‘dang, that’s really messed up’ kinda ‘whoa,’” he said. “I… think I changed my mind.”

“Really, now?” said the mare, her face unreadable. “With this spear in yer hooves, there’d be nothing that could stand against ya. No foe that ya could not fell in an instant.”

“Yeah, maybe… but I kinda like things standing instead of falling.” He glanced at the tip of the spear and shuddered at the thought of the gruesome wickedness it could inflict. “You know, given the alternative presented. So you’ve all just been lettin’ it sit here collecting dust then, right?”

“‘S not likes we usually get visitors coming down here,” muttered the dark-eyed stallion, slightly affronted. “No sense in prettying up the place if nobody’s using it, I say.”

“Er, no offense intended, dude,” said Crack Shot, earning a curt nod from the stallion. “Anyways, I don’t think I wanna be the one that brings that thing out into the world. This one or any other. The way I figure it, buried underground beneath a layer of dust is the best place to keep it.”

“Really?” said the scorekeeper. “After all of that hassle, yer gonna leave empty hooved? Why even bother then?”

“Because… crap,” he turned to Check. “We’re stuck bringin’ this thing back, aren’t we?”

Check had considered this and had no misgivings about what he and Crack Shot had been sent to retrieve. However, he had also considered his friend’s arguments and sentiments. Weighing his options he wasn’t sure which was the better of them; it was a situation he did not oft find himself in. But he made his choice.

“Hmm, I wonder…,” he said, as he placed a hoof to his chin. “As I recall, it was requested that we recover a notched spear, and we were given little more instruction than that.” He turned towards the others. “Would all of you be willing to entertain the notion of a barter?”

“Barter?” asked the one-eyed stallion.

Check nodded. “As it currently stands, my friend and I now have ownership of the Notched Spear, capital letters and all. I wonder if you would be willing to trade it for one of the more mundane spears to be found here, although we would of course need a couple of notches chiseled into its blade.”

The mare that had been stern, hostile, and taunting was now suddenly blank faced. Then she began to laugh, and a laugh was all it was. There was no malice, no derision, just pure amusement. She replaced the Notched Spear on the wall and gave an unambiguous smile. “Now that is interesting. Very well then, ye’ve got a deal.”

“Oy, not so fast!” All eyes turned towards the dark-eyed stallion. “These terms are cat, ‘s what! I don’t agree to them!”

Crack Shot groaned. “Come on, dude!”

“Nothing doing,” said the stallion. “Not until we march back upstairs and ya knocks a bleeding stone off my head with a javelin!”

Storm had been waiting with Síofra at the stone circle’s table when he saw Check and Crack Shot approaching, a short, black spear pinned between the saddlebags and armor of the latter. As he leapt up to greet them, Síofra standing up behind him, Crack Shot gave a wave, and Check a smile.

“Good to see you guys!” he said. “How’d everything go?”

“We played fetch with some dogs, and joined like the most psycho game of darts ever,” said Crack Shot. He canted his head towards the spear on his side. “We also picked this up. You?”

“I got caught up in an unwitting triathlon, but I managed.” Storm nodded towards the nimbus floating just above the table. “With some help and a bit of improvisation, I should add.”

Síofra stepped towards Crack Shot’s side and began craning her neck this way and that, examining the spear. He looked away and bit his lip. “So this is it, eh?” she asked.

Check raised an eyebrow: Síofra had a curious, worrisome nonchalance about her, as if she had asked the question just to see the kind of answer it would inspire. He thought it best to answer honestly.

“Yes, it is exactly as you requested. A spear, found in a dún to the north of here, of certain antiquity, and notched as was specified.”

Síofra scrutinized the spear’s head. “Pretty wojus-looking notches, I’d say.”

“But notches nevertheless.”

“Is there anything that might be considered unique about it?” she asked, innocently.

“Undoubtedly,” Check answered. “I would say that there exists no spear that is exactly like it.”

Síofra gave a small, appreciative laugh. “It’s amazing, really, the kind of fictions one can weave just by telling the truth.” She stepped away from Crack Shot, allowing him his space. “But, ye two did as was asked. Still, ye could’ve brought back a spear that was a lot more… unique, and I’ve no doubts that the both of ye know this. Any reason ye didn’t?”

Storm waited patiently for an explanation about all of this uniqueness to sidle its way into the conversation.

“You said we could keep it, but we didn’t want it,” said Crack Shot. “I’m not really down with the idea of giving somepony a second skeletal system in all the wrong places.”

Storm decided that didn’t count.

“Alright,” said Síofra, “that’s good enough for me.”

“Really now?” said Check. “I confess that your blitheness does make me ponder on the purpose of this exercise.”

“Well… I might’ve been a bit misleading about that. Although I said that having ye recover the spear was a means for ye to prove yer characters, I didn’t say what it’d prove. I figure that I was a lot more interested in seeing if ye’d disagree.” She turned towards the table. “Now there’s one more thing left to do. Ya mind grabbing yer cloud, Storm? There are some folks waiting to see what happens next.”

Síofra led the guardsponies from the stone circle and back into the pookas’ forest, down a path they’d yet to take, which, admittedly, there were many of. On the way, Storm told his friends about the well’s water, and what they might expect to see, which was to say just about anything. Regarding what he had found out about the passage of time here, both Crack Shot and Check were relieved to learn it, even if the latter wasn’t entirely surprised.

As they walked, they found no eyes following them and caught no whispers from the trees, but eventually distant murmurs could be heard. They built into the chatter of several conversations as Síofra and the guardsponies neared a bower lit with several drifting lights. The conversations diminished into whispers at the guardsponies’ approach, and into silence soon after that. Dozens of pookas in dozens of forms fixed their gaze upon them.

“Don’t mind us,” muttered Crack Shot, as his eyes wandered and met all those around them. “Not like we’d understand half of it anyways…”

“Still, ye three got a pretty good turnout, I’d say,” said a wolfhound nearby, Dorcha by the sound of it. “It ain’t always easy distracting folks here from all the nothing that they busy themselves with. I think ye’ve got them interested.”

“Right there in the center, if ya would,” said Síofra to Storm, pointing towards a wide, shallow basin cut into the forest floor. “And then if all three of ye could stand around it.”

The guardsponies nodded and approached the basin; it was formed of a smooth, black rock. Storm placed his cloud above it and, with a good stamp, filled it with downpour.

“So what… now…” Crack Shot trailed of as he looked down into the water, its ripples ebbing away. “…I can see my house from here.”

“G-goodness,” whispered Check, lost in his reflection.

Around the guardsponies the pookas gathered, scurrying or flying or trotting closer for a better view, a better idea of who these newcomers were. Each pooka witnessed something different. They might have seen a pony sitting on a floor of straw, talking another through her fears and self-doubts. They might have seen a pony risking their life to save that of a child’s from the charge of a metal beast. They might have seen a pony feeding a group of recalcitrant ducks with the one that he loved. They might have seen any number of things. But they had seen enough.

Afterwards, by hoof or paw or wing, they began to filter away, discussing with each other what they had seen. A few gave the guardsponies a grin, a few said some friendly words—some recognizable, some not—but most simply left now that the show was over. Síofra and Dorcha remained behind.

“Dang. After all that, not much of a hero’s welcome, eh?” said Crack Shot.

Síofra smiled. “Aye, but indifference is better than suspicion, and if anybody saw anything damning, they’d have spoken up quick.”

“I dunno. It looked like more than a few of ‘em were still feelin’ pretty unimpressed.”

Síofra shook her head. “Ya shouldn’t let that bother ya,” she said. “It’d be expecting a wee bit much to think that a day’s worth of work would reverse a millennium’s worth of isolation.”

Check Mate’s ears perked. “A millennium? Would… would there have been any particular catalyst for this isolation, then?”

Síofra stared at him thoughtfully. “Aye, there was at that. Believe it or not, there are quite a few here that find yer world a stranger place than this, and that are quite uncomfortable with the idea that a single individual could threaten it. We don’t go in for rulers here, and we really don’t go in for tyrants.”

“Hm… do you speak then, for example, of what transpired with our Princess Luna?” asked Check.

“And others, but aye.”

“Hey, hold up!” interrupted Crack Shot. “If you’re talkin’ about the whole daylight shavings thing way back when, she was just possessed! Like, she got better—”

“But she got worse, first. That left a wound on my kind that has been slow to heal, and a certain unease about yers.”

“And then one day here we come, heading directly your way, dressed in royal armor,” said Storm.

“Aye, like was said, that raised some eyebrows when we all learned about that,” said Dorcha.

Storm looked at Síofra. “Whatever you saw in that well, you said that it made you think you could trust me, and I assume you trust my friends as well. Can I tell you why we’ve come this way?”

Síofra nodded. “Aye, it saves me the trouble of asking.”

“Princess Luna asked us to. But,” he continued, dismissing the looks this received, “it wasn’t to find out your weaknesses, or those of anypony, anybody else. We didn’t come here to figure out how to best launch an assault. I think Luna just wanted to know that the rest of the world was alright, along with all those that occupy it. Or that used to occupy it.”

Síofra gazed upwards into her world’s moonless night, considering this. “And she wouldn’t come out herself, if she was that curious?” she asked.

“Would you have been there to meet her?” asked Check.

Síofra conceded a smirk. “Fair point. So the three of ye are ambassadors then?”

“Or just some dudes in armor,” said Crack Shot, shrugging. “On a work-vacation-errand thingy.”

“Heh, and maybe ye are at that. I suppose ye’ve got a longer road ahead of ye, then, and yer eager to get back to it. But before ye go, stay and rest up, alright? Ye could use it.”

“No arguments here,” said Crack Shot, with Storm and Check voicing their agreement.

“Could ya show them the way back?” she said to Dorcha.

“Aye, it’s no problem,” he said, reaching his paws forward and stretching his back. “Shall we be off then?”

He padded towards the bower’s exit, the guardsponies following behind him. As they walked, Storm let his gaze stray from the path. As before, the eyes of the pookas drifted towards him and his friends as they passed, but they no longer lingered. All but a few conversations continued unmuted and uninterrupted. For all he and his friends had been through, it was, as Crack Shot had said, no hero’s welcome. But, Storm figured, it was good enough.

Dorcha came to an abrupt halt when a she-wolf stepped out into the path; she was tailed by two smaller creatures: a fox kit and a hare. She looked at Storm, then turned to Dorcha and said something that Storm couldn’t understand.

Dorcha nodded as he listened, then said to Storm, “She says she wants to apologize for threatening ya when she first saw ya, and for any trouble her young ones might’ve caused ya. I take it ya did a bit of looking around, then?”

Storm blinked, then smiled. “Heh, yeah I did. Tell her not to worry about it. I’m sorry if I scared her or her kids; it wasn’t something that I had meant to do.”

Dorcha began relaying the message. The wolf nodded as she listened, then said something else. Dorcha gave a whistle.

“She also says she’s really sorry for calling ya a… an… well, I’m not sure how best to translate it exactly, but woo is it a doozy!”

The wolf blushed.

“Perhaps it’s, uh, best left lost in translation. She doesn’t need to worry about it.”

The hare hopped towards Storm and asked something.

“He wants to know how ya were able to move that cloud around and make rain come out of it,” said Dorcha.

“Well… I guess it’s just a sort of magic,” said Storm. “Or glamour,” he added.

The hare understood that and gave a satisfied nod, feeling it a more than adequate explanation. He added something else, more a statement than a question.

“And he figures it must’ve been glamour that made your tail stick straight out when you stomped on the cloud.”

Storm gave an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah… that and electricity.”

The guardsponies stayed there for a while, speaking with the wolf and answering her children’s questions. The two younger pookas showed delight when Check showed them how his horn could create light and levitate objects, and expressed amazement when they saw how easily Crack Shot could fly. Eventually the family said their good-byes, and Dorcha and the guardsponies continued on their way.

“Heh, maybe I was wrong about the hero’s welcome thing after all, eh?” said Crack Shot.

Dorcha smiled. “Aye, maybe ya were at that.”

The next… morning, Storm decided to regard it as, the guardsponies were awoken by Dorcha, who was once more in pegasus form. He had a hunted expression.

“Is… everything alright?” asked Storm as he sat up from his mound of grass.

“Ye’ve been invited to breakfast,” said Dorcha. It sounded like an apology.

“Really?” said Crack Shot. “Sweet.”

“Oh, ye should only be so lucky,” moaned Dorcha. “She actually decided to cook something. I don’t think they have names for the flavors ye’ll find, but I doubt they’d be safe for young ears. Once ye’ve gathered yer bags, yer spear, and yer armor—not that they’ll protect ye, mind—we’ll head out to meet her.”

The guardsponies began collecting their items, unsure of what to expect. When they were ready, Dorcha led them from their lodging and down the series of paths that ran towards the stone circle. Storm gave the black spear on Crack Shot’s back a sidelong glance.

“So are you going to bring that along?” he asked, tapping it with a wing.

“Yeah, I figure it oughta make a good souvenir,” said Crack Shot. “Figures that one of the first ones I find doesn’t even fit in my friggin’ bag, though. I wonder if the leaf Dorcha gave me will keep?”

When they arrived at the stone circle, they found Síofra standing beside its table, which was topped with a large grass basket. She waved them over with a hoof, her choice of appendage for the moment.

“It ain’t much, but help yerselves,” she said.

“And the best way to help yerselves would be a polite refusal,” said Dorcha. Síofra’s lips pressed together in a tight line, but she didn’t rise to it.

Inside of the basket were what appeared to be bread rolls. They had a strange speckled blue and red pattern, but they were otherwise inconspicuous. Crack Shot took one out and turned it over in his hoof.

“Hey, looks like we do get to try pooka food after all,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d call it food,” said Dorcha.

“Shut it,” said Síofra.

Crack Shot lifted the roll to his lips and took a bite, chewing it thoughtfully. “Eh,” he said eventually. “It’s… okay, I guess.”

This was worrying.

“Are… are you sure they’re safe to eat?” asked Storm. To Síofra’s side, Dorcha shook his head.

Síofra huffed. “Just try it and decide for yerself, would ya?”

Storm nervously took a roll from the basket in his hoof. It looked safe enough to eat… He bit into its hard crust, and choked immediately. “Guh! This is awful!” he coughed.

“Now, ya see, this is one of those times when a nice little white lie would be more than appreciated,” growled Síofra. “I spent hours making these.”

“Even though they’re a half hour recipe,” added Dorcha.

“My mouth isn’t getting used to it,” said Storm, desperately, “it just keeps getting worse. I swallowed what I bit off—why does my mouth keep tasting worse?!”

Check, who had taken a bite for decorum’s sake, had begun to hyperventilate.

“Come now!” shouted Síofra. “It ain’t going to kill ye!”

“Aye,” said Dorcha, “that’d be a mercy.”

Síofra narrowed her eyes into two thin slits of gold. “I swear, if ya don’t be quiet—”

“What, are ya going to make me have a bite?”

“They could probably use some more salt or something?” said Crack Shot, who had moved on to his second roll. “I’m not sure what it—” Suddenly his whole body shuddered, causing him to stagger in place. “Whoa jeez, friggin’ head rush,” he said, rubbing his forehead with a hoof.

Storm stepped towards him. “Hey, are you alri—” The words froze in his mouth as the thrill of something electric seized his body, and a wash of gold filled his vision. A second or two later he regained his senses, slightly dizzy but no worse for wear; beside him Check was shaking his head, also recovering from whatever strange apoplexy had afflicted the three of them. “…What was that?” asked Storm.

“Probably the only part of the recipe she got right,” said Dorcha, which earned him a face full of hair.

“I suppose ye wouldn’t know this, but the food of the fae is special,” said Síofra, lowering her tail. “It is tied strongly to this realm and in turn it gives those that consume it a link to it as well.”

“What does that mean for us?” asked Storm.

“I suppose ye three could think of it as, hmm, a standing invitation. Anywhere ye find a mushroom ring, ye’ll find a way to visit here again, without the need for one of us to hold the door open. It might be useful if ye ever need to get out of the rain again.”

“Well… that is an honor,” said Check, uncertainly, “but would the others here agree with this decision?”

“There was a fair bit of talking about what each of us saw in the water’s reflection while ye three slept, which allayed a lot of concerns. Besides, I think it would be a fine thing to have fellows such as yerselves dropping by every now and then to prove that yer world isn’t such a terrible place.”

“And if I may ask, what exactly did you observe in the water?” asked Check.

“The exact same thing I saw when Storm stared into it for the first time,” said Síofra, with a smile. “The truth.”

“I saw a big, orange, angry bird chasing ya around and pecking at yer head,” said Dorcha to Crack Shot.

“Oh, ha! Yeah, that was probably crazy friggin’ Philomena.” Crack Shot would have smiled at the remembrance of this particular incident if it had been particular at all.

Síofra’s expression went sour. “So much for mystery and intrigue,” she muttered. “But before the three of ye leave, there is one more thing I’d like to ask.”

“What would that be?” asked Storm.

“Ye three are heading north of here, I recall. Do ye know what yer looking for?”

“Whatever the map says,” said Crack Shot. He panned his head around, taking in the stone circle’s architecture, the silver forest in the distance, the whirling sky and its dancing stars. “Which is starting to seem like not a heck of a lot, to be honest.”

Síofra hummed as she tapped a hoof against the stone table, before placing it down and looking across at the guardsponies. “Would ye mind if I came along?”

Dorcha gave a choked cough. “Sorry,” he gasped. “I just tried one of the rolls.” The tail was thrust into his face once more.

“You wish to accompany us?” said Check. “Why is that?”

“The three of ye have shown yerselves to be capable, and there are some things I’d hope to learn about by venturing out a bit. For one thing, the storms in our valley.”

“Such as the one that buffeted us on our way here? Was there something aberrant about it?”

“Aye, they’ve been becoming more frequent in recent times,” said Síofra. “Whatever their nature, they’re not natural at all. There’s glamour to them and no mistake, and I’d like to see if I could find out a bit more about them.”

Check looked to his friends. “Storm? Crack Shot?”

“Why not?” said Crack Shot. “The more the merrier.”

Storm gave the idea a bit more consideration than that. They had only known her for a short period of time, and during it Síofra had shown herself to be aloof and not entirely forthright. However, this was likely because she had been trying to understand his and his friends’ motivations as well. Even then, in her own way, she had given them the benefit of the doubt, hadn’t she? And she had also saved his life. If she had been willing to give them a chance, why couldn’t they? She seemed like someone you could trust, even if you couldn’t believe every word she said.

“That’s alright with me,” he said.

“I appreciate that, and I’ll try not to get in yer way,” said Síofra. “In fact, maybe I can speed it along just this once.”

“Are you gonna turn into a cheetah or something?” asked Crack Shot.

Síofra blinked. “Er, I hadn’t planned on it,” she said, as she stepped away from the table. “But if ye’d come with me, I’ll show ye what I mean. Although the flow of time may not really differ as much as I, mm, might have alluded, distance tends to be a lot less analogous.”

A short walk away, they found a small grove near the base of the stone circle’s hill, and within it a glade like the one they had first arrived in. A ring of red and blue, white-spotted mushrooms ran the length of its perimeter. At its edge, Síofra turned towards Dorcha. The guardsponies waited for the two to say their farewells.

“I’ll see ya when I see ya,” said Síofra, “which’ll be too soon.”

Dorcha nodded. “Aye, take care and have fun then. I’ll find somewhere isolated and barren to bury the rest of yer leftovers so they can’t harm anyone else.”

Síofra readied her tail to swat him in the face once more. But instead, she pulled him into a fierce hug, before stepping into the mushroom circle, vanishing from view in a wisp of gold. Crack Shot nudged Check in the shoulder, which the unicorn dutifully ignored.

Storm stared at the spot where Síofra had disappeared. “So, is there any special way that we need to go about doing this?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s real easy,” said Dorcha. “Just click yer hooves together three times while yelling real loud, ‘There’s no place like home!’”

Storm stared at him. Dorcha grinned.

“Or ya could just step into the center, there,” he added. “That’ll do it right quick.”

“Heh, got it.” Storm stared at the ring of mushrooms. Their caps glowed with their faint, red luminescence and lit the grass beneath them with their cold blue light, waiting quietly for him and his friends to step within them. “So, uh, so long then.”

“Nah, dude, it’s ‘slán go foill,’” said Crack Shot. “How was the pronunciation that time?”

Dorcha gave him a pat on the back. “We can work on it the next time ya show up, eh?”

Together, the guardsponies stepped into the center of the mushroom ring.

Once more, there was a shift in the air.

Once more, there was the ring of wooden chimes.

Once more, there was the whisper of words, unknown but now familiar in their sonance.

And of course there was the ‘POOF!’

“Aw jeez, was it this cold when we left?” asked Crack Shot, each word a gout of steam.

Back in their own world, the guardsponies had found autumn’s chill waiting for them, and it felt like it had a lot of catching up it wanted to do. Above them the thunderheads had gone, leaving the sky a wash of stationary blues. The only thing drifting through it was the morning sun to the southeast, which lent a thin and transient heat that did little to combat the frigid dampness left by the previous storm.

Less than a mile north rose a range of mountains that made molehills of those the guardsponies had first crossed. Their peaks were capped with snow that might have been decades old.

The guardsponies stood at the edge of another ring of mushrooms; they had a vivid redness, though it was nothing like that of those in the fae realm. Síofra was waiting outside of them, and it seemed that her eyes had lost a bit of their glow as well.

“I imagine that probably shaved a week or so off of yer travelling time,” she said. “Hopefully that’ll make up for all of the running around I had ye do.”

This would have been all well and good, except for one thing.

“I have to go back,” said Storm. “I still need to find that pot and everything else that got left behind.”

Síofra face fell into an uneasy grimace. “Are ya... are ya absolutely sure about that?” she asked, the pull of anxiety stretching her voice taut. “As far away and all as it is, maybe ya could get by without it?”

“Why does iron make you so nervous?” asked Crack Shot. “Like, what does it do?”

“It’s just…” Síofra’s face contorted as she thought of how to explain her concerns. “Can ye name some things that are poisonous to yer kind?”

“There’s poison,” suggested Crack Shot, helpfully.

This flattened her worried expression into a blank stare. She didn’t know what to say to it: it was just so correct in such a useless way. “Nevermind,” she decided, “I won’t get into it. Just so long as it doesn’t come near me, alright?”

“It won’t. Síofra—” Storm waited until her eyes met his. “You have my word.” He shifted the camping bag off of his back and held it out towards Check, who took it in his telekinesis. “If it’s a week’s walk, I should be there and back within a day or two of flight.” He spread his wings and took to the air a few yards above the ground. “You guys can start making your way north if you like; either way I’ll catch up with you soon.”

He pivoted towards the south, where only hills and sparse woods were visible behind them. Even the mountains they had crossed were too far in the distance to see. However, distance mattered not if the alternative was leaving Gentian’s heirlooms to rust. Storm began to beat his wings.

“Erm, before you go, Storm,” came Check’s voice from below, “perhaps you might rethink the means by which you handle the first leg of this detour”— he gestured towards the circle of mushrooms—“given the expediency that we’ve now available to us?”

Storm’s cheeks went red. “Er, good point,” he said, before diving towards the mushroom circle and disappearing in a plume of golden mist.

“…He’s really committed to keeping all of yer cookware together, isn’t he?” noted Síofra, as the mist faded into nothingness.

Crack Shot nodded. “I can’t blame him, though; Check here is a pretty kickin’ chef. Urp.” Breakfast came to his mind as it nearly came up in a hiccup. “And maybe he could even teach you a couple of things.”

Chapter 11

Febre rubbed a hoof uneasily as he stood behind Gray Mane, deep within the dark recesses of their laboratory. Now, one might not normally consider twenty feet from the door within the scope of ‘deep, dark recesses,’ but Gray Mane loved nothing if not a challenge and had packed his modest workspace with enough sullen menace to fill a crypt. The thick drawn curtains easily kept out any daylight, most of which wasn’t all that keen on entering anyways.

Almost lending to the ambience was a ring of almost uniformly black candles. Unfortunately, Gray Mane hadn’t thought to check his stock prior, and was forced to make do with whatever pieces of ignitable tallow Febre could scrounge up around the castle on short notice. One of them was decorated in polka dots and shaped like the number ‘5.’

Gray Mane, working with a small, worried piece of chalk, inscribed the last of a set of sigils within the ring of wax. With a glint of his horn, the candles lit, illuminating the chalk markings into flickering red lines.

“That’ll do,” he grunted. “Now we’ll be needin’ a hair to sacrifice.”

Febre’s eyes widened. “A… a hare?!”

“Aye.” Gray Mane turned towards Febre, the candlelight making his eyes burn with a sinister orange glow. His horn lit once more, and Febre winced at a sudden, sharp tug near the top of his head.

“Ow!” Febre rubbed the spot from where a strand of his mane had been plucked. “Couldn’t you have pulled a hair from that bird’s nest you call a beard?! You could use the shave.”

Gray Mane hadn’t considered this and wasn’t about to start now. Ignoring his assistant, he levitated the strand of hair into the center of the circle.

“Now all that remains is the incantation…” Gray Mane’s eyes began to radiate an ashen glow as he started to speak in grim, leaden tones. “Cm’un n’ze—ack!”

An abrupt paroxysm of coughs interrupted Gray Mane, and he began thumping his barrel with a hoof in an attempt to clear the beaten paths of the wasteland that was his respiratory system. As soon as his breathing had settled into a healthy rhythm of dry rasps, he then continued, “Cm’un n’ze DUR’S OP’N!”

The candles extinguished themselves with a sudden whisper of stale air; however, their light did not leave the room entirely. The lines of chalk yet retained their glow. The lines then began, slowly, to move—to slither—towards the circle’s edge. As they receded, the circle filled with a chthonic, unfathomable darkness, flat yet with an impending sense of depth. It yawned open with a low, terrible moan. Febre swallowed audibly.

Some kind of appendage—glistening, jointless, ponderous, unnatural—extended from the abyss’s bowels and collapsed outside of the ring of candles, crushing a number of them. This was followed by another, and another, and another; in his icy terror, Febre quickly lost count. Then, something huge and polypous began to pull itself up after them. Innumerable, enormous eyes like pools of pitch roamed the space of Gray Mane’s lab. If the horrid creature had any eyebrows, half of them would be rising in recognition of the fact that for whatever stygian realm it had been summoned from, it had just entered into one that was slightly worse.

Gray Mane bowed as low as his joints would allow him and uttered, “Welcome.”

All of the eyes ceased their wandering and centered upon him and Febre, who took a flinching step backwards. Unexpectedly, the eyes brightened.

“Hullo, Gray Mane!” the creature bellowed. “I see your organizational skills haven’t improved since last I saw you, you little scamp!” A tentacle reached forward and knocked off the old wizard’s pointed hat as it proceeded to ruffle his mane. The eyes shifted their focus to Febre. “And who’s this? Hullo there!”

“‘Tis my assistant and pupil, Febre,” said Gray Mane. He nudged the shell-shocked unicorn in the ribs. “Go on then, introduce yerself!” he hissed. “‘Tis rude to just stand there gawkin’! …Probably ‘tisn’t too good fer one’s mental wellbeing either,” he added.

This was too much for Febre. “What the heck is that thing?!” he shouted.

Gray Mane levitated his hat from the styrofoam floor and whacked Febre on the back of the head with it. “That thing is my Primary Seven instructor, and ye’d do good to mind yer manners, ye ken?!” He grinned apologetically at the creature. “Sorry about that, teach, he meant no offense.”

The creature gave an affable chuckle and waved a tentacle dismissively. “Oh, none was taken, none was taken. But ‘teach’ still? That sounds far too stiff! Please, the two of you can just call me—”

The creature said something long and unpronounceable and exclusionary to vowels. Hearing it gave Febre a sudden headache and a number of erratic, unpleasant visions. “I really don’t think I’ll be able to match the accent,” he groaned at the end of it.

The creature hummed to itself with a sound like the drone of wasps’ nest. “I wouldn’t think that it being in another tongue would make it so difficult,” it pondered. “…Hrm, how many tongues is it that you ponies have again?”

Febre scratched his head. “Er… just the one?”

“Oh, well, I can see how that might make it tricky then.”

Febre felt a sudden nudge from behind. He turned to find Table, who had apparently decided to come out from wherever it had been hiding. On top of its varnished surface was the smart stone, its top panel glowing green.

“Huh, how about that,” said Febre. “Thanks, Table. Good… uh, table.” Febre held up the stone and called out to Gray Mane. “Hey, it appears that this thing is up and running again.”

Gray Mane glanced at the stone and gave a stiff nod. “Ah, good. Looks like those scunners finally pulled their heads out o’ their—”

Febre tuned the rest out and walked with Table towards the laboratory’s entrance, leaving Gray Mane to play catch-up with the avuncular horror he had summoned. He picked up the stone’s stylus as he read the message.

Yo, Febs! Is this thing on?

Well, there was no question about whom it was from.

Don’t call me ‘Febs,’ Crack Shot. Also, the three of you were unreachable two days ago. I suppose for research purposes I should try to find out why.

Yeah, we had a bit of a dimensional detour. That’s kinda what I’m bugging you about, actually. You mind wrangling Luna so we can tell her about it?

‘Wrangling’ Luna? That seems like a pretty seditious way of asking for me to seek her audience.

Febre waited a moment for Crack Shot to ask Check Mate what ‘seditious’ meant.

Dude, don’t be such a tesseract.

And then it was Febre’s turn to be puzzled. As far as insults went, they probably went far in the opposite direction of words like ‘tesseract.’

Anyways, before that, and seeing as I have your attention, I should let you know that your brother has sent you another letter, written with as few letters as I’ve come to expect of you two. He wants to know how your travels are going.

Aight.

While waiting for Crack Shot to pen the response to his brother, Febre turned his attention to the center of the lab. Gray Mane appeared to be giving the creature—his Primary Seven instructor, Febre self-corrected—a rundown of his various experiments, projects, and other affronts to natural law. After a few minutes, Febre noticed that Crack Shot had still not responded. He decided to try and prod him along.

Am I going to have to wait much longer for you to write that letter?

I thought I already did.

Febre set the stone down and took a deep breath, which given his location couldn’t have been good for his health. One day he would have to plant a tree—or have somepony else do it, preferably—in honor of all those sacrificed to the correspondence between Crack Shot and his brother, Skyway. The sound of armor shifting in the laboratory’s doorway drew his attention. He looked up to one of the unicorn guards canting his head.

“Can I help you… Ikebanana, is it?”

“You’re getting closer,” said Ikebana. He glanced over Febre’s head at the monstrosity towards the rear of the lab. “So, are you guys trying to set up an aquarium? What is that thing?”

“Not a ‘thing,’ an instructor. Apparently from Gray Mane’s youth.”

“He had one of those?”

“Ach!” brayed Gray Mane from across the lab. “Nopony invited ye here, ye gold-carapaced cretin!”

“No, he would’ve made a summoning circle first,” muttered Febre.

“Quit flapping your gums and the fake teeth between them, you lich!” shouted Ikebana, his hackles bristling.

“Why don’t ye play statue in front of a doorway so ye can put yer mind to good use?!”

“Why don’t you take a shower?! Or are you afraid you might melt?!”

Gray Mane grinned viciously and his horn began to glow.

Ikebana’s eyes narrowed. “Bring it you old codger,” he growled.

“Oh ho!” laughed the creature. “A friend of yours, Gray Mane? Oh, I must say it does my black hearts good to see two peers engaged in such spirited banter!”

“Peers?!” cried Ikebana. “We are not peers! You wouldn’t be able to peer at the other side of the generation gap between us without a telescope!”

“And that brat could stand to learn a thing about manners, if there was any room in his head to fit it!”

“Gray Mane is much older, then, is he?” asked the creature. “Hum… you know, it’s just so unintuitive, trying to get a sense for others’ ages when you don’t have one of your own.”

“Was there a reason for you coming here?” Febre asked of Ikebana.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Uh… I was wondering if I could use that rock again.”

“Nae!” shouted Gray Mane.

“Here you go,” said Febre, levitating the smart stone and its stylus towards Ikebana. “See to it that it ends up in Luna’s hooves sometime soon, will you?”

“Sure thing, thanks.” Ikebana took the items in his own magic and stepped back out the door.

“So, Febre!” The creature beckoned the unicorn over. “Gray Mane here tells me you had a more nontraditional magical education—no curricula on forbidden knowledge whatsoever! Tell me: however did your instructors educate you without gazing into your soul and branding their knowledge directly onto your brain?”

Febre sucked in his lower lip. “Well, uh, we had lectures, which were, erm, similar, I suppose. Also, there were assignments, tests, and, uh, just a lot of reading. You know, tomes, grimoires, those kinds of things?”

“Oh, how novel! Ho—novel! That one wasn’t even on purpose!” The creature gave another jovial chuckle, which rattled in Febre’s brain like a piece of shrapnel, and slapped a jointless limb where a knee might’ve been. “Whatever will you ponies think of next!”

Upon stepping into the hall outside of Gray Mane’s lab, Ikebana nearly stepped into another guardspony.

“Hey,” said a grinning Featherstep. “What’s up?”

“Jeez, Feathers! Don’t go sneaking up me like that,” grumbled Ikebana, adjusting his barding and smoothing the parts of his mane that had suddenly stuck up.

“Actually, I was walking right behind you on your way over here, waiting to catch your attention,” said Featherstep, innocently. “It’s not my fault you didn’t notice me.”

“Yeah, I have my doubts about that.”

Featherstep leaned towards the smart stone, which Ikebana pulled closer to his chest in response. “What’s that you—oh! Is that the thing Crack Shot and the others have been using to keep in touch?” As Featherstep lifted a hoof out to tap it, Ikebana levitated it just out of reach.

“It is, and watch it with those shoes. I don’t know how durable this thing is, but I don’t want it on my head if you chip it.”

The two guardsponies walked the length of the spell-scarred hall towards the more hospitable regions of the castle, Ikebana’s hoofsteps clinking softly on the marble and Featherstep’s making no sound at all.

“So what are you doing with it?” the latter asked.

Ikebana blinked. “…Well, Febre mentioned something about delivering it to Princess Luna.”

“Ah, I see,” said Featherstep with a nod, and Ikebana was glad to leave it at that. And then Featherstep just had to keep on talking. “Except it seems like Febre’d come looking for one of us if that was the case. I mean, it’s not like there’s been any schedule to these letters and conversations, so it doesn’t seem like something one could just guess on.”

“…Couldn’t one?” asked Ikebana, lamely.

“Nah.” Featherstep shook his head. Then he tilted it and glanced sidelong at his friend. “Actually, I take that back. If he were here, Check Mate would probably be able to, wouldn’t he?”

“…Heh, yeah, he probably would.”

They stepped from the hall of Gray Mane’s lab into another. Plush, red carpet was laid in it, given that out here it’d have an actual chance of survival. Another pair of patrolling guardsponies nodded to them in greeting as they passed.

“I’d, uh, like your advice on something, by the way,” said Featherstep, when they were alone once more.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to be seeing Villa later tonight, and, you know, I thought that I might get her some flowers. And I thought maybe you’d have some suggestions.”

Ikebana grinned. “That sounds like something you should figure out on your own.”

Featherstep raised an eyebrow. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

“Yep… But, if I were in your position, I’d probably figure that roses are too cliché. I’d figure that a few lilies might be nice—stargazers, maybe—with some lavender to set it off if you can find it. I might also figure that some lisianthus would help finish it out, though all of that might be getting a bit above your pay grade.”

Featherstep smiled and nodded. “Well, I hope I can figure all of that out.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure out something.”

“So before you march off right away to”—Featherstep coughed once, loudly and deliberately—“deliver that stone to Princess Luna, how about letting her sleep in a little longer and bringing it to lunch? I bet Sender and Rose wouldn’t mind a chance to say hi to the others, and I’d like to know how that thing works.”

“Have you ever written a letter and blown out a candle?”

“Not at the same time, but yeah.”

“Then you know how it works.”

Each flake of snow a kiss bidding good night,

Nomde Plume stared at the weave of script staining the page, as it slowly dried beneath so many others. She frowned. Then she dipped the tip of her quill into the dwindling contents of her ink bottle and scored a line across it. She stood from her desk and glanced out the window, where a beautiful cloudless sky lay on the other side of it.

The nerve of it.

How was she supposed to feel inspired to write about winter with the day as disgustingly gorgeous as it was? She couldn’t even see her breath. With a flicker of her horn, the curtains drew themselves shut. In response to the sudden dimness, a few of her fireflies stirred awake and began to glow dutifully. She had just begun to muse over the possibility of dragging her ice box into the room, when a familiar knock was tapped onto her apartment door.

“The door is open, Villa!” she called out, as she placed her latest abortive effort at prose onto a stack with all the rest.

There was the sound of the apartment door opening and closing, which should have been followed by Villanelle stepping into Nomde’s room to say hello. But, it wouldn’t have been Villa if that wasn’t preceded by the sound of the ice box door opening and closing first. Villa entered the darkened room, nibbling at the last of a small piece of celery. She panned her head around.

“Drawn curtains, the smell of ink, and a foreboding sense of gloom,” she announced. “Have you been writing, Nomde?”

Nomde sighed. “Trying to. I just haven’t been able to get into the right mindset for it.”

“Really?” Villa walked towards Nomde’s desk, looking at the stack of paper on its corner. “It looks like you’ve been busy at it.”

“All of that is garbage,” said Nomde. “I don’t even want to think about it right now.”

Villa slid one of the sheets of paper toward herself, noting a struck-out sentence on a world buried in white. “…At least you didn’t say ‘alabaster,’” she noted to herself. “And for something you think unworthy of thought, it’s all arranged in a rather neat pile. Most other writers would have an empty waste bin surrounded by all of the crumpled pages they had failed to throw into it.”

“Well… I might want to think about them later.”

“Now that’s no way to get yourself out of a rut.” Villa tutted. “You’ll just end up fettering yourself to ideas that aren’t working for you. And if an idea doesn’t work, you need to be able to toss it aside, to throw it away, to make a tabula rasa of your creative center once more!”

“I’d prefer not to make a mess of my room.”

“Nonsense,” said Villa, sliding the sheet of paper towards Nomde. “Go on then, just crumple it! Toss it over your shoulder! I guarantee that it’ll be cathartic.”

Nomde levitated the paper and stared at Villa with purposeful impassiveness as she folded it once lengthwise, once crosswise, into a small rectangle. Then, still staring at Villa, she floated it from over her desk and released it, whereupon it fluttered softly to the floor.

“There,” said Villa, with a wide smile. “Now don’t you feel so much better?”

“Doubtlessly,” said Nomde, as she lifted the folded piece of paper off of the floor and back on to her desk. “So to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Villa stepped towards the room’s windows and began throwing the curtains open. “I wanted to see if I could wrest you from this dungeon by inviting you to an early afternoon sparring session, to be followed after by rehydration with something heavily caffeinated. After all, what better way is there to clear your mind than by having a hoof fly at it?”

Nomde willed the curtains back shut. “Hm, that might be nice, but I really should try to work on this poem,” she said, though without much conviction. “Couldn’t we go later tonight?”

“I’m afraid not, Nomde,” said Villa, tossing her mane back. “I have a date.”

“Oh? With whom is it this time? Or is that still yet to be decided?”

Villa frowned. “With Featherstep, of course, and I do not appreciate the insinuation of your question.”

Nomde smirked as she pushed her chair beneath her desk and walked towards the living room. “Well, not many ponies have a little black book that’s written in chapters,” she said. “But if you remember his name, it must be getting serious.”

“There’s no need to be sour just because I’ve always been so much better at playing the field than you.”

“Or would that be ploughing it? But, far be it from me to criticize you on your quest for Mr. Right Now.”

“The expression, Nomde, is ‘Mr. Right,’” replied Villa. Whatever icy chill Nomde had sought while writing was right there in the tone of her voice.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Nomde blinked innocently. “Anyways, if it’s working out, then I’m happy for you.”

Villa smiled. “Thank you, Nomde. Shall I tell you about him?”

“No, that’s alright.”

“He’s sweet,” went on Villa regardless. “He gives me the impression of a pony that thinks about a lot, but keeps quiet about most of it.”

“And that isn’t too dull for you?” Nomde opened her apartment door and stepped outside; the air was brisk and pleasant. She wondered if it was the same for Storm, wherever he was right now. Maybe when she got back she’d work on a letter instead.

“It’s better than the opposite,” said Villa, as she followed Nomde outside and cantered on ahead of her towards a staircase leading down into the apartment complex’s courtyard. “Shall we?”

“One moment,” said Nomde, her horn beginning to glow, “I just need to lock up first.”

Villa pressed a hoof to her brow as her friend’s door began to ignite with its various squiggly lines and outdated alphabet. “Honestly, Nomde, just use a key!”

At the corner of a table in a corner of Castle Canterlot’s cafeteria, Sender, Rosetta, and Featherstep watched with varying degrees of interest as Ikebana demonstrated the smart stone.

“Oh wow, look at how it lights up!” said Rosetta, as Ikebana scratched a salutation across the stone. “Does it do that if you write on anything else?”

After blowing his message away, Ikebana lifted the stylus and pursed his lips. “You know, I have no idea.” He placed the tip of it against a napkin and tried scribbling something down. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“Boo.” Rosetta folded her hooves on the table and rested her head on them. “I was hoping I could write something on my helmet. Like, ‘BORN TO GUARD,’ right across the side.”

“Mind if I take a look?” asked Sender.

Ikebana nodded. “Don’t let me”—with a flash of green, the stone and its stylus vanished and reappeared in front of Sender—“stop you. You realize that it would have been no trouble for me to slide it the few feet across the table to you?”

Sender shrugged as he levitated the stylus. “The tip of this looks to be in pretty good shape,” he noted. “I’m surprised it hasn’t gotten worn down with use.”

Rosetta lifted her head and propped it on a hoof. “Well, isn’t it magic?”

“She asks, just after seeing it create a line of bright, glowing script, which I then proceeded to blow away in a cloud of glittering mist,” deadpanned Ikebana.

“Oh, shut it. You know what I meant. Maybe it’s designed not to wear out.”

“Not a very smart design decision then if Gray Mane ever wants to sell these,” said Sender, as he teleported the stone and stylus back to Ikebana. A half-second later, its top panel lit up. “Huh. I don’t think I did that.”

“Ah, they’ve responded,” said Ikebana. “Looks like Crack Shot’s got a hold of it.”

Rosetta sat up and leaned forward. “Really?”

“Yep. Neither Storm nor Check really seem like the types to write, ‘Yo, what up?’”

“Heh, well, let him know we say hello,” said Featherstep.

“Ask them if they miss bathrooms yet,” added Sender.

“Hey, guys!” said Rosetta, waving a hoof. “How’s the trip going so far?”

“You guys realize that the words don’t just appear because you’re shouting them, right?” growled Ikebana. “That I have to write them down?”

“Well hurry up then!” said Rosetta.

“Alright, jeez!” said Ikebana as he put the stylus to the stone.

Rosetta, Sender, and Featherstep say hello.

Ikebana glared as the other three guardsponies jeered and hissed. Crack Shot’s reply came a few seconds later.

Heya dudes, how’s everything going?

Things are going fine. Everypony wants to know how your travels are going.

Not too bad. We got sent to another dimension for a couple of days which was kinda cool, but now it’s like frigging freezing back here on Equestria Prime or whatever you wanna call it. Tell Rosetta I found a souvenir for her, by the way. It’s a non-magical spear.

Ikebana, Featherstep, Sender, and Rosetta each read the response, and then tried to read each other’s faces for a hint of comprehension.

“Er, I’m not sure what to write in response to all of that,” said Ikebana.

“Well, tell him I said, ‘thank you,’ of course,” said Rosetta.

“Uh, right.”

Rosetta gives her thanks.

Hey, no worries! Also, she might like this: tell her, “Tá m'árthach foluaineach lán d'eascanna.”

After a minute, a second message arrived, saying: Okay, hold on, I messed that up. That was supposed to be, “Ní leor teanga amháin.” Also, maybe don’t so much tell her as let her read it. The pronunciation is kinda wonky.

“Do you understand what he wrote?” asked Featherstep.

“Not in the slightest…,” said Rosetta, a far-off look in her eyes extending beyond the cafeteria wall a few yards in front of them. She stood up. “But I’m going to.” Just as she started into a gallop, she paused, spun, and looked Sender in the eye. “Actually, I might as well save myself some time—you mind zapping me down into the castle stacks?”

Sender nodded, and with a flash of his horn she was gone. Featherstep stared at the space where she had stood.

“You know,” he began, “I’d have figured she’d ask what the language was called first.”

“And wasn’t she scheduled on patrol?” added Ikebana.

“Ohh, she can still patrol. It’ll just be in the stacks now,” noted Sender. “I mean, a patrol’s still a patrol regardless of where it happens, right?”

That evening, Featherstep alighted in front of Villa’s… well, it was an apartment, but it would’ve been amusing if it were a villa instead. As it stood, there was little humor to be found in Canterlot property values beyond the absurdity of them. No, they would much sooner reduce a pony to tears.

Featherstep had purchased a bouquet based on Ikebana’s thinly veiled advice, although he had made an addition of red snapdragons because he thought they matched Villa’s eyes. Which, he mused absently, must’ve been a bit silly as a romantic gesture before the advent of the mirror. He knocked on her door. Then, remembering himself, he knocked louder.

“Just a minute!” sang Villa’s voice. It was a pleasant voice.

A sweet, herbal aroma greeted Featherstep as the door opened, along with Villa herself. A white scarf was wrapped around her neck. “Oh! Are those for me?” she asked rhetorically of the flowers, because tradition demanded it.

“Heh, that they are,” said Featherstep, as he presented them towards her. “I wasn’t sure what you might like, so I sort of went with a sampler.”

Villa smiled. “Well they’re all absolutely lovely. Allow me to find something to put them in.”

She took the bouquet and gave a quick glance around her apartment, before making a small sound of triumph. She cantered into her kitchen, removed the lid from a large tea pot, and placed the flowers inside.

“Perfect!” she said. “Now then, shall we?”

From Villa’s apartment, the two of them began towards their destination, a new restaurant with the curious name of Hair of the Dog Bistro. They strolled beneath the freshly lit lanterns of Canterlot’s avenues and the waning light of the setting sun, as around them various businesses closed for the day and others opened for the evening. During that time they talked. Rather, it was mostly Villa that talked, about, well, mostly anything. How beautiful the day was, how beautiful the sunset was, how beautiful life was; Featherstep was content to listen. When she leaned against him he said nothing, just smiling instead. Then, sooner than expected, they were at the Bistro.

“Have you heard anything about this place?” asked Featherstep, staring at a sandwich board on which the name of the restaurant and several dishes had been written in colored chalk. A sign had yet to be hung over the storefront.

“Not a thing!” said Villa with a smile, as she stepped through the door. “I simply saw the name as I was passing by here one day, and thought, ‘Why not?’ Here in the city we need to find our adventures somehow, right?”

Featherstep chuckled. “Yeah, maybe. On the subject, I’ll have to tell you about what some of my fellow guards have been up to once we’re seated.” Looking around, it became apparent that seating would not be a problem beyond one of indecision; the restaurant was empty. “…This place is open, right?”

“It is!” came a voice from the kitchen. It was followed by its owner, who was an explanation in and of himself as to the name of the restaurant.

“Oh my!” said Villa. “You’re—”

“A diamond dog, yes,” said the diamond dog, wearily. He was tall, yellow-furred, and dressed in a black vest, along with an apron that was far too white to have seen active kitchen duty. “Though I’ll be your server and chef, Benji, if you’ll be staying here to eat?” The plaintive question mark at the end was impossible to miss. Then he looked at Featherstep, sniffed once surreptitiously, and dropped his head. “…Wait, you’re from the Guard, aren’t you,” he said.

Featherstep canted his head to the side. He hadn’t expected to mix business with pleasure this evening. “…Yes, I am, actually. Is something wrong?”

“No!” shouted Benji. “I can show you my leash—lease, I mean!—my health certificate, my—”

Featherstep quickly held up a hoof. “That’s not what I meant. My—”

Featherstep realized immediately that he was stepping straight into undecided territory: did he say girlfriend, date, special somepony? He took a hard left. “…concern was that something may have given you trouble, given that you asked. We’re just here because we thought we’d stop in for dinner.”

Benji raised his head warily. “…Really?” he asked.

Featherstep looked at Villanelle, who was giving him the oddest sort of smirk. She turned to Benji and said, “Really. Perhaps at a corner booth?”

“Of course!” Benji gave a bright, sharp-toothed smile. “You may have any of the four that you’d like.”

After seating Villa and Featherstep with menus, Benji rushed off and returned with two glasses and a pitcher of lemon water. He waited patiently by another table for the two ponies to decide on their orders. Villa eventually settled on the clover and quinoa salad, and Featherstep on the hay-topped artichoke dumplings; Benji dashed off back into the kitchen.

“So what were you saying about your guardsmates?” asked Villa.

“Oh, right. Well, three of them, Crack Shot, Check Mate, and Storm Stunner, the one who I delivered that letter to your friend Nomde for—”

“Ah yes, her boyfriend.” There was that smirk again.

“Er, heh, yeah—that’s him.” Featherstep reddened slightly. “As I was saying, the three of them apparently had quite an experience on this trip of theirs.”

“Oh?” Villa rested her chin on a hoof and leaned forward. “Do tell.”

Featherstep did tell, all of the details that he and the others had gathered during their conversation at lunch, about spears, and fae, and unknown places. At the end of it, Villa’s eyes were wide open, and her water was untouched.

“Travelling to another world…” she whispered. “How does one pack for that?”

“By knowing what metals will pass through customs, I guess,” noted Featherstep, as he sipped his water.

“If you don’t mind, I’d love to share all of that with Nomde. Along with what you hear from Storm when he rejoins the others, the next time we get together?”

“Sure thing,” said Featherstep. In the back of his mind, he noted with a mental cheer that the courtship had to be going well if ‘next time’s were now assumed.

"Hmm, hmm, I'll bet she'll be delighted to have another proxy to her beau." Villa pursed her lips. "Or maybe not."

Benji arrived with two dishes balanced on his arm and placed them gently in front of the two ponies. “Bone appétit,” he said, taking a step back from the table and watching anxiously as they took their first bites. “Is everything satisfactory?”

“It’s marvelous!” said Villa, after dabbing her mouth. “My compliments!”

Benji’s tail wagged just slightly in response.

Featherstep nodded in agreement. However, the pleasant taste of the meal had left a question on the tip of his tongue. “This is fantastic,” he said. “I’m curious to know how you did it.”

“Pardon, sir?” Benji tilted his head to the side.

“Well, ponies and diamond dogs have pretty different diets, don’t they? I’m surprised you understand our tastes so well.”

“Ah, ha, well, diamond dogs also have an exceptional sense of smell,” replied Benji. “And smell happens to be tied very closely taste. It allows for an especially refined means of picking flavors.”

Featherstep nodded. “But, be that as it may, wouldn’t clover and hay and things like that still taste bad to you?”

“Well… yes,” admitted Benji. “However, I had the chance to study at a culinary institution with ponies—ones that didn’t mind my initial trial and error approach—and, hm, I suppose you might say I learned what tastes bad in the right ways.”

“Remarkable.” Villa smiled. “Still, it seems like an unorthodox way to ply your talents, learning what we would enjoy, instead of focusing on others of your kind. May I ask why?”

Benji gave a wan laugh. “I suppose that as a diamond dog, even though I’m no real fan of hay, I do like gems, and I thought it might be nicer to earn them with pans and pots instead of a pickaxe, above ground instead of under.” He looked around his empty restaurant. “Not that I’ve had much luck.”

“I wonder if I might help with that,” said Villa. “I work for a periodical here in the city. The Canterlot Digest, if you’ve heard of it.”

Featherstep guessed from the momentary blank stare that Benji had not, though the diamond dog was courteous enough not to say so.

“I believe I may recognize the name?” he said diplomatically.

Villa laughed. “It’s alright if you haven’t, because there are enough others that have. I’d be more than happy to sing your praises, and to even have one of our critics drop by for a more official stance.”

“Really?!” Benji’s tail wagged with renewed force, inadvertently knocking a candle stand from a table. “Er, pardon,” he said as he bent down to replace it. “But I would really appreciate that, thank you!”

“It would be my pleasure, Benji,” said Villa. “Ponies must know about this place.”

Benji scratched his chin. “Tell you what: after you two finish your meals, how about I bring out dessert, free of charge? Tonight it will be a chocolate torte, topped with caramel daisy petals and a rose-infused glaze.”

“Chocolate?” asked Featherstep, raising an eyebrow.

“That is correct. And to answer the unasked question, I personally find it bitter, slightly toxic, and absolutely disgusting.” Benji clapped his paws together. “I promise that you will love it.”

Princess Luna looked at the contents of her wardrobe. Gowns and shoes and saddles from ages past hung from old, sagging wire hangers and sat in worn, cloth boxes, a history lesson spun in gossamer and silk. A thread of darkness wrapped around a black touring hat, one tied with blue ribbons and finished with long, white feathers, and carried it out before Luna’s appraising eye. As far as fashion went, it might’ve been a thousand years too late. However, fashion being a cyclical thing, the hat and the rest of her attire had simply looped around into the retro chic. Or so she had been told by Marery Sue, an assistant to the Royal Sisters with a constant eye on the planetary shifts of the haut monde. Apparently the older style was also popular with ponies that liked steam?

Luna just knew that she liked the hat. With a smile, she levitated into an open piece of luggage.

There was a knock at her door, followed by, “Permission to enter, Your Highness!”

“Please, by all means!”

The door opened, revealing a unicorn guardspony. He bowed at the sight of the princess.

“Ah, good evening, Ikebana,” said Luna. “Please, rise. Is there an issue that requires my attention?”

Ikebana stood and swallowed quietly as Princess Luna gave him an inquisitive look. Although she was more approachable than he had ever expected, she was still a princess—there was always the worry that he’d be too informal in addressing her, and he still wasn’t completely square on the differences between ‘Your Highness’ and ‘Your Majesty,’ not to mention the wildcard of ‘Your Excellency.’ For this he fell back onto a fool-proof strategy, which was to use the passive voice as aggressively as possible.

“It was requested that Gray Mane’s smart stone was to be delivered to Your Highness, Your Highness,” he said. “It is wished by Sergeant Check Mate that he and the others be given the opportunity to have their recent travels and experiences discussed.”

Princess Luna blinked. It seemed like every time she reached some level of understanding of the prevailing speech patterns, the next one was right there waiting at the top of some precipitous new climb in idioms and idiosyncrasies. After she had parsed what Ikebana had said, she replied: “Ah, is that so? May I have the stone?”

“Yes, of course, Your Highness. It would be the pleasure of mine.” Ikebana levitated the smart stone and its stylus towards Luna. “If there is no more that may be done by me, my leave shall be taken, Your Highness.”

“Um, yes, of course. I appreciate your—er, your service is appreciated.”

Ikebana stepped back out into the hall and closed the door behind him, leaving Luna alone with the stone. He had mentioned, albeit in a circuitous way, that Check Mate and the others wanted to talk about their recent experiences. And from her last communication with Check Mate, she had gathered that they were nearing one of the sites that she had marked on their map. She wondered.

Greetings, this is Princeſs Luna. I am told that you have news?

Hello, Luna, this is Check Mate. I hope that this evening finds you well. As you may have surmised, my friends and I have had the opportunity to visit the next location on the map you’ve given us.

So they had indeed gotten that far.

Did you find anything of note?

Yes, we did. I suppose one might say that we found the other side of the map.

Then they had done it! But if that was the case, she had to ask: It did not put you into harm’s waye, did it?

When the response came, she could almost hear the chuckle that would’ve accompanied its writing.

None that three members of Equestria’s Royal Guard could not handle. It made for a memorable visit. The pookas, although initially wary of our presence, were nevertheless very hospitable.

And they had found the pookas as well. A race that had divorced itself from and disappeared from history. One that had been wary of them. Luna set the stone down for a moment on the enormous spread of her bed, beside her bag of luggage. She walked to the enormous casement windows of her room and stared out at the enormous expanse of her and her sister’s kingdom, thinking about the enormity of her actions, one thousand years ago. She was past feeling guilty, but she’d never be beyond remembering. As she returned to the stone and lay on her bed, various thoughts fought for regency in her mind. Thoughts about contrition, about penitence, about forgiveness.

I am glad to know that they are safe, she wrote.

Indeed they are. And, although they were initially wary of us, I believe we may have won them over. One of them, Síofra as she is calling herself, has decided to travel with us for the time being. Would you care to greet her?

Luna’s eyes widened, and a small smile found its way across her face.

Yes, I would very much like that.

It was only a minute before a long and looping font wove across the stone.

Is this the queen bee then, wings, stinger, and all?

Luna’s mouth fell open. Then, it closed once more into a smirk.

This woulde be one of them, though Luna will suffice. Woulde I be speaking to ‘Síofra’?

Aye, this is sidhe. Though, I can’t help but notice the quotation marks ya used.

I did not know that pookas had gotten into the habit of naming themselues. Although, judging by yours, perhaps they have not?

Oh, ya caught that then? I’m impressed. Still, it makes it easier for yer boys to address me, so I’m sticking by it. I consider it a cultural concession of sorts.

And I am told that you will be travelling with them?

For a spell, since they’re going my way and they seem like decent company. Even if their palates could use some refinement.

Palates?

Aye. Or would that be palette? The one in yer mouth, not the one that ye’d paint with, whichever that is.

They were given pooka fare?

That would be a surprise if true: the pookas were not ones to share their dishes lightly. The guardsponies would truly have had to leave an impression.

They were at that. Now, since one of them is reading over my shoulder, laughing and saying that there was nothing fair about it, I’m going to pass ya back to the one with the horn.

Síofra’s flowing writing was soon replaced by Check Mate’s prim copperplate.

Hello once more, Luna. To continue the previous conversation regarding our travels, we were fortunate enough to receive an expedience in the form of the tethers to the pookas’ world. Storm is currently retrieving some belongings left behind, but once he returns we shall be well on our way into the mountains northward. We will of course keep you apprised of our experiences.

Thank you, Check Mate. However, come next week our correſpondences will need to be postponed for a period of time. My sister and I shall be away on a southern sojourn, beginning with a visit to the governess of Rainsbury. However, although I will be unable to hear of your travels during that time, I have confidence that you and your friends will conduct yourselves wih the same thoughtfulness and nobility that you share with those here in Canterlot, and that you have shared on your travels. Be yourselves, and I know that you will continue to prove excellent exemplars of Equestria.

When the response came, the writing had metamorphosed into something fast and loose that must have, by process of elimination, been Crack Shot’s.

No way! You’re skipping town???

Not quite, Crack Shot, we shall actually be flying. I did tell you that I was beholden to my royal duties upon introduction of your task, did I not?

Yeah, but, I didn’t actually buy that. Like, I thought you were just saying that to get us out the door. You know—‘ROYAL DUTIES,’ wink wink, nudge nudge?

Luna couldn’t help but laugh at that.

Alas, you have your royal duties, and I have mine.

Yeah, I guess, but couldn’t you just take the geezer’s stone with you?

I am sure that I could do that, but I do not think that I would do that. For one thing, it is not my ſtone. Furthermore, I am not the only one that you three are keeping in contact with, am I?

Touchë.

Now, before I go, would you return the stone to Check Mate? I have one last thing I would like to address.

Sure thing, boss.

Luna stood from her bed and approached a round, granite table onto which a chessboard had been carved. Its pieces, divided into opposing factions of frosted crystal and black hematite, had marched from their starting rank and file across it. They had arranged themselves in well-considered positions in defense of their kings.

Check’s response appeared, which read simply: I do believe it was your move, Luna.

Luna’s horn darkened, and a hematite unicorn bishop, her last, retreated a step backwards and to its left.

Bg6, she wrote.

Within a few minutes, Check replied: Bxg6.

And so her last bishop was removed by one of his own. She carefully placed it to the side of the board.

As she returned to gathering items for her trip, she thought on the rules of the game and how it was played. There were those who played defensively, trying to keep every piece, every pawn on the board. There were who those who played offensively, sacrificing their pieces to remove their opponent’s from play.

Check Mate, she found did whichever was necessary. During their games he seemed to live in the present moment as much as he did the dozens ahead. He did not play defensively, or offensively, so much as he played adaptively and effectively. And rather ruthlessly, she thought with some amusement, remembering past games.

But, that’s what they were: games. Win or lose, they always ended amicably. And, as a game, the goal was singular. Artifice, chary, impulse, luck—whatever the means employed, the aim, ultimately, was to protect the king at any cost. A victory was a victory, no matter how pyrrhic, for what piece was more important? She mused at the fact that there would be some that thought this an allegory of leadership.

She shook her head. What a disagreeable notion.

Chapter 12

A small fire burned on the northern reach of the pookas’ valley, making the nighttime chill just a little less intolerable. Check Mate sat beside it, keeping it stoked as he wrote to Ikebana about the plants of the fae realm. Nearby, Síofra was trying to find a form to get comfortable in. And Crack Shot stood a dozen or so yards away, his Nightmare Night costume wrapped around him, staring at the snow-capped peaks of their next destination. Above, the moon was still full, or nearly so, and it turned those peaks a cool blue as it lit up the edges of the clouds drifting over and through them.

“I wonder who’s up there,” said Crack Shot. A breeze blew through the camp, cutting through the thin cloth of his sheet. “And why. It’s gotta be friggin’ freezing!” He turned to Síofra. “You got any ideas?

Síofra, who had just decided on the shape of a wolf, shook a large, angular head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell ya.”

“Abominable snow ponies, maybe.”

Síofra tilted her head. “…Aye?”

“You never know, right?”

Síofra let one side of her mouth bend upwards. “I suppose one doesn’t at that. And what would make these so-called snow ponies so abominable?”

Crack Shot gave a lazy shrug. “Beats me. But I’d probably be feelin’ pretty abominable if I was stuck livin’ in a winter wonder wasteland. So what’s with the new look?”

“My kind likes to change shapes every now and then. A new form, a new perspective. One wouldn’t want to get stuck in a rut, ya know?” Síofra nestled into the grass and curled her tail over her legs like a wrap. “And I thought a thicker coat would be welcome.”

“Makes sense,” said Crack Shot, as he turned towards their camp. “But why not go with something big and fat like a bear?”

“Because then I’d probably get caught up in thinking about finding a cave to hibernate in. When ya take another creature’s shape, it’s not only the shape ya get. Yer thinking changes too.”

“No kiddin’?”

“Aye. Things like instinct carry over, like a buzz in the back of one’s head. During the time we spend in a creature’s form, it’s as if we can peek at racial memory itself.”

“Yeah? Huh.” Crack Shot scratched his chin. “So what do you think about when you turn into a pony?”

“Grass.”

Crack Shot nodded in complete understanding.

Beside the campfire, Check continued his own conversation, which had moved on to the topic of his recent adventures. He was just finishing translation of them into language appropriate for his parents.

It was there that we encountered a remarkable, intelligent species of canine. They delighted in meeting us and immediately began to leap about us. Of course, not wishing to have paw prints and saliva on our persons, we diverted their playful energies towards a game of fetch instead. Afterwards and after some travel, we arrived at our destination: a palatial estate situated on its own private island. Its occupants were more than hospitable, involving us in their leisure activities and some illuminating palaver before, sending us on our way with our prize: an antique of martial tradition. Now we continue our journey, and I expect that our minds will be occupied with it, but I shall be sure to keep you apprised of what we encounter along the way.

With Love,

Check Mate

After a few minutes Ikebana wrote back, I’ve got to say, the story seems to have evolved since I first heard it earlier today.

Yes, I’ll concede as much. As it is, I promised my mother that in relating my travels, I would tell her about both the bad and the good. However, given her temperament, I felt that, perhaps, there’d be benefit in making the bad sound like the good.

Heh, say no more. I’ll make sure your letter gets out tomorrow. About all of that though—are you guys really comfortable travelling with one of those pookas as they call themselves, after all that they put you through? It sounds like you faced some real danger, just to prove that you weren’t dangers yourselves.

Check thought for a moment before answering. Yes, I cannot deny that we were made to face what could be called mortal perils. However, our present companion did save Storm’s life, and she did, rather surreptitiously, make sure that Crack Shot and I had our gold on our persons—a measure of insurance, no doubt, though unneeded—for our travels. We were made to face perils, yes, but I believe she made certain to stack the odds well in our favor.

Maybe, but it’d be terrible if something had happened. It all sounds so damn unnecessary.

Check smiled. To us, perhaps. But no doubt there are cultural differences that would argue otherwise.

I’ll say. Setting that aside though, I envy you. Those mushrooms, those trees, those colors—all of them must’ve been sights to see.

They were, without doubt. Check glanced over the dancing orange light of the campfire, towards the grove they had emerged from. Perhaps, if it is alright with our new companion, I could bring something back for your study on our return.

After a couple of minutes came, I’d really like that. Thank you.

It would be my pleasure. Have a good night, Ikebana.

You too. Stay safe out there.

Check tucked the smart stone back into his saddlebags and put another piece of wood into the fire. It hissed with steam, a remainder of the rain two days past, and a reminder that more might come. When it blossomed with flame and smoke, he turned to the north, where mountains and clouds hid the rest of the night sky. Yes, perhaps more feral weather would come, but for now there was stillness, quiet.

“What’s on your mind, dude?” asked Crack Shot, taking a seat beside Check.

Check turned toward him and smiled. “Ah, I was just thinking. When we first began our trip, the night was a veritable riot of chirps and calls, and the days were no different. Now it seems so silent. I think I might miss the birdsong.”

“Really?” said Síofra with a snort, as she lay beside the fire and let her ears fold back. “Ya might not if ya could understand half of what those birds were saying. Yer typical birdcall is a catcall stripped of its modesty. It’d put a blush on yer face and no mistake.”

Crack Shot peered off into the southern sky, peered off at all of its uncountable stars. “At least the sky’s more or less the same as it was when we set out.” Movement caught his eye, and he pointed a hoof towards it as he squinted. “Hey, what’s that?”

Among the stars, another, dimmer speck of light was moving between them, not quick enough to be a shooting star. It paused, and then began drifting to the northwest.

Check narrowed his eyes. “I wonder… do you think it might be Storm?”

The speck paused once more, seemed to hesitate, then moved towards the northeast.

“Yeah, that’s Storm alright,” said Crack Shot, flatly. “Maybe he hasn’t noticed the fire. Think you can flag him down?”

Check nodded. “I shall do my best.”

Check closed his eyes, and his horn began to shimmer. As he focused, it brightened: like a candle, like a torch, like a star. Once it had reached such an intensity that Crack Shot and Síofra had to turn their eyes away from it, he threw his head back and cast a thin beam of light into the sky.

“Well that was something,” remarked Síofra, as Check caught his breath. “Ya think he noticed?”

“If not, I’ll head up there and tell him to fly with his eyes open,” said Crack Shot. “Ah, right on, here he comes.”

In a short span of time—about the length of this sentence, actually—Storm descended into the camp. He held a clutter of ironware within his forehooves which he placed down carefully as he alighted next to the tent. Síofra’s ears pinned back when she saw it, but she made no comment. After spotting the camping bag on the other side of the tent, Storm began packing the items away. After he had finished, he strode towards the others.

“Hey, guys,” he said, with a wave. “You’re up late.”

“And you’re here early,” noted Check.

“Ahh, heh, yeah,” said Storm, taking a seat by the fire and holding his hooves out over it. “I thought I’d try to avoid sleeping out in a bunch of damp grass if I could avoid it.”

“Well, there’s tea if you would like it,” said Check, watching his companion, noting the frost that had formed all over his barding like a second layer of gilt. “I believe that you would benefit from it.”

“Yeah, I think I’d really appreciate that. Thanks, Check, and sorry I wasn’t here to help set up camp.”

“Don’t worry. It was no trouble for us at all.”

Check poured the tea into an unused bowl and passed it to Storm, who accepted it with a grateful nod. After he had finished it, Storm set the bowl down and stood up, stretching his wings and neck. He turned towards the tent. Their tiny, not-quite-three-pony-sized tent.

“Have we figured out sleeping arrangements with the four of us?” he asked.

“Dude, she’s a shape-shifter,” said Crack Shot, nodding his head towards Síofra. “I doubt space will be that much of a problem.”

Síofra laughed as she padded away into a thick patch of grass. “I’ll be fine out here,” she said. “But thanks all the same.”

“You sure about that?”

“Aye, that I am.” Síofra nodded her head before placing it down in the grass.

“If you say so,” said Crack Shot, somewhat uncertainly. “I’ll leave my costume out if you decide you want somethin’ to cover yourself with.” He turned to Storm. “Anyways, since we didn’t expect you to show back up tonight, you understand that dibs have already been determined.” He yawned. “And I think it’s about time for me to claim my spot.”

“Heh, I would’ve figured as much. Sleep tight.”

“With this tent, there’s no doubt we’re gonna. Peace, dude.”

Crack Shot went ahead of the others into the tent, followed soon by Check, while Síofra lay in her patch of grass. After writing his journal entry for the night in the dying light of the campfire, Storm crawled into the tent as well, shoving an already unconscious Crack Shot to the side. Despite his long flight, he didn’t fall asleep immediately. So he did not miss the sound of Síofra rising, padding softly towards the tent, and lying down just outside of the flap.

Morning arrived to the tune of a trumpet.

Storm pushed Crack Shot’s foreleg from over his neck and sat up sluggishly. Turning a foggy gaze down to his side, the empty spot confirmed what he was hearing, and he wondered how Check had been able to slip out of the tent without his notice. Yawning, he looked towards Crack Shot, whose eyes remained shut. No, not just shut—clenched.

“Still asleep?” asked Storm, for formality’s sake.

Crack Shot’s eyes didn’t open, but in a voice no louder than a murmur he said, “Yeah, and all of this is a dream, because I know there is no friggin’ reason Check can’t let us sleep in.”

Storm grinned and nudged Crack Shot in the shoulder. “Come on, dream’s over.”

They pulled themselves out of the tent into a hazy, mist-filled morning. Near the horizon of the eastern sky, the sun sat like a tarnished brass coin in a clouded fountain. Check was performing beside the gray-and-white remains of last night’s fire. Across from him, Síofra sat with a large grin, wagging her tail from side to side. When he came to the end of his song, she showed her appreciation with a high howl.

“It’s better than a rooster at least,” said Crack Shot, his eyes dark and baggy.

“Sorry to disregard your dysania, Crack Shot,” said Check with a smile, “but as I’ve said before, practice is necessary to keep my proficiencies honed. And we do have quite the hike ahead of us today, so we’ll want as much day as possible to attempt it.”

“Yeah, yeah, no worries, dude. For what it’s worth, it doesn’t sound like you’re getting sloppy.”

“Aye, that was great!” said Síofra. “You’ll have to play for the others sometime!”

Check’s smile brightened. “I am pleased that you enjoyed my performance, and that you’d think others would as well.”

“Oh, aye, we love music.”

“Is that so?” said Storm. “I don’t recall hearing any while we were in the fae realm.”

“Well, ye weren’t there long, were ye?” Síofra tilted her head to the side and scratched it with a hind leg. “But, I could share a song if ye’d like.”

“By all means,” said Check. “We would be delighted to hear it.”

“Alright, I just need to think of one that I can remember all the words to. It’s easy to get used to just humming the bars.” Síofra lowered her head in thought. “Ah, I know a good one!”

She cleared her throat.

Then, she began to sing, and Storm would never forget it.

She began with a gentle humming, warm and honeyed, like a strum against one’s heartstrings. The words that followed—clear, soft, powerful—were unknown to him, but Storm knew, he somehow knew them to be old. As old as the world, as old as time. Unfamiliar but resonant, meaningless but meaningful, they spoke directly to the soul in rhymes and trills and lilts.

He was no longer in a cold, damp meadow, and it was no longer the last weeks of autumn. With her song, the skies cleared and warmed, and pollen-scented winds rolled past, carrying her melody. The sun was no longer tarnished brass, but polished gold, plucked from its clouded fountain and cast into an ocean of blue. It was spring, and it would always be spring, as each word she sang breathed new life into the world.

And then, with a final hum, she had finished.

Storm blinked, and the world filled with mists and cold once more. He shivered. From the sudden chill, or from something else entirely.

“Wow… that was… that was…”

He gave up. What words did he have that would describe it?

“That was a lot better than your cooking,” said Crack Shot.

Síofra stared gilded daggers at him.

“That was ineffable,” whispered Check. “I almost hesitate to ask what meaning lies within its verse.”

“Well, I’m not sure what effable is or how it got thrown in there, but thanks, I think.” Síofra laughed uneasily. “But regarding its meaning, well, it’s a wee bit like birdsong in that regard. Perhaps ya might appreciate it more without understanding the lyrics and all of the, eh, anatomical subtext and such there within. It’s a real hit at parties though!”

“Still, thank you for sharing… and, uh, thank you for not sharing, I suppose,” said Storm. He turned to the northern mountains, panning his head skywards to take them all in. “Changing the subject though, do you guys think we’re going to be alright on provisions up there?”

“Ours should be sufficient for at least a week, provided that we ration them”—Check gave Crack Shot a meaningful look—“but we should finish our bags with what we can gather here.”

“If yer looking for scran,” interrupted Síofra, “ye could always gather some of the mushrooms from around the ring. They’re filling and they’ll keep for months.”

“Those are edible?” asked Crack Shot.

“Aye. They’re one of the main ingredients in that bread I made ye.”

Crack Shot stared at her.

“They’re edible,” she hissed.

Storm walked from the camp into the grove, towards the circle of spotted, red-and-blue mushrooms. “And taking mushrooms from it won’t mess with the way this thing works?” he called back.

“For a bit, but don’t ya worry,” replied Síofra, “they’ll grow right back soon enough. Ya know how thick a mushroom’s roots run, right?”

“Mycelium,” said Check.

Síofra gave him the blank, flat look of one that had seen the point they were making blunted against a wall. “…Yer what now?

“Mycelium,” repeated Check. “I believe it would be a more precise term than ‘roots,’ in regards to mushrooms.”

“Can’t say I see what’s wrong with ‘roots.’”

“That’s too easy to understand,” said Crack Shot, shaking his head knowingly. “You shouldn’t be able to guess what words like that mean just by hearin’ ‘em, and they have to be, like, impossible to spell. That way when someone says something and you have no idea what it means, you can tell that they know what they’re talkin’ about. That’s what makes it scientific.”

Then, recalling the side effect of the bread outside of the aftermath that was the aftertaste, he asked, “Hey, if those mushrooms were in the bread you made, does that mean that anybody could just eat one to go back and forth between your world?”

“No, but it would mean that more than a few folks back home would be getting cheesed off to learn that others were picking apart a circle without permission.”

Storm leaned down and took a small bite out of one of the mushrooms. It had an unexpected, fruity taste, like a mix of peaches and strawberries, which made him wonder just what sort of culinary dark arts Síofra had employed to so thoroughly destroy it. But, he noticed, that single bite put a large dent in the hunger from yesterday’s flight and last night’s sleep. Of course, this still left him with no idea about its actual nutritional value. But, he reasoned, the same could be said of most convenience store snack aisles.

“Yeah, these will be just fine,” he said. “So then—shall we pack everything up and be on our way?”

After gathering their gear and packing several mushrooms into their bags, the guardsponies, along with Síofra, made their way towards the northern mountains. It was only a mile to reach them, but it was not an easy one. Grass and loam gave way to loose, tumbling rock as the ground began to climb.

It is not often easy to say where a mountain begins. Viewed from afar, where distance smooths out the rough edges, an unsure guess might be made, a dubious distinction drawn. Up close, however, with only the immediate perspective afforded by the buildup of crags and dips and tree-covered hillocks, it is usually much more difficult to say where the climb begins. A mile from where they had made camp the previous night, the four of them found no trouble in saying where the mountains began.

Walls of rock loomed above them, sheer and gray, white and jagged toothed, not so much climbs as cliffs. The mountain ridge extended and disappeared into the clouds overhead, hiding peaks and summits and possibly much more than that. This time there was no stream to follow, and no clear path to take. There was only hard, sharp, uneven stone, and a deep sense of foreboding.

Flurries of snow began to drift down like a silent threat.

“Well, crap,” said Crack Shot, in summation. He wrinkled his nose as a flake landed on his snout. “And what’s up with this snow?” he added, as he crossed his eyes to look at the flake as it melted. “It’s shaped all funny—no branches, no symmetry, no style.”

“We should probably presume that no pony had a hoof in its manufacture,” said Check, “that it’s a product of some other phenomenon.”

“Trippy.”

“Is there anything on the map about a way up?” asked Storm.

“Given that these mountains have found their depiction as a series of upside-down ‘V’s,” responded Check, “I believe that we are on our own to make one. But let us make the best of it, yes?”

He took a moment to study the shape of the rock, the placement of juts and cracks. Then, satisfied, he bounded to one ledge, then another, and another, scaling the cliff side in a series of careful leaps. “There,” he said, after catching his breath, “that isn’t too terrible, is it?”

“Sure,” said Crack Shot, as he flew up alongside him. “Thirty feet up and only a billion to go. Let me know if you want that lift.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” said Check as he stared upwards, planning his next route. “Though it may yet come to that.”

“Just let me know, dude. And since thirty feet up also means thirty feet down, I figure you won’t mind if I stick nearby all the same, aight?”

Check smiled. “I would appreciate that, thank you.”

Just behind them, Síofra flew beside Storm as they followed Check’s ascent. She had taken the form of a snow owl for the trip and, to Storm’s disappointment, had yet to say ‘who.’

“Any reason why he doesn’t take him up on the offer?” she asked. “It’d probably be a lot easier for him, and certainly a lot faster.”

“He will if he thinks he needs to,” said Storm.

“And when will that be, I wonder.” A couple of pebbles were knocked towards the earth as Check landed on a higher foothold, and it was a few seconds before they heard the clacks. “Given that he’s hopping across a cliff side in the beginnings of a snowstorm, where else would be a more fitting place?”

Storm watched as his friend made the jump to another thin ledge, using the momentum from it to complete another longer leap. How long had it been since the Staff Sergeant’s runs had left Check struggling for breath?

“I wouldn’t have pegged him as one to show off,” continued Síofra.

“He isn’t,” said Storm. “But if he ever wanted to show off, he’s definitely earned it.” Then, because it was eating at him, he said, “You know, in this short conversation you’ve managed to fit in a ‘when,’ ‘where,’ and ‘why.’ Since you’re currently an owl, can I ever expect you to make a sound like one?”

If Síofra had lips at the time, they would have curled into a grin. “I don’t have any idea what yer talking about.”

Several hours had passed by the time the four’s ascent finally took them through the first layer of clouds, though it would’ve been a guess as to when they reached that point, for all of the snow filling their vision with white afterwards. The slope of the climb at last leveled into something that didn’t run alongside gravity, but unfortunately that meant the snow was now sticking to the rock. That is, the snow that wasn’t whipping back up from the rock and into their faces. The way they took led into a natural corridor, which made for a natural wind tunnel. It was walled by rock, snow, and ice on either side. An icy gale buffeted against them, whistling across the stone as it spilled past, cutting through the steel of their armor, drowning out the crunch of their steps.

Storm had taken point, steadily forging a path that filled up in a span of seconds behind them. The blizzard stung his eyes, but he kept his chin up, if only to keep it from dragging in the snow. He tried to think positive thoughts, to look at the bright side—one that wouldn’t give him snow blindness. When he was a foal, he would covet this kind of weather: the clean new world to tromp through, the snowball battles to wage…

…And of course, most importantly, the day off from school that’d be the foundation of all of that, if he were to be completely honest with himself. When he was a foal, this was the kind of weather he would wish for on winter nights. When he was older, and therefore more pragmatic, he would try bribing the weather pegasi instead.

A gust of wind threw diamond dust into his face, wetting his eyes and nostrils while drying his lips.

Who was he kidding? This kind of weather, colorless and cold as it was, only looked good on the other side of a roaring fire and an insulated window.

“S-Storm?” yelled Check, over the howl of wind.

“Yeah?”

“I f-feel it would be w-wise if we c-considered finding sh-shelter! The w-weather only s-seems to be w-worsening!”

As if to stress this, a squall came screaming down the corridor, dragging a thick, biting cloud of ice with it. Storm stopped pushing forward and turned to address the others. He saw that Check had begun to shiver, though the unicorn was doing his best to hide it. It was like watching somepony try to subdue a running jackhammer by duct taping it to a birch tree.

“…Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” said Storm. “Where would that be though?” he asked, looking forward at the endless path of white before them. “I don’t think the tent would last a second out here.”

“While yer thinking it over, ya ought to try thinking it under,” said Síofra from the rear of the group.

“Dude, when’d you change forms again?” asked Crack Shot, upon seeing the return of her more wolfish features.

“Eh, who would even bother to keep track?”

Storm scowled at that.

“U-under…? A b-burrow then?” stammered Check, tilting his head to the side and tipping a thin layer of snow from his champron as it trembled.

“Aye, they’re cozy things,” said Síofra, as she stuck a paw into a large snowdrift pressed into a recess of one of the cliffs. “Though a bit wojus in terms of interior decoration, as ya might guess. I’ll get it started, and then the three of ye can help out with the rest.”

She worked swiftly and within minutes had vanished into the rise of snow. After another few minutes, her voice came through, muffled but unmistakable: “Now would ye look at that!”

Crack Shot stuck his head into the tunnel after her. “Does that mean we can come in?”

“Aye!”

Crack Shot took the lead into the narrow passage, and Check followed after him. Storm had to first remove the camping gear before he could fit. He pushed it in front of him, relying on the sides of the tunnel to guide him forward. With the canvas blocking his view, it came as a surprise when the narrow walls of snow were suddenly replaced by much wider ones of stone.

Storm’s second thought was that it shouldn’t have been as well lit inside of the cavern as it was (his first thought was actually about how glad he was that he wouldn’t have to dig, but that doesn’t warrant a paragraph). He looked upwards, where the cavern walls rounded into a ceiling, which was no more than five meters high. There were several holes bored into it, from which thin, bluish gray light spilled into the cavern. He pursed his lips. From outside, the cliff face had risen so much higher. How far did those apertures go, and what kept the snow and cold from pouring down them?

Crack Shot gave an appreciative whistle as he walked the short length from one end of the chamber to another. “Nice find,” he said to Síofra. “Did you know this was here?”

“Aye, that I did,” said Síofra, loftily. “I heard of it in the whisper of the wind, saw it written in the dance of the snow as it fell.”

“Uh-huh. Is that right?”

“Sure, if it makes for a more interesting tale.”

Storm let his eyes wander from the ceiling to the walls, noting the way certain facets of them caught the light as he bent down to pick up the camping bag. As he walked, the glint of the walls shifted with him. Ice covering the walls of a frozen cave—not a whole lot of mystery to that. Looking down, however, he wondered why there was so little on the ground. Cold air moved downward, and water even more so, didn’t they? It didn’t seem particularly chilly inside either, though that could have been an effect of escaping the blizzard. A walk-in freezer would’ve been a step up.

He stepped towards Check, who had folded his legs beneath himself, still shivering. He set the camping bag down and pulled a wool blanket free of it.

“Here you go,” he said, as he laid it beside him. “Looks like a campfire is out of the picture, but that should help warm you up.”

Check levitated the blanket over himself gratefully. “M-my thanks, S-Storm.”

“Heh, don’t worry about it.”

Storm left his friend to warm back up and approached one of the frozen cave walls. He could just make out his distorted reflection in the ice, stained a faint rose color. It was obscured by those little clouds and lines of white that seem to appear whenever water freezes, for some complex reason he couldn’t begin to imagine, let alone explain. Science, probably.

He breathed against it to see if he could at least smooth out the surface, when something strange occurred. His breath didn’t mist when it washed against it. He removed a shoe and placed a hoof against the wall. It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t warm, it wasn’t anything. He canted his head to the side.

“Huh,” he began, “I think these walls are covered in some kind of crystal instead of just ice.”

“I-ice is a c-crystal,” came the muffled voice of Check from within his blanket cocoon.

“Er, right.” Well, at least it sounded like Check was starting to feel better.

“Dude, are you gonna be sportin’ a pair of butterfly wings when you come out of there?”

“What I mean,” Storm continued, “is that it’s not cold or anything.” He removed his hoof from the wall. It came back dry. “And it doesn’t look like it melts.”

“Good for us, then,” said Crack Shot. “It’d suck to wake up in a puddle if we heat this place up too much tonight.”

Síofra stared at him.

“What? We make body heat, and this cave is kinda small. What the heck is that look supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing.”

A shrill whistle of wind through their improvised entrance interrupted the conversation, filling the cavern with a new chill.

“Wow, sounds like it’s still going full speed out there,” said Storm.

“Feels like it, too,” said Síofra, “and I’d wager that this snowstorm means it’s going to be lashing back down in the valley, sure enough.”

“And you b-believe it to be m-magic, to be g-glamour?” asked Check.

“It must be. We’re no strangers to rain and thunder, but none of us can recall the weather ever behaving as cat as it has been the last year.”

“Hmm… v-very c-curious ind-d-eed.”

Another draft gusted into the cave.

“Alright, I’m going to do something about that,” said Storm, taking the camping bag towards the tunnel and plugging its entrance. As he took a moment to consider it, he said, “Hey, Crack Shot, mind if I use your spear for a moment?”

“Sure thing, dude,” was the only warning he got before the spear buried itself halfway in the snow, just above his head.

Storm blinked. “…Well, I can’t say that wasn’t more or less what I was going to do anyways,” he said, as he worked the spear farther into the snow. Once he felt no more resistance he wrenched it free, feeling satisfied when he felt the movement of air through it. “That should be a nice compromise for ventilation. Not too much, not too little.”

“Whatever you say, goldilocks.”

After that, there was little else to do but wait.

Night fell, presumably.

Really, it stumbled more than anything, and, after an embarrassed recovery, quickly covered its face. The light filtering in through the breaks in the cave ceiling still hadn’t dimmed by much, and unless the battery had rotted out in Storm’s internal clock, it should’ve been close to midnight (or maybe an hour before close to midnight—he had no idea when Daylight Savings started.) He peeked through the ventilation hole and saw that it was clear of obstruction. The blizzard had abated, at least for the time being.

“Looks like it’s finally calmed down out there,” he said.

Síofra had been curled up by one wall, ostensibly asleep, though an ear perked at the sound of Storm’s voice, and a single golden eye cracked open. She sat up and padded towards the wall of snow, pausing a few yards away from the camping bag. “All good things must come to an end, eh?” she said. “I’ll believe it when I see it. If ya move this thing out of the way, I’ll dig us out so we can take a creep around outside.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure thing.” Storm lifted the camping bag with its iron goods away from the tunnel entrance, and Síofra crawled inside. “How about you guys?” he said to Crack Shot and Check. “Want to have a look around?”

“Beats sittin’ around here,” said Crack Shot, as he stood and stretched his neck. “Wouldn’t wanna get cabin fever. Cavern fever. …I wonder if that’s contagious.”

“Please go on ahead,” said Check. He unwrapped himself from his blanket and walked towards the camping bag. “I would first like to see about refilling our canteen, now that I’ve had ample opportunity to recuperate.”

“Glad that you did, dude,” said Crack Shot, bumping him in the shoulder softly. “You had enough syllables in your speech already without a case of frostbite addin’ more.”

“Alright,” said Storm, “holler if you need anything.”

“Dude, hollering?” said Crack Shot. “Ever heard of an avalanche?”

Storm rolled his eyes.

“Actually,” said Check, “if I’m not mistaken, the notion of an average shout precipitating an avalanche is a myth.”

“So we should keep our gobs shut?” asked Síofra from the mouth of the tunnel.

“Oh, er, that is to say there is little truth to the belief.”

“Not sure why they’d go calling it a myth if it ain’t true, but alright. The way out is clear by the by,” she added as she began back into the tunnel.

“A typical shout won’t do it, huh?” said Crack Shot. “Heh, I wonder what would happen if Cacopony gave it a shot.”

Check smiled. “Were it him, he might very well bring down the mountain. Anyways, should the need arise, I shall get your attention.”

Leaving Check to his preparations, Storm and Crack Shot crawled into the tunnel after Síofra, and out into the uncanny brightness of the mountain night. The clouds above and the snow below caught the light of the moon like a trap.

“Wow, almost looks like Celestia and Luna mixed up their schedules, huh?” said Crack Shot, spinning around in awe. Small flakes of snow, scattered and few, tumbled around them gently like bits of down. They fell from clouds set aglow like lamps by the moon’s albedo behind them. He tried to catch one on his tongue.

“Yeah, it sort of does, doesn’t it?” agreed Storm. He noticed Síofra a few feet away, watching the sky with as much interest as Crack Shot, if nowhere near as much enthusiasm. “Hey, you guys want to head up and check out the view?” he asked. “Maybe we can get an idea of where to head next.”

Neither objected. Storm and Crack Shot took to the air first, with Síofra soon following in owlish guise. They flew as high as they could, which was not high at all for the cloud cover above, and then spread out towards the north.

Up in the air, Storm noted briefly how much warmer the air felt as compared to earlier that day. Without the gales and the ice shards they carried, it was almost pleasant. The clouds overhead functioned like a feather comforter, trapping what little heat there was below them. But flakes of snow still fell, and who could say that they wouldn’t fall faster still, in greater number?

He kept his eye to the ground, or to the snow on top of it at least. The blizzard had left its mark on the world below him. Rather, it had erased most of theirs. There was no sign that the trail he had created ever existed, and the only indication of life was the tunnel that Síofra had dug and their hoofprints beside it. Elsewhere was ice and jagged rock, glinting like precious stones or the edge of a knife, rising out of still mists like islands out of a frothy sea. So clean and sterile, there was a haunting beauty about it. But unable to find anything of note, Storm only found himself frustrated as he gazed across the shimmering mountain peaks, watching the sight repeat itself.

Who or what lived here? Who or what could live here? It felt like all you would find were ghosts.

“Do you guys see anything?” he called out. His voice rolled over the snowpack and bounded between the cliff faces.

“Yeah!” came Crack Shot’s voice, chased by its echoes. “I spy, with my little eye, somethin’ white and beginning with the letter ‘S!’”

“Would it be those abominable snow ponies of yers?” replied Síofra from somewhere far off and out of sight.

“Those would’ve started with an ‘A!’”

Storm sighed. So that was the situation, then. Whatever secrets they were looking for were buried beneath a crisp, pristine stratum of snow and fog. He, Check, and Crack Shot had been spirited away to the fae realm by complete surprise, but he doubted in something like that happening twice. And there were other doubts on top of that.

Luna wished to know the state of the world, to know how it had changed in one thousand years’ time, but she had determined the nature of the task based on the world she’d known one thousand years ago. And in a hibernal place like this, where it would take less than a minute for the world to behave like a snow globe tipped on its side, less than a minute for it to turn into something bitter, lethal, and unforgiving…

Maybe they really were looking for ghosts.

After continuing their fruitless search for another hour or so, Storm, Síofra, and Crack Shot reunited just above the entrance to their current shelter.

“Well, that was a bust,” said Síofra.

“Nothing in the whisper of wind and the dance of the snow, eh?” said Crack Shot, with half of a grin.

“Now then, there ain’t much of either of those at the moment, now is there?”

“Yeah, true. Heck, as nice as it is right now—relatively speaking—you guys think we could just keep headin’ north? I mean, it’s bright enough out to see by, and if there’s nothin’ to find here, we’ll at least be a bit closer to learning if there’s nothin’ to find at the next spot on the map.”

Storm looked up at the heavy clouds still looming overhead and shook his head. “It’s tempting, but I don’t think we’d want to get caught out here in another blizzard. We lucked out once finding this cave, and I wouldn’t count on our luck holding out twice.”

“So what—we wait until the sky clears?” asked Crack Shot.

“It’s probably the safest option.”

“Ugh, we shoulda brought a pack of cards. At least we won’t be stuck in the dark in there.”

“Huh. Yeah…” Storm stared at the edge of the cliff above their cave. “About that, I was kind of wondering why that might be. You notice how light pours down, but nothing else?”

Crack Shot shrugged. “Maybe there’s this layer of ice or somethin’ over a big hole up top? Kinda like a sunroof. Or a moonroof, I guess, at this time of night.”

“Now how would that work?” asked Síofra, incredulously. “Any water’d just run down it before it had the chance to freeze.”

“Maybe it's magic water?”

Síofra gave this due thought.

Storm flapped his wings. “What do you say we find out?”

The three of them did not take long to surmount the cliff, and what they found put a smile on Crack Shot’s face.

“Called it!” he said. “I totally called it!”

What he had called (if you could call it that) was a large, shallow, transparent dome, turned over a wide cleft in the rock. It had a hint of rose, slightly more than the crystal covering the walls of their cavern, and Storm had no doubt that it was made of the same. Some snow had accumulated at its base, but its surface was clear and smooth. Thick towards the center and thin at the edges, it reminded him of a lens.

“Huh, it reminds me of a lens,” he said.

“Maybe a dragon lost its contact?” mused Crack Shot.

Síofra flew over it, turning her head one way and another, in ways that only an owl can. “Might be, because this certainly didn’t just pop up all on its own. Someone made this.”

“Then I guess one question is ‘when,’” said Storm.

“And ‘who,’” added Crack Shot.

Storm winced. “Really? You couldn’t have let her say—oh, whatever. Let’s go give Check the heads up.”

“I’m kinda surprised he didn’t come out here,” noted Crack Shot. “It couldn’t have taken him that long to melt some snow for the canteen, could it?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

The three of them descended towards the tunnel entrance and clambered back into the cavern. Inside they found Check strolling along its perimeter, staring intently at the crystal-covered walls. He didn’t move his eyes from their surfaces as he said, “Welcome back. Was your jaunt a pleasant one?”

“It was interesting,” said Storm. “We scouted north a ways in search of civilization, but it all looks pretty barren. We found something odd above the cave though. Some kind of crystal cap over the vents running through the ceiling.”

That was enough to steal Check’s attention from the walls. He lowered his chin as he placed a hoof to his lip. “That is interesting. Upon scrutiny of the crystal glazing this cavern, I’ve also noticed something strange.”

“Besides the way it stretches your reflection like a funhouse mirror?” asked Crack Shot, as he took a seat in the center of the cavern. He peered into one of the ceiling’s orifices.

“Indeed. You might’ve noticed the number of impurities within it, the turbidities beneath the surface.”

Storm approached a wall for another look, tracing a speckling of streaks and cloudiness. “Yeah, but that’s not uncommon for crystals, is it?” he asked.

“No, it isn’t,” said Check. “Save for the fact that those in this crystal repeat. There isn’t a particular pattern to it, but it appears that a finite selection of shapes reappear along the lengths of these walls.”

The others took a moment to think about this.

“…Like words, then?” asked Síofra.

“It’s possible, although I’ve no clue as to their meaning.”

“Hopefully nothin’ like ‘Trespassers Will Be Shot,’ or ‘Beware of Windigo,’” said Crack Shot, as he rolled on to his back, crossed his hooves over his chest, and closed his eyes. “Another mystery for another day, or for however many days we’re stuck in here.”

Quiet filled the cavern.

“…‘Trespassers Will Be Crack Shot,’” said Storm.

Crack Shot’s eyes widened in revulsion. “Ugh, dude!”

The next day came with a redoubling of the blizzard, or possibly some other more divergent mathematical function. Every now and then, one of the party would stab through the snow that continuously occluded their air vent, to stave off the looming annoyance of asphyxiation. There were better ways to kill the time, but it was better than having it the other way around.

“Instead of a pony, couldn’t you have, like, turned into a bush or something so we wouldn’t have to keep doing this?” asked Crack Shot, as he wrenched his spear free of the snowpack.

“I’m afraid that plants aren’t in my repertoire,” said Síofra, flicking an ear. “And even if they were, where would I bury my roots in here?” She tilted her head towards Check. “Or do ya have a fancier word that ya’d prefer over ‘roots’ when dealing with shrubbery?”

“‘Roots’ suffices,” said Check, primly. He bit into a small piece of leftover pine bark as he considered the smart stone in front of him. He had yet to write or receive anything, but he stared at it intently.

Storm tapped a hoof in boredom, filling the quiet cavern with low, dull clicks. “This weather is unbelievable,” he groaned. “Never in my life have I seen it this bad.”

“Aye? Ye don’t have snowstorms back where ye three call home?”

“No, we do. It’s just that they’re, well, they’re more on our terms.”

“Ahh, ya mean like that raincloud ya made?”

“More or less,” said Storm, followed a few seconds later by, “…no, more. Definitely more. Back home, there’s a lot more… order to it, I guess. Every summer shower, every sunny day, every snowstorm is kept in balance and scheduled as needed.”

“So come rain or shine, it’s only after ye’ve given it the go-ahead, then? No need to worry about getting caught out in a spot of bad weather?”

“You can if you haven’t been payin’ attention to the weather reports,” noted Crack Shot.

“It all must be convenient, I suppose…” The ellipsis echoed throughout the cavern, and the guardsponies waited for whatever Síofra would say next. “Ye don’t find that ever gets boring, though?”

It didn’t sound as harsh or as critical as it could have. It was spoken with just a soft, curious lilt.

“How do you figure?” asked Storm.

“I mean, it’s all well and good that there are no unpleasant surprises, but might it not stand to reason there are no pleasant ones either? A sudden sunshower on a scorching hot day, and the rainbow that comes with it? Snowfall on the eve of a winter holiday?”

“Yeah, but we do get all of that,” said Crack Shot. “Like, there’s always snow on Hearth’s Warming Eve.”

“Then it’s not a surprise,” said Síofra. “Wouldn’t ya appreciate it more if ya had no guarantee, no promise of it? If ya had no expectations that ya would get that snow, but then ya got it anyways, wouldn’t that make it feel all the more special?”

Crack Shot gave a long, eloquent shrug. “Maybe. What else can I say but that?” He stuck his spear through the ventilation hole once more. “I guess I can tell you that I’ll be pleasantly surprised if this blizzard ever ends.”

Síofra laughed once, quietly. “Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

The conversation ended with that, and the cavern fell into silence. Check eventually put the smart stone back into his bags, having written nothing. The muffled sound of the wind outside filtered through the snowpack, but it was soon dwarfed by the sound of Crack Shot standing and rummaging through the camping bag. Once he had pried free the bag’s two tin bowls, he began scraping snow into one of them.

“Alright, we might be stuck in here and unable to get a fire goin’, but I’m gonna teach you a recipe,” he said to Síofra.

Síofra frowned slightly. “On this subject again, are ya? Fine. And what recipe will this be?”

“Snow cones,” said Crack Shot, as he began picking out what blackberries were left in his bag and crushing them in the other bowl, “though you’re gonna have to use your imagination for the cone part. Anyways, all you have to do is mash up some fruit and pour it over a bunch of snow. See? Piece of cake.”

“I don’t think I’d see a piece of cake, even if I squinted,” said Síofra, brightly.

Crack Shot gave her a flat look. “It’s an expression.”

“Not a very fitting one. So, in short, ya just take some perfectly good berries, mash them up until they’re beyond recognizability, and then dilute whatever flavor managed to survive in a pile of ancient snow?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Crack Shot presented her with the bowl. “Here, try it.”

Síofra tasted it. “Eh, it’s decent,” she admitted.

“Yep.” Crack Shot nodded. “Think you could try makin’ it without setting it on fire?”

“Hey,” said Storm, “since you’re teaching her how to cook, maybe she could teach you how to sing.”

Crack Shot scowled. “Why? What’s wrong with the way I sing?”

It was three days later when the sky finally cleared.

Within that time, Check received a response from his parents, relayed by Febre. He learned from his mother that Ikebana himself had undergone the trouble of delivering his letter to them, and that he had been of tremendous assistance in helping her conceptualize several potential layouts for a parterre she’d have constructed come spring, once he had summoned up the courage to speak to her. Check resolved to pay his friend an apology at the soonest opportunity. His parents asked that he stay safe, and he promised that he would.

Síofra did, in fact, make an attempt to teach Crack Shot to belt out a note that didn’t sound like a belt sander, but found it to be like teaching an octopus to juggle torches: the parts were there to make it work in theory, just not anywhere else. But perhaps in thanks to the enigmatic glamour of the fae, though more likely in thanks to a pragmatic sense of patience, her instruction did help him improve to the point that ear protection was no longer necessary within firing distance of his vocal range. It impressed Storm to hear Crack Shot carry a tune that wouldn’t require a weapons permit to do so.

As for Síofra’s culinary edification, she succeeded in making a snow cone after burning only one in the process. It had warmed the cavern, and so it was appreciated.

The air was crisp and sharp without the cloud cover to trap the heat, but its cold was nothing compared to the metric set by the past few days’ blizzards, which had felt like they could make the mercury crack out of the bottom of its thermometer into a thin little icicle. The air in front of the group whitened with their breaths as they pressed their way northward through the snow. Storm led the way, charging forward like an ice breaker in a motion that was half flight, half breaststroke.

“Maybe ya ought to pace yerself there, Storm,” said Síofra, from the rear of the group.

“I’m good!” he called back as he threw himself farther into the snow, packing it down and out of the way.

“…Well, I’m not,” she muttered, before trading her hooves for a kite’s wings and talons, and taking to the air. “All this hiking is for the birds.”

They continued up the mountain well into the afternoon, stopping only once for a quick lunch of their older leftovers. As he plowed their way forward and upward, Storm kept an ear open to the sounds of his companions. He would deny it if ever asked, but when he noticed that Check’s breathing was coming a little too fast, perhaps due to the altitude, he made sure that he wasn’t plowing too quickly. Other than that it was an uneventful climb; there was just a lot of it. By the time they reached a saddle point in the mountain, the sun, now a small red thing, had splashed into the western horizon and spilled red across the lower sky.

The four of them gazed down the plunge before them. Thousands of feet below, beneath thin clouds strewn about like torn cotton, was an enormous canyon, ripped, gouged, and gutted out of the earth by glacial drift. Within it, huge, purple shadows crept eastward over the sun-stained snow like a bruise across a blush. A frigid wind swept past.

“Where to from here?” asked Crack Shot.

“Down, I’d hazard,” said Síofra. She dug her beak beneath a wing and plucked free a piece of faerie gold, which she flicked forward. It spun through the air, before disappearing into the snow several dozen meters below. “Though if I had my druthers, it’d be straight across.”

Check stared at the swaths of thin cloud and hummed to himself. Then his horn began to glow. The others stared at him.

“What—are ya gonna conjure up a bridge?” asked Síofra, tilting her head.

“No—well, yes… erm, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” breathed Check, as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face and was wicked away by the wind. Then, with a flash of his horn, his body shimmered once. Then he slumped forward. He lay there panting, trying to catch his breath.

“…Aye, well done, then,” said Síofra, after a pause.

“Uh, you alright, dude?” asked Crack Shot.

Check nodded and, after a minute, stood up. He eased his way down a rockier portion of the mountain to where cloud met land. Cautiously, he extended a forehoof and pressed it into the cloud. It deformed slightly, but did not yield to his touch.

“Huh, not bad!” said Storm, flying down beside him. “When’d you pick up that trick?”

“Well, given that my two closest friends are pegasi, I thought it might be worthwhile to know—oof!” Check fell to his right as the cloud warped and shifted under his weight. He rose to an unsteady stance, his legs wobbling beneath him. “G-goodness!”

“Whoa, careful there,” said Storm. He glided beside his friend and helped right him. “Strati take some getting used to.”

“Y-yes, I see that now. But I think I’ve got—augh!” Check tipped over to his left.

“Heck of a time to give that spell a test run, eh?” said Crack Shot, as he flew down to steady Check, opposite Storm.

“Ohh, I’ve got the feeling that there ain’t gonna be a whole lot of running,” said Síofra, as she watched Check stagger and weave. “But we’re not gonna want to tarry. There’s already a lot of red in the sky, and it won’t be long before the daylight finishes bleeding out entirely.”

“At least it seems calm enough to set up the tent,” said Crack Shot. “Just gotta hope it stays that way. Unless we somehow stumble upon another cave, two dozen feet in the snow.”

Storm stared ahead at the ridge on the opposite edge of the canyon. Mists wreathed the roots of the mountains, which rose and stabbed into the heavens with frosted precipices. It was like staring at a mirror of those peaks they were leaving: more of the same. With a dry smirk, he wondered if the grass would be greener on the other side, if one dug deep enough to find it. His smirk then leveled out as he began to think. The mountains were awfully steep.

“Hey, Crack Shot, do you mind holding on to the camping bag for a few minutes?” he asked.

“No prob, dude, toss it over.”

Storm stepped around Check, who was finding his footing about as easily as a set of words that rhymed with ‘purple,’ and unfastened the bag, careful not to drop it. Once he was confident that it was secure in Crack Shot’s hooves, Storm beat his wings, lifting himself a few feet above the cloud.

“Stretchin’ out your wings?” asked Crack Shot.

“Actually, I’m going to see if I can find us some shelter,” said Storm, before taking off to the north.

He fixed his gaze on the snow covering the mountainside. As steep as the rise was, the snow looked like it was only a twenty degree temperature change away from being a waterfall. He wondered if he could improvise. Check had said that a shout wouldn’t cause an avalanche, but Storm had an idea of what might. He beat his wings faster and prepared to do something reckless.

“What’s that he’s doing?” asked Síofra.

“…He wouldn’t,” whispered Check.

Crack Shot grinned like mad. “Ohh, snap!”

The three of them watched in two parts disbelief, one part unabashed amusement, as Storm, his armor burning like a flare in the light of the setting sun, disappeared into the side of the mountain.

There was a momentary silence.

And then the mountain came down, spilling cataracts of ice and snow, and the roar of it filled the air.

When he felt the snowpack shifting, Storm was quick to move (albeit anyone caught in an avalanche is quick to move, although the movement involved probably isn’t of their choosing, nor of their desire). He kicked and paddled and flapped his wings, he rolled and tumbled and flailed, and then, at last, he managed to break above surface and into the air before the avalanche really got moving. And it really got moving.

A cascade of white surged and built beneath him, pouring into the canyon and unveiling the cliff face. He gave a satisfied laugh—once he had gotten the snow out of his mouth—at the sight of the mountain stripping itself of its winter cover.

As it waned, he scanned the revealed crags and soon found what he was hoping for: a short but reasonably wide crevice cut into the mountain, only partially blocked by the foot or so of snow that hadn’t been dragged down in the avalanche. He flew down and stepped inside, finding that it opened into a modest cavern that would easily fit the four of them. There was little light in the cavern itself, save for a puce gleam near the rear of it. It came from the mouth of a tunnel that immediately curved out of view. It was something to check out later, after he had gathered the others. He stepped back outside and took flight once more.

“Welcome back, dude. Glad we didn’t have to dig you up after that stunt,” said Crack Shot, upon Storm’s return to the clouds. He lifted a hoof for a bump, a gesture which Storm mirrored.

“Especially since I’d probably get stuck doing the digging,” mumbled Síofra.

“Heh, what’s a little snow, right?” said Storm, as he shook off the remaining bit of it clinging to his fur. He reached out to take back the camping bag from Crack Shot.

“That was far more than a little snow,” said Check, frowning. “What if something were to have gone wrong? I would not wish to be the one to write Nomde and tell her that you were hurt, or—perish the thought—that the unthinkable had transpired.”

Storm bit his lip. “…Right. Sorry.”

Check nodded, and his frown softened. Then he lost his balance and fell over.

“Anyways,” continued Storm, as he helped his friend up, “I found another cavern for us to bunk in tonight, if that’s any consolation.”

“Right on, dude,” said Crack Shot. “Lead the way.”

The more ambitious stars had shown themselves by the time the four of them reached the cavern. It was dark inside, and the thin light from the rear had thinned away. After setting his things down, Storm stepped back outside to write his journal entry beneath the light of the waning moon. There was little for him to mention beyond the hike and his stunt, so he sketched a crude mountain on the bottom half of the page when he ran out of words. Then he thought that it would be nice to write a letter to Nomde.

When he reentered the cavern, he heard the sound of Crack Shot’s snoring, which left the sound of Check’s softer breathing to the imagination. Their shadowed forms were prone on the opposite side of the cave, and across from them Síofra’s golden stare met Storm’s own. He had a moment to observe that it was larger than a kite’s, before she too closed her eyes for the night with the words: “Oíche mhaith, Storm.”

He guessed them to mean either ‘good night,’ or ‘quit stomping around already, will ya, and go to bed so the rest of us can,’ though the latter seemed a bit much to try to fit in three syllables.

The letter would have to wait until tomorrow. So with nothing else to do, Storm lay down as well and joined them in slumber.

Storm was the first to rise the next morning. The others still slept nearby, and he saw that Síofra had chosen the form of a wolf once again. Perhaps it had been for a measure of protection.

A sharp and incessant whistle near the cave entrance had stirred him, and when he turned his head towards it he saw huge flakes blowing through a diminishing gap of snow and stone. His drowsy eyes shot open. When they had gone to sleep the skies had been clear. Yet now, only a few hours later, there had been a powerful enough snow to nearly plug the cave mouth? It was warm enough in the cave, but still he shivered.

Well, that was a bullet dodged. A million little icy ones.

He stood slowly, mindful not to rouse the others. He didn’t want to fish through Check’s bags for the smart stone without permission, so he decided to survey the cavern instead. The grey light of dawn made it easy to see that there wasn’t much to see. It was similar to the cavern they’d lodged in for the past few days, but then he didn’t expect there’d be a lot of variation in décor.

There was a rock in one corner, which he supposed livened the place up.

There was also more of the rose crystal covering the walls, with all of the minute impurities within. Check had suggested that it might’ve been some kind of language, and Storm wondered how one would read it. Left to right? Right to left? Up to down? Maybe none of those. He turned towards the opening at the rear of the cave, which was now lit by greyish blue light. Curious, he stepped inside.

Crack Shot was dreaming.

In his dream, he was flying.

Even without the lucidity of wakefulness, he recognized this as an inexcusable lack of creativity on the part of his subconscious.

He sighed in annoyance as he suddenly, inexplicably, and yet completely predictably plummeted out of the sky, into a packed auditorium, to take a ‘surprise’ final exam he hadn’t studied for, while his teeth fell out. He had just noticed, and was irritated that he was forced to notice, that he was also naked—a trivial detail that didn’t deserve the emphasis given it by the dream centers of his mind—when Storm’s voice pierced the veil.

We’re gonna have a talk about this later, he threatened his subconscious, before leaving the hackneyed dream behind for the waking world.

“Mm… what was that you said?” he yawned, as he stretched his rear legs out and rubbed his eyes.

“I said that you guys have got to come see this!” said Storm, from the entrance of another passageway at the end of the cavern, before disappearing inside.

Crack Shot kicked off his covers and rolled into a stand beside Síofra and Check. They were staring at the cave’s exit. Or, as he was just now noticing, what little remained of it.

“Ugh, seriously?” he said. “This weather needs to friggin’ chill the hell out.”

“Judging by that wall of snow, it’s already done a lot of that,” said Síofra.

“And for weather that was so clement prior, it did so remarkably quickly,” noted Check. “Whatever the source of your weather disturbances, I think it might be found somewhere within these mountains.”

Síofra nodded once.

“Are you guys coming?” echoed Storm’s voice.

“Who knows—maybe Storm found it,” said Crack Shot, as he turned towards the corridor from which Storm’s voice had come. “Sounds like he found something at least. Let’s go check it out.”

The inside of the passage snaked downwards as they walked, leaving no more than a few meters ahead of them visible at a time. Like in the first cavern they’d stayed in, there were holes cut into the low ceiling, allowing in light from outside. Whatever their origins, they were spaced far too regularly to be natural. The group’s steps echoed off of the crystalline walls as they walked deeper into the mountain. Then, without warning, the passage opened up, and opened down as well.

It was a perfectly circular vertical shaft they stepped into, about twenty meters in diameter and so much more in length. Several beams of light shone down at various angles from a domed ceiling, casting their light in large spots on to purple flowers growing down the walls. And following the descent of these plants was a staircase of rose-tinted crystal, spiraling deeply into the chasm. Each turn of it—and there were hundreds—was visible through those that preceded it, the sight subtly growing pinker, redder, with every level stacked together in view.

“Whoa, what is this place?” asked Crack Shot, descending the crystalline steps towards one of the flowering plants.

“I’m not sure,” said Storm, “but I think it might be what we’re looking for.”

Chapter 13

Crack Shot stared over the lip of the staircase and into the dimness below, pondering its depth and resisting the urge to spit. Curious about the distance, he began a rudimentary calculation of it on the slide rule of his mind. He compared the apparent diameters near and far, performed a quick ratio comparison, and, finally, determined a result. The result he got was ‘far.’ Double checking his arithmetic and realizing he’d forgotten to carry a one, he amended this answer to ‘deep.’

“Man, heck of a drop, isn’t it?” he said, announcing his findings.

“Aye,” said Síofra, padding alongside him. “The fact that there’s a staircase going down it says that its makers probably weren’t fliers, though the lack of guardrails makes me think that they didn’t fret much about being fallers, either. I wonder how far down it goes.”

Crack Shot hummed and stared into the lightwell that was the chasm’s domed ceiling as he thought about this. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” he announced. “You got another one of those gold coins on you?”

“Oh, those are never in short supply,” said Síofra, loftily. She dipped her nose into the crook of her foreleg and brought out a piece of faerie gold held lightly between her canines.

“Right on,” said Crack Shot, nodding. “So here’s how we’ll do this: on the count of three, I’ll need you to drop the coin down the hole. Got it?”

“Gosh, counting and dropping—I hope I don’t lose myself in all this multitasking,” said Síofra. There was the definite impression that the uniform gold of her eyes was rolling like a wave.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyways, ready?”

Síofra nodded.

“Alright, then—one… two… three!”

Síofra released the coin, and they watched it fall and spin and disappear from sight. Eventually, a faint clink came echoing up and off the chamber walls.

“Hmm, roughly about twenty seconds, right?” said Crack shot. “So now the idea is just to figure out how far the fall was by how long it took for the sound to reach us.”

“Aye? And how will ya do that?”

“It’s not too hard,” said Crack Shot, before looking to the top of the crystalline stairs on the opposite side of the shaft and shouting, “Hey, Check! How far down is it?!”

Check Mate tilted his head, weighing and working the numbers on the left side of his brain. “Hmm… considering our altitude, the shape of the coin, the concomitant air resistance, the speed of sound… mm, just shy of seven hundred meters I would hazard, although that is rather back of the envelope, I’ll be the first to admit—”

None of the others present mentioned the physical absence of this supposed envelope, though Storm and Crack Shot both privately assumed that it’d have to be the width of the shaft for the necessary calculations to fit.

“—Also, that is assuming the density of gold for the coin, I should mention,” added Check. “Um, would pyrite perhaps be more apropos for faerie gold?” he asked, giving Síofra an uncertain look.

Síofra met the worried stare with a wolfish smirk. “Gold oughta serve just fine for comparison.” She gave Crack Shot a sidelong glance, her smirk lengthening as she asked, “Ya know, the way ya presented it, I almost thought that ya’d be crunching the numbers yerself.”

“Work smarter, not harder.” Crack Shot winked.

“…What?”

“Anyways, guess we oughta grab our stuff and start makin’ our way down, huh?” he continued, as he and Síofra walked back towards where Storm and Check were waiting.

“Before that, I’d like to send off a letter first,” said Storm. “You know, in case the smart stone doesn’t get signal down there.”

“To Nomde, I’ll bet.” Crack Shot nudged Storm in the ribs as he came beside him. “Gonna tell her about how you got all wet and wild with that mare?” He turned to Síofra. “What’d you say she was again?”

“A kelpie,” growled Síofra.

“Yeah, one of those.” Crack Shot stopped at the tunnel mouth. “Huh. Kelpie. Isn’t that a kind of dog?”

Síofra shrugged. “Well, she was certainly a—” she paused, considering her current lupine form. “…Probably’d be some irony in my continuing that line, wouldn’t there?”

“I don’t see why I wouldn’t tell Nomde,” said Storm, unfazed by Crack Shot’s goading and making absolutely sure that he saw this. “A relationship is grounded in trust, and she’s not really the type to get jealous.”

“Nah, dude, but she seems like the type to get even. Remember what she did to that one guy that trashed the doorway to her shop? I wouldn’t be surprised if she skipped town just to give that kelpie a little heavy reading.”

The four of them followed the serpentine tunnel back to the cave where they had lodged. The cave mouth opposite had filled with snow entirely, and a low, ominous wail of wind could be heard behind it. If there had been any reservations among them about descending deeper into the mountains, then they’d be reservations for an extra few days and nights in the cave. There’d be no getting back out the way they had entered.

Check retrieved the smart stone and its stylus from his bag before Storm needed to ask, though he hesitated in passing them over once he glanced at the former. In the dimness of the cavern, the front of it lit his features. Not just in green, but in blue.

“Now this is odd,” he muttered. The others gathered around him, and he levitated it away from himself so that they could see.

The top panel was filled with the shape of Febre’s writing, which was a poor shape in general, though that itself was not so strange. What was strange was the latticework of blue tracing the edges of the top and bottom panel, a dusting of it filling the spaces between the letters, glowing with a cool, soft light. It looked almost like frost.

Storm noted it with curiosity.

Then, after a snort from Crack Shot, he noted that the letter was addressed to him. Storm snatched the smart stone out of the air along with the stylus, pinning them beneath a wing as he stalked off towards another side of the cavern.

“Hey! I was reading that!” shouted Crack Shot, in feigned annoyance.

“I noticed,” replied Storm, whose annoyance was entirely sincere. He sat down against a wall, ducked his head beneath his wing, and brought out the stone and its stylus. After setting the stylus to his side, he held the stone up in his hooves and began to read.

Dear Storm,

Now that’s a rather rote way to start a letter, isn’t it? And I suppose the expression, ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ is ubiquitous to the point of being bromidic. But I can write both earnestly, so I see no reason not to include them. I miss you.

A smile crept upon his face, and the cavern became just a little bit warmer for him. Then an eyebrow raised as he continued into the next paragraph.

I’m also excited for you, of course. There is a vicarious thrill that comes with knowing that you’re out there exploring the world. Worlds even, if Villa is to be believed. I should preface that by telling you that she went on another tryst with Featherstep. She brought back stories, and, to my surprise, a few of them were about you and not just her evening. Some of what I heard worried me, I will admit, even though I don’t doubt that you can handle yourself. That doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to introduce the creature that tried to drown you to a hardbound copy of Pranst, though.

Still, although Villa has taken upon herself the uninvited role of liaison, I’d rather hear those stories from you, and any other stories as you live them. Relish in your journey and stay as safe as it will allow.

With love,

Nomde

And here she did a rather fancy looping thing with her signature, though I’ll assume you’ll forgive me for not attempting to reproduce it.

Storm’s smile wasn’t diminished in the least by Febre’s postscript, although it did climb on one side. He leaned over, took the stylus between his teeth, and dragged it across the smart stone’s bottom panel, marking a trail in the glowing blue rime that had frosted its surface.

No worries, and thanks for transcribing the rest. You wouldn’t mind doing it again, would you?

When he breathed across the stone, it cleared away not only his writing, but the rime as well. Slowly, however, the latter began to reform, as if a liquid film on the stone’s surface were freezing over. As he watched the stone frost once more, it dawned on him that Febre might not have been present to receive his message, particularly since it was near dawn. The kid seemed to work late hours, which only left recuperation for the early ones. But before Storm could once more put the stylus to stone and leave a letter for Febre to find, he received a response.

Can I assume that you’re not talking about transcribing the letter that you no doubt just read? Or would you like me to draw little hearts over the ‘i’s and ‘j’s?

Storm blinked. Even if Febre was up early, it was still a quick response. Maybe he had sent Nomde’s letter just a moment ago?

I’m surprised you’re up, actually. Don’t you ever sleep?

Of course. But given that I’m a research assistant, I have to be liberal with how I arrange my sleep schedule, and conservative about the hours.

Really? Well, I hope you can squeeze in a nap when you need one.

I have one tentatively scheduled for the end of this month. Did you have a letter that you wished to send? If so, go ahead.

That would be Febre urging him along, though Storm was touched by how subtle he was being about it. He began his letter.

Heya, Nomde:

I just read your letter, and I’ve got to say that word travels fast. Which, I guess, shouldn’t be so surprising, given that I’m writing on a slab of rock that somehow sends messages in the blink of an eye. I figure you know what I mean.

It’s weird to think about all that’s happened in just a week. One day you’re eating bark (which is a lot better than it sounds) and watching a sunset, and the next you’re struggling to keep your hooves dry in a world where there’s no sun in the first place.

Which, reading back, makes that world sound bad, which it wasn’t. You could probably spend a day there just watching the sky, watching how it measures out a day. It’s constantly filled with stars, or something like them, and they dart around just like your fireflies. Otherworldly is probably a redundant way to describe it, but I’m not sure what else to call it. I’d bet you’d come up with something much better. Who knows—if we do go on our little adventure together, maybe you’ll have the chance.

We’ve also picked up a travelling partner: Síofra, as she’s decided to call herself (long story), who is a pooka (a longer story. I promise I’ll tell you all about it when I’m back). The four of us have spent the past few days in this huge mountain range, and it feels like the temperature hasn’t gone beyond single digits unless you’re counting the negatives. I get the impression that ‘fall’ and ‘spring’ are nothing more than verbs here, and that the only meaning ‘summer’ has would be somepony that likes to add things up. I hope the weather is still clear and calm for you back in Canterlot. And that’s not just because it’d be good for business, and yours needs all the help it can get.

Love you, babe.

-Storm

After rereading his letter, Storm gave a nod, satisfied with its content. This was good, because the smart stone didn’t have room for much more. Just before sending it off, however, he thought of one more thing he could fit in, and he quickly scribbled across the rock. As he breathed across the words, they drifted up towards the cave ceiling, disappearing into it. A few minutes later, a response formed on the smart stone’s top panel.

Your letter has been transcribed, and it should be sent out sometime later than now.

Thanks, Febre. I appreciate your efforts.

It’s cheering to know that somepony does. One thing though, Storm?

Yeah?

The thing about dotting one’s letters with little hearts? It wasn’t meant to be taken as a suggestion.

I know a good idea when I see one.

Storm stood up and rejoined the others, whereupon he returned the stylus and stone to Check. With no more dragon fire to burn it away, the odd, luminous frost once more filled the smart stone’s panels. Its blue glow colored the depths of Check’s saddlebags as the unicorn tucked it inside.

“It appears that whatever’s formed on the stone led to no hassle in your correspondence,” said Check, as he fastened his bag closed. “Outside of whatever hassle might have been present in your tête-à-tête with Febre,” he added.

Storm lifted his peytral and slung it over his shoulders. “Actually, he sounded like he was in a better mood than normal this morning.”

“It’s early,” said Crack Shot, putting on his armor as well, “give him time.”

“Perhaps his heart was touched in relaying your sweet nothings,” noted Check, with a warm, well-meaning sincerity that only he could attach to that sentence.

“Ha! Sweet nothings?” said Storm, as he ducked his head into his champron. “That makes them sound like fluff. They were sweet somethings at the very least.”

“And speakin’ of fluffing, I’m glad they were just sweet and not spicy,” mused Crack Shot, graciously leaving ‘If you know what I mean’ from the end of the sentence. “It would’ve been awkward if the rest of us had to leave the cave.”

Storm paused, then pressed a hoof to his face. “Engh, for the love of—”

“The love of somethin’ would’ve been precisely the problem,” interrupted Crack Shot, grinning.

Síofra listened with fascination and a bemused expression that was underscored with a smile. Then that smile flattened into an underscore when Crack Shot turned towards her and said, “Shame you can’t buzz Dorcha and do the same.”

“Er… what now?”

“Or Ciar or whatever—you know who I’m talkin’ about.”

“Aye, I do, and the ‘what?’ remains,” said Síofra, hotly.

“Oh. Uh…” Crack Shot tried to scratch the back of his head, though his hoof was met by his helmet. “I figured that you two were… you know.”

“…Were what?” asked Síofra.

Her eyes remained fixed on Crack Shot. It was an impassive stare, which for her was still an impressive stare. Those two lambent pools of gold must’ve felt as hot as the sun. “Jeez, can you turn down the eighty-watt stare?” he pleaded.

“Eighty-what stare,” noted Storm.

Crack Shot and Check both flinched from contact embarrassment at that.

Síofra gave Storm a muddled look, before saying, “What I can tell ya is that me and him are friends. Right close ones, of course, but there’s nothing more to it than that. I’m curious as to why ya’d think otherwise.”

Crack Shot scratched the back of his helmet again. “Ah, it’s just, uh, like… you know… that little moment between you two before we all left…?”

“Ahh,” said Síofra, in dawning realization. “That’s what our kind calls ‘barróigín.’ It is an ancient act meant to demonstrate kinship. Very steeped in tradition, it is.” Síofra gazed upward and placed a paw beneath her chin. “Hmm, let’s see… in yer tongue, I believe the word would translate to ‘hug,’ aye, though maybe the act has an obligatory romantic connotation for yer kind?”

“Aw, jeez…” Crack Shot turned away, his face reddening.

Check patted him on the side. “Do you see what happens, then, when one presumes?”

“…It’s supposed to be ‘assumes,’ dude,” huffed Crack Shot. “You know, because it makes an—”

“Yes, I am well aware,’” said Check, primly. He shifted his equipment. “Anyways, now that Storm has had the chance to write his letter, shall we begin our descent?”

Crack Shot sighed and glanced at the wall of snow sealing the cavern exit. “Might as well—it’s not like we’re goin’ anywhere else.”

After an unceremonious breakfast, Storm, Check, Crack Shot, and Síofra began their descent into the bowels of the earth.

Bowels of the earth, Storm thought.

Now there was an anatomical allusion he couldn’t reconcile himself with. He felt that ‘spelunking’ was a term that sounded bad enough on its own. Like somepony had dropped a rock in a pond and decided to name a sport after the sound it made. Couple it with ‘bowels,’ and he was left with an onomatopoeic imagery that made him want to take a shower. The purple flowers coloring the walls were a nice sight though, and they certainly had a pleasant scent.

Intestinal flora, sang a traitorous part of his imagination, which he promptly told to shut up.

“So what kind of flowers are these?” asked Crack Shot, as they passed another plant on the way down the stairs. “This doesn’t seem like the kinda place you’d expect to find ‘em. You know, underground.”

“Purple saxifrage, I believe,” said Check, just ahead of him.

“Huh. Were they running out of names by the time they got to it?”

“As I understand, the name stems from how the plant is able to grow from rocky crevices. Saxum meaning stone, frangere meaning to crush or break. Thus, saxifrage.”

“Fitting,” said Crack Shot, as he stopped beside another plant growing out of the rock wall. “So, they break rocks… what about teeth?”

“They are said to have a sweet taste,” noted Check, catching the hint. It was all he needed to say for Crack Shot to lean forward and take a bite. “But it should be mentioned that their pigment can stain.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Crack Shot. As he turned around, the others had to bite their tongues at the sight of the lips the words had come out of.

“…Ohh, yeah,” echoed Síofra.

Storm canted his head. “Sort of looks like you’re wearing lipstick.”

“Really?” Crack Shot puckered his lips, which had turned as purple as a bruise. “Heh, sexy. If there is anybody down here, I guess they shouldn’t have any trouble tellin’ us apart right now, eh?”

“I think ye two distinguish yerselves pretty readily.” Síofra walked beside Crack Shot and pulled back the fur on his foreleg with a paw, revealing an underbrush of yellow. “Besides—ye do know that yer roots are showing, right?”

Storm lifted a foreleg and took a closer look. Sure enough, like earth buried beneath the snow, there were hints of brown. “Hm. It has been a while since we touched up, hasn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, dude,” said Crack Shot, licking his lips relatively clean. “The Staff Sergeant’ll get on our case about that when we get back home.”

As the staircase circled around and beneath itself, winding like a corkscrew boring into the earth, Storm noticed another peculiar property about the crystal that formed it. Every square inch of it beneath him glinted with faint redness wherever the sunlight touched it. Yet, when he looked up and through the upper levels, all he saw was blue. Like staring skyward from underneath the ocean. He alternated his gaze, above and below, curious about the phenomenon. And as he watched the long, wide, translucent steps disappear and reappear, a level gone below and a level added above with each circuit, he discovered something even stranger.

The staircase had been created entirely in one piece.

No matter how much he scrutinized, he could find no gaps, no seams, no mark to prove that it hadn’t been cut from a single stone. Not for the hundreds of meters it descended, for the thousands of meters it spiraled. Did its creators happen across a giant crystal and decide to see how far down it’d go? Did they excavate the shaft, seed a crystal, and take a coffee break for a few dozen generations? He couldn’t imagine the stress of being whoever had worked the chisel.

The four of them at last reached the bottom of the shaft, a floor of flat, smooth crystal just barely blushing from the kiss of light that managed to make it that far down. Although there was no crevice or cranny for Síofra’s gold coin to have wedged itself into, it was nowhere in sight. But then, none of them expected it to be. What they did find was another tunnel mouth, a damp, cool air wafting out of it. Its existence was an invitation to enter, and so they did.

Less inviting were those they found waiting just around the first corner.

Crystal barding segmented into plates, with specks of cloudiness marching across them. Winged circlets of similar make, detail and care given to every feather and filigree. Thick, white coats, saddled with mottled patches of brown fur, streaked with whirls and whorls of purple.

Storm would’ve paid more attention to these, if not for the antlers lowered towards him. This would be for the same reason that one probably wouldn’t take the moment to study the etchings, the tassels, or the jeweled insets of a spear aimed at their face. It would have been missing the point.

“Oh dear,” whispered Check.

“Yeah, I’d say that’s what they look like,” added Crack Shot, quietly.

Before the group stood three armored cervine figures, their heads low and their eyes narrowed. Some kind of caribou, Storm guessed, though his mental picture of them usually included a sleigh. They’d serried themselves in a line blocking access into the rest of the tunnel. The one in the middle, the largest of the three and ostensibly the leader, spoke first, his voice low and threatening like a roll of thunder.

“Þið skuluð segja okkur hver þið eruð og hvers vegna þið komið hérna í óleyfi.”

This left a bit of guesswork as to what the threat actually was.

“Uh… pardon?” hazarded Storm.

For a moment the stag look puzzled, his mouth creasing with the act of cogitation.

He repeated, slower and louder, “Ég sagði að þið skuluð segja okkur hver þið eruð og hvers vegna þið eruð hérna í óleyfi!”

Crack Shot nudged Check in the side. “Psst,” he hissed, rather unnecessarily. “Dude!”

Check didn’t avert his eyes from the three barring their path. “Yes, what is it?” he whispered back.

“Use a translation spell!”

Check still didn’t avert his eyes, though his brows did furrow above them. “…Beg pardon?”

“You know—so we can understand ‘em!”

“What gives you the notion that such a spell even exists?”

Crack Shot gazed upwards, thoughtfully. “I dunno. I just kinda figured there’d be a spell to do just about anything if a situation called for it.” He looked down to Síofra and whispered, “What about you—any idea what they’re saying?”

Síofra looked up towards Crack Shot, looked back at the stags, and said, “Bark.” After a moment’s consideration, she added, “Woof,” for purpose of clarification.

A couple of yards away, the stags had fallen into a hurried conference.

“Hefurðu hugmynd um hvað þeir eru að segja?”

This was asked by the one on the left, a slimmer, younger-looking stag, as he watched the guardsponies from the corner of his eye.

The leader frowned and shook his head. “Hljómar eins og bull fyrir mér, en mér líkar ekki hvernig þeir eru að hvísla.”

He stared at the guardsponies and his frown deepened. “þeir gætu verið að hugsa um að reyna eitthvað.”

The one on the right remained silent, apparently deep in thought. He looked as young as the stag on the left, though the antlers on the right side of his head looked to have been snapped off in the middle of the stem. Eventually he spoke.

“…Ég held reyndar að ég hafi einu sinni heyrt þetta tungumál notað af einum þeirra sem er með óhreinindi í feldinum.” He pointed at Storm, who quirked an eyebrow. “Frá einu af skáldunum, þegar við vorum yngri.”

The slimmer stag gave a laugh. “Síðan hvenær tókstu eftir í tíma?”

Storm reddened, and wished more than ever that he could tell what they were saying. Did he have something on his face? He knew Crack Shot did—why weren’t they pointing at him?

“Haltu kjafti,” growled the stag with the cracked antler. “Ég ætla allaveganna að reyna að tala við þá.” He cleared his throat and called out, “You three—”

The guardsponies focused on him.

“—Where are you up towards and who are you why?!” he demanded.

Silence.

“Erm,” began Storm, “we’re members of Equestria’s Royal Guard, on an exploratory assignment on behalf of Her Highness, Princess Luna. If that answers, uh, whatever that question was supposed to be.”

The stag with the cracked antler nodded.

The apparent leader gave his companion an approving clap on the withers. “Hvað sagði hann?”

The stag with the cracked antler shrugged.

The other two groaned, and Storm suspected that his answer had just been turned away at the language barrier.

“Förum þá með þá til einhverns sem hefur,” said the leader, and it carried a note of finality.

The three began to advance towards the guardsponies and Síofra, eyeing them warily.

Crack Shot glanced at the others. “So, uh… do we fight, book it, or what?”

Check shook his head. “If they wanted a fight, they would likely be charging us right now, instead of approaching so charily. Perhaps they wish to bring us to one that can interpret us.”

“And if not?” asked Storm.

“Well… we can figure it out from there.”

The lead stag waited at the front of the group, while the other two moved to position themselves in the back. As the slimmer of the three walked past, he pulled Crack Shot’s spear free of his bags’ straps.

Crack Shot gave half of a frown. “I don’t suppose you have a word for ‘please,’” he muttered.

The slim stag stared at him for a moment, grinned around the spear, and said, “Fyrirgefðu mér,” before joining his companion at the rear of the group.

The stag in front then gave a curt nod for the guardsponies to follow.

As they began their march, as prisoners if not guests, Crack Shot smirked. “Heh, you know, ever since leaving Fiddler’s Plain, we’ve been kinda SOL for warm welcomes, huh?” he said, watching Síofra from the corner of his eye as they proceeded into the tunnel.

She shrugged, gave a dismissive, “Arf,” and made no further argument.

Storm followed the clack of hoofsteps as the larger stag lead the way into the tunnel, relying on sound since sight now failed him. After leaving the light of the vertical shaft, he found that little replaced it. The scant amount there was came from the thin, green foxfire of a mold smeared virulently across the lower, damper parts of the cave walls like some kind of illness. The sickly light only made the darkness heavier, and it came with a stench that far outreached it. But although he couldn’t see the cave ceiling, Storm could feel it. Low, oppressive, and bearing the weight of a mountain. How much lower would it sink if the earth chose that moment to move?

Storm tried to shake the thought from his head. It didn’t do any good to be thinking about tremors and about cave-ins. About subsidence, about being buried alive, about—

—Bowel movements, sang that part of his imagination again, though he was grateful then for the absurdity of it.

As they walked, their hoofsteps echoing off the walls like the march of a phantom army, the tunnel became tunnels, branching off—divarication, echoed Check’s voice in Storm’s memory—into a taphephobe’s worst nightmare. However, their escorts (or captors, if he were to be honest with himself) had no trouble navigating the midnight spaces, quite possibly by sonar. The lead stag kept a steady clip, even as the path bent and broke and seemingly backtracked.

Even without the other two acting as rearguard, Storm would have followed right behind. In this labyrinth, he certainly wouldn’t want to be left behind.

Then, a low, deep roar began to build, white noise at first, but soon filling the narrow tunnel with its din. For one chilly moment, Storm’s thoughts were drowned out by the fear that the mountain really could be coming down, that the earth was preparing to swallow them and that it wouldn’t bother to chew. The path weaved, and light began to color it, and Storm’s heart slowed its beat, but not by much. He couldn’t fathom how anypony could live in such claustrophobic conditions, so many fathoms underground. It was a choice he’d never make. Then, the leader of the stags rounded a corner, and Storm saw that they hadn’t either.

Crack Shot whistled, Síofra whined, and Check gasped. Storm simply stared, open mouthed, at the city beneath the world.

The rough and rutted stone of the tunnel ended at its mouth, left behind like a bad dream. In its place was smooth, rose-tinted crystal, running in an avenue beneath a series of arches hung with unlit lanterns. Farther ahead, it turned into a staircase and climbed towards a plateau. Plumes of smoke hinted at what lay beyond its edge.

Turning his head, Storm saw the source of the roar that had filled the tunnels, and felt its spray kiss his face. Waterfalls, cataracts of snowmelt, cascaded down stony walls in a symphony of gurgles and crashes, creating a haze that made the elevated architecture appear to be nestled in a cloud.

From a cave ceiling that was high enough to be the sky, shafts of light cut through steam and mist, casting oranges and yellows, blues and greens along their path. To Storm, it looked like a bridge had been laid in front of them, built from rainbow itself.

He wanted nothing more at that instant than to soar into the air and take it all in.

But, as the stag in front of him was proof of, he and his friends were captives. Or, at least, the stags probably viewed them as captives. It wouldn’t do to go divorcing them of that belief just yet.

The lead stag turned towards him and the others and grinned at their wonderment, before barking a command which Storm took to be some variant of ‘follow.’ The stag began to march up the avenue, so Storm and his friends did just that.

“Jeez, the size of this place,” said Crack Shot, craning his head upwards as they passed beneath an arch. “It must’ve taken forever to make a cave this huge.”

“Mm, if that were the case, then it wouldn’t exist, would it?” asked Check, half of a smile crossing the side of his face that Crack Shot couldn’t see.

“Dude, there is literally nothing worse than bein’ that literal,” said Crack Shot, sticking out his tongue. “But seriously, when I was a colt I spent like an entire day digging a hole, and I only got as far my fetlocks.”

“Why were you digging a hole?” asked Storm.

“My brother said I could get to Neighpon if I dug straight down.” Crack Shot gave a shrug. “It wasn’t until my legs were covered in dirt that I figured out he might’ve been pullin’ one of ‘em.”

“Particularly since Manehattan and Neighpon aren’t even antipodal,” mused Check. “How is your brother?”

“He’s aight. I might write him if we get reception down here. And if we’re not headin’ off to the executioner’s block, so to speak.”

“Growl,” said Síofra.

“Relax, it was a joke.”

“Hmm, on the subject of the stone, I would be interested in studying it, if we’ve the opportunity,” said Check. “Rather, the aberrancy on its surface, for lack of a better word—”

“—Since when do you lack a better word?” interrupted Crack Shot.

Check gave this the eye roll it was due, before continuing. “It wasn’t present, or at least wasn’t noticeable, at either the base of the mountain or the cave where we first retired.” He looked past Crack Shot towards Síofra. “I wonder if it’s not related to whatever is worsening the weather in this region.”

“Þeir tala mikið,” said the slimmer stag, to his companion with the cracked antler.

Storm glanced back. “I wonder what they’re discussing.” He noticed that the slimmer stag had clipped Crack Shot’s spear to the side of his barding.

“Probably wherever they’re takin’ us,” suggested Crack Shot.

They reached the staircase, and upon ascending it Storm saw others off in the distance that provided access to another plateau. It appeared the city rose in tiers. He wasn’t surprised to see that the nearby houses—if that’s what the long, rounded buildings were—were also crystalline, though their owners had had the modesty to frost their sides. Their roofs were topped with sod. Looking at them, he found himself thinking of the grass roof of the schoolhouse in Fiddler’s Plain.

They looked like capsized boats to him, covered in algae and moss. Like the remnants of an ancient fleet, the revenants of a ships’ graveyard. Surrounding each one was a garden of purple saxifrage, and each garden looked well attended and well sampled. He suspected that the stags had used the flower to give themselves their purple markings.

Smoke—or was it steam?—drifted in steady plumes from every building, and he wondered if each had somebody to attend them.

Past the residences, the lead stag turned onto a cobblestone path. It was a strange thing to see, out of place amongst the rest of the crystal architecture, and so was the building they lead to. A thing of ironwood, stone, and mortar, it stood out like a rotten tooth. This was fitting, if the giant wooden door bar and window slats were proof of its purpose. It was a jail.

The lead stag placed a hoof beneath the door bar and lifted it as easily as cork. He pulled it open and gave the guardsponies a meaningful look, which needed no translation. The guardsponies stepped inside, with Síofra right behind them.

Outside of the jail door, the stag with the broken antler barked, “Take it to the heart, the waiting is the hardest part! Try not anything humorous, understanding?!”

Once more, silence.

“O…kay?” ventured Storm.

The stag stared at him.

“…Yes?”

The stag nodded and the door slammed shut. There was a heavy thud as the door bar fell into a place, and, unexpectedly, the sound of tumblers clicking. Not that Storm had gotten a good look, but he was certain that none of the stags had been carrying a key.

“Hvað var það fyrsta sem hann sagði?” asked the voice of the slimmer stag, muffled by the thick wooden door.

“Tveir bókstafir stafrófsins hans,” answered that of the stag with the broken antler.

It was followed by the sound of hooves on stone, growing quieter with each step.

“Now ye can’t tell me that me and mine weren’t a wee bit more hospitable than this,” said Síofra, her voice just above a whisper.

“Oh hey—she speaks,” said Crack Shot. He rolled his bags off of his withers and lay down on a wide wooden bench set against a wall of hewn stone. He splayed his limbs out, stretching out as far as he could then trying for a little bit farther.

Síofra shrugged. “No point in giving them any idea of what I am or, more importantly, what I ain’t, I figure. It’s better to be underestimated than overestimated.”

Storm surveyed the cell. Whatever light managed to touch the windows was slashed into thin bands by the wooden slats barring it.

There were two long benches bolted to the walls opposite each other, one of which Crack Shot was currently spreading himself across like some kind of liquid. From the wall farthest from the door, a weak but steady stream of water spilled into a small, earthen drain. It might’ve been meant to keep any potential tenants—yes, that was a good word for him and his friends—from dehydrating, but it was also the only source of plumbing in the cell. That fact alone made it seem a bit too… multipurpose for Storm to consider taking a drink.

Thankfully, they still had the canteen, and everything else for that matter, save for Crack Shot’s spear. Check had apparently thought the same, and was already freeing the smart stone from his bags.

“Callin’ for backup, dude?” asked Crack Shot, as he let his head seep over the side of the bench to stare upside-down at his friend. “Let ‘em know where we are now, and they might just make it down here in time to be a Hearth’s Warming miracle.”

“While it’d be prudent to keep our cohort apprised of our situation, recall our earlier conversation about its appearance. Hm, now this is curious.” Check pursed his lips upon revealing the stone, though it quickly became obvious why. It was written all over his face.

Crack Shot rolled upright. “Whoa, look at that thing glow!”

Storm set his things down and moved to take a closer look, which proved entirely unnecessary. The twin panels of the smart stone had lit with a singular brightness that made his eyes water.

“What on earth—what under it could be causing that?” he breathed.

Síofra’s eyes went wide. “Ya mentioned the weather before. The way it went wojus right on top of us, how that thing started lighting up like a will-o’-the-wisp at around the same time…”

“Well, that is merely a hypothesis at this stage,” said Check. “To strengthen it, we’d need to first increase our sample size of locations, our—”

“But ya might just be right! We might be getting a lot closer to the source of the weather!”

Crack Shot sat up and tilted his head at Síofra. “Huh. This really is a big deal to you, isn’t it?”

Síofra tilted her head right back. “Aye, why wouldn’t it be?”

Crack Shot hummed. “Well, when we were kickin’ it in your world, the weather didn’t seem all that bad. I mean, it looked trippy and all, but it didn’t seem like anything was crossin’ over, least as far as I could tell. If it doesn’t have any effect on your side of things, why does it matter so much?”

Síofra let out a sigh. “Because some of us aren’t keen on just staying on our side of things. Sure, there are plenty back home that are happy with self-exile and would just as soon never see a field of stars that can keep still for a bloody minute, but not me.”

Her ears folded back as she continued.

“And even if a mushroom’s… mycelium runs deep, a mushroom can still drown. If the flooding in our valley gets any worse, as it really seems to be doing, then we’ll be looking at a long holiday.”

Crack Shot nodded. “Ah, gotcha.”

Síofra stared at him. “Ya know, of all the responses I assumed that might’ve garnered, I’ve got to say that ‘gotcha’ didn’t quite make the cut.”

“Er, like, what I mean is that I get it, I think. There’s no way I’d want to be stuck in Manehattan all my life…” Crack Shot shook his head. “Anyways, my point is that we’ll lend a hoof if we can.”

Síofra cracked a smile at that. “Well I—”

There was the creak of the door bar being lifted, and the click of a key sliding into a lock. Check managed to shove the smart stone back into his bag just as the door swung open. The slimmer of the three stags stood in the doorway, a large bowl balanced on his barding. Crack Shot’s spear was no longer with him, and Storm could find no location on the crystal barding where it would have slotted. The stag looked around the cell for a moment, his brows knit in confusion, before focusing on Síofra.

They looked at each other.

“Howl,” said Síofra.

The stag canted his head and quirked an eyebrow, staring at her.

Then, finally, he shook his head. He reached back to take the bowl, and set it on the bench beside Crack Shot. It was loaded with spinach, chard, and what looked like chop radishes. The stag pointed at the bowl, and then began chomping the air and pointing at himself, in case there was any question about what the vegetables were for.

“Oh!” said Check, upon seeing the bowl’s contents. He gave a polite smile. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

It took the stag a second, but afterwards he smirked and gave a nod. “Það var ekkert,” he muttered, as he turned to leave.

He paused before stepping out, however. Instead, he turned to study Síofra once more. The cell at-large held its breath. He lifted a hoof towards her and raised an eyebrow. Then, for clarification, he pointed towards the bowl.

Síofra gave an ‘Ah!’ which she hastily appended an ‘-rf!’ to the end of, then bounded towards the bowl and dipped her head inside. She came out with several leaves speared on her canines. “Yip,” she noted.

For a few very tense seconds, the stag just watched her. Eventually he shrugged, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him. The door bar thudded into place, the tumblers clicked, and the four of them let out their breath. The sound of hoofsteps outside faded until only the hollow sound of water trickling into the wooden drain remained.

Check once more retrieved the stone from his bag, along with its stylus. The others gathered around as he tried tracing a few experimental lines across the surface. Markings appeared but didn’t last, evaporating seconds after they were drawn. A thin line of green trailed after the emerald tip of the stylus like the tail of a comet, before shortening into nothing when Check ceased writing.

“It appears that we won’t be notifying Canterlot about our situation,” he sighed. “But I suppose if there is any validity regarding the correlation between the stone’s luminance and the abnormal weather, it may be of some consolation to have it as a metric.”

“Not if we’re sitting around in a jail cell,” said Storm, as he took a seat on the bench opposite Crack Shot. “I wonder how long we’re supposed to be in here.” He noticed that there were hash marks scored into the wall beside him, somebody’s crude measure of time. Did they count down days? Weeks? Months?

“Might be our call, dude,” said Crack Shot. “Think we oughta bust out of here or what?”

“Hmm.” Check tapped his hoof on the floor. “Perhaps we should allow them to hold us for at least a couple of days before deciding on that course of action.”

“You want to see what they have to say, and if we’ll be able to understand it?” asked Storm.

“Mm, yes, there is that, of course,” said Check, staring at the bowl of vegetation.

“…Aye?” asked Síofra. “Ya make it sound like there’s more to it than that.”

“Well, it’s just that they’ve seemed hospitable enough so far in the completion of their duties. To escape so soon after they’ve just gone through the hassle of capturing us…” He turned towards the others, a small, worried frown on his face. “…It just seems rather rude, doesn’t it?”

They didn’t even have to wait a day, only the better part of one, to receive another visitation. The light scored across the floor and walls hadn’t moved, but it had dimmed with the oncoming evening. A shadow blocked a small part of it as a squirrel crept through the barred windows and into the cell. Once inside, she shifted and grew into the form of a wolf once more.

“Looks like those feens are on their way back,” said Síofra, as she shook out her fur. “And they’ve got another with them. No armor, but he’s a big-looking fellow.”

“Someone else?” Storm stood from his bench, stretching his neck and wings. “I wonder he’s an interpreter.”

“Be kinda annoyin’ if he wasn’t, since they took so freakin’ long to get him,” said Crack Shot, as he rolled onto his hooves. “Unless he’s really good at charades.”

Check didn’t chime in immediately, apparently lost in some thought. Eventually he said, “Hopefully he is, Storm… but, it may have been quite some time since they’ve had contact with ponies, or others that speak our tongue.”

“What gave it away?” deadpanned Crack Shot. Check only hummed in response.

A minute later, there came the percussion ensemble of the door being unlocked, and the four of them turned to face it. The door was pulled open, and an older stag stepped inside. Age had streaked his coat with hoarfrost, but his gait was proud and supported by powerful legs. His frame filled the doorway, and his antlers curved forward in several points like an instrument of war. His eyes were keen, like two polished pieces of volcanic glass, even if the skin beneath them had softened and sagged. He scrutinized Síofra and the guardsponies, lingering on Storm and Crack Shot in particular.

Storm fought the urge to shrink back as this towering stranger sized him up, as he stared him down. He was a soldier—a sergeant no less!—of Equestria’s Royal Guard. He was a surrogate for all of his brothers and sisters in arms, and the thought of that steeled him. He kept his shoulders squared and his face set like stone as the stag looked him over.

At last, the stag’s gaze left him to pore over Crack Shot, who, against such scrutiny, chose to waggle his eyebrows.

The stag scoffed, before finally speaking, his voice deep, sonorous, and with a faint lyrical quality. “My name is Fannar. Already you have met Björn, Leif, and Víðar, by their claim.” He made no point of saying who was whom, and they gave no indication. “Now, it doth strike us as queer to discover your kind so deep in our territory. Explain anon, and I’ll no prevarication.”

“Oh jeez.” Crack Shot put a hoof over his face. “Did we stumble into the lost world for languages?”

Check recognized his cue and leapt into his role. “Mine allies and I mean to commit no offense. Our reason for being here is twofold.”

Fannar and his cohort turned their attention towards him, which also meant turning their antlers towards him. He swallowed.

“…Firstly, we come at the request of Her Royal Highness, Princess Luna, who inquireth on the state of the world beyond Equestria’s borders—”

“Doth she now?” interrupted Fannar. “From her moonlit bower on high?”

“Nay, the moon and firmament no longer keep her, nor doth the darkness which necessitated such.”

Crack Shot groaned. “This is like a bad play.”

Storm hushed him.

“So she hath abandoned all aims of shrouding the world in shadow, thou wouldst claim?” asked Fannar. There was an acerbic lilt to his tone.

“Yea, dawn’s light giveth testament to this.”

“It is the east, and Celestia is the sun!” whispered Crack Shot. Storm elbowed him in the side.

“…Doth it now?” asked Fannar, ignoring this. His eyes were like two wells of pitch, and they gave away nothing. “And who are you that would represent her?”

“My name is Check Mate. My friends beside me are Storm Stunner and Crack Shot.”

Each nodded as they were named.

“Very well, Check Mate. Thou said your reasons were twofold. For what other purpose have you come here?”

“The weather,” answered Check. “Hast thou taken notice of its vicissitudes?”

“Hark!” said Fannar, which nearly proved too much for Crack Shot, who’d never thought he’d hear the word in spoken conversation without an ‘s’ on the front of it. “An interest in our climes you claim…? So Equestria’s borders yet migrate so far that she desireth an active role in them?”

“She doth not,” answered Check. “Our interest is our own.”

Fannar stared at him, saying nothing, reading him for any sign of artifice. “…Knowledge of your ilk is uncommon amongst mine, but there are songs sung by the skáldunum—poets, in your tongue—that speak of you. And of your abilities.”

He turned his attention towards Storm and Crack Shot once more.

“To climb into the heavens and summon swith a tempest, or to rend such storms indiscriminately. …And all on such unlikely wings.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with our wings,” muttered Storm, to which Crack Shot elbowed him in the side. Not because he disagreed with the sentiment, but because turnabout is fair play.

Fannar returned his attention to Check, and his face split with a grin. But as far as grins go, it contained no warmth, no mirth. It was a means of baring one’s teeth, a threat.

“It doth seem unlikely that you would be harried from your home by the weather. Yet, one matter confoundeth me…”

“That being?”

“There are songs about thy kind as well, those possessed of a single horn. From what I know of them, the simple securities of this cell should not have been enough to hold thee. Why did thou and thy companions not away?”

“Because of the reasons that I gave thee, and because we wished, rather, to talk.”

Fannar laughed—a deep rumble of a laugh—and it thundered off of the stone walls of the cell. “You’ve mettle,” he said after settling. “I wonder if it is deserved. Very well, there shall be talk. But it shall wait for another time and another place.”

He stepped back through the door, out of the cell, and the other three stags fell in beside him. However, he didn’t close the door behind him. Instead he said, without turning to face the guardsponies, “Will you follow?”

The guardsponies and Síofra looked between each other.

“Does—doth this mean we are no longer captives?” asked Check.

“It meaneth that I will see to it that you are shown proper hospitality.”

He began to march, not bothering to see if the guardsponies were keeping step behind him. They quickly equipped their belongings, with Check shoving as much of the crystal bowl as would fit into one of the main pouches of his saddlebags.

“I will not say that I discount thy words,” continued Fannar. “However, that doth not mean that I trust you.”

“I wonder if that’s how it’s going be for the rest of the trip,” said Storm, glancing sidelong at the other three stags on either side of them.

The largest of the three was all business. He kept his eyes directed straight forward in a way that Storm just knew meant that he was watching them out of the corner of one. The ears of the one with the broken antler were perked, and Storm assumed that he was trying to work out what he’d just said. As for the slimmest of the three, there was no need for guessing. He was looking at Crack Shot and him with either disbelief, or simple uncertainty, and he made no point of hiding it. His eyes kept flitting to their wings.

“It’ll work out, dude,” said Crack Shot. That was the extent of his argument, but he said it with such conviction that Storm couldn’t help but believe it somewhat. “I think I’m gonna have a time of it figurin’ out what they’re sayin’ regardless of the language, though.”

“We do not have the opportunity to practice your tongue with any but ourselves,” rumbled the elder stag. “Was mine enunciation and word choice incorrect?”

“Nah, that was all probably fine… uh, probably fineth,” said Crack Shot. “It’s just that it might be about a thousand years past its expiration date. Still, you’re speakin’ our language and we can’t speak yours, so I think you’ve got a leg up on us.”

Fannar surreptitiously checked the location of each of his hooves. “Mayhaps it is that mine antlers make me seem taller.”

Crack Shot blinked. “Huh? Wait, what—”

“Might be a good idea to ease up on the idioms,” whispered Storm.

“Dude, I’m not sure that I can.”

As the arched avenue came into view, Storm saw that it had grown busy. Caribou, as individuals or couples or groups, fed into it from the various staircases leading to the next plateau, and filled it with the sounds of movement and conversation. Every one of them that he could see wore ornamentation of some kind—pastern bangles or rings around the tines of their antlers—made of the ubiquitous rose crystal, and each had a unique pattern marking the fur of their legs and body in purple. When the guardsponies and their escort drew near, several of them paused to look, falling into whispers. Storm wouldn’t have expected any different.

He ignored the stares and focused on the arches instead. He saw that the hanging lamps were now lit. Not by flame or by firefly though, he noticed upon coming closer. Instead, each contained a single blue stone that radiated a soft, blue light. He decided to ask about them.

“They gather light during the day, and return it upon the eve,” answered Fannar, as they passed beneath an arch, following the tide of caribou towards the residences.

“Ah, phosphorescence?” asked Check.

“Is that the word your kind giveth it, then? Those stones are among our greater discoveries.”

“Are there a bunch buried around here or something?” asked Crack Shot.

“Nay, we created them. About two years or so agone, after much research and development.” There was a hint of pride in his voice.

“Wow, no kiddin’.”

Fannar snorted. “Nay, I am not. Surely thou dost not think that the world stagnateth without a pony’s hoof to coax it?”

“Relax, dude. I just meant that it’s neat.”

“Yea, ‘twould not do if ‘twere dirty.”

Crack Shot gave an exasperated groan. “No, like, I mean that it’s, you know, nice.”

The other stags stiffened as their elder spun towards Crack Shot, new wrinkles creasing beneath his narrowed eyes. “Fie! Nice?! Thou wouldst diminish—”

“The word ‘nice’ hath new meaning in recent times,” sighed Check. “Now it refereth to that which is goodly.”

Fannar’s frown softened somewhat. “Ah, doth it now?”

“Wait, did it have another meaning before?” asked Crack Shot, who was uncertain about this latest offense and liked to keep a clear record of them.

“A number of them, actually,” answered Check. “Exact and precise, or trivial and unimportant. Even foolish.”

“Huh,” said Crack Shot. “Well those don’t sound nice at all.”

Fannar’s answer had come easily enough, Storm felt, even if Crack Shot ended up making it difficult. He decided to try for another.

“What about all of the crystal here and across the mountains?” he asked, arcing a hoof expansively towards the road, the arches, the staircases. “There’s no way that it was mined, unless you’ve all been hollowing out one giant piece.”

“Yea, thou art correct. The crystal you see is of our make as well. A sore nice—simpler task for our ilk.”

“Really? How so?”

Fannar asked something of one of his cohort, the slimmer caribou of the trio, who nodded in response.

Fannar then pointed a hoof towards the younger stag, beckoning the others to watch him. “Leif shall show you.”

The slimmer stag, Leif, approached Check, pointed to the crystal bowl sticking out of his bag, and then to himself. Check nodded, before levitating it free of its pouch and towards him. However, rather than reach out a hoof to take it, Leif instead took the bowl with magic of his own, white beads of light appearing about his antlers like mistletoe berries about the limbs of a birch.

As the beads of light drifted into an orbit around the bowl, what little of the crystal’s tint that was visible in the low light vanished, leaving it as clear as glass. Then, in the blink of an eye, the bowl dissolved into a thin liquid, splashing and coalescing into a clear, rippling orb in the air before him. The air misted around it.

Leif pursed his lips, canted his head, narrowed his eyes as he focused on his efforts, as the liquid began to take new and complex shapes. It first stretched into an oblong form, rounded on one end and tapered on the other. Then, a thin tendril erupted from its side, snaking and growing outwards. Soft, billowing leaves began to break off from its stalk as it lengthened, and soon a small bulb formed at its tip. Finally, as the last of the fluid of the faux seed drained into the stem, the bulb opened outward into a five-pointed star. The surrounding mist melted away as the liquid hardened back into crystal, as the color returned to it.

The glow of the arches’ phosphorescent stones added just a hint of blue to its natural rose tint, leaving no argument as to what it was meant to be. A flower of saxifrage, as like to life as crystal could be.

Leif grinned at the guardsponies as if he had just performed some amazing trick, and Storm had to give it to him, because he had.

Crack Shot leaned towards Check and said, “Psst. Can you do that?”

Check shook his head. “And you needn’t say ‘psst.’”

“Pfft.”

“…And can you do that with anything?” asked Storm, uncertain of how to respond if the answer was yes.

Fannar smiled. “Certes, we cannot but with this substance. But it is to our fortune that it doth exist in mickle supply.”

“Erm…”

“It means there is a lot of it,” said Check.

“Ah, right, thanks.” Storm nodded. “But… what is it then? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before coming into these mountains.”

Fannar hummed. “That doth surprise me, for it existeth nigh everywhere. Even in the air thou art breathing now.”

Storm puzzled over this for a moment. Then it clicked. Or, perhaps, it splashed.

“…It’s water.”

“Yea, though presently it is ice.”

“Wait,” said Crack Shot. “You mean that all of this—the road, those buildings, that armor—is just ice?”

Fannar spat as he spun towards him. “’Just ice,’ thou sayest, which I think doth not do it justice. Hast thou ever before spied ice that doth not melt? Surely thou dost not think it such a trivial thing.”

“But, I mean… it’s not cold or anything!”

“Which is why it wouldn’t melt,” said Check. “It must not absorb any heat. Is that why it hath such an unlikely color?” he asked.

Fannar nodded. “Whatever light the water keepeth, warmeth, but this ice will only repel it or let it pass, holding none at all.”

Check placed a hoof to his chin. “Incredible. I cannot fathom the amount of work that must have gone into the creation of such a spell.”

“Verily? Scant,” said Fannar. “Even a yearling might perform the like. And there hath been much for them to practice with in recent days.”

Síofra gave a soft growl. A fawn that was following at what she thought was probably a safe distance squeaked and leapt a step back.

“Doth something trouble your wolf?” asked Fannar.

“Oh, uh, she’s probably just hungry,” said Storm. Then, realizing he was talking about a wolf, he quickly added, “For leaves. Er, not Leifs. Green things. Plants. That’s what she eats.”

“Yea, I had heard as much from Leif. A queer thing, that…” He stared into her eyes, the faint golden glint of them disappearing into the darkness of his. “…Doth she have a name?”

“Greasy,” blurted out Crack Shot, before anypony else could answer.

This took all of his friends aback, though none so much as ‘Greasy’ herself.

“Wha—woof?” she said.

“Aw, don’t worry, girl,” said Crack Shot, patting her hackles back, which made them bristle with fury. “Just tellin’ this dude what your name is!”

Síofra gave him a glare which said that there’d be words later, when she had an opportunity to actually use some. However, the answer was apparently enough to satisfy Fannar, and with a nod he continued forward.

They came into the shipyard of the residences, where plumes still drifted from their sod roofs, tallying their number in the doldrums of the cavern’s faux sky. Fannar turned down a side road, where the boat-like dwellings began to increase in size, towards what could have been the flagship for this motionless fleet.

It had to be at least fifty meters long easily, Storm guessed, with another building half that length docked at one end like a lifeboat. There was a porch beneath a gable on the opposite end, with a wide door that had obviously been constructed with a pair of antlers in mind, namely the foot or two they’d stick out from said mind. The flickering yellow of filtered firelight shone through porthole-like windows in its hull. This gave Storm pause.

If the caribou's ice behaved like Fannar had described, wouldn’t it be sweltering inside?

Fannar stepped onto the porch and pushed open the door, which Storm saw was embellished with the figure a large, leafy tree, beneath an arc of the bubbles and streaks that Check had guessed to be writing. To Storm’s surprise, the door released a rush of cold air.

“Our kind prefereth a cooler temperature,” explained Fannar. “But should you wish, you may adjust the heat.”

“You guys have central heating and air conditioning?!” gasped Crack Shot.

Fannar spun towards him, which the others were starting to get used to by now. “Surely thou dost not think—”

“No, I dost not!” shouted Crack Shot, pressing a hoof against the brow of his champron. “I meant that it’s cool!” Fannar opened his mouth to reply. “I mean goodly! Jeez!”

Fannar nodded and motioned for the others to enter, which Crack Shot did with a huff. The three younger stags held back outside, but after a word from Fannar that was no doubt an invitation, they grinned and stepped inside as well.

The entrance room was a crowded thing, and a fire of burning peat took up most of what little floor space there was. A bell-shaped encasement of ice enclosed it, allowing its light if not its heat to fill the room. The encasement had a sort of vine motif, with leafy, translucent ivy climbing the neck of it, wreathed around the smoke. It complemented another interesting addition that Storm found below the ceiling.

A large fan, its blades modeled like leaves right down to their veins, was spinning slowly. A pipe appeared to have been fed through its base, allowing a flow of water to push its turbine. Additional pipes below it, long openings cut along the tops of them, must’ve cooled the air that was being fanned down.

All of it was made of ice, as nearly everything besides the jail cell seemed to be. Storm wondered if it ever got boring to look at, though he conceded a potential bias born of coming from a kingdom where interior decoration could be accomplished with a paint-by-numbers kit.

It seemed to be having some kind of an effect on Síofra. She kept staring around the room, at the frozen furnace and the spinning fan, giving a small whine.

A small closet was shoved into one corner of the room, and the younger stags began helping themselves to it, storing their barding and circlets on top of each other.

Fannar stepped through another frosted door, leaving the stags, the guardsponies, and Síofra alone with each other. Storm wondered if there were sanctions against leaving two unfamiliar groups of houseguests together in a small room like this, and if there weren’t, why not.

The larger stag, Víðar or Björn, had squared his shoulders towards the guardsponies and looked like he’d cube them if he could. He held his head up defiantly and kept as still as a statue. He did blink once, and didn’t seem at all happy about the fact.

The stag with the broken antler, Björn or Víðar, looked like he was ruminating for both meanings of the word. He kept opening and closing his mouth, possibly thinking of something to say and making a dry run of it so he wouldn’t stutter when he did.

Leif just continued to give Storm and Crack Shot a curious stare. Then he walked towards the two of them and poked Storm in the wing.

“Uh, yes? Er, yea?” asked Storm.

Leif poked him in the wing again, then reared up and starting flapping his hooves in the air. He ended this pantomime by point a hoof towards the ceiling and raising an eyebrow.

“He wanteth you are floating,” explained Björn/Víðar.

“Y-yeah, I think I got it,” said Storm, rubbing the back of his helmet. “Not a lot of space in here for it, but…”

He shifted the camping gear along with his saddlebags off his withers, then stretched out his wings. In response to this, Víðar/Björn moved to position himself in front of the door leading outside. Storm wasn’t surprised in the least to learn that they’d just traded one cage for another, though he did hope this one would have better furniture. Setting that thought aside, he gave his wings a couple of experimental flaps, then lifted himself into a hover, a few feet from the floor.

Leif gave a delighted laugh, a universal expression of amusement, and Björn/Víðar’s mouth fell open. Even Víðar/Björn’s cold stare had thawed enough for him to raise an eyebrow.

Storm preened internally at the effect he was having. And then the sudden earthen rumble of Fannar’s voice from behind sent him sprawling towards the floor, whereupon he banged his chin on the fire enclosure.

He groaned as he pulled himself up. “Wh-what was that?” he asked.

“I said dinner hath been served,” said Fannar, before stepping back out of the entrance hall.

“I think you really impressed ‘em, dude,” said Crack Shot, nodding towards the three stags.

Each of them had turned away, their faces wracked by the strain of not bursting with laughter.

“Ugh, whatever,” said Storm, as he gathered his gear to follow Fannar. “At least there’s plenty of ice around if I need to put some on my jaw.”

The dining hall occupied one long half of the main building, and it was cold enough for Storm to see his breath turn orange in the firelight. In the long space between two hearths stood a table that could’ve seated a small army, and probably did on occasion. This would be auspicious, because it’d mean that the servants would’ve had practice for what they were now up against.

Stags and does shuffled in and out of a small room at the far end of the hall, carrying plates and saucers and pitchers, carrying on somehow as they tried to keep pace with Björn, Víðar, Leif, and Crack Shot. The four had wordlessly entered into a kind of four-way gastronomic battle royale, piling their empty dishes like war trophies.

Several of the servants seemed uncertain about what to make of the large wolf seated at the table next to the ponies, and even more so about how politely she cleared and set aside her dishes. It wasn’t hard to tell that she made them nervous though, especially with the way she stared whenever one of them brought out a particularly embellished piece of crystalware.

Check and Storm were seated across from Fannar and his wife, a matriarchal doe named Brynja. She was nearly the size of her husband, and wore her purple markings in harsh slashes like war paint. The wrinkles on her face, however, looked like they’d come from a lifetime of smiles. Or so Storm guessed, judging by the one she was giving him at the moment.

“How did thy friends and thou come to find this place?” she asked. “Björn sayeth that they found you skulking about one of our egresses.” She nodded towards the largest of the younger stags, who had buried his head in a bowl of salad. His antlers clattered against the remaining branch of the one who, by process of elimination, would’ve been Víðar.

Storm gave a small laugh. “Well, I, uh, wouldn’tst—”

“’Wouldn’t,’” corrected Brynja.

“Er, right. I wouldn’t say that we were skulking. It was more that we were exploring.”

“Ahh.” Brynja nodded. “The difference being?”

“Um, intent, I guess. One of our princesses wants—”

“Wanteth,” corrected Brynja.

“…My mistake. One of our princesses, Luna, wanteth to know how the world is doing, but she is unable…”

He paused, waiting for a correction.

“…to abandon her duties. So we’ve come in her stead.”

Brynja nodded. “Luna. Her name liveth in our songs. The midnight queen that would bring Eilíft Kvöld, the endless night.”

She gave a hearty laugh, which caught Storm off guard.

“Though in other places where our kind hath dwelled, that was common for the winter. As thou seest, we do not fear the cold!”

And Storm did see… st. Even with a laugh like that, the frigid air had remained clear and unclouded in front of her, while his steamed like the exhaust of an engine.

“…Not entirely, at least,” she finished.

Beside Storm, Check had entered into conversation with Fannar, which was going much smoother syntactically.

“It would seem that thou art possessed of much influence among thy people,” said Check. “If such affluence speaketh as such.”

“Yea, verily,” said Fannar, which was another one of those lines that Crack Shot never expected to hear without a collection of bad costumes and poor stage lighting to accompany it. “I was goði, though our son hath since taken the honor of that title.”

“Doth he wear black eyeliner?” asked Crack Shot, nailing the verb conjugation only because of the food in his mouth. He added another level to his tower of dishes, putting it two bowls above lead-challenger, Björn’s.

“I do not believe he refers to that sort of goth,” answered Check. “Though I cannot say that I am familiar with the term ‘goði.’”

“For us, a goði serveth many roles, but one of the most important is that of a defender,” said Fannar, gravely. “In his people’s time of need, he must protect and lead them.”

He hummed deeply and gazed upwards, staring off into some distance far beyond the sod ceiling.

“…Yea, there were many times that I was called upon to wield the strength of görð in protection of others’ land and holdings.”

“Görð?” asked Check, rapt. He leaned forward and rested his chin on a fetlock.

“Ith that thome kinda weapon?” asked Crack Shot.

“Yea, ‘tis!” answered Fannar, his obsidian eyes brightening.

Crack Shot swallowed. “So… is it, like, a spell or something? Usually stuff gets blasted with like rainbows or hearts back home.”

Fannar shook his head. “Nay. ‘Tis arbitration, as your kind would call it.”

“Arbitration?” asked Check and Crack Shot both.

“Yea! The sagas brim with the tales of past goði, their voices booming above the crack of thunder and the blizzard’s roar, carving legal precedence and court procedure into history! The fire burning in their words branding it with legislation!”

Crack Shot thought to comment, thought better of it, and shoved his face into another dish.

“Fascinating,” said Check. “Law is held in great regard for you, then?”

“Yea,” said Fannar. “More so than goring each other with our antlers, at least.”

“Um, quite,” said Check, his face screwing up at the thought. “…Changing the subject, I had hoped to discuss further mine and my friends’ errands here.”

Fannar nodded. “And I promised a time and a place. Tomorrow you shall meet with my son, who hath gone to inform several of the other goðar of your arrival. They will hear you then.”

Check nodded. “Very well. Though, I am surprised. Thou hast been a gracious host to those thou dost not trust.”

“It is a matter of honor among my kind to treat all guests with hospitality,” said Fannar. “And, heretofore, you have not been proven to have committed any offense, outside of, perhaps, trespass.”

“I would note thine use of the word ‘proven,’” said Check. “Thy trust is hard won.”

Fannar nodded. “It is a merely a matter of caution to not be overgenerous with it.”

After dinner had ended, the guardsponies and Síofra were led to the smaller building attached to the main house. Long, padded benches ran along its walls, fencing in a small hearth that had been opened to allow a tiny amount of heat into the room. Still, Storm was glad for the camping bag and the blankets it contained.

And he didn’t fail to notice that there was only one exit, the one they’d just come through. One cage for another.

“Well, that was pretty good!” said Crack Shot, who didn’t really look for much in a dish besides the bottom of it. “Plus, I think that I might’ve won those dudes over.”

“Probably not the servants, though,” said Storm, as he kicked off his shoes and pressed a hoof into the bench padding. “Still, it probably went smoother than with me. Who knew mine grammar was so broken?”

“My grammar,” corrected Check, levitating his champron onto a corner where the benches met. “‘Grammar’ begins with a consonant.”

Storm sighed as he removed his bags and took out his journal. “Et tu?”

“I don’t think the servants were all that worried about me,” said Crack Shot, with a hiccup. “Least not with ‘Greasy’ here mad doggin’ ‘em.”

“Yeah, about that,” hissed Síofra, now that she had the chance. “‘Greasy’? How did ya ever come up with a name as wojus as ‘Greasy’?”

Crack Shot shrugged off his gear and sat back on one of the benches. “You’re goin’ all incognito, right? We had to come up with some kinda fake name for those guys, didn’t we?”

“Ye had one! It was Síofra!”

“Yeah, but that one’s ours.”

“Not that ye ever use it,” she muttered, as she padded around the room.

“Besides,” continued Crack Shot, “nopony I know’d come up with a name like Síofra. It’s suspicious.”

Síofra narrowed her eyes. “But they’d come up with a name like ‘Greasy.’”

Crack Shot nodded. “When I was younger, I had a neighbor with a dog named ‘Greasy.’ It’s totally a dog’s name, which makes it a wolf’s name, since dogs are pretty much just wolves on easy mode.”

Síofra growled slightly and curled up beside the hearth. “It still ain’t much of one.”

“You would if you’d seen this dog. Anyways, why were you starin’ at the servers like that?”

“I wasn’t staring at them, I was staring at the servingware they were bringing out.” She let out sigh. “Did ya see how it was decorated? The sylvan scenes playing across it? That was art and no mistake.”

“Heh, maybe we can convince ‘em to let us leave with a doggie bowl.”

Síofra sighed again, wistfully. “Gosh, that’d be a dream…”

“Changing the subject,” interrupted Storm, “something’s been bugging me.”

“What’s up, dude?” asked Crack Shot, as he lay back on his bench.

Storm looked around the room, a structure made almost entirely of the caribou's ice. “I’m not sure, but… if you could turn simple water into dishes, into houses, into nearly anything, don’t you think you’d want a good supply of it?”

Crack Shot hummed to himself. “Yeah, probably, though I’d definitely want a good water supply around even if I couldn’t.”

Storm nodded. “But where would you get it from?”

“Heck, I dunno. Rivers, lakes, rain.”

“If I’m not mistaken, Storm would have you consider that last option,” said Check.

“So yer wondering about that too, then?” said Síofra.

Crack Shot sat up. “So, like, what are you guys gettin’ at?”

“The weather out there brought a lot of snowfall as we all saw, and something has to be feeding those waterfalls,” said Storm. “Might be a relationship.”

“But if that were the case, then why did all of this just start happenin’ recently?” asked Crack Shot. “These guys have probably been here for a really long time, right? Wouldn’t this have been goin’ on before?”

Storm cleared his throat. “Surely thou dost not—” he bellowed, before being cut off.

“Yeah, yeah, alright, I got it, dude,” growled Crack Shot. “So if, hypothetically speakin’, they are behind it, how do we convince ‘em to tone it down?”

“I think the bigger question is if ye truly want to make it yer quarrel if it comes to that,” said Síofra, looking between the guardsponies. “Might get political.”

“Actually… perhaps it would be best for us to dispense with the hypotheticals,” said Check. “We will have occasion to discuss it with them tomorrow.”

He pulled himself onto a free bench and laid his head on his hooves.

“I think our wisest course of action would be to make certain we are fresh in the morning to do so. But…,” he trailed off, as he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Let us hope that we did not make an ill impression tonight.”

They were awoken the next day by a rapping on the door. Storm blinked his eyes open and was surprised to find himself covered in a light sweat. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the ash of the night’s fire, surprised that the little flame and the littler aperture for its heat had warmed the room so thoroughly.

Check and Crack Shot were stirring on the other benches, and Síofra’s fur appeared to have shortened into a summer coat sometime during the night.

The door shuddered with another hollow staccato.

“Yeah?” yelled Storm.

That was enough of an invite for whoever was outside, and the door slowly swung open, letting in a rush of cold air.

A pair of antlers came through the doorway, followed by their owner, a young doe with a pair of purple lines swirling across her face. Which was, rather fittingly, quite doe-eyed at the moment.

“Uh, hi there,” said Storm. “…Erm, I should ask if you understand me, I suppose.”

The doe blinked.

“Oh wow!” she said at last. “They were telling the truth! And yes, I think that I understand thee, though thou mayest tell me if I don’t.”

“I think you got it,” said Crack Shot, sitting up. He gave a wide yawn.

Check stood from his bench and bowed his head towards the doe. “Is there something we may help thee with, Miss…?”

“Fjóla,” she offered. “And I have been sent here to bring you to the Thing.”

“Huh,” said Crack Shot. “Do you remember what it is, exactly?”

Check, who had caught the capitalization, said, “I believe she might mean the assembly of goðar that Fannar had mentioned. Would that be correct, Fjóla?”

Fjóla nodded. Then she caught sight of Síofra sitting up, and her mouth fell open. However, this was not for the same reason as the servants last night.

“And I see she was no lie, either!” She knelt down. “I’ve never seen a wolf with eyes or fur like hers! …Well, not that I’ve ever seen a wolf…”

Síofra looked between the guardsponies uncertainly.

“Greasy, was it?” asked Fjóla. She extended a hoof and clicked her tongue. “Here, Greasy! Come here, girl!”

Síofra narrowed her eyes.

“She’s just, uh, wary of strangers,” said Storm. “But you said something about some… Thing?”

“Ah, yea, I did!” said Fjóla, standing up and brushing her legs off. “Usually they do not occur this time of the year, but an exception hath been made for you three.”

Storm felt a sudden chill apart from that of the open door.

“That seems like a lot of hassle for just us,” he said. “I mean, we wanted to see how things are faring here, and maybe to ask some questions about the weather, but calling an assembly for it?”

“Verily, most of the goðar are very interested in hearing what you have to say about the weather,” answered Fjóla.

“Huh, convenient that we’re all on the same page,” said Crack Shot.

“And… would there be any particular reason why?” asked Check, quietly.

“Well, yea, of course,” said Fjóla, giving him a quizzical look, before shifting her gaze to Storm and Crack Shot, the two pegasi of the group. “Most of the goðar wish to know why you’re causing it.”

Chapter 14

“Wait, what?!” said Storm, because it tends to spring to the tongue after an unexpected accusation.

Fjóla stared at him. After a moment or so she asked, “Wait for how long exactly?”

“That’s not—” Storm paused, took a steadying breath. “Why do these goðar think that we’re behind the weather here?”

“I imagine that they will tell you, but… you can control it, can you not?”

“Well, sort of…” Storm turned away, biting his lower lip. “…Some of us better than others, admittedly.”

Fjóla nodded. “Enough to have earned a place in our songs.”

“Songs,” echoed Check. “Fannar and Brynja made mention of them before.”

“Yea, they are one of our greatest means of keeping history.”

“Huh. I think we mostly keep ours in books and museums and stuff,” noted Crack Shot in speculation. “You know, out of the way.”

“Is less attention paid to it? That seemeth unfortunate,” said Fjóla, frowning slightly. “If one doth not know history, one is unable to repeat it.”

“I think that’s supposed to be ‘doomed to repeat it,’” said Crack Shot.

“Well, that is a rather pessimistic outlook, is it not?”

“Different ponies afford history different levels of attention,” said Check, diplomatically. “But, though you stress a strong oral tradition”—his hoof raised automatically to Crack Shot’s mouth before there was comment—“I’d note that we found what we believe to be writing on the walls of other caverns within these mountains.”

“You recognized it as such? That supriseth me. Our writing is not something one would oft notice without prior familiarity.”

“Waiting for the blizzards to abate gave us time enough to take note of it,” said Check. “Although there was certainly little writing on the wall regarding the circumstances that awaited us,” he added quietly.

“Dude, was that a joke?” asked Crack Shot, as he batted Check’s hoof out of his face. “And on the subject, I wasn’t going to make one—it’d have been too easy.” A conspiratorial grin formed on his lips. “Too easy like your—” the hoof returned.

Fjóla watched this with fascination, her bright, black eyes glinting with ethnological intrigue.

“And what exactly does this history say about us?” asked Storm.

In response to this, Fjóla closed her eyes and began to rock in place, her antlers swaying like birch branches caught in the wind. There was a moment’s uncertainty where Storm didn’t know if he should move to catch her, her antlers threatening to catch him if he did, though he did take a step forward. But then she began to sing to them, to hum to them, something that seemed a hymn to him.

Whereas Síofra’s song had been the voice of spring, Fjóla’s was the winter wind, soft as an elegy. A shudder rolled down Storm’s spine, a frisson beginning at the base of his neck, tingling down into the small of his back. It was born of a chill apart from the one drifting into the guest room through the doorway, and it went far deeper than bone. The words Fjóla sang, gentle and unfamiliar, came slowly, reluctantly, like the gelid waters of a river that’d finally begun to freeze. Dulcet, doleful, and as haunting as the gales that had torn through the mountains.

As the song ended, Storm was left with the smallest sense of sorrow.

“That… was about us?” he asked, quietly.

Fjóla opened her eyes, smiled, and gave a small nod.

“Man, that felt heavy,” said Crack Shot, letting out a breath in a gout of steam.

“Did it?” asked Fjóla, genuinely surprised. “Greasy seemed to enjoy it though! Is that not right, girl?”

Síofra quirked her head, before looking back and realizing with small horror that her tail was wagging. She quickly clamped the traitorous thing between her jaws.

“Can you, uh, translate it?” asked Storm.

Fjóla pursed her lips. “Um, a translation? That… well that presenteth a difficult task.”

“Truly?” asked Check. “Thou seemest remarkably fluent in our tongue.”

“Well, there is but one problem…,” she trailed off, looking down between her cloven hooves.

“…And that is?” asked Storm.

She looked up towards him. “Scansion.”

“Bit of Vitamin C will clear that up in no time,” said Crack Shot.

“That would be the remedy for scurvy,” noted Check.

“Bed rest maybe?”

“Erm, a healthy activity for anybody,” said Check, catching the look Fjóla was giving them. “But the verse structure is the issue, Fjóla?”

Fjóla nodded. “Your language is just so different. Trying to match it in song to ours is no mean feat.”

“Could you not sing?” suggested Storm. Fjóla stared, wide eyed, as though he’d just asked if she could break off an antler and use it as a fork. “So no?”

“I would not be much of a skáld if I did.” Fjóla sighed. “But, I suppose that I could improvise.”

The four of them watched and listened as she once more closed her eyes and began to sway. These would be the only things that the second performance would hold in common with the first.

“Yea, verily! Perched in firmament most merrily! Cloudscaping, bolt shaping, thunder scraping airily! Lookest once, lookest twice, and the world is wrapped in ice, and the sun hath thawed it out when at it thou lookest thrice!”

The guardsponies crossed that subtle line between watching and gawking.

“Is… is she rapping?” whispered Storm.

“Dude, she totally is!” hissed Crack Shot.

“Rain, sleet, or snow, thou shouldst look out below, forsooth they’re martial and impartial to—bleh!” finished Fjóla, sticking out her tongue. “Scansion.”

“That-that final line,” said Check, finally, after having taken a second to recover and then deciding he’d need a minute. “About the pegasi being martial?”

“Yea, the songs say”—she frowned, clearly upset that she wasn’t actually singing them—“that they’d manipulate the weather, ransoming it for food.”

“What?!” said Storm and Crack Shot.

“Jinx,” said the latter.

Storm glanced sidelong at Crack Shot. “Really? Now? Come on.”

“Pssh, you come on.”

Storm shook his head and returned his attention to Fjóla. “Ransoming the weather?” he asked.

Fjóla nodded. “To another of your kind that I notice isn’t with you. In exchange for a portion of their harvest, those with wings would ensure that, oh, nothing bad would happen to it otherwise.” She raised an eyebrow as she said it.

“Wait, what?!” said Storm.

Fjóla’s voice had contained no judgment in its consignment, no condemnation in its implication, and somehow that made it worse. It was as if she’d simply described a cat clawing at the drapes, or a dog digging up the yard. Or some nettlesome castle visitor contorting their face in an idiotic grimace at him and his cohort. As if it were just an unfortunate but inexorable part of the natural course of things.

“Pegasi aren’t some kind of—of—jingoist racketeers!” he continued. “We have a helpful relationship! It’s…” Symbiotic didn’t seem quite right, and parasitic definitely wasn’t the word. “Mutualistic!”

Fjóla shrugged. “Well, we just know that the weather here tendeth to do well enough on its own, without intervention. Or that it once did,” she added, as she studied the guardsponies. “But the goðar are better suited to make a judgment on this matter than I, and you may expect theirs to be a just one. They were each chosen for their position because their constituents trusted them as representatives. And on the subject, we should not keep them waiting.”

“Yeah, and none of that says anything about representing us,” muttered Storm. He pulled on his armor, his saddlebags, and the camping gear on top of them.

“Art thou going to bring all of that with thee?” asked Fjóla, eyeing the load.

Storm nodded as he shifted his withers to settle his gear. He’d carried it for a few hundred miles already; he wasn’t about to leave it behind now.

Crack Shot and Check gathered their items, Síofra gathered herself, and the four of them followed Fjóla back through the long house—Longhouse, that’s what they should call it, thought Storm, idly—and out its entrance. Víðar, Björn, and Leif were waiting outside, or at least as ‘outside’ as the subterranean expanse could be called. It was warm out there, warmer than the longhouse, and a thin mist filled the still air.

The stags each said some words of greeting to Fjóla and even went so far as to regard Crack Shot with a nod, before forming a perimeter around them. Nice to see that one of us is making friends, thought Storm wryly. Fannar was nowhere in sight. Storm assumed he’d gone ahead to wherever the meeting, or, perhaps more accurately, the trial would be taking place. Whatever kind of thing the Thing was, they’d be finding out.

It was to his surprise that he and his friends weren’t fettered for it.

As Fjóla led the way back towards the main avenue, Storm felt a nudge in his side. He turned to see Crack Shot grinning and watching him from the corner of his eye.

“Dude, don’t worry,” said Crack Shot. “We know we didn’t do anything.”

And that was Crack Shot for you. If you asked him if the glass was half full or half empty, he’d just quaff it in the certainty that the refill was on its way.

Storm, however, found the thought a bit hard to swallow. He pressed his teeth together, letting a sigh sift through them. Yes, that was true: they hadn’t done anything. And, if they were lucky, maybe that would mean something.

“’Sides, if push comes to shove, we can always just bail,” noted Crack Shot, watching as Fjóla paused for a beat. “If you’ll, ah, pardon my slang.”

“And to where, exactly?” asked Check.

“Grandma always said you could figure that part out later,” answered Crack Shot, as the eight of them reached the main avenue and turned towards the distant staircases. “She once told me about how she had to wing it after she, well, winged it through a courtroom’s plate glass window.”

They followed Fjóla in silence for a moment.

“…And this is the same grandmother who would on occasion find herself ‘skipping town’?” asked Check.

“Only when her wings were tied up and skipping was the only option,” said Crack Shot. “She did joke that she liked when places tried to tar and feather her, since it’d just end up givin’ her wings a bit of extra lift.” He bit his upper lip. “Least, we think she was jokin’—it was always hard to tell with her.”

“She sounds like a fascinating pony,” said Check, neutrally. “I think it would be an education to meet her.”

Crack Shot shook his head. “No way she’d go for it. She doesn’t like the idea of her information being shared with the fuzz.”

“You realize that includes you, right?” said Storm.

“Yeah, and she does too, which would explain the letter I got after joining that said that she’d been lost at sea,” said Crack Shot. “Probably would’ve been more convincing if she hadn’t signed the bottom of it, though.”

Setting that particular aside to the side, Storm returned to his earlier worries. Brynja had said during last night’s dinner that the caribou didn’t fear the cold, but it was obvious that they weren’t happy about the snow. What would happen if these goðar decided that responsibility for the weather lay with Storm and his friends? No doubt their response would start, unpleasantly and unequivocally, with Storm and his friends, but it certainly wouldn’t stop there.

As they made their way to the next terrace of the caribou’s city, the camping bag felt just a little heavier on his withers.

The staircases rose up the precipice in a gradual zigzag, and a smoother section of path ran alongside them. Climbing them brought the group into what appeared to be a large market, or possibly a business park, perhaps the caribou’s downtown, or would that be uptown? Whatever one would call it, there was a lot of it.

The main avenue continued forward, an artery from which several roads and streets split and curved out of view. It was filled with vendor stands and storefront patios outside of squat, icy structures. It was filled with the smell of steam, spice, and simmering vegetables. It was filled with the hoarse back-and-forth of haggling and the rhythms of street performance. Which, to sum it all up, is to say that it was filled with caribou, many of whom were taking an interest in the guardsponies.

Storm was no stranger to escorting from the castle the odd pony who’d gotten a little too at home and felt that the place could do with a bit of redecoration (or, if they had a set of saddlebags and thought nopony was looking, a bit of de-decoration), and it had always become a spectacle. Often it became more of an attraction than the castle itself. Few commands met with such stellar success at accomplishing the exact opposite of their intent than, ‘Nothing to see here, move along!’ and most of the guardsponies had quickly learned to cull the expression from their vocabulary. To be fair, those that heard the order always followed it to the letter: they’d happily move alongside the guardsponies, curious to see if the nothing was in any way noteworthy.

“Farið frá, það er ekkert að sjá hér!”

Storm was almost certain that Víðar was shouting the caribou equivalent.

And so as their entourage grew in size, Víðar grew more frustrated, his voice grew louder, this intrigued even more caribou, rinse and repeat.

There was nearby movement in the corner of Storm’s eye. He slowly turned his head to meet it, whereupon he found himself face-to-face with a stag walking in step beside him. A glance a few inches upward revealed a fawn perched between his antlers. Father and son, or older and younger brothers, Storm guessed: they both shared the same gigantic, bewildered stare. He slowly turned his head forward again.

“They’re, uh, not quite as reserved here as the last place we visited, are they?” he said quietly, though not so quiet that it didn’t spur a twitch of the ear from Síofra.

“I suppose we should not take amiss their curiosity. Erm—” Check leaned back as a doe leaned forward, scrutinizing his horn.

“Farið frá, það er ekkert að sjá hér!” repeated Víðar, attracting another pair of caribou to the scene. Björn stepped back and nudged him in the side, shaking his head.

“Did word spread about us already?” asked Crack Shot. “I mean, excluding what’s happenin’ now.”

“Mayhaps the word that your kind hath appeared,” answered Fjóla. “However, I believe that the goðar have elected to be discreet about their suspicions. For the time being,” she added brightly.

“Well that’s nice—er—good of ‘em.” Crack Shot looked down, where another fawn was watching the movement of his hooves. “Alright, the wings I can understand, but what’s so interesting about my friggin’ forehooves?”

The fawn stared up at him with bright, black eyes, before scampering off.

“Hmm. It may be that he hath some curiosity about thy golden shoes,” said Fjóla. “…Or, perhaps, it was thy fetlocks that drew his attention?”

“Ah? What about ‘em?” Crack Shot looked down, watching his hooves as they clinked against the frozen road.

“Their orientation, mayhaps.”

Crack Shot turned and made the comparison between his hooves and Leif’s beside him, noting little difference beyond the cleft in the latter’s. “There are options?”

“There were,” sang Fjóla. “The past is as wide as the future, and the former ever overtaketh the latter. There is much and there are many that occupy it.”

“Yeah, and if you were any more cryptic, I’d be surprised if you didn’t start coughin’ out grave dust.”

“Then allowest me to say that in our history there were those who were both like in appearance to you and unlike in appearance to you.”

“And that had backwards hooves.”

“Yea, so ‘tis sung.”

“Dang,” said Crack Shot, pausing to flex a forehoof. “Hope for their sake that they had the wings to get around with too, then.”

“Mm. Would those that thou speakest of have been enemies of yours?” asked Check.

“Nay,” said Fjóla, her head shaking as she continued forward. “Progenitors, rather. But mayhaps I speak too much? I am told that I have a habit of it.” She gave a small chirp of a laugh.

As they marched up the avenue towards another distant staircase, Storm became aware of the sounds of an argument.

Farther ahead, a stag stood before a cart piled with kale. He wore a satchel of blankets on his side, from which he had placed a couple in front of the cart’s owner. He growled something, its rising lilt marking it as a question in Storm’s mind. In response the cart’s owner shook her head, frowned sympathetically, and spoke what sounded like an apology.

The stag grumbled, sighed, and finally took a few more blankets from his satchel and placed them on the cart. The cart owner tied together a large bundle of kale with a splash of flash-frozen water and lifted it towards him.

Neither of them looked happy about the transaction, and a dark look crossed Björn’s face. Realization dawned in Storm’s mind.

“Reason enough to fear the cold, or at the very least the weather,” said Check, softly.

Storm nodded his response. Getting as much sunlight down here as the caribou did was a feat in itself, without the added worry of it getting through a layer of cloud cover first. Fear the cold, fear the weather, or fear starvation. But if that was the situation, why had Fannar, Brynja, and even Leif been so generous with the food they’d shared? Storm realized the answer as soon as he thought of the question. After all, Fannar had said as much himself. Hospitality.

They eventually left the market district and its crowds behind, and began the ascent up the next run of stairs. Like those that preceded them, these staircases climbed in a series of turns. However, they had an extra addition: wherever there was a bend in the stairs, a sculpture rose, formed of the caribou’s ice.

Does and stags stood in proud postures, in armors and circlets and robes and rings, forelegs lifted and heads held high in a manner that only a sculpture could manage for any period of time without getting a cramp. Their detail was exceptional and went as far as the wisps of their fur, and with glass stares they silently watched the guardsponies’ passage. There were dozens upon dozens of them, and each looked like he or she could spring to life.

“Who are they?” asked Storm as they rounded another bend.

“Oh?” Fjóla glanced back. “I guess you would call them heroes.”

As they came upon the last sets of stairs, Storm’s mind populated itself with images of where the Thing would take place. He first imagined a tall, stately building, littered with statuary, pillars, and all of the other architectural excesses meant to let you know it was important. This was then replaced by an expanded version of the longhouses from the residential area, adding a dimension of ‘tall’ as well. Then came a giant refrigerator. He wasn’t sure why his mind went where it did on that last one. But what they found when they climbed the last of the steps was nothing like he imagined. This was because there was nothing at all.

All they found was a plateau of sparse, yellowing grass, smooth stones, and slow, quiet streams running over its edges. And in the distance, in the middle of it, a line of figures turning to face them. The goðar.

“Dun dun dun dun dun, dun, dun dun dun,” hummed Crack Shot.

“…Colst’s ‘The Bringer of War?’” asked Check, after listening for a moment.

Crack Shot nodded. “Just kinda felt like it fit the moment, you know?”

“Not a bad interpretation.”

Fjóla led the guardsponies forward to meet the goðar, while Björn, Víðar, and Leif remained near the edge of the plateau. Síofra followed along as silently as she had for the earlier part of the walk.

As they neared the goðar, Storm was able to recognize Fannar standing on the far left, beside a shorter, younger version of himself. There was no doubt in Storm’s mind that this was his son. The younger stag had vivid slashes of purple beneath his eyes, just like his mother, though his expression was as inscrutable as his father’s. He wore a full set of armor: barding, circlet, and bracers around his pasterns. Well, Storm figured, it was nice of him to dress up for this.

To his left there stood eight others, a mix of does and stags of all different sizes, though the stag next to Fannar’s son caught Storm’s eye in particular, possibly due to gravitational pull. He looked like all of those other different sizes mashed together into one that’d have to get every outfit custom tailored.

He towered over the others like a snow-covered mountain, and half of his face hid behind a thick white beard that would’ve put Gray Mane’s to shame if the hoary old wizard was capable of the emotion. A hammer with a short handle and a head that seemed to overcompensate hung from his side. It had a pragmatic severity that made it seem unsuited for use as something as ceremonial as a gavel, although it certainly looked capable of administering a heavy judgment.

He rumbled something to the one on his left, an almond-eyed doe who nodded once in response, a ripple of light rolling down the white gold of her fur. She had a lithe figure, sleek and sharp from hooves to antlers.

“What did he say?” asked Storm.

“That he thought you would be taller,” answered Fjóla.

Storm’s brows creased and his tail thrashed once of its own accord. “Hmph. And he doesn’t think he might have a bias?”

“Are you gonna be translatin’, then?” asked Crack Shot. “I kinda wondered if they’d understand us.”

“Oh, they may,” said Fjóla. “I know for a fact that those two, Þorgnýr and Elisif, are familiar with your tongue. But as thou mayest imagine, between each other they will likely tend towards our own.”

“Yeah, fair enough.” Crack Shot scratched his chin. “Gosh, it sure is convenient though, how all these different places have folks that somehow speak the same language as us.”

“We trust that you have been informed as to why you have been brought here,” came a voice as cold and soft as snowfall, from a doe as white as winter herself.

She stepped forward from the middle of the line, the long, yellow grass folding beneath her hooves.

“But if this is not so, allow me to tell you. Our weather is wrong. It hath been wrong. The past year hath been naught but a shadow of the centuries that preceded it, and it hath been cast by clouds of an unnatural make.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“And then your kind is found within our mountains after a millennium of absence. The timing is too remarkable to be fortuitous.”

“Objection!” shouted Crack Shot. All eyes fell on him.

“…Thine objection being?” asked the doe, lifting a pale eyebrow.

“We thought you guys did it.”

Glances were exchanged between the goðar before the doe finally asked, “…And what dost thou expect in making such an allegation in the face of ours?”

Crack Shot shrugged. “I kinda figured they’d cancel each other.”

A stag on the far right, one with several rings twining around his antlers and, Storm was shocked to see, a foreleg made of ice, smirked and said something to the others.

“Valtýr Goði just said that ‘tis fitting that thou seemest the type to keep thy head in the clouds,” explained Fjóla.

Valtýr and Storm turned towards her in an expression of cross-cultural exasperation and in unison began:

“Thou dost not need to translate—”

“You don’t need to translate every—”

They paused, turned, then glared at each other.

“…Jinx,” whispered Crack Shot.

Check placed a hoof to his brow and sighed. “And we’re off to a lovely start.”

Fannar and his son watched all of this silently.

“Sharper words aside,” continued the doe, glancing sidelong at Valtýr who smiled and raised his frozen hoof in mock contrition, “what reason would we have to believe thee?”

Storm took in the panorama of the goðar’s expressions, a mix of impassiveness, distrust, and amusement. “What reason would you have not to?”

“Prithee,” said Valtýr, slowly tapping his chin, “what would your reaction be if your home was intruded upon by invaders showing the dress one would wear into battle?”

“First off, none of us are wearin’ dresses,” said Crack Shot. “Also, battle? Dude, we might be armored but it’s not like we’re armed.”

“As I have been told, thou carried a spear with thee.” Valtýr lifted his nose. “Mayhaps thou hast forgotten this?”

Crack Shot blinked. “Oh, heh, that?” He gave another small laugh and rubbed the back of his helmet. “Honestly, I kinda just thought of that as a souvenir more than anything. ‘Sides,” he added, pointing at the bulk of Þorgnýr, “two-ton with his hammer over there looks way scarier, like he’s all ready to play judge, jury, and executioner at once.”

“What?! This is an artistan’s tool!” bellowed Þorgnýr. “What dost thou think I am”—he snatched his hammer, reared into the air with it, and slammed it into ground, rocking the plateau—“some sort of barbarian?!”

“Easy, dude, it’s a good look for you,” said Crack Shot. “But am I gonna get that spear back by the way? I promised it to a friend back home.”

“Hm. A souvenir indeed,” repeated Valtýr, flatly. “But it doth not elude us that a weapon”—beads of white erupted around his antlers, and the rings adorning them splashed together and thinned into a long, slender blade—“may come in subtle forms.”

He snatched its handle out of the air and with a whisper of movement sent several blades of glass rippling into the air before him. The first had not touched the ground before the sword was once again nothing more than rings around his antlers.

“Perhaps the sight of your armor is a reassurance to those of your kind, but you cannot expect the same of others,” said the winter-white doe.

“That first point is debatable,” grumbled Storm. “But all of this is speculative, circumstantial! There have apparently been some coincidences, I guess, but nothing that proves that we’re the ones responsible for the changes in weather!”

“Yea,” said the doe, “but for us circumstance is enough.”

“Engh, Check,” groaned Crack Shot. “Say something smart.”

Check hummed. “She has a point.”

Crack Shot gave him a lidded stare. “Dude. Not helpin’.”

“I imagine,” began Check, “that upon recognition of the worsening of their weather, the goðar wasted no time in pursuing the cause of it, or at the very least, a solution for it. There can be no doubt that we show promise as a lead, possibly much more than anything else they’ve found, and even were we to say otherwise, even were we to make compelling arguments or supplications, there is always the possibility that we are lying, and that we are simply good at it.”

“Yeah, but we’re not lying, and you’re terrible at it!” Crack Shot stamped a hoof. “I don’t see why you guys have to be so friggin’ stubborn!”

“Because they cannot afford not to be,” said Check. “Their duty is to their people, and livelihoods, lives in fact, are at stake.”

“Well said,” noted the winter-white doe. “Though, accordingly, thou knowest ‘tis not enough to allay our suspicions.”

Check nodded, Crack Shot groaned once more, and Storm pursed his lips. Something was bothering him.

“Well, have you seen anypony besides us?” asked Crack Shot. “I mean, somebody here has to have hopped outside once or twice—were there any pegasi pushin’ clouds around?”

“From our vantage, we would only see a cloud were a pony above it.”

“So thou wouldst argue subterfuge?” asked Check. “What need would a pegasus have for it?”

“Clouds do not think, and so are insusceptible to the threat of retribution,” said Valtýr. “We would not think to march against the weather, but seeing your pegasi would be impetus enough to march against those on the land.”

“Yet here we are revealing ourselves,” noted Check. “Doth that not seem counter purpose?”

Valtýr shrugged. “Mayhaps impatience spurred you to see the end of your work, mayhaps mercy had it that you did not wish to find a tomb.”

“Come on!” yelled Crack Shot. “Why are you shooting down every argument we make?! Yeah, there’s doubt, I get that, but why can’t you give us the friggin’ benefit of it?!”

“Because this would not be the first time your kind hath brought us darkness and shadow,” said the winter-white doe.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know what to tell you ‘cept that our answer isn’t gonna change,” growled Crack Shot, his face reddening.

“Then perhaps you could give another answer to another question?” asked a new voice. The guardsponies turned towards its speaker. Fannar’s son.

“Yeah, whatever…,” grumbled Crack Shot. “Ask away.”

Fannar’s son considered Check. “I understand that yesterday thou spoke with my father, and that thou gave him your purposes for coming here. Is this true?”

The plateau went quiet. After a moment Crack Shot turned to Check, an eyebrow raised in question of his friend’s silence.

“…Yea, ‘tis,” said Check, eventually.

“‘Twas an interesting answer, from what we’ve heard,” said Valtýr. He lifted his frozen hoof, turning it in one way and another as he examined it dispassionately. “To visit and measure those lands beyond your borders on behalf of your shadow princess, and, most interestingly, to investigate the instability of our weather.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome by the way,” muttered Crack Shot.

Valtýr grinned humorlessly. “But that leaveth us with the question: what would you know of it?”

“…Huh?”

“If you are but travelers venturing our way, why would our weather give you pause? As unnatural as the snows have been, we approach that time of year when snow is common. And as unpleasant as a mountain storm might be to those vulnerable to the cold,” said Valtýr in faux solicitude, “there is no reason to mark them as queer.” He set his hoof down. “Out here, where your kind doth not bridle the weather, why would you have any expectations of it?”

The guardsponies exchanged glances as the goðar waited for a response.

Now, if you’re truly close to someone, a lot can be said with a glance.

Storm’s quirked eyebrow asked whether or not they should bring up their encounter with the pookas. The wandering of Check’s eyes down and to the left said that he was feeling uncertain about that course of action, and that it might be a breach of trust. Crack Shot’s blink asked Storm’s eyebrow if it could repeat the question because there had been something in his eye and it didn’t quite catch it the first time around.

“Well?” said Fannar’s son.

“Because somebody asked them to, and they’re just bloody dumb enough, or bloody kind enough that they’d choose to keep mum for a bird they’ve known little more than a week, rather than sell her up the river.”

The goðar turned to the wolf sitting in between the guardsponies, and Fjóla gave a delighted squeal. Again, there was a moment where someone could’ve said, “Did that wolf just speak?” or, more accurately, “Talaði úlfynjan?” but, like the guardsponies, the goðar thought better of it.

What Þorgnýr said was, “What?”

This is because there is always an inherent risk of complication when two separate speakers of two separate languages try to share a third. Often, between the accents and colloquialisms, they’ve gone and split it into a fourth and a fifth.

Fannar’s son, setting aside the pressing question of a potamic avian slave trade for the moment, said, “And who or what art thou?”

“Now, my kind could answer those questions in all kinds of ways,” said Síofra, as she slowly stood. “What I am is, well… that’s a riddle, innit?”

As she spoke, her tail shortened, her legs lengthened and hardened at her toes, and a pair of black antlers sprouted between her ears. A susurrus passed between the goðar as she stepped towards them, as if one of their shadows had decided to try out the third dimension.

“I suppose ye could say I’m a little bit of anything and everything,” she noted with a wink. “But, if it makes it easier, ye can call me a pooka, or ye could call me Síofra, though I’d much prefer it if ye didn’t call me Greasy,” she added, turning just slightly to catch Crack Shot in the corner of a golden eye. “And, I suppose, ye could call me ‘neighbor’ as well. I’m the one that asked these muckers to see into the weather around these parts, since, ye see, it’s becoming a bit of a problem in my parts as well.”

Check’s hoof rose to Crack Shot’s mouth.

Fannar’s son watched Síofra. “I wonder. What I do see is one deception that hath just now come to light.”

“Aye, I suppose it has, hasn’t it?” sang Síofra, giving a dismissive shrug. “But it was my deception, and, as dry as it might be, those three never uttered a lie about me that’d matter, or a lie about anything else.”

She moved to rejoin the guardsponies, and as she did so her antlers rescinded, her tail extended with the long hair of a pony’s, and the clefts in her hooves closed.

“I’ll stand by that and I’ll stand by them as well.”

“Fjóla,” said Fannar’s son, “dost thou know of any historical mention of these pookas?”

It didn’t escape Storm’s notice that Fannar’s son had used language that Storm and his friends would understand. Did he consider it deceitful to do otherwise?

“Oh!” Fjóla jumped at the sound of her name, her attention yanked from this newest phyletic curiosity and now suffering a case of whiplash for it. “What?”

“Pookas,” repeated Fannar’s son, gently. “Hast thou knowledge of them or anything akin?”

“Hm, I wonder…” Fjóla puffed out a cheek and tapped it with a hoof. “Ah, mayhaps…”

She cleared her throat.

“And though thy voice is lovely,” interjected Fannar’s son, “a summary shall suffice.”

“Generations of skáldunum sing their disapproval,” sighed Fjóla. “Nay, I do not recall ever hearing mention of the word ‘pooka.’ But there are certain rumors and fables.”

“Few likelier places to find us than in rumors and fables, I’d imagine,” noted Síofra, loftily.

“What do these rumors say?” asked Fannar’s son.

“They tale of swarthy, yellow-eyed creatures in valleys south of here, though, as far as I can recall, there is no consistent description of the shape these creatures take.” Fjóla tilted her head one way and another. “Also, trade with them was dissuaded, as they tended to pay with a strange metal that never lasted to a second transaction.”

Síofra grinned. “Aye, that’s us, alright. And although ye might be gutted to have more brakes thrown on yer scapegoating of these three, know that yer in good company. Me and mine weren’t all that keen to trust them at first, either.”

The goðar glanced between each other, an uncertain murmuring among them.

“They’re uncertain,” explained Fjóla.

“Erm, right, thank you,” said Check, before lifting a hoof for the goðar’s attention. “If I may,” he began, “I will cede that it is with your people’s best interests at heart that you fear the worst of us; however, please consider if it might be worth accepting our assistance.”

“What could you accomplish that we have been unable to?” asked another goðar who hadn’t had a chance to speak yet, and wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip him by.

“Mayhaps these two pegasi will take it upon themselves to keep our skies clean?” is what another of the hitherto silent goðar would have snorted if Þorgnýr hadn’t bellowed it first. She frowned and kicked at the dying grass.

In answer, Check opened one of the flaps to his saddlebags, releasing a gentle, blue light that reflected off the side of his armor. He levitated the smart stone free and into the full view of the goðar.

“Ah, ‘tis almost as fair as the stones that light our streets,” mused Elisif.

“But ‘tis lit by a different means,” said Check. “One that hath strengthened its glow the deeper we’ve ventured into these mountains.”

“What is the stone’s purpose?” asked Fannar’s son.

“‘Tis a way for us to report our travels and to keep in touch with our loved ones,” answered Check, simply.

“And how canst thou claim a relation between the grounds of our weather and the glow of your stone?”

“Honestly?” said Check, as he tucked the stone back into his bags. “I cannot. But for a lack of other avenues, I feel it worth investigating.”

“Prithee,” said Valtýr, lifting an eyebrow, “what do you three stand to gain from involving yourselves in this?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind gettin’ that spear back sometime,” said Crack Shot. “That’d be good enough for me.”

The goðar fell into another conference.

“Can you tell us what they’re saying, Fjóla?” asked Storm.

“From the sound of it, they are considering the idea, though they feel that one of them should be involved in whatever search it would require.” Fjóla continued to listen as the goðar fell into a small argument. “…However, as they each have responsibilities in their respective cities, there are none that wish to abandon them for what may be a fruitless trek.”

“There are other cities down here?” asked Crack Shot.

Fjóla nodded. “Yea. Doth your kind not have more than one?”

“Heh, touché.”

“Two what?”

Valtýr pointed towards the winter-white doe, who shook her head tersely and pointed to another.

“Ah, it seemeth they are having some difficulty coming to a decision,” said Fjóla, unnecessarily.

Valtýr hummed to himself. Then, his eyes widening with inspiration, he quickly placed his frozen hoof to his snout. The other goðar stared for just a moment, before racing to do the same. Fannar’s son brought up his hoof just a fraction of a second slower than the others and gave a low hiss at the realization.

“They have decided,” said Fjóla.

Crack Shot blinked. “Wait—they made their decision with a game of friggin’ ‘Nose Goes’?!”

“Oh, is that what your kind nameth it?” asked Fjóla. “Yea, they did.”

Fannar’s son sighed and approached the guardsponies as the other goðar encouraged, cheered, and generally shooed him along. He stopped a couple of yards in front of them, taking in each of them in turn.

“If you are willing to attempt this search, then I shall join as well,” he announced. “Check Mate, Storm Stunner, Crack Shot, and… Síofra is it?”

The four of them nodded, Síofra a tad more noncommittally than the others.

“My name is Áleifur. I apologize that we did not have a proper introduction earlier.”

“Whatever, dude,” said Crack Shot. “It’s cool.”

Áleifur gave him a puzzled look. “Yea, it hath been, though it is but a symptom of graver issues… did we not just discuss this?”

“Like father like son,” whispered Storm.

“‘Cool’ hath a meaning of good or acceptable these days,” explained Check. “My friend meaneth to say the he beareth no ill will.”

Áleifur considered Check. “If thou art choosing thy words for mine understanding, please refrain. Thou needest not alter thy language for my sake.”

“Outside of the ‘thee’s and ‘thou’s and what not, he really isn’t,” said Crack Shot. “Anyways, here’s to workin’ with you and hopefully provin’ our good intentions.”

Crack Shot lifted his hoof towards Áleifur. Áleifur stared at it.

“Is thy hoof injured?” he asked.

Crack Shot shook his head. “Nah, you’re supposed to hit my hoof with yours.”

Áleifur’s eyebrows could be seen furrowing through his circlet. “Dost thou wish for thy hoof to be injured? That doth not seem cool. Warm, mayhaps?”

While Áleifur received this crash course in a thousand years of cultural evolution, the other goðar began to take their leave of the plateau, walking in separate directions. Storm noticed Fannar still waiting some yards away, and decided to bring up what had been bothering him.

“Yea?” said Fannar, as Storm came near. “Doth something trouble thee?”

“When you spoke with Check yesterday, you said that you didn’t trust us,” said Storm.

“Yea, that is correct. Dost thou take offense to it?”

“No, I understand that. Still…” Storm tapped a hoof. “With that in mind, a few things don’t make sense to me.”

Fannar’s dark eyes, like before, were unreadable. “What would those things be?”

“Well, this is my own professional experience speaking, but there were a number of things you did and didn’t do,” said Storm. “You let us stay in your home, you didn’t search our bags, you didn’t shackle our wings or legs. It seems like you gave us a lot of leeway. Er, freedom that is.”

“Bear in mind that the skiltvakter that walked with you, Björn, Leif, and Víðar, are very capable. Also, they are not alone in their work. If thou or thy friends had attempted something untoward, they and others would not have hesitated to act apace.”

“You make it sound like we’d be so easily put down,” said Storm, keeping his expression neutral.

“Mayhaps I do.” A corner of Fannar’s mouth angled a few degrees upwards, the hint of a smile. “However, although I said that I did not trust you, that doth not mean I had no interest in giving you the means of showing yourselves worthy of it.”

“I see,” said Storm. “But I’ll be honest: we did consider escape as an option, if it was the only option left to us.”

At that, Fannar actually did smile. “I would imagine so. ‘Twould have been foolish not to.”

He began walking towards the staircase the guardsponies had ascended. Before moving more than a few yards away, however, he turned to Storm once more. “If you are honest, my son will strive to keep you safe. I would ask that you do the same.”

Storm nodded. “Of course.”

With that, Fannar resumed his march, calling out a greeting to his son before disappearing down the stairs, leaving the rest of them to plan their next steps.

The next step was breakfast. The steps taken up all those stairs on an empty stomach made for a compelling argument for it.

Storm noticed that as the skilitvat—sklivat—the guardsstags, Björn, Víðar, and Leif, followed along, their attention had shifted from the guardsponies to Síofra. They spent much of the time staring at her as if she might grow horns, which, to be honest, was not a baseless assumption, and, to be fair, was something she actually did when she noticed their attention. Storm guessed that she must’ve seen no harm in having a bit of fun, given that the cat was out of the bag, along with rest of the menagerie.

Fjóla tagged along as well, insisting that if any history was in the making, there was no way that she wasn’t going to be a primary source in the singing of it.

Áleifur led them back down into the market district and off of the main avenue to find a place to stop. The group still attracted looks as they walked, but since Víðar was no longer shouting at anyone and everyone to mind their own business, most ended up doing just that.

Rather, the caribou filling the roads focused instead on their errands, trading goods, and words, and sometimes one for the other. The group walked past a stag offering a pair of sweet-smelling bottles at another’s stand in exchange for a large satchel of peat moss.

“Hm, I notice that barter seems to be a popular means of transaction here,” noted Check, watching in passing as the stag gathered the peat. “Is there also some form of currency?”

“Yea,” said Áleifur, “your kind calleth it honor.”

“Honor, huh?” Crack Shot glanced between the stalls on either side of the road, then upwards in thought. “Sounds like it’d make it hard to make change. Do you get a two-for-one discount if you keep your promises or somethin’?”

“Thou makest a jest—”

“I do?”

“—but to us, honor hath a prominent meaning. It is the upholding of law, it is the defense of property and status against insult, and yea, it is the keeping of promises as well. Good works elevate status, earn favor, strengthen bonds in the community. A deed is remembered and another requiteth it; she who requiteth it is then honored and requited in turn. Is this not as your kind?”

“Nah, we use bits,” said Crack Shot. He pulled back a flap of his saddlebags, plucked out a couple of coins, and placed them on the edge of a lifted shoe.

Áleifur leaned toward them and narrowed his eyes. “Little pieces of yellow metal are enough to measure your worth?”

“And silver ones, too. Makes our worth that much easier to carry.” Crack Shot flicked his hoof, sending the coins spinning through the air. They clipped the open flap, drawing it back down over them as they clinked back into his bags.

Áleifur shook his head in disbelief. “In that case, it seemeth that you may as well just carry colored strips of parchment instead. I am sure they would be lighter.”

Crack Shot pondered this. “…Nah, I can’t see that catchin’ on.”

Storm felt he should say something in defense of his country’s economic policies—

“Ohh, many of my kind would find it right convenient that they take gold,” chimed in Síofra.

—something better than that.

“Well, one nice thing about bits is that everypony will accept one, and everypony agrees on how much one is worth,” said Storm, gingerly ignoring a whole host of his dad’s past pontifications beginning with, ‘Back in my day, two bits and a hoofshake would buy—’. “I don’t think you could say the same for a bottle of perfume.”

“Nay, I could not,” said Áleifur, continuing once more down the road. “But ours is yet a system that hath stood the test of time.”

The mob of transitory vendor stands thinned out along with the calls and pitches of their owners, giving way to an area of the city populated by a scattering of silent edifices. There were several fountains between them, gurgling purposefully, perched with solemn, crystalline effigies like those guarding the ascent to the Thing. A pair of fawns sat beside one, making simple frozen jewelries from its waters, too enraptured by their task to take notice of anyone or anypony walking past.

Storm smirked. He remembered that age when a bit really was a fortune, when a colored glass marble was as much of a treasure as an emerald or a diamond. Back when you were too young to know which glittering items you were supposed to covet. He thought back to those foals flattening coins on the rails when he and his friends had departed Canterlot. It felt so very long ago.

Áleifur finally stopped outside a squat rectangle of a building. Embellishments climbed up its walls: flowers blooming at their bases, fir trees reaching for their upper edges, fattened clouds swelling in between. He opened its double doors and nodded for the others to enter.

The majority of the interior revealed itself at once. An unlit fire pit occupied the center of the floor, littered with the ashes of an earlier use. The two longer walls had benches running beneath them; a small group of caribou sat on side, laughing at some earlier joke. The rolling laughter rolled to a stop when they noticed the guardsponies stepping inside. Crack Shot smiled and waved, and, after a moment of consideration, a couple of the caribou waved back. As the guardsponies took a seat with the guardsstags on the opposite bench, the conversation resumed, though Storm assumed the topic had shifted, if the eyes shifting to him and his friends were any indication.

A young, pretty doe came out of the backroom as the entrance’s door closed behind Áleifur and Fjóla. She gave this newest crowd an appraising look. Then she smiled warmly and sang a word of welcome. Her youth must’ve belied her experience if she could look at a group as odd as theirs and see customers first and foremost.

Áleifur approached her and said something that earned a nod, before returning to the group.

“Victuals shall be brought out forthwith,” he announced, before fixing on the guardsstags. “Björn, Leif, Viðar, gætuð þið komið út með mér í eitt augnablik?”

The three of them nodded and stood, following as Áleifur led them back outside.

“What’d he ask ‘em?” asked Crack Shot, watching the door fall shut.

“If they’d go outside with him,” answered Fjóla.

“Who’d have thought?” said Síofra.

“I imagine he will wish to hear their impressions of us,” said Check. “Whatever of those they may’ve formed in our short time with them.”

“Well, they should be interesting, then,” said Storm. “Given that one of us ate enough to feed a small family, and another was speaking in barks for most of it.”

“Don’t forget your face plant, dude,” said Crack Shot, bumping Storm in the side.

“I didn’t hit my head hard enough for that.”

The food came as forthwith as Áleifur had promised, and started with a warm, bitter soup. Fjóla explained how the fjallagrös in it gave the added benefit of several medicinal properties. After some prompting, she explained that fjallagrös was a kind of lichen.

So they ate, as beside them four bowls began to cool.

Outside, a conversation was taking place. It was, of course, not spoken in the language of the guardsponies; however, it shall be translated via the expedient of parentheses.

“(So, what do you think of those guys?)” asked Áleifur, as he leaned against the side of the dining hall.

“(I like them,)” said Leif. “(The one with the gold in his fur has an appetite like the world serpent. Speaking of which, maybe we should’ve warned the hostess about that.)”

“(Heh, but how about the one with dirt in his fur?)” asked Víðar. “(I hope all of his landings aren’t as clumsy as the one we saw.)”

“(You’re one to talk,)” said Leif, pointing at the stump on Víðar’s head. “(I didn’t know asymmetry was in style.)”

“(Oh, shut up,)” growled Víðar. “(I’ll have a fresh pair of antlers come spring of next year.)”

“(Yes, and then you’ll break one again like you do nearly every year.)”

“(Assuming spring comes,)” said Björn, the voice of seriousness. “(What was the conclusion of the Thing, Áleifur?)”

“(Believe it or not, the four of them say they’re trying to fix the weather as well,)” said Áleifur. “(They claim to have a way of finding the source of it, but it all sounds a bit dubious to me. Of course, I’m the one stuck finding out if they know what they’re talking about,)” he added with a frown.

“(So those ponies aren’t responsible?)” asked Björn.

“(I don’t know yet. But the other one with them, Síofra, corroborated their story.)”

“(The talking, shape-changing wolf?)” asked Víðar. “(What’s her deal?)”

“(From the half of what she said that I could actually understand, she calls herself a pooka,)” said Áleifur. “(According to Fjóla, they or something like them live to the south of here, so it’s possible they’re being affected by our weather as well.)”

Víðar shrugged. “(Well, I’ve never heard of them.)”

“(Dear Víðar, I don’t think that proves a thing,)” said Leif, with a grin. “(Though, I’m surprised Fjóla didn’t say something about these pookas sooner.)”

“(She probably didn’t think of it, and had less than a day to try,)” said Áleifur, a bit defensively. “(Who’d look at a wolf and think to compare it to rumors a thousand years old?)”

“(Ah, my mistake, Áleifur Goði.)” Leif’s grin widened.

“(Still, I think it’s suspicious that she hid her identity,)” said Björn, glancing at the door into the dining hall.

“(Yeah, but you think everything is suspicious,)” said Leif. “(Besides, you saw her going all blah, blah, blah) hello how art thou my name is potato (or however their crazy language works—if she was that worried about revealing her identity, choosing to do so in front of a bunch of goðar is one hel of a way to go about it.)”

“(Yeah, it is. It looked like she was willing to take the risk to defend her companions,)” said Áleifur. He stepped out towards the road and stared off at one of the fountains, at the figure posed atop it. “(I suppose there’s some nobility in that. I suppose I’ll be learning if that’s the norm.)” He sighed. “(I hope this doesn’t turn out to be a waste of time.)”

“(We could waste it with you,)” said Víðar.

Áleifur shook his head. “(I’d rather you be up here where I know you’ll be put to good use.)”

“(So does that mean you’ll be bringing Fjóla along, then?)” asked Leif.

Áleifur shot him a look.

“(I don’t like the idea of you going off alone with those guys,)” said Björn. “(You’ll be outnumbered.)”

“(You really think they’ll try something?)” asked Leif. “(They didn’t make a move against us when we found them, and it would’ve been three on four.)”

“(Keep in mind that we had the earth above us and two of them fly),” said Björn, waving a hoof through the air for emphasis. “(They would’ve been at a disadvantage.)”

“(They didn’t move against us when we went out into the open either,)” noted Víðar. “(Though, I wonder if that gray one can do much with that single horn of his.)”

“(You manage somehow,)” said Leif.

Víðar spun towards him and lowered his head. “(Keep it up, and I’ll show you that this antler is more than a match for your two,)” he snarled.

Leif grinned and lowered his head as well, adding a stamp of his hoof. “(By all means. It’ll make the morning more exciting.)”

Björn casually glided in between them. “(I’d be satisfied knowing if they were strong,)” he continued. “(It’d mean that they didn’t just submit to us out of fear. Also, it’d be a nice bonus to know that they’d be useful to Áleifur if they actually do run into any trouble.)”

“(And how are you going to find that out?)” asked Víðar and Leif, their squabble set aside for this newest line of interest.

Björn looked between them. “(I’m surprised you two need to ask.)”

The guardsponies’ group had started into a few pieces of fjallagrös bread, when the skiltvakter (Fjóla had coached Storm on the pronunciation) stepped back inside of the dining hall. Crack Shot waved them towards where they’d set their soup bowls, but they remained standing.

“Is something wrong?” asked Storm, a bit uneasily.

Áleifur stepped forward. “Before we depart on our errand, Björn hath a request of thee, Check Mate.”

Check blinked, before turning towards the stag in question. Björn gave him a neutral stare. “Um, of course, how may I be of assistance?”

“He would like to duel thee.”

This would’ve been a good opportunity for the guardsponies to shout, ‘WHAT?!’ or for Crack Shot to perhaps perform a spit-take as per narrative tradition. However, the latter would’ve been a waste of food and thus impermissible. “Why?” asked Check, which was as close to the former as it was going to get.

“He wisheth to measure your characters through a test of martial prowess.”

“Why a fight?” asked Storm.

“Why him?” followed Crack Shot.

“Honestly, given some of the reactions ye’ve received, I’m surprised someone didn’t pick a fight with you,” noted Síofra, glancing sidelong at Crack Shot as she bit into a roll.

“I know, right?”

“To answer the first question, it is to know that it was not cowardice that stayed you from aggression when you first met,” answered Áleifur.

“And the second?” prodded Storm.

“He doth not fly.”

“Wait a second,” said Crack Shot.

Áleifur did and then continued, “Dost thou accept, Check Mate?”

“Not a literal friggin’ second!” snapped Crack Shot. “I mean, like, why doesn’t Björn wanna fight one of us if he considers flyin’ an advantage?”

“On the contrary, he doth not,” said Áleifur. “There are many low ceilings in the connecting caverns that are well within hoof’s and antler’s reach.”

Storm wasn’t about to argue with that. But he did have to ask: “How do you feel about this, Check?”

Check placed his hoof to his chin as he considered the proposal, as he considered Björn before him. “…Very well, I accept,” he said at last, with a small nod.

No translation was needed, and Björn nodded in kind. He, Áleifur, Leif, and Víðar turned towards the door.

“I do have one request, though,” added Check.

Áleifur turned back towards him. “That being?”

“May I have thirty minutes before we begin?” Check glanced at his empty bowl. “I did just eat, after all.”

More than a half hour later, Check and Björn stood facing each other in the road outside of the dining hall. The city’s mists swelled around their hooves, but the air was otherwise still. Heavy. The fountains babbled softly as the figures posed above them watched on, ancient heroes judging the two of them across time.

The other caribou in the dining hall had followed the skiltvakter and guardsponies outside. They knew something was going to happen. They didn’t know when it was going to happen.

“How long are they gonna stand there?” asked Crack Shot, tapping a hoof impatiently.

“Björn… is not the type to make the first move,” said Áleifur.

“I don’t think Check is either unless he’s playing white,” said Storm.

Check and Björn continued to watch each other. A tiny spider watched them as well and considered spinning a web between them.

Crack Shot scratched his chin. “Maybe it’s like, you know, how in some martial arts flicks a couple of guys will be squared off and not movin’, but they’re actually fightin’ it out in their heads?” He mulled this idea over. After a moment he shouted, “Keep it up, dude, you’re doin’ great!”

“Any longer and they’re liable to start growing moss,” mused Síofra.

“I am sure there are many farms that would value their aid,” said Fjóla.

Síofra stared at her.

Beside them, Víðar and Leif shared a groan.

As he watched Björn and Check, Storm became vaguely aware of the fact that he hadn’t seen either of them blink. “Maybe,” he began, to Áleifur, “seeing as this was Björn’s idea, he could take the first swing? You know as a, uh, courtesy?” he added weakly.

Áleifur considered this and then relayed the suggestion to Björn. After weighing it, Björn nodded, narrowed his eyes, sprang forward, and the fight began.

Björn’s antlers whipped towards Check, the tine of one glancing off his champron with a high metal sound as he ducked beneath them. The sound was still ringing through the air when Björn came back around, his hooves bearing down like a pair of claw hammers. Check uncoiled from his crouch, narrowly skipping a step out of range of a stomp so quick that it sent Björn’s circlet clattering between Check’s hooves. He sucked in a breath as he fixed his eyes with Björn’s. There was a flit downward. A flicker of white light.

Check leapt to the side, letting the breath go. His gilded hooves nearly lost purchase as the road beneath him wetted, and Björn came in like a shot at the opportunity. However, Check was just a bit faster and he managed to twist away from a blow aimed at his midsection. Björn wasted no time in swinging around, and it was only by a flash of Check’s horn that the skiltvakten’s antlers struck air.

Check reappeared a few yards away from Björn, panting from the effort, as the two of them locked eyes once again. Björn’s gaze didn’t waver as the puddle splashed off of the road and once more shaped into a circlet on his brow, none of its delicacy lost for the haste of its reformation. It was a clever ploy, Check had to concede. He wondered if the caribou played chess.

Björn came in once more, but Check had grown versed in the literature of his body language. Every feint was nothing more than a prologue, every muscle twitch a tell, every saccade a foreshadowing, and as the distance between them shrank, so did the number of Björn’s potential actions, leading to an inevitable denouement. Check was already pivoting as Björn rose up, driving out a rear leg as Björn came down, meeting momentum with his own, and—the street echoed with a CRACK!

Björn’s armor was hard, harder than ice had any right to be, and Check’s leg went numb from the shock of it. But, as he and Björn broke apart from each other, he could see his work written across the skiltvaten’s breast plate, and he wondered, idly, if it’d mean anything in his tongue. A spider web of fractures had woven itself across Björn’s breast, spreading from a splintered impression of Check’s hoof. The blow had staggered Björn though his armor had stopped much of it, but Check guessed that another kick—

The lights dancing around Björn’s antlers brightened and began to quicken, wreathing around his peytral. His armor lost its rose tint, the air immediately around it began to mist, and, with a ripple, the spider web was mended, washed away. The mists melted away and the armor was solid and whole and rose colored once more. His face remained impassive.

Crack Shot groaned from the sidelines, Víðar and Leif whooped, but Check saved his breath. He felt that he would need it, having just seen an opportunity.

His horn low, the insides of his armor damp with sweat, his breath heavy, he dashed forward for a second shot. Björn lowered his head and stamped a hoof in challenge, bracing himself to perform a stop thrust, not expecting the burst of light that filled his vision and robbed him of it. He flinched back and covered his face with a hoof, leaping back far enough that he almost avoided the kick that fractured his armor a second time. He swiped his antlers blindly, fiercely, but Check had already leapt well out of reach.

Björn grit his teeth as the spots of color left his eyes, leaving only one glowing from his opponent’s horn a few yards away. He didn’t bother examining the damage on his armor because it wouldn’t be there in a moment. However, upon letting his magic leave it, upon letting it thaw, he realized something was wrong: he couldn’t freeze it again. He glanced down to see why—

And that was all the opening Check needed. Less than second later Björn’s armor rippled in gentle, perfect, concentric circles, catching and throwing the light of the horn that had just pierced it.

Check glanced up, sweat stinging his eyes as he met Björn’s, before stepping back, the glow leaving his horn. Björn’s armor finally solidified now that there was no longer anything to stop it. He stared dumbly at the unicorn for a moment. Then he smiled, doffed his circlet, and bowed his head.

Check smiled in turn, removing his sweat-soaked champron and returning the gesture.

The others gathered around.

“Heh, checkmate, dude,” said Crack Shot, clapping his friend on the back.

“Yes?” asked Check, levitating his champron back onto his head.

“Oh, nothin’.” Crack Shot grinned, shaking his head. “Your name makes for a good win quote.”

“I am impressed,” said Áleifur. “By what means didst thou geld Björn’s galdur?”

“I think he attacked the wrong end for that,” said Crack Shot.

“Björn’s magic,” stressed Áleifur.

“Well… I didn’t exactly,” answered Check. “I simply made a presumption about its nature. When his armor changed phase to a liquid, the air misted around it, much like when Leif demonstrated his talent to us yesterday. I guessed that to be because he was drawing heat into it from his surroundings, and doing the opposite to cause it to freeze. I merely provided additional heat for him to draw, when given the opportunity.”

“I’m glad you’re alright though,” said Storm, watching Björn. “He really didn’t pull his punches, did he?”

Check hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not so certain about that,” he said, taking in the road, the fountains, the rest of a city made of water and ice. “I think there are a number of advantages he could have given himself if he so elected.”

“It supriseth me that thou focused so on close combat,” said Fjóla. “I thought thy race capable of all manner of offensive wonders.”

“…Yes,” said Check, eventually, “I suppose some of us are.”

“Regardless, thy performance was… cold,” said Áleifur, by way of compliment.

“I think you mean ‘cool,’” said Crack Shot, thinking that on his way Áleifur might’ve taken a wrong turn.

“Is cold not superlative?”

“Nah.” Crack Shot shook his head. “‘Cold’ is like harsh, ‘cool’ is good, ‘warm’ can be like friendly or nice, but only for, like, the good meaning of nice—since that word apparently gets around—but not the one that means ‘sweet’—though sweet can also mean friendly, I guess—and ‘hot’ means good looking, though a lot of ponies use it when they want to call something cool. Does that make sense?”

Áleifur stared at him for a beat, before finally saying, “I like the cold. I shall say cold.”

Crack Shot met that with a shrug. “That’s cool, I guess.”

One of the spectators from the dining hall approached Check and asked him a question in the innocent presumption that, since everyone else he knew spoke his language, everybody else probably did as well. Fjóla translated it as: “With movements as fine as thine, why didst thou not simply kick yonder fellow in the face?”

Check knit his brows in dismay. “Well that sounds unnecessarily savage.”

Fjóla relayed this, to which the stag replied, “Pbbbt.”

“He expresseth his disdain,” translated Fjóla.

“Yes, I gathered,” replied Check. “In terms of cross-cultural exchange, it would appear that raspberries pass through Customs with little to no incident.”

“So now that we’ve presumably and inexplicably shown our good intentions by letting one of our friends pummel one of yours,” said Storm, “are there any other trials awaiting us, or will we be able to make it to lunch, first?”

“The next trial,” said Áleifur, solemnly, “shall be the search you have proposed, and I think it may well require provender beyond lunch alone. But first, I wish to see more of this stone, before I come to rely on it. Let us away to open air and higher ground so that I may see if it behaveth as you claim.”

He began up the road, not turning to see if the others were following.

“He could at least have the decency to act embarrassed about all of this,” muttered Storm.

“Cultural differences, I suppose,” said Check, shaking his hind leg in an attempt to return a bit of feeling to it. “But, his suggestion is sound. We should determine if whatever is affecting the smart stone is reversible, and if it will be of any use.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” said Storm, though with little enthusiasm.

Check nodded, then blinked away a bead of sweat that had dripped into his eye from the motion. “Although I’d have appreciated a chance to bathe first.”

The skiltvakter went their separate ways, and, after some protest, so did Fjóla, with the promise that if anything exciting happened, Áleifur would give her a full account, and if nothing exciting happened, he’d still do the same.

He led them from the city into another far too narrow, far too dark tunnel, one filled with far too many turns and more forks than a scullery. Storm glared at the glowing moss spattered on the damp rock, too intermittent to get any sense of direction from unless you followed your nose. Why couldn’t it give off its light with a tenth of the effort that it gave off its stench?

The tunnel eventually opened up into another spiraling staircase not unlike the first the guardsponies had taken, and, up that, into another dim, snowed-in cavern antechamber. The muffled soughing of the wind outside lent it a somber ambience.

Check levitated the smart stone from his bag and held it out for the others to see.

“Hey, it’s back to almost normal,” said Crack Shot as he tapped it with a hoof, sending it wobbling in the air.

The bright blue of its panels had thinned and thawed into the featherings of luminescent frost that had colored it before their fateful descent.

Áleifur gave a small frown. “There may be some correlation between its brightness and its depth,” he said, “but I still find it hard to believe that the darkness of our skies hath roots beneath the earth. Could there be no other phenomena that light your stone?”

“Besides the letters we get every now and then?” said Crack Shot. “Not that I know of, dude.”

“Although I appreciate and echo your skepticism, Áleifur,” said Check, “the only way to prove or disprove that hypothesis is to test it.”

Áleifur sighed and paced towards the snow-filled cave mouth. “Mayhaps, but where do we begin? There are many caverns in these mountains, many of which we do not occupy, many of which we have not explored. You came from the south; who is to say that the cause of your stone’s glow doth not lie even farther north?”

“Then we could follow those caverns farther north,” suggested Crack Shot. “Maybe leave a trail of bread crumbs so we don’t get lost?”

Storm did not like this suggestion. He thought of squeezing through more lightless tunnels with no guarantee of a light at the end of them, of hoping that the air would be good to breathe, and that a sudden collapse wouldn’t crush it out of them. It weighed on his mind: the fear that the earth could, with an errant tectonic shift, weigh on the rest of him. It is said that necessity is the mother of invention. It’s possible that desperation is the father.

“Or I could just fly north a bit with the stone,” suggested Storm, with faux calm. “See if it brightens up as I do so. I’m sure it’d be faster.”

“Allowing one of you to abscond from here so readily?” said Áleifur, narrowing his eyes towards him. “I cannot agree to that.”

“Why do ya think ye’ve got a choice?”

Áleifur spun towards Síofra, who he found was not the same Síofra that had followed behind thus far. She watched him with large, lupine eyes like two wells of golden flame burning in the dark, a black figure of teeth and claws and muscle.

“Is this treachery?!” growled Áleifur. The cavern brightened as wisps of white bloomed around his antlers.

“If it were,” said Síofra, padding towards him, “there wouldn’t be a thing ya could do about it.”

He lowered his antlers towards her. “What maketh thee think that I could not try?”

“Numbers,” she said, “four to one,” with a grin that served no other purpose than to show off just how very sharp her teeth were.

Áleifur’s circlet lost its color, rippling softly as mists suddenly formed around it. He widened his stance.

Síofra’s grin didn’t lessen in the least as she continued to stalk towards him. “Although, to be honest, that’s only secondary to the fact that it’d take more than ice and antlers to do in someone like me.”

She stood before him, over him, the gold of her eyes glinting off of the black of his. The muffled wail of wind continued to fill the cave.

“However”—she continued past him towards the snow blocking the cavern’s exit and began to dig into it—“I’m not looking for a row, since I think this morning gave us our fill of them. But like it or not, I’d suggest ya try trusting these feens. It’s going to make for a long trip otherwise.”

“And what of thee?” asked Áleifur. He still watched her with suspicion, but slowly the beads of light around his antlers began fading one by one.

“Well, I could tell ya to trust me as well, but that’d probably be bad advice.” She grinned once more, before disappearing into the snow.

“I won’t be gone long,” said Storm, peaceably, as he took the stone from the air and tucked it under a wing. “I promise.”

Áleifur continued to frown. Then, finally, he gave a small nod.

Wind began to blow through the hole Síofra had dug, and it was followed by her voice. “The way’s clear and so is the sky for the time being!”

Storm set down the rest of his gear and followed after it. After a bit of shuffling, he at last crawled out into open air. He took a moment to breathe it in deeply, to savor the taste of it. The wind tugged at his mane, its chill cut through his armor, and the realization of how much he’d missed it, missed the movement of it, surprised him. He gazed upwards into the sky in appreciation, unable to believe that it could be that blue. He then took the smart stone in his hooves and spread his wings, relishing in the way his feathers caught the wind, a feeling of flight without flight. Before he took off, however, he turned to Síofra.

“A wolf again, huh?” he asked.

“Oh, aye, ya know me. It’s hard to stay in one shape.”

“I can’t help but notice that your fangs and claws look a lot sharper than before as well.”

Síofra gave him a look of innocence that started at her eyes and ended at her teeth. “Made it easier to dig with, innit? And it’s probably a good thing, seeing as that spa didn’t seem like he’d be using his uniquely suited talents to help. I’ll see ya back inside.”

Storm smiled and shook his head as she disappeared into the snow tunnel, and then took to the air.

He flew north, watching the smart stone and fighting against the wind. The snow-capped peaks and cliffs sped by underneath him, a contour map of white. There, in the periphery of his vision, that region of sight where imagination and invention compensates for the loss of focus, they looked almost like clouds.

Though he did his best to maintain his altitude as he continued northward, the dusting of blue on the stone began to melt away like frost in the sun. Whatever was causing it didn’t seem to lie ahead of him. He adjusted his course towards the east, beginning a circuit around the cave mouth.

The northern sky was clear at his left, as was the eastern sky clear just ahead of him. He glanced to his right and then slowed into a hover, nearly dropping the smart stone from the astonishment of what he found.

Dark clouds rolled towards the south, piling over each other. Turning towards the west he saw the same. And then he looked up.

Black, boiling swaths that had been absent just minutes earlier were now forming above the peak of the mountain he’d exited, roiling and billowing and pushing each other out of the way. Fat flakes of snow tumbled from them, whipped away in the mountain gusts. More and more clouds came from nowhere, blossoming out of the sky above the mountain from nothingness. They began to spread east and north as well, in defiance of the wind and in defiance of natural law.

This was all he needed to see. He began to hurry back towards the tunnel into the cave while the tunnel still existed. As he raced towards it, the lines of glowing frost quickly retraced themselves across the smart stone. He didn’t need to look to know they were there, and any doubts he held about their significance disappeared like the blue above the mountain.

He landed beside the snow tunnel just as the blizzard began in earnest. Tucking the smart stone beneath his wing as the flakes stuck to his feathers, he hastened back inside to tell the others that they should start gathering that provender and anything else they’d need. Whatever force was behind the weather was acting, and he guessed that it was doing so from somewhere directly beneath them.

Chapter 1

For the third time in as many hours, Storm Stunner found himself turning over his job description and finding it dishearteningly unambiguous.

To Protect and To Serve Equestria. A can of worms that sounded nice on the tin.

The guardspony was positive that he wasn't protecting anypony; if anything, what he was being forced to do would have been considered by most ponies of any aesthetic sensibility no less than a visual form ofassault. As far as he was concerned, defacing a wing of Canterlot Castle as he was should have been considered an act of vandalism, even if it was under royal orders. But then, that was the rub, wasn’t it? Words four and five, and the narcissistic brat that was taking advantage of them.

Storm pondered. It might be unprecedented, but perhaps he could arrest himself for the act, lock himself in the brig. He smiled wistfully. It wouldn’t be so bad: upwards of three square meals a day, the robust musk of dungeon air, and most importantly of all, silence, sweet silence. No obnoxious, grating—

“Ahem!”

Storm was wrenched from his reverie and thrown headfirst into darker thoughts by the clearing of Blueblood's throat. No doubt dynasticide would earn him time in that jail cell.

Or maybe a medal.

“Although I'm sure seizing into a rigor is a matter of practice given the typical duties of you and your lot, I shouldn't need remind you that you have other tasks at hoof. Namely, the preparation of my exhibit, preferably some time this decade?” The prince raised his snout in the air, if only to better look down it at the pegasus guard.

Storm pushed his grim musings to a black corner of his mind for future perusal and turned to face Blueblood, replying, “Pardon me... sir.” The 'sir' managed to scramble from Storm's lips just letters ahead of racier locution. “But unless I'm mistaken, your pictures have all been hung. Multiple times, in fact, in multiple locations. So with all due respect,” and there’s not much of that, he thought to himself, “I ask that you allow me to take my leave.”

Storm glared at Blueblood and Blueblood stared back, an eyebrow arched in impassive expectation. The guardspony's lips trembled and his jaw clenched.

“...Sir.” The word, exhausted, collapsed into little more than a hiss with an ‘r’ tacked on the end.

Blueblood at that moment noticed the frustration evident on the guardspony’s face and, taking pity on the poor buffoon, decided to offer some words of encouragement. He couldn’t have the help sulking when things needed to be done.

“Come now, come now, just giving up won't do at all!” the prince said with a sort of supercilious smile that, while not infectious, made Storm feel ill. “I understand that the subtle nuances of artistic presentation might be difficult to grasp when confronted with perfection, but you should view this task for what it is: I am gracing you with a learning opportunity. I imagine most ponies would leap at such a chance.”

Off of a bell tower, Storm left unsaid. He had left a lot unsaid.

When the guardspony had been unwittingly corralled into assembling Prince Blueblood's exhibit, one with the uninspired title “The Beauty in Nature,” he had immediately formed certain expectations about the subject matter: washed-out sunsets, oversaturated flower petal close-ups, plenty of sepia and black and white, and other amateurish, photographic faux pas. This was due to a mistaken presumption about what the prince considered beautiful, and that it might be plural.

So it was that Storm found himself hanging blown-up images of unicorn-shaped shadows, along with shots of still pools of water and other reflective surfaces, each and every one framed in ornate and, more importantly to the pegasus, heavy gold trimmings which outvalued their contents in artistic merit by far. It has been said that a picture is worth a thousand words; a second look convinced Storm that the bulk of them should be prefaced by a parental advisory. Returning his attention to the prince, he was met by a slight frown.

“You know, at the receipt of an auspice, it is recognized as proper etiquette to express one's gratitude,” Blueblood spoke in proud, even, officious tones, which just happened to be at the resonant frequency of Storm’s temper. It cracked like an egg.

“You want me to thankyou?!” Storm had had it; apprehension, decorum, and consequences be damned, maybe he’d get a dungeon cell with a view. Blueblood was going to bloody well get a piece of his mind; specifically, the one with all the blacked over sections. “You–“

But then… judgment never really stays clouded for long, no matter how dark the thunderheads. Storm recognized the consequences of loosing the verbal vanguard at the tip of his tongue, and grudgingly decided against it. It was a rational decision, and it was that rationality that then made him feel like a coward. However, before Storm could lament his discretion, salvation chose that moment to swagger through the gallery doors, clad in gilded plate.

Corporal Kickstart gave an affable salute.

“Sup, buddy, been lookin' all over for—” Kickstart paused at his sudden surroundings, an eyebrow making a slow climb as he scanned from one end of Blueblood's exhibition to the other. After a pregnant silence, he managed to vocalize his impression.

“Huh. That’s uh… it’s… Whoa.”

It was the nicest thing he could have said.

Recovering, he waved over Storm, who moved to join him perhaps a bit too eagerly. “Come on, the Staff Sarge wants to run everypony through a training sesh. We probably oughta get over there before she decides to use us for target practice.”

“Anything beats the alternative.” Storm grimaced.

As the two pegasi made their way towards the doors, they were stopped by the sound of Blueblood clearing his throat. Storm twitched.

“Now hold on just one moment!” Blueblood demanded, stepping towards the two guards, a cool glint in ice colored eyes. “This soldier is currently assisting me in the preparation of my grand showing, and I will brook no interruption!”

Kickstart looked back over a shoulder and took the exhibit in once more. “I really wouldn’t sweat it, dude. I really don't, uh, see much room for improvement. Maybe Celly will put one of your pictures up on the fridge or somethin'?”

“Dude?! Celly?! How dare you! Do you not realize whom you are addressing?!”

“Oh most def, PBB, you're the prince. The prince of—” Kickstart tried to think of what it was that the prince involved himself in. “—diamonds?”

“BB?!” The white prince was quickly turning into a red one, which only made Kickstart think that he had gotten it right. “You will address me as Sir, or as Prince Blueblood, and by no other simple-minded sobriquet. You would do well to remember who I am, and what my ire would mean for you.”

“Huh, I’ll keep that in mind. But fair’s fair, so I gotta ask: what about us, do you know who we are? Particularly, do you know who my buddy here is, and what he pulled off a couple of months back?”

“I, in fact, do not, and I don't see why it is of any particular importance; I don’t see how one could be expected to keep track of the doings of each of you doppelgangers. Your little friend did no less than his job, I should hope, as he was doing before your interruption.”

“Heh, oh yeah, he did it in spades; guy’s got the heart of a lion.” Kickstart grinned. “Anyways, that was more or less the answer I was countin’ on. Catch ya later, BB,” he finished with a wink.

In the moment it took for Prince Blueblood to overcome his apoplexy at the guard’s audacity, the two pegasi had already exited the gallery. That didn’t stop him from rushing into the exterior hall, screaming into the empty space, “Return here at once and give me your names, so that I can have you jailed!”

“How do you do it?” Storm asked, peering back in the direction of the affronted prince's caterwauling.

“Hmm?” Kickstart gave the other pegasus a sidelong glance as the pair trotted towards the castle courtyard. “Do what now?”

“Behave without fear of consequences or comeuppance.”

“Oh, hah, that's easy! Trial and error. You get a knack for what buttons you can push.”

“Fair enough, I guess,” Storm conceded. Deciding to change the subject, he asked, “So, what does the Staff Sergeant have in mind for today?”

“Well to start, apparently she's giving Cacopony the chance to run everypony through some emergency drill he dreamed up. Couldn't tell you much more than that.”

Storm sighed. “I’m sure I’ll hear plenty once we get there...”

After the interdimensional incident that had threatened Canterlot earlier in the year, the Equestrian Royal Guard had been forced to reevaluate its efficacy during moments of crisis.

It was true that one of their own had saved the day; many of Canterlot’s papers had written all about Storm Stagger’s act of heroism (in its rush to cover the story, the first paper to report it had gotten his name wrong, and it had spread like spilled ink across the other news agencies).

Yet, although the Guard had been instrumental in quickly resolving the emergency, they had to admit that it was luck that had put Storm in the right place at the right time, rather than any adroitness in planning. The fact of the matter was, when a problem arose outside of their daily, ceremonial duties, the Royal Guard tended to fall back on a singular, atavistic response.

They jumped at it.

Furthermore, these charges were often performed with a skewed sense of discretion. How a possessed moon goddess ranked as a more viable target than some wayward cloud at a young fliers’ competition had often come up as a subject of discussion over many a late night donut. Upon reflecting on their course of action on that day those months back, nopony could claim that the act of sending each guardspony to random sections of the city was anything other than another uncoordinated leap. They would have just as well each put on blindfolds and thrown darts at a map of the city.

So the Guard, a vestige of perhaps a more tumultuous time in history, had concluded that they needed to increase their crisis readiness.

Of course, everypony had their own ideas about the best way to go about doing so.

---

Corporal Kickstart and Storm Stunner stepped into the fresh air of the castle courtyard to find a crowd of guardsponies gathered around a wide, slate chalkboard that was under attack. With a mad glint in his eye and gypsum coating his lips, Sergeant Cacopony gouged the black slab with a stick of chalk clenched between his teeth, leaving thick, white scars that no eraser could ever hope to remove.

Catching movement at the edge of the spectacle, Storm spotted a familiar unicorn mare approaching the tardy duo, amber death peeking out between two narrowed lids. Storm kept his cool; the glare on the Staff Sergeant's face was an affection reserved for the Corporal. She may as well have waved.

“Two. Hours.”

That’d be 'I’m glad you could finally make it.' in the language shared between the two.

“I gave you two hours to retrieve the Sergeant, and you still managed to arrive forty-five minutes late.”

“Hey, cut me some slack.” Kickstart held two hooves in the air in placation, balancing himself in place with a flapping of his wings. “I thought I made pretty good time, actually. You know, relatively speaking.”

Placing his hooves back down, a winsome look crossed his face. “In fact… you know, if you take Daylight Savings into account, I think we're actually fifteen minutes early.” The pegasus punctuated this argument with a wink and a grin: two easy strikes when addressing the Staff Sergeant.

“Daylight Savings isn't for a month,” she growled.

“Hmm, well that just means we're even earlier than I thought, doesn't it?” Kickstart waggled his eyebrows, earning strike three.

The Staff Sergeant said no more, electing actions over words. She took hold of the Corporal's ear in a dull glow and proceeded to drag him bodily towards the rest of the guardsponies. This caused Kickstart to say plenty of things, though very few of them were intelligible, and most of them high-pitched. Storm wisely said nothing at all, and followed a few yards behind the two, though he wondered if, among the buttons the Corporal opted to push, the off-switch ever received any consideration.

Near the center of the group, Storm spotted Crack Shot and Check Mate, two ponies he had grown quite close to in the Guard, and took a spot between them. Check Mate smiled in greeting before returning his attention to Sergeant Cacopony, the unicorn being ever mindful of decorum. Crack Shot of course had no qualms with making conversation.

“Heya dude, glad to see you could make it!” The pegasus bumped Storm on the shoulder. “You’ve missed one heck of a show so far.”

“Yeah, well maybe if somepony hadn't left me alone to foalsit His Royal Highness,” Storm said under his breath.

“Pssh, you shoulda just followed my lead, dude.”

When Prince Blueblood had happened across Storm Stunner and Crack Shot on patrol and demanded that the two assist him in a matter of national interest, the latter's response had been immediate. He didn't falter, balk, or utter a word of complaint.

He had simply turned in the opposite direction and flown away.

“Well, I couldn't just turn down a royal order, even if it did come from a royal pain,” Storm said, causing Crack Shot to wince at this mistreatment of humor.

“That’s probably not a good way of thinkin’ for this line of work.”

Cacopony's violence against the chalkboard was stalled when he accidentally bit through his piece of chalk, adding to a small pile accumulating around his hooves, and causing him to gag on a piece that lodged itself in his throat.

“FUBAR PIECE OF HORSEAPPLES!” he spat, filling the air in front of him with a thin cloud of pale dust. As it cleared, carried away on a tranquil breeze that was dreadfully out of place before him, he had the opportunity to assess the carnage he had wrought. Scrutinizing his work and apparently satisfied by the damage, he gave a curt nod of approval. “WELL THIS OUGHTA BE ENOUGH TO AT LEAST GET US STARTED.”

Among the other guardsponies, Cacopony noticed Corporal Kickstart and the Staff Sergeant, the former wincing as he rubbed a reddened ear. The latter nodded towards the burly pegasus, who gave a sharp salute in response.

“EVERYPONY PRESENT AND ACCOUNTED FOR, MA'AM?”

“Yes, Sergeant. You may continue your instruction.”

“ALRIGHT, LOOK ALIVE AND PAY ATTENTION, BECAUSE WHAT WE PRACTICE TODAY MAY VERY WELL SAVE YOUR LIVES, YOU TOADS!” Cacopony slammed a hoof against the chalkboard, sending a fracture running down its center.

Storm briefly noted the batrachian promotion and quickly studied the Sergeant's scrawlings. Random geometric shapes, symbols, swirls, and sigils populated the dusty board with no pretense of order. Arrows twisted and turned between each other, terminating only when they ran out of slate. Sections were crossed out, written over, and then struck through once more.

Eyebrows came alive in fits and furrows in the courtyard as the guardsponies tried to decipher the cryptic jumble. The ponies assumed they themselves had some representation on the board, but couldn’t tell if they were the ‘X’s, the ‘O’s, or any of the letters in between.

“Yo, Check, translation?” Crack Shot asked.

With eyes fixed forward, Check Mate slowly shook his head.

“NOW THE CANTERLOT METROPOLITAN ZOO APPARENTLY DOESN’T KEEP COCKATRICES ON THE PREMISES. SOMETHING ABOUT KEEPING TOO MANY PATRONS AWAY; OR KEEPING TOO MANY AROUND, I DIDN’T QUITE CATCH WHICH—”

As he spoke, the Sergeant tapped a crudely drawn ‘S’ terminating in what must have been a triangular beak. A small scratch was made into the surface of the puzzle, revealing a layer of bedrock underneath.

“SO WE’RE GONNA HAVE TO IMPROVISE. FEATHERSTEP—”

The pegasus named Featherstep started upon being named. “S-Sir?”

“—YOU’RE OUR COCKATRICE. BLINKER—” Cacopony thrust a hoof towards a unicorn who reacted as if it were the tip of a dagger. “—YOU’RE THE MANTICORE.”

“Err, alright, sir…” Blinker paused. “Um, which one’s the manticore, sir?”

“IS YOUR HELMET TOO TIGHT, SOLDIER?! USE YOUR EYES!” Cacopony jabbed a character in the middle of the board. “‘M’ FOR MANTICORE. NOTE THE POINTY SCORPION JABBER ON THE END.”

“Er, about that, sir. I do believe that’s Scorpio, sir,” Blinker pressed with a courageous, if ill-advised honesty.

“THEN WHY IS IT AN ‘M’, YOU ROACH?!”

With a demotion back down to the arthropods and hoping to remain a eukaryote, Blinker attempted to nudge the conversation in a new direction. “Sorry, sir. It’s just that there’s another ‘M’ near one end of the board, sir. The one without the tail, sir?”

“AH,” Cacopony barked, squinting viciously at the character in question. “THAT ONE STANDS FOR ‘ME’, GETTING THE JUMP ON THE ENEMY!”

The world tilted for the guardsponies as they cocked their heads from one side to the other, allowing the Sergeant’s words to filter into the logic centers of their brains and contentedly drop out the other side. It wasn’t that they pictured the Sergeant incapable of stealth, they just couldn’t imagine him doing so for any meaningful length of time. The moment he opened his mouth, the element of surprise would oxidize.

“Thank you, Sergeant, but I think it would best if I took it from here.” The Staff Sergeant stepped forward, and the guardsponies sighed in relief, thankful to have avoided addition to Cacopony’s bestiary.

“WAS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH THE REGIMEN, MA’AM?” Cacopony, ever the consummate soldier, maintained a neutral countenance. However, a pony would have to have been wearing blinders to miss the blow to his pride.

“Hmm…” The Staff Sergeant weighed her words, feeling out ones light enough as to not leave too large a bruise on Cacopony’s ego. “It is… too ambitious, Sergeant. Although there are many situations that may occur and thus warrant preparation, for effective training it would be best to assume they won’t all occur at once. Revise your program so that we aren’t left with more than half our ponies as anything other than ponies, and we may attempt it again.”

“YES MA’AM!”

The Staff Sergeant turned towards the main body of guardsponies. “Alright, listen up. We may not be following our original course of action, but do not for a second think that I am going to let an opportunity for training go to waste. Is that clear, soldiers?!”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” answered the singular voice of the guardsponies. Although the Staff Sergeant could be a slave driver, she always drove them towards some purpose, some tenable goal, rather than just spinning their wheels. They would follow her to the Gates of Hell.

“I received an excellent suggestion from Sergeant Check Mate regarding the utilization of each of our number, and now appears to be a good time to attempt it. To be truly efficient as a unit, we must be aware of just what we have to offer. Sergeant Cacopony has successfully demonstrated this.”

Cacopony, who had no problem with a criticism if it was shaped like a compliment, nodded brusquely.

“Sergeant Check Mate.” The Staff Sergeant fixed the unicorn with a level stare, a leveling stare. “As it was your suggestion, I will ask you to take the reins in this exercise. Not only will doing so allow for us to participate according to its original conception, it will give me an opportunity to assess your ability as a leader. Are you comfortable with this assignment?”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.” Check Mate’s voice was calm and unwavering as he answered, but Storm Stunner could have sworn he saw his throat bob.

“Excellent. You may begin your instruction as you see fit, Sergeant.” The Staff Sergeant joined the rest of the guardsponies, most of whom were watching Check Mate with interest. Taking a spot beside Corporal Kickstart, she effectively signaled for him to begin.

Storm Stunner was surprised to receive a pat on the shoulder from Crack Shot, who simply requested that he 'Pass it on.' With a chuckle, Storm Stunner relayed the gesture along with his own whisper of encouragement to his friend. Check Mate mouthed his thanks to the two of them, took a deep breath, and moved towards the center of the bow of ponies.

“Thank you for this opportunity, Staff Sergeant; I shall endeavor not to disappoint,” Check Mate began. He took a good look at his cohort, all of whom were of course looking at him, and tried to keep his nerves down. It was as effective as trying to submerge a blimp.

“I shall try to be as succinct as possible; as the Staff Sergeant has noted, I hypothesize that a means of increasing our efficacy lies within our individuality.” The words began pouring out, conscious of the fact that there were quite a lot of them and they only had a single breath to share between them.

“It is paramount to bear in mind that despite the homogeneity of our appearances, appearance is only coat-deep, and we are, each and every one of us, ultimately sui generis, protean in terms of skill and ability. Through careful consideration and unification of our respective aptitudes, I believe that we may produce a gestalt, one capable of handling any asperity. ArethereanyquestionsaboutwhatI’veproposedasitstands?”

The only sound to be heard at that moment would have been Check Mate failing not to hyperventilate, and the metaphorical pinging as mental gears spun and, subsequently, overheated as the guardsponies attempted the daunting task of parsing speech that would have stumped many of them at a normal cadence.

“…Sooo what you’re saying is that we need to be more charitable?” hazarded one of the pegasi.

One of the unicorns hopped aboard this train of thought as it barreled off the tracks. “That’s a nice idea, but it seems kinda unrelated to the topic at hoof. Also, what’s that about protein?“

As a murmur built among the guardsponies, Crack Shot and Storm Stunner made a show of mouthing, ‘CALM. DOWN. RE-LAX.’ Check Mate took another deep breath, keeping an eye on his two closest friends in the group; the blimp leadened just a bit.

“Er, in other words,” Check Mate interjected, much more paced on the second attempt, “each of us has a special talent, but I do not believe we’ve made much effort to address them. If we were to do so, it is my belief that we would have a better idea of which pony or ponies would be best for a given task.”

“Ohhhh,” said the guardsponies.

“Since I make this request of you all, it would only be fair for me to begin. For those of you unfamiliar with me, mine is a perspicacity of sorts; it is my hope and my belief that it will prove useful in this exercise.

“So shall we start at one end and continue down our number?” Crack Shot nodded to the unicorn at the east edge of the group. “Sender, correct? Would you be so kind as to share your talent?”

“Oh wicked! I’ll bet he can summon flames or something sick like that!” was heard from within the ranks.

“Um, sorry, no actually,” Sender said. “That’s ‘Sender’ with an ‘S-e’.” He rolled his eyes at the disappointed grunt that got in response. “I guess you could say I’m pretty good at moving things. If I’ve got an item and a familiar destination in mind, I can zap it over with pretty reliable accuracy.”

“A talent like that would be invaluable for the movement of supplies,” noted Check Mate. He nodded to the pegasus next to Sender. “Featherstep?”

“Hm, you could say furtiveness. I can be a pretty stealthy guy.”

“Surreption may prevail where force would fail,” Check Mate added, feeling more and more of his nervousness disappear. Looking at the next pony, he wondered if it hadn’t just switched places. The unicorn was shuffling his hooves and staring at the ground so fiercely the grass might have withered. “Ikebana, is something troubling you?” Check Mate asked.

“No—err, well, kinda. Can I pass?” Ikebana did not look up when he answered, and Sender and Featherstep looked a bit uneasy. The pegasus whispered something, too quiet for Check Mate to hear, but he didn’t need sound to guess the gist of what was said. Ikebana shook his head quickly in response.

“Well… possibly. But first may I ask if there is a particular reason why?” Check Mate spoke softly, slowly. When Ikebana didn’t answer, he continued. “I shall begin with some other questions then; they may seem tangential, but I feel they will prove relevant. First, I’d like to ask if you are free of regrets, having become a member of the Royal Guard.”

“Well, yeah…“

Check Mate nodded.

“And you joined with the aim of serving Equestria, correct?”

“Why else would I?”

Check Mate appeared to ponder on this.

“So it wasn’t out of a base desire for some glittering raiment and vain entitlement to glory?”

“What?! Of course not!” Ikebana’s eyes snapped forward; his reticence was gone, replaced by a defiant crease in his brow.

“You’ve proven your ability and resolve, not only in the gauntlet preceding your induction, but through punctiliousness in the days beyond,” Check Mate stated, abandoning the pretense of inquiry.

“You’re damn right!” Ikebana paused to decompose Check Mate's statement. “Uh, I think.”

Check Mate pushed on. “Well then. What we have done is establish your validity as a Royal Guardspony, in nobility of character and strength of will and body.” He smiled.

“Now then, will you share with us your special, but by no means your only talent?”

The crease in Ikebana’s brow didn’t soften, but the corners of his lips bent upward. “Heh, alright… I give. It’s floral arrangement.”

A cough came from the ranks and Ikebana’s head whipped around like a pit viper’s.

“Somepony got a problem with that?!”

“And about floral arrangement,” Check Mate said, retaking Ikebana’s attention. “That requires an intimate knowledge of all manner of plant species, does it not?”

“Yeah… I suppose it does,” Ikebana answered, waiting to see where Check Mate was going.

“Would that knowledge include edibility? Medicinal effects? Toxicity?”

“Oh definitely! For example, there are some awesome looking species of belladonna, but you wouldn’t want to take a bite out of one.” Ikebana’s expression brightened as the conversation moved into familiar and verdant territory.

“Such acumen would undoubtedly be invaluable in the field. Thank you for your candor, Ikebana. I am glad that we have you.”

Beneath his dark pelt, Ikebana’s cheeks reddened lightly, imperceptibly, but they reddened nevertheless. “Heh, uh, sure thing,” he said.

For the hour or so to follow, Check Mate worked through the ranks, having the guardsponies explain their abilities in turn. The activity proved to be informative for those ponies who gave it their full attention. Those ponies could be counted on one’s front hooves. The Staff Sergeant and Check Mate made their own mental lists of each pony's talents, categorizing each and considering potential combinations. Almost all of the other guardsponies noted those that preceded, but only briefly. There was the more pressing task at hoof of avoiding the stammers, sputters, slips, and slobbers concomitant with speaking when all other eyes were watching. Ponies like Crack Shot watched the clouds scudding across the sky and mused on how something as simple as a cough could set a pony off like a Roman candle. Still, this inattention was expected and of little concern to Check Mate; the ponies would be building familiarity with each other soon enough.

Eventually there were only three ponies left.

Most of the ponies didn’t think it would be necessary for Sergeant Cacopony to share his talent. They felt they had heard it all before, in a manner of speaking.

Nevertheless, Check Mate insisted.

“THROWING MY VOICE.”

“What, you mean like a javel— mmph?!” Corporal Kickstart was cut off, finding himself struggling against the tight coil of magic sealing his mouth shut. The Staff Sergeant nodded to Check Mate to continue.

“Er, um, yes,” Check Mate said, trying to ignore the sight of the flailing Kickstart and failing miserably. “So yours is a talent for ventriloquism?” he asked of Cacopony.

“NEGATIVE. NEVER REALLY WAS INTO PLAYING WITH DOLLS.”

“Hmm… well then, would you care to demonstrate?”

Sergeant Cacopony took a deep breath in and the rest of the guardsponies braced themselves.

“AFFIRMATIVE!”

The bark sounded like Cacopony’s; that much was unmistakable. But it didn’t sound like it came from his mouth. It thundered in from the periphery of the courtyard, like an echo that had decided to skip a step.

“Well, that’s… that’s actually rather remarkable,” said Check Mate, considering what he had just witnessed. “Such a feat is usually nothing more than a clever manipulation of the audience’s sensory perception, a modulation in intonation if you will. But there was something more than just a ruse in the case of your voice though, wasn’t there?”

“YEAH. I THREW IT.” Sergeant Cacopony didn’t get what had been wrong with his explanation the first time around. He took a moment to think about it.

“I MAKE SURE TO EXERCISE MY VOCAL CORDS,” he added helpfully.

Check Mate became keenly aware of the time sink this circuitous line of discussion threatened to funnel into, and chose to step away from the edge.

“Thank you, Sergeant, you’ve given us much to consider. That will be all for now.”

Cacopony gave a hard salute, and Check Mate turned to the penultimate pony of his survey. The Staff Sergeant released her magical grip on Corporal Kickstart’s snout.

“Ahh, jeez.” He massaged his jaw with a hoof. “Are you trying to choke a guy out or something?”

The Staff Sergeant’s horn flickered menacingly, and Kickstart’s mouth snapped shut of its own accord.

“Corporal Kickstart,” Check Mate began after the two had had their moment, “what ability of yours would you say distinguishes you?”

“Hmm, you mean besides my roguish charm…?”

Kickstart placed a hoof to his chin and gave the appearance of contemplation, before speaking once more and killing the illusion.

“I can fly.”

The pegasi of the Royal Guard gave the Corporal’s wings a good look. They looked over their shoulders and made a comparison. They waited for him to continue.

“Is… there more to it than that?” Check Mate asked.

“Hm. I can fly good. Well. I can fly well.”

“Err, right. Well then, as with Sergeant Cacopony, may I trouble you for a display?”

“No sweat, bud!” Kickstart grinned, flaring his wings and digging his hooves into the earth. “All you had to do was ask!” followed, but nopony heard it. The words were lost in a thunderclap as the Corporal launched himself skyward with a fierce kick and tremendous downstroke of his wings, trailing bits of courtyard turf from his hooves and leaving a pocket of vacuum for the air to scramble into in his wake. The Corporal darted overhead wildly, rolling into sharp, impossible turns, and tracing a chaotic latticework of gold and white across the sky with a fusillade of cracks.

In the scramble of thoughts struggling for regency at the display, between the big contenders like shock, amusement, and a bit of envy, the pragmatic part of Storm wondered how the Corporal could possibly be so unerringly late to everything. It was the sort of inveterate lateness one could set their watch to.

Finally, Kickstart began his descent, circling downwards in a lazy gyre that looked much more suited to his personality. Landing between the Staff Sergeant and Cacopony, he had to blink away the beads of perspiration rolling out from under his champron.

“Alright, uh… maybe a bit of sweat hehe…” he said after pausing to catch his breath.

“A most impressive display, Corporal,” Check Mate noted. “I’m surprised that with such celerity you hadn’t elected to join the Wonderbolts instead.”

“Those guys? Nah, no way. A group like that is way too disciplined,” Kickstart said without a hint of irony.

“…That’s… a point,” Check Mate conceded. The argument did have all the dimensions of one.

“In any case, let us continue. Staff Sergeant”—Check Mate found her observing him, her eyes impossible even for him to read. He swallowed his nervousness and soldiered on—“You are the last of us. If you would?”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” The Staff Sergeant stepped forward, her voice rising like an empire. “But first: each of you has had a taste of my training methodology on multiple occasions. More than enough to form an opinion of it. There is no doubt in my mind that many, most, if not all of you have found it difficult.”

There were a number of tentative nods.

“I am positive that many of you have come to see me as a slave driver.”

No nods, but plenty of guilty looks which were answer enough. The Staff Sergeant smirked in spite of herself.

“So then, let me ask each of you this: this methodology which has been difficult, exhausting, and aggravating; has it ever been impossible?”

To varying degrees the guardsponies shook their heads.

“And that is it.” The Staff Sergeant’s eyes swept over each soldier. They were strong, able-bodied ponies; she had seen to that. “I’m a perfectionist. I want to see each of you performing at your peak. Now then, Sergeant, please continue your instruction.” The Staff Sergeant returned command as easily as she had taken it.

“Yes, Ma’am. Very well then, everypony, from here we are going to separate into groups of three.”

Starting with the Staff Sergeant, Check Mate had the guardsponies begin counting off into triads; the ponies had lined up with close friends at the start of the day’s training, so unfamiliarity in the groupings was assured. This was where the real exercise would begin. A pastiche of proficiencies and personalities had been laid out: a fulsome heterogeneity hidden under the Guard’s misleading, coat-thin binary of slate and white.

Now it was time to put it all together; or rather, to have them put it all together. Check Mate wouldn’t do much for the groups at this point, and felt rather that it would be best if he allowed them the heuristics. Each pony knew their own abilities, and it would be to their benefit to see how they would work with others.

Check Mate joined the remaining pair, Sender and Peony (a unicorn with an actual talent for pyrotechnics, ironically enough), and began the tricky mathematical magic of trying to sum their talents to something greater than three.

High above the courtyard, Kickstart, Crack Shot, and a newer recruit by the name of Rosetta had spent the better part of the training period warming up by the Corporal’s definition. The Corporal’s definition of warming up was finding a large, downy cushion of cumulus and taking in the sun. The more enterprising soldier could choose to turn over every few minutes. Down below, the rest of the guardsponies were so preoccupied with their own tasks that none of them had noticed when the three of them had disappeared.

Single-minded focus was a wonderful thing when it happened to other ponies.

Crack Shot relished the opportunity to get off of his hooves, and Rosetta was too amused by the situation to comment on it; as the two senior officers chatted, she contented herself to listen. If orders were to kick back, well, she wasn’t about to complain.

“How’d you end up in the Guard, anyways?” Crack Shot asked, watching the ponies from over the edge of the cloud.

“What do ya mean?”

“Eh, I was thinkin’ about it after Check gave that pep talk to that flower power pony; we all got our reasons, so I was wonderin’ what yours were. Like to serve princess and country? Somethin’ to prove? The paycheck?”

“Hmm, I guess ya could say all of the above...” Kickstart rolled onto his back, staring into the blue. Silence filled the void in conversation, punctuated only by the intermittent shouts of Cacopony which seemed to trail ever upward.

“…Yeah, you could say that, though I suppose the biggest reason was because a friend did.”

“…Oh?” Rosetta spoke up. Something about the Corporal’s delivery seemed to ring with a note of wistfulness. “Did… something happen to him?”

“’Something happen’—do you mean like ‘fall on the field of battle’?” Kickstart chuckled and turned on his side to face the other two. “Well, there aren’t many of those, thank Celly and general good will. Nah, the Staff Sergeant as you know her is her same ol’ commandeerin’ self.”

Rosetta’s sense of the dramatic took a hit, and the mental portrait she was painting of the Corporal and his unplumbed depths had a hole kicked through it. However, if hope springs eternal, then imagination quickly bubbles to the surface.

“But to join just because she did… Was it because you hoped to keep her safe, out of harm’s way?” Rosetta asked hopefully.

“Pfft! Her?!” Kickstart lit up. “Ho-hohhh wow… You’ve met her, right? No way does she need somepony protecting her.”

“Yeah, I guess she does give that impression,” Crack Shot chimed in. “Is that why she outranks you?”

“Heh, you just put it right out there, don’t ya? Yeah, she’s always been a real take charge kinda pony.”

“Kinda makes you wonder why she’s still a Staff Sergeant though,” Crack Shot said.

“Hmm, you’d have to ask her, but I’ve got my hunches. For one, I think she likes havin’ a hoof in the training of the newbies, doesn’t trust anypony else to get it right. I doubt anypony’d question it though; she’d have that aura of command no matter what title you gave her.

“’Sides, ‘Staff Sergeant’ has just enough syllables in it that you don’t notice that it’s missin’ a name at the end. Plus, kinda like ‘Corporal Kickstart’, it just has somethin’ goin’ for it.”

Crack Shot and Rosetta shared a glance followed by a shrug: an unspoken agreement not to ask. The Staff Sergeant must’ve had her reasons. Instead Crack Shot said, “So now that I’m a Sergeant, does that mean you have to follow my orders?”

“You know, I suppose it does, technically. Good luck with that though, you’ve seen how much success the Staff Sergeant’s had.” Corporal Kickstart winked and rolled onto his back once more, deciding to go beyond the call of duty and attempt a nap.

“So, Rosetta." Crack Shot turned to smile at the mare. “What’s your trick again? Another flower pony?”

“Hehe, no, not at all, unless you count the dandelions that took over the lawn back home. I’m polyglot.”

“Is that contagious?”

Rosetta laughed. “It means I speak multiple languages. I’ve studied them ever since I was a filly.”

“Hey, that’s pretty dang cool! Ancay ouyay eakspay isthay?”

“Onay oblempray, though I’ve never actually seen a pig speak it. Or anything else for that matter.”

“Yeah, and I guess I can’t say I’ve ever actually seen a pig. In Manehattan most ponies didn’t really go for keepin’ pets much bigger than they were.”

Crack Shot looked back over the edge of the cloud and peered down into the courtyard where the rest of the guardsponies appeared to be falling back into formation.

“Heya, looks like they’re wrappin’ things up down there,” he said. Then remembering the third member of the group, he reiterated, “HEYA! LOOKS LIKE THEY’RE WRAPPIN’ THINGS UP DOWN THERE!”

“Huh—wha?” Corporal Kickstart started awake.

“I think everypony is finishing up for the day,” Rosetta explained. “Shall we go and join them?”

“Hmm, yeah… just a sec…“ Kickstart scanned the surface of the cloud in search of something the likes of which the others couldn’t guess. “A-ha!”

Kickstart scooped a thick swatch of nimbus into his hooves, and positioned it over the two other pegasi. Before they could ask what he was doing, he gave it a swift buck, startling them with the sudden downpour.

“Dude!”

“Hey!”

“Move over a sec.” Kickstart nudged Crack Shot to the side and took a spot under the rapidly dwindling drizzle.

“Aw man!” Crack Shot tried to shake off the excess water. “What gives?!”

“Appearances,” Kickstart explained. “We probably don’t want to fly down there looking like we’ve been sitting around on a cloud all day, eh?”

“That’s—huh. I guess that’s a pretty good point, isn’t it?” Rosetta said.

Perched on the edge of the cloud, Kickstart grinned behind a veneer of faux sweat. “Yeah, you don’t achieve and maintain the rank of Corporal all these years without a certain level of creative thinking.”

After the day’s training had ended, Check Mate, Crack Shot, and Storm Stunner entered a wing of the castle free from princely occupation, although it’d be more precise to say that Storm stumbled. Check Mate moved close to steady Storm when he teetered, and Crack Shot did the same when he tottered.

“Oof, maybe we oughta call you Storm Stagger after all.”

“What, exactly, transpired in the course of your training?” Check Mate spoke into his ear.

“Ugh. Cacopony had the idea of testing his vocal range and figured using me as a sounding board was a good way to do so. I flew up until I couldn’t hear him, and came down to find that I couldn’t hear anything else.”

“Ouch, dude.”

“I think we should find somewhere for you to recuperate for a period; I doubt these halls will want for our vigil, if only for a spell.”

Crack Shot’s eyes lit up. “Oh snap! I never woulda pegged you as suggesting playing hooky!”

“I’ve merely come to a decision based on a careful measure of risk versus reward,” Check Mate said smoothly. “But back to the point at hoof, we’ve time before this evening’s repast, so let us make the most of it.”

Storm allowed Check Mate and Crack Shot to take the lead, using the two as points of focus as they trotted through the castle halls. The three of them wound a serpentine path composed of marble stairways, corridors painted in cataracts of stained light, and a tortuous network of passages made effortless by familiarity. The three at last came to a stop atop an open-air skyway. The kingdom of Canterlot spread out beneath them, and beyond that the hills and plains stretched and disappeared into the distance. Some would have called it a dizzying sight, but Storm was reinvigorated by it.

The breeze of that afternoon had cooled as the sun began its descent, and the guardsponies relished the refreshment as they watched the day end. In that fleeting moment, as the western light filtered through the magic suffusing the Canterlot skies, the city transformed. The infinite colors that dominated during the day, the whites and violets and greens and blues, were each and all outclassed, homogenized by an albedo of red gold. For half an hour each day, the world caught on fire.

“My sister certainly knows how to put on a show, doesn’t she?”

The guardsponies started at the sound of a voice like nightfall. Observing the setting of the sun beside them, Princess Luna stood like a patch of starry sky. The three quickly knelt before her, to which she only laughed.

“There is no need for that. Come and watch my sister’s work; the sunset is one of her greatest masterpieces.”

“Are no soldiers accompanying you, Your Highness?” Check Mate saw no trace of a guard retinue on the skyway.

“Well, how fortunate then that I’ve found three here!” Luna smiled. “And what brings each of you up here?”

“Storm here got a heavy dose of Cacopony, boss,” Crack Shot explained. “We figured a bit of fresh air and what not would fix him up.”

Luna nodded. “Ah yes, that one is a boisterous fellow, isn’t he? It is no mean feat to get a full morning’s rest when he has something to say.”

“Did he wake you? If so, I apologize for the disturbance, Your Highness,” Check Mate said.

“Just Luna is fine, Check Mate, and it was neither a great vexation nor any fault of your own. Besides, it seemed that your friend Storm here got the worst of it.”

“You… saw all of that, Your—uh, Luna?” Storm asked.

“Well, once I was awakened I couldn’t help but investigate the source of the disturbances. You did well leading for being put on the spot, Check Mate.”

The unicorn rouged like a strawberry from behind his helmet.

“Although… some of you could have deigned to make more of the day,” Luna added coyly, watching Crack Shot out of the corner of her eye as he desperately tried to turn invisible. “Did you learn anything of interest during your exercise, Crack Shot?”

“Err, uh, that pigs can’t talk…?” he said, rubbing a hoof against his head guiltily. The princess only laughed once more.

“Do not worry; I’m only having a bit of sport with you. In fact, I find it auspicious that I’ve run across the three of you. There is a request I’ve been considering making.”

“No problem!” Crack Shot said quickly, ready to appear responsible after getting called out. “You name it, we’re up for it!”

“Umm… ‘up’ for it?” Luna cocked her head. “You must forgive me if I’m unfamiliar with this expression. Is it a new pegasus parlance, perhaps?”

“It means we’re down,” Crack Shot said matter-of-factly. Luna looked at Check Mate.

“What he means to say is that we would accede,” Check Mate explained.

“Oh! Well you should have just said so. Saying that, I am happy that you are all so willing, but perhaps I should explain what it is that I’d have you do before you decide.”

The guardsponies nodded.

“Well, since my return, I have had ample opportunity to take note of how much the world has changed in my thousand year absence. In trends, in idioms”—Luna gave Crack Shot a sidelong glance—“and even in the shape of the land itself, there is much that is unfamiliar to me, even this very castle. I cannot help but wonder what else has changed in lands beyond these; however, royal duty requires my presence here.

“This is where I would hope to request your aid.”

“…So, you want us to visit these areas instead?” Storm said.

“That is correct, and to perhaps make note of what you see, or even capture it using one of those newer styles of daguerreotype that seems to be so popular these days.”

“Alright, so we’re to visit new locales, write about them, maybe take a picture or two…” As Storm listed their duties, he admitted to himself that it sounded a lot like—

“A vacation?” Crack Shot put the pieces of the puzzle into place.

“Well, if you would think of it as such.” Luna smiled in a surreptitious way. “Consider my selection of you three for this task as my recognition of what you’ve done for this city. I can make no predictions of what you would encounter and what you would experience, but it may be just as well that I cannot; there is a joy to be found in exploration and discovery.

“Take some time in the next few days to come to a decision, and do not feel coerced if you find that you have no interest in the task. Understood?”

“Yes, Luna,” the three replied.

“Wonderful! Now, if you’ll pardon me, I must prepare for nightbreak; there is a new constellation that I hope to unveil, and I wish to make sure the details are just right. Oh, and Check Mate?”

“Yes, Luna?”

“Perhaps afterwards you’d indulge me in another game of chess?”

Check Mate smiled. “It would be my honor, Luna.”

“And mine as well. I wish each of you a pleasant evening.”

With that, Luna turned towards the main castle, moving across the skyway like a trail of stars.

“Man, I dunno what we need a few days for; this whole deal sounds wicked tight,” said Crack Shot. “How long did she say we’d be gone?”

“I do not believe she did, but an excursion of the sort that she is suggesting would no doubt be on the order weeks.”

“Right on, so a few weeks’ vacation, what are we waitin’ for?”

Storm thought about this but said nothing. As an offer it had a clear appeal: a chance to travel, to see new lands, and to put as much distance between himself and ponies like Blueblood and Cacopony as possible. Plus, the way it was pitched seemed to lend it a hint of danger. However, Check Mate had said weeks; weeks had a tricky habit of turning into months. Storm was glad to have a weekend to come to a decision, because there was a pony he wanted to talk to about it.

“Yeah, it sounds alright, guys. But I think I should ask Nomde about it first.”

“Ah, the old ball and chain.”

Storm gave Crack Shot the sort of glare that would make a windigo button up its sweater.

“Aww, relax, I’m just messin’ with you, dude; girl’s aces in my book.”

“Anyways,” Check Mate interjected, “the evening grows late, and we would best avail ourselves to our dinner before somepony else does.”

“I feel you there, Check. Feels like I’m walkin’ on four hollow legs.”

As his two friends moved towards the mess hall, Storm Stunner stayed behind a moment to watch the evening transition into night over Canterlot. He watched the tangerines of the sky darken into deep purples, and the long shadows and shades of the city join together to blanket everything in dusk. He watched the first firefly lamp light up, the second, and then quickly lost count. He watched the city bloom into its own imitation of the star-speckled sky above, and he tried to take it all in, to commit it to memory.

It was possible he wouldn’t have many other chances to do so for quite a while.

Chapter 5

Although he had no brothers or sisters, Storm Stunner had always wanted one growing up. Weekly, daily, and sometimes even hourly he would make it his habit to beg his parents to hurry up and start making the necessary calls to the storks, bees, birds, or whoever was in charge of little filly and colt production. Each time his father would then grin hugely with large, white teeth, ruffle his son’s mane, and tell him that one foal was more than plenty, and Storm, with the self-centeredness of youth, would always take it as a compliment.

But still, playing alone with his toys, bouncing balls to himself off of the walls, he would often imagine what it would be like. He’d dream up a little brother or sister who would play his favorite games with him, looking up to him and hanging on his every word, which effectively demonstrated just how little he knew about brotherhood. Now, waiting for breakfast with the other guardsponies in the living room of the main house, he was about to get a crash course.

It began with a filly’s shriek from upstairs, followed by Flip tearing down said stairs into the living room, Sprite a tail’s length away. Flip leapt from the stairs and over the banister, skidding into the front door with a thump when he landed on the doormat. He hastily scrambled to his hooves and darted past the sofa where Check Mate lay; the guardspony sat up and peered over the sofa’s back at the spectacle.

“Get back here, you brat!” Sprite screamed as she chased after Flip, whipping around the railing too quickly and righting herself as she stumbled. Airy soon came prancing down after, loving every moment of this.

Flip spotted Storm, who had been admiring a shelf of the foals’ crafts and was now watching all of this unfold with mute shock, and scrambled behind him. He wrapped himself around a hind leg and pointed a trembling, accusing hoof at his sister.

“Uh?” managed Storm, suddenly thrust from third party to participant.

“Arrest her!” Flip shouted. “I know my rights! She’s tryin’ to salt and batter me!”

“What?! I ain’t tryin’ to cook ya, but I am gonna tan ya!”

Sprite feinted to Storm’s left and Flip dodged to his right, and soon the chase was on once more, with Storm right in the center. There was probably some joke one could make, something about ‘the eye of the storm’ in there somewhere, but he would’ve been in no mood for it.

“Hey, uh, how about slowing it down there, guys?” said Storm. He then chuckled uneasily, killing any scant sense of authority this statement might’ve carried. He tried pressing into a wall to cut off their circuit, but didn’t expect that Flip would in turn try to leap onto his back to gain a height advantage. Luckily for Storm, the clamor did not go unnoticed.

“Y’all quit it and behave yourselves this instant!”

Allie stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her mouth set in a hard line. The foals froze in place and their ears flattened against their heads.

“Uh, do you mind?” said Storm to the colt pinning himself between his wings.

“Ah, heh, sorry ‘bout that.”

Flip dutifully hopped down, and Storm sighed in relief, retreating to his section of couch beside Check Mate, out of the line of fire.

“Sounds like everypony’s up!” Kettle yelled cheerfully from the kitchen. “Y’all want cheese in your grits?”

“Give us a minute!” Allie called back, before returning her attention to Sprite and Flip. “Now then, y’all should be gettin’ ready for school, not tearin’ up the house and treatin’ the guests like furniture, so what is the problem? Sprite, why are ya chasin’ your brother?”

Sprite scowled at Flip, her eyes puffy and red, and said, “It’s ‘cause of him that I can’t get ready for school.”

“Oh? And why is that, honey?” Allie asked, staring now at Flip who began to fidget sheepishly.

“Because he ate my homework!”

The guardsponies shared a look between them and silently agreed to say nothing.

Allie’s jaw went slack for a moment before snapping shut. “…He did what now?” she asked.

Sprite took a deep breath. “We’re gonna be talkin’ about plants in class today, and Miss Rye thought we should do somethin’ to contribute to the discussion, so she said that we oughta find somethin’ special to bring in, and I did, then he had to go and eat it!”

“It was just a clover!” Flip complained. “I can pick ya another one!”

“It was a four-leaf clover!”

“So?! I don’t see what the big deal is; it tasted just like a three-leaf one!”

“Mom!” screamed Sprite.

Allie sighed and then said, “Flip, you can’t just go and take other ponies’ property. It ain’t, ya know, proper. And”—she tilted her head towards Storm and the others—“I don’t think the Guard would think too highly of it.”

Storm caught the cue and said, “Uh, that’s right, yeah. It’s not proper at all.”

“Yeah, totes,” Crack Shot said. He scratched his chin in thought. “Unless you’ve got a warrant, or somethin’. Then, like, go nuts, I guess,” he added.

Allie nodded at the two of them, giving a brief smile before turning to her son. She watched, not saying anything. She instead waited to see what he would do, and if he would do it on his own, without any prompting on her part. Head lowered, Flip didn’t catch his mother’s small smile as he turned towards his eldest sister.

“Sorry for eatin’ yer homework,” he said. “If I’d known if it was that special, I woulda left it be.”

Sprite’s scowl softened but didn’t quite leave her. “…Fine. I accept, I guess. But I still don’t have anythin’ to present, and it ain’t like four-leaf clovers are sproutin’ up all over the place…”

Check Mate, who had said nothing up to this point, spoke up. “You say that your class will be having a discussion on flora? If you’ll allow me, I believe I have something that may be of aid in your present predicament.”

“…Really?”

“Well, perhaps. I shall just be a moment.”

Check Mate stood from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen. They heard him greet Kettle as he stepped outside, before shutting the door behind him.

“Who’s Flora?” asked Airy. “I thought y’all were gonna be talkin’ about plants.”

Sprite shook her head and said, “‘Flora’ is how you say ‘plants’ when you wanna be fancy.”

“Ohh.”

Within ten minutes, Check Mate reentered the living room with the Pandect of Plant Life Pabulums and Panaceas floating behind him. He levitated it before Sprite, who slowly sounded out the title, her brows knitting at the more unfamiliar words.

“Although I am afraid it is no plant, this compendium does a fine job of detailing them,” said Check Mate. “It is filled with information that I am certain your class would appreciate. It was lent to me by a friend, and, if it would be of use, I would like to lend it to you for the day.”

“Really?” Sprite scrutinized the cover. It was no lucky clover, that was certain, but as that had gotten eaten, it probably hadn’t been all that lucky anyways. She smiled at Check Mate and said, “Thank you, sir, that’s mighty kind of you.”

“Yes, thank you,” agreed Allie.

“It is my pleasure.”

“Now hurry on up and put that book in your bag nice and safe so that you’ll be ready to go after breakfast.” Allie gave Sprite a light nudge on her flank. “Your uncle sounds like he’ll have it ready soon.”

“Yes, mom.” Sprite’s horn began to glow, and the heavy book, somewhat unsteadily, lifted into the air. It wobbled and bobbed behind her as she trotted up the stairs.

“And you two as well,” she said to Flip and Airy. “Make sure y’all got everything you need packed away for your classes: pencils, paper, homework, and anything else I forgot to mention. Go on, giddyup!”

“Yes, Mom!” said Airy and Flip, echoing their sister as they followed her up the stairs. That morning’s crisis averted, Allie exhaled deeply and sat back into a barrel chair, sinking into the elderly cushioning. She laughed to herself.

“I apologize about that, y’all. They can be a hooffull sometimes.”

Crack Shot snorted and waved a hoof dismissively. “You don’t gotta keep apologizin’. Little brothers and sisters are supposed to be friggin’ crazy. I should know: I am one.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, smiling. “And Check Mate, I owe ya. That one takes her schoolin’ seriously, thank goodness, so I think you just saved her a whole lot of stress.”

“Oh, it was really no trouble at all; I was much the same way at her age. I am happy to assist in a pony’s edification in any way that I am able.”

“I appreciate that. And I’ll ask her to be extra careful with your book and to make sure it comes back with all of its pages.”

“Honestly, I am not too concerned about that. It is securely bound, and the pages can resist both wear and wetting. I believe it to have been fashioned as a vade mecum of sorts, and, as such, to be resilient against the forces of nature themselves.”

“Forces of nature, huh?” Allie leaned into an arm of her chair, smirking. “Including kids?” she asked.

Check Mate gave a small chuckle and an equally small shrug as he returned to the couch. “Well, let us hope so.”

Kettle stepped into the living room, a linen apron tied loosely over his chest. His paisley handkerchief poked out from beneath it, and looked to have caught any spills before the apron had had the chance. “I’ve got the grits keepin’ warm on the stove, though we don’t want ‘em to overcook,” he said. “Are the foals comin’ down?”

“They’ll be down in a minute. I just have ‘em gatherin’ their things for school,” Allie said.

“Duly noted, sis. So”—Kettle turned towards the guardsponies—“you fellas ever stumble across grits in the city?”

Crack Shot bit his lower lip. “Uh, yeah, if I’m not watchin’ my step, I guess. Never would’ve thought about eatin’ it, though.” After a moment of thought he added, “Do you, like, pick out the bigger rocks first or somethin’?”

“I think ya might be missin’ the ‘s’ on the end there, pardner. Anyways, I think you’ll like ‘em. At least, I hope you’ll like ‘em. They’re what’s for breakfast today, and we’re gonna be hittin’ the fields right after.”

The day’s harvest was no different than the last few days’, which were no different than that of the first evening on the farm, save for the length. Crack Shot and Check Mate worked with Kettle near the silos, gathering and husking that corn which was to be dried or ground into flour; Allie joined them upon her return from dropping off the foals. Storm, comfortable in handling the longer trips at a quick pace, chose to harvest at the far ends of the field. It was on this day that he found the hill.

It wasn’t much of a hill, really, and probably more of a mound. It sat beyond the rows of corn stalks, nestled behind other, larger rises. He would not have even noticed it if not for hint of a tree extending from the top of it. On a whim he neared it, and, as more of it revealed itself, he was surprised by flowers spreading from its base to its crest in clusters of violent blue. The nearby grasses were kept trimmed, and a path was cut through the flowers towards the top of the hill, where the small, yellowing tree stood.

He guessed it to be a young maple, or oak… or aspen, or cedar… he really didn’t know much about trees. Walking around it, he found what looked to be the number six etched into its surface, just above another longer set of characters: letters or numbers that he couldn’t quite make out. The carvings didn’t look fresh, but neither did they look old. He decided that they looked maintained. They were scored shallow enough into the dead bark to avoid causing harm, but deep enough to be distinct, dark lines. He pondered over them, before concluding they must have been for purposes of identification, and giving them no more thought. His eyes returned to the flowers.

He knew little about flowers and even less about these. Viewed from the top they looked like five-pointed stars with crowns of folded blue and white at their centers. They were the bluest flowers he had ever seen, and there were hundreds, maybe thousands of them.

He made a mental note to ask Check about them, to perhaps bring back a petal after the day’s work was done, for comparison with the unicorn’s guide book once he had gotten it back from Sprite. However, by the time lunchtime rolled around, he had gotten back into the mindset of the harvest, and had forgotten all about them.

Allie broke early to get lunch ready and called everypony over for an outdoor meal a half hour later. Perhaps it would’ve been amusing if the menu consisted of cream corn, popcorn, corn on the cob, corn muffins, and other corn derivatives. It didn’t. Although there were a few pieces of corn that she had brought with her inside to steam, there were also chickpeas, broccoli, berries, and a bowl of nuts from Hazel’s grove. Allie believed in her farm’s product, but she also believed in a balanced diet. She just wasn’t that corny.

“We’re makin’ great progress out there,” she said, tipping a glass towards Kettle and the guardsponies. “At the rate we’re goin’, I reckon we’ll have everythin’ picked and ready to ship in a week or two, tops. I’ll tell y’all, it’s a relief havin’ the extra hooves.”

“We’re glad to be of service,” said Check Mate, plucking a kernel from his cob with a bit of magic, “though I do have an inquiry regarding our methodology. It’s common to clear away stalks as harvesting progresses, is it not? Is there a reason to leave them standing as we are?”

“Heh, good eye,” said Kettle. “Yeah, that usually ain’t a bad way to go about it. Thing is, it’s become a bit of a tradition to leave ‘em up. Somethin’ for the younger ponies to enjoy.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. Y’all know the paths we got set up to get through the fields? By the time Nightmare Night rolls around, it’ll be somethin’ for the young’uns in town to explore. A maize maze, if you will.”

“Hey, that’s kinda cool,” said Crack Shot.

Kettle grinned. “They think so too. Since distances between all the farms ‘round here would turn trick or treatin’ into somethin’ of a marathon, this place becomes party central for the earlier part of the night.”

“And what about later in the night?” asked Storm.

“Later in the night, the foals are in bed, and the adults are at Pimento’s.”

“Some of the adults,” amended Allie. “The responsible ones are back at home, watching over the little ones.”

“Well heck, we can switch off this year if you feel like you’re missin’ out,” said Kettle, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“I’ll pass, thank you.” Allie popped a blueberry into her mouth, pursing her lips at its tartness. “So how about you boys? After the harvestin’s over and done with, will y’all be able to stay for the holiday, or will ya be needin’ to head off?”

“I don’t know. Would we have to wear costumes?” asked Storm, jokingly.

“Nah,” said Kettle. “Usually I just lend Allie here my scarf and we go as one another.”

“Could we wear costumes?” asked Crack Shot, sincerely. Berry juice had stained his outer lips blue.

Allie rubbed the side of her mouth unconsciously where Crack Shot had stained his. “Well, uh, if ya’d like. Ya might have to improvise or visit Hazel for materials, though.”

“Right on.” Crack Shot gave a satisfied nod. With the important matters discussed, he dove back into his lunch.

“What about you, Check? Any objections?” asked Storm.

Check Mate gave this some thought, taking in a deep breath through his nose as he did so. The air smelled of autumn; of leaves and spice and the hint of bonfires. The nights were chill, and soon the days would be as well. Still, they should be left with enough time to finish their travels before the skies turned bitter, he thought. If not, what would another few days matter?

He said, “…Yes, if the completion of our tasks here coincides with the holiday, I think it would be worthwhile to participate in its celebration. However, we shall want to depart soon after, I feel.”

“Guess that settles it,” said Storm. “We’d be happy to stay the few extra days.”

“And we’d be glad to have ya.” Allie smiled. “Though if I might make a suggestion, I bet it’d be a good idea to get your train tickets in advance. Ya might save a bit or two.”

“To be honest, I don’t think that’ll be a problem. We’re not going to be leaving by train.”

“Oh? Y’all got one of them castle carriages comin’ to pick ya up?” asked Kettle.

“No, I think we’re just going to, well, walk.”

The table was quiet for a spell, save for Crack Shot’s mastications and the susurrus of wind through the stalks, both of which provided a kind of white noise. Allie canted her head, giving Storm a sidelong glance.

“…Walk, huh?” she said.

“Yeeeeep,” said Storm, aware of how ridiculous the idea sounded as it left his mouth.

“Well, we’re kinda in the middle of nowhere out here, as I’m sure y’all have taken note of. Do y’all got a destination in mind?”

“Norph,” said Crack Shot between mouthfuls of hazelnuts, feeling the elimination of three out of four cardinal directions to be clarification enough.

“…I see,” said Allie, and see she did. Looking to the north, past her fields, she saw plains, turning into woods, turning into mountains. She saw sky and she saw distance. She saw that theirs was not a typical vacation, if that’s what it really was. Out loud she said, “I guess there’s somethin’ to be said for roughin’ it.”

After that, the ponies ate in relative silence, replenishing their stamina for the rest of the day’s work, out there in the middle of nowhere.

It is difficult to work the fields without, at the end of the day, also wearing the fields. When the sun began to set, turning the tracts of corn stalks into fields of shadow, the guardsponies, Kettle, and Allie parted ways to wash up before supper. Now, outside of the guesthouse, the chickens were crowing dolefully. This was because inside of the shower room, Crack Shot was also crowing, and they didn’t think he was doing a very good job of it. Storm and Check sat in over-starched chairs in the middle of this ill chorus, awaiting their turn to rinse off.

“So,” Storm said, “this isn’t a song I would’ve imagined him being familiar with.”

“You’re gonna be pop-u-lar~!”

“Erm, yes, well, he may have picked it up on an excursion to the theatre some weeks back,” Check Mate explained. “Although he was skeptical about it, I thought he might appreciate an exposure to the arts—”

“I’ll help you be pop-u-LAR~!”

“—and it would appear that I was correct in that assessment.”

“I see,” said Storm. His ear twitched as Crack Shot hit a particularly high note, presumably with something blunt and heavy. “I really hope the actors gave a better performance than he is right now.”

“Well, to be equitable, they’ve the experience. We wouldn’t wish to deprecate our friend, of course.”

A rooster threw itself against a window, screeching and scratching madly at the panes.

“No, we wouldn’t want to do that.”

They sat there quietly as Crack Shot trilled from the wreckage of one song into another unsuspecting melody. Check Mate stood up and walked towards the staircase, and Storm raised an eyebrow.

“Off to stick your head under a pillow?” he asked.

“Ha! No, the mention of theatre merely brought to mind a promise I need to keep,” Check Mate said. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He climbed the stairs and came back down a minute later with the smart stone in tow.

“A letter to Luna?” Storm asked.

“To my parents, actually.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Storm yawned and hung his head over the side of his chair, watching Check Mate from the corner of his eye. He hummed to himself tunelessly as his friend began writing across the stone. “Hmm, maybe I should give that thing a try,” he mused.

Check Mate blew across the slab, sending a salutation on its way through the aether. “I will admit to its convenience,” he said.

A reply arrived a couple of minutes later, and he added as he read, “Although Febre would insist that this convenience is one sided.”

Sigh. Yes?

Check Mate’s mouth curved into half of a smile at both the speed of the response, and at Febre’s committal in transcribing the sigh.

If you have time to spare, I will try not to take too much of it. I would like to write a letter for address outside of the castle.

That won’t be a problem as long as you provide that address; I had a bit of an issue with your friend a while back. Something with street numbers, if it’s no trouble?

But of course, Check Mate wrote, followed below by the address of his parents’ residence.

After a moment which Check Mate presumed was spent marking the address to paper, he received another response.

Well, that’s a fancy part of town, isn’t it? Decided to trade in the silver spoon for some golden armor? Although, thinking about it, I suppose you kept the silvertail. You may go right ahead; I’ve got my quill and paper ready.

Very well, then.

Dear Mother, Father—

I trust that this letter finds you well. Crack Shot, Storm Stunner, and I have begun the first leg of our travels, and so far all is well. We have arrived in an agricultural community known as Fiddler’s Plain, located to the north of Canterlot. I recall, Mother, that you requested that I be forthright with the good and the bad in my experiences, and I shall honor that promise; however, I am content to say that there has been little of the latter thus far. There is a natural beauty, here in Fiddler’s Plain. Do you remember our trip to the Metroponitan to see that exhibit of Hoofson River School landscape pieces?

Well, imagine being in one. Imagine that all around you, from every angle and every vantage is a scene worthy of the canvas, a scene which no canvas could hope to contain. A scene that moves and rustles in scented winds, a scene that comes alive with birdsong and cricket cries, a scene that shifts in tone, in color, in personality as the sun crosses the sky and the moon replaces it. Yes, there is a natural beauty, here in Fiddler’s Plain. The two of you would enjoy it.

Crack Shot and Storm are enjoying their time here as well. The former had his doubts about coming here, but I believe that they have since been allayed.

Check Mate’s ears perked as Crack Shot laid waste to another show tune. He continued writing.

Although, I believe he may miss the ready availability of the performing arts in the city.

That is all that I have to say at present, though I shall stay in touch. I wish the both of you well. Please give my regards to Pennyworth as well.

With love,

Check Mate

The volume of words evaporated into a green cloud as Check Mate blew them away. Minutes later, Febre sent confirmation that he had taken the letter, and Check Mate sent back this thanks.

“Say everything that you wanted to say?” asked Storm, sitting up properly.

“Indeed I did. I wrote to them of this place and my impressions of it. My hope is that perhaps it will stir a bit of wanderlust in them.”

“You never know. Hmm, well maybe you do.” Storm leaned forward with a smirk. “So, were you sure to tell them about the night scene at Pimento’s?”

“My aim is to persuade them to travel on a journey of discovery, Storm, not one of rescue.”

“Hehe, right, right. Say,” Storm pointed to the smart stone, “I think it’s about time I gave that shot. Would you mind?”

“By all means.” The stone and stylus floated towards Storm in the faint shimmer of Check Mate’s horn and alighted on the arm of his chair.

As Storm gave the items a closer look, there was the creaking sound of a knob from the other room, and the hiss of running water quieted. Crack Shot stepped into the living room, steaming and sopping and draped in an ineffectual towel.

“All yours, guys,” he said. “Who’s up next?”

“Go for it, Check,” said Storm as he waved the unicorn towards the shower room. “Okay, let’s see. Might as well start with hello.”

Storm bit into the stylus, wrote a simple greeting, and then mimicked the other two, blowing across the words as he would a birthday candle. Febre replied quickly.

This isn’t Check Mate, is it?

No, this is Storm Stunner.

I see. Your writing is worse.

“Engh,” Storm groaned around the stylus.

“Consider it a rite of passage, dude,” said Crack Shot, reading the reply as he tracked a small river across the living room towards Check’s abandoned seat.

Well, if I could have you suffer to read it, Storm wrote, would you mind taking another letter?

I can and I will, I suppose. Be sure to include all the details the postpony would ask for.

Storm wrote the address to Nomde’s apartment in the upper-left corner of the panel and placed the tip of the stylus below it. Then he paused. This letter wouldn’t be going to Nomde; it’d be going to Febre first. How awkward would it be to write what was in essence a love letter by proxy? He considered putting off the letter, or writing something neutral in tone. But…

…But, then, what was love if not choosing to ignore those little embarrassments? He began to compose his letter.

Hey there, Nomde:

I thought I’d write you a letter. Although, to be honest, as I sit here with pen in grasp, I realize I don’t really know what to write. I figure I’ll just keep on writing in the hope the words will come.

I guess I’m just used to our greetings being face to face, not hundreds of miles away, and I guess I’m used to not really having to think about it. I think I have a feel for our formula, though. By now in the conversation, you’d have said something teasing about my fretting over this, and I’d have made a sour face, then you’d have laughed and smiled softly and I’d have smiled too. And then it’d have gone from there, wouldn’t it?

The three of us are in a place called Fiddler’s Plain right now, currently working on a corn farm managed by one of the most interesting families I’ve ever met. We’ll be here for a couple more weeks or so, until Nightmare Night, and then we’ll be on our way.

Perhaps, after the three of us have finished our travels, you and I could go somewhere on our own little adventure? I don’t know, maybe; it’s just something I thought up just now.

Well, from reading above, it looks like some words did end up coming after all. I hope I’ll have the opportunity to read some of yours in the near future.

I look forward to what I’ll see while I’m gone, but I also look forward to whom I’ll see when I’m back. I love you.

-Storm

Storm breathed the words away and sat back, setting the smart stone on the arm of his chair. He sighed, and smiled, and wondered if he’d really be able to take any time off after they all got back. Probably not immediately, but that was alright. Life didn’t need to be rushed.

A flicker at the periphery of his vision drew his attention. He looked down at the stone.

Would you like me to add any XOs to the end of that?

Storm’s felt his cheeks warm.

Just send the dang letter, Febre, he wrote.

“So, what’cha writin’?” asked Crack Shot. The wide grin splitting his face said that he had a very good idea.

“Just a letter.” There was of course no point in evasion; Storm merely did it as a formality.

“To Nooooomde?”

Storm sighed. “Yes. To Nom—only one ‘o’, mind you—de.”

Crack Shot waggled his eyebrows. “So? What’d you write about?”

“I just wanted to let her know that she’s in my thoughts. Not whatever your eyebrows are trying to suggest.”

“Whatever you say, Romeo.” The sound of running water in the next room ceased. “Hey, sounds like Check’s finishing up in there.”

Check Mate exited the shower room and rejoined Storm and Crack Shot. Unlike the latter, he had taken care to dry off into his towel instead of the carpet.

“The shower is yours as you please, Storm. However—” He looked towards Crack Shot with a slight frown “—I must warn you that there was a dearth of hot water when I began mine.”

Storm groaned. “Ugh, really, Crack Shot?”

Crack Shot rubbed the back of his head guiltily. “Eheh, sorry ‘bout that. Guess I lost myself in the music. On the plus side, after writing that letter a cold shower would probably do you some good, eh?”

Check Mate’s eyebrows rose. “And just what letter was this?” he asked, as Storm trotted towards the shower room.

“Not whatever he’s trying to suggest,” said Storm before throwing the door closed behind him.

After supper, the guardsponies joined Kettle, Allie, and the foals to relax in the living area of the main house. In those few days they had spent living there, the guards had learned of another way rural life differed from the city. In the city, a family’s evening entertainment could be found in the form of plays, and cinema, and radio, and so on. Out here, where everything was an hour away or more, that entertainment came from each other.

After a bit of pleading, followed by a lot of pleading, Flip and Airy had been allowed to bring out their favorite board game, which traditionally guaranteed a scrap before the end of the evening. The premise of it was simple: acquire property, fleece one’s friends and family with exorbitant rent when they come to visit it, and leave them penniless and shamed at the foot of one’s gluttonous financial empire. The belief is that this will promote bonding and a good time to be had by all, although nopony knows quite how.

The board itself was dog eared and the rulebook long since misplaced; however, this was fine as the foals had devised their own set of rules anyways. Crack Shot was trying his best to pick them up as they went along.

“Wait—you can’t just move across half that board like that!” he said as Flip bypassed the one section of board where he still held any property. “Roll the dice!”

“Nuh-uh!” argued Flip. “I got two railroads, and the heck with all of it if I ain’t gonna ride between ‘em!”

“That ain’t how they work, little dude; they’re like the streets and avenues, kinda sorta. You don’t get a freakin’ movement bonus from ‘em!”

Flip stuck his nose in the air. “I am a busy pony with places to be,” he said. “I can’t waste my valuable time sluggin’ around in a thimble, just on account of some other ponies bein’ too thick to ride the rails and then figurin’ that others shouldn’t either.”

“Ugh, I need a glass of water. I’ll be back in a second.”

“Hold it!” said Airy as Crack Shot stood up.

“…What?”

“That’ll be fifty bits.”

“…What?”

“I own the Water Works. If y’all want a drink, y’all gotta pay. Now come on, fork it over!”

“What?! That’s not how the game works!”

“Airy, leave Crack Shot alone,” said Allie.

“Oh, I see how it is,” said Airy, crossing her hooves. “Pick on the hard-workin’ entrepreneur who’s just tryin’ to eke out a meager livin’.”

“Sorry, honey, but I gotta draw the line when you start starvin’ our guests.”

Airy harrumphed at this embargo and nodded grudgingly for Crack Shot to go ahead and get his drink. What was the point of having rules if ponies got to go around breaking them? Capitalism was dead.

While watching financial ruin fall upon his friend at the fiscal savvy of a pair of grade schoolers, Check Mate felt a tap on his side. He looked down to find Sprite with the Pandect of Plant Life beside her.

“Oh, hello,” he said, smiling. “I see you’ve brought my book back in one piece. Did it serve in place of your clover today?”

“Yes, it did. Thanks again, Check Mate, sir.”

“You are very welcome.”

It could have ended with that, but after a moment she said, “Have ya read all of it, sir?”

“Well, not as of yet. I’m still working my way through it.”

She looked down at her hooves. “Ah, I see…” She lifted the book towards him.

“Why do you ask? Perhaps it has caught your interest?”

“Um, maybe…”

Check Mate chuckled and set the book back beside her. “Then, how about this? I would like to read through the book and familiarize myself with its contents for it has information in it that I feel will prove important regarding the latter leg of my and my companions' journey.”

Sprite nodded glumly and was about to say something like, ‘I understand,’ but then Check Mate interrupted her.

“However, that does not mean I need read through it alone. So what of an arrangement? How about if, once you complete your assignments and chores for each day, we read sections of it together? Perhaps we could even compare the entries to any local flora you might find that have piqued your curiosity. Does that sound acceptable?”

Sprite’s face lit up, although she was very demure as she said, “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you.”

“Wonderful, I am happy to hear that.”

Allie smiled as she watched their conversation. It was the first time Sprite had really spoken to the guardsponies beyond simple pleasantries. It was nice to see her warming up to them.

“So ya said that a friend lent this to you, right?” asked Sprite, opening to a random passage in the book.

“That is correct.”

“Were they an earth pony?”

“No, another unicorn actually. Is there any reason you wish to know?”

Sprite nodded and gave a small smile. “No… not really.”

As Check Mate and Sprite began a section on deciduous trees, Flip and Airy were encountering the first stalemate of their young lives. The two of them had united against Crack Shot (another thing he insisted wasn’t in the rules), when, for whatever reason, he had become unbelievably lucky with his dice rolls. Between the two of them they had acquired nearly every piece of property on the board. Yet, that meant nothing when the only spaces Crack Shot was landing on were ‘Community Chest’s, ‘Free Parking’, his own two pieces of property, and ‘GO’.

“Aw, come on!” Flip shouted when Crack Shot landed on ‘GO’, again, collecting another two hundred bits.

They had run out of play money and had been forced into tallying their finances on a piece of scratch paper.

“Heh, what can I say? Lady Luck must have it bad for me,” said Crack Shot as he marked up his total.

Storm, who had been paying half of his attention to the game thus far, paused his conversation with Kettle.

He leaned towards Crack Shot and whispered, “Come on, give them a chance.”

“I gave them a chance and they took a chunk out of me, dude,” Crack Shot hissed back. “These kids are brutal!”

“Maybe, but you don’t want to be stuck in limbo the entire night, do you?”

Crack Shot thought about it.

“Eh, good point,” he said at last. “Might as well wrap it up, I guess. I can’t just forfeit though; I wonder what would be the fastest way to do it. Oh!”

When the dice came to him again, Crack Shot bounced them in the sole of his hoof, felt the weight of them, and then sent them rolling across the board. They landed in double fives.

“Just visiting jail again,” he said as he moved his piece safely past a cluster of overpriced housing developments, “they oughta know me by name by now, eh?”

Flip and Airy huffed. With doubles he had earned another roll; that was one rule they kept, though they were each individually considering revising it for players over the age of twelve. Crack Shot gathered the dice and, to the foals’ annoyance, once more rolled two fives. He moved his piece into the Free Parking space.

“Uh-oh, two doubles in a row! I sure wouldn’t want to get three and end up in jail!” he said in a theatrical manner that fooled nopony but the foals. He picked up the dice, kissed his hoof, and sent them tumbling. They landed in a hard ten, right next to the ‘Go to Jail’ marker, which just happened to be ten spaces away.

“Three doubles and I landed on the jail space?! Oh wow, what are the odds of that?!

Check Mate looked up from his book. “Actually, that’d be a rather interesting exercise in probability if one were to consider all possible—”

Crack Shot powered on. “Two jail sentences at once!” That must be like a life sentence or somethin’! Guess that means I lost and don’t have—er, get to play anymore!”

Flip and Airy blinked. They then cheered and bumped their hooves together. Though they hadn’t heard of that rule, they weren’t about to dispute a win.

“Wanna go another round?” asked Airy, gathering up the game pieces.

Crack Shot shook his head. “Heh, not tonight, kid. I need a break from all this relaxation.”

“It’s about time for you three to scoot up to bed, anyways,” said Allie, looking up at the wall clock. “Gather up your game and go brush your teeth; I’ll be up to read y’all a bedtime story in a bit.”

The foals did as they were told and marched upstairs, though not without some intense debate as to what this bedtime story should be. Allie yawned largely and slowly stood up.

“Whelp, I’m beat,” she said. “I’m gonna read ‘em their story and try not to hit the hay in the middle of it. How ‘bout you boys?”

“Piiiiii-mento’s?” suggested Kettle, lifting his eyebrows at the guardsponies.

Allie rolled her eyes and shook her head slowly. “You’re gonna knock twenty years off your life, brother of mine,” she said.

Kettle gasped in mock offense, putting a hoof against his chest. “Now what kind of stallion would I be if I didn’t drop by Pimento’s every now and then and let everypony know that I’m alive and kickin’? Imagine the heartbreak! Besides it’s… what day is it again—Thursday or Friday?”

“Friday,” said Allie.

“Fri-day,” repeated Kettle, stressing both syllables. “And you know what else starts with ‘fri’?”

“What starts with ‘fri,’ Ket?” sighed Allie, deciding to go along with it.

“’Fri-ends’ is what, Allie.”

“Pronounced like that too?”

“Tomayto-tomahto. Anyways, who would I be to not give ‘em a visit accordingly? Maybe on some other day of the week, but not Fri-day; it wouldn’t be right.”

“Actually, ya know, maybe it is Thursday.”

“And I am pretty thirsty. Pimento oughta be servin’ that spiced cider of his, and I reckon that’d hit the spot just fine.”

“Mm-hmm, whatever you say. I’m gonna go tuck in the foals. If you are headin’ out, have fun and promise to be safe out there.”

“Will do. Take care and sleep tight, sis.”

Allie waved to the others and went upstairs to attend to her foals. Kettle turned towards the guardsponies, his face lit with the self-satisfied smile of a master at work.

“So, what do y’all say? Care to join a fella for a drink, maybe some salt to wash it down with?”

Crack Shot nodded. “Heck yeah, the night is young! Carpe, uh, whatever the word for night is. Nightem.”

“Noctem,” corrected Check Mate, “and I believe that I shall abstain from carousing this evening. Thank you for the invitation, though; I appreciate the offer.”

“Fair enough,” said Kettle. “How about you, Storm?”

Storm looked out the window and found his reflection staring back at him. It was dotted by softened pinpricks of starlight. “You guys go on ahead; I’ll pass for tonight,” he said.

“Suit yerself.” Kettle opened the front door for Crack Shot, letting in a cool draft. “Shall we?”

“Sounds good, dude,” said Crack Shot as he stepped outside, followed by Kettle. “You don’t think Pim sold out of that bangin’ chili of his, do you?”

“I doubt that’ll be a problem,” said Kettle as he closed the door behind them.

“Off to bed then, Check?” Storm asked.

“Yes, after a bit of light reading, I think. And you?”

“I think I’ll go for a bit of a late-night flight.”

“Really? Is flying not perilous at this hour?”

“Nah, it’s not too bad. Just as long as you stay well above the trees and hills, or anything else you could smack into.”

“Mm, I see. Well, although I respect your sangfroid, I hope that you will be cautious. I shall leave some source of illumination for you to find your way back.”

“Yeah, I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”

Storm left the living room to Check and walked into the kitchen, where the aroma of the evening’s pumpkin casserole still hung in the air. He had considered asking Allie for the recipe, but figured he wouldn’t know what to do with it. He stepped out of the warmth of the kitchen and into the cooling night, fighting back a shiver as a gust of wind blew over him and through him.

“Nothing to do about that but get the blood pumping, I suppose,” he whispered to himself. He extended his wings, letting the night breeze run through his feathers and tease them about. Then, with a downward sweep, he took to the air.

Storm’s breath steamed and caught the moonlight as he climbed into the sky, higher and higher. Below, through one of the main house’s windows, the light of a paraffin lamp flickered and guttered, a dim, yellow star in competition with the thousands above. And those thousands of stars above; he felt like he could touch them if he only flew a little farther, that he could gather them up like shards of diamond and glass. Yet, as he rose, they kept their distance, remaining just out of his reach. Somewhere to the north was Luna’s new constellation, marked by a twinkling pair of red and blue points: a ruby and sapphire newly added to that field of gems. Perhaps they would guide them on their way. In the corner of his eye, a shooting star burned across the sky, a few miles away or hundreds, and burned into nothingness before he could think to make a wish.

How long had it been since he’d done this? Since he’d just flown for the sake of flying, without the purpose of getting somewhere? Easily weeks, possibly months, and certainly too long. He flew onward with no destination in mind but where the wind and his wings would take him.

As miles sped away unseen beneath him, he focused on clearing his head of all thoughts. Naturally, this filled his head with thoughts about how to go about clearing itself. Eventually, he gave up and focused instead on his breathing, not noticing as his mind went quiet. He breathed deeply, but he didn’t breathe hard. No, regardless of how strongly he beat his wings, or how high he flew, he never needed to breathe hard. Just slow, measured breaths would carry him as the thin, frigid air whipped past, stinging his eyes, numbing his ears, making him feel alive. He began to time himself intermittently, holding his breath for as long as he could, or until he got tired of counting the minutes.

Viewed from so far above, Fiddler’s Plain was a world of muted features, shadows blending and smearing together like watercolor, like a dream. Unlike the constellations formed of Canterlot’s streets at night, only a few lonely dots of luminescence punctuated the quiet landscape. One of them would be Pimento’s, though the others Storm could only guess at. Other farms, he thought, with the sudden realization that there was still much of this place that he hadn’t seen. He stole a glance back, making sure his own faint waypoint was still in view, that it hadn’t been extinguished by distance. After making sure of its position he returned his attention forward, whereupon he noticed a string of lights snaking its way through the darkness. He guessed it to be one of the EqueRail trains, possibly the one he and the others had ridden. He thought of diving towards it, of chasing after it to see where it would go, but didn’t trust his ability to find his way back if he did so. One after another, though with no particular meter, the scant lights of Fiddler’s Plain began to blink away as their owners went to bed, and he decided to make his way back.

Storm stepped carefully into the main house’s kitchen, mindful of Allie and the foals upstairs, and closed the door gently behind him. Check Mate was not in the living room, though he had left his field guide on the table in front of the sofa, perhaps for Sprite to look at in the morning. The paraffin lamp burned silently in his absence. Storm chose not to put it out just yet; it was light to write by, and he still had a journal entry to pen.

Upstairs in the guesthouse, Check Mate lay underneath his covers, breathing quietly; Storm took care not to disturb him as he retrieved his journal from the foot of his bed and snuck back downstairs and out the door. As he crossed the yard, thinking about the day and its entry, a thought struck him. He took flight once more, this time toward the area of field he had harvested earlier in the day. He wasn’t certain that he would find it, but after a few minutes’ search he caught sight of the… whatever kind of tree it was, and alighted on its hill. He reached down towards the navy silhouette of a flower and deftly plucked it by its stem, tasting a strange, bitter sweetness on his lips as he placed it into his bags. Then, satisfied in the security of its placement, he left the hill behind.

After bumbling through the indices of the Pandect of Plant Life, Storm finally found a description that matched the five-petalled flower lying beside him. According to the text, it was known as Gentiana verna, the Spring Gentian, and it was supposed to be very difficult to grow. Storm also learned that, according to one cheerful piece of folklore, death would come to whoever dared to pick it. He shrugged this off under the logic that death would come sooner or later regardless of which flowers one picked, though he resolved to give his teeth an extra good scrub that night, just in case. There was also mention of the risk of being struck by lightning if one brought the flower indoors, but what pegasus hadn’t gotten a good zap once or twice in their life—him in particular? He closed the field guide and placed the gentian back into a pocket of his bags.

His journal entry was a short one that spoke of siblings, flowers, and starlit skies, and it didn’t take him long to write. After gathering his writing implements, Storm put out the lamp and stepped outside as a rooster struck midnight. In the guesthouse bedroom, Check Mate dozed quietly in spite of this, although Storm made certain that his hooffalls were soft. After placing his things down, Storm took a seat at the edge of his bed. It was a nice bed. He presumed it’d be nicer than whatever they’d be making use of once they were on the next leg of their journey. But that was a worry for the future, and Storm’s present concern was sleep. He yawned, leaned back, and was asleep before his head had hit the pillow.