Rainbow Dash sat slumped in the round entrance to the hollow Roots. A thin swath of twilight bled in, forming edged shadows between her casually resting limbs. Her muzzle moved in small, subtle shifts—suggesting a deep and engaging conversation with... herself. However, it was quiet—a murmuring hum at best—and almost relaxing in the raspy resonance that it gave to the chamber she was guarding.
Within, Seraphimus and Wildcard were resting—as impossible as that seemed. It was the most still Shriike had ever witnessed the two of them being. And yet, they did not sleep. Not at that point, at least. Even in Shriike's own personal restlessness, she wondered if the two griffons were physically capable of falling unconscious. It made Rainbow Dash's job look simultaneously useless and courageous.
Ariel—on the other hoof—was out cold as a stone. She curled up in a fuzzy ball and fell quickly into slumber on the mat right beside Shriike's. The mare wasn't snoring, but her heavy breaths nevertheless scraped at the clerk's sensitive ears with each airy undulation. It was exceedingly difficult to concentrate on anything.
And yet—concentrate, Shriike did. Or at least attempted. She stumbled with the last few paragraphs of journal entries. The sudden sheer epicness of the subject matter resembled an impassible cliff, and the mare fumbled for appropriate articulation. She sunk further into her sleeping mat, sighing, envying Ariel and her deepening slumber. At last, she reached magically into her saddlebags, produced a canteen, and enjoyed a hearty sip of lunar mead.
Exhaling with momentary relief, the dutiful Imperialist worker cracked her neck muscles, lifted the scroll and pen once more with telekinesis, and brought more words to paper.
As long as I've lived, I've known about Lexxic. Such is a testament to his age, I suppose. That—or a testament to my youth, meager yet aesthetically resplendent (to a fault). In any case, that's the only thing I can be empirically assured of: Lexxic's a great deal older than this humble clerk. Everything else... is mere legend and rumor.
I mean... he's no phantom. I know he exists. I've requisitioned so many supplies for Lexxic and his campaign—far more materials than have ever been requisitioned by Commanders of the Sarcophagus Offensive in generations previous. In a way, I should feel special—privileged, even—to have been allowed to partake in such an epic undertaking. But, for me, it's just been clerical business as usual. I don't put much thought into the fact that I'm contributing to the largest military campaign in the history of this plane.
I also haven't put much thought into who Lexxic was in-pony. Probably because it never once presented itself as a detail I would ever realistically observe for myself someday. Why should I? I'm a faithful servant of the High-Polished, blessed to make her home within the lofty branches of Gibbous Sanctum. Why should I ever have bothered myself with the scents and sights of the Bloodwings' chief brother? Why should I ever have been concerned with the magnitude of his menace or the insidiousness of his veneer?
And yet—as pathetic as it is for me to admit—I have dreamed of what meeting him would be like. Not in deep wanting, mind you, but in subdued apprehension and anxious pretense. I can't imagine I'm the only one; perhaps Nat'rdo and her fellow dreamwalkers can attest. The Dark Vigil is slugging through what can best be described as the last leg of this infernal war. It's only natural to conjure thoughts, images, and rumors concerning the enigmatic general at the helm of such a violent undertaking.
His supposed ruthlessness has always seemed a melodramatic exaggeration to me. Tall-tales concerning his bloody purges of Tchern's nests are pure propaganda. The same can be said of his dismantling of Night Shard monoliths. I know this; I've signed off on the printing of the pamphlets myself.
Oh, sure, I've no doubt that he's accomplished enough in his military tenure to earn a certain degree of truth-bending. But how could Lexxic possibly have been anything remotely akin to the legendary descriptions affixed to him? To be admired—and feared—by servants and superiors alike is no small task.
And then I met him. And I realized that I was always thinking too large of the stallion—but that still wasn't enough to properly categorize the Bloodwing. He's.... Lexxic is... the First Son of Nightmares commands...
(Okay, note to self, try rewriting most of this whole section because I really don't see how it's doing this testament any service. For now I'll just write how I feel and go back to proofread before making a final draft for the Elders).
Lexxic, the First Son of Nightmares, scares me.
But he hasn't managed to scare me by methods that I expected—but by all the things unexpected. Prior to crossing paths, a good part of me envisioned a raging beast, vomitous and frothing at the muzzle, drenched in the blood of his enemies and covered from head to tail in scars. What I witnessed instead was something that made me want to vomit.
Lexxic is—for the lack of a better description—a veritable invalid. He's sickly, discolored, disproportionately weak in places unbecoming a warrior, and—as it would seem—consistently poisoned by the armor he chooses or is forced to wear. I had known—in writing—of the equipment that Lexxic girds himself with. I know about what he and his fellow brothers have mined, and what they continue to harness and conjure within that infernal pit of theirs.
But seeing it up close—and seeing what this material seemingly does to Lexxic—was a sickly sight I did not expect. I have heard rumors of this supposed “sacrifice” that the First Son constantly testifies about. Only now—after having met the stallion—do I feel impulsed to believe in it.
The Commander is blind. He has to be. He wears a helm constructed out of the same material that makes up the matter of his secret weapon. It blocks all vantage points that could be allowed for his eyes. But one wouldn't pretend to guess that he suffers any actual effect of the self-blinding. In fact, he appears to have equipped the helm with multiple blades of war which he can control and manipulate elegantly on command. Such would make him an invaluable element in battle, and yet it's quite evident that the bloodiest meat of combat is left to his chiefest familiars: Azarias the Second, Masser the Third, Sypher the Fourth, and so on.
So what—precisely—is Lexxic's prime function? Aside from charisma, that is. Despite him embodying evident weaknesses and slights, he is quite clearly exalted to godhood by his brothers in combat. He humors this praise, and yet—at the same time—he humbles himself enough to reinforce the trust. There's no doubting the fact that he throws himself into military engagements with great courage and zeal. But there's something else about him—something practiced and nuanced—that only Lexxic owns between now and the end of time.
It's a secret. A secret he knows. And he relishes in the fact. He smiles—not a beaming sort of expression—but a subtle feat of confidence that digs deeper than any of his floating daggers can. He speaks with a softness that I did not expect, and it haunts me far more than any surly growl or bloody threat would. I know that this stallion is capable of so much horror and might in the name of the Mother of Nightmares. But in all instances that I've witnessed him thus far, there has been nothing surprising or alarming.
Except for that smile. And a very curious—almost playful tone—with which he chooses to approach ponies. With which he chose to approach me... your humble and learned and most definitively flabbergasted clerk.
I shudder to even archive the feeble response I had to give.
“Meee-eee-eeep?” Shriike mewled, knees wobbling as she quivered in the shadow that the Bloodwing made in the twilight.
Far less feeble—in both his stance and presence—was the First Son of Nightmares. He moved slowly: an icy pace that circled the shivering clerk in oozing orbit. His head bowed, as if something in the bone-white surface of his helm was attempting to reflect truths at forty-five degree angles from her frazzled complexion.
“At ease, breeder,” Lexxic hummed, his threadbare tail flicking with the facsimile of playfulness. “Gibbous Sanctum is an awfully long fall from the Tree.”
“I...” Shriike gulped, summoning a modicum strength from the depths of her lungs. “...I-I am no breeder.”
“And yet only one mouth denies it.” His lips curved. “I remain unconvinced.” The helm tilted further, as if weighing her. “I see the blood of Whinniepeg runs in your veins.”
The unicorn did a double-take. “You...” She brushed her white bangs back with a shaky fetlock. “...you know about the Old Northern Order?”
“Does that surprise you?” Lexxic passed slowly behind her. His smile briefly vanished along with the helm. “Knowledge is the greatest weapon of all. Surely a clerk such as yourself would agree. Alas, I can only assume the Imperial Guard have compared me to New-speaking rabble.”
“Well... erm... the Captain and her mares n-never quite compared your education to common—” A bulbous blink, and the mare awkwardly adjusted her glasses. “Wait... how did you even know I was a unicorn—?”
“Many of your brothers and sisters empower the moon. I've met them. I admire them.” The First Son of Nightmares continued, slowly icing his way back into Shriike's field of view. “Granted, they embody a far different station than yours, but I doubt that concerns you.”
“I... h-have never personally entered the Chamber of the Rising Phase.” Shriike gulped hard. “But I have requisitioned most of the material that gets funneled there! Including the multiple tons of hybrid lunar stones that you have so...” She fumbled as he shuffled out of view once more. “... … … ardently applied to the most recent refit. Uhm...”
The clerk fidgeted, for the Bloodwing Commander hadn't yet reappeared from the edge of her sight.
“Commander?” Shriike bit her bottom lip with nervously-glinting fangs. “Might I ask that you... uhm... st-stop circling me. Please?”
His helm blurred into view within milliseconds of her plea, causing the mare to jump in place. A calmly moving muzzle followed along with it—suddenly cold and passive. “What—might I venture to guess—is an Imperialist Clerk of Gibbous Sanctum doing down here in the blood fields?”
“I... uhm...” Shriike took shuddering breaths, struggling to sound anything but nervous. And failing. She avoided looking at his bulky headpiece and unsightly, pale front half. The act of avoidance was more than a touch melodramatic, and the clerk gradually resembled a disgruntled infant bending away from a detestable teaspoon of bitter medicine. “I have been tasked with following Rainbow Dash—the supposed W'ynlppa yln H'luun—and recording the dialogue of her exchanges with the First Son of Nightmares.”
“And what—pray tell—do you hope to accomplish with this task?”
Shriike merely blinked
Lexxic merely waited.
“I... erm...” Shriike fidgeted—then fidgeted some more. “Ahem.” A gulp. “I... uhh... hope to impress the Elders and the Dream Council by performing my clerical duties to the best of my abi—”
“Yes yes yes—we all know what they want you to say,” Lexxic said, circling her again—only faster this time. “We all know how they wish Imperial clerks to behave and what they are or are not tasked with chronicling. But that's not what I asked.” His helm weighed down towards her once again, resonating the magnitude of his vibrating words. “What I want to know is what do you hope to accomplish?” His jaw muscles clenched beneath the shiny silver slab. “What does this task mean to you?”
“... … …” Shriike's slitted eyes darted back and forth, noting the sharpness of each dagger resting within those curved notches belonging to Bloodwing's helm. “Uhm... I... I don't understand.”
“No.” He exhaled. “You do not.” There was a melodic lilt to his breath. Whether it noted disappointment or whimsy, Shriike couldn't be pressed to tell. “Curious that they sent someone so young and novice to observe me.”
“Well... pffft...” Shriike suddenly stood up straight, adjusting her glasses with a haughty expression. “I am hardly a novice, Commander. I've requisitioned over half the materials of your war effort in the last dozen cycles alone and I bet I know more about the offensive supply movements than even the Fifth Son.” She tossed her mane back. “So—if nothing else—you should be grateful that they sent me.”
Lexxic stared at her. Icy silent.
Shriike blinked. She fought it and fought it—but bulbs of sweat formed along her velvety temple, regardless of her efforts. She slowly began slouching... shrinking away from the Bloodwing and his never-ceasing stare.
“... … …” Lexxic's lips curved ever so slightly. “Why, might I ask, do I not enjoy the pleasure of expressing my gratitude to the Head Archivist herself?”
“Because... uhm... she's been indisposed... pr-prolongedly.” Shriike gulped yet again. “Sick leave.”
“But of course she has.” Lexxic paced once more. “A hearty excuse. And Xandraa?”
Shriike fought the urge to snort. “I assume that you refer to the good and honorable Captain of the Imperial Guard.”
“Assuming suits you quite well.” Lexxic nodded, passing behind her again. “Also, you are correct.”
“Well, it would be respectable if you referred to her by her full title—”
“It would be respectable if Xandraa faced me in the Blood Fields, far beyond the Seals,” Lexxic circled closer. “It would be respectable of the Councils of the Mother of Nightmares to not have to observe me like untrustworthy riff-raff.” Lexxic circled closer. “ It would be respectable of the sanctified and wise elders of the Tree not to saddle their most victorious Commander in the history of the Dark Vigil with the wayward living embodiment of an ancient and unsubstantiated custom. And yet here we are... you and me...” He came to a stop, leering before her with all the menace but none of the motion, suddenly as still and placid as the tone in his voice currently dripping. “...against our wishes, but awash in the flow.”
Lexxic slowly shook his helm.
“No, young one. I am fully aware of why Xandraa and her familiars aren't here in your stead. Fear has a very queer color to it, and the branches of your Tree are drenched in that shade. They keep from falling by sheer pretense alone. So they shook you loose to abide the pressure.”
“What... uhm...” Shriike's ears flicked. “...what color am I?”
Lexxic breathed. He contemplated. Eventually—he said: “A very dull hue... which may come as a surprise to you and you alone. But it matters not. I am glad you were chosen.”
Shriike a double-take. “Y-you are?”
“Dearest clerk, I was foaled to be talked down to,” Lexxic said with a shiny smile. “It's rare to have somepony talk through me. Your ignorance is quite refreshing. I suspect you might even do well at your job.” He paced off.
A witless Shriike found herself blinking at him.
“I will of course retain any and all authority to seize those documents of yours, should the need present itself,” he said while pacing.
“Wh-what?” Shriike gasped with true-blue flabbergastery. “You can't d-do that!”
“I think we both know that you're proposing the faultiest argument since primordial eyes sought the receding starlight.” Lexxic tilted his head sideways like a pivoting gravestone. “Gibbous Sanctum—this is not. The only thing sacred here, dear clerk, is my campaign to seize the Sarcophagus and what lies within. If I find that your operation here—or Rainbow Dash's for that matter—threatens to undermine the success of these endeavors... which I have hinged my very death on... then I will be forced to cut it off at the head.”
“That's not even your authority to w-wield!” Shriike huffed, summoning a bold red frown. “Besides—we're on the same team, nimrod!”
He pivoted to face her.
Her features drooped.
Slowly, the stallion approached the Imperial clerk. “Your job—to its fullest extent—is simply to observe and record. But that bears no mention of the degree to which your task can and will be exploited for arrogant, vainglorious gain. I do not expect you to understand. Only to do your duty. This is only natural—a breeder breeds and a seeder grows. Allow me to worry about matters of power... and allow yourself to worry about matters of persistence.”
“And...” Shriike squinted through her thick glasses. “...is there a reason I might not be 'persisting' anytime soon?”
“You said it yourself, young one,” Lexxic remarked. “We embody the same team. Do we not?” He suddenly came to a stop.
“Why would that ever be in doubt?” Shriike asked.
Lexxic said nothing. He remained standing in place—at a distance.
“Well?” Shriike tilted her horn up, frowning slightly. “I'm waiting...”
“Who's in a hurry?” cracked a voice directly behind Shriike.
“!!!” The clerk jumped in place. She looked over her flank to see that Rainbow Dash was standing directly behind her. The petite pegasus had a devilish smirk locked on Lexxic.
“Ran out of stuff to say, Lexxy-kins?” Rainbow's tail flicked as she cocked her head to the side. “I'm used to the feeling. But—hey—good time for a breather.” She nodded. “In fact, now's a good a time as any for the stenographer to start doing her thing.”
Lexxic said nothing.
Shriike said nothing.
Rainbow said: “That's you, ya melon fudge.” Thwap! Her hoof slapped upside Shriike's mane.
“Gahhh!” The clerk lurched forward, cursed under her breath, and yanked a pen and scroll out from her saddlebags. “Why can't I ever use the bathroom like a civilized pony?””
“Grow a Goddess-forsaken tree,” Rainbow muttered. “I mean a smaller one.” A roll of her eyes, and she leaned in, whispering to Shriike's ear: “Start recording right after that last part. Mmmkay?”
“Too late, so-called avatar.”
“Dang it. And will you stop calling me so-called?”
“I see you've warmed up to the bounty of the upper branches, Rainbow Dash,” Lexxic said.
“I see that you haven't,” Rainbow countered. Ariel, Wildcard, and Seraphimus casually wandered up to the scene, joining her and Shriike's side. “Think you can kinda sorta cool it with the creepazoiding around Schrodinger here?”
“Shriike.”
“Yeah. Her too.”
“I think we all know precisely why the Elders sent their clerk here to trail the two of us,” Lexxic remarked, standing at a visible distance from Rainbow Dash. “Believe me: I was not the first one to be caught skulking about my very own stronghold. Which is quite unfortunate. For I truly wish I could claim that honor.”
“You don't sound very trustworthy of the Elders, there, buddy,” Ariel said.
“And yet—it is they who feel compelled to analyze my work at every conceivable degree.” Lexxic's helm tilted vaguely in Shriike's direction. “It did not begin with her and it will not end with her.” He pivoted slightly towards Rainbow Dash. “You arrive at a very critical juncture. And yet the elders—who are adamant about labeling you as W'ynlppa yln H'luun—simultaneously wish to exploit your supposed standing for petty purposes. Now tell me...” His fangs showed. “...who is truly acting most unhealthily here?”
“You... uh...” Shriike bit her lip amidst her levitating task. “...you do know that I'm recording every word at this point, right?”
He beamed at her. “I would most certainly hope so, child.”
Shriike stifled an inner growl.
“We've been waiting a pretty long time for you to show your... helmet,” Rainbow said. “Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It was kinda nifty to catch up with ponies I didn't know I'd be catching up with.”
“Indeed.” Lexxic turned towards her from afar. “It would seem that you made a good show of embarrassing Myl'sypher'ym and Sy'lukas'ymb in the very presence of their brothers.”
Shriike winced in the light of her own horn.
But Lexxic smiled. “A brilliant accomplishment. The Fourth and Fifth beg to be humbled without knowing it. I find myself consistently at an impasse for executing the most proper methods.”
“A pity that they don't learn to humble themselves,” Ariel remarked.
“Their primary task is maintaining order here in the blood fields,” Lexxic said. “Believe me—considering the company who they are forced to keep around the Roots—they have very few souls equipped to humble them.” He looked towards Rainbow again. “I especially liked hearing about what went down in the target practice are outside of Central. It's done wonders for morale.”
“You're quite observant to have gathered all of this information so quickly,” Seraphimus spoke up. “I take it that the other Sons are your eyes and ears.”
“We are all one body, Commander, bearing the stripes of war for the cause,” Lexxic said. “The Sons of Nightmares share unity in both the pains and thrills of war—as we will one day share communion in the pains and thrills of the Narrow. It pleases me that you can both see and respect the expedience with which we process unfolding events.” His head tilted. “But when the heat of battle rears its bloody head, you may in fact discover that it is I... who act as the 'eyes' of my brethren. And it is their ears who receive and respect the decisions I have to impart.”
“It sounds like a most well-oiled machine indeed,” Seraphimus said with a nod. “No doubt you'd be quick to react to interference from Lyw'Malaak.”
Shriike blinked at Seraphimus in mid-scribble. She then looked nervously at Lexxic.
The stallion stood cold—with his smile lingering even colder beneath the helm. A slow inhale, and he calmly said: “I see that fate has arranged it so that my business will inevitably become the avatar's business. I suppose it was folly to think—even for a second—that the charade would be over the moment I brought her to the seal of the inner tree.”
“Well, you know how charades are,” Rainbow Dash stated. “Silly, pretentious, and a waste of everypony's goddess-dang time.”
“Which is why I shall suffer the labor of avoiding one,” Lexxic exhaled. “A pity that those who wield authority over me cannot afford the same.”
“Well, that's a good start.” Ariel nodded. “Why don't you come over here and you and Rainbow Dash can shake on it?”
Shriike clenched her teeth anxiously. She stared at Lexxic.
He did not move. His wings unfolded as he leaned back. “You wish to learn more of the disappointing legacy of Malaak? So be it.” He started trotting towards the Central Operations building—taking a long, curved angle beyond the gathered group. “But I, the First Son of Nightmares, am far from a gracious host. I do not say this out of spite—but rather to inform you that I demand tribute in the form of honor... for all that I have provided the Vigil, including this particularly infinitesimal hurdle.”
Rainbow's head cocked to the side. “What do you have in mind?”
His helm swung sideways towards her, accompanied by grinning fangs. “A feast, of course.”
Shriike was the only pony who seem unaffected by this awkward declaration.
“You shall accompany my brothers and I to the Hall of Honor,” Lexxic declared. “Fret not. This is a regular tradition for the Bloodwings—once a cycle—in service to the Tree. However, no amount of words can properly emphasize the sheer magnitude that your presence will have at such a prodigious event. Seeing as I am going greatly out of my way to allow for your inclusion, I truly hope you will execute the same degree of respect and reverence in return.”
“I... uh...” Rainbow looked at her companions, then back at Lexxic. “I don't think any of us will have a problem with that.”
“Oh, I highly doubt that, but I admire the commitment.” Lexxic paused, tilting his head towards Wildcard. “Have you anything to say, dear warrior?”
The griffon's headcrest raised curiously.
“Hah hah hah hah!” Lexxic shook, then spread his wings. “I must speak with Masser. Join us at Central, and we shall proceed.” SWOOOOSH! He vanished in a gray streak.
Wildcard exhaled, relaxing for the first time in minutes.
“He very much loves to talk,” Seraphimus droned.
“Remind you of anygriffon I once butted heads with?” Rainbow winked.
Seraphimus merely glared at her.
“Did you notice how he froze up when I suggested he come and shake hooves with you?” Ariel said.
“I did notice!” Rainbow nodded. “Don't suggest a thing like that again or I'll kick your butt.”
“Huh?!” Ariel did a double-take, hoof over her chest. “But I was only trying to point out—”
“He will not close the distance between you two,” Seraphimus said. “It's just as it was when he and his company first escorted us.”
Wildcard nodded. He gestured at Rainbow Dash.
“Yeah. They sorta... flickered in and out of existence when we first showed up here. And then again when he began his pacing.” Rainbow turned and lowered her face to stare squarely at Shriike. “You okay, girl?”
“Uhm... yes...?” The clerk blinked back through her thick lenses. “Why shouldn't I be?”
Rainbow's muzzle clenched and unclenched. “If he did anything—anything whatsoever—to make you feel uncomfortable...”
“So-called avatar, I am far away from my bed, my filing cabinets, and the delicious scent of night phlox.” Shriike pushed her glasses up and grumbled: “Everything about this place makes me uncomfortable. But as for the First Son and his pedantic speeches.” She tightened the scroll of her hovering parchment. “I am more than equipped to record.”
Rainbow nodded. Her gaze lingered on the sarosian unicorn. “Okay.” A pointing hoof. “But you just speak up if you feel like you need a buddy at your side. Got it?”
“I... … … will... … …?” Shriike pronounced. She watched awkwardly as the group trotted away, deep in contemplative conversation with themselves. Shrugging, she gathered her things and scampered briskly to catch up to them.
The W'ynlppa yln H'luun barely knows me—or any pony of the Vigil, for that matter. And yet, despite being a complete stranger, she seems rather quick to... promise protection. Aid. Comfort. All of the common courtesies bestowed upon the mid-to-high polished in their service to the Mother of Nightmares. I'd venture to say that she would make a very good member of the Imperial Guard with that sort of loyal commitment. She wouldn't replace Captain Xandraa, of course. She's too pathetically small. But that's a tangent for another time.
Bottom of the line—I find myself rather amazed at how freely and willingly Rainbow Dash seems prepared to support me. What's more, she exhibits a quality in the presence of Commander Lexxy'kyn that I've not observed from the Captain or other representatives of the upper branches when they find themselves obligated to share company with the First Son. And it's not that she's “fearless” around the Commander. There is a certain state of... being on-guard that's impossible to ignore when it comes to Rainbow Dash. Rather, I find that she doesn't experience the same intimidation that the First Son inflicts upon most ponies... as he also inflicts upon me.
I suppose what truly brought the contrast between Rainbow Dash and Lexxic into light were the events that took place during the so-called “feast” at the Hall of Honor. No doubt rumors of the dramatic incident have wafted their way up the trunk of the Tree long before I turned in this report. Undoubtedly, the elders and the Dream Council desire a thorough and well-written account of what actually transpired. And I endeavor to provide that. However...
I fear that such a revelation shall take a great deal of time and dedication to produce, equal to if not greater than the volume of words I've committed to archiving my experiences thus far. It is quite late into my waking, and both myself and the group I've been charged with following are severely lacking on sleep.
For the sake of being mindful enough to continue my tasks unwaveringly, I must now retire and attain much rest. If Nat'rdo or Lady Prunus or other members of the Dream Council are to take it upon themselves to interrogate me in my dreams, I apologize long after the fact for remaining in strictest confidence until my task is performed within the temporal realm. I would hate to disappoint the good and honorable Captain Xandraa in relaying my targeted information any sooner. Please do not take abject silence—asleep or awake—as a dishonorable affront.
(Note to self, this is the end of the entry. Consider implementing a line break, followed by a re-introduction, perhaps an anecdote concerning random nuanced dreams so as to facilitate a smooth transition into the rather awkward dramatics of the Hall of Honor testimony.)
(Extra note to self: have a Bloodcolt messenger go to the lowermost seal and ask for deodorant from the Mid Branches I absolutely abhor smelling like a leg pit as I go to sleep.)
(Extra extra note to self: maybe add in some ointment as well. I can't remember the last time I've been around so many damned feathers. I think I might actually be allergic to griffons. Wouldn't that just be poetic.)
Blessed slumber, elders. May the night last forever, even if we never can.
Sincerely, and with much humility and zeal,
-Archivist Shriike of Gibbous Sanctum
At long last...
Shriike finished levitating her pen. She sighed long and hard, magically rolling up the scroll while cracking the joints in her neck. The hollow of the root was deathly silent by now, and it invited her into its tender embrace.
Shrike slipped her possessions neatly into her bag. She then folded her glasses and placed them neatly beside the satchel of her positions. Eventually, the sarosian slumped over onto her sleeping mat next to Ariel, curled up, and closed her eyes with a contented smile.
“Hrmmmmfff...”
Thusly, Shriike lay still, deliriously drifting off.
No longer than ten seconds later...
...Ariel trilled in the middle of her sleep. Her hooves shot out, kicking at random—and smacking Shriike upside the head.
WHAP!
“... … …!” Shriike's legally blind eyeslits popped open, starring daggers into the ceiling of the place. She remained still—a murderous stone.
But the sleeping Ariel kicked her again. And again. And...