Next to it, was a large box labelled '800 cartridges' that was hard to make out in the distance.
"...You have no idea where we're going, do you?" Flash deadpanned,
Kitchener brisked at the 'hero's' judgemental stare, "Might you suggest there's a better plan? I don't see any military personnel or similar high dignitaries that would escort us."
"We could just ask the locals?"
"Ask some primitive illiterate nobody directions?" Kitchener huffed, "Perish that thought. We will continue towards the tallest citadel."
Flash frowned. He could claim otherwise by citing his times in Bengal, where the locals were of great help in finding his way, however, noted that these natives were greatly different to the far technologically superior peoples' of the Indian subcontinent. Considering this, he gave a hesitant nod.
"Colonel, halt the delegation!"
"Again?!" Kitchener groaned, tiredly wheeling to his lieutenant who was close behind him, "Robertson, halt the men again."
"Yessir. HALT MEN!"
"Halt!"
"Halt!"
Kitchener wheeled with strained, overused ankles to face the files of men who had halted the delegation time and time again, symbolically spitting on the corpse of his previously outlined rules, already battered and deceased from the member's naked disobedience, of detouring and intermingling with the locals. The mission, therefore, had been ongoing at a crawl's pace, periodically entering stoppages, even by the straggling of only a few dozen men.
"What is it now?" Kitchener appraised the man marching with a hastening pace towards him. It caught him momentarily off-guard that the man was also wearing a Moorish uniform.
"Harry Maclean." He hailed, "-I bring the Princeling and his companions."
"You're Scottish?!" Flash suddenly interjected, disbelieving the stranger's poignant accent that poorly matched his Morrocan appearance, "I swear, I thought you to be a native!"
Maclean decided it was a compliment, "I am Sultan Moulay Abdelaziz's instructor of the army... Well, I was before this whole 'mess'." He brushed a claw over his mythical features, deciding to flap his wings gently as well to further signify his implication.
Pedrollah soon galloped beside the eccentric Scotsman, joined by his Captain Mahmud and friend Pasha. All three were refreshingly fully covered, them having come around to the reality of wearing pants, at least out of the bare respect for their saviours.
"The bright prince! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Kitchener's eyes drifted away from the colt, landing on four others in a short distance quickly closing the gap. "To... Two naked unicorns, one with torn clothes and... A donkey, no less?" Kitchener's smile quivered.
Mahmud ignored the colonel's looks, "The green one is Urban El Hungari, the chief engineer. The yellow one is Zubair El Bakar, harbourmaster of Jaffmare and apparent provisional leader."
The addressed unicorns bowed in greeting.
"-And these are the commanders of the ground and seas, Jass Canary and Baltog Al Hue respectively."
"This uniform is not my own." The yellow earthhorse irritably reminded, still adorning the tattered captain's coat.
"Then why still wear it?" Jass mumbled, "-Thanks for introducing me, captain."
"Provisional leader? -You mean to tell me that the previous is indisposed?" Kitchener began to pale. While he was somewhat relieved that the local ruler wasn't some presumptuous demagogue who thought so little of them to not meet with him, the fact that he would be dealing with a provisional leadership disturbed him.
Flash, sharing a similar opinion began whispering to him, "We better have not come all this way just to speak with inconsequential men." He hissed without the intent of offending the locals. Merely annoyed that they may speak to people whose agreements and dealings could be reneged or easily dismissed by a higher authority.
"Not another Peking situation..." Kitchener hushed, mirroring Flash's distress.
While the two officers were being reminded of a similar scenario, the native provisionals were entered into an impromptu conference, added, a colt Princeling and a certain idealistic rebel.
"What do we tell him?" Bakar blabbered,
"Tell him what?" Mahmud and Pasha chorused, joined by a squeaky Princeling in between them.
"That our beylerbey fled like a craven, and is probably dead." Baltog spat,
"THE BEYLERBEY IS DEAD?!" Mahmud exclaimed,
"Shush!" Urban reprimanded the captain by stuffing a hoof in his careless muzzle.
The gathered horses looked around wearily, catching the confused eyes of Kitchener and Flash, responding to them with a hasty smile.
"This... Is unprecedented. Shouldn't there be a new beylerbey then?" Pasha retook everyhorse's attention.
"There's not even supposed to be a 'regency council'..." Mahmud glared at Bakar.
"We're not separatists, captain!... If you were implying that..." Urban hastily countered, "We're just... The 'waiting' committee for the new beylerbey."
Mahmud stared, unimpressed.
"Please see reason, captain. You know how bad Jal-far is." Bakar pleaded, "If he takes over, there won't be a Jaffmare tomorrow."
"Why would he-?" Mahmud suddenly blanched. "Oh. Is it to do something with Pedro?"
"Princeling Pedrolllah. -And yes." Bakar pinched the bridge between his eyes... Somehow, with hooves. "He would've used the Princeling's disappearance as a casus beli to annex us. Probably with some contrived reasons along the lines of 'I will prevent it from ever happening again'."
"Well, it doesn't matter now, since he's safely with us." Urban lightened the mood, "...Right?" He dimmed it a bit.
"Let's not ruminate now, Urban." Baltog patted the engineer's shoulder,
"Right." Jass finally participated, nodding at Baltog, "I don't even know why we're having this discussion. It should be obvious that we tell them everything." He accentuated it with a shrug.
"And why is that obvious?" Bakar asked,
"Alright. Ask yourselves this: What do we have to lose by telling them the truth?"
"Nothing! They just got here, so what would they gain from knowing?" Pedro immediately answered,
Jass's brow rose in amusement, impressed at the wit of the colt. "Very good, my Princeling. That's right. They have no knowledge, much less interest in the politics of this region." Jass looked back at the now-contemplative horses around him. "Next question: What do we have to gain by telling them the truth?"
"Something good?" Pedro nonsensically blurted,
Yet, Jass nodded once more in agreement, "Right again, Pedrollah. Not getting scalped for telling a revealed lie would be 'something good'."
"What's 'scalped'-?"
"Also, building a mutual trust with these new 'friends' could only possibly grant benefits, so what's up with the resistance?" Jass muttered tiredly.
"It also might be too late for secrecy. Whatever that reason might be." Pasha squinted at Bakar, "I've already told them much, talking to one of their '((filibusters))'."
"You've conversed with them before?" Baltog asked, surprised.
"Yes...? Of course, all 12 of us rescued did. What else were we supposed to do in one month at sea?" Pasha said, aloof.
"It was quite the luxury cruise. The experience on the ship is indescribable. Literally. -There is no equivalent." Mahmud confirmed, "There was little to do other than... 'Amuse' their 'language experts'."
"I learnt lottsa stuff! -Like, did you know, our planet is not actually the centre of the universe-? -Or even our solar system?" Pedro eagerly revealed.
"What?" "Huh?" Was thought by all but two fully clothed horses.
"The foreigner's religious theory aside, I think that's enough 'convening'. They're looking impatient." Pasha subtlely nudged his head towards his back, putting the foreigner's commander into focus. "Bakar, you better go over and answer him. Truthfully."
Bakar sighed, "I guess I just needed somehorse to say it. Thank you, Pasha." He reached a hoof out for a shake, "Sorry if I had forgotten... But what do you do again?"
Mahmud immediately paled as he saw Pasha lift his own hoof to take it, even more so as he saw the bandit leader open his muzzle.
"I am a leader of a guild that operates in the heartland of Saddle Arabia." Pasha vaguely answered,
"A guild leader? What are you doing here then, and not in the centre of their delegation? -I heard they have merchants there." Urban interrupted,
"My guild isn't focused on monetary gains." Pasha elaborated, while Mahmud continued to jostle nervously.
"A mercenary order then? Dodging tributes by calling yourselves a guild, are you?" Jass cracked a rare grin, "Hey, props to you. Did the same thing, 'way back."
Pasha squinted. "That does describe our activities..." He ominously mumbled. Thankfully for Mahmud, nohorse had heard, and were satisfied with their provisional general's allusion.
"MEN! QUICK, MARCH!" Robertson suddenly cried out,
"QUICK MARCH!"
"QUICK MARCH!"
"QUICK MARCH!"
Bakar quickly galloped towards the colonel, "Wait, -wait! I need something to tell you!"
Kitchener loudly groaned at the familiar noise of hooves galloping towards him. Without even looking behind him he yelled, "Tell any that may, I WILL NOT speak until we are situated in an appropriate building!"
Subsequently, an interpreter swiftly intercepted the naked galloping unicorn, skidding neatly in front, blocking the view of the Colonel.
"My apologies, sir. But the commander wishes to speak once we reach the city's citadel." He softly said,
Undeterred by the interpreter's surprising fluency, Bakar continued, "But it's important-!"
The interpreter pushed Bakar back into his place. Pushing imposingly with his bipedal stance and utilising the dexterity his two limbs offered, the griffon interpreter easily grappled the naked unicorn still. "It must wait, sir! The world won't end in our walk to the governor's place!"
Bakar immediately froze, "Oh shit..."
He had forgotten to evict the 'mistresses'.
Bakar cringed in sympathy for his future self.
(("Woah-Ho! Ladies, allow me escort you out, so we gentlemen can conduct business."))
"Sir Flash?! When did you learn to speak their langu-?!"
"Not now sir Franchis! -And promise you won't tell Kitchener that,"
"Where are you going, sir?"
"A place requesting little of your worry, good man."
(("So... Do any of you ladies fancy a tale of my dashing exploits as a royal seaman?"))
Governor's Palace. After a prolonged discussion.
"That... Creates so many problems..." Kitchener loudly groaned, having listened to Bakar's confession. "Now I have to repeat this to Flash... Where is that Gladstone's pet, anyways?"
"No idea, sir. But the men have reported seeing him direct trespassers away." Robertson suggested hesitantly, fearing he may have misremembered a certain detail.
"Always busy... I swear, someone like him are always overcompensating for something." Kitchener impotently spat,
"Sir... If I didn't know any better, you're claiming yourself to be overcompensating. -You're clearly the most busy worker here." Robertson chuckled,
"I know the ways to a good rest!" Kitchener densely rebuked.
Robertson's jaw opened, but quickly closed again. "Apologies, sir. How should we proceed with this information, though?"
"Without Alfred or Seymour? -Nothing, unfortunately." Kitchener abruptly rose from his seat, pushing away from the table he had been leaning his hoof on. "Lieutenants, make ready our delegates and guests for the 'show'. It's about time to wow these natives."
(("What's going on? Are we finally done?")) Bakar relievedly sighed, having endured a nerve-racking interrogation, alone and surrounded by foreign officials with nohorse to count on.
"At once, sir." The lieutenants in the room similarly rose, then saluted.
Yet another time skip, as I slowly lose the will to live, jumping from multiple perspectives
Zaharoff took centre stage, despite the palace's 'lawn*' being devoid of features, much less a pedestal.
It's not the same lawn you're probably thinking of. 'Lawns', especially during the Renaissance were a great patch of empty land which large estates usually left undeveloped to brag how much wealth they had to squander.
Of course, they did this to their similarly rich guests while the poor starved in their meagre subsistence farms or cities. Why couldn't there be a Reinnaisaance Mr Beast?
The 'merchant of death' was surrounded by various eager notables, including, of course, the officers of the British military, keen to see what their newly bought 'hardware' could do.
Sure, some like Alfred and Seymour had already seen its impressive qualities, however, were honourably holding their mouths closed, not wishing to spoil it for the rest of them.
Among the spectators included the various glorified sellswords of Europe. Despite calling themselves filibusters, most of these ambitious men had been coerced into the expedition's contracts by their respective nations, which wished to rid themselves of a possible heavily armed insurrectionist.
Out of pay, out of objective, these single-minded men who despised masters were made no better than mercenaries, as they could not practice any trade other than war.
The British, for their part, were glad to have them. They had been cheap, and unlike actual sellswords, filibusters tended not to devolve into bands of marauding reavers, with proper enforcement of discipline, of course.
Two notables among the displaced filibusters, both respectively leading their own faction within the private army was the familiar Harry Maclean, and the Russian, Emilio Kosterlitzky.
Maclean, feeling right in his elements in a place definitely not dissimilar to his last post, had a quite conventional plan, hastily wrought up once noticing the sparse similarities in culture.
While not usually this ambitious, as he much preferred a subservient role, he planned on leading his loose faction of similarly ambitious men to force their 'protection' upon the local cities and villages of their new lands.
To his advantage, he had a vague understanding of the primitive's culture, added to historical precedents, the men were willing to believe, but most out of their own confirmation biases, that they could extract 'insurance' from the local populace.
To his disadvantage, Maclean lacked natural charisma, and would have to hold his men together through the flaunting of his experience and knowledge. In other words, he would have to actively convince them through wise words and directions.
In comparison, Emilio almost leaked in inherent charisma, exuding overwhelming confidence despite his comparable lack of experience or know-how to Maclean.
Known as the 'Mexican Cossack', he perceivably lived up to that name, dressed fashionably as a cossack hussar but attaining the humble, cool ruggedness of the yet-to-be Mexican División del Norte. His sharpness was further edged with his fearsome visage, a mix of a German golden falcon and Russian imperial eagle, topped up by his shining golden claws.
Mexicans during the Victorian era, at least before the PRI and various anarchist and socialist insurrections ruined their image, were seen as brave, inspiring, and dashing people by the larger world. Ironically, they were especially seen as such by the U.S. whose 'cowboy' archetype largely is derived from Mexican rebels.
He was utterly unbelievable in talent, as he was proven fluent in Russian, Polish, Spanish, French, Italian, English, German, Danish, Swedish, and even the new Saddle Arabian dialect.
Probably due to this, his outrageous plan and subsequent faction created by the poached men of Macleans' turned out to be half of the total 'filibusters'.
What was his outrageous plan? Well, again like the yet-to-be's, he aimed to emulate the conducts of one, madlad, Roman Sternberg, the supposed reincarnation of Genghis Khan. Unbelievable, he shared a similar ethnic background to him. Importantly, minus a USSR.
More realistically, although still very much insane, he wished to emulate the empirical events of the First Crusade, minus indirect regicide or Sternberg's conversion to forge a state like the county of Edessa, albeit, much more extractive and more characteristic of a colony.
This would assuredly breach their contracts, but Emilio knew better. Calling their bluff, the eccentric cossack knew public opinions usually swayed to the poor and virtueful filibuster, such as he.
Therefore, Emilio handily guessed that if they were to spark a conflict, the British would have no choice but to assist them, and they would soon be forgiven as they shared the spoils of their assured victory. They couldn't possibly ghost* him!
The term 'ghosting' hasn't been coined yet as a term to ignore someone. I've simply used it here as a temporary literary device and I've definitely not just done that so I can pretentiously explain it.
These contrasting figures and their larger filibuster army had gathered for similar reasons as the British expedition; to observe the effectiveness of some of the newest toys of war. But unlike the Brits, they hadn't owned any, so would await eagerly too if it was a worthy investment to purchase some of their so-called 'Nordenfelt or Maxim machine guns'.
The last group to observe was the least expectant of the three, being comprised of the natives, specifically the 'provisional-but-not-really-regency-council'. They had still been inadequately informed of the purpose of the supposed 'demonstrations', as the interpreters they asked all played coy or outright refused to even play around the reasons.
And so, they awaited quite boredly, even being neglected the services of any interpreters, as they were all preoccupied attending the intellectuals accompanying the British expedition, busily transcribing translated texts.
Unbenknowst to them, certain indentured spellslings and interpreters of Zaharoff-Rothschilds' employ were busily transcribing the most important of texts.
Not about history or culture like the 'forward-thinking' professors and academics, but magic.
"THIS WONDEROUS WEAPON DOES THE WORK OF 20-, NO, 60 FIGHTING MEN! -ABLE TO DISPENSE A PROVERBIAL HAIL OF BULLETS, ACCURATELY, I MIND YOU-, WITH THE QUALITATIVE MACHINING OF THE SIGHTS AND BARRELS!" Zaharoff majestically unveiled a somewhat petite-looking cylindrical device on a rectangular box, attached to a comedically large wheel.
Next to it, was a large box labelled '800 cartridges' that was hard to make out in the distance.
(("What are they saying?!")) Urban hurriedly asked, clearly the only one among the naked gathered horses who were eager about the ordeal.
(("They're finally firing one of their guns. Damn two-legs made me wait this long, continually teeing me with their strange muskets, and now they're finally going to fire one!")) Mahmud said with a hyper-fixated stare.
(("Is that what they're doing? Firing a particularly small cannon?")) Bakar sighed, (("Is that what we've been waiting so long without explanation for? A gun-show?"))
"IT IS, OF COURSE, THE MAXIM MACHINE GUN!" Zaharoff declared, soon being joined by two red-coated guard infantry who positioned themselves next to the gun, both standing on either wheel. "IT ONLY TAKES TWO MEN TO OPERATE, AND AS ADVERTISED, WILL MULTIPLY THEIR USEFULNESS SIXTY-FOLD!"
The guards presumptively manned the gun. One knelt on one knee while holding the protruding handles with both claws, and the other knelt on both, hastily feeding the straps of bullets from the box into the feeding mechanism.
Facing the guns weren't any obviously noticeable targets, but a convenient line of trees and its accompanying sapling offspring soon proved otherwise.
"Gentlemen, at your pleasure." Zaharoff wheeled away from the audience to face the trained gun crew, who prematurely braced for the onslaught of noise.
(("That can't be right. Am I misinterpreting something, or is he implying that can one-barreled contraption can shoot a 60-men worth of projectiles?")) Pasha asked Mahmud, who similarly shook his head in confusion.
(("Surely you'd misheard!")) Urban chuckled in doubtful huffs, (("He must be exaggerating to have even sugges-"))
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT
Shut up nerd. I know it's a later model. Just use your imagination and think it's on wheelies
The noise was immense, even at a distance.
Several of the spectators audibly wowed, even those who had already seen it, carried along by the collective surprise around them.
This left the natives in the worst spot possible.
(("MAGNIFICIENT! -It's still firing!")) Mahmud broke a manic laugh. Okay, that was unexpected.
(("Do we have something like that?!")) Pedro enthusiastically yelled, a hoof neatly covering his small folded ears. (("We have, uh... Muskets! Like those, don't we?!"))
(("Have you seen one of ours shoot more than once, Pedro?")) Pasha deadpanned,
(("Yes...?")) Pedro drawled, squinting at a distant memory onboard the 'Cliché'. Pasha firmly shook his head.
(("IT'S STILL FIRING! -They've annihilated those trees!")) Bakar exasperated, staring at the young greeneries that he had grown fond of in his past visits to the reprehensible beylerbey.
(("I doubt those trees should worry us, sir. I more worry about what a couple of those things could do to our rank and files.")) Jass stared intensely, boredom completely wiped from his face. (("I doubt even our loose formations would spare us from those devil's clattery teeth.")) He poetically noted.
(("How is it smokeless?!")) Urban, ever the ardent engineer, focused seemingly on the most trivial things, (("Have they found an alternative to black powder?! -What chemical mixture and magical technique did they use?! -I need to know!"))
(("If they can eviscerate wood like that... Dear Asura, were those giant cannons on their ships repeaters too?!")) Baltog balked, as the weight of these foreigner's technological superiority crashed on him. Although, not to say he was unique in feeling that.
(("Those crates say 800 'bullets'...")) Mahmud leaned in, then retracted, ((Welp, lay tight colts, we're gonna be here for a while."))
(("Not with their rate of firing, we won't.")) Pasha determined through a quick run of math.
"WATER-COOLED, THE BARRELS OF THIS MIGHTY GUN WILL NOT WARP, MELT OR ENCOUNTER ANY OTHER SORT OF MALFUNCTION!" Zarahoff yelled amidst the clattering of gunfire, "THE FEED SYSTEM IS WHOLLY RELIABLE! AND UNLIKE THE PRIMITIVE GATLING GUN, THE CARTRIDGES WILL NEVER JAM, AND YOU WILL BE ABLE TO DISPENSE CONTINOUS FIRE WITHOUT ANY CHANCES OF STOPPAGES!"
As if on cue, the firing stopped as it spat out the last of the empty cartridges to the grass now-glistening brown beneath the wheels.
Zarahoff received a round of applause, except, unknowingly, by not the native spectators.
"THAT IS NOT ALL THOUGH! -NO! THAT WAS THE JUST THE BEGINNING, AS WE PRESENT TO YOU ONE OF OUR LATEST PROTOTYPES, -STILL, READY TO BE DEPLOYED, DESIGNED BY THE LEGENDARY MAXIM, WHO DESIGNED THE PREVIOUS CONTRAPTION, AND NORDENFELT, THE WILD, WONDEROUS INVENTOR!" Zarahoff walked over to another covered item, this time though, much larger.
"IT IS, THE ALL-NEW QF-1 POUNDER!"
"-I call it Pom-Pom 'cause of the sound!" A voice, unmistakably belonging to Nordenfelt helpfully added.
...
"Yes... -AND IT FIRES A 31mm CALIBRE BULLET! -GUARANTEED TO PLOW THROUGH ANY PATHETIC SANDBAGS OR FORTIFICATION YOUR UNFORTUNATE FOES MAY BRING BEAR!" Zarahoff, this time, was joined by a distant target being dragged in by similarly dressed guards as the last. They each carried rudimentary defenceworks, such as the aforementioned 'pathetic' sandbags, wooden fences and even a wagon without its roof which was pushed into the sights of the 'pom pom'.
(("That gun is huge...")) Pedro cooed,
(("Excellent observation, your Prince-liness. It looks to be an enlarged version of the last gun.")) Pasha deadpanned once more,
(("I don't speak their tongue, but it's obvious what would happen to those 'fortifications'.")) Jass remained intently staring.
(("Still without any magic...")) Urban did a circle basic, his brain presumably hard-rebooting.
(("I knew it, I called it! Those ship cannons must've been rapid-firing!")) Baltog yelled most annoyingly,
(("They haven't fired yet, Baltog. Let's not assume before we see it for our own eyes.")) Mahmud eagerly turned back to view the demonstration, almost salivating at the suspense.
Only Bakar remained silent. Pensively observing, and digesting his sightings.
...
...
...
That night, the Jaffmare's outer-district
A hooded figure galloped loudly in the dark empty narrow streets of Jaffmare's ghetto, where the sparse undesirable zebra 'imports' or migrants were forced into 'quarantine', forbidden from exiting to 'inconveniencing' the wider populace.
Many of these outcasts did not stir in their deep sleep, even those outside, lying uncomfortably on the public streets, covered in filth and only a ragged blanket to offer them warmth. The echoing noise of hoovesteps was nothing to them compared to the frequent noises of vagrants or muggers accosting or otherwise eliciting ear-piercing screams in the night. They actually found it pleasing, somewhat. It was like white noise to them.
The hooded figure seemed to aimlessly turn alleys, squeeze through gaps between improvised buildings and occasionally leap over small wooden fences, still uncaring of the amount of noise they were making.
Then, suddenly, the darkly cloaked equine's head snapped towards his right, momentarily revealing a horn underneath his hood. Quickly covering it back up, they began scrutinising a loosely piled tower of poorly worked barrels.
The hooded equine approached carefully, despite knowing their secrecy was already forfeited by their loud entrance into the scene.
And as they had sowed, they had reaped, as the tower of barrels pathetically collapsed to launch a similarly cloaked figure, but with wings, into the air with little fanfare.
"WAIT! -I have a letter!" The grounded equine yelped, his voice definitively indicative of a stallion.
Undeterred, the cloaked pegasus continued to flee, soaring higher into the air.
"IT HAS THE ROYAL SEAL! -YOU MUST DELIVER THIS LETTER!" He determinedly cried, his horn slipping from his hood once more as his head was risen to trace the pegasus in the air.
In great relief, the species of no horse's equivalent ceased in his uplift to hover contemplatively in the air.
With a shrouded smile, the unicorn waved the subject of importance in his hoof, "It had just come in, -so I rushed over to you after asking the others where you might be." He gave a stuttery chuckle, "-And thank Asura that they were right! I thought I was a goner!"
The pegasus continued to mutely hover him, his expressions totally unreadable as the darkness shrouded any features.
"...I'm only to collect the letters in designated locations."
The unicorn began to sputter, "W-what?! Dude! You can't be serious, my life is on the line here!"
"Look, it's not my fault that you slept in or something and forgot to deliver the letter. I'm in the clear." The pegasus began to turn, with every quickening flap worsening the aches of the unicorn's stomach.
"Didn't you hear me?! The letter just came in! I delivered the letter you have right now, didn't I?!" The unicorn exasperated.
"How did you kn-?"
"-Because, of course! What? You're going to fly off without anything on you? I gave that letter to another middlehorse ages ago!" The unicorn waved his own letter again.
The pegasus loudly sighed, reached into his saddlebag, rummaged through it to find the previously collected letter and looked around him, making sure their commotion didn't attract any unwanted witnesses. After that order of action, he dove into the ground to elegantly unfurl his wings at the last moment, gently landing on the ground at a fair distance from the unicorn.
"...Who's our employer?" He threateningly flapped his wings, ready to depart at immediate notice.
The unicorn rolled his eyes. It was unseen as well, but he wouldn't need it to drive his point across. "Really? -How would I know, -as a matter of fact, I don't think anyhorse working for him knows, including you."
He waved the letter for the third time, "Letter." He deadpanned.
The pegasus sighed for the last time, "Let's take a look at that sigil..." He tiredly approached, "Mind lighting us up a bit?"
A horn glowed.