Feyspeak

Chapters

Bone
Eye
Talon
Larynx
Lamina
Trochlea
Fascia
Soleus

Bone

One could not say when was the last time they had a bright morning in Equestria.

He faced east, to where the black pearl sets, crested between the bald, windswept mountains where the darkest storm clouds were gathering. Benighted as it were, he had made a guess, though that was easily affirmed when he came upon a tuft of fescues bending eastwards as they would anywhere else. The assiduous squinting of his eyes did little to help, nor did the waning candle in his lantern. His hooves ached from all the trotting, as did his back from carrying around his worn saddlebags, filled with a chateau's worth of possessions he had regretfully considered beneficial for his journey.

He turned to the path ahead, only to glance back to those eastern mountains once more, dormant beyond the clumps of marshes whereupon laid sullied banners and derelict mangonels, all floundered in gaping maws of mud. He paused, if only to view this blighted land and admire the bereavement, rife between the splayed claw, hoof and talon rotting and reeking in a mangled mess. He even counted the many slant masts of pollaxes and ahlspiessen, rusting crimson and proudly sticking out from land and limb. He stopped at number thirty-six.

All that was left after awe was consternation, for so much death to have come from so much life.

Pondering, he hoisted his lantern higher, hoping in vain for a better view. Reason was quick to overwhelm sentiment. With the festering shadows around, however, he need not waste away his time over contemplation of the local scenery, especially not one he may never see again. His brows curled with vehemence as he lowered his luminous solace, his ruminations of the past returning to haunt him once more while wading through a gruesome lake of blood, sand and mud.

It happened almost a decade ago.

The indisputable first: there was a shatter in the sky, heard around the world.

After that, the tales that follow were awash in ambiguity: rivers flowing upstream, lightning striking the clouds from the ground, forests setting themselves alight, blizzards of volcanic ash. Among the myriad of tales, what everypony could agree upon next was the coming of the black sun, leeching away what little of life that remains. It still hangs there, defiance in its blazing, blackening uproar, pitting those foolish enough to try and tear it down with all their magical might. None can do that, not even the most powerful of the court mages, as everyone found out.

"From those mountains thereupon our venture, comes hope."

Falsehood after falsehood.

A band of them, once profoundly popular and thought to be the last hope for this dying world, gathered from all the corners of this wretched earth one day. They made a proclamation of freedom, of being the saviors of this day and the next day and that day henceforth. There was a celebration, rowdy and vigorous as such common establishments tend to be, and this plague of triumph soon spread from town to town, this famine of hope. He wasn't particularly subservient even as a young colt, so he wasn't susceptible to such hysteria, particularly not one that would rouse him from his slumber. In fact, he found it amusing the next day, on the day the sun was said to return, the rain did instead.

He remembered all too well the uproarious screams that echoed through the winds.

He remembered how joyful his own sounded, finally drenched with a shower after such a long dry spell.

He remembered standing there in bliss, smiling when everyone else was shrieking and crying as the sky spilled nothing but blood.

He could only hope the sun had made a quick meal of them.

Journeying across these rusted lands, he was due south, for he had read about it in some letters he found in a long-abandoned bethel in the western provinces, inscribing hushed rumors of a land free from the clutches of the obsidian rays, of bright mornings, told only in tales of yore. Quixotic as such rumors tend to be, the child in him remained willing to lay his eyes to the majesty of a true morning. It was all the encouragement needed for many, he included, to migrate south, never knowing what unspoken treacheries await at the end of the road. He had known many of those who made the journey before him, yet he was not graced with a reply from any of them. Whether it be that they were too enthralled in their festivities to bother or that they never had the chance to send out a word of warning, there was only one way for him to find out.

Hooves wading across muck, he finally emerged into the cadaver of what was once a lush forest. One more glance at the glaring darkness vanishing in the distance, he quickened his pace. Horrors wandered here, some he knew of, some he knew not. Stories of those who had roamed these curious parts being devoured, of those that were whisked away, those who wander too long in the dark, played in his head. Hopping over and tumbling over blemished logs, stopping occasionally to gouge out the tendrils of moss clasping around his hoof, the paltry, foggy whispers in his head guided him across the undergrowth, up until a telltale glimmer drew his eyes away.

Water.

Synthetic in texture, umber in color, murky in visibility— tainted certainly, though it will have to do. Seizing his canteen and filling it up, he was quick to soothe his unyielding thirst, squirming as clod by doughy clod slumped down his parched throat, before he began hacking and wheezing from the aftertaste of mildew and hints of blowfly larvae trapped between his molars. It took a little more resolve to have his second and third helping before he relented into the growing pit goring his gullet.

Putrid.

Delectably so.

Ambling further down the coastline, his weary eyes spotted something that resembled the decayed spine of a beached whale, stained with splatters of residual fluid still dripping down from the tip. With a resigned sigh, he trudged into its osteal embrace, tossing his damp saddlebags aside and hanging his lantern upon the tip of the bone before settling down in a cushion of flayed blubber and ambergris, back resting against one of the curved stanchions. Craning his neck to the sky, he watched as the darkest of days turned into one of the more brighter nights, for the full moon, in all its crimson glory, finally peeked out from its nimbus veils, bringing much-needed light into this world, however despised and accursed it may be.

"Beswyrd," he whispered the first words of many, his horn lighting up a pale blue.

"A'Ilhver... Paluum... B'nnrah... Rv'liif..."

The dreadful moon was at its highest when he arrived at his last incantation. The world around him, mostly bereft of life, was silent this unholy night; usually, he'd hear a shadow or two scurrying about that he had to scare away with a burst of light, though he quickly convinced himself that one atypical night wouldn't hurt. Taking one more reluctant sip from the canteen, he gave one last glance around the bleak landscape, before he finally closing his eyes as he began drifting off along with the first tides of slumber, heralding him towards the prospect of a brighter morning.

"You will get there soon..." he promised himself as he would every night with a yawn, "Soon..."

"M'hatila!!"

"Ey'crus!!"

A gigantic crash of gold and cyan, accentuated with sparks and fizzles, tore through the tranquility, stirring up eddies across the murky lake. The serrated streak of gold ruptured, rippling across the curvatures of the barrier he had conjured just in the nick of time. Wide-eyed, he gritted his teeth, reaching back into his saddlebags while he fixated his stare on the silhouette of his attacker in the billowing smoke.

"Pel'hatil tyns'Ghru!!"

"Beswyrd'nnrah Devin! Anh'Novus!!"

Another magnificent clash of colors, sending loud explosions across the forest that would've drawn enough unspoken horrors to overrun the whole place were it not for the several sound-dispelling incantations he cast prior. A dark chuckle escaped his mouth, for it would seem that his adversary is formidable as much as she is female. To know, much less perform such complex amalgams was no simple feat, what with the extreme requirements of concentration and perseverance. He had seen too many tearing their own horns apart in their hapless attempts, with most of them perishing as a result, yet here was one whom he would consider, with certainty, of equal aptitude. He could only laugh to himself; he needed the practice anyway. As soon as the smoke cleared, he braced himself to counter with a powerful spell of his own, his horn already lighting up and ready to strike before she would even know it.

That is, until he laid his eyes on her.

"Spli'ign'te dyb—"

"Wait!!"

With an ephemeral crack, the spell ricocheted, the red beam barely grazing past his ears as he ducked down, striking the ground behind him with a deafening boom and sending a volley of flaming pebbles flying across the coast. He turned towards his attacker, to which he could only cuss: a young unicorn filly, panting and sweating from what was a laborious display of magical proficiency, her coral mane tousled and frayed with strands of it sticking onto her alabaster coat. Her magenta glare, directed at him, was vicious, though like many such glares, it came with a quivering shimmer of fear, one easily quashed with the right decisions.

"I do not wish to harm a child, particularly not one so adept in the arcane arts," he stepped backward. "It would be low even for one of ill repute such as I. A filly like you should not have any matters with me, so I suggest you should carry along, tarry not. Go now. Leave me be."

Much to his chagrin, her glare remained.

"I'uwe Th'murgan, hva?"

"I'd much prefer you refrain from speaking in that tongue. This world has enough calamities as it is."

The filly remained wary, perhaps with good reason. He was no less dubious himself, for it was a little curious that a filly like her would be wandering alone in the wilderness. The stories of beasts that trifle with polymorphy circulating around were aplenty, pushing the idea that one can never be too careful around even a foal like her. Benefit of doubt crossed his mind, however, as he cautiously reached into his saddlebags, his hoof shuffling about its contents, before taking out and tossing a pitiful loaf of bread.

"This is all I have on me, now begone with you," he growled, the foodstuff splashing about as it rolled towards her hooves.

A deadpan stare.

"L'gnaria."

"This is a world of liars, young one; to not be a liar is to not be alive."

"Ther n'sinnan es."

"A more nonsensical notion is your overwhelming, unrelenting use of Feyspeak," he scowled darkly. "Speak not the tongue of the Awyrgorn, young one. Such a language only taunts misfortune to arrive. Were it anyone else with a lack of patience, you'd be garroted before you know it."

"Hwae?"

"Why, comes your pitiful question? Because many believed the Awyrgorn to be the harbingers of this New World, false as it may be. Many were raised to think that the Awyrgorn dragged the world into its current state of dissonance, so they treated its cultures and heritages as an insult to their lives. You should know of it, unspoken as it may be. Unless you are one who had not mingle long around the common rabble."

The filly sought nothing in his words.

"Well? Do you know of it?"

She finally flinched at his impatience.

"I-I have heard of it."

"So you do speak the common tongue," he sighed. "Common rabble be damned... it would seem you are, at the very least, not from around here. Your aptitude to deceive is disconcertingly insubstantial for the sake of survival."

Stiffening up, she opened her mouth to speak, only to falter with scarlet cheeks.

"Where do you come from?"

Her answer was brief, juxtaposed with a show of reluctance.

"Twinlight Glade."

Fortune was on his side, for him to have stumbled upon one from the southern border town of Twinlight Glade. He was to head there to spend his next night, hopefully in the comfort of a tavern this time instead of making do with a torn and trampled cloth draped over some dilapidated frame of rotting wood. To consider the filly before him as an incentive was debased, yet he had done worse things to carry his life onward. Plus, if anything, her family should be grateful that he brought her back safe and sound, however neglectful they can unutterably be.

"Filly, you must know that fate has favored you this night," he rumbled, crossing his hooves. "I intend to arrive at Twinlight Glade come next dusk. If it does not ail you, you can rest here with me for tonight."

"I can't go back."

He raised his eyebrow.

"Why not?"

"I... I just can't..."

"What happened to you?" he paused, frowning. "Young one, I don't suppose you were involved in anything considerably... felonious now, were you not?"

"It's not like that."

He could see her jugular wavering and writhing as she struggled to clutch onto her crumpling voice. In her eyes, he caught sight a stigmatic flicker, brief and somewhat ethereal, if not familiar. For such a sight was common in this New World, where scorn, squalor and savagery run afoul. It was especially poignant across the miens of the guilty, as he would be able to see their falsehoods leaking out from the seams. When she said that, however, there was no manner of filth or feculence in sight, which could only mean that what he was looking at was that one rare expression, so much that among the olden ponies, it once had a most peculiar name.

Grief.

"I made a promise..." she quivered. "I... I have to look for them."

"Them?"

"The Awyrgorn."

"You wish to commit heresy?!" he blurted out, only to stop and sigh when he noticed her shirking form.

"Listen and listen well. Know that any dealings made with the Awygorn would only bring undue harm upon you. They are not to be trifled with matters of us mortals, trivial or otherwise. One so young such as yourself need no involvements with them, especially when it concerns their spellcraft."

"But I already learned their spells!"

"And you have used them, and you mastered them well, indeed, which I will admit that you have showcased a rather impressive and elaborate display of your corniculate energies, but the Feyspeak is only used by the depraved to bring nothing but suffering. As such, I would advise against using them in the future."

"You used them as well!" came her pointed accusation. "How come you can use it and I can't?"

"That is because I did not use it with the intention to cripple and maim. Had I not deflected that last spell, I'd be left a burning carcass of your making to be framed and put on display before this lake of cruor and grime, and had I not enchanted this very ground we are standing on with a muffling incantation, we would already be overrun by the Verblassenein, the Saurhjarta or whatever bloody creature stalking these bedeviled forests that could be hearing us right now. If anything, I find myself inclining to throw you out and feed you to those lovely little things, if it would so spare me from the insufferable presence that I currently have to fumble with right now because her parents did not know how to bloody have their damn daughter in their crippled sights!"

That was when she scowled.

He never thought he'd live to see the day he discovered how irritating an insubordinate filly's scowl can be. With a gruff sigh, he retreated back to his makeshift camp, folding his hooves as he settled down. His cooling nerves, however, quickly boiled once again when he saw the filly slowly making her approach, her horn beaming in aureate aggression.

"Gegin!" she snapped with a firm stance. "N'garde, Th'murgan!"

"Language," he hissed grimly, his temper jolted. "First, I do not want a rematch. I specifically mentioned that I do not wish to hurt you. Second, do not call me that."

"Th'murgan?"

"I am no thaumaturge."

"Yes you are!" she insisted. "You know Feyspeak, so you are a thaumaturge!"

"The nerve of this... listen, I really do not have any patience reserved for your unneeded obstinacy, especially when it concerns something that you have no knowledge of. If you wish to spill more of your sewage and slander, head elsewhere for the sake of your budding life! I am no thaumaturge and I never will be!"

The filly finally cowered, as fillies were supposed to.

"Now," he breathed anew. "You shall stay with me for the night. Come morn, we shall venture back south."

"But I wanna—"

"South," his tongue clicked, his gaze wary. "No filly should be seeking for myths or monsters at night. Rest now."

Reluctantly, she complied, head dipping meekly in her approach. Watching her curling up against the slanting rib, his hawkish eyes softened as he settled down below the bone across hers. It wasn't long until the contented purrs of a foal reached his ears, such dainty sounds of innocence in this den, that he deemed himself rightful for comfort. Amid the burgundy night, the shadows of vultures were cast upon them, and he watched as they circled above the shivering, spindly crowns of the dead trees, gracefully waltzing around the bleeding moon.

"Awyrgorn..." he muttered the word, forbidden because of how hopeful it sounded.

For what is hope if not a lie?

"Embrace me."

Eye

Light graced his eyes.

Silence, his ears; petrichor, his lungs.

He rested among daffodils and dragonflies that buttery morning. Dewdrops clustered underneath his hooves, sprinkling across the blades of green when he stretched outwards with a satisfied hum. He gazed eastward, from which laid a shadow, large and poignant like it always was in his daydreams. He recognized that shadow, that form it took. He recognized it from his doldrums, a faint sparkle that lingered there, fervently fizzling until it fizzled no more. He recognized it even more so when it finally took on a voice.

"Brax'cem mer."

The shadow gracefully strummed his ears, the warmth in his heart soaking through his cheeks. Trudging forward, he meekly knelt in a way he would never do to anyone else, in hopes the shadow would notice. He believed it already had long ago, being the most perceptive as shadows come and go, though it never seemed to provide to him as it was asking of him now. Nevertheless, he complied without question, Feyspeak or not, because in truth, being the mere fool that he is before this shadow, he quietly, selfishly wished for the same.

"Embrace me."

"Is this alright?"

The shadow regarded neither his words nor his gentle, trembling hooves wrapped around its waist. Instead, all it did was stare vigorously into the distance. He would sometimes follow its gaze, hoping to see anything beyond the niveous haze, wishing to understand whatever nubiform tidings its keen eyes could unfurl. Alas, he understood naught.

"May I know what ails you so?"

Pride withheld it from being predisposed with such conversations, so he believed. More than most, the shadow was proud, perhaps as much as it was perceptive. He couldn't recall how many times had he watched it waltz with ignorance, trampling over and over all his attempts of prosaic discourse. He, however, remained content, knowing that the shadow wishes for his contentment. If it would so help him be noticed, he would strive to be content, verily. Still, the shadow's gaze remained far ahead, to the opaque whiteness. Still, his faith shall not be shaken, and he must be content.

Pride withheld it, so he was mistaken.

For it had been patience all along.

"Mha'gner opna! Trye!"

Even if it were not for that infuriating screaming, he was certain the grandiose explosion that followed would've rouse him nonetheless.

"Ugh... fool."

Were it not for his soundproofing incantations, she would never hear the end of it, not even after their ends arrived. Nonetheless, the filly had felled a tree, so it would seem. It certainly looked like one of the many redwoods surrounding them, though with every tree dead and reeking in mire, one cannot be sure. It was all he really could make out from stealing a glimpse through the tearing brim of his muddied kalpak. He watched, bemused as splinters skittered across the lake like pond skaters, followed by a loud, rumbling splash when the upper half of the trunk came crashing down, sending waves clumping up the coast, with small sizzles and burgundy wisps of smoke emanating from wherever rotting flesh and bone felt the water's forbidden caress.

To most, such a feat would suffice.

Then again, to most, magic was more of a spectacle than anything else.

"You do know not everything is as findible as dead bark, young one? Certainly, you know your energies could go beyond that of mere Trye-grade incantations?"

The filly turned around, panting and sweating from her brow. "It's... it's the best I could do..." she gasped. "I... I had tried pushing for those of the Vier-grade sort, but I would always... feel really... really tired after that."

"Perhaps it should be as such," he mused delicately." For one of your modest size may not be capable of such spellcraft, howbeit I believed you should've been sent flying off to the yonside of the Badlands when you felled that tree. Indeed, I believed physicality is inapplicable to you, strangely enough. Still, as much as magical prowess matters, one must always adopt the right stances for every set of spells in order to harness its optimal capacity."

"Sta... stances?"

"But of course, a mere filly like you wouldn't comprehend, much less learn them," he swiftly rebuked, earning another irritating scowl from the filly. "You need not tarry yourself with the impossible now. Behold yourself to your current arsenal."

"But I can learn them!"

"Mere words do not rewrite fate, young one."

"But I really can! I'm sure of it!"

His snout wrinkled from the sickening sight of enthusiasm, one so crude and contagious. As commonplace as such diseases were, he felt fortunate to have developed an immunity for follies and fallacies long ago. With a nicker, he glanced to the blackening sky, clicking his tongue at the piceous sun already beginning to peek out from between the jagged cracks of the branches.

"We shall speak of it later. Morn had long came and gone, for it seems you did not find time critical enough to rouse me from my slumber."

The filly's gaze fell.

"I... I didn't think you'd like being woken up at this hour."

"Of course you didn't," he grumbled underneath his breath, before turning to her. "My intentions were to cover as much of the journey as we can without happening upon... hunters, to put it lightly. With the sun nearing its blackest, it is safe to say that such fortuitous encounters are to be expected."

The filly's ears fell flat. "Sorry..."

"Apologies do not rewrite fate, young one. Now then, we must be off. We've dawdled long enough already."

The magician trudged first; the filly meekly followed behind. He had her carrying the lightest of his saddlebags, for she mentioned wanting to prove herself useful throughout their short journey. And so they went, emerging from the cusp of bone and blubber, and down the curve of the coast, the forest bending over them before accepting them into their sprawling mass. He figured it stretched at least up until the next mountain range, thereupon most would then take the underpass. He reckoned that choice long and tiring, like an intestine twisting and turning in the belly of the earth. That's not to mention the horrors that seek solace in its omnipresent darkness, awaiting those that dare venture the depths. No, he had a different approach in mind; an option few would share.

"Th'murgan?"

"Feyspeak," he clicked. "What is it?"

"Why do you head south?"

A sigh.

"I never said I was heading south, filly."

"But you are, aren't you?"

"And what if I am? What would you, a mere filly, do upon knowing the fact that I'm heading south?"

The filly's face fell from under his hawkish glare.

Tranquility overcame his senses. For a moment, it almost seemed that he had never encountered this insubordinate filly. Oh, if only this world would reprieve him of such annoyances. Such was the fate of a wanderer, doomed to these frivolous encounters and the attitudes that came with them. Indeed, he felt fortunate that his destination was rather close by before this one leaves his side. That said, there were still some things about this filly that waxed his interest, perhaps much more than the prospect of a bright morning. He felt no need to pry as she did, yet he figured it harmless. If anything, her arcane prowess was intriguing, which only further prods his curiosity.

"Your parents."

"Huh?"

"Your parents," he tried again. "I shall assume that they're rather proficient with their magic, yes? Both unicorns?"

"I think so."

He couldn't help but frown. "Surely you jest. This land, blighted as it may be, was united underneath one banner, held high on the belief that the three races shall be united as one. You do know that right?"

"Of course! Earth pony, pegasi and unicorn! Father's a unicorn, just like you!"

"And your mother?"

"I... I never knew my mother..."

He stopped in his tracks, his gaze shifting right towards her.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's alright. I don't really mind." She kicked about the burnt leaves underneath her hooves. "I heard she's really nice though. She was the nicest pony in the world."

"From your father, perhaps?"

"Maybe. I don't really know. Father never liked to talk about her." Her gaze fell alongside her voice, only to pick itself back up again. "But he really misses her a lot though. He talks a lot about her in his sleep sometimes."

"As grieving ponies oft do," he remarked, resuming his trotting. "I suppose he must be worried that you were not with him right now, filly. Did he know of your little expedition?"

The filly nodded reluctantly.

"And yet he allowed his very own daughter to chase after fables in the dark?"

"I can take care of myself, he knows that." Her gaze darkened. "You know, it's not fair that I'm answering all your questions when you don't even want to answer any of mine."

"You need not answer them then," he scoffed brusquely, smirking. "I never did say you had to answer any of those questions. I never needed to know about your parents, for it would serve no purpose the moment we part ways when I return you to your father. I do intend to meet with him, for he should at least be reprimanded for letting his very own daughter chase after the mythos of the Awyrgorn, of all the bedeviled legends she found pleasing to her ear."

"The Awyrgorn isn't a legend! It's real!"

"It's fanatical, young one. You can't chase those that had left this earth, particularly those that left the rest of us here to rot and die."

"They... they didn't leave us."

"Then where were they?" he boiled. "Where were they when the sun burned black? Where were they when the moon bled red? Where were they when the amber syrup" —he slammed a hoof into the bark of one of the dead trees, his nose curling before the stench spewing from the cracks— "churned into puce-grey bile, spilling from the taps and broiling the very mouths it was supposed to feed? Face it, filly! The Awyrgorn had left us and they will never, ever, ever be coming back!"

Suddenly, the sky rumbled.

The sun burned ever blacker.

A shadow befell upon the spindles and the tainted land it grew from. The clouds darted ahead, the stars shattering above them. In the blink of an eye, what little light that remained began to fade. The magician could only look up to the sky, petrified in awe and horror as the black sun swallowed itself up, only to burst back open in an aurulent scream. Underneath that blinding, golden glare, all he could only do was squint, yet beyond the deathly screams plaguing the minds of the earth, he could make out a black, trembling slit, neatly and thinly incised down the middle, the sight of which left him gasping the only comprehensible word left in his head.

"Filly! Filly, we have to go!"

The filly couldn't hear him. Not when her head was filled with the very same screams. Not when her head burned underneath those passionate screeches and forced her gaze towards the diadermic light entrancing her, entrenching her, burrowing into the very nerves that made her. Her jaw fell, her mouth frothed, her voice teetered, struggling to find its place among the choir, before finally, finally, she was in harmony. In those dissonant, sulfurous shrills, her voice belonged as tears fell from her eyes, whether overwhelmed from joy or terror, she wasn't sure. Then again, why should be sure? Why resort to follies when you can but rejoice?

Be still, the chorus sang.

Be at peace.

And peace was what she had, and what she will always have.

For the rest of her short life.

"Skruth'ansiht! Ala'mosna ter fra s'wel rebh fortia!"

A crack of blue streaked across the glade, if only for a moment. The filly blinked from the sudden onslaught, the chorus in her head silenced for good. Before she knew it, she was yanked away by talons of cyan before finding herself onto the galloping magician's back. Howls erupted from behind, the forsaken light searing the hairs on her back. She craned her neck back, only to find a wisp of magic forcing her head forward with a strong nudge on her paling cheeks.

"Don't look back! Don't ever look back!"

Fearfully, she nodded, clutching onto him and clenching her eyes tighter even as the screams grew closer and closer. The magician leaped and lunged, the roots threatening to snap his hooves from under him and the branches threatening to impale him by the throat. A loud, piercing roar shattered the earth, and though the filly never looked back, she didn't need to, for she could make out a colossal, serpentine shadow slowly creeping up underneath them from the ground below, and it was growing noticeably larger and larger by the second.

"Head! Down!"

Immediately, she complied just as he made a gravity-defying leap, her mane barely grazed by a low-hanging stalactite, before they landed safely with a splash. Slowly, her eyes opened, adjusting to a new kind of darkness, one bereft of the monstrosity that reaped her mind. The magician's gallops fell back into a leisurely canter, hoofsteps and pants echoing through the grand cave they found themselves in. He hissed when a draft flew from the depths, scraping across a few cuts he sustained during their desperate escape. With a grunt, he fell back onto his flank, saddlebags clattering with his back resting against the cavern walls.

"Never had it done that," he rumbled to himself, brows furrowing. "No, no, inexplicable, inconceivable, it... it never showed itself with the sun. Why now? Why... now..."

"W-What was that?"

The filly's voice shook violently, so much so that the magician tried his best to contain his own shivers.

"It came with the black sun. I know not of it's true name. No one does. We can all agree that when the world began to fester, it was the one that marveled its ulcers. When the mornings first burned black, it commenced the arrival by assuring that some of the northern villages did the same. Apart from that, we can also agree on what it would be called."

"What is it?"

"Jörmungandr," came his grave answer, decrepit and desolate. "Remember this name well, for this name had haunted us, and it shall haunt us ever longer until eternity's end."

His gaze drew back to the mouth of the cave, where the sun burned bright still.

"Fortunately, with his strangely sudden interference, our journey's been hastened. I intended to travel through these caves. If anything, we should be safe, given that nothing else is lurking here, which I believe it so, for only a few knew this route. We definitely can't turn back now, not with it roaming the glade."

The filly, for once, found that prospect more hopeful, if nothing else.

"Forward?" she asked with a cock of her head, even as she knew the answer.

The magician stopped himself short of a snort.

"Forward."

Darkness graced his eyes.

He saw it now: it, coming from the east, toiling and tumbling from beyond the clouds, churning the winds into guttural howls. The first screams of many graced his once-innocent ears. A shatter split his skull, like vultures tearing into carrion. As the burning choir sharpened, he found himself joining their hymn, cursing all that was while praising the coming of this new world, even as blood ran from his ears and down his cheeks. He found himself screaming and shouting, his thoughts chiming in mass hysteria. In all that frenzy, however, his sanity clung onto his trembling spine, before he found himself chanting a familiar pair of words that would, in the end, be the very words that ultimately saved his mind.

"Embrace me!"

Talon

Pride.

Synonyms are few and far in between, yet when they do arrive, they always felt like the final piece of a puzzle. His mother embodied it well, the word 'pride'. It was an old friend of hers, he remembered her saying once, so much so that he was fortunate his father was there to balance it out. His parents were both unicorns, proficient in both the arcane and the mundane, with a growing certainty that he would be gutted had he mentioned the latter before them. One could say that they were proud parents when they discovered that their son emulated them as such. Whether it be by fortune's favors or fate's twisted endeavors, he was never exactly sure.

Nevertheless, he had pride.

For who he was, for what he did, for everything that changed him into what he was today.

His mother must be sorely disappointed to see what he had become.

"Pride..."

"Hmm?"

The shadow had glanced back from its prospects, heeding his shameful call of attention.

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"It will merely wax your disinterest."

"Tell me."

The voice it adopted was firm, yet there was a frailty to it. It was a frailty only he could hear, for it was never frail before anyone else. Whether it be fortune's favors or fate's sickening endeavors, he didn't care; the shadow was seeking to him for solace, not an inquisition. So he sighed, submitting to its whims and fancies as he rested his head against the shadow's withers.

"It is not right, doing this."

The shadow grinned before the moonlight. "One never knows. With all that was done, and all that they did prior, I trust that they can find a way to put it to good use."

"But this magic, this tongue... it's wrong. It's foul."

"Th'murgan."

"Don't," he paused for a breath, squirming, "Say that. Don't. Please, I forbid you. Do not taint your glottis with those wretched words."

"You may think it wretched, but it would soon be spoken across the mountains and valleys of this land and the lands beyond it. Ponies will come to accept it, as they had accepted this common tongue in the days of yore."

"But Fe-Feyspeak?" he barely choked on its name alone. "These words— no, these words are imbued with power. These words, th-they reek purely of magic. Are you saying that the common mind should be provided the responsibility of using such unimaginable, unprecedented power at the tip of their tongue?"

"We are all of the common mind," the shadow reminded with a frown. "We merely rose from them to lead them, remember that. Your parents were once part of — seeing as you love to use that term — the simple-minded rabble."

"My parents were more than just the common pony. You know that."

"I do, but I remember their roots, as did they. And if pride dictates that they are to help devise a new form of speech to expand the capabilities of the common pony's tongue, so be it. You may have pride, but they have a pride that they figured can be put to use, and so they did."

He fell silent, embracing his defeat like he wished the shadow would do to him. It may be tender with its touch, yet he will be forced to remember, time and time again, the rigor that breathed behind its facade. The shadow's smile soon returned, this time facing the moon and reveling in its serene gaze. Hope was a flicker in those eyes, genteel and bright. He may be wary around it, but for the shadow to emit hope, he found it tranquil, much like the oblivious quivers of a firefly. His mother would chastise him for chasing shadows in the dark, though he was sure his mother wouldn't mind to hear that he had been searching for an inkling of hope in the night.

Yet what is hope if not a lie?

"So, what's in here?"

A wanderer and an overly-curious filly, his cynicism came to surmise.

If only that would suffice, but of course, he was stuck with said filly who, he was sure, once drafted crusades in the name of discovering the truth to everything prior to their journey. He dared not speak out, lest she don an abrasive scowl worth the swing of the adult hoof. Instead, he raised his lantern unto this solitude of whistling walls and crumbling floors, his hoof trailing along the slew of jagged rocks that dotted the cavern. He remembered how they stood tall and proud once, those rocks. Long ago, he can't remember exactly when, but he clearly recalled them being sentinels, once stoic and silent, heralding all that strode down this little-known passage.

"Well?"

He sighed. "You'll come to know in time."

Stepping closer, his hoof slowly brushed over one of these fallen stones. There were inscriptions there once, carefully and intricately carved by some of the great lithographers of yore, their beauty long pared from the deft fangs of the olid winds scouring throughout the tunnels. He could, however, still faintly feel their empaestic grooves humming at his touch, to which he gently stroked them with the very tip of his hoof. The language itself reflected the runes' age — a dialect of the commonplace vocabulary whose roots trace back to the ethnic ponies of the northwestern lands, as an examination of the ecclesiastic runic texts he discovered in the mountains of that region had disclosed to him, to which he quickly destroyed them for their heresy thereafter— though some of it was legible enough in the narrow vision of his lexicon to tell him they were on the right path.

"This way."

The depths spiraled much further than he originally thought. As much as the land deformed, he never did believe Jörmungandr moved the mountains, though some versions of the myths would concur otherwise. He tread before these familiar walls, the filly obediently falling behind. Their shadows danced to an irregular thrum of candlelight, their misshaped figures reaching out tentatively, as if to pull them from underneath their hooves. The filly shivered quietly, lest she provoke his scorn. The magician, however, was rather content engrossing himself with inscription after inscription, so much so that he failed to notice that her attempts were in vain, for she was shaking like a baby left in the frozen hinterland, and rather violently at that.

"Is this the right way?"

"Perhaps," he mumbled, much to her disdain, before suddenly stopping. "Halt."

"What? What is it?"

Faint was the scent, yet its presence remained. He gave a powerful whiff, raising his lantern higher. The cavern winds reciprocated with an exhalation, its breath dragging the odor upon them once more, to which the filly immediately clamped both hooves over her wrinkling snout. The magician repressed his nausea, proceeding instead to search the mnemonic shelves in his head, leafing through tomes and grimoires of yore before a single, wretched word quietly drew forth from his tongue.

"Skaurlh'eite."

Light coalesced into a sphere, drifting forth from his horn and hovering forward against the currents. The pair hastened their pace, reeled in by their snouts, their nerves driven delirious amid the effluvia. It was only when they emerged into a larger antre that the azure orb began to coruscate. The passage opened up, only to converge into a narrow bridge growing above a gaping abyss and extending beyond to a grand mesa at the very end, where a towering, derelict structure welcomed them. As they crept closer, however, the filly gasped, throat clenching onto the squeamish air, whereas the magician felt his cheeks blanch free of color at the sight before them.

"Blasphemy."

Bodies piled around this grand plateau. Bodies, in the hundreds, surrounding what was formerly a basilica. They reeked and rotted, flesh melting into the ground, bone molding into a putrid filemot muck, eyeballs souring into sarcoline phlegm. His world screamed at the sight, this feast for the maggots, at the utter desecration of this subterranean sacrarium. Much to the filly's horror, he stepped forward, hooves sinking into this land, fertile in the visceral and the humoral. It wasn't until the sixth squelch of his hooves, dragging out pieces of rib and remnants of a plumage, that he came to realize what these bodies were. His hoof drove down into the murky depths, wading through sluice and chyle, before finally pulling out, from a bloated cusp, an ornate insignia, its outline dotted with emeralds whereas its surface sheened in gastric acids, bearing a shape alluding to what these bodies once proudly represented in the throes of life.

"Gryphons."

The filly remained speechless, paling.

The magician instead knelt down with a grimace. "Three weeks into decomposition. Soldiers? No, not all of them." he paused. "No, the military was escorting them. Refugees, perhaps, traveling westbound. The war? No, something more senseless drove them here. Say, their township was overran by monstrosities, though most of them had escaped."

"I... I don't want to stay here anymore..."

"Crossed the border into this land," he continued, the filly's pleas failing to reach him as he combed the cadavers. "Few encounters along the way, though nothing worthy of note. Disease killed some of them, though the plague merely took out those already weak and famished. It would not explain why the soldiers perished as well. Gryphons sought for pride in the military, so it should be obvious that they were well fed, well trained. The gryphon infantry have been known to survive through the harshest famines throughout the wars of history, so why now?"

"Can we leave?" the filly begged. "Please?"

"No... no... they didn't lose their lives. They merely lost their will. They had begun adhering to the scriptures of inevitability, not probability. They succumbed to those prayers and they made it quick. Tiercels, hens, eyas, all in unanimous resignation. They breathed too long in this foul air, exposed too long to this fetid sun. And so, they decided to expire, altogether."

"Please... I... I need to..."

"This was not a mass grave." he grimaced. "This was a site of mass suicide."

All semblance of thought was quickly interrupted by a loud splash.

The magician whirled back at the sound. For a moment, he believed it to be of varmint origin; the hour of the hunter should be at its peak, so it wouldn't surprise him that the critters nigh the nadir of the natural order would skitter into the depths of the earth. He gazed beyond the carneous plain, searching for the more misshapen of the shadows on the walls, only to realize that his own shadow was solitary.

"Filly, there shan't be drollery of any sort when you are with me. Come out. Now."

His call was not answered.

"Filly? Are you there?"

The silence shrieked in response.

Quickly, he sauntered back, lunging over crushed talons and molten marrows. He found her collapsed, panting with breath feverish and faint, and curled up among the prone bodies beneath her within the vast morass of viscera, her forehead glistening in cold sweat. He knelt down to reach for her form, stricken with violent tremors, though it was only when his hooves traveled down her barrel to carry her and traced with terrifying accuracy the distinct lines of her scapula and ribcage bulging underneath her skin that he was left with no choice but to scowl.

"What have you done to yourself?" he murmured.

Hastily but carefully, he heaved her onto his back, before slowly cantering into the forgotten basilica. The iron door groaned from his arcane thrust, the bodies littering the compound spilling into the cracks as he climbed inside. Dust fluttered across the stone tiles, his hooves leaving griffin-red marks of dissidence as he strode down the nave. He carefully set her down before the steps of the shattered altar, before reaching into his saddlebags and pulling out what was his luckiest haul: a mix of redcurrants and bilberries, fresh from the branch he had plucked them from.

"Th'murgan..."

"Hush now. Eat," he said, placing a berry at her dry lips, parting in welcome. "The wanderer must always have a meal for this day, the next day and the day after that, at every given time, lest their fortune runs cold."

He then took out and uncapped one of his many leather waterskins, filled with the rare treasure of pure freshwater, pristine and crystal clear as the spring he drew it from. Almost immediately, the filly's lips latched onto it, gulping and gulping until it was almost empty, before opening once more to usher in his collection of baccate delicacies.

"Filly, how long have you starved?"

"F-Five days..."

"Mm, severely dehydrated as well. Fortune favors you that I have fruitier edibles to spare aside from the common bundles of hay, which at this point would only serve to prolong your thirst. I would ask why you set off on this journey with nary a resource on you, as I would ask why you did not accept the loaf I offered upon our chance encounter by the lakeside, though I suppose you would need a little time to rest and retrospect."

"I'm... I'm sorry..."

"Spare your apologies, for they are wasted on me. Save your breath, speak less, if not at all."

"Brax'cem mer... Th'murgan... brax'cem... pl'arei."

His frown wrenched up, both at her demand and her tongue, only to fade with his sigh.

"Just this once."

And so, the magician held the filly close despite his sullied hooves, intending to heed at least her one request, being a little lenient than his usual disposition would allow. Slowly but surely, she convalesced, her breathing regaining its balance. Her whimpers softened, her tremors tempered, until she slumbered like he imagined any healthy filly would in the comfort of their home. With a brusque sigh, he forced his eyes shut and listened to the whispering winds seeping through the cracking rafters, their soft palavers caressing those already fossilized in his mind, until he too found his semblance of slumber, relinquishing the last of his doubts as he cast himself into the ocean of his dreams.

"Th'murgan."

"Thaumaturge."

A shadow.

"Dost thou don that crest with pride?"

"Never. Not once."

A different shadow.

"Why?"

"I don't deserve it. I never did."

This shadow was tempered by time. This shadow rose as all the other shadows do. This shadow was pervading and prevailing to the common mind throughout its life. However, this shadow, amongst its kind, was the keenest of them all. And it's keenness was macabre, searching and extracting from within him the tapeworms of sentiments before they take root in his head and reap him of reason. This shadow eventually was the shadow that realized, before all the other shadows, a sentiment he was secretly nurturing; the one parasite he was graciously willing to feed.

"Your mother spoke to me."

Pride always spoke loudly and clearly, so it would seem.

"What did she confide in you?"

"Your nightly excursions. They seem to worry her deeply."

"They always do. Tell her I mean no harm, nor do I intend to seek it out."

"One couldn't help but notice that said excursions seemingly coincide with the nocturnal promenades of another."

A shadow.

A different shadow.

"T'is merely fate that entwines our threads as such."

"One does not recall fate ever having a rhythm."

"The rhythm is irregular, yet a mere rhythm all the same."

"Yet we can both concur this rhythm is of the conventional sort, correct?"

"A gentle one, I would reckon. Much like those promenades you speak of."

"Or an excursion, perhaps."

"Yes, that. Now, if you will excuse me."

He spoke no further, for he knew that if he spoke, the shadow would transude his larynx and espy the slight reverberations he was desperately suppressing. Vulnerable was his form before the darkness staring into him, despite knowing that no ill will shall befall upon him, for the shadows always worked for the better in mysterious ways. The common response to xenophobia came to mind, though to demean the shadows to the standards of the proletariat would be heresy, not that they minded. Certainly enough, the shadow before him smiled and nodded in dismissal, though not before slipping to him a little memento.

"Take care of her. Please."

The magician's eyes flew open.

Darkness greeted him, as did silence.

"Filly?"

She rested still. Stirred by his call, certainly, though her return to slumber was quick. Her snores were effeminately light, much like a feline's, though for it to be the only sound resonating the transepts and back perturbs him. She still clung tightly onto him, much to his annoyance, though such a matter was trivial. Rather, his concerns were raised by something else.

If the filly was asleep, then what caused the loud crack that roused him?

Hastily, he relit his lantern with an accursed mutter, basking them both in an oblong light. His gaze remained wary at its edges, waiting for a pair of eyes or a set of fangs to glint back at him. Slowly, his eyes darted between the pillars and their shifting shadows, before drifting to the crumbling balconies of the upper aisles. His shadow danced erratically beneath him as he raised his lantern higher, seeping into the cracks of the floors. The air thickened, the specks of dust waltzed their array of taunts, until his voice finally found his way back to him.

"Who's there?"

The silence remained frigid and firm. With a wrinkle of his snout, the magician settled back down and reached into his saddlebags, pulling out a coruscant pearl of red from a satchel. He gently tossed it from hoof to hoof, even as his eyes scoured the derelict walls once more, before finally, with a powerful swing, he hurled the pearl straight into the air, thought not before providing it a gentle whisper.

"Seek those bound by the rhythm of flesh and blood."

Amid its fall, the pearl suddenly held itself aloft, radiating brighter than ever until, with a near-silent boom, it emitted a rippling sphere of incarnadine energy from its core across the cathedral with a low hum that managed to prod at the sleeping filly's senses. The light struck through the walls, impaling the darkness that lingered within. Quickly, his eyes soared throughout the room, before fixating onto a singular, visible pulse hiding in the corners of the upper floor. As the pearl began to crackle and dim, he quickly raised his lantern once more, never letting those fading pulsations of light out of his sight.

"I know you're there!" he called out. "Come out now!"

With a defeated sigh, the figure stepped onto the balcony and into his view, adorned with an effervescent scowl. He reciprocated in turn, his brows furrowing both in scrutiny and revulsion. Rising to his hooves, he trotted forward, hiding the filly behind him from the figure's view. As his horn began to kindle, however, the figure unsheathed a twin pair of curved daggers, its serrated edges glistening in a venomous violet. The filly herself, of course, remained oblivious to these sudden tidings, even as the voice of her temporary ward resounded across the halls.

"Pray tell, what does a gryphoness seek for in these very depths?"

Larynx

Gryphon.

Griffin.

Griffon.

Never could the world agree on the spelling. He himself preferred the autochthonous 'gryphon', notwithstanding his fellow ponies' reference to them as 'griffons', for he found it somewhat derogatory. The variant of 'gryphon' provides them with a much-needed sophistication, acknowledging their long and proud history of being resilient warriors. There was an old saying that to fight a gryphon is to declare war on its flock, for the temper of the gryphon was infamous for its volatility. One can say with certainty that somewhere in this world, some fool had ruffled a gryphon's feathers merely because their eyes crossed paths. He pitied said fool for their belligerence.

That's not to say that they were any better.

Pillagers, barbarians, plunderers, looters, bandits, marauders, warmongers, vandals; all of them synonymous with the gryphon heritage. He'd ask himself over and over: how many towns had they razed and ruined? How many stallions had they lynched and beheaded? How many mares had they raped and butchered? How many colts and fillies had they scalped alive, with their innards stringed together and their abdomens flayed open as they were left out to dry? How many more savageries must they commit before the black sun can show mercy to the rest of the world and swallow them where they stand?

The gryphons were a fouler sort of beast, perhaps more than mercy should be allowed to handle.

Surely, this one was no different.

"Do you belong with the company that perished outside?"

The gryphoness remained silent.

"Did you come here alone? Well? I hope to hear an answer."

Still, she remained stubbornly silent.

"I advise against testing me, gryphon," he snarled. "You are to answer my questions or you would join your kin in rotting here."

Her sentience was evident, for she glowered at his words. Her intelligence irrefutable, for she raised her daggers higher, only to return them into their sheaths on her back instead. He held his stance nevertheless, even as she hopped onto the balcony and leaped down onto the marble ground, her gyrfalcon plumage riffling in a streaking white. Both firmly stood their ground, waiting for the other to strike, and for a long time, all one could hear was their breathing amid the cavern's draft. Their eyes were stern and steady, not daring to blink lest the other should seize the opportunity. Finally, the gryphoness's patience wore thin, as the magician expected it to, and she soon made the first move, albeit one he had not seen coming.

"Th'murgan,"

Some part of him shivered when that word ran up his spine. Try as he might, he could not suppress his gasp, which only served to widen the smirk beginning to form on her beak. His horn sparked and flickered, his gaze sharpening as he took his first careful step forward, only to halt when she spoke once again.

"I thought I recognized you. You have aged some."

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"No one you would know."

"And yet you claim to recognize me?"

"You've a reputation," so she claims. "I know fully well who you were, who you once answered to and what you had done in the final days before the coming of the black sun. I've heard of the endeavors you've committed in your expedition southbound. I've heard perhaps more than most would ever hear in their lifetime. You, the irredeemable, the irrefragable—"

"You know not that of which you speak—"

"The Last Thaumaturge."

The magician flinched, his breath warbling before that grin.

That insufferable, indomitable grin.

"I am no thaumaturge. I never was."

"Many would say otherwise."

"Those 'many' do not fathom the principles of thaumaturgy. They would appertain mere parlor tricks to the same standards of the most complex of arcane adage if it pleases them. They are mere gainsayers who would stand by their cockeyed comparisons despite the impugnments of the academe. They would exscind wisdom on behalf of their indiscernible mores. They are fools."

"These are not the fools that you speak of," the gryphoness contravened. "They have the insight most do not have, and they could and had unanimously agreed on who you are. You are the Last Thaumaturge: the only one remaining with a deft mind worthy of the most complex algorithms of Feyspeak. That is what they all believed."

"And what of it?" he fumed at all the nonsense. "What could you possibly extort from me?"

"I do not seek you, Th'murgan. I was merely acknowledging you."

He could only retch at that. How savage can the gryphon mind be? How dishonorably inferior are the practices of common courtesy within the apiary? That? To call that 'acknowledgment'? Oh, he could not even begin to fathom the extent of their ignominy were it to be the case! He wouldn't even dare to, lest his head burns up in rage! With a nicker, he waved the energies off his horn, his glare fixated on the gryphoness even as he trotted back to the altar.

"If you have nothing else to say, I suggest you leave me at peace. I have enough troubles as it is."

"The filly."

He turned back, before groaning out a sigh. "Yes, the filly."

"No, the filly," the gryphoness scowled. "She is the one I am seeking."

The magician stopped in his tracks. For the longest time, he stared at the gryphoness. He hoped to speak, but could find nothing to speak of. His horn was unconsciously lighting up again, though he quickly quelled it before the energies could swell. Cocking his head, all that met him was her firm gaze, akin to the gargoyles watching over them from the darkness above. Questions floated before him, though he could not comprehend an answer. All he could rely upon, unfortunately, was her.

"What do you gryphons need her for?"

Her wings ruffled for the first time.

"Your tone sickens me."

Laughter, boisterous and stunning, flew from his mouth.

"Do you wish to answer my question? Or do you perchance prefer I amend my mistake of allowing you to stand before me?"

"I'd much prefer you amend the mistake of letting a filly starve herself to such a sorry state."

The magician wrinkled his snout.

"She was already malnourished by the time I met her. She never spoke of it in the little time I was with her."

"And yet you never made any attempts to notice it." the gryphon stepped forward, her accusatory talon pointed right at him. "She may not have spoken about it because she knew it would trouble you. Your oversight only aided her suffering. You may have the acuity for the arcane vernacular, though you sorely lack it when it comes to keeping those around you alive."

Those words stung, and they stung deep in places he had believed should've been numb to such treatment by now. The words had shaken him, so much so that he couldn't even budge a hoof when the gryphoness strode past him and to the filly's side. By the time he could muster the confidence to turn around, she had set her blades down and was stroking the shivering filly's mane as she adorned her best smile.

"How frail you've become," she whispered into the filly's ear. "You have seen so much in so little time. You are a brave one, aren't you? They never said you would do this; they would never conceive it. For you to wander at such a young age, and to stumble upon the Last Thaumaturge, no less."

The winds hummed in place of his disgruntled silence, and they hummed for the longest time. The magician settled from across them, watching warily those sharp, glinting talons gently combing the filly's mane. Whatever the gryphons want from the filly was beyond his comprehension, though the prospect of it bore a great appeal. The filly would be better off under the stewardship of the gryphoness, suppose that said gryphoness genuinely cares about her. He would then be free to journey as he pleases.

And with all the hope swelling to his head, it came as no surprise to him that it ended abruptly when the gryphoness raised a question.

"Where are you two headed?"

Hesitance, albeit one easily corroded.

"Twinlight Glade."

"Too far," the gryphoness remarked coldly. "She would perish long before that."

"Then where do you suggest we head to? There is not a hamlet for miles."

"There is one."

The magician's frown twisted further.

"You don't mean to say..."

"Gloomshire."

"Gloomshire?" came his incensed hiss. "Gloomshire? That foul nest of savagery and miscreancy? That deranged settlement of collective barbarianism? Have you lost your mind? Do you know what they had done to the folks there? Do you not hear the stories arising from that dastardly place? Do you have any idea what bringing a filly like her into their midst would entail?"

"I know full well the dangers of Gloomshire as anyone else, perhaps more. However, I have a friend situated there, and he owes me a countless array of favors. More than most, he can help us with treating her ailments."

"Of course he can."

"He can," the gryphoness asserted strongly. "You need only trust me on this, I ask nothing more."

"And why should I trust you?" he questioned. "I know not of you and that which you seek from the filly. I know not of your intentions of keeping me alive. Goddesses beseech, I do not even know your name!"

"Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn's my name. I suppose common courtesy expects you to do the same, though I'd imagine you wouldn't nevertheless. Unless, of course, you're willing to prove me wrong."

Awe clamped his hanging jaw, for him to be bested by a gryphoness. With a most primal scowl, the magician huffed and turned away. Dust flew from around him as he set loose his nicker, his inaudible mumbles deliquescing from silence and cascading from his dry lips. How could this happen? Why would fate allow this to happen? Was there any end to his misfortune? As much as he'd like to implore whatever deities that linger among the darkness of this basilica, he knew better than to blabber on and on about the heretic beliefs of hope. He knew better, and so he faced her once again. Were he to turn around a little earlier, he would've spotted the gryphoness rolling her eyes; instead, he was treated to her talons roaming to and carefully stroking the filly sides, who seemed to be smiling and muttering from the depths of her slumber.

"Your name, Th'murgan?" Gwendolyn paused her ministrations, looking up to him. "May I know it?"

Cold eyes stared into hers, only to sway to the side.

"I do not know it myself."

A grimace.

"You jest."

"I'm afraid not," the magician sighed, beginning his confessional. "I had forced it out of my memory. It would be a liability, you see. It would expose those around me to dangers no one should never face. To brand my name upon thee is to imbue a curse upon thyself. Seeing as you know my history, it would not be beyond me to assume you would understand my reasoning."

"Pitiful, for it to be the truth. However, I fondly believe curses can be broken, Th'murgan, like how you believe the black sun will one day fade to white." She bore a most melancholic gaze, drawing away from his and diving up into the night. "Your name is no curse, I know that much. It is, in fact, a blessing of hope."

"Hope is but a lie."

"We live in a word of liars. You know full well of that, as much as you knew what this lie would entail, especially since it was to be the greatest lie of the world."

"The greatest lie in the world?"

"It was your name, they said. The name you were bestowed. The name you held near and dear until the day you left it behind. Your name, should it come to memory, would be the greatest lie ever told on this face of the earth should it be spoken."

"And they know of it how?" he questioned.

"Conjectures. They know not of the absolute."

The magician sighed at that prospect, settling himself back onto the altar. For the longest time, there was no sound, with Gwendolyn stroking the filly's back as she slept in silence. Herein comes the gryphoness's lullaby, invoking memories from the days of yore. He had heard it before, for it was a melancholic hymn native to the eastern mountains, popularized by Griorgair the Gleeful in his striking expeditions across the peaks. He remembered how the melody always rooted itself in his head, how it brought up emotions he had never felt before. In fact, he could even recall its name.

"Gossamer for the Vigilant."

Her glance befell upon him.

"You know of this hymn?"

"Distant recollection, yes."

"You remember the words?"

"A verse or two, perhaps. Nothing more."

She bestowed a grin with a glint in her eyes, persisting with nary a care for the chagrin he had presented to her. With a grumble, the magician cleared his parched throat, before his gravelly voice graced the sleeping filly and all those aimless souls wandering outside the forgotten basilica, never once letting them slip from his paean's embrace.

"Autumn's passing, grace our farewell
With brine and bouquet; the tranquil knell
With wine to allay before the gilded stele
A passing soul's final fears
A massing skoal to drink our tears

Gossamer for the vigilant, cockleburs for the wise
Sun, moon, star, at glorious highs
With braised wrasse and spirits of rye
As we dance, united before the broken skies
Before the lonely rise
Behold, our demise."

Silence applauded him, as did the gryphoness.

"Grim, the libretto, for it to be so celebratory of death," Gwendolyn remarked. "My kind never really admired life in the same manner, one could surmise. The talk of glory, of bloodshed and warfare, of relishing their ill-gotten gains eludes me. Griorgair the Gleeful... as much as I admired his work, I'm afraid I could not extend such sympathies to his traditional beliefs of life."

"You question the work of your own kind?"

"What is there not to question? I cannot find the beauty in it, no matter how hard I try."

"I find in it a beauty in relevance. A beauty that came with time."

"Death should not be beautiful," she spoke with damning certainty. "Death should not be revered and celebrated. Death has no place for my admiration, nor should it find its place in anyone else's."

There was a gravity when she uttered those words; he could only surmise that death was profuse throughout her life. Considering the daggers she wielded earlier, he was inclined to believe that she frequented being a harbinger of such. How strange must it be to comprehend this walking contradiction. Where many others like her embraced death like a welcome friend, she was visibly repulsed, if her incessant ruffling of her feathers would say as much. Intrigued, he opened his mouth to speak, only to stop himself short before the pained frown on her face.

"We should depart before the black morn," he opted instead. "If your... friend—" he remained cautious apropos of that word "—truly can help us, then it would be best to see that the filly gets the help she needs at the nearest second."

"You should rest. I shall keep watch."

Cynical as he ever was, the magician mustered every ounce of trust he could to nod at Gwendolyn's proposal. Even as he fluffed his saddlebags and propped them next to the sleeping filly's head, his gaze upon the gryphoness remained a watchful one. She never turned back, striding down the nave with her pair of daggers gracefully sliding from their sheaths and into her talons before she stopped in her tracks. Gracefully, she settled onto the ground, twin blades placed on either side with head hanging low and eyes closed. For as long as he watched, she remained still, never wavering from even the haunting howls of the cavern winds.

"Wh... who is she?"

The filly had stirred, if only for a moment. Her tired eyes had spotted Gwendolyn in the distance, though her frail voice seemingly failed to capture the gryphoness's attention. The magician could only cross his hooves, his brows furrowed in thought at the peculiarity before them. All he knew of Gwendolyn was her presence; he could feel it radiating and blossoming amid the darkness, entrenching into him a kind of gloom he had not seen before. With a grim sigh, he closed his eyes, providing to the filly the closest answer in which the lengths of his reason could perceive.

"A pariah."

"Brax'cem mer."

Once more, his hoof wrapped around its trembling form.

Once more, he was treated to the same deafening silence.

Once more, he ascertained he could remain content.

The shadow had wept prior to his arrival. It would never speak of it, though he certainly could not ignore the trail of dried tears branching down its cheeks. He knew not of how it came to be this way, but it whipped up a storm in his chest and ready to strike whomsoever foolish enough to commit this atrocity. Alas, there are times and places for such emotions, and he certainly would not want the shadow to be present before his tireless rage. No, this night, the shadow needs reprieve, and he was willing to carry its weight.

"I can't do this."

He turned upon hearing those words slip from her mouth.

"I can't do this."

Frailty before vitality.

"You need not panic," he offered his best assurances. "I know you will do fine."

"You don't know that."

"I don't, yet I do know you shall remain persistent, and you should remain as such. You'll find it eventually."

The shadow spoke no more, silenced perhaps by a moment of deep thought. He did the same, having been accustomed to serving silence whenever those moments arrive. His mouth may not move, but his head was gallivanting about, devising scenarios that he knew would never find themselves in the basis of this reality. He could formulate only a tight smile, viciously struggling to free himself from the fetters as his imagination tortured him with the looping of a simple phrase, playing over and over until he nearly sank to his knees and screamed it aloud to the skies.

"You could've found it in me!"

"Charming."

The magician had woken up a little earlier than expected, what with paranoia cramming itself in his head, not that it helped. Gwendolyn had long risen from where she knelt, as she was admiring the cracked frescoes on the crumbling walls that celebrated the antediluvian ideologies of unity and harmony, to which she provided the aforementioned remark in turn. He felt no need to respond, though he was certain his grimace spoke volumes on how he felt about the murals and how they were flaking, piece by piece falling with the passage of time.

"You seem to know this place."

"I do. It was an institute of learning as much as it was a place of worship." he sighed in fond rememberance. "It was grand in the days of yore, with polished marble and gilded doors. I recall my first visit was with my father when he had errands to run here and my mother thought it best for me to join him. I was a young colt then, and there were many young colts like me that lived here, eager to study the arcane arts, all yearning to learn the wonders of thaumaturgy. Oh, if they only knew how strict it would be."

"It must be a lively place."

"Yes, it certainly was."

And all that life, all the energy of a thousand colts running up and down this former haven, of laughter in abundance booming across the hallways— all of it was lost when the world began to burn. He could imagine the chaos that erupted here as it did everywhere else. He'd trust their teachers would uphold their responsibility as guardians and bring them back into the safe embrace of their kin, though the tales of their heroics were scarce. What he knew, however, was their method of escape.

"We shall move to the crypts," he urged. "There are a set of tunnels from there that lead back out into a nearby stone circle in a glade. I believe it will hasten our trip to Gloomshire, albeit not by a considerable margin."

"If it could save a life, I would do it."

The magician provided one of his firmer nods.

The shadows seemed to creep around them by the time they made their move. Gwendolyn had volunteered to carry the filly in her talons as he led the way, drifting between the pillars alongside him. She occasionally turned back at the sound of skittering and the scraping of wood, though the magician refused to bother, instead confidently striding down the hallways before stopping at a wall where an unlit torch sat in the center, alone within the darkness. Gently, he tugged on it with his magic, setting off a resounding groan of stone against stone, with dust showering the floor as the wall slid to the side. Before them rested a set of crumbling stairs, snaking down into a subterranean couloir.

With his whisper, there came another soft orb of light from his horn.

Wit that, came their first step forward.

Lamina

"Father?"

"Ah-y-yes? What is it, what is it?"

"Did you really save the world?"

Stunned silence, before a burst of nerve-wracked laughter.

"Sa-Saving the world? Well, I... well, I-I didn't exactly save the world, I mean, hah, no, it's not even close to that! All I did... all I did was just... give a little advice and they followed it by the book and... well, you know what happened after that."

"But Mother kept saying that you saved the world."

"Well, your mother, eh... your mother has a penchant for exaggeration. I'd say it was a bad influence from one of her friends, but well... she's been like this throughout her life. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Is that bad?"

"Oh, not exactly, no. She has quite a bravado, I have to admit, but that what makes her her, you see."

"But Father, isn't it bad to lie?"

"I... well... that depends on the lie, son. Some lies, the ones you have to watch out for — they will disrupt the trusts of everyone involved. Some lies are harmless, like the one Mother said about me saving the world. Then there are some lies that were told with the best of interests at heart, because... because of the belief that the truth might do more harm than good. Sometimes, we lie to not lose hope, and that's really important, I think."

"Why? Why is it important?"

"That's... that's a good question, Well, I... I think hope is something we living things cling on to survive. Hope is a way our mind convinces us to keep going, no matter what happens. Hope helps us persist through the most difficult of problems until we eventually find the right solution."

"Is... is hope a lie?"

"Well... who knows, son? Who knows? But if it were a lie, by any extent, then, well..."

A most confident smile adorned his father's face.

"It would be the greatest lie that was ever told."

"Sagfliam, pl'arei."

The blackest rays of daylight blinded their eyes. Rumbles echoed throughout the tunnel, patches of dirt raining over their heads as the stone slab slowly slid to the side. Clouds of gray swirled overhead, with punches of lightning cracking the sky and the winds kicking flecks of dust across their eyes. Below that was the cromlech, with every stone etched in the aforesaid runic script, guarding them in their annular embrace like the sentinels they are. They pulsated from his words, the syllabary glowing a pulsating aquamarine and letting out a whistling ring that could be heard by any monstrosity gifted with a heightened sense of perception, to which there are many.

The magician emerged first from the hovel, carefully and warily stepping out with his horn swirling in an incandescent blue. He spied through the interstices of the cogon tuffets, doing so thrice more before motioning to Gwendolyn. There were some howls in the distance, some guttural, some jarringly rippleless, some donning facsimiles of the voices in his head— all a riposte to the humming megaliths surrounding them. From afar came dancing shadows, rushing between the browning blades in a blazing ebony and fangs bared a seething white.

"We have to make haste," he urged breathlessly. "The hunters would swarm this place soon."

"Will do. Gloomshire lies to the southeast."

"I will try my best to impede them. It is best you do not bide your time and head straight into the city with the filly. I shall arrive soon after."

"I should expect you to hold up that promise, thaumaturge."

"And I will. Now go! Go!"

With a nod, Gwendolyn held tightly onto the filly, lunged from the feathergrass fields and flew into the sky, leaving him alone in the ring of stones.

Concentrate, he told himself as he closed his eyes.

Swiveling barks hounded after his hooves.

Concentrate.

Clattering bones shrieked in the wind.

Concentrate.

The beasts were closing in, and they were closing in quick.

Concentrate.

Hastily, the magician yanked himself around towards the shadows. Concentrate, he told himself, just concentrate. His horn lit up a bright blue as he closed his eyes, for he need not see. He could hear them again, rustling amid the grass in droves, as he could the raging rumbling of the earth shaking before him. He chose not to dwell on those noises, instead listening to the voices whispering in his head, before setting it loose upon the material world.

"Fiurign, dyb'Halja!"

From his horn shot a needle of light. It spiraled up to the skies with a clarion shrill, stopping any and all movement on the fields as it rose defiantly before the black sun. All eyes watched its dazzling ascent, shooting further and further until it could soar no more. For a moment, it bore the shape of a sun, bright and beautiful as in the days of yore. It enthralled all who viewed it, even its caster. He watched in yearning for the longest time, before shaking himself out of its grasp. His hooves kicked into a hasty gallop, just as the light swerved in an arc and came cascading back to earth.

A silent shriek of light tore through the skies, followed by the howl of a thousand demons. Volley after volley of fire and brimstone slammed into the fields, throwing a giant's fistful of dirt and mud into the air. It pummeled the earth around his hooves, splattering upon his coat mud, blood and pieces of lupine flesh. He stumbled far and fast, sifting through smoke and burning reeds, fleeing further and further away from his maelstrom.

A snap of screeching silence was all he heard before he was flung across the field.

Jaw slammed into the ground. Heat seared the hairs off his back. A howl ripped his throat and lungs. He clenched his eyes and gritted his teeth. The piercing ringing grew louder and louder, screaming above the roaring in the skies. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he could see a shadow, swiveling, taunting. He quickly shook his head and, whilst gripping tightly on his twitching hoof, opened his eyes.

"Gossamer... for the vigilant... ha..."

What a lovely view.

The sky above him had shattered from his whispers. Fire rained far and fast, seeping into his skin despite the distant booms. The clouds were scurrying away, unveiling beneath it the black sun burning in all its ebony glory. He watched it dearly as it watched him, as if coming to some sort of understanding. There never was a sliver of admiration he could spare, though on that day, underneath his hellish flames, he could see it: a shadow beneath its veneer, darker than the blackest curves of the sun's halo. Never had he believed himself worthy to such a majestic sight, yet he bore witness to it nonetheless. He could feel its tenderness softly stirring him alongside the forbidden rays, caressing the dustier depths of his heart and mind, urging but only one thing from him.

To rise.

A huff. He hauled himself up.

Another huff. He wobbled.

Another huff. He looked up into the darkness once more, to the miracle in the sky.

The shadow was gone.

Barks and growls were surging amid the constant roar of the inferno razing through the fields. Rage, primal and visceral, rushed towards him. The magician rose, his mind lost in scornful laughter at the fool that he was. He quickly wiped away his brightest smile, staggering across the reeds as he tried to keep the storm of voices out of his head. When the last of the echoes flitted away, he stopped, clenched his eyes shut and craned his neck to the heavens.

"Embrace me," he cried before they could come upon his exultation.

He never turned back, galloping with all his might out of the blazing fields and into a barren, empty wasteland. In the distance, he could make out a towering palisade, along with a wooden gate left ajar in the middle. He could make out figures standing behind the wooden stakes. Ponies, if he were to judge from their shape, standing there as if waiting for his arrival. He would've stopped in his tracks and question the very notion of that, though with the howling of the hunters rushing right towards him, their jaws barely snapping at his sides, he need not bother.

"Poise!"

The shout came from the walls. His wavering gaze followed it, only to notice the ponies forming a line.

"For the love of—"

"Cock your weapons!"

All he could do was gallop all the more faster, though that only spurred his pursuers to do the same. He knew he could never make it past that gate before they make their first move. Nevertheless, he galloped still, pushing his hooves onward with all his might, the shadows around him matching his move. He kept on galloping and galloping despite the burn of fatigue searing his tendons, up until he could make out the faces of those standing on the gate and the muskets they were yielding, all seemingly pointing at his direction.

"Present!"

With a grunt, he launched himself into the air, before he hunkered down into the grass and laid flatly on his front. His hooves pressed upon the back of his head as he held his breath and clenched his eyes shut. The loudest snarl slammed his ears as the hounds leaped after him, fangs bared and ready to sink into their prey.

"Fire!"

There came a jangling cacophony of metal and spark. They whizzed through the air, disgorging flesh and blood, and sending pieces flying across the field amid whines and whimpers. Some of it punctured the earth around him, narrowly missing his jittery hooves. He trembled amid the terrifying symphony, never daring to raise his head even after the sounds have stopped and the last of the varmints had scurried away. It was not until he felt something cold prod at his sides that his neck jerked upwards, coming face to face with a stubbled, bemused smirk of a stallion of umber coat and black mane, standing over him and reaching out a helping hoof. From what he could tell, he was the leader of a company of gruff-faced ponies, the glint of suspicion in their eyes as glaring as that of their bayonets standing tall in the blasphemous sunshine.

"Guessin' you must be the illusionist Gwen spoke about."

The magician blinked; that was a first.

"Have you no regard for the safety of your fellow kind?" he chastised despite accepting the stallion's offer to help. "Any one of those bullets could have struck me and I would bleed to death before your very gates."

"She did warn me 'bout your nasty trap too," the stallion chuckled, pulling him up. "Shouldn't worry none 'bout it too much. We'd spent every afternoon using those Wickerwilks as target practice. Anyone slingin' a musket in this town can shoot 'em clean between their eyes from a mile away, that's a given. Helps that they don't shape like us ponies too."

"Should I be impressed by that notion?"

"Oh, not exactly. Any ripe colt and filly, given a month or so, can do it. Nothing impressive 'bout that. What's impressive is that firestorm that you cooked up beyond these fields. Could've sworn it was the comin' of an ill omen or some such." The magician could feel a sense of dread with those words trickling down his neck, despite the lack of change in the other stallion's demeanor. "Now, I don't know squat 'bout what you and Gwendolyn are plannin' on doin' here, but I wanna be clear that I would not tolerate anythin' like that happenin' once you step through those gates. Understood?"

"With the best of my ability."

"Gonna assume that's a yes." The colt shook his hoof. "Name's Avery. Just Avery, nothin' more, nothin' less. I'm the law and order here in Gloomshire. An oxymoron, I know, but someone has to hold up that mantle eventually."

"Perchance Gwendolyn mentioned my apathy toward introductions?"

"Somethin' like that, yeah. She's waitin' for you."

And so, he was escorted into this hive of barbarism and depravity, this lair of malice and savagery. The stench of mud, caked blood and other unspeakable bodily emissions hit him first, followed by the cacophony of vulgarities ringing from every corner. Rows of ramshackle houses flank the crowd pushing and shoving about, their timber frames groaning with rot and the windows clouded in grime. Potholes littered across the cobblestone streets, filled with a mixture of muck and slime that seeped from the back lanes. It was a sanctuary of rodents, roaches and fleas, apace with the despicable figures that roam its twisted trails.

Bandits parade about the streets, proudly brandishing their assortment of rusted weapons, some still stained a faint red. Thieves drifted between them, their ragged hoods over their manes and their deft hooves pillaging the droves of pockets that come their way. Courtesans waved their torn fans about, lips blowing false kisses and eyelashes fluttering promises of temptation. Lepers and beggars huddled and grovel at the doorsteps, pus leaking like sweat from their pores as they squealed lunacies like rabid hogs. All of them, however, shared one thing: the look of dismal distrust, bred from year after year of calamity and misery, befitting of the township of Gloomshire.

How pitiful must it be, to be as pitiless as them.

"Poor decision, you know," Avery spoke up. "Bringin' a filly in here to be among all this, not to mention the sick thoughts that run in their head when they see Gwen haulin' her in."

The magician readily agreed in silence.

"I was told Gwendolyn had a friend here who could help with her ailments."

"Well, she ain't wrong, no doubt 'bout that," the stallion chuckled distantly. "I reckoned she might come by sooner or later anyway. Just a matter of time. Didn't expect her to bring along company, is all."

"You seem reluctant to take her in."

"For good reason. Folks here want nothin' to do with the lass. Even her own kind wouldn't dare share a table with her at the tavern. That's cause every time she came down here, trouble seems to find its way to her, come what may. Now, I don't know what she told you about herself, but she ain't who she said she is, bud. There's somethin' more to Gwen than she's lettin' on. She's hidin' somethin' from the rest of us, somethin' big."

"We all have our fair share of secrets," the magician asserted.

"That I agree. However, most folks don't have secrets that others are wantin' to get their fair share of." Avery glanced around, before lowering his voice. "Many had came upon her wantin' to learn the secrets she has in her head, and many more lost their lives as a result. Best you get out of her way before you're next."

How tragic, for the pariah to be cast aside by even a township of pariahs. Perhaps he was fortunate, the magician thought to himself, that Gwendolyn never spoke of her origins, though once more curiosity rung its bell. After all, the gryphoness knew who he was, perhaps more than he knew of himself. The notion that she was searching for the very filly that was with him only made it all the more stranger. Attuned as he were to the strings of fate, he knew this was beyond its composition. No symphony of fate would see so many of its strings entwined to such a terrifying crescendo. No, this was the work of a sole composer; a gryphoness, to be exact.

They found her waiting at one of the back alleys, standing guard before the jagged door of a rickety shack, though to call the structure as such was an overstatement, for it was as if someone had merely boarded a roof upon the blasted stump of a giant tree instead. Fumes of violet and moss green poured from its cracks, along with the scent of boiling beeswax and dried comfrey. An ominous glow of brumous red wafted across the windows, pulsating to a near-comatose beat. Above all, however, it was the low, vibrating whispers that concerned him, prompting him to turn to Gwendolyn.

"I trust you did not just make a fool out of me."

All that elicited from her was a scowl.

"You fret too much."

"What sort of field is this friend of yours engaged in? I do not hear any oaths of well-being in those whispers. Is he anymore a doctor than a babbler of foreign mantras?"

"Calm yourself, bud," Avery spoke up. "I didn't trust his hoodoo at first myself, but Zaidi means well."

The very name itself was enough to bristle the hairs of his mane.

"Gwendolyn, if you will," he clicked, cocking his head to the side.

Disgruntlement was evident, though the gryphoness followed the magician nevertheless, the two turning around the corner. The glare she wore when they stopped pierced into his own, mirroring of that they shared upon their first encounter in the derelict basilica. Neither wavered amid the silence, which prompted the magician to break the balance, his voice laced in the more toxic cisterns of repugnance.

"You did not mention to me that your friend was a zebra—"

"I withheld it simply because I know you will not approve of it," she hissed. "You would rather the filly succumb to her ailments than to have her be in the same room with a gryphon, much less a zebra."

"You had my trust, Gwendolyn!"

"In that I was to ensure that the filly will live another day with his help, and he will help."

"But a zebra! Of all the vicious and the vile figures in this hamlet—"

"Zaidi is anything but that which your narrow mind strongly believes he is, Th'murgan, and if you speak ill of him any further, I will not hesitate to cut you down where you stand."

"Like you did with many others?" he rebutted. "For one who laments the ideas of death, you seem to bring about the ends of many in his name. Tell me, as one who slays the inquirers, have you put any thought on what brought about such inquiries in the first place, or do you cease to care and execute them regardless?"

"There are some lines you do not want to tread upon, Th'murgan," she growled. "Let this be your final warning."

The two spoke no further, marching back to the shack instead. The lights from within had dimmed down, the fumes receding to a lull. The whispers had stopped, leaving them all to guess what was happening outside. It was only after a clunk and a rattle of chains that the mismatched door swung open with a groan, sending the last of the fumes cascading out before their hooves. From within emerged a zebra, as stalwart as he was slender. His mane grew down to his shoulders, from which dangled a carcanet of fangs. What caught the magician's attention in particular was the sight of a rusted shackle still clutching tightly onto his fetlock, as were the faint scars of old, deep lacerations, barely visible amid the stripes on his body. Nevertheless, the zebra paid no heed to his pair of reproachful eyes, instead speaking to him in a most graceful voice.

"The filly wishes to see you."

Trochlea

"Sjaihm... naud sja Th'murgan... sprekihm... Th'murgan..."

"Feyspeak, filly."

His tone may be grave, but his frown divulged the volume of concern that came with it, and it came with good reason. She was already paling into a lighter shade of white, her shivers as fervent as her ragged breathing. Her eyes could barely prop themselves open, with cold, syringadenous rivers running around them and amassing into stains upon the raggedy sheets. Her pupils couldn't even find him until he stepped forward and carefully placed his hoof onto her lithe form, tensing at its gripping chill.

"Where... where..."

"A town," he said. Of sorts, he wanted to add. "We shall be here until the eve of your recovery."

"But I... I have to..."

"No more chasing myths," he sighed, clasping her hoof tighter. "Filly, you seek of something long lost. You seek what many had come to know as memory. I know I could never convince you out of it, but you have to realize that they are never coming back. You have to realize that we have been left to fend for ourselves. The sooner you realize it, filly, the better."

"But... they... my father..."

"Your father?" Gwendolyn piped in, much to his chagrin. "What of your father? What more does he know of—"

"She needs more rest, Gwendolyn," the zebra cut in, hoof outstretched to stop the gryphoness in her tracks. "We shouldn't strain her any further. The answers must come later. For now, she needs to recuperate, as do the both of you."

With defeated yet firm nods, both magician and gryphoness joined him in striding down the hallway and back to the living room. The shack was larger than it looked at first glance, with several doors leading into spacious rooms such as the one the filly was resting in, though it lacked the decorum to appeal to his senses, that is, unless if he would even begin to consider the dangling flasks above his head and the assortment of skulls on the walls glaring down at them as such. Seating themselves onto rattan chairs, the front door swung open as Avery stepped inside and took a seat for himself, giving a curt nod as he did so.

"Been a while since I have guests," the zebra remarked, heading into a confined depository which served as a kitchen. "I have to say, Gwendolyn, you do have to let me know in advance before you decide to have your little soiree, and with a sickly filly in your stead no less. You certainly do know how to make things er... lively, so to speak."

"I shall do my best to inform you prior to our next encounter," she teased.

"Now then, my fellow guests, I'm afraid I do not have any edibles to spare. This one cannot find the time to venture out the walls and forage these days, not with how aggressive the beasts outside the walls are becoming in recent days. Oh, but I do have my selection of teas! Honeysuckle or raspberry?"

"The former will do," the magician said.

"Avery and I would have the latter," the gryphoness added, with said pony nodding alongside her.

He was a quick brewer, as his kind often are. Gwendolyn would have his head for viewing in such a deprecatory manner, though he begged to differ. After all, there must be some truth to one's preconceived image, and he was rather certain such an image was harmless in contrast to the many other views spread about them. The zebras were famed for their many decoctions and their rather eccentric laws of theology, derived from an amalgamation of pagan ideals. The larger clans in particular were remembered as voracious conquerors, all of them borne of the rampant assimilation of the smaller tribes, and if it were not for their constant infighting over what land they had already shared, he was certain they'd attempt to conquer Equestria as well. Not that they would succeed, of course.

"So he's..."

"The only doctor here in Gloomshire," Avery answered. "Before Zaidi, we've had all kinds of fits. Ringworms, mud fevers, colics and boils— you name an illness, I can guarantee you'll find someone in town who's been through 'em. Ain't much help that all of the scum that came from every part of the world was bringin' a little more of it with them too. Lost count of how many funerals I had to attend for some filly that a week ago was happily prancin' down the street, and it didn't help knowing that any of her friends could be next. Have to admit, there was lotta rough talk when he came into town, but once he treated the Wranglers' colt free of his spell, everyone got around to him quickly. Even the bad apples in this town too— can't recall how many times I have to stand guard here just because some ruffian had a bad cut in his shins from some fight he had over a ladyfriend of his."

"Life itself has a general disposition for survival, I reckon."

"You could say that. To me, I just think Gloomshire wouldn't be Gloomshire without Zaidi here. Sure, it ain't the best soundin' thing I could've said 'bout him, but folks around town all owe him somethin', no matter who we are or where we came from, each and every one of us just needs to find some way of paying it all back."

"And I have said many times before, there is no need to do that, Avery," the zebra said, serving upon an oaken tray their respective beverages, to which the magician eyed with a fervent suspicion. "It is merely my duty to treat my patients accordingly, whomever they may be. There shall not be any need for gratitude, my friend. Now I do hope it is to each of your liking. I tried to cleanse the blight from the leaves as best as I could, though I fear it may not be enough. The toxins in the earth had not been kind to the verdure this past month."

"It is still better than anything the local tavern would ever dream to have," Gwendolyn assured before taking the first sip from the cup. "Mmm, some of us may enjoy a flagon or two there, but this... oh, one would not hesitate to delight themselves in some lighter pleasantries from time to time, especially when it concerns your brews, my friend."

"Can't argue with that one, bud," Avery added, eagerly downing his. "Deputy would say I'm one with expensive taste, but I'd rather die drinking one of your teas over whatever grog they're servin' at the tavern any day."

The room was filled with lukewarm laughter, save for the magician's. Rather, his gaze had trailed back to the welt and gash marks across the zebra's hide he had noticed before. They were marked by a serrated blade, deep enough to graze an artery or two, yet there was a finesse to it, for he was certain that whoever did that knew not to pierce into them, lest their victims bleed to death and consequently end their suffering early. There were a few groups from up north whom he knew possessed such techniques for torture, though what information they would require from a zebra eluded him— a notion that perturbed him greatly.

"As I said. Lively." the zebra chuckled, before turning towards him. "Well, how was it? I take it you find the brew to your liking, stranger?"

The magician stared down into his cup, where his pale shade of cynicism stared back underneath a veil of chartreuse. With a discernible hesitation, he slowly brought it to his lips and took a diminutive sip, his taste buds listlessly tossing them around between his jaws, all while staring vehemently into the zebra's eyes. Gwendolyn's darkening frown might be the first sign he was doing something right, though Zaidi remained unfazed, his grin only widening in lieu of disdain.

"I'm glad you found it befitting of your tastes, Th'murgan."

All the magician could do was tighten his smile. "As do I," he responded in turn, glancing past the zebra's shoulder to Gwendolyn. "You two seem to be well acquainted with each other."

"Ah, yes," Zaidi mused, settling down in the final empty chair. "It was during an encounter with some blackguards in the tavern, I believed. Back then, I did not have my abode, you see, so I frequented the tavern's guest rooms— not the best of amenities, but I preferred it over the streets. Anyway, they were rather adamant that I join their little band of theirs, surely to tend to their 'bruises' after they rough up a few of their 'associates'. Of course, they didn't take it too kindly when I refused their request—"

"And Gwendolyn just so happened upon your squabble."

"That she did. Until this day, I still believe it could've been settled without bloodshed, Gwendolyn," the zebra turned to face her now apathetic stare. "You didn't need to dispose them as you did. It was quite a mess to clean too, I'll have you know."

"I would spare them were it not for their provocations."

"Their threats were empty, you know that."

"Then they should know not to make such threats, much less flaunt them around."

"No matter how many times I try, it will never get to you, will it?" Zaidi sighed as he strode back into the kitchen. "Not that I am ungrateful for all that you have done for me, but there comes a time where you must rise above the precepts of violence and murder that dictate the very actions of miscreants, Gwendolyn. I can only hope that day arrives soon, for your sake."

"There must also come a time where said miscreants cease harassing you for their sake. Until that time comes, I shall do what I must."

"Now, now, let's not get into any petty arguments," Avery stepped in, before turning to the gryphoness. "Still, Gwen, I'm sure you might want a good rest and depart come the next sunrise, but you see, there are some things you need to spill the beans about, particularly with your 'illusionist' friend here and the filly."

"Avery, the illusionist and I shall only be here until the filly recovers—"

"If this town is to shelter you for even a night, I firmly believe it would be best to know whatever hullabaloo it is you are dealin' with, just in case. Right now, I only have your word for it, but from the stuff I've seen you do, I know that this ain't just another trip that just so happens to concern the Last Thaumaturge— him, of all ponies, and a filly."

"Particularly the filly, Gwendolyn," Zaidi agreed, his eyes narrowing at that prospect. "For one, you seem strangely fixated onto her, and I trust that, with your judgement, she is not just another filly, much like how your friend here is not another... illusionist, as you've boldly claimed."

"To be frank if I may, I too do not know of what this gryphoness needs of the filly," the magician spoke up even as Gwendolyn glared at him. "In addition, the filly and I merely met in coincidence— we are gathered together by chance, for the decision was made by fate and fate alone. I wish I can say the same of our encounter with Gwendolyn, though I am strongly suspecting otherwise."

"That makes three of us then. Now, my dear Gwendolyn, kindly tell us, if you will."

The hesitation was palpable. Were it him and him alone, the magician was certain she would refuse him the answers he craved. Perhaps she'd even resort to telling him falsehoods merely to cull his suspicions; knowing the gryphons and their aptitude for subterfuge, it would not be so much of a surprise. With no less of a defeated and disgruntled sigh, Gwendolyn slunk back into her chair and set her cup down, her distant gaze slowly rising up to meet theirs.

"I have reason to believe that the filly might be the key to bringing back the Awyrgorn."

Silence.

"You're kiddin'," Avery spoke first.

Gwendolyn sternly shook her head, even as Zaidi leaned in.

"And you know this how?"

"Honestly? It began as a collection of prognostications," came her answer. "There was an arrangement I had with a cavalcade as an escort to protect them in their journey through the Eastern Runs to the border. They are a rather eccentric group, but chief among them was this equine augur that hailed from one of the northwestern cities, maybe Saddlebow's Arch or Tantiville. She offered to tell me my fortune as a method of thanking me. Initially, I did not think much of it at first, until Zaidi and I took upon an assignment involving rebuilding homes for some caprine refugees. You remember that one, Zaidi?"

"The town of Loch Carragh. Would never forget that place, especially after seeing how hard it was hit by the plague." The zebra paused, ears perking. "Ah, if I recalled correctly, we did encounter him there, didn't we? Blind one, rather eccentric, hard of hearing at times. Quite the rambler too."

"The haruspex, yes. Do you remember what he said?"

"He was repeating the rumors that had been circulating around. Something about a paradise where the sun and moon was pure as they were in the days long past."

"Yes, but it was the way he said it that intrigued me," she pointed out. "He said 'southward, where the light shall arrive from this burning world; whence the search will finally be over and we shall all remain.' Do you all not see it?"

"I can't understand what you're gettin' at, Gwen," Avery said, scratching his head. "That rumor's been spread around so many times, we'd all be goners if it was a wildfire."

"He said the light shall arrive instead of saying that it shall return."

For the answer to come from the magician had surprised them, save for Gwendolyn, if her smirk was of any indication. With all eyes turned to him, he gave a brusque sigh at himself, before resuming his explanation.

"Rightfully, should one believe those rumors, the sunlight should be returning instead. For him to use the word 'arrive' would imply that the coming daylight was never here in the first place, which would be utterly erroneous. That is, unless he was not referring to the sunlight directly."

"Correct. That peculiarity comes not only from the haruspex— I had requested my connections to seek into them and many other diviners were saying the same thing. The minotaur harbingers, the zebra sangomas, the draconian seers, even a Diamond Dog soothsayer! In all these variations, they all mentioned the daylight arriving instead of returning, which makes me believe that this 'daylight' they were referring to is a metaphor for something else entirely."

"And you think that 'something else' might be this filly, Gwendolyn?"

"That is where the augur from earlier comes in," the gryphoness answered Zaidi. "She said that I would find somepony, and that I would aid this pony in their search. She said the search itself might be very important, particularly for everyone here that 'remained', but that it was my choice whether to join this search or not. Now, setting aside my involvement in this, that part tied in with the haruspex's words in the end. It leads me to thinking they were talking about the filly's search for the Awyrgorn."

"Now, why would a filly as young as her be doin' that?" Avery asked, his voice noticeably grimmer. "No one's seen an Awyrgorn ever since... well, everythin'!"

"I don't know, but from what my connections told me about her, I am inclined to believe she may have knowledge of where they might be."

"And about her actually bringing back them back?" Zaidi questioned. "How did that come about? How do we know that she was not searching for them for reasons otherwise?"

"That one came from some of my informant friends as I was looking into these prophecies." She lowered her voice. "Supposedly, insiders from the cults in the north were reporting that Jörmungandr's worshipers were becoming restless around the same time these prophecies were coming to light. The ranks in them have been shifting recklessly and their leaders are apparently looking to expand their reach. Some of the reports stated that it was because Jörmungandr had gave out some sort of divine injunction, though none of them know exactly what it is, word by word."

"And you believe that and the filly had to be related somehow?" The zebra's skepticism was palpable. "I do not wish to say this, but it may just be a coincidence, Gwendolyn. They might just be parallel events that coexist but never correlate."

"No, there might be a certain truth to that," the magician spoke up again despite his grimace. "I firmly believe that should Jörmungandr realize the same about the filly's search for the Awyrgorn, it would call upon its worshipers to track her down. Perhaps it will not be a stretch to presume that Jörmungandr itself would pursue her personally should it decide to."

It would not be a stretch at all, for he had witnessed it happen right before his very eyes. Such a sight had been deemed implausible, yet for it to pursue them as it did, with what Gwendolyn had disclosed in mind, it would be prudent to assume that Jörmungandr does actually have a reason to fear the filly — that her search for the Awyrgorn may very well be successful. It was a frivolous prospect, to be sure, though he could not overlook the growing sense of elation beneath his chest. He quickly trampled them, having known the treacherous temptations of hope.

No more shall they find a place in him, nor should they find a place in anyone else.

"So we have a filly who may or may not be able to bring back the Awyrgorn," Zaidi concluded, deep in thought. "And alongside her, you have the pony many had come to know as the Last Thaumaturge. That alone would be concerning, but we also have the idea of Jörmungandr and his worshipers possibly involved in this... well then..."

"I don't see this endin' well," Avery remarked grimly with hooves crossed. "Especially if it turned out that the filly won't bring them back after all."

"But what else is there?" Gwendolyn retorted. "What else would this world ever give to us, if it ever has anything else to give at all? What else could be any worse than the way we are living right now? Do you not remember how it was like then? Do you not remember what we had lost alongside the Awyrgorn?"

"There is no indication that the Awyrgorn would ever bring them back should they return."

"There is no indication that they would not do as such either, Zaidi!" she argued. "Look, I know... I know I may just be clutching at straws here, but this may be it. I really believe she may be the one who would bring our old lives back and I am willing to help, in any way I can, to see that she does find the Awyrgorn! At least I know that even if they would not heed our pleas, I can take heart in the fact that I had expended all my effort in doing so! I do not want to give this up! Not in the slightest!"

"Alright, alright!" the zebra chuckled amid his contemplation. "Seeing as you are really convinced at this notion, it would not be too profound to accompany you in your travels, that I can accede."

"What?" the magician snapped, earning a look of bewilderment from Zaidi. "What do you mean, to accompany us in our travels?"

"Well, it is, after all, your reason to be here now, is it not?"

"Stop, just stop!" he interposed, standing up with the lurch of his chair and spilling from his lips everything that was welling in his gut. "What do you all think this is?! What, you think this to be some adventure that calls for a merry band to just prance about and sing the most sickening of cheerful chorales along the way?! That we could just bring any gryphon or minotaur or zebra along if it so pleases you?! This is not some buffoonery about something as nonsensical as bringing back the Awyrgorn! This is to return the filly back to her father's stead!"

"Oh, all of the sudden, you care about the filly now?"

"I care about the fact that you are willing use a filly to indulge in the most heretical of fantasies!" he snarled, stomping up to Gwendolyn. "No filly should ever have to adhere to your babble and balderdash! Have you not listened to yourself?! The Awygorn, returning?! Pah! Do you know not the sheer puerility of that baseless allegation?! Are you willing to throw one filly's life away in search of hope?!"

"Then you tell me, Th'murgan, what else is there?!" Gwendolyn screeched, rising up to him with talons drawn. "What could a filly like her possibly be hoping for if not to see the Awyrgorn?! What could a filly ever gain from a world willing to toss the lives of many like her aside?! What could a filly ever dream from this damned world?! Tell me, what can she do?!"

"It is not your decision to make!"

"And you concluded that decision was to be yours?! You take her to her father, then what?! What would you do then, Th'murgan? What could you possibly hope to achieve from that?!"

"A filly shall return to her father, Gwendolyn!" he yelled, aghast. "There should be nothing more than to reunite the parent and his child! This is not about achieving something great! This is not about saving this world or bringing back the sun or any other outlandish scenario that little head of yours would fabricate!"

"And say you succeed. Then what? Jörmungandr and its deranged worshipers are in pursuit of her anyway, are they not? Should we bring her back there, they would perish before the week ends. Both of them. And they will perish because of you."

"No, they will not."

"You seek to protect them, is that it?"

Those words struck him, and they struck hard. His form quickly withered, his gaze rattled and downcast. The words that were fanned by his ire remained bubbling between his teeth, seeping out only in breathless nickers. A dull and distant rumble curdled beneath his ribs, floundering senselessly with the desperation of a beached fish. He knew it to be rage, harrowing and damaging, and with that knowledge he administered to it a dose of self-restraint, though it remained thrashing against its cage before the contemptible sneer of the gryphoness.

"You know not of saving a life, I know that much. I have seen the misdeeds you have committed, Th'murgan, and I will not let this filly fall prey to them as many did," she asserted, turning away. "If you truly want the best for her, you would relieve yourself of your guardianship over her. Now then, if you will excuse me, I shall head out to replenish our supplies. I hope you would wisely spend this time perusing your options, Th'murgan."

Gwendolyn strutted out the front door with nary a passing glance. It took a little longer before the magician settled back into his seat with a tut, disregarding the presentiments expressed from the other two in the room. With a quiet nod of his head and an uneasy grin, Avery soon took his leave, closing the door behind him as he did so. Silence swooped in upon his absence, and for a while it remained there, though it was soon inelegantly shattered when Zaidi cleared his throat.

"I should mention that I have prepared the guest bedchambers on the second floor to accommodate you along with Gwendolyn and the filly until she fully recovers," the zebra stated. "If there should be anything you may require, you need not hesitate to let me know."

"Rest assured, you shall not hear such requests from me."

"This one figures as much," his words echoed, alongside the following chuckle, disdain. "There really is no need to harbor enmities of any sort. We are all acquaintances here, Th'murgan. Gwendolyn may be a gryphoness and I may be a zebra, but we have only well intentions for the filly. We have that much in common, my friend."

"Do not consolidate me into this little bevy of yours, zebra," the magician growled. "I have no intentions of acquiescing with whatever arrangements you two have made without me, and should I recognize an attempt of persuasion amid these palavers, I will not rest here any longer and the filly shall be coming with me."

"Of course, of course. Speaking of which, the concerns you have for the filly made me concur to have you know this in advance: I shall be tending to her further in the small hours of the night. I will be seeing to it that she will suffer in her slumber no more."

"And I shall expect you to keep your word."

Zaidi's ensuing nod came with a confidence that only further soured his mood. With the zebra wandering off into one of the backrooms, the magician sighed and closed his eyes, the reprieve of silence that he had heralded never amounting to the burdening whirlpool of thoughts swirling endlessly in his head. The words of a gryphoness should never have discomposed him in the way it did, not with all that he had already been through, yet the blustering echoes still lingered. His eyes opened once more, gazing once again to the sky beyond the shanty roof as he searched for a calm, and it came quickly, for he retrieved from those fathomless depths a face that he knew would always bring a sense of consolation. And to it, he whispered those soothing words.

"Embrace me."
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"Mother had sought for you again."

A shadow.

A different shadow.

Once more.

"Yes, she did. Her worries for you are immense."

"Then you may inform her in the future that her worries are horridly misplaced, as they always tend to be."

"I will, perhaps, though I believe it is best conveyed as only a child would to their parent. Perhaps you should personally assuage her. It remains to be seen how she would react, but I do think she would be very much content should you proceed to do as such."

"I have nothing to say to her."

"Woeful, this child."

"Need I not mention that I have attempted to do so before and her interrogations remained?"

"A mother's vexation is tenacious. You shan't fault her for that."

"I desire from her only trust."

"Then you'll be glad to know that she desires the same. Trust is a bridge, Th'murgan, and right now that bridge may very well be on the verge on the collapse. I could only hope you would see to it that it shall never be the case."

Those parting words were ominous, though he could not care any less for it. He knew only to look ahead, and look ahead he shall. The clouds ahead of him were darkening, and he knew it came not from the coming night. The horizon was nearing, that he knew; he just never realized how drastic of a change it would be. Even more so, he never realized how drastic of a change it would bring to him, and with it, the rest of the world.

What have you done, mother of mine?

Author's Note

Welp, this took a while to come out, sorry about that! Long conversations are not exactly my forte, so I spent most of the time ruminating over them and constantly replaying the dialogue over and over and over and... yeah, hope this one turned out alright.

Fascia

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”If you truly want the best for her...”

On nights like these, when the sky curdled into its reddest and the earth was drenched in its pyrrhous glory, his mind would roam, and with it his hooves. And he wandered for quite some time, albeit with a purpose as empty as the narrow hallways he traveled down before he emerged onto a rickety balcony, towering above the many shale roofs and smoking chimneys of Gloomshire. The town held no regard for him as he cast his eyes down upon the abyss of mismatched alleyways and the gamboling flames lighting its many corners, clutched tightly in place within torches held high by ever-vigilant patrols. Fitting, for he held no regard to this forsaken bedlam either.

”Should we bring her back there, they would perish before the week ends.”

He looked to the burning sky, for he knew not of anywhere else to look. The moon, garish as ever, glared at him, its jealousy a raucous tint of red. After all, he would never view the night sky were it not for the presence of the stars. Granted, with how bright the sky was, they remained invisible to the naked eye, though his fondness for star charts and constellations in his early youth had carved out a neat graph in his head, the diagrams always seeping across the cosmos when he trained his gaze upwards onto the lattice of black. In the end, the fierce moon and its unrelenting blaze remained to him no more than a compass, guiding him like a hound would for its master.

”You seek to protect them, is that it?”

The magician bestowed a sigh, joining alongside the daily choral of irregular exhalations. His tired head dragged him onward to the edge, his chin resting on the railing cap. The coming daybreak, should one still call it as such, remained distant, and he would always hope it shall remain as such. Then again, should one hope for the nongermane, they shall only be regarded with belittlement. Henceforth, the black sun shall rise, and it shall rise again and again as it did so in the past.

No gryphoness can ever change that, much less the filly she would dare utilize in her place.

“Tragic, is it not?”

The voice surprised him, yet his pride was quick to stifle it. The magician merely snorted, his gaze absentmindedly trailing across the alleyways once more. The hoofsteps from behind only grew closer, and as it came to halt, he could already spy those welts from the corner of his left eye. They seemed to sift through the drapes of stripes in lieu of weaving between them, and for a moment it was as if they slithered upon his irises with fangs bared, though the magician tore his gaze away before it could latch upon him.

“Tragedy is but a platitude amid the thoroughfares of Gloomshire,” he answered.

“And yet civilization remains, and it remains thriving ‘neath the blackened sun. And the citizens strive still.”

“They strive to survive. Life may mean naught, but for some, life remains fraught.”

“Fraught of?”

“That which I do not understand, nor would I bother to.”

“Then what do you suppose your very own life is fraught of?” the zebra asked. “I do believe you must have had a reason to remain upon this earth as the Last Thaumaturge among those you so deem unworthy. To think that you were part of the last of a great order of mages in the golden days, feasted upon by darkness at its core in the early days of the black sun... it does bring to mind that you may have still have some business to tend to upon this mortal soil.”

“I merely wander,” came an answer most contrite. “And darkness wanders with me.”

“Darkness follows no thaumaturge.”

“I am no thaumaturge,” he pointedly corrected. “I have long since broken the oaths the magisterium had bestowed upon me— the very same oaths inscribed and sworn upon me by my own voice and blood... should they know of the deeds I have committed, they will not hesitate to broach the prospect of my excommunication were they still alive today.”

“Amusing...” Zaidi murmured, prompting the other's stare. “Oh, forgive my persiflage. I was just thinking how curious were some of the precepts of ponykind.” The zebra chuckled, gaze twirling over the balcony. “My brothers and sisters would never conceive such ah... if I may, constitutional conundrums among our communions.”

“It is no conundrum. At least, not in the old world, wherein such oaths would thrive.”

“And the oath in question being?”

“Be that thine hooves and horns seize no life, for all life is beautiful, and all life should remain unto its time.”

Silence congealed with darkness as the red moon shied beneath the passing shrouds. Slivers of red spilled nevertheless, lighting the receding crease of the zebra’s smile, noticeable in only a split second before he turned away. For a moment, it seemed as though Zaidi intended to head back inside with nary a glance, though the light-hearted, somewhat cheery hum he elicited quickly proved otherwise.

“It would seem we are all not as innocent as I had believed we would be.”

For the first time in a long time, the magician beheld a most earnest grin, albeit one carefully hidden from Zaidi’s steely gaze. “Innocence had long arrived at its time of obsolescence. The modern adolescent, should they be fortunate to come of age at all, would shed it like Jörmungandr would its unhallowed scales. Thus is life, reduced merely to survival, and at this age, I will harbor no animosity for those who live theirs in adherence to principles most primal.”

“This one would argue that to submit to such primeval ideals shall make one no better than the scourge roaming outside the walls.”

“Then what say you, zebra?” he questioned — though he might as well sneered — as he once again drew his gaze to the welts that mark Zaidi’s hide. “You have seen your fair share of horrors. You have lived through them. Would you not say that the floggers that marked you are no better than the very scourge themselves?”

“The floggers? You mean... ah, that.” Zaidi let out a dispirited chuckle as he glanced down at the furibund lattice of scars across his chest. “I do suppose that has been on your mind for quite some time— the gazes you snuck throughout the day were not exactly of the subtle sort. Rightfully so, for I am in need of a confessor, and as one you shall suffice.”

“Confessor?”

“I should warn you, it can be rather lengthy.”

One could call it a jest, but there was no joviality to be found in the zebra’s voice. Drear desiccated his simper, his once-stout stature steadily drooping. For a moment, the dejection ever present in Gwendolyn’s eyes manifested itself within Zaidi’s irises, though the zebra quickly closed his eyes before the magician could further espy them. The wind could do not much but gently strum their manes, and with it clatter the ring of ungues around the zebra’s neck. To him then, Zaidi looked like a wraith, dolor razing color in the fluttering breeze, and as their gazes met once more, the magician felt no less than the lightest quaver running up his spine.

“You might wonder what this one is doing far from his homeland, are you not? You wondered about that as much as you wonder how I attained my stigmata.”

If guilt had a mouth of its own, he would be blabbering and blithering as of now. “I had no intention to broach you about your origins. I was merely curious about the scars.”

“Of course, of course” — a paltry chuckle — “though as much as I admire your respect of one’s privacy, I must mention that those two inquiries unfortunately do intertwine.” Zaidi forced a grin, the seams of moonlight exposing the cracks. “Before I elaborate, I wish to inform you that this one had long detached any of his resemblances to any coming mention of the zebra he was in the past. I am changed as the limits of change would allow me so.”

Suspicion crossed his features, but nevertheless, the magician nodded in compliance.

“I was once a devout follower of the church of Jörmungandr.”

Moonlight swooped in like a vulture, burnished and blazing brazenly before his eyes, his battered and blistered mind bolstering nary a benign thought. The wraith he recognized had deformed beneath the bloody bath, bringing forth to him instead a beast barbaric and brutal, stripes blinding between bastard light. To say that he was terrified was an understatement, for he was neck deep in revulsion, so much so that he even failed to realize his horn had lit up a brilliant blue, a stark contrast amid the crimson tide, with a crackle tearing across the night loud enough to send the wide-eyed zebra stumbling backwards onto his haunches.

“I... suppose that could be construed as the general reaction.”

“What would you expect?” the magician hissed warily, “Should one be confronted with a deranged cultist?”

“Nothing less profound, that I am certain,” Zaidi chuckled gingerly, meekly holding a hoof up in surrender. “There is no danger here, thaumaturge. As I had said before, we are all acquaintances here. We share common interests, all of us, I insist.”

Caution had always been sovereign, and though its judgement remained reliable, the magician decided against heeding its warnings, even going so far as to help the zebra to his hooves. Zaidi bestowed to him no more than a thankful nod, brushing his sullied mane back to its former glory before he was asked a pressing question.

“Does Gwendolyn know?”

“The gryphoness knows not of my origins. At least, she appears not to know. With her, one musn’t be too certain.”

A harrumph. “Then why disclose this to me?”

“Your suspicion is tenacious. I believed it would do the both of us good to let this out in the open to quell any unwanted misunderstandings.”

“I suppose,” he huffed, steering his glance away. “And this township? Were they withheld this information?”

“Only those closest to me had known of my origins, though I would say that includes many a family in Gloomshire,” Zaidi admitted with a chuckle. “Avery knew about it the moment he met me, mostly because we had crossed paths before— I can still recall the day he pointed a revolver to my head as he urged me to bandage his hooves.”

“Queer, for he regarded you highly amid our conversation this afternoon.”

“Times have changed us for the better, however dark the black days shall be. What was once a noteworthy adversary had become a dependable friend.”

“As it is so.”

“As it should be, Th'murgan," the zebra corrected him. "As it should be."

The magician held back a snort. "And what cleansed you of your delusions?"

"What indeed." A smile of sadness. No, something weightier. "I'd call it enlightenment, but that'd be ironic. I had been one of the more devout of the worshipers. Even now, I can recite back the many epithets and canticles our leaders had inscribed in the psalters. I knew what would happen should I adhere to the serpent's commandments; I was prepared to pay any price in service to the clergy. With faith so dense, I even believed at a time I was destined to be the harbinger of the new world."

"Grandiose, are we not?"

"If you speak of my naivety, I suppose so," Zaidi chuckled. "But this one found more than that. This one found a community in which he had belonged and amongst them, this one found another of a like mind that he could confide in. This one found, in the dredges of the darkness, the rare gift of intimacy."

"You must care for her deeply."

"Ach, spare me such false flattery, Th'murgan. It does not suit your demeanor," the zebra said with a boisterous laugh, his voice drooping into a sigh. "I should also mention that my companion was as every bit of a stallion as I am."

Surprise was quick to pass. He had heard many an Equestrian of the olden days finding a mate of their own gender, but never an inkling of those in Zebrica. It was frowned out upon by the tribes, if he recalled correctly, who prided procreation and fertility above all other ideals. He had heard tales of exile for those who commit such illicit acts, though they were merely a wrinkle on the vellum compared to the burning blot of those baptized in the blood of Jörmungandr. Nevertheless, here before him stood a zebra who had loved and learned to love, and though the magician did not want to intrude, his intrigue betrayed his precepts.

"How was he like?"

"Rather secluded, but intelligent and a little beyond himself; I dare say he always transcends the rest of us when he drawled on about the most ambiguous affairs. I would say he was perceptive, but to live in this day and age, one has to be." Zaidi sighed. "He was also never one to back down from a fight, even after our fellow cultists turned on us when they discovered our relationship. With such a gifted mind, you'd think he learned the art of restraint, but he'd always say and do the most shortsighted things, and each and every time he'd always emerge unscathed. Claims he has fortune standing on his shoulders and some such. I dare say he was trying too hard to impress me when there really is no need to, even until the end."

"My condolen—"

"There is no need for them," he gnarled lowly and pointedly. "Your condolences would do naught for him as it would for anyone else." A long pause ensued as Zaidi's trembling gaze drew back to the township, leaving the magician with his stumbled words. "We were careless, that was all, and our carelessness was costly."

The zebra turned to face the crimson moon, leaving nothing of the scraps for his rage to salvage. There was a tremble in the rancid night— a wisp of the wind, the magician reckoned, though he was admittedly unsure. Softly, Zaidi traversed along the curves of the balcony, providing a forlorn chuckle that swirled, across the froths of tranquility, a meager disquietude.

"The edicts of Jörmungandr, relentless yet revered by us two, reviled our surreptitious bond. It is from those edicts that our peers dictated a volunteer must be chosen between us to be slain, and the other to be his slayer. Naturally, that foolish bastard had the ridiculous gall to volunteer and the rest is, as you Equestrians termed it, history."

A foggy sigh, lightly quivering, permeated through the stillness.

"I desired to make it quick for him, you see. However, my inexperience with weaponry proved only the contrary. I wonder still, after standing there soaked in his blood and hearing his screams go on for half a day as he died a miserable death at this one's hooves..." A chuckle dribbled from his lips. "I wonder how am I still sane? How am I still standing here, having our little colloquy? Unless, if it is as I feared, my delusions are as vivid as they come."

Zaidi's hoof gently traced the rim of the balcony, twirling right at the edges, with his voice as dreamy as his stare as he continued: "In the old religion, we have a goddess for the moon ourselves. She was a passer of judgments in death, deriving them from the stripes of our morality we have earned in life. Her prayers, they are... lost to me now, as is her name. Replaced by the Jörmungandarian paeans, unfortunately." A lithe smile graced his visage. "Still, I try to roam in the night, hoping for a little bit of divine guidance. Perhaps even forgiveness, for murdering the one I held dear. That must be it... forgiveness..."

In silence, they spoke, and in silence, they ceased. The magician never much cared for it, these sussurations of secrecy in the depths of the scarlet night, for life is not without its tribulations; to put a voice to them would never beckon the winds of change. Nevertheless, his attention remained gallant, and so he attempted wholeheartedly to listen to the woes and worries of the world, and the world had a wealth of them to bestow upon him, whether it be from equine, gryphon or zebra.

"To forgive, divine."

"Such an elusive concept, Th'murgan."

"Thaumaturgy, or perhaps faith in general, views highly of us crawling mortals to a preposterous degree," the magician simply remarked. "Perhaps in another time, forgiveness remains in reach, but in this day and age, I would rather one not give hope when there is none."

"Hah! You certainly are distancing yourself from your teachings."

"As are you, Zaidi," he replied with a grin. "As are you."

Perhaps, for this one night, the magician thought to himself then, he could unwind in a little bit of banter. After all, here stands one who, at the very least, possesses an intellect that would garner his respect, even despite being a zebra, and one who worshiped a false god, no less. And so it was on this rare night, where two like minds gather before this bowl of dust, that the magician dipped his head low before another, much to the other's bemusement.

"I suppose I can return the favor."

"It shall only be one of many."

"Then I shall be attentive in the midst of this confession, and those that are to come."

"Please..." the magician made his quivers known, eyes sealed in silent prayer. "Please do."
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We wandered the northeastern regions of the continent, southbound. The last of the order had all but perished mere weeks prior in the fabled doomed expedition. Discovered and branded as cowards, we were extradited from this hamlet far north, though I suspect it should already be reduced to mere rubble in wake of the roving cultists now.

There were few forests there, all of them barren and dead, so we were in constant migration, never mind burnished sun or bleeding moon. We were sparse in provender and were quickly expending our potables, so we were making haste, taking care to avoid any encounters if possible. Eventually, the bare spindles diverged, giving into a machair.

We were conspicuous within its vastness. The encompassing, pungent scent of bloated flesh bobbing among the marshes gave us ever more reason to quicken our departure. I suppose we must have traversed across two thirds of it with nary an incident.

Then the egrets came swooping down, hoping to pick apart the bodies for their young. Their insistence stirred a Grimmer Caeman in the waters from its slumber, and the beast was quick to scatter them, perhaps snatching one or two with its fangs.

Then the beast focused its sights unto us.

We dared not face it in combat. With its sluggish nature, we thought it best to flee. Nevertheless, the beast had an acidic spit and a terrifying accuracy, and as such its discharge struck my acquaintance's back amid our escape. I had rescued him and tried my best to patch him up, though not before I had quickly expended my energies in slaying the monster. Wounded as he were, my acquaintance found that he could still canter, and with that we resumed our journey.

It was, I think, on the third day after our encounter, that a severe infection grew around his wound. Soon enough, he became stricken with a disease of the most severe sort, so much so that for quite some time in our southward venture, I was tasked with carrying him on my back.

Every day, he pestered me with his thankful words. Every night, he disquieted me with his encumbered moans. I soon view him as a burden, as another weight on the shoulders. I felt like a fool, for being his personal ferry. I felt that he served no greater purpose other than to hinder this journey of mine. In time, I deemed him unnecessary.

He pleaded endlessly to spare him. He groveled before me, begging over and over for me to let him live. He mentioned he had wanted to pass in the grace of a light prim and proper, without a single word of regret. When all that failed to sway me, he resorted to wailing loudly like an infant.

I made it quick merely to stop him from attracting any attention.

I never even gave him a proper burial.

I just left him there. To rot into bone. To bake in the sun. To be torn apart by predators. To be swallowed by the earth.

And for the longest time, I believed that he was the cowardly one.
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"Have you regretted it, Th'murgan?"

"Down to every drop of blood," came his weighty answer.

"Very well." Zaidi knelt down to raise him back to his hooves. "A thorough confession, indeed, albeit a complicated one. I know not of any deity of the old religion that would ever forgive such an act, but I know the pagan gods of Equestria may pardon you adequately. That is all I can say."

"I suppose," the magician muttered. "We are not divine, after all."

"We are not divine," the zebra echoed his sentiments. "And so we are forced to wander upon this bleached land, in what name of cruelty, it astounds me, yet I still am resigned to it nevertheless. I suppose we could only crawl onward."

The most pregnant silence of the night swelled far and fast, before bursting apart with a pop as the magician spoke up.

"You may accompany us."

Zaidi let out a laugh. "And here, I believed your stubbornness knows no bounds."

"I need one whom I could trust. Right now, the gryphoness is proving to be an excruciating candidate," he sighed. "I now discerned that your intentions are well. Additionally, having been involved in the blasphemous cult, I believe you may be able to comprehend the motives of their movements."

"All this... all this to return a filly back to her father."

A terse nod from the magician was all he received, before Zaidi's benevolent grin stormed across the clouds and graced the blackening of the sky, the first shards of light streaking upon them all.

"I shall be looking forward to your company then, Th'murgan."

"As shall I, Zaidi," he reciprocated, smiling. "As shall I."
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Soleus

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"Father?"

"Wha, who's—?! Oh... oh... wow, I thought it was... y-you're still up, kiddo?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"R-Really? Haha! Well now, seems like I'm not the only one."

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, just looking through some of the runic scripts your mother and I had been formulating. We've been trying to crack this one for months, yet the resonance of the residual energies always seem to fall short. Perhaps there might be a mistake in the vocabularied arrangements, or perhaps it lies somewhere in the intonations? Must it really be the intonations? Ach, this might take a long while—"

"I don't get it."

"Oh... oh right, of course of course, I mean— well, this is all a little bit beyond you, I g-guess. Then again, this is pretty much all beyond us, seeing as your mother's having so much trouble with it right now. I was thinking I try out a few of my own revisions. You know, get it off the checklist, lessen her workload. Oh, but don't tell her about it. She's pretty iffy about me helping her with these things."

"Okay."

"Knew I could count on you, bud. Say, since you can't sleep, wanna help me help your mother? You might learn a thing or two about this as well. Might be a little hard to handle, but you're a smart colt. You'd work your way around it."

"I can? Really?"

"W-Well, smart colt or not, there are still some strict limitations, per se—"

"But I'm seven already!"

"Haha! Right, right, of course! Still, this is something no other pony's done before! This is something really, really new. Something at a really experimental stage, so we just have to be really careful, that's all."

"Okay, Father."

"Alright. Now then, let's see here... I guess we'll start with the simpler ones. Back to the basics, it is. Now, we'd want to take this slowly..."
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"...slowly now, my child. No need to rush."

The night felt short, exasperatingly so. He had a restless slumber, though a restless slumber often constituted as a proper one in this day and age. Demons had snatched his respite away. Demons, howling from the past, interwoven with those shrieking in the present. They had been scratching at the palisades in full force, hunger unfettered. Thus came gunpowder, remaining ever prosperous still, along with the splattering of fiendish blood. He would like to think it had only been fiendish blood spilt.

The bubbly giggles coming from beneath the floorboards was a welcome sound, even if it had roused him. The manic splendor of the atrous daylight proved more ill-disposed, though he could only allay its notion with no more than an aggrieved sough. With a hefty sigh, the magician dragged himself off his rickety bed and lumbered towards the stairwell, perusing from within himself the grin he had kept away for this occasion, giving it a few practice runs before finally wearing it as he cantered down, guided by laughter most lucent.

"Th'murgan!!"

Thus and so, his grin was short-lived.

"Feyspeak, filly. You know very well how I acknowledge such irresponsible exclamations—"

No sooner that those words left his mouth were they ignored, for she immediately lunged towards him wrapped him in the tightest hug her small hooves could possibly even muster. Her infectious giggles simmered throughout the room, and though it never once reverberated in his heart, it certainly came triumphantly close. He glanced up at Zaidi, who made no effort of resisting her charms, smiling ear to ear at their little reunion of sorts, if one should even call it that. Heavens forbid anyone should. Nevertheless, he sighed and reattached his smile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fah... f-fine! Fiiiinee~!" the filly responded with more a slur than an answer, giggling at his bewilderment.

"This one had miscalculated the dosage of coca berries used in her eclegme," Zaidi explained sheepishly, ignoring the filly swooning at him from below. "I had wished to alleviate her of the pains in her temple alongside treating her illness, but I had forgotten to make the proper adjustments and administered the volume of dosage intended for an adult pony instead. It is not lethal fortunately, though it did come with some unwanted, uh..."

"He looksh funny, Th'murgan— ooh, can I call you Thummytoo?"

"Side-effects," the zebra finished with an ample sigh. "It will wear off soon without need of further treatments, that I can assure you, but until then, well..."

"As long as her illness has been placated," the magician simply stated, wrinkling his snout down at the filly snugly hugging his hoof and muttering unremittingly matters most inane in her saccharine-laced voice. "Though I would concur it best if one of a more robust patience tend to her instead."

"Of course, of course. Filly, come this way."

"Thummytoo, thatsh pony's weird lines are waving at me~! Hi~!!"

"Run along now," he rasped good-naturedly, watching as the filly dopily teetered off with Zaidi's guiding hooves whilst giving an eloquent speech about how spectacular were the moiling of the tidal waves within the floorboards. His grin never quite returned to the prime it had, though he need not matter, for it would soon be shattered minutes later when he cantered outside for a bout of fresh air, only to find a certain gryphoness standing there.

Gwendolyn's stare was an unwelcome one, as gryphon stares go. There was a tension in her stance, evidenced from the tightening of her joints. Had he knew not of the circumstances between them, he would assume she will be swooping in for the kill. Knowing gryphons, it would be successful. Knowing him, he would certainly leave her with, at the very least, her bowels dismembered. He would have the heart to leave this world then, knowing his assailant would suffer for her crude actions, and with that cemented in his mind, he appropriated, with subtlety, a stance of his own to ensure it shall come to pass. Thus, their scythes were readied.

His reaper spoke first.

"How is she?"

Her reaper reciprocated.

"Quite fine."

"Good." Her irises sharpened. His swerved to her glinting talons. "Now then, have you decided?" she asked. "I suppose you had much to gain from your absurdly long period of rumination, thaumaturge."

A gruff snort. "I never bothered to. The comfort of a bed is luxurious. Shame you passed on the offer to revel in it, Gwendolyn, knowing how numbered our days would become."

"You shall succumb to despair, should you speak of it."

"And you shall too, should you choose to seek it out."

"What do you hope to gain from sheltering the filly, hmm?" the gryphoness sneered, stepping up to him. "Would you not believe firmly that waiting it out would not bring change? Have you not waited long enough already?"

"I do not wish to have the filly be paraded in her fruitless search on the flimsy basis of mere auguries, gryphoness."

"Since when do the schools of thaumaturgy question those of divination?"

"Since they failed to see the coming of Jörmungandr," he sternly proclaimed, eye to eye. "I fail to comprehend how they could predict the direction of the smallest winds, yet never fathomed the coming of this unholy catastrophe. Should they bore such knowledge and never sent the world their warnings, that only worsens their crimes against the world and all those who live in it. Thus, I refuse to think of it, and of them."

"Spite," she gnashed. "That is all you embody."

"And you, desperation," he rebuked in turn.

With a scowl, feathers ruffled in indignation and talons clawing at the dirt, Gwendolyn snapped her wings outward and took to the skies, leaving him to wrinkle his snout at the cloud of dust she stirred in her wake. Chewing on his frustration, the magician turned around to return to the zebrine abode, stopping only to sigh when he was met with the wide-eyed stare of Avery himself, standing there sheepishly as he clumsily stuffed his revolver back into the holster. "Sorry 'bout that," he muttered. "Force of habit. Certain things tend to happen when you hear Gwen like that."

"That does not surprise me at the slightest," the magician chided, eyes rattling at the sky. "Temperamental, that one. I find it impressive that she still walks this earth, particularly so when one considers her principles."

"S'pose so. She's tough to crack, that I can vouch for. It ain't something I wanna think about much, knowing her and the messes she gets into. By the way, heard from Zaidi the filly's up and about."

"Somewhat. The zebra is attending to her as we speak."

"That's good." Avery's gaze lingered at the front door, before he retraced his grin. "Was here to ask if you wanted a drink. Well, you and Gwen, though I'd say she needs some time to herself now. Whadaya say? My treat."

The magician could not smile larger even if he tried. "Certainly."

The journey to the tavern was long, if only because many a leper thought it a lucrative venture to crawl forward and grovel at their hooves, to which Avery gruffly chased aware with only a glare and a glint of his weapon. Some proved more of a struggle than others, though the sheriff, contrary to his berth, would always emerge successful with a blank shot skyward. Brazen as methods go, it nevertheless melded well among the many other peals blanketing the ambiance of Gloomshire. Otherwise, Avery was somberly silent throughout their journey, never letting out a beleaguered nicker, much less utter a word. Nevertheless, the magician appreciated the silence, for it had given him time to grasp the dismal straits this accursed hamlet was flailing in.

Gloomshire was, if anything else, a desolate bouquet, overgrown and overwrought with rapturous stench. The vines of cadaveric miasma swelled between the streets, blossoming even more so in the alleyways wherein the carcasses were sequestered, perhaps to be carted off to the charnels or stolen away to feed a hungry mouth or two. The magician stomached the stench as he did so with the putid ocean of gryphon bodies in the subterranean basilica, though he had to wrinkle a snout when confronted with the bodies of his kind, some certainly no older than the filly in his stead, as discerned from the several thinner, more petite sets of limbs protruding from between the gangrenous ziggurats. He could feel their hollow stares screaming down his nostrils, their lacerated jaws laughing and crying and singing songs of praise. Perhaps more than most, he could feel it creeping: the shadow they cast against the black sun, crawling forward, dribbling, aching for a nibble of hoof and horn. He could feel its hunger, and in turn, he hungered as well.

"Don't pay it any mind," the words of a kindred spirit shepherded him back, Avery having tossed a glance over at him. "Pretty sure they're doin' the same for us anyway, bless 'em. They keep to themselves more than anyone of us, and that's all we need to know of 'em."

"You think it not unnerving, their blatant display?"

"Folks here are a little more 'fraid of ending up in that crowd, if anything. Think too much about the dead, you end up being dead, so they say. You'd reckon we'd at least have the heart to bury them, don't you?"

The magician tightened his lips.

"Well, can't say I blame ya. There's a time where we still had the courage to do that, but we've lost it long ago. The dead had haunted us, now they walk among us, or rather, we walk among them. Really makes you think."

"About?"

"The filly. That she could change all of this." the sheriff chewed on the burnt air. "Don't get me wrong, I ain't picking sides here. Usually, I'd go with Gwen's instincts on many things, though this one seems a bit of a stretch. You're telling me a filly can change that?" he cocked his head towards the cairn of bodies, his brows furrowed. "Now, I don't know any of that gobbledygook witch tongue you speak of, but I know as much you can't change anything with just smoke and mirrors."

"I would refrain that you term it as mere smoke and mirrors." His frown softened. "Otherwise, I wholeheartedly agree. If one could say the same for that gryphoness, then perhaps sanity shall have a chance to prevail in this day and age."

"She's just... hopeful, that one."

"Hope will waste you away. Hope, this... antiquated sentiment... it promises only to bring drear and despair. Hope will bring no good to this world. She should know that. She, chief among us all, should know."

"Not sure what you're going off about, but if you ask me, us living folks need hope more than anything else right now," Avery retorted. "If we ain't got any hope left, this darn town, let alone the rest of us walking on this piece of dirt, would be long gone by now. We'd be heading out those gates and willingly march into that serpent's mouth one by one if we ain't got hope. Now, I don't know what sorta frou-frou ideas they put into your head in them magic schools, but I can say for sure that hope ain't what you make of it. Hope ain't such a bad thing to have."

"The doctrine of hope, like its contemporaries, guarantees not what we desire."

"Hope ain't biblical. Th'murgan. Hope is an earthly pleasure, if that's the road you're keen on going down. Hope is us, and we are hope, or at least, we hope to be."

"I honestly cannot fathom you common folk sometimes," the magician spat, much to Avery's chagrin. "Nevertheless, it is still an admirable stance, even if a demonstrably flawed one."

"Agree to disagree, then."

"Indeed."

The common drear had been tinctured with asperity, as the sheriff's visage would signify. Nevertheless, what grievances remained fluttered away a moment later when they finally arrived at the tavern. Wedged into a corner between dilapidated apartments, with brick walls splattered by blood and brine, shuttered windows flushed in raucous candlelight and, of course, a studded wooden door with ornate hinges, it loomed over this putrid town, this monolith of dereliction and debauchery. Nevertheless, one could not deny the warmth that blossomed alongside the blight was transcendent, inviting all whether it be for a good drink or a quick rest. Gracious was the tavern's light, even if constricted within a cocoon of flails and misericordes.

With the groan of the door came an eruption of rowdy yells and gnarly snarls, drowning out the lurching of chairs and the clunking of mugs. All around, the gathered hellions of Gloomshire heckled, hollered and hooted, scrounging and scourging as per their etiquette, or lack thereof. Slamming drinks, swinging daggers and singing ditties so dreadful, sometimes all at once, the notion of breathing the same rank stench as these miscreants was enough to make the magician gag. His eyes trailed across the dastardly crowd, all too inebriated to notice the contempt growling in his irises, before he found, in the corner, a vacant table, complete with a triumvirate of chairs.

Avery was already a step ahead of him, parting the sea as he shuffled across the room. There had been a few slurred growls and sharp calls from the crowd when he shoved his way through, though they were quickly silenced upon viewing his furtive glare. One could write it off as a perk of authority, but the magician knew better. Whatever it was might extend an explanation to Gloomshire's continued existence as well; he figured a town harboring such a grand, rampant pestilence of turpitude within the cusp of its palisades would have felled long ago. Could it be that even these greedy, mindless sycophants have a sense of order among their feeble ilk? He wrinkled his snout at that ridiculous thought.

"Ale for you too? Or are you one of those who took up them vows of sobriety?"

The magician scowled. "A mug, if you will."

A grin from the sheriff, before he glanced over his shoulder and whistled for one of the waitresses, who quickly scampered over. "Never thought you're the type to let loose. No offense." he snickered. "You heard him. Ale, a pair, straight from the cask."

With a hasty nod, she hurried off, returning within a minute with said frothy beverages in tow. No sooner than those mugs met the table did Avery swiped his up for a large gulp, crassly so when compared to his plaintive sips. The pang swirled in the magician's throat, rupturing into a soothing fuzz of captivating warmth that shimmered up to his cheeks, and with it, a bright satisfaction that culminated into the return of his earlier grin.

"Nothing like a good drink to calm the nerves, eh mage?"

The magician said nothing, though he found Avery's words impeccable.

"Just wish Gwen could join us. Now, I know you two have your differences and all, but she'd be a little less tense once she had a couple of swigs. You two could probably talk things out then."

"As propitious as that prospect may be, I believe wholeheartedly our exchange will remain persistently sour nonetheless. Perhaps it may even worsen, violently so, considering the gryphoness may lose her inhibitions."

"Or you might."

"I might," he spoke with a glint that had Avery chuckling. "Though I do hope you see to it not transpiring, for everyone's sake."

"Well, when you put it that way..."

"I do wonder, perhaps, of your acquaintance with the others." The magician leaned further into the table. "You seem to affiliate yourself with the company of the gryphoness and the zebra, seemingly more than most. Of course, that is but my current impression."

"Can't say I blame ya," Avery replied, continuing after another taking another gulp full. "Gwen's just someone I'm looking out for, in case she gets herself into hot water again. As for Zaidi, we go back quite a ways. Wasn't in the best of company, that one."

"So I've heard."

"Ah, so he got that out of the way. Well? Did it smooth things over between you two?'

"One could say that his company is preferred over Gwendolyn's."

"You ain't wrong 'bout that, unfortunately. She means well, but she... can be a mystery sometimes."

"And yet you seem to put a lot of faith in her."

"Her heart's in the right place, that one. It's just..." Avery sighed, staring down at his mug. "She has her way of doing things, and it attracts attention. The wrong kind of attention. It's a given that something always happens in town whenever she stops by, well-meaning as her actions may be. Can't say how many times I helped her out of a rut already. Not sure if it's gonna work this time, with the filly and everything."

"Do you believe it?" the magician asked, voice low. "That she may bring it all back to how it was?"

"Didn't we talk about this a minute ago?" Avery laughed it off, though the magician's insistent stare proved to be obstinate, drawing from him a sigh. "Ever the skeptic, eh? Do I think the filly can bring it all back to the way it used to be? Can't say."

"Surely you do not actually think it could be possible?"

"Like I said, can't say. Gwen might've actually struck gold with this one, she might not. I know it seems a little far-fetched, but when you have someone like her involved, it actually changes things a little. If it's just the filly, then I'd be doing some second guessing myself. With Gwen in the picture? Now, there's something you gotta keep an eye out for."

"You make it sound as if she is someone of remarkable prominence."

"The other gryphons 'round here mentioned she was of nobility, or at least in their service."

The magician guffawed. "Her, an aristocrat? Preposterous."

"Just a possibility, that's all. Does explain why she's always keeping to herself, don't you think?"

"We all have our secrets, Avery."

"Some secrets are more of a liability than others. Considering your predicament, I'm sure you're well aware of that, Th'murgan."

"Don't you dare."

"No one will hear us. Even if they did, they wouldn't want to pry," Avery made sure the venom simmered in the final word of that sentence, his stare increasingly wary as he surveyed their surroundings, hoof brazenly poised by his revolver. "Point I'm trying to make is that you're not so different from her, that's all. You both have secrets you wish no one else would learn. You both believe yourselves to be righteous, arrogantly so. Maybe once you two realized that, then you can at the very least have a bit of tolerance for each other."

"And why should you bother?"

"Because if it turns out that her hunch is correct — that the filly may actually bring about the change that was prophesied — then you two would be the one thing that'll stop it from ever happening."

"So you do believe in it after all."

"It's called hope, mage. It's called having something you wanna live for, you wanna fight for. It's the one thing that keeps us folks here in Gloomshire going, no matter how rough it gets. That is hope, this thing you so effortlessly cast aside. Maybe you should start from there, how about that?"

All that remained between them thereafter was silence.
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"Father?"

All that remained was silence.

"Father, are you there?"

Thereafter, just as well.

"Father, I need your help. I n-need your guidance."

Fortuitous, until the very last day.

"Father, I... I'm sorry... I'm sorry, okay? I..."

All that remained was a shadow.

And beneath it, the ashes.

"Forgive me, father. Please."
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Author's Note

Finally, it's here.

Merry Christmas!