“Well, yeah,” said Crack Shot. “We’ve been away for like weeks now.”
Multiple eyes, of multiple shapes and a single color, stared down at him from the trees. He met them with a shrug.
“I mean it sounded spooky and all if that’s what you were goin’ for; I can’t knock the delivery. ‘Oooh!’”—and it was here that he made air quotes with his wings—“‘Let’s just say a long way from home!’”
The mare’s smile climbed on one side. “Ya know, for a fellow with wings, yer pretty unflappable, aren’t you?”
“I don’t believe, in this case, that a ‘long way’ is a metric of meters, or miles, or anything like that,” whispered Check.
“Aye, there’s no slipping one past ya, is there?” said the mare, staring at and, it felt, through him. “You three have the special honor of visiting a realm that yer kind has not seen in centuries. I imagine this sort of experience must be unfamiliar territory.” She winked. “So to speak.”
She then narrowed her eyes at Storm; in this new setting they seemed to glow with a wan yellow light. He held his ground, fighting an ancient urge to start stamping a hoof in warning.
“…Not for you though, eh?” she said. “This isn’t yer first time taking a step outta yer little slice of reality, is it?”
“What would you know about that?” he asked, his voice low.
“Oh, my kind has got its ways of telling. The smell of it clings to you. Oh, and ya can relax, by the way; I ain’t gonna bite ya.” She flashed a toothy smile. “If I were, I’d have gone with a sharper set of teeth.”
“You’ll have to pardon me,” said Storm, in a manner that was not in the least apologetic, “but we had a bit of trouble with your kind back home. An attempted invasion, if that rings any bells.”
The mare canted her head to the side and may have raised an eyebrow in the darkness of her countenance. “Noo… I can’t say that it does. And my kind, ya say—just what kind is that? What do you think us to be?”
“Changelings.” He dropped the word like a gavel; it was an allegation, an accusation, a condemnation. He flared his wings, slashing them into the air with a sound like the whisper of a blade, sending a spray of water from his dampened feathers into the air. He lowered his stance and tensed his muscles in preparation for whatever would come next.
“Oh, aye, that’s us!” The mare stomped the ground in approval. “Ya hit the nail right on the head, didn’t you!”
Storm hadn’t prepared for that. His wings sagged.
“But,” she continued, “that’s a wee bit general in the nomenclature, I might say. We might as well call you and yer muckers ungulates.”
“Hey!” shouted Crack Shot. “You take that back!”
Check leaned towards Crack Shot and whispered, “We are ungulates. That is to say, ‘hooved.’”
Crack Shot frowned and whispered back, “And how do our gullets play into it?”
Storm pressed on. “So we’re to believe there’s more than one type of changeling.”
“Oh yeah, yeah, in all shapes and sizes—though perhaps that’s not saying much. But we’re not unused to that title and others as well. We’ve accumulated many. Changelings, shape-shifters, fae, faerie folk—”
“Don’t forget trouble!” cheered somebody above.
“Heh, aye, that as well and worse. But again, it’s all very general.”
“Then how shall we refer to you?” asked Check.
“Well, you’ll see all different spellings for it if anybody had a mind to write it down, but I suppose such is fitting for us. So if you want a name that seems to have stuck in spite of all of its varied incarnations, you may call us pookas.” Though the guardsponies showed no recognition, the mare’s smile betrayed no offense. “Now, as for how ye can refer to me... well to be truthful, names tend to roll off of us like water from a duck’s back, speaking from experience, but how about Síofra?”
There came a noise from the trees that sounded to Storm an awful lot like snickering. It quieted when he glanced upwards, squirrels and sparrows blinking innocently at him.
“Very well then, Síofra it is,” said Check, and again there was the snickering from overhead. “And as you’ve shared your name, though transient or spurious it may be, I feel that I owe you the same. My name is Check Mate.”
“And I’m Crack Shot.” Crack Shot waved a hoof at Síofra and the assemblage above.
Storm sighed. His friends really could have been more nonplussed about all of this. “…Storm Stunner,” he capitulated.
“A pleasure to put names to the faces,” said Síofra.
“Now then,” continued Check, “would you be willing to entertain another query?”
“My, yer proper, aren’t you? Go on, shoot.”
“Why have you brought us here?”
Síofra’s smile uncurled and flattened into a thoughtful look. “Ah… I suppose you have yer pick of answers to that one, don’t you?”
“Why don’t we run down the list?” asked Storm.
Síofra nodded. “Well, near the top of it would be hospitality. Yer friend there was kind enough to invite me into yer camp and share a bite.” She turned towards Crack Shot and her grin returned. “Crack Shot, eh? Yeah, you certainly seem craic to me.”
It sounded like a compliment, so Crack Shot returned the smile and said, “Thanks!”
“Aye. Who’d I be to leave you and yer friends out in the cold with the heavens lashing, after being treated to a breakfast and a dinner?”
Storm began tapping a steel-shod hoof against the strange loam beneath him. “And you’d prefer eating blackberries over, say, another’s love?” he asked.
There followed silence, heralded by a snort from Crack Shot. It was a thick silence and Storm’s words hung in it like fruit in a gelatin, with all of their unintended implication, suggestion, and innuendo. In the trees some of the larger members of the menagerie covered with wings and paws the ears of the smaller ones. Storm blushed. Síofra coughed.
“Er, blackberries are a favorite among us, aye, though that’s a bold question to be asking in public, wouldn’t ya say?” Mercifully, she carried on. “But setting matters of dietary preference aside, ya might be surprised to know that we’ve got some questions about you three.”
“Oh?” said Storm.
“Aye. Y’see, the three of you are something of a curiosity to us.”
Síofra moved forward and began stalking around the guardsponies, examining them. They each watched her closely from the corners of their vision.
“It’s rare that we get ponies coming our way. Incredibly rare. A few years back there was a fellow that’d camp south of the mountains ye three came over, but nobody—nopony, I’d suppose ye’d say—ever comes any farther than that. Keeping that in mind, I must say it came as a real surprise when you boys didn’t turn back the other way when ye saw the storm brewing ahead of you. It was like there was somewhere ye really needed to be.”
“Well, we are on a journey, I won’t deny that,” said Storm, leaning away slightly as Síofra came around beside him. “I wouldn’t think that a few travelers heading north would be so strange.”
A male voice came from above: “They would be when they’re wearing decorative plate armor, innit!”
“Man, everypony keeps bringing that up,” whispered Crack Shot.
The owner of the voice, an eagle or something similar at the moment, leapt from his perch into an easy glide and descended in an arcing path around the trunk of an enormous black tree. He disappeared behind it near its base and stepped back into view a moment later in the shape of a pegasus stallion. Storm wondered how many times the pooka had to practice that one in front of the mirror before getting it right.
“It’s all very exciting!” the pooka continued as he stepped beside Síofra. “Three champions—a very auspicious number I might add—venturing forth from foreign lands into our part of the world in search of conquest and plunder! And right around Samhain, no less, a very portentous timing indeed!”
The guardsponies shared a look. Crack Shot voiced that which they were all thinking, which was, “Uh?”
“Oh yes, yes,” the pooka went on. “And what we hear from, heh, Síofra here is that the three of ye got a map that yer following?”
For a fraction of moment, Check froze. Of course as he was already stationary, it was easy enough to accomplish. All that it required was a cessation of breath, a brief skip of the heart, and the realization that a terrible misunderstanding had taken place. He said, “…Yes, that is true.”
“May we see it?” asked Síofra in a voice as honeyed as her eyes.
Check said nothing and his eyes did not leave Síofra’s as a pocket of his saddlebags opened, and the map levitated towards her. The pooka beside her blew a raspberry as it floated near.
“Pah, would ya look at that? It’s not even burned around the edges or anything like a proper adventurer’s map. Ye could’ve at least given it few rips or some water damage for verisimilitude.”
“Would ya settle for a few stains of ink?” asked Síofra as she studied it. “Like the circle ringing our little valley on the other side of existence? Ya know, Storm Stunner, it was a funny thing earlier, you mentioning invasions.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Crack Shot took a step forward, his eyes widening. “We’re not invading anything!” He leaned towards Check. “Right?”
“No,” said Check, “we would have been told if we were, I am certain. You must have been observing us rather adroitly, Síofra.”
“We try to keep an eye on our borders, a policy I’m sure ye understand keenly. But it’s also another reason that ye’ve been allowed knowledge of this place, rather than be left mucking about in the rain. To be honest, military accoutrements and damning maps aside, ye three just don’t carry yerselves like the scouting party of an invasion force. Ye don’t seem dour enough, like yer not taking the whole thing seriously.”
Storm didn’t know whether or not to take that as an insult, but that debate was pressed to the back of his mind by the weight of a bigger question. “I find it a surprise that our demeanor alone would convince you to bring us here,” he said. “Like you mentioned, we’re military: members of the Equestrian Royal Guard. Yet, you’ve allowed us to come to a place that you just said earlier nopony has visited in hundreds of years. So that makes me wonder…”
“Aye?”
“Are we allowed to leave?”
Síofra said nothing. The pooka beside her shifted his gaze away and began whistling.
“Well, are we?!”
“Oy! Hold yer hor—er, yerself. I’m trying to think of how to delicately word it.”
Storm’s eyes narrowed. “So we’re prisoners then.”
“Maybe it’d be better to think of yerselves as guests, for an as of yet undecided period of time. As I said, we’re all very curious about you three, and we’d like to learn a few things prior to sending ye off.” She turned towards the pooka beside her. “Mind taking these three off to put their heads down? They’ve had a long day.”
The pooka nodded and said, “Oh yeah, no problem at all”—he opened his eyes as wide as he could, lifted his head, and then slammed an eyelid closed like a shutter, tilting toward her as he did so—“Síofra.”
He had turned the act of winking into a full-body exercise. If there was any element of conspiracy to it, it would have been the whistleblowing at the end. He began walking off and beckoned with a wing for the guardsponies to follow. “Come on, I’ll give ye the grand tour, or at least that bit of it that’s on the way to where we’re headed.”
“Engh, fine,” grumbled Storm.
He started after the pooka. He stopped. Something didn’t feel right. He rolled his withers and felt the camping bag’s contents shift, much looser than they had been before he had arrived at this odd place.
“Hold on a minute.” He unstrapped the bag and set it down. As he prepared to sort through it, Síofra’s voice interrupted him.
“If yer wondering what’s missing, it’d be that large cooking pot and any other iron implements ye had with you. It wouldn’t have made it past the glamour that carried ye here.”
Storm grimaced and took a deep breath. He looked up from the bag and, as calmly as he could, said, “Those items were not mine to lose. I would very much prefer to not leave them outside to rust. If you’re worried about us using them as weapons—a ladle as a sword, a lid as a shield, or something equally ridiculous—I’ll tell you right now that we could do a whole lot worse with our shoes.”
Síofra stared at him, her eyes casting a thin golden light, for a long, uncomfortable moment. “…Ye’d be surprised,” she said at last. “Now go and get dried off, get rested, make yerselves comfortable. There’ll be plenty of time for talk later.”
Before Storm could demand an explanation, she reared into the air, extending her forelegs outwards. They once more became wings, feathers replaced fur, and she returned to the form of a kite as easily as she had left it.
“Slán go foill, boys,” she said, before taking flight and leaving Storm with the ambiguity of her words and the worry for his things. The pookas gathered in the trees above flew or scampered away as well, leaving the guardsponies alone with their escort.
“That means ‘so long,’ by the way,” the escort said, as he led them away from the glade.
“Yeah, we figured,” said Crack Shot. “So what should we call you, dude?”
The pooka shrugged. “Ya can if ye’d like.”
“What? Oh. Nonono.” Crack Shot shook his head. “I mean, like, is there a name we can call you?”
The pooka hummed. “Names have never been something that I’ve ever really given a whole lot of thought to, though I suppose it could be craic.”
Crack Shot shook his head again. “Nah, dude, that one’s taken.”
“…Perhaps I could get you a list of common phrases,” the pooka said to himself. “But hm, a name, a name… gosh, what a concept! Well, I suppose I could always change it later. Why don’t ye call me Dorcha?”
From the glade, Dorcha led the guardsponies into a forest the likes of which Storm had never experienced. This alone was not remarkable, because outside of the one he and the others had stayed in the previous night most forests fit this category. But, he had seen pictures, and he was sure that none of them had looked like this.
Above, through a canopy of white and black filigree, the flittering stars continued to whirl and weave in the tempest of the sky’s many colors. The hues mixed and smeared and ran together like a painting reinventing itself. If there were clouds, their forms were lost to the maelstrom.
Unlike the ancient trees of the pine forest which had stood like columns, venerable and uniform, those found here showed their age differently. They were knotted and wizened, with great, black, gnarled boughs, and roots that rolled and rose in knolls and arches. Around them hovered strange phantom lights, like the ghosts of lanterns.
And once more, there were the mushrooms. Here, their vividness was redoubled; they shimmered with a phosphorescence that lit the forest floor beneath them in blue, and the mists above them in red.
Of course Storm, irritated about what he considered no more than a cordial act of abduction and mistreatment of personal property, wasn’t about to let any of this surreal beauty impress him. It was probably all poisonous, like one of those colorful species of frogs. A forest wasn’t supposed to glow like this. It was too showy, and it had to be bad for your eyes. From nearby, he could hear the chitters and chirps of what he would have thought to be mere wildlife if he didn’t know better.
“Hey, Dorcha,” said Crack Shot. This was met with no response. “Uh, Dorcha, dude? Anypony home?” He tapped the pooka on the side with a wing, which was met with a jolt.
“Oh! Right! Dorcha! That’s me, isn’t it? Though… to be honest, I’m not really feeling like a Dorcha at the moment. How about Ciar? That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Uh, sure I guess. Anyways, I was wondering if I could ask you something.”
“By all means, ask away,” said, apparently, Ciar.
“Like, what are you guys? Besides changelings or pookas or whatever, I mean. Are you a type of pony? A type of squirrel or bird? A lizard?”
“Ahh…” Ciar tilted his head left and right in thought, weighing the question as he led the guardsponies down a winding path through the enchanted wood. “That’s about right, aye.”
“That wasn’t an aye or no question, dude. I mean, is there a shape you guys default to at the end of the day?” Crack Shot looked up into the churning mass of sky. “Assumin’ there is an end of the day here.”
“Well, I suppose it all depends on what shape seems most appealing at the time. But to answer your question: no. Setting favorites aside, a pooka’s natural form is whatever they’re using at the moment.”
“Really? That seems like it’d get complicated. How about when you’re born? Like where do you guys come from then?”
“Heh, I’ll assume you’ve already learned about the birds and the bees by now, eh?”
“Well, yeah. Wait—you guys don’t take that literally, do you?”
“Ha! No, not that I’ve heard of at least, but it’s not something to really go around asking, innit?”
“Also, how do you keep track of who’s who? It’s gotta be tough havin’ to deal with the whole identical color scheme thing.”
Ciar looked from Crack Shot, to Storm, then back to Crack Shot. “Do tell,” he said.
Crack Shot waved this off with a hoof. “Ah, that’s just the uniform.”
“Is it now?”
“Yep. Like, my natural color is actually yellow, Check over there is really sort of a light pink, and Storm is kind of a, uh… a dirt brown.”
“Hey!”
“Relax, dude, there’s nothing wrong with dirt. Plants grow out of it.” Crack Shot returned his attention to Ciar. “Anyways, that’s not my point. Like, even with guys like us, you can figure out who you’re talkin’ to pretty quickly by the way they smile or how they carry themselves. What do you do when the mouth that’s smilin’ can change shapes on you?”
“It’s really no problem at all; there are mannerisms ye can pick up on and they tend to cross over. The way a fellow wags their tail is often quite similar to the way that they rattle it.”
“And the name thing? How do you get somepony’s attention without gettin’ everypony else’s?”
Ciar pointed towards a clearing where a group of three wolfhounds was gathered. “Oy!” he shouted. “How’re things, ya bogger?!”
One of them turned, grinned with a pair of sharp white teeth, and yelled back, “Deadly! Yerself?!”
“Sound!” replied Ciar. He smirked at Crack Shot. “See? No problem at all.”
“I dunno,” said Crack Shot. “He could’ve just been speakin’ for the group.”
In response to this Ciar turned back towards the wolfhounds and shouted, “And how ‘bout you?!”
Another of the three responded, “Fine, thanks!”
After a few seconds the third barked, “And yer just going to forget about me, then?!”
“See?” said Ciar. “What’s in a name?”
“I guess,” said Crack Shot. “Who’d wanna get called ‘you’ all of the time, though?”
Ciar pursed his lips and hummed thoughtfully.
Crack Shot shook his head. “Nope. That ain’t happenin’. And no more than one name change a day.”
The four of them crossed a fallen tree over a stream of sparkling, turquoise water; it was like a ribbon sequined with sapphire. Storm scowled at it. Since when was a stream ever that blue? Again, probably poisonous.
“If I may, erm, Ciar,” said Check, “I also have a question I would like to ask.”
“Aye, go ahead.”
“It is related to the magic that brought us here. The glamour as it was called. Síofra said that it prevented the conveyance of iron, yet the three of us seem to be quite healthy.”
Ciar gave Check a sidelong glance. “Huh. I wouldn’t have thought that to be a point of complaint.”
“Oh, it isn’t, not compared to the alternative. I would think that if all iron were prevented passage, my friends and I would each be suffering a fatal case of anemia. I was wondering how the distinction was drawn between our cookware and our hemoglobin. Does it relate to how the iron is bound in the blood?”
“Ah, that’s an easy explanation!”
“Oh?”
“Aye!” Ciar nodded sagely. “You’re overthinking it. It’s glamour.”
Check’s expression went flat. “Ah. Right. Of course. How silly of me.”
“Not a problem, though I don’t know why ye’d bother with something as dubious as scientific theorizing when ye’ve got something as reliable as good old superstition. Can science explain a shooting star or the colors of a rainbow?”
“Easily.”
“Pah, well then probably not the pot of gold at the end of one. Or yer winged friends.” Ciar gave an experimental flapping of his wings, only to stay firmly planted to the ground. “If they’re able to get airborne with that wing-to-body ratio, then a special kind of glamour’s got to be involved and no mistake.”
“Hear that, dude?” said Crack Shot as he nudged Storm. “We’re glamorous.”
Storm frowned as he extended and examined a wing. What did Ciar know? It wasn’t your wingspan, it was how you used it.
“How about you, Storm Stunner? You’ve been awfully quiet. Ya got any questions?”
He did, and none of them had to do with pennon size. What kind of information were he and his friends expected to provide? Were these so-called pookas truly different from the creatures that had attacked Canterlot? Was Fiddler’s Plain in any danger? They looked different, but appearances could be deceiving. They didn’t seem threatening, but they could be two-faced.
He asked, “Since we didn’t have any choice in the matter, can I assume we won’t be charged for our stay at least?”
“Heh, that’s right... your kind uses money, doesn’t it?”
Ciar lifted a hoof into the air, shook it out, and presented the sole of it. It was empty save for a couple of crushed blades of grass. Then, with a wink, a flick, and a flourish, he swiped it through the air in a wide arc. He finished the display with a graceful bow and the sole of the hoof turned upwards as it had been originally. Within it sat a pair of faceless gold coins.
“Money isn’t something we really make any use of, but we wouldn’t hurt for it if we did.”
“Hm. That was more than mere legerdemain,” said Check.
“Aye! Glamour,” said Ciar as he tapped his brow. “Unfortunately it won’t last for more than a day, but I’d imagine it’d still be good enough for a night on the town.” He tossed the coins over his withers, where they landed unceremoniously in the path behind them. “And on the subject of living it up, tell me: what’s a champion’s life like? I imagine it must be very exciting.”
The guardsponies exchanged a glance.
“That’s twice you’ve used word ‘champion’ for us,” said Storm. “What exactly do you mean by it?”
“Oh, ye know, the usual,” said Ciar as he waved a hoof. “Famed warriors renowned in their lands for indomitable martial prowess. Adventurers that have braved ineffable perils and recovered ancient treasures. The basics. Of course being of divine or noble birth is a given.”
The guardsponies exchanged another glance.
“And you think that describes us?”
“Well, doesn’t it?” asked Ciar, uncertainly. “Why else are ye three adventuring, dressed to the nines as you are in gilded raiment?”
“Again, that’s just the standard-issue uniform,” said Crack Shot. “As for why we’re out here, I think it’d be most accurately described as a work-vacation-errand thingy. But, uh, I don’t know what to say about that checklist of yours. I’ve won a couple of horseshoe-throwin’ tourneys, if that counts. Oh, and I once found twenty bits in an old jacket, though my brother claimed it was his, which was a total lie.”
Ciar bit his lip. “Any of ye ever at least escaped from a collapsing dungeon, leaping out into the fresh air the moment the foundations crumbled in on themselves?”
Storm and Check shook their heads. Crack Shot asked if pillow forts counted.
“Well… what about tragic pasts? Are any of ye orphans? Maybe one of ye watched a parent die in front of ya at the hooves or claws of some sinister stranger, perchance?” he asked, hopefully.
“Goodness, no!” gasped Check.
“Oh well that’s a shame.” Ciar frowned and placed a hoof to his chin. “Guess they just don’t make champions like they used to.”
After a few more bends in the trail, Ciar and the guardsponies at last came to a stop. Storm wasn’t sure why exactly they did this. There was just more forest which looked the same as all of the previous forest. “Well, here we are!” said Ciar, which further added to Storm’s confusion.
“…Where?” asked Storm.
“Where ye three’ll be staying, of course! There’s a tidy little bower just a few meters in.”
Ciar led the guardsponies off of the trail into the center of a thicket. As they moved farther in, the woods grew ever denser around them until it was like walking through a hallway. Soon, despite their crooked shapes, the trees grew closely enough to form something akin to walls around a modest circle of thick grass. In between those gaps where the trunks themselves did not make contact, thin branches wove together like gratings over a set of glassless windows. Above them the branches further came together, leaves and limbs forming a meshwork ceiling and obscuring the sea of colors overhead. Near each trunk floated one of the uncanny lights of the forest, coloring the space in a faint green. Staring at them, Storm was reminded of Nomde’s fireflies. For a moment he found himself missing her terribly.
Below them rose large mounds of turf. Each was topped with a thin, simple coverlet; they were the closest thing to normalcy that Storm had seen since entering the glade and leaving his world behind. In the center of the bower was a hollowed trunk piled high with cut wild grass.
Ciar stepped back into the entrance of the enclosure. “I’ll be off then. Get comfy, get cozy, and help yerself to the grass if ye get hungry. She went through the trouble of gathering it from yer world, after all,” he said.
“Who did?” asked Storm.
“She.” Ciar’s eyes lit with realization. “—fra. Síofra. Gosh, how do ye get used to that?” he asked, before trotting out of sight.
“Hey, no bars, locked gates, or balls and chains,” said Crack Shot, looking around. “That’s a good sign, right?”
Storm let out a heavy sigh and fell back onto his haunches. “I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his face. “Check, what do you think about all of this?”
“Honestly, I am not yet certain. You’re apprehensive, Storm, and with due cause. We do not know our hosts’ intentions, if they’re being forthright, or if they are as well-meaning as they seem.”
Storm nodded, glad to know he wasn’t alone in these thoughts.
“Still… did you notice the behavior of those near the path we followed here?”
“You mean those giant dogs?” asked Crack Shot. “They seemed like they were just chillin’ out.”
“Not them, Crack Shot. There were many others observing us, though mostly hidden from view.”
“Well. That’s creepy,” said Storm. He placed his bags down and searched through them to make sure their provisions had survived the trip. If he was going to eat any grass, it’d be that which he brought with him.
“Mm, perhaps. But again, I am not so certain. If you would, keep an eye open for them when we next have the opportunity, and share with me your impressions. As Síofra noted, our map did direct us here. Luna wished for us to find something.”
“Yeah, but is it the same something that would’ve been here a thousand years ago? You’ve got Gray Mane’s stone with you. Maybe we could ask Luna herself.”
“Hm… yes, I suppose we could try.”
Check removed the smart stone from his bag and wrote a short greeting across it. No more than a second had passed after he sent it off, when a reply came wisping back. He read it, reread it, and reddened across his cheeks.
“That was quick,” said Storm. “What does it say?”
Check clenched his eyes shut in a brief moment of inner turmoil. He opened them once more, sighed, and quoted: “‘If yer readin’ this, ye dobber, it means ye have nae got reception. To remedy this issue, I’d suggest first pullin’ yerself out o’ whatever pit ye’ve fallen into, and then pullin’ yer head out of yer—’ Alright, I absolutely refuse to read any more of this!”
“Uh… nice job on the accent,” said Crack Shot in a desperate show of optimism.
“So we won’t be hearing from Luna, or from anypony else for that matter,” Storm growled as he kicked at the ground. “This is just great.”
Crack Shot walked beside Storm and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I think you oughta relax, dude. Think about it this way. These guys outnumber us like twenty to one, and they can turn into all kinds of sharp-toothed and sharp-clawed things. If they had wanted to, I bet they could’ve pulled off a totally nasty interrogation. Probably by pullin’ off a few limbs.”
Storm looked up at him and gave a flat stare. “Somehow that doesn’t really make me feel all that relaxed.”
“I’m just sayin’ that these guys might have some super-secret evil plan or whatever, but then again they might not. In the meantime look around, dude—have you ever seen anything like this place?”
“No… I can’t say that I have.” Storm prodded one of the mounds, what he guessed was to be one of their beds. It was softer than he expected.
“Right. So I say we hit the hay and leave your worries ‘til the morning if there is one.”
“I agree,” said Check. “With rest comes clarity of thought.”
Crack Shot removed his equipment and climbed onto a mound, and Check did the same. Storm removed his journal from his bag and stared at its cover. It had begun to soften and smooth and become shiny from use. An entry a day, he had promised. Would he be able to keep track of them here? He turned to the next empty place in the journal, dipped a quill into an ink well, and proceeded to turn the page black. Afterwards, he crawled on top of a sheet and felt it absorb some of the dampness of his fur. It was warm here, warmer than it had been for the past few weeks, and he wondered if here they ever saw the passing of the seasons. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, wishing that the sun would be there to meet him when he opened them once more.
---
The sound of shuffling and of hushed voices roused Storm from an uneasy sleep. He fought the urge to leap from his bed and confront them; instead, he slowly cracked an eyelid and peered towards the entrance of the bower. In the pale light he saw two figures, though between their distance and his narrowed vision he couldn’t discern their exact shapes. One was taller, but not by much.
The taller of the two whispered something to the smaller one. It was loud enough to be heard, but in a language Storm didn’t understand. The two walked a few feet towards him before the smaller creature hesitated. The taller shook its head and hissed something in an annoyed tone, before walking—no, hopping, Storm could see that now—towards him. It was a young hare. Its companion—a fox kit, Storm hazarded—reluctantly joined it.
The hare hopped around Storm’s mound and looked him over. Then, with strain twisting its face, began to change shape. Its long lagomorphic ears shortened, its muzzle lengthened, a pair of wings sprouted from its back, and soon in its place stood a pegasus colt. He grinned at the fox kit and again whispered something in unfamiliar words, this time in a more encouraging voice. The fox nodded and attempted to shift its form as well, but from the sounds of it, it met with more trouble. This was because of how loud the sounds were. It gave a number of gasps and grunts right beside Storm which he felt elevated the act of feigning sleep to playing dead. But, at the end of it, she had taken the shape of a pegasus filly, albeit with less success than her companion. The colt giggled and pointed at the filly’s mismatched wings—a bat’s on the left and a bird’s on the right—and her still-vulpine tail. It was then that Storm rolled over, pretending to stir in his sleep.
At that moment the two pookas finally said something that Storm did understand, that being, “Eep!” before scrambling out of the bower. In the silence that followed, he thought back to Check’s earlier words. He sat up, took a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh. It was time to go for a walk.
Stepping outside of the timbered hall, Storm found that the colors of the sky had darkened into deep violets and reds; maybe it was a measure of time in some way. Still, there was no nighttime chill; it seemed that he and his friends really had left autumn behind. He began walking, keeping his eyes ostensibly to the trail while concentrating on everything off of it from the periphery of his vision.
As he expected, golden eyes gathered to watch him from boughs and bushes, and conversations quieted as he neared. In a few instances a voice would come louder than the whispers, followed by choked laughter and hurried shushing. None of this surprised him. What truly caught his notice were the eyes that turned away. Birds and hounds ushering away chicks and pups into deeper parts of the forest. Then around a bend in the path he came upon the back of a wolf; slumped in front of it were a hare and a fox kit.
The two small creatures sat glumly with flattened ears as the wolf, by the sharpness of her voice, scolded them. Their eyes wandered listlessly as she continued her reprimand, but when they full upon Storm they widened. With high-pitched cries they huddled up against the wolf and began to shiver; the fox kit lifted a trembling paw to point at him. The wolf, puzzled, turned towards the source of their sudden fright and gasped. Immediately she sprung to all fours, her hackles bristling and her teeth bared, causing Storm to freeze. But, it wasn’t the length of her claws, the sharpness of her fangs, or the strength visible in her coiled muscles that gave Storm pause. It was the look in her eyes. In those wide, golden wells was moored fear. Storm could see, in that stare, that in a forest full of a medley of different creatures she was looking at a beast. She growled a quavering warning in words that needed no translation. They cracked the language barrier like a rock breaker.
Storm gave a small wave of his wing and a weak smile that did little to placate her, before turning the way he had come. He had seen enough. He made his way back to the bower, his eyes to the trail, and noted those eyes that stayed to watch him and those that turned to flee.
---
Storm awoke to find Check and Crack Shot already up and in mid-conversation with a pooka that had taken the form of a unicorn. Ciar, or whatever he was calling himself now, by the sound of his voice. Crack Shot was peering intently at a large, green leaf.
“Ken chow-ee a bi-fool to,” said Crack Shot, slowly. Storm sat up and canted his head.
“Close!” said Ciar, generously. “‘Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú.’ Kay. Khwee. A-will. Too.”
“What the heck, Dorcha?!”
Okay, so it was ‘Dorcha’ again.
“Do you guys just like throw in ‘b’s and ‘n’s cause you feel like it?” continued Crack Shot. “And where’d that ‘w’ come from?”
Dorcha waved a hoof dismissively. “Oh, it isn’t that complex. Ya just need to mind the lenitions, the eclipses, which vowels have a fada—also the broad and slender vowels, while we’re on the subject—and ya also might set aside some of yer prejudices about the way ya think certain consonants work. Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?”
“Tá mé go measartha maith,” replied Check.
“See? He’s getting it!”
“He doesn’t count; this is tough and you know it.”
“That’d be ‘tough’ spelled with an ‘f,’ wouldn’t it?” said Dorcha with a sly smile. “Or maybe not, though it ought to be, right?”
“Okay, point. I’ll admit that ‘g’ and ‘h’ do weird things together, and you could probably just ignore ‘em half the time.”
“Aye, and I’d imagine a bit of helpful disregard is useful for learning any language.”
“Heh, fine. For now though, let’s just say I’ve got an accent.” Crack Shot set the leaf down and noticed that Storm had been watching. “Oh heya, sleeping beauty, glad to see you’re finally up. Dorcha brought us a phrase guide.”
“Huh, I see… hello, Dorcha.” Storm stretched his neck then rolled off of his mound onto his hooves. “Is that what brings you here?”
“Actually, I came to extend a breakfast invitation. Síofra says she owes ye as much and she’s eager for a chance to talk. Gather yer things and meet me out by the trail when yer ready.
Dorcha stepped out of the bower, leaving the guardsponies to themselves.
“You didn’t have to let me sleep in,” said Storm.
“It was no biggie, dude,” said Crack Shot, as he put on his peytral and flipped his helmet onto his head. “It’s not like we were in any rush to go anywhere.”
“You were restless last night. Did you sleep well?” asked Check.
“Eventually. It took getting up and having a look around. I think I understand what you were talking about.”
Check gave a small nod. Crack Shot looked between them. “What’s up?” he asked.
“I did what Check suggested last night, and paid attention to the folks here,” said Storm. “For the most part they just watched me as I walked by, and some I’m pretty sure made jokes.” He picked up his helmet and met its empty stare. “But more than a few of them were, well, scared. Terrified, I’d say. They tried to run when I came near, and a few even cowered… I got so hung up on the strangeness of this place that I forgot that we’re the strangers here. And to them it must look like we’re dressed for war.”
Crack Shot shrugged his saddlebags over his withers. “Maybe, dude, but look at it this way: plenty of folks back home are scared of us too. It’s nothin’ new.”
“But it is a new experience, is it not? Being the Other,” said Check.
“The other what?” asked Crack Shot.
Check smiled. “It is just a reiteration of what Storm has said. Now, shall we be off? Perhaps we can learn how we may go about convincing those here that their fears are unjustified.”
---
Outside of the bower, the guardsponies found Dorcha standing a little farther down the trail, back the direction they had originally come from. Storm glanced upwards. There was no sun to be found, but light pinks and oranges and yellows gave the impression of one. As the four of them walked towards their next destination through a forest of black and silver trees, he wondered if it was the sky’s panoply that sustained it.
Dorcha took a fork in the trail down an unfamiliar path. “Not too much farther from here,” he said.
“So, does Síofra run things around here?” asked Crack Shot.
“No, we here believe in self-governance in the truest sense of the term, though I can see how ye’d get that impression. Since she’s the one that suggested bringing ye three here, she’s taken responsibility for you.”
“And what about you, dude? Any reason you’ve been so involved?”
“Aye. She’s a friend and it helps her, so that’s reason enough, I figure. I’m sure our customs aren’t so different that ye couldn’t understand that. Besides, ye three are the first visitors we’ve had in ages and more; how could I miss out on something as interesting as mucking around with ye a bit?” Dorcha stopped at the base of a hill. “We’ll be meeting her just up there.”
Just visible over the crest of the hill were the tops of an arrangement of stones. As they climbed towards them, the stones rose like pillars in a great monolithic circle. They were easily meters tall, must have weighed tons, and some pairs even had an additional stone laid across them like the lintel of a door frame. There were so many of them! Storm wondered what meaning they held. Was there a magic to them like the mushrooms’ glade? Did they mark a place of ceremony or serve as a calendar of sorts? What was their purpose? He decided to inquire.
“They’re easy to see from far away,” explained Dorcha.
“Ah.”
Within the center they found Síofra in earth pony guise, waiting beside a round granite table; it was topped with a number of food bowls and, notably, a large, empty crystalline pitcher. Among the rest of the dishes, it seemed out of place. She greeted them by way of the same wry grin she had used to introduce them to this world. Dorcha gave her a nod.
“Good to see ye boys again,” she said.
“Hey, cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?” asked Crack Shot, which might have been more impressive if he didn’t immediately follow it with, “Did I get that right?”
“In answer to both of your questions, not bad at all!” Síofra clapped. “I see you and him have been practicing.” It took Storm just a second to realize she meant Dorcha. “Anyways, feel free to have a seat and a bite; there’s a bowl of grass and blackberries for each of ye.”
“Really?” asked Crack Shot. “I was kinda wonderin’ if we’d get a chance to eat pooka food.”
“Aye, and ye do. What do ya think that is?”
Crack Shot looked at the size of the bowls. “An appetizer?” he asked, hopefully.
“Just be grateful she didn’t actually cook something,” said Dorcha. “She has a way of taking perfectly innocent and amicable ingredients and inciting them into civil war.”
Síofra gave Dorcha a glare like a heat lamp. “If I were of a mind for it, I bet I could make a meal fit for a king,” she said.
“Oh aye, I agree,” said Dorcha. “That’s why they’ve got food tasters.”
“Just hurry up and eat.”
And so they did. The meal ended quickly, which came as no surprise, though perhaps as a disappointment to Crack Shot. It was merely the precursor to the point of the gathering. The guardsponies waited for Síofra to tell them what it was.
“I’ve got a means for ye to prove yer character,” she said, wasting no time.
“And what means is that?” asked Storm.
Síofra leaned across the table and slid the pitcher towards the guardsponies. “First I’ll need ye to fill this ewer with water,” she said.
“Alright, I think we just might be able to do that,” said Crack Shot. He turned towards Storm. “You still got the canteen on you, dude?”
Síofra gave a curt shake her head. “Not just any water! I’m talking about a very particular water, from a very particular well.”
Crack Shot raised an eyebrow. “Any reason in particular?”
“Aye,” she said. They waited for her to continue. “Now, the other thing ye’ll need to do is recover a certain antique, a notched spear—”
“Hey, hold up!” interrupted Crack Shot. “‘Aye’ is not an explanation!”
“Aye,” said Síofra, looking him in the eyes, “it isn’t.
Storm steepled his hooves on the table and rested his chin on them. “So grabbing a bucket—”
“A ewer,” corrected Síofra.
“—a ewer of water and some beat-up old weapon will tell you everything you need to know about us.”
“Aye.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, sure we can,” Dorcha chimed in, “though we don’t always choose to.”
“This is why we were requested to bring our equipment, I’ll presume,” said Check.
“Aye. I figured ye’d want yer belongings at yer disposal. At least those that made it with you,” she added, garnering a huff from Storm.
“I see,” said Check. “Still, these tasks seem to be, if not menial, tangential to substantiating our motives. I can’t help but wonder what they could prove outside of our abilities as couriers.”
“Yeah, this sounds like a total fetch quest,” added Crack Shot. “If you wanted a spear, we’ve got a ton of ‘em back home. But I’m guessin’ this one’s particular.”
Síofra nodded. “And it’ll be yours to keep,” she said. “But first ye need to bring it back.”
“I don’t see why ye three are so skeptical about this,” said Dorcha. “Haven’t ye ever read a tale? Sending unknown heroes off to recover a macguffin or two is practically a narrative tradition!”
“We’re clearly going to be doing some walking,” said Storm. “How will we know what we’re looking for?”
“A fine question,” said Síofra. “The well can be found in a grove of hazelnut trees to the south. I’d highly recommend that it be one of you winged boys that visits it by the way; it tends to overflow.”
“Should we have brought a plunger?”
Síofra ignored this and continued. “As for the spear, it’ll be inside of a dún to the north of here. Finding a way there will be a test of sorts.”
“A dune, huh?” said Crack Shot. “Wouldn’t have figured there’d be deserts around here.”
“That is to say it’ll be inside a castle,” explained Siofra.
Crack Shot, his train of thought fixed firmly on its rails, assumed she meant one made of sand and was intrigued to learn that they might be visiting a beach instead.
“These are the tasks before ye. That we’re sending you off on yer own to do it may seem a sour deal, but take it to be a show of trust.” Síofra clapped her hooves together. “So. Are there any other questions?”
Crack Shot raised a hoof.
“Aye?”
“Um, which way is north?” he asked. “Normally we’d go by the stars or somethin’, but uh…” He looked upwards. “Here they don’t seem to wanna stay in one place.”
“Er, right,” said Síofra, “that is to say, ‘left.’” She pointed towards a path leading out of the stone circle. “If that’s all, then we’ll leave ye alone to figure out the logistics.”
As she stepped beside Dorcha, she paused for a moment, something having crossed her mind seemingly. She whispered something in his ear to which he nodded.
To the guardsponies she said, “Oh, uh, by the way—I forgot to mention this, but ye boys might not want to dawdle too much about doing this.”
“We hadn’t planned on it,” said Storm. “But is there a reason for you saying so?”
Síofra gave an uneasy chuckle. “Ya know, it’s not something ya really notice or think about when yer used to it, but I suppose I should inform you that time can tend to work a wee bit differently here.”
“...In what manner?” asked Check.
“In fits and starts, really,” said Dorcha. He looked towards Crack Shot. “Ya said ya had a brother, right? Was he older or younger?”
“Uh, older,” said Crack Shot. “Why?”
“Well… there’s a chance he might not be when ya get back home. Or he might be more so! It’s hard to say.”
“And you’re just telling us now?!” screamed Storm.
Síofra gave an infuriating shrug. “As I said, it’s not something we really think about. But as it stands, I’d suggest ye hurry. So long and ádh mór ort!”
“That means ‘good luck,’” whispered Dorcha, before the two of them left the table and the circle of stones.
“It’s probably spelled half the same too, I bet,” mused Crack Shot.
“Why aren’t you upset?!” shouted Storm at this traitorous show of levity.
Crack Shot gave Storm a pat on his whithers. “‘Cause it probably wouldn’t help, dude. So, how do you guys wanna do this?”
As much as Storm didn’t like the answer, he was forced to admit he didn’t have a better one. “…Alright. In that case, it sounds like you or I will be the one to find that well,” he said. He turned towards Check. “Whatever Síofra was hinting at about it, it seems like it might be wise for you to sit that one out.”
Check stared down the southern path for a moment, following it to where it disappeared beneath a trilithon, before returning his gaze to the others. “Perhaps so. Although, I do wonder if it is not ill-advised for us to divide our number. I’d much prefer that we perform these tasks together…”
“It might not be so bad, dude,” said Crack Shot. “Plus, if you and I are out grabbin’ the spear while Storm gets the water, you won’t have to worry about sittin’ around spooking the locals while waitin’ for us to fill up that ewer.”
Storm pulled the ewer toward himself and took a look at it. The workmanship was impressive, with impeccable facets and floral embellishments that would’ve given a lapidarist pause. Storm, who wasn’t a lapidarist and might’ve needed a dictionary to confirm that they weren’t the ponies that worked with bees, noticed first and foremost that it didn’t have a stopper. At least the camping bag would serve him for the first half of the trip. He went about putting the ewer inside of it.
“Well,” he said, as he turned to face his friends, “we better get this over with then.”
Check nodded. “We wish you luck, Storm.”
“And here’s hopin’ you won’t need it.” Crack Shot lifted his hoof. Storm smiled and tapped it with his own to the sound of metal clink.
“Same to you guys,” he said.
Crack Shot and Check Mate turned towards the northern path and began on their way, discussing the task ahead of them. The last thing Storm caught before they moved out of earshot was a worry from Crack Shot about getting sand in his shoes. Storm shifted the bags on his withers, adjusting to the new weight of the crystal ewer. With any luck, it’d be replaced by that of Allie’s—of Gentian’s cast iron pot soon enough. With any luck, it’d still be ‘soon’ when he and his friends returned to get it. For now though it was time to gather some water and, hopefully, some answers.