//------------------------------// // Prologue: Naked as a Jailbird // Story: Birds of a Feather // by Kishin //------------------------------// Trottingham Magistrate Dungeon Dark. And a near-arctic chill. Those are the two things out of four that numbs and degenerates the mind and wasting soul of all that are stayed in the icy maw of the dungeon. One's eyes could see the bare outline of columns, cobblestone floors, and rows upon rows of morbidly rusting iron bars, an effrontery of containment, that constituted as the inside walls of the prison, where three thousand of Trottingham's sediment of crime and filth come to deposit. Some of the grille of the cell doors have rusted so abundantly that solid bars of ice replace a few rows of the iron cell bars that have eroded away from the salty, cold sea wind with decrepit rust. It was almost as if the dungeon was alive, attempting to keep them all trapped with its own conscious effort. Oh and the third reason? The unbearable stench. The type of stink that travels in a current and seems to radiate waves of heat generated by its own detestable matter. But such things were simply mundane. Spend time in a sewer for long enough, and the body begins to adapt to the repulsive odor. However, the fourth reason had not applied today. Silence. Isolation's cruel enforcer, and the catalyst of slowly creeping insanity. The sort created by hearing solely the aches, moans, and howls of both the wind and cellmates, and one's own heartbeat resounding through one's body every conscious second. Even during the occasional periods of dead muteness, when you feel alone, there is always one nuance that curses one's ears and keeps you awake at night so you never have a moment alone to yourself ever again: your own heart. There is no greater irony than the fact that the organ that you can't live without causes, in time, so much misery... But there wasn't much silence today. The prison had become resonant with the thousands of jeers and mocking cries that usually occur during the only source of entertainment for the prisoners: The Chair. A solitary Gryphon prisoner, a black cloth bag draped over his head, was dragged out of his dark enclosure and rushed by every cell on the block by a pair of Equestria's finest: Royal Guards. Contrary to their namesake, they acted not only as royal bodyguards, but as common law enforcement, military bodies, and, in this case, prison guards. In front of the Guard pair was a Guard Mare, leading the group through the dark. Viewing through the cloth, the gryphon could see nothing but their basic silhouettes, their features blackened by the artificial night created by the dungeon ceiling and many floors above. A feeling fleeted into his mind of being trapped below so much stone, metal, and wood as his eyes lifted to examine the ceiling and the skyline he instinctively expected: Desperation. Hopelessness. And the only release? The Chair, which exists behind the Door on every cell block. No prisoner ever knows what might become of them when they eventually pass (and everyone of them will) through the Door. There are only two reasons to release a prisoner from the dungeons as far as you could gather: release into society after payment for their crimes, or execution. And the Trottingham Magistrate Dungeon is infamous for holding the lowest of the low, the dirt beneath the feet and hooves of the criminal Underworld that would simply stain the reputations of other prisons for even allowing them a single day of imprisonment. One doesn't enter one of Trottingham's prisons for a light charge. And it's pretty hard for court judges to find a reason to release one of Trottingham's "veterans" when the least offensive charge available for its prisoners to be able to "room" in one of its cells is multiple-count murder. Hence, the only exception that the majority of Trottingham's dungeon (besides the staff) will be able to be released is when their cold, lifeless corpses are sent to the rapids conveniently near the location of the dungeon. And what does the Chair do? It simply begins the journey for prisoners to leave the prison. Returning to the scene, the Guard Mare leading the prisoner and her two compatriots unlocked the Door and burst through briskly into a hallway, which led to a room containing the Point of No Return: The Chair. The gryphon is brusquely pushed into the bare, simple wood paneling that the Chair supplied, and the Royal Guard pair fastened his claws to the restraining clamps on the arm-rests integrated into the Chair itself. The Guard Mare then grabbed the rough-fabric bag over his head with her chops, and tore it off. The gryphon winced at the sudden introduction of the bright light from the room, and attempted to shield his eyes with his own restrained claws. There he saw his captors, and another mysterious pony tinkling with a machine behind the Chair. A slowly increasing tone of buzzing filled the air and the smell of ozone and active electricity pierced his senses. The Guard Mare began, "Prisoner Zero-Eight-Four-Nine. Under Royal Decree, you have been sentenced for your crimes. Before we continue, will there be any last requests?" The gryphon vaguely answered, "Carry on." There was nothing else to say really. He ran through simulations of this event thousands of times in his imagination, step-by-step, contemplating whether his last moments in the prison itself would really be worth the effort of formulating a cooly-replied, yet rebellious comeback. The concept of his rebelliousness led to memories of freedom as a young cub. And memories of how he got where he was today. Simple enough, depression took hold of him in his moments alone in his cell, so he decided not to dwell on it until his response was truly necessary. He closed his eyes, waiting for the practice to be over with. The unicorn technician preparing the machinery behind the Chair muttered, "Unbelievable that you ended up in a place like this. You are the youngest I have ever done in my bloody career in this stinking heap." "Life is full of surprises," The gryphon gulped, still closing his eyes. The buzz amplified. "Isn't it? Well, I'm guessing you won't have to worry about this prison anymore," whispered the technician. The pony places something metallic and ice-cold on top of his noggin. A bowl-like prop. "Don't worry, lad. I heard it's painless. Not like the old days where every inch of your scalp was bloodied." The gryphon waited with a sort of nervous patience not seen often in the youth of Trottingham. He began to whisper his rites. The technician solemnly announced, "The Chair is ready." "Good, execute the act," the Guard Mare pronounced, with an enthusiastic emphasis on "execute". The gryphon heard the pull of a lever behind him, and was immediately surrounded by a torrent of buzzing, similar to what he would hear if he had surrounded himself in a maelstrom of an electric storm, and he found his body, along with the Chair he was restrained too, soon shaking to the unnatural vibrations that the machine provided. The technician saw the gryphon's beak lower down, his neck going limp, as the lights flicker faintly from the sudden vacuum of power that the Chair had pulled from the prison's electric supply. The technician complained, bucking the machinery near him lightly a few times, "Bloody machine causing a blackout every time we use it. Oh well, does the job just fine." He magically lifted a electric-powered mane-cutter and sheared the dirty, greasy mass of feathers and hair from the sides and back of the gryphon's head. The technician, who also worked part-time as a barber in the dungeon, popped the bowl off from the the prisoner's chilled skull. "Thanks for bowing your head for me and keeping still, lad. Makes giving mane-cuts a less of a hassle." The gryphon mentioned, "Not a problem. But if you don't mind getting some of my beard..." "I have a Mark for manes only, son. Sorry, but want the lower half of your face to be clean sliced off?" The gryphon quickly redacted, "No, it's fine. Really!" "Then let me do my bloody job, lad!" The next 5 minutes were spent on shortening the top remaining patch of hair on the gryphon's head, with the barber styling the gryphon's mane to be short on the sides and back, but not cropping the top and bangs as closely. He left them to naturally spike out, with the longest strands in the front of his head. The barber unclasped the gryphon from the Chair and dusted the cut strands of feathers from his coat. "Now best be off, lad. Before you get into more trouble." The gryphon nodded solemnly, "Agreed." The gryphon was guided out of the room, the Guard Mare following by his side with the Guards in tow, past several security checkpoints and into the main atrium of the dungeon's ground-level floor. As the gryphon inspected his grime-covered coat and wondered how long it was since he preened himself, the Guard Mare gestured to the two Guards that they weren't needed any longer, and returned to the former prisoner. "You're Leif, right? Celestia help me if I got the wrong gryphon." "Yes, ma'am." "You're getting an early reprieve. Show me some identification," The Guard Mare boomed. Leif twisted his right forearm to reveal a rather intricate tattoo running down along from his shoulder to his talons of a mass of arrows all originating from a central "cross" of outward arrows representing the Four Winds, the major holy symbol of the Gryphon Empire. "Alright, the tat's good." The Guard Mare removed her helmet, and Leif found himself face-to-face with an old acquaintance. "Hey there, Leif. It's me. Glimmer Rain." Leif carefully disguised his own surprise, and pretended he didn't know her. He hadn't expected....her to be here. She hadn't changed a bit. Same old white, artificial coat, same old Earth mare, and same old personality. "You don't remember me? Well, I'll have plenty of opportunities to refresh your memory as I'm going to be your parole officer for...well, let's not put a date on that," The mare admitted. "The Princess didn't say for how long exactly, so no need to give you false hope or anything. Any questions?" Leif gave Glimmer Rain a hard stare, not one of intense, fiery hatred, but devoid of emotion. An empty look. Something she saw in ponies too tired and weathered of the crashing tides of Life. Leif inquired with a dry, shaky voice, "Can you tell me why I was imprisoned for attempting to help you, concerning my work with the Fenris Organization? I repressed every evil the Fenris supplied. Tied up loose ends, so to speak. What we did in the past wasn't right. It wasn't moral. And it never corresponded to our so-called warrior customs. I hoped to redeem myself if I-" "Celestia thought that it would be wise to seclude, you, the de-facto leader of the more rebellious branch of the friggin Gryphon Mafia...in prison, just in case he would have any contacts outside of the organization. Sorry about it. Really, I am. You came to us, for Luna's sake. And we treated you like-" "No need. Caution is the best way to treat things," Leif quietly admitted. "Repentance doesn't come easily." He found his answer. An awkward silence pounced on the pair's conversation. "Look, mate, if you need to talk about anything, give me a call. You know what telephones are, right?" Glimmer Rain asked. "You're around my age, aren't you? Things can be pretty hard to handle. You aren't responsible for any of the things the Fenris did in the past. You were bloody terrified when I first met you-" "Please. Just...give me some time to think," Leif replied. He began to walk out of the atrium, where he viewed from the aesthetically designed clear panes that it was indeed raining heavily outside. "Do you remember the layout?" No answer. Glimmer quickly turned and shouted, "Look, I said I was sorry! I screwed up, OK? I didn't know this would happen to you! You took my advise to give yourself up, and I indirectly landed you in Equestria's most horrid dungeon!" "'A bird of prey never forgets its path; lest the Feint of the Current fools him of Thy true directions,'" Leif recited from memory. He was a religious old bird, through and through, even if he didn't fulfill the "old" part of the requirement. When he had no words to say, he let his Scriptures speak for him. They were all he had... "I'll be right back", he finally uttered. He owed it to Glimmer to give her a definite answer for every single question. They've known each other since they were foals. It wasn't her fault. Things just didn't turn out how she wanted them to. Leif pushed himself out of the doorway of the Magistrate building, streams of captured moisture from the roofing dripping to the ground, and on his coat as he trotted out into the open. Captives of filthy dungeons or prisons normally felt freedom and the sweet scent of fresh air coursing through their nostrils. They proceeded to release themselves out on the range, blowing freely without care along with the wind, like autumn leaves during a peaceful fall evening. But as for Leif? He was more akin to a diminutive farm animal, whose whole entire life was only experienced through the metallic womb of a cage, and is utterly confused when its enclosure is opened, with a view of the brave new world displayed across the horizon. Their whole life was in a cage. They know nothing beyond it. They struggle to define their own terms of "liberty" or "freedom" as they hesitate to pass the open doorway to larger pastures to graze. As he stood in the rain, a sole individual at the entrance of the Magistrate building, Leif felt naked. He'd been stripped of his old life, tore apart his new one for the sake of righteousness and morality, was betrayed by his friends, and now what? Where was the so-called "liberty" that one experienced? He had nothing. He would have to start from scratch. Leif couldn't help but feel naked (though he was technically naked already) and an uncomfortable absence of all feeling. Just emptiness. He felt more conviction in considering a cell he'd only known for a month as a home, than the city he himself had grown up in. Trottingham. A place where one never has friends, only acquainted strangers. Leif heard a slow trod of hooves behind him, heavily laden with the chinking of metallic friction from armor. He sighed, "Glimmer..." The Earth mare approaching him apprehensively replied, the white powder usually applied to the coat of ceremonial guard in Celestia's royal protectors coarsing down her body into the puddles, revealing her orange coat and stark blue mane, "Yeah, mate?" Leif could literally feel the tension that he had caused earlier. He didn't want that. The past was the past. And you can't change what had already been done. "Let's get flat-arse drunk." Glimmer Rain's distressed downtrodden expression shifted to its normal merriment. The type of behavior that reminded Leif of their foalhood together. The golden years. When everything used to be simple. "Now you're talking! Drinks on me, Leif!" Glimmer excitedly giggled. She raced down the pathway in the rain, but slowed as she realized that she was minus one ex-convict Gryphon. "You coming with, or what?" Leif, his black, raven-blue pattern of feathers reflecting the faint, cloud-burdened moonlight, had an abrupt thought enter his mind. Well, here's to a new beginning. That's all you can ask for nowadays. "Right behind you, Glimmer," Leif cried out, and rushed to take Trottingham by the throat.