In the Shadow of the Mountains
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.
She was an exact replica down to the minute detail, as if Daring Do herself had been torn from the book, “I think you took the wrong turn for the convention. You look just like Daring Do—horrible color and all. How long did it take you to dye your coat?”
“Because I am her,” she said with a most offended huff as if she was the mare of fiction.
“Uh-huh,” he nodded slowly, the ‘I’m doubting your intelligence’ kind, “and I’m Prince Blueblood. Now, do you mind?” He tried to wiggle out from under her, but nope, too heavy, “you’re pretty heavy for a pegasus.”
“You shouldn’t have flashed me in the first place.”
“Why were you trotting around in the dark?”
“Why were you trotting around in the dark?” She repeated.
“I asked you first.”
She groaned and shook her head, “long story. Short answer—and as much as I hate to admit it—I’ll need your help.” She nearly choked asking for help.
“Considering our position, you’re asking a lot. But, pony-to-pony, I’ll play along.”
“Good,” she hopped off him, “consider it compensation for almost blinding me.”
“Right… so, who are you, really?” Spellweaver asked and recovered his staff which was still in one piece, thankfully.
“Daring Do, like I said.”
“Not one to break character, eh? Very well. I am Spellweaver Alma. And as for this compensation?”
“This way,” she said before hurrying off, leaving him in the dust.
Catching up, Spellweaver noticed her wing was almost completely torn off and hanging limply at her side. It looked as if it would detach at any moment, like a lizard's tail, but a crude bandage—little more than scraps of dirty cloth—prevented that gory outcome.
“Bad fall?” Spellweaver cringed as the limb bounced with every step.
“What?”
“Your wing, I mean.”
“You ask too many questions,” she snarled, “but if you must know: some bird-brained roughneck got a lucky shot. Nearly tore off my wing.”
Spellweaver furrowed his brow, “playing hero with the bandits, huh? So what’s your quarrel with them?
“My ‘quarrel’ is my own business, unicorn.”
An incessant need to strike her over the head grew, “believe it or not: a little politeness never hurt anypony.”
“Politeness will get us nowhere.”
“You’d be surprised,” he let the silence settle before asking, “would you like me to take a look—?”
“No.”
“Fine. Fine, but if—when—your wing rots off, blame yourself.”
Many forget—both the foolhardy and brave alike—-that it’s not always the blade that kills. He still remembers the mares and stallions who shrugged off minor wounds only to later succumb to infection.
Daring Do stopped.
“Here,” she pointed to a cave-in blocking their way.
Spellweaver trotted forward, a red aura enveloping his horn. He scanned the fallen rocks from top to bottom and hoped his interference wouldn’t kill them as little by little, like a thread becoming unwound, the cave-in was undone. A vortex of stone and dirt whirled past them, slowly building up behind them. Behind the wall of rock, familiar orange light began to peek through, soon transforming into a flood of light and an entrance to the inside.
“Ladies first,” Spellweaver nudged, a cheeky smile readied.
Daring Do rolled her eyes, poked her head inside, and entered, with Spellweaver following immediately after. Inside—as expected—were more rocks and more stalagmites, along with a lonely oil lamp. The room held nothing interesting, just an inclining passage where one would have to be wary of where they stepped, what with all the steep footing and jagged rocks. One thing was certain: Spellweaver was done with caves after this.
A soft gasp grabbed his attention. Slumped against the wall was a dopey-looking griffon, too innocent and stupid looking to be a bandit; the sword quivering in his talons informed Spellweaver of all he needed to know. Daring Do wasted no time flinging herself onto the griffon. Her hoof met his beak, dropping him like a sack of stones long before his sword was drawn.
“Nice moves, hotshot,” he let out a low whistle, impressed at her finesse, but as she stepped over his body and signaled to continue, it faded into disappointment. “But,” he pushed his sword against the griffon’s throat and punctured it with ease, “finish the job next time.”
Her gaze shifted from him to the griffon choking on blood. With no emotion, she turned away, “there was no need for that.”
“Mercy will get us killed.”
“There is no us.”
Spellweaver snorted, “simple. Then it’ll get you killed. Loners are good at that.”
They climbed slowly, carefully, upwards. Placing one hoof after the other at a steady pace till they reached another room bathed in the firelight of lamps. Several woolen bedrolls were splayed across the room; luckily for the bandits, they were all empty. There were two additional passages attached to the room. Loud clanging originated inside the nearest room as if someone were raiding a cupboard. Spellweaver made eye contact with Daring Do and flicked his head in the direction of the noise. She nodded. They crept up to the entryway, swept aside the nasty drapes, and entered the room.
Four rows of shelves were dimly illuminated. Cans of foodstuffs, jugs of brown liquid, and various other items too dark to specify were haphazardly placed. More importantly, however, was a griffon shoveling all manner of supplies into her rucksack—a normal-looking griffon by all accounts, brown and white like an eagle. Spellweaver prepared to perform his usual dance… that was before Daring Do spoke up and ruined the opportunity.
“Gilda!”
The griffon, Gilda, snapped her head towards them. Her fearful eyes relaxed upon examination, “well, if it ain’t the freak mare and the escapist,” she leaned back coolly, “figured you for dead, Daring Do.”
Spellweaver cocked a brow, “you two know each other?”
“You’re a dude—?”
“Not a chance,” Daring Do appeared ready to pounce, “she’s the boss here.”
“You got that right,” she proudly beat her chest, “and I assume you’re both after my hoard of trash? Tough luck,” she spat, “the Inquisitors are probably hauling it back by now.”
Spellweaver’s heart nearly stopped hearing the word, Inquisitors. Fanatical worshipers of the Mare in the Moon—she who shattered the elements and defeated Princess Celestia. Though he had never encountered the Inquisitors, he could not help but tremble. They were known to leave fire and ash in their wake. Spellweaver did not like his odds, not one bit.
“Inquisitors…” Daring Do said, slightly panicked, “what in the world have you done to get their attention?”
“The Nightmare’s pawns? After some pathetic crew like this? No, I wager they have something they shouldn’t have,” they had to be after the piece of the Element—there was no other explanation. “Am I right or am I right, bird?”
“We ain’t pathetic, but you’re right about one thing. They’re not after us, but we’ll sure as hell die in the process. Something we picked up a while back.”
“Something you picked up?” Daring Do pulled out a scrap of yellowed paper from her breast pocket and presented it to the griffon, “do you recognize this?”
Drawn onto the scrap of paper: a blue gem matching the Element of Laughter. The griffon recognized it quickly, “yeah, of course I do,” she tossed it back, “whole damn reason I’m in this mess.”
Spellweaver studied the mare, resisting the impulse to cut her down. This revelation complicated matters. With the Inquisitors upon them, he would need all the help he could gather. Whatever her goals may be, she’ll be dealt with later. As for the griffon?
“I guess you’re after it too. You’ve got lots of competition,” she fastened her sack and threw it over her shoulder, “if I were you two, I’d go back to whatever hole you crawled out of. Those useless griffs can only hold em’ off for so long—-”
“And if I were you, I’d stop talking,” his rapier was just inches from her neck, “those ‘useless’ griffons are dying under your command,” Spellweaver gritted his teeth, “you should be fighting with them, but here you are: plotting your escape.”
Gilda put her talons up, a mocking smirk plastered across her beak, “a griffon-made rapier; what noble did you rob for that?”
“Curious, are you? Perhaps you’ll meet him.”
“Tell your friend to get his stupid blade out of my face!” Gilda looked to Daring Do, “you idiots want in my treasury, and you’ll need me for that.”
“We’re not friends, and you are way too gung-ho with that thing. Put it down,” she demanded, “do what you want after.”
Spellweaver had half a mind to impale her, to put the griffon in her place, but an annoying pink mare, hidden behind the shelves, shook her head in distaste. Finally, he acquiesced, huffing and withdrawing his blade, If only to acquire the piece (and satisfy her), “what am I, your dog?”
“That’s what I thought. And for the record, tough guy, they’d do the same to me.”
Spellweaver shook his head, a growl caught at his throat, “speak already.”
“There are two entrances: the main door—sealed by protective runes—and another in my room, but you’ll never get in without me. So I’ll tell you what: I let you two in, you two get your little piece, and we’ll go our separate ways. Easy, right?”
“There’s only me.” Daring Do said.
“We’re in this together,” Spellweaver shot back. “And what do you mean by ‘protective runes’?”
“Ancient griffon magic drawn up by yours truly,” Gilda said smugly.
He was unimpressed, “let’s just kill her—-”
From the corner of his eyes, a pink mare held a crude sign stating: Smile! Spellweaver grumbled and forced his best smile.
“Deal. But double-cross me, and I won’t be able to stop our friend here,” Daring Do pointed at him.
“Oh, now I’m your friend.”
“Easy enough. This way,” in the corner of the room, Gilda unveiled a small hole covered by cobwebs and crates, barely big enough for Spellweaver to fit, “let’s make this snappy. I’ve got an escape to make.”
Daring Do was first; she practically dove in. Spellweaver peered inside, again, more darkness. Throwing his equipment through, he squeezed one hoof forward, then his head, followed by the next hoof until only half his body remained. It was… uncomfortable, to say the least, especially when a talon smacked across his flank, “watch your hands pervert!” He found himself shouting at the sound of muffled laughter.
He shouldn’t have listened to Pinkie.
Finally squeezing through and followed by Gilda, Spellweaver followed behind Daring Do’s form. As they trotted closer, the clashes of steel, surges of magic, and the screams of many became louder. Flashes of dazzling pink seared his retinas.
“Stay low,” Spellweaver ordered.
They arrived at a small ledge providing a bird’s eye view of the cave system entrance and the slaughter before them.
Magic seared flesh, cut through bone, and spared none; the smell of burnt flesh reminded him of days gone. They—the Inquisitors, monstrous and powerful—dominated the pathetic resistance. If the bandits weren’t fleeing, they were throwing down their comrades for the chance to escape the slaughter, only to be riddled with magic bolts.
Gilda wasn’t lying.
At last, he bore witness to the bogeymen of Equestria. They were nine in total, hooded and cloaked in a dark cloth covering a sleek sapphire armor. Yet one stood out amongst the mysterious figures, a gaunt unicorn with a blue mask and horn made of pure magic. Although she appeared radiant and intelligent, there was an unmistakable hunger in her eyes; something in the way she drifted amongst the corpses of griffons as if she analyzed every millisecond of the battlefield.
It was unmistakably her: Midnight Sparkle.
The Terror in the Night, the Shade of Equestria, the Revenant Moon. She lifted not a hoof even as a lucky griffon overpowered and stabbed an Inquisitor’s barrel. Midnight continued watching apathetically, only intervening when her Inquisitor lay dead. What happened next could only be the work of foul magic: Midnight seized the griffon, pried his eyes open, and like siphoning water, ghastly energies were forcibly drawn out of the griffon until he was left a twitching, unresponsive mess.
The bloodbath was over in the blink of an eye, with the Inquisitors standing atop a mountain of bodies and later dispersing into the connecting tunnels, leaving one to stand guard at the entrance.
“You gonna keep lying there?” Gilda asked.
Spellweaver looked up to find Gilda hopping down the ledge without a sign of Daring Do. He snorted as he was left in the dust, “teamwork, what’s that?”
He joined Gilda on the ground floor and stuck to the walls.
“I think I saw one of those weirdos heading to my room,” Gilda whispered.
“You think, or you know?”
“Shit, dunno, too damn dark.”
“How the hell did you lead this group?”
She pointed at the bodies, “like that.”
Spellweaver didn’t know whether to laugh or be horrified, maybe both. Instead, he settled on a disappointed shake of the head. “Where’s Daring Do?”
“Pick a shadow; she’s probably in one of them.”
“Damn lone wolf. Who do you think she’ll get killed? Herself or us?”
“I ain’t planning on biting the dust today. Not by a long shot.” They turned and were met by a splintered wooden door marked with burns of the magical variety. “Told you,” Gilda chimed.
Spellweaver was met with what must have been a cozy yet lavish room full of gold, jewels, and regal colors before it was utterly ruined. But, strangely enough, there was no sign of a culprit—or Daring Do.
“Bastards!” Gilda rushed inside and swiveled her head frantically. “They ruined everything!”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Did they have to destroy EVERYTHING?”
“Yes, Gilda. What do you think happens during a raid? Picnics and lunch? You’re a raider. You should know this.”
“Yeah, but it’s different because it’s mine!”
“Just show me the entrance,” Spellweaver kicked aside a jewel-encrusted cup, “what the hell would you need that for?”
“Through here,” Daring Do emerged from a hole in the wall.
“Figures. Lead the way.”
“What the hell is this?” He said, emerging on the other side. A great treasury indeed, giant stone pillars dotted the spacious chamber enough to hold a ballroom dance yet held a total of twenty bits, a sword, and an ugly painting—in other words, pathetic. Spellweaver had more worth in his saddlebag than the ‘treasury’ had. “Did you waste it all on your room?”
“We’ve got company,” Gilda warned.
An Inquisitor emerged from behind a pillar. In better view, he saw that a rusty metal mask etched with the number eight hid its face.
“So we do.”
A blue aura formed around its horn, imbuing the several rocks at its hooves and hurling them with blinding speed. Daring Do and Gilda dispersed while Spellweaver summoned forth a forcefield. The barrage of stones bounced harmlessly off the shield.
“Daring Do,” Spellweaver tossed his staff to her, “get this behind her.”
She looked bewildered but ultimately nodded and disappeared into the shadows.
“Let’s dance.”
Spellweaver’s rapier sprung from its sheath and twirled through the hail of rock like a shimmering red streamer. He, too, advanced alongside his blade, dancing past each blast of rock and parrying those he couldn’t. And once close enough, he thrust the rapier right at the pony’s neck. Yet instead of piercing flesh, Spellweaver found his sword pried from his magical grasp and thrown uselessly aside.
Spellweaver hopped for cover as darts of magic began firing. His attempts to spur the blade into action were met with only a budge as if pinned by extraordinary weight. A few paces away, cowering as well, was Gilda. Running and settling beside her, he asked, “will you be helping anytime?”
“Yeah!” She shouted over magic pounding their position, “when the boulder’s gone!”
Spellweaver peeked over the boulder, just for a dart of magic to clip his ear, “distract her,” he said through the pain.
“What?!”
“A second is all I need,” he hissed, “enough time to grab my sword.”
“Hell no, I just met you, dude—I ain’t risking a feather for you!”
“What about a talon?”
Another bolt of magic finally split their boulder in two, forcing them to scramble behind another rock, “I ain’t moving!”
“Useless bird,” he muttered. Then, risking another peek, he saw the dark figure approaching their position. And beyond that, however, Spellweaver glimpsed something darting in the shadows (Daring Do, most likely). She stopped perfectly behind the figure; she played her role admirably. Spellweaver removed his cloak and shoved it into Gilda’s talons, “when I say so, throw it wide.”
“Uh… okay.”
“Go!” Gilda threw the cloak into the open, and the second he heard magic blast the cloak, he pounced shouting, “Daring Do, give it here!”
Daring Do lobbed it high and close enough for his magic to wrap around the staff. Emerald flames spewed from the staff, swallowing the unicorn whole—high-pitched screams echoed throughout the treasury as the dark figure flailed wildly—the moment it lost focus, his blade bit its neck, splashing blood onto the ground. Sneering, he repeated, jabbing and swinging wherever he could until, ultimately, the dark figure collapsed.
Spellweaver, Daring Do, and Gilda, once she saw it was clear, converged toward the body. It lay limply and gasping for breath. “D-don't kill me..." she said through fits of coughs, "please..."
“I wonder how many times you’ve heard that,” Spellweaver looked to Gilda, “well, where’s the piece?”
“Feels like our friend here might know,” Gilda began to pat her down. Once she reached a specific pouch, she unzipped and pulled out a piece of silk wrapped around something tiny. Within was a beautiful blue gem, “found it.”
That was it! The last piece of the puzzle he nearly slobbered as Gilda tossed it to him, but Daring Do snatched it first. Spellweaver grabbed his sword, prepared to take it back—
Boom!
Their attention turned to the falling steel doors. The thick cloud of smoke kicked up barely hid the shimmering blue mask and horn of Midnight. Six more inquisitors emerged from Midnight’s shadow and spread across the treasury. Her hooves clanged like steel as she trotted. All three of them ran to the nearest hiding place.
“Top-notch protective runes, Gilda.”
“Where’s the exit?” Daring Do chanced a glimpse, and he did so as well. Gilda pointed across the room to a tunnel in the corner, “great.”
“I know you’re in here. Unicorn, pegasus, and you, Gilda. Let it be known that the Nightmare does not forgive betrayal.” Midnight’s voice was cold, sending shivers down his spine. Green foul magic bubbled from her horn and formed a billowy white mist—an unlucky inquisitor stepped briefly inside the mist only to keel over, convulsing and choking… never to move again. “You will all be smoked out like the rats you are.”
Midnight scanned the room as the mist and inquisitors encroached. Of course, Spellweaver alone could escape; throw Gilda out, or maybe Daring Do, cut through the inquisitor nearest the door… but Pinkie would never want that (and likely he would be shot down)—so what could he do? Surrounded, outnumbered, and more than certainly out-skilled—looking at Gilda and Daring Do, they too searched for an exit that did not exist.
He would do what he could.
Spellweaver ushered the other two further back, to the relative safety of the shadows and numerous craggy stalagmites, to buy more time, if anything. He took the rear, keeping eyes on the two inquisitors fanning out. Each step the inquisitors took was another half-step back until they found no more space to retreat and were up against the cold stone.
“Ready yourselves,” he whispered, tenderly holding the pouch at his neck, “sorry, Pinkie.”
Right as the Inquisitors uncovered them, they froze just a few paces away from where they hid, but not only them. Every inquisitor, as if they were frozen in ice. Then, in sync, they turned and galloped to the corner of the chamber, where the exit resided. The three of them shared confused looks but did not take the miracle for granted. They turned tail and ran to the main door.
“Please stop!”
From a burst of pink magic appeared another Inquisitor—teleportation, high-class magic, oatmeal. She was not like the other Inquisitor they had faced, just casting cheap parlor tricks; she was a battlemage, through and through, and they were beyond outclassed. Not to mention trapped.
Spellweaver hesitated not, spewing forth emerald flames in the vain hope of surprising her or… or anything! But she, as crushingly expected, extinguished his flames with a swift squall.
“Wait!”
Daring Do joined the fray, rushing and flanking the Inquisitor alongside him. A pulsing forcefield, however, threw them both aside. It was not over—not even close—Spellweaver would not die like a cornered rat. Not when he was so close to realizing Pinkie’s dream.
“Listen!”
A bolt from Gilda was stopped midair and crushed into the size of a pin. “Welp… did my best,” she said, then fired another to the same result, “okay, NOW that was my best.”
Spellweaver attempted—
“Enough!”
Spellweaver suddenly found himself unable to move. He couldn’t so much as twitch a muscle, let alone flee or fight. But he was not alone in his powerlessness; Gilda and Daring Do were encapsulated in magic and frozen in time. Shock marred their faces as equally as his own. He whimpered and whined as his every attempt to will his body to action failed. Finally, the Inquisitor strolled up to them. Her mask bore the number one.
“Please have no fear,” she said sweetly, “I will let you go, but please stay your weapons.”
The magic which held them fizzled away, and his muscles, if shakily, obeyed once more. They exchanged confused glances.
“I am New Moon… no… please call me Twilight Sparkle. I seek to break free of my yoke and learn of the Magic of Friendship.”
He furrowed his brow. There was only one other he knew who spoke of the Magic of Friendship so fondly… Pinkie.
“What kinda joke is that?” Gilda spouted off, “the Magic of Friendship? HA! I just saw you slaughter my griffons!”
“The Magic of Friendship has been gone for years,” said Daring Do, “you, among the chief cause.”
“I… I know. This puppet bears that weight, but I have read of kindness—of forgiveness—even to one’s greatest foe. I ask to be shown that same kindness, if only for a day.”
“You’re a damn lunatic and fucking selfish,” Gilda raised her crossbow.
“Very well,” the Inquisitor lowers her head, “if not forgiveness, then punishment.”
“Too fucking easy!”
Gilda took sight, a talon on the trigger and a cruel victorious smile carved on her face. The shadow of Pinkie loomed over him, and she whispered, “give her a chance and—most importantly—smile!”
Spellweaver tore the weapon from Gilda’s grasp, “What in Tartarus are you doing?!”
“Not this one. We’ll show her mercy… in the name of friendship, of course.”
“There is no—”
“Yes, Daring Do, there is no we. Your lone wolf act gets old.”
“You were so stabby a minute ago. All it took was one mare in distress, huh?”
Spellweaver rolled his eyes, “so how would I break you free of your… yoke?”
“I thank you sincerely,” Twilight bowed. “Please break the mask.”
“Thank me later,” he examined the mask with its many inscriptions. All undecipherable, of course, but with sufficient force… he levitated the nearest stone and bashed it against the mask’s rusted locking mechanisms.
“Screw this, I’m outta here,” Gilda stormed off, unarmed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Daring Do attempted to slink away, something he would not allow. A shimmering blade blocked her path. Spellweaver continued to hammer the mask, “you have something I need.”
“What?” She snarled.
“The piece. I can’t let you leave with it,” a satisfying crack came from the mask as it slipped off to reveal the face of a disheveled purple mare with darker purple eyes and mane, which had certainly seen better days. Now his attention turned to the fan mare. “Give it here.”
“What is going on?”
“I helped you, friend. Now help me. She holds the last piece of the Element of Laughter, and I need it.”
“Over my dead body,” Daring Do readied to fight.
“Well, Twilight?”
“I never read of friendship being so… harsh.”
“We aren’t friends,” he grinned, “but you and I are.”
Her horn glowed purple as Daring Do was enveloped in magic. Perfect. Spellweaver strolled up to the mare, offered her one last smile, and plucked the gem from her breast pocket.
Author's Note
Hello! As always, please tell me if anything should be improved, i.e., repetitive word choice or sentence structure, unclear or redundant writing (frankly, in hindsight, I believe Pinkie serves no effective purpose because I mainly added her to have more of the mane six, but I will continue in this doomed world I have created), uninteresting plot (although I do think it is rather under baked due to me focusing more on combat than narrative), and if my writing stayed true to the main characters (though I do wish for them to be more hardened than in the original show so as to reflect a world without the Mane Six). Also I'm not sure where this will end as the amount of time writing a FF is quite extraordinary and it would better be spent on my own works.