“EE-EE-EE-EE!!!”
“EE-EE-EE!!”
With twirls of their spears, two colts flew towards one another in the center of a ring of stones.
Cl-Clangggg!
The youngsters' weapons collided with a clash of sparks. Fangs and fangs reflected as angry eyeslits narrowed against the brief flicker of heat. They shoved against one another's weapons, struggled, then—
“Haaaugh!” One child threw the other's weight to the side and followed the movement with an uppercut of his spear's blunt end.
Whack! Blood splattered through the endless night as the young opponent suffered a blow to the face. However, he backflipped into a low hover—remaining still and upright within the circle of rocks. He spat onto the ground, his face saturated with crimson juices as he nevertheless side-strafed in midair, squaring off once more against his opponent.
From the sidelines, a cluster of sarosian youths hissed and chirped, egging both combatants on. A taller Bloodwing—a teenager—paced just outside the circle, his stern eyes locked on the sparring match.
“Very well done on the recovery!” his voice cracked, attempting to keep stern and steadfast. “But you're allowing too many hits in from your opponent! On the real battlefield, a drone of T'chyrym could easily have poisoned you! And a vessel of the N'shydym would have taken the opportunity to channel more lifelights!” He pumped a forelimb, fangs showing. “Every living second must be spent fighting for victory! Your enemy won't spare you—so why spare it?!”
Snarling at one another like pack dogs, the colts rushed each other once again. Their spears collided and parried multiple times. At last, the child who landed the strike earlier managed to knock the weapon out from the bleeding sarosian's grip. As he tried to commit a finishing blow, the bleeding colt twirled past him with a remarkable show of agility. The wounded opponent spun until he was gripping the other sarosian from behind. He enveloped the struggling Bloodwing in a chokehold, and the encumbered colt tried prying him off with the length of his spear.
The other colts of their particular company hooted and hollered like wild animals, clustering tighter and tighter around the sparring circle while the teenage soldier continued barking sadistic encouragements and harsh criticisms. This would have come across as a uniquely cruel scene—were it not for the fact that it was being mirrored by dozens upon dozens of similar instances spread all across the rocky basin. It was several meters from the outermost edges of the Tree of Mothers' roots, and Seraphimus and Wildcard found themselves in a training field of the military encampment. Lexxic and Azarias stood nearby, watching casually as their youngest “brothers” were introduced to the finer arts of combat.
“The War, you see, is everything,” Lexxic continued to speak. He leaned limply against a rack of weapons, tilting his pale helm towards the closest fight. His leafy ears flicked occasionally between the loud shouts and clatter of spears all around them. “Culture, economy, even what you might be tempted to call 'recreation.'” His jaw was set beneath the slab. “It has ravaged for so long... and yet consumed for so long. Our finest soldiers—and the enemy as well—have come to support an equilibrium... ongoing and perpetual... with no sign of stopping.”
Wildcard hand-signed while his goggles remained locked on the youths' combat.
“My friend makes a good point.” Seraphimus looked over at the First and Second. “If you're aware of these things, why do you persist in supporting the war effort?”
“In our generation's case, it's not persistence,” Azarias said in a growling tone. “The First Son has innovated tactics, changing and rearranging methods that—in the hooves of Mothers and Elders—have only served to bolster the damnable stalemate.”
Seraphimus calmly raised an eyecrest. “I'm certain the unfortunate masses who trained and died needlessly before your foaling thought the exact same.”
The backhairs of Azarias' velvety coat raised at that. He frowned in Seraphimus' direction, fangs flickering with the urge to retort—
“Your cynicism is a very fine guard,” Lexxic spoke, cool and composed. “I imagine in a land of blinding light, it serves as a proper cloak. Believe me when I say that despair is a constant bedfellow for each and every one of us. More than you can imagine.”
“We've heard that your tactics have given you an 'edge,'” Seraphimus declared. “Rainbow Dash in particular has gleaned an awful lot.”
Lexxic's mouth curved under his helm. “Courtesy of the arachnid composer, no doubt.”
Seraphimus was silent. The war shrieks of children echoed around them. “You will have to ask her yourself,” she eventually said.
“I shall humor your curiosity, even if you refuse to humor mine.” Lexxic tilted his head towards the nearest sparring match. “Since the dawn of time on this plane, all life has been at 'war' with one another. There's no beginning or end to fighting, really. Bloodshed has powered the economy of nature since before minds could record memory—in all of its avarice and cruelty and thirst for a quick road to oblivion.” He nodded into the hazy starlight. “The fight for the Sarcophagus of Ages is no less empowered by this same carnal impulse.”
“I wasn't aware the elders employed a philosopher in their campaign of the Trinary War,” Seraphimus declared.
Wildcard snorted while Azarias rolled his eyes.
Lexxic merely smiled. “I'm simply clarifying things so that you may more properly ascertain the initial errors in your observation.” He waved his hoof. “Nature is all about achieving equilibrium. Violence, competition, the cycle of death—it all contributes to an essence of self-perpetuation.”
“No beginning and no end,” Azarias added.
“I do believe they get the idea, Second.”
“Hrmmmfff...”
Seraphimus cocked her feathery head to the side. “You're going to imply that you've broken that cycle?”
“The Trinary War...” Lexxic said, “...has been an overwelcomed exercise in agriculture.”
“I'm afraid I don't follow.”
“Livestock, my dear Penumbran,” Lexxic said. “That's how all soldiers have functioned in generations' prior. They've been livestock... a perpetual cycle of feeding on one another.” He breathed in sharply, his muzzle taking on the hint of a frown. “So long as the Trinary War persisted... it's been supplying each opposing faction with the sustenance required to keep living... to keep fighting... to keep perpetuating.”
“This 'economy' that you spoke of...”
“Precisely. You and your Penumbran siblings might think that the War has been endless battles and bloodshed every hour of every waking moment.” Lexxic shook his head. “Such isn't the case. Such could never be the case. In this War, there have been... lapses... spaces of time where nopony could afford to throw stones or gut with knives.”
“Seems sensible...”
“'Pathetic' is the word for it,” Lexxic said. “These lapses have happened nearly twice a generation. Sometimes thrice. The keepers have kept records of it—as if they're things to be proud of. But all they do is serve as feeding time for the opposition. And—yes—for ourselves.” He turned towards the two griffons. “Tchern consumes the agonies and ecstasies of her opponents to hatch more drones. The Night Shard harvest lifelights to empower their vessels.”
“And the Bloodwings?” Seraphimus asked.
Lexxic's smile was a bittersweet one. “We take all the scraps that we can... all the morsels that we can forage. We work hard... train harder... and then limp back into the circle to spin around the Sarcophagus one more damned time.”
“For centuries upon centuries...” Azarias snarled, visibly upset at the thought. “...our witless elders have applied the same stubborn tactics time and time again.” His slitted eyes narrowed. “They've treated this war for the Sarcophagus as an exercise in attrition that somehow—after so many eons—we will come out on top.”
“The very notion is absurd,” Lexxic added. “Tchern can outbreed us. The Night Shard are virtually acquainted with immortality. The saddening truth is—had the Exodus not brought us here to this side of the plane—then the War would have been won already. By a banal faction, granted, but it would have ended.” He pivoted to face Seraphimus directly. “All we have accomplished—in the name of Saros, for the cause of the Mother of Nightmares—is make a bloody conflict endless.”
“We are the food of our enemies,” Azarias spat. “So many fallen sons... brave souls thrown into the maw... and for what?”
Seraphimus took a contemplative breath. “But... now that has all 'changed.'”
“Thanks to the First Son,” Azarias remarked, gesturing towards the commander in question. “This generation was meant to endure another lapse—a lull in fighting where we were expected to stand back and strengthen ourselves.” A brief warmth of pride spread across his extra-scarred face. “For the first time ever, the Bloodwings had a leader who refused to fall into such a deplorable pattern!”
Wildcard took a good long look at all of the training and supply movement transpiring across the camp. He talon-signed.
Seraphimus interpreted: “Won't that drain your strength and resources?” Her charcoal brown eyes were thin. “It seems like an awful gamble. Especially against two enemy factions that have proven to possess greater versatility.”
“A risk taken with responsibility is less a tempting of fortune and more a will to destiny,” Lexxic said. “And I will see to it that all we achieve is triumph.”
“Inspiring,” Seraphimus droned. “Spoken like a true braggart.”
“Mind your beak, creature!” Azarias hissed. “You cannot even begin to ascertain the improvements our First Son has wrought! Mining accursed metal to expose the children of Tchern! Employing the totems to ensnare the Night Shard's supply line—!”
Lexxic's hoof rested gently on Azarias' shoulder, silencing him. “At ease, Second,” he said calmly. His smile pivoted in the former Talon Commander's direction. “I think I would very much like to employ griffons in my reconnaissance division.” His fangs showed. “You are quite apt at dredging information. Rainbow Dash should be proud.”
“I do not need Rainbow Dash's approval,” Seraphimus countered abrasively.
“Then what is it that brings you here? What makes you linger in this dark land?”
Wildcard glanced at Seraphimus.
“... … …” She took a lengthy breath. “I simply need to know if this place is worth dying in.”
“With or without a cause?”
“That depends.” Seraphimus' eyes narrowed. “A cause defined exclusively by the past or the present is equally hollow. What of your future, Commander? Where do you see your talented, multi-faceted self existing in a world without this damnable War?”
Azarias blinked hard. He looked blankly at Lexxic, as if never having comprehended that before.
“Hmmmm...” Lexxic nodded, rubbing his pale chin with thought. “The future is indeed an important thing, and your greatest error is believing that I never once consider it.” He paced between the sparring circles as Azarias and the griffons followed. “It is—after all—an echo of the past... and too often than not a vainglorious attempt to improve upon it.”
“Let me guess...” Seraphimus stepped alongside Lexxic. “You believe you can do better than your Elders before you?”
“We are doing better than the elders before us,” Lexxic declared. “That has evolved beyond something that could ever be debated, nor will I pretend to humor such a matter.” His smile was as confident as his gait. “The Night Shard have retreated—forced to employ sporadic hit-and-run tactics for the first time in recorded history. Tchern's swarm—desperate to find a way to counteract my brothers—have employed the Flux. Her drones are literally burning alive to compete against us, and in every campaign that we engage in, we are robbing both them and the Night Shard of their supply.”
“I... do not see how that is possible,” Seraphimus said, shaking her head.
“Please... from one commander to another...” Lexxic's “wink” could almost penetrate his helm. “...would it be right for me to share all my secrets?”
“Am I to take it that you've been increasing your military output?” Seraphimus remarked. “Throwing your all against both enemy factions at a rate of speed that puts previous commanders to shame?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“How can you be sure that your own kind won't burn out before your enemies?” Seraphimus cocked her head aside. “Won't this massive offensive take advantage of where you're most fragile?”
“Where we've been most fragile is the centuries spent assuming we haven't the might nor the ferocity to achieve total and complete victory,” Lexxic said. “A frailty exploited by the Elders, mind you. Long ago, they gave in to cowardice and laziness.”
“Or perhaps they erred on the side of caution...?”
“Only an excuse. For them, the War became a means of exhausting one thousand years of prophesied reckoning. Our mothers took the same Book of Saros that encouraged the Exodus and twisted it into an allowance for restraint and complacency. And who suffered for it?”
Seraphimus looked at all of the sparring colts around them. “Let me guess. The 'sons'.”
“Precisely.”
“I don't see how anything has changed, personally.”
“Because you haven't been around here to understand the difference between tragedy and triumph. Pay attention, Penumbran.” Lexxic scuffled to a stop, gesturing towards the nearest sparring circle before them. “Where once we were food thrown before the fire, now we are being empowered to learn.”
As if perfectly-timed, a colt fell hard on his backside. Writhing in defeat, he looked up at the colt who beat him. The surrounding spectators hissed and squeaked enthusiastically as the losing colt's opponent aimed the sharp end of a spear towards the fallen sarosian's neck.
“Hold!” This particular group's instructor trotted into the circle, commanding the attention of all the youths. “What was your mistake, bloodcolt?”
“Eee-eee-eee!” the defeated child merely hissed at his opponent.
The teenager leaned in, snarling down at him. “Answer me! How did you fail?”
Snorting—his bruised face reddening—the foal looked aside and grumbled: “I rushed at him too hard. He used my own momentum to disarm me and slam me to the ground.”
“You should have stayed aloft,” the instructor insisted. “Used gravity at your higher elevation to force the weapon out of his grip! But you were egged on by the shrieks of your peers and you attacked thoughtlessly.” His eyeslits narrowed. “No drone or light-harvester will pity you for your foolishness. You would be consumed without mercy. Don't let passion lead you astray—but think and process that emotion to achieve victory!”
The bloodcolt breathed... breathed... seethed...
The instructor's fangs showed. “Will you remember this failure?”
“I...” The child shook, shivered, then sniffled. “I will, brother...”
The instructor looked at the opponent standing over him. “Make sure that he does.”
Each and every spectator held his breath.
The bloodcolt standing with the spear hesitated.
“Seal the memory!” the instructor snarled.
“Haaaaaaaaaugh!” the winning opponent twirled his spear and brought the sharp end slicing down.
Wildcard winced.
When the act was finished, a splatter of blood stained the stone plateau. The losing bloodcolt clutched his face. Every muscle in his body tightened as he tensed up, fighting the urge to scream... cry. Crimson juices trickled down his neck, saturating the velvet fur.
“Feel the pain,” the instructor insisted, and it was then that Seraphimus and Wildcard noticed the countless marks permanently etched across the teenager's face. “Taste the blood. Know the sting of failure and suckle on it. For there is nothing else that will nourish you.” He leaned in and whispered into the writhing bloodcolt's ear. “Be glad, little brother. For even in this pitiable defeat, you have earned your first scar. Savor victory in all its darkest corners.”
The colt hissed and hissed. Eventually, a few tears mixed and mingled with the blood on his face. With eyes clenched, he managed to squeak: “Th-thank you, brother...”
“Go see the medic,” the instructor insisted. “Tomorrow, I intend to see you inflict a mark rather than bear one.”
Scampering, the bloodcolt trotted into a brisk takeoff as his companions serenaded him with mixed jeers and cheers. Meanwhile, the instructor trotted over to raise the fetlock of the victor—who was still seething with adolescent rage and testosterone.
While Wildcard was noticeably transfixed on the scene, Seraphimus calmly turned to face Lexxic. After a composed silence, she murmured: “Answer me one thing.”
“Yes, Penumbran?”
She stared dead at him. “Why the 'First Son?'”
Lexxic faced her. “I have embraced my bastardization,” he said. “For as much as I'm concerned, the circle is broken for me.”
Seraphimus turned to look at Azarias—and at all of the multiple scars marking his body. She turned back towards Lexxic. “A bit early for a victory declaration, perhaps?”
“Some lessons...” He waved a hoof towards his helm. “...we can only teach ourselves.”
Seraphimus slowly nodded. “Are they all worth wearing like a crown before everypony?”
Lexxic chuckled heartily at that. “I only wish your esteemed 'Rainbow Dash' would be so pointed in her questions.”
“Be careful,” Seraphimus said.
“Indeed.” Lexxic nodded towards Azarias—who nodded back. Both sarosians marched off towards another part of camp. Seraphimus and Wildcard—exchanging glances—followed slowly behind.
“We are here,” Captain Xandraa said.
Up in Gibbous Sanctum, she and her two fellow guards came to a stop before a tall round door emblazoned with stars, constellations, and cosmic swirls—silver-studded etchings that had been polished by generations upon generations to maintain a pristine shine.
“The Dream Council awaits beyond this barrier.” The Captain turned and glared down at Rainbow Dash with penetrating eyeslits. “From here on out, it is of supreme importance that you maintain yourself with dignity, restraint, and—above all—humility—”
“Hey Dream Galssssss!” Shriike bang bang banged on the doorframe, beaming with fangs a'glinting. “It's ya girrrrrrl!”
“Ee-ee-ee!” Xandraa snarled at her, her back hairs bristling under her armor. “Shriike! For all that consorts with the creatures of the night!!!”
“What?” The unicorn sarosian shrugged. She straightened some pale mane hairs—only for them to fall loose once again over her spectacles. “We all know the Dream Council is waiting for their guest! For once—they can't be sleeping on the job!”
Despite her poise and stately armor, the Captain couldn't help but squirm like an annoyed older sibling. “You are breaking every facet of proper decorum before the Penumbran...”
“Neither you nor the Solar Deceiver's spawn here were the only ones summoned by the Council!” Shriike tilted her nose up. “As the Heard Imperial Clerk, I am required to record any and all verbal interactions between the hosts and guest! I can't go back up to the Highest Polished empty-hoofed!”
“You will return empty skull'd if you disrupt the peace and tranquility of the Dream Council!” Xandraa hissed.
“Oh, d-don't worry, Captain!” Shriike put on her bravest smile yet. “I'm really good friends with Nate!” She turned to wink at a certain pegasus. “Nat'rdo and I drink jasmine tea together all the time. I get to call her 'Nate'! But maybe she's told you that already.”
Ariel blinked back at her. “Uhhhhh...” She gestured at Rainbow Dash. “I think you're talking to the wrong pegasus. That's the avatar of Luna, remember?”
“Oh... oh!” Shriike chuckled nervously. “Hee-hee-hee-ee-ee-ee! Ahem! Right! I... of course knew that. One would think that the... uhm...” She gestured her hoof in multiple parallel lines before Rainbow Dash. “...th-that all the highlights would serve as a good mimetic device. Aside from how insufferably t-tiny she is. Not that that's a big deal. I've tried being tiny once. Haven't g-given it up since.”
“Shriike...” Xandraa face-hoofed over her helmet. “...we've been dying to oversee this meeting for a fortnight!”
“I-I have to follow procedure, th-though!” Shriike declared. Her horn glowed as she levitated a parchment and a pen. “For the Maria Matrons!”
Xandraa sighed heavily, ultimately waving a hoof. “Proceed.”
“A-a-ahem...” Shriike's eyes bulbously squinted through the round lenses of her spectacles as she wrote on the very top of the page. “The diplomatic meeting inside the Dream Den of the Tree of Mothers between the esteemed Dream Council and the Living Penumbran Pollutant of Solar Deception transpires as follows...”
A blanching expression crossed the Captain's face. “Must you be so cynical in the address?”
Shriike gave the most casual of shrugs. “Ehh... it's only a rough draft.” She chicken-scratched to the next line. “The Pestilential Outworldly Offender's Name Is...”
Silence.
“The Pestilential Outwordly Offender's Name Is... …?”
More silence.
Shriike coughed, then practically leaned towards Rainbow at a forty-five degree angle, weighted by an impatient glare. “Her Name ISSSSS—”
“Who. What. Oh—me?” Rainbow Dash cleared her throat and struck a devilish pose. “Rainbow Danger Dash!”
Applejack was already face-hoofing. “Beans and cornbread...”
Pinkie's muzzle scrunched. “I thought Dashie's middle name was Jenni—”
“Hahahaha—oh Penumbran humor is so... wacky!” Shriike adjusted her spectacles and smiled wanly at the petite pegasus. “But seriously, though. What's your name.”
Rainbow blinked. “But... that's it.”
“Hahaha. Too cute! So what's your name, though.”
“I'm Ariel.”
“It's... what I told you.” Rainbow cleared her throat. “Just drop out the middle part. In all seriousness, it's Rainbow Dash.”
“Uh huh. Joke's getting stale. Recorded anyways for posterity.” Shriike's eyes peered through the round lenses like a bored chameleon's. “But what's your name though.”
“I'm Ariel.”
“It's... I-I'm not kidding...” Rainbow Dash pointed to her chest through her Element. “My name is Rainbow Dash. Rainbow. Dash. It was given to me shortly after I was foaled.”
“Pffft! Yeah right.” Shriike giggled towards the rune-lit walls. “What kind of a nimrod would name you something so obviously goofy.”
“My dad,” Rainbow droned. “My dad's the nimrod.”
Shriike pulled a double-take that was several centuries in the making. “You mean to tell me that in the land of the Solar Deceiver, Penumbran agents of burning desecration use portmanteaus of obliquely related common nouns as personal titles?”
“Hey...” Rainbow shrugged with a casual smirk. “...only when it's awesome. Which I am.”
“Can we please move past this, clerk?” Xandraa moaned.
“Hrmmmm...” Shriike rubbed her velvety chin in thought. “...come to think of it, ancient almanacs speak of rainbow prismatic beacons being used as weapons of malice. One of which... actually banished the Mother of Nightmares! Imprisoning her in the moon! Transforming the very foundation of her power into a p-p-personal pr-prison!” Shriike's jaw hung open in awe. “Wow... so conniving! Much tragic!”
“Well, when you put it that way.” Rainbow tossed her mane and winked. “I guess I'm like a livin' friggin' weapon!”
“Gaaaah!” Shriike jumped behind Xandraa, shivering in a little fuzzy ball—scrolls spilling loose from her saddlebags at random. “Don't go off on me!!!”
“I'm... uh...” Rainbow sweated nervously. “Being facetious, of course.”
“Hi, I'm Ariel!”
Rainbow snarled over her shoulder. “I'm sure she's got your friggin' name already, jeez!”
Ariel nodded, eyes beady. “I wanna see her write it down, though.” She breathed. And breathed.
“Clerk, do your function,” Xandraa said.
“Er... r-right! My... uh... f-function as an Imperial Clerk!” Gulping, Shriike crawled back towards Rainbow Dash like a paraplegic honey badger, before slowly rising up to her trembling haunches. She levitated the scroll before her like a shield and—summoning a gulp or two—spoke as she wrote. “Rainbow Danger Dash.” She glanced over at the other pegasus. “And Aerola.”
“No, it's—!” Ariel pulled at her face muscles. “For butts' sake!”
“Hrmmmm...” Shriike tapped her chin with the pen, having switched from paranoid to contemplative on a dime. “...I don't suppose Penumbrans are named after mammalian body parts as well? It could be a consequence of the constraints that constant solar heat and tropospheric convection has on a sun-burnt caste system that has to subsist on milk due to water sources being constantly evaporated.”
“This is incredible...!” Twilight Sparkle couldn't help but grin. “This society has never seen sunlight before—so, for them, so much as comprehending society on the Light Side must involve ghastly over-exaggerations of harmonic magical conjurations!”
“Look...” Rainbow turned towards the lavender spectre. “Just let it rest, Shriike—” She winced, turning towards Shriike. “I mean, don't fret so much about it, Twilight—!” She winced harder. “Rrrrrghhh!” She stomped her hooves on the ground, barking. “Buck! My skull's being eggheaded in stereo!”
“That's 'ARIEL'.” The pegasus in question hovered behind Shriike's flank, pointing at the top of the scroll. “'A-R-I-E-L—'”
“Girl!” Rainbow snarled, pointing a hoof. “Heel!”
But before the absurdity could roll any further...
...the door to the Dream Den opened with a pronounced wooden groan.
Everypony silenced, turning to face the entrance to the chamber.
The barest hint of a mare's wrinkled face peered out from under a dark robe. “Captain. Dear clerk...”
Xandraa bowed low, speaking softly—yet steadily. “Honorable dreamer, a thousand pardons for this most unseemly disturbance—”
“There is no finer method for waking.” The figure bowed back. “Please. We have waited long enough. Escort the avatar inside. Clerk, please do accompany them. For record-keeping.”
Shriike stood still, gawking at the open door. Her eyes blinked bulbously from behind those thick, thick lenses. They blinked again...
“That's YOU,” Xandraa hissed.
“Oh! R-Right!” Fumbling, Shriike trotted up to the edge of the frame, stepped back, and curtsied low.
Xandraa, holding her breath, quietly gestured to Ariel and Rainbow Dash. She trotted ahead and the two guards followed behind the pegasi.
Rainbow and Ariel marched through the round entrance and into a dimly-lit chamber. The fragrance of incense was far more pungent here, with rich scents reminiscent of lavender, chamomile, and sandalwood. If Rainbow had to guess, this “Dream Den” was kept sealed off commonly from the rest of Gibbous Sanctum, which accounted for its own separate little microsphere.
The chamber was larger than Rainbow expected—but not so grand that it lost an inherent coziness. A round interior stretched before the guests, with a perfectly carved dome stretching about thirty feet high overhead. Like in so many places in the tree previous, there were runestones placed into the wooden finish of the walls and ceiling. Here, the rocks glowed the dimmest—but it was clear from the adjacent surfaces that the place had not lost its luster. Even with the faint glow, Rainbow Dash could make out gorgeously intricate frescoes and paintings of equine figures silhouetted against starry constellations.
All of the illustrated figures formed a circular canter. Their graceful necks and snouts looked as though they were aimed towards the centermost portion of the dome—the highest point of the ceiling. Rainbow's eyes traveled naturally, and her heart skipped a beat. A fanged effigy startled her—frightening and beautiful all the same. It was the facade of Nightmare Moon, alright, slightly more grandiose than the real deal. It was then that Rainbow Dash realized that she was one of the few mortals on that plane who had actually seen Princess Luna as Nightmare Moon in the flesh. Like it or not, it was one advantage she had over all of those souls—forsaken or otherwise—that populated that epic Tree of Mothers.
Why was such a frightening image etched into the center of an interior where ponies slumbered? Rainbow imagined that it wasn't quite so “frightening” to the sarosians. Or—if it did evoke fear—it was something of pure reverence. Rainbow imagined that any being that desired to commit their lives to maintaining a dreamscape would have required a constant reminder of whom they were holding watch for. Plus—as Rainbow herself could attest to—it was perfectly easy to get accustomed to anything... even of frightening nature. All it required was time: something which the ponies of the Upper Tree no doubt possessed in excess.
“Wowee-zowwee...” Shriike cooed, her lensed eyes tracing the ceiling like loose bubbles adrift. “It's all so... gorgeous and glowy in here! I mean... not like a bright and blinding glowy... but a real soft and comfy glowy... y'know... for sleeping to and stuff. Cuz you gotta sleep in order to dream, right? Eheheh...”
“The Hell are you going on about?” Ariel glanced aside. “Haven't you been inside here before?”
“Huh? Oh... pfffft... chhhhyeah!” Shriike waved a hoof. “Absolutely, yeah! What kind of a nimrod lives her entire life inside the Tree of Mothers and doesn't step inside this place?! Why... I've been in here maybe... ohhhh... I dunnnnnno... twelve times... ten times... eight-and-a-half times—”
“Eight and a half?”
“Never.” Shriike hung her head, squirming. “I've... never... ever b-b-been in here and—snrkkkkt—I'm totally... actually freaking out c-cuz this is where the dream walkers do their dream walking and it's so cool but also so frightening and... and...”
“Breathe, Shriike,” Xandra said calmly. “The dreamers await.”
Speaking of whom...
Rainbow and Ariel finally lowered their gaze. A field of silver specks greeted them—like lightning bugs. Only—these bugs hovered in pairs. Then, as the pegasi's vision adapted to the dim lighting—those flickering pairs of specks grew closer, belonging to faces. Velvety faces. Dark faces. Wrinkled faces. And fangs fangs fangs fangs fangs.
It was a bit unnerving at first, but as Rainbow made out the equines huddled in the room, she realized that there were no more than thirty of them—barely enough to fill a third of the chamber's space comfortably. What's more, most—if not all of them—were literal elders. From the complexions of their muzzles to the lines formed along their brows, Rainbow guessed that the majority of them were no younger than fifty winters. There was a wheezy noise from their half of the room, like wind through a throng of wet leaves—as they collectively peered out from their thick black hooded robes to study the visiting guests.
“Good heavens...” Rarity blanched. “Certainly a grim lot.”
“They seem harmless to me,” Fluttershy stated. “Judging from their figures—a sedentary lifestyle has left them frail and weak-bodied.” She looked aside. “Applejack? Are you sensing anything to be concerned about?”
“They ain't meanin' no harm or nothin',” Applejack said, shaking her head. “But I can't say that they're too terribly trustin' neither. Reckon they're just as curious about us as we are about them.”
“Ohhhhhh rats!” Pinkie kicked at the air, pouting.
Twilight looked at her. “What's the matter?”
“All these old ponies...!” Pinkie's ears drooped. “...and I don't have any pudding to give them!”
Twilight sighed. She turned towards their anchor. “Guess this is it. Can you tell which one is Nat'rdo?”
“Twilight, I can't tell one from another,” Rainbow whispered back.
Ariel leaned in close. “Anything we should be concerned about?”
“Not unless you're feeling rusty at midnight bingo or shuffleboard.”
Ariel's muzzle scrunched as she looked at the group. “I wonder why nobody's spoken up yet?”
Rainbow shrugged. “Probably trying to get a read on us. Y'know... like Lexxic and his bros did.”
“Oh jeez... I hope you don't have to headbutt one of them.”
“Yeah. Their fangs might fly across the room.” Rainbow shuddered. “Along with the rest of their teeth.”
Shriike slid into place between Rainbow and Ariel. “What are we whispering about?”
“Clerrrrrk...” Xandraa growled.
“At ease, Captain,” spoke a voice from the back of the room.
Everyone's head turned. Rainbow and Ariel craned their necks. The huddled cluster of elders split in two...
...revealing a lone robed figure staring at the far fringes of the interior. Notched into multiple spaces along the edge of the round room were tiny dens—like berths—that were hung over with translucent blue-and-purple curtains. A mare had emerged from one such space, trotting across a sea of cushions and meditation mats to approach the visitors. The closer she came, the more Rainbow Dash could make out a cascade of bright teal mane hair pouring out from the shadowed recesses of her hood.
“While you and your guards' presence is much appreciated, let us not waste too much formality on our apprehensions. After all, this is not the first time we have met with the Penumbran.”
Ariel squinted her eyes curiously. Rainbow and her ghostly companions peered with mixed anticipation.
“We have seen into her mind,” the figure spoke, coming ever closer. “We have discovered that—she too—is familiar with nightmares. Much like ourselves. Much like our soldiers. Much like our children and their children's children.”
At last, she came to a stop before the avatar of Luna. She pulled her hood down, tossing her teal mane loose in pure silken threads that cascaded around one side of her neck.
“What's left to ascertain... is what she possesses in body,” the young mare said. She had piercing yellow eyeslits, and an immaculate face that actually made Rainbow's helpless heart skip a beat. “And if her journey through nightmares substantiates a connection with our past Mother more than with our future foals.”
Silence... until—
“Bingo,” Ariel dryly exhaled, her face red.
“Rainbow Dash...” Nat'rdo spoke firmly, her voice recognizable at this proximity. “W'ynlppa yln H'luun.” Her face in the real world was as stern as it was beautiful—evoking a maturity that undoubtedly rivaled that of the elder dreamers around her. “I have personally pushed the first of many damnable dominoes to bring you here to this most sacred of Roosts.” Her fangs showed—which only served to accentuate her terrifying majesty. “It would bring me great... great dismay to be disappointed for my efforts.”
Rainbow cleared her throat, cracking a dumb smile: “Wh-who's disappointed?”
Nat'rdo's amber eyes merely narrowed.
“Heyyyyyyyyyy! Nate!” Shriike slid up to her, grinning wide and adjusting her spectacles. “Long time no Ee-Ee-Ee-Ee!!!” She pointed at the mare's head. “I like what you did to your mane! Makes me think of the tea leaves on display in the Roost of Records! Get it? Cuz we like to drink tea all the time?”
Nat'rdo slowly turned to glare at her. “... … ...and you are?”
Shriike blushed furiously, shrinking within a blink. “I... erm... uhhhh...” A cough, and she glowed her horn—levitating the scroll beside her. “St-stenography!” She licked the floating pen and applied it to the paper. “Ramble away, dream ladies!”
“First thing's first...” And Nat'rdo trotted briskly towards Rainbow Dash.
“Whoah there...” Rainbow—flustered—waved a hoof. “Hold on a sec—!”
“Duck and cover!” Pinkie dove ghostily through the floor. “Headbutt time!”
“Just stay calm!” Applejack insisted.
Rainbow did. And within a second, Nat'rdo's hooves reached the pendant.
FLAAASH!
A gasp of alarm rippled through the crowd. Every elder ducked low, covering their faces from the burst of harmonic light that—no doubt—was brighter than anything they had ever witnessed in their natural lives.
Even Captain Xandraa and the two guards were having trouble blinking the lingering flash away.
When all was said and done, Nat'rdo could be seen leaning back, her muzzle agape as her mane settled from the resulting jolt of the experience.
“Sry'whymyll H'Luun...” Her fierce veneer shrunk behind a pallid look of shock—aimed directly at Rainbow Dash. “...The First Dreamer. You are truly gifted with her t-touch...?”
“Uhhhh... yeah...?” Rainbow Dash nodded. “You think I trotted all this way just for a slumber party?”
“Speak for yourself,” Ariel said, fanning herself. A prismatic tail whapped her in the face. “D'oh!”
“Again with that mesmerizing light...” Captain Shandra looked over at Shriike. “Clerk, did you get all that?”
“Uhhhhhhh...” Shriike—who had fallen backwards in response to the blast of light—was currently crawling across the mats and cushions, searching blindly for her spectacles. “...what just h-happened...?”