"That was nice what you did for that mare."
You keep walking, hoping Pinkie will drop the point. After meeting Candrian, the panicked mare had been effusive in her gratefulness, something that leaves you feeling on edge. It makes you worry. What sort of being would feel uncomfortable doing something nice for someone?
"Well like you said, that was a diversion. I'm more concerned about finding this Blueblood. Do you have any idea where to find him?"
"Nooooooooo..."
You give Pinkie a long look. She's refusing to meet your eyes, and shifting nervously from hoof to hoof. You could force it, but...well, it'll come out eventually.
Or you could go about it sneakily, you think, catching sight of the Gathering Dust Bar. Iggy had said Blueblood brought the Dustmen corpses, so someone might know about him.
"Well, I think we might check in to see if your friends know about him."
"Nonono, they won't know anything." Pinkie drops and wraps her hooves around your legs, entangling you and slowing your movements. At your continued gaze, she sighs. "Look, they don't like me much. Say I don't have the right attitude. I do, you know. I think it's important for people to move on. But...why can't we have fun here first?"
Her eyes widen as she explains, bright blue irises seeming to make the plea for her. Don't take me in there. You sigh.
"Look, I think I do need to go in there. I'm sure someone would know about Blueblood. But you can wait out here and stay out of trouble."
Pinkie shoots to her hooves and raises one in a salute. "Can do!"
You approach the door to the bar slowly. The bar is built solidly, like the Mortuary itself, with a heavy wood door that very definitely divides the inside from the outside. The Dustmen, it seems, like good metaphors.
A hand on your shoulder arrests your movement. You pause and turn. The woman, a human or something like it, offers you a pleading gaze, even and green and framed by matted greying hair. "Please, ma'am, can you help me?"
You take a step away. "I'm sorry, I don't have any money on me."
She laughs in response. It is a bitter sound. "Money enough we have, but I'd see it gone. It's my husband, Angyar. He sold his body to the Dustmen after his death, but he can't bear the thought of it any longer. They won't take the money back, and it's driving him mad."
"And what do you think I can do?"
"I saw you with that Dustman," the woman says, pointing back at Pinkie Pie, who has managed to get into an argument with a unicorn with striking purple hair. "Surely you can beg some favor from them..."
You're aware of tugs of thought at the woman's plea. What can she give you for it? Why should you help her? She's told you of gold she has; you could kill her and take it. Why should you risk the ire of the Dustmen when you need a favor from them?
You struggle and force the thoughts away. What has she done to deserve violence, selfishness, in response to her plea? And if the Dustmen see you poorly for helping her, maybe Pinkie's right.
"I can try," you say.
The bar is uniformly lit, furnished with sturdy tables and serviceable chairs. Everything has the patina of age, but also of great care. You suppose it’s to be expected from people who embalm and reanimate the dead. Everyone within, whatever species, is dressed in shapeless grey robes. Before you can scan the inhabitants for some sign of who might be able to help you, a slender, dark-skinned human in the common grey cloak approaches.
“Hello, stranger. Are you one of the Dustmen?”
“No. Is that a problem?”
He shakes his head. “The Dustmen welcome all people, because the journey to True Death is one all living things follow. Are you familiar with our philosophy?”
You offer him what you hope is a friendly smile. “Some of it. You think people need to embrace death?”
“Not exactly. People must learn to accept the inevitability of death, so that they can pass from this world with a sense of peace. Have you given thought to the importance of seeking a peaceful death?”
“It’s an attractive concept, but one...I’m having trouble with.” The message on your back warned you not to tell anyone about your fate. But as long as you don’t tell him you can’t die, it should be alright. “But then...so does someone else I met. He signed a contract with you, but he’s regretting it now.”
“We really don’t renege on our contracts,” the man says. “Quite a few people have used them as a means of a short-term loan-”
“But what if a man dies when driven to complete distraction by a contract he regrets? What happens to him then?”
The man’s demeanor slips; he frowns momentarily. “Are you saying this man’s peace is disturbed by his contract?”
“He’d never achieve the rest of True Death,” you add. “I don’t think that’s the sort of thing you should be doing here.”
He gives you a long, speculative look. “Are you certain you are not one of us?”
There is a brief moment of disconnect from the present.
“And in conclusion, you do not exist.”
The man standing across from you pales. “But if that’s right, I can’t be standing-”
He vanishes without further fanfare, and the spectators explode into applause.
“I...am a student of philosophy,” you reply shakily.
“I would not wish to debate you where the stakes were higher,” he says. “Fine. What is the man’s name?”
“Angyar.”
He produces a piece of paper. “Take this, then. Tear it up, do what you like with it. And if you are ever ready to learn more about True Death-”
“I’ll come back here.” You start to turn, but then pause, remembering your original mission. “Look, do you know anyone in here who knows anything about Blueblood?”
“King of Thieves?” he asks. “Talk to Emoric; he might be willing to offer you some help.” He points to a stocky pale, hairless human man sitting at a table by the far end of the bar.
The man doesn’t look up until you’re by his side, and then does with an even, unimpressed expression. “Ma’am?”
“Hi. My name is...Faust. I’ve been trying to track down someone, and I wanted to know if you could help.”
“I am not a town crier,” he replies. “I’m not in the mood to dispense information to every berk who wanders through my bar.”
You glance at his tabletop, and catch sight of Blueblood’s name, and an official-looking signature. “I’ve heard you’ve been having problems with him…”
The man glares at you, and then, with a glance down to his workspace, shuffles the papers together and away from you. “Well, that may be. But unless you’re offering to spy on him for me, I’m not seeing how you knowing that is relevant.”
“I could. What’s the problem?”
He gives you a long look before sighing. “He’s been providing us a steady stream of bodies. Most of the time, we don’t worry overmuch about that, but he has provided us with...quite a lot of bodies. I need someone to find out how and where before the Lady shows up asking who’s been committing mass murder.”
"And where would I find him?"
"Ragpicker's Square," the man replies. "It's somewhere beyond the northeast of the Hive. Come back when you have some useful information."
When you step back outside, it's to see a unicorn mare with an elegant purple mane slapping Pinkie. "And if I see you again, it'll be more than a slap you get!" she snaps.
Pinkie is grinning at the retreating mare as you approach. "What did you do?"
Pinkie shrugged. "Some ponies just can't take a joke."
"Well come on, we've got to find Blueblood."
"Ooh! I bet you got a lead in the bar! Did you get any sidequests?"
Pinkie's strange enthusiasm makes you smile. "Sort of. We're supposed to find out where Blueblod gets his bodies. I figured we'd take a look."
Pinkie lets out a dismissive grunt. It's unusually taciturn, so you take notice. "What is it?"
"This sounds like a big quest. We might need companions...anyway, what class are you?"
"Class?"
Pinkie rolls her eyes. "A lot of unicorns are magic users. But I haven't seen a spark out of you."
Magic...the word sends shivers down your spine, even though you've no idea how you'd go about magic. "You think anyone would teach me?"
Pinkie bounced up, grinning. "You could see my old teacher. I think she lives around here, but be warned: she's crazy."
You pause mid-step, seriously considering the statement. But the allure of power...true power...proves too much. “All right. I’ll bite.”
“Not on the first date, silly!”
“Anyway, where’s this teacher of yours?”
Pinkie shrugs. “Who knows? Witches are really mysterious - off to Mars, the Astral Plane, whatever, whenever they want. Lucky I’m a bard, right?”
You let that go for the sake of your sanity. But you do wonder if there’s a way to forcibly drain the knowledge you need out of Pinkie’s head. You let that thought go at the suspicion that thinking too hard about it might release a memory of having used such a spell on someone in the past. You’re beginning to seriously worry about what sort of person - well, pony - you were before you lost your memory.
“Well, if we can’t find her, I can’t learn magic. What’s next?”
“Pfft, can’t find her? What are you talking about?” Pinkie raps a hoof against a nearby door, causing it to swing open with an ominous creak to reveal a dimly-lit, smoky void. “Hilllda!”
“Is that you, Pinkie?” A blond woman with wild hair appears within the darkness, shrouded in dark cloth. She blinks at the pink pony before glancing at you.
Her eyes widen and she recoils. “Whoa! Pinkie, I told you: no zombies! Sure, they seem fun at first, but then they start shedding body parts into the punch at parties, forget what they’re doing when they enter a room, and it all goes downhill from there. I swore I’d never do that again, and wouldn’t let my students do it, either. Unless it seems like it’ll be really funny.”
Pinkie giggles, shaking her head. “Oh, she’s not a zombie. I think. Or she’s not my zombie. Plus she hasn’t tried to eat my brain or anything. Or am I thinking of those squid-thingies?”
“I’m not a zombie,” you say. “I think. Look, the point is, Pinkie said you can teach me magic.”
Hilda sniffs and grabs you, holding you at arms’ length. “Well, it’s a possibility. You’re a unicorn, which is a good start. But I’ve gotta see you’ve got the stuff. I’ve three mystical tasks to send you on. First, find a guy named Giscorl and pick up my laundry.”
“What.”
“Okie dokie lokie!” Pinkie grabs your tail in her mouth and bounces away, forcing you to follow rather than have your tail ripped off. Once out of earshot, you whirl on her.
“Can you explain why we’re following the insane ramblings of that woman?” you demand. “She’s asking us to do laundry!”
Pinkie shrugs. “If Hilda asked you to do something, she’s got a good reason for it. Or she thinks it’s funny. Or she forgot to do her laundry. Or she-”
“I get the point,” you growl back. “Let’s find this guy.”
“Ooh! Let me!” Pinkie bounces elastically on her hooves, grinning ear-to-ear. “I’ve got bonuses to my Bardic Knowledge in Canterlot. Plus, I know everybody!”
Given that you don’t even know yourself, this seems like it might be a marginally better idea than trying it on your own. Several hours later, during which Pinkie drags you through the two bars in the immediate vicinity, a marketplace, and back through the Mortuary (you have to talk to everyone, silly!, she explains), you finally find a wild-eyed man sitting before a clothes washer, obsessively scrubbing some grey cloth up and down.
“Um, hi?” He barely offers you a glance as he continues scrubbing. “Hilda sent us?” The man doesn’t give notice. “Hey? Hey!”
He still doesn’t respond. You grab the cloth away from him, but he still doesn’t notice, continuing to absent-mindedly scrub his hands.
You turn to Pinkie. “Can you do anything?”
She shrugs. “Already tried a Charisma check. He’s pretty out there.” But at a pleading glance from you, she crouches down, takes a deep breath, and you realize you should have covered your ears.
“HEY! WE’RE HERE FOR HILDA’S LAUNDRY!”
The man pauses, looking up at Pinkie. “I washed it and scrubbed it,” he says. “Wash and scrub every five days. Wash and scrub. Wash and scrub.”
“That’s nice, but we really need Hilda’s laundry.”
The man fixes you with a long stare. “I’ll go get it.” He slips into a small tent, returning a moment later with a stack of cloth that is heavy and stiff with repeated washing. “Now got to get back to work,” he mumbles, sitting back at the washer and returning to intense scrubbing.
You stare down at the board-stiff cloth, wondering if Hilda will mark you down for the condition of the cloth. But still, all she did was ask you to get it.
But you can’t help but look back at Giscorl, wondering what made him so weird, and what Hilda’s doing asking him for help.
Her house is easier to find this time, and she accepts the cloth without a comment about it. But she does wink at you and say, “Now I’ve got a thing I’d like you to get for me.” She produces a small, thorned seed, and hands it to you. “Can you see if anyone can get you the plant this seed grows from?”
Two hours later, you still have no idea. The herb sellers tell you to ask the fruit sellers, and the fruit sellers tell you to ask the flower sellers, and the flower sellers send you to the vegetable sellers, who suggest you talk to the herb sellers…
You slam into the Smouldering Corpse Bar an hour after that because learning magic isn’t teaching you anything except that you need a drink.
The inside is much the same as before. Your eyes drift across it, resting briefly on the pegasus who Pinkie had offended. Recalling Candrian’s words, you wonder why he called her lonely. She watches the bar with a distant impassiveness, no, disinterest. She doesn’t care about any creature in it. You don’t imagine those magenta eyes can reflect any emotion as mundane as affection.
A surge of something pushes you in her direction, a sense of empathy or deja vu, you’re not sure. No memory overwhelms you, but there is something familiar about the sharp-edged magenta glare you get as you approach.
“What the hay are you doing here?”