Spellweaver woke with a gasp, reeling and hyperventilating. In an instant, his fine sword was magically drawn, and wild saucer eyes searched for enemies—both real and perceived—until he remembered where he was: the Crystal Mountains, high above, where no souls were to be found. Icy, dry air coated his nostrils with each shaky breath.

“Hiya!” A pink mare popped into sight. “Bad dream? I find smiling fixes everything!” She leaned close, so close that her inflated hair tickled his muzzle.

Spellweaver offered a polite smile to Pinkamena—or Pinkie Pie, as she preferred. She was a heavily burned yet always beaming mare and the very definition of happy-go-lucky. Nothing ever dampened her spirit—nothing.

“Is it working?” She asked.

Spellweaver chuckled before instinctively feeling for the pouch hanging from his neck.

“Ooh! Ooh! You need only one more, right?” Pinkie Pie bounced and wiggled.

Pinkie spoke of the Element of Laughter, shattered as it was.

“Yes, soon enough, everything will be right…”

Already Spellweaver had found, through deception or otherwise, seven of the eight missing pieces of Laughter. It is why he endured the frozen north chasing after fleeting traces of harmonious magic. Though looking to where the snow-covered peaks pierced the very heavens, perhaps a unicorn was not so fit in traversing a mountain range. Regardless, no force on Equestria would stop him now—

The frigid winds, spiting him, lashed his hide; he snuggled his cloak and inched closer to the dying flame, “hypothermia would, I suppose.”

“So where to?”

“Somewhere over there, in that general area,” his hoof motioned broadly, “more or less.”

“Okie dokie loki!”

Spellweaver grabbed his belongings and, more importantly, his prideful creation: the Balefire Staff—or boomstick, according to Pinkie—an artifact possessing the power to summon forth dragon’s breath. A violent red orb was snugly embedded at the staff’s end, and although its once lush brown was now charred and flaky (he still regrets not buying fire retardant wax), its power remained all the same. Throwing snow over the fire, he set his sights over yonder to where the mountains split in two. Though faint, he felt the Element’s waning power nearby.

“Shall we?”

Spellweaver’s hooves plowed through the shimmering snow as a fierce hail whipped at his hide. Deep in the mountains, little moved, no plants poked out from under the snow, or wild creatures ran free; it was just him and the little pink dot just off away. In the distance, a bugle played the very same call as on that fateful day. Proud, fervent, and utterly haunting. It played throughout the day until only a full moon illuminated his path. And soon there was no path as the trace veered him off into the wild undergrowth.

Barely visible, however, amid the bramble and thick trunks were orange flames dancing in the dark. Following them led him to a great frozen lake and numerous waterfalls gushing down the mountains. A refuge, hidden in the mountains and guarded by tall evergreens, with multiple cavernous openings beckoning him deeper into unknown depths—to wherever Laughter rested. The chill of night was chased away within its protective domain.

Yet Spellweaver had not been alone in this beautiful sanctum. Outlanders nestled within like a cancerous sore; they trampled and sullied an otherwise untouched paradise. They left the corpses of wildlife strung up, bones and pelts thoughtlessly discarded, a grim warning for those who trespass on the trespassers. They were vultures gorging on the carcass of Equestria.

“Griffons,” he spat and ducked out of sight. He counted twenty—of which he saw—from where he perched, each armed with a sword, spear, or crossbow and a perpetual scowl. “Definitely not friendly. You stay here, Pinkie.”

“What?!”

"Stop shouting, Pinkie."

“Those are frowns begging to be turned upside down!”

“Yeah…” Spellweaver peered over the ridge. To his relief, the bandits continued their watch, “I highly doubt that. If the weapons and bodies haven't given it away, well, nothing will."

Beside him, Pinkie held onto a plate of perfect cupcakes; chocolate, velvet, vanilla. Each was stacked upon one another in the form of a pyramid—her usual antics.

“What in the world are you doing?"

“What do you think, silly? Everybody loves cupcakes and cheering up new friends is what Pinkie’s here to do!”

Without a second thought, she rushed into the encampment, plate of cupcakes balanced above her head.

"Oh my… this inane mare." He drew his rapier and steeled himself, “get back here Pinkie!”

Spellweaver trailed behind her as she slipped into the encampment—something that had not gone unnoticed—alarmed shouts filled the air. Every bandit grabbed for their arms and a thick bronze bell announced their presence in the camp. They'd come swarming like flies and swarm they did as three griffons were quick to swoop in; he cut through the first, flung the second away, and the last, with a squawk, fell easily before Spellweaver as he crushed his neck with one swift stomp.

Whiz!

A bolt flew just inches from his head. Pinkie—cupcakes still untouched—dove past the griffon fumbling with their crossbow and a sword-pimping fool. Spellweaver danced with the griffon's wild potshots.

"It's a pony! Shoot the damn thing!"

"I'm trying! I'm—!"

A swift kick to the beak silenced the bird with ease. Spellweaver rolled away in time to avoid the sword coming down. More bandits were flooding out of the caves, and many more were taking flight, their crossbows aimed squarely at him. And waiting patiently, as if this were not a battle, was Pinkie Pie.

Spellweaver jumped to her rear, "got your flank, insolent mare."

“Hey, that’s not nice.”

“What’s not nice is getting us killed—“

Several arrows crashed against his glimmering scarlet shield. They were quickly surrounded as bandits covered the skies and any hope of an escape. Spellweaver’s eyes darted about, searching for a way out.

"How about that cave?" Pinkie Pie offered, “looks pretty escapable to me.”

“And you look pretty smackable,” he shot back, though spared a glance at an unguarded cave entrance. Three advancing bandits were flashed with a plume of green flame; those foolhardy enough were met with a discouraging stab. She wasn’t joking, at least—some progress in the ‘take this seriously’ category—but if it led to a dead end… he shuddered to think of what would happen.

"I'll make an opening... now!"

He unleashed a wave of rolling flames around them and broke through their disorganized lines. They reached the cave safely—its maws swallowing them whole—the sound of rushing water beat at his eardrums. Then, with a spell, he lit their way through the dark. Inside, rugged stalagmites pointed the way deeper, towards an uncertain end. Pinkie Pie ran just beyond light’s reach, always out of reach. He quickened his gallop, but she remained ever further away and ultimately disappeared out of sight.

He, too, was also met by a never-ending fall, black as pitch; it was the abyss made manifest. And down below, just a pinprick in the inky blackness, was Pinkie. He looked back at the bandits, frothing and raving. They shouted in fury: "You'll make a fine rug, pony!"

Without a second thought, Spellweaver hopped off the ledge and into the unfathomable deep—the mad mare be damned. He fell and fell alongside the roaring water without end, wherein time seemed to slow to a crawl as if he floated. He blinked and the walls expanded into an underground lake, a mirror to the above—then he hit its frigid waters with a splash! Like being slapped by concrete, Spellweaver was immobilized by sheer pain as the black waves rolled over him, thrashing him around. He kicked and paddled and fought until he breached the surface, gasping for air as violent tides mercifully threw him to the shore. Spellweaver sprung from the cold lake, glad to be on dry land.

“Pinkie,” he coughed up any inhaled water, “if the water doesn’t drown you, I will!”

Spellweaver illuminated the cavern to find more stone and pebbles… and a dribble of blood leading into the recesses. His heart sank—was she hit, was she struck? He feared what he would find, yet he marched on. More blood soaked the floor, and in the dark, barely visible, was a slumped figure—a body, mangled and burned, with chunks of shrapnel protruding from its form.

“Pinkie Pie?”

"That. Was. FUN!”

Behind him, Pinkie Pie breached the waters, unhurt and unfazed as usual. Then what was it he saw? Looking back, it was a rock. A funnily shaped stone that in the shadows looked similar to a keeling pony, but the blood, however… the blood, maybe a day or two old, was real. It continued further into the bowels of the cavern.

“Let’s go for round two!"

"No thank you," he exhaled, "can't feel a thing after that."

"Aw," she deflated, then inflated with renewed spirit, "how about that super spooky tunnel? Oh! Or maybe—"

"Hush, you. We're not out of the woods yet, and don’t think I forgot about you rushing off! What were you thinking?"

Pinkie looked around confused, "but… this is a cave?"

“Take this seriously, Pinkie. We kicked the hornets' nest with this one.”

“I am taking this seriously, but wouldn’t it be a griffon’s nest?”

“I’m going to strangle you,” he swung around to find her gone yet again. Only a fleeting glimpse of pink hopping away revealed her whereabouts. The need to yank out his mane intensified. "This mare...”

“Ooh! I found some jam!”

Spellweaver shook his head. He already felt the oncoming migraine and soothed his temples, a common occurrence with Pinkie Pie. “For the love of—don’t eat it.”

“IT IS NOT JAM.”

Spellweaver followed where she had gone, but instead of finding Pinkie, he found bits of confetti marking the way. They led to a rising shaft, then right into a cramped gap in the wall, so cramped he had to stand on his hind legs. Then left and into several more confetti-lined tunnels, six in total; all dark, all musty, and all had no Pinkie. Amping the intensity of light revealed nothing useful, and listening closely revealed how eerily quiet it was. No bugle call, no infectious laughter, only silence.

“Great,” his voice echoed back, “eeny, meeny, miny… Pinkie.”

Spellweaver chose the path straight ahead. Guided by light, he zigzagged through the labyrinth of tunnels, following gingerly after specks of colored paper—foolish as it was. He followed until confetti turned to blackened blood, and he was left to wonder whether to turn back. The sound of faint voices, however, dragged him forward. In the stone wall was a slit where firelight bled through. Canceling his spell, he peeked into the slit to find two shadowy figures conversing. Only a few things were discernible: they were definitely griffons.

"Another damned hero!" A feminine yet rough voice barked, "first the escapee and now some freak mare?"

"Yes."

"And you're telling me she entered the caves?"

"Yes."

"THEN WHY THE HELL ARE YOU STILL STANDING HERE!?"

Spellweaver cringed as the second figure hurried out of sight, leaving the first alone. He crept ahead, hoping to find an entrance—and the Element, likely tossed aside in some chest if he had to guess. Though at least he was on the right track.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

Spellweaver’s ears flicked in alarm to hushed footsteps no greater than a stone's throw away. They were deliberate, well-paced, and certainly not Pinkie Pie. Was it a wild animal or a bandit?

And which would he prefer?

Pressing himself against the wall, he slowly drew his sword. He was close enough to hear its labored breathing and to feel a feathered appendage drag across his side—a fact it noticed too. They both froze; neither dared to make a move—so instead he shut his eyes tight and focused all his magic to flood the cavern with as much light as he could.

Whatever was there hissed in pain. Spellweaver made his distance and wincing, he finally identified what it was: a khaki-colored mare with a mane of gray and a stereotypical explorer's outfit to boot. If he didn't know any better, she was cosplaying…

"Daring Do—?"

She lunged at him, knocking away his blade and slamming his head to the cold stone. Briefly, all went black and Spellweaver found himself helplessly pinned down. Violet eyes bore into him; he’d be dead were it an enemy combatant and he sure wished she wasn't.

“Hello,” he managed to say.

Author's Note

Hello, I am an aspiring writer. Please tell me if there is anything that should be improved, i.e., repetitive word choice or sentence structure, unclear or redundant writing, uninteresting plot, as well as if my writing stayed true to the main characters (I watch Spanish MLP so I may miss some characterization, please don't kill me), and while I did intend the story to be fast-paced, do say if it was too fast. Thank you.