The shadows across the floor lengthened as dusk fell across the sky.
‘The Jibaro. A violent tribe of the Upper Melenan, who worshipped Nantu, the goddess in the moon. It is said that each month during the time of the moon’s darkness they would perform a ritual of renewal that required the blood of a living pony. In the inky black of the forest they would go hunting for a candidate, usually from other tribes.’
Quiet Word tapped his forehooves together softly.
‘When the Ibrearians conquered the Melenan tribes they were put to work harvesting the Melena nuts, from the husks of which could be concocted a powerful hallucinogen. The forests were replaced by plantations and the workers treated as little more than slaves. Little wonder that they rose up against their masters and since that time forward every adventurer, explorer and even travelling monk was a target. They took our brother many, many turns ago and flayed the skin from his back as a trophy.’
The monk carefully undid the binding and unrolled the pelt, showing the dark lines outlining rivers, towns and mountains. He waved across the map.
‘The six villages of the plantations. Outlined by a Coltuguese prisoner who managed to escape the tribe, and who passed on this map to a fellow believer once he returned to more... civilised climes. Few even know of the plantations’ existence: you are very fortunate.’
The soft whoosh of air and gentle hum of mana-engines overhead caught Wrath’s attention and he trotted over to the edge of the verandah. Looking up he spied a large airship making its way south-west across the river towards the city wall. There a house set into a tall tower guarded the western entrance to the city. Wrath turned back towards the monk.
‘There’s a lot of traffic for so early in the evening. Strange, though’, he said, indicating with a nod of his head across the river, ‘that the house over there has a light on.’
‘Indeed’, said the monk, ‘it contravenes the current regulations. The gryffons are very near the northern borders now. Lights out at dusk, or at least prevent it being seen.’
Wrath nickered. ‘It’s of no concern to me who follows regulations or not. But strange it is.’
‘Strange indeed’, the monk replied. ‘The Sylph in the Tower of the West, or so she is named by those in the city. A young Vanneran pegasus mare, crippled and unable to fly; she sits at the window to the tower playing beautiful melodies by wing on her harp.’
‘Hah, how romantic,’ said Wrath.
‘Being indoors so much, she is very well read’, said the monk, shrugging, ‘and sometimes her housekeeper takes her out on short journeys. She came here just the other day to see the map.
‘Oh? That’s interesting’, said Wrath, narrowing his eyes. ‘A pity the map isn’t complete...’
Quiet Word started back in surprise.
‘H-how...’ he stuttered, ‘how can that be?’
‘My good sir,’ said Wrath, digging into his panniers and handing over a small, heavy sack, ‘you have been most helpful. Consider this a... generous donation to the good brethren of the Llamasery of Saint Epona.’ He paused.
‘There is another town.’
The monk stood, silent; weighing the heavy sack in his hooves, listening to the small clink of bits as they jostled inside the rough hemp of the bag.
‘Might I suggest then, my friend’, said the monk, ‘that you perhaps take some time to visit old Mule Kimberwick. The Jackite fathers had missions up in the Melenan for many a year, and to some extent still hold influence over the area. Mule Kimberwick spent his youth with them. Perchance one of them passed on some information that could be of use to you.’
The bell started to toll again.
‘You must go now, Wrath. Speak with Mule Kimberwick in the clay pits district of the city.’ The monk turned and headed towards the door. ‘May the Sun be with you.’
As the older monk left, the younger monk from before came back into the room, moving to the table and starting to roll the map back into its protective cloth.
‘Return in a few days, Sir, and we will have a copy of the map for you’, he said.
Wrath nodded curtly and left the building.
---
The boatpony made his way slowly across the wide river towards the large central island; his strong twin oar-strokes pulling the narrow batella quickly across the water. Wrath leaned back against the cushioned seat and watched the moon dance across the wavelets whipped up by the strong river breeze. As they passed the mid-point, Wrath noticed another boat heading off at a tangent to theirs, towards the tower with the lighted window.
‘Well’, said the boatpony, ‘I been plying my trade `cross this here river for countless years, an` I know every boatpony on it. But I never done seen the likes of that there strange fashion of movin` a boat across the way. T`inna natural.’
Wrath nodded, sitting up and looking at the mystery boatpony. The figure was seated at the very stern, his weight lifting the bow clear of the water. Using a single oar he sculled the boat with a complicated looping stroke that seemed to account for both moving forward and correcting the yaw caused by rowing on only one side. Wrath mused upon this for a second, before closing his eyes and laying back to enjoy the rest of the ride. Hopefully they would reach their destination soon: it was getting late and he was starting to feel hungry.
---
No-one was exactly sure how long the Broken Snare had existed. It was a tall but sloping building, the tall pitched rooves tumbling down nearly to the street; their cracked tiles held up by thick twisted beams taken from the strong swamp oak. The white daub that filled the gaps was dirty and faded, giving the whole place an air of dilapidation and neglect. There wasn’t a straight wall in the place and the whole building slumped forward as if it were about to collapse on top of the unfortunates considering entry. The plaque above the door merely read ‘Est’. Considering how the dating system in the city seemed to change every couple of generations, had there have been a number affixed it probably wouldn’t have made much sense anyway. Besides which, the age was unimportant. What was important was its function.
Sitting near the dock on an island in the middle of the river made this ale-house a meeting place for many a weary adventurer, traveller or merchant. It was used by those wishing to exchange information and goods, and despite what you may have heard whispered amongst the better classes of folk; the drinks were good, the food hearty if basic, and the company was, if nothing else, interesting and on some nights, even entertaining. Unique amongst pubs, it bore the name of the establishment, but no picture. The meaning of its name now lost to the mists of time, numerous arguments had been made back and forth as to what it meant. But since no agreement had ever been forthcoming on what it ought to have been, the pub remained symboless.
It was to this pub that Wrath made his way, picking out his steps amongst the uneven cobblestones as he slipped towards the dim glow that suffused the light mist hanging in the air around the docks. Reaching the heavy wooden door, he pushed it open; a babble of cheery sounds spilling out into the quiet night, then cut off as quickly as it came. Wrath moved to the bar.
The barpony should’ve been a large rough looking gent with a grizzly muzzle and a dirty apron polishing a wood-hewn tankard. That is what the narrative said this sort of pub would have. But that’s not what you got at the Broken Snare. A slim, lithe pony was putting a skewered olive atop a complicated looking cocktail. His long dark blue mane fell across his withers, the burgundy stripes shifting against the muted cobalt of his coat. He had a Zebrican look around the eyes, and a smirk that played around his lips, which along with the dark freckles across his muzzle gave him a cheeky roguish look. He grinned at Wrath.
‘Long time no see’, said Black Thorn. ‘What can I get you?’
Wrath eyed the cocktail suspiciously. It was like that patch of leaves that just doesn’t sit right on a forest path. The ones which, if you were to tread on them, would result in a trip through the air and a role as lunch on somepony else’s menu. The word ‘incongruous’ sprang to mind, but then, when had his friend ever been anything else?
‘It was Canterlot last time’, Wrath replied, ‘and I’d rather the ale. Any. Decent. Ale’, he added, forestalling the list of local specialty beers, real ales, foreign lagers that weren’t ale at all, and any other option that could be added to an ever growing list designed purely to wear him down and make his drink seem further away. He looked at the disappointed barpony.
‘Fine. One without hops would be nice.’
Blackie drew a pint into a large stein and hoofed it over whilst adding the finishing touches to another drink with his telekinesis.
‘Since you’re here’, said Wrath, ‘tell me. What do you know of the “Sylph” in the tower at the west gate?’
‘An old family’, replied the barpony, ‘just her left now, a cripple. She plays music so I hear, and reads late at night. Any particular reason you asking?’
‘Not as such’, said Wrath. ‘Just thinking. I happened to notice the building on the way across the river.’
‘So, you noticed it too’, said a voice to his left. A tan coloured earth pony sat at the bar swirling an olive into his complicated cocktail.
‘Noticed what?’ said Wrath.
‘Allow me to introduce myself’, said the stranger. ‘Cool Pastures, Agister of the Lutum Forest Verders.’
‘Wrath.’
‘The lit window in the tower, late at night, past the curfew? You find it odd too?’
‘Heh. I don’t find much at all. I have other things on my mind.’
The stranger harrumphed. ‘I enquired at, shall we say, a level higher than my own; and it was strongly suggested that my well-being would continue should I not enquire anymore. So for now, I leave it be.’ The officer leant a little closer. ‘Our friend, the “Sylph” would appear to have... other friends.’
‘These things happen’, said Wrath, non-committally.
‘You’re not from around here, are you’, the officer replied, emphasising that it wasn’t a question.
‘I’m afraid not’, said Wrath, lightly.
‘May I ask why you’re here?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Wrath deadpanned. ‘But rest assured, my business here has nothing to do with your Sylph. Or your war.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ replied Cool Pastures. ‘I’d be sorry if it did.’