The Forging of Harmony

Chapters

Windfall - Enlightenment Day
Sol - Living a Lie
Windfall - Guilt by Association
Sol - Teydin's Tale
Gerbil - The Ambassadors
Interlude - Malevolence
Gerbil - An Unexpected Fellowship
Sol - Embarkment
Gerbil - Blackhaven
Interlude - Refugees
Prologue
Sol - Efficiency in the Workplace

Windfall - Enlightenment Day

“So,” coughed the mustachioed Professor.

He paced the dusty classroom agitatedly. He adjusted his toupee fervently. His cutie mark, a gleaming silver “B-plus” quivered on his mustard-yellow flank as he scanned the room. Nopony had stormed out yet. Two weeks, he thought. I’ve gone two weeks straight. Can’t drop the ball now.

“So, as you see, young ponies, that’s, err, well, that’s our problem in a nutshell.” Professor Windfall cringed as he peered through his spectacles from face to flabbergasted face. “You know, you’re actually taking this better than I—”

“—We don’t know?” Interrupted an incredulous student. “How is that possible?”

“Well, we used to know—that is, we, err, thought we knew.” The Professor stammered, wringing his hooves together.

His words were promptly swallowed by the frosty silence. “That is to say, we were all once under the impression that we knew. At one time. And so we thought that—erm—for some time. Yes. But it was later that we, well, discovered that we knew, err,” he began to trail off as he looked morosely past the class, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall. I am in a meadow, he thought. I am in a quiet place. Some of the students peered at him curiously. “. . . Nothing.”

But now his words seemed to have turned the frosty silence’s stomach and were regurgitated.

“So you’ve just finished telling us,” squinted the incessantly inquisitive mare, “that everything you’ve taught us thus far has been a lie?!” She gave a derisive laugh. “That we not only don’t control the sun and moon, but that we don’t even know what they are?!” A murmur drifted through the class. They were becoming restless again, and Professor Windfall found himself extremely tense. He hated it when they became restless. His nervous tick was back again. It was like this every year on Enlightenment Day. Actually, it was increasingly like this every day.

“No! Okay? No! We’ve never known!” He shrieked. “The sun and moon bewilder us!”

The silence hung in the air like bricks. The professor smiled crookedly at his class.

“But, sir, isn’t it wrong for us to—”

“—Hey,” He commented. “Good job. Today. Erm, Sol. Good class. That will be all.”

He stood stiffly and awkwardly, rather like a bat hanging from the floor, as his students filed out of the room, demoralized yet again by the experience of his class. He sighed. All he had said was sadly true, and though nopony had actually gotten up and left his class, he felt strangely worse than if they had. Because once again he was reminded of the fact that he was a puppet of an imposter society. The unicorns were about as close to understanding the sun and moon as they were to discovering a cure for bad teaching. And neither of those things would happen for a very long time.

Fortunately for them, the unicorns lived in such desolate seclusion that this discovery was unlikely to be made by outsiders, who believed wholeheartedly that if the monks of Stormchant were not appeased, ruin would be brought to them all.

It was also true that the unicorns had believed they controlled the sun and moon, but that had all been due to a misunderstanding between the tribes regarding some of the strange superstitions of the Earth Ponies. The superstitions in question were that the unicorns were descendants of an ancient pony goddess of the sun (something their elders had referred to as an “Alicorn”), and thus had dominion over the celestial body through the combined labor of their magic. It was foolishness, naturally. At least, the unicorns knew that now.

It had become clear to the archmonks of the third age of the pre-pre-classical era when, out of spite for the River ponies (whose princess had recently refused the hoof in marriage of a unicorn prince), they attempted to exact their revenge by smashing the sun into the Fjordlands. In addition to the much later revelations surrounding what the sun was (and the other implications of what exactly that course of action would have brought about) the unicorns made the startling discovery that the sun was by no means under their control.

The unicorns were in luck, however, for this devilish plot—which was quickly disposed of by the clergy—remained unbeknownst to the other tribes. The other ponies continued to believe that the unicorns were responsible for the bringing of day and night, and to the unicorns’ great fortune, this common belief was never formally challenged. And so this age of relative harmony between Earth, River, and Magic persisted.

It pained Professor Windfall’s heart that the livelihood of his people was based on a lie, but then again, he knew that starving from the ensuing embargoes in the wake of this discovery being made by the other tribes would likely pain his gut. He had noted in the past that when it came to problems like this, his gut often won out. But despite the fact that in the case of such embargoes the alleviations on his heart from a vastly lower fats intake would be astounding, his gut had won again. So, like the others, he went along with the great fabrication, despite his displeasure in prolonging it.

All this difficult thinking about his gut had made him rather hungry, he realized, and he decided to walk to the market for a hot meal.

Sol - Living a Lie

Sol was a student of magic. She had been all her life. Her fascination with the arcane arts had begun at an early age, when the teacher at the magic primary school of Stormchant had taken her, a foal left abandoned at the city gates, into her home. Her name was Rose Weathersong, and though like the rest of the city workers she had little free time on her hands, she raised Sol as if she were her own. With her free time in abundance, Sol’s foalhood had been spent leafing through vast tomes in the College, basking in every piece of information she could understand. She knew nothing of her parents, and Rose couldn’t provide her any help when it came to finding information about them. Sol was an anomaly, to be sure, for if there was one thing the unicorns of old were not, it was bad bookkeepers. And in a town of such meticulous bookkeepers, the question of her origins puzzled many. And this wasn’t to mention the closed nature of unicorn society, in which orphans whose heritage could not be traced were simply unheard of. If you were a unicorn, your parents had lived in Stormchant, your grandparents had lived in Stormchant, and so had their parents and grandparents before them. The burning questions of her origin had kept Sol searching for knowledge as a foal and they still did even now.

But she felt sick today. Sol had just sat through another harrowing hour and twenty-three minutes of watching Professor Windfall wrestle with his flagrant inability to teach students, and the discovery that her society and her entire life up to this point were based on centuries of falsehoods didn’t help. She was in training to join the monkhood after her discipleship in the College of Stormchant, of which she had now completed a year and three weeks, but she was becoming more disheartened every day. Worse yet, the teachings of discipleship were for the ears of future monks only, and while now she at least knew why this was, she was forbidden to mention a single word, even to her best friend.

The pure white pony departed the college and walked down the winding path leading to the village square. The snow on the dwellings around her glinted in the freezing sun. From invisible horizon to invisible horizon, clouds always filled the sky, and only very rarely did they give pause in the unremitting deluge of snow, which even now swirled bitingly around her face. Her red-violet mane was kept tied back against the wind, and a warm scarf drawn around her neck and chin to keep out the stinging ice. Red flags bearing the crest of Stormchant—a golden sun circumscribed with Old Equuish runes—hung majestically from the city hall as she approached the square.

“Hi, Sol,” said Teydin, approaching from the square.

“Hello, Teydin,” she replied. “How have you been?”

Teydin Lifechord was the village bard and Sol’s best friend. His lute hung on a cord around his neck and one foreleg. A frayed wool hat with an orange feather in its band covered most of his ragged turquoise mane, and his dark grey body was wrapped tightly in a warm but thoroughly patched jacket. Though it was currently hidden by his thick grey trousers, Sol knew his cutie mark to be the the spinning image of the lute he wore. As he trotted toward her, it was clear that he was anxious to speak.

“I’ve been fine, pretty good actually,” Teydin said. “My shipment from the Rivers has come in, and—” He whispered conspiratorially, “I’m pretty sure they’re authentic—the manuscripts, I mean.”

“Hm,” said Sol. She was not listening, but she had learned how to appear as if she was. “Really?”

“... And this could be stuff from, I don’t know, the Grey Ages, perhaps. From the Lost Ages if I’m lucky.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, if I’m lucky, and I’m not going to say it isn’t a long shot, but,” he frowned. “I’ve got a feeling about this one. I don’t know why, but I’ve got a good feeling. This could be what I’ve been looking for.”

“Yeah.”

Teydin furrowed his brow. He could see clearly that something was amiss. “Aliens.” He said, testing her attention. “It was aliens.”

“Hm.” Sol wagered.

There was a pause.

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, fine.” Teydin sighed. “I get it.”

“No—Teydin, I’m so sorry.” Sol tried to amend their lost dialogue. “I’m just tired—I’ve got a lot on my mind. Please, I’d love to hear about your manuscripts.”

Teydin shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I don’t want to impose it on you. It’s fine, really, I know you try, Sol.”

She smiled. Teydin was a good friend. “Thanks for understanding, Teydin, I’ve, well, I guess I’ve had a hard day.”

“You want to talk about it?” He ventured. “I can talk.”

“I know you can,” she smirked. They were rounding the corner into the market, which adjoined the city square. The smell of bread wafted through the still-gathering crowd as the babble of voices overtook the low howl of the wind. A food caravan from the Vale had just arrived. “I need to eat.”

“I can multitask.” He shrugged.

“It’s not like that.” Sol replied. “I wish I could tell you—I do—But I’ve taken vows to uphold the secrecy of the Stormchantry. I can’t.”

“Look, It won’t go any farther than me,” he urged. “You know that. And if what you have to say will hurt somepony, then you shouldn’t say it,” he said. “But if it’s hurting you to keep what you have to say bottled up like that, well,” he paused. “I’m here to listen.”

Sol thought for a moment. She’d learned that day that the Stormchantry had been lying to her for years: for her entire life. After all, even before she entered the College of Stormchant she’d been a student in magic primary school and Initiate’s school, through which she’d been continually told that one day, one day, she would learn the secrets of the Stormchantry. Well, she thought, I know their secrets now. And she realized, too, that the lies hadn’t just been told to her; they’d been told to all of the students of the Stormchantry, to all of ponykind, all of whom were being manipulated by the archmonks. The vows she’d sworn had been to truth, dignity, and justice. And perpetuating the lies she’d been told were none of those things.

They moved in silence until they’d bought bread, cheese, and dried fruit for their lunch, for all of which Sol insisted on paying. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Don’t bother yourself about it.” Teydin thanked Sol graciously for her generosity. She knew what money he must generate playing on the street could not great, so she took comfort in knowing that he was fed.

They sat under a secluded canvas awning on the sidelines of the market on a chiseled stone bench. As they ate they looked out into the snow swirling in the courtyard. The food was simple, but somehow more satisfying for it. After some time, she was ready to talk.

“It’s a lie.” She said simply, putting down her bread. “My entire life is a lie.”

Teydin took a bite of his dry bread, chewed, and swallowed. He turned to face her.

“All my life I’ve worked and strived to be a monk in the Stormchantry.” She explained. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” She motioned to her light grey flank. “My cutie mark is a sun and moon!” Tears began to well in her eyes. “But it’s a lie! The sky was never ours to begin with. I have no identity!”

Teydin put a comforting hoof around her shoulder. “Don’t say that.” He spoke earnestly and with conviction. “You’re the most talented magician in the village. You’re the most dedicated student that the College has ever seen.” His orange eyes looked into her bright blue ones. “Whatever lies you’ve been told, Sol, they don’t change any of those things. Because you’re real.”

Sol smiled. “That’s kind of you, Teydin. Thank you.” Then she stopped smiling.

Before Teydin could ask what was wrong, the figure standing directly behind him whom Sol could now plainly see made a sound.

Windfall - Guilt by Association

It was a weird sound. The Professor had really been going for more of a dramatic clearing of the throat, perhaps a regal, composed “A-hem.” That would be sure to assert his vast superiority over his wayward student. He even could have simply tapped the bard on the shoulder.

But unfortunately for Professor Windfall, he did none of those things, at least, he did none of them exclusively, for in the ultimate moment before he could announce his dissentful presence, he inhaled rather a large amount of the falling blizzard. All at once, the ice seemed to lodge itself deep in his left lung, and, wide-eyed, he gave a formidable, heaving cough, which jolted him forward and all but knocked the conspiring bard, who was caught completely unawares by the sudden attack, off of his seat.

“Augh!” The Professor choked. “Baugh! Blaugh! What—” he descended into a fit of raspy coughing. “—Do—” he gasped, trying to lift himself from the stone bench. “—You think—” pushing himself from the stone, he flinched from Sol and Teydin, trying to regain his balance. “—You’re doing?!” He wheezed, overbalanced and collapsed.

Sol and Teydin looked very concerned. “Professor?” Sol hesitated. “Are you alright? Is it your heart?!” People were beginning to stare.

“No!” His voice was a whisper. “You foals!” He glared at them. “This is treason!”

More passers by began to take notice of the unfolding spectacle and a throng began to form around the Professor and his accused. Inquisitive whispers of the word: “Treason?” began to ripple throughout the crowd.

“Erm. No.” He frantically tried to rectify his mistake. “No treason.” He looked about the crowd who seemed wholly unconvinced. “Ha!” He said. “Treason! Ha! Ha ha ha!” He cackled. The crowd was intrigued. The Professor’s distress had a sort of maniacal magnetism to it.

“What’s all this kerfuffle?” Said an approaching guard. “Did I hear the word ‘treason’?”

With the air of a man trying to climb from a pit with a jackhammer, the Professor persisted. “Absolutely not.” He replied extremely quickly. “The very idea,” he paused and tried to look the guard in the eyes. “Is preposterous.” He failed to look at the guard directly, settling for a sort of dodgy, sidelong glance. Eye contact had never been his forte. “This is not my fault.” He pointed out.

Sol attempted to evict the look of abject horror from her face, but it wouldn’t budge. It was like the dark-yellow Professor was on a sort of deranged mission. “Ahem.” He continued. “Allow me to reiterate. First of all—no, that sounds stupid. In the beginning—”

“—Stop talking.” Sol whispered. The Professor fell dead silent in mid-sentence.

Sol would have been almost indignant if the guards hadn’t taken them away.

* * *

“We’re taking you away.” Said the Captain of the guard, breaking through the crowd. “I mean, really.” He looked at the Professor with a morbid fascination. “I’m not even angry. It’s just—that was the least convincing thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

The Professor bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Treason,” he said. “There isn’t any. Not with me.” He coughed. “I’m not a traitor.”

Windfall turned to face his student. “Sorry, but it’s out my hooves now. Even my way with words couldn’t get you two out of this one.”

The Captain gave him a strange look.

“We’re taking you away with them.”

The Professor turned and nodded solemnly at Teydin, whom he assumed the guard was addressing. “Yes. I expected as much.” He said wisely. “Sorry, fellow. Out of my hooves.” He sighed. “Ah, well. You boys had best be getting along, now.” He tried to make his leave but was impeded by the Captain. “Err, excuse me.”

The Captain said something to Windfall, who became very pale.

“You can’t be serious.”

The Captain quietly voiced a few of his concerns to the Professor.

“No, no, not a traitor. I tried to make that abundantly clear.”

The Captain furrowed his brow. “You know,” he said, “I hate to state what should be bloody obvious, but I don’t believe you.”

* * *

The trio was led down a dark corridor in silence. Guards surrounded them on every side. Sol knew what happened to traitors. At least, she had a vague idea. The inner workings of Stormchant’s judicial system were largely kept under wraps, but she had surmised the broad strokes from her years of study. They would await trial by the Inquisitors, a group of archmonks devoted to the municipal justice system. When the Inquisitors were ready, they would state their case and it would be heard by the panel. If more information was deemed necessary, the panel might call in witnesses, but they seldom needed to do so. The panel would then convene to assess their guilt, and, if their assessment found the accused to be guilty, decide their punishment.

Their punishment. Sol felt lost. Never before had she so much as gotten a bad mark on a test. She was a paragon student, an ideal citizen, but today she had wasted all of that for a moment of spite. That moment of weakness would cost her everything, she was sure, for treason against the Stormchantry was not an affair handled lightly by the archmonks. She would be forced to leave the college. Would be stripped of her apprenticeship as a monk. She would be banished from the city, her home. Or worse. And things boded just as badly for Teydin, much worse, in fact. As a commoner he could not expect the same treatment as an Initiate in the college.

Why couldn’t she just have repressed her desire to tell the truth like everypony else? Was she that weak?

As they walked through the stone corridor, the strange posters that adorned the walls caught Sol’s attention. They were painted canvases, each with a thick black border wherein were vibrant images of unicorns accomplishing impressive feats. One—labelled SIMPLICITY—showed a euphoric unicorn mare jumping through several iron-cast hoops at once. Another—labelled TEAM PLAYERS—showed two unicorn stallions sitting side by side as they wrote out by quill the exact same multi-page memo on “efficiency in the workplace”. The most puzzling of all was a poster that bore an image of a poster, which itself was emblazoned with the image of yet another poster. Each poster pictured within this poster proudly displayed the image of another poster displaying another poster, which, in turn, would display another poster. It was posters—each emblazoned with the word MOTIVATION—all the way down. Somepony had chiseled the words “make it stop” into the stone below.

“This will be your detainment cell.” Said the Captain once they were deep within the bowels of the Monastery of Justice. “Yes, you too.”

The three unicorns were pushed into the cell by the accompanying guards. and the Captain used a spell to seal the rune-inscribed cell door. It was a dank stone room, lit only by a perpetually-burning magical torch that was fixed to the wall. On the far side of the room there was a single bed. A bunk sat against the close wall. A poster similar to the ones Sol had seen in the corridors hung grimly on one of the walls. On it was a bright red stallion with a thick mustache and narrow, cunning eyes. He stared vehemently out of the canvas. “ACCOUNTABILITY” read the bottom.

The Professor wandered dejectedly off to the far bunk. Lying on it, he buried his face in his hooves. He let out a sad sigh. Lying on the bottom and top bunks respectively, the sigh was echoed by Sol and Teydin. Each of them felt that he or she was truly to blame for their arrest.

* * *

“I’m, erm, sorry.” Said the Professor.

“So am I.” Said Sol. “It was wrong to break the oath.”

“Me too.” Said Teydin. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you, Sol.”

The Professor shook his head. “Sol, you were braver than all of us.” He said sadly. “I wish,” he looked up. “I wish I had your courage.”

“I wasn’t being brave.” She shrugged. “I was just angry.”

“You were angry because you care.” He said. “You care more deeply for the art of magic than anypony I’ve ever seen.”

“The irony is,” he continued. “If everypony were like you we’d have learned to move the sun ages ago.” He chuckled. “And nopony would be rotting in a cell for having the courage to admit what truths she knows.”

Teydin smiled. “It’s true, Sol. Windsreach would be better off with more mares like you.”

They sat in silence for several minutes before Sol spoke.

“Teydin, what were those manuscripts you were talking about earlier?”

Teydin grinned. “I’m glad you asked.”

Sol - Teydin's Tale

Though he had no reason to believe they were being monitored, Teydin spoke softly. He was a believer in this sort of theatrical effect, sometimes to a fault. Sol remembered many times when, to her great astonishment, he had appeared suddenly to surprise her, sometimes from behind a corner, sometimes from out of a barrel or bale of hay, but always with the dramatic strum of a minor chord. It made his storytelling an enthralling affair.

“Once,” he said, absently playing a low, steady string on his lute. “There lived a band of brothers. The Brothers Do.”

“They were adventurers, the sort you read about in old ponies’ tales. The sort that venture forth into the unknown in order to map out vast uncharted lands. But these ones were real. They were great thieves, forced into the service of the Queen of Windsreach, back in the old days. The Grey Ages, we call them, back when all the north was united under the one flag of the Windsreach Imperium. Before the rebellion and the founding of the Commonwealth. To win their freedom, these brothers—their names were Dashing, Delving, and Dynamo—had a mission, which they swore an oath to uphold: to chart the uncharted outlands of the high north, to disprove the Mythos of the Undying Winter, and to write their findings in logs which would one day be preserved by the queen.”

“What are the Mythos of the Undying Winter?” Asked Sol, surprised to hear of mythology she had not covered in her scouring of the College library. “I’ve seen mention of them before, but nothing beyond vague reference.”

“A load of old piffle.” Snorted the Professor abstractedly. “The sort of thing we read when we believed the sun was a great ball of superheated gas.” He chortled. “If that were true, all the gas between it and us would simply ignite. Which is stupid. We know now that we are orbited by an interdimensional glowing rock—completely intangible.”

“You don’t know anything.” Sol reminded him. Windfall discarded the comment with the wave of a dismissive hoof.

“Oh, we know some things.” He lied.

“Continue, please.” Said Sol to Teydin. “The Mythos, you were saying.”

“Right. They were written long ago by a stallion by the name H.P. Horsecrap. Mostly they were exercises in cramming as many strange or archaic words as possible into the smallest possible proximity with one another, but, for some reason, unicorns and Earth ponies alike were taking the Mythos to heart. Forming cults, even. These cults began to accumulate enough power to threaten the Queen, so she sent out these daring Brothers Do to mark out the High North, and for once and for all conclusively disprove these falsehoods that had entranced so many of her subjects. They were to make maps and record any other observations in journals, all for the official record of the Windsreach Imperium.”

“Well?” Said Sol. “What did they find?”

“Not quite what the Queen was expecting.” Teydin smirked, and began to pluck out notes more quickly. He played to a rhythmic gallop as he continued. How he managed to compress the strings into chords with only his hooves was a mystery to Sol. “They found great beings the size of mountains, ponies with strange wings, things that scared the Queen. Things that,” he paused, silencing his lute. “She didn’t want them to repeat.”

“What did she do with them?” Sol inquired. “Did they win their freedom?”

“Not exactly.” Smirked Teydin. “She didn’t trust them to keep the secrets they had uncovered, so she cursed them to eternal silence and locked them in the dungeon deep below the city. She locked the books in a great magical vault to be burned, but—”

“—But?” Sol was on the edge of the bunk, rapt by the story. Even the Professor looked mildly interested.

“If you’d let me finish,” Teydin rolled his eyes. “I’d tell you.”

“The vault.” Said Sol.

“Yes.” Teydin said, strumming the lute. “The vault. It was protected by a hundred guards and locked deep within a hull of castle-forged steel five feet thick. The Queen knew the documents contained enough to inspire an uprising, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew that knowledge was power, and would only burn the books once she’d had a chance to read them herself. So the Brothers Do hatched a cunning plot. They were master thieves, you’ll remember, and by working together they were able to dispel the magic seal on their cell. With the luck of finding a few sympathizers to one of the cults in their guard outfit they were out of that dungeon like ghosts. The queen was furious. Just because the brothers could not talk didn’t mean they couldn’t incite an uprising among the citizens. The pen was mightier than the sword that day. Quite literally, in fact. While the queen and her guards were distracted by the rioting cultists, the Brothers snuck into the place with a flying machine. Once inside they were able to reach the vault with ease. The Queen’s seals couldn’t keep them out, as they’d previously proved, and in a matter of minutes, they had reclaimed their stolen stories.”

“What did they do with them?” Asked Sol.

“That’s the best part.” Replied Teydin. “They fled south to the Free Rivers. We call them the Fjordlands now, but even back then they were sovereign lands. In fact, they had just declared their independence from the crown.”

“The Queen couldn’t have been happy about that.”

“And she wasn’t. Especially since they’d just lost a war to the Rivers. She couldn’t extradite the brothers, nor could she follow them with soldiers. The Rivers were in turmoil, but they would fight to the last if they were invaded. Those journals were gone.”

“Where are they now?” Sol queried.

“Nopony knows.” Said Teydin, giving a final strum. “But I figure my best bet is the Fjordlands. The Rivers. I figure if I keep importing ancient scripts, I’ll have them eventually, parts of them at least.”

“Are they willing to part with such pieces of history as those journals?” Sol brushed the red-violet hair out of her eyes.

“Apparently!” He laughed. “Not big readers down there, I suppose.”

“Strange.” Said Sol. She had never spoken to one of the River Ponies, and wondered what exactly such unlettered ponies might be like.

Gerbil - The Ambassadors

“No.” Said Gerbil. “And if you ask me that one more time, I swear to Frelna I’m going to—”

“Huh.” Said Flask from under a thick, greasy black mane. He paused as he thought of something to say. “Are we there now?” He said after nine seconds of careful introspection.

“No!” Gerbil fumed. “For the twelve-thousandth time, no!” He twisted his ruff back into position. “And you should think about running a comb through that mess before it’s, I don’t know, too late and a bird moves in or something.”

“So quick to anger.” Remarked Flask in a low rumble. “And you wonder why the Northerners see us Fjordlanders as a bunch of lawless swashbucklers.”

“They see us as lawless because ponies like you havebeen the face of our city for the last hundred bleeding years.” He retorted with a bitter sneer. “How’d you even get picked for this position, is what I’d like to know!”

“They tell me I’m good with ponies.” Said the large brown river pony simply.

He was good with ponies, but the truth was that he was good with one pony in particular. That particular pony was the short puce one who was standing next to him and was presently twisting his bowler hat into the exactly proper position on his slick, grey mane.

“They only say that because you’re a pushover.” He sneered. “Always giving all of the other tribes exactly what they please. You need to start putting your hoof down.”

“If that dam hadn’t been built, the Vale would have flooded.” Flask commented. “And that’s no good for anypony.”

“Oh, very well.” Said Gerbil snidely. “But you’re always apologizing to the other ambassadors. You lose all the power in the conversation.”

“Sorry.”

Gerbil let out a furious cry. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about!”

“Oh.” Flask looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Gerbil shook his head. “Just let me do the talking, would you?”

“The last time you did the talking—” began Flask.

“—I know what happened last time,” muttered Gerbil. “What happened was the Lieutenant-Warden had some problems with authority.”

“He sure took badly to you calling him an blithering, unwashed backbiter.” Recalled Flask passively.

“Well,” said Gerbil mockingly “now I know not to insult some unclean savage in his own personal room full of knives. Happy?!”

“Yeah.” Said Flask. “It’s a start.”

They proceeded in silence though the Ventillian Tundra. It might have been merely cold, perhaps bearable under only a couple of layers, if it had not been for the wind. The wind was freezing and cut through their thick woolen jackets like they were nothing. It tore through the maroon shrubbery of the tundra and howled on occasion. The cold was malignant. And vicious. Gerbil hated it and it hated him back. And it only got worse as they journeyed northwards. How the northerners could bear it, Gerbil did not know.

He rather disliked his job. But then again, he disliked things as a general rule. Truth be told, he didn’t know why he’d even gotten the job of ambassador. It seemed to him that ever since his foalhood, when he first learned to hate all the other foals, everypony had simply pressured him into it. Natural talent, I expect, he thought smugly. Better me than them. He trotted forth pompously, looking out over the crest of a nearby hill.

“That’ll be it!” Proclaimed Gerbil gazing forth past the rising snowy expanse and out toward the closest mountain, whose tip was folded in clouds. “Stormchant.”

“Come have a look, old fellow!” He called down to his associate who gazed up to him through his thick tangle of hair.

“Nah.” Said he. “I’ve seen it a hundred times, thanks.”

“Ugh. Spoilsport.” The small stallion shrugged. “Fine. Let’s pick up the pace a bit.”

“Whatever you say.” Flask chortled. “Why don’t you try to keep up?”

* * *

A sole icy river wound through the Ventillian Tundra, and the two ambassadors made their camp near the intersection between it and the road whereon they were journeying. Making a fire in the brutal wind was hard going but well worth Gerbil’s repeated efforts once it had sprung to life. They dined on a ration of kelp, which had a bitter, unsavory taste that they no longer noticed due to years of dedicated practice. It was their final day before reaching the city, Gerbil knew. It was a journey they’d made many times before. Munching thoughtfully on a particularly unsavory piece of kelp, the puce river pony squinted his eyes through the tormenting wind. Light snows had begun to fall. Flask caught a piece on his tongue.

“Oh, will you stop that?” Admonished Gerbil. “I thought you were past this.” He rolled his eyes. “It all tastes the same.”

“I know.” Said Flask indifferently. “I just like the way it feels on my tongue.” He plucked another piece from the air. “It tickles,” he giggled. “Give it a try.”

“Hmph. I prefer to hold myself to higher standards.” Gerbil said, turning up his nose at the very thought. “And don’t let me catch you doing that around the Northerners. Makes you look simple in the head.”

“It doesn’t matter to me if they see me playing with the snow.” He thought for a second. “I like snow.”

“Ugh.” Said Gerbil. “You should really try to detest more things,” he said disapprovingly. “Gives a nice, firm grip on reality.”

Flask sat in silence for a minute as he contemplated a flake on the ground in front of him. He peered curiously at it from different directions, as if trying to see what Gerbil saw.

“I,” He paused reviewing the diminutive speck for another moment. He smiled at it. “I like snow.”

Gerbil cursed under his breath. “You’ll never understand.”

Flask didn’t seem to be bothered by this, which bothered Gerbil terribly.

“I hate snow.” He muttered, and gave the harmless particles a sneer as he bit down with vigor on his final piece of kelp. “Stupid snow. You’ll get yours when you melt.”

Flask caught another flake on his tongue, and after sitting in wonder of the falling precipitation for some time, retired into his snug cotton sleeping bag.

* * *

Gerbil’s belligerently precise inner clock awoke him at an ungodly hour. He loved waking up before everypony else. It was one of the few things he loved, but this was merely because it gave him an opportunity to berate his fellows for sleeping in, which always bolstered his self-esteem. Savoring the satisfaction of finishing his sleep in first place, he looked out on the bleak eastern horizon. Dawn was breaking over the dimly visible hills, and a bunch of irritating and unnecessary colors filled the sky. He felt like they were trying to provoke him. Like all times of day, he hated the dawn, with all those useless colors. Get over yourself. He thought annoyedly. And put on a tie or something. If the sun wore a tie at all times he supposed that he might hate it less. No, he thought. Then it’d just look uppity. He smirked. Like it’s trying get a raise or something. He loved finding new ways to be put off by things.

He glanced solemnly at Flask’s sleeping form. His side rose peacefully up and down as he dreamed about things that would doubtlessly annoy Gerbil to no end.

“Time to wake up, you great lummox.” Said Gerbil conceitedly. “You can’t sleep forever.”

“Oh,” said Flask. “You’re up. I’ve just been watching the snow.”

“There isn’t any.” Said Gerbil, affronted by Flask’s clear attempt to affront him by waking up earlier than he had. He glanced around. No snow was falling. “What are you really doing?”

“I’m watching the snow,” said Flask cheerfully. “It’s so . . .” He trailed off as he searched for a word. “. . . Peaceful.” He concluded, gazing happily at a tiny patch in front of him as it melted slowly in the mild sunlight.

“Yes, well,” said Gerbil, still perturbed from being unable to reprimand Flask. “Daylight’s burning. We’d best get a move on.”

“Yes.” Said Flask, gazing wistfully at the patch of slush. “I expect we should.”

* * *

They arrived at Stromchant at midday. Gerbil was exhausted from the mountainous ascent, but Flask abounded with energy. The sweeping snows that gathered about them as their journey met its incline seemed to have energized him. He smiled broadly as they approached the city gates. Gerbil, relieved at the prospect of shelter, furiously adjusted his bowler hat and twisted the corners of his mouth into an awkward sort of grimace.

The guard’s smile that he’d adopted upon recognizing Flask quickly faltered as he saw his companion and he let out a crestfallen groan.

“Hello, Flask,” he said. “Business in the city, I presume?”

“Yes.” Gerbil said, irked by the guard’s rhetorical question. (He hated all questions, but had a special loathing for ones that were only pretending to need an answer.) “Of course.”

“Enter.” He said, nodding to Flask. Addressing Gerbil, “You’re going to need to pass through customs. And sign a few things.”

“What for?” yelped Gerbil indignantly. “Is this still about the—”

“—The sandwich incident?” The guard finished. “Yes.”

Gerbil hated ponies who finished his sentences for him, especially when they finished them correctly. “Don’t you ponies have a sense of humor?” He said.

“It’s just,” the guard said uncomfortably, “we like to cultivate an image of dignity and respect for quadrupedal life . . .” He trailed off uneasily.

“Well, maybe next time you should try to cultivate an image of taking a bloody joke.” Said Gerbil under his breath. “Fine.” He said so that the guard could hear him.

* * *

“Bloody fools.” Gerbil galloped to his large, dark companion. “Kept me for three-and-a-half hours.”

Flask beamed at him. “There’s so much snow.”

Gerbil tightened his lips in an expression of repressed rage. “Well, bully for you.”

“I like—”

“—Yes, I’m quite aware.” Said Gerbil. “You like the snow. Yes. I think I’ve got it.”

“—snow!” Flask finished. He looked around merrily.

“Let’s get this over with.” Said Gerbil exasperatedly. They were approaching the city hall. “It’s, as they say, show time.”

Gerbil addressed the nearest guard, who had been eying him nervously. “We’re here to speak to the Archmonk-Grandmaster.”

“Hey,” said the guard, “Aren’t you the colt who had the sandwich and the—” he made a revolted expression and fell silent. “They let you back in the city after that?” He said, astonished.

“Just let us in.”

The guard said nothing more and stood aside, shuddering. Gerbil and Flask made their entry.

“That festering, sandwich-hating, piece of—” began Gerbil.

“—Love and tolerate.” Flask reminded him.

* * *

Flask and Gerbil stood sternly in the main council chambers of the Monastery of Truth as they waited for the Archmonk-Grandmaster, who was due any moment. It was an immense room, filled with many seats, most of which were used only in the rare occasion of a Full Council Meeting, an affair which would thin the mane of even the most dedicated unicorn bureaucrat.

The room and its many pillars were adorned with a multitude of red banners, each displaying the same bright, golden sun. A black-bordered poster hung on one of the walls. On it was the colorful image of a gavel striking a wooden desk. “GROUP DISCUSSION” read the bottom. It looked rather out of place, but Gerbil liked it. It comforted him. He wasn’t sure why.

“Running late. Just like a unicorn city-employee.” Gerbil said sarcastically. “The one thing they’re reliable for is their unreliability.”

“I think that’s him now.” Said Flask.

Gerbil nodded. “Let me do the talking.”

A purple unicorn wearing an elaborate robe strode out onto the balcony overlooking the chamber. The balcony was not high, and Gerbil could distinctly make out the dizzy expression on his face. It was as if he had just woken up.

“Whassat?” He mumbled, tripping slightly over the cuff of his robe. He looked confusedly down at the duo in the middle of the room. “Who’s this, then?” He asked no one in particular.

“We are ambassadors from the Fjordlands.” Asserted Gerbil coldly. “Is this how you choose to greet guests in your city?”

The Grandmaster squinted at them. “Oh, you look fine.” He said. “Perfectly pleasant. Don’t worry about it.”

Gerbil and Flask exchanged a perplexed glance.

“We were asking you.” The puce pony scoffed, adjusting his bowler hat.

“And I expect I did a fine job answering.” Nodded the Grandmaster, thinking over his previous remarks. “Who are you?”

“Ambassadors.”

“Alligators?”

“Sure.” Gerbil gave him an odd look.

“You have news for me, then?”

“Yes actually.” Gerbil said. He wondered how the Grandmaster had come to that lucky conclusion.

“Well, out with it, you big, filthy reptiles!” He cried. “What is it?!”

“With all due respect, Grandmaster,” said Gerbil. “I’m not sure you grasp the seriousness of the situation.”

“Well?” Said the Grandmaster. “Tell me, would you?”

“Sir,” said Gerbil angrily.

He paused, unsure whether or not his words would be wasted on this imbecile.

“The Lower Fjordlands have fallen.”

Interlude - Malevolence

The once-florid hills of South Verdim lay torn asunder by brimstone and wrath. Flames smoldered lazily in the fields and meadows as foul smog howled over the rocky coastline and black clouds oozed into the grey sky. The fresh rivers once azure ran grey and black with ash, and the cottages along the sides of the Verdim Fjord lay charred in ruins, as if they had been struck by lightning. Cinders wafted through the town, shuddering in the scorched air as thunder rippled through the murky sky. It was the work of a being of great darkness incarnate who floated in the center of it all.

Malevolence was his name. He was a Draconequus, a chimeric fusion of equine, dragon, and chaotic magic. His face was reminiscent of a pony’s, save for the addition of two horns, which jutted from his temples and followed the smooth contour of his skull until twisting out, down, and forward. Both tapered to elegant and deadly points. Swathes of flame encircled his muscular draconian form and liquid shadow swirled at his clawed fingers. Enormous, bat-like wings dominated the surrounding air on either side, and a lithe, serpentine tail coiled behind him. Great scales armored his enormous body, which, unlike a pony’s was bipedal, though the two feet he had were distinctly cloven. His eyes were a pure, inky black and had no visible pupils or lids. They stared unflinchingly from his terrible, twisted face. He was the spirit of wrath: the living embodiment of anger. He had risen from the depths of Tartarus last Tuesday and had made his way north through the tangle of Deep Southern Badlands and across Frelna’s sea in search of intelligent life forms on whose hatred he could feed.

His malefic sorcery was almost complete. The remnants of the lower Fjordlands trembled before his terrible power, and those who remained in Verdim scurried helplessly about in the ensuing pandemonium. They could try to hide from him--for now, at least. But they could not run away. The massive force-fields he had erected at the edges of the city made sure of that. Those who had fallen in the assault on this coastal northern verge were unharmed. He had made sure of that as well. Soon they would all be his minions, corrupted by the festering anger and strife among them. With his dark magic he could use this seed of rage to brainwash his victims into servitude.

They would proceed north. The rest of the Fjordlands would crumble before his risen army, despite the fact that they would doubtlessly receive reinforcements from the rest of the tribes. The act of war itself will spell their demise, he thought to himself gleefully, for war was aggression based on fear, and fear and aggression were his playthings. He was a force that could not be resisted: a grip that would not be relinquished: endless suffocation that could never be escaped. And inescapable his powers were, for even now the ponies who once cowered before him were beginning to flock like crows to his darkness. Fire burned in their collective eyes. That same fire would corrupt their very souls and leave them malleable beings of hatred: an army ready to command.

All of Windsreach would be soon be under his ungulate heel.

Gerbil - An Unexpected Fellowship

Banks of snow rose against the ramparts of the mountain city, which stood snobbishly against them. Those walls were unforgiving. “Get lost, snow,” They seemed to say, as one turning up their iron cast noses. “We don’t like your kind.” The snow would then slink sadly down the walls, distraught by their disapproval. More snow would come, but the walls would never submit to the snow’s desperate embrace. Because they had principles.

Gerbil smiled approvingly at the walls. He quite liked walls, he realized. Had a strict code, they did. Kept to themselves and did their work. And wouldn’t consort with all that snow. He wished that he had a nice firm wall for a companion instead of—

“Flask!” He yelled at his tarrying companion. “I’ve had enough of these cretins. Let’s get out of here.”

Flask nodded. He looked at Gerbil. “What are we going to do now?”

“I . . .” Gerbil looked down. “I don’t know.”

Flask looked back. “If we’d just had more time to talk to the Grandmaster—”

“We tried talking to that blockhead for over an hour,” the small, brownish-purple pony muttered. “And by the end he was trying to use an abacus to disprove our existence.”

“He thought it was the only way to slow down our lizard-minds,” Flask broke in. “I tried to tell him we didn’t want to eat him.”

“I know.” Gerbil concurred. “You tried. We tried.”

“Sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow in appreciation. “I forgive you.” He said earnestly. “I already forgave myself, naturally.”

Flask narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

Gerbil gazed out into the dunes of snow. He held his bowler hat in his hooves. “I don’t know,” he said again. “The south has come to us,” he murmured. “And we’re doing nothing to stop it. What this is all coming to, I don’t know. But it can’t be good.”

He furrowed his brow. “Do you see smoke?” He shielded his eyes from the setting sun. “I think there’s a fire over there.”

Flask murmured his consent. “I hear voices,” he said softly.

Gerbil strained his ears.

“North?” Said one voice over the far bank. “Are you mad? We’ll freeze!”

“We’ve got nothing left here.” Said a higher, distinctly female one. “I want answers.”

“Our clothes are warm enough.” Said yet another. “The cold won’t stop us.”

“They’re warm enough to last us here. The High North is, well, different.”

Gerbil glanced over at his fellow. “What do you suppose they’re blabbering about?”

“We could ask them,” said Flask. “Can’t hurt to ask.”

Gerbil pondered this for a moment. “Hm, yes. You’re right.” He hated it when Flask was right.

Approaching the camp, he composed himself, grimacing awkwardly and replacing his bowler hat upon his head. There were three ponies gathered around the fire, two of whom had their backs turned on the two River Ponies. The one that did not was made visible by the firelight, though since it was growing dark it seemed unlikely that he could see them. He looked distraught and anxious, wrapped tight in a thick woolen blanket. The fire’s glow illuminated his dark-yellow complexion. He sat staring into the fire.

“Ahoy, vagabonds,” Gerbil ventured. “We come in peace.”

The mustard pony screamed and toppled backwards off of his seat.

The other two turned to face the newcomers. “We’re not vagabonds.” Said the brown one with the unkempt turquoise mane. His coat had several holes through which stuffing was leaking out.

“Fine, brigands, then.” Gerbil said dismissively. “Or ruffians. Or whatever you prefer. Anyway, we couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, and we—”

“Who are you?” Said the white female with the red-violet mane. “And we’re neither of those things. We’re exiles.”

“Oh,” stated Gerbil. “How rude of me. We are ambassadors to your fair city, or, rather, the city which has disowned you.” He smirked. “Lovely bunch, truly.”

“Aren’t they?” Said the Professor, forgetting himself as he climbed up from behind the stone over which he had fallen. “I mean, they most certainly are not!” He glared artificially. “I would not return if I had the chance,” he trailed off wistfully. “Who are you?”

“I am Gerbil. Senior Ambassador.”

“I’m Flask. Do you like snow?”

“It’s alright, I suppose.”

“You were listening to our conversation?” The white pony interrupted.

“Yes. You are heading north, are you not? To what end?”

“Pegasi. The wardens of snow. Keepers of the High North”

“What, you mean those made-up flying things? Like in stories?” Interjected Gerbil.

“We have reason to believe they’re more than myth. We’re headed north to find the truth.”

“What makes you think they’re real?”

“A map.” She motioned hesitantly to the parchment before her. “I’m Sol, by the way.”

“Teydin.” Said the brown unicorn stallion.

“Professor Windfall.” Said the bespectacled, mustard unicorn. “But, please, call me Sir Turvis-Elroy.”

“You don’t have to call him that,” Said Sol. The Professor scowled at her, plainly offended.

“I’ve been trying to get that to catch on for years.” He sulked. “You’re not helping.”

“It’s going to happen,” said Teydin quietly. “The world’s not ready.”

Sol cleared her throat. “We’re proceeding north to the Derelict Strand,” she said, indicating a far border in the High North, above which was inscribed the diagram of what she did not know to be an alicorn. “Beyond that are the lands of the pegasi, or so this says, anyway.”

“Do they still live? The pegasi, I mean,” asked Gerbil curiously.

“Perhaps,” replied Sol. “At the very least, we can discover more about their solar magic.”

Flask looked up from deep thought. “If they’re still alive, they could help us.”

Gerbil nodded his head slowly. “Yes. That’s true.”

“Help you? With what?”

“Something has come across the sea. It’s taken South Verdim. We came here to seek help, but, well, you probably know how that went.” Gerbil glowered.

“I expect I do.” Sol rolled her eyes.

“So, I suppose we would ask if we could, erm, accompany you,” said Gerbil, indicating himself and Flask. “If that would be alright.”

The three exchanged glances. They nodded to one another.

“Very well,” spoke Sol. “We shall be a fellowship to proceed into the High North. We shall seek the pegasi of old so that we may learn of their magic.”

“We are in agreement, then.” Spoke the Professor. “At daybreak we proceed.”

“At daybreak.” The other four murmured their consent.

* * *

It was nightfall, and it had become quite difficult to see in the ensuing pitch-blackness. Gerbil loathed darkness, but he wasn’t sure whether or not he hated it as much as excessive brightness. At least darkness wasn’t as intrusive. He pondered which of the two was the worse as he wrapped himself tightly in his sleeping bag. Snow had begun to fall once more, and the party had relocated under a group of nearby evergreen trees. Gerbil could still see the city from where he lay. He could see the great burning torches over the walls, anyways. The snow below glinted orange in the torchlight.

He gazed at his sleeping companions. He did not trust them. He never trusted brigands, no matter how friendly they seemed. But he would go along with this quest, unexpected as it was. This was an opportunity to win the favor of the Fjordlands. This was an opportunity, perhaps, to save the Commonwealth from an impending threat, whatever the destroyer of South Verdim actually was. But most importantly, this was an opportunity to show those meddling unicorns that the Fjordlanders were stallions of action. Thinking peacefully of the looks on their faces upon the fellowship’s return, he drifted off to sleep.

Sol - Embarkment

Sunlight played through the stained glass windows of the College Library and onto the stone floor of the room, which was strewn with dog-eared books. On the floor, which was quite cold, sat a young filly with a bright fandango mane who was leafing through a massive tome, scouring each page as if they contained the solutions for any and all conceivable problems. Perhaps there were even the solutions to some inconceivable ones, one might have thought as he judged by the look of firm consternation on her face. She was wrapped tightly in a frayed but well-loved quilt, her eyes glancing from line to line as she devoured the thick, steadfast text of the massive magical lexicon.

“ALCHEMICAL TELECOMMUNICATIONS” read its cover in a font that in absolutely no context could be be perceived as anything other than tedious. That font itself would make most curl up into a small ball and try desperately to forget how to read. It would make many more fall asleep on the spot. It would even make your average unicorn well up with tears of exhaustion, before turning and shambling away in desperation. But this filly sat utterly intrigued by this vast volume as she scanned in silence the dishearteningly diminutive text. She read aloud whispered words in ancient tongues, tasting the Old Equush incantations as if they were strange and foreign nectars.

A crimson mare who sat at a nearby desk scribbled feverishly through paperwork. The desk was piled high with the stuff, and would’ve looked fit to collapse from the strain if it weren’t for the glowing magical reinforcement that was plainly working on the weary wooden table. Even with the arcane assistance it looked thoroughly spent, its surface gouged, ink-stained and even sporting what looked to be burns in some places. The mare forced to work at this deteriorating workspace seemed its equal in exhaustion. There were bags under her eyes, and she frequently nodded off only to spring back time and time again from her unremitting stupor. Her hand would spring to life at intervals and regain its frantic pace through the pages and pages of classroom supply requests, sheets of homework, and grade reports.

She was a teacher at the city’s magical primary school. Her mane was grey, mousey, and frayed from her years of labor in the Stormchantry, and it was kept tied up in a tight bun. The mountains of paperwork which ever besieged her desk did not seem to bother her anymore. Unhappily, she gave a short sigh, looking down at the unicorn filly who had lain on the floor since early that morning and whose attention was still entirely consumed by the colossal compendium before her.

"Sol?" Said the bright-red mare.

The bundled white filly did not respond, so absorbed was she by the composition before her. She squinted at the miniscule runes, her mouth silently working to pronounce them.

“Sol!”

“Yes, Rose?” Her attention broken, the young pony looked up from her book.

“I asked you: Do you really understand any of that?” Rose repeated. “It’s quite complicated stuff. I can’t imagine you’re retaining a word of it.”

“I do understand it,” said Sol. “Look,” she indicated a particularly dense passage. “This is a spell that lets you talk to ponies when you’re far away.” She scrutinized it for a second. “No, wait, that’s this one here. That one was something else.”

Rose cringed. “Quite right. In fact, don’t read into that one, Sol. I thought all of those spells had been redacted by the Truth Bureau since the, err, incident last week.”She shook her head. “Never mind. What was it you were showing me?”

“This.” Said the alabaster young mare, pointing to a block of intricate text. “You can use it to still talk when you’re far away.”

“Do you know how to use it?”

“I think so.” Said Sol nervously. “Teydin and I tried it a couple of times, and we got into different rooms before it broke down.”

“Oh, lovely, you’re still hanging around with that bum.” Rose sighed. “Well, if you were able to initiate the spell at all, that’s something to be proud of. This is high-level stuff.”

Sol smiled.

“I wish you’d stop hanging about that bard, though.” Said Rose. “He’s just trouble, I tell you. You should spend more time with the other Initiates.”

Sol rolled her eyes. “Teydin’s just eccentric. He’s not dangerous.”

“I don’t know. He seemed to think all that business last week was some kind of sick joke.”

“I think it was a joke.”

“Well, it was a sick one. Wouldn’t be surprised if I never ate a sandwich again.”

They both nodded.

* * *

Sol arose before the break of dawn. Looking about, she could see that none of her fellows had yet done the same. But for now she would let them sleep. Presently, she had other matters to attend to.

She reached down into the depths of her memory for an incantation that she had learned many years ago. There it was. Pulling from the murky reaches of her mind, Sol began to speak softly the Old Equush words.

“Lenturum bilas,” she said into the silence. Her words were absorbed immediately by the blanket of snow. She waited for the magic to respond. Roughly translated, her words had meant “Okay, magic, here’s the rub: I’m headed north for the foreseeable future, and I may or may or not be returning anytime soon, or at all, but we’ll see. Regardless, I’m going to need some ties to this place in the event of my, Teydin’s, or the Professor’s homecoming. I figure the best way to go about that is by bringing up some kind of communications channel with Rose. So let’s get on with it.”

Old Equush is so easy. Sol thought to herself, satisfied with the result as the magic thought about what she’d said, looking for loopholes, misplaced commas, and such. Upon the conclusion that there were absolutely none of either, the magic reluctantly agreed and a alchemical fettering was set upon Rose’s home. Sol was just close enough to target it, but now that it was there, it would hold until dispelled.

Her arcane business finished, she turned to see the puce pony from yesterday glowering at her. He seemed to have just awoken. Quickly, Gerbil adjusted his face into an artificial smile.

“Good morning,” he said. “How nice to see another early bird in the group.”

She smiled at him. “The same to you. I believe your friend’s been up for some time.”

“Oh, has he,” Said Gerbil. It was not a question. “Splendid.” He bared his teeth and walked away sulkily.

“That was weird.” Said Teydin, returning from his early morning walk. “Where’s Sir Turvis?”

Sol tilted her head toward the castle gate, where the Professor was desperately pounding on the outer door. Upon seeing the other two glance in his direction, he said loudly to the gate “And that’s final!” He then coughed and whispered something else, giving the iron-barred door a final pleading glance, before exhaling loudly and sauntering back to the group. “Just giving those fellows a piece of my mind,” he said truthfully.

Sol and Teydin stared at him glumly.

“Yeah, okay,” said Sol. “At least you’re still being honest with us.”

* * *

After breakfasting on a bitter ration of kelp, courtesy of Gerbil and Flask, the three exiles used the saddle bags that had been thrown to them earlier to pack up their possessions. Having done so, the group embarked on the first leg of their journey with gusto.

They descended down the mountain with ease, the early-morning sun shining brightly in the east. The weather was quite good; the snow had let up overnight and forgotten to resume in the wake of day. As they made their decline from the high peak they talked merrily of the quest to come. Sol was nervous to make this bold journey, but felt liberated as she traversed the rocky road, a track dug into the thick snow by generations of merchants.

As they walked, Teydin took the opportunity to explain to the ambassadors the story of the Brothers Do and their exploits in the High North.

“Fascinating,” said Gerbil. “And they’ve been past the Derelict Strand?”

“If the map’s anything to judge by, they’ve been farther than that.”

“And how did the Queen verify its authenticity?”

“They had a method of inscribing information beyond written words into their parchment. Their voices. Pictures of their surroundings, like they were drawn, but that could move. They contained so much information that they would take months to fabricate.” Explained Teydin.

Gerbil nodded. “And have you come across any such logs?”

“I think so. But any damage to the information makes them impossible to read. And believe me, you Fjordlanders weren’t ones to preserve fine artifacts.” Sol saw Gerbil sneer at Teydin once he had turned his back.

They were nearing the base of the mountain now, and the sun was nearing the middle of the sky. The snow had begun to give way to sparse shrubbery now and the ground was more brown than white, though still very cold. The wind had also begun to rise. But the party would not proceed down into the Ventillian expanse which would soon lie before them and which even now they could see clearly for their vantage point on the slope of the mountain, rather, they would take a turn before its base, thus encircling the mountain by way of a pass that would lead between it and its neighbor. The same river whereon Gerbil and Flask had made their camp only two nights ago ran through that pass, and would, they supposed, be accessible to them farther along their route.

They relapsed into silence for the next quarter of an hour, during which time they made their deviation from the well-worn path onto the one whereby they would reach their destination. It was a neglected road to say the least, overgrown by the red shrubs that dotted the tundra and often slippery with ice. Wind poured from the pass through which they hoped to make their safe passage into the High North, and the bitterly cold gale cut at them angrily. But despite chill and slightly dampened spirits, the party carried on. Working over brambles and jagged stone towards the pass: their goal.

After some time Gerbil turned to Sol, looking concerned. “Err, I was curious: are there—” here he broke off, searching for the appropriate term. “—Others?” He asked, looking vaguely troubled. He glanced about. “Surely you three aren’t the only exiles.” He appended, the worry on his face beginning to grow. He fidgeted with his hat.

This was something Sol had not considered. Exiling criminals was common practice in Stormchant, and it was the wisdom of the Stormchantry that such was the best way for the city to dispense with its problems. Now Sol became worried. Where did exiles go? “You know, I’m not sure.” She admitted. “I guess I assumed they went south—I mean going this way would be—” she trailed off again, looking very uncomfortable.

“You were going to say ‘suicide’, weren’t you?”

“No.”

Gerbil glared at her.

“Okay, yeah.”

“Lovely.”

There was an awkward hiatus in the conversation, to which everyone was now listening.

“Why do you ask?” Said Sol suddenly.

Gerbil remained silent, but pointed to what looked to be a shadowy figure by a distant rock. Their suspicions were confirmed when it cursed loudly and dropped to the ground. After several seconds it climbed to its hooves and shuffled out of sight.

“Spooky.” Said Teydin sardonically.

The Professor gave a shiver, but then realized he was being mocked.

“Well,” said Gerbil. “Looks as if they didn’t go south after all.”

* * *

As the intrepid adventurers descended the rugged slope which led to the river’s edge, snow began to flutter down through the icy wind. Flask gazed up at the flakes, which swirled in the gusting air before each came to rest upon the stony ground or was dissolved in the brisk, frigid river below. Shrubs still adorned the ground here, but were more scarce, as if only some dared to brave this cold. Sol didn’t blame them, for the cold here was bitter and unforgiving indeed. It was past midday now, and getting on toward dusk. She feared to imagine what the night would be like.

As they stumbled down the craggy decline, a shape began to loom past the far rocks. Disregarded at first as yet another outcrop from the grey, flora-smattered mountain, the shape did not perturb Sol or her companions, but as their path farther circumnavigated the mountain, it began to rise into more prominence. For it was not the form of the natural: it most certainly was not continuation of the rock before them. No, thought Sol as she gazed out upon this foreign shape. This is something more.

“It’s a town,” said Teydin. “Do you smell that, on the wind?”

Sol inhaled deeply through her nose, and caught the scent of smoke upon the air, perhaps of bread. “It must be,” she said. The smell of food, however slight, was enough to illicit a rumble in her belly.

“Brilliant,” Said Teydin in wonder. “A town of exiles.”

Encouraged by the enticing aroma of baked bread, the party hurried on. It was easy now, for they were nearly on the bank of the partially-frozen water. Only a meager cliff kept them from it now, and its sound had now grown to a lively roar. The red shrubs were seldom visible amongst the stones now, and the rocks at their feet had become smaller and less cumbersome. A great wall, which extended from the side of the mountain, and out around the bank of the river was in clear view, and it loomed ever more ominously over the party as they approached. The ledge by which they had circled the mountain flattened out onto the banks of the chilling flow.

A sign, now visible from the quintet’s approach, glared down at the venturing group: “WELCOME TO BLACKHAVEN,” it grimly stated. “FORMER HOME OF THE LEGENDARY H.P. HORSECRAP.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” stated Teydin. The party exchanged nervous glances.

Gerbil - Blackhaven

“Hello!” Shouted the red-violet haired mare for the ninth time. “Is anypony there?!” It was dusk now, and the others had been trying to gain entry to the city for several minutes to absolutely no avail. Many of those same colors were in the sky again, but with more oranges. What a hostile color. Gerbil glowered at the sunset. “Orange”—even the word’s stupid!—what is it trying to do, get me angry? He thought furiously. Well, it’s not going to work. Smiling at his small intellectual victory over his vast orange nemesis, he turned his gaze to his fellow ambassador and the exiles, still struggling futilely to make themselves heard.

“That’s it,” said the mare. “I’m using magic.”

The Professor looked anxious. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He pestered. “We don’t want to appear hostile.”

“Look, the only sign here is proudly displaying the name of an author who’s been dead for centuries; we have no idea if anypony even lives here anymore,” Sol reasoned. “And they have no way of knowing if somepony’s at the door!”

The Professor made as if to protest further, but was cut off by the sound of Sol speaking an ancient incantation. “Dorvim nal, olokbin durum, fentas gildirin’kan ovisim dul fashkalak teim. Gordurum dul, guluk’fen daz, nalos viridim tel!” She shouted. Roughly translated, this meant “Make a loud noise.”

And once more, the magic reluctantly complied, rolling its eyes at several technical contractions which abridged the incantation by several lines. It took pleasure in knowing that by abusing a loophole, it could only make a noise that was eighty-five percent as loud as the one the impudent mare was anticipating. However, this was no matter since what noise it made was equivalent to a twenty-one gun salute.

“Aieeeee!” Screamed a startled guard who had been sleeping at his post, and who quickly fell from his seat. “Whassat?!” He yawped, bewildered. “Whose’err?! Whaddya want?”

He gazed blearily from the top of the wall. “Who’re yous? Stormchant?”

“We’re exiles!” Replied Sol. “We mean neither you nor your city harm.”

There was no answer.

“Are you asleep?”

“Nah. I have to talk to my manager,” came the response.

The sound of voices saying something about responsibility and work ethic drifted over the wall.

Then came a different voice: “You’re exiles, then?” This voice was gruff and deeper than the last.

“Yes!” Said Sol. “And we’re cold and hungry and we mean you no harm!”

“Oh, alright, then,” said the voice. “Just stop your whining.”

A latch clicked behind the metal door a panel slid back to reveal a single shifty eye. “How many, then?” The voice muttered to itself; the eye looked over the group with care. “Stand up tall, won’t you?”

“Five,” said Sol.

“Yeah.” It said. “Alright.” The panel was replaced. Shortly afterwards, the door clicked once more. And it kept clicking. There was an abrupt clunk. The door’s rusty hinges screeched together as it was forcibly opened by the stallion on the interior. “Come on in.” He tilted his head back. “You’ll meet the priestess.”

The party proceeded through the door, which they could now see was more than five inches thick and composed of a dark metal inscribed with strange runes. Once they had passed through it, the five were greeted with their first view of Blackhaven.

It was an ominous and severe city. What buildings it had were short, squarish and colorless, and the streets were lightly dusted with powdery snow. Not a pony was to be found about those streets, which had a flawless yet foreboding look to them. Gerbil quietly pondered why this was. The orange in the sky had grown deeper, and night was truly starting to fall. The remainder of the sunset glaring out over the cold, grey city had a strange look to it, its unfeeling starkness standing in pure contrast to the primal warmth of the far western sky, visible past the continued mountain range beyond the river.

Their guide, whose visible coat was pitch black and increasingly difficult to see in the growing darkness led them onward through the main road on which they walked. He was a unicorn of unusual and formidable size, and a thick, dark grey beard covered his ebony face, which was gouged and riveted by profuse scars. Gerbil could now see that the stallion wore an eyepatch, which explained his earlier cycloptic gaze. The eye he still had looked distrusting and guarded. His heavy armor clunked loudly together as they walked. His voice, which sounded just as rusty and pitted as his plate pauldrons grated back to them as he walked.

“We’re all exiles in this town,” he said with a familiar pride. “Or the descendents of exiles. We send out recruiters every Enlightenment Day. That’s what Steve was doing.”

“Hello,” said Steve, appearing from nowhere.

“He was the one in the cloak. We usually take travellers of the road at the fork leading ‘round the mountain, but you five turned of your own accord. So Steve here decided to bide his time.” He looked back on the adventurers. “I’m curious: Why did you turn?”

Sol spoke first. “We are making our way to the High North.”

The plated stallion snorted. “The High North. What, are you stupid?”

Gerbil couldn’t help but smile. Maybe he did like rhetorical questions after all.

“We are to go past the Derelict Strand.” Sol retorted. “We’re seeking the Wardens of Snow.”

“Well, I guess that answers my question.” He chuckled. They were coming upon a building that was taller than the others. “Well, it’s been a laugh, but I suppose you ought to save it for the priestess. We’re here.”

He strode toward the great door on the front of this torchlit building. Gerbil and Flask exchanged a nervous look as his horn glowed and he boomed in a much louder voice: “It’s Riveshank! Open up, you bleeders!”

There was a clambering sound behind the door. Then somepony cleared his throat. “You gotta do the password!”

Riveshank looked irritated. “That is the password!”

“Oh. Blimey, did we change it again?” The air was silent for a moment. “Oh, yeah, so we did. Oh, an’ is Steve there? He owes me money.” Steve looked uncomfortable and was shortly not present in the group. How does he do that? Gerbil wondered.

“Haven’t seen him.” Riveshank smiled wryly. “Now will you pry open the confounded door?”

“Fine, fine, hold your horses.” The pony behind the door muttered an incantation. “There we are,” he grumbled. The door ground across the stone to permit the entry of the ambassadors, the exiles, and their guide.

The room into which they now walked was cramped, but greeted them with a staggering warmth despite its darkness. What of the floor they could see was tiled in stone slabs and smelled of dust. Their eyes were already mostly adjusted to the darkness and what difference there was between this new room and the outdoors was quickly accounted for by their eleven eyes. There were several hooded figures sitting at the far end of the room, hunched over a circle of desks.

“New batch of exiles,” said Riveshank. “Hey! New batch!”

The figures looked up. One of them, a teal mare, spoke in an angry whisper.

“We’re in the middle of something, Riveshank!”

“You’re always in the middle of something or other,” said Riveshank peevishly. “See if I care. Anyways, these are your problem. Not mine.” He made an obscene gesture as he walked away.

“What’s his problem?” Wondered Teydin.

“I think I musta missed his birthday,” said one of the other figures, removing his hood. He was a pudgy, maroon stallion with thick eyebrows. “Bloke gets all bent outta shape over nothing.”

“That makes seventeen years in a row,” said one of the others, turning around. What could be seen of her coat was a deep aquamarine. Luminescent orange eyes glowed from beneath the hood. “You’d think he’d stop getting his hopes up.”

“‘Specially with our excuses. I told him I was doing clerical work!” Said another of the cloaked ponies mirthfully. His eyes, which burned scarlet, were also glowing and plainly visible despite his cloak. A beard protruded from the folds of his robe. “Can you imagine? Just used a spell, naturally.”

“You used a spell to do clerical work?” Asked the Professor in outrage. “But that’s. . .Black Magic!”

“Nah. It actually works pretty well.” He said, shrugging.

“Blasphemers!” Cried the mustard Professor. “If the Stormchantry gets wind of this, it’ll have you all exiled!”

“But we’re already exiled,” the teal mare pointed out.

“That’s a fair point,” said the Professor, looking downcast.

“Plus, they won’t be able to banish anypony more once they’re all banished to a dark oblivion!” Added the maroon stallion gleefully. “And it won’t be long now, what with Operation Armageddon and all.”

“Larry,” said the teal mare vexedly. “That’s top secret.”

“Sorry, Margery,” said the stallion, blushing an even more pronounced red. “I do get so excited, you know.”

“It’s no matter,” said the mare who was apparently named Margery. “It’s unstoppable now, anyways.”

“Hold on,” said Sol. “Back up. What’s Operation Armageddon?” She thought for a moment. “Who are you?”

“Why, the Cult of Calfthulhu, of course!” Said the teal mare, her eyes too were beginning to give an evil glow. “Worshippers of the great cow-deity discovered by the prophet H.P Horsecrap.”

“He was actually part cow, you know,” remarked Larry.

“Then wouldn’t Cow-thulhu make more sense?” Inquired Sol.

“No,” explained Margery. “Shut up.”

“It’s a lot easier to say.” Commented Teydin. “I mean, Calfthulhu? How do you even spell that?”

“C-A-L-F-T-H-U-L-H-U,” spelled the irritated teal unicorn. “And it’s not hard to say. It’s exactly the same. And it makes loads of sense.”

“But you put an extra ‘H’ after the ‘L’,” said Teydin, scratching his head. “That can’t be right.”

“That’s supposed to be there,” she fumed. “It’s how it’s spelled.”

“What’s the point of that?” Asked Gerbil. “Just seems like you’re trying to make sound cooler.”

“It is cool!” Larry hissed, his dark-red jowls quivering.

“See what I’m talking about?” Gerbil said, glancing at Flask.

“Aren’t calves small, though?” Recalled Flask.

“No.”

“It’s actually a word for a baby cow,” said the Professor smugly. “School,” he appended. “Sixteen years.” He then realized he had made a grave error as he looked about the room.

The cultists sat in furious silence, glaring at the Professor.

“I mean—not that,” he frantically revised. “Come to think of it, calf is, uh, a prefix that means—erm—” he trailed off, plainly at a loss for words. “Please don’t throw me in the dungeon.”

* * *

“Wow,” said Riveshank after depositing the five into their cell, and glancing at a battered timepiece. “Record time. I’ve never seen anyone get thrown in the dungeon so quickly.” The Professor took a dejected bow.

“Ah, well,” said the heavy-set barbarian. “Enjoy your last couple of hours. I think they’re going to banish you to a dark oblivion or whatever. I don’t really pay attention.”

“What?!” Cried Sol.

“Yeah,” replied Riveshank. “Well, they’re riled up anyways. Idiots. I’ll see you around.” He halted and chuckled. “Well, not that. But you get what I mean.” He walked away and climbed up the stairs on the far side of the room.

The so-called dungeon was dismal place. Indeed, it was quite small by dungeon standards, cramped, even. As far as the group could tell, theirs was the only cell in the place. The aroma of mildew hung passively in the air. Gerbil hated mildew.

“Great work up there.” Said Gerbil. “Really brilliant stuff, telling a bunch of cultists their dark god has a stupid name. Good plan.”

“Sorry.”

“Not you, Flask.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” said the Professor, clearly ashamed. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“These bars are enchanted,” remarked Sol, trying to pry away another with her magic. “Won’t budge.”

“Weird dungeon, though,” said Teydin.

“Yeah, these guys are real pros,” muttered Gerbil. “When we get out let’s show them what dark oblivion really means.”

“What?” Asked Sol. “Shouldn’t we be taking the moral high-ground?”

“No, I’m not saying we do that,” Gerbil corrected himself. “Just something really, really similar to it. Like a banishing them to a dim oblivion. Or even a mildly hazy oblivion.”

“Why an oblivion?” Inquired Sol as they made their way across the flagstones of what could really only be described as a cellar. “Seems mean.”

“Yeah, I’m with Sol,” said Teydin.

“A mildly hazy confusion?”

“That might work,” said the Professor. “I’m pretty good at those.”

“Well, magic’s not getting us out of here.” Sol sat on the floor in frustration.

“Can’t push them down.” Flask stopped straining against the bars.

“I can’t believe we’re in jail again,” muttered Teydin. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Hours passed as the party waited on the cold floor of the dungeon which was reallya cellar, and as they waited they talked very little to one another. After some time, they heard hoofsteps and the sound of voices upstairs.

“Made fun of the name! Like it was some big joke!”

“Come off it. They always do that. Just new recruits bein’ new recruits.”

There was a pronounced sigh. “I suppose you’re right. Called ‘im ‘Cowthulhu’ though. Seemed to think that was clever.”

“Honestly, it is better.”

“Are you mad? He could be listening!”

“I’m just saying they have a point.”

“Yeah, whatever. Get this though: they had the nerve, the audacity to—” The voice became quieter, and could not be heard by the group in the cellar. Even Flask was beginning to look rather uneasy.

“What?!” Cried the other voice. “Oh, that does it. That bloody does it, I tell you.” The speaker seemed to pause for breath, before letting out a cry of unbridled rage. “They made fun of the second ‘H’?!”

Gerbil did not like the sound of that. His eyes as well as the rest of the party’s darted quickly about their prison. No ways out. Something metal was being dragged along the floor upstairs.

“Sir, calm down,” pleaded the other voice. “Like you said: they may have a point. I mean, that ‘H’ doesn’t belong there does it? Not really—it doesn’t add anything.”

“Don’t you start!” The voice barked. “I’ll banish them to a dark oblivion so fast it’ll make their insolent, phonetics-hating heads spin. I’ll bloody show them.”

The door at the top of the stairs banged open. The stairs squeaked in protest as an immense figure trod heavily down them. “There you are.” He growled. Held in his magic behind them was a great metal instrument. It looked fiendish and dangerous, with great spiky protrusions, perfectly saucer-like metal plates, and dark magical scripts jam-packed on to every visible square centimeter.

“Magic!” He was close to the bars now, and Gerbil could see the glowing red eyes under his hood, the thick facial hair jutting from his robe, the stench of whatever he had last eaten hanging visibly in the air, the tiny pieces of crust distractingly stuck in his moustache, the fact that he he had clearly not bathed in over a year matted on his forehead, the manic twitch of his left eye which was making all of his captives extremely nervous. “Give ‘em what for!” He bellowed, shaking the very bars of the cage in which Sol, Teydin, The Professor, Gerbil and Flask were held.

And the magic complied.

The machine on the floor started convulsing and in several split seconds the room was filled with a putrid haze. The cultist started coughing. “Ah ha ha ha!” He wheezed. “Feel the wrath of—”

But then they were gone. The portal to the dark oblivion quickly closing behind them.

“Ugh. Darn.” Said the leader, regaining his composure. “Didn’t get to say the name. ‘Calfthulhu.’ I was gonna say, and really try to nail that second ‘H’. Ah, well.”

He and the lesser cultist departed the cellar. “Ugh.” Said the leader. “You need a shower or something.”

But the unwitting quintet had far greater problems to deal with.

Interlude - Refugees

“How many?!” Asked the Grandmaster, looking up from the box of cereal he was reading. “How many did you say?”

“It looks to be over a thousand, sir!” Said the guard standing down below in the main council chamber. He looked a sight. However, the chamber looked as immaculate as ever, draped with its red banners, bedecked with black-bordered posters, and with every seat in perfect formation.

“Speak up, dear boy!” Commanded the Grandmaster. “Not a word was heard!”

“Sir, I can’t yell any louder!” Cried the guard.

“Ah. That’s better.” Said the purple unicorn, as he removed his earplugs. “Now, try again.”

“There are over one thousand refugees crowding the city gates!” Roared the guard.

“Well, calm down!” Shouted the Grandmaster. “Shouting won’t help worth a damn!”

“But,” stammered the guard, completely bewildered.

“And we’re indoors. Try to be civil, would you? I—”

“Sir, I just—”

“How dare you interrupt me?! You should know better than to go around interrupting everypony!”

“I’m sorry sir.” Said the guard. “Very sorry. I know I should never, ever interrupt any—”

“Whoa, boy!” Said the Grandmaster. “Slow down, fellow. You should never, under any circumstances make absolute unconditional statements. You’ll live to regret it.”

“I will?” The guard wondered vaguely if he was being threatened.

“Why would you ask me a rhetorical question?” Inquired the lunatic on whose head sat crown. “What, are you stupid?”

“Do you want me to answer that?”

“Should I want you to?”

They stared in silence at one another.

The guard started again. “No.” He said, suppressing the urge to shout. “For the love of all that is good and holy, you should not be concerned with that. You should be concerned with the thousand refugees outside the gate!”

“A thousand referees?” Asked the Grandmaster. “Whatever are you playing? It sounds dreadful!”

The guard was flabbergasted. “They need help. And they’re not referees.”

“Clearly they are not,” remarked the Grandmaster. “If one thousand of them still need help.”

The guard, thunderstruck, did not speak.

“Very perceptive of you,” continued the purple unicorn. “I’ve got my eye on you, boy. What do you think they’re really after?”

“Erm, food, water, and shelter. For starters,” said the guard.

“Or so they claim.” He raised his eyebrow. “They want chaos, is what they want. So many referees—it’s perfect. The perfect plan. Absolute chaos. Everypony will be arguing about the rules.”

The Grandmaster sat in thought for a long moment. But suddenly he looked up with ferocity. “Let nopony through the gates!” He cried. “Sound the alarms! People, we are at war!”

“It’s only me,” said the baffled guard.

“Then you heard me.” Whispered the Grandmaster. “Total lockdown.”

Prologue

At the top of a frozen mountain in the bleak expanse known as Windsreach—far to the north of the land that today is known as Equestria—there once lay a village whose inhabitants were the distant ancestors of Equestrian unicorns. The unicorns of Stormchant were a reclusive and intensely bureaucratic sort, whose insufferable philosophies regarding city government repelled the other tribes from their mountain village. As the legends tell it, the archmonks of the Stormchantry controlled the sun and moon of the lands.

Irritating as the Northerners were, their continued provision of day and night to the realm made possible the growth of vegetation in the territory known as the Summer’s Vale, and so as a gesture of gratitude and confidence that Stormchant would perpetuate this essential benevolence unto their kind, the Earth ponies of the Vale gave to them what of their crop they could spare. Being a very small mountain village, this yearly ration was sufficient to Stormchant’s needs, as well as vital to their survival.

The Fjordlands of the River ponies, which were a cluster of kelping villages just south of the Vale and which lay on the coast of Frelna’s Sea, were all that separated the realm of Windsreach from the Deep South and indubitably its certain demise. The Deep South was an overgrown confusion of wastelands and primordial jungles, teeming with monstrous creatures, parasprites, manticores, and all manner of other hazards to the well-being of ponykind. Dragons lived there too, as was evidenced by the smoky winds that blew across the Fjordlands from time to time. Nopony dared to venture across Frelna’s Sea for fear of the evils that lurked beyond its distant rim. In addition to the bounty of food the River ponies’ immense skill in the art of kelping afforded them, the Earth ponies gave to them what was necessary to maintain the defense of the realm.

These three tribes lived in harmony, for they each knew that without the others they could not survive the brutal land of Rhodos. They each did their part for the Commonwealth of the North, and although it was a harsh, cruel land, together the ponies of the Windsreach endured.

* * *

The guards were on high alert on this particular day in Stormchant. Today was Enlightenment Day, the day on which the second-year students at the College would have passed down to them some of the most profound revelations in magic known to ponykind. It was historically a busy day for the guards, for it was said to be the day on which the students who would excel in the city’s governing order of monks were separated from those who would not. Every year, it seemed, there was one student who could not cope with the vast wealth of knowledge imparted to them by their teachers, and divulged or at least attempted to divulge their newfound acquisitions to the masses, revealing magical secrets of the highest order which under all circumstances ought be kept the exclusive knowledge of the city’s monkhood. Such betrayers of the Stromchantry’s trust were the guards’ targets that day. They must not be allowed to reveal such secrets, and it was the guards’ duty to stop them. And so, with eyes narrow and ready to perceive wrongdoing, ears open to the whispers and murmurs of renegades and oathbreakers, and chins held bombastically high, the guards were set off to their posts on this day of days. Traitors would surely not escape them.

Sol - Efficiency in the Workplace

It had been over twenty-four hours since Sol’s, Teydin’s, and the Professor’s arrest. And by this time they had thoroughly exhausted their supply of things to say to one another. Teydin had drifted off into quietude, sleeping on occasion and muttering to himself at most all times regardless of his state of consciousness. The Professor stared transfixed at the wall. His eye twitched. His gaze seemed to be making a deliberate point of avoiding everything it could. Especially the vibrant and glaring poster, which clearly terrified him. Sol had not slept. She was utterly distraught. She could not be exiled. She couldn’t. Thoughts of being disowned by the city and of banishment from the haven it provided danced in her head. Her thoughts spun dizzily around. They would not stand still long enough for her to think them. At the same time her body was physically exhausted and flooded with sickening adrenaline. How badly she wanted to sleep but could not.

Soon thereafter footsteps began to resound in corridor beyond the cell door. They marched in step. They belonged to guards, Sol quietly presumed. By the sound of them a prisoner did not seem to present in the guards’ company. This was the end of the line. Sol bid farewell to the cell, which she was sure she would not see again. A farewell to the city at large was more than she could bear.

The light hum generated by the magically reinforced cell door, which in their lengthy stay was all but completely forgotten by the triad of prisoners, briefly revisited Sol’s mind as it vanished. The new silence was dead and grim. This is the end of the line. It seemed to say. the cell door was pushed aside. Four stone-faced guards stood beyond it. The farthest forward motioned to them. He spoke one word:

“Come.”

This is the end. Thought Sol.

* * *

The Inquisitors sat behind a great stone desk. There were five of them, barely visible as Sol looked up from the Pedestal of the Accused, which was brightly lit by the same sort of magical lantern she had seen in their cell. All stared solemnly down at Sol, Teydin, and The Professor. Sol was wracked with nervousness, and surrounded by thick darkness. They already seemed to be coming to decisions as they scribbled notes in the journals in front of them. That couldn’t be a good sign.

There was nowhere to sit on the Pedestal. Sol was certain that this was a deliberate tactic used to put those on trial off-balance: to make them feel insecure. She shifted her weight as her legs and hooves grew weary of standing. At any rate, the setup was ideal for the Inquisitors, who, sitting comfortably up in their viewing box, could see every detail of their subjects and their nervous mannerisms.

The Professor seemed to be faring rather badly. He tapped one hoof as glanced shiftily about, every few minutes giving the viewing box a nervous grin. Sweat glistened on his mustard brow.

“I’ve got this in the bag,” he said to Sol in a manner that would have been more reassuring if his eyes weren’t wide and twitching with anxiety.

Teydin, too, looked troubled. Sol followed his gaze to the wall, which, like seemingly every wall they had seen so far, was bedecked with a few of the same terrible posters. The nearest displayed a pile of burning scrolls, labelled with such titles as TRUTH 1.0, TRUTH 1.1, and TRUTH 1.5. Imposed on the poster itself were the words TRUTH 2.0. The second poster was dimly entitled JUSTICE, and from where she was standing, Sol could faintly make out the image of prison bars. Who was making these?

After what seemed an eternity of painful silence, the foremost Inquisitor muttered something to one of her cohorts, who nodded awkwardly. Looking down on the defendants, she spoke.

“Who are you?”

Sol was puzzled. “Inquisitor, I am Sol, an Initiate at the College. These are my friends, Teydin Lifechord and Professor--”

“--Professor Turvis Windfall.” The Professor broke in. “Not a traitor.” He added. Sol glared at him. “Ah, yes.” He quickly misinterpreted. “Neither is she.”

“Hm.” Said the Inquisitor. Sol saw her look down. She seemed to be rifling through papers. “Yes.” She said after inspecting something for several seconds.

“You’re correct.” Her cohort revised. “We were just checking.”

The panel murmured their concord.

“We have convened,” she began imperiously, "To provide these defendants, who must now, in the face of punishment appropriate for, to be succinct,” the Inquisitor paused. “The crimes they may or may not have committed, a chance to defend their innocence.”

“Quite.” Said her colleague. He then whispered something to the Head Inquisitor, who shook her head, shrugging.

“Hey!” Said Teydin. “We can see you!”

“Yes.” She said distractedly. She shuffled her papers ominously. “Well?”

“‘Well’ what?” Sol challenged.

“Defend your innocence!” Commanded the Inquisitor.

“Of what?!” Sol mustered.

A spark of understanding glinted in Teydin’s eye. “If you’ve nothing to accuse us of, why wouldn’t you just release us?”

The panel stared down at them in terrible silence. A few glanced from eye to eye.

Their bluff called, the panel frantically tore through their papers. Maybe they’re just blank, thought Sol. The commotion stopped.

“A-ha!” Cried the Inquisitor on the far left, holding up the elusive document. “Of treason!”

Sol gulped, breaking her stare at the panel. It was over. Banishment was unavoidable.

“What say you?” Asked the Head Inquisitor shrewdly. “Do you deny this claim?!”

Sol looked up. She realized something then. Something that in her fear of exile she’d overlooked: that the charges weren’t worth denying. She had lived a lie for nineteen pony-years and she realized then that she could never live it again. The others could stay. She would try as hard as she could to give them that choice. But she could never return that the life she had been living. Not now.

“I am guilty.” Said the blush-haired pony. “The others are not, but I am.”

She gazed fiercely up at the panel. “I throw myself at your mercy. Do what you will.”

The gaze returned to her was colder than the blizzard outside. She was doomed to this cold, for she knew the word that would surely come next. Exile, she thought. I’ll be forsaken to the mercy of the winter. But she didn’t mind anymore. There were no more answers here.

“So am I.” Came the unexpected words. Teydin stood resolutely at her side.

“I’m not.” Said the Professor, standing stoically in step.

Resigned to their fate, the three stood to face the coming judgement.

“Okay.” She glanced down at the papers in front of her. “Exile. Well, I’m famished. Let’s get out of here.” She glanced around at her companions, who nodded their consent.

“What?” Cried the Professor. “Why?!”

“You’re exiled.” She said. “Looks better, you know, a clean exile. Better for bookkeeping.”

“Your things will be gathered from your homes,” she said. “You will be deposited with them outside city limits. Your city passports will be marked as invalid. You are no longer citizens. Good day.”

She rose from her seat, as did the rest of the panel, and left. A door that neither Sol, nor Teydin, nor the Professor could see closed with a snap.

* * *

The guards trundled the trepid trinity of truthful traitors from the room of the treason trial. They were forced down the hall wherefrom they had entered the Monastery of Justice, out the portcullis at its end, and into the maelstrom of burning ice. The guards kept constant step. They were led through the twisting back roads, through winding alleyways, past the domiciles of those who still kept their citizenship, and through the city Sol knew and loved and which had been her home for her entire life, until they emerged in the city square. Exile. She thought sadly. Why didn’t I deny the charges? She wondered. She had thrown away everything for spite and pride. And now she would suffer the consequences. Worse yet, Teydin was taking this fall with her. And so was the Professor, an innocent stallion. He was an irritating teacher, sure, but it was now her fault that he would never see his home again: that he, like her, would be banished from Stormchant for the remainder of his days. It was her fault. It was all her fault.

They were dumped unceremoniously outside the city wall, which stood, strong, fierce, and cold, against the elements and presently against them. The guards returned shortly to grant them what possessions could be easily carried. The rest, Sol supposed, would be burned.

The three remained outside the gates in utter shock. The entirety of each of their lives, save for odd trips mostly having to do with education about the outside world--which really just served to demonstrate its existence for future reference--had been spent within the confines of Stormchant’s colossal outer bulwarks. This new world, though it had always been around them, was completely foreign to them. With nowhere to go, they simply stood motionless outside the gates. They stood that way until the sky began to darken, fading the snow around them to a peaceable grey.

In the growing darkness Sol wondered if Rose knew about their trial and subsequent exile. She must, Sol imagined. The news must be all over the clergy by now. She couldn’t stand to think of Rose, and what she now must think of her. Much less could she bear to comprehend that Rose, too, had been fabricating the truth for as long as the rest of them. The thought, which ever since her arrest had leaked into her mind from time to time, made her feel queasy.

Teydin had sat down in the snow some time ago. He was gazing down, his possessions, of which there were very few, were gathered around him, strewn where the guards had thrown them. He seemed to be inspecting something. With a closer look, Sol saw that he was reading a scrap of parchment on the ground in front of him. He looked intrigued. Before Sol could ask what he was doing, he called to her.

“Sol?” His voice had a strangely excited quality. “I think you’d better see this.” He glanced up.

“What is it?”

“The manuscripts.” He said breathlessly. “Come, look.”

Sol sat in the snow beside him. The Professor, too, perhaps simply to have something to occupy his mind, ambled over to see what this fuss was about.

“These diagrams.” Spoke the pony with the deep, sea-green mane. “Look.”

Inscribed in cracked black ink on the clearly archaic parchment was a diagram of an unusually large pony surrounded by many others. Based on her proportions, Sol presupposed that this pony was a female. It was apparent that she was in a position of power over her fellows, for those who encircled this mighty specimen seemed to be bowing their heads in reverence. The central pony was the only one with a horn, but all had wings. Sol noticed that they seemed to be standing on clouds.

“Pegasi.” She read from the old Equush laced around the document. “Heralds of snow and thunder.”

Teydin nodded. “There’s more.” He indicated the deity featured on the page. “Look what she’s doing.”

And Sol saw. “It can’t be.” She mumbled, taken aback by what she saw. A ray of brilliant light was drawn arching from the unicorn-pegasus’ horn and toward--

“--The sun.” Teydin finished her thought.

It was impossible, surely. Sol thought wildly. Just myth, superstition. Not real.

Teydin smiled. “It’s signed: Dashing, Delving, Dynamo.”

Sol’s eyes widened. The Professor forgot to look skeptical. Teydin’s grin broadened.

“And there’s a map.”