//------------------------------// // Feathered Friends // Story: Raven Hollow 2: The Riddles of Blackmoor // by Magic Step //------------------------------// You close your eyes and swiftly consider the likeliest possibility. If her father was three when her mother was one, then the next year, he would be four and she would be two. Do the math... “Your mother is fifty years old,” you say, opening your eyes again. Fabric Study smiles. “Wow, that was fast. Barely had to think about it.” “Simple math,” you say, smiling slightly. “Good, because math is kind of what I have to speak to you about. Math and puzzles. And brothers. I’ll start at the beginning.” She slides to one side of the bench and taps a hoof next to herself. You take her invitation and sit down next to her. Fabric Study shoos Faithful Aide with one hoof. The servant bows and heads back into the house, giving you a look like you’re a speck of dust on the countertop. You try to ignore the look. “Okay,” Fabric Study says. “My family has a tradition. Our ancestor, Mathematical Study, was a bit eccentric. He had something that was valuable and decided to hide it behind a door that was locked with his favorite riddle. His daughter, Plant Study, loved her father very much and thought that this puzzle thing was a good idea, so she built a puzzle to hide the door. Then her own children added more, and soon it was a family tradition; each generation has added their own puzzle. When we turn eighteen, we try to solve all the puzzles set up so far.” “And… you want my help solving it?” you ask, briefly wondering why puzzles have become such a huge part of your life “Kind of,” Fabric Study admits, sucking on her lower lip “It won’t be my turn for another few years. But…” She hesitated, rubbing her hooves together as though for warmth. You wait in silence; you’ve done enough interrogations to know that the natural desire to fill silence with words is a powerful motivator for ponies to reveal whatever secrets they’re ready to spill “It is my brother’s turn,” Fabric finally said. “And… and I feel like something’s off about him lately.” Now this sounds more like normal private detective work. “What do you mean?” Fabric Study hugs her forelegs to herself, and her voice grows quiet and slower. “I mean, I don’t really know for sure something’s wrong. But he used to not care much about the tradition at all, then suddenly he was counting the days until it came.” Then more details pour out of her in a rush, like she’s afraid if she doesn’t say everything fast, she’ll forget something important. “And he’s been out late at night more often than normal, and stopped talking to me about where he’s been, and his friends haven’t seen him much, and when they have seen him he was in the company of ponies who weren’t from around town, and we don’t get many of those. And they looked shady.” “You’ve already talked to him and your parents?” you ask. Fabric Study fiddles with the sleeve of her rose-red dress. “He just gets defensive whenever I ask. He’s told mom and dad he’s just practicing fencing with a new club and they’re too happy that he’s finally taking his study seriously to question it too much.” “In denial. Brilliant.” You let out a long sigh. “So what do you want from me exactly?” “I want you to follow him. See if you can find out what… or who… is bugging him. And since he already left on the puzzle trail, that means we have to solve the first few puzzles to know where he’s going.” “And how do we start on that?” Fabric Study flips a blonde ringlet over her shoulder. “Well, every puzzle is based on the family member’s study somehow—Mathematical Study did something with math, Plant Study did something with plants, etc. So I assumed my dad, Avian Study, built his in the aviary. We should find it if we look around long enough.” And just when you thought that you’d left puzzles behind at Raven Hollow. Oh, well; you’re getting paid for it, right? “Worth a look, at least,” you say. “But… um… are there many ravens in your dad’s aviary?” Fabric Study slides off the bench and looks at you curiously. “We have a few that dad is banding, since there’s been a strange migration into the area this month, but we don’t keep them long-term. He’s more interested in tropical birds.” “Then this is… a bad place for that job isn’t it?” you ask, glancing out the window and noting the gray clouds streaking across the sky and the leaves in the trees shivering in the wind “Well, yes, he’d move to the tropics if he could, but the family home can’t be abandoned. That would mean he couldn’t add to the tradition.” Fabric Study approaches the double wooden doors of the aviary. Excessive chattering comes from inside as she pushes her way inside. As you follow, you gasp in surprise. The air is hotter and more humid than outside somehow. Plants unknown to you grow in abundance, from small, wavy-leaved bushes covered in red pom-pom like flowers, to tall palm trees, to spikey-trunked trees no taller than eye level with huge, drooping leaves. A dirt path leads throughout the aviary, splitting into three branches; one leads to a tall, wooden observation tower in the middle, another to an out of place grove of pine trees near one side of the aviary, and the third one to a set of feeders near another. A babbling brook runs through the aviary, with a small wooden bridge allowing visitors to cross over. Most of the birds seem to be hiding, since all you can see is a pair of adorably small and fluffy green birds who aren’t talking, but the squeaks and caws are deafening. “I’ll take the tower; you take the feeders,” Fabric Study says, clumping her way across the wooden bridge. You walk along the river path to the clearing, past a pond filled with blue and green waterfowl. They hiss and flap at you as you get closer. “Don’t mind me,” you mutter to them. “Just passing through.” The feeders are many and varied, from large boxes over trays full of seeds to scratching post shaped feeders crawling with bugs. Glittery pink and purple hummingbirds hover around a fake shrub with plastic flowers loaded with nectar. Toward the back is something like a rustic kitchen, with jars of berries, seeds, and bugs, a scale for weighing ingredients, plastic scoops, and a small fire crystal oven designed to work without electricity. To one side is a golden perch with a bell and a small feeding dish attached to it. A piece of paper lay folded on the table. You unfold the paper carefully; a cursory glance tells you this is probably the puzzle you’re looking for. “Hey, Fabric!” you call out. Some purple birds fly away at the sound of your voice. Her lavender hoof waves out from the observatory tower, then disappears. A minute later, she runs up to you. “You found it already? I knew hiring you would be a good idea!” “It was sitting out on this table. I’m sure you could have found it yourself if you’d tried.” You hold out the piece of paper. Fabric Study’s eyes flash momentarily in response to the jibe, but she nods when she sees it. “That does look like my father’s handwriting.” “And as for the puzzle?” She just shrugs. “Beats me.” “This is your family tradition and you’re not even going to try?” you ask, incredulous. Fabric Study shrugs, her rose red gown rippling at the shoulders. “I mean, if you need my help I will, but if you can solve this on your own, I’d rather wait until it’s actually my turn, if that’s okay.” You stay motionless. Yes, you can almost certainly solve this puzzle, but ever since the incident in Raven Hollow, puzzle solving hasn’t been the same. Just hearing one gets you in a weird state of mind where you can’t think of anything else except the puzzle, and if you don’t work on it fast as you can, you feel on edge; already you can feel your heart rate accelerating and the paper seems to burn in your hooves, demanding your attention. Maybe it’s lingering trauma from having lived through a situation where your life literally depended on puzzle solving. Or maybe it’s the effect of the sirenium... “Something wrong?” Fabric Study asks. Or maybe it’s your imagination. You shake your head, unwilling to explain this to her, unable to think of how to phrase it without sounding ridiculous. “No, it’s okay, I’ll solve it.” You place the piece of paper back on the table and study it closely. The Mimicking Angel’s Favorite Dish: Grind to a paste a number of greennuts equal to the number of cups of pearlseeds plus the number of rainbowberries. Add to this the scraped out insides of a number of avocados equal to the number of rainbowberries minus the number of raspberries. Mix in seven times as many sunflower seeds as the number of spoonfuls of maple syrup. Add as many ounces of honey as you added greennuts. Add half as many cups of pearlseeds as rainbowberries. Pour in as many spoons of maple syrup as the number of rainbowberries plus the number of avocados. Mash in half as many raspberries as the number of ounces of honey, and as many rainbowberries as the number of points on a compass. Bake for as many minutes as there are greenuts in the dish at a temperature equal to ten times the number of sunflower seeds. “So we’re feeding birds,” you say, rubbing your forehead. “What the heck is this going to accomplish?” “The puzzles are always supposed to work without someone around to run them, so we should just try it out,” Fabric Study says. “Thank you for this, by the way. I really appreciate this.” “Customer’s always right,” you mutter, looking over the bizarre instructions.