It was a flurry of activity in Altenprow’s administrative building, griffins and ponies rushing every which way as they engaged in the business of government. It was a scene that Far Odyssey- Confederation messenger- was quite used to, having delivered no small amount of telegrams to government buildings.
Weaving his way through the creatures about him, he paused at the door of the office of Horst Kraller. It was closed. He knocked a hoof against the door and waited, frowning when it didn’t open.
“Can I help you sir?” A passing griffin tiercelet asked.
“I have a telegram for Herr Kraller. It’s marked urgent.”
“Alas, he left two days ago.” The griffin smiled sadly, “Herr Kraller is currently on an airship to the north, chasing after some creatures of interest. I am his assistant, however, so I can take it in his name.”
Far Odyssey shrugged, pulling the envelope from his saddle bags and handing it over and extending a hoof for a tip.
Passing over a few silver claws with a roll of her eyes, Horst’s assistant casually broke the seal with a claw and read. As Odyssey trotted away, her eyes grew wider and wider. Reaching the end of the telegram, she hurriedly ran down the hall, shouting at the top of her lungs.
“Send for a squad of guard! Now!”
- - - -
TO HERR KRALLER
IT IS OF VITAL IMPORTANCE THAT YOU DETAIN THE RAM GOING BY THE NAME OF RAGORA.
INVESTIGATIONS CONDUCTED BY MY ASSOCIATES AND I HAVE REVEALED THAT THE ACTUAL MYSTIC KNOWN AS RAGORA WAS KILLED TWO WEEKS AGO. THE BELL OF TAMBELON YOURS CARRIES MUST BE RECOVERED.
JACOBY FLYNN
- - - -
The house door was smashed to pieces, guards rushing through the halls, into rooms and up the stairs towards the second floor. Brandishing weapons, both melee and ranged in their talons, they ruthlessly swept the house for any sign of the ram who had called himself Ragora.
But the house was already empty.
- - - -
Rarogra smiled as he carefully as he slid out of the carts harness. It was no longer something he required.
Leaving it on the side of the road, he strode deep into the wilderness and away from civilization. Up the sides of mountains, down into gullies, backtracking, taking sudden detours, everything and anything to throw possible pursuers off the trail.
After traveling for what felt like hours, he paused, glancing about for any nearby creatures hiding in the underbrush, or waiting to spring out at him. However, once he was satisfied that no such events were likely to occur, he slid the bell from Tambelon around his neck and began to change.
The patchy white and gray coat darkened into a deep bluish-black, his broken horn repairing itself back to a proper ram curl. The eyes, so full of warmth back in Altenprow, took on an angry, red glow. And, finally, his flat teeth grew into razor sharp fangs.
Chuckling to himself, he reached a hoof up and gave the bell around his neck a casual ring. The spirit of General Hurricane was pulled back to the living world, thrashing against the tendrils of magic that bound her to the bell.
“I must really thank those two.” He chuckled, “It is so rare for one of my targets to be so readily delivered into my hooves.”
The headless ghost hissed, continuing to thrash against the magical bonds.
“Yes. I imagine that you do hate me.” He chuckled again, “But I have such plans for you my, my little pony. Vae victis.”
- - - -
The cold wind whipped and slashed through Gilda’s feathers and fur. The raging superstorm that coiled around the tallest mountain of the Storm Peaks, and had thusly helped name the whole range, rose before her group.
Even at this distance, she could feel the clashing air currents whipping about the edge of the storm front. Many griffin had tried to push their way through the depths of the thunderstorm, and failed.
“Feels...different.” Agid observed, hovering in place and letting the air rush through his outspread wings, to get a feel for the air currents. The griffin had spent some time studying weather patterns in Cloudsdale, many years ago, and while not able to control the weather like a pegasus, had a better feel for how it worked than most of his kind, “Weaker than before. Winds are dissipating.”
Gilda glanced back at the supercell. Weak with that monster was a very relative thing. But it was still a very bad sign.
“Alright losers!” She barked out, channelling her inner military commander, “We’re going to that peak, and we’re going to seal this thing away! Let’s move out!”
Swooping towards the edge of the storm, it was hard to not be intimidated by the massive wall of grey that reached into the stratosphere. It was like assaulting a cloud keep of the storm giants of legend. Then they were through the edge and being battered about by the winds and rain within.
It didn’t take long for Gilda to realize just how right Agid was about his proclamation. The last time she had worked her way through the storm, the wind shears had been powerful enough to knock her askew and the clouds were wracked with lightning.
Back then, it had taken every ounce of skill she had developed from flying with Dash to find a safe path through the clouds. And even then, it had taken her a few attempts, and some broken bones before she had finally pulled it off.
And, while the winds were still strong, they weren’t that strong. And there was no lightning. Just snow being tossed about in flurries. Frowning, she pushed onwards, trying to ignore the sensation of being watched that followed the group through the cyclone and the way certain clouds almost seemed to be alive, coiling into serpentine shapes that towered over them, before collapsing back into the formless mass.
It was a sensation of supreme claustrophobia that descended upon them as they continued onwards, the wind rushing past them almost feeling like breath on the backs of their necks, the rumble of thunder almost sounding like the roars of some kind of primal beast.
Suddenly, they were free, having burst through another gray wall of cloud, the warm sunlight beating down on their backs. Folding their wings back, they dove towards the jagged spire of granite that jutted out at an odd forty-five degree angle from the rest of the peak.
No snow rested upon this part of the mountain. Just the dark rock laid bare. Well, the dark rock, and the glowing griffin runes that had been carved into it. Landing neatly on it’s surface, Gilda nodded to Whitewings.
“Get the blood.”
Whitewings complied, reaching into her bags and pulling out an ornate crystal phial. Full of deep red blood and stoppered with an eyedropper, the liquid was constantly changing shape. Forming into a circle, then a square, then a triangle, then a diamond and back to a circle.
The blood of Discord. The only thing that could keep the monster in the storm contained.
Flipping the bottle upside down, she drew a dropper full of blood before rightening it. Taking a deep breath, she lowered the dropper over the largest of the runes and squeezed. The warm redness tumbled through the air, still twisting and changing shape as it fell. But, it was unable to fight gravity and splattered against the runework.
Nothing happened.
“...Aren’t the runes supposed to be glowing?” Glida blinked.
“Yeah. They’re supposed to be glowing. And if they’re not glowing and the prison is getting weaker-”
“Gilda…” Adelulf interrupted, “You should take a look at this.”
Swinging her head about, Gilda winced at what the brother was pointing at. They hadn’t noticed during their initial approach, but part of the rune work had melted away, the rock there fused into something more like obsidian.
“Damn.” Gilda sighed, “Pretty much exactly what Celestia was afraid of. The wards are damaged.” Pinching her beak with a talon, she took a deep breath, “Alright, if we book it for Equestria, maybe we can pick up some support-”
“Gilda!” Whitewings yelped in surprise.
What now? She thought, twisting back around and following the griffin’s outstretched claw. The bow of an airship was slicing its way through the clouds, bursting into the open air like a giant, angry bird of prey. And as it buzzed fully into view, armed griffin threw themselves from the deck, rapidly surrounding her and her friends.
The last griffin that landed, much to Gilda’s annoyance, was a face she had hoped she had left behind in Altenprow.
“Hello, Horst.” She frowned.
The state security officer just smiled back, nodding his head towards them. The troops moved at once, some keeping their weapons trained on them, while the others proceeded to slap irons on them.
“Hello Gilda.” He continued to smile, eyes roaming over the runes, “I believe you have some explaining to do.”
Gilda could have sworn she heard the storm laughing.