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// Interlogue: Spice Must Flow 
// Story: Tastes Like Heresy 
// by Bugsydor 
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A room of rituals has been prepared


Sigils are etched into the floor


A mare walks in to meet her fate


She will soon leave, but through no door.



An audience this strange mare has:


Mages, nobles, peasants, kings.


So silently they stand and watch


As now she steps into the ring.



Before she leaves, they give her things:


A blade: to live. A cloak: to hide.


She does accept them gracefully


Though she glances to the sides.



Who could it be she hopes to see?


A brother or perhaps a friend?


Or maybe parents, strong and soft


To see her mayhap meet her end?



She sees nopony she would like,


But does not shed a single tear.


She calmly walks into the ring,


Stepping surely to hide her fear.



The mages horns are all aglow.


Sigils start shining, all stand clear,


Except the mare inside the sign.


Her presence fades, she disappears—



To reappear in warmer climes,


'mid desert rock and cruelest sand.


She casts a look of longing sweet,


Then begins, soft, to cross the land.



Already exhausted, the mare


Falls to the ground, and she stays there.



Though still alive, her closéd eyes


See not her savior from the skies.