The skies were clouded today. Forecast called for rain later in the evening, with the potential for a thunderstorm. Radiant Star puttered along at his usual pace, flying low enough that if he'd reached for it, he could scrape the roofs below.
Not that he would. The bakery's insurance didn't cover property damage, only medical damage. Besides, his workday was almost over. He had only one delivery left for him to finish up.
Working at the bakery? It was alright. He could afford to live in Ponyville, which was by no means expensive. The owners were nice, and so were his two fellow employees. There was Cereal, who baked a lot, and Penny, who watched the store most days. It just wasn't super fulfilling. He knew the skies above Ponyville well enough that he could probably join the mail service, but the head mailmare who worked there, Derpy, was efficient in ways he couldn't even hope to compete with.
Coincidentally, that's where his delivery was going to. Apparently the post office was moving a lot of things today, and wanted a large batch of muffins at the worksite for when the team left for the night.
Ray glided to the ground on silent wings, carrying well over 60 muffins in his delivery bag; Derpy had a notoriously large appetite for muffins. Rumour had it that she even kept a basket of them under the counter at the office.
At the entrance of the worksite, a unicorn wearing a helmet and a reflective vest greeted him. "Hey there, Ray, lovely flying as always." she smiled.
"Yeah, yeah, that's me alright." Ray mumbled. He set down his bag and did his best to take the muffins out without squishing them any further. He didn't even know who this mare was.
"Looks like all of them! Thanks Ray, sorry about the order being so sudden." the mare said sheepishly.
"Oh no, it's no trouble. Just doing my job." Ray tried to fake a smile, but it came out looking pained.
The mare fished in her pocket for something, bringing out a few bits. "Here, because you do your job so well. It's not much, but I won't take no for an answer." she smiled as she offered it to Ray.
"I, uh, actually get paid alright. Thanks." Ray replied. He had a feeling that refusing would have incensed her even more. Right now, he just wanted to get this over with so he could go home.
Not that he had much to do at home, but he needed something to look forward to.
Ray flew away without a word, returning to the bakery to deposit his bread bags and clock out for the day. He said bye to Cereal and Penny, and started the walk home.
He lived in a small rental cottage just outside the town limits, though it was still technically part of Ponyville because of how the property was shaped. It had all the essentials, but it wasn't quite the same as the fancy cloud condo he grew up in.
His parents had separated when he was young, his dad living in Cloudsdale and his mum in Ponyville. And then when he was old enough to choose, he spent most of his time with his dad. The two of them were just on the same frequency, while his mum had... let's say she had some "ideas" about how he was going to live his life. For a while it had been charming, but then it just became annoying.
Like how she always told him that "if you'd just tried harder, you could join the Wonderbolts". As he'd grown older, he'd come to understand that was his mother's lingering resentment over not being able to join the Wonderbolts herself. She denied it, but it was plain to see for those who knew her well.
Ray didn't even like the Wonderbolts very much; as far as he was concerned they were all about speed and showboating.
That sentiment had put him at odds with some of his peers on many occasions. Particularly that blue one with the rainbow streak. Now she'd actually managed to join, after a lot of trials and tribulations, which was good for her he supposed. She was living his mother's dream.
As he was making his way downtown, he suddenly perked up. Was that who he thought it was? He caught a glimpse of purple mane, and a parchment brown coat.
It was Ink Blot, and that fellow who sat in the bakery and never ate anything. For some reason the fellow's name was escaping him.
"Hey, Ink Blot!" Ray called out.
Ink Blot turned and frowned, searching for who'd said his name. When he spotted Ray, he nudged Quill and went to greet him.
"Hey dude, how've you been?" Ray asked as he got close.
"Been, uh, alright." Ink Blot responded awkwardly. He hadn't been expecting to see Ray, and to be completely honest had forgotten to talk to him recently. There were a few other things on his mind these days.
"And you're the writer who likes to sit in the bakery, right?" Ray asked Quill, who was currently in his standard disguise. "Good to see that you've got somepony to talk to, now. Penny kept getting all riled up about how alone you seemed, without any friends or anything like that."
"Well, it turns out Ink and I have... a lot more in common than I, uh, realised." Quill replied meekly. He was nervous, talking to someone whose identity he'd temporarily taken on a few times before.
Ink Blot nodded, but then frowned as he realised something. "So if you're always seeing eachother in the same place, how come the two of you never talked at all?"
"We did, he just never seemed like he really wanted to talk about much." Ray shrugged.
"I, well, you see... I wasn't really... feelin' it, you know?" Quill said, grasping for the right words to use.
"Then I suppose the two of you could make a fresh start, huh?" Ink Blot asked with a short, pointed glance at Quill.
"Come to think of it, I wouldn't really mind having somepony else to chat to." Ray smiled.
Quill said nothing at first. He jumped a little when Ink Blot elbowed him, blurting out, "Of course!"
The three of them sort of looked at eachother for a moment, not sure what to do next.
"Do you want to come over, or something?" Ray suggested with a shrug.
"Uh, sure." Ink Blot nodded.
Quill, despite wanting to do literally anything else right now, agreed as well.
The three of them made some pointless small-talk as they made their way to Ray's place. And by the three of them, that meant Ray and Ink Blot; Quill was half excited to be thrust into a new social situation, but also half regretting every decision that had led up to that moment.
Ray's place was quaint by Ink Blot's standards, comparable to Fluttershy's cottage in size. However, it was obvious that this was a much newer building in comparison. Crisp, freshly white-washed, double layered wooden walls would keep the cold out and the heat in. The gaps between the roughly hewn lumber was filled with daub, and presumably the space between the wall layers was stuffed with some form of insulation. A single, steel pole stretched up into the sky, with antennas pointing out in various directions.
"Nice place." Ink Blot commented.
"It's a little small compared to what I'm used to, but it's got an alright rental rate. And it's on the wired electrical grid, unlike most of Ponyville. Pole's a lightning rod, too." Ray pointed out.
"So most of Ponyville's on the magic grid, then?" Ink Blot asked.
"Oh yeah, they don't draw much so they're on an extension from Canterlot. Magic grid technically doesn't need physical connectors, but the further it goes without some sort of conduit the more power is lost. Most cities on the magic grid just do their own generators, but Ponyville's a special case."
"You sure know a lot about the power grid." Quill commented.
"Took a class on it, when I was in Cloudsdale few years back. Electricity's not that far removed from weather management, but it's not anywhere near as popular. Still, you can make a lot of money if you land a job in the frontier towns." Ray mused.
Ink Blot nodded. "So why live in Ponyville, then?"
Ray didn't have a good answer. It wasn't entirely by choice, but there wasn't really anything keeping him here. If he wanted, he could just up and leave at any time.
So instead of answering, he opened his door and gestured for the two to come inside.
"It's not much. For now, I call it home." Ray smiled.
"Rustic. Reminds me of the Inner Colonial style." Ink Blot said.
"Inner Colonial?" Quill asked.
"Rough planks for the walls, whitewashed exterior to preserve the wood, the daub filling the gaps. More efficient on space and wood than a typical log cabin, but needed more heating in the winters. Used pretty often in fast growing frontier towns." Ink Blot explained.
Ray turned on the lightswitch, and overhead the old bulbs faded to life. "Sitting room is on the left, want a drink? Or a snack?" he asked his guests.
"Could use a cold drink. Surprise me." Ink Blot said.
Quill politely declined. As an unreformed Changeling, he couldn't properly digest most pony foods.
Returning quickly from the kitchen, Ray brought two bottles. One had a familiar label, that of Sunrise Sarsaparilla, while the other had a logo with a sort of stylised citrus fruit. The mystery drink was coloured a bright orange, and presumably flavoured with oranges.
"You want the Citran Burst, or the sarsaparilla?" Ray asked.
"I'll take the orange drink." Ink Blot said. He'd always liked trying a new kind of pop.
Quill, even though he knew he shouldn't have it, looked at the sarsaparilla longingly. What would the harm be? He'd had it before without any side effects, so why couldn't he have some more now? "On second thought, I, uh, would like a sarsaparilla." Quill stammered.
Ray shrugged and passed his bottle to Quill, and quickly returned with a replacement.
"So, last time we talked it was about your lost memory. You got it back, right?" Ray asked as he sipped his drink.
Ink Blot nodded. "Got it back, and now I've spent the past month trying to figure out what to do with myself."
"You and me both, bud," Ray snorted. "I'm in a bit of a rut at work, just doing the same-old same-old. Bread delivery pays for the house, but it's not very fulfilling. You find a job yet?"
"Uh, not really, no," Ink Blot admitted.
"Well, if you look hard enough you can find work doing anything. It's just a question of how low you're willing to stoop. You still rooming with that Starlight filly?" Ray asked.
"Yeah. I honestly feel kinda bad about it, because she's not charging me anything for the room. Really, my biggest fear is that someday soon I'm gonna wear out my welcome and then there's going to be an awkward conversation." Ink Blot sighed.
Ray nodded in understanding. "I was in a spot like that for a bit. My folks were split when I was a colt, and until I had my hooves on the ground I had to bounce between them a lot."
"I imagine it was tough for you." Ink Blot commented as he sipped the orange drink. It didn't taste that strongly of any one citrus, so he suspected it was probably some kind of multi-blend.
"Difficult, but it was the way it was. Anyway, Quill, was it?" Ray asked.
"Yeah." Quill nodded.
"You write?"
"Yeah."
"You don't talk much?"
Quill shrugged. "When I have something to say, I'll say it."
"I can respect that." Ray nodded thoughtfully.
"What makes you say you're in a rut? Something wrong with the bakery?" Ink Blot asked curiously.
"No," Ray said uncertainly. "Well, yes, actually. It's none of the others, it's actually just me. I deliver baked goods, right? All day I fly back and forth, and everypony thanks me, but it just doesn't feel like I'm doing much, you know? All I'm doing is flying around, which is what I'd probably do anyway..." He trailed off with a shrug.
"Well, what would you rather do?" Ink Blot questioned.
Ray chuckled sadly. "That's exactly it. I don't know what I want to do, just that it isn't delivery work. Maybe something more intellectual?"
"You could try writing. I could look around and try to get you a publishing deal, and if your write something that gets popular the royalties can be rather lucrative." Quill suggested.
"What would I write? Add another Daring Do ripoff to the bargain bin? Speculative fiction? Or, worst of all, fanfiction?" Ray smiled.
Quill smiled back slyly. "A lot of great writers started off with fanfiction. Snd who says you have to be original about what you write? All you'd have to do is take and update."
"You could always write romance for lonely singles." Ink Blot added.
"Oh Celestia, don't tell him that!" Quill suddenly burst out.
Ray and Ink Blot laughed. Quill, who'd been steadily drinking his sarsaparilla, let out a large burp, which only made them laugh more.
When they calmed down, Ray smiled sadly. "Now that would be something, but I'm not sure it'd be for me. What did you do before you wound up here, Inks?"
"I was a soldier." Ink Blot said quietly. He suddenly became silent, staring at the floor. Quill looked at him concernedly, then quickly shook his head at Ray. Only despair and pain he'd find with this line of inquiry.
But Ray didn't notice. "Ah, now that's something I could do. Join the Guard, become a soldier. It'd be like The Ring of Time, traveling the world, battling evil, restoring lost kingdoms-"
"Becoming a soldier was the worst fucking mistake of my life!" Ink Blot snapped.
The abrupt thundering of his voice silenced them. Quill shut his eyes and sighed; this was what he'd been afraid of. Ray frowned confusedly as his ears folded back fearfully. He looked like a scared puppy.
"Wh-what?" Ray stuttered.
Ink Blot came to his hooves abruptly and stared bloody murder into Ray's eyes. "I spent four years, four goddamned years as a soldier, Ray! You won't find glory, you won't find honour, you won't find adventure, and you definitely won't find any fucking heroes! The moment you put your name on that paper, your life doesn't belong to you anymore, and they can do whatever the fuck they like with you!"
Ray tried to respond, but nothing came out.
"Do you know how they treat you when you're a soldier, Ray? Do you know what the brass thinks of you? You're just a number on a page to them, just a resource to be used. They don't care about you. And they're going to get as much goddamned use out of you that they can, to achieve whatever stupid fucking goals they have. Do you know what I did for four years, Ray? Do you know what I did? I've killed people, Ray. People who didn't do anything wrong. People who were just doing their duty, just like me. People who were just trying to protect their homes, their families."
Ink Blot shut his eyes, his anger fading. He shook his head, as if chastising himself for losing control like that. A hoof on his shoulder startled him, but it was only Quill, offering comfort. "Come on, Ink Blot," Quill reassured him. "Try and think of better things. Happier things."
"I'm sorry, Ray. You don't deserve being jacked up like that." Ink Blot sighed. He rubbed his face like he was trying to scrub out a stain. Tensing his muscles infrequently, he sat down again.
"No, no, it's my fault. I shouldn't have brought it up-" Ray tried to apologise, but Ink Blot cut him off.
"You wouldn't have known not to, unless you were told. I didn't tell you," Ink Blot shook his head sadly. "I haven't told anyone who didn't already have a reason to know."
"How many? How many others know?" Ray asked.
"Beyond that I was a soldier? Just Quill, and now you. Neither of you have the whole story, and no one will ever have the whole story. There's just too much of it, too much pain and suffering that I've witnessed -- that I've caused. I don't want to cause any more, you hear? Never."
Ray swallowed nervously, then quietly said "I understand."
"It's a heavy weight to carry alone, but I'm gonna damn well try." Ink Blot muttered.
"You don't have to carry it alone, you know?" Quill replied.
"I will carry it until there is someone who can prove that they're capable of handling it. Not before. And not to some cut-rate shrink who's just listening to me for a quick buck, and doesn't have any meaningful advice or insight, or even a bit of goddamned sympathy." Ink Blot said, his lips contorting into a snarl as he mentioned what was presumably his old psyche doctor.
The three of them continued to talk long into the evening, but even so, the weight of the earlier conversation weighed over them. Eventually, Quill and Ink Blot said their goodbyes, and left.
*Clang!*
*Clang!*
The sound of metal on metal rang out into the night.
*Clang!*
For a moment, the sound ceased. A red-feathered griffon wiped the sweat from her brow as she plunged a metal plate into a quenching tub. The oil sizzled and steamed, and the steel hardened. She withdrew the plate, and set it down upon her workbench to inspect it. Another quenching, and it would be ready.
What caused this griffon to work so late into the night? What delicate work did she have in mind?
Gyro inspected the stack of plates she'd already finished. These plates would soon be used in the construction of a brigandine cuirass. It was a special project, one that was being carried out in secret, as requested by a shadowy figure. The figure had only identified herself as Umbra, and offered a considerable sum for the construction of this armour.
Even so, Gyro had not been swayed by the sizable sack of bits, but by her own curiosity. Say she was contracted to make more? From what she'd seen, the armour worn by the Canterlot Guard was old fashioned, more ceremonial than functional. What smith in their right mind had decided to make armour out of that stupid gold alloy? Gold was too soft to stand up to much punishment, even if bolstered by enchantments.
At least those Crystal Fusiliers -- or whatever they called themselves up north -- had some function to their style. Their gear was an alloy of silver and nickel, which while not quite the same temper as proper steel, it held enchantments just the same as the gold stuff.
For a moment she looked longingly towards her flying machine, wishing dearly that she could be working on the next iteration of the complex device, but she shook it off and continued her work. She heated the plate, hammered it to shape, and quenched it once more. A plume of flame rose up from her vat of oil, but Gyro ignored it. With her many years of smithing under her belt, she was quite comfortable around fire and other hot things.
Unless "other hot things" meant attractive folks. She got real nervous around them, unless she was talking about a project. Recently, she'd noticed that griff who was studying at the friendship school. What was his name again? Gallus, she said to herself. He was unfamiliar to her, even though he'd supposedly been living in Griffonstone all his life before coming here.
Boy, was that place a dump. If she hadn't known that it was the old capital, she'd have sworn by her tailfeathers that it was some backwater that'd sprung up in the ruins of something much grander.
Come to think of it, that's exacty what it was. Funny that.
How many weapons had she made for enterprising griffs who'd dreamt that they would be the one to rebuild their once-proud nation's glory? That they'd reclaim the Idol of Boreas, or the Helm of Grogar, or a myriad of other artifacts that had appeared throughout griffon history? How many had returned emptyclawed?
How many hadn't returned?
And there she'd come across the trouble with her homeland. They were obsessed with past glory, of old stories, of artifacts lost long before any of them were even born. Once they'd been a power to rival Equestria. But now? Now they were fools, scrabbling in the dirt for something that someone else had made that they could claim for themselves. Even as one of the most skilled smiths they'd seen in decades, if not centuries, too many griffs only saw her work as a means to an end.
When she'd chosen to take up the family business and become a smith, Gyro hadn't been doing it for the money. Not that smithing in Griffonstone wasn't profitable, but what she cared about was creating things. Taking a mostly useless hunk of metal, and turning it into a work of art. To make a functioning weapon from steel took real effort, commitment, and skill. To make it not only functional, but beautiful? You needed a master's touch.
And Gyro, with all of her years, would be considered by some to be a master. Except... all that meant was that more griffs would come to her in search of the perfect weapon. They wanted her to forge a weapon that would forge a nation. She knew that it wasn't that simple, but that dream had encapsulated so many young griffs that even if she'd refused to make their weapons, there would inevitably be someone else foolish enough to make them. And who knew what quality of junk that fool would put out? For a time, it had been better for her to make good weapons that would actually give a skilled wielder a chance at success.
But as time went on, her cynicism grew. None of them had succeeded, so why would the next idealist who came along be the one to actually do it?
And so, she turned her focus away from weapons and onto her longtime personal project: The flying machine.
As so many had pointed out before, it was a strange obsession. "Why build a machine to fly if she could do that perfectly fine herself?"
To that, she answered with another question. "Why use a cart to carry things if you can can do that perfectly fine yourself?"
Thankfully, that would shut some of them up. Simply understanding the utility of such a device from the perspective of an existing device was more than enough for griffs who had a brain inside their heads. Those smart ones would walk away, thinking of the possibilities. The luddites, though, they would harass her for it. Whatever the excuses they told themselves, their brains had all been knocked onto the ground and stepped on many years ago.
And eventually, when she'd grown tired of them all, Gyro had left Griffonstone using her first ever working prototype. It flew successfully across the sea to Equestria, where it promptly crashed. So she'd built another one from the remains. That one made it to Ponyville, where it had crashed into an old blacksmith's shop. And that's where she'd been ever since.
Gyro plunged a piece of steel plate stock into the forge. A few pumps on the bellows and it would heat to a bright red, the perfect temperature for her to shape it. Hotter metal worked easier, but if it got too hot then it'd lose strength. Such was the trouble of working with steel.
Sure, it wasn't nearly as lucrative as her old life, but she was a lot happier here. Most folks didn't say anything mean to her face, and politely greeted her in the street. She didn't have that many friends, but that was because she wasn't looking for them.
Although, maybe she should have been looking for them. She spent a lot of time on her little projects, designing new parts for the prototype flying machines, adding new workspace to her shop, acquiring materials, all of that business. All that work and no play made Gyro a dull griff. Or something along those lines. Apparently it was an old proverb, favoured by the wise elders of the community who wanted their descendants to live life and have fun instead of wasting all their time on their unfulfilling careers.
She shrugged to herself as she returned to hammering away at the metal.
*Clang!*
*Clang!* *Clang!*
*Clang!*