Chapter I: Bleeding Melodies
Allegro
The Symphony of Canterlot
Fourth month, day three of year R.L 1
8:45 AM
A stallion watches a now very nervous famous composer from a table at an outdoor café located in the Pegasus Central District of Canterlot. This café is called The Ink Pot. The stallion in question is both an oddity to most of Canterlot, and yet, a regular sight there.
Mare, age 19 to 22, purple treble clef mark, Earth pony, gray coat, and a charcoal black mane. Suspect in question is assumed to be Octavia Philharmonic, only daughter of The Noble House of Philharmonica A composer, cellist, and violinist of exceptional talent and prestige.
Haphazard mane, a faint smell of musk and alcohol, loose pink bow tie, panicking expression on face, dilated pupils.
She seems to be trotting rather quickly, and judging by the crowd forming behind her it seems that the evidence is in favor of her being who she appears to be. Something is really off though.
She normally isn't seen or heard outside newspaper pictures and radio interviews. She is a composing savant, her concerto vinyl recordings are sold all over Equestria, yet here she is now, trotting in broad daylight.
Possible Scenarios:
1. Good night of drinks with friends ends with an incident that got her mugged and raped.
Not likely. She seems like she's trotting to her own execution rather than escaping from an unconventional sexual partner.
2. Bad night or day at The Royal Canterlot Orchestra. The result is a night of drinking and bad decisions.
I don't have enough clay to make bricks on that one. Plus she seems in no hurry to get home, only increasing trotting speed to avoid spectators and fans.
3. Second hypothesis but with the exception of it being a celebration, which means something is amiss in the home-front.
Most likely, that would mean a rather hostile household.
Follow?
At this point he decided that he had nothing better to do today. No point in opening the shop before ten, and this case could finally get interesting. So with that he pulled out a pen and a small notebook. He wrote a paragraph on it, ripped it out, and gave it to a white pegasus stallion with a brown mane by the name of Hard Brew, the owner of said café. His wife, a blond, cream-coated, earth-mare by the name of Sweets, was inside working on the bit register, knowing exactly where this was heading.
“Oh no. Not this again. Last time they thought he was a lock-picker.”
She said it with a certain concern for her husband that came from knowing where these messages would likely lead to: some form of problematic misadventure.
Hard Brew gave the detective a look that said “Really, this again?” He simply nodded and started trotting in pursuit of the cellist while keeping his distance as to not be noticed by the alleged victim.
Why would he do this now, you would ask? He is bored, and this is the first opportunity he has gotten in weeks to be able to finally get a lead on the Philharmonics supposed “connection” to Equestria's most infamous secret society. He had heard nothing but rumors and outlandish claims from the palace district ponies and the occasional noble that he intercepted. As for breaking into the Philharmonic estate itself… that was another matter, for there was no way to get in there without being noticed.
The detective kept the pace, following the savant cellist from a distance of ten meters while using a silent hoof spell, along with the activation of a perception-dampening amulet in his black overcoat. She did not notice him even with the crowd of fans gone. He kept the pace until they reached the edge of the Pegasus district.
She called a cab. This did not bother him in the least, as he knew the cab Earth ponies well, and the rumors they spread and heard while on the job served for some very interesting leads; half of the time, But he also noticed something else:
royal guards.
He quickly stopped and took cover behind a wall in a corner building. He then peeked out his head, looking at the two Royal Guards with a calculating and suspicious gaze, reading their every move. He switched the silent hoof spell with a spy’s ear spell to eavesdrop on their conversation. If they were this far in the city they must’ve known something by extension.
“What are we doing, searching for this Earth mare? She doesn't seem like a fugitive. Heck, she even seems to be quite attractive,” said one of the guards.
“Word on the station is that she is the daughter of some noble that the First Lieutenant seems to be really close to, a little too close for comfort if you ask me,” the other one responded.
“So this is just some half-assed political favor. Great,” the first guard commented with quite the air of sarcasm, not liking what he just heard.
Well this just seems to be getting better. If The House of Philharmonic has this much control over the guards then it has to be for a reason. You don’t make friends like that unless you intend to take full advantage of the relationship. She came trotting from the red light district, past the Pegasus district, and takes a cab at Quilspear's street to what I am guessing is the palace district. Well, this is just perfect. It seems I am not going to get any more out of these equus caballus throwbacks. Better head back. I can find out more at the Canterlot Orchestra.
The detective broke his spell and trotted quickly from the corner, now heading back to the Pegasus district -- to his home.
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Pages & Stories Bookshop
Detective Folklore pulls a key out of his black-woolen overcoat, unlocks the door and subsequently trots inside. He locks the door behind him while casting a simple shock enchantment on the knob to prevent strangers from coming in.
Just a precaution.
The store itself is two stories of shelf after shelf filled with volumes with subjects from Magic, History, Languages, Geography, Classic Old Equestrian, and Old World Literature. He trots until he reaches the back of the store, where there is a spiral staircase that leads him to his apartment, a small single bedroom with kitchen and a study that once was just a living room. It has a high-quality looking dark-cherry wood desk on the far right facing in the direction of the spiral staircase. The desk is covered in horn-written letters, case documents, and encoded documents that needed to be DE codified. All were spread upon its surface with bare minimum care for organization that just screamed “organized chaos”. The walls of the study are all just shelves containing his personal collection of tomes, scrolls, and papyrus that ranged from the rare to the downright bizarre, not to mention some odd looking pickled samples of “Fay” specimens and a jar of something labeled “Troll’s Blood”.
He enters his room that, by itself, houses a small chemistry laboratory with various powders in small glass vials next to it. All of them were on a table nailed to the right wall of the room just a few meters from the bed. On the left wall one can see a framed black and white picture with Manehattan in the background, Standing in it are three stallions raising their wine glasses -- one is an earth pony wearing a tuxedo, another a pegasus wearing a shirt and waist coat while smoking a cigarette, and finally a unicorn wearing a black three-piece suit and tie with a matching Bogart -- On the picture’s corner it was written “Through Tartarus and Back, Hearth's Warming Eve 998”. -- Next to the picture are various newspaper articles and pictures interconnected in a web of multicolored string concentrating on a single photograph. It was a symbol known in underworld circles as “The Black Sun”, and next to the web we have a picture of the famous Prince Blueblood clipped from a newspaper and nailed to the wall, with evidence that the image has been shot repeatedly with some sort of gunpowder weapon.
He now opens the closet, from which he fetches his revolver and foreleg firing mechanism. (What happens when Earth-Pony engineering meets Griffonian weaponry? One heck of an ace under your sleeve, pal.)
He now enters the bathroom and stands in front of the sink, checking his mirror for any obvious signs of mental fatigue. What the mirror reveals is a glaucous unicorn stallion with a slicked black mane and a pair of amber eyes. He had circles under them, which looked as if sleep was a suggestion rather than a necessity. All on a face that looks like it has long since been running on boiled coca leaves and dangerously strong espresso just to keep functioning throughout the day.
He quickly washes his face with cold water and leaves closing the door behind him with a resounding slam. As he trots towards his desk he hears three loud knocks at his door.
He is two minutes early, that’s a new record.
Folklore quickly trots towards the door and greets Brew. He is holding a bag and his package tied together for some reason. Brew trots in and leaves the package on the fairly dusty front desk while Folklore closes the door behind him.
“You know I am not your errand-boy to have to fly all the way to Canterlot Castle and get stared at by a bunch of uptight Unicorn wannabes while I fetch your… what is in this anyhow?”
“Good to see ya, Brew. As for what this is I am sorry to say, but I’m going to have to pull client confidentiality. Sorry pal, but it’s for the best.”
“Fine, Sweets thought that you might want something on us for a change, so she made you these.” This said while giving his partner a solid blank expression -- one he has used to win many poker nights. -- that made seem more than sure of himself.
Folklore cuts the string with his magic, and decides to take a peek inside said bag.
“Cream puffs… I take it she’s attempting to slip that sedative I got for her from that one time she thought you were cheating on her.”
“How did you know?”
“It was the next logical move after I caught her eavesdropping on me; interestingly it was right after you got arrested for breaking and entering.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Mine.”
“He called the guards because you told me to take a peek through the upper window, while you knocked out his escort.”
“If you had knocked them out, we would have both been caught.”
“Well, we did get caught.”
“No, you got caught, I later had to get you out, remember?”
“Why couldn’t you pull that same trick more often? It would save us a load of trouble.”
“It takes a solid five seconds for hypnosis to kick in, and even then it only works on the relatively weak-minded.”
“He wasn't too sharp you know.”
“Trust me Brew, it was just an elaborate ruse, and I can prove it if you let me.”
“Figures, and I am not in the mood to know the details, so just do us both a favor and leave it be.”
“Can I have my package?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“Like I said I am not you errand boy! I run a café; I have a coffee cup mark. If I’m risking my neck going to the Palace District I think I have the right to know why.”
“Trust me, you don’t, it would be better for everypony if I kept it confidential.”
“You will tell me right now Arc. The last thing I need is for the constables to start arresting all your accomplices here. If I end up in the castle dungeon, I swear that when I get out I will use your innards as fishing chum!” He said with obvious anger in his voice, an anger that he has kept at bay for last couple of weeks. This is due to the fact that he has been forced to cooperate without a single scrap of information on what they have been investigating. Something that Brew himself knew had put them both at risk, not to mention the tidy sum that was offered to them at the start of this endeavor.
Folklore just looked at him -- not intimidated by his threat in the least -- knowing that he was more prone to spout empty threats than anypony else he knows.
“Well, this is a first, a pegasus using a Griffonian threat. Maybe you should stop drinking with Henri; his temper seems to be rubbing off on you.”
“You’re one to talk. You fought a Griffon last week.”
“Hypnosis doesn’t work on non-equine biology. I had to get him to talk somehow and I don’t exactly have a royal guard or a police badge to flaunt authority with, you know? Not to mention Griffons are very peculiar about their codes of honor, if I had not beaten him in a fair fight, he wouldn’t have told me squat. Now, the reason why I keep sending you is because you are the only one in town that I can trust with this. All my other associates -- excluding the cabbies -- are back in Manehattan. I really don’t have much of a choice here. My hoofs are tied.” All said while placing a forehoof over his shoulder.
I give this to that new mail mare and it will be lost for weeks.
Brew gave Folklore a questioning eyebrow in response. He had a good idea of what he was talking about. He lived in Baltimare for a couple of years, Griffons may be in short supply there, but they control the second largest fishing port in the city -- in comparison to pegasi, of course. Brew could also see why his old friend would send him in the guise of a common mail pony. Pegasi control the shipping industry, so no one would bat an eye at a pegasus carrier delivering a package, but Canterlot mail-ponies are few and far between and it’s only a matter of time before somepony makes a head count.
“Fine, I guessed that client of yours, weeks ago. There is only one pony in the world that keeps any relation with those bat-pony things.”
Folklore gives his old friend his own questioning eyebrow.
“Then, you understand just how important this is.”
Yeah I get the message. Now I need another way to send letters without drawing attention. No pony ever suspects a pegasus messenger. Unless you are in Baltimare; they always know who to search in Baltimare.
Brew trots back the way he came. Folklore opens the door for him closes and locks the door with magic as to avoid being electrocuted by his own enchantment. He opened the package on the counter and looked. Inside is a letter, a bank note with the Royal Equestrian Seal and a strange banged-up brass (at least it looks like brass) short sword, with a petrified, prehistoric-looking, impromptu wooden hilt; held together with leather and animal tendons. He could have sworn he saw it in the Canterlot Museum of Natural History at some point, right next to the first time a zebra confronted a griffon in the ancient plains of Zebrica some time in fifteen-thousand five-hundred and thirty-one B.C.R (Before Celestia’s Rein), it must be a replica, you can't possibly move such a relic and not expected it to crumble in one’s hooves.
The letter reads.
We know thou are looking for a means to confront 'them' and this time we will cover for all 'events' that take place. We have a gift this time. We think it will be most useful when the time comes.
Thou art treading dangerous waters; we would send my guard to help but then why would we need thee if we could.
Folklore folded the letter and tucked it away in one of his coat-pockets, as for the old looking blade, he tried grabbing it with magic. It didn’t move at all.
You know what… That’s a problem for another day. I have enough to deal with as it is.
He grabbed a black Bogart hat from beneath the front desk, opened the door, trotted outside, and locked it again. He started trotting towards Philharmonic Hall in the Palace District. Hoping to spot a cab on the way. There is no point on heading to the concert hall on hooves alone, after all.
____________________________________________________________________________
Once he arrived everything seemed normal. Well, as normal as you can get in his line of work. He never quite spotted that cab, the trot was a little longer than it should have been as well. It seemed odd that there would be fog on the streets when the forecast made it clear that the day was going to be sunny.
Somepony is giving orders to screw with the weather.
Why doesn't it surprise me? They probably have some sort of Zebrican Shadow Hoof ready to slit my throat any minute now with poison and magic at the ready.
He waited said sixty-seconds.
I am officially getting paranoid. Even if they are after me they had at least nine better locations on the way here to dispose of me. It’s not like they have the whole building filled with assassins ready to kill me on the spot. That would be ridiculous... and I just screwed myself over didn’t I. Great.
With that, Folklore activates his amulet once more, entering the building. The hall looks as beautiful as ever; the Neo Pre-Classical era architecture gave an air of elegance and opulence unique to the Palace District. If anything, it would never rouse suspicion of wrongdoing. Normally.
“Sorry sir, but there are no autographs or interviews allowed.”
Standing in the middle of the lobby is a greyish-brown unicorn stallion with an off-white mane wearing a white formal suit and black bow-tie.
I guess the hat makes me seem like I’m from the press. Wait a second, I am wearing an active perception amulet, how is he-?
His eyes turned green, with blood-red colored irises bearing a feline like appearance, he then gave a toothy grin, worthy of a killer.
That explains it.
In that instant, both stallions horns were aglow; the room was in a mere two seconds shrouded by the very fog that was just outside a minute ago. Both stallions’ shadowy silhouettes glowed in their respective magical auras. The assumed theater attendant charged at Folklore, as announced by a demonic, nightmarish growl from the realm of Sheol itself. “It” moved at an unholy speed, only to receive an instantaneous pyrokinetic ignition to its right foreleg cannon. Violently rolling on the floor in pain, it recovers just as quickly and jumps on him, restraining him on the marble floor, while he goes for the jugular. Folklore then charges his horn, causing the fog in the room to condensate into a more solid form from which it becomes a smoky ectoplasmic python that quickly restrains the semi-possessed stallion in mid-air, concealing both his neck and mouth, while Folklore himself rolls to the side and gets up on all four hooves again. They both stare at each other with furrowed brows, waiting to see who would make the next move.
“I will give you this; you do have a flare for the theatrical. Now you will tell me who sent you and I may just let you live. How does that sound?”
Folklore activates his horn again and with that instructs the spirit to let go of its prisoner’s snout and neck, while still keeping him tightly restrained, of course. The demonic unicorn spits at Folklore's face leaving a black, grotesque slime on the right side, which he then proceeds to wipe off with his right forehoof.
“That was your one warning; I suggest you leave the poor bastards body, the last thing I need right now is to have to clean up that mess.”
Folklore pulls a simple, empty, hoof-made glass bottle from his trench coat which he then uncorks with his magic. The eyes of Folklore’s prisoner start to glow with greater intensity and his mouth opens revealing an assortment of carnivorous, fish-like teeth. Smoky, black mist snaked its way out of the prisoner’s mouth, trying to shroud Folklore’s vision. He, at that moment, activates a spell that causes his naturally orange glow to encompass the previously mentioned mist, and forcibly stuffs said mist into the bottle. Folklore corks it, and uses his magic to burn a triangle within a circle with a pentagram in its center on the bottle’s right side.
His prisoner looked at the spectacle and without thinking asked. “What are you?”
“Just a dream.”
“What?”
Folklore then has his familiar dissipate, like the very fog it’s composed of, causing our formerly dark magic using unicorn to drop to the marble floor. Afterwards, the unicorn looked up to see his captor’s eyes, only to be knocked out via an impact spell across his jaw, probably leaving behind a pretty nasty concussion.
Folklore grabs the unicorn by his smoking-jacket and drags him along until he reaches the janitor's broom closet, in which he promptly throws his prisoner inside, (As if he was hiding a drunken roommate, or desperate sod that pissed off a loan shark.) He then proceeds to close the door with resounding force that reverberates throughout the hallway. Just to be sure, he melts the brass knob shut with a pyrokinetic spell, locking his prisoner inside until he comes back for him.
That should hold him for a while.
Folklore keeps his pace until he reaches a corridor, he stops before entering, thinking exactly on what he is about to do.
The air is thick, and the temperature has dropped by at least eight degrees. Something is in there... good, I needed answers yesterday... now I'm going to get them.
He trots in with caution, knowing full well that magic can easily be as unpredictable as it is useful.
By bloody Tartarus! It’s like entering the mouth of a Leviathan, makes you feel heavier, like gravity decided to make your life difficult today. There is no way this is a natural haunting. It feels like a summoning, -- probably with a crude binding seal -- it’s somewhere; I just need to narrow it down.
As he trots through, the light-bulbs between each pair of doors burn-off as he passes by, his hooves feel heavier and heavier, slowing down his pace to a groveling crawl. The adrenalin in his veins starts pumping, increasing his heart rate until it sounds like he just galloped fifty kilometers without stopping.
Come on… Fight it!
He struggles to get himself off the carpeted floor. Sweating and with shaky knees, he finally manages to get up. With that he yells a hasty declaration in Lemurian.
“Orrgu Jhar Emur HA!”
The weight is lifted, but the fatigue is still there, clawing in the back of his mind….
Now, let’s see where you are!
He struggles to get himself off the carpeted floor. Sweating and with shaky knees, he finally manages to get up. With that he yells a hasty declaration in Lemurian.
“Orrgu Jhar Emur HA!”
The weight is lifted, but the fatigue is still there, clawing in the back of his mind….
Now, let’s see where you are!
He uses a Lantern Glow spell. (If you don’t have light, Make your own.) Folklore trots for some time. The corridor suddenly twists and forms a corner.
Oh, no. Not again….
_______________________________________________________________________
Suddenly a black sphere appears in the middle of an ornate corridor. Through it jumps out Folklore, his woolen overcoat torn on the left sleeve. His hat is gone, his mane losing firmness, and he now sports a bleeding muzzle.
Ha! Father said that there was no way to get out of an Ethereal Realm Maze without the guidance of a backup caster. That you were stuck there for the duration of the spell. But look at me now! Well. Now that I lost that Go-
At that moment a large, ceramic, statue of an earth pony jumped out of the black Ethereal Portal. Half its face is missing, with cracks running throughout its forelegs and body. It is three times the size of the average pony, towering over its current opponent.
Son... of... a... bitch
With a resounding yell, the statue gallops towards him. Folklore, on the other hoof was out of distractions, but noticed something to his advantage.
If that cracking is of any indication, that little present I left you in the Ghoul chamber did some damage to your outer shell. Let’s test that.
Folklore casts an Impact Spell to the left forehoof in mid charge, causing said extremity to shatter, but the ceramic giant adjusted to the missing limb instantly, not slowing down for any reason.
Damn.
With that, the statute deploys a wild haymaker. Folklore sidesteps, avoiding the monstrous hoof as it left a small crater on the marble floor, he then counters with a left telekinetic jab to its muzzle. It immediately spun around and bucked in the detective’s general direction. It now notices that he is underneath its ribcage. Aiming his right forehoof which activates his firing extending his revolver, Folklore fires three shots in quick succession, causing the statues barrel to shatter and spill at least a bucket’s worth of black bile. Folklore on that moment received the full quantity of that spill leaving him covered in a foul-smelling black gunk. The statute dropped to its knees, trapping him under its weight.
Grand….. ugh….. This must be primal matter. Maybe melted fat with petrol? I don’t know. Hopefully, it's not going to ignite when I move certain, death-trap number twenty-two off of me.
He then wraps the statue in his aura, carefully lifts the behemoth with much strain, due to exhaustion and the fact that it’s difficult to concentrate while you are covered to what amounts to a melted dead corpse all over you, it certainly smelled as such.
Come-on! You glorified paper weight! Off of me! For Star Swirl's sake! You're worse than having to deal with the Sewer Crabs after the Alchemy Lab spill in Brickling….
Folklore’s horn lights a bit brighter as it lifts the soulless shell right off him to his left, dropping by his side with the audible sound of marble meeting ceramic, and the slosh of viscous slime as Folklore himself tries to stand on all fours again.
At least I have more evidence that I can carry now. I don’t think there is a telegraph office nearby, but if I torch part of the roof I will get a quick response from the constables and the Hearts Warming ornaments in time to get myself arrested and have this thing and the door attendant from the dark forest of the Everfree brought over to Princess Celes-
Suddenly Folklore realizes that he is alone in the corridor, everything is set back the way it was. His once slime covered body is now back to the way it was before he exited the portal, bruised and with a bloody muzzle. His overcoat still torn on the left sleeve and black soot on his face from that Fire Bomb he left in the Ghoul chamber back in the maze.
I’m starting to get real tired of this. One of these days I may say that I just imagined the whole thing and leave it be. That might as well be the case if it weren’t for the fact that it doesn't just affect me, but ponies nearby as well.
He hears the sound of a door to his left opening, a door that he didn’t notice before. He thought being in a mortal struggle with an entrance decoration may be a good excuse. As he enters the concert hall he notices that shadows move independently from the chandelier or the lanterns that are placed symmetrically around the concert hall.
Whoever cursed her (assuming she is cursed), must have been doing a really bad job binding whatever they summoned to their control, either that or the abomination forced them into a contract. If it’s the latter this would have to be the work of an overzealous common mage rather than a well-adjusted Necromancer. (Not like there are any practitioners of Necromancy left unregistered in the world anymore, only scholars have access to that kind of magic.)
He trots straight for the stage; shadows move like smoke in a bad windstorm trying to get away from the black wool overcoat wearing stallion, as if he was a plague on anything that bares teeth. It was almost like rabbits picking up the scent of an apex predator. (One can only wonder what makes even the shadows run like Sheol opened up). In the far left corner of the stage, he spots the only instrument in the vicinity completely in the open, not even inside its own case.
This is her cello. Fine polish, O.P gold engraving, a strand of long charcoal black hair and the smell of a fine mare perfume…. Yeah it's hers alright. Why would she leave this here? The instrument itself is a bit of a work of art. (Not to mention it’s worth quite a few Bits) It's giving a very sickening aura though. There are plenty of pent up negative emotions in this thing, a little more and I would think it's enchanted. I need to take this to the home and study it… then return it. Probably….
Folklore places the instrument back in its case slowly, as to not alter any physical imprint of the owner, and places it on his back. He then trots out through the same way he came in. As soon as he passes through the door, it closes with a near-unnatural force as its sound echoes throughout the corridor. As he continues trotting he notices that he can finally see the ceiling, and right before he re-enters the main hall he notices that the Binding Seal that he was looking for was there.
I stand corrected, the Seal is not crudely made, it’s prefabricated, no wonder it was unstable, and it’s the equivalent of forcing a demon into a bad bank loan. Judging from the shattered glass marble in its center it must have run out of power while I was dealing with its effects. I guess the Wisp must have let me go as repayment. Either that or it’ll ask something of me later on. After a lifetime of practicing magic, I still never quite know what Wisp will go after. Well, I better check on mister sunshine; hopefully he just tired himself out on the lock.
_______________________________________________________________________
Time Unknown, Canterlot Orchestra.
Folklore reaches the broom closet he had sealed shut what he can only guess was hours ago. The door was blown to smithereens. Dark, coagulated blood was present in the unevenly scattered splinters in the door frame and the floor. A lone light bulb flickered with partial reddish hue, showing nothing but the uneven splatter of blood on the center of it. The cleaning supplies are intact, but the bottles have been shaken right out of their shelves.
Fuck! No, no calm down…. The door was shattered from the outside, forcefully, by some sort of creature, it seems. There are no obvious indications of magical residue, or evidence of any sort of chemical explosive…. So that rules out that they recovered him. Also that secretion on the wall isn't Equine in nature. The blood splatter indicates that he was probably crushed, then quickly dragged out the door by what I can only guess was an enormous tendril. There seems to be a dark trail of blood that continues on the carpet and leads to the front door…. I better not step into the room; I might damage the scene. I still need to get the constables here to gather this up. I think I have a couple of shots left.... If I shoot at the upper external corner the noise might incite some pony to call for a copper. Hopefully....
I can’t trot back home. I don’t even know how long I can stay conscious now. If I knew what time it is then I could know when the cabs pass by. If only I had not lost my fob watch back in the Maze…. The cabs usually gather a couple of blocks away by a few higher end shops to the right. I better preserve my magic, which means I can’t use the Perception Amulet on my way back then. I’m just going to have to pass as a mugging victim….
He then limps back to the entrance. It is nighttime, the lamp-posts are lit and the starry sky is in full view. In front of him, though, is a closed-roof cab being pushed by a couple of cloaked pegasi. Judging from the wings, one is gray, the other blue. In the carriage window he can see Sweets wearing a light-blue evening gown and a feathered hat. She then opens the door, and peeks her head out.
“The day is cold.”
“Luckily I always have my coat on.”
“Just get in.”
Folklore does so. As he gets in, he knocks on the carriage’s roof twice to indicate that they can proceed.
“How did you know to come get me?”
“You were gone for more than five hours without so much as a signal, and Hardy knows that you keep your shop lit in the chance that you leave for a long stakeout. So we figured you were dead or dying.”
“Thanks.”
“By the way, Hardy wants his share.”
“I have it in the front desk.”
“I see.”
A long, pregnant pause is shared between the two. Mostly because Folklore hasn't expected to be saved by Sweets of all ponies; but then again, she is a friend. It's just that she worries for Brew, especially knowing of both of her husband’s and Folklore's adrenalin fixation.
“What’s the special occasion?”
“After I drop you off. I’m going uptown to meet with the Airship Union to see if they can export the new bean blend.”
“Really? I thought you two were short?”
“We are counting on Hardy’s share of the job to help seal the deal.”
“Oh.”
“Then why were you trying to drug me?”
“I wasn't. Hardy was just trying to see how bad your paranoid delusions have gotten.”
“Then I need to-”
“Sleep, but first remember not to have the castle know of our little cabal.”
“I can’t guarantee that. But I can say that the “client” won’t get in your way. Just remember, don’t poke too deeply into the palace district.”
“We’re here.” Shouted one of the pegasi pulling the sky-carriage.
At that, Folklore understands that's it's his time to leave.
Before Folklore has a chance to exit with instrument in toll, Sweets stops him with her left forehoof.
“Take it easy. You are no good dead.”
“Again, thank you.”
With that he goes back into his shop. Reevaluating the situation at hoof, he enters and takes the banknote sitting on the front desk, and gives it to Sweets from the door with his magic. She then closes the carriage door and knocks on the roof twice, signaling the pegasi that they should leave. It flies off leaving him alone for the night.
Time to see your secrets then.
_______________________________________________________________________
Pages & Stories, one hour later
Folklore analyzes Octavia's cello with extreme caution. Maintaining his distance while he touches it with a polished, white-quartz stone held in place by surgical pincers. As soon as the stone touches the cello, the stone sparks violently and explodes into flames that dissipate into the air, leaving a charred, smoky smell behind.
The cello itself is not enhanced, but it's been in the proximity or in contact with something of considerable magic contamination. This thing should be burned, or at least in quarantine. Note to self: invest in a means to create a Magic Isolation Vault. (Maybe I should request another advance for operation expenses.)
The instrument stinks of blood, tears, and vomit. Whether or not it is magical in nature or simply an indication of extreme depression I not tell. If anything that makes the matter worse. Stench of that magnitude in a clean object like the cello would mean something powerful, manipulative, and hungry was close to it and left its mark on its very essence.
He readies an array spell by painting a circle with seven different ancient glyphs on the large study floor with iron oxide ink. Folklore places the strand of Octavia’s mane on the center of the five-by-five hoof array. He lights a zebra incense bowl. He breathes in the incense and sits with his forelegs closing together. In an instant his eyes and horn light up with his trademark orange glow.
This is the ancient zebra spell known as “spiritus”. It is one the many forms of Astral Projection known to equine kind, this spell gives the ability to link the casters soul to the body of a targeted sentient being, allowing the user to see and feel what the target is experiencing in real time. While it also gives a window to the targets inner mind, essentially linking the target and the user’s souls together, it requires a lot of magic and needs a physical catalyst of the target’s body to work.
It is considered an illegal magical practice in Equestria, the reasoning behind such a law is that it tends to drain most users of their magic. Since it links two souls, if one part of the link dies, so does the other one. Not to mention the connection cannot be severed until at least a day has passed or the target in question loses consciousness.
Folklore had only used this spell twice before. The first time was during a job with the Manehattan Police Department involving smuggled artifacts from Saddle Arabia and the Griffon Mob. (One never truly forgets the feeling of a griffon’s claws tearing through your skin. He should count himself lucky that it was only torture.) The other time was to track down the source of Baltimare’s sudden Strigoi problem. (That one shouldn’t have even happened, all Strigoi ritual spells were burned eleven-hundred years ago via decree from the Equestrian Diarchy. The last thing anypony at the time thought was that they were being shipped from the Old World via magically contaminated steam boats.) It was on his blacklist of dangerous spells for a good number of reasons, reasons that at this moment he simply did not give a damn about. This is very much bordering on insanity, but he is undoubtedly desperate. His suspicions and clues keep growing with little evidence to back them up.
They are making a mockery of him and he isn’t going to have any of it. Not after the kind of day he has had.
_______________________________________________________________________
And there he is, in a mare’s body. It felt foreign and problematic. He was just a passenger on this ride to see what she sees, but if the body felt strange, the mind did even more so.. At the surface it was turbulent: filled with anger, fear, despair, and guilt.
Her suffering, it's... horrible. Her music - it’s her curse, her blessing. and her master. If only I had the authority to… wait, there’s something following her and... It smells rotten.
I will be okay. I will emerge stronger. I will see Vinyl and Lyra again.
Now that is an interesting thought, let's see what we have in here. Is that her work?
My, she’s good. It is said that some of the best art in the world is created in times of great emotional stress or joy. It seems it's as true as the stars in Luna’s sky. Oh no, I’m getting too attached, this spell was made to be used by ancient Kermetian priests to evaluate new initiates to their respective temples after all. Emotions leak through…. Damn.
“Butters, how bad?”
Seems he got the short end of the stick. Oh… wait that's not his real name, it's just an affectionate nickname. I have to give him credit; though he is quite the professional, he must be a nightmare when playing poker.
And he must be Lord Philharmonic.
“I had a dog when I was a child. It was unruly and never obeyed anypony. It kept getting in trouble, until finally it crossed the line. My father ordered me to get rid of it, for his patience had run out. I took it into the backyard and bashed it in the head with a rock.
It cried out in pain, for I lacked the strength to end it cleanly. It looked at me, pleading for forgiveness, but her time for mercy had passed. I had no choice but to continue to beat it until it died.”
Well he is just the ray of hope and harmony isn't he. At least he has the decency to walk away.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what happened last night? How about you have one of your servants beat me for you? I didn’t go get screwed last night to watch you slink out like a cowa—”
“Do not test my patience. I loved that dog far more than you.”
By the gates of Tartarus, you Sir are our pony! Sociopathic, self-serving, and arrogant! If that doesn't say that you belong to an organization of unicorn supremacists, then I have no idea what’s your damage.
The doors fly open in a red glow, making the windows across the room vibrate. Just then an older mare slams the doors shut.
Hello. My, my. You could give a real she-demon a run for her money.
“You insolent little whore! How dare you run off in the middle of the night! On your knees!”
Aren't you just the demon bitch of the Nightmare itself? I would give you a blue ribbon and a knife through the throat, but alas I am not really here, am I?
“Screw you and your coward of a hu—”
Octavia is cut off by the bow tie.
Well... that would have been a great comeback. Wait…… I can't breathe!
“How dare you! You will only speak when spoken to. Open that vile mouth again to insult me and I’ll rip your tongue out! Now where the hell did you go last night?”
Both Octavia and Folklore felt the bow tie loosen slightly, allowing Octavia enough air to speak.
“I went to a bar and got rutted, it felt amaz—”
The bow tie tightened back up.
That bitch!
“What bar?”
I love that look you are giving the she-demon, it says none of your business!
“What bar!?”
The bow tie loosened, allowing another precious breath of air. Octavia stood there.
“A mare nailed me—”
Really, Again with the choking? At this rate she will kill us both.
Folklore noticed what Mrs. Philharmonic was in the process of doing.
You would not dare!
Mrs. Philharmonic closed the distance between Octavia and herself in a fraction of a second. Arcane and Octavia both felt the urge to cough and gag. The next shot was to Octavia's jaw, sending Octavia to the floor. Both her and Folklore tasted the blood in their mouths, only Octavia let it pool, on the other end of the spectrum Folklore just swallowed his own blood. (Being unable to open his jaw at the moment.)
“You mud ponies are less than useless! I told him to let me abort the pregnancy. We could have had another child! But no! It was too late, his parents knew about the baby. He couldn’t disappoint his parents!”
Mrs. Philharmonic kicked Octavia in the ribs. Octavia wondered how she could have her wind knocked out her while her mother's grip sealed off her lungs. Mrs. Philharmonic hoisted Octavia on her hooves and released the bow tie to allow her a breath.
She inhaled sharply through the nose, quickly exhaling and spitting the blood out of her mouth into Mrs. Philharmonics face.
“Burn in Tarta—”
Something hit the back of Octavia’s head, breaking the spell and knocking both Octavia and Folklore out cold.
Folklore had a new set of near death injuries on him now. He was out cold and needed medical attention. The problem being that he was out magic for the time, and for any unicorn that could be fatal. Unbeknownst to Folklore his “client” was keeping an eye on his home with the use of her clairvoyance for the last hour. Knowing full well his tendency to use dangerous magic and perform experiments.
Already in view in her mind’s eye of Folklore, she uses a long range teleportation spell with enough precision to enter the study. She sees the mess of a stallion in front of her. She quickly acts and grabs him with her telekinesis and sets the stallion on her back.
She takes the detective with her as she teleports to Canterlot Castle to have him treated by the medical staff... and face the unholy wrath of the Princess of the Night.
_______________________________________________________________________
Time Unknown, Canterlot Castle Medical Ward.
“What were thou thinking!?”
A very confused, and suspiciously well Folklore was waking up with a sudden feeling of clarity. At his bed side was both his monarch and current employer, looking at him with the sort of glare one gives to someone who is about to meet their unfortunate demise in a very painful and gruesome manner.
“What happened, if I may be so bold?”
“Thou used thy spiritus ritual on both thyself and the mare thou wast following.”
“Thanks. So it was not a dream… terrific.”
That last word is said with an air of sarcasm to reflect the gravity of the situation he is in. Not only is he way behind on his findings, he had been caught using illegal magic by one of his sovereigns. and on a side note his contract with her majesty is no longer a secret. If he lives through this, his contract is as good as burned.
Calming down, the Princess of the Night decided against beating her agent to death with one of his own forelegs. The investment was done already, and it would take too long to find a replacement. Time is of the essence after all.
“What, pray tell was your intention?”
“To gather enough evidence and get a proper search warrant. That would allow me to just walk in and search the Philharmonic estate without resorting to turn an investigation to an all-out assault.”
Not to mention, potential equine-slaughter.
The Princess raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Thou couldst have disabled the protective enchantments and curse-runes.”
The detective places a forehoof on his head to help calm his ever growing migraine.
“Only to be stopped by more guards than I should be able fight, not to mention we would be throwing all subtlety out the window. Oh, did I also mention that they have bought off constables and royal guards that can read magical signatures? Not to mention they could detect me tampering with their enchantments. It’s like diving into a tank filled with piranhas, with a severed limb, without any form of protective clothing. I guarantee that you’ll die before you hit the bottom.”
The Princess’ eyes shrank to the size of pinpricks, followed by the flopping of her ears.
“Royal guards?!”
“I think that the royal guards they are using are just unicorns, most likely members of the same basket of rotten eggs that you want me to blow up.”
“Thou must be joking!”
It had to be some sort of joke; a compromise of that magnitude was every political and military leader’s worst nightmare.
“I am too drugged on medical potions to joke, your majesty.”
The Princess took a deep breath and calmed down. Now was not the time to panic. She has dealt with situations like this one before, but times have changed. She can’t just display the traitor’s heads on stakes anymore; that would be barbaric, not to mention -- according to recent scientific advancements (by her standards of recent) -- unsanitary.
“We need to confirm if thine information is accurate.”
“Wait, let me--“
He was going to say de-cast the locks. The universe had other plans that don’t seem to give him any warning whatsoever. Maybe it likes to just see him suffer; either one can apply at this point.
Folklore’s ears folded back.
Oh, crap.
She did it now. One could argue that an alicorns use of close-proximity telepathy is painless to most equines, but due to Folklore's particular set of self-inflicted hypnotic locks (meant to keep more experienced unicorns and psychics out of his head) he is experiencing the kind of anguish expected from a magical backlash. To put it mildly, it’s like having a hammer striking one’s skull. Most unicorns and other magic users would normally be incapable of such a feat, but an alicorn, on the other hoof, could just barge in by sheer magical prowess. Unfortunately it’s a very painful experience. The scream can be heard even in the reception.
The Night Princess winced after the ordeal, feeling regretful. He is not exaggerating, and infact he was being painfully honest when he said it would be like diving into a container filled with hundreds of small carnivorous fish. This was bad, real bad.
“We apologize for thy suffering, thou shalt rest and begin tomorrow a new.”
Now with a look that could kill, Folklore gets up and out of his very uncomfortable hospital bed. He then rips out the IV lines from his right forehoof. Hoping to actually get something done about the cello, he decides to head for the door. He had known a few things he wished Luna would never find out about, including some of his former cases before moving to Canterlot. More importantly though, why was he in such a good condition in what he felt was a short while, regarding the severity of one of his injuries?
“Can I ask how I was healed so quickly?”
I had two cracked ribs, a small cannon fracture, internal bleeding, a broken jaw, and a central nervous system overload. I think… That last one should have killed me, yet here I am as if nothing had happened. (Not really, I may have some form of additional brain damage, courtesy of our illustrious demi-god). She must have been watching me. Only way she could have noticed my absence in time to save my sorry arse.
“Thou needst continue. If we cared for thy crimes, we would not have contracted thee. As for thine injuries, we had a hoof in the treatment. Starswirl did not perish without passing his knowledge of medicine, I can guarantee thee.”
Luna gave her hired mage (Agent of the Court, Private Investigator, and nutcase. What the Tartarus is he now anyway?) a look. She read his mind just a moment ago; she knows now how it works. It’s like listening to a brilliant symphony being played by an ensemble of drunken opium addicts. “How does he function at such a state?” She probably thought. That question alone is one not so easily answered.
Sorry Princess, but the more I stay here and chat, the longer a certain musician suffers.
Luna narrowed her eyes, giving Folklore a fair visual warning that if he continued with his stubborn attitude, he was going to die, If not by her hooves, the hooves of somepony with the confidence to betray the Equestrian diarchy.
I hate telepathy.
“Thou art trying to deceive thy way back.”
Folklore took a deep breath and sighed, with that, he looked straight into her eyes hoping to get the point across her apparently thick cranium.
“I need those names ‘Princess’.”
“T would be deceitful and thou knowest it! Thou are still attached to her, using that array was a perilous and foolish endeavor, thou mightst have perished!”
“I was in her head! I know everything. Under Equestrian law, you can now give me a warrant, right? So excuse me if I want some payback.”
“Thou art no use to us dead Arc. I cannot let thou return to thy service until thou has at least taken a full night’s rest, something thou hast being missing since you started.”
“What can I say? I do in fact have a reputation to maintain. This case has been for too long! The longer I stall the more likely they will try something! ”
Now there is a certain tension in the room that is associated with what happens when two knowledgeable mages were at odds with each other. Except that if you could notice the magical auras being radiated by both of them in the room Princess Luna practically swallowed Folklore’s up by sheer mass and activity. It would be obvious which one of them would end up being nothing but a black smudge on the marble floor. Folklore, despite this, was not going to submit. He knew by logic and reasoning he was right (he be a stubborn bastard), but Luna’s insistence on protecting him were getting in the way of solving the problem at hoof (not really).
If it were Luna’s time -- heck if it were just some two-hundred years ago, he could very well just barge into the manor with a platoon of Nocturne. But this is not the Astral Vault civil war of 2 C.R (Celestias Rein) or the Constitutional Riots of 695 C.R. This was modern day Equestria of 1 L.R (Luna’s Return). Violence by the state is not looked on very well by the public in this day and age. It would be very unfortunate to have any sympathy for the self-serving, racist lot that makes-up the bulk of the nobility wing in the Canterlot Parliament anyway.
Despite being justly within everyone’s best interest. That level of violence could not be used by Folklore against a noble without expecting serious repercussions for his and Luna’s actions. Mainly Folklore’s property being confiscated by the state and Luna being scolded by her older sister, the sole ruler of Equestria for centuries, that has somehow maintained peace and prosperity in the country for little more than two-hundred years despite the fact that the nobles and the elected sides of parliament could not get along worse if Discord had a claw in the matter. Luna was going to be fine though, a bruised ego sure, but fine. Folklore on the other hoof was going to have to explain why he has in his possession smuggled enchanted items from abroad and forms of firepower that are pretty much illegal outside of the frontier. Paradise forbid that the Solar Princess were to trot into the medical war-
“Lulu, I think that we all have something to discuss.”
“Tia. Thou of all of us knowest what hath been conspiring in thy court?”
“I know.”
“Then, why haven’t thou taken measures against this?
“Lulu, even we can take care of so much after a whole millennium….”
At that moment Princess Luna looked down, wondering just how it was happening. How was this even possible?
Measures have been taken, but much like the Manehattan roach, no matter what you throw at it, whether it’s poison or pyrokinetics… it always comes back.
Celestia then took a solid look at Folklore, who was without his overcoat and with a few new incision scars.
“Doctor.”
With that Folklore quickly attempts to bow, which was a mistake, because the potion doesn't quite completely numb the nerves.
“Agh!”
Princess Celestia winces at the reaction then quickly regains composure. Now is not the time to lose hoofing.
“It’s alright. Now, can I have a word with you? ”
“Your royal highness. I don’t think that you need to ask for my co-”
With that Princess Celestia, The Light of Hope, The Purge of Death, -- among other equally impressive titles that she has accumulated through the centuries -- lights her horn and in a large ether discharge teleports both herself and Folklore to a balcony atop the tallest spire in the palace, in which Princess Celestias personal archive was located.
“Now, Dr. Folklore, from the top.”
“First thing's first. I need some water..... And some sedative....”
