If you've got the patience, your own imagination will tell you exactly what you want to hear.

Crux the Seventh was passive-aggressively checking a small stopwatch of his when he heard the sounds of an approaching motor over the waves. It was a cold morning in Mirelight and he had been politely asked by the town's co-sheriff to wait for the expected new arrivals. There wasn't any other expected traffic out over the water for the next week or so, all thanks to the current ghoul attacks causing all sorts of fear and cowardice in all the mainland traders, worried about their current profits and whatnot.

Normally he wouldn't have been so upset over this sort of thing, but having the majority of one's long-distance business partners call back all their caravans was just a wee bit destabilizing. The small walled town had gone from relatively fine to borderline batshit worrisome when the ghoul raids started up in the swamps, chasing out bog farmers and killing plenty in the process. Ponies and whoever else decided it'd be a jolly idea to settle in the middle of the island ran to the towns along the coasts, and all the way to through Trottingham if they wanted to try their luck getting into Ranger territory.

Though, in Trottingham, that wasn't too hard if you were a pony. Trottingham Rangers were a lot less cultish here than in other places, Crux had noticed. More "for the people", really. That was mostly because of all the monsters, but the old trade-bird knew a good few among the local pony traders who thought it was out of a grown connection between the pony populations and the Rangers who had been established in the less eroded parts of the old Ponish city. Tensions between the Steel Rangers and most griffons on the island were always testy, though. Nothing to a conflict level, but clashing ethics and salvage rights were a hotbed between the Ranger contingent and the various griffon companies.

All that led back around to the current issue, and why he was waiting at the docks for two mercs who wouldn't even arrive for another five minutes. The increasing populations of secure-ish population centers coupled with the lack of outside trade was a problem. Things were fine now, but after having been in the trading game for as long as he had, he wasn't looking forward to the next month. Even if the problem, the feral ghoul horde, was resolved that day, Mirelight would still be looking at about two to three weeks of tight rations and low ammo. Even still, two to three weeks would be much better than two to three months. Given the circumstances, word was going around locally about possible solutions, and those who could potentially execute said solutions. Mercenaries were being hired, ammo was being bought up rather quickly, and there was even word that someone from the griffon side of the island was baiting Ranger patrols into areas hot with horde activity. Ethics aside, it was a way of getting the steel-clad group invested in pursuing a permanent solution to everyone's problem. Although, if those rumors carried all the way up to Trottingham, there'd likely be fewer Rangers out in the swamps and more griffons winding up dead in the streets of the city to the north.

He had heard word over the radio from a colleague in Manehatten that two low-profile freelance griffons would be passing through on a private job. He had nearly choked on his whiskey when he heard who they were. A few years back, before the old dock got washed away, the two had taken up stock in the town, saving up enough to buy a safe ride to mainland Equestria. They had come the long way from Griffonstone, as they claimed, and were avoiding going the northern route. The Steel Rangers had settled into the region by then, after having cleared the railway from the mountains to Trottingham. The incursion went rather fast, once the big naval ship arrived to support the ground troops. Their presence in the area stirred up the hornets' nest, so to speak, and most of the island was a mess for a good long while. That mess spilled into the southern end in time, and the two, Oriana and Ovidus if he remembered them right, had stuck around to help beat the mess back into the swamps.

Many did, of course, but they lived through it. Their experience with the island was what he was looking for, and he was aiming to get someone who knew how to handle themselves out in the bogs to, well, investigate, maybe find a way to put a stop to things. He was worried, about plenty of things, but he was worried they'd say no, too, and that stirred him up in a way he didn't like. He snapped his stopwatch closed with a huff and began to pace. He was nervous, and that made him a bit angry. Normally he wouldn't be nervous. He wasn't nervous years ago when the Rangers moved in, and he wasn't nervous when the dock was wrecked. So why was he nervous now?

Author's Note

I rather like this bit, which is something, since I'm not usually happy with what I write.