//------------------------------//
// VIII - Of Scars, Questions, and Head Pats 
// Story: Preunification Anon 
// by Spooples 
//------------------------------//

Water.

For the brief moment your face breaks through the surface, letting you draw in a deep, satisfying gulp of air, it’s all you hear.

Max Gusto’s torrential raincloud hammers down with the force of a storm, rain barraging your head and the water around you. You push up to all fours and begin to trudge back to shore.

Max Gusto and Anonymous wait for you there, a fair bit of distance between the two.

”You look like an edgy filly’s wet dream!” Max Gusto woops from the grass, giving you an approving flap of her wings.

As the water descends from your barrel and down your legs, you can’t help but take a look at said appendages. No longer are they the pristine white you’ve grown so used to before -- only to have to kiss goodbye after the first few weeks of your journey and settle for a permanently stained white – but a new shade of pitch black. Through the striating reflection of the water, you can also make out that your mane has been bleached an almost neon cyan.

You have to hold back a gag at the mismatched color scheme you’ve adopted. Max Gusto is right. You certainly do look like a patented Marey Sue from an amateur novel.

You’re sure Tia would’ve loved to see you like this. Fortunately for the both of you, the filly is out of sight -- snug in the wagon, currently resting behind the dirt wall of a former cave entrance. Bountiful Riverside is no earthpusher, but she was thankfully able to bring down the overhang of soil and rocks.

As you ascend from the watery pit to the grass shore, Anonymous is waiting for you appraisingly. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, his mouth twisted in a scrunch. You’re having a harder time seeing his lips through his noticeably thicker beard. 

And the cloak over his face, of course!

Your ears lay on your skull sheepishly as you ascend those last few steps out of the water. With a quick burst of cyan light and a whoosh of wind, the water in your coat is dispelled onto the ground, leaving it dry and fuzzy.

“Well?” you can’t help but ask. You put one foreleg in front of the other and tilt your head up in a pose of confidence, as contrary as it is to the beating in your chest. “What does the fair lord think?”

The scrunch on his face transforms into a smile before he can stop it. He snorts in amusement, averting his eyes as he gives a shake of his head. “I think it works, my fair lady,” he says.

Your chest prickles with warmth at his praise, and you can’t help but grin.

”I also think it fucking reeks,” Anonymous finishes.

The grin fades to a frown, and you huff. “It’ll pass,” you affirm, taking a moment to repeat the comforting thought in your head.

It must pass.

Then again, the putrid stench of those larua roots haven’t faded a hooflength since you got them…

Oh, Ancients above, please tell you the stench will pass.

”A-HEM!”

You turn to Max Gusto to see that she’s giving Anonymous a glare, not caring in the least that the human is now looking at her as well.

“I didn’t forget about you!” you titter nervously as your horn is set ablaze. Your magic reaches back and grabs ahold of the floating larua root. The ambient mass-magic thome is right – it does feel much hollower than before. “Thank you for your rain, Max. That’ll be enough.”

”Right-o, Luckster,” Max Gusto says as she starts trotting. Though, she isn’t moving towards the torrential raincloud. She’s moving towards you. “My stink-root, please?”

As you deposit the larua root back into its sack, you tilt your head to the pegasus. “…Pardon?”

“Uhh, my larua root? So I can also get my new look? So nopony’ll recognize me in there?”

“Max, are you thinking of coming with Anonymous and—”

”Yes, I am coming with ‘Anonymous and I.’ And I’ll save you the embarrassment of losing an argument by threatening to larua-root-ify your clothes if it’s a no.”

You sputter at her threat for a few moments, unable to think of a reply. After a while, the only thing you can think to say is, “…Anonymous and me. Object of the sentence.”

When Max slowly reaches a hoof to the pile of clothes you’d discarded before entering the pool, your horn is snapped into action. 

With a brief, ZAP!, the clothes are teleported from the clutches of Max Gusto to your side. She grumbles, but you cut her off with, “I appreciate it, Max, but Anonymous is my housecarla. I’ll be quite fine.”

”I thought he was the one who’d be recognized first!” Max snaps.

As a response, Anonymous merely pinches the corner of his cloak and gives it two conspicuous flicks. “Just a hairless cat with a cloak,” he murmurs.

Max doesn’t acknowledge the human besides her frown deepening.

“I wouldn’t want to put you in danger,” you try, but that doesn’t get you anywhere.

”Thought you were meeting a ‘trusted contact,’” Max challenges. 

Well… you’d be hard-pressed to say that you trusted this contact. You haven’t even met her. You’d be even more hard-pressed to say you trusted the mare who set the two of you up.

You resist the urge to frown at your friend, levitating your Marestrichtian shirt up and over your horn. “Anonymous is here in case this contact isn’t to be trusted,” you say, sliding it down your body. 

”So all the more reason to have more backup!” Max exclaims as she gives a flap of her wings. She takes a step forward, her eyes returning to Anonymous. “C’mon, you really trust this guy to help you out without bucking things up?”

This time, you make no efforts to hide the frown on your face. “Yes, Max Gusto. I trust Anonymous to do his job.”

Before the argument can continue, it’s Anonymous who steps in. Without waiting for permission, he simply bends down and snatches the bag of larua roots from the ground. He sifts through it, grabs one of the unused roots, and tosses it at the pegasus.

”There, now quit bitching,” is all he says.

Max leaps up and into the air and snatches up the root with her hooves. She gives Anonymous a wordless glare before her gaze shifts to you. Once more, she raises her eyebrows in a questioning manner and asks for your permission.

Oh, confound these two...

“Alright,” you suspire with a slow shake of your head. “You can come, but you’re wearing your cloak. And you’re keeping out of trouble.”

Max doesn’t even have it in her to make a quip about going clothed. She only nods, sticks her tongue out at Anonymous, and swoops to the maremade pool. You ready your horn to cast the inner-spread spell and send Max’s coat into inversion.

Of course it has to be these two who’re butting heads.

You sigh under your breath, cursing the Ancients for the disastrous formula of Anonymous and Max Gusto.

Anonymous has tried to apologize for hitting Max during the past few days on the road – well, in his own, pithy way. When Max once left to go fishing for food, he offered to assist her. You also wanted this – it would’ve provided you with an opportunity to speak with Bountiful Riverside alone, as well.

Maybe it was your own pushing for this that made Max feel cornered. Her response to Anonymous’ offer was a resounding and rude, “Sorry, monkeys don’t make good fishers.” Anonymous frowned, Max Gusto frowned, we all frowned, and Max eventually left on her own.

Tartarus, you’d hoped finally getting on track for the dockyard would have alleviated the tension, but the time spent in close quarters has only exacerbated it.

It’s exacerbated you as well. 

…Ancients-damnit. You wanted to forget about your sister. And here you are, accepting her offer, because your doits were stolen by a gang of delusional raiders.

After this, a night spent out of the wagon and under the stars will be all but required.

That’s a good thought…

The splash of a pony’s head whipping up from underneath the water’s surface brings you back from your thoughts. Through the rain and mist, you see that the larua root has done its job. Max Gusto’s coat is now a sunset’s dark violet. As the pegasus trudges through the water back to shore, she takes a moment to whip the midnight black mane out of her face and give her sopping tail a good shake.

Max takes a brief moment to admire her reflection, giving herself a smirk and a waggle of her eyebrows. “The stallion’s won’t know what hit ‘em,” she coos as she hops onto shore.

“I’m drooling already,” Anonymous mumbles sarcastically.

Now normally, you’d be thinking something along the lines of, “If Max heard it, she doesn’t show it,” but given that Max is a pegasus, she most definitely did hear it, but chooses to ignore it. You react more than she does – a quick frown at Anonymous, currently wiping his damp glove through the grass to get rid of larua root residue.

Once Max is out of the pool, you cast another spell, and her coat is dried off. After another minute spent securing your pouch to your hip strap, you’re ready to begin making your way to the pub.

With a deep breath and a glance to your housecarla to your left, you start trotting.

You’re far enough away from the pub that the three of you last a good few minutes in silence before the noises begin to be discernable. It’s different from that last tavern you’ve been to, but somehow, still the same. There’s the bustling of wagons and the splashing caused by a nearby watermill, but underneath it all, lies the same, unmistakable sounds of a tavern.

The muffled laughter and clacking of mugs whose volumes seem to be in competition.

…Tartarus, you hope this goes better than the tavern in Plumsteed.

”Alright,” Max Gusto pipes up, her ears focused on the approaching pub. “So, leader, you got some kind of a plan?”

Your trotting slows to a stop at her question.

You’ve learned your lesson this past week. You most certainly did have a plan before, but Max Gusto’s joining put a bit of a spin on things.

You give an errant hum, tapping a hoof to your chin. “I did,” you ponder. “But I suppose it’d do well to reevaluate. Let’s think this over.”

A shit-eating grin splits Max’s face as she lets out a sarcastic sniffle. She reaches up and gives your head a pat. ”You’ve come such a long way!” she coos, earning her a frown.

…You’re not that bad with plans, are you?

”Do you know anything about this ‘contact?’” Anonymous questions from your side.

Max’s patting stops as her attention is drawn to the human.

“She’ll know me by Faust,” you murmur. “I was assured we’d be meeting alone. But besides that, nothing.”

You’re not sure how you feel about a lowercastemare you don’t know knowing your true name.

”Alright, so we ask the bartender,” Anonymous concludes.

You blink. How would he know the bartender would know anything?

”It’s the same thing with bounties, or housecarla jobs,” Anonymous explains before you can question him. “At least, in Plumsteed it was. If someone who’d posted a bounty was missing, the bartender’s your best bet. Same with ladies who’d try and disappear without paying after the job was done. It’s a bit of a cliché, but eh.”

“Cliché?” you ask.

”Nevermind.”

You opt to let it go. You bring a hoof up to your chin, giving it a few contemplative taps.

“Alright, so we’ll ask the bartender first,” you conclude. “We’ll keep a low profile. And if things go awry, I have a competent housecarla, and a burly pegasus to realign the situation!”

Before you can continue trotting through the mist, though, a violet wing juts out in front of you. “Think you’re forgetting something about your ‘competent housecarla?’” Max asks.

You can practically hear Anonymous rolling his eyes at Max’s interjection. If you can hear it, Max Gusto certainly has no trouble doing so, and she glares at the human. “I’m saying it’s kinda hard to keep a low profile when you’ve got a hulking, hairless cat sitting right next to you!” she snaps. “See?! It’s a good point, you ass!”

“Max,” you say sternly. Thankfully, Anonymous doesn’t take the bait, leaving Max to simmer to a cool scrunch. “Remember how you felt when I was bickering with Smooth Roads?”

Max grumbles at that, kicking a hoof.

“It is indeed a good point,” you nod. “It would be hard to keep a low profile when you’re next to me, Anonymous. Of course, I mean no offense.”

Anonymous doesn’t seem to mind. He only crosses his arms and delves into his own thoughts, his emerald eyes flicking between the direction of the pub, you, and Max Gusto.

After a while, the human lets out a long sigh through his nose. “You two could go on ahead and I’ll come in after a few minutes,” he suggests. “Keep watch from the other side of the room. Max could act like your housecarla in the meanwhile. Flex her muscles, act like she knows how to fight.”

”Oh, HURRHURRHURR!” Max brays with a sarcastic, donkey-like grin.

Darnit, Anonymous!

“That is an excellent plan!” you try to speak over Max’s guffawing, using a hoof to keep the pegasus to your side. “I’m sure Max Gusto would agree, and I’m also sure it will go off swimmingly, suffice we aren’t acting like foals!”

“Correction,” Max sneers. “Foal and monkey baby.”

“Max Gusto, be quiet.”

Max’s glare shifts from Anonymous to you. For a brief moment, her eyes soften, as if she weren’t expecting you to get after her.

Then, they slowly harden into a scowl. She lets out a snort before turning and walking off in the direction of the pub. Her black tail gives an annoyed flick, beckoning you to follow.

You turn and give Anonymous a pleading look. He responds with a placating raise of his hands. The fog is thin enough by now that the sunlight sends gleaming shimmers off his bracers. “My love language is teasing relentlessly,” he defends.

You keep your silent plea locked onto the human. After a few seconds of scrutiny, he finally sighs, dropping his hands. “I’ll deal with it,” Anonymous relents, giving your flank a nudge with his boot. “Now go on.”

You give his leg a soft kick of your own, and the human smirks before backing off.

Anonymous stays put while you continue on, Max’s pitch black tail easy to spot through the relenting mist. As you eventually catch up to the pegasus’ side, the humidity sinks, leaving the pub in plain sight now.

Unlike the pub in Plumsteed, this one is brimming with color. Much like Free Valley Carpentry, the forest seems to hold the establishment in a boreal embrace, branches and trunks weaving around its exterior. Also much like Free Valley, technicolor ropes of ambient magic sprawl across the pub’s walls. A dozen or so wagons and carriages of all shapes and sizes litter the large dirt patch to the east end of the pub, vacant and waiting for their owners from inside.

…Hm. You wonder how Smooth Roads handled Free Valley. You hope she’s alright.

To the west side, a watermill is attached to the pub, lazily rotating to the pursuit of the river below. At first, you think the mares surrounding the riverbed are unicorns, perhaps spending a day resting from the exhaustion of traveling, forgoing their clothes to bathe in the sun.

And then, you see one of the pegasi pounce into the water. Moments later, her head resurfaces, a flailing fish lodged firmly in her muzzle. 

Max Gusto has stopped trotting towards the tavern. Her ears are perked, and her posture is stiff as she stares at the group of pegasi at the riverbed.

Your trot slows to a halt at your friend’s side. “Since we’re so close to the dockyard,” you explain. “Travelers of all tribes and species amalgamate in places like these.”

Max doesn’t respond to your words besides a subtle, almost inadvertent nod. Now that you’re at her side, you can see how her eyes glisten with an emotion you can’t recognize.

Does she want to talk to them? Ponies of her own tribe?

Before you can continue the conversation, though, Max suddenly snaps out of her trance.

“Weird,” she huffs, the emotion escaping you. “No reason for a sky wanderer to fish down here, so close to a settlement.” 

And with that, the subject is dropped, and Max Gusto continues toward the pub. You follow quickly after, making your way to Max’s side.

Max Gusto doesn’t say much after that, only looking down at her chest tuft as she practices flexing and unflexing it, ruffling her feathers to appear bigger. The sounds of celebration grow the closer you come to the establishment.

Your horn glows, and the front door opens.

The interior of the pub is smaller than Plumsteed, but to your surprise, it also seems much more open. Rather than the emphasis on wood, metal, and griffon fights, this pub matches with what you would initially envision while reading adventure novels taking place in such an establishment. The windows plastered along the walls allow the forest’s sunlight to shine through, setting the boreal pub aflame with natural light.

Hm. You don’t see any torches, and the sunlight provides well enough illumination. So, what’s the point of the lines of ambient magic throughout the walls?

Once inside, you take a moment to scan across the occupants of the pub, praying to the Ancients that you don’t see any regrettably familiar faces.

Some sit at the tables lining the windowed walls, others are congregating around a bounty board you spot in the far corner. Most of the occupants are ponies, true – unicorns, to be exact. There’s a group of them having a drinking competition at the bar, dressed in leather and hoisting an arrangement of weapons. 

When they aren’t unicorns, though, they’re cats, discussing documents you can assume are related to ships, if their attire is anything to go by. Or a duo of diamond dogs, bickering at the bounty board as they slurp from mugs of ale. 

As part of the curriculum of uppercaste education, you’ve seen illustrations of the other sentient species of Equus. Now, though, as the musky scents and odd accents assault your senses, you realize those illustrations hadn’t done them justice.

You don’t know anypony here. And if there were anypony who’d know you, they wouldn’t recognize you.

You don’t have any trouble finding the bartender. She’s currently occupied in her job’s sake, giving the duo of ponies that just entered her pub nothing more than a sideways glance.

The bartender is a short-maned unicorn – her muzzle darkens the closer it comes to her snout, either as a natural change in pigmentation, or the result of dozens of magical experiments exploding in her face. If the rows of ale barrels behind her, each lid decorated with a unique fermentation rune combination, is anything to go by, you wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the latter.

”Think that’s pegasus meat?” Max Gusto mutters under her breath, giving a flick of her head in the bar’s direction.

Before you can ask her what she means, you get your answer. 

There’s a lone griffon sitting at the bar, tearing into some kind of meat with her beak and claws alike. 

It’s more than a little off-putting, how the carcass has been seared and placed on a plate, served up like any other respectable plate, perhaps with a side of hay. You take a moment to steady yourself. Anonymous is omnivorous; how terrible could a carnivore be?

“Breathe easy, Max,” you susurrate. “I’m sure it’s just some… steak. Or fish. Or chicken.”

The only three meats you know. You’re sure the griffon’s meal falls under one of them. You hope.

Max doesn’t say anything back, no doubt emulating your own reaction at your attempts to comfort her.

“Come, we’ll sit at the far end,” you suggest. You trot over to one of the bar stools furthest away from the griffon, while still remaining in the bartender’s line of sight.

So far, nopony is giving either you or Max Gusto a second glance. You’d almost expected the pub to fall into a dead silence as the two outsiders strode in, but thankfully, that kind of encounter is only for the books.

Alright, Lucky. Let’s put this whole thing behind us as soon as possible.

You hop up onto the stool, politely resting your forehooves on the countertop. With a flap of her wings, Max Gusto is at your side.

It takes a moment for the bartender to notice your presence. You give a pleasant smile and a courteous nod, gesturing her over.

As a response, the bartender suddenly has to hold a hoof up to her mouth to keep from letting out a laugh.

”Real intimidating,” Max snickers.

“It isn’t my job to act thusly!” you defend hastily, thanking the Ancients that your blush is much harder to make out with your new coat.

The bartender regains her composure and trots up to the two of you. The closer she gets, the more you realize something. Even if you’ve never seen this mare before, her piercing eyes make you thankful she isn’t a bounty hunter after you.

You’re about to open your mouth when the bartender beats you to it.

“Greetings, Ravenous Doomstar, and her burly counterpart. What can I get for you foals?”

You blink.

“…R-Ravenous Doomstar?” you ask with a tilt of your head.

The bartender lets the silence hang in the air for a minute until she snorts in amusement. The scar running along her left cheek curls with the smile, almost adding an extra dimple to her features. “Ravenous Doomstar!” she chirrups. “The main character from that amateur novel series that was canceled? Black coat, tragic past, all-powerful unicorn? You look just like—ah, forget it.” The bartender gives a wave of a hoof, putting the subject to rest. “So, who’re the two aspiring adventurers whom I have the pleasure of serving today?”

Your lips purse as your words fail you.

Oh, snap out of it, Lucky, so she’s friendly! There are plenty of friendly lowercastemares!

You clear your throat, giving the bartender a pleasant smile. “Two adventurers who would like to remain anonymous, if it’s all the same to you, miss.”

You’re not one to talk, but it’s a little jarring, saying that word when not referring to your housecarla.

The bartender gives a shrug. Her horn glows a deep maroon as two mugs levitate to her side. “Fair enough,” she says, a white rag joining the mugs at her side. “Just thought I’d make some conversation with today’s politest little filly.”

You give a swift kick to Max Gusto’s hind hoof as she begins to snicker. 

“I’ve got the essentials, if you’re some sheltered virgin,” the bartender suggests, closing her eyes pleasantly as she rubs the mug clean. “Ale, bitters, moonshine – that’s a new one. Straight from Equestria, from some weird, bat-pony tribe. Or, if you really want to play the adventurer, I have a whole slew of ales you’re guaranteed to never have had. Magically augmented to create every taste under the All-Mother – I bet my herdstallion’s fertility on it.”

You try to smile for the pony from whom you’re about to ask a favor. You really do. It’s just hard to get enthused about alcohol. Especially after your first and last encounter with it.

“I thank you for your friendliness,” you say, holding back a cringe. “Though, I’m afraid we aren’t here to order drinks.”

The bartender’s eyes seem to gloss over as her focus is now completely on the mugs and rag. She begins wiping the innards of one clean as she mechanically recites, “We don’t take any responsibility for valuables stolen, if you need to take a leak be a mare and do it outside, bounty board’s over there.” The bartender is no longer eying you with curiosity, but there’s still a faint flicker of mischief as she turns away from you, back into the depths of the pub. “But between you and me? I’d wait until those mutts’re done mouthing off at each other.”

“I’m here to meet a contact!” you iterate, stopping the bartender in her tracks before she can get away.

The bartender circles back to meet you with a pursed muzzle and a raised eyebrow. The two mugs are levitated to somewhere below the bar’s countertop, the white rag’s top still hanging loosely from one of them.

“She’s been sent to this pub to wait for--…” you begin, before your mouth becomes dry.

She doesn’t need to know you’re Faust, does she?

The bartender’s eyebrow only raises even higher at your sudden silence. 

You open your mouth in a mock yawn, hoping to the Ancients that came off as natural. “Apologies,” you say, giving a useless smack of your lips.

It didn’t come off as natural.

“As I was saying,” you continue. “This contact is waiting for somepony I know. Is there anypony here who’s looking for a ‘Faust?’”

The bartender’s eyes widen at the name. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. Your focus tears away from the bartender’s commanding orbs to take one more look at the pub around you, just to be safe. Thankfully, you aren’t met with a crowd of suspicious onlookers, knowing and unwilling to forgive you for some wrong you must have obliviously committed. The scene that greets you is of open windows, drinking ponies, and that griffon, wiping the blood from her beak.

”The uppercastemare?” the bartender asks as she leans forward.

You give a nod, returning to the bartender’s eyes with what you hope can be construed as confidence. “Yes,” you say neutrally. “How… much do you know about this Faust, if it isn’t confidential?”

”That she’s an uppercastemare,” the bartender says with a shrug, and her voice is back to its casual nature. She leans back to her spot behind the countertop, away from your face. “And even then, I just pieced it together based on the name. Confidential, remember?” 

“Yes, of course,” you say lamely.

The bartender turns her head away from you, looking over the occupants of the pub. Her eyes never settle on any one of them, you notice. “Yeah, I know a certain somepony who’s on the lookout for an aptly-named uppercastmare. You’re an acquaintance, you said?”

You try your best to give an affirmative nod, but it’s too abrupt to come off as anything other than a jolt of your head.

Nevertheless, the bartender gets your meaning. 

“Thank the Ancients above,” she murmurs before turning tail. “Faust is here, and that pain-in-my-plot will finally be off.” 

She said it.

You flinch as if physically struck, but do your damndest to stay upright. By the will of the Ancient Lady of Strength, you’re able to keep your turmoil underneath the surface. The bartender trots away from you before turning behind the shelves of barrels. She opens a door you hadn’t noticed before, and disappears with a faint thud.

You and Max Gusto are now alone.

You try to draw in a deep gulp of air, but you’re sent into a sudden hacking fit from the stench of ale.

Don’t let it get to you.

She seems like an… agreeable enough mare. At least she isn’t some vile criminal, lathering your Ancients-knighted name with her rancid, vomit-inducing--…

Don’t let it get to you, Faust.

One more try, and this time you’re able to draw in much-need oxygen.

Don’t let it get to you…

“Would it still be considered ‘intimidating’ if I were to, hypothetically, comfort you with head pats?”

Damnit, Max.

You roll your eyes at your friend’s words, but leave it at that.

As your eyes are returning to their natural position in your head, though, they catch something which captures your attention. The griffon at the other end of the bar has finished her meal now, and pushes the bloody, wooden plate to the inner edge of the countertop. Her cat-like eyes scan this way and that for the bartender, a brief eyeshine from her tapetum lucidum sending a shiver down your spine. Once she’s realized the bartender is nowhere to be seen, she merely huffs and hops down from her stool.

It’s strange. You’ve never had a chance to watch a griffon move in such proximity, sentient or otherwise. Your eyes can’t help but study her as she passes by.

So why, then, does Anonymous somehow manage to not only not notice the griffon, but also bump into her?

The griffon stumbles from the tall, cloaked figure’s point of contact. Immediately after, her hackles are raised, and her wings are flared outwards.

“Ai, ye hai-rless cat!” she shrieks, her voice barely recognizable through her accent. Anonymous barely has time to turn to the griffon before she hawks up a glob of phlegm and spits it at the human.

Anonymous’ body freezes as the glob of spit lands on his cheek. 

That bitch.

Your eyes narrow at the griffon’s blatant disrespect of your lord. 

Your horn must’ve also been glowing somewhere through all that boiling of your blood, because it earns itself a plume of feathers brushing against it, shutting it down.

“Now isn’t a good time to be a white knightess,” Max murmurs.

You bite your tongue to keep from glaring, but your eyes never leave the scene before you.

“Gow-en t’apologize?” the griffon sneers through her beak.

Either this kind of brutish behavior happens often in this part of the lowercastes, or… Well, you’re quite certain it’s just that, actually. 

This kind of brutish behavior must happen often in this part of the lowercastes, because nopony in the pub is paying any attention to the confrontation.

Anonymous is still for a moment, his hands clenched in fists. You half-expect him to throw a punch, until the human’s emerald eyes shine through to you from under his cloak.

As the two of you lock eyes, his fists unclench. He simply starts walking in the opposite direction, using the back of his hand to wipe away the spittle. 

The griffon only whips around and heads to the exit of the pub, mumbling something in a foreign language.

“Guess I’m no better than a buckin’ griffon,” Max scoffs under her breath.

Your head snaps to the pegasus at your side. You’re on the verge of responding, until a glowing string of ambient magic on the wall behind Max reminds you of where you are. You take another look at the door the bartender had gone through – still closed – and one more at Anonymous – sitting at a table at the far side – before you return to Max Gusto.

“Do you really think now is a good time?” you whisper.

Max, to her credit, seems surprised that you overheard her. “Just talking to myself,” Max says. “Getting in character. Thinking about angry thoughts.” 

You take another moment to scan your surroundings before scooting closer to Max Gusto. “He doesn’t think of you like that,” you scold with a jab of your hoof. “You’d see, if you gave him a chance to speak with you, that he’s trying to do better.”

”Yeah, well, when you’re an unstable prick, the bar’s set pretty low.”

You frown, steadily leaning away from Max Gusto, not saying a word. 

Max sees the look on your face and gauges your thoughts from there. She draws in a deep inhale before letting out a slow exhale through her nose.

“Listen,” Max sighs. Her peach eyes lock with your own, untouched by the larua root’s rearrangement of colors. “I’m… I just hate how you're all just… giving him a free pass over hitting somepony he’s supposed to be protecting. Over some flirting. How can you even feel safe around him? How can you like him?”

Because you know he’s trying to do better, despite everything he’s been through.

…But it isn’t your place to tell her, Lucky.

Don’t betray Anonymous’ trust like that.

“You should talk to him,” you mumble, turning away from Max and back to the task at hoof. 

You want to converse more with Max on the subject. You might not be sure what you’d say to her -- there’s only so much you can do for those two besides opening the door – but now is not the time.

Afterwards. Afterwards, you’ll find time for them. Hopefully, time for you and Riverside as well.

Tartarus, these last few days until the dockyard were supposed to be relaxing!

Suddenly, Max’s expression changes to a neutral gaze.

Her violet ears swivel towards the direction the bartender had departed. They subtly twitch as her eyes glare at nothing in particular.

”…Your contact’s on her way,” Max murmurs. “But she’s not alone. She has a housecarla.”

“What?” you whisper. “I was told we’d meet alone!”

”Yeah, well, she’s not.” Max Gusto’s face changes again, but this time, she seems to mirror how confused you must look. “Second… your contact isn’t a she.” 

You simply blink, refusing to let yourself show any more of a reaction.

…Your sister always was better with the fairer sex.

“They’re coming,” Max says moments before the door behind the shelves is swung open.

The fact that your contact is a male, you didn’t expect. Granted, you took the fact that your co-worker is a stallion a lot better this time around. 

Still, this unexpected turn of events doesn’t prepare you in the slightest once your contact’s claws round the corner, before thrusting him into clear view. 

Claws. Not hoof, or pad, or even foot – a set of sharp, slender claws, attached to a scaled paw.

The clawed paw pushes the rest of your contact’s bipedal body out of the door, followed by the other paw, until he’s standing still. He crosses his glistening arms as he glares expectantly at the bartender at his side, the tip of her horn only reaching his waist. 

The bartender points a hoof in your direction, and the dragon’s eyes snap onto you.

It’s so strange, seeing somepony so… similar to Anonymous’ stature. He’s wearing clothes like Anonymous, but the two’s styles are so different. Your contact isn’t wearing much else besides a bare-chested vest, liberally showing off his pale yellow underbelly. 

A hulking axe head, as big as your body, is attached to his back.

It’s hard to guess this dragon’s age. He’s shorter than Anonymous, and his face looks youthful, but you’ve read how looks can be deceiving when it comes to dragons. Uppercaste scholars still aren’t sure what triggers the sudden growth from dragons’ adolescent, bipedal stage to the hulking predators you’ve read about in novels.

…It’s a little exciting, truth be told. You’ve never met a dragon before, and now you get to speak with one face-to-face.

The dragon’s slitted eyes stay trained on you as he begins moving. His bipedal form seems to slice through the air in an elegant, confident gait – so much different from the animalistic barbarism of his much older peers.

You straighten up, bringing your forehooves together in a polite show of attention. With one more glance to Anonymous, you begin to reassure yourself that this will all go—

Anonymous isn’t looking at you. He’s looking at something behind your contact.

His face is contorted in a grimace of horror as his eyes zip from you to your contact’s housecarla again and again.

”Ancients, this housecarla likes chainmail…” Max murmurs.

Your heart plummets into your guts. 

The axe head you had, at first, thought belonged to your contact, levitates down to his housecarla’s side in a magical glow. Where you once saw runes dancing across its surface, now lays the dark scars of purloin magic. That’s why you didn’t recognize it at first.

But the unicorn trailing behind the dragon, you have no trouble recognizing. What little coat you can see through her armor is disheveled and matted. A gray piece of cloth, magicked into hardened gauze, covers her left eye, and the majority of her face’s fur has been burnt off to reveal the skin underneath.

But you recognize Storm all the same.

You can’t react. Ancients, how do you react? Do you run? Do you cast the first spell before she has a chance to? Do you teleport away?

While your mind is scrambling to come to a choice, the charcoal dragon’s height towers over you. You flinch at the sound of your contact descending onto the stool at your side.

He leans an elbow on the countertop, his knees spread far apart. As the ball of his foot rests on the stool’s footrest, his knee begins to bounce in a slow, methodical fashion. 

Storm simply leans her axe against the countertop and stands at attention beside the dragon. As she turns away from you, the gray cloth around her eye socket blocks you from her vision.

She doesn’t recognize you.

You’re safe.

Apple Seed and the Marestrichtians saved you.

Your contact says nothing for a long while. His boysenberry eyes speak a language of their own as they glare between you and Max Gusto. You can’t bear to turn to see Max’s reaction – you can only pray to the Ancients she doesn’t choose this moment to quip a one-liner.

“Anything to warm the throat, Kindle?” the bartender pipes up from the sidelines. “Loosen your tongue? Speed up your one-way trip out of my bucking pub?”

Kindle responds with a wordless glare to the bartender. 

“Usual it is,” she sing-songs, turning tail. As she trots to the multitude of barrels, you think you’re starting to understand why she was so willing to get rid of this dragon.

When Kindle turns back to you, returning to a wordless glare, you decide to take the initiative. You can’t help but glance nervously at Storm as you say, “I was told we’d meet alone.” 

“Better to be in a public place in case a mare gets uppity,” Kindle responds almost immediately. You’re taken aback by the gruffness of his voice. It’s nowhere near the gravely nature of Smooth Roads’, but it holds a grating quality that seems to put you on the defensive without even trying. He’s well past the point of constant voice cracks, but still sounds deceptively young. For all you know, though, he could have decades of experience.

Fascinating, but not on your list of priorities. 

You give a smile, making an effort to sit a little straighter in your seat. “No no, I’m quite agreeable with the choice of meeting somewhere public. I’m referring to the third party to our business.”

“Fourth party,” Kindle says, once again too quickly to come off as natural. Before you can ask, his eyes detach from you for the first time, and land on Max. “Yes, it’s true that I was told to meet with Faust alone. But not only am I being cornered by two mares I don’t know, I’m being cornered by a mare who is only an acquaintance of Faust, not Faust herself. So, I will bring my housecarla, and you can deal.”

Three times Kindle says your true name, and three times you have to physically restrain yourself from retching in disgust.

He reminds you of the Anonymous you met in Plumsteed. But more spiteful.

“I suppose so,” you relent with another, final glance to Storm. She’s barely paying attention to the conversation, instead scanning the pub for any perceivable threats. Thankfully, Anonymous has caught onto her scouting, and is turned away from her, hiding behind his cloak.

It’s ironic, how naked you feel when he isn’t looking at you.

“Yes, I’m only an acquaintance of Faust,” you reaffirm, meeting with Kindle’s piercing eyes once again.

His response is as joyless as a funereal. “Then stop complaining about my housecarla, longface.”

The soft clack! of Kindle’s mug being slapped onto the table sends a jolt through your system. The bartender’s face is practically being split apart by the grin adorning her features.

Kindle removes a doit from his sack, the gold hue of the coin almost indistinguishable from his palm. As he sets it on the table, though, the bartender quickly shakes her head. “On the house!” she chirrups. 

“You could at least try to hide your excitement,” Kindle muses as he swipes the mug from the countertop.

”Why should I? Faust is here, you have no more reason to-- hey, HEY! KINDLE!”

Kindle holds the mug above his pursed beak, the cup’s bottom resting less than a hooflength from his mouth, as he pauses and glares at the bartender.

“You know I can’t drink this near-frozen shit by itself,” he sneers.

The bartender doesn’t back down. Instead, she sweeps a hoof in the direction of a thick web of ambient magic in the walls. “We’re not doing this again. It’s your fault we had to put up anti-flame magic.”

”Well, you just answered your own problem. Anti-flame magic.”

The bartender’s eyes narrow at the dragon before she takes one more look at the strings of magic trailing up the surrounding walls. Kindle doesn’t wait for permission, simply turning back to his mug and letting loose a thin tube of blue flames from his mouth. The flames shoot up and cap at the bottom of the mug, warming the liquid inside.

You, meanwhile, are left tapping your hooves together. You take a moment to look back to Max Gusto. She’s mumbling something too quiet to make out, but judging from her lips’ movements, you can make out the words ”Entitled,” “scaleback,” and ”pretty colt.”

Kindle cuts off his fire and lowers the now steaming mug to his beak. He takes his time with the alcoholic beverage, swallowing three big gulps before finally setting the mug back onto the table.

“A question, before we start talking business,” Kindle says before you can get a word out. “You know Faust by her true name. How so?”

Each time you hear the name “Faust” from Kindle’s lips, it more feels like he’s regurgitating it than saying it.

“Would it help if I told you the name of the uppercastmare who employed you?” you ask. “To show you I can be trusted.”

Kindle’s eyes narrow dangerously. Without even a glance in her direction, the dragon whips his idle claw back and nicks Storm on the horn. Storm flinches from the contact and her one eye gives a glare, but otherwise doesn’t put up any opposition.

Storm’s horn begins to glow, her battle axe’s handle following suit.

“No,” Kindle growls. “But it would raise the stakes exponentially. Because if you know both Faust and her sister’s name, that means you’re very close to a mare who, as I’ve been paid a sufficient amount of money to believe, is a pony who was completely alone in the uppercastes.” You shrink under Kindle’s words, but the plume of feathers brushing against your side keeps you steady. “Or, you obtained this information through other means. Picked Faust off the streets before she even made it to Plumsteed. Found all this out from her and left her in a ditch.” 

Kindle hasn’t moved a hooflength since he’s started talking. Bar his drink from the mug and the whack to Storm’s horn, he’s still leaning that elbow on the countertop, bouncing one knee up and down slowly. 

It’s almost scary, then, how it feels like he’s towering over you as he asks, “Are you lying to me, mare? Did you hurt Faust?”

“No!” you yelp hastily, but one look at Storm’s axe steadily rising tells you it wasn’t convincing enough.

You can feel Max Gusto’s glare as she steadily puffs her wings to full span, ready to protect.

Ready to act like she can protect. She doesn’t know how to fight.

This is going to be a disaster unless you tell him, Faust.

Ancients above, you can’t look at Storm anymore. 

She might not know it’s you, but she’ll know your true name…

Ancients-damnit.

You take a deep breath, meeting Kindle’s glare with a steady gaze. “No, Kindle,” you say. “I didn’t hurt her. I’m Faust.”

You weren’t expecting Kindle to believe you right away, but the quick, almost interrupting tone of his voice makes even you question if you were lying. 

“Sure don’t look like her,” he quips.

So he knows what you look like without the larua root.

…Wait. There’s one thing the larua root didn’t change.

“Do you have an inscription of Faust?” you say, before you realize your mistake. “O-of me.”

Kindle’s glare falters. “Yep,” is all he mutters.

“How detailed is it, my lord?”

“Down to the cutie mark.”

“Cutie mark it is!”

You shift in your seat so your flank is facing Kindle. With a cyan glow of your horn, the layer of cloth is moved aside, revealing the feather-and-ink-bottle insignia to the world.

Kindle’s eyes narrow at your cutie mark, still not fully convinced. Without so much as a warning, he suddenly reaches forward and presses a claw to the tip of your horn. It’s not enough to elicit a yelp of pain, but it still isn’t the most comfortable sensation in the world.

When he’s sure you aren’t casting any ambient magic, to change your cutie mark you presume, his claw shifts from your horn to your cutie mark, giving it another firm poke. Once again, no magical residue is found.

You don’t miss the sing-songy, ”Ooh la-la,” Max chirps, but you decide to ignore it.

After all, he’s just checking the validity of your cutie mark. A little rude, and he certainly didn’t ask for permission, but it can’t be helped. After this meeting, you’ll never see Kindle again.

…Is that the reason you’re so indifferent to it, Lucky, or is it because he isn’t Anonymous?

Where, in the darkest corners of the All-Father’s grave, did THAT thought come from?!

It came from Max, didn’t it?!

Oblivious to your sudden blush, Kindle’s face transforms as he removes his claw. For the first time since you’ve met him, his eyes relax from their perpetual squint, and his brows raise in astonishment. 

“Huh,” he coos. His voice is nearly indistinguishable to when he was grilling you. However, the way his shoulders slump and that hint of a smile reveal his sudden relief. “Ditched the white, did you, Faust?”

A sharp flurry of movement behind Kindle draws your attention to Storm.

She’d flicked her ear. Her attention is still on her surroundings, still scoping for any threats to her lord, but she had flicked her ear at you.

No… it’s okay.

Kindle is already over the subject; he isn’t iterating anything for her. You were wearing a cloak in Plumsteed, so there’s no way Storm can recognize your cutie mark either.

She only has a color. Don’t react, Lucky Favor.

Kindle brings a clawed paw to his chest before giving an awkward bow. “My sincerest and humblest apologies for our most unfortunate first impressions, miss Faust,” he beams. When he leans back up to face you, he gives you a full set of sharp fangs in the form of a smile. “How was that? I’ve had some practice dealing with your sister.” 

Dealing with her. Not having dealt with her.

Is your sister still keeping in contact with him? Through what means?

…Has she been in the lowercastes? Is she in danger?

With a quick shake of your head, the infectious thought is purged from your mind. No, you can’t think about that. 

You can only hope this won’t give her any ideas of reconciliation.

Kindle snickers at your reaction, probably linking it to his skills with uppercaste dialect. Well, lack thereof. “Alright, Raincloud, at ease,” he says with a wave of a claw. “Go grab a drink. I’m in good company.”

For the first time since she’s been here, Storm turns towards Kindle. And, by proxy, towards you.

“I’d like to stay a while, Lord Kindle,” she says neutrally.

A quick glance at you chills you to the bone.

“To protect a gentlecolt’s honor, of course,” Storm iterates. “You never know when a mare would take advantage of him.”

Kindle lets out another sharp cackle, swinging to face Storm head-on. “You’ve been bitching about your reassignment non-stop, but now you want to stay by my side?”

Judging by the lack of runes on Storm’s axe and her left eye from her socket, you can only imagine her reassignment wasn’t to her favor.

At Storm’s silent glare, Kindle merely rolls his eyes, turning back to you. “Go flirt with one of the cats in the corner,” he grouses. “Or stay here while we talk boring business. Today’s your last day, anyways, thanks to our friend here.”

Storm purses her lips as she looks off to the group of cats in the corner.

Away from you, thank the Ancients.

”Alright, Faust,” Kindle says in a casual tone, using his tail and one leg to scoot his stool closer to yours. His breath is hot and dry as it lathers your face. “So, I’m told you want passage to—?”

STORM CAN STILL OVERHEAR HIM!

You have no time to think. Your only thought is to make Kindle shut his trap before Storm has any information on you, so you react accordingly.

You take a shallow jolt of breath before you let loose a cacophony of obnoxious, unbridled coughs.

It’s a little cliché, but it gets the job done. Kindle immediately recoils from your face, his beak clamped shut in disgust.

What you misjudged in that moment, though, are two critical things. One, that Storm is much better suited to vulgar gestures such as unrestrained coughing, and she barely flinches at your sudden outburst. She doesn’t look away from the rest of the pub even once.

Two, that Anonymous is still waiting for your signal. At your sudden and uncharacteristic outburst, Anonymous snaps to attention. The cloak still conceals the majority of him, but all it takes is for his face to be revealed before Storm for her to lock eyes with him.

In an instant, Storm and Anonymous are making eye contact. You, meanwhile, are the hopeless third party to the disaster.

Kindle takes a moment to get the meaning of your sudden coughing fit. His smile soon finds itself back on his face as he grins, “Ah. Confidentiality. Of course.” 

Anonymous turns away from Storm, shuffling so he’s leaning against the wall, his fingers packed into fists so tight you’re surprised the emeralds don’t shatter. Storm, meanwhile, is still in too much shock to make any decisions. She can only slowly, painfully turn her eyes back to you.

The gleam of recognition that shines through those eyes nearly freeze you.

“Unfortunately I can’t fabricate any tickets,” Kindle says apologetically, clasping his claws together. “I wish I could, and you can be on your way, but there's a whole process to smuggling ponies aboard the nicer ships. But I can send over a picture of your cutie mark to my superior, the co-captain of said ship. You'll be meeting him at the oceanside pub called the 'Sterncaptain.' Would you mind flashing me that shapely flank of yours again?”

You’re numb.

You’re numb, but you can’t act yet.

You can only engage your magic once again, revealing your cutie mark to Kindle. He flashes you a wink that, if you could, you would be inclined to gag at. The dragon reaches into his bag (Up to his forearm, you barely register. It’s intraflated.) before pulling out a blank scroll. Once a writing utensil is retrieved from the same bag, he begins to sketch.

For what seems like a short eternity, it’s only you, baring your flank to Kindle, and Storm, slowly regaining function from the sudden turn of events. 

And then, Storm’s face creases into a subtle smirk.

As if you were in the striking range of a venomous snake, you slowly reach a forehoof out to give Max Gusto a frantic, shallow series of taps. Your eyes are still glued onto Kindle, so Max’s reaction is left unknown.

Kindle finishes the drawing rather quickly, appraising his work with a grin. “You ever see something sent through dragon fire?” he asks. As he speaks, you can see the reflecting cyan light of flames radiating from the back of his throat. “Pay attention, little pony.”

As Kindle takes a deep breath, though, the bartender’s words suddenly halt him in place:

”KINDLE, WAIT!”

”Ancients above, again?” the dragon sighs. “Instead of going the rounds, how about you just take a look at the Ancients-damn walls?!” 

As Kindle speaks, he throws an arm in the general direction of the nearest wall. As he does so, his eyes follow suit, only to suddenly widen in surprise. “Huh,” is all he says. “I guess the ambient magic ran out.”

The ambient magic didn’t run out. You don’t even have it in you to turn around – you can see the reason of the ambient magic’s faltering in the blurry background of your vision. Anonymous is leaning himself against the wall, trying to shrink away from Storm's glare. He must be riding up against a strand of ambient magic, cutting off its flow.

Storm’s eye holds your gaze at hornpoint. You’re frozen under her scrutiny.

”Out of the pub,” the bartender commands.

Kindle takes one look at the resolute face of the unicorn, and knows any further arguing will only prolong the inevitable. “Raincloud,” he grunts, snapping a set of claws in front of Storm’s face.

His housecarla’s attention is immediately on Kindle, and you can finally let out that breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in.

“Keep our guests company while I’m gone,” he says, leaning off the stool before gravity takes his feet to the floor. “Anything happens to Faust, and I’ll have your Taskmaster take your other eye.”

“Lord Kindle?” you can barely get out, but it’s far too quiet, far too late.

As Kindle leaves, all you can do is stare after him.

You’re almost done.

Don’t have an attack, Lucky.

Storm can’t hurt you. You have Max Gusto. You have Anonymous. There’s a room-full of witnesses; the bartender is nearby.

You’re almost done. Don’t buck it up now.

Slowly, you regain the confidence to creak your head back to the situation you’ve found yourself in. Seconds seem to tick by the hour as the three of you only sit in silence. That smirk hasn’t left Storm’s face yet – it hasn’t even faltered. If anything, it’s grown crueler.

Anonymous’ emerald eyes are locked onto you from across the room. He slowly raises himself from the table, asking for permission without a word.

Before you can decide whether or not to give it to him, Storm opens her mouth.

”Is it in the bag, white hooves? That little monster of yours?”

You remain silent. 

You aren’t even looking at Storm anymore. You instead draw back into yourself, your eyes scouring the pub for something to hold your attention. Something that Storm can’t distract you from.

Nothing comes up. You’re stuck here.

”Lucky, who is this mare?” Max whispers to you.

Storm’s eyes latch onto the pegasus at your side. Her face dulls into an unimpressed glare. 

“Somepony who can’t do anything to me,” you say quickly, before the unicorn can say something that would rile Max up. Storm’s glare, thankfully, returns to you. That little twitch of her eye gives you a modicum of confidence you revel in. “You heard your lord.”

Storm glowers at your words. Her horn glows, and the hulking war axe by her side moves just a little bit. Not enough to be threatening, but enough to remind you of its presence.

You give Storm a frown of your own before turning away from her.

You’re not going to let her get to you.

Not when you’re so close to being out of here.

…Ancients-damnit, Kindle, would you hurry up?!

“I can see that our human friend has a taste for unicorns,” Storm says, sending your thoughts to a thundering halt.

Another jolt of anger crashes through your system, and your hooves twitch in rage. She might have an axe, but you were able to hold both her and her lady off in Plumsteed. Now, with a muscular pegasus and a human housecarla, how hard would it be to stomp her muzzle in…?

…No.

She’s trying to provoke you.

You doubt Taskmaster Red Letter will be taking her other eye when Storm reveals just who this “Faust” was that she attacked in self defense.

Once again, you remain silent. Your attention is drawn to a game of cards a group of unicorns are playing a few tables away. Judging by the layout of the deck, the choreographed line-up of the players, and the enraged face of the pony to the very left, you can assume this game is Scumbag.

You never really had anypony to play it with. You haven’t played cards at all, really.

“How is he, by the way?” Storm coos. You merely narrow your eyes, keeping your muzzle shut. 

”Back off.”

You didn’t say that, Max did!

You snap to the pegasus at your side. Max’s glare to Storm simmers once you’re facing her, but the trap has already been sprung.

”Or what, sky rat?” Storm taunts. “You’ll flex your muscles? Puff up your tuft?”

You give a stern shake of your head to Max. Thankfully, she lets Storm’s jab slide as she gives you a firm nod.

Kindle will be back soon. Storm can’t hurt you. You can’t fight her. 

…But, Tartarus, every second spent with this mare is a nightmare.

Where the buck is Kindle?

”How do you like Red Letter’s leftovers, white hooves?” Storm sneers, her voice a conniving, devilish whisper. “Decide to give him back yet?”

It’s getting harder to keep the red at the edges of your vision at bay.

“I’m not so pathetic that I’d need to stoop to Red Letter’s level,” you murmur, praying with every fiber of your being to the Ancient Lady of Strength. 

”Pathetic?” Storm suddenly cackles, throwing her head back as she lets loose a series of cruel guffaws. “How is she pathetic? He’s hers.” 

…What does she mean by that?

All-Mother above, what does she mean by that, and why does she look so satisfied?

You’re winning. You and Anonymous are well away from Plumsteed. She’s only a road bump in your journey.

…Only a road bump.

“You’re just a bad memory,” you mutter, keeping your glare leveled at a nondescript plank on the wall across the room. “You aren’t even working for Red Letter anymore.”

Storm’s smirk is replaced with a venomous glare at the mention of her excommunication. Her one eye is lit aflame with killing intent. You’re not sure if her stillness is comforting or terrifying.

She has to be just a bad memory. Both her and Red Letter.

You’re going to help Anonymous. You promised you would.

”Lucky?” Max asks in a low whimper. “What’re you two talking about?”

You blink at the shakiness in Max’s voice. You want to comfort her, but Storm has to open her disgusting bucking muzzle yet again.

”A bad memory,” Storm muses with a hum; no longer is her face contorted into one of repressed rage. The same cold smirk has come back in full force. “You know... sometimes all it takes to break somepony is a bad memory."

With every word that comes out of Storm’s mouth, the urge to rip her apart increases, but you remain seated. The Lucky Favor in Plumsteed would have bitten at her words, true. The Lucky Favor in Plumsteed would have lunged across the table at her, and would have gotten her own head cut off before she could even cast the first spell.

But the only mare who’s stuck in Plumsteed is Storm. And you can’t let her draw you back in.

”He’s still that same, sniveling colt Red Letter took off the streets,” Storm coos, the smile on her face widening. “You have to know that, right? That you would’ve been better off leaving him in Plumsteed? At least then he’d have somepony mare enough to buck him silly.”

Don’t let her get to you.

Even if it hurts like Tartarus, don’t let her get to you.

“Frozen all the while, but still somehow warm. Is that a hyoo-men quirk? I tried asking him about it, but he wouldn't stop covering his face and cowering like a colt."

DON’T LET HER GET TO YOU.

“He’s just over there, isn’t he? How about I go over there and show you how a real mare acts around a stallion she fancies, Faust?”

The red around your vision disappears within the moment. The rage in your chest is extinguished in an instant. The thoughts of attacking Storm blink out of existence, and are replaced with three simple words:

SHE SAID IT.

You’re too numb to stop Max Gusto. Storm is too focused with drinking up your reaction to notice your friend until it’s too late.

A violet hoof careens forward and slams into Storm’s smirking face.

Storm reels back from the hit, falling from her stool in a daze. She glares up at Max, who looks just as surprised as you do, before her horn ignites in a violent rush of magic.

“I didn’t—” is all Max can get out.

As the war axe hurtles towards Max Gusto, she can only scramble back in shock, but it’s too late.

CLANG!

The axe head lets loose a shower of sparks and pieces of emerald as it’s embedded into Anonymous’ bracer. 

The majority of his wrist guard shatters from the blow. Even as the magical energy is cut off, the axe still remains lodged into Anonymous’ forearm, its weight driving him and Max Gusto to the ground.

Anonymous shoots a leg out as he falls; the ball of his foot slams into Storm’s snout with a wet crunch. As she squeals and rears back, Anonymous uses the time to crouch into a defensive stance.

The sight of Anonymous being hurt jolts you into action. Your horn is lit aflame with magic as you ready a visceral spell, unsure of what it might do to Storm.

“STORM!” a masculine voice bellows from the pub entrance.

Kindle’s entrance stops you from letting it fly. The dragon’s boysenberry eyes are narrowed into thin slits as he sends a death glare Storm’s way. It’s enough to receive a few shocked glances from the other occupants of the pub.

A few shocked glances, which immediately turn back inwards at the bartenders words,

“What’re you fillies gawking at?! Mind your own business!”

Storm scrambles back up to four hooves, her glare never faltering as she meets Kindle’s eyes with fire of her own. “The sky rat attacked me!” she snaps. She looks like she’s about to argue further, until Anonymous gives a low grunt as he removes the axe head from his forearm. “Would you drop my bucking axe already, Anon?!”

Anonymous’ eyes narrow dangerously at the nickname. His right hand is useless now – the axe head had punctured through the emerald bracer, blood now oozing from the wooden frame. Most of his fingers are limp, yet the middle one juts out in an awkward, strained angle. Despite all of this, the human’s left hand grips the axe’s handle even tighter as he gives a silent, predatory glare at Storm.

“What’re you supposed to be, cat?” Kindle barks. As the dragon makes his way toward Anonymous, his claws seem to sharpen into thin daggers.

“H-he’s a friend of mine, Kindle!” you yelp, rushing between your housecarla and the dragon. Kindle’s claws retract, but he doesn’t slow his gait towards the scene before him. You need to defuse this quickly, and get out of here. “Did you send the drawing? Is it done?”

“Yes,” Kindle affirms. “But it wasn’t easy with all that mist clogging up the—”

As Kindle speaks, a slow realization dawns on his features. Slow, too, becomes his pace towards Storm and Anonymous as he regards you with a raised eyebrow.

“He?” he asks softly.

…No, softly isn’t the right word. His question mirrored the same hope the bartender had conveyed when she was approached with the possibility of being rid of the rude dragon in her pub, but it was lacking the underlying spite.

For a brief moment, Kindle almost sounded lonely.

…Well, you can’t blame him, being stuck in a pub, surrounded by rough-and-tumble mares, waiting for a contact that may or may not even appear – a contact which was planning to never appear.

Regardless, you can’t stay here any longer. Kindle has accomplished his mission, and is now free to leave to go wherever he wishes. There’s nothing else to do here.

“We should be off,” you say to your two companions.

Anonymous’ glare falters as he turns to you. Max Gusto can’t look at you as she merely raises back up to four hooves, her side glued to Anonymous’ as he stands as well. Without even a backwards glance at the bristling owner of the axe, Anonymous drops it to the ground.

“Thank you for your business, Kindle,” you say half-heartedly as you approach Anonymous’ side.

The human cradles his destroyed, shaking hand close to his chest. His face is red as he holds back the pain, refusing to show an ounce of weakness.

You need to get him to Riverside as soon as possible.

As you pass Kindle, though, the dragon reaches out and lays a paw on Anonymous’ shoulder.

“Are you well--?” he asks, before Anonymous promptly shoves the dragon’s paw away, not saying a word.

As the three of you near the pub entrance, you turn and give another grateful smile to the bartender and Kindle. The bartender responds with a simple nod of her head before turning back to her job’s sake. 

In Kindle’s case, you see something you can’t quite place in the dragon’s eyes. His fists are clenched and his head is upturned, but you don’t see an ounce of malice in his system.

All Storm can do is give a quiet scoff, levitating her axe from the ground. Where she puts it, you don’t catch before the door to the pub is closed shut, sending a warm cascade of relief throughout your system.

“Former co-worker,” Anonymous explains to Max Gusto, still glued silently to his side.





”I’d like to apologize, Anonymous.

”The laceration has healed quite nicely; there is no cause for concern there. Your concern should be directed towards the broken bone… Um, collection of bones. It is much more complicated than a simple hoof, and because of that, it will take quite a while to fully heal. But I promise to help you to the best of Marestricht care!

”Despite this, though, there is not much I can do for your bracer. I can mend your wounds, but I am not educated enough in repairing armor to help in that regard. So… I’m sorry.”

Bountiful Riverside retracts her hooves from the stone cast entombing your right arm, a forlorn yet accomplished smile on her face. She looks to the destroyed emerald bracer lying uselessly at your side, the campfire’s light gleaming brilliantly off the few pieces left in the holster. 

You merely scoot over to the earth pony and rest your left palm on her head, giving it a firm pat. You resist the urge to quickly undo the bun atop her head.

Riverside’s ears twitch at your touch. She turns back to you, her sea blue eyes muddled in confusion.

“Try again, Puffball,” you say with a quick ear scritch before your hand returns to your lap. “Neurotypical people don’t apologize when they do someone a favor.”

The confusion transforms to embarrassment. Riverside gives an attempt at a smile and a demure shrug, until her eyes are once again attracted to the broken bracer. She sighs before turning back to the scene around the campfire.

Lucky Favor is sitting on the log to your left, her face scrunched in concentration as she looks from the ambient mass-magic thome in her lap to something too small and too on the other side of her to make out. Her eyes fight to ward off exhaustion as they slowly narrow, only to flutter back open periodically. Lucky’s horn is glowing a soft cyan – instead of its characteristic hum, her magic emits more of a whisper underneath the campfire’s crackling, and it seems soft enough to not perturb Bountiful Riverside.

Max Gusto is some ways away from the campfire, laying lazily on a hammock she constructed from her surrounding fog cover. When you look to her direction, you swear you can see her eyes dart away from you and back up to the sky above. 

Well, it’s more of a fog ceiling, with a few of the brighter stars and the moon peeking through. 

Tia, meanwhile, seems to be off in her own world – she’s engulfed by Lucky’s notebook, hastily scribbling away in its pages. You can’t say you aren’t a little curious as to what she’s making.

You know a certain earth pony who’d share that sentiment.

“Hey, Riverside,” you murmur, and the mare’s attention is immediately on you. “How about you go over there and find out what Tia’s drawing? Maybe give her some tips?”

”Oh,” Riverside titters, shaking her head. “I am not experienced with the art of illustration. Lucky Favor would be more the mare for the job. Although, it seems like she’s busy at the moment. Would you like me to ask her anyways?”

“Riverside. Go be friends with Tia.”

Bountiful Riverside blinks owlishly at your words as they register. But soon, register they do, and the earth pony lets out a squeak of recognition. “I will do that!” she exclaims as she hops up to all fours. She begins to make her way to the small filly, but her hooves slowly crawl to a stop halfway there.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize what’s on Riverside’s mind as she turns back to you, her eyes creased in concern at your cemented right forearm.

“It’s part of the job,” you say with a small smile. “I don’t even feel it anymore. Thank you.”

Riverside continues her sheepish stare for a few moments on before she comes to her senses and continues to Tia’s side.

There isn’t even a transitional moment for Tia as Riverside comes to join her. The filly sees the earth pony approaching and, as if the earth pony were there all along, Tia excitedly babbles as she shows Riverside her progress. Within moments, Riverside’s mouth is pursed in a soft O shape, her head is tilted, and her eyes are following Tia’s penmanship with every movement.

God, she’d look adorable with her bun undone right about now.

You feel your lips twitching as they threaten to burst into a smile. And quite frankly, you can’t muster the will or the reason to fight it.

”Oh, Anonnn-ymousss!”

Holy fuck, you’ve never felt a chill run up your spine more viscerally than when Lucky Favor just said that.

Lucky Favor is making her way over to you now. You let out a sigh of relief to see that the grin on her face is excited, rather than seductive. The dark thome levitates by Lucky’s side in a cyan glow, along with what looks like some kind of a rock.

…No, it is just a rock. No bigger than your fist. It must’ve been what she was working with beforehand.

“Starting a rock collection?” you ask as Lucky reaches your side, plopping her haunches down onto the log.

”What?” she muses with a tilt of her head. “Oh! No! No, no, no, this is much more interesting than my younger hobbies! Here, go ahead and hold it!” The unicorn hastily shoves the little rock in your face, her eyes gleaming with filly-like excitement. 

Well… at least she’s doing better than before.

You habitually reach up with your right hand to retrieve the stone, but once the cylinder of rock clacks against it, you’re reminded of your predicament.

Lucky Favor is, too, as the liveliness in her eyes is replaced with worry.

You grumble at her concern, instead bringing your left hand up and curling your fingers around the stone. The magical hold is cut off immediately.

“Alright,” Lucky murmurs, levitating the thome to her lap. She once-overs it one last time before her eyes are latched onto the stone. “Now… tell a lie!”

You make no effort to hide the confusion on your face. At this, though, Lucky only motions excitedly at the rock in your hands, urging you to continue. 

Well, an opportunity has presented itself, so seize it you shall.

“Rock collections are totally rad,” you say with as much conviction as you can muster.

For a while, the two of you are only looking at each other. Well, you’re looking at her. Lucky Favor is busy staring a hole into the rock’s backside.

The seconds tick by, highlighted by nothing but the sharp crackling of the campfire, the soft humming of the night life, and Bountiful Riverside asking Tia, “How did you get that color, little sprout?”

All in all, the stone’s doing a whole lot of nothing.

A nothing that is exponentially getting more and more on Lucky Favor’s nerves, as her face scrunches in frustration. 

“Damn it all, it’s going to be one of those bucking spells, isn’t it?” she growls, once again delving into the thome on her lap.

You blink at the sudden change in demeanor. 

“Still not entirely sure what you’re getting at,” you murmur, prompting Lucky’s eyes to snap to your own.

”Well, I’d certainly hope not!” she says. “It’s a surprise! Here, give it here!”

Her horn glows, her magic attempting to snag the stone from your hand, thus reminding her of the fact that your hands are antithetical to magic. She holds out her hooves instead, and you plop the stone into her frogs.

Lucky Favor brings the stone close to her face before she says, “The sky is red.” 

It takes a moment for you to realize that it’s not the reflection of the campfire that’s making the stone glow red, but something inside the stone itself. As if it were a Christmas ornament, or a lightbulb shining through one’s hand, the stone’s core is now glowing a brilliant orange-red in Lucky’s hooves. 

You give an impressed, “Huh!”

Lucky Favor, though, only gives an even more confused huff. “Okay, so it works for me… One more time, Anonymous?”

Once again, the stone is in your hands. Once again, the stone has returned to its cold, non-glowing state. And, once again, you tell a lie. “I love surprises,” you grouse. “Especially when my best friend Lucky Favor refuses to tell me what’s going on.”

You’ve gleaned that it’s some sort of a lie detector by now, but you’d rather hear Lucky come out and say it.

The unicorn sighs as you hand off the stone to her. “This must be related to your magic cancelation,” she muses, oblivious to your complaints. “But it’s strange; the stone doesn’t cast any magic by itself, it’s only a medium. The cancelation of the pub’s ambient magic should’ve meant… It says here it’s supposed to react to changes in an organism’s ambient mass-magic… Hmmm…”

You give a tap to Lucky Favor’s ear, prompting it to instinctually flick at your finger. Lucky turns away from the thome to frown up at you. “Well, I don’t have whatever this ‘ambient magic’ thing is, so there’s that,” you inform.

”Nonsense! Every organism has ambient magic! It’s the very fabric of our magical tether to Equus! It’s what unicorn magic itself interacts with when casting-- oh.”

“Lucky. You wanna tell me what this is all about, little miss?”

“It’s a lie detector!”

Well, that was way too fast to be what she’d wanted to keep as a surprise.

You give the mare at your side a raised eyebrow. She responds with a smile that’d be innocent enough, if she were your cellmate on death row.

“Could be useful for future encounters,” you finally decide on saying, giving the stone in your hands another look of appraisal. “Help us with who to trust real quick…”

Lucky looks like an exhausted deer in the headlights at your words.

Soon, though, the gears start turning in her head, and she nods hastily. “Yes! It could be useful for future encounters! Excellent idea!”

And, that’s when it clicks.

You let out a sigh and a shake of your head. “Lucky…” you murmur, giving her that same raised eyebrow your father used to give you whenever you were hiding something behind your back.

Lucky responds to your fatherly look with the same one you’d often respond with: a sort of mix between indignation and shame, knowing you’d been caught.

Well, look at that. Your dad did teach you something useful before he passed.

Lucky fidgets as she avoids eye contact. Soon, though, the Dadbrow finally wins her over as she sighs, “I wanted it to be a surprise because it was more supposed to be used for me. To, um, help you with your… trust.”

…God damnit.

You can’t really find it in yourself to be happy about her true intentions, but you also can’t be mad either. 

You let out an exaggerated sigh, tossing the stone back to the unicorn. She catches it in the air with her magic, bringing it back to her lap as she looks at you hopefully. 

“Lucky, I appreciate the thought,” you assure. “But it just feels… wrong to use it on yourself, for my sake. I know you’re just trying to help, but… I dunno. I feel like it wouldn’t be genuine.” 

Lucky’s hooves tighten around the stone as she looks in your direction. Not to your eyes, only in your general direction – almost as if she were too ashamed to make eye contact.

”I wanted what we had to be genuine. I didn’t want it to be empty.”

Damnit, Lucky, we were so close to having a normal conversation.

“You’re not thinking straight, are you?” you whisper. You wait until her cyan orbs flick up from your direction to meet your own eyes before you continue. “Something wrong, Faust?”

It’s hard to describe how you notice it. By all accounts, Lucky Favor doesn’t make any discernable movement when you say the name, “Faust,” not even a lowering of her ears. Still, you can feel how the mare retracts at the name all the same.

Ah. Of course, it’s about that.

“You know…” you say casually, prompting Lucky’s ears to flick in your direction at the sudden change in tone. “The name ‘Anonymous’ doesn’t really roll off the tongue when you’re trying to sound seductive. That little ‘anonn-ymouss’ almost made me shit myself.”

Quick as a whip, Lucky Favor is glaring up at you with a blush on her cheeks. ”I was not trying to sound seductive!” she mewls. “I was being playful! It was a completely platonic gesture."

You're too busy snorting in amusement to see how Lucky sets the lie stone down as it begins to glow orange. Once it’s out of her grip, it simmers back to its natural state. 

“Don’t you think ‘Anon’ would sound better?” you ask.

Lucky blinks slowly. Her eyes flick this way and that on your face, as if she were searching for some sign of teasing or dishonesty. “But… don’t you hate being called that?”

You give a limp shrug, turning to face the campfire. “It’s fine – just a name. It doesn’t matter.”

”It matters to you!” Lucky Favor squeaks. Her cyan eyes are brimmed with determination one moment, but the next, something else glints from within. “…Isn’t it what Red Letter called you?”

It’s what a lot of people you hate called you.

“Anything Red Letter used to call me sounded just as bad,” you murmur. “Even my own name. ‘Anonymous.’”

Memories threaten to lash out at you once again.

A pounding in your head, a pain in your chest, and the pressure of something around your neck.

”You deserve this, Nonny. You need this. Let me make you feel good.”

You’re not a fucking charity case.

But for some reason, they’re not as… powerful as that first night out of Plumsteed. They’re not strong enough to make you lurch forward and do something you’ll regret every day thereafter.

They aren’t nearly strong enough to make you hurt this mare again.

“But you’re not Red Letter, Faust,” you say with a smile. You reach out and give Lucky’s snout a light poke. “So I don’t mind.”

Lucky doesn’t react to your breach of her snootle in the least. She only stares at you, her eyes shifting between a multitude of emotions she can’t seem to decide on. 

As she realizes what you’re getting at, Faust’s eyes turn to the ground once again, but this time she isn’t retracting into herself. In fact, she’s leaning into your touch, letting out a faint sniffle.

”It infuriates me,” she mumbles, closing her eyes as your petting continues. “How hard it is to act like it doesn’t matter. Tartarus, I know it’s such a small thing when compared to everypony else’s troubles. But it just makes me so bucking furious.” Her chin trembles with emotion. You merely lay your hand on top of her head. “True names are given to us by the Ancient Lady of Naissance. They’re a sacred nomenclature, to be kept safe within the confines of the uppercastes and those most trusted. I hate how Storm can just… utter it whenever she feels. I hate how it made me hate my own name in that moment. And what’s to stop her from telling others? From telling Red Letter?”

“She failed her lady in Plumsteed,” you assure, fingering lazy circles into her scalp. “We kicked her ass, remember? Hell, Tia kicked her ass!” Lucky gives a brief bounce into your chest. You’re going to assume it’s from a held-back snicker of amusement. “One sure way to guarantee you’re cut off from the Plumsteed Housecarlatel is to fail to protect your lady. I’m sure if she tries to get in contact with Red Letter about it, she’d be gray walled.”

Lucky doesn’t respond, only letting out a soft, barely perceptible hum of pleasure. Whether intentionally or due to the mixture of pleasure and exhaustion, her head lulls back until it meets your chest.

You’re sure Lucky Favor doesn’t mean anything by it, but…

…it’s getting a little too not-platonic for you to continue.

“Hey,” you say, giving her a gentle jostle. Lucky lets out a frustrated snort before tilting her head back to look up at you with an adorable scrunch. “Maybe you could try balancing it out? Tell your true name to someone you can really trust. Someone you wouldn’t mind saying it.”

You make a show of nodding to the filly-mare duo on the other end of the campfire. Lucky follows your gaze to see how Riverside is now lying on her belly, chatting with Tia as the little filly continues to draw. Even as she’s prone, Riverside’s head still towers over Tia’s horn.

Lucky stays put for a while until, once again, she leans back into your chest. “Thank you, Anon,” she whispers, a peaceful smile on her muzzle. “I’ll go talk with Riverside.” Lucky makes a show of slowly leaning away from you before dropping down to all fours. The night air feels a little chillier without her warmth. “Wish me luck, okay? Ancients know I could use it when— TIA! DISENGAGE YOUR MAGIC RIGHT NOW!”

Lucky Favor scrambles around the campfire to the two bewildered faces of Tia and Riverside, leaving you to thoughtlessly reach up and scratch your beard. 

“I’m so sorry, Riverside!” you can hear Lucky Favor pleading as she puts a hoof on the tip of Tia’s horn, extinguishing it. “I didn’t see until now!”

Bountiful Riverside’s eyes trace from Lucky to Tia for a moment before she lets out a soft giggle. ”It is not a problem, Lucky Favor. Tia was just showing me how she drew.”

”…But her magic--…” Lucky begins, before falling silent. Her ears stand erect as she remembers what a certain orange earth pony said about Tia’s magic. “…Apologies, Tia.”

You can’t stop it before it spreads across your face. There is also no chance of holding back the warmth in your chest as you take in the scene before you: Lucky Favor blushing up a storm, Bountiful Riverside smiling as she directs the unicorn to Tia’s drawing, and Tia giving Lucky a cute pout at being interrupted.

You can’t remember the last time a smile was this hard to get rid of.

”Your daughter draws a beautiful night sky,” Riverside murmurs over the peaceful crackling of the fire.

Before Lucky can riposte about how Tia isn’t her daughter, and how she most certainly isn’t that old, another voice joins the fray. A voice that, mysteriously, hasn’t been heard at all this night.

”I’ll be the judge of that!” Max Gusto suddenly guffaws, fluttering out of the cloud hammock, leaving it to slowly dissipate into the air. The pegasus’ previously sour mood is virtually gone as she trots over to the trio, her eyes latched onto Tia’s drawing. “We pegasi are experts in all things sky-related!”

Bountiful Riverside lets out an “Ooh!” of excitement, leaving Lucky and Tia alone in their confusion.

Max daintily hops over to the prone notebook, not paying personal space any heed as she stands directly above Tia. “Hmm…” she ponders after a time too short to possibly be spent studying the filly’s drawing. “Pop quiz, Tiny-Tia. What do you call that constellation?” Max juts a hoof to some place in the drawing, careful not to make contact.

”con.. stewation?” Tia asks with a tilt of her head. “wike consteh-payshun?”

Lucky looks like she’s about to tap Max on the withers, until the pegasus pipes up, “Wrong! It’s called Caprihornus.”

…Wait.

Caprihornus… 

Caprihornus, as in, Capricornus?

You’ve been here long enough to know all about the horse puns these little fuckers use for Earth’s relative equivalents. But if there’s a constellation named Caprihornus in this night sky, could that mean the stars are the same here as they are on Earth?

”Max Gusto, dear, I’m not sure Tia—”

”It’s actually above us right now!” Max interrupts Lucky before she turns to you. For the first time of the night, she locks eyes with you. “Hey Anonymous, wanna come outta the fog and see it?”

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t the tiniest bit curious. Fucking Hell, you feel like a dumbass for never studying the stars until now – you were too busy being caught up in the beauty of it all. New world and everything, remember?

…Though, if the stars here are the same as the stars on Earth, you may not be on a new world at all. You may be in a separate reality altogether, in the same place in space as Earth would be.

…Well, you don’t really have any reason not to go with Max. Plus, it’ll give Lucky and Riverside some time to talk.

“Sure,” you say lamely, prompting Max to suddenly spring up into the air with a grin on her face.

”Awesome!” she chants. “Follow me!”

You give one last look to the trio of ponies before you stand up and begin to follow the pegasus. Max lands some distance away from the campfire before she begins to walk deeper into the woods, her snow white tail bouncing with each weighty step she takes.

You’re glad to hear Lucky Favor and Riverside begin to talk as you’re leaving.

Caprihornus…

Very curihornus…

That didn’t work at all.

You decide to follow Max Gusto silently through the mist. The pegasus also doesn’t seem too keen on having a conversation – weird, given her sudden enthusiasm for astronomy, but whatever.

You could probably use this as an opportunity to talk with Max as well. Everypony’s getting a talking-to tonight, it seems.

”Right here’s a good spot!” Max Gusto hollers some ways ahead. She’s now sitting in a clearing in the forest, the moonlight bouncing off her white mane and lime coat, giving her a fairy tale-like gleam.

As you reach her side, Max lays on the ground and rolls over on her back, peering at the night sky above. Without any better option, you opt to lie next to her, looking at up the same sky.

The same sky you’ve spent weeks becoming lost in when you first found yourself on Equus, though now you’re searching through its grazes with a discerning and hopeful eye.

”Right there,” Max whispers as she lifts a green hoof upwards. You follow her hoof’s aim to a small cluster of stars outlined by a brilliant wisp of purple nebulae. 

Up until that moment, you were half-expecting to see the same constellation you’ve spent days memorizing under the clear skies of desert nights. That weird, triangle-looking motherfucker that doesn’t at all look like a sea goat named Pan.

Though, when you finally see the cluster of stars, displaying an almost picturesquely perfect portrait of a unicorn’s head, you realize you were wrong to even expect anything remotely like Capricornus.

The night skies are different here. 

Maybe you still are in an alternate reality and the stars are different, sure. The sky’s a small peculiarity to be focusing on, when given every reason under the filly-raised sun to think you’re in some kind of a fairy tale. Or maybe you are on a different planet, and Earth is somewhere out there, even now. Maybe you could see it from a telescope if they’ve even invented those here yet.

…But why the Hell would you want to?

Sure, there’s a chance Earth is somewhere out there, its time still marching onwards instead of being tucked away in some alternate reality. There’s a chance the ruins of your old life are still smoldering, choking the people you once knew.

Good riddance.

That’s the thought that sobers you up enough to realize that Max Gusto hasn’t said a word since she’s pointed out the constellation.

Your eyes break off from the night sky as you turn to face Max. Her own are locked on the cast on your right arm.

When Max notices you’re looking at her, she jolts, before trying to play it off as if she were just looking at wherever. She gives a fake yawn, using the opportunity to wipe at her eyes with one of her wings, before she turns back to the sky.

The two of you stay like that for some time, looking up at the night sky. The cluttered, beautiful, different night sky.

Yes, maybe there’s a chance Earth is out there. Maybe there’s a chance Earth is visible. 

But frankly, you’re more concerned with Equus.

“Whelp,” you croak, giving a soft clap of your hands. Soft as it is, though, Max still jolts from the sound. “Thanks a million for the stargazing, Maximilion.”

You throw your arms back before swinging them forward, letting the momentum carry you up into a sitting position. The added weight of your cast sends you into a lopsided angle, but you recover nicely. You cringe, shrugging and kneading your shoulders from the immediate discomfort – you must’ve been stargazing for longer than you’d thought. 

With a grunt, you push yourself up to your feet and look down at your pegasus companion.

Max still hasn’t moved from her original spot. Her eyes are fixated on something in the sky. 

Normally, you wouldn’t have bothered with Max’s weird behavior, but you notice something in her eyes that stabs at your chest. You follow her gaze upwards to land on a small, lone cloud in the night sky, barely perceptible besides the moonlight’s shining on its edges.

Max’s eyes were creased in a deep, harrowing pain – a pain you never expected to see on the confident face of Max Gusto.

”…Hey, Anon?” Max whispers.

Your eyes widen as you stare down at the pegasus. For a moment, you didn’t recognize her voice.

It’s only a moment, though, as Max suddenly coughs into her hoof before pushing herself up into a sitting position. “I can call you that, right? Anon? ‘Cuz Lucky can call you it. I mean, I know you’re more her friend than mine, but, um…” 

Max’s eyes once again flick away from your right arm. She shuffles in place, her eyes glued to the ground, before they’re suddenly glaring up at you.

She flaps up to all fours and is standing there dumbly for a while, before she pivots on her hoof to turn away. She marches in that direction for a minute, her head held high, deep in either thoughts or the clouds. 

"A-alright, listen up!" she snaps as she pivots back to you, a scrunch and a frown plastered on her face. "I'm gonna apologize to you, but if you joke about it or you interrupt me, I’ll spank you my damn self!”

You give a scrunch and a frown of your own, but remain silent.

Max Gusto seems to be wrestling with her words for a while, mumbling to herself, shuffling her hooves, and glaring at nothing. It’s a long time coming, then, when she suddenly blurts out, “I didn’t know!”

Another look at your cast sends her into a frustrated snort and shake of her head. “I… didn’t know. About what that shit with Cindertouch meant to you. About any of the shit they did to you. I just thought it was some harmless teasing. And, uh… um, thanks for protecting me today. Even if I kinda deserved a swift axe to the head. I’m not finished yet, so shut up!”

You close your mouth, seeing that Max is serious.

She doesn't need to feel guilty about it.

It doesn't matter if Max "didn't know" about the context. You were an asshole to her. 

But it looks like she's not going to let you talk until she's said her piece.

“I know we don’t really know each other, but… I dunno. It’s pretty cool to have somepony around who can give as good as they get. Somepony you can talk shit with. No offense to Faust or Riverside, but… eh, y’know.” Max gives an awkward smile and an even more awkward chuckle at that. You can’t help but return with a raise of your own lips. “So, um… if I’m ever being a dumbass, or making you uncomfortable, or going too far… You’ll tell me, right?” Max gives a hasty stomp of her front hooves, trying her hardest to glare up at you. “A-and I’ll stop right away, I promise! This time for sure!” 

Max, not too unlike Lucky Favor just some time ago, retracts at that last slip of the tongue. Though, unlike Lucky Favor, she isn’t so mute as to not finish it all off with a strong, “So there!”

Max glares up at you, daring you to make light of the situation. To engage in this "talking shit" at this moment.

Well, she can rest easy. You have something to say as well.

You give a small smile, reaching out with your left hand and patting Max on the head. Her glare softens as her head bows, and you don’t miss the faint tinge of red on her lime cheeks.

“I’m sorry, too,” you say softly.

Max doesn’t respond or make any move to get out of your reach, so without any other cue, you continue to pet the little pony.

Jesus, every mare in your party has felt your pets this blessèd night. 

…Except Tia.

Max giggles under her breath, ending with a faint chirp. "You ever give any thought to getting paid for this?”

You end your petting with a rough ruffle of her mane. When you’re done, what stands at your side is a pegasus with a half-glare-half-smirk, and a white bush on top of her head.

“Let’s head back,” you suggest with a jut of your head. “I’m sure Lucky’s probably collapsed by now.”

Max gives you a gleaming grin before trotting by your side, and the two of you are headed through the wood again in no time. 

…Huh. You think this might be the first time you’ve ever walked through the woods with some semblance of peace. Of course, there’s still the matter of the next few days spent on the road, a certain filly you need to face, and the impending separation once you reach Equestria, but for right now? It’s nice.

Nice… until that last thought entered your mind.

…Are you really going to leave these mares, Anon?

”So, uh,” Max cuts through your thoughts like a hot knife, and you gladly accept the distraction. You turn to the mare to see that there’s an extra pep to her step and a giddy expression on her face. “Does this mean we’re friends now?”

Yes.

Yes, it does, Anon, and don’t you lie to yourself. Not about this.

Each of these mares. They might just be the first true friends you’ve ever had.

“Why not,” you say with a shrug.

Max’s face almost splits from the grin on her face. “Awesome!” she shouts out, before suddenly lurching at your side.

You feel a jolt. 

Instead of lashing out, though, you quickly sidestep, leaving the mare to land a few feet away. She instantly whirls around, giving you a confused tilt of her head.

“The Hell are you doing?” you ask, trying desperately to keep the venom at bay.

Max blinks at your question before sitting on her haunches and throwing her forelegs out to each side. “I accept you as my friend,” Max proclaims, and--

...Goddamnit, she’s fluffing herself up right now. Her chest tuft, wings, and virtually every follicle on her body seems to increase in volume. 

“And friends hug," Max continues with a sage smile and a wise nod. "So come on, monkey man. It's snuggle time.”

You give Max a deadpan, letting the awkward silence drag on a few seconds longer than necessary, until you finally respond. “Scratch that, I’m just your tard wrangler.” You turn from the pegasus and begin the trek back to camp. 

”Hey!” Max grouses, at your side almost immediately. “Respect my adorability!"

“I’m not really a touchy-feely guy.”

”Well I’m a touchy-feely gal, so how about we just meet halfway and do my way?”

You briefly entertain the notion of telling her she's stepping into uncomfortable territory, but ultimately decide against it. The disgust of using that against Max easily overcomes your slight annoyance.

It’s getting harder to resist her. She’s hovering at your side now, prodding your shoulder with a hoof and giving you a verbal lashing that should be restricted to her future husband, and her future husband alone. “We share a loving, romantic night of stargazing and soul-pouring and you don’t even have the decency to give me a hug goodnight? C’monnnn, Anoooooon! I already hugged everypony else in our group-band-thing! Well, everypony except Tia, but she’s on my list, mark my words! And I can assure you pegasus tufts are the softest of all the pony tribes. Granted, Lucky and Riverside are my only forms of reference, and Riverside’s tuft might--… Buck!… I can assure you pegasus tufts are the second softest of all the pony tribes!”

“FUCKING, MY GOD--.” You grab the pegasus out of the air and pull her to your side into an awkward side hug. It takes a moment for Max to recover from the jolt, but before long she wraps her hooves around your torso and lets out a soft, dove-like coo.

”You’ve made a grave mistake, Noninator,” she mumbles into your shirt. “Now I know all it takes is a little pestering to get you to be my sensei.”

“Whatever,” you grumble at the feeling of Max rubbing her cheek into your side. “You try to grope me and I’ll punt you.”

“Oh, get off your own dick. I’m saving myself for a pure pony bachelor, not your gross monkey cock.”

“Well, friend, I wouldn’t touch your crusty cloaca if I were paid to.”

Max lets out a small giggle, but after that, she simmers into silence.

Max stays sandwiched between your side and your arm, her tail and hindlegs swaying back and forth with each step you take. Eventually, the faint light of the campfire begins to shine through the fog as you near your destination. 

There’s also the characteristic snoring of Lucky Favor coming into focus. Mare must’ve fallen asleep before she could get back in the wagon.

Once the light of the campfire penetrates her closed eyelids, Max lets out an obnoxious yawn, as if she had fallen asleep in your arm. 

You step between the last set of trees to come before the campsite. The fire’s died down quite a lot by now, only emitting a few low, simmering embers which reflect off the surrounding fog like orange smog. As for the trio of mares around Lucky’s notebook, the gathering has been disbanded. Bountiful Riverside is nowhere to be seen – oh, wait. There’s an earth pony-sized burrow in the ground a few cubits away from the wagon. She’s probably already fast asleep in there.

...You’re kinda curious to see how she looks, all nestled in there. Does she use that mane of hers as a pillow?

A certain giggle you instantly recognize brings you back to the campfire. There are only two ponies in its residual warmth now. There’s Tia, giggling to herself quietly as her ink feather dances across the notebook’s pages, and there’s Lucky Favor, snoring up a storm at the filly’s side.

“Good luck,” is all Max chirps as she lets go of your side. The pegasus barely spends a second on the ground as her wings flare out, sending her up and into the air, out of sight.

Well… you guess it falls to you to set Lucky up on the wagon’s couch. Plus, some conversation with Tia wouldn’t hurt.

Here’s hoping you don’t fuck it up as usual.

You’re sure to give a hard, natural stomp on a twig as you breach the forest’s clearing. Tia’s ears swivel in your direction, followed swiftly by her head. Her magenta eyes widen at your arrival, but they narrow moments later as she delves back into the notebook. 

”Be aware, I’m coming over, don’t be alarmed,” is what you meant to convey with that stomp, but her reaction doesn't give you much confidence with your body language.

The slow walk over to Tia and Lucky’s side is made even slower by the scribbling of Tia’s feather on paper growing in volume, until it’s louder than the crumbling of the campfire’s embers.

“Hey, Tiny-Tia,” you say quietly, slowly kneeling beside the prone filly.

Tia’s wide eyes peer up at you, surprised by your close proximity. Just like last time, though, they transform into a glare before quickly turning back to her drawing. Now that you pay attention to it…

Jesus, so Max Gusto wasn’t just bullshitting to segue into constellations. Tia really can draw a Hell of a night sky. She must’ve used magic to create those different colors on the page. 

But her drawing isn’t just the night sky. That’s only half of it – the other, you assume is a blank cyan, until you see the filly’s rendition of the sun on the other corner of the page. One half of the sky is night, the other day. In the middle seems to be the odd-looking tree you saw you her working on when you first exited the marketstead.

Huh. It looks like she’s added a few more details to it.

Before you can lean in closer to inspect the six tiny symbols on the tree’s trunk, Tia mumbles, “hewwo a-noo--… ah-naw… nee-muss.”

Anonymous. Not Anon, or Naw-Nee, or Naw-Naw-Naw, but Anonymous. Even when she can’t pronounce it for the life of her.

You don’t dare scoot closer to the filly, fearful that she may bolt at any moment. Instead, you wait patiently, until her magenta eyes finally flick your way once again. “…Drawing?” you ask lamely.

Babysitter of the century right here.

”yeh,” Tia squeaks. Her eyes are immediately alight with joy as she gestures to her drawing with a hoof. “mayke awt! awt happy! wucky show how do!”

You smile. 

There she is.

“That tree looks familiar,” you muse, pointing a finger at the drawing’s center. “This is that drawing you were making a few days ago, right?” 

Tia nods hastily, her entire body bouncing up and down with the movement. “mm-hmm!”

“Hm,” you breathe. “You definitely take after Lucky.”

Speaking of Lucky, that mare should probably get her airways checked by Riverside, because she chooses that moment to let out the most unladylike snore-grunt-snort you’ve ever heard in your life.

Tia’s head whips to Lucky before coming back to gauge your reaction. You make a grand show of rolling your eyes, letting out a long, “Ughhh…”

Tia bursts into a giggling fit. “wucky—” she titters before letting out a set of filly snorts of her own. “snrk snrk!”

“Snores,” you correct. “Wucky snores.”

”snows!” Tia snickers, clapping her hooves together. “wucky snows! but good mayre when wake!”

Tia’s giggling teeters out, and for a moment she comes to a peaceful silence. The little filly seems to be lost in thought for a while, the freakishly intelligent tyke she is, until she looks back up to you with a smile. 

“wucky tweet cowts good!” she assures. “wucky pwotect me. stiww do, when nopony ews’ want me.”

The smile drops from your face like a sack of rocks.

The sight of Tia’s chin trembling springs your left hand into action. You might as well haven’t a choice in the matter, not that you’d change anything if you did, as you reach forward and lay your hand on Tia’s head.

The feather drops as her magical grip is cut, but the filly doesn’t seem to mind. She looks up to you from underneath your hand. ”ah-naw-nee-mous?” she asks quietly.

You give her a smile as your hand slowly traces back and forward. “You can just call me Anon. Or Naw-Nee. I know that’s another favorite.”

”naw-nee.” As if it were entirely new, Tia mulls the word in her mouth for a bit before she bows her head, out of your hand’s range. “naw-nee… not dadda.” 

Not dadda.

Not what you were almost called on Earth.

There it is again. That pain in your chest, and the tightening around your neck as you’re almost dragged back to the planet somewhere in the sky. 

Maybe Earth is up there, but without a doubt, she won’t be.

It takes a moment for you to recover. You only give an attempt at a smile, your eyes drifting back to Tia’s drawing.

Tia follows suit, her pink mane bouncing as she nods her head in what must be concentration. ”s-stiww not gwate dwae-- no…” she murmurs, giving a tiny scrunch.“…awtist wike wucky.”

“PFFT!” You cover your mouth and turn away from Tia’s perplexed expression. “Yup, she’s a pretty great autist, alright.”

”’ow get ‘dere!” Tia announces, stomping her little hoovsies into the dirt. “wuking at--… wuk at wucky dwaw, ‘den… I dwaw!” 

“You’ve been using her work as a reference, you mean?”

”yes! weh-fwense! wike ‘dis! wucky dwaw naw-nee!”

The feather is moved back into its ink bottle beside the book, and Tia’s magic envelopes the edges of the pages. She carefully peels back a few pages before she lands at her desired reference. 

Your heart skips a beat, and it feels as if the campfire had suddenly increased in size and heat.

Another drawing of the night sky, but this time from the perspective of a rider on the wagon’s helm. It’s exactly how you remembered that night after the marketstead. You’re depicted in that same seated pose, wearing your casual Marestricht shirt, of which Lucky’s taken the liberty of riding up the sleeves to show more of your arms. 

It’s almost freaky, how picturesque Lucky Favor recreated the scene, but that isn’t what makes your heart leap out of your chest.

She’s taken the liberty of naming this particular work. The title is a bit cheesy, truth be told, even if it wasn’t her first choice, judging by the many etched-out words spanning across the page. Words like, “Worthy,” “Impenetrable,” or “Trust.” 

Maybe she never planned to show you. Or, maybe, she planned to show you when, to her, the time was right.

Whatever the case, you can’t get that simple, cursive line of text out of sight.

“Moonlit Love.”

…

…No.

No, you’re…

You clench your eyes shut. Hard. So hard it hurts.

When you open them back up, though, nothing’s changed.

…You’re not imagining it.

“Hey, Tiny-Tia?” you ask quietly. 

Tia gives you a tilt of your head as you rest a hand on the drawing. Faust’s drawing.

Faust’s premature confession.

“What do you say we get some shut-eye?” you finish with your best efforts for a playful smile.

Tia’s response is as predictable as it is adorable. “nnno!” she squeaks, flapping her wings. “jus’ stawted dwawing wif’ naw-naw! show how dwaw!”

“I’ll watch you draw in the wagon,” you promise. “I can’t bring Lucky in until you’re also tucked in. You sure you want to stay up and be a nuisance?”

Tia pouts as she tries to think up an excuse, but nothing comes.

“Orrrr…” you susurrate, raising your left hand and giving your fingers a wriggle. “We can find out what the Fingers of Booping have to say about it.”

Tia’s eyes widen and she’s immediately on all fours. “naw-nee… wown’t dawe,” she squeaks out.

“It’s either get in the wagon,” you growl, inching your hand closer to the filly. “…Or your imminent doom.”

”no doom!” Tia squeals as she turns tail and bounces away. You jut your hand out at her tail, not necessarily to catch her, but just to give her that extra burst of speed. It works wonders as the campsite is filled with her laughter, trailing the filly while she bounds toward the wagon entrance. “no doom, no boop! go sweep!”

Tia takes a moment to crouch low, giving her rump a wiggle, before she flings her upper body up and onto the first step of the wagon entrance. She has to give a mighty flap of her wings to complete the ascension, but after that, it’s a quick hop and a skip to the innards of the wagon. Like a torch’s light, the wagon becomes filled to the brim with the mischievous giggling of Tia.

The smile on your face dissipates as Tia gets situated in the wagon, leaving you with a snoring Lucky Favor.

A snoring Lucky Favor who is infatuated with you. 

No, she isn’t.

It’s just your paranoia, trying to make you fuck up like usual.

It’s just you being a narcissistic asshole, like always.

It’s just you trying to think of a reason to ruin tonight.

Even if the proof is right there, and it’s not going away.

You close the notebook, sending Lucky's drawing to be lost within the paper contents.

As if that’d erase it from existence. 

“Alright, Max, put it out,” you can barely whisper as you push yourself up to your feet, the notebook nestled in your armpit.

Max gives a sleepy “Aye, aye, Captain Non-a-bon,” before she moves a hefty cloud over the campfire. As the cloud begins to drizzle rain over the remaining embers, you approach the sleeping unicorn. 

You’ll be back to retrieve her strewn-about supplies. But for right now, this little pony needs to be put to bed.

You kneel down and wrap your left arm underneath her barrel, using your stone cast as some semblance of balance. It’s a little awkward, a dull pain begins to ache in the bone, and Lucky gives a disturbed snort and a brief twitch of a hoof, but it gets the job done. Soon, you have a sleeping mare against your chest as you make your way to the wagon.

Lucky Favor lets out a hum in her sleep, unfurling herself from her tight ball. She lets her cheek fall onto your chest’s warmth.

Just like earlier, but this time, you can’t pull away.

”I’d like to talk about last night.”

”Now how about you kiss me?”

”…Y-you deserve to be treated like royalty, Anonymous.”

She can’t do this.

Not when everything was going so well.

What could she want from you?

They all wanted something from you. On Equus and on Earth.

Sex. Money. Attention. Security.

It’s never unconditional.

You’re Faust’s housecarla – her friend, you thought. She must know you have nothing to give. So why would Faust…? 

Lucky’s front hooves draw to her chest as she leans into you. A small smile adorns her features as she instinctively shuffles closer.

No.

You can’t ruin this. You promised you’d do better.

Goddamnit, why is there always something?

…

…That’s it.

You climb aboard the wagon, the sound of Lucky’s snoring mingling with the giggling of Tia. You turn to see that the raincloud has made short work of the campfire, and pull the wagon door closed. Tia’s magenta eyes and white coat are barely visible in the cool blues and blacks of the wagon. She’s sitting on the couch, waiting hopefully as you approach with Lucky in your arms.

Faust doesn’t feel this way about you. She may think like she does, but she can’t.

She feels this way about the housecarla from Equus. Not you -- the Anonymous from Earth. She can’t, because she doesn’t know you.

She could only feel this way because she doesn't know the real you. Why the fuck would she ever be entertaining these thoughts if she knew? Why the fuck would anyone?

…

Yeah… it is just your paranoia.

Faust doesn't want something from you. She doesn't want to hurt you, or steal from you, or blame you.

You want to trust her. You need to trust her.

You need to trust that she isn’t trying to get something from you. You need to trust that she isn’t this… naïve.

You need to trust that, if she knew what happened before Red Letter, how you landed here, she’d want nothing to do with you.

You need to trust that Faust doesn't love you.