//------------------------------// // 9 - Marshalled Thoughts // Story: Urban Wilds // by Rambling Writer //------------------------------// Alchemists and arcanochemists had been searching for an affordable truth potion for centuries. While plants and minerals sensitive to the truth weren’t uncommon (Seeds of Truth in particular were easy to find), enforcing that truth upon a pony was significantly more difficult. Mental mages had a surprising tendency to be smug about how deeply they delved into the mind, but preventing a lie from taking shape to begin with was tricky and bordered on highly-illegal mental manipulation. And suppose that was possible. Once the pony being questioned realized they couldn’t lie, they would just stop talking. Compelling them to speak was even trickier, having them speak about what you wanted them to rather than rambling about how neato Equestria’s rail system was even moreso, and even then, a clever pony might tell the relevant truth in an incredibly roundabout way. One military urban legend said that a captured cultist had resisted questioning under a truth potion by spending the entire session speaking in Draconic (or maybe Yakan. This being an urban legend, there were different versions). Nevertheless, Bitterroot had long ago found the almost-ideal truth potion for getting tight-lipped ponies to talk. It was legal. It was inexpensive. It was widely available. It was innocuous. It was easily camouflaged. It loosened lips swiftly. It lowered inhibitions. It was cheap beer. In vino veritas. It was hardly a perfect solution, requiring a lot of prodding on the part of the interrogator for the suspect to talk about the right things and even more post-questioning work to sift out the wheat from the chaff, but that was far preferable to her own experiences with truth potion. It also needed her to remain sober while her target got drunker and drunker, but surprisingly few ponies down here knew that “kombucha on the rocks” was just a specific type of iced tea rather than some exotic cocktail. (She wished she could order plain orange juice as a “virgin screwdriver”, but too many ponies knew what “virgin” meant in a drinking context.) And so, although she matched Oak glass for glass for six glasses, she wasn’t matching him drink for drink. Oak, however, was far too drunk to either notice or care. And, hooboy, was a drunk Oak a talkative Oak. “-an’ lemme tell ya,” Oak slurred, semi-wildly waving a hoof around, “ain’ noppony g’nna badmouf me down’ere! ’Spec’ly nah Sparkl’r.” “I imagine not,” said Bitterroot, pretending that name meant something to her. She was good at pretending a lot of things, like that Oak’s braggadocious pomposity didn’t make her roll her eyes so much they were practically wheels. But listening to ponies ramble about themselves as she sat in an atmosphere of exhaled alcohol was a small price to pay in exchange for information. “ ’E thinks ’e’s so, so, so… tha’,” spat Oak (literally), “jus’, jus’, jus’ ’cause ’e’s a unicorn.” Unicorn. Like the pony they’d seen him confronting when they’d first arrived. So maybe- “And he owes you money, right?” If she was wrong, Oak would be too drunk to notice the flub. Hopefully. “Yeh! That… slimeball ’f a stot owes e’ryone money!” Excellent. Next step: while staying on the subject of money, Bitterroot had to carefully move the conversation over to guarding, bit by bit. If she got lucky (very lucky), Oak would mention his job, she could ask him about the robbery, and he’d spill. “I know, right? How badly does he owe you? Do you need it?” “Heh. Not ’nymore.” Oak looked around them, saw nopony in spite of the ponies nearby, then leaned close enough to Bitterroot’s ear that he was practically chewing on it. “Got a win’fall few days ’go. Bribes’re great.” Or maybe his brain would be so soaked in liquor it’d short-circuit and go straight to what she wanted. She wasn’t complaining, but it did make her wonder if there was anything behind it besides the usual alcohol-induced idiocy. She giggled; her throat was aching from keeping her voice higher-pitched than usual, but she managed. “Ooo, what sorts of bribes? I could use some money, studmuffin.” “Guardin’,” said Oak cheerfully. “But y’gotta be so big ’n’ tough they won’t wanna tangle wi’ ya.” “Just like you.” “Jus’ like meeeeeeeee.” “Sounds stimulating.” Yeesh. Stimulating? What kind of a descriptor was that? One pulled out from a brain fart that’d only work because the recipient was staggering drunk. “Care to describe any of these bribes to me?” “Jus’ one, really.” Oak took a long drink of beer. “So i’ss two nights ’go. I’ss, i’ss, i’ss th’middle o’th’night, an’ I’m gettin’ ready t’go ’ome. Then thiss pony wearin’ a cloak, she runs up t’me ’n’ says she’ll gimme-” He spread his front legs wide. “-ten thooouuusan’ bits if’n I let ’er in, jus’ like that. Avdice fr’m Celes’ia’s brassy twin.” It was all Bitterroot could do to not scream out, Ten THOUSAND? Because, well. Ten thousand bits. Right there. And at the end of his shift, no less. She’d met more morally-upright ponies who’d take that. The Mearhwolf was either rich or desperate. Or both. (Desperate for what, though?) “I hope you asked for cash,” she joked. “I di’. An’ I got i’. So she goes on in…” Oak made a broad “entering” gesture. “…comes righ’ back ou’ a min’te later wiff ’er bags. Now, thiss purty myst’ry mare, she runs inta Beat Paff, too. Gives ’im tha’ Celes’ia’s brassy twin speesh an’ ten thousan’ bits, too. An’: boop!” He roughly tapped Bitterroot on the nose and giggled. “Gone. Jus’ done an’ runnoft.” Bitterroot blinked. Having ten thousand in cash, ready to hand off wasn’t that surprising; who’d trust a check in the Roost? But having another ten thousand ready to go at the same time, just in case… That was something else. There was slinging money around, and then there was having so much money you could actually use it in slings and not miss it. And even that was assuming the twenty thousand was all this mysterious pony had; she could be lugging around even more, ready to buy off a dozen guards if the need came. Mearhwolf: definitely rich, maybe desperate. “I guess you intimidated her,” Bitterroot said. “ ’Course I did,” Oak said, smiling like he’d beaten down a horde of attackers rather than been smacked in the face with a money bag. “You didn’t happen to get a good look at her, did you?” Bitterroot asked, leaning in. “Ah, c’mon, tha’ don’t matter!” Oak waved Bitterroot away. “Haff year’s pay fer a few minn’s work! I ain’t lookin’ a gif’ tree in th’root!” Darnit. That was a lot less information than she’d hoped. The mare’s appearance had probably been too much to ask for, anyway, what with the alcohol. There was a very good chance he wouldn’t remember it. Still, it was worth a little pressing. “Oh, c’mon, please?” she cooed. “For me?” She tickled his side with a wing. Oak laughed and roughly slapped her away. “Nooooooope. I go’ my bits fr’m ’er, I ain’t askin’ questchuns ’bout ’er.” Road apples. Ah, well. Maybe she could turn her new information over and see if something crawled out. Time to go, then. “Shoot. I guess I won’t know who to get bribed by, then.” Bitterroot twitched her ear and glanced at the door, like she’d heard something. “I’d love to stay and chat,” she said, getting off her stool, “but this mare’s got places to be. Catch you later, maybe?” She winked at Oak and made for the door. “ ’Ey, don’ be like tha’!” Oak half-stumbled from his own stool and managed to find his way in front of Bitterroot. “Stay wi’ me a while! Ain’t y’gonna-” He hiccupped. “-stay?” Bitterroot pulled out the line most likely to work. “It’s complicated,” she said with a laugh, “but let’s just say you’re more stallion than I can handle at the moment.” And as Oak’s brain stalled trying to figure out whether that was a compliment or not, she scooted around him and out the door. The second she was outside, just in case Oak was still following, Bitterroot vaulted over the railing and swooped beneath the Roost. Being a pegasus here ruled. She skimmed beneath the buildings, circled around a little, and came back up on a catwalk not too far from the Bat Bar (seriously, such a stupid name). She couldn’t see Oak, meaning he was either still in the bar or long gone by now. She was betting the former. Most likely, he’d passed out halfway to the door. She couldn’t see Cocoon, either — or, more likely, she just couldn’t recognize Cocoon. Jeesh. What must it be like to know someone very, very well and not be able to recognize them? As if to confirm her thoughts, a batpony stepped out of the crowd and made her way towards Bitterroot. Still, Bitterroot stayed ready to run, just in case, right up until the batpony said meekly, “Cocoon here. How badly did I mess things up?” As she let her wings unclench, Bitterroot said, “For us? Barely at all. For you? Pretty much beyond repair.” Cocoon grimaced. “Yep. Seemed like it.” She ruffled her mane and glared at the bar. “What went wrong? I thought he would’ve liked a mare that could match him.” “A lot of stallions would’ve,” Bitterroot replied, “but you said he liked to feel big. The closer his partner is to him, the smaller he feels. His muscles are as big as his insecurities.” “Huh.” Cocoon flicked an ear and tilted her head. “Yeah, that makes sense.” “…You weren’t a good infiltrator, were you?” “Eh…” Cocoon grinned and grimaced at the same time. “So-so at best. I’m not so good at the whole ‘acting’ thing. Like, high-school-community-theater level. And I’m terrible at improv. Decent extra, though. I’m good at listening. Anyway, what’d you find?” “Not much, unfortunately,” Bitterroot admitted. “You were right: Oak was bribed. Right at the end of his shift, too, around midnight. The pony was in and out in a minute. He didn’t get a good look at the pony, since of course that’d be too easy; she was wearing a cloak and he didn’t care enough to remember. But here’s where it gets interesting: guess the bribe amount.” “Uh…” Staring off into the distance, Cocoon clicked her tongue. “A hundred.” “Higher.” “Five hundred.” “Higher.” Cocoon frowned. “A thousand?” “Ten thousand.” “Ten grand? What, in CASH?” “Yep.” “Sweet Queen below…” Cocoon whistled. “Oh, and that’s not all. The pony ran into another guard on the way out… so she bribed them, too. Ten grand again.” “Oh, wow. That’s… huh.” Cocoon rubbed her chin like she was shining shoes. “That’s one of the somethingest somethings I’ve seen. No idea what it means, but it’s definitely something.” She shook her head. “Anyhoo, I didn’t know how long you’d be, so I did some sleuthing of my own. Figured out what got stolen.” Bitterroot’s ears turned forward. “You did? How?” “Easy. Went to the warehouse, found the foremare, asked if I could see her inventory. She spent several minutes cursing me out. Pointed out that my good friend Princess Celestia said I could take a look, wink wink nudge nudge. Foremare said Celestia wasn’t princess anymore. I said I was giving her money to take a look. Finally managed to get a copy. I mean, wow, what’s the point in having a super secret criminal underworld if nopony’s gonna speak criminal lingo?” “And you didn’t suggest that before… why?” Cocoon folded her ears back. “Because I didn’t think of it. Look, I’m a listener, not a doer, I’m not used to planning. And you didn’t think of it, either.” “…Point.” “Besides, you talking to Oak still got us that the Mearhwolf’s rich, and-” Cocoon blinked and shook her head vigorously. “Look, never mind, I got the inventory of what was stolen. And I got it in quadruplicate.” She pulled out several sheets of scrap paper with crude mouthwriting and flashed them like they were valuable certificates. “One for each of us to keep, one for each of us to give to the Guard for our monetary info gathering.” “Quadruplicate,” repeated Bitterroot. She snatched two of the papers from Cocoon and inspected them. The writing was awful, but legible once you put a bit of work into it. Most of the items on there meant nothing to her: manticore venom, lunar lily extract, hemlock, bleh. Maybe it’d mean something to the Guard. Or Amanita. “Princess Twilight’d love you.” “Of course she does.” Cocoon fanned her face like a socialite and grinned bubble-headedly. “Why do you think she hired me?” “Because it’s possible for you to hide anywhere and not be recognized?” “Nope. Definitely the paperwork.” “Well, thanks.” Bitterroot tucked the papers away. “I guess we don’t have anything else to do down here, do we?” “I don’t,” said Cocoon. “Look, I’m just an informant. Technically speaking, I’m not supposed to do any detectiving like this.” She shrugged. “But the world is a much nicer place if you ignore all sentences that begin with ‘technically’, so I figured I’d help you. Go off, do whatever you want, hunting bounties and what have you, and if you ever find yourself in the Roost again, I’ll find you and ask you if you need help. It’s the least I can do.” Bitterroot nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again.” To think she’d ever been scared of Cocoon. “Be seeing you. Or maybe not.” “Or maybe not. Thanks for the help and au revoir.” Cocoon threw Bitterroot a salute, turned on the spot, and set off back into the Roost. With papers and information snuggling against her chest, Bitterroot breathed deeply, savoring the new-lead tingle. It’d been a while since she’d felt it. She glanced at the foothills below Canter Mount and was surprised at the shadows. How late was it? Late enough that turning in would be a good idea, probably. She’d see once she got topside again. Taking a step onto the railing, she spread her wings, letting the wind play across her- “Patagium Pub!” Bitterroot said suddenly. Cocoon, still nearby, stopped walking and glanced at Bitterroot, one ear down. “Hmm? Oh, for the…” She flared one of her wings and examined it. Specifically, the membranous patagium between the finger bones. “I guess that’s not bad.” “Which still makes it way better than ‘Bat Bar’!” Cocoon rolled her eyes. “You really need to let that go or start charging it rent to live in your head.” “I can’t help it!” Bitterroot yelled as she fell over the railing. “It’s such a stupid name!” Amanita still had the receipt and the bank account number for the five hundred grand Bitterroot had given her. A swing by the bank had proven fruitful, and Amanita walked into the first bookstore she found with two hundred bits in her pocket. A sign outside proclaimed it was frequented by Princess Twilight, but given what Amanita had heard about her, she wouldn’t be surprised if that were true for every bookstore in a hundred-mile radius of Canterlot Castle. She’d never really gone to bookstores before… everything, and her hometown didn’t have many, anyway. But this? This place looked like it had everything. It was larger than her school. It had two stories. A bookstore! Two stories! (She probably sounded like such a country filly.) Then she was about to panic over the choice, only to see that there was a customer service desk not far from the entrance. If she was so spoiled for choice that she sat around not choosing anything and started rotting, that was worth a shot. She craned her neck and reared to get a look at the signs hanging around the store. Genres, mostly: science fiction, adventure, thriller, horror, romance, mystery, drama… So what was she in the mood for? Just something to pass the time, really. Sadly, there wasn’t a “Train Station Novel” sign that she could spot. Those books were usually arcanothrillers, right? So maybe- Then she spotted a section with an unusually colorful sign: Princess Twilight and Adjacents. What was that about? “That” proved to be about a corner of the bookstore devoted entirely to books about Twilight, the other Elements of Harmony, and various ponies they’d been involved in, all with varying levels of authorization. Amanita gawked at the sheer amount of stuff written about, what, less than two dozen ponies? And this was in just two years? Three at the most. She hadn’t gotten the news much while Circe’s apprentice and had barely paid attention to it when she got it, but she’d heard about Twilight’s ascendance and Flurry Heart’s birth. But all of this… She had some catching up to do. She began roving around the section, skimming over the books. Anything remotely related to Twilight must’ve been selling like hotcakes, because the variety in there was staggering. A lot of unauthorized biographies, some “history of Ponyville” books, a Daring Do novel guest-starring somepony who totally wasn’t Rainbow Dash (Yearling must’ve really been scraping the bottom of the barrel), a treatise on modern magic from Starswirl the Bearded, an examination of Shining Armor’s time as what the night fertilizer. Amanita zipped back to that particular book and boggled. Sure, a few weeks into her sentence, she’d heard that Starswirl had returned somehow, but seeing his name — and his name alone — as the author of a book was something else. She looked at the back and stared at the photograph of Starswirl. How much had she missed? She reshelved the book, taking a closer look at the ones surrounding it. More books by or about the Pillars of Equestria, usually ab- …What sort of a name was Stygian? And if he was with the rest of the Pillars, why hadn’t she heard of him before? The title was semi-dramatic: Me and My Shadow. Novel? She read the blurb on the back. Definitely fiction, although it sounded semi-autobiographical. Back cover, About the Author: the need for conciseness made it vague, but apparently, Stygian had once let himself be overtaken by a dark force in his quest for power. Sounded familiar. With some trepidation, Amanita cracked the book open to somewhere near the end of the beginning. What she saw made her retch. A description of the narrator enacting a ritual that, while not entirely accurate, was still close enough to the real thing to be based on real dark magic. Dark magic she’d done. Dark magic the narrator didn’t understand the implications of. After realizing what she’d been doing to Zinnia, Amanita spent several days in a mental haze of disbelief and self-loathing. How long had she been asking for this? A year? Two? She couldn’t really remember. Too long. Far, far too long. She had trouble sleeping. She didn’t want to eat. She CERTAINLY didn’t want to touch necromancy again. But she did those things anyway. If she didn’t, Circe would notice. And Circe would disapprove. She risked broaching the subject at one point. She’d deluded herself that maybe she could convince Circe to give up necromancy. “Master, all this that we’re learning… Is it right?” “Pfft. ’Oo cares ’bout that? Ain’t that what they always say? ‘Be yourself an’ don’t follow th’ crowd.’ Set yer own goals, don’t worry ’bout others. Y’got what y’wanted.” But she hadn’t. Amanita had wanted Zinnia, not a yes-mare simulacrum. Every tack she tried yielded the same results. Assertions that she could do as she wished. (What she wished was to run.) As Celestia’s reign showed, the strong ruled the weak. (Amanita had only found her rule in a moment of weakness; now that she was strong, she didn’t want to rule anymore.) The common folk would never understand. (They did understand; why else was necromancy so hated?) On and on. Circe was a quiet madmare, twisting everything to suit herself. Somehow, every single pony in Equestria managed to be narrow-minded in their rejection of necromancy. When Circe started getting suspicious, Amanita had to pretend to give up, had to smile and nod at whatever Circe did, to pretend every new lesson wasn’t making her sick to her stomach as she understood what she was doing rather than merely knew. Time after time, in what had once been innocuous rituals, she saw that same cantrip that had bound Zinnia, repeated over and over and over throughout. Refusing to be ignorant again, she searched for new ways to be disgusted and found plenty. This wasn’t using bodies as puppets; this was using MINDS as puppets. And now that Amanita had broached the subject of making ponies their slaves with Zinnia’s spirit, Circe talked about it freely, openly. Or had she always done that and Amanita had ignored that? Her lessons progressed. She learned the ins and outs of chaining wills, of pulling souls from Elysium, of locking them within their own awareness. With each new fact Circe told her, another nightmare was added to the army that stalked the corridors of her mind, hounded her thoughts during the day, ruled her dreams at night. She tried to twist what she learned in her own way — enthrallment could be turned to real resurrection if you did THIS, for example — but even a thousand positive applications of necromancy would’ve been no balm. Guilt weighed around her neck as she sat by and let atrocities happen. Perhaps she could escape by killing Circe, just like she’d killed all those other ponies, but her nerve failed her. One snowstorm, they holed up in a cabin, the former owner folding their clothes. And suddenly, Circe said, “There’re some perks t’bein’ a necromancer I ain’t shown you yet. ’Ow old d’you think I am?” Amanita had never been good at guessing ages. “Thirty-five?” she risked. Circe laughed. “Well o’er five hundred. Ever ’eard of a lich?” The blizzard outside was downright tropical next to the chill that ran down Amanita’s spine. Shuddering at the memories and almost gagging, Amanita slammed the book shut. What a great first impression. She levitated it up to the shelf- -then stopped. Stygian had done something awful in his past. He’d made peace with it. And now, he was thriving — a Manehattan Times #1 best-selling author, if the cover was to be believed. She couldn’t get rid of those memories, but maybe she could accept them. For all she knew, this could help. It almost seemed like he’d written it as therapy. The in-book narrator didn’t seem to fully get what he was doing, but it was near the beginning; maybe him not getting it was the point. And if she didn’t like it? The thing was a scant ten bits and she wasn’t hurting for money. Keeping Me and my Shadow close, Amanita went to the next set of shelves. There was a surprising amount of books that seemed dedicated to explaining why Twilight’s rule would absolutely be the best/worst thing that had ever happened. They’d be outdated in mere moons and had probably been rushed in order to strike while the iron was hot. She noticed one, The End of Equestria, idly pulled it from the shelf- “Do not purchase that.” Amanita twitched and nearly dropped the book. A gray-maned unicorn with a rough mustache and the tweediest of jackets was standing nearby, perusing a book about Cadance and the Crystal Empire. Without looking at Amanita, he said, “The writing within is so atrocious, the reasoning so mystifying, the grammar so incoherent, that one would do better to shred it, mix its tattered remains into your compost pile, and so allow the physical material to do some good by helping plants to grow. Even among those faddish money-grabs, it is a poor effort.” “Allllright then,” said Amanita delicately. “How, how did it get published, then?” “A vanity press,” the unicorn spat, as if vanity presses had murdered his entire family, gutted them, and twisted their intestines into violin strings. “Most of those… books-” He jabbed a hoof at one of the shelves. “-come from vanity presses. Observe the authors and how many of them possess titles of nobility.” Amanita did so, and… whoof, there were a lot of baronesses and countesses and even a marchioness. The unicorn continued, “The types of nobles who get exiled to Canterlot are precisely the sort who believe the laypony hangs off of every word that dribbles from their mouth, so when anything remotely impactful occurs, naturally they go to the vanity presses and pay to have their orthographic diarrhea masquerading as intellectual opinion abuse perfectly fine paper. Hence, all these…” He gestured at the shelf. “Well, I can’t call them ‘thinkpieces’, for that would require thinking. Fortunately, no bookstore ever gets too inundated by them. Just stay away from this block and you ought to be fine.” “Alright, thanks.” Amanita examined the titles, this time. Some of them were in support of Twilight, but most of them seemed little more than fearmongering. “I guess the nobility doesn’t like Twilight?” “The Canterlotian nobility doesn’t. She’ll shake up the status quo they lap at.” The unicorn threw a sidelong glance at Amanita and snorted. “Where have you been for the past year?” “Prison.” A bit of red crept into his face. “Ah. What for?” It was like the bottom fell out of Amanita’s stomach and her hooves were nailed to the floor. What was she supposed to say? Just, “necromancy”? Just like that? What would he say? Would he run? Make a scene? What if he attracted others? Would she cause a riot just by existing? Would she get arrested again? Would- But almost immediately, the unicorn had turned even redder. His next words came out like they were being shot from a repeating crossbow. “Wait, I beg your pardon, no, that’s personal, reflex, I apologize. Forgive me for making a right fool of myself, twice over.” “You’re not the worst I’ve seen,” Amanita managed to say. “You’re forgiven.” The unicorn nodded, then quickly turned his attention to the shelves. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to catch yourself up, then?” Amanita hid her breathlessness with an, “Eh…” For a long moment, she considered brushing him off to keep wandering at her own pace, or maybe to stop him from noticing any reaction she’d had. But he’d quickly backed off, and she’d gone for so long without a conversation that didn’t revolve around necromancy… “Sure. I don’t really know what I’m looking for.” A grin tugged at the unicorn’s mouth. “Excellent. Pop history or scholarly?” “Both?” “Both is good. We’ll start with pop, then, they’re over here…” As Amanita followed the unicorn down the shelves, she said, “You know, you keep mentioning nobles in Canterlot like they’re different from other nobles.” The unicorn managed to keep walking as he waved a hoof at Amanita. “Because they are! Consider: most nobles hold control over large estates, perhaps even entire towns, given to them as holdings by the Court. But all of Canterlot and much of the surrounding land is under the jurisdiction of the princesses — well, princess, singular, now. Yet Canterlot still possesses an unusually high density of the nobility, who also seem to be mere vapid socialites with alarming frequency. So-” Amanita got it. “So Canterlot nobles are the ones who’re so insufferable their families sent them here to get rid of them?” “That’s my own theory, at least. Here, there’s very little they can hurt. The ones situated further from Canterlot are most likely, at the very least, competent.” The unicorn came to stop at a set of shelves. “So are you looking for information on any specific pony? Actually, wait. Perhaps…” He crouched down and squinted into the bottom shelf. “Do they… a-ha!” He pulled out a thick book called Black Swans: A Chronicle of Equestria’s Most Unlikely Legends. “Don’t let its size fool you, it’s enjoyably easy to read, yet still quite thorough. I’m surprised it hasn’t caught on, really.” “Huh. Thanks.” Amanita opened the book up to somewhere in the middle. It was about a unicorn named Starlight Glimmer, who had apparently led a cutie-mark-hating cult in the middle of nowhere- -and went on to be Princess Twilight’s protégé. Huh. She flipped forward a few pages. Student of magic and friendship alike, confidant, now headmare of the School of Friendship… If a cult leader, fully aware of what she was doing, could turn away and be accepted by Princess Twilight herself… That opened up some options for her and her own situation. Maybe. It wasn’t like Starlight was still ripping off cutie marks. Hard to say how her situation related to Amanita’s own. Worth a shot, though. “It’s good, is it not?” the unicorn asked. “It’s already given me something to think about,” said Amanita, flipping to the next page. “But you also said you were looking for more scholarly work as well, yes?” The unicorn moved over a few feet. “In that case, I should recommend…”