Dreamwalker's Tale: Project Greenwood

The moment he woke up was the very first moment of this day that made him regret doing so. It was cold, he could feel the tension in his body due to his less than ideal sleeping arrangement, his legs were stiff and his nose runny. He also dreaded the tasks ahead. As much as he dreaded them yesterday, the day before that and all the days before that.

Icy still had difficulties understanding how and why he was here. Accepting Wildfire’s deal was strange. He never sought to work for anypony. Never sought employment. He got by on his own and really, that was for the better. For everypony involved. But now he had given his word, and he tried his best to honor it.

Maybe the unicorn had put a spell on him. Something to twist and bend his mind and will?

It was not all bad. He met two ponies who did not look down on him. Rock Solid was a gruff, violent sort with a short fuse. He recognized a lot of his behavior from his own dear old dad. Which was why he stayed clear of him most of the time, just like Iron Hoof had said. However, Rock appreciated his survival instincts and skills. That was nice.

And Iron Hoof himself was an entirely different story. The stallion was inspiring. Confident and capable, competent and a true, born leader. Icy could not quite explain it, not even to himself, but he felt drawn to Iron Hoof. He wanted to follow him. It was therefore nice that he was so, well, nice. A little gruff as well every now and then, sure, but there was warmth and care beneath that battle-hardened exterior shell.

“Time to wake up, sunshine!” a way too excited, energetic voice blared outside his improvised tent.

Icy grimaced, but complied. He wiggled himself free of the blanket and out of the ‘tent’. “Good morning to you too, Topaz.” The teenage dragon floated nearby and she grinned from ear to ear. An impressive row of teeth put on display. It would have been intimidating, especially to a pony like him, but he had known her for years now. They were good friends.

The white dragon ‘landed’ in front of him and due to her miscalculation, she sank right into the floor. Halfway in, she noticed her predicament and corrected it. “Right, so! Are you ready?”

“I-I… I don’t know,” Icy mumbled. He was tired. He always felt tired. Tired of running. Tired of flying. Tired of hiding. Tired of scavenging and foraging and talking. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Ah. One of those days, huh?” Topaz asked in a softer, quiet voice. He merely nodded. Next thing he knew, she floated closer and hugged him. Well, she tried. As per usual, she sank into his body and he shuddered slightly due to the cold contact, but she quickly realigned herself and gave him the equivalent of an air-hug.

It was still nice. He appreciated the gesture.

“You can do this,” she said quietly, but resolutely. “You are Icy Whisper. You are capable. Powerful, even. And you need to do nothing. Just tell us what to do. We’re your friends. We will listen. We’re here to help. It’s easy, right? Just talk to your friends and it will be fine.”

A pang of guilt and pain. Brief, but noticeable. Her words were meant well. But he could not help but hear them wrong. It’s easy, she said. Then why did he struggle so much? Just talk to your friends, she said. Yes. Yes, that sounded easy, indeed. So very easy, and yet here he was, having to psych himself up to do this.

“Give me a moment,” he asked for her patience. Topaz just nodded and he walked a little. Just a quick stroll to get his blood flowing, to fully wake up — and to risk a little peek at the village they were pranking. Grundel had called it ‘harassing’, but Icy despised that label. They did little things. Caused little inconveniences. Mischief. Kept them busy. Nothing more. Certainly nothing worth calling harassment.

Once he returned to his camp, he assumed his usual position in front of his tent. It was awkward to bend his legs like this, but a traveling mare he had met a couple of years ago on the road had taught him this position to focus his mind, and for whatever reason — it worked. It did not feel like a position a pony was meant to assume, but he had to acknowledge that it made him look and feel like some sort of enlightened guru or something. Anypony with even a sliver of knowledge about the topic could easily recognize it was a more intricate meditation pose.

He did his breathing exercises with his eyes closed. He blended out the chit-chat around him as the others slowly arrived, lured in by Topaz’ initial shout. He concentrated. Felt his heartbeat. Felt the blood rush in his body. The birds all around them seemed to quiet down, the voices muffled as he turned his senses inwards.

You can do this, she had said. A sheepish smile tugged at his lips. She was always so nice to him.

When Icy opened his eyes again, he was in control mode. “Listen up everyone.” And they all did. All conversation was cut off and all eyes turned on him. He usually hated the spotlight, but this… this was fine, somehow. “Topaz, prepare the forge for the prank we talked about yesterday.”

She saluted. “Aye, aye, me capt’n!” Everyone snickered briefly.

“Ivy?” The young mare stood straight. “You follow Hefty into the woods and see what opportunities arise. If none present themselves, feel free to switch over to Roseluck and Kaleb. They will be on the fields caring for the crops and should therefore be easy to find.” Taking a leaf out of Topaz’ book, she quickly saluted with a wide grin.

“Marcel?” Icy addressed the slightly preoccupied third ghost.

Even for a teeny-tiny river serpent, he was still long enough to coil himself around his friends. His head shot straight up when his name was dropped. “Yes?”

“I gave your report from recent days some thought and decided that…” Icy stopped. He sighed and his shoulders sagged a little. Guilt and regret written all over his face, he forced a smile onto his face. “I would like you to take Mister Cuddles back to Derpy's room. Hide him under her bed, somewhere where she can find him eventually. She is still searching. We don’t really want to make anypony suffer. And you were right. This went on far too long.”

Marcel smiled warmly and nodded with vigor. “Will do, boss.” Another round of snickers.

“Grundel?” Icy turned his attention to the last one currently present. There were others, of course. So, so many others. But most ghosts he encountered were mere acquaintances. They did not stick around. Some disapproved of his ‘chosen lifestyle’, as several had labeled it. As if it was his choice of constantly being on the run. Others berated him for his weakness. His unwillingness to turn his talent against those who threatened him and chased him away. Against all those who were unwilling to leave him be, or aid him.

But he refused. For all his weakness, he would never turn to such actions. That he swore to himself. Because in his eyes, abusing his so-called ‘power’ like that, that was outright villainy. And he was not a villain.

Also, he was not powerful at all. Sure, he was decent at tickling lightning out of clouds. But any pegasus could do that to some extent. And he was a terrible flier due to his crippling fear of heights. As for his ghost-buddies — they were innocents. Well, most of them anyway. Asking them to do his dirty work just felt all kinds of wrong.

Many ghosts were not even capable of affecting things in the world at all. That was one of the reasons they needed him so much.

“You’re spacing out,” Grundel said.

His raspy voice cut straight through Icy’s musings. “Hm? Right. Sorry. I would like you to follow Dreamwalker around. See if you can annoy him further. You know him better than any of us at this point. Keep it safe, though. That said, Wildfire asked to make more pressure if he tries to explore the old castle ruins again, so keep that in mind as well.” Grundel gave a sharp nod to acknowledge his task.

“Alright, everyone — that’s it for today. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the street and the village, you have your tasks. Dismissed!” He chuckled as he spoke that last word. It almost sounded confident. Like something Iron Hoof would say. And his friends left for their respective tasks with a snicker.

It was nice. Having his friends here. Working alongside them. Of course he knew that it would not last forever. Could not. His dad would find him eventually. Icy had no idea what caused him to take so much time. He hoped that it was the Everfree Forests wild magic. Because if that was the case… maybe he would move here. Permanently. Living in the woods, living off the land. Did not sound too bad. He had to contend with timberwolves and poisonous flora and such, sure. But was that really that much harder than dealing with judgy ponies?

And he knew it could be done. Grundel liked to explore a lot. When he first entered the Everfree Forest to hide, his friend had done his thing and vanished for a couple of days. When he reported back, he had visited a town called Ponyville. It was hard not to have heard of that one. The interesting fact was: Grundel had overheard conversations telling of a zebra living in these woods. For years and years. All by herself. It was possible.

Uncertainty. Insecurity. Worries. Those were traits ponies exhibited at every given opportunity. But not a griffon. Not a fearsome, proud, mighty beast like him. So why did he feel like he was slinking back home with his tail firmly tucked between his hindlegs?

Because he did.

His mom had always told him that the truth tasted bitter. He was not sure if he ever understood that to the extent he did now.

It had taken less than three hours for him to mess up this day. And he dawdled a lot on his way back. Because his mind was frantically running around in his head in a panic, screaming at the top of his lungs. What have you done?, it yelled. What have we done?

He flew through the palisade, but pretended there was a need to fly around trees and bushes. Every second he could prolong this flight seemed important. Eventually though, he reached Icy’s camp again. The stallion was still there of course. Scribbling a few notes in his diary or notebook or whatever that was.

Grundel felt like he had come up with a good idea. “Icy?”

The pegasus looked up. He seemed surprised to see him back so soon and his brow furrowed. “Is everything okay?” he was quick to ask. And Grundel could tell: He asked this because he was worried for him. Worried for his friend. Even though he was already dead. Really, what else could happen to him at this point?

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” he replied and casually leaned against a tree. Which, given his condition, was not as casual as he wanted it to look. After all, the tree did not provide any actual, physical resistance to his non-existent body. “So as you suspected, Dreamwalker tried to scour the ruins again. And I did what you asked. I gave him a really good scare.” He even forced himself to laugh and pretended to wipe a few tears away. “You should have seen the look on his face! I spooked him with a broom. A broom, Icy. It was priceless.”

Icy was worried. He could tell something was up. Mostly because Grundel never tried to pass anything off with humor. And he never beat around the bush either. “So he won’t map out the ruins today? You made sure of that?”

Grundel nodded vigorously. “Oh yeah. Not gonna do that. Yupp.”

A frown slowly grew on Icy’s muzzle. “But he’s okay?”

The griffon kept himself from grimacing and thought back to what had transpired. How he grabbed the broom and spookily waved it around. How the totally-not-superstitious egghead recoiled in fear. How he screeched like a filly. Aaand… then the rest. “Well… I mean, yeah, sure, probably.” The very moment that last word slipped past his beak, he cringed. Stupid griff!, he scolded himself. Because now the next question was utterly inevitable.

“… probably?”

Grundel looked around. His sharp eyes scanned the camp, the surroundings, everything in sight for anything to distract the distraught stallion. And he was distraught, he could tell. Icy clearly started to get an idea there. But this forest was just… boring. Trees and shrubs and birds and squirrels. Even the tent was a poor excuse. A tarp over a couple of sticks was not a tent, not in his books. No fireplace either. But that at least made sense. If he made a fire, the inhabitants of the village could see the light and smoke. They could find him. The camp was not that far away from them after all.

“Grundel?”

Oh how he hated how Icy’s voice grew quieter. Fearful. “I, uh… kinda lost sight of him?” he offered.

The wrinkles on Icy’s forehead only deepened into crevasses. “What? But how?”

It was a quick question with an even quicker answer: Could he lie to his friend’s face? He took one glance at Icy and felt like that would be the equivalent of kicking a puppy. And for all the ferocity bred into each and every griffon, they were not inherently cruel. It was their upbringing, their society that usually led them down that path eventually.

So he sighed. “He fell over the staircase railing—“

“It’s called a banister,” Icy briefly cut in.

“Right. Whatever. He fell.” Grundel grumbled. A griffon is never at fault, his moms words rang in his ears. As such, he hated admitting to such stuff. And really, his mind was already busy piecing together an explanation how this was not his fault at all.

“But—?” Icy seemed more confused than worried now. Maybe that was a good thing, Grundel hoped. But Icy shook his head. “You told me that the ruins are relatively empty? How did him falling over the banister lead to you losing sight of him?”

Grundel grimaced harder. “Uhm… funny thing, you see… the staircase kinda… came after him?”

A forest never falls silent. Yet despite this fact, there seemed to be a thick, heavy blanket of silence hanging over the campsite. Dense enough to cut it with a knife. The birds still chirped their songs, the crickets still played along, the sun shone and the world moved, but everything just felt slightly off.

It took Icy several excruciatingly long moments to process these words. When he did, his eyes went wide and his attention snapped back to Grundel. “He was buried?!”

Icy never yelled. As long as Grundel knew him — and he had known him for two years — he never yelled. Not even once. And it was probably a stretch to call this yelling. But a pony like Icy, they did not like raising their voice. Increased volume scared them. They were naturally inclined to tip-toe around everyone and everything, to make as little noise as possible.

As such, this was yet another moment making it clear as day that he had fucked up. “Yeah?” he meekly replied.

The answer should have been obvious. Why else would he have returned so early in the day. But as soon as the obvious was stated, Icy blanched. He quickly twisted his body into his strange meditation position, closed his eyes and tried to find his center. Grundel could only look on in silence. He saw Icy’s legs trembling.

“Everyone, come back please. Immediately,” Icy whispered. And the ethereal winds carried his voice far and wide, calling Ivy, Topaz and Marcel.

The prospect of having his mistake made public gave Grundel another reason to dread their return. “Maybe I should—“

“Please,” Icy cut in. He opened his eyes again. He begged him, without saying a word. Please stay.

Grundel grimaced and nodded. He never really had a friend. He was not willing to lose one. But he was willing to bear this for the sake of keeping one.

Ivy was the first to arrive. She took one look at the situation and decided to wait for the rest to arrive, knowing something serious had happened. Marcel arrived second and was less observant. He tried to get an answer from Grundel why the mood seemed to have dropped below freezing temperatures, but his attempts were met with silence. Then Topaz showed up. “What’s going on here?” she asked after one glance at Icy and Grundel.

“I am sorry for the abrupt interruption,” Icy started. “There has been a… a-an accident. I need all of you to go to the village and the castle ruins to find out what happened to Dreamwalker. P-Please?”

The desperation in his voice was enough that Topaz shot a murderous glare at Grundel. Neither Ivy nor Marcel seemed to be in the know, meaning he was responsible for whatever had happened. But what worried Topaz even more was the fact that Icy did not even try to make her stop. Not a single comment on Grundels behalf. He instead started to pace in the camp. Icy never paced.

So they went out and did what he had asked. Even though his plea had lacked the usual clarity. No one was designated with a specific area or pony, just a general ‘go take a look how bad it is’.

And it was bad.

“I saw Spike carrying a body from the ruins to the village,” Ivy reported. “He looked… crushed.”

“I saw that, too,” Marcel quickly added. “I followed him to the house where he laid him down. It was Dreamwalker. He… he didn’t breathe anymore. Looked bad. Like, his legs were all twisted and mangled and his head was…” Marcel cut himself off. Ghosts could not puke, obviously. But he really wished he could. He should not have been able to feel nauseated, yet these images he would never get rid of, he was sure.

“I looked at the ruins,” Topaz announced somberly. “Tons of solid stone crashed down. Not even a dragon would have survived that. It’s honestly a miracle that they managed to find an intact body at all.”

With their reports done, all eyes lay on Grundel. The griffon avoided their gazes and instead stared at the ground between his claws.

A griffon was a mighty creature. Powerful and quick, sharp-witted and deadly. Bugbears feared them. Dragons respected them. But right here, right now, Grundel wanted nothing to do with his race’s legacy. It was just a stupid joke, he repeated in his head. Not for the first time. And would it actually have changed anything were he not a griffon? Would Dreamwalker have been less spooked by a broom had it been held by a pony ghost?

“I’ve been to the village,” Grundel spoke up. “I just… I didn’t know what to do. I just looked at everyone and they were so… heartbroken.”

Silence reigned supreme once more. Seconds passed, then minutes.

“What do we do?” Topaz dared to ask Icy.

“I… I-I… I don’t know,” he quietly replied.

In the hours following the incident, he sent his friends out to monitor the situation. But nothing changed all that much. Everypony in Greenwood seemed in shock. Some denied the events and demanded to see the body, only to get angry as soon as they were allowed. They wanted to know what happened. No, demanded to know. Nopony knew. And Spike was in no mood to tolerate anypony throwing accusations around. His roar shut everypony right up. And reminded them of who had the highest stakes in this.

Nopony had seen Aurora all day.

Icy sent his friends to check up on her. She had locked herself in her room. She lay on her bed, stared at the wall, expressionless. She did not come out of her room the entire day. Even when others knocked and asked if she was alright.

And with hours passing, the gravity of the events dawned on Icy as well. It manifested as a stone-cold, sinking feeling in his stomach. It had been an accident. Clearly. After Grundel had retold the story over and over and over again, asked by his friends or on his own volition, that much had become very clear.

Just an accident.

But a life had been lost.

There was no coming back from that.

Icy did not recover from his indecisiveness. When the sun started to sink towards the western horizon and the sky went through the usual colors, he dismissed his friends entirely. He would have answers tomorrow. Hopefully. Maybe. But he could not think straight, and at least he was able to acknowledge that much.

His nightmare had been inevitable.

He could not quite remember each and every detail once he came to his senses again. But he remembered the village. He remembered the voices. The seemingly endless chorus of voices. The endless stream of accusations. It was nothing like the stuff his dad usually told him. That he was too weak, too incompetent, too fragile, too soft. No, these voices played a different tune.

He was a villain.

The voices were in pain. Full of despair. And he vaguely remembered images. Pictures his mind conjured up in an attempt to make him see the full extent of his actions. A pony’s body beneath the rubble, almost unrecognizable. It was horrifying. The skull slightly dented inwards. The belly, soft and squishy, popped like a ripe melon with gore everywhere. Like mortar, smeared between the stones.

Not with a scream but a whimper he woke up. Or so he thought. But as soon as his eyes opened and he saw nothing, he knew his nightmare was not over yet. But why was he aware? Why did he know that this was a dream? Just another way of his subconscious to torture him? To keep him in this empty, endless void, so that he had nothing to distract himself with from his thoughts and memories and his rampant imagination?

He froze when a pony stepped out of the blackness. Not just any pony. Dreamwalker himself. Though his face looked strangely expressionless. He asked him the obvious questions. What. Where. Why. Who. Because surely, pretending he did not recognize Dreamwalker would serve him well here.

And it became crystal-clear that yes, this was just another part of his nightmare, another way of torture. This Dreamwalker claimed to be the grim reaper. And grim he was. Telling him of the path that lay ahead. Of his fate, now tainted. And despite knowing that this was just another figment of his imagination, he still tried to bargain with it.

Until a sudden light flashed, dark red yet bright at the same time, and with a choked yelp Icy awoke in his makeshift tent as if he had been slapped across the muzzle. He stared into the dark yet again, but it was different this time. His eyes managed to adapt somewhat to the dead of night and he could see the outlines and shapes of trees and bushes. He could hear the endless barrage of forest noises. He was wide awake — and he realized with dread that no… no, that certainly had not been part of his dream. He could not tell what it was, but this had not been a regular nightmare.

“Bad dreams?” Grundel asked.

Icy almost screeched. He stuffed his mouth with a hoof and kept himself quiet that way, though a muffled sound still made it out of his throat. “You startled me!” he replied in a mounting panic as he pulled his hoof back out. Had he been here the entire night? Watching over him? Icy shook his head. It did not matter. Not right now. “I-I need to talk to Iron Hoof,” he stated. A fraction of a second later and he grimaced. “I need to confess. Oh… oh no, he’ll be so mad…!”

Icy crawled out of his tent and started to pace again. Frantically. “They told me to keep watch, but I can’t just—… I really need to—… what if he just—…” As much as no sentence got finished, neither did his thoughts. A jumbled mess that quickly sprang from one point to the other without rhyme or reason. Ultimately, Icy landed on one sentiment that always stuck out, that never changed. The golden thread in all of this. “I need to tell Iron Hoof.”

Grundel had watched his friend spiral into his panic helplessly. Because dealing with a panicked Icy was Topaz’ job, and she was not here. He had no idea what to do. He only knew that Icy’s current ‘plan’ was terrible. “Icy, no! You can’t just—“ But he was already gone. Flapped his wings hard and flew straight into the dark forest. Probably bee-lining it towards the main camp. “—leave me here…” Grundel lamely finished. He looked in the direction his friend had stormed off in.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Icy’s return to camp was an unforeseen interruption in their plans. One Iron Hoof thought he had been equipped to deal with. Speaking from experience, plans rarely survived exposure to reality unharmed. There was always something. One had to adapt and improvise constantly. The important part was to have a plan to begin with and be able to adapt it according to circumstances.

That said, it was hard to even get the gist of it when Icy’s panicked retelling of some incident seemed to be all over the place in terms of chronological order. He also used a bunch of names Iron had never heard before. He assumed that these were some of Icy’s ‘friends’ due to context clues. But he quickly realized that the young pegasus only rambled on and on and it got worse instead of better.

It left Iron Hoof with a few minutes to ponder his options, since Icy was so keen on making excuses. It was obvious that Icy would not respond well to a military commander-tone. While he seemed to be the type who shut up immediately when such a tone was struck, it was for all the wrong reasons.

Complicating matters further, Iron had gotten to know Icy a little bit better over these past few weeks. He realized that despite his rough past, there was something beyond that hardened shell. A young colt, still searching for things every foal craved: Appreciation. Warmth. Praise. Things he had probably lacked from his parents.

And as much as Icy latched onto him in search of these things did Iron Hoof have to acknowledge that he had started to see this young one as the son he never had. Which was ridiculous, really. They knew each other for a couple of weeks, not years and years.

But they had hit it off really well.

Iron Hoof sighed. He put a hoof onto Icy’s shoulder and just as expected, the colt shut up immediately. He stared at him out of wide eyes, both fearful and hopeful. Iron Hoof accepted his fate and role with an internal sigh. “Calm down, Icy,” he told him. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Alright? Whatever it is, we can work on it. Together.”

What he had gotten from that messy report was this: Somepony died in an accident. That was tragic, sure. But ponies died all the time, as far as Iron Hoof was concerned. And they were on sabotage missions. They had to break a few eggs to make an omelet.

He would not tell that to Icy, of course. The colt was distraught enough as is and he valued life like this sacred thing that had to be protected at all cost. An admirable notion, but one horribly ill-suited for this kind of work.

He therefore came up with a simple plan. Let Icy retell the story once more, in greater detail and chronological order this time, and then present him with a couple of excuses and explanations. Nopony wanted to feel guilty. And Iron Hoof was sure that if he offered an easy way out of it, Icy would lunge for it. The colt had been through enough already, there was no need for him to suffer further.

“Listen, I want you to tell me again what exactly—“

And that was all Iron Hoof managed to get out before a bright purple light lit up the forest nearby and a few trees gave way with an audible crack. A wave of heated air blew past them in a gust of wind.

Wildfire arrived.

“What happened?!” he asked Icy the very moment he stomped out of the dense, nightly forest and into their camp. He tried to march straight up to Icy and there was an unsettling fierceness in his eyes.

That was the main reason why Iron Hoof stepped in. Literally. He stepped in between Icy and their employer. “Wildfire…” he addressed him. And he did so in a warning tone. Telling him to think before he did anything he would come to regret later. Telling him to avoid rash actions.

And indeed, the unicorn stopped dead in his tracks. He glared at Iron Hoof for a brief moment before he closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths and reopened them, visibly calmer than before. “What happened?” he reiterated his question. This time he addressed all three of them, but Rock successfully pretended not to be there at all and Icy was still wide-eyed and frozen, clearly expecting a beating of some kind.

So Iron Hoof took it upon himself to answer. “There has been an accident. One of Icy’s pranks went awry and it seems that one of the villagers died in the process.”

Wildfires brow furrowed. “I need the whole story.”

Iron Hoof nodded. Wildfire was calm and collected again, the request was reasonable enough — he turned to look at Icy and the colt had recovered somewhat. Enough to attempt a new explanation. So they let him give his full report once more. To Iron Hoof, it was still a marvel. Actual ghosts. A little bit creepy too, sure. But he could see the potential.

However, the old sergeant took note that Wildfire sat down on his haunches midway through the tale. And for a pony so powerful that he was left unfazed by most events, for a pony capable of keeping his cards close to his chest all the time, it was disturbing to see him shaken and visibly distraught.

“I see.”

That was all the reaction Wildfire gave at first. I see. It meant everything and nothing. It was just a bridge. To have said something while his mind drew blanks. Iron Hoof knew of course of Dreamwalkers and Wildfires budding friendship. But Wildfire had willingly employed a bunch of mercenaries for sabotage missions. And he had not been hesitant with the kind of threats he was willing to unleash to stall their progress. Surely he had been aware that this kind of outcome was possible.

“Does this change anything?” Iron Hoof dared to ask.

Wildfire shook his head absentmindedly. “No, no… not at all…” He looked up and stared at Icy, who flinched under this intense gaze. Intense and hard to read. There was a lot in his expression. However, the moment was brief and Wildfire got up again. He brushed himself off and turned his attention to Iron Hoof. “I will give you the details of your next mission soon.” And with that, he teleported away. He did not wait for any answer, he did not retreat into the forest first, he did not keep up appearances like he usually did.

It was a crack in his façade. And Iron Hoof did not like that at all. Much in the same vein he had not liked the part in Icy’s retelling when he woke up from his nightmare due to an unexplained light, because that sounded awfully like magic, like some sort of alarm spell in case of somepony snooping around in their heads. And it begged the question then: If Icy had this spell placed on him, what magic did this unicorn put on the rest of them?

He stared at the spot his employer had teleported from. He stared at it in thought for a solid minute or two, with no other sound than the constant forest noise audible. Eventually, he gave up and sighed. “This means trouble,” he offered his final verdict. The exact circumstances did not matter anymore. They — his employees — had just killed his friend. Iron Hoof had been very clear about this from the very start: These were his recruits and therefore, whatever fuckup they fabricated, he would carry that burden. Their failures were his responsibility.

And Wildfire had accepted that.

“I’m so, so sorry, Iron Hoof!” came Icy’s meek voice from behind him.

The old guard sighed quietly and braced himself. Not just for Icy’s sake. There was trouble brewing, he could tell. He turned around, put on a grin and bore it. “Don’t worry, kid. If we stick together and have each other’s backs, we’ll get through this.”

Rock just snorted. “I might. You two? You’ve just become liabilities.”