//------------------------------// // Chapter 11 // Story: From Canterlot with Love // by Sagebrush //------------------------------// Febre rubbed a hoof uneasily as he stood behind Gray Mane, deep within the dark recesses of their laboratory.  Now, one might not normally consider twenty feet from the door within the scope of ‘deep, dark recesses,’ but Gray Mane loved nothing if not a challenge and had packed his modest workspace with enough sullen menace to fill a crypt.  The thick drawn curtains easily kept out any daylight, most of which wasn’t all that keen on entering anyways.   Almost lending to the ambience was a ring of almost uniformly black candles.  Unfortunately, Gray Mane hadn’t thought to check his stock prior, and was forced to make do with whatever pieces of ignitable tallow Febre could scrounge up around the castle on short notice.  One of them was decorated in polka dots and shaped like the number ‘5.’   Gray Mane, working with a small, worried piece of chalk, inscribed the last of a set of sigils within the ring of wax.  With a glint of his horn, the candles lit, illuminating the chalk markings into flickering red lines.   “That’ll do,” he grunted.  “Now we’ll be needin’ a hair to sacrifice.”   Febre’s eyes widened.  “A… a hare?!”   “Aye.”  Gray Mane turned towards Febre, the candlelight making his eyes burn with a sinister orange glow.  His horn lit once more, and Febre winced at a sudden, sharp tug near the top of his head.   “Ow!”  Febre rubbed the spot from where a strand of his mane had been plucked.  “Couldn’t you have pulled a hair from that bird’s nest you call a beard?!  You could use the shave.”   Gray Mane hadn’t considered this and wasn’t about to start now.  Ignoring his assistant, he levitated the strand of hair into the center of the circle.   “Now all that remains is the incantation…”  Gray Mane’s eyes began to radiate an ashen glow as he started to speak in grim, leaden tones.  “Cm’un n’ze—ack!”   An abrupt paroxysm of coughs interrupted Gray Mane, and he began thumping his barrel with a hoof in an attempt to clear the beaten paths of the wasteland that was his respiratory system.  As soon as his breathing had settled into a healthy rhythm of dry rasps, he then continued, “Cm’un n’ze DUR’S OP’N!”   The candles extinguished themselves with a sudden whisper of stale air; however, their light did not leave the room entirely.  The lines of chalk yet retained their glow.  The lines then began, slowly, to move—to slither—towards the circle’s edge.  As they receded, the circle filled with a chthonic, unfathomable darkness, flat yet with an impending sense of depth.  It yawned open with a low, terrible moan.  Febre swallowed audibly.   Some kind of appendage—glistening, jointless, ponderous, unnatural—extended from the abyss’s bowels and collapsed outside of the ring of candles, crushing a number of them.  This was followed by another, and another, and another; in his icy terror, Febre quickly lost count.  Then, something huge and polypous began to pull itself up after them.  Innumerable, enormous eyes like pools of pitch roamed the space of Gray Mane’s lab.  If the horrid creature had any eyebrows, half of them would be rising in recognition of the fact that for whatever stygian realm it had been summoned from, it had just entered into one that was slightly worse.   Gray Mane bowed as low as his joints would allow him and uttered, “Welcome.”   All of the eyes ceased their wandering and centered upon him and Febre, who took a flinching step backwards.  Unexpectedly, the eyes brightened.   “Hullo, Gray Mane!” the creature bellowed.  “I see your organizational skills haven’t improved since last I saw you, you little scamp!”  A tentacle reached forward and knocked off the old wizard’s pointed hat as it proceeded to ruffle his mane.  The eyes shifted their focus to Febre.  “And who’s this?  Hullo there!”   “‘Tis my assistant and pupil, Febre,” said Gray Mane.  He nudged the shell-shocked unicorn in the ribs.  “Go on then, introduce yerself!” he hissed.  “‘Tis rude to just stand there gawkin’!  …Probably ‘tisn’t too good fer one’s mental wellbeing either,” he added.   This was too much for Febre.  “What the heck is that thing?!” he shouted.   Gray Mane levitated his hat from the styrofoam floor and whacked Febre on the back of the head with it.  “That thing is my Primary Seven instructor, and ye’d do good to mind yer manners, ye ken?!”  He grinned apologetically at the creature.  “Sorry about that, teach, he meant no offense.”   The creature gave an affable chuckle and waved a tentacle dismissively.  “Oh, none was taken, none was taken.  But ‘teach’ still?  That sounds far too stiff!  Please, the two of you can just call me—”   The creature said something long and unpronounceable and exclusionary to vowels.  Hearing it gave Febre a sudden headache and a number of erratic, unpleasant visions.  “I really don’t think I’ll be able to match the accent,” he groaned at the end of it.   The creature hummed to itself with a sound like the drone of wasps’ nest.  “I wouldn’t think that it being in another tongue would make it so difficult,” it pondered.  “…Hrm, how many tongues is it that you ponies have again?”   Febre scratched his head.  “Er… just the one?”   “Oh, well, I can see how that might make it tricky then.”   Febre felt a sudden nudge from behind.  He turned to find Table, who had apparently decided to come out from wherever it had been hiding.  On top of its varnished surface was the smart stone, its top panel glowing green.   “Huh, how about that,” said Febre.  “Thanks, Table.  Good… uh, table.”  Febre held up the stone and called out to Gray Mane.  “Hey, it appears that this thing is up and running again.”   Gray Mane glanced at the stone and gave a stiff nod.  “Ah, good.  Looks like those scunners finally pulled their heads out o’ their—”   Febre tuned the rest out and walked with Table towards the laboratory’s entrance, leaving Gray Mane to play catch-up with the avuncular horror he had summoned.  He picked up the stone’s stylus as he read the message.   Yo, Febs!  Is this thing on?   Well, there was no question about whom it was from.   Don’t call me ‘Febs,’ Crack Shot.  Also, the three of you were unreachable two days ago.  I suppose for research purposes I should try to find out why.   Yeah, we had a bit of a dimensional detour.  That’s kinda what I’m bugging you about, actually.  You mind wrangling Luna so we can tell her about it? ‘Wrangling’ Luna?  That seems like a pretty seditious way of asking for me to seek her audience.   Febre waited a moment for Crack Shot to ask Check Mate what ‘seditious’ meant.   Dude, don’t be such a tesseract. And then it was Febre’s turn to be puzzled.  As far as insults went, they probably went far in the opposite direction of words like ‘tesseract.’   Anyways, before that, and seeing as I have your attention, I should let you know that your brother has sent you another letter, written with as few letters as I’ve come to expect of you two.  He wants to know how your travels are going. Aight. While waiting for Crack Shot to pen the response to his brother, Febre turned his attention to the center of the lab.  Gray Mane appeared to be giving the creature—his Primary Seven instructor, Febre self-corrected—a rundown of his various experiments, projects, and other affronts to natural law.  After a few minutes, Febre noticed that Crack Shot had still not responded.  He decided to try and prod him along.   Am I going to have to wait much longer for you to write that letter? I thought I already did.   Febre set the stone down and took a deep breath, which given his location couldn’t have been good for his health.  One day he would have to plant a tree—or have somepony else do it, preferably—in honor of all those sacrificed to the correspondence between Crack Shot and his brother, Skyway.  The sound of armor shifting in the laboratory’s doorway drew his attention.  He looked up to one of the unicorn guards canting his head.   “Can I help you… Ikebanana, is it?”   “You’re getting closer,” said Ikebana.  He glanced over Febre’s head at the monstrosity towards the rear of the lab.  “So, are you guys trying to set up an aquarium?  What is that thing?”   “Not a ‘thing,’ an instructor. Apparently from Gray Mane’s youth.”   “He had one of those?”   “Ach!” brayed Gray Mane from across the lab.  “Nopony invited ye here, ye gold-carapaced cretin!”   “No, he would’ve made a summoning circle first,” muttered Febre.   “Quit flapping your gums and the fake teeth between them, you lich!” shouted Ikebana, his hackles bristling.   “Why don’t ye play statue in front of a doorway so ye can put yer mind to good use?!”   “Why don’t you take a shower?!  Or are you afraid you might melt?!”   Gray Mane grinned viciously and his horn began to glow.   Ikebana’s eyes narrowed.  “Bring it you old codger,” he growled.   “Oh ho!” laughed the creature.  “A friend of yours, Gray Mane?  Oh, I must say it does my black hearts good to see two peers engaged in such spirited banter!”   “Peers?!” cried Ikebana.  “We are not peers!  You wouldn’t be able to peer at the other side of the generation gap between us without a telescope!” “And that brat could stand to learn a thing about manners, if there was any room in his head to fit it!”   “Gray Mane is much older, then, is he?” asked the creature.  “Hum… you know, it’s just so unintuitive, trying to get a sense for others’ ages when you don’t have one of your own.”   “Was there a reason for you coming here?” Febre asked of Ikebana.   “Huh?  Oh, yeah.  Uh… I was wondering if I could use that rock again.”   “Nae!” shouted Gray Mane.   “Here you go,” said Febre, levitating the smart stone and its stylus towards Ikebana.  “See to it that it ends up in Luna’s hooves sometime soon, will you?”   “Sure thing, thanks.”  Ikebana took the items in his own magic and stepped back out the door.   “So, Febre!”  The creature beckoned the unicorn over.  “Gray Mane here tells me you had a more nontraditional magical education—no curricula on forbidden knowledge whatsoever!  Tell me:  however did your instructors educate you without gazing into your soul and branding their knowledge directly onto your brain?”   Febre sucked in his lower lip.  “Well, uh, we had lectures, which were, erm, similar, I suppose.  Also, there were assignments, tests, and, uh, just a lot of reading.  You know, tomes, grimoires, those kinds of things?”   “Oh, how novel!  Ho—novel!  That one wasn’t even on purpose!”  The creature gave another jovial chuckle, which rattled in Febre’s brain like a piece of shrapnel, and slapped a jointless limb where a knee might’ve been.  “Whatever will you ponies think of next!”   ---   Upon stepping into the hall outside of Gray Mane’s lab, Ikebana nearly stepped into another guardspony.   “Hey,” said a grinning Featherstep.  “What’s up?”   “Jeez, Feathers!  Don’t go sneaking up me like that,” grumbled Ikebana, adjusting his barding and smoothing the parts of his mane that had suddenly stuck up.   “Actually, I was walking right behind you on your way over here, waiting to catch your attention,” said Featherstep, innocently.  “It’s not my fault you didn’t notice me.”   “Yeah, I have my doubts about that.”   Featherstep leaned towards the smart stone, which Ikebana pulled closer to his chest in response.  “What’s that you—oh!  Is that the thing Crack Shot and the others have been using to keep in touch?”  As Featherstep lifted a hoof out to tap it, Ikebana levitated it just out of reach.   “It is, and watch it with those shoes.  I don’t know how durable this thing is, but I don’t want it on my head if you chip it.”   The two guardsponies walked the length of the spell-scarred hall towards the more hospitable regions of the castle, Ikebana’s hoofsteps clinking softly on the marble and Featherstep’s making no sound at all.   “So what are you doing with it?” the latter asked.   Ikebana blinked.  “…Well, Febre mentioned something about delivering it to Princess Luna.”   “Ah, I see,” said Featherstep with a nod, and Ikebana was glad to leave it at that.  And then Featherstep just had to keep on talking.  “Except it seems like Febre’d come looking for one of us if that was the case.  I mean, it’s not like there’s been any schedule to these letters and conversations, so it doesn’t seem like something one could just guess on.”   “…Couldn’t one?” asked Ikebana, lamely.   “Nah.”  Featherstep shook his head.  Then he tilted it and glanced sidelong at his friend.  “Actually, I take that back.  If he were here, Check Mate would probably be able to, wouldn’t he?”   “…Heh, yeah, he probably would.”   They stepped from the hall of Gray Mane’s lab into another.  Plush, red carpet was laid in it, given that out here it’d have an actual chance of survival.  Another pair of patrolling guardsponies nodded to them in greeting as they passed.   “I’d, uh, like your advice on something, by the way,” said Featherstep, when they were alone once more.   “Yeah?”   “I’m going to be seeing Villa later tonight, and, you know, I thought that I might get her some flowers.  And I thought maybe you’d have some suggestions.”   Ikebana grinned.  “That sounds like something you should figure out on your own.”   Featherstep raised an eyebrow.  “So that’s how it is, huh?”   “Yep…  But, if I were in your position, I’d probably figure that roses are too cliché.  I’d figure that a few lilies might be nice—stargazers, maybe—with some lavender to set it off if you can find it.  I might also figure that some lisianthus would help finish it out, though all of that might be getting a bit above your pay grade.”   Featherstep smiled and nodded.  “Well, I hope I can figure all of that out.”   “I’m sure you’ll figure out something.”   “So before you march off right away to”—Featherstep coughed once, loudly and deliberately—“deliver that stone to Princess Luna, how about letting her sleep in a little longer and bringing it to lunch?  I bet Sender and Rose wouldn’t mind a chance to say hi to the others, and I’d like to know how that thing works.”   “Have you ever written a letter and blown out a candle?”   “Not at the same time, but yeah.”   “Then you know how it works.”   ---   Each flake of snow a kiss bidding good night,   Nomde Plume stared at the weave of script staining the page, as it slowly dried beneath so many others.  She frowned.  Then she dipped the tip of her quill into the dwindling contents of her ink bottle and scored a line across it.  She stood from her desk and glanced out the window, where a beautiful cloudless sky lay on the other side of it.   The nerve of it.   How was she supposed to feel inspired to write about winter with the day as disgustingly gorgeous as it was?  She couldn’t even see her breath.  With a flicker of her horn, the curtains drew themselves shut.  In response to the sudden dimness, a few of her fireflies stirred awake and began to glow dutifully.  She had just begun to muse over the possibility of dragging her ice box into the room, when a familiar knock was tapped onto her apartment door.   “The door is open, Villa!” she called out, as she placed her latest abortive effort at prose onto a stack with all the rest.   There was the sound of the apartment door opening and closing, which should have been followed by Villanelle stepping into Nomde’s room to say hello.  But, it wouldn’t have been Villa if that wasn’t preceded by the sound of the ice box door opening and closing first.  Villa entered the darkened room, nibbling at the last of a small piece of celery.  She panned her head around.   “Drawn curtains, the smell of ink, and a foreboding sense of gloom,” she announced.  “Have you been writing, Nomde?”   Nomde sighed.  “Trying to.  I just haven’t been able to get into the right mindset for it.”   “Really?”  Villa walked towards Nomde’s desk, looking at the stack of paper on its corner.  “It looks like you’ve been busy at it.”   “All of that is garbage,” said Nomde.  “I don’t even want to think about it right now.”   Villa slid one of the sheets of paper toward herself, noting a struck-out sentence on a world buried in white.  “…At least you didn’t say ‘alabaster,’” she noted to herself.  “And for something you think unworthy of thought, it’s all arranged in a rather neat pile.  Most other writers would have an empty waste bin surrounded by all of the crumpled pages they had failed to throw into it.”   “Well… I might want to think about them later.”   “Now that’s no way to get yourself out of a rut.”  Villa tutted.  “You’ll just end up fettering yourself to ideas that aren’t working for you.  And if an idea doesn’t work, you need to be able to toss it aside, to throw it away, to make a tabula rasa of your creative center once more!”   “I’d prefer not to make a mess of my room.”   “Nonsense,” said Villa, sliding the sheet of paper towards Nomde.  “Go on then, just crumple it!  Toss it over your shoulder!  I guarantee that it’ll be cathartic.”   Nomde levitated the paper and stared at Villa with purposeful impassiveness as she folded it once lengthwise, once crosswise, into a small rectangle.  Then, still staring at Villa, she floated it from over her desk and released it, whereupon it fluttered softly to the floor.   “There,” said Villa, with a wide smile.  “Now don’t you feel so much better?”   “Doubtlessly,” said Nomde, as she lifted the folded piece of paper off of the floor and back on to her desk.  “So to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”   Villa stepped towards the room’s windows and began throwing the curtains open.  “I wanted to see if I could wrest you from this dungeon by inviting you to an early afternoon sparring session, to be followed after by rehydration with something heavily caffeinated.  After all, what better way is there to clear your mind than by having a hoof fly at it?”   Nomde willed the curtains back shut.  “Hm, that might be nice, but I really should try to work on this poem,” she said, though without much conviction.  “Couldn’t we go later tonight?”   “I’m afraid not, Nomde,” said Villa, tossing her mane back.  “I have a date.”   “Oh?  With whom is it this time?  Or is that still yet to be decided?”   Villa frowned.  “With Featherstep, of course, and I do not appreciate the insinuation of your question.”   Nomde smirked as she pushed her chair beneath her desk and walked towards the living room.  “Well, not many ponies have a little black book that’s written in chapters,” she said.  “But if you remember his name, it must be getting serious.”   “There’s no need to be sour just because I’ve always been so much better at playing the field than you.”   “Or would that be ploughing it?  But, far be it from me to criticize you on your quest for Mr. Right Now.”   “The expression, Nomde, is ‘Mr. Right,’” replied Villa.  Whatever icy chill Nomde had sought while writing was right there in the tone of her voice.   “Isn’t that what I said?”  Nomde blinked innocently.  “Anyways, if it’s working out, then I’m happy for you.”   Villa smiled.  “Thank you, Nomde.  Shall I tell you about him?”   “No, that’s alright.”   “He’s sweet,” went on Villa regardless.  “He gives me the impression of a pony that thinks about a lot, but keeps quiet about most of it.”   “And that isn’t too dull for you?”  Nomde opened her apartment door and stepped outside; the air was brisk and pleasant.  She wondered if it was the same for Storm, wherever he was right now.  Maybe when she got back she’d work on a letter instead.   “It’s better than the opposite,” said Villa, as she followed Nomde outside and cantered on ahead of her towards a staircase leading down into the apartment complex’s courtyard.  “Shall we?”   “One moment,” said Nomde, her horn beginning to glow, “I just need to lock up first.”   Villa pressed a hoof to her brow as her friend’s door began to ignite with its various squiggly lines and outdated alphabet.  “Honestly, Nomde, just use a key!”   ---   At the corner of a table in a corner of Castle Canterlot’s cafeteria, Sender, Rosetta, and Featherstep watched with varying degrees of interest as Ikebana demonstrated the smart stone.   “Oh wow, look at how it lights up!” said Rosetta, as Ikebana scratched a salutation across the stone.  “Does it do that if you write on anything else?”   After blowing his message away, Ikebana lifted the stylus and pursed his lips.  “You know, I have no idea.”  He placed the tip of it against a napkin and tried scribbling something down.  “Doesn’t look like it.”   “Boo.”  Rosetta folded her hooves on the table and rested her head on them.  “I was hoping I could write something on my helmet.  Like, ‘BORN TO GUARD,’ right across the side.”   “Mind if I take a look?” asked Sender.   Ikebana nodded.  “Don’t let me”—with a flash of green, the stone and its stylus vanished and reappeared in front of Sender—“stop you.  You realize that it would have been no trouble for me to slide it the few feet across the table to you?”   Sender shrugged as he levitated the stylus.  “The tip of this looks to be in pretty good shape,” he noted.  “I’m surprised it hasn’t gotten worn down with use.”   Rosetta lifted her head and propped it on a hoof.  “Well, isn’t it magic?”   “She asks, just after seeing it create a line of bright, glowing script, which I then proceeded to blow away in a cloud of glittering mist,” deadpanned Ikebana.   “Oh, shut it.  You know what I meant.  Maybe it’s designed not to wear out.”   “Not a very smart design decision then if Gray Mane ever wants to sell these,” said Sender, as he teleported the stone and stylus back to Ikebana.  A half-second later, its top panel lit up.  “Huh.  I don’t think I did that.”   “Ah, they’ve responded,” said Ikebana.  “Looks like Crack Shot’s got a hold of it.”   Rosetta sat up and leaned forward.  “Really?”   “Yep.  Neither Storm nor Check really seem like the types to write, ‘Yo, what up?’”   “Heh, well, let him know we say hello,” said Featherstep.   “Ask them if they miss bathrooms yet,” added Sender.   “Hey, guys!” said Rosetta, waving a hoof.  “How’s the trip going so far?”   “You guys realize that the words don’t just appear because you’re shouting them, right?” growled Ikebana.  “That I have to write them down?”   “Well hurry up then!” said Rosetta.   “Alright, jeez!” said Ikebana as he put the stylus to the stone.   Rosetta, Sender, and Featherstep say hello.   Ikebana glared as the other three guardsponies jeered and hissed.  Crack Shot’s reply came a few seconds later.   Heya dudes, how’s everything going? Things are going fine.  Everypony wants to know how your travels are going. Not too bad.  We got sent to another dimension for a couple of days which was kinda cool, but now it’s like frigging freezing back here on Equestria Prime or whatever you wanna call it.  Tell Rosetta I found a souvenir for her, by the way.  It’s a non-magical spear.   Ikebana, Featherstep, Sender, and Rosetta each read the response, and then tried to read each other’s faces for a hint of comprehension.   “Er, I’m not sure what to write in response to all of that,” said Ikebana.   “Well, tell him I said, ‘thank you,’ of course,” said Rosetta.   “Uh, right.”   Rosetta gives her thanks. Hey, no worries!  Also, she might like this:  tell her, “Tá m'árthach foluaineach lán d'eascanna.”   After a minute, a second message arrived, saying:  Okay, hold on, I messed that up.  That was supposed to be, “Ní leor teanga amháin.”  Also, maybe don’t so much tell her as let her read it.  The pronunciation is kinda wonky.   “Do you understand what he wrote?” asked Featherstep.   “Not in the slightest…,” said Rosetta, a far-off look in her eyes extending beyond the cafeteria wall a few yards in front of them.  She stood up.  “But I’m going to.”  Just as she started into a gallop, she paused, spun, and looked Sender in the eye.  “Actually, I might as well save myself some time—you mind zapping me down into the castle stacks?”   Sender nodded, and with a flash of his horn she was gone.  Featherstep stared at the space where she had stood.   “You know,” he began, “I’d have figured she’d ask what the language was called first.”   “And wasn’t she scheduled on patrol?” added Ikebana.   “Ohh, she can still patrol.  It’ll just be in the stacks now,” noted Sender.  “I mean, a patrol’s still a patrol regardless of where it happens, right?”   ---   That evening, Featherstep alighted in front of Villa’s… well, it was an apartment, but it would’ve been amusing if it were a villa instead.  As it stood, there was little humor to be found in Canterlot property values beyond the absurdity of them.  No, they would much sooner reduce a pony to tears.   Featherstep had purchased a bouquet based on Ikebana’s thinly veiled advice, although he had made an addition of red snapdragons because he thought they matched Villa’s eyes.  Which, he mused absently, must’ve been a bit silly as a romantic gesture before the advent of the mirror.  He knocked on her door.  Then, remembering himself, he knocked louder.   “Just a minute!” sang Villa’s voice.  It was a pleasant voice.   A sweet, herbal aroma greeted Featherstep as the door opened, along with Villa herself.  A white scarf was wrapped around her neck.  “Oh!  Are those for me?” she asked rhetorically of the flowers, because tradition demanded it.   “Heh, that they are,” said Featherstep, as he presented them towards her.  “I wasn’t sure what you might like, so I sort of went with a sampler.”   Villa smiled.  “Well they’re all absolutely lovely.  Allow me to find something to put them in.”   She took the bouquet and gave a quick glance around her apartment, before making a small sound of triumph.  She cantered into her kitchen, removed the lid from a large tea pot, and placed the flowers inside.   “Perfect!” she said.  “Now then, shall we?”   From Villa’s apartment, the two of them began towards their destination, a new restaurant with the curious name of Hair of the Dog Bistro.  They strolled beneath the freshly lit lanterns of Canterlot’s avenues and the waning light of the setting sun, as around them various businesses closed for the day and others opened for the evening.  During that time they talked.  Rather, it was mostly Villa that talked, about, well, mostly anything.  How beautiful the day was, how beautiful the sunset was, how beautiful life was; Featherstep was content to listen.  When she leaned against him he said nothing, just smiling instead.  Then, sooner than expected, they were at the Bistro.   “Have you heard anything about this place?” asked Featherstep, staring at a sandwich board on which the name of the restaurant and several dishes had been written in colored chalk.  A sign had yet to be hung over the storefront.   “Not a thing!” said Villa with a smile, as she stepped through the door.  “I simply saw the name as I was passing by here one day, and thought, ‘Why not?’  Here in the city we need to find our adventures somehow, right?”   Featherstep chuckled.  “Yeah, maybe.  On the subject, I’ll have to tell you about what some of my fellow guards have been up to once we’re seated.”  Looking around, it became apparent that seating would not be a problem beyond one of indecision; the restaurant was empty.  “…This place is open, right?”   “It is!” came a voice from the kitchen.  It was followed by its owner, who was an explanation in and of himself as to the name of the restaurant.   “Oh my!” said Villa.  “You’re—”   “A diamond dog, yes,” said the diamond dog, wearily.  He was tall, yellow-furred, and dressed in a black vest, along with an apron that was far too white to have seen active kitchen duty.  “Though I’ll be your server and chef, Benji, if you’ll be staying here to eat?”  The plaintive question mark at the end was impossible to miss.  Then he looked at Featherstep, sniffed once surreptitiously, and dropped his head.  “…Wait, you’re from the Guard, aren’t you,” he said.   Featherstep canted his head to the side.  He hadn’t expected to mix business with pleasure this evening.  “…Yes, I am, actually.  Is something wrong?”   “No!” shouted Benji.  “I can show you my leash—lease, I mean!—my health certificate, my—”   Featherstep quickly held up a hoof.  “That’s not what I meant.  My—”   Featherstep realized immediately that he was stepping straight into undecided territory:  did he say girlfriend, date, special somepony?  He took a hard left.  “…concern was that something may have given you trouble, given that you asked.  We’re just here because we thought we’d stop in for dinner.”   Benji raised his head warily.  “…Really?” he asked.   Featherstep looked at Villanelle, who was giving him the oddest sort of smirk.  She turned to Benji and said, “Really.  Perhaps at a corner booth?”   “Of course!”  Benji gave a bright, sharp-toothed smile.  “You may have any of the four that you’d like.”   After seating Villa and Featherstep with menus, Benji rushed off and returned with two glasses and a pitcher of lemon water.  He waited patiently by another table for the two ponies to decide on their orders.  Villa eventually settled on the clover and quinoa salad, and Featherstep on the hay-topped artichoke dumplings; Benji dashed off back into the kitchen.   “So what were you saying about your guardsmates?” asked Villa.   “Oh, right.  Well, three of them, Crack Shot, Check Mate, and Storm Stunner, the one who I delivered that letter to your friend Nomde for—”   “Ah yes, her boyfriend.”  There was that smirk again.   “Er, heh, yeah—that’s him.”  Featherstep reddened slightly.  “As I was saying, the three of them apparently had quite an experience on this trip of theirs.”   “Oh?”  Villa rested her chin on a hoof and leaned forward.  “Do tell.”   Featherstep did tell, all of the details that he and the others had gathered during their conversation at lunch, about spears, and fae, and unknown places.  At the end of it, Villa’s eyes were wide open, and her water was untouched.   “Travelling to another world…” she whispered.  “How does one pack for that?”   “By knowing what metals will pass through customs, I guess,” noted Featherstep, as he sipped his water.   “If you don’t mind, I’d love to share all of that with Nomde.  Along with what you hear from Storm when he rejoins the others, the next time we get together?”   “Sure thing,” said Featherstep.  In the back of his mind, he noted with a mental cheer that the courtship had to be going well if ‘next time’s were now assumed. "Hmm, hmm, I'll bet she'll be delighted to have another proxy to her beau." Villa pursed her lips. "Or maybe not." Benji arrived with two dishes balanced on his arm and placed them gently in front of the two ponies.  “Bone appétit,” he said, taking a step back from the table and watching anxiously as they took their first bites.  “Is everything satisfactory?”   “It’s marvelous!” said Villa, after dabbing her mouth.  “My compliments!”   Benji’s tail wagged just slightly in response.   Featherstep nodded in agreement.  However, the pleasant taste of the meal had left a question on the tip of his tongue.  “This is fantastic,” he said.  “I’m curious to know how you did it.”   “Pardon, sir?”  Benji tilted his head to the side.   “Well, ponies and diamond dogs have pretty different diets, don’t they?  I’m surprised you understand our tastes so well.”   “Ah, ha, well, diamond dogs also have an exceptional sense of smell,” replied Benji.  “And smell happens to be tied very closely taste.  It allows for an especially refined means of picking flavors.”   Featherstep nodded.  “But, be that as it may, wouldn’t clover and hay and things like that still taste bad to you?”   “Well… yes,” admitted Benji.  “However, I had the chance to study at a culinary institution with ponies—ones that didn’t mind my initial trial and error approach—and, hm, I suppose you might say I learned what tastes bad in the right ways.”   “Remarkable.”  Villa smiled.  “Still, it seems like an unorthodox way to ply your talents, learning what we would enjoy, instead of focusing on others of your kind.  May I ask why?”   Benji gave a wan laugh.  “I suppose that as a diamond dog, even though I’m no real fan of hay, I do like gems, and I thought it might be nicer to earn them with pans and pots instead of a pickaxe, above ground instead of under.”  He looked around his empty restaurant.  “Not that I’ve had much luck.”   “I wonder if I might help with that,” said Villa.  “I work for a periodical here in the city.  The Canterlot Digest, if you’ve heard of it.”   Featherstep guessed from the momentary blank stare that Benji had not, though the diamond dog was courteous enough not to say so.   “I believe I may recognize the name?” he said diplomatically.   Villa laughed.  “It’s alright if you haven’t, because there are enough others that have.  I’d be more than happy to sing your praises, and to even have one of our critics drop by for a more official stance.”   “Really?!”  Benji’s tail wagged with renewed force, inadvertently knocking a candle stand from a table.  “Er, pardon,” he said as he bent down to replace it.  “But I would really appreciate that, thank you!”   “It would be my pleasure, Benji,” said Villa.  “Ponies must know about this place.”   Benji scratched his chin.  “Tell you what:  after you two finish your meals, how about I bring out dessert, free of charge?  Tonight it will be a chocolate torte, topped with caramel daisy petals and a rose-infused glaze.”   “Chocolate?” asked Featherstep, raising an eyebrow.   “That is correct.  And to answer the unasked question, I personally find it bitter, slightly toxic, and absolutely disgusting.”  Benji clapped his paws together.  “I promise that you will love it.”   ---   Princess Luna looked at the contents of her wardrobe.  Gowns and shoes and saddles from ages past hung from old, sagging wire hangers and sat in worn, cloth boxes, a history lesson spun in gossamer and silk.  A thread of darkness wrapped around a black touring hat, one tied with blue ribbons and finished with long, white feathers, and carried it out before Luna’s appraising eye.  As far as fashion went, it might’ve been a thousand years too late.  However, fashion being a cyclical thing, the hat and the rest of her attire had simply looped around into the retro chic.  Or so she had been told by Marery Sue, an assistant to the Royal Sisters with a constant eye on the planetary shifts of the haut monde.  Apparently the older style was also popular with ponies that liked steam?   Luna just knew that she liked the hat.  With a smile, she levitated into an open piece of luggage.   There was a knock at her door, followed by, “Permission to enter, Your Highness!”   “Please, by all means!”   The door opened, revealing a unicorn guardspony.  He bowed at the sight of the princess.   “Ah, good evening, Ikebana,” said Luna.  “Please, rise.  Is there an issue that requires my attention?”   Ikebana stood and swallowed quietly as Princess Luna gave him an inquisitive look.  Although she was more approachable than he had ever expected, she was still a princess—there was always the worry that he’d be too informal in addressing her, and he still wasn’t completely square on the differences between ‘Your Highness’ and ‘Your Majesty,’ not to mention the wildcard of ‘Your Excellency.’  For this he fell back onto a fool-proof strategy, which was to use the passive voice as aggressively as possible.     “It was requested that Gray Mane’s smart stone was to be delivered to Your Highness, Your Highness,” he said.  “It is wished by Sergeant Check Mate that he and the others be given the opportunity to have their recent travels and experiences discussed.”   Princess Luna blinked.  It seemed like every time she reached some level of understanding of the prevailing speech patterns, the next one was right there waiting at the top of some precipitous new climb in idioms and idiosyncrasies.  After she had parsed what Ikebana had said, she replied:  “Ah, is that so?  May I have the stone?”   “Yes, of course, Your Highness.  It would be the pleasure of mine.”  Ikebana levitated the smart stone and its stylus towards Luna.  “If there is no more that may be done by me, my leave shall be taken, Your Highness.”   “Um, yes, of course.  I appreciate your—er, your service is appreciated.”   Ikebana stepped back out into the hall and closed the door behind him, leaving Luna alone with the stone.  He had mentioned, albeit in a circuitous way, that Check Mate and the others wanted to talk about their recent experiences.  And from her last communication with Check Mate, she had gathered that they were nearing one of the sites that she had marked on their map.  She wondered.   Greetings, this is Princeſs Luna.  I am told that you have news?   Hello, Luna, this is Check Mate.  I hope that this evening finds you well.  As you may have surmised, my friends and I have had the opportunity to visit the next location on the map you’ve given us. So they had indeed gotten that far.   Did you find anything of note?   Yes, we did.  I suppose one might say that we found the other side of the map.   Then they had done it!  But if that was the case, she had to ask:  It did not put you into harm’s waye, did it?   When the response came, she could almost hear the chuckle that would’ve accompanied its writing.   None that three members of Equestria’s Royal Guard could not handle.  It made for a memorable visit.  The pookas, although initially wary of our presence, were nevertheless very hospitable.   And they had found the pookas as well.  A race that had divorced itself from and disappeared from history.  One that had been wary of them.  Luna set the stone down for a moment on the enormous spread of her bed, beside her bag of luggage.  She walked to the enormous casement windows of her room and stared out at the enormous expanse of her and her sister’s kingdom, thinking about the enormity of her actions, one thousand years ago.  She was past feeling guilty, but she’d never be beyond remembering.  As she returned to the stone and lay on her bed, various thoughts fought for regency in her mind.  Thoughts about contrition, about penitence, about forgiveness.   I am glad to know that they are safe, she wrote. Indeed they are.  And, although they were initially wary of us, I believe we may have won them over.  One of them, Síofra as she is calling herself, has decided to travel with us for the time being.  Would you care to greet her? Luna’s eyes widened, and a small smile found its way across her face.   Yes, I would very much like that.   It was only a minute before a long and looping font wove across the stone.   Is this the queen bee then, wings, stinger, and all? Luna’s mouth fell open.  Then, it closed once more into a smirk.   This woulde be one of them, though Luna will suffice.  Woulde I be speaking to ‘Síofra’? Aye, this is sidhe.  Though, I can’t help but notice the quotation marks ya used. I did not know that pookas had gotten into the habit of naming themselues.  Although, judging by yours, perhaps they have not? Oh, ya caught that then?  I’m impressed.  Still, it makes it easier for yer boys to address me, so I’m sticking by it.  I consider it a cultural concession of sorts. And I am told that you will be travelling with them? For a spell, since they’re going my way and they seem like decent company.  Even if their palates could use some refinement. Palates? Aye.  Or would that be palette?  The one in yer mouth, not the one that ye’d paint with, whichever that is. They were given pooka fare?   That would be a surprise if true:  the pookas were not ones to share their dishes lightly.  The guardsponies would truly have had to leave an impression. They were at that.  Now, since one of them is reading over my shoulder, laughing and saying that there was nothing fair about it, I’m going to pass ya back to the one with the horn. Síofra’s flowing writing was soon replaced by Check Mate’s prim copperplate.   Hello once more, Luna.  To continue the previous conversation regarding our travels, we were fortunate enough to receive an expedience in the form of the tethers to the pookas’ world.  Storm is currently retrieving some belongings left behind, but once he returns we shall be well on our way into the mountains northward.  We will of course keep you apprised of our experiences. Thank you, Check Mate.  However, come next week our correſpondences will need to be postponed for a period of time.  My sister and I shall be away on a southern sojourn, beginning with a visit to the governess of Rainsbury.  However, although I will be unable to hear of your travels during that time, I have confidence that you and your friends will conduct yourselves wih the same thoughtfulness and nobility that you share with those here in Canterlot, and that you have shared on your travels.  Be yourselves, and I know that you will continue to prove excellent exemplars of Equestria.   When the response came, the writing had metamorphosed into something fast and loose that must have, by process of elimination, been Crack Shot’s.   No way!  You’re skipping town???   Not quite, Crack Shot, we shall actually be flying.  I did tell you that I was beholden to my royal duties upon introduction of your task, did I not? Yeah, but, I didn’t actually buy that.  Like, I thought you were just saying that to get us out the door.  You know—‘ROYAL DUTIES,’ wink wink, nudge nudge?   Luna couldn’t help but laugh at that.   Alas, you have your royal duties, and I have mine. Yeah, I guess, but couldn’t you just take the geezer’s stone with you? I am sure that I could do that, but I do not think that I would do that.  For one thing, it is not my ſtone.  Furthermore, I am not the only one that you three are keeping in contact with, am I? Touchë. Now, before I go, would you return the stone to Check Mate?  I have one last thing I would like to address. Sure thing, boss.   Luna stood from her bed and approached a round, granite table onto which a chessboard had been carved.  Its pieces, divided into opposing factions of frosted crystal and black hematite, had marched from their starting rank and file across it.  They had arranged themselves in well-considered positions in defense of their kings.   Check’s response appeared, which read simply:  I do believe it was your move, Luna.   Luna’s horn darkened, and a hematite unicorn bishop, her last, retreated a step backwards and to its left.   Bg6, she wrote.   Within a few minutes, Check replied:  Bxg6. And so her last bishop was removed by one of his own.  She carefully placed it to the side of the board.   As she returned to gathering items for her trip, she thought on the rules of the game and how it was played.  There were those who played defensively, trying to keep every piece, every pawn on the board.  There were who those who played offensively, sacrificing their pieces to remove their opponent’s from play.   Check Mate, she found did whichever was necessary.  During their games he seemed to live in the present moment as much as he did the dozens ahead.  He did not play defensively, or offensively, so much as he played adaptively and effectively.  And rather ruthlessly, she thought with some amusement, remembering past games.   But, that’s what they were:  games.  Win or lose, they always ended amicably.  And, as a game, the goal was singular.  Artifice, chary, impulse, luck—whatever the means employed, the aim, ultimately, was to protect the king at any cost.  A victory was a victory, no matter how pyrrhic, for what piece was more important?  She mused at the fact that there would be some that thought this an allegory of leadership.   She shook her head.  What a disagreeable notion.