//------------------------------// // Act 1- Chapter 7: Symbols and Signs // Story: Icon: Remnants of the North // by Vixavior //------------------------------// Symbols and Signs Proofread by TehSporkBandit After some resistance the door and lock yielded in a flurry of metal shards and shattered timber. A kick moments later sent the broken barrier swinging wildly on its hinges allowing the small retinue inside unhindered. Dust motes were kicked up from the fallen paneling and floated about in great swarms like the gnats now congregating in nearby fields. Two thanes, a warlord, and the Angle Ealdorman, took a look around while the latter of the four nodded his head, weakly urging the others onward. “The mint…” Byrhtnoth panted heavily, eyes rolling back in his head before snapping out of his sudden torpor. “The mint wouldn't be burned, no one would, we were holding the reliquary until the cathedral was completed.” It was the banner thane that nodded first, it made some degree of sense. Bullion, whether gold or silver, was the target of raiders from across the seas and across the strait. Licking his lips, Ulf was still the supporting Byrhtnoth, and for it he'd had to surrender his charge of the Raven Banner. The clandestine quest had demanded it. More than that, his liege had demanded it. “Which way?” The Northern Lord cast his eyes about in the dimness of the gallery attached to the local ruler's estate. Stone floors, solid oak timbers, racks of sackcloth, and fixtures for scribes were all presided over by hanging banners and carvings. Each was the same, a great white wyrm that decorated the interior with great ribbed buttresses and vaulted roof. A crooked finger pointed the way to a door sunk into hewn stone that was hidden in a silent corner of the room. The shield thane ventured forward trying to budge the solidly bound door. Like the last, it had thick iron banding and stout timbers. Kolbjorn shoved his shoulder against it with a grunting strain before the door slowly swung open with the grace of a ponderous giant. “The stores of silver are the other way.” Byrhtnoth bobbed his head weakly to indicate a door on the opposite side of the hall. Kolbjorn threw his weight against the door again, bursting inside as the other three quickly followed into a room that looked like the quarters of a scribe. There were half a dozen pallet beds and wooden table accompanied by the smell of tallow that abounded amongst the musk of the old building. Wooden slats on the roof, mostly in place aside from a few spots, let the afternoon sunlight spill through in lancing shafts which settled on the floor like islands. A hearth stood near the back wall, though there seemed to be no other entrances to be seen. “There.” the man indicated the yawning maw of the soot stained hearth. Looking incredulous for a moment, the shield thane warily inched forward, searching for unseen assailants. “is it wise to be in such a place without proper defence? Surely Sigvald-” “Sigvald would raze the town, pillage this mint, and cleave his way through half the countryside. No, better to leave him in charge of pursuing the broken army and spare the people. They have more uses alive than dead.” The Nornier were kind to him that day; Olaf only held a hand up to cut him off verbally whereas other lords may have used an axe to silence a voice that second guessed them. “By the- he's right.” Kolbjorn raked the charcoal and soot aside, soiling his emerald cloak. Straining hard, he ripped an iron gate aside and pulled up on a loop. A few creaks and groans followed before it, too, was forced open with a gasp like the tortured souls of the dead. The iron lattice was lifted allowing the small retinue to creep forward towards the yawning mouth. “Kolbjorn, get a torch.” An aged copper plate shaped like a shield bore an elaborate crest of a mitre and keys. On its verdigris stained surface were engraved letters above the yawning chasm of darkness. Summus Ponti iussu Benedicti VII. Hic ponitur secundum quod stat sub magistris lapides tueri. Sit reserare secreta occultari aut die usque ad diem iudicii. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Olaf spoke quietly, translating the message as Ulf and his charge looked on, “‘By the order of his holiness pope Benedict the seventh. This place is given to its masters who are to safeguard what rests beneath these stones. May it be hidden until the day we unlock its secrets or until the day of judgement.’ I'm sure you can guess the rest.” The discomfort could be felt as the stillness of the grave presided over the musky chamber and the yawning void before them. ♣ “Rightly… Rightly!” the severe outburst catches you for a moment, but you blink the surprise away as you are practically face to face with a none-too-happy Twilight. Her bangs were neatly cut, her fur nearly flawless, but her bright amethyst eyes glowed with an irritation that you really didn't feel you deserved. The main room of the library was filled with the usual array of charts and piles of books, written in Equestria's mad glyph-like myriad of weird letters and alphabets. The light cast from the chandelier was surprisingly bright, the chamber smelled of fresh resin polish which showed off a honey-glazed sheen almost thick enough to mistake for caramel on the floor, and the fuming alicorn was magically ripping down another large parchment page from an easel. Stepping back with a sharp clatter she exhales sharply, enough to know she had been chewing on carrots like an infant teethed on a pacifier to, well, pacify her. That wasn't good, and by the way she sucked in breath she was about to tell you why. “You're spacing out again, haven't you been getting enough sleep? I keep telling you it's the most important developing requirement for fillies and colts next to a good meal. Or is your mind somewhere else entirely?” Leaning back on the chair, it creaks a little bit, along with your writing hand and lower back from being hunched over a sewing machine for six hours. Then you'd been here for an additional one and a half. “Twilight,” you stretch and try to suppress a yawn, “it's a hard system. The Royal Cipher is in hieroglyphics-” “Logograms. The Royal Cipher, pending on proper rotation and placement, also gives the proper tense.” “Twilight, you're proving my point. It's tough. How does a lightning bolt mean 'profession' but a so-called backwards lightning bolt means trying?” Every stupid glyphs acted like a qubit: each time you line them up they can mean practically anything depending on their facing and that changes everything around it to mean something else. A few dozen symbols alone are supposed to interact. And those symbols tell a story, which represents a concept! Something started to catch and take hold in your mind as headmistress Sparkle’s voice reached your ears, “It means acting upon, or more colloquially, 'doing' something, always in action. That 'backward' logogram, as you called it, is the circumflex. It means 'to bend around', and denotes the past. If you have performed an action now, it is an action. If you had done something, it means you attempted an action.” “So-” you quickly look around the room and spot a theatrical looking flyer tacked up on the wall, “you're saying that this lightning bolt, a swirl, and a pair of unicorns means 'peers are seeking' because it's acting upon a nebulous thing by a pair of equal individuals, whereas if the lightning bolt was the other way, it means 'peers sought'?” You got a curt nod and a flashing grin, “Correct.” You couldn't help but beam in triumph. Everything was starting to come together. “Alright, let me see your hoofwriting.” she paces over towards you and circles like some sort of shark that feeds on paper and anguish. Looking at your roll of parchment, ink stained hands, and the quill responsibility for it, her smile disappeared. “Rightly, why is half of it backwards and broken up? Hoofwriting is a boustrophedonic script. The… Filly… Jumped. It's one sentence, so keep it written together. Like a river, thoughts shouldn't break in midstream without a rock. There.” she added a small dot which, you guessed, was some form of parenthesis. “That, well, works, but what happens when you run out of ink?” you look at your blue stained hands and stick your tongue out in disgust. It smells weird, like paint and fish oil. “And I see you were really trying to do just that. All you have to do is pick up right where you left off, just continue on the line, even if it bleeds a little bit, you'll learn quick enough.” Twilight's frown softens as a small, vaguely disappointed smile replaces it across her muzzle while her neck muscles ease some. Ears down and a quiet sigh complete the transformation. Taking a few measured paces back, she nearly runs into the unicorn statue that looks oh-so-like the cipher's glyph for performer, or magician. Collecting her thoughts and turning her back on you for a moment, her wings tuck in tightly against her barrel. A slow trot sends her pacing around you, circling again, "I know it's a difficult transition when it comes from being fairly educated to almost completely illiterate. I want you to fit in and I want to make sure that no one teases you for it, Rightly. I'm doing my best.” “Twilight, you're a great teacher. I'm, I'm just a little tired today. Rarity didn't sleep very well and work with Applejack is always tough. Plus, I missed lunch so I wasn't late at the Boutique so-” a hoof over your mouth quickly shuts you up. Twilight shakes her head as if barely refraining from scolding a wayward foal. Yet she somehow seems vaguely pleased with that smirk, rolling eyes, and slight tilt to her head. Almost anyone could tell exactly what she was thinking, 'incorrigible colt.' “Then go on, we're done for the day. Head on back to Sweet Apple acres and we'll continue this lesson tomorrow. Don't forget meals again, the mind works best when the body is properly fed, so you be sure to take care of yourself.” Well, she might have been a little bit patronizing but at least it was affectionate. Slowly, she rolls up and binds the parchment on the easel before breaking it down and stacking your various impromptu example materials. Arranging Twilight's quills and ink pots, you carefully store each away before striding towards the door. The diminutive dragon stood right next to it, purple scales matching smooth, eel-like skin. He looked a little strange, but flashing him a smile got you a jaded smirk, “Lemme' guess: ten days and you still aren't fully fluent in a foreign language?” He held out a silver basin with a floating yellow sea sponge. "Yeah.” you shake your head and wash your hands off. The smell was strong so it could be pine or some sort of deet oil. Whatever it was, it makes the ink run off your skin as easily as it had blotted on. The dragon chortles, “The nerve-” mock indignation and an exaggerated frown crease his face. “Yeah, Twilight can get a little demanding.” “I can hear you, Spike.” echoes the princess's voice from the back as he grimaces. “In a good way. Just like a proper tutor showing that rapt enthusiasm for a subject which she knows well, and can teach so well to others. You're so very lucky to have a teacher like Twilight, she’s the smartest pony in town.” The sickly sweet voice drips with honey as his cheeks glow a faint red. He was a damned good sweet-talker, every inflection was just a few degrees from sincere, which perhaps only the most cynical minds in Equestria could catch. “Yes, yes, I am very lucky. She does her best; alas, what can be done for a master potter using such a pitiful lump of clay?” your voice rings out in a theatrical lilt borrowed heavily from both Spike and Rarity, and getting a notable snort and suppressed smirk from the dragon. Shaking your head you look over and whisper, “Spike, what's boustrophedonic mean?” That smirk still didn't go away, “Alright, you've seen Big Mac plough a field?” “Well, no, but I'm aware of how it works.” “Yeah, basically it's that. When you're writing you just write one line straight across, then at the end of the line, you drop down and start writing the other way.” It makes sense as a description but why not as a concept? You blink as he continued explaining, “It means you don't lose your place when you're reading and you don't have to waste time looking over a large chunk of paper, so it speeds everything up.” Is he a mind reader or did he just see that dumb look plastered on your face? “Huh… thanks.” Now it made sense why Twilight said you were writing backwards when you were writing properly in the Cipher. “Here, you don't want to forget your coat.” the dragon held up the garment, newspaper sticking out of the pocket. “Oh, picked up the Ponyville Express? Trying to earn extra points with her?” he winks. You chortle and quickly throw on the coat, adjusting the collar while still talking to one of the few other non-ponies in town, “Nah, it's the Hoofington Post. Rarity tossed it out and didn't seem to happy with it, so I just cleaned it up out of the trash. If you like you can take it back to her, I just didn't want her to wake up and stress out about it. Hey, Spike?” “Hmm?” “Do me a favour, check on Rarity tomorrow morning. She's been acting a little, well, weird.” it wasn't hard to worry about her after that day. You barely take a chance to take a breath before he starts nodding like a bobblehead, “Sure! 'Tis only my duty to help m'lady any way possible. Oh, and no need about the paper.” He tapps his claws together, a smirk once more sliding across his muzzle, fangs poking out from between his thin lips, “I've got an extra copy here from the train station this morning. That way we can both get in good with Rarity, you for taking away that vile distracting paper, or maybe she won't notice, of course, and if she suddenly needs it, then, why, I, the heroic Spike, might nobly sacrifice my copy for her.” He’s a cagey little wretch, no question about that. Giving him the slightest bump on the shoulder you mumble, “You devious-devious drake.” His chortle sounds pleased but almost conspiratorial, “Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow.” He waves as you shoot him a quick salute, like the tip of a hat before adding, “Good evening, and see you again tomorrow, Twilight.” even half bobbing to allow for some degree of proper respect to show for her effort. With that, you shut the door to the Golden Oaks library and feel the first cool breath of the evening autumn air. ♣♣ Meandering home gave rise to thoughts from the day. Many were pleasant, like remembering to toss Applebloom her packed lunch as she bolted out the door from the house; others were relaxing, such as the gentle beams of sunlight lancing down from scintillating clouds of silver whisked across that lambent horizon; and others still turned that glorious hue into pangs of anxiety and fear. The night brought such dreams, such thoughts, and such fears. It was awkward to talk about, so far you hadn't confronted anyone about them and the dreams never seemed to fade. Equestria in the daytime was wonderful, bright, and joyous almost without exception. The moment the sun descended, your body and mind being engulfed in the shadowy realm of sleep, the intruding realms of nightmares descended on you like an unrelenting monster. It was a horrid experience to awaken physically refreshed but mentally rattled by the passage of events that wormed through your unguarded thoughts. They affected your fecund mind like a ravenous parasite and, unlike most dreams, they left traces of themselves that remained fresh and vivid. …Maybe that particular comparison is best left to another time. It seems obvious while glancing at the overburdened saddle pack bursting at the seams with a cornucopia of mixed fruits and vegetables. You have enough time to pick them up just as the last stalls in the market were closing. That amble back towards Sweet Apple acres was serene starting right from the time the savoury aromas of the open air market greeted you from the library's front door. Passing that notable landmark among equals, you could even take a moment to stare at the produce cart with a striped canopy of green and white. It was collapsed and folded up with a single intricately carved bracket, a half-dozen empty or near empty barrels hung off the side. Standing there at the edge of the market square, outside of the towering spire and wrapping balcony around city hall, you look over the world around you. The sun was starting to sink low in the sky and bathed the world in shimmering gold light. It settled over everything with its warm brilliance as the last rays twinkled in a final reprise. It might have been just the natural order on earth, but here, it was the painterly gifts of Celestia herself each and every day. The curtain descended upon the lands of Equestria, heralding the inexorable ascent of night. Entwined fingers and feathered clouds stroked the distant valley floors and forest boughs in the quiet caress of the crepuscular hues of dusk. A sudden breeze sprung up from the east, bringing with it scents from across the bounties of the countryside. The quiet trill of the nightingale, a thin breath of the west wind, gentle hoofsteps over loose gravel: none could sully the ambiance of the rural town. All around you was the indescribable joy of peace, plenty, and prosperity in the most mundane of events. “Ya just gonna stand there till ya' sprout er are ya’ comin' along?” A swift band of straw hued hair hisses past your nose, causing you to shy back from the bullwhip-like snap. Turning quickly on your heel you were greeted by the grinning face of a familiar mare. Soft autumn hues of sunlight warmed the brown stetson sitting on her brow while her mane cascades down from underneath in a care-free mop. It was gathered and neatly tied with a crimson ribbon which seemed slightly formal for the otherwise natural look she presented. Applejack shoulders the burden of the harness and pulls the light vending cart with nary a sign of discomfort or effort. "Hmm?" the mare playfully shunts the cart over enough to bump your hip with the wooden siding to set your feet in motion. The laugh is sincere but infectious, “So what did ye get there, hmm?” She points with her nose towards the saddle bags slung over your shoulder as you both set off down Stirrup street and towards the western bridge. “Oh, just a few odds and ends I picked up for dinner. Hope you like rutabaga.” It was better to look at the mare than down the street, the last crowning glimpse of the sun was gorgeous and all but staring into it or anywhere near it made tears spring to your eyes. “Ooooh, now, got some recipe for a special somepony, hmm?” she winks. The blank expression of confusion was evident enough on your face, so it took only a second for her to really start laughing before explaining, “Sorry, sorry, guess a place like Saddle Arabia'd be too warm tah really get Equestria’s vittles, huh?” “You… could say that.” What is she getting at? Calming herself with a bit of a sigh, the mare shakes her head, “Rutabaga, neep, makes a mighty fine soup for weddin's and servin' tah couples an' the like. See, it used tah be a winter food in Northern Equestria 'cause it kept well. Serve it with silage'n it's sayin' ya want 'em to stay the winter. So just sorta became a way to say ya want to spend time with somepony.” She looks over at you again and even gives your waist a friendly prod, “Betcha' got a good look from that'n, huh?” Damn it. Now that you thought about it there was a bit of an impish grin on Golden Harvest's face when you picked it up. The proprietress had smiled, waved, and in retrospect, seemed too happy about things. Now it was starting to make sense. A seething breath hissed through your teeth, "Yup.” It deserved a long sigh as you massage your temples. Applejack's bubbling laugh gets you to wince a little more until she hits your waist with her hoof, “Ah'm just playin' witcha. No need tah get all pouty.” The slow journey back towards the edge of town was pleasant, but Applejack could be a good conversationalist so long as work wasn't the focus. Cool wind rustles by you, a quiet breath, enough for you to ask, “How were things today?” It was still bright, with the sun right on the horizon, giving Applejack an almost dreamy looking gaze you knew was just a squint with her hat down. It was almost a full five seconds before she actually spoke, “Quiet.” It was weird, the time around cider season was supposed to be filled with a flurry of harvest goods and fare as the best fruits and vegetables from across the region were at their peak. “I'm surprised, but you seem to have made fairly well of it.” There was a jingling of golden bits from inside a cloth bag looped around her neck. “Hmm? No, ah mean quiet-like. Ponies talkin' 'bout the Vanhoover thing or nothin'. Most of the time it's nothin'.” She meant physically quiet. It was hard to gauge, aside from a few quick deliveries and pick ups, but Rarity was really the talker and you were just some serf. “I guess that's something. I mean, Rarity was in a weird mood today and fairly shaken up, too. Does she always get over-excited?” It seems to have a real effect on her. “Hooooh', you bet! Ain'tcha seen 'er like that?” she quirks a brow at you while a smug grin creeps across her muzzle. A faint twitch of your mouth helps you think. Rarity was a Grade-A drama queen, true, but she hadn't been that haggard before. “Not really. Hysterics sure, but not sullen.” “Sullen?” the mare's tone shifts from self-assurance to concern rather quickly. “She does seem awfully dramatic. I mean, it's not nice and comforting by any stretch of the imagination, but it's not like she's being stalked or getting strange mysterious letters. I'm just really surprised she's worried. Sure, it's sad but nor…” the word died in your throat: normal. A quick gaze over at Applejack reflected a look of incredulity as she was bewildered that “normal” was about to crop up in a sentence with that subject. Is death, intentional at least, something so foreign that it's treated as the true exception to the rule? Was it so different, so bewildering, and so bizarre as to actually warrant incredulity? No, this isn't Earth. Such a thought was strange, such a thing was frightening, it was enough to kill a conversation completely. “Ah didn't realize Saddle Arabia was so violent.” Applejack says through a certain stammer of surprise. What could you say after something like that without sounding callous? In the end, it was better to say nothing at all rather than further dampen the spirit of your friend and companion. Applejack said something; her lips moved but you didn't catch it. “Hmm?” You expected her to shrug it off but instead she spoke up, “I'm gonna' put this thing away then go check on 'er. Maybe fix up some vittles tah make sure she eats somethin'.” Once she had something on her mind, you could bet that it was going to get done. “The least I can do is go with you, then.” It was offer that might be accepted. “Nah, ain't no real reason why she'd talk to ya about that any more'n me. ‘Sides, I ain't there just to talk, Ah'll stop by the library an' ask Twilight. 'Tween us, we should be able to take the fear out'a her, too. Make sure there ain't anything else to it.” Stubborn, but still smart enough and experienced to know what she was talking about. A nod was really the only response that would fit. “Sure is a nice way tah end fall ain't it?” Small talk, but the cowpony had let the previous subject go. It gets a nod from you again as you look over the gilded rooftops and sparkling silver sheeted boughs. She was right. Glancing over at the mare, though, she is genuinely trying to make conversation, but worry was etched on her brow. Her forelocks draped over her eyes, but even at that moment, the sparkling emeralds were looking far into the horizon, as if sorting something out there rather than being next to you. The gears were almost visibly turning in her head and she was trying to be polite. With a breath, you steel yourself and realize her pace has quickened almost imperceptibly, the faint squeak from the wheel you were now next to, instead of the mare, confirmed it. “AJ,” you start off, realizing you hadn't ever used her nickname before. In that same realization she blinks and looks right up at you. “Go. I'll take the cart and head back to the farm. If you're right and Rarity needs something then your friend comes first.” “Y-you sure, Rightly?” Bright green eyes and a slight tick of hesitation as the waggon slows makes you almost wonder who 'Rightly' was. However, It was a sincere question as it was a genuine favour. That intent stare made a lump form in your throat, though. Trying to disarm that awkward lull you all but snort and laugh. “Yep, get a move on, you don't need me to give you a swat to get you moving, hmm?” Cavalier and devil-may-care came out more strangled and awkward. “Ah'm a mite grateful. Owe ya' one for that, too. Say ah'll be home by mornin', an' be sure tah mention it to Granny at least twice or she might not ah heard ya'.” Despite that awkwardness that made you want to flush at just how bad the attempt at making her feel better had been, she flashed a bright white-gold gleam before she began unhitching herself from the vice harness. A few quick snaps and adjustments have her out of the restraint and reaching for a satchel just in the back amongst the empty apple barrels. Smiling again, she waits only a few seconds as you slip in to shoulder the tough fibrous bindings and bid her farewell with an easy half-wave half-salute. She returns the gesture before galloping down an alleyway leaving nothing but a few firefly-like dust motes in her wake. Well, if Applejack needed a helping hoof you'd lend her a hand and hope that sufficed. Picking up the slack in the wagon's lead, you grunt as you give it an experimental pull, and listen as it wearily groans forward at a painfully anemic pace. Over the course of no more than ten seconds this had gone from an altruistic gesture between friends, to a potential trip to Ponyville hospital for a hernia.