A Simple Theft Gone Wrong

by StompReflex

Rating: mature
Tags: Dark, Adventure
Length: 5934

A single item was supposed to be taken, but all those little consequences kept adding up

Apparently, you forgot to take something very important for your last job. See, mercenaries have this thing, it's called the 'One Last Job', you know, the final one before you go legitimate. You figured you'd be, well, not rich, but wouldn't have to work too hard for the rest of your life. More bits than you've ever seen in one place, and it would all be yours without any pesky taxes or explanations. It's unfortunate, but you failed to take what you were hired to take.

The only problem is the prize was guarded by a very difficult to pin down target. Yes, that's right, target. Targets are those ponies that seem to pop up, preventing you from getting your employer precisely what, or who, they want. This target's prize was all your employer wanted, but things just didn't happen the way you forgot to plan ahead for. Even more unfortunately for you, your current employer stalked every move you made, urging you to do this job quickly and quietly. The strange sounds in the wind, those eyes, and the… um, sleepless nights caused by other things. Maybe you shouldn't have taken this job.

But relax! You'll get the prize, you always do. Or did, until now. Sometimes the best thing to do is stomp every head in you find sticking up. After all, it's what you've been the best at.

WARNING: the mature, gore, and sex labels aren't a joke. Those will start showing up later.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-11-14 10:50:43 UTC

One Last Job, Opening

White. Something was white. Maybe that's why it was so cold. Great Plot of Celestia it was COLD. White objects, blurry and difficult to pay any real attention to, slowly strike down into thousands of other unknown particles, forming a carpet of white before your vision, what little of it remains.

"...snowflakes?" The sound of your own voice seemed dry, strained in too many manners to consider. Leaves being crushed by boulders, you think, and the rationality of the statement becomes apparent: you can barely speak, slurred and somewhat wavering.

Think, recall what may be wrong. Slurred words: concussion. The word hammers itself into your brain, implications reaching out from some deeply hidden area of your brain, synapses discharging and firing wildly in an attempt to bring forth information that may be useful. White doesn't always mean snow.

'I believe you're hallucinating, it's too warm for there to be even a hint of snow. Besides, it's mid-summer and there's not been a change in schedule for this year.'

This voice was not yours. It was wrong, too far away, and too high up, if there was such a thing as up, or even gravity. It lacked substance or erratic activity. As if the voice did not care, or register any action or event beyond itself falling or the not-snow falling. This feeble attempt at thinking briefly causes you to fix your sight on an event in front of you.

Red. Possible fire. The red wasn't spreading. Shouldn't fire spread though? Vision fades slightly, partially, then wholly, and a momentary surge of panic strikes, were you burning? Eyes open again, just in time to prevent a neural overload. Automatic blinking, a nudge of information pops up, occurs when the eyes begin drying out due to heat or lack of moisture in the air. No. The strange redness spreading into the white didn't make any sense. A tiny pocket of irritation welled up, stating that red in any form is bad.

'If that looks bad in any way, shape, or form, well, it is bad. Safe to say it's really bad. Although you're probably not in any shape to appreciate just what form this kind of bad has taken, heh.'

No, it was lacking, but not towards you. The distant voice had an edge to it, one that felt as if the edge was aimed away from you, but not far enough. There wasn't enough distance between that edge and you.

A sensation began dredging itself into your conscious mind, having spread through what you think may be your body. It seemed strange, there wasn't any call for it. Was this something that an old friend, or a new enemy?

'Now that, THAT right there seems to be a problem. Rather, you're the problem. And I do mean, it's a problem for you, not me. The bad part is, what's LEFT of you isn't much. And I have virtually no talent when it comes to.. well. You'll just have to see for yourself. Sorry bud, but this isn't going to be fun. Or feel good.'

Several words spoken tug at your mind, the sudden wrongness and an imprint of the future blend with an idea of madness. If this was a dream, then it was the most abstract one you've ever had.

Movement. You blink again, somewhat calmer this time. Will you see again, or just wake up? As your eyes open, two long blocks appear in what little you can see, although one of them seemed larger than the other. Somehow that doesn't seem right, wouldn't they have to be the same size or at least density to move at the same speed? You couldn't tell. Wait. Why were they moving, towards you, and quickly no less?

CRACK. A sudden jerk, the horizontal blocks whip towards you and back faster than you thought they could move. The clashing white and red were the least of your problems. The old/new friend/enemy sensation materializes. Pain, that was her name. Letting out a gurgling sound that you remember hearing from others many times, the blurring in your vision increases, and suddenly stops. The fall isn't what kills you, the stopping part is, another corner of the mind teases you with a detail lost in translation.

'Sorry, sorry! I didn't... hm, you're really messed up. Well, your neck wasn't broken, I think, just twisted something terrible. Eh, I don't think you're salvageable. Although, some parts MIGHT be, eheheh. Eheh. Now, that's not that funny, not here to make jokes based off your dick size or your suffering. Let's see what I can do about that eye of yours.'

Eye. That was a strange sentence.. did he mean just one? A cyclops, perhaps? That made no sense. Cyclops didn't exist anymore. Another series of movements. Now you believe you are lying on your side, possibly. The pain continues fading, the blurring being removed as if a rag was applied to a damp window. Those long blocks from before take on an appearance of their own. A matte black pair of hooves materialize in your vision. Briefly, a memory of to what somepony said rings out, though you don't quite recall what it means. Something about...

"..hooves are magic?"

A sound suspiciously like a facehoof comes from above your visual radius. That obviously wasn't it. Blinking again, the pain seems to have faded enough to think clearly. The white and red oceans take up nearly all your visual acuity. In some form of distance, large areas of black appear, but you continue trying to direct your attention up. The voice is heard to sigh before you can ask what was out there. Although it's difficult to tell why, the speaker seems to relax in tone.

'Just.. don't talk, whatever you do, all right? Now look, I only have a limited amount of time. You are a mess. You're half blind and, well, I don't think you're ever going to win a beauty award. You probably never did before, but you definately WON'T win one after this. I can restore the eye, but the rest I don't even think the Goddesses can help with. Should they care, really, I mean, it would be wrong to assume they do, or even don't. So when you meet them, stay kind of, oh I don't know, neutral maybe? I'd rather not have any more issues than I do currently.'

One hoof slides closer towards you, making a strange crushing sound, the red and white merging together underhoof, forming a strange conglomeration as it does so. Apprehension wrenches at your mind, does the voice intend to kill, or something else? Something even worse than dying? Except you realize that you're not feeling anything. If that wasn't strange enough, you didn't even THINK about feeling pain until now, did you? This voice was new. It sounded a bit like a foal, maybe it was yours long ago. Another sigh from beyond. As much as you can, you strain your attentions outwards.

'Hmm. Well, you might not be too happy about this, but I'm going to borrow from someone else. I don't think they're in a position to negotiate, but neither are you. Only reason I'm doing this is, well, jealousy, really. Remember, it ain't the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop at the end. Although if you'd fallen much farther, I suppose you wouldn't even be alive, then I'd be sad. And you'd still be undead. Or undeader? I forget which one is which sometimes."

If the voice's owner really was reading your mind, it was reading you backwards. Or just testing the waters. It may not want to be infected with whatever else was wrong with you, the pessimist inside squeaked out.

'Here goes.' The pause deadens what you can, or rather, can't hear, as everything beyond the voice appears silent. 'You.. should try not to scream. Don't attract too much attention, really. I still have removal of myself as first priority from this little mistake.'

Mistake? Scream? The two words echoed against each other, sometimes entwining, other times disengaging from the others' presence entirely. The word removal felt cold, out of place, awkward. Like a nail in a coffin made for a spirit, a solemn, cloudy voice intoned.

'Oh, by the way! Someone said happy birthday, so today's your lucky day.' The approximation of a snort was added to the end, a bit of dry irony to an already worsening trend. 'Anyhow, stay still. Look at something, study it. Might make the process go smoother. For who, I don't know. Don't particularly care.'

Might as well do what the voice says. Carefully, you survey the hoof before you. It hasn't changed.. much. It's smaller, which means the concussion was wearing down. The hoff was connected to a subdued light green leg, the hair partially curved, possibly due to natural curling. Slim, slender, nothing like an earth pony leg, based on the dim memory of a large, muscular leg connected to an ochre hoof. Maybe it didn't exist, but here it was, an illusion in hoof.

The white and red tides, seeming to battle for superiority of which deserves your full attention come into focus: ash. Definately ash, all sorts of colors caused from black and white with little bits of something that look like charred paper scattered between you and the hoof. Looks a bit like the collision between night and day, another mental note comes out. The red, regardless of your concentration, remains unchanged, although it does have a strange sheen, like molten plastic. The voice jerks your attention back to the hoof, as if necessary to obey at all costs.

'Now, I can't promise you much of anything except, well, you're going to be a piece of patchwork. Hopefully this goes well, if not, eh, you'll survive.' An unspoken maybe hangs in the forefront of your mind, as if there were other possibilities. Anything would be better than the numb, distant suffering you know the rest of your body is experiencing.

A dark green glow surrounds the black hooves, reminiscent of leaves on certain large trees, or grass when viewed from a great distance, appears for a second, perhaps more, and fades swiftly.

"..not... so ba- uff? NnggGRRRRAAHAAAAAAA!"

It couldn't be helped. Within the instant the light disappeared, you realize the state of your body as tendons, muscle, and bone change, warping and twisting in ways you could never imagine. A torrential sheen of darkness clouds your sight, removing the hoof, leg, and ash completely.

'Oh for the sake of the Plot that must not be named, you just coul- I try to help and they always scream an- not good, someone's out there, too close. I did this much, so the rest is all on you. You owe me a favor now!'

Unable to heed the voice's words, collecting them to recall later, your sides heave inwards, lungs struggling to collect precious air in an attempt to scream again. The attempt fails as unrelenting pain wreaks havoc across who knows how many bodily and mental functions. This my friend is called a blackout, and normally it occurs when you drink way too many of those hard ciders, a creeping, irritating voice springs out of the rampant visions flashing through your mind; a blackout can also occur due to trauma, not excluding pain or severe injury such as burns, fractures, horrifying events... the thought dies, as does the concept of existence itself for a time.

***

You've survived, the final thought before pain overcomes your mind, and you've gained something valuable from your suffering.. but just what is it? You will either become much more resilient to physical harm, or be able to cast spells with greater speed and effect. Choose one, and choose carefully: Adept, Resilient.

One Last Job, Secondary Objectives

You have no idea how long you've been lying unconscious, only that the passage of time seems not to matter. Still heaving, you notice something strange. A lurking, creeping UP feeling emanating from beyond. Oh no, no, NO NO NO DON'T! You shut your eye tightly, hoping that it will keep whatever may still be left in your stomach to STAY THERE, DON'T DO THIS TO ME, I'VE TREATED YOU SO WELL AND NOW YOU TURN TRAITOR?!

...It works, for a moment. The feeling disappears, and is replaced with a sickening dread. What if whatever's trying to come up is killing you? You try and smash your head into the ground. yet something impedes your progress. That was probably for the best as you give into the humiliation and open your mouth. Several coughs occur almost instantly, a weakened, sickly sound, reminding you of someone's grandmother. Muscles unused in days, or perhaps eras, aid the rapid expulsion of something from a churning pit of disgust.

The act takes seconds, and a feeling of relief comes swiftly, though not to whatever it is you taste. What you dimly recall to once be fresh, sweet hay has somehow become rank and fetid. It looks terrible, black, slimy, and wholly disgusting, as if it were dredged straight from a long forgotten pit for storing treasonous hay and shoved into your stomach without your notice. That my friend, the creeping voice springs forth again, is an act called vomiting, it's a natural reflex to circumstances involving something foul including but not limited to: poison, rot, disease, or simply even a foul enough scent. The voice, at least, was right. How could something you ate turn rotten? The question stuns all mental processes with silence, not a single neuron sparking in that moment.

The sight is enough to make you close your eye and attempt to turn your head away from it.. it appears you are stuck. Wiggling your ears in a vain attempt at mimicking the pegasus reaction to fly away from danger, you open your eye, expecting to se- oh. Oh. Ohhh.. that was terrifying.  It's a horn from somewhere above you, impaled in the ground. An interesting shade of light ochre. Briefly you recall the taste and scent of iron, clay, loam, old friends from spending days sleeping under. The sensation briefly cools the riot occurring in your twisting stomach while you contemplate this.

After pushing away several thoughts, none of them good, you realize you now have no one chattering at you. The voice was probably gone. Discarding the idea of being stuck, you pull your head backwards and look above you at the dirt falling off in front of your muzzle, towards where you think the voice was. Not there, obviously. The owner must have left in a hurry, although you did expect to see a cloud of ash signalling the voice's exit. Curious as to the ash itself, you stare down into it. It's ash. Black. White. Grey. Leaning down, you stick your tongue out for a taste.. and promptly spit it out. Terrible, obviously. Briefly you realize that a horn is actually useful for something. Leaning your head down once more towards the ground, you wait until the thump occurs. A bit too quickly, really. You contemplate reaching up to check if the connection from your horn to your skull is bleeding, but ignore it, the pangs of recall and concentration sorting out several useful spells from the back of your mind.

"Hyr'lark," you whisper, the former crunching sound of your voice fading as the perception spell takes hold. Information floods your brain: wood, sheets of paper in several forms, clothing, furniture. Brief glimmers of a luxurious den room, fancy clothing, food that you've never seen before. What was once a building worth several hundred thousand bits had become little more than a miniature wasteland. This was definately not good, you realize, pulling your head up to sigh. This was going to be featured in the Canterlot News, big time.

Shaking your head again to force most of the ash and dirt from it, you breathe in deeply, turning your attention straight down into to the ever spreading red pool. The molten sheen has disappeared, but what replaces it is even worse.

"Blood? ..mine?" Startled for a moment, you jerk your head upwards, the sensation of strained and tired muscles in your neck screaming in protest. Well, now that's new, your voice is stronger.. but still sounds terrible, like one of the drunken stalkers you avoid in bars. Swivelling your ears from side to side, the protest from your neck ends and you breathe in once more, closing your eye again, opening wide moments later.

Clarity takes a life of it's own. You find yourself staring into the wreck of what was once either a factory, or a very large mansion. Definately a mansion, judging by the trace images of luxury and food from the perception spell. Ash from the sky drifts down around you. Swinging your gaze to the left and right, the pool of blood seems to have taken on a life of it's own, meandering like a new spring on a mountainside through the ashes surrounding you.

"There's no way I could have bled that mu-" Fright takes over. You close your teeth over your tongue, hard, just enough to stave off the voices bubbling up. Moments or minutes pass, and you release your bite. Curiously it doesn't hurt as much as you would've thought. Enough, find out where you are. You do what you can mentally, telling each voice to stuff a hoof up their collective plots or lacks thereof, and slowly open your eye, noting that your other eye does not function at all. Get to that later, you're half blind, not full like a bat during the daytime.

Still staring over the smoking ruins, certain details call out to you, namely the piles of ash indicating previously large amounts of wood. Smoke still rises from several of them, but fewer than expected, judging by the scents still wafting about. Perhaps the fire had been over for a time, though that doesn't explain how long you've been where you are. The entrance pad was simply two offset rows of flowers, now scorched and mutilated by heat to the point where they would not regenerate. Six pillars of either stone or a non-flammable material still stood, though they were likely unsafe to stand by. A lone brick structure still stood in the ruins, possibly a fireplace, too blackened to tell. What appears to be a stand for something remained in front of the bricks. Your lack of depth does not allow further inspection. Time to ignore the ruined building and see just how ruined you are.

Pulling your head up further, ignoring the voiceless protests generated by every tendon and strand of muscle, you twist your neck back amid several creaks to look at your body. Lying on your side, obviously. Your coat is a deep shade of red, one that definately strikes you as burnt, though it was difficult to recall what color it had been. Painfully aware that you shouldn't strain too much more, you mind the fact that your leg was hitched upwards a bit too far to see what your cutie mark was. That is, if you have one, a pleasant, but bossy voice chides you. An item of interest slowly creeps into your conscious mind, and you look above your twisted leg.

Lying directly behind and to your side, facing opposite of you is.. a corpse. Your eyes settle on the pleasing light royal blue hoof, attached to an even more impressive shade that  you recall to be regal blue. Oddly enough, there wasn't a burn on most of the flank. You shake your head side to side momentarily, and stop, studying the size and shape of the leg. Curiousity takes hold, your mind forcing your eye to travel closer towards her.. tail.... Female. Definately female. Depending on tastes, quite pleasing to stare at, not that you haven't done so before. Briefly you wonder what she tasted like. No doubt worth a try.. but, this wasn't the time to be admiring a dead pony's ass, a chiding tone you know is yours snarks. You feel a strange pang as the word 'necrophilia' enters your mind, and exits just as quickly to stand off stage.

Gazing up further to what remains of the cutie mark: the bottom half of a strange symbol, maybe an equation, one that your mind, or minds perhaps, don't seem to have any comments on. The top half of her cutie mark, as well as the rest of her body with the exception of her chest and stomach area, was a charred mess. She must have weighed half as much as yourself, you calculate, but it would be impossible to know for sure. The perception spell would probably tell you a bit TOO much, in this case. Your eye drags it's attention down to a rent in her belly, jagged and scorched as if a flaming blade had slashed her open. Immediately noticable are the ruins of what you believe to be her intestines protruding, a dark red sheen covering the strangeness of organs just happening to be pointed in your direction. Were they pointing, or just draped towards you? Perhaps her guts were identifying you as her killer.

All mental functions cease. DID YOU KILL HER? Another voice.. this one shrill, terrified. Not yours either. This one was female as well, young, strong, and debatably cute in a way. If she wasn't dead you'd stud her, regardless of the screaming and crying she'd give you. For a moment you ponder the idea of transplanting the voice into the math pony's body and solidly ramming what was left of it. The idea was immediately discarded, that would take work, possibly a great deal of pain which wouldn't numb the fact you probably couldn't do so for long. Oh, don't forget being charged with the crime of desecration. That's still a banishment offense even for a Magic Kindergarten reject like you.

The notion of another pony dead next to you causes a start, forcing you to jerk upright. Don't look at the ground, ignore your legs, you don't need to see them unless you break one. Forget the thought of fucking what's left to extra fine ashes, why precisely was she dead? And what would anyone other than the voice that repaired part of your body think? A charred pony, a formerly large torched building, and you, awake and alive. Questionably alive really, seeing as how the longer you continue to stare at the charred remains of another pony, the more you consider fleeing this damn place, anywhere but here. Las Pegasus, maybe. Lots of ponies there who wouldn't ask questions. Or even Cloudsdale, they had a tendency of looking the other way, especially if a few bits were involved. A plan begins to form, running to safety for a few weeks, but is rudely interrupted by the soft, velvety crunching of ash.

Just outside of your vision behind the dead and yet still eligible mare, a large spreading shadow erupts from in front of what you realize is a hill a short distance away, with tall grass flanked by trees. Why had this detail been ignored for so long? A burst of recalled images reminds that you memorized how this entire area looked from within the forest. It was a massive circle, the perfect place to watch the comings and goings of ponies. That wasn't important, the creeping voice chided in, what's important is the thing that looks like a demented ground slung toxic fog with glowing eyes is expecting you to stop shitting yourself in it's presense. Wait a minute, you recall this once before, when she came back...

"Oh, buck, wait, this isn't wh-" The shadow expands to reach several feet in front of you. In that instant you can sense and even smell the urge to strike out at you from within. The scent of adrenaline and your own feeble attempt at a cold sweat go unnoticed. She was not amused, nor was she hesitating. If she wanted you dead already, you would have been killed without knowing it. Two bright eyes light a path through the cloud, revealing a muzzle that nopony could forget.

"Well, thou hath made a fine mess of such a simple request. If thou hath forgotten the proper use of the concoction that mayeth prevented such catastrophe, We suggest returning thyself to the hut in the Dark Forest. Perhaps there thou can remedy such a situation. We hath urged thee to heed the zebra's instructions, hath we not?"

Princess Luna, the former Nightmare in the Moon, was staring directly at you. The long shapely horn, no longer hidden by the cloud, was nearly obscene in it's length since her returned days in Equestria. For a moment you sense another part of you brimming with envy. Just as quickly as it starts, it ends as the stare intensifies. Her eyes glowed an awful starlight, at once too bright, and too dim to detect what she was thinking. The slight tug on her muzzle however, possibly hiding a sick amusement at your failure, said it all: you fucked this one up royally, but there was a suicidal option to regain OUR favor. Both of her wonderful blue ears flicked forwards, as if awaiting a further response. Thankfully unseen, one of her hooves stamped the ground while you struggled to come up with any quick explanation that didn't end with her steel-shod hooves up your ass and being sent to the Moon immediately afterwards.

"Now arise. What hath happened, We shall ignore this. We doth not know what hath occurred to thee, yet it appears thine had aid. While fortune favored thee, thou should hath taken the concoction with thee. As it appears, you require Our aid to reach the zebra. Taketh one trinket from Our offerings, but do not let others take it from thee lest thy life truly end."

A chuckle was thrown from the cloud at you, with a bag following directly into your face. Perfectly aimed of course, striking your muzzle dead on. It didn't hurt much, except your pride. That would probably not recover for a while. Gazing downwards you note a somewhat worn saddlebag, black and blue with an obvious nighttime pattern, possibly mirroring what you may end up looking like, chained in a dungeon somewhere. She had Night Guards with her, though. That changed the equation. They were enjoying this humiliation of yours obviously. You felt you could kill the one that threw the bag at you.. but not three. Or however many more were hidden from your senses. Or this Princess. Or the OTHER Princess. Especially not in this shape, crumpled on the ground, devoid of everything but your wits and possibly a dislodged tooth.

As if reading your mind, a mild snort occurs, the blackened muzzle, face, ears, and eventually the blue eyes of a Night Guard appear from the same spot the saddlebag was hurled. Stepping out from the cloud, the Guard paused halfway out, turning it's masked face towards Princess Luna. You sense an unspoken command between the two as the Night Guard turns it's attention towards you again. What surprises you the most is the expression given to you isn't one of pity or even irritation. It was BOREDOM, the most dangerous of all emotions.

-Can we get on with this?-

Startled, your eye widens instinctively, staring at the unblinking eyes meeting yours before turning your head towards Princess Luna. It was... not right. Speaking directly into your own private thoughts? On cue, the Night Guard cocks her head to one side, drawing your attention once more. Briefly parting one side of her lips, drawing it up into a quirky half-sneer, neither intimidating nor threatening. Some feral portion of your mind dating back millennia notices the sharpness of the teeth, proclaiming the high probability of danger or at least potential consequences later. After several moments spent being itemized like a hawk considering whether the snake is worth his time or not, the Guard cranes it's head towards the sky, letting loose a nightmare shriek. Claws of ice reach around your heart and squeeze as the sound drags on.

Reeling your head backwards, the sound seems to never end. The flight/fight impulse forces you to automatically collect your legs underneath and push upwards with a mighty shove, although once on your hooves, tremors begin in your legs, forcing you to shake in place impotently. This is a test of the emergency broadcast system, the creeping voice seems to grin as it speaks inside your head, had this been an actual emergency, that sound would have ended with the guard's hoof in your ass and more being on the Moon. Ignoring the voice, you realize the amount of sweat built along your neck and sides has reached critical mass. The shriek ends as you turn your head away.

-Finally awake? Still bored.-

Just a warning, just a warning, it was just a warning, don't ignore them so blithely. Grimacing to yourself, your head drops. You think it'll strike the ground, but only the wearying sensation of sore tendons greets you. This must mean it's time to hoof it, before you get hoofed, even though that's never happened yet. Picking your head up slowly, you realize the sneer has returned. Perhaps the guard is merely amused at your situation. To the side, Princess Luna exhales, stamping the ground once more to gain your attention.

"Acceptable performance, servant. Twisted Wing will appear whence you summon her if need be with the bell, take it first. Keep her not near others, for this must be kept as close to thine heart as a hidden blade. Arise, and continue thy work. Accept thine trinket after Our parting, yet be careful what thou doth chooseth. We are leaving, it is suggested thou do the same."

Before you can ask what the buck she means by summoning, the cloud envelops the Guard and Princess Luna, melting into the landscape with a swiftness that stuns your perceptions. Invisibility perhaps, or a silent, non-flashy teleport? Puzzled, you cannot sense where they went within the area. That would be neat spell to have, but would likely cost more bits than you could scrounge up in a month. Grimacing at the thought of money, you decide to think onwards, now that you can stand, albeit at the price of your dignity, shattered into a million pieces. That would make a wonderful abstract piece somewhere.

Tentatively, you glance downwards, wondering if the rest of you was intact. After a close inspection of your front legs, you realize some of your warped coat was straight, some of it wavy. A close memory bubbles up in your mind's eye: the dead mare's coat was wavy as well, though much shorter than yours. The voice stated it was taking from someone else, likely the mare. She was dead, you were probably burnt to the point of no return, without intervention that is. Giving a short sigh, you banish the image, still thinking out the Princess's words. Something about taking a bell and choosing from trinkets.

An energy source directs your eye to where the Night Guard had stood. There was a gaudy little bell in one of the hoofprints, one similiar to those that rich ponies usually stuck on cat collars. Six colors were interwoven across it's surface, the foremost being purple, then blue, red, yellow, orange, and a crisp, pure white. Immediately you realize the double standard of calling one of Equestria's most dangerous guardians with an obtuse item, as if owning the time she would have to spend with you, as well as such a Faust-awful bell in your possession proclaiming such ownership. Moreover, it would elicit very little suspicion, easily passed off as something you'd picked up off an antique dealer or a savvy street vendor. Forcing a short kinesis spell, you lift the bell up to you, careful not to make a sound, and sniff it. Nothing. Maybe it was just created for you, although once you reached a library, it would be best to check and see if any enchantments were tuned to it.

You approve of it's design, and force a small item teleport of the bell into the saddlebag nearly forgotten out of your vision. A pop of air bent and distorted by magic later, the bell was stored. Belatedly, you realize you ought to be wearing the bag, and wearily sigh. Losing your touch, possibly. Or your mind. Both would occur at this rate. "Var'el!" Somewhat gruffly spoken, the saddlebag drops onto your back with a loud crunch, the violent disappearence scattering a plume of ash where it once sat. It was light enough you doubted that it carried anything else. Shaking your sides a bit to check, no other sound than a curt rustling and a tiny ring is made. Although the lack of weight and having a bag to store shinies in is nice, you wish for some food. Glancing about, nothing appears. Ash all around the clearing, green trees of a decidious nature, and a ruined husk of a building. Wishing and having were two different things. Resigned to the fact you'd stay hungry, you had a decision to make.

Peering where the Princess stood, you note three items. The first was a double set of stacked and spiked silver pegasus shoes, likely more than just a decoration judging by the iridescent luminance they give off. Nifty, and highly expensive, but they would be a bit hard explain where they'd come from. Few except the seedier denizens of Las Pegasus knew what they were for, excluding you of course, what with a cloud walking spell being simple enough for you to use without an intonation, and lots of bits to pry secrets from drunks more set on forgetting their past than guarding their future.

Lying next to the set was something you hadn't expected to see: a dull, partially scorched and chipped, white horn guard. A magic condom, really, though one that had probably been abused a bit much judging by it's shape. Might have even been one of Luna's former Night Guards. The innate enchantments allowed a horn guard to adjust to the size of a unicorn's upper prong, while adding to the appeal of the lower, more important and fleshy one, such prized posessions they were. Despite the fact it would reduce the likelihood of premature detonations, most ponies didn't like extra-credit insertions with electricity or ice for extra effects. The thought of utilizing a horn guard made you chuckle, your former teacher would probably drop dead at the sight of you not failing a mildly difficult spell. There was something partially hidden behind it, however.

Shuffling forwards a bit, you extend one hoof towards the horn guard and roll it over. Underneath lies a thin, short metallic blade, connected to a rounded plug. At least, you thought it was a plug. Craning your neck down you realize it was a biteblade, meant to be concealed and used with the strong neck muscles of an earth pony. Originally an invention from before the war of the Lunar Republic and the Solar Empire, biteblades had fallen out of favor, and eventually service, what with Celestia having shed some of her more martial aspects.

A single weapon for earth ponies, pegasi, and unicorns, all would fit you well, but would cause trouble in different regions. Now, what to choose?