The Adventures of Flesh and Bone

by Meep the Changeling


1 - Tractor Pull Meets a Homeless Mare

Tractor Pull - 6th of Snowfall, 08 EoH

West Bloomfield - Equestria

The six-fifteen from Detrot pulled into the station amid a frenzied flurry of ice and snow. A hundred and fifty tons of steel, naval bronze, and glass screeched to a halt, brakes protesting violently against the ice buildup on the tracks. A similar train road these rails every three hours, a fact which mother nature took as a challenge. Each train always had fresh ice to stop on. Such was winter in West Bloomfield, the northwesternmost town in Equestria.

A few hundred ponies began to bundle up as the train slid to a stop in front of West Bloomfield’s aging train station. Overcoats, shawls, and business jackets were replaced by bulky quilted winter clothing almost like clockwork.

Living this far north required winter gear which simply couldn’t be worn indoors for long. The hour and a half long ride to and from Detroit was an hour and twenty minutes longer than even the toughest could wear full winter gear for.

The conductors knew their passengers would need nearly ten minutes to get ready to leave. In the northlands, you simply scheduled disembarking time a bit longer in the winter. It kept the passengers happy and was good for the engine too.

Any engineer could tell you how good a ten-minute rest is for an arcane boiler. Keeps the thermal crystals from aging prematurely. An old crystal wearing out mid-trip is exactly the sort of problem which leads to one train hitting another, derailment, or stranding hundreds out in the middle of nowhere in weather which will kill even the most able-bodied pony in mere minutes.

Weather like the blizzard which raged outside the comfortably heated train cars. The blizzard which had coated the train in so much ice Tractor Pull could only tell the train had stopped at the station and not broken down because of the dull orange glow of the platform’s galvanic lamps.

The tall stallion stood up amid the other passengers who were quickly but carefully donning their winter gear. He towered over most of them. Trac had always been the tallest in his class. The strongest too, even when his classes had been nothing but other earth ponies from the farms around town.

Trac didn’t look strong. Strong stallions never do. The common misconception of a strongman having bulging muscles and a chiseled physique wasn’t something Trac had encountered until he had started going to college in Detrot. Out in the wilds, everyone knew what true strength looked like.

A bit of bulk, little body fat, slight definition to the muscles, and flesh harder than a brick. Trac’s body was the kind which came from a lifetime of hard work. In his case, working as a field hand on a wheat farm ever since his fifth birthday.

“Morning, son. It’s time you started working.” No happy birthday. No presents. Only work.

The city ponies who went to college with him often made fun of him for looking skinny. Trac never said a word to them. They were the kind of people who had sculpted their bodies in the gym. The kind of people who worked out to look good. They were not his kind of people. His kind of people worked out because they had too.

“Two minutes till unboarding!” A conductor called from the front of the train, her slightly shrill voice managing to pierce through the dull buzz of conversing passengers like a bullet.

Trac shook himself awake. He had hadn’t fallen asleep, merely gotten lost in thought. A common problem for tired stallions who had spent the better part of two hours sitting in a seat and staring out a window while mentally writing a term paper.

That’s not enough time to properly get ready, he thought to himself as he quickly retrieved his clothing from his rucksack.

Light tan fur, dust-brown hair, an old faded gray-blue hoodie, and leaf green eyes were quickly covered by thick quilted arctic clothing. None of which matched.

Gray coveralls. A bright blue coat with a wolf-fur hood. Brown arctic boots. A red and white checkered knitted scarf. A white rabbit fur cap. Brown leather and brass snow goggles.

His overalls and coat were both denim on the outside, the only mercy his ensemble took upon the fashionistas of the world. Fortunately, fashion mattered little to anypony in town. West Bloomfield’s citizens were a practical minded people, unlike the ponies in Detrot.

Trac remembered the first winter day he had gone to school. Over a dozen people had gone into hysterics simply because he wore fur lined winter gear. It wasn’t as if Detrot was that much further south. The city’s winters were as severe as West Bloomfield’s. Yet they had still acted like he had walked into the room and promptly murdered someone.

“That used to be ALIVE, you know!”

“Fur is not a fabric.”

“Cruelty is one fashion statement we can do without.”

Stupid rich city-folk… Not everyone can afford your fancy synthetic materials and comfort enchantments. Trac thought to himself as he shouldered his rucksack and disembarked the train. Ice just builds up on anything else. Even synthetic fur. It’s not like the animals went to waste. Pegasi need to eat too.

His boots thumped against the ice-covered boards. The biting wind, which found every last gap in his hastily donned clothing, had long since blown away the morning snow. There was nothing but wind-slicked ice as far as the eye could see. Which wasn’t at all far. A safe, non-slick, walking surface might be a mere twenty steps away and Trac would never have known.

Of course, there wasn’t a safe patch of ground in the entire town during a whiteout. The moment a winter storm hit the sidewalks were not safe. It was just common knowledge in these parts. The roads were even worse.

Fortunately, Trac had planned ahead and had put the removable cleats onto his boots as soon as he took them off for the train ride. Doubly, he couldn’t afford a car and therefore wouldn’t have to try driving with razor-sharp ice crystals flying about like locus.

Many ponies in rural communities owned their own motor vehicles. Fertile land was rare in the northlands, even an earth pony skilled in the magical arts involving farming couldn’t make crops grow anywhere they wanted. As a result, towns could be as far as forty or eighty kilometers from the closer farms they served, with the furthest being up to a hundred and twenty klicks down the road.

No one wants to pull a cart that far. No one could afford to build railroads out to each farm for shipping goods. Bus routes, like you would see in cities, wouldn’t work for transporting eighty tons of potatoes to market. Subways were more expensive than railroads, and any wizard who could make stable portals would make far more selling their services to the military than farmers.

Therefore all manner of personal vehicles clogged rural streets as farmers came to town to sell goods or buy supplies.

Trac missed the roar of diesel engines, the soft chuffing of steam-powered cars, and the quiet hum of arcane engines as he slowly walked through town. The screaming roar of the blizzard was a poor substitute for the sounds of civilization.

Trac had a long walk ahead of him. Five kilometers through town, to the edge of Redleaf Forest, then a good way into the spruce forest to the log house Trac shared with his friend, Heated Retort. The log house was a fair way out of town, and a bit hard to find. Which is exactly why Trac loved living in it.

With each step through the town he couldn’t see, Trac’s thoughts turned more and more to home. Timber walls, trimmed with copper pipes which hid water lines and electrical cables. The warm orange glow of each room’s climate control runes. The oversized and overstuffed couch, draped in quilts. The fireplace in which Retort would already have a merry blaze burning away, with a small cauldron of alchemically enhanced coffee brewing away, waiting for his friend to return home.

I can almost taste it from here, Trac thought, smiling behind his scarf, immediately regretting opening his mouth as a gust of icy air forced its way down his throat.

Retort had always wanted to be an alchemist, but he’d never had the brains for an intellectual career despite being adept in the art of brewing potions. Retort could follow a recipe exactly, creating a perfect batch every time. But he simply had never been able to invent something new or mix elements from different recipes to suit his needs.

Instead, the shorter stallion had become a local deputy. The career suited him. He and Trac had become friends in high school. Retort wanted to stay on the baseball team, Trac liked writing history reports and could mimic other’s hoof writing perfectly.

Tractor Pull’s own talents lay in intellectual pursuits. A fact which had greatly disappointed his father.

“No son of mine is going to be some prissy bookworm!”

It was a shame his parents hadn’t embraced their son’s love of history. Trac’s mind was like a library. If he read it, the knowledge stuck in his mind forever. Every time he had gotten to go to town as a young colt, he had snuck off to Bloomfield’s tiny library and memorized books. Not for fun. Not for the sake of learning. But to escape the dismal place he lived in, and the terrible farm he lived on.

He’d read fantasy stories at first. If anypony had bothered to ask him Trac could recite over two hundred classical stories from memory, as well as any one of dozens of modern stories. But simply reading of someone else’s more exciting life wasn’t Trac’s style.

Eventually, he had turned to non-fiction. Histories. Engineering texts. Political manifestos. Everything someone would need to know to safely find, explore, and excavate ancient ruins. Ever since those days he’d spent hiding from his parents in the barn reading of ancient Roma, he had sworn he would one day be the one to find the lost city-state.

Now he was here. Walking home from college, halfway to having earned a Bachelors of Science in Archeology. He could have already been amongst the few brave souls who were exploring the remains of the Crystal Empire and other lands which never recovered from the Lich King’s reign of terror a thousand years ago. If only his parents had seen value in anything other than growing wheat.

I’ll be there soon. Two more semesters, then I can start looking for an apprenticeship, Trac thought to himself, smiling again despite what a bad idea it had been to open his mouth the last time. I wonder if dad will think differently of me if I wind up in the paper having recovered some one-of-a-kind ancient spell? Meh. Doesn't matter if he does. I’ll be happy.

A familiar wall of densely packed spruce and birch trees came into Trac’s view through the wall of ice shards which ripped and tore at his clothing like a sandblaster. Redleaf Forest. Eighty square kilometers of densely packed trees, bushes, and rare plants. Packed full of all manner of nasty critters, and even a few different species of monster.

Trac closed his eyes, grit his teeth, and unzipped his jacket slightly. The wind immediately plunged into the gap, making his entire coat billow and swell as frigid air immediately began to freeze his sweat.

Twenty minutes maximum. Don’t let yourself get frostbite again, Trac firmly reminded himself as he quickly trudged up the snow covered path.

The wind was far less severe once inside the forest. The tall trees absorbed and redirected some of the wind, permitting snow to remain beneath their branches and even on the well-trodden path to the scattered homes built within the forest.

It was still a solid forty below, and the wind was still more than agonizingly cold. Unzipping one’s jacket was suicidal. Unfortunately, so was leaving one’s jacket closed.

Trac’s eyes scanned the entirety of the dark forest, as he walked up the path. He looked between every set of trees, behind every rock, and around every snow drift. It wouldn’t have been the first time someone walking home in the evening had been torn apart by wolves, savaged by a bear, trampled by a moose, or worse.

Trac’s service pistol hung heavily in its shoulder holster as he nervously watched for predators. As a member of the National Guard, Trac wasn’t legally allowed to carry this particular weapon except on weekends when he was on duty. But Guardsmen were required to keep their full kit at home with them so they could be mustered quickly for an emergency, and guns were expensive. Especially anything semi-automatic, enchanted, or arcane in nature.

Guardsmen didn’t earn much. At least not those who served part-time like Trac did. He couldn’t afford another weapon. School, food, and train tickets ate up his meager salary. So Trac carried his service pistol every day and hoped police officers wouldn’t recognize it as a military weapon if he ever had to reveal he was carrying a concealed weapon.

Unfortunately, his misdemeanor did little to keep him safe from anything worse than a psychotic maniac looking for a victim or a pack of wolves which decided to venture close to Bloomfield in search of food. The small caliber weapons crack might scare off a bear, but it would more likely enrage the thing. To say nothing of what Trac’s true fear would think of a lone pony armed with a single low-caliber sidearm.

Trac’s senses had been honed from years of guard training. The ice-laden wind became a dull background humm as he focused on every little sound around him.

A few small creatures moved within the branches of a tree to his left. Squirrels, seeking shelter from the wind within the needled branches of an ancient spruce tree.

The soft crunch of snow slicing against snow. Not kicked up by an animal, or person, merely loose snow blowing over packed snow.

No heavy paws crushing the snow against the ice. No chuffing and huffing of an irritable bear awakened by the storm. No silken flapping of extra-large feathered wings. Only the endless howling of the blizzard.

Trac kept walking, never once letting his attention slip. He had never once failed to pay attention to his surroundings since that day twelve years ago. He knew he never would.

A sound pierced the wind’s wail. Trac froze, ears straining to pick up the new sound. He didn’t close his eyes to focus. Cosing his eyes could potentially be his last mistake. This could be a trap! One wolf pretending to be hurt so it’s mates can surprise me.

The cheerful melody drifting through the trees wasn’t the sound of a creature in pain. Trac froze and stared wide-eyed at a particular patch of trees fifteen meters off the side of the trail. Of all the sound he had expected to hear in the forest, a slightly digitized female voice singing in Old Equish was not one of them.

“Semper hic venti deserta gelidis perflant imbribus,
Sordet iam pediculosa tunica, madidus nasus est.
Saeve me umectat tempestas grandinibus cottidie,
Cur? Quod est meum tueri limites britanniae.”

Who the hay is out here in this weather sitting in the snow and singing ancient marching songs? Track silently demanded.

Shaking off his surprise, Trac began to walk towards the singing mare. He had no choice. He had to know who she was. Especially as her voice grew more clear, piercing the winds angry bellowing in defiance of the storm.

“Saxa cana ubique nubes obtegit caligine,
Cara in tungria est puella, semper solus dormio.
Quod dedit mi amoris pignus, perditumpst in alea.”

Trac narrowed his eyes, limiting his view even more than his goggles alone. That’s not Old Equish, that’s Romane!

The revelation would have made Trac’s tail stand on end in surprise if it were not tightly held down by his bulky coveralls. Romane was a dead language. Only snatches of words and phrases survived in Old Equish, along with a few songs and the occasional snippet of written text.

When the Lich King had made the city vanish at the end of the Renaissance he did a damn near perfect job of ridding the world of the first people to defied him. The only reason Trac could think of to know one of the songs was to be as much of a history dork as he was. As for singing one in the middle of the forest during a blizzard...

Maybe she’s drunk? Sisters… If she is drunk she’ll freeze to death out here, Trac thought with a worried frown, his pace doubling as he approached.

The snap and crack of breaking twigs brought Trac’s approach to a dead stop. His pistol flew from its holster nearly faster than he spun around to brandish his weapon. Nothing was there.

No large stallion with a club and a sack, creeping up on the poor sap his partner distracted. No moose who was irrationally angry at the sight of another living being. Only the ice, trees, and biting cold.

More twigs snapped. The mare continued her song. Trac turned back around, keeping his gun drawn, but pointing it at the ground to not appear too hostile.

He could see her now. She was wearing an oddly form-fitting hooded white jumpsuit made from a durable looking industrial material which wasn’t quite fabric. Trac almost mistook it for winter camouflage, until he noticed the bright orange stripes running along her legs and sides. As well as the text printed on the stripes at regular intervals.

Bio-Containment Suit

Trac’s training as a guardsman kicked in instantly. Within a few short moments, he fully inspected everything he could see of the mare’s suit, comparing it to the chemical warfare equipment he had trained in. Her kit looked to be far superior to the standard issue gas mask and clean suit.

That’s not a hood… That’s a built-in helmet. What the hay is somepony doing out here in a hazard suit? Trac wondered as he holstered his pistol.

The fur on the back of his neck stood up. Oh, Sisters! Was there a chemical attack? Do the Griffons even have chemical weapons? Of course they do… But would they use them on us? No. No, they want prisoners, not corpses. Don’t they?

The mare had continued to sing and break sticks while Trac analyzed her suit. As the stallion opened his mouth to call out to her and ask if he should be breathing the local air or running downwind fast as his hooves could carry him, the mare reared up.

The sticks she had been breaking had been arranged into a small pyramid, well away from any brush. A dull orange glow blossomed within her helmet, reflecting off her clear visor, making her face invisible while magic coursed around her body.

The mare gestured with her forehooves as if she were shoving a great weight upwards to a shelf above her head. The bundle of sticks immediately burst into flames, going from nothing to a proper bonfire in the blink of an eye.

As the flames blazed to life the mare changed her melody, taking it from smooth and gentle to something more appropriate for a heavy metal ballad.

“Heu! Puellum concupisco, desidero stipendium!
Ignis enim fermentum conlocabo.
Sumus quartadecumani, legio gemina
Aufer te! De via decedite!
Cornu sonat pedem inferre,
Milites romani procedite!”

The mare was clearly a pyromancer, as the fire responded to her song by dancing in a most unnatural way to the beat she created. They bent over to join her in her headbanging at what must have been the mother of all imaginary guitar solos.

Ah. Pyromancer. Got it.

Trac took a few more steps forwards and cleared his throat to announce his presence. Realising his polite a-hem had been entirely lost within the winds, Trac was left with no choice. He needed to shout.

“Excuse me, ma’am? Are you alright?” Track called, managing to be barely loud enough to be heard over the raging winds.

The mare gave no signs of embarrassment as she turned around to see who was addressing her. To the contrary, she seemed overly eager to see another pony, immediately offering Trac an eager and cheerful wave.

“Hail, fellow traveler!” The mare greeted her voice’s electronic tone now obviously the result of speaking through the microphone and speaker built into her suit’s respirator.

Despite the darkness the storm had cast over the forest, Trac could tell the mare wore a leather or rubber jumpsuit under her other suit, including a full face mask, hood, and goggles to conceal what little you could have seen of her through her visor.

It’s almost like someone dared her to go out in a blizzard while drunk and in fetish clothes, Trac thought as he crouched behind his scarf.

Despite his surprised silence being very brief, the mare took full advantage of the moment, gesturing for Trac to join her by her fire.

“You must be freezing. Come and sit by the fire. I was about to construct a lean-to to take the wind off for the night. If you help, you’re welcome to share my camp with me for the night.” She offered, her visor glowing with magic again as she conjured a small flame to form a simplistic yet highly expressive smile in the air in front of her respirator.

Despite the strangeness of the situation, and against his better judgment, Trac walked over to the fire.

“Thanks,” he said with a genuine smile of his own. I’ll only be here for a few seconds, but the fire is welcome. Also illegal. But I’m not really one to talk about breaking minor laws.

The mare sat across the fire from Trac. The roaring blaze managed to keep some of the cold at bay, but its fuel had begun dwindling rapidly without a pyromancer feeding the flames.

“What brings you to these parts?” She asked Trac conversationally. “For that matter, where are these parts? I’m extremely lost. A bear didn’t like me having a map and decided to eat it.”

“Soooo, you’re not here because the griffons decided to gas the town?” Trac asked hopefully.

She shook her head. “No… Why would you- Oh, it’s the suit isn’t it?”

“Yep. It’s a few grades above my equipment. I know it says Bio-Containment, but you can spray some real nasty biological agents on a town too.”

The mare shook her head, conjuring another flame-smile. “This isn’t military kit. It’s medical. I’ve got a rather nasty disease. It’s not the sort which easily infects others, but the suit ensures that won't happen at all.”

“Oh,” Trac applied, rocking from side to side nervously. “It’s not too bad, is it?”

“It’s pretty bad,” she replied with a laugh. “It’s one of those ailments some wizard decided to make even worse. Quite fatal, and most excruciating. But I’ve got medication to kill the pain, and a few more years left to enjoy. Do not worry, you won't catch it. I’d have to lick you or spit in your mouth. Something to that nature.”

Trac shivered. Okay. It's spread by fluid contact. She’s fully sealed in that thing. I’m safe.

“Well, I’m sorry you have it,” he said with an apologetic nod.

“It’s fine. We all die sometime, and we don’t get to choose when or how we do no matter how we might prefer going. But enough about me, how are you? This storm has me chilled to the bone… Oh, and I would still like to know where I am.”

“It’s deadly cold out, I’m probably feeling the cold less than you are. Unless your suit’s insulated. And you’re around a kilometer from West Bloomfield.”

“Where?” The mare asked, flames forming a confused frown for her.

Trac raised an eyebrow. “West Bloomfield. Small farming town. Border of Equestria and the Griffon Kingdoms.”

“Oh wow,” the mare said, a pair of fiery eyes forming in front of her goggles and widening in surprise. “I walked halfway across the continent. Whoops!”

“You… Walked across half of Equestria. Because a bear ate your map?”

“That’s the truth, I swear it. I was in the Spur mountains and intended to go to Manehatten. No particular reason. I simply travel where I see fit. How in the world did I manage to get that turned around for the last month? The sun rises in the east…” The mare muttered, resting her chin on her hoof before leaning back to look at the sky. “Oh, that’s right. It’s been overcast and snowing the entire accursed month! The young Crystal Princess must be fighting with Princess Celestia. And winning.”

Trac snorted as he contained a genuine laugh. “Sorry, ma’am. I understand you’ve got to be very frustrated, but you have to admit it is a little funny.”

“Laugh away, friend! It is quite funny. Fortunately, there’s no harm done. I’m certain your village is interesting in its own ways. I’ll enjoy my time here before trying for Manehatten once more,” she said with a large flame-grin and held out her hoof for Trac to shake. “I am Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas. What do they call you, friend?”

Trac’s eyebrows shot up as she introduced herself. “Uh, come again?”

“Nice to meet you, Come Again,” Ameili greeted, shaking the air in front of her since Trac didn’t take hold of her hoof. “What brings you to the forest this… Evening? Night? When is it? I hate not seeing the sun.”

Trac shook his head and held up his forehooves. “Nonono! That’s not my name. My name is Tractor Pull, but my friend calls me Trac for short. I meant… Is your name seriously Romane?”

Ameili chuckled. “My apologies, Trac. You Equestrians have such an odd naming convention. Practically anything could be a name as far as I am aware. But yes, I have a proper Romane name, as do my parents, and their parents, ad infinitum. It’s a family tradition.”

Trac was quiet for a moment as he thought back to his history classes and every book he had read. Her name sounds familiar. I’ve heard one of those words before. What does it mean?

Unable to recall the word quickly, Trac decided to resume the conversation. Especially since the wind was starting to make progress and push back the fire’s warmth.

“Anyways, I’m walking home. I live a ways up the trail. You should seek proper shelter. If you head down the trail going the direction you’re facing right now, you’ll come into town right on Hay Lane. Take a right and you’ll see the motel on your left.”

Ameili shrugged. “Nothing doing, I’m afraid. I don’t have any coin for the innkeeper.”

“Bear ate your wallet too?” Trac asked, immediately putting a hoof over his mouth. “I’m sorry! That was very—”

“Funny!” Ameili giggled.

Trac sighed in relief. The last thing he wanted to do was make a stranded mare’s night even worse with a thoughtless comment.

Wait a minute… She’s broke, sick, and has been wandering the countryside for a month. Trac’s mind filled with images of him traveling around by train and enjoying a warm and comfortable bed each night as the winds howled and the snow fell.

Each image came to his mind side by side with this mare sleeping in her not-remotely insulated looking containment suit on rocks, waking up each morning to shake the snow off herself, get her bearings, and walk through the icy northlands.

“Are you— Do you have a place you could go? Like, a home?” Trac asked as he hung his head.

“Nope! Used to, a long time ago. But not anymore. I go where the wind takes me. Sometimes literally!” Ameili said, manifesting a winking eye of flame.

Trac took a deep breath as he fought off waves of guilt. It’s only right to work for a living, you need to earn your keep. But you should still help people who really need it. Yeah, she’s survived this long out here, but her pain medication could be the only reason she’s not aware of frostbite… She could have bits of dead flesh which dropped off rolling around in her suit and—

“Okay!” Trac exclaimed loudly to force that particular vision out of his head. “Miss Ameili, it’s below freezing. You’re not in winter clothes. You’re likely to die out here. You’re on pain medication, therefore you might not be able to tell if you are injured. Please come with me. You can stay with me overnight, and in the morning I’ll give you directions to the local clinic. They should be willing to check you for frostbite for free. After that, if you need more help and are not injured, my friend and I could use help splitting and stacking firewood.”

Ameili smiled. “My thanks, friend! It would be nice to have a bed under me for the night. Or a sofa should you not have a spare bed. But before I accept your invitation, you should know the extent of my ailment. This mask I wear isn’t for fashion’s sake.”

“Then what’s it for?”

“It is so you do not have to bear witness to rotting flesh,” Ameili answered calmly.

The wind groaned loudly in the silent moment the two shared as Trac debated his offer in light of this new fact. Despite his fears, there was still but one answer.

Trac shook his head. “It changes nothing. You’ve got that suit, and it’s not ripped or punctured, right?”

Ameili nodded. “I check it every morning.”

“Then I’m safe. Retort is safe. You should be safe too. Especially since our weather pegasi say there’s no way they can keep this storm above minus sixty-five tonight. Your suit might freeze and crack at those temperatures.”

Ameili sighed, seemingly annoyed. “A fair argument. Very well, Trac. Let me extinguish my fire and then let us be on our way.”

Ameili stood up, shaking the snow from her plot with a quick flick of her tail. Her suit featured a small tube of fabric which fit her tail like a glove. This little fact made Trac instantly jealous. He’d never seen any clothing with that particular feature, and while in rural communities it might be okay for a pony to walk about naked, it was not okay to do the same in larger more “civilized” regions.

The mare bent down and nuzzled the fire she had created. Her visor glowed as she animated the flames, shaping them into an attractive young stallion, or perhaps a mare Trac wasn’t certain.

“My love,” Ameili said to the fire-pony. “I am afraid I will not be enjoying your loving warmth and crackling company this evening.”

The fire slumped its shoulders and hung its head like a forlorn lover.

“Yes… I have obtained lodgings indoors for this night. Fear not, I shall call upon you tomorrow. Goodbye, my love! Until we meet again!” Ameili exclaimed, embracing the flames without any ill effect before waving goodbye to the fire and extinguishing it with the same gesture.

Trac bit his lip, trying not to laugh at Ameili’s antics. This time he succeeded.

Ameili turned towards Trac and offered him a wink. “I like fire.”

“Really? I thought pyromancers hated fire?” Trac teased sarcastically.

“I’ve always been the odd one out,” Ameili commented, the orange glow of her magic illuminating her visor once more as she levitated a large backpack out from behind a snowdrift and strapped it on.

Trac had assumed Ameili had belongings of some kind. After all, she had to have some way of carrying water, storing food, and so on. Indeed, there was a canteen lashed to the side of her pack. But it was the other two things lashed to her pack which made his jaw drop.

Pointing to the large curved rectangular shield lashed to the very top of the pack, Trac asked, “Is-- Is that a Legionnaire Scutum?”

The large shield was painted exactly like his books said they were supposed to be. A red field with golden lightning bolts forming an x with a line across it, and four pairs of wings with a large bronze shield boss in the middle.

Ameili nodded once. “Yes. And my blade is, in fact, a Mainz-Fulham Gladius. You certainly have an eye for history. Do you also participate in reenactments?”

Trac’s gaze turned to the blade. It was indeed a Romane shortsword. Polished wooden hilt. Bronze decorations on the pommel. A simple straight blade with a slight taper in, then a flare out, only to come to a sharp point. Her blade was sheathed in a wooden scabbard at an angle which would make it nearly impossible for Ameili to draw her weapon and cut her suit.

“Re…enactments?” Trac asked slowly.

“Yes. Do you not know?” Ameili asked, tilting her head. “There are groups of people who get together to play-fight and recreate historical battles. I’ve been traveling across Equestria from group to group to enjoy as much of the hobby as I can. As a dead mare walking I am entitled to all the fun I can get.”

“Let me get this straight,” Trac asked, rubbing his temples. “There are large groups who get together for fun, dress up as Romanes to stage mock battles, and I am only hearing about this NOW, as a grown ass stallion?”

Ameili nodded. “So it appears.”

Buck mom. Buck dad. They kept me from so much. I was practically a prisoner there. And for WHAT? Being afraid they’d lose me like we lost Bale? They got him while he was on the farm!

Trac took a deep breath to settle his internalized rage. “I would have had a lot of fun with something like that… I don't have time now. Weekdays are collage. Weekends are guard duty. Let’s get moving. Without the fire, it’s a bit too cold here.”

Ameili flashed Trac a playful smile. “It is a little nippy, isn't it? I suppose I will have to set the whole forest ablaze. That will show this storm whose boss!”

Trac shook his head, his scarf hiding his grin as he began to walk back to the trail.

“And also who is an idiot!” He added.

“Haha! It would indeed.”

The two walked up the trail for nearly five minutes, chatting back and forth the whole way. It was all small talk. Nothing major.

Trac told Ameili about the local community, the farmers who lived in it, and complained about ponies from urban areas not understanding how different life was outside the concrete jungle. Ameili mostly talked about her travels, the mare had been everywhere it seemed, and all on hoof. Most of what she had to say consisted of interesting things she’d discovered while walking.

As the two came to Trac’s log house, Ameili was in the middle of describing the remains of an ancient castle she had found many years ago in the far south.

“— and in the center of the chamber was a very odd sculpture. Imagine a fountain, only instead of raised pools to hold water, it had six small armatures at different heights on the central column to hold five spheres. The spheres were missing, which was a shame. The sculpture would have been quite interesting if they weren't missing. I imagine the arms once held gemstones polished into spheres.”

“That would line up with early Equestrian decoration,” Trac offered.

Ameili nodded in agreement. “It would also fit the stained glass windows and tapestries. Almost all of them featured five or six items within their heraldry.”

“It’s a shame you don't know the name of the forest you found it in. I could probably remember something about it,” Trac remarked as he pointed to the large two-story log home. “Here we are.”

The house was built primarily from logs. Each had been shaped, peeled, stained a nice dark color, weather treated, and stacked to form a large home. Overall the home resembled a log cabin in the same way a father resembles their young child. The only parts of the home one wouldn’t find on a log cabin were its green, corrugated-steel roof and the large glass windows.

The house was taller than most two-story buildings. It could have been three stories, thanks to the gargantuan windows on the south side which stretched two stories tall and were framed on the second floor. The three windows followed the shape of the wall, with the centermost one having a triangular top.

The windows looked in upon the living room and the small loft above it, the warm glow of the stone fireplace and galvanic lights inside cast a cheery light over the yard and the balcony. The balcony was large, as large as a porch would be on most houses, and even wrapped around the east and west sides of the home.

Below the porch was the main entrance, a simple door like one would find on any house. It looked as if a small log ranch house had a bigger, nicer house come and sit on top of it.

Ameili looked up at the warm glow, and a fiery smile formed upon her mask. “You have a lovely home, Trac.”

“It’s not mine, it’s Retort’s. He inherited it from his uncle. Poor guy never had a family, and his parents didn’t want the place because of the commute,” Trac said as he walked to the door.

Ameili followed along behind him, which reminded Trac of a simple fact. Retort had no idea he was offering somepony shelter from the storm.

I don’t think he’ll mind...Trac concluded as he took his key from his pocket, unlocked the door, and held it open for his guest. “Come on in.”

Ameili nodded and stepped inside. The instant she crossed the threshold she sighed contentedly. Trac knew why. A moment later and he too sighed happily as he crossed the invisible boundary between the bone-chilling cold of the storm and the enchanted warmth of his home.

“Thank goodness!” He said with a smile, quickly peeling off his winter clothing. “Hey, stay here for a minute. I’ve got to let Retort know I’ve brought someone over.”

“No need. I’m right here,” Retort said from the kitchen doorway.

Retort was a short stallion, but his small build rippled with athletic muscle. While he didn’t grow up on a farm, he had still worked out every day of his life. Not in a gym, but on sports fields everywhere, and in the skies above West Bloomfield.

Retort was a bit oddly colored for a pegasus. His fur was the same color as old red bricks, and his black and silver mane and tail would have looked much more at home on a unicorn thanks to its particular shades.

His family always insisted they were pureblood pegasi. Such harmless tribalism was common in the northlands, but for Retort’s family, it was clearly untrue.

Retort was still dressed in his uniform. Tan coat, forest green cuffs, collar, and chest pocket tops. Brown cowboy hat, with brass badge affixed to it. Brown leather belt with a stun-rod, a petrification wand, and a revolver loaded with rounds meant to punch through magical defenses.

His rustic look matched the interior of his home perfectly. Plush green carpets set atop oak floorboards. Paintings of landscapes hung on wood-paneled walls. Craftspony trim on every baseboard and stick of furniture in sight. Leather and brass upholstery. The house’s water and electrical conduits simply held to the wall by copper brackets, with each one of the copper pipes set flush against a ceiling or wall’s edge.

Retort’s wings were raised slightly. His cup of coffee shook slightly in his grip. He was nervous

“Oh,” Trac said in mild surprise. “Hey, Re.”

“Hey, yourself,” Retort replied, pointing to Ameili with an urgent look in his eyes. “Why the buck is she in full chemical gear?”

Ameili formed a fire-smile and held a hoof out to Retort. “It’s not a suit meant for chemical warfare, sheriff. This is a medical device. I have a disease which is spread through fluid contact, and also makes me smell most unpleasant. This suit ensures no one I come into contact with has even the slightest chance of becoming infected, and also prevents you from smelling necrosing tissue.”

Retort blinked twice. His wings flared open as he spun to face Trac, nearly spilling his coffee. “She’s got some kind of flesh-eating disease, and you brought her here?!”

“Well, what the buck was I supposed to do?” Trac exploded, throwing his hooves in the air. “It’s forty below! She’s got no winter gear. Yeah, she’s a pyromancer but that’s no guarantee of survival.”

“I assure you, sir,” Ameili cut in. “I am no danger to your health unless you were to ingest my bodily fluids. I fully understand people being afraid of me, and I did not want to stay here as I am aware of how my presence makes others uncomfortable. I can leave if you wish. I am certain I can avoid freezing to death.”

Trac shook his head firmly. “Like Tartarus, you will! You’re sleeping here. Re, she’s no danger to us, and are you really going to let a sick mare sleep out in this weather?”

Retort took a deep breath, puffing his chest to scream a reply, only to sigh wearily. The pegasus had been completely deflated. “I— No. No, I won’t,” he said, turning to look back at Ameili. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I had a long day. A bad day. I legally can’t talk about it.

“An arrest was made for some very bucked up reasons. I— I haven’t had a chance to calm down yet. I can be… Confrontational after work. Especially when work involves a dunge—”

Retort stopped himself mid-word, a look forming on his face as if he mentally slapped himself for nearly saying something he shouldn’t have. “You heard nothing. Forget it. It will be in the papers in a few weeks. You can learn about it then.

“As for you, ma’am, just… Make yourself at home. I’m going to ask that if you need to eat or drink that you do it outside and away from the house. Keep that suit on and you can sleep here.

“Trac, how long did you say she can stay?”

Trac closed the door behind him. The spells placed on the house might keep it comfortable in hot or cold weather, but it would burn more mana if the door was open to the elements than if it were closed.

“Well, she’s homeless and traveling the country on hoof,” Trac admitted. “I said she could stay the night here, that I would show her to the clinic to marrow so she can get a checkup, and that if she needed somewhere to stay after that she could stay here for a while if she helped with firewood and other chores.”

Retort closed his eyes, holding back a rant. “Yeah… Okay. That’s fine. But I get equal say. It’s my house.”

“Yeah, it is.” Trac agreed.

There was no real argument from him. Trac was only trying to do the right thing.

Ameili cleared her throat, producing an odd mechanical tone instead of the ‘ahem’ one might expect. “I’m sorry for bringing an argument between friends. My apologies.”

“It’s fine,” Retort said, his wings folding against his sides as he calmed down. “I’m like this after any bad shift.”

Trac nodded. “He is.” Retort probably found another foal fooler… I’ve never seen this much hate in his eyes under any other condition. I hope he shot that bastard.

Ameili nodded. “I understand. Enforcing the law is a very stressful job. I once served as what you might call military-police.” She extended a hoof towards Retort. “My name is, Ameiliana Tarquinius Cyprianas. What may I call you, sheriff?”

“Deputy,” Retort corrected. “The name’s Heated Retort. Nice to meet you… Uh…”

“Friends call me Ameili,” the mare said, manifesting a flaming wink. “I know my name’s a mouthful for you Equestrians. It’s quite alright to shorten it.”

“Well, Ameili, let’s get you settled in the guestroom. If Trac says you’ll need the free check-up, you’re most likely broke. Which means you’ll be staying here till the weather clears at the least. We’ll go over some chores you can do in the morning.”

Ameili kicked the snow off her boots, not wanting to track snow all over the house’s thick green shag carpet. “I’m more than happy to earn my keep, Retort. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Retort nodded to Trac over Ameili’s shoulder. He wasn’t done being upset at his friend for this, but it was clear he would prefer to talk alone.

Trac sighed, hung his backpack and finished removing his winter gear, leaving on the old blue-gray hoodie he had on beneath his warm outer clothing.

Getting yelled at for bringing a total stranger home is worth that stranger not freezing to death. Trac decided as he relocated his shoulder holster to rest beneath his hoodie.

With his sidearm relocated, Trac trotted over to the spiral stairs and up into the living room. He could smell the coffee brewing on the fire, and despite the strange turn his night had taken, Track still looked forward to that cup more than anything else in the world.

Arriving at the stone fireplace, Track took one of the brass mugs from atop the mantle and dipped it into the small cauldron of steaming liquid which rested over the small fire.

He blew on it and took a sip. It was exactly as good as he’d hoped.