1
She plodded ever onward through the thick, soupy mud. Raindrops pounded mercilessly against her leather-bound body, seeping in through her layers of clothing and wetting her skin. She scowled to the world itself, feeling her coat matte up at spots. By the grace of the Goddess Epona, she’d had the foresight to seal her saddlebags with a protective spell upon waking up that morning.
She bucked up her hips, re-seating the crossbow on her back that had been slowly slipping off of her side. The brim of her flat-crowned hat drooped from the constant bombardment of rain, and she slapped the hat back onto her soaking head for the umpteenth time, nearly growling now.
It was definitely shaping up to be one of those days.
Off in the distance, she saw a town nestled closely to the edge of a great forest. The curtain of rain made any accurate observation impossible, but she thought it to be fair in size. Good, she thought, fair size means work.
“‘Lo!” she heard from behind. She turned, seeing a well-built stallion pulling a flat-bed wagon. Empty or not, she thought to herself, pulling in this muck is no easy feat.
“Yes?” Her voice came out in a low grumble, far too deep to be a mare’s. Too deep, really, to be natural. And so it wasn’t, for her throat and lungs had been singed in a long-ago housefire. The incessant coughing had stopped years ago, at least, but what was once a sweet, almost buttery voice was now nothing more than a husky note.
“Ya headed to yonder village? I can give ya a ride, if it does ya. Ain’t a good reason I see to be muckin’ yer boots, nawp.” The stallion’s own voice was a slew of accents. Must be a trader. Picks them up from all of the towns.
She cocked an eyebrow. “Could you? Your cart seems to be sinking, and were you to get stuck, I’d have to get out and help anyway.”
“Place’s a stone’s turn from here, lass. And the’ old gal’s faced more afoul n’ that,.” He patted the cart, smiling fondly. “But aye, if it gets stuck we’d both be pushin’. Still, a journey’s faster on wheels, as my pa used t’ say.”
The mare shrugged. “Your offer,” she said simply, climbing aboard.
* * *
The road, if it could even be called a road, led westward in a fairly straight line, but the way was far from without obstacles. Several times the stallion froze and uttered a silent prayer when he heard a strange noise off in the distance- and the forest was full of strange noises. After an hour or so, the two came to the outskirts of the village. A plume of black smoke was rising into the sky from one of the buildings.
“Well, there ‘tis, lass. I can take ya no further,” he said, stopping the cart. “Can’t go in meself til’ later, once the guards switch hands… they’re far from fond o’ me,” he said, suddenly breaking into a creaky laugh.
“I imagine a swindler such as yourself would have many enemies, tradesman,” the mare said as she stepped down. “You’ll not even join me for a drink in yon tavern?” She pointed to the source of the smoke - a stone chimney was puffing it out at regular intervals. Attached to the chimney was a long, two storey building made out of some dark wood. She could see the sign attached to an overhang, swinging in the hard wind. She’d hoped the storm would have let up by the time the village came, but in fact it had worsened. That tavern would more likely than not be her first (and only) stop of this dreary day.
“...Beats bein' cold an' lonely for a friend,” He shivered before giving her a curious glance. “Why're ya here, if ya don’t mind me askin’? No place for a break, if ya ask me. Town’s no picnic.”
“I wander from place to place,” she answered, walking ahead of him through the town gates. Indeed, the posted guards eyed her with mild caution, and him with nothing short of contempt. “Sometimes, I pick up an odd job every now and then.”
“Aye, a wanderer then…” the stallion said, not surprised in the least. Wanderers were the only sorts who ever braved the storms like that.
2
The tavern itself was a large, ramshackle building from the outside. By the mare’s estimate, it was at least a century old, if not more so. From the inside however, the place was a warm and cozy one. The dozens of of ponies inside barely seemed to notice her and the stallion as they walked inside, the place too noisy and too alive to be bothered with this mysterious mare and her troubles.
She sat herself at the bar, unstrapping her trusty old crossbow from her back and placing it at the foot of the stool.
“What’ll ya be having?” the bartender asked, his back turned to her as he picked out a glass for another customer he was already serving.
She opened with the same question she asked every ‘tender: “How many griffons pass by here, usually?”
“Wouldn’t know. I don’t serve their kind,” he said. He turned around before the mare could ask why. Three long scars covered his left eye, which was covered over permanently with scar tissue. It was unmistakably the work of a griffon.
“A shame,” she merely said. There’d be no salted beef for her to chew on in this town, and that was a bigger shame. Any place that didn’t serve a griffon wouldn’t dare to stock meat. “Whatever’s edible, then. And a… you wouldn’t have apple-beer, would you? I saw no apple trees when I approached.”
At this, the bartender smiled- a strange sight, given the coldness of his eyes, but somewhat reassuring regardless.
“We import our apples from Appleloosa itself,” he said proudly. Before she even had a chance to request a glass, he turned to the taps and started pouring one. The mare’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the sight of the liquid. Her father had told her that the less cloudy the apple-beer, the better the taste. And the drink in front of her was so clear she could see straight through the glass.
“Two bits, if you’re interested.” He placed the mug before her, watching her dig into her reddish saddlebags.
“Keep a tally,” she said, pushing a pair of coins to him and pulling the drink to her. “I’ll be here awhile yet.”
* * *
The mare swayed gently in her seat, and she felt a low buzz in the far back of her mind. Apple-beer wasn’t particularly strong, as drinks went, but she’d indulged herself in quite a few glasses of the drink. The tavern had taken on a warm, soft edge, and the singing had grown louder, more erratic as an hour or two had passed by. It was a place she could grow to like, and began to wonder why the tradesman (who had left up the stairs with a giggling, bubbly mare in tow) tried to turn her off of the town when a new pony entered.
He dragged himself up to the bar next to the mare, slapping down what looked to be nothing more than a piece of cloth. The ‘tender eyed it, nodding as if understanding. “Dammit, looks like he claimed another one…” The ‘tender merely shook his head at the sight.
“Found him when...” the stallion began, tears already forming in his eyes, “when I went scouting. Was hoping maybe this’d be the one to do it. Nawp. The Gray Wolf lives on yet.” He took the mare’s mug, downed it in one shot, and left.
“Third time this week. Bounty’ll go up again…” The ‘tender sighed before placing another mark on the tally board nearby.
“Bounty…?” The mare’s ears perked forward, almost excitedly. That was a job she could do. “I see no bounty board nor poster. What bounty, ‘tender? Tell me.”
“There’s a wolf in the forests nearby. Tall as a stallion, and with fangs like daggers. Sent no less than nineteen hunters after the beast, and every one of them failed. Some folks reckon it’s a werewolf, even… why? You think you can take it down? It’d be worth… oh, five hundred bits if you manage it.”
“Ain’t a pony alive can take that beast!” a voice shouted. Up to Aria sauntered, or more accurately, staggered another muscle-bound Earth Pony. They sure build them big here, don’t they? she thought to herself, moving the crossbow at her feet a little closer to herself.
His face was grizzled with a scraggly beard, his mane wild and flowing. His eyes were bloodshot from the apparent gallons he had downed tonight; the scent of whiskey was strong as it poured out of his mouth. “Ain’t a pony alive can take that beast!” he repeated, as if the patrons hadn’t heard him the first time. “Especially not no little mare what belongs in front of the stove.”
“If she can pay the fee, she can go after the beast, Stonewall. You know that,” the ‘tender said, unimpressed. “The way you go on about it, you’d think you were planning to try your luck yourself.”
Stonewall stared cross eyed at the little mare with the big crossbow. “I got myself another beast she can tame, right down here!” He swung a hoof up, slapping her on the ass. Before he knew it, his face was smashed against the bar, his nose and mouth both bleeding freely.
“What’cha do that for!?” he roared, reeling and stumbling backwards away from her. Mares weren’t supposed to hit stallions! It’s always been the other way around, from time out of mind!
“Take it outside,” the ‘tender said simply, before turning to the mare. “Oh, and it’s twenty-five bits to go after the hound. If you don’t pay and somehow manage to kill it, you don’t get a piece at all. Interested?”
She watched the burly stallion slink out of the bar, making sure he didn’t try anything more before turning back to the ‘tender. “You say it’s possibly a werewolf? A pony that can turn into a beast?”
“That’s what they say… though those things tend to keep to their packs, and they never come this far west, either… could be rabid, even. But aye, I’d say it’s a Lycan. Regular wolves don’t reach that size.”
She grunted. “Suppose not too many of the hunters believed it was a Were?” Not that she had any trouble believing it. She’d taken down a few in her travels.
“Not many thought it was a challenge, either. If you’re planning on using that crossbow of yours, don’t. It’s too fast to let you notch a second bolt, and you’d have to be a damn good shot to bring it down in one. Oh, and it’s a crafty one too. Avoids any traps they tried setting up, even ignores the lures. No mere wolf would resist a slab of rare meat like that, that’s why I’m certain it’s a werewolf.”
“One shot’s all I’ll need,” she said smoothly, downing her apple-beer and gesturing for another. “Who’s the resident Smithy around here? I’ll need something special crafted.”
“You just busted his face,” the ‘tender said with a smirk, “good luck finding help there.”
“Then you’ll talk to him for me,” she said. “He’ll listen to you.”
“He’ll listen to money, if you have enough. He might ask for a bit more than he normally would, mind you, and his prices weren’t exactly fair to begin with, either… but he’s the only smith in town worth trusting. The only other one is Damascus, and he’s a crazy old bat who thinks he can ‘talk’ to his weapons… wouldn’t waste your time with that one, even if he is practically giving them away…”
She smiled at that. Many were the nights she talked to her crossbow, the only company she’d kept for years upon years. But something in the back of her mind told her that Stonewall was the one to see, that there was no choice in the matter. Maybe she’d come back and visit this Damascus after the job. “Fine. I’ll see if he’s feeling better on the morrow. How much for a room?”
“Five bits a night,” the bartender said casually as he polished a shotglass. “Oh, and don’t worry about Stonewall. I’ll make sure he’ll have an apology for you by the morning- nobody insults my customers, new or old.”
“And twenty-five, you said, to be recognized?”
“Aye.”
She slid the bits to him. He took them, counting them out before pouring them into a nearby chest and grabbing a leather-bound book. He placed it before her and opened it, flipping through the pages until he found one with some room left. She saw names as the pages turned, all of them with strikes. Her page was nearly empty, save for three names, including one which the ‘tender now slashed:
Longshot
‘Knives’
Rock Heart
“What’s the name I’m putting here?” the ‘tender asked, getting his pen ready.
She said, “Aria.”
3
Aria tapped her hoof, waiting impatiently for Stonewall the Blacksmith to meet her at his forge. He seemed to be very slow, most likely due to yesterday’s scuffle in the bar.
Her eyes sagged, for her sleep during the night was restless and broken. She’d heard an unnatural howl throughout the night, knowing it was her target, and that noise had kept waking her up. Finally she decided to not even bother trying to sleep. But to go out before she was ready was a quick way to get herself killed. Tonight would be the night.
She leaned against a beam of the shop’s lean-to, resting one foreleg on the butt of her crossbow. She was humming to herself, an old tune that her mother had given her, when the Smithy finally appeared. He glared hatefully at her, but bits were bits, and he’d never turned down a job before.
“So what is it that you’re after? That crossbow hardly seems like it needs a tuneup…” Stonewall said, walking towards his anvil.
“A bolt head.” She reached into her saddlebag, pulling out a small purse and dumping several silver coins onto his workbench. He eyed the coins greedily - bits were common enough, but silver! He’d be so rich he could-
“Don’t even think about it,” she said coldly, as if reading his mind. “Smelt these and make me a bolt head.”
“Fine. But once you’re done with the beast- assuming it isn’t done with you first- you grab whatever you can of this bolt and bring it back here. That’ll be my fee. Do we have an agreement?”
“Yes. Yes, I think we do.”
* * *
Even a blacksmith as unpleasant as Stonewall made for a fascinating sight once he had started work on the bolt head. He became an artist at the canvas, a sculptor with precious metal as his clay. He said not a word as he worked, sweat trickling from his brow as he obsessed over the task at hand. After an hour he stopped at last, sighing heavily.
“If this can’t bring him down, nothing can. One’s all I could make, though.” She understood the underlying implication of that. One shot’s all I get. Fine. It’s all I need. “Oh, and before you go…” he went to the back of his workshop and returned with a small wooden box. Aria took it, and saw it contained a small silver knife.
“To make up for last night,” he muttered abashedly, hanging his rather large head. “It’s only coated with silver, so don’t go getting it scratched or it’ll be worthless against that thing, if the werewolf thing is true.”
“I accept.” She stowed it in her bag, then whipped around quick as a flash, putting her hoof against his thick neck and cutting off his air. Both ponies were impressed by each other; he by how strong she apparently was, in order to cut off his wind. And her by the thickness of his body. She almost wanted to enjoy it, in fact. Mayhap when this was all over, they could work out some sort of other deal. “And you should stop with your games. The mare after me may not be so nice.”
“... Aye,” he said quietly as she took her leave of the place.
4
“Got whatcha needed?” the ‘tender asked, pouring Aria a new day’s glass of the smooth apple-beer. She was quickly becoming his favorite customer with the tab she was running up. He’d make sure she’d pay it before she went out hunting.
“There’s a hunting party about to head out after it, if you’re interested. Though something tells me you prefer to work alone?” The ‘tender chuckled softly.
“They’ll just get in my way,” she said, swishing her glass. “I’ve fought Weres before. This one’ll be no different.”
“It’s strange, they’re not normally aggressive to ponies, unless they’ve lost their minds entirely… guess they must have been weak willed, whoever they were… oh, my father used to study them. That’s why I know a fair bit about the creatures,” he said before Aria could even ask.
She downed her mug, threw her head back, and laughed. It rang throughout the tavern. Ponies around her looked her way, their expressions confused or worried. Only crazy ponies laughed randomly.
“Would you believe an entire colony of the things asked me to take out their exile?” she asked, coming off of her fit.
“Oh? What had they done, to earn their exile?” The ‘tender leaned forward a little. These were the sort of stories he could listen to all day, the ones that made his otherwise monotonous job a pleasure.
“It turned cannibal and ate one of their colts… cubs… whatever the hell you call their children. They did not like that. It just so happened I blew into their little… it wasn’t even a village. They eyed me weirdly, and I knew something was off about that place. Was I ever in for a surprise when nightfall came… most were still sentient, believe it or not. But they locked me in a room all the same. A sentient beast is still a beast, and hungers for flesh. Just not their own… usually.”
For a moment, the ‘tender looked her carefully in the eye.
“You know, the grocer occasionally deals with those blasted catbirds, if you’re looking for some… ‘special’ flavours,” he said in a whisper. “I can recognize that look anywhere. I had figured you were from the Griffon Lands, or somewhere like that. Can spot a meat eater a mile off,” he said with almost a strange sense of pride.
She gave him a sharp, humorous grin. “Guilty as charged. The idea repulsed me, at first. But when you’re trapped in woods in the dead of winter with not a plant around, you get desperate. I nearly vomited my first meal. Now? Nothing tastes better than a strip of salted meat.”
The ‘tender merely shrugged, still smiling slightly “Wouldn’t know, myself. There’s food enough in this town, though if that damned monster doesn’t stop soon we might start losing traders willing to visit the place. You planning on hunting the beast tonight?”
“The sooner the better,” she said, sprinkling some of her dwindling tobacco onto a paper-like leaf. She was halfway into rolling it before she stopped, looking between it and the ‘tender. “May I, in here?”
“Sure. Might as well enjoy yourself while you can, this thing could be the the end of you for all I know.”
“Yar,” she said in agreement. The ‘tender started at that - it was a form of ‘yes’ he hadn’t heard in almost a decade, except from that nutty bat at the edge of town. “Do you know how far into the woods the beast operates? Or should I go out now and scout?”
“He likes to lure em’ in as far as he can. Odds are he’ll see you before you see him.” The ‘tender picked another glass off the shelf and started scrutinizing it for the slightest sign of dust, “and he’ll make sure you follow, too. Be careful out there, he’s a smart one.”
“Just have a bath and a bed ready.” She smiled, almost to herself, as she lit the smoke. “I’ll need both when I get back tonight.”
5
She trotted into the woods while the sun was still in the sky, though the very tip of the brilliant orb set just below the horizon of the pines. Aria estimated she had about an hour’s worth of light left before night fell, and the Gray Wolf emerged.
It would have to be enough.
She was able to follow a dusty path partly into the woods, though it didn’t breach very far. She judged a quarter-mile, at the most. She eyed the trees around her, looking for any tactical advantage they could provide. Her hopes were dashed as soon as she saw the trunks - they were smooth, stripped of bark, and appeared to be tagged for harvest. The nearest branch on each tree was a good three feet taller than she could possibly reach, rendering them impossible to climb without gear.
She huffed and continued on, her feet leaving the dirt path for a perpetual bed of pine needles fallen from the trees. Her long duster stirred the bed, leaving the needles in a path of disarray behind her every careful step. The sun sank lower and lower, leaving her with only forty-five minutes to come up with some sort of plan.
Planning’s good for balls, not war, her old instructor had once said. She smiled, losing herself for a moment as her mind flung itself backwards through the ebb and flow of time. He was as ornery a pony as they came, and she survived this long only because of him. Plans meant absolutely zilch when things went to hell in a handbasket, or so he had taught. Outline, fill in the gaps as needed. Plan on the fly, in other words.
If it was going to be a straight-up fight on level terrain, she’d lose and she knew it. This was the Were’s territory, not hers. Trees would provide no high ground. A cave, then. Yes, a cave would do nicely, if she could trap the beast in there somehow. She glanced westward, noting the sun was halfway beneath the horizon. The sky above was slowly turning into twilight; night would soon follow.
As the curtain of stars pulled itself across the once- blue sky, Aria waited inside the cave she had chosen. The small campfire hissed, crackled and sparked gently, and as she closed her eyes she tried to picture her opponent. She had fought such monsters before, but it was never quite the same way twice. Most were aggressive, mindless even. Those were the easy ones. But there had been one she always tried to block out, whenever she remembered such things.
He had been a small thing, but no less vicious for it. Her employer had handed her no less than seven silver-tipped bolts to bring him down, but in the end she had needed only two. She allowed herself to remember it’s reaction upon the first shot sinking into it’s hide. It’s sudden look of fear, the whine before it turned tail and fled… by the time she had found it again it was cornered in a cave not unlike the one she sat in now, scared for it’s life. But a job was a job, and it had attacked several villagers.
It was only when the beast changed back- as all Weres did on dying- that she realized exactly what she had killed. She didn’t even return to her employer for her money, such was her disgust. Had she done so, she might even have put a bolt in him as well…
After a few hours, it became apparent the wolf wasn’t going to play this game on her terms. Sighing, she ate the last of the salted pork she had bought from the village and headed out, her eyes having little trouble adjusting to the moon’s pale light as she scoured the surrounding lands for a sign of the animal.
When at last she came across the first signs of the beast, however, she paused. The paw prints were too obvious, the long streak of blood too convenient. The remains of the hunting party from the morning, no doubt, she thought to herself.
But this was more than a trail- it was an invitation, and the notion almost excited her. She had not encountered a Were with this cunning in a good many moons. Rather than simply follow the trail outright, however, she walked parallel to it, putting as much distance between the blood marks and herself as possible while still being able to follow it.
I hope this mangy thing works… she thought to herself as she took the wolf’s pelt she had bought from the old stallion back at the village and wrapped it around her shoulders. With any luck, the Gray Wolf would pick up it’s scent instead of hers.
Her ears perked up at the sudden snapping of twigs in the distance. After a few terrible moments, she heard a rustling in the bushes nearby. She closed her eyes, trying to regain her control over the situation. The beast couldn’t be that careless, could it? After all, no wolf that could bring down nineteen bounty hunters could be that clumsy…
Unless it’s a double bluff. Make me think it’s something else, and then… she felt a bead of sweat trickle down her face. She had yet to look the wretched creature in the eyes and already her heart beat quickly, the world felt as though it was spinning ever so slightly. This was going to be a night to remember, though this part she would gladly forget.
A pulse beat at the deepest recesses of her mind, but she forced it back for now. When the beast showed itself, she would indulge in her battle-fever, that red veil of pure instinct which led her to a hundred or more victories. But not now. Now, she needed all of her faculties, and a vantage point. She became highly aware of her vulnerability as she slowly, slowly unsheathed her ancient crossbow and nocked the silver-tipped bolt into its rightful place. She winced at the click of the bolt meeting the string; the sound echoed outward, seemingly amplified by both the trees and the still night air.
For a moment, the forest around her seemed to become perfectly quiet. To a less experienced hunter, the silence would have been comforting, reassuring even. But Aria knew that the forest never fell silent without cause. She felt a chill run down her spine as she turned towards the beast. It had not even bothered to growl, such was it’s confidence.
The Gray Wolf was an impressive creature, to be certain. A tall, almost majestic figure of dark gray, the only part of the creature she could easily make out in the jet black of the forest was it’s eyes, shimmering, impassive and yellow. It merely stood it’s ground, a statue, unmoving and unmovable.
Your move, it seemed to say with the gesture.
That red veil covered her eyes as she fell back on her haunches, bringing the crossbow to bear. Before she could even hope to sight the beast, let alone fire off that special bolt, he was on her, knocking her weapon away. She tried to roll, but its claws caught the end of her duster, making her fall to her side with a grunt.
The beast turned, circling her as she quickly drew the small knife she had been given before. It glinted in the moonlight, a clear warning to the wolf. She groaned in frustration- had he only stayed within her distance for a moment she could have slit his throat and been done with it. After a moment, the wolf rushed her, ducking under the knife and bowling her over with his sheer force, the blow causing her to gasp as the knife fell from her teeth.
It turned and charged again. She staggered on her feet, groping for anything to use against it even temporarily. Her hoof met a stone - she picked it up and flung it into the snarling beast’s mouth. It choked and gasped, clawing at its throat to dislodge the obstruction.
In that brief moment of respite, she dove for her crossbow. The Gray Wolf was on top of her in a moment, hacking and sputtering and thrusting its muzzle in an effort to bite her. She swung the butt of the crossbow into its snout, hearing the savage snap of breaking bones. She spun the weapon around, aiming between the eyes of the beast. There was only a sharp twang! as the crossbow dry-fired, the bolt having loosened from her previous impact. She swore loudly, throwing her trusty weapon at the beast to distract it long enough to find the special bolt. She padded the ground, almost seeming to dance as she groped and groped until…
There! The moonlight glinted off of the silver head. She rolled over to it, but now the beast was done toying with her. He pinned her to her back, his savage mouth throwing spit everywhere and eyes wild with fury. She squirmed against him, trying to free the foreleg holding the bolt, but he easily overpowered her.
One chance. Her mind was cold in spite of her racing heart and trembling body. If I screw up, I might as well impale myself with this… She ducked her head from side to side as the Gray Wolf thrust his muzzle forward, reaching for her neck. Finally she saw her opportunity, set her head back, and shoved it as hard as she could into his, praying silently that his teeth not rake her flesh lest the curse be put on her, as well.
The blow was just enough to free her foreleg. She wrapped her hoof around the bolt and thrust it with all her might into the beast’s neck. Its howl was deafening, amplified by the forest and broken by sputters. It staggered back on its hind legs, clawing at the foreign object jutting out of its neck. A massive paw swiped the bolt’s shaft clean from the head, only making sure that the silver wouldn’t come out.
It staggered backwards a few more feet before falling to its back, its howls transforming into screams of a pony. It was a ritual Aria had seen many times before, but it was no less fascinating now than when she had killed her first Were.
“N-nice shot,” the pony said as he coughed, blood trickling from his mouth as he writhed in pain “And thanks… for bring the silver back to me. Tell me… was I weak? To give in like I… did…?”
This was the part she hated the most - the fighting was done, the battle-fever retreated, and she felt sick to her stomach. And they almost always talked afterwards. Why can’t they just die immediately? “A stallion who can craft his own death is not weak, Stonewall.”
“Aye,” he managed a weak smile, “but a mare who can craft her own life is stronger,” he mused before falling still.
6
“I coulda toldjer it was him, hee!”
Aria was dragging the corpse of Stonewall back into town when the voice called out to her. Her ears twitched - the townsponies should’ve been in hiding until either her return, or sunrise.
“Nay, dun’ listen to ol’ Damascus, though! He be loopy in the head! An’ jealous! Claimin’ the other Smithy be the beast so he gets all the work! Laugh at ol’ Damascus, will ye!? Who’s laughin’ now, yar!”
Aria looked up, seeing a Fulake hover up to her. His tufted ears were fluffed with long age, and one fang had been chipped long ago, leaving only a stub on the left side of his mouth. He tongued the stub, and spat in the rode by the dead Blacksmith’s head.
“Coulda toldjer!” he repeated, looking between Aria and Stonewall. “But nay, the ol’ bat’s a jealous one! ‘Dams’, they say, for they call me such, ‘yer jus’ mad he gets more bidness ‘n ya’! Nawp! Saw him many and many-a with my own slitted eyes, I did!”
Aria smirked. “Would it have mattered? To kill the Smithy would be murder, even if he were the Gray Wolf.”
“Yar, ya speak true,” Damascus replied, nodding as though he were a sage. “No matter, you’ll have yer reward soon enough and spend not a piece of it on me when ya come see me on the morrow!”
“Oh?” Aria raised an amused eyebrow at that. “And who says I would?”
“I do, o’course! Damascus the Blacksmith!”
“Yar, I suppose I must accept such a calling.”
The old bat blinked at that. “Did’ee just…?”
Aria flashed a toothy grin, saying it again. “Yar, I did.”
Damascus caught his breath, gaping at her. “Do ya mock me, mare!? Where do ya hail from, and say true!”
“Where else?” Aria gave the old bat a half-shrug. “I come from Canterlot that was. Now no more than rubble.”
7
Aria hummed her mother’s tune as she trekked on the ancient, dusty path once again. Her saddlebags were heavy from her bounty’s payment. The town mourned their lost Blacksmith, but relished in the knowledge that the Gray Wolf was gone. They were setting his body ablaze as she sat and talked with Damascus that morning, and by the time he let her go, the sun was high in the sky and beating down on her. Her bags were filled with more than bits, however; she’d gotten plenty of food and water.
Now, as she strolled North once again, a familiar voice hailed her.
“‘Lo!” it called. She turned, not surprised to see the tradespony who had wheeled her into the town in the first place.
“Hail,” she responded, stopping so he could catch up.
“Goddess I hope not, I like sunny days!” He chuckled at his own joke - she merely rolled her eyes. “Can I give ya a lift, lass?”
She looked ahead, seeing nothing at all but a dirt road stretching beyond the horizon. To be perfectly honest, her legs were still killing her, and even that rickety old flatbed was looking comfortable. Mayhap she could even sleep for a change.
“Yar,” she said, climbing aboard. The word meant nothing to the tradesman.
“So, where are ya’ headin'?” he asked cheerfully as the grey sky finally parted for the briefest of moments.
She stretched and got comfortable on a piece of unfurled leather, tipping her flat-crowned hat over her eyes.
“Wherever this road takes me.”
Author's Note
Artimae: Tower Junkies will immediately recognize the writing used in this.
This story was some parts me indulging in my obsession with the Dark Tower, and some parts having Aria on the back burner and wanting to get her out. She's a beast-hunter, and she's hunted many of them. Werewolves, Vampires, et cetera. You name it, she's killed it. But she has a strange, hazy past that even I know not much about.
As soon as I began this story, I knew exactly who the werewolf was. As such, I kept my buddy Post Script in the dark. I wanted to see if it was obvious. To him, not so much. To you? Tell me, I beg. Did'ee figure it out beforehand, or was it a moment of shock?
Damascus was fun. He was me just cutting loose and going full Tower. And he and Aria may even have something in common.
Credits:
Co-Author: Artimae
Co-Author: Post Script
