//------------------------------// // Chapter 12 // Story: From Canterlot with Love // by Sagebrush //------------------------------// A small fire burned on the northern reach of the pookas’ valley, making the nighttime chill just a little less intolerable.  Check Mate sat beside it, keeping it stoked as he wrote to Ikebana about the plants of the fae realm.  Nearby, Síofra was trying to find a form to get comfortable in.  And Crack Shot stood a dozen or so yards away, his Nightmare Night costume wrapped around him, staring at the snow-capped peaks of their next destination.  Above, the moon was still full, or nearly so, and it turned those peaks a cool blue as it lit up the edges of the clouds drifting over and through them. “I wonder who’s up there,” said Crack Shot.  A breeze blew through the camp, cutting through the thin cloth of his sheet.  “And why.  It’s gotta be friggin’ freezing!”  He turned to Síofra.  “You got any ideas? Síofra, who had just decided on the shape of a wolf, shook a large, angular head.  “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell ya.” “Abominable snow ponies, maybe.” Síofra tilted her head.  “…Aye?” “You never know, right?” Síofra let one side of her mouth bend upwards.  “I suppose one doesn’t at that.  And what would make these so-called snow ponies so abominable?” Crack Shot gave a lazy shrug.  “Beats me.  But I’d probably be feelin’ pretty abominable if I was stuck livin’ in a winter wonder wasteland.  So what’s with the new look?” “My kind likes to change shapes every now and then.  A new form, a new perspective.  One wouldn’t want to get stuck in a rut, ya know?”  Síofra nestled into the grass and curled her tail over her legs like a wrap.  “And I thought a thicker coat would be welcome.” “Makes sense,” said Crack Shot, as he turned towards their camp.  “But why not go with something big and fat like a bear?” “Because then I’d probably get caught up in thinking about finding a cave to hibernate in.  When ya take another creature’s shape, it’s not only the shape ya get.  Yer thinking changes too.” “No kiddin’?” “Aye.  Things like instinct carry over, like a buzz in the back of one’s head.  During the time we spend in a creature’s form, it’s as if we can peek at racial memory itself.” “Yeah?  Huh.”  Crack Shot scratched his chin.  “So what do you think about when you turn into a pony?” “Grass.” Crack Shot nodded in complete understanding. Beside the campfire, Check continued his own conversation, which had moved on to the topic of his recent adventures.  He was just finishing translation of them into language appropriate for his parents. It was there that we encountered a remarkable, intelligent species of canine.  They delighted in meeting us and immediately began to leap about us.  Of course, not wishing to have paw prints and saliva on our persons, we diverted their playful energies towards a game of fetch instead.  Afterwards and after some travel, we arrived at our destination:  a palatial estate situated on its own private island.  Its occupants were more than hospitable, involving us in their leisure activities and some illuminating palaver before, sending us on our way with our prize:  an antique of martial tradition.  Now we continue our journey, and I expect that our minds will be occupied with it, but I shall be sure to keep you apprised of what we encounter along the way. With Love, Check Mate After a few minutes Ikebana wrote back, I’ve got to say, the story seems to have evolved since I first heard it earlier today. Yes, I’ll concede as much.  As it is, I promised my mother that in relating my travels, I would tell her about both the bad and the good.  However, given her temperament, I felt that, perhaps, there’d be benefit in making the bad sound like the good. Heh, say no more.  I’ll make sure your letter gets out tomorrow.  About all of that though—are you guys really comfortable travelling with one of those pookas as they call themselves, after all that they put you through?  It sounds like you faced some real danger, just to prove that you weren’t dangers yourselves. Check thought for a moment before answering.  Yes, I cannot deny that we were made to face what could be called mortal perils.  However, our present companion did save Storm’s life, and she did, rather surreptitiously, make sure that Crack Shot and I had our gold on our persons—a measure of insurance, no doubt, though unneeded—for our travels.  We were made to face perils, yes, but I believe she made certain to stack the odds well in our favor. Maybe, but it’d be terrible if something had happened.  It all sounds so damn unnecessary. Check smiled.  To us, perhaps.  But no doubt there are cultural differences that would argue otherwise. I’ll say.  Setting that aside though, I envy you.  Those mushrooms, those trees, those colors—all of them must’ve been sights to see. They were, without doubt. Check glanced over the dancing orange light of the campfire, towards the grove they had emerged from.  Perhaps, if it is alright with our new companion, I could bring something back for your study on our return. After a couple of minutes came, I’d really like that.  Thank you. It would be my pleasure.  Have a good night, Ikebana. You too.  Stay safe out there. Check tucked the smart stone back into his saddlebags and put another piece of wood into the fire.  It hissed with steam, a remainder of the rain two days past, and a reminder that more might come.  When it blossomed with flame and smoke, he turned to the north, where mountains and clouds hid the rest of the night sky.  Yes, perhaps more feral weather would come, but for now there was stillness, quiet. “What’s on your mind, dude?” asked Crack Shot, taking a seat beside Check. Check turned toward him and smiled.  “Ah, I was just thinking.  When we first began our trip, the night was a veritable riot of chirps and calls, and the days were no different.  Now it seems so silent.  I think I might miss the birdsong.” “Really?” said Síofra with a snort, as she lay beside the fire and let her ears fold back.  “Ya might not if ya could understand half of what those birds were saying.  Yer typical birdcall is a catcall stripped of its modesty.  It’d put a blush on yer face and no mistake.” Crack Shot peered off into the southern sky, peered off at all of its uncountable stars.  “At least the sky’s more or less the same as it was when we set out.”  Movement caught his eye, and he pointed a hoof towards it as he squinted.  “Hey, what’s that?” Among the stars, another, dimmer speck of light was moving between them, not quick enough to be a shooting star.  It paused, and then began drifting to the northwest. Check narrowed his eyes.  “I wonder… do you think it might be Storm?” The speck paused once more, seemed to hesitate, then moved towards the northeast. “Yeah, that’s Storm alright,” said Crack Shot, flatly.  “Maybe he hasn’t noticed the fire.  Think you can flag him down?” Check nodded.  “I shall do my best.” Check closed his eyes, and his horn began to shimmer.  As he focused, it brightened:  like a candle, like a torch, like a star.  Once it had reached such an intensity that Crack Shot and Síofra had to turn their eyes away from it, he threw his head back and cast a thin beam of light into the sky. “Well that was something,” remarked Síofra, as Check caught his breath.  “Ya think he noticed?” “If not, I’ll head up there and tell him to fly with his eyes open,” said Crack Shot.  “Ah, right on, here he comes.” In a short span of time—about the length of this sentence, actually—Storm descended into the camp.  He held a clutter of ironware within his forehooves which he placed down carefully as he alighted next to the tent.  Síofra’s ears pinned back when she saw it, but she made no comment.  After spotting the camping bag on the other side of the tent, Storm began packing the items away.  After he had finished, he strode towards the others. “Hey, guys,” he said, with a wave.  “You’re up late.” “And you’re here early,” noted Check. “Ahh, heh, yeah,” said Storm, taking a seat by the fire and holding his hooves out over it.  “I thought I’d try to avoid sleeping out in a bunch of damp grass if I could avoid it.” “Well, there’s tea if you would like it,” said Check, watching his companion, noting the frost that had formed all over his barding like a second layer of gilt.  “I believe that you would benefit from it.” “Yeah, I think I’d really appreciate that.  Thanks, Check, and sorry I wasn’t here to help set up camp.” “Don’t worry.  It was no trouble for us at all.” Check poured the tea into an unused bowl and passed it to Storm, who accepted it with a grateful nod.  After he had finished it, Storm set the bowl down and stood up, stretching his wings and neck.  He turned towards the tent.  Their tiny, not-quite-three-pony-sized tent. “Have we figured out sleeping arrangements with the four of us?” he asked. “Dude, she’s a shape-shifter,” said Crack Shot, nodding his head towards Síofra. “I doubt space will be that much of a problem.” Síofra laughed as she padded away into a thick patch of grass.  “I’ll be fine out here,” she said.  “But thanks all the same.” “You sure about that?” “Aye, that I am.”  Síofra nodded her head before placing it down in the grass. “If you say so,” said Crack Shot, somewhat uncertainly.  “I’ll leave my costume out if you decide you want somethin’ to cover yourself with.”  He turned to Storm.  “Anyways, since we didn’t expect you to show back up tonight, you understand that dibs have already been determined.”  He yawned.  “And I think it’s about time for me to claim my spot.” “Heh, I would’ve figured as much.  Sleep tight.” “With this tent, there’s no doubt we’re gonna.  Peace, dude.” Crack Shot went ahead of the others into the tent, followed soon by Check, while Síofra lay in her patch of grass.  After writing his journal entry for the night in the dying light of the campfire, Storm crawled into the tent as well, shoving an already unconscious Crack Shot to the side.  Despite his long flight, he didn’t fall asleep immediately.  So he did not miss the sound of Síofra rising, padding softly towards the tent, and lying down just outside of the flap. --- Morning arrived to the tune of a trumpet. Storm pushed Crack Shot’s foreleg from over his neck and sat up sluggishly.  Turning a foggy gaze down to his side, the empty spot confirmed what he was hearing, and he wondered how Check had been able to slip out of the tent without his notice.  Yawning, he looked towards Crack Shot, whose eyes remained shut.  No, not just shut—clenched. “Still asleep?” asked Storm, for formality’s sake. Crack Shot’s eyes didn’t open, but in a voice no louder than a murmur he said, “Yeah, and all of this is a dream, because I know there is no friggin’ reason Check can’t let us sleep in.” Storm grinned and nudged Crack Shot in the shoulder.  “Come on, dream’s over.” They pulled themselves out of the tent into a hazy, mist-filled morning.  Near the horizon of the eastern sky, the sun sat like a tarnished brass coin in a clouded fountain.  Check was performing beside the gray-and-white remains of last night’s fire.  Across from him, Síofra sat with a large grin, wagging her tail from side to side.  When he came to the end of his song, she showed her appreciation with a high howl. “It’s better than a rooster at least,” said Crack Shot, his eyes dark and baggy. “Sorry to disregard your dysania, Crack Shot,” said Check with a smile, “but as I’ve said before, practice is necessary to keep my proficiencies honed.  And we do have quite the hike ahead of us today, so we’ll want as much day as possible to attempt it.” “Yeah, yeah, no worries, dude.  For what it’s worth, it doesn’t sound like you’re getting sloppy.” “Aye, that was great!” said Síofra.  “You’ll have to play for the others sometime!” Check’s smile brightened.  “I am pleased that you enjoyed my performance, and that you’d think others would as well.” “Oh, aye, we love music.” “Is that so?” said Storm.  “I don’t recall hearing any while we were in the fae realm.” “Well, ye weren’t there long, were ye?”  Síofra tilted her head to the side and scratched it with a hind leg.  “But, I could share a song if ye’d like.” “By all means,” said Check.  “We would be delighted to hear it.” “Alright, I just need to think of one that I can remember all the words to.  It’s easy to get used to just humming the bars.”  Síofra lowered her head in thought.  “Ah, I know a good one!” She cleared her throat. Then, she began to sing, and Storm would never forget it. She began with a gentle humming, warm and honeyed, like a strum against one’s heartstrings.  The words that followed—clear, soft, powerful—were unknown to him, but Storm knew, he somehow knew them to be old.  As old as the world, as old as time.  Unfamiliar but resonant, meaningless but meaningful, they spoke directly to the soul in rhymes and trills and lilts. He was no longer in a cold, damp meadow, and it was no longer the last weeks of autumn.  With her song, the skies cleared and warmed, and pollen-scented winds rolled past, carrying her melody.  The sun was no longer tarnished brass, but polished gold, plucked from its clouded fountain and cast into an ocean of blue.  It was spring, and it would always be spring, as each word she sang breathed new life into the world. And then, with a final hum, she had finished. Storm blinked, and the world filled with mists and cold once more.  He shivered.  From the sudden chill, or from something else entirely. “Wow… that was… that was…” He gave up.  What words did he have that would describe it? “That was a lot better than your cooking,” said Crack Shot. Síofra stared gilded daggers at him. “That was ineffable,” whispered Check.  “I almost hesitate to ask what meaning lies within its verse.” “Well, I’m not sure what effable is or how it got thrown in there, but thanks, I think.”  Síofra laughed uneasily.  “But regarding its meaning, well, it’s a wee bit like birdsong in that regard.  Perhaps ya might appreciate it more without understanding the lyrics and all of the, eh, anatomical subtext and such there within.  It’s a real hit at parties though!” “Still, thank you for sharing… and, uh, thank you for not sharing, I suppose,” said Storm.  He turned to the northern mountains, panning his head skywards to take them all in.  “Changing the subject though, do you guys think we’re going to be alright on provisions up there?” “Ours should be sufficient for at least a week, provided that we ration them”—Check gave Crack Shot a meaningful look—“but we should finish our bags with what we can gather here.” “If yer looking for scran,” interrupted Síofra, “ye could always gather some of the mushrooms from around the ring.  They’re filling and they’ll keep for months.” “Those are edible?” asked Crack Shot. “Aye.  They’re one of the main ingredients in that bread I made ye.” Crack Shot stared at her. “They’re edible,” she hissed. Storm walked from the camp into the grove, towards the circle of spotted, red-and-blue mushrooms.  “And taking mushrooms from it won’t mess with the way this thing works?” he called back. “For a bit, but don’t ya worry,” replied Síofra, “they’ll grow right back soon enough.  Ya know how thick a mushroom’s roots run, right?” “Mycelium,” said Check. Síofra gave him the blank, flat look of one that had seen the point they were making blunted against a wall.  “…Yer what now? “Mycelium,” repeated Check.  “I believe it would be a more precise term than ‘roots,’ in regards to mushrooms.” “Can’t say I see what’s wrong with ‘roots.’” “That’s too easy to understand,” said Crack Shot, shaking his head knowingly.  “You shouldn’t be able to guess what words like that mean just by hearin’ ‘em, and they have to be, like, impossible to spell.  That way when someone says something and you have no idea what it means, you can tell that they know what they’re talkin’ about.  That’s what makes it scientific.” Then, recalling the side effect of the bread outside of the aftermath that was the aftertaste, he asked, “Hey, if those mushrooms were in the bread you made, does that mean that anybody could just eat one to go back and forth between your world?” “No, but it would mean that more than a few folks back home would be getting cheesed off to learn that others were picking apart a circle without permission.” Storm leaned down and took a small bite out of one of the mushrooms.  It had an unexpected, fruity taste, like a mix of peaches and strawberries, which made him wonder just what sort of culinary dark arts Síofra had employed to so thoroughly destroy it.  But, he noticed, that single bite put a large dent in the hunger from yesterday’s flight and last night’s sleep.  Of course, this still left him with no idea about its actual nutritional value.  But, he reasoned, the same could be said of most convenience store snack aisles. “Yeah, these will be just fine,” he said.  “So then—shall we pack everything up and be on our way?” --- After gathering their gear and packing several mushrooms into their bags, the guardsponies, along with Síofra, made their way towards the northern mountains.  It was only a mile to reach them, but it was not an easy one.  Grass and loam gave way to loose, tumbling rock as the ground began to climb. It is not often easy to say where a mountain begins.  Viewed from afar, where distance smooths out the rough edges, an unsure guess might be made, a dubious distinction drawn.  Up close, however, with only the immediate perspective afforded by the buildup of crags and dips and tree-covered hillocks, it is usually much more difficult to say where the climb begins.  A mile from where they had made camp the previous night, the four of them found no trouble in saying where the mountains began. Walls of rock loomed above them, sheer and gray, white and jagged toothed, not so much climbs as cliffs.  The mountain ridge extended and disappeared into the clouds overhead, hiding peaks and summits and possibly much more than that.  This time there was no stream to follow, and no clear path to take.  There was only hard, sharp, uneven stone, and a deep sense of foreboding. Flurries of snow began to drift down like a silent threat. “Well, crap,” said Crack Shot, in summation.  He wrinkled his nose as a flake landed on his snout.  “And what’s up with this snow?” he added, as he crossed his eyes to look at the flake as it melted.  “It’s shaped all funny—no branches, no symmetry, no style.” “We should probably presume that no pony had a hoof in its manufacture,” said Check, “that it’s a product of some other phenomenon.” “Trippy.” “Is there anything on the map about a way up?” asked Storm. “Given that these mountains have found their depiction as a series of upside-down ‘V’s,” responded Check, “I believe that we are on our own to make one.  But let us make the best of it, yes?” He took a moment to study the shape of the rock, the placement of juts and cracks.  Then, satisfied, he bounded to one ledge, then another, and another, scaling the cliff side in a series of careful leaps.  “There,” he said, after catching his breath, “that isn’t too terrible, is it?” “Sure,” said Crack Shot, as he flew up alongside him.  “Thirty feet up and only a billion to go.  Let me know if you want that lift.” “I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” said Check as he stared upwards, planning his next route.  “Though it may yet come to that.” “Just let me know, dude.  And since thirty feet up also means thirty feet down, I figure you won’t mind if I stick nearby all the same, aight?” Check smiled.  “I would appreciate that, thank you.” Just behind them, Síofra flew beside Storm as they followed Check’s ascent.  She had taken the form of a snow owl  for the trip and, to Storm’s disappointment, had yet to say ‘who.’ “Any reason why he doesn’t take him up on the offer?” she asked.  “It’d probably be a lot easier for him, and certainly a lot faster.” “He will if he thinks he needs to,” said Storm. “And when will that be, I wonder.”  A couple of pebbles were knocked towards the earth as Check landed on a higher foothold, and it was a few seconds before they heard the clacks.  “Given that he’s hopping across a cliff side in the beginnings of a snowstorm, where else would be a more fitting place?” Storm watched as his friend made the jump to another thin ledge, using the momentum from it to complete another longer leap.  How long had it been since the Staff Sergeant’s runs had left Check struggling for breath? “I wouldn’t have pegged him as one to show off,” continued Síofra. “He isn’t,” said Storm.  “But if he ever wanted to show off, he’s definitely earned it.”  Then, because it was eating at him, he said, “You know, in this short conversation you’ve managed to fit in a ‘when,’ ‘where,’ and ‘why.’  Since you’re currently an owl, can I ever expect you to make a sound like one?” If Síofra had lips at the time, they would have curled into a grin.  “I don’t have any idea what yer talking about.” --- Several hours had passed by the time the four’s ascent finally took them through the first layer of clouds, though it would’ve been a guess as to when they reached that point, for all of the snow filling their vision with white afterwards.  The slope of the climb at last leveled into something that didn’t run alongside gravity, but unfortunately that meant the snow was now sticking to the rock.  That is, the snow that wasn’t whipping back up from the rock and into their faces.  The way they took led into a natural corridor, which made for a natural wind tunnel.  It was walled by rock, snow, and ice on either side.  An icy gale buffeted against them, whistling across the stone as it spilled past, cutting through the steel of their armor, drowning out the crunch of their steps. Storm had taken point, steadily forging a path that filled up in a span of seconds behind them.  The blizzard stung his eyes, but he kept his chin up, if only to keep it from dragging in the snow.  He tried to think positive thoughts, to look at the bright side—one that wouldn’t give him snow blindness.  When he was a foal, he would covet this kind of weather:  the clean new world to tromp through, the snowball battles to wage… …And of course, most importantly, the day off from school that’d be the foundation of all of that, if he were to be completely honest with himself.  When he was a foal, this was the kind of weather he would wish for on winter nights.  When he was older, and therefore more pragmatic, he would try bribing the weather pegasi instead. A gust of wind threw diamond dust into his face, wetting his eyes and nostrils while drying his lips. Who was he kidding?  This kind of weather, colorless and cold as it was, only looked good on the other side of a roaring fire and an insulated window. “S-Storm?” yelled Check, over the howl of wind. “Yeah?” “I f-feel it would be w-wise if we c-considered finding sh-shelter!  The w-weather only s-seems to be w-worsening!” As if to stress this, a squall came screaming down the corridor, dragging a thick, biting cloud of ice with it.  Storm stopped pushing forward and turned to address the others.  He saw that Check had begun to shiver, though the unicorn was doing his best to hide it.  It was like watching somepony try to subdue a running jackhammer by duct taping it to a birch tree. “…Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” said Storm.  “Where would that be though?” he asked, looking forward at the endless path of white before them.  “I don’t think the tent would last a second out here.” “While yer thinking it over, ya ought to try thinking it under,” said Síofra from the rear of the group.   “Dude, when’d you change forms again?” asked Crack Shot, upon seeing the return of her more wolfish features. “Eh, who would even bother to keep track?” Storm scowled at that. “U-under…?  A b-burrow then?” stammered Check, tilting his head to the side and tipping a thin layer of snow from his champron as it trembled. “Aye, they’re cozy things,” said Síofra, as she stuck a paw into a large snowdrift pressed into a recess of one of the cliffs.  “Though a bit wojus in terms of interior decoration, as ya might guess.  I’ll get it started, and then the three of ye can help out with the rest.” She worked swiftly and within minutes had vanished into the rise of snow.  After another few minutes, her voice came through, muffled but unmistakable:  “Now would ye look at that!” Crack Shot stuck his head into the tunnel after her.  “Does that mean we can come in?” “Aye!” Crack Shot took the lead into the narrow passage, and Check followed after him.  Storm had to first remove the camping gear before he could fit.  He pushed it in front of him, relying on the sides of the tunnel to guide him forward.  With the canvas blocking his view, it came as a surprise when the narrow walls of snow were suddenly replaced by much wider ones of stone.   Storm’s second thought was that it shouldn’t have been as well lit inside of the cavern as it was (his first thought was actually about how glad he was that he wouldn’t have to dig, but that doesn’t warrant a paragraph).  He looked upwards, where the cavern walls rounded into a ceiling, which was no more than five meters high.  There were several holes bored into it, from which thin, bluish gray light spilled into the cavern.  He pursed his lips.  From outside, the cliff face had risen so much higher.  How far did those apertures go, and what kept the snow and cold from pouring down them? Crack Shot gave an appreciative whistle as he walked the short length from one end of the chamber to another.  “Nice find,” he said to Síofra.  “Did you know this was here?” “Aye, that I did,” said Síofra, loftily.  “I heard of it in the whisper of the wind, saw it written in the dance of the snow as it fell.” “Uh-huh.  Is that right?” “Sure, if it makes for a more interesting tale.” Storm let his eyes wander from the ceiling to the walls, noting the way certain facets of them caught the light as he bent down to pick up the camping bag.  As he walked, the glint of the walls shifted with him.  Ice covering the walls of a frozen cave—not a whole lot of mystery to that.  Looking down, however, he wondered why there was so little on the ground.  Cold air moved downward, and water even more so, didn’t they?  It didn’t seem particularly chilly inside either, though that could have been an effect of escaping the blizzard.  A walk-in freezer would’ve been a step up. He stepped towards Check, who had folded his legs beneath himself, still shivering.  He set the camping bag down and pulled a wool blanket free of it. “Here you go,” he said, as he laid it beside him.  “Looks like a campfire is out of the picture, but that should help warm you up.” Check levitated the blanket over himself gratefully.  “M-my thanks, S-Storm.” “Heh, don’t worry about it.” Storm left his friend to warm back up and approached one of the frozen cave walls.  He could just make out his distorted reflection in the ice, stained a faint rose color.  It was obscured by those little clouds and lines of white that seem to appear whenever water freezes, for some complex reason he couldn’t begin to imagine, let alone explain.  Science, probably. He breathed against it to see if he could at least smooth out the surface, when something strange occurred.  His breath didn’t mist when it washed against it.  He removed a shoe and placed a hoof against the wall.  It wasn’t cold, it wasn’t warm, it wasn’t anything.  He canted his head to the side. “Huh,” he began, “I think these walls are covered in some kind of crystal instead of just ice.” “I-ice is a c-crystal,” came the muffled voice of Check from within his blanket cocoon. “Er, right.”  Well, at least it sounded like Check was starting to feel better. “Dude, are you gonna be sportin’ a pair of butterfly wings when you come out of there?” “What I mean,” Storm continued, “is that it’s not cold or anything.”  He removed his hoof from the wall.  It came back dry.  “And it doesn’t look like it melts.” “Good for us, then,” said Crack Shot.  “It’d suck to wake up in a puddle if we heat this place up too much tonight.” Síofra stared at him. “What?  We make body heat, and this cave is kinda small.  What the heck is that look supposed to mean?” “Oh, nothing.” A shrill whistle of wind through their improvised entrance interrupted the conversation, filling the cavern with a new chill. “Wow, sounds like it’s still going full speed out there,” said Storm. “Feels like it, too,” said Síofra, “and I’d wager that this snowstorm means it’s going to be lashing back down in the valley, sure enough.” “And you b-believe it to be m-magic, to be g-glamour?” asked Check. “It must be.  We’re no strangers to rain and thunder, but none of us can recall the weather ever behaving as cat as it has been the last year.” “Hmm… v-very c-curious ind-d-eed.” Another draft gusted into the cave. “Alright, I’m going to do something about that,” said Storm, taking the camping bag towards the tunnel and plugging its entrance.  As he took a moment to consider it, he said, “Hey, Crack Shot, mind if I use your spear for a moment?” “Sure thing, dude,” was the only warning he got before the spear buried itself halfway in the snow, just above his head. Storm blinked.  “…Well, I can’t say that wasn’t more or less what I was going to do anyways,” he said, as he worked the spear farther into the snow.  Once he felt no more resistance he wrenched it free, feeling satisfied when he felt the movement of air through it.  “That should be a nice compromise for ventilation.  Not too much, not too little.” “Whatever you say, goldilocks.” After that, there was little else to do but wait. --- Night fell, presumably. Really, it stumbled more than anything, and, after an embarrassed recovery, quickly covered its face.  The light filtering in through the breaks in the cave ceiling still hadn’t dimmed by much, and unless the battery had rotted out in Storm’s internal clock, it should’ve been close to midnight (or maybe an hour before close to midnight—he had no idea when Daylight Savings started.)  He peeked through the ventilation hole and saw that it was clear of obstruction.  The blizzard had abated, at least for the time being. “Looks like it’s finally calmed down out there,” he said. Síofra had been curled up by one wall, ostensibly asleep, though an ear perked at the sound of Storm’s voice, and a single golden eye cracked open.  She sat up and padded towards the wall of snow, pausing a few yards away from the camping bag.  “All good things must come to an end, eh?” she said.  “I’ll believe it when I see it.  If ya move this thing out of the way, I’ll dig us out so we can take a creep around outside.” “Oh, yeah.  Sure thing.”  Storm lifted the camping bag with its iron goods away from the tunnel entrance, and Síofra crawled inside.  “How about you guys?” he said to Crack Shot and Check.  “Want to have a look around?” “Beats sittin’ around here,” said Crack Shot, as he stood and stretched his neck.  “Wouldn’t wanna get cabin fever.  Cavern fever.  …I wonder if that’s contagious.” “Please go on ahead,” said Check.  He unwrapped himself from his blanket and walked towards the camping bag.  “I would first like to see about refilling our canteen, now that I’ve had ample opportunity to recuperate.” “Glad that you did, dude,” said Crack Shot, bumping him in the shoulder softly.  “You had enough syllables in your speech already without a case of frostbite addin’ more.” “Alright,” said Storm, “holler if you need anything.” “Dude, hollering?” said Crack Shot.  “Ever heard of an avalanche?” Storm rolled his eyes. “Actually,” said Check, “if I’m not mistaken, the notion of an average shout precipitating an avalanche is a myth.” “So we should keep our gobs shut?” asked Síofra from the mouth of the tunnel. “Oh, er, that is to say there is little truth to the belief.” “Not sure why they’d go calling it a myth if it ain’t true, but alright.  The way out is clear by the by,” she added as she began back into the tunnel. “A typical shout won’t do it, huh?” said Crack Shot.  “Heh, I wonder what would happen if Cacopony gave it a shot.” Check smiled.  “Were it him, he might very well bring down the mountain.  Anyways, should the need arise, I shall get your attention.” Leaving Check to his preparations, Storm and Crack Shot crawled into the tunnel after Síofra, and out into the uncanny brightness of the mountain night.  The clouds above and the snow below caught the light of the moon like a trap. “Wow, almost looks like Celestia and Luna mixed up their schedules, huh?” said Crack Shot, spinning around in awe.  Small flakes of snow, scattered and few, tumbled around them gently like bits of down.  They fell from clouds set aglow like lamps by the moon’s albedo behind them.  He tried to catch one on his tongue. “Yeah, it sort of does, doesn’t it?” agreed Storm.  He noticed Síofra a few feet away, watching the sky with as much interest as Crack Shot, if nowhere near as much enthusiasm.  “Hey, you guys want to head up and check out the view?” he asked.  “Maybe we can get an idea of where to head next.” Neither objected.  Storm and Crack Shot took to the air first, with Síofra soon following in owlish guise.  They flew as high as they could, which was not high at all for the cloud cover above, and then spread out towards the north. Up in the air, Storm noted briefly how much warmer the air felt as compared to earlier that day.  Without the gales and the ice shards they carried, it was almost pleasant.  The clouds overhead functioned like a feather comforter, trapping what little heat there was below them.  But flakes of snow still fell, and who could say that they wouldn’t fall faster still, in greater number? He kept his eye to the ground, or to the snow on top of it at least.  The blizzard had left its mark on the world below him.  Rather, it had erased most of theirs.  There was no sign that the trail he had created ever existed, and the only indication of life was the tunnel that Síofra had dug and their hoofprints beside it.  Elsewhere was ice and jagged rock, glinting like precious stones or the edge of a knife, rising out of still mists like islands out of a frothy sea.  So clean and sterile, there was a haunting beauty about it.  But unable to find anything of note, Storm only found himself frustrated as he gazed across the shimmering mountain peaks, watching the sight repeat itself. Who or what lived here?  Who or what could live here?  It felt like all you would find were ghosts. “Do you guys see anything?” he called out.  His voice rolled over the snowpack and bounded between the cliff faces. “Yeah!” came Crack Shot’s voice, chased by its echoes.  “I spy, with my little eye, somethin’ white and beginning with the letter ‘S!’” “Would it be those abominable snow ponies of yers?” replied Síofra from somewhere far off and out of sight. “Those would’ve started with an ‘A!’” Storm sighed.  So that was the situation, then.  Whatever secrets they were looking for were buried beneath a crisp, pristine stratum of snow and fog.  He, Check, and Crack Shot had been spirited away to the fae realm by complete surprise, but he doubted in something like that happening twice.  And there were other doubts on top of that. Luna wished to know the state of the world, to know how it had changed in one thousand years’ time, but she had determined the nature of the task based on the world she’d known one thousand years ago.  And in a hibernal place like this, where it would take less than a minute for the world to behave like a snow globe tipped on its side, less than a minute for it to turn into something bitter, lethal, and unforgiving… Maybe they really were looking for ghosts. After continuing their fruitless search for another hour or so, Storm, Síofra, and Crack Shot reunited just above the entrance to their current shelter. “Well, that was a bust,” said Síofra. “Nothing in the whisper of wind and the dance of the snow, eh?” said Crack Shot, with half of a grin. “Now then, there ain’t much of either of those at the moment, now is there?” “Yeah, true.  Heck, as nice as it is right now—relatively speaking—you guys think we could just keep headin’ north?  I mean, it’s bright enough out to see by, and if there’s nothin’ to find here, we’ll at least be a bit closer to learning if there’s nothin’ to find at the next spot on the map.” Storm looked up at the heavy clouds still looming overhead and shook his head.  “It’s tempting, but I don’t think we’d want to get caught out here in another blizzard.  We lucked out once finding this cave, and I wouldn’t count on our luck holding out twice.” “So what—we wait until the sky clears?” asked Crack Shot. “It’s probably the safest option.” “Ugh, we shoulda brought a pack of cards.  At least we won’t be stuck in the dark in there.” “Huh.  Yeah…”  Storm stared at the edge of the cliff above their cave.  “About that, I was kind of wondering why that might be.  You notice how light pours down, but nothing else?” Crack Shot shrugged.  “Maybe there’s this layer of ice or somethin’ over a big hole up top?  Kinda like a sunroof.  Or a moonroof, I guess, at this time of night.” “Now how would that work?” asked Síofra, incredulously.  “Any water’d just run down it before it had the chance to freeze.” “Maybe it's magic water?” Síofra gave this due thought. Storm flapped his wings.  “What do you say we find out?” The three of them did not take long to surmount the cliff, and what they found put a smile on Crack Shot’s face. “Called it!” he said.  “I totally called it!” What he had called (if you could call it that) was a large, shallow, transparent dome, turned over a wide cleft in the rock.  It had a hint of rose, slightly more than the crystal covering the walls of their cavern, and Storm had no doubt that it was made of the same.  Some snow had accumulated at its base, but its surface was clear and smooth.  Thick towards the center and thin at the edges, it reminded him of a lens. “Huh, it reminds me of a lens,” he said. “Maybe a dragon lost its contact?” mused Crack Shot. Síofra flew over it, turning her head one way and another, in ways that only an owl can.  “Might be, because this certainly didn’t just pop up all on its own.  Someone made this.” “Then I guess one question is ‘when,’” said Storm. “And ‘who,’” added Crack Shot. Storm winced.  “Really?  You couldn’t have let her say—oh, whatever.  Let’s go give Check the heads up.” “I’m kinda surprised he didn’t come out here,” noted Crack Shot.  “It couldn’t have taken him that long to melt some snow for the canteen, could it?” “I guess we’ll find out.” The three of them descended towards the tunnel entrance and clambered back into the cavern.  Inside they found Check strolling along its perimeter, staring intently at the crystal-covered walls.  He didn’t move his eyes from their surfaces as he said, “Welcome back.  Was your jaunt a pleasant one?” “It was interesting,” said Storm.  “We scouted north a ways in search of civilization, but it all looks pretty barren.  We found something odd above the cave though.  Some kind of crystal cap over the vents running through the ceiling.” That was enough to steal Check’s attention from the walls.  He lowered his chin as he placed a hoof to his lip.  “That is interesting.  Upon scrutiny of the crystal glazing this cavern, I’ve also noticed something strange.” “Besides the way it stretches your reflection like a funhouse mirror?” asked Crack Shot, as he took a seat in the center of the cavern.  He peered into one of the ceiling’s orifices. “Indeed.  You might’ve noticed the number of impurities within it, the turbidities beneath the surface.” Storm approached a wall for another look, tracing a speckling of streaks and cloudiness.  “Yeah, but that’s not uncommon for crystals, is it?” he asked. “No, it isn’t,” said Check.  “Save for the fact that those in this crystal repeat.  There isn’t a particular pattern to it, but it appears that a finite selection of shapes reappear along the lengths of these walls.” The others took a moment to think about this. “…Like words, then?” asked Síofra. “It’s possible, although I’ve no clue as to their meaning.” “Hopefully nothin’ like ‘Trespassers Will Be Shot,’ or ‘Beware of Windigo,’” said Crack Shot, as he rolled on to his back, crossed his hooves over his chest, and closed his eyes.  “Another mystery for another day, or for however many days we’re stuck in here.” Quiet filled the cavern. “…‘Trespassers Will Be Crack Shot,’” said Storm. Crack Shot’s eyes widened in revulsion.  “Ugh, dude!” --- The next day came with a redoubling of the blizzard, or possibly some other more divergent mathematical function.  Every now and then, one of the party would stab through the snow that continuously occluded their air vent, to stave off the looming annoyance of asphyxiation.  There were better ways to kill the time, but it was better than having it the other way around. “Instead of a pony, couldn’t you have, like, turned into a bush or something so we wouldn’t have to keep doing this?” asked Crack Shot, as he wrenched his spear free of the snowpack. “I’m afraid that plants aren’t in my repertoire,” said Síofra, flicking an ear.  “And even if they were, where would I bury my roots in here?”  She tilted her head towards Check.  “Or do ya have a fancier word that ya’d prefer over ‘roots’ when dealing with shrubbery?” “‘Roots’ suffices,” said Check, primly.  He bit into a small piece of leftover pine bark as he considered the smart stone in front of him.  He had yet to write or receive anything, but he stared at it intently. Storm tapped a hoof in boredom, filling the quiet cavern with low, dull clicks.  “This weather is unbelievable,” he groaned.  “Never in my life have I seen it this bad.” “Aye?  Ye don’t have snowstorms back where ye three call home?” “No, we do.  It’s just that they’re, well, they’re more on our terms.” “Ahh, ya mean like that raincloud ya made?” “More or less,” said Storm, followed a few seconds later by, “…no, more.  Definitely more.  Back home, there’s a lot more… order to it, I guess.  Every summer shower, every sunny day, every snowstorm is kept in balance and scheduled as needed.” “So come rain or shine, it’s only after ye’ve given it the go-ahead, then?  No need to worry about getting caught out in a spot of bad weather?” “You can if you haven’t been payin’ attention to the weather reports,” noted Crack Shot. “It all must be convenient, I suppose…”  The ellipsis echoed throughout the cavern, and the guardsponies waited for whatever Síofra would say next.  “Ye don’t find that ever gets boring, though?” It didn’t sound as harsh or as critical as it could have.  It was spoken with just a soft, curious lilt. “How do you figure?” asked Storm. “I mean, it’s all well and good that there are no unpleasant surprises, but might it not stand to reason there are no pleasant ones either?  A sudden sunshower on a scorching hot day, and the rainbow that comes with it?  Snowfall on the eve of a winter holiday?” “Yeah, but we do get all of that,” said Crack Shot.  “Like, there’s always snow on Hearth’s Warming Eve.” “Then it’s not a surprise,” said Síofra.  “Wouldn’t ya appreciate it more if ya had no guarantee, no promise of it?  If ya had no expectations that ya would get that snow, but then ya got it anyways, wouldn’t that make it feel all the more special?” Crack Shot gave a long, eloquent shrug.  “Maybe.  What else can I say but that?”  He stuck his spear through the ventilation hole once more.  “I guess I can tell you that I’ll be pleasantly surprised if this blizzard ever ends.” Síofra laughed once, quietly.  “Well, I suppose I can’t argue with that.” The conversation ended with that, and the cavern fell into silence.  Check eventually put the smart stone back into his bags, having written nothing.  The muffled sound of the wind outside filtered through the snowpack, but it was soon dwarfed by the sound of Crack Shot standing and rummaging through the camping bag.  Once he had pried free the bag’s two tin bowls, he began scraping snow into one of them. “Alright, we might be stuck in here and unable to get a fire goin’, but I’m gonna teach you a recipe,” he said to Síofra. Síofra frowned slightly.  “On this subject again, are ya?  Fine.  And what recipe will this be?” “Snow cones,” said Crack Shot, as he began picking out what blackberries were left in his bag and crushing them in the other bowl, “though you’re gonna have to use your imagination for the cone part.  Anyways, all you have to do is mash up some fruit and pour it over a bunch of snow.  See?  Piece of cake.” “I don’t think I’d see a piece of cake, even if I squinted,” said Síofra, brightly. Crack Shot gave her a flat look.  “It’s an expression.” “Not a very fitting one.  So, in short, ya just take some perfectly good berries, mash them up until they’re beyond recognizability, and then dilute whatever flavor managed to survive in a pile of ancient snow?” “Pretty much, yeah.”  Crack Shot presented her with the bowl.  “Here, try it.” Síofra tasted it.  “Eh, it’s decent,” she admitted. “Yep.”  Crack Shot nodded.  “Think you could try makin’ it without setting it on fire?” “Hey,” said Storm, “since you’re teaching her how to cook, maybe she could teach you how to sing.” Crack Shot scowled.  “Why?  What’s wrong with the way I sing?” --- It was three days later when the sky finally cleared. Within that time, Check received a response from his parents, relayed by Febre.  He learned from his mother that Ikebana himself had undergone the trouble of delivering his letter to them, and that he had been of tremendous assistance in helping her conceptualize several potential layouts for a parterre she’d have constructed come spring, once he had summoned up the courage to speak to her.  Check resolved to pay his friend an apology at the soonest opportunity.  His parents asked that he stay safe, and he promised that he would. Síofra did, in fact, make an attempt to teach Crack Shot to belt out a note that didn’t sound like a belt sander, but found it to be like teaching an octopus to juggle torches:  the parts were there to make it work in theory, just not anywhere else.  But perhaps in thanks to the enigmatic glamour of the fae, though more likely in thanks to a pragmatic sense of patience, her instruction did help him improve to the point that ear protection was no longer necessary within firing distance of his vocal range.  It impressed Storm to hear Crack Shot carry a tune that wouldn’t require a weapons permit to do so. As for Síofra’s culinary edification, she succeeded in making a snow cone after burning only one in the process.  It had warmed the cavern, and so it was appreciated. The air was crisp and sharp without the cloud cover to trap the heat, but its cold was nothing compared to the metric set by the past few days’ blizzards, which had felt like they could make the mercury crack out of the bottom of its thermometer into a thin little icicle.  The air in front of the group whitened with their breaths as they pressed their way northward through the snow.  Storm led the way, charging forward like an ice breaker in a motion that was half flight, half breaststroke. “Maybe ya ought to pace yerself there, Storm,” said Síofra, from the rear of the group. “I’m good!” he called back as he threw himself farther into the snow, packing it down and out of the way. “…Well, I’m not,” she muttered, before trading her hooves for a kite’s wings and talons, and taking to the air.  “All this hiking is for the birds.” They continued up the mountain well into the afternoon, stopping only once for a quick lunch of their older leftovers.  As he plowed their way forward and upward, Storm kept an ear open to the sounds of his companions.  He would deny it if ever asked, but when he noticed that Check’s breathing was coming a little too fast, perhaps due to the altitude, he made sure that he wasn’t plowing too quickly.  Other than that it was an uneventful climb; there was just a lot of it.  By the time they reached a saddle point in the mountain, the sun, now a small red thing, had splashed into the western horizon and spilled red across the lower sky. The four of them gazed down the plunge before them.  Thousands of feet below, beneath thin clouds strewn about like torn cotton, was an enormous canyon, ripped, gouged, and gutted out of the earth by glacial drift.  Within it, huge, purple shadows crept eastward over the sun-stained snow like a bruise across a blush.  A frigid wind swept past. “Where to from here?” asked Crack Shot. “Down, I’d hazard,” said Síofra.  She dug her beak beneath a wing and plucked free a piece of faerie gold, which she flicked forward.  It spun through the air, before disappearing into the snow several dozen meters below.  “Though if I had my druthers, it’d be straight across.” Check stared at the swaths of thin cloud and hummed to himself.  Then his horn began to glow.  The others stared at him. “What—are ya gonna conjure up a bridge?” asked Síofra, tilting her head. “No—well, yes… erm, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” breathed Check, as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face and was wicked away by the wind.  Then, with a flash of his horn, his body shimmered once.  Then he slumped forward.  He lay there panting, trying to catch his breath. “…Aye, well done, then,” said Síofra, after a pause. “Uh, you alright, dude?” asked Crack Shot. Check nodded and, after a minute, stood up.  He eased his way down a rockier portion of the mountain to where cloud met land.  Cautiously, he extended a forehoof and pressed it into the cloud.  It deformed slightly, but did not yield to his touch. “Huh, not bad!” said Storm, flying down beside him.  “When’d you pick up that trick?” “Well, given that my two closest friends are pegasi, I thought it might be worthwhile to know—oof!”  Check fell to his right as the cloud warped and shifted under his weight.  He rose to an unsteady stance, his legs wobbling beneath him.  “G-goodness!” “Whoa, careful there,” said Storm.  He glided beside his friend and helped right him.  “Strati take some getting used to.” “Y-yes, I see that now.  But I think I’ve got—augh!”  Check tipped over to his left. “Heck of a time to give that spell a test run, eh?” said Crack Shot, as he flew down to steady Check, opposite Storm. “Ohh, I’ve got the feeling that there ain’t gonna be a whole lot of running,” said Síofra, as she watched Check stagger and weave.  “But we’re not gonna want to tarry.  There’s already a lot of red in the sky, and it won’t be long before the daylight finishes bleeding out entirely.” “At least it seems calm enough to set up the tent,” said Crack Shot.  “Just gotta hope it stays that way.  Unless we somehow stumble upon another cave, two dozen feet in the snow.” Storm stared ahead at the ridge on the opposite edge of the canyon.  Mists wreathed the roots of the mountains, which rose and stabbed into the heavens with frosted precipices.  It was like staring at a mirror of those peaks they were leaving:  more of the same.  With a dry smirk, he wondered if the grass would be greener on the other side, if one dug deep enough to find it.  His smirk then leveled out as he began to think.  The mountains were awfully steep. “Hey, Crack Shot, do you mind holding on to the camping bag for a few minutes?” he asked. “No prob, dude, toss it over.” Storm stepped around Check, who was finding his footing about as easily as a set of words that rhymed with ‘purple,’ and unfastened the bag, careful not to drop it.  Once he was confident that it was secure in Crack Shot’s hooves, Storm beat his wings, lifting himself a few feet above the cloud. “Stretchin’ out your wings?” asked Crack Shot. “Actually, I’m going to see if I can find us some shelter,” said Storm, before taking off to the north. He fixed his gaze on the snow covering the mountainside.  As steep as the rise was, the snow looked like it was only a twenty degree temperature change away from being a waterfall.  He wondered if he could improvise.  Check had said that a shout wouldn’t cause an avalanche, but Storm had an idea of what might.  He beat his wings faster and prepared to do something reckless. “What’s that he’s doing?” asked Síofra. “…He wouldn’t,” whispered Check. Crack Shot grinned like mad.  “Ohh, snap!” The three of them watched in two parts disbelief, one part unabashed amusement, as Storm, his armor burning like a flare in the light of the setting sun, disappeared into the side of the mountain. There was a momentary silence. And then the mountain came down, spilling cataracts of ice and snow, and the roar of it filled the air. When he felt the snowpack shifting, Storm was quick to move (albeit anyone caught in an avalanche is quick to move, although the movement involved probably isn’t of their choosing, nor of their desire).  He kicked and paddled and flapped his wings, he rolled and tumbled and flailed, and then, at last, he managed to break above surface and into the air before the avalanche really got moving.  And it really got moving. A cascade of white surged and built beneath him, pouring into the canyon and unveiling the cliff face.  He gave a satisfied laugh—once he had gotten the snow out of his mouth—at the sight of the mountain stripping itself of its winter cover.   As it waned, he scanned the revealed crags and soon found what he was hoping for: a short but reasonably wide crevice cut into the mountain, only partially blocked by the foot or so of snow that hadn’t been dragged down in the avalanche.  He flew down and stepped inside, finding that it opened into a modest cavern that would easily fit the four of them.  There was little light in the cavern itself, save for a puce gleam near the rear of it.  It came from the mouth of a tunnel that immediately curved out of view.  It was something to check out later, after he had gathered the others.  He stepped back outside and took flight once more. “Welcome back, dude.  Glad we didn’t have to dig you up after that stunt,” said Crack Shot, upon Storm’s return to the clouds.  He lifted a hoof for a bump, a gesture which Storm mirrored. “Especially since I’d probably get stuck doing the digging,” mumbled Síofra. “Heh, what’s a little snow, right?” said Storm, as he shook off the remaining bit of it clinging to his fur.  He reached out to take back the camping bag from Crack Shot. “That was far more than a little snow,” said Check, frowning.  “What if something were to have gone wrong?  I would not wish to be the one to write Nomde and tell her that you were hurt, or—perish the thought—that the unthinkable had transpired.” Storm bit his lip.  “…Right.  Sorry.” Check nodded, and his frown softened.  Then he lost his balance and fell over. “Anyways,” continued Storm, as he helped his friend up, “I found another cavern for us to bunk in tonight, if that’s any consolation.” “Right on, dude,” said Crack Shot.  “Lead the way.” The more ambitious stars had shown themselves by the time the four of them reached the cavern.  It was dark inside, and the thin light from the rear had thinned away.  After setting his things down, Storm stepped back outside to write his journal entry beneath the light of the waning moon.  There was little for him to mention beyond the hike and his stunt, so he sketched a crude mountain on the bottom half of the page when he ran out of words.  Then he thought that it would be nice to write a letter to Nomde. When he reentered the cavern, he heard the sound of Crack Shot’s snoring, which left the sound of Check’s softer breathing to the imagination.  Their shadowed forms were prone on the opposite side of the cave, and across from them Síofra’s golden stare met Storm’s own.  He had a moment to observe that it was larger than a kite’s, before she too closed her eyes for the night with the words:  “Oíche mhaith, Storm.” He guessed them to mean either ‘good night,’ or ‘quit stomping around already, will ya, and go to bed so the rest of us can,’ though the latter seemed a bit much to try to fit in three syllables. The letter would have to wait until tomorrow.  So with nothing else to do, Storm lay down as well and joined them in slumber. --- Storm was the first to rise the next morning.  The others still slept nearby, and he saw that Síofra had chosen the form of a wolf once again.  Perhaps it had been for a measure of protection. A sharp and incessant whistle near the cave entrance had stirred him, and when he turned his head towards it he saw huge flakes blowing through a diminishing gap of snow and stone.  His drowsy eyes shot open.  When they had gone to sleep the skies had been clear.  Yet now, only a few hours later, there had been a powerful enough snow to nearly plug the cave mouth?  It was warm enough in the cave, but still he shivered. Well, that was a bullet dodged.  A million little icy ones. He stood slowly, mindful not to rouse the others.  He didn’t want to fish through Check’s bags for the smart stone without permission, so he decided to survey the cavern instead.  The grey light of dawn made it easy to see that there wasn’t much to see.  It was similar to the cavern they’d lodged in for the past few days, but then he didn’t expect there’d be a lot of variation in décor. There was a rock in one corner, which he supposed livened the place up. There was also more of the rose crystal covering the walls, with all of the minute impurities within.  Check had suggested that it might’ve been some kind of language, and Storm wondered how one would read it.  Left to right?  Right to left?  Up to down?  Maybe none of those.  He turned towards the opening at the rear of the cave, which was now lit by greyish blue light.  Curious, he stepped inside. --- Crack Shot was dreaming. In his dream, he was flying. Even without the lucidity of wakefulness, he recognized this as an inexcusable lack of creativity on the part of his subconscious. He sighed in annoyance as he suddenly, inexplicably, and yet completely predictably plummeted out of the sky, into a packed auditorium, to take a ‘surprise’ final exam he hadn’t studied for, while his teeth fell out.  He had just noticed, and was irritated that he was forced to notice, that he was also naked—a trivial detail that didn’t deserve the emphasis given it by the dream centers of his mind—when Storm’s voice pierced the veil. We’re gonna have a talk about this later, he threatened his subconscious, before leaving the hackneyed dream behind for the waking world. “Mm… what was that you said?” he yawned, as he stretched his rear legs out and rubbed his eyes. “I said that you guys have got to come see this!” said Storm, from the entrance of another passageway at the end of the cavern, before disappearing inside. Crack Shot kicked off his covers and rolled into a stand beside Síofra and Check.  They were staring at the cave’s exit.  Or, as he was just now noticing, what little remained of it. “Ugh, seriously?” he said.  “This weather needs to friggin’ chill the hell out.” “Judging by that wall of snow, it’s already done a lot of that,” said Síofra. “And for weather that was so clement prior, it did so remarkably quickly,” noted Check.  “Whatever the source of your weather disturbances, I think it might be found somewhere within these mountains.” Síofra nodded once. “Are you guys coming?” echoed Storm’s voice. “Who knows—maybe Storm found it,” said Crack Shot, as he turned towards the corridor from which Storm’s voice had come.  “Sounds like he found something at least.  Let’s go check it out.” The inside of the passage snaked downwards as they walked, leaving no more than a few meters ahead of them visible at a time.  Like in the first cavern they’d stayed in, there were holes cut into the low ceiling, allowing in light from outside.  Whatever their origins, they were spaced far too regularly to be natural.  The group’s steps echoed off of the crystalline walls as they walked deeper into the mountain.  Then, without warning, the passage opened up, and opened down as well. It was a perfectly circular vertical shaft they stepped into, about twenty meters in diameter and so much more in length.  Several beams of light shone down at various angles from a domed ceiling, casting their light in large spots on to purple flowers growing down the walls.  And following the descent of these plants was a staircase of rose-tinted crystal, spiraling deeply into the chasm.  Each turn of it—and there were hundreds—was visible through those that preceded it, the sight subtly growing pinker, redder, with every level stacked together in view. “Whoa, what is this place?” asked Crack Shot, descending the crystalline steps towards one of the flowering plants. “I’m not sure,” said Storm, “but I think it might be what we’re looking for.”