Sonata walks next to Adagio, trying in vain to get her to hug her, or something... it's definitely not to shield her from the cold. She's scared. I'm on Adagio's other side, shivering under my stupid dress. It's so cold even when nothing falls from the sky and frost crunches underhoof as we walk closer to the two shapes waiting for us at the fence in the distance - the one made of rocks and mud that marks the next property.
This whole town was under our enchantment, and I bet the whole country was too. My contributions to the plan had dwindled to 'behind the scenes' work as Adagio had termed it. I call in manual labor. I guess I didn't mind. I was good at it.
I really didn't mind much any more.
But I did mind them.
I didn't have much heart to glare at the figures or to even pay attention to the loyal soldiers of Adagio's - ponies whose eyes glowed with a faint green hue if approached and acted normal until we sang or commanded them. One even carried a pitchfork, which was a far cry from the swords of legend, but I'd stopped believing anything in those was ever true. They were just stories... and stories were just like the lies I told Sonata, and everything else that was equally false about ponies, and life or whatever else I could manage to say was otherwise.
I didn't say much any more.
These two faces belonged to our foes. The first was that of one of the magic ponies - the only ones I believed could ever do something. He was old - at least to me - and ugly. His deep set eyes looked like they had been wasted squinting at papers in the dark rooms of these awful buildings, where a firepit's light wasn't much of a difference at all from pitch black coldness in the night hours. Yet I heard that magic ponies could make lights instead of burning peat all the time and I think I remember something very long ago about such a thing in the village...
But this stallion sure was something. Blech. The bags under his eyes were almost ink-dark and his coat was a light, washed out purple-ish hue. His mane and tail were the undistinguished white of snow, but weren't matted into one mass and crusted with as much filth as the ponies here had their manes, tails, and beards. Maybe he remembered to brush it a bit once every few years.
Over his eyes were flowing eyebrows as white as his mane narrowed with annoyance and the same haughtiness I had seen in Adagio so many times.
He wore a silly costume of blue with yellow stars and bells and a hat so tall I suspected he might be hiding something under it.
His beard was what caught my eye - it was like someone stuck seafoam on his jaw, curtains and curtains of it. Why did he have such a large beard? Did he truly enchant the foam from the long-gone seas to sit upon his face? No pony had such locks here. He looked as if he could trip over that beard. Was the strange mark these ponies get for performing well at some service - the one that sat upon his flank - for beard growing? I couldn't see the thing under his robe.
When he mutters to his companion his voice is very low and gruff like he can't shake some horrible cough or he's only been drinking rusty nails - an item of luxury held by the nobility in this country, which the non-magic and wingless ponies will often kill for - for his entire life.
I recognized him as the famed wizard of the Unicorn Tribe, Starswirl the Bearded. They say he's of noble blood and has the best magic skill out there. I think he's senile.
His companion however is a whole 'nother story. Based on the way this Starswirl guy treats him, I'd say he's some kind of servant.
I don't even know what he is. He walks on two legs with these freaky digits on the free ones. His muzzle is thinner and angular with sharp teeth in plain view. His fur is mud brown and he has two horns Does that make him more magical? How had the ponies here not tried to round him up and dismember him? That's what usually goes on when they see strange creatures, when they show up at all. I've heard that entire villages of these plain ponies will be devoured by grown dragons they anger and attempt to kill, and how they shriek and cry because something that shows up every few generations and haunts their stories is beyond their understanding. I see ponies with hollow eyes who tell me about fire pushing past snow to melt the flesh of a comrade.
I then see the freaky wings at this creature's back - they look like heavy cloth! Of course these ponies wouldn't be able to bother him - he can fly! I still wonder why the unicorn has him around when they're the worst offenders in being prejudiced.
This creature's voice is low and young. Starswirl calls him 'Scorpan'. What does that mean? Is he a scorpan? What was he named after? I've never heard of a scorpan. Maybe that's his tribe - the unicorns are probably wealthy enough to have tribes of servants.
Starswirl looks from the scorpan, burdened with bags and meek in appearance despite the strange looks he has, to us with a quick look of sour impatience. What does he think we're going to do?
Adagio gives Sonata and I a quick look that tells us that this is important, and that we should prepare to sing as soon as we can. I shrug and look over to these freaks again while Sonata nods dutifully.
Starswirl's impatience borders on anger until he sees Sonata and leers at her and Adagio, yet the smiling part seems so fake while all the creepiness is doubled. My blood boils. Why did that dunce have to be so pretty to these stallions? If she wasn't than we wouldn't have half the problems we do now.
The wizard speaks a few words - like the stallions I pull Sonata away from - that make me want to hit him too. Sonata blinks in confusion as Adagio holds me back before tossing me to the bewitched ponies she brought with us. They're unusually strong and I hate being held in their filthy hooves, and kick and scream insults at the wizard I learned from the sailors of long ago and watch as his face reddens, and he starts to scream back until neither of us can hear one another above the noise until a high note from Adagio pierces the air, and she makes a signal with one of her hooves.
Starswirl lights his horn, spitting that I'm an insolent whore, but Adagio is the real whore.
The scorpan takes to the air, and he has an odd look of regret to him.
We sirens three begin to sing.