Fairweather shakes his head. “It's a big waste of his potential, if you ask me. Now, where was I?”
You motion at the small stack of papers. “The forms I filled out.”
He sucks air between his teeth. “Right, I got a bit sidetracked there. Let's see what we have here...”
Deftly he levitates the papers into the air, examining them with a thoughtful look on his face.
“'Sonora.' Not sure why, but it seems to fit you. It sounds--” Somehow you know what word was coming next: pretty.
Something flickers across his features. It's hard to tell, but it looks an awful lot like embarrassment. It's the first time you've seen him look that way, in fact.
A childish part of you takes faint satisfaction at seeing him off-balance. Up until now, it's been outright painful how many times you've slipped up compared to him. Maybe things will start to even out.
“Oh, never mind,” he says, recovering quickly but not completely. “Anyway, um...you're from Manehattan? What sort of job did you have before you came here?”
“Like I said on the form, nothing that would really matter in this line of work...” You let out a tiny nervous laugh. “Shoot, that sounded kinda stupid. Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my resume.”
That raises an eyebrow from him. “You've already proved a lot by showing up for this interview in the first place. Don't put yourself in a box—it's a bad habit, and an even worse habit for anyone who wants to use magic.”
Before you can respond, the frantic gallop of hooves sounds from around the corner. One of Fairweather's friends—Big Iron, if you remember right--stands before the two of you, his brawny, powerful form shaking with each gasping breath. Thick beads of sweat rolls down his caramel fur and drips onto the cool wooden planks of the porch. To say he looks exhausted would be like calling Death Valley “warm.”
“Fairweather!” he cries. “Trail Heads! Up north! Old Washington's ranch! Three of them!”
Fairweather's lips tighten, his eyes narrowing. “Again?”
Big Iron slides pitifully to the ground and takes a few more gulps of air. “Yes! Found him...on the other side of town. Explained to me...what happened. He's too frightened...to go back.”
Fairweather facehoofs. “He never learns, doesn't he?” He shoots a glance at you. “This might be a good learning opportunity. Feel free to tag along.”
You don't have much of an idea as to what he's talking about, but hey. It's an opportunity to see the Spellbreakers in action.
“I might be interested,” you say. “But what do you mean by 'Trail Heads?'”
“Don't blame you for not knowing about them,” Fairweather explains as he straps on a canteen and an extra saddlebag. “They're a species of magical pest that started showing up recently. The best way I can describe them is, well...how would you put it, Iron?”
Big Iron has finally caught most of his breath, as well as some of his effete demeanor. “Picture, if you will, a crude stone sculpture of a snarling, disembodied head. Envision it with a most dreadful set of incisors, and an even more dreadful temperament. Now imagine that this sculpture has come to life, and is quite fixated on making a meal out of you.”
You give Fairweather a doubtful look. “Are you sure I should be along for this? It doesn't sound like a job for beginners.”
“Big Iron's just being melodramatic,” explains Fairweather, adjusting his saddlebag's straps. “As vicious as Trail Heads are, they aren't any smarter than the rocks they're made out of. Besides, they're never much larger than a bowling ball. If any get too close, just kick them away.”
“If they're so harmless, why'd they scare someone off his own ranch?” you counter.
“To a lot of folks, nothing's scarier than what you don't understand,” sighs Fairweather. “There's been an explosion of nasty new monsters out in Appleloosa, but I can't get anyone interested in learning about them.”
He looks back at Big Iron. “Oh, and did you see Habanero anywhere? I swear, if he's napping again...”
Big Iron shakes his head briskly. “Fortunately, no. I met with our feathered friend on the way here, in fact. He shall meet us at the ranch.”
“Ah, good. That should be everything, then,” says Fairweather. “What about you, Sonora? You ready for this?”
“Ready as I'll ever be,” you reply. In truth you don't think you'll ever be “ready” for hunting down a bunch of magical stone heads, but you figure you'll manage.
“Then let's get going!” Fairweather says, leaping off the porch and onto the hard-packed desert floor. He hits the ground running, his hooves carrying him at a respectable gallop. Big Iron runs along with him, his tank-like body taking several seconds to build up speed.
You find yourself a little more interested in the two stallions' well-muscled hips than you would have liked.
“You coming or not?” calls Fairweather, slowing down to look back at you. The realization of what you were just doing makes it hard not to groan.
“Sorry, just got a bit distracted,” you say distantly. Drawing in a deep breath, you step off the porch and follow your two companions to what you hope will be the turning point of your struggle against Trask.
The three of you gallop your way to the ranch mostly in silence. You have to keep forcing yourself to relax your muscles, which continually get bunched up like knotted steel cables.
This isn't going to be hard. You'll just watch Fairweather and his friends curbstomp some evil critters, and then hopefully you'll leave with a better idea of how to use combat magic. You're not going to get hurt.
But as you think about it, you realize it's not the fear of bodily harm that's getting you tense. It's a feverish hope that you'll get a chance to make yourself useful. You're getting increasingly exasperated with your role as the clueless newcomer, and you want to finally start showing everyone that you can stand on your own.
Daydreams creep into your mind as you near the ranch. You envision yourself howling in defiance as you unleash a seizure-inducing blast of energy, vaporizing a swarm of snarling stone heads with Trask's likeness. What if you have some huge source of inner power that your anger can unlock? Sure that would be kind of stupid, but at least it'd be satisfying. You imagine Big Iron and Fairweather staring at you with gaping mouths, rendered speechless by the sheer awesomeness with which you saved their lives. You picture Fairweather smiling at you, and then--
Fortunately for your continued mental masculinity, a familiar brassy drawl breaks you out of your reverie.
“Y'all are nothin' but a buncha slowpokes,” taunts a red pegasus lounging on a low-flying wisp of cloud. The chili pepper on his side marks him as the same pony Big Iron was sitting next to in the bar earlier today—this must be Habanero. “Gotta admit, I was startin' to wonder if y'all were pullin' somethin' on me.”
“Such a prospect can be tempting at times,” notes Big Iron.
Fairweather rolls his eyes. “Save it for later, boys. We've got a ranch to save.”
“Hey, we can afford a lil' joshin' now and then, right?” grins Habanero, disappearing into the cloud and poking his head out from the underside. “'Sides, I did some scoutin'. There's only six Trail Heads, all grouped up on a path by the well. Easy pickins, if you ask me.”
“Where's the well?” asks Fairweather.
“Oh, I don't think you'd understand. I think it'd go...well over yer head.”
Habanero snickers as he dodges a magically hurled rock. “Okay, okay, that one was a groaner. Anyway, we just need to make tracks straight north from here—the well should be easy to spot.” He flutters off the cloud and lazily lands by Big Iron's side.
Without further argument the four of you make your way to a dusty, desolate northwards path. It's hard to imagine what the appeal of having a ranch around here would be. It has a splendid view of the harsh, beautiful desert that surrounds it, but there's something strangely depressing about this place. It doesn't feel rustic or serene. It just feels...dead. Like what little life it had before has been sucked out of it.
Your walk continues for several more tense minutes, and you find yourself struggling to keep up the pace of the rest of the group. Unlike the nightmarish run you had yesterday, however, you now have the luxury of taking breaks when needed. Still...the sooner this hike ends, the better.
“Habanero? If this is another one of your dreadful excuses for a joke,” Big Iron growls as the four of you trot down the seemingly endless dusty path, “So help me Celestia, I will--”
A chorus of bestial voices interrupts him. "Nyearghh! Grrr! Hraagh!"
Up ahead, visible now that you've cleared a small hill, you can see the monsters. Six stone heads hop up and down and chase each other in a hypnotic circle, their granite faces locked in menacing snarls. Each one is only about a quarter of your height, and if you'd still been human you could've easily stepped on them.
In a strange way they almost look cute, with comically exaggerated mouths and big awkward noses that droop like overripe pears. Marble-sized stone eyes dart back and forth suspiciously under heavy, overstated brows. They look like misplaced decorations from a haunted house ride, desperately searching for a way back home.
They speak an incomprehensible language that consists mostly of grunts and snarls, carrying on some conversation that you suspect could be summarized as, "Duhh, we wanna stomp around and bite stuff."
Fairweather leans close, and suddenly your heart beats a bit faster. But to your mixed relief and disappointment, his only intention is to whisper something to you.
“Ugly little things, aren't they? Trail Heads. See the way they've picked out this particular place as their territory? Right next to the well?”
Indeed, the Trail Heads are only about a stone's throw away from a small well.
“That's what they've gotten infamous for. They always stick to paths and trails—hence the name—but they have a knack for finding the most inconvenient and frustrating spots imaginable.”
“Any idea why?” you whisper back, still gawking at the bizarre stone beasts.
“Why do Tricksand pits need to play pranks? As far as I can tell, their only goal is to make our lives miserable. Maybe that's how they get their energy.”
“Who cares?” says Habanero, stretching his wings. “I say we jus' get rid of 'em and do the thinkin' later. What do you think, boss? Standard operatin' procedure?”
Fairweather studies the Trail Heads a second more before nodding. “Yeah...we won't need anything fancy. Just hang back here, Sonora. This shouldn't take long.”
Big Iron cracks his joints casually. “Hm. These ones seem to have especially kickable noses. This should be entertaining.”
Fairweather spots your inquisitive look. “Breaking their noses makes them vulnerable to magic,” he explains. “It takes a bit of teamwork to take them on—you'll see how we do it in a moment.”
You watch with growing interest as the three stallions tense up, readying for a charge. “On the count of three,” Fairweather mutters.
“One...” he says, raising his voice.
Finally one of the Trail Heads notices the team. “Yeealgh!” it screams.
“Two...”
The Trail Heads start gathering into a wedge formation, snorting and snarling as they prepare to meet the stallions with a charge of their own. Instinctively you begin to back away.
“Three!”
Habanero springs into the air and unfurls his wings in one seamless action. Like an Olympic swimmer treading water, the beats of his wings are efficient yet explosively forceful, rocketing him straight into the snapping swarm of Trail Heads.
Fairweather compared the Trail Heads to bowling balls, but what happens next makes you think of them more as bowling pins. In fact, you can almost hear a familiar hollow clatter as the creatures are thrown violently in all directions.
Even several seconds later, Habanero still hasn't turned around for another pass. You suspect he's built up so much momentum so fast that it's difficult for him to turn around. Meanwhile, the Trail Heads are starting to hop upright, gazing at the three of you with hateful glares.
“Big Iron! Now!”
“You needn't remind me,” the muscular stallion sighs before leaping into action.
He seems unconcerned by the way the still-dazed Trail Heads awkwardly try to snap at his hooves. Just before they can finally land a bite, he lashes out with his piston-like legs and catches two Trail Heads straight in their oversized noses.
Two simultaneous cracks ring out as their noses shatter into dust. Still snarling, the two Trail Heads sail about the length of a semi-trailer through the air before crashing to the ground.
Wham! Soon the number of Trail Heads with intact noses is cut down to two. Only a moment later, Big Iron snatches up the last pair with his forelegs and cracks them together, turning them into Sphinx of Giza lookalikes.
By now Habanero has returned, panting slightly as he flutters to the ground. Big Iron steps out of the way as Fairweather trots over to the Trail Heads, who now look as sociable as rabid wolverines.
Fairweather freezes in place, closing his eyes. The Trail Heads gather around him, preparing to gobble him down like a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Uh...guys?” you murmur as they draw closer to Fairweather. You're starting to realize just how unpleasant it must be to get bitten by one of those things. As blunt as their teeth are, you really don't want to know what kind of injuries they can inflict.
You're just about to leap in to try and save Fairweather when he opens his eyes.
They blaze like miniature blue suns as azure sparks leap from his horn. The air stinks of ozone, and static electricity tickles your nerves while a high-pitched buzz assaults your ears.
Your awe starts to transform into fear. Memories flash through your head; you remember the summer midnight thunderstorms you endured as a child, and the way they made you want to hide under your bed.
But there's no way to escape the sensory overload. You can only watch as it builds to a climax...
And then releases.
Six bolts of blue-white lightning arch out from Fairweather's horn, snaking down in blinding bright zigzags to meet each of the Trail Heads. A thunderclap splits the air, and the Trail Heads tremble for a half-second before erupting into showers of splintered rock.
The blue glow fades from Fairweather's eyes. While you're glad to see him back to normal, he looks like an insomniac who just finished a marathon. Rather than the quiet confidence you've started to associate with him, he just looks...tired. Pathetic, even.
The four of you sit there in near-silence as the last few fragments of the creatures rain down on the sand. It seems to take ages for someone to finally speak, and it's Habanero who breaks the silence.
“Now what in the ding-dang-darn vaults of heck was that for? Showin' off? You coulda gotten us killed!” he rages.
“I wasn't...trying to,” says Fairweather, sounding sick and faint. He seems to be having great trouble staying upright. “I'm sorry...I don't know--”
Cold laughter fills the air, sending a tingle down your spine. It comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, but far worse is the realization that you know that laugh.
The fragments of the Trail Heads levitate into the air, soon joined by a cyclone of blowing sand. There's a maddening frenzy of movement as rock connects and sand melts into glass, culminating in a blinding flash of light.
When your eyes adjust, you see that not only have the Trail Heads been restored, but they have been joined by a new companion: a humanoid figure fashioned from stone and sand. It wears a familiar long jacket and wide hat made from black glass, and its thick granite arms are arrogantly crossed. Two molten pebbles set into its shadowy face form fiendish red eyes. It has no legs, floating atop a small cyclone of sand like some sort of malevolent genie.
“A Dust Devil,” says Big Iron, his voice tight and choked. “This is...not desirable.”