After the confrontation, Tempest retreated to her spot in the radiant chapel. Alone again, she slumped against the outer wall and listened to the howl of the wind through the stone. There was nothing else to do at the moment - word was spreading through the townsponies of the potential escape and the House's leadership was in almost as much chaos as her own thoughts.
Dinner that evening was a hearty stew that used some of the beer as a broth - thick and bright with carrots. Of course, the meal was somewhat tainted by an argument in the kitchens. The regular members of the House who cooked - mostly layponies rather than the monks themselves - were loudly at odds with the sudden influx of townsponies who wanted to contribute and help. With the shellshock of the evacuation into the priory passed, the problem of too many cooks and tripping over each other had already become too much to bear.
Tempest paid it little mind, pushing the argument to the periphery of her thoughts. Her focus was on not spilling her bowl as she returned to the radiant chapel and the bricked window she'd claimed as her own. Space was at a premium after all and knowing where you'd sleep was a luxury.
An hour passed - perhaps two. Without the sky it was hard to tell and Tempest could only guess by watching how long it took the coal in the fire to burn. Her stew was gone, leaving a slight buzz in her head and a fading warmth in her stomach that contrasted with the chill of the wall at her back. All that was left was the breathing of ponies and the wait for the next day's coming crisis. Following the old soldier's creed - never turn down a chance to sleep - Tempest let her eyes drift closed in the flickering half-light.
They weren't closed for long, however. A noise tickled Tempest's ear - something out of place among the fire's crackle and the low white noise of ponies murmuring. Partly it cut through by the nature of it, but more because of how different the emotions felt from the rest: laughter standing tall among the lapping waves of low-level misery that the priory was flooded with.
Laughter separated out more as Tempest left behind her corner - out into the nave proper and the sound resolved into a wider range. Clapping in rhythm. Hooves clopping against stone as somepony danced. And - just before she rounded the corner to look directly - the strum of a dulcimer.
Coming to view the outer chapel, Tempest was greeted by possibly the brightest spot in the last day and a half. The pews had been moved aside, making room for a large central clearing. In the middle a group of ponies - mostly teens - were dancing to a twangy tune. Other young ponies sat around on the pews, swigging back mouthfuls of wine, clapping along and letting out the occasional hoot to encourage their dancing fellows. On one of the pews were two ponies alone: one was Bit, his barrel wrapped in linen to cushion his bruises. Despite the weariness that still saddled his face, he thumped a percussive beat on the top of a cookpot. But the star was Script - the scribe had a broad smile on as he strummed a dulcimer with the tip of his hoof. His worries - for Bit, for the valley, for himself - seemed absent and lost amidst the bouncing, plucky tune that drove the youth of the town to take turns dancing about the smoldering central fire.
It was good to see him smile, even from a distance.
Tempest didn't approach. She didn't dare impose, not with her and Script's fight still fresh and raw. Not when he seemed to be finding a moment of joy in everything. Keeping back, she leaned against the chill stone arch and watched.
As the tune switched to a twangy ragtime, the dancers broke apart. Instead of a crowd, only two at a time came to the center of the circle. Paired off, they danced in the flighty, flirty way that only the young could manage - constantly drifting to and apart, always on the edge of more serious contact before flitting away again with a laugh and a smile. And after a pass or two, each pair spun away to let another couple repeat their dance.
In spite of herself, Tempest cracked a little smile as she watched. The rag ended, transitioning into a more traditional ballad - one that Bit lifted to join with a rough but capable barritone. He sang using words Tempest didn't recognize, but they had a certain familiarity as the song lilted one word to the next.
"That's one of mine," came the uncharacteristically soft voice from just behind Tempest. She didn't turn - simply nodding as Scribble came to stand at the opposite side of the archway. "I couldn't get the words to fit the tune at first, but when I translated them to Old Ponish it ended up working."
"Old Ponish," Tempest repeated thoughtfully. "Makes sense, I guess. I didn't know you knew it, though."
A bit of her usual eagerness crept into Scribble's voice. "I'm self-taught! I learned it from reading through some of the early history texts." She paused, cheeks darkening with embarrassment. "Starswirl said my pronunciations are all wrong, though."
A snort in response. "Old goat." Tempest's tone mixed both amusement and irritation at the wizard. "He never can leave well enough alone." She was quiet for a moment, lips thin as she listened to the music. Then abruptly? "Tell me about the song."
The question jostled Scribble, who had thought the conversation already over. She wobbled on her hooves, body mimicking her mind as she recentered herself. "I, um, it's actually a little embarrassing. It was just after I got my Mark - when I wrote it, I mean. About their age," Scribble noted the teens around the circle with a slight motion of her head. "It's actually about how lost I felt at the time. Everypony around me had a Mark they could follow for their life, and mine was... It wasn't something I could spend my life doing. Not just that. So I got angry." She shifted uneasily. "Okay, not angry-angry, but I was really frustrated! And I wrote that song. It's about a young mare looking for her place in the world. As it turns out, Prioress Heart heard me singing it one day and that's how we first met."
"And you translated it then?"
Scribble shook her head. "No, that was later. I'm not as frustrated as I was when I wrote it, but it's still an important song to me. Without it, I wouldn't be where I am today so I've always come back to it." The corners of her mouth twitched up to a little smile. "I'm almost totally certain Bit doesn't actually know what the words mean - he just thinks it sounds pretty."
Another little laugh snuck out from Tempest. "Yeah, that sounds like him." Her smile was wider now - warmer as she finally looked to Scribble. "So what are the words?"
For a moment it seemed like Scribble was bashful about sharing - but she was just waiting for Bit to reach the refrain again. He launched into the repeating part of the song and she echoed him quieter, reciting it like a poem.
"I seek a shelf where I can rest my heart
A jar wherein I can preserve my joy
For every soul must find an anchor
In place
In deed
In pony
Lest it be swept away within the storm."
Scribble fell silent as Bit continued on, unaware of his brief duet. He belted out one more verse before the tune fell silent - picked up again after a few moments as he and Script transitioned into the next song. Scribble tapped her hoof in time as a shanty-like chant rose up from the circle.
"My name's not the one I was born with either."
Scribble missed her next tap.
"I picked a different one when I left home." Tempest didn't look to her, instead gazing upwards to the high vaulted ceiling of the chapel and the gathering haze of smoke there. "Something that fit better to who I'd become. So I think I understand what you were feeling when you wrote that."
Hesitantly, Scribble looked between Tempest and the far-off point in space she was staring at. "Because of your Mark?"
"Because of my life," Tempest un-clarified.
Neither spoke for a few seconds.
Tempest glanced over. "You're not going to ask what it was?"
"Nope." Scribble shook her head. "Out of anypony, I can understand it. You named yourself Tempest and that's who you are. It's what your life is, not whatever was before, right? Making a clean break from your past is important."
Tempest's ears flattened. "You're really good at making a completely different point than the one you're trying to make."
Scribble blinked, head canted to the side curiously. "Thank you?"
"I mean it." Tempest chuckled low and dark. "If you knew the life I had when I picked this name and where it led me, you'd be singing a different tune. Your point isn't wrong, though." Pushing off from the stone, she stepped away from the arch. "It just makes me wonder a bit - if I'm bound to change my name again for who I'm becoming."
A slightly giddy smile shot to Scribble's lips. "Are you taking suggestions?"
"Very no," laughed Tempest. Closing the gap between them, she nudged Scribble in the side. "Get in there. I'm still pretty new to the whole friendship thing, but even I know you shouldn't be watching a party."
The push moved Scribble a step closer and out of the shadow of the arch - but she still paused to look back to Tempest. "So why are you just watching, then?"
A slight motion of Tempest's head indicated the dulcimer playing scribe. "Because Script deserves to have a decent night and I'm not gonna be the one that ruins it for him."
"Fair enough," Scribble admitted with a little laugh. "Fair enough."
They parted with a smile - Scribble moving forward to join the circle, Tempest moving away and back into the priory.
Halfway back to her little corner, Tempest grunted as one of the townsponies staggered into her. The impact was barely enough to make her twitch, but it nearly dropped the stallion to the ground. He only stayed up by virtue of his cargo: another stallion, this one blearily looking around as he lay limp in his companion's grip.
The carrying stallion half-stuttered an apology. "S-Sorry, my friend's drunk. He fell down the stairs and--"
Tempest held up a hoof. "I get it. Let me help you with him."
In truth, it was barely effort. The limp stallion was less weight than Tempest used for training and he was barely more than breathing.
That was part of what concerned her in the minute it took to carry him to an open spot on the floor and lay him down.
He had all the signs of being drunk - wide, unfocused pupils; no coordination in what little movement he made; the hints of vomit at the corners of his mouth; and he was obviously disoriented to the point of uselessness. A few words tried to tumble out, but they were slurred and garbled.
His friend shook his head. "I didn't think he had that much, but I guess that's why he went to sleep it off. I'm not sure why he tried to come back down the stairs, though."
But something was off about it - his breath had only the same hint of alcohol that everypony around now had rather than an overwhelming stench. And he kept clutching one hoof to his chest as he took deep, ragged breaths.
Frowning, Tempest leaned in closer. Something about the situation stirred her memory - an old incident from her time serving the Storm King. She remembered one of the shaggy Storm Beasts being hauled before her, caught drunk on duty and trying to sleep it off in a hidden corner. The puzzle had wracked her brain for hours - where had the alcohol come from? They were underway, so it had to have been smuggled aboard. Yet none could be found and the bleary creature swore it had none. Eventually the beast's head cleared enough for a proper confession, revealing that it had merely fallen asleep and the 'drunkenness' was from the fumes of the airship's engines. Which was still the creature's own fault, as anywhere with proper ventilation--
Tempest's eyes shot wide. The drunken stallion forgotten, she looked upwards. The second floor of the priory was open for the most part - the open main hall giving plenty of vertical space to the occupants. Around the edge was a balcony, dotted with doors that led to various off-branches of the second level. All around in the hall simmered dozens of coal fires that warded away the pervasive chill, with many more scattered throughout the various rooms and nooks. Above, Tempest could see the murky haze of smoke clinging to the already soot-stained rafters, trapped with no way to escape into the open sky.
Her hooves were in motion before the thought completed. Tempest flew away from the fallen stallion, stampeding through a half-dozen smaller knots of ponies before she burst into the chapel. Her abrupt appearance was punctuated by a sour note, Script's playing derailed by her barreling into their circle.
Putting the dulcimer aside and rising, the scribe glared at Tempest. "What do you want," he snarled, more a threat than a question.
It didn't even slow her. "We need to evacuate the upper level, right now."
The anger didn't leave Script's eyes - but his voice banked it to mere irritated confusion. "...Why?"
"The fires." Tempest forced herself to slow down, taking each word with care to push back her own fear. "There's no ventilation for the smoke to escape, and the upper level is filling with coal fumes. Some of them are already showing symptoms - we have to get everypony out or they'll suffocate."
That was enough - the threat overrode petty squabbles. Script was giving orders before Bit or Scribble could even rise. "No time to be more organized about this. Everypony, up the stairs! One trip only - go up, grab somepony who's up there, come down. Nopony stays up for more than three minutes. I don't want to have to rescue the rescuers." The mass of young ponies - teenagers, some barely no longer foals - scrambled to comply. "Follow the Commander up and listen to her orders." Script turned on his frog. "Scribble, find the Prioress and let her know. We're going to need healers for anypony who's been up there too long."
There were likely more orders, but Tempest didn't stay to hear them. Her task was laid out: direct the rescue. She led the two dozen or so teens to the stairwell at a gallop, shouting for ponies to clear the path all the while. Taking the stairs three at a time, Tempest had just a moment of doubt as she reached the landing. If she was wrong and that stallion had just been drunk, she was about to waste a lot of ponies' time and cause a lot of grief.
Then she bucked open the nearest door, and none of the ponies inside reacted. Not so much as a twitch.
"Grab the nearest pony and go!" She paused only long enough to bellow that order before moving to smash open the next door. As Tempest continued down the line, only a handful of her bucks were met by reactions of surprise - in far too many, the inhabitants of the rooms stayed asleep or simply groggily looked around.
By the time she completed her loop of the balcony, more ponies were surging up the stairs as word spread through the level below. The last door broke apart under her hooves and two other ponies pushed past to grab the nearest victims. Tempest did much the same, lifting a dull yellow mare onto her back before joining the scramble back downstairs.
The mare tumbled off Tempest's back as she reached the bottom - a pack of other ponies were there, led by the Prioress and a grim-faced Script as they tried to help the victims breathe clean air again. For just a moment, Tempest and Script met gazes, locking eyes.
Then she went back up.
Tempest's second rescue was an elderly stallion, his coat more grey than blue.
Third was a mare - she had a stripe of yellow through her red mane that reminded Tempest of the similar pattern in Twilight's.
Last was a small filly. Tempest almost didn't see her, as the filly's grey coat smudged against her own greying vision. But a hint of color from the foal's purple mane caught Tempest's eyes. Grabbing the filly with her teeth, Tempest dragged her out and down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, the orchid mare fell over onto her heaving side and traded the world for blackness.