//------------------------------// // 6 - Inns and Other Combat Arenas // Story: Death Valley // by Rambling Writer //------------------------------// In a way, Code was one of the least earth-pony earth ponies Amanita had ever known. In a tribe known for being big and bulky, she was small and slim. But size played absolutely no role in magical strength, as evidenced by the fact that Code was able to haul her mammoth log all the way to Tratonmane without pause, keeping up with the rest of the lumberjacks all the while. The grass beneath her hooves seemed to perk up out of the snow as she passed and Amanita swore the dirt was buzzing. And Code wasn’t even straining that hard, although her mouth looked like a smokestack. Finally, the group reached a lumber mill just outside the edge of Tratonmane, between the farms and the houses. When Code unhooked her harness, she… There wasn’t another word for it. Her movements were catlike. “I should use my magic more often,” she said as she stretched. “I forgot how satisfying it can feel.” “Start a-livin’ ’ere an’ that’ll happen most every day,” said Crosscut. “Thankee fer the help.” “Of course.” Code threw back her head and nickered. “It’s what we’re here for.” And she ate still some more dirt. Amanita thought she heard a snort from Crosscut, but Code was already leading them away. The snow crunched beneath their feet and their silhouettes shimmered whenever they left the lamplight. Tratonmane’s layout was simple enough that even after the one trip, Amanita knew the way back to the inn: due south, keeping the darkening but still illuminated eastern wall on her left. …Or was it right? No, it was left, it was on her right when she was going north. Right? Amanita hurriedly sketched out a compass rose in her mind. On her left. (Imagine getting turned around in a town this small.) “Do you really not use your magic that often?” Charcoal said. “You’re the High Ritualist!” “I don’t use my magic that often,” said Code. “Rituals are different magic, not mine. It’s different.” “If using your own magic is like walking from A to B,” Amanita piped up, “using a ritual is like riding in a carriage from A to B. It’s the same result, but it feels different. And neither one is better than the other, since they do different things.” “And sometimes you just want to walk, even though it’s harder,” Charcoal mused. She looked down and pawed briefly at the cobblestones. “Like growing a tree from scratch versus just buying and planting one.” “That’s… not a bad analogy,” said Amanita. It didn’t make much sense to her, granted, but she could see where Charcoal was coming from: investment and your own magic weighed against convenience and rituals. And if it made sense to Charcoal, that was all that really mattered. Bitterroot was lounging against the wall of the Watering Cave when they arrived. “Hey,” she said, pushing herself up. “I went looking for you, but it’s hard to search in the dark. Figured I’d wait here for you.” “You don’t need to make any concessions for us,” said Code. “Yeah, but I thought you should know that the innkeep — her name’s Cabin Still — waived the fee. Something called the, uh…” Bitterroot looked down, biting her lip and rustling her wings. “The Housing Act of, uh…” “529?” Code asked. “Yeah, 529.” “You’re sure?” “Unless there’s some other reason for her to give us free room and board, yeah.” “But why…?” Code shook her head and walked inside, her hooves falling heavily. Bitterroot shrugged at Amanita and Charcoal and followed. Code was standing at the front desk, drumming her hoof as her ears constantly flicked and ignoring the looks the few patrons were giving her. A unicorn, probably Cabin Still, was standing off to one side behind the desk, polishing a glass and ignoring Code in equal measure. Already, the atmosphere was getting wound tighter, bit by bit. Amanita felt she had to be elsewhere but couldn’t bring herself to move, like she was awkwardly sitting in on two friends shouting at each other but one of them was blocking the only door out. “Our… beds’re upstairs,” Bitterroot said quietly to Amanita and Charcoal. She was moving slowly, like Code and Cabin’s standoff had hypnotized her. “They’re… I don’t think they’re that bad, but-” “You ought to know,” Code said loudly, “that I was once involved in a ritual that lasted for nearly thirty-seven hours. No eating. No drinking. No sleep. No rest. No breaks of any sort. So if you think you can ignore me until I go away for whatever reason, you are sorely mistaken.” Cabin heaved with a silent sigh and stomped up to Code, saying nothing. “I heard you’re giving us the rooms for free,” said Code. The grunt Cabin let out sounded something like an, “Aye.” “I’d like to pay for them.” Cabin raised her head, tilted it. “ ’Tis the duty o’-” “I don’t care.” Code dug into a pocket and dropped six coins on the desk — high-value, based on their size. “I’d like to pay for them.” “Ye dinnae have tae. Yer givin' a service.” “And so are you. I’d like to pay for them.” “It’s money!” said Charcoal. “Why are you saying no to money? Is this some weird pony thing?” She glanced sidelong at Amanita and whispered, “Is it?” Amanita shook her head. “I dinnae need paid nor pitied,” snapped Cabin, not even glancing at Charcoal. “Act says I’m a-housin’ ye, so I’m a-housin’ ye.” Her eyes were boring into Code like drills. Code’s eyes hammered Cabin right back. “Pity’s got nothing to do with it. Your money supports me through taxes. It’s only fair that my money supports you through paying your fees.” Cabin grinned. “What if’n we’re real good at evadin’ taxes ’cause we’re so isolated?” Code grinned back. “Then that’s the Royal Revenue Service’s problem, not mine. This money here’s my problem, not yours. But if you want to go by the old ways…” Still keeping her eyes locked on Cabin, she reached out a leg, as if to swipe the bits back into her purse. For a moment, Amanita thought Code would actually go through with it. Then: “Well, money’s money,” said Cabin. She levitated the coins away and began rooting through the cashbox. “Stick it all on our tab,” said Code. “Everything we buy, take from that. If we run out of money, let me know.” She moved to take a step away, only to turn back. “Wait. You… do know that the Act was repealed in 891, right?” “…’Twas?” Cabin asked with a blink. “Indeed. There was a monster outbreak out west, near… Snoweave. Small town, easily overrun. Celestia sent a Guard detachment there to take care of it, but since there were more guardsponies than civilians in the town, all being supported without compensation, the economy was devastated. Once she heard, Celestia promptly struck down the Act and paid back Snoweave’s expenses twice over.” “…Nay. Didnae ken that.” But as Cabin looked in the cashbox, at the money she was owed, Amanita noticed her jaw clench. “It was a stupid law, anyway,” said Code. “Quite easy to abuse.” Cabin slammed the cashbox shut and made some vaguely affirmative grunt. Code didn’t seem to notice. “Beds’re upstairs,” Cabin said. “Pegasus can show ye.” A long pause as if she were struggling to speak. “Lemme ken if’n you’uns need somethin’.” “Mmhmm.” After tearing her eyes away from Cabin, Bitterroot led them upstairs. “The rooms are… Well, they’re basic, but they’re not too bad, actually. Warm enough and I didn’t feel any drafts. Haven’t had a chance to try the bed yet, though. Oh, and there’s a bathroom. An actual bathroom, with plumbing and everything.” “Really?” asked Amanita. Back when she was learning under Circe, plumbing was among the things she missed the most. You always took for granted how convenient faucets were until you didn’t have access to them anymore. “Yeah, and it even works better than some metro hotels I’ve stayed at. Oh, and Code, there’s a storage room in the back, that’s where I put our equipment…” Getting settled in, including double-checking their equipment, took a surprisingly long time, after which they all agreed to have dinner. The food they had access to was simple, hardy. Bread, some simple fruits and vegetables like tomato and lettuce, some cheeses, and not much else, although Cabin said broth for soup was available. If they wanted anything heated up, they had to do it themselves on the central stove. Amanita preferred it that way; it let her get her food exactly how she wanted it. It was a good stove, too. As the crew gathered to eat, more ponies started trickling into the Watering Cave, mostly to drink. It wasn’t crowded yet, but it soon would be. Amanita chewed on her stack of foodstuffs pretending to be a sandwich and watched Charcoal, who was holding a lettuce leaf in her magic and examining it for the secrets of the universe. She turned it over, stretched it as much as she could, licked it. For some reason, Amanita couldn’t work up the courage to ask what the hay she was doing. But eventually, Charcoal just stuffed the entire leaf into her mouth and chewed. “Thif if goo’ le’ufe,” she declared. “Mmhmm,” said Amanita. Charcoal swallowed. “I mean it was blown we- grown well. These ponies really know how to use the ley line.” She picked up another leaf and peered at it. “You need to know what to look for, but once you do…” She waved the leaf in Code’s face like a flag and tugged at it. You’d’ve thought she’d found a treasure that would make Daring Do jealous. “In these conditions, the leaves should not be this big. But they are!” Code nudged the leaf away. “I’ll look at them later.” “You should. They’re really neat.” Charcoal looked at the still-growing crowd around them, then threw back her head and yelled, “WHOEVER GREW THE LETTUCE, IT’S REALLY GREAT!” Amanita had never seen an entire bar go silent before. It was quick, maybe for only one or two seconds, but you’d have to be comatose to miss it. For an instant, the whole world turned its attention on Charcoal. She promptly reddened, pulled her hood up as far as it could go before it bumped into her horn, and hunched over her food. “I​shouldn’t​have​said​that,” she mumbled. “Well, you did make her day.” Bitterroot pointed off to one side, at a mare with the smile of a lottery winner. Charcoal briefly glanced in that direction and managed a small grin. “Good,” she whispered. She managed to raise her head a little, but she kept her hood up. Code scraped a tomato seed from her chin with a knife and licked it down. “So, does anypony have any suggestions for our course of action tomorrow?” Amanita took a big bite of a sandwich to block her face. She was just a ritualist, and a newbie at that. Why was she being asked? Just to be included? It felt like- But Amanita’s train of thought was promptly derailed as Charcoal’s steamed on through. “The ley line only soured in Tratonmane recently,” she said. “Otherwise, I’d’ve felt it in the lettuce. How long can lettuce last once it’s been grown? Five, six weeks with magic? So, accounting for growing time, that’s… At least in and around Tramontane- Tratonmane, the line was good up until around seven weeks ago, I think, maximum.” “But we didn’t even see anything wrong with the line until less than a week ago,” said Code. “Yes, but only at that monitoring station,” said Charcoal. “And that’s, what, fifty miles north of here? Something like that. And based on the valley, the line starts there and froze- flows down that way.” She pointed at random walls on opposite sides of her that Amanita assumed were south and north respectively. (How good was her internal compass?) “So if something bad’s going down in Midwich Forest, it might not ever reach Tratonmane. Not unless there’s some weirdo trying to push it this way, and that’s the kind of magic we’d definitely notice.” “…True,” Code said, drumming her hoof on the table, eyes distant. “But why are you even thinking about that in the first place?” Charcoal opened her mouth, closed it again. She glanced at Amanita and said, “The wolves. Tratonmane’s so worried about them that they’d built shelters, but regular wolves don’t behave like that. If the Tratonmane militia keeps attacking them like we saw, trying to get into town for food just isn’t worth it and they’ll go someplace else. Unless a ley line was messing with their heads or something. But they started going mutts- going nuts like fifty years ago, right? Or maybe even more. If the line somehow got…” She wrapped her hooves around each other. “…twisted in Midwich, then got untwisted further down, then that untwist got either retwisted or ununtwisted… Yeah, I know there’s pretty much no chance that could happen, but not a whole lot else makes sense.” “And there isn’t a chance it could be… some smaller changes that we’re only seeing now?” Amanita asked. Just in case. Charcoal shook her head. “Ley lines are nature. And on things this big, nature doesn’t do subtle. It’s like… an avalanche or a tidal wave. It’s big and ponderous and it takes a long time to happen and you know it’s happening when it does.” She stuck her snout in her cup to gulp down some water. “What I really need is some kind of history of the ley line, where… I dunno.” “I actually talked to, uh, Tallbush earlier today,” Bitterroot spoke up. “He said they’ve got records in the library.” “Ooo, they do? Nice,” said Charcoal. “I’ll need to take a look at those.” “I’ll pick them up,” said Bitterroot. “You’re sure?” asked Code. “You don’t need to.” “I like to keep busy,” said Bitterroot. “And it won’t take that long, anyway.” “Go ahead if you want to,” Code said with a shrug. “Just remember: just like Twilight and her friends, you’re not getting paid for this.” “Which means immortality’s just around the corner!” Bitterroot laughed. She grinned at Amanita. “Thanks to my friends.” “Not quite yet, though,” Amanita said, not holding back her own grin. “Also, we might need to go into Midwich Forest,” Charcoal said casually. She chewed her lettuce as everyone else stared at her. Amanita was the first to speak up. “Already? I thought- It sounded like it was a… last-resort thing. You saw the wolves.” “Which makes me more certain that there’s something up in the woods,” said Charcoal, fixing Amanita with an oddly intense stare. “So I say we look at it now, when we’re all still ready to go, rather than in a week when we’re tired and angry and more likely to become wolf chow. It won’t be that… that… intense or involved. We just follow the river, head in, see what twitches when we poke the magic, come back out. In and out before lunch.” “Have you really thought this through?” asked Code. “Or is this an idea that just flung itself from your head?” Charcoal blinked and her ears folded back, but she still said, “I’ve thought about it. And I think it needs to be done. We stepped into this village locking- looking for information on a bad ley line and what’s the first thing we see? Something that’s usually caused by a bad ley line. That’s a sign.” “And a gut feeling, right?” Bitterroot asked. “Those are usually worth following.” Code hmmed and hahed as she nudged a tiny little grape tomato around her plate. Then she took a breath and said, “Let’s sleep on it. What you’re saying makes sense; I just want to be sure it isn’t also hasty.” With so little actual study done on the ley line just yet, there wasn’t much else to talk about. Conversation gave way to eating; the meal’s taste was nothing spectacular, but it sure was filling. By the time she was wiping down her plate, Amanita knew she’d want nothing more than to lie down in a few hours. Charcoal immediately stood up. “I’m going to our room,” she said. “I’ve got some books I need to catch up on.” She swiped everyone’s empty plates, deposited them on the bar where Cabin had said to deposit them, and was up the stairs, ignoring every stare thrown her way. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you, Amanita,” Code said. “In private. Experimental.” Necromantic, in other words. Code had been quite hooves-off while Amanita had crafted Tempus Mortis, probably because she, like Princess Twilight, was the type where one question would turn into two would turn into five until she was asking thesis-level questions. But unlike with Princess Twilight, Equestria wouldn’t patiently wait while Code asked those questions, and she wasn’t one to track down Amanita for a personal chat outside of working hours. So now, when the two of them would be sharing a room for a week (why did that sound dirty?), would be the best time to ask about some of the finer details of necromancy. Amanita nodded. Once the two were upstairs, Amanita double-checked to be sure the hallway was empty and locked the door. Code had pulled up two chairs next to the writing desk, laid out a scroll, and was wetting a quill for writing. Once Amanita sat down, Code said, “I hope you don’t mind discussing necromancy now-” “Of course not,” said Amanita. “It’s my job.” Maybe not for long, if she did her job too well and inadvertently taught a pony how to replace her. But she’d try to worry about that later. (She failed and worried about it now. But she tried.) Code nodded. “Then, I was wondering: why does removing their soul render someone immortal? Liches have been rather mum on the mechanics, naturally.” “It’s not just removing the soul, or else they’d just die,” said Amanita. “It’s… The soul is the metaphysical catalyst for change, so if you remove it properly, you prevent that change from happening.” “Thereby keeping them from dying or aging,” Code muttered. Her quill darted across the scroll, writing nigh-illegible shorthoof. “Basically tricking the universe into thinking that they should stay the same as they were when they first became a lich,” Amanita said, nodding. “Whenever they get damaged, that damage refuses to stick on a metaphysical level, and they fall back to their undamaged state. That’s the point of a phylactery: its static nature helps provide an… anchor for the lack of change. But you need to allow some change, for various reasons. Just not too much and not too little. Too much, and the body starts becoming emaciated while you still can’t die. Too little, and you can’t form new memories. Anterograde amnesia.” “Heh. That’s a contrast. I haven’t seen many things sillier than a lich with memory problems…” Bitterroot had an idea of what the others vanished off to do. But herself? Oh, she had no responsibilities whatsoever. As Amanita slipped upstairs, Bitterroot slipped over to the bar. If she wanted to feel at home in this distant village, she had some sampling to do. Cabin gave her a cursory, obligatory look as she chose a chair at the bar. Bitterroot ignored that and asked, “So, what sorts of drinks do you have?” Cabin just pointed at the menu board behind her. Bitterroot started reading, her disbelief increasing with every name. “Mountain dynamite… Knock-em-stiff… Tanglehoof… Forty-rod… Conversation fluid… Draconequus’s eye-water… Squirrel liquor…” And she wasn’t even halfway down the list. She looked Cabin in the eye and pointed at the menu of absurdities. “Are those supposed to be… real names?” “Brewed right ’ere in Tratonmane.” Cabin’s face was as straight as could be. “Whiskeys.” “All of it? What, does everypony in this valley make moonshine?” “Aye.” Bitterroot blinked. “Seriously?” Cabin shrugged. “Three out o’ four families dae it. Nary a drop o’ outside liquor’s come intae Tratonmane.” “Ever?” “Ever.” “Huh.” Bitterroot was used to the idea, of course. The more isolated a town was, the more self-sufficient they were — by necessity, if nothing else. But more and more, it was like Tratonmane was the pinnacle of that ideal, where the land itself provided nearly everything the ponies needed. Liquor wasn’t the easiest to make in the North, so some towns broke down and brought theirs in from outside. Tratonmane was poo-pooing the very idea. Her eyes roved across the board as Cabin eyed her and she couldn’t stop the names from blending together. Whiskey was appealing right then, but she knew nothing about which whiskey tasted like what. She might as well be guessing. Which… There was an idea. Bitterroot stuck three bits on the counter. “Three shots. Your favorite, your least favorite, and one in the middle, but don’t tell me which is which. I wanna be surprised.” “Risky,” said Cabin. “That’s the idea.” “Yer funeral.” Cabin snatched up the money in her magic, turned around, snatched up three shot glasses in her magic, and walked up and down the line of kegs. Bitterroot looked at the ceiling and whistled as she did so. Somehow, it didn’t sound out of place. “Here,” said Cabin. She plonked the now-full glasses in front of Bitterroot. “Splo, high life, blockade.” Bitterroot picked up a glass. “High life’s the best, followed by blockade, then splo, isn’t it?” “Mebbe,” said Cabin. “Mebbe not.” “Eh, c’mon,” said a stallion who’d sat down on one side of Bitterroot. “She got ’em, firs’ try. Let ’er ken that.” That drew a slow, seemingly reluctant nod from Cabin, and the unnamed stallion grinned at Bitterroot. “Ye’re a bold one, ain’tcha?” “Or stupid. I could be that, too.” And Bitterroot downed the first shot. From the way it burned, it was less a drink and more a barrel of army ants clawing at her esophagus. The sensation went straight to her sinuses and made her want to cough her nostrils out. She took deep breaths, managing to not break down as she waited for the alcohol to leave and the flavor to arrive. “Splo,” she said when neither happened. “Definitely splo.” Her voice was a bit scratchier than usual and simply saying the words finally got her coughing. Cabin’s mouth twitched upward slightly. “Aye.” The stallion next to her chuckled. “Ye’re a-takin’ it better’n I did.” “That’s ’cause ye dinnae drink!” said Cabin. “Sure, but she werenae supposed tae ken that.” The stallion winked at Bitterroot. “Next one…” Bitterroot drank the next shot. And compared to the first one, it was downright pleasant. Partly because it had some semblance of flavor, but that flavor was also pretty solid. It was a bit bitter in parts, but spicy in others, almost lemony. An unusual taste, but a good one. But was it a good whiskey or a great whiskey? Bitterroot smacked her lips. She settled on “good”; she’d order it if it was available, but it wasn’t something she’d go out of her way to look for. “Blockade, right?” she asked Cabin. “…Aye.” Was that some grudging respect in Cabin’s voice? The old stallion next to her was laughing, the new group behind her were chattering, and the filled glass in front of her was calling. Ready for some high life, Bitterroot prepared to snatch up the glass- The door to the Cave banged open; Bitterroot reflexively nudged the glass to one side so she could look in its reflection, realized what she was doing, and glanced over her shoulder out of curiosity. Whippletree was standing in the doorway, his wings at his sides, his hooves spread in aggression, his nostrils flaring as he breathed. It was such a change from his earlier character that it actually gave Bitterroot pause. Rough day? Maybe. He’d had to go into Midwich Forest, although he seemed none the worse for wear. Well, it wasn’t her concern. She took up the glass in her hoof, raised it to her mouth- -and spilled it all over herself as she was clouted from behind. “Ye’re in my spot,” Whippletree growled. “I like this spot.” “Sorry,” Bitterroot said. What was with bars and Special Spots? She didn’t begrudge Whippletree his, far from it. She had her own Spots at bars back in Canterlot. But ponies were attracted to spots at places they frequented for whatever reason and staked out their claim like they were colonizing some distant land. It was everywhere — and, also like distant lands, generally not worth fighting over, not when you could just move over a little and get some new territory. “I’ll move.” She immediately hopped off the chair and made for the next one over. But Whippletree quickly put a hoof on her shoulder and shoved her away from the chair. “Ye really think that’s it?” he snarled at her. “That you’un can jes’ walk away after that?” “Erm… yes?” One of Bitterroot’s ears was drooping. She’d met ponies protective of their Spots before, but coming from Whippletree, it was… very, very strange. “I didn’t know. Look, there’s your spot back, I’m moving.” But when she tried to move away again, Whippletree yanked her right back. “That ain’t civil, no siree. Ye dinnae take a pony’s seat like that.” “Look, Whippletree, what do you want from me?” Bitterroot protested. She was halfway through the sentence when an intrusive idea worked its way into her mind. When she followed it through to the end, that result was… not great, but probably better than what it’d be otherwise, defusing the situation without too much violence. She seized it. “A fight?” Bitterroot had been in plenty of bar fights. Even in Equestria, if you spent as much time in bars as she did, pure large-number statistics ensured you got dragged into a fight at some point. So as she spoke, she prepared. Spread your legs, lower your body. It’d be bracing and lower her center of gravity, making it harder to knock her over. Wings tight. The tension the muscles required meant it got her heart pumping. Tail down. It’d be harder to take a hold of. And look your opponent in the eye. It was a minor intimidation factor that could mean the difference. The two ponies looked at each other. Then Whippletree’s mouth grew wide in such a manner that its corners turned upward. It was probably supposed to be a smile. “Y’ken what?” He spread his hooves and his wings tightened. “Aye.” He swung. And Bitterroot took it full in the jaw. Or appeared to. She’d actually started moving right before Whippletree had hit her, absorbing the worst of the blow. It’d sting a little in the morning, but it wouldn’t ache. A few quick, subtle wing twitches added to her momentum, sending her spinning theatrically, making it look worse than it was. She carefully timed her stumble to take her closer to the door and even managed to fall dramatically right between two tables. Perfect. It was simple. If a stranger strode into town and beat up a guard, that’d be memorable, wouldn’t it? She’d immediately be pegged as a Tough Gal and ponies would be cautious around her. But if that same stranger was beaten up by a guard, that was normal. Of course the guards were tougher than her. She’d been having shots; she was probably a bit drunk. All she needed to do was get beaten up and thrown out, and she’d be considered beneath notice for a lot of things. Ponies would underestimate her, at least to some degree. It was always a tossup as to what that degree was, but it was also always there. And if she couldn’t beat up the guard in the first place (which happened more often than not), at least she could control how badly she got beaten down. That was a lesson she’d learned quickly. As Whippletree approached, Bitterroot wondered: punchable grin or not? It depended on the crowd. …Not. Tratonmane didn’t need another excuse to dislike her. A punchable grin would make it look like she was some smug idiot getting what she deserved. “Whoa, hey,” she said, raising her voice and a hoof, “we don’t need-” Whippletree kicked at her; Bitterroot rolled over before it could fully hit and moaned convincingly. He bit down on her mane and hoisted her onto a table against the protests of the patrons already there. “My spot’s mine,” he growled, “an’ by the Deormont, I ain’t a-lettin’ some hollow-hooved moldwarp like you’un take it.” “Lithen,” Bitterroot gasped, affecting a lisp to sound more broken, “I’m thorry, I’m thure we can work-” “Quiet!” Whippletree roared in her ear. “Whipple, what’s gotten intae ye?” asked the mare whose whiskey Bitterroot’s mane was nearly in. “She was in my spot!” And Whippletree shoved Bitterroot roughly off the table. She tumbled as best she could, towards the door, but her head still banged a chair a bit too hard for comfort. Best to cut it short. Holding one leg across her chest like she was having trouble breathing, Bitterroot raised a hoof. “I’m going!” she wheezed. “I’m going.” Without another word, she staggered for the door, ears back. And because her ears were back, she heard the patter of Whippletree’s hooves a second early. She lunged forward in time to absorb the worst of the buck, but still lost control and rolled out of the Watering Cave in ways she didn’t want to. Nothing broke, but she wound up face first in the frigid powder of outside snow. Bitterroot had thought Midwich in the day was dark. At night, they didn’t even have the glow of sunlight bouncing off the valley walls and darkness had fallen like a blanket on top of another blanket. The wind was channeled to whistle up and down through Tratonmane, sounding more like ghosts than anything Bitterroot had heard before. Even the lamps seemed withdrawn in the light they gave. Her head was spinning when she stood up and the oppressive black made it worse. Bitterroot stood up and tried to blink away the spots from her vision. It didn’t work; the world was bendable before her as the ground slowly waved below. Something was warm on the inside of her mouth. When she probed it with her tongue, she tasted copper. (Why did everyone agree that blood tasted coppery?) Must’ve bitten the inside of her cheek. Ah, well. Still not as bad as the first time she’d faked a beatdown. That one was practically the real thing. She took a few steps and managed to stay upright. Promising. Another few, turn. Still up. Good. She was able to walk in a small circle to keep blood flowing, and although she wavered dangerously, she didn’t fall. She kept one ear angled towards the Cave; the sounds from inside were angry ones, shouty, and not all from Whippletree. Definitely not something she wanted to be a part of. At first she thought the high-pitched ringing she heard was tinnitus, but by the time she’d completed four laps, she realized it was rapid, constant echolocation, closer than she’d heard it before. Another lap, then she squinted into the darkness. “Heh. Was a-wond’rin’ when ye’d notice.” It was easy once she had the sound of a voice to track. Some of the gloom resolved into the silhouette of a pony sitting just beyond the edge of the lamplight. Beyond her quite ordinary shape, all Bitterroot could make out was that only one of her eyes was glinting. “Eh. It’s dark and I got beat up,” Bitterroot said with a shrug. She ran a tongue across her teeth; she hadn’t thought any got knocked out, but it didn’t hurt to check. Everything was there and tight. “And that’s about the extent of my excuses.” “I’ve heard o’ worser ’uns.” And she stepped into the light. The chiropterus before Bitterroot was an equine sword: hard and narrow. Even her lips were thin and the eye that wasn’t patched had the dull but well-used smoothness of a whetstone. But not her wings; even folded, Bitterroot could see that her wings were wide and supple. Her coat was unpolished gray and her mane was messy and unkempt enough to look messy and unkempt when only a few inches were poking out of her hood. She had a few scars on her face, visible only by the way they were slightly darker than the rest of her coat. They were even harder to pick out from the general weathering of age; the mare must’ve been over 65. Although, standing out from the rest of her was- “You’ve got green on you,” Bitterroot said, pointing. “Hmm?” The mare looked down and quickly spotted the splotch of green on her chest. “Ach, I’ve been a-paintin’.” She squinted at Bitterroot. “Got banged up plumb good, did ye, lowlander?” “Eh, I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse.” Of course she had. She’d died twice, after all. (Buuuuut it probably wasn’t a good idea to mention that just yet.) The mare snorted. “So which shagnasty threw the hissy? Pine Bark? Bet ’twas ’er. She cannae keep…” Hissy. Funny how some parts of language changed so much while others changed so little. “Whippletree,” Bitterroot said. “I took his spot.” She was rolling one of her legs when she realized the silence had stretched on for too long. The mare was staring at her as if she’d made some grievous faux pas. “No, ye didnae,” the mare said. “Yes, I did.” “Mebbe it were somepony else. But it ain’t Whippletree,” growled the mare. “He dinnae dae that. I ken yer meant tae treat yer in-laws like poison, but he’s the nicest cusséd pony ye’ll e’er meet. He’ll hurt himself afore he hurts aryone else.” And a few hours ago, Bitterroot probably would’ve agreed. But eh. Maybe he was just having an off night. So she shrugged. “I’m Bitterroot, by the way,” she said as a means of changing the subject. The mare’s eye glinted, but if she noticed the diversion, she must’ve been glad for it. “Arrastra,” she said. “And before you say anything, I’m technically not with the Crown. One of the ritualists is a friend, so I’m tagging along.” Maybe she could hone that into a reflex, be able to just say it without thinking about it. “So I’m a-guessin’ ye cannae tell me why this be the problem that finally brought Canterlot tae interfere out ’ere?” “Sorry, no. I just heard that the ley line could affect plants and animals in the region. I never even heard of Tratonmane a few days ago.” Arrastra snorted and rolled her eyes. “O’ course,” she muttered. “Cent’ries wi’out ary…” Another snort. “Well, best o’ luck tae you’uns, at ary rate, even if’n ye ferget about all of’ us the second it’s done. Better’n nothin’.” Her voice was halfway between sincere and a petulant foal being forced to apologize. Without another word, Arrastra nodded to Bitterroot and strode off into the night, chirping to find her way. A surprisingly reasonable attitude, given some of the looks Bitterroot had seen. The conversation had distracted her enough for the worst of her aches to die down, so she risked poking her head back into the Cave. Off near the bar, where she’d first run into Whippletree, a herd of ponies had assembled. There was shouting. A lot of shouting. It was hard to tell what anyone was saying, as a matter of fact. But it was a distraction. She slipped in, edged along the walls, and started up the stairs without anyone caring about her enough to stop her. One of the steps creaked and she reflexively winced, but she was the only one close enough to hear it. The sound tapered off on the second floor, reaching a point where her next-door neighbors were sometimes louder. Amanita and Code were deep in conversation about something — probably necromancy, from the way the door had been locked and how often Bitterroot heard “death” — and Charcoal had claimed one of the beds for reading, although she kept an ear turned in Amanita’s and Code’s direction. Bitterroot rolled her shoulders. Maybe it was the fight, maybe it was the darkness, but bed was sounding pretty good, even if she didn’t sleep just yet. She’d wake up sore, but that’d soon pass. The rest of tomorrow… She’d see.