//------------------------------// // By Name // Story: First Fruits // by the dobermans //------------------------------// “So did you figure it all out last night?” The thicket of tools and weapons in the forge’s racks were as silent as the dawn that was breaking in the morning hush. Wild Carnation was tying a harness around Bellows’ barrel, a wry look on her face, while he watched the twists of her nimble hooves at the buckles. A staff half his length, tipped with a broad, burnished scimitar, was balanced in the crook of his foreleg. He looked up at her when she didn’t immediately answer. “No,” Wild sighed, flipping her unkempt mane over her shoulder. “First’s shears are tools of ineffable sorrow and bitter joy; the same as could be said of the Mission of all Caretakers. There’s no more to be found than that. And the glyphs … I tried to view them as symbols centered on the Nine Stars, and looked for any incomplete translations or sequences of images in the Chronicles, but this set appears to be unique. The only mystery I solved was that of the small one that First wears on his muzzle. That’s just for gathering sheep’s wool. Since we have only eight images in total, that might mean one of these artifacts is missing. Or maybe not.” She sighed again. “I don’t know.” She cinched the final clasp at Bellows’ shoulder. He gave an approving nod, and worked the butt of the pole into a reed-woven couch that he’d attached to the harness, canting it so that the blade jutted several feet in the air. “How do I look?” he asked, turning in place to preview every angle. “Like a Royal Guard that was booted out of the service after failing parade drills,” said Wild. “You’re seriously going to strut through town with that? We’re supposed to keep a low profile!” “Whatever,” Bellows replied. “Big stallion plus big weapon equals stand aside. You don’t need any long-dead scroll writers to help you solve that equation.” He slipped a cut of cloth off of a barrel top and began threading the glaive’s long haft through a row of loops that had been sewn to one side. “Check it out: two hoops with one jump.” He let the felt banner hang in clear view. It displayed a muscular, dark grey foreleg holding a hammer above an anvil. “Figured I could get a little advertising in while simultaneously distracting the general populace from the fact that I’m walking around on a sunny day in modern Equestria sporting a replica pre-Fall battlefield weapon.” He worked a burr loose from the blade. “Finely crafted though it is.” Wild gave him a brief, exasperated glare. “Whatever yourself. All ready, First?” she asked, hefting her supply-filled saddlebags onto her back. “Yes ma’am,” he replied. He had packed his own bag while the two of them had devised how to fix the glaive to Bellows for the trip without it tipping forward. His shears, bound with fresh loops of twine, were buried deep within and out of sight. Cinnamon watched the preparations from her perch behind his mane, her tail sweeping left and right in a square patch of sun. “Excellent! I think that does it. Are we forgetting anything?” All three looked around and took mental inventories. Concerned only that his banner was adequately visible, Bellows shrugged and went to the alleyway door. “Remember the schtick, ‘Primrose’,” he called back. “All new sale, bonus thrown in.” “Yes,” Wild groaned. She trudged after him as he dipped the glaive’s wicked tip below the doorframe and shimmied outside. First gave the interior of the forge a final perusal, and, seeing nothing where it shouldn’t be, followed the two of them into the morning mist. The first few minutes were quiet. It was too early for the workaday risers to have ventured out onto the streets. The trio passed by vacant brick doorsteps, some bearing emptied bowls of cat and dog food, others with their iron railings draped with the overflow of last night’s laundry. Sounds of pre-dawn routines coming to a close murmured from behind the humble portals. Ponies began to emerge from their homes as the three crossed into the center square. Colts and fillies filtered away from pairs of adults to blue signs that had been posted where the streets broke into the open cobblestone space. There they clustered, babbling and scrapping as they waited for their minders to lead them safely to school. Smiling parents watched them bound down stairs and chase after each other in the broadening daylight, and gave their morning greetings to their neighbors. First started at the sight of the crowd, his eyes darting from one strange face to another. It was a larger gathering of ponies than he’d ever encountered. He could feel Cinnamon tense between his shoulder blades. Now surrounded by townsfolk, Bellows reached up to unfold an errant corner of his banner and called out, “Hear ye, hear ye: three-day sale going on at Bellows’ Forge! Top-notch deals! Ten percent off all ironwork. Garden rakes to decorative gates; doorknobs to key fobs: it all has to go!” “Save those bits, folks!” Wild chimed in. “Place your order today and receive a discount on your family’s genealogy, courtesy of your favorite historian, Primrose! Half off for five generations back. Get your horseshoes hammered while you get to know your great-great grandma. What a bundle!” A mare holding a baby colt strode up to keep pace. “How do I place an order?” she asked. Bellows flashed a winning smile. “Thank you kindly, Fennel,” he answered. “Leave a note in the mail slot at the Forge. Items, quantities, and how soon you need them. Minimum wait time of one week: I’m heading to Oreload Valley for raw stock. Might take me a bit to get back.” “I’ll do just that. How about you, Primrose? Should I stop by your house next week?” “Yes indeedy!” Wild grinned. “Where did we leave off during our last session? Your grand-uncle Trousers, if I recall?” “You remembered! That’s quite the melon you’ve got, Prim. You’re sharp as a tack, I always said.” So they proceeded through town, Bellows high-stepping with puffed chest and banner flapping against the clouds and sun, Wild waddling beside him exchanging niceties with the local townsmares, and First moping behind them, flinching and averting his gaze every time it fell on a filly or mare as if he’d been bitten by gnats. They made it to the far side of the square, where the streets narrowed and zigzagged into the tight-packed frontispieces of the business district. The buzz of the crowd faded behind them, dulled by the intervening stone and glass. Through the gate of the low town wall they went. The rising sun hung just above the blurred line of the mountains, forcing their gazes down to the level of the road. Ponies passed by with tips of hats and friendly, half-mumbled ‘good-morning’s on their way to deliver their carts of produce to the market. The farmcolts and fillies who sat among the tumbling pumpkins, silk-headed corn and crates of milk bottles whispered to each other at the sight of the hoof-and-anvil banner. First surveyed the tilled fields and colonies of animals that drifted by as he passed. They were more expansive and better equipped than anything he had seen before. The cows butted their muzzles against the grass in pens twice the size of his father’s yard, and their troughs of silage were tended by what looked like dedicated teams of farmhands. He imagined that these sprawling operations had been here since the time of Canterlot’s founding, and had served the Princesses from the time they had arrived from the Land of the Alicorns. The Night Princess herself may have dined on pumpkins grown from these very acres. He turned to Wild, who appeared to be lost in thought. She had spoken now and then of old mysteries; the forgotten stories of Selene, and the Nine Stars that all well-knew attended the moon, he recalled. Somehow he was part of it; generation by generation, the consequences of the evil that had happened ages ago had guided every moment of his life. He found himself wondering what more she might be able to reveal. “Ma’am?” he ventured. “… which ended in post-Fall year forty-three, seventh moon … right,” Wild mumbled as if bookmarking her musings. “Yes? First, was that you?” First cringed, upset that he had interrupted her train of thought. “I’m sorry ma’am, but some things you said before got me curious, and I thought maybe we could pass the time easier if we talked.” “Careful what you wish for, bud,” Bellows said with a grin. “Once that dam’s crack opens, there’s no filling it.” He winked at his sister. “Your fake spear is drooping, sweetie,” Wild replied with her most cheerful smile. Bellows stamped a hoof. “It’s not a spear. I told you, it’s a—” He nearly tripped as the heavy scimitar arced downward and jammed into the dirt in front of him. A wagonload of farm fillies rumbled by, giggling as he righted himself. Wild returned her attention to First. “Sure, honey, what would you like to hear about?” “Well, um, I know you weren’t able to find any history regardin’ my shears, but let’s say they do tell of somethin’ to do with the Nine Stars adrift and girded. Maybe, if you’re willin’, you could say some more about those, and a little of how my family and Joyous Grove were involved.” Wild regarded him a moment, one eye narrowed. “‘Adrift’ … ‘girded’ … First, did you mean to use those words?” “Probably. Might have heard ’em used when there was speakin’ of the moon. Da used to talk such like, when I was younger. Can’t really remember.” “Interesting,” was all Wild said before reverting to a troubled silence. They began walking again after Bellows had scraped the dirt from his banner. Just when First began to think his request had been forgotten, Wild spoke. “The first decade or so after the Fall is jumbled in the lore. The order of events can’t be sorted with the information we have. Names, places, dates: nothing is strung together true, in a way anyone can make sense of. History, like ponies, has a hard time remembering unpleasant things.” The image of his dead mother snarling from a hole in the ground flashed in First’s mind. Bits and pieces of that night followed: how needful the rotten mare’s lunges were to bite and rend; the snap of her neck as he bucked her; the mane he used to play with as a foal, ruined and dirt-clotted. That he had forgotten the battle until now led him to agree with Wild’s claim. “Around the time of the Fall, nine stars appeared in the sky, surrounding the moon,” she continued. “When Celestia banished Selene there, they began their dance, wandering in the darkness, sometimes slowing and becoming fixed in place to form a pattern, only to drift away to roam again. You’ve seen them. The Lorekeepers have studied these patterns for centuries. The best we’ve been able to tell is that they repeat … like a message of unfulfilled longing for what they frame … and that they are magical configurations belonging to a fundamental binding of almost unimaginable power. I’ve observed them myself, of course. I can almost make out the lines between them, and what I see is … is pained … desperate …” “Ma’am?” First asked when Wild didn’t complete her sentence. She jumped. “Sorry. It may be I’ve fallen into the trap of reading my own story into the constellations. Where was I? Yes. You may remember I mentioned that there are branches among the Lorekeepers; different sects that followed different interpretations of what little there is to piece together. Early on, like first century, one such enclave resolved to devote all their studies and energy to researching the Mystery, and so formed an Order of the same name: The Order of the Nine Stars.” Wild paused to let a caravan of cows pass by. They eyed her as if scolding her for dwelling on a forbidden subject. She let loose a shiver as the last ropy tail swished past them. “They were a secretive lot; proud of their choice of subject matter. We all believe our life’s work is the most important, don’t we? They knew the Mystery haunted all the Lorekeepers as a central enigma, and that all dabbled in it to an extent.” Wild shuddered again, her face growing dark. “Some say that they solved it. Like so many things, no one knows whether or not that’s true, but we do know most went mad, and that all were corrupted and broke from the Missions to join the enemy in sowing fell magic throughout the world. The Cultivation probably couldn’t have happened if it weren’t for them, at least not as effectively as it did. So many lives lost.” First let the final bitter statement stand as he gathered the courage to push further. The road now was empty for miles, up to where it curved behind a hill. Hoping the lack of eavesdroppers would ease the tension, he spoke again. “But Joyous Grove put ’em in their place?” “Joyous Grove,” Wild repeated, looking up to the cottony folds of clouds and into the sunlit corridors of her knowledge. “All who serve know his name. It is said that before him there were none who possessed Earth Pony magic as great as his, and that after him, there will be none greater. If he willed any tree or plant to grow, it would, for the very soil would change to provide what was needed. The touch of his hoof could heal all but the most mortal of wounds, whether of pony or beast, and cause water to well from the deep aquifers. His command was light and wonderful to fulfill. He could make of any desert an eternal oasis.” First felt a swell of pride despite himself. His ancestor was famous among those who toiled in the night. Hundreds of years after his time, ponies still remembered him. “It was Joyous Grove, the Moonseer, who founded the Missions,” Wild continued. “It was he who taught the groundskeepers to be Caretakers, and infused a part of his boundless magic somehow in their work. Likewise he devised the tasks of the Lorekeepers and Wayfinders. But once he had seen the High Sanctuary created and strong against the enemy, he disappeared. Or he may as well have. After that no extant history attributes any new activity to him.” “You said he was close with the Night Princess?” First asked. “‘Close’ doesn’t begin to describe it,” Wild replied with a hint of a smile. “Some traditions claim that they were united beyond friendship. One or two even insist that they were together in the way of stallions and mares, but those who concentrate their gaze upon the Moon Brilliant, such as myself, know these to be mild blasphemies.” Bellows chuckled, but said nothing. They proceeded through the easy quiet of the remaining morning to where the hill had obscured their view of the road. Halfway around its bend they were met by a narrow stone bridge that arched above a muddy ribbon of deep, rushing water. Five lean figures lounged at its foot. A single Pegasus flapped on restless wings above them. First stopped. The sound of his hooves grinding against the gravel brought his companions to a halt, and alerted the malingerers to their arrival. The foremost broke off skipping stones across the surface of the creek. “It’s Scrawny, and he’s brought his mommy and daddy. Hey, there’s a toll to cross this bridge.” Before anyone else could speak, Wild stepped forward. “How much?” she asked. “Fifteen bits.” “And one cat!” the Pegasus growled. “I need a new winter cap, and that furball’s hide will do perfect! Yeah, that’s right, I’m talkin’ about you, you murderous little sofa stainer! Don’t think I forgot!” He pointed a hoof at the strips of white gauze scattered across his face, then at Cinnamon. She blinked back at him, unimpressed. First tried to unscramble his panicked thoughts enough to retrieve his memories of the past few days. This wasn’t part of the plan. The leader’s name was Pomp, he remembered, and Shriek was the Pegasus. They were traveling thieves, it seemed, blocking the way at every crossing and demanding a toll. He didn’t need to see their scowls to know they weren’t happy with him after how things turned out last time they’d met. Wild gave him a nudge. “What do you say, First? I can give them the money. How do you want to handle it?” “Well,” he said under his breath, “I’m thinkin’ if we give them what they want, they’ll just keep expectin’ it from ponies, but I don’t know if we can persuade ’em to leave either. Maybe …” “Let me take a crack,” said Bellows as he stepped forward. “Look, lads,” he called out, “maybe you didn’t catch what was going on here.” He gestured at the point of his weapon with a few quick dips of his muzzle. “What is that?” laughed Shriek. “Did you find some dragon’s toothpick and decide to wear it? I mean, is that supposed to be your costume? Wait, I get it: you’re a drunk fence post!” He swooped down and snatched the banner from behind the blade, which began to tilt downward again. He somersaulted upward and out of reach. “Sweet! I can use this as a bathroom mat. Nice and soft on the hooves.” Wild had had enough. She stamped to within hoof’s reach of the swaggering ringleader. “Pompous Circumstance! Is that you? Lemon Loaf’s colt?” The burly colt looked from side to side at his partners in crime. “Y-yeah. What about it?” he answered, a quaver in his voice. “Lemon is a client of mine. We have tea together almost twice a week. I’ve been working on her family tree for … oh, what is it now … half a year? What if I turn around right now, trot to her house and tell her what you’re up to? That her son is making a disgrace of himself, robbing colts and mares, for what? To add another stuffed Celestia doll to his collection?” She gave him a knowing look. Pompous deflated like a balloon. “She’s … she’s the Princess. They’re hoof-made …” he attempted. His friends turned to each other, confused and mumbling. Some were holding back their laughter. “Move along now,” said Wild, “and maybe I won’t bring it up at my next session with Lemon.” His head hung low, Pompous began trudging in the direction of the town. The gang followed after him, no longer formed in rank. Shriek shot off to the safety of the clouds. “I’m keeping this, though,” he shouted, flapping the banner. In moments he was out of sight. “See that? No fuss, no muss,” said Wild. She rounded her back to settle her saddlebags. First gaped at her. “How did you do that, ma’am?” She shrugged. “Just a small proverb from the Lore: ‘when someone gives you trouble, call them by name.’” Without further explanation, she cleared her throat, tossed her mane, and waited for Bellows to collect himself. They crossed single-file over the stone bridge and resumed their journey. First asked no more questions, reflecting instead on Wild’s subtle victory over the gang of thieves, and the history she had shared from her seemingly bottomless reservoir of tales. Bellows marched onward in the lead, head high as if nothing had happened to cast doubt on his plan. Five miles passed, to First’s estimation. He began to see pools of water dot the level green of the grassland. Their still, untroubled surfaces captured the bright whites and vague blues of the sky, so that he could almost trick himself into believing that they were portals to another world where everything was upside down. The farther they went, the more frequently he spotted them, now linked in twos and threes into small, shallow ponds. The gravel of the road had become slushy with mud and slow sheets of water flowing from one side to the other. They were not alone. The grass roared with the songs of frogs and grasshoppers. Giant crickets, as long and thick as a foreleg, ambled on stilts through the tunnels between the tufts of vegetation. Moths, snakes, toads and newts leapt off the trail and into the green living walls at the sound of their approach. Wild had claimed she was being tracked. First wondered what else might be crawling through the watery terrain, homing on the thud and grind of their hooves. He scanned from side to side, expecting something to lunge at them at any moment. What was not a mystery was that the flies had become a nuisance. Wild stopped them to dispense the repellent, smearing the pungent gel over their flanks, shoulders and necks. It helped for a while, but eventually encouraged the whining pests to attack the unprotected parts of their bodies, and First found himself resorting to the ancient methods of flicking tail and ear. “Wish I’d brought a sickle instead of this heavy thing,” Bellows grumbled. He snorted, shook his mane, and continued on. In another few miles they reached a point where the road dissolved into a patch of mud of unknown depth. The sun, now well into its descent, soaked their skin through the humid air like a wet blanket. Pausing again, this time to share a cantaloupe, they considered a hoof-beaten side trail that seemed to wind between the shimmering ponds, which had come to divide the landscape into narrow ribbons of dry land like veins of green iron in stained glass. In the distance, smoke arose in columns below gray windmills, and the sweet, complicated smell of smoldering peat tingled their noses. “Well,” said Bellows, “you’ve been right on the money so far, Wild, annoying as that is. I suppose now it’s time to consult the locals on how to find your Wayfinder friend?” Wild nodded. “Couldn’t hurt,” she replied. “Just try not to fall in. I don’t think your spear floats.” They stepped onto the hoof-trail and began to follow its winding, treacherous path through the waterlogged world. The blinding reflections from the miniature sea made it seem they were suspended in a sunlit void, with no way to tell up from down. They may as well have been ants climbing grass blades that reached forever into the sky. First marveled at the strange plants that lined the trail: bulbous, fleshy stalks full of spines and water, orchids tangled in the undergrowth, and everywhere, sparkles as countless as the stars; specks of light at the ends of every tiny red hair that sprouted from low starburst flora, overlain with trapped, dying horseflies and beetles. As they approached the nearest windmill, a stallion who had been digging turf and arranging it into rows of bricks to dry stood from his labor, stretched his back until it crackled, and hailed them. Wild went forward to greet him. “Hello!” she started, flashing a smile. “My name is Primose, and I was looking to interview some of the residents here for the Canterlot Herald regarding the challenges of managing life in the marshlands. Do you happen to know anypony in the area who is especially hard beset that I could speak with?” The stallion took in her words like he’d been slapped in the face. “Well you sure do talk a million bits, don’t ya? Ponies call me Ol’ Mossy when they call me. If yer lookin’ for a real hard pony, Sundew would be your mare. Good luck though. She don’t see nobody lest they’re from the Frogmire, and sure as sugar she don’t talk to ’em.” Wild shared a look with Bellows and First. “She doesn’t talk?” she prodded. “Not a word. She can’t. The superstitious folk that live in the woods back her way say she’s cursed. I think she just ate some a’ them sticky flypaper plants when times were lean and it rotted the tongue outta her head.” Primrose held a foreleg to her chest. “That’s terrible! Well, I have a quill and paper for her to write on. Do you know where can we find her, by any chance?” “Sure, if yer willin’ to swim a stroke or two. Head back to that last mill over there—yeah, that one with the broken flap I gotta fix thanks to the storm that blew through last week, blast it all—head back there and you’ll see some trees. Short ones, ’cause the soil’s bad. Follow the trail there for two miles. After that you’ll have to do the dog paddle. Nice meetin’ ya, Miss Primrose.” He chuckled to himself, picked up his turf cutter, and bent down to sink it into the ground. Wild waved Bellows and First forward. Once they’d joined her, they proceeded on past the windmills and into the thicket of stunted trees. The path was no less dangerous than in the open bog, offering plenty of chances to roll an ankle on a loose tuft of grass and tumble into the foul swamp water. To add to the danger, the sun was making its final arc down to the horizon, and the waning light was broken by the twisted trees that had been able to grow no thicker than saplings in the thin, uncharitable earth. The last mile through the darkening bog was almost unbearable. The flies had risen up in clouds that dove, stung, and bit whenever the opportunity presented itself. The travelers took long pulls at their waterskins, flinching and tossing their heads whenever one of their attackers got through. Still they stumbled on until they reached a point where they could not proceed. The trail ended in a narrow pond that encircled a far, forested shore like a moat for as far as could be seen in both directions. The coffee-colored, gritty flood dropped away in an underwater cliff, with no hope of seeing the bottom, let alone touching it. As she hiked her overstuffed saddlebags on her shoulders high enough to keep them dry for the impending swim, Wild caught sight of something across the murky channel. She gasped, and tapped Bellows and First to get their attention. A lone pony stood on the opposite bank. Her straw-colored mane and coat matched her eyes and tail, which hung limp despite the omnipresent flies. Her back and legs were covered with them. If they were biting her, it was clear she could no longer feel it, for she stood as motionless as a statue. She was watching them, and they got the impression that she had been watching them for some time. She raised a hoof and pointed at the surface of the water to their right. Bellows walked to where he thought the imaginary line from her hooftip ended. “Hey, check this out,” he said. He stepped into the water and began to cross. “See, I float just fine,” he called back. Wild and First followed suit. There, dividing the silty marsh oxbow was a sandbar, spanning clear from one side to the other. They hastened after Bellows and made it to the far shore. After shaking off her hooves, Wild went forward to speak with the unsmiling mare. “I am Wild Carnation,” she said, “Lorekeeper of the Order of the Moon Brilliant, and this is First Fruits, a proven Caretaker of the lineage of Joyous Grove himself. We are looking for Sundew, a Wayfinder of no small fame in service to holy Selene, and were told she lives in this area. Have we found her?” The mare turned from her to First, then to Bellows, her question obvious. “My brother Bellows,” Wild affirmed, “an ally to the Missions. He crafts implements used by Caretakers throughout Equestria.” “Best blacksmith in the Lowlands,” Bellows said with a bow. “My sister here says you’re a Wayfinder. If that’s true, then us all meeting here is a big deal.” He unslung his glaive and laid it gently on the ground. “So is it? Are you Sundew?” Their host beckoned them with a quick gesture of her hoof, turned, and walked into the forest. “I think she wants us to follow her,” Bellows whispered. He trotted after her like a colt following a carrot cart. Wild and First joined him. “First,” Wild said as they walked, “can you feel that? When she looks at you?” First nodded. The strange mare’s gaze had caused something deep in his stomach to churn. It was a feeling like finding a chest of ancient golden bits in his backyard, buried there for years without him knowing, or of finding a cache of gems under a floorboard in a dream. “Yes, ma’am. She’s special, no doubt. I feel like I’m already her friend.” “Me too,” said Wild. The forest was cool and quiet. Ahead, the sun was half sunk in its bed, its final rays struggling to break through the screen of branches. The saplings of the marsh had yielded to massive pines, hunched close together and clothed in hanging moss that billowed like curtains to veil away the light. Their clean, piquant odor likewise cordoned off the insidious vapors of the swamp. A mourning dove called down from the bearded boughs, waited, and was answered by an echoing partner. Behind them the moon climbed inch by inch, one side still shadowed in gibbous anticipation. The trail broke into a clearing. As First stepped out from the darkness of the trees, he thought his senses had failed him. He sank to his knees. Within the glade was a garden more beautiful than the golden treasure promised by the calm gaze of the mare he now knew could only be Sundew. Patches of moss, each its own radiant color of the rainbow, were arranged at the feet of aged stone columns, which were embraced by diaphanous vines that glowed pale blue in the shadows. The scent of their sweet flowers struck First like voices cheering, welcoming him like a merry herd from a long-forgotten past. Birds of every kind darted between the surrounding forest and the water that pooled in natural bowls that some ancient river had carved in the bedrock. First fought hard against the urge to cry. Every petal was perfect. Every stone was placed where it belonged. Among them, he belonged. In the center of the garden was a statue of a crowned mare, her forelegs and wings outstretched as if to shelter the whole world, her horn held high and pointing at the night’s newborn stars. Her eyes were closed. First could only guess at what she was dreaming, but the crescent moon that adorned her chest left no doubt as to who she was. Sundew lay down on a bed of pine needles beneath the statue’s wings, a wistful smile playing at her lips. The flies had dispersed as if unable to abide the garden’s overabundant beauty. Fireflies now orbited around her, alighting in her mane and tail and dancing a hide-and-seek ballet around her head. She held out her forelegs to First, and to Wild, who had chosen to let her emotions play. As if by force of gravity they went to the statue. The triumphant songs of the frogs and night birds lifted as the two approached and sat on their haunches next to Sundew beneath the protective wings. She nodded, bidding them to raise their hooves. They obeyed at once, and seeing each other as if through the haze of a dream, touched them together to form a circle. At that moment the moon broke free of the horizon. Its light doubled in strength, filling the garden glade with sober brilliance. It was then that First truly saw what Sundew had created. The statue was a fountain, channeling some subterranean spring to flow up and out from beneath its lidded eyes. The silvered water flowed like endless tears down the solemn stone face, to feed the luminescent blooms and all the animals and birds that came to drink. “The moon ascends in wisdom and joy! We are blessed this sacred night!” cried Wild, her rapturous voice building the spell’s momentum. “In turn your children bless you, o Selene of boundless love!” At the sounding of her last word, Sundew broke the circle and stood. Alarm twisted her features. She stamped her hooves as small huffs and whines escaped her throat. Something splashed in the distance. The forest went silent.