//------------------------------// // 3. In the Shadow of Giants: Part 2. The Mountain-borne Keep // Story: The Wanderer of the North // by Alaxsxaq //------------------------------// 3. In the Shadow of Giants: Part 2. The Mountain-borne Keep In the days before the Kingdom collapsed and fractured into its current state, the White City of Canterlot resided in the eastern half of the Realm, built and occupied to hold sway over the sometimes mutinous southern provinces. But when Equestria became undone, Canterlot then shifted to being the center of what few states rulers and ponies of note, both within and without, still called “Equestria”. The mountain fortress withstood siege after siege and endured to rebuild the scant remains of civilization left in the wake of an invasion seemingly engineered by some malicious and unseen force. But its virtuous rulers, despite their determination and good intentions, could never summon the resources to reunite their fallen nation. Canterlot would have to remain content with merely being a monument to a more enlightened and stronger time. There was a shallow and short range of mountains, the largest and tallest millennia ago selected to be the perfect place to construct a citadel of unparalleled splendor. How the masons and architects managed to hoist the thousands of tons of marble up a sheer cliff, buffeted by a mighty waterfall, will forever elude the knowledge of ponykind. Some say the Gods themselves helped build Canterlot, others that giants quarried whole mountains. However they did it, nopony now could reproduce this fortification, leaving Canterlot a perpetual object of awe and wonder. So sound was its construction that a great part of the castle itself actually jutted out from the mountain’s base! And nine centuries of material neglect and war had done nothing to degrade its foundations. Passing through the outlying homes beyond the outer wall, a tall alicorn whose coat matched the city’s masonry trembled before the majesty of Canterlot. This was not the first time she had visited the city, but the glory and magnitude of the Southern Fortress could not be diminished in her mind. True, the wealthy merchant city of Manehattan commanded a vast harbor and dozens of massive bridges, and Trotterdam had taken great steps to drain the fens that surrounded it, in effect creating new land…but nothing in Equestria could compare to the feat that was Canterlot. Perhaps only the old alicorn city of the north surpassed the mountain-born keep; of course only one building there has since remained. The tall spires and steeples rested high above the walls, easily visible from where the Wintermail was walking. She had forgotten just how close she was to Canterlot, and when she spotted the white stone far in the distance, a wave of happiness and even excitement swept over her. This was where she would make her new life. The air was cleaner and sweeter, the scents of exotic flowers on the wind. The crystal-clear snowmelt nourished the city and filled its famous baths and fountains. Far below the cliffs the fertile valley grew enough food to feed everypony―and then some. The riverine villages were quaint and calm, living comfortably under the shadow of a fortress that discouraged any invasion. Nigh-impenetrable, Canterlot could allow its citizens to trade and craft without fear of molestation by raiders or ambitious princes. Yes…that sounded like a nice existence. Hopefully Wintermail could find a niche in the city’s life and make it her own. Passing by numerous ponies, some pulling carts of hay and other produce, she stepped further down the cobblestone and came to the Outer Gate. Haft of marble the ageless gatehouse stood imposing over the small homes that crowded before the walls. A short drawbridge straddled the fall’s cool blue water, providing another great obstacle for any attacker. Crossing the bridge, the Wintermail was stopped by a few guardsponies, each one clad in chain mail and plates. They wielded a long spear, tipped with a sharp steel blade. On their waist each one wore a sword as a sidearm. This was the Canterlot Guard, an elite cadre of highly-trained soldiers who swore loyalty to nopony but the sovereign. In times of old they garrisoned the fortress at the King’s behest. And to some, they still did. An officer, wearing armor with a golden trim, approached the alicorn and eyed her intently. “State your business in the White City, Miss,” he commanded, his voice authoritative but still respectful, “I've seen every face in this city, and I’m sure I’d remember somepony like you.” “I've come to take up residence in your illustrious city. Is this intention permissible?” The officer stepped forward and studied the mare. She didn't appear too threatening―a bit large and clumsy, but harmless. The one eye she showed was filled with uncertainty…almost eliciting sympathy from the unicorn stallion. However, he noticed her cloak. Puffing out his chest, the officer tried to have his height match hers. “I’m going to have to ask you to remove your cloak. I can’t have you smuggling any illicit goods.” But the Wintermail became indignant. “I never remove my cloak in such a public place; simply indecent!” she huffed. The guard’s eyes narrowed, “I tell you, Vagabond, to comply. Our gates may be open during the day, but do not think that gives you right to bring any and all things into the city. Do not confuse our reception for weakness. We take our charge very seriously.” He turned and nodded to his soldiers. With perfect discipline they lowered their spears and aimed their tips at the alicorn, “Now, please tells us what you intend to bring with you.” Hesitant at first, the mare came forward to the officer, an embarrassed look on her face. Displaying her side to the officer, she positioned herself so everypony else could not easily see. Wintermail then lifted up a piece of her cloak. The officer, confused, leaned in and spotted something very strange. Her horn may have been broken, but this mare was certainly a unicorn―at least until this officer saw her long white feathers tucked neatly under the cloak. He did notice her saddlebags and a long sword, but the wings…somehow excused her. Wintermail would never be sure exactly why, but the officer nodded and called off his troops, “I see…you have business here. My apologies for keeping you.” She cocked an eyebrow, “…yes! But please don’t tell anypony!” “I never do,” he assured. This stallion could very well have feared the wrath of this “goddess”…or perhaps he knew something that the Wintermail did not. Nevertheless, the mare continued on through the large gate. Befuddled, one of the guards addressed his sergeant, “Sir…why did you let her through?” “I have orders, Corporal. That is all you need to know,” he muttered mysteriously. The rest of the body accepted this response and returned to duty. Leaving the guard behind her, Wintermail was finally within the city walls, surrounded by all the wonder and majesty that was inherent in Canterlot. A long avenue stretched from where she was at the city gates all the way to the inner wall of the castle itself. Lining each side of the street numerous stalls set up shop, providing every good and service imaginable. This was little different from other cities, but Canterlot stood apart from most by an elegant architectural style of a breed now long dead. It was just as she remembered the last time she ventured here. Spires of temples stood among the low homes and shops, a constant source of relief and security for the ponies who lived and journeyed here. The massive walls studded with towers cradled the city, further cementing that peace of mind. The castle in the distance was multi-tiered and from what she heard contained dozens of large chambers and halls for all variety of functions. From out on the street sadly Wintermail could only see the stained glass windows and turrets adorning the keep. Large conical towers and domes, oh so beautifully painted, rose out over the city, providing breathtaking vistas of the valley and mountains. The tallest of them all was over a thousand feet above the ground, suspended by nothing but masonry and a faith in the talent of its builders. There, she was told, was where the Prince resided. It would have been a wonderful and perhaps even magical experience to simply tour the castle. But alas such a privilege was reserved for somepony above her station; she was a simple peasant girl, and commoners are not worthy of such an honor. Moving her mind back to her mission, she wandered the streets for a time, trying to recall the location of a very important building. The city square, centerpieced with a magnificent fountain of a stone alicorn, held a few helpful centers. There was a post office, ill-used in a time when most ponies could neither read nor write. There was a bank, accepting deposits and granting loans of gold and silver. But what concerned Wintermail the most was the Tax House. A crowd of ponies was usually present there, always upset about errors or mismanagement of their taxes. Farmers and artisans from abroad loudly argued with the taxation officers who had accidently, or not, demanded more revenue than was originally asked. This dissatisfaction made the tax collectors very nervous; the Princes, as Wintermail had heard, were never overly found of incompetent bureaucrats. Today, however, things were relatively calm. This behooved the mare, for she did not wish to become hung up in pointless delays or waiting. The single room was of a fair size, comfortably lit by several large windows. A couple guards stood by the doors, charged with defending the tax collectors from angry, sometimes violent, citizens. A few officers sat at their desks, counting coins and reviewing documents written in those strange symbols that meant little to the Wintermail. The mare approached the chief assessor, with his amusing black hat and robe. Scribbling out some words on his record book, the unicorn then dipped his quill back in the ink bottle. Drying the ink with his breath, he closed the pages and looked up at this interrupter. Who stood before his desk was certainly uncommon in appearance. Tall and slender, she nevertheless looked like she’d seen better days. Ragged and bruised, her face stared straight at his. Now what could she want? “May I help you, Miss?” the stallion asked in a clearly annoyed tone. She replied, matching his disposition, “You know all about who lives in the city and where, correct?” “Yes; has there been a problem with collection?” “No…at least, not yet. I would like some land. A place to live on. I’d be willing to pay handsomely. Surely you know which plots are available.” The assessor looked at the mare intently for a moment. Then erupting into laughter, he nudged the pony next to him, “Haha! She wants some land! Will that be twenty acres or ten?!” his associate joined in the chortle, “There’s no land in the City! There’s no land on the riverbanks; there’s no land within ten miles of Canterlot. We've had refugees pouring in, fleeing from all over Equestria. Mustangs, Diamond Dogs, brigands, pirates…raiders of all sorts and colors have been harassing village and keep.” “I know,” Wintermail replied solemnly. “Oh you know? Well did you know that all our inns, beggars’ kitchens, even temples are filling up with ponies we cannot house.” “Or tax!” another tax collector said, placing a silver coin on his stack. “Right. Many are escaped serfs or without a bit to their name. And the Prince won’t turn them away; he’s too ‘compassionate’. But he doesn’t know what exactly to do with them.” “Bloody fool, the Prince is,” the crony said. “Watch yourself,” a hitherto silent guard asserted, “You lot of misers best remember who gave you your positions.” The head officer gave the guards a dirty look. “Yes well…,” he started, opening a book, “What did you have in mind, Miss? We might have something, provided you can pay for it.” “Someplace I can build a forge. Someplace within the city walls.” Leafing through his book, the collector finally found an entry, “You’re in luck; it seems old Greymane has an open loft. Right there in the Artisan’s district. Go talk to him, and see if you can’t rent it out. Other than that, we can give you a plot in the Everfree,” he grinned, eliciting a giggle from his minions. “I think the loft will suffice. Thank you,” Wintermail said, bowing her neck before the officers. Not wishing to spend another moment in this place, the mare turned back and left the building just as soon as she came. Another coin onto the stack and the collector jotted down a few numbers in his book, “What do you suppose happened to that girl?” he asked his coworker, “Her face…” “Must’ve been pretty once! I think the serf got in trouble with her Lord; beat her black and blue. Took a sledge to her horn too; I’ve seen it happen several times before.” “I bet it took a dozen guards to hold down that giant. I’d hate to be that poor bastard who found himself behind her back legs,” the two ingrates shared another laugh and resumed their duties, almost oblivious to what was happening beyond their office. Meanwhile, outside amidst the raucous clamor on the streets of cartwheels and horseshoes, that white alicorn quietly strolled down the cobblestone ways. Her presence was almost lost beneath the sound of hundreds trotting about and haggling with vendors. Canterlot, though not as large or wealthy as Manehattan or Fillydelphia, still drew cultures from all corners of the known world. An odd character here or there would not arouse much notice. Exotic spices, silks, foods, and animals were commonplace for one who knew where to look. Though Canterlot’s inland position could not draw in the massive foreign produce that the great maritime Merchant Lords were able to, the simple prestige and security the City offered was found few other places. Certainly the mild climate appealed more than northerly locales like Poneva. River Traders delighted in the deep and safe waterway that allowed barges and the like to sail up to the valley docks with little fuss. Zealously defended by a detachment of the Canterlot guard, this river provided a free and peaceful avenue for travel and commerce. Wintermail, once she had established herself, would have to take advantage of the plethora of goods the savvy merchants procured. But for now, she had to locate the artisan’s district. If the collectors were to be believed, though she couldn’t be sure, then there’d be a place the mare might at least rest for a few days. Yet even for her great height, Wintermail had trouble finding her bearings. Crowds always plagued the markets and inns, now compounded by apparently an influx of refugees. Drunkards snored loudly in the gutters, empty bottles of wine and liquor lying beside them. Slop formed disgusting puddles in the road, agitated by more buckets being dumped. Walking the streets of a large city was always an ordeal. Ironic how so beautiful a fortress could contain such squalor, but it was nothing alien. "Nothing is perfect," she thought. Stilt-walkers and fire breathers performed in whatever open spaces they found, working for a few bits. Any other day, Wintermail would've enjoyed watching them, but today they proved only an annoyance. She had things to do and intrusive entertainers were blocking the road! Nevertheless, true to her charitable disposition, the mare dropped a few coins into their cups and continued on her way. As she progressed further and further, a common sight started to make itself known. Now away from the merchant’s quarter, inns and taverns soon became the dominant establishment along the streets. Powerful laughing and sometimes anger echoed from their doors. But beside them, sitting on the curb and wrapped in rough rags, were dozens of impoverished-looking ponies. Ponies too poor to afford a room at the inn, or simply arrived after they all became full. They looked truly pathetic, emaciated, filthy, and without any place to go. She cantered over to one and craned her long neck down to meet the pegasus mare’s gaze. Eye’s glossy and sympathetic, the Wintermail smiled softly, “Why are you so downtrodden?” The mare looked up and opened her mouth. She was missing a few teeth and possessed a very distinct lower class accent, “You’d be too if ya saw what me and mine did. Ain’t neva been a raidin’ party like dat, no m’Lady.” “Oh, I’m no ‘Lady’,” the alicorn giggled. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss. Fought you was a Knight! Just dat fancy sword ya got belted ‘round ya. Anyways, big ugly fings come chargin’ out da woods, like some…spectre―yea dat’s what i’ is! I gavvered up me brood and set out for Canterlot, just as ‘em wildfolk torched our ‘ome! We ain’t got a bit to our name no mores. Took i’ all, dey did. Not like it do any good; ain’t no place for freelanders ‘ere. Ain’t no place for ‘em out dere, neivver. Is we blockin’ the paf, girl?” the peasant mare asked. She then gestured to her several children, “C’mon, kids! Let dis nice unicorn pass frough!” “Please, don’t trouble yourselves on my behalf,” Wintermail reassured. “Our family looks out for dose who’s protectin’ the countryside! I see ya took a bit of a beatin’, ya did. Least ya got out wif most of ya pieces!” The white pony paused a second. She must have truly looked like she’d been through hell; she supposed she had. Shaking herself from her thought, the mare reached into her bag and produced a couple golden bits, “Here; it’s not much, but it should hold you until you can find work.” The pegasus happily accepted the alm, “Oh Gods above bless ya! If da Prince ain’t Knighted ya yet, ‘e should!” the mare stood up, her children following suit, “Make yourselves presentable! We’s moneyed now; I ain’t havin’ ya lot paradin’ like some street rabble!” This eccentric pegasus and her fillies and colts then trotted off into the sea of ponies, hopefully to find a nice meal and warm beds. Wintermail smiled and shook her head, “Such odd company.” Turning back to the road, her ears drooped, for now she realized again there were others on the street: her charity was not finished. So she took up the tedious but fulfilling task of helping out these poor ponies with her gold bits. It wasn't the money she was worried about; she had more in her purse than many would see in a year. She gave it out generously. But it was scant and not enough to help them for very long. Wintermail had to trust in their prudence and frugality; she still needed to provide for herself. And while distributing alms to the various ponies in the gutters, she took time to greet them and ask why they were in their current positions. Most professed to being victims of raids; nothing new. A couple told her a rumor that the Canterlot guard would dispatch a party to deal with the brigands. Others knew nothing of the plunder, for they were just escaped serfs. Ponies tied to their Lord’s land. They could escape. Many did, most were caught and branded. Some were allowed to buy their freedom, but at a price so high few could ever hope to do so. Canterlot had acquired a reputation for not only safety, but also liberty. For some reason, the White City did not have any serfs. The land was toiled by free stallions and mares. True many still labored for a Lord, but they were technically free to go at any point. Perhaps this absence of a custom so fundamental in other realms coupled with a history of Freelanders made available acreage a bit scarce. In any case, Wintermail was glad she didn't have to be the one to deal with it. How awful it’d be to endure the burdens of leadership! Lórian bless this “Prince”, whoever he was. When the last few coins had been given out, Wintermail wasted no time in leaving this particular area. She had more than enough still left, but the mare looked and felt rather silly going from pony to pony, almost mechanically and insincere. Holding her temple and sighing, the alicorn continued on. “How do I get myself in these situations?” she thought. Past the numerous lodgings, deeper into Canterlot, the crowds grew no thinner. In fact, in some respects they actually became larger! The all-too-familiar ruckus of metalwork and hissing water and the visible black smoke was a dead giveaway of her destination. Hundreds of stalls came up, hosting craftsponies of all colors and talents. Ponies needed utensils, tools, weapons…and metal was the preferred material. A talented smith could carve out a respectable living, if the throngs present today were any testament to good business. Wintermail hoped to eke out a small piece of this pie. A few soldiers flew above her, carrying freshly-crafted spears and armor. Carts brought in ingots and wood, which the smiths happily bought and sculpted into their eventual art pieces. Wealthy stallions and mares dressed in silken robes and smelling of perfumes dropped literal bags of gold for extravagant jewelry for their darlings. Burly and rough ponies carefully poured their crucibles and lightly dinged their molds open with hammers. A genuine smile found itself on Wintermail’s lips, she having finally located a good place to settle. If those reports of sorties being sent out to deal with the brigands were true, the Guard would need a good number of weapons. And blades had become the white mare’s specialty. Excited, she ran up to a blacksmith who looked old and like he knew the neighborhood. He noticed the mare walk up and gave a simple smirk. “What ya need, Ma’am?” he asked in a raspy voice, the respect in his speech betraying his kindness. “Do you know of a stallion named Greymane!?” she yelled to overcome the din of a thousand hammers banging on iron. “Sure do! He owns half the houses here on the street,” he pointed to one of the larger buildings lining the way, “See the big one right there? He’s in there,” the stallion then resumed his smithing, crafting some kind of hook or poker. “Thank you very much.” “Wonderfully nice pony, he is,” he assured, beaming, “Anything else?” “Ummmm…,” Wintermail thought and looked at the various tools set on the smith’s shelves, “How about that hammer?” she pointed at a long and hefty mallet, perfect for a mare of her size. “Good choice. I’ll take a silver for it.” Reaching into her purse, the alicorn produced a single silver bit. She then placed it on the table before the smith while he took the hammer and gave it to his customer. The stallion then smiled widely, “You have a splendid day, Love.” Wintermail could not fight the urge to smile back and in turn gave him a few copper bits in gratitude. Hammer in mouth, the mare placed the implement in her bag. The handle stuck out ponderously, but hopefully this arrangement was only temporary. Anxiously almost there, the mare spotted the house the smith had pointed out for her. The building was certainly larger than those surrounding it, but still maintained the similar architectural style and construction. The walls were large stones, held by mortar and chalked white to match the overlying theme of the city. The roofs were thatch like most others in Canterlot, the copper of more luxurious edifices being much too expensive. Clouded and imperfect glass panes sat in the windows, providing refuge from the elements if nothing else. A heavy oaken door set in iron fastenings stood latched closed before her, just above a few stone steps. Summoning her courage, Wintermail ascended the stoop and held out her hoof. Knocking several times, she stood patiently in anticipation for whoever was behind. She heard the frail hoofsteps of somepony getting closer and closer. “Yes yes I’m coming,” an old and subdued voice called out. A second later and the latch opened with a metallic “clinking” sound. As the door swung inwards, a short and scruffy bluish-grey unicorn crept out. This must be Greymane, as evident by his silver locks that hung down his neck and head, tattered and frayed. For a second he stared forwards, curious as to why a large white form without a head was at his doorstep. Wintermail realized she was a bit too tall for the doorway. She leaned her neck down to meet the stallion’s gaze. “Excuse me…,” she began demurely, “Are you Mister Greymane?” He blinked a few times before smiling like a young colt, “Why I am, m’Dear! Oh where are my manners? Please, do come in,” he gestured his hoof into the abode, and Wintermail was obliged to follow. The interior of the house was a good deal higher than normal, much to her appreciation. She did hit her head on a low rafter, but without a horn she did not have to foolishly pry herself from the timber. This was a bittersweet comfort. Yet in the main chamber she could stand as tall and upright as she wished, the chandelier overhead no less than fifteen feet above the beautifully polished wooden floor. “Are you hungry, Stranger? Need a warm bed tonight?” the gregarious landlord asked, his voice brimming with concern, “We've been filled up some, but I can set some linens as a bed…” “No thank you. I came to ask about a loft for rent,” the stallion gave a puzzled look as he studied the mare. She had seen better days, judging by her swollen nose and lip, and the jagged remnant of her horn. “I can pay well in advance,” she produced a bag of coins, and placed it before the elderly pony’s feet. He levitated out a few gold pieces. The images on them were of various Princes and petty kings. This mare was well-traveled and had acquired a small fortune, whether by means honest or not. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Follow me,” he uttered, solemn and respectable. Wintermail did as he bid, keeping her pace slow to avoid tripping over the slower pony. He appeared to be no less than fifty or so, but his movements were full of vigor and strength. Upon his flank was another one of those “cutie marks”: a stylized picture of a house. If his talent apparently was managing homes, then she’d come to the right place. He led her to a large and old wooden desk, a small gilded box placed on top. Around the box were scrolls and pages with those strange symbols scrawled all over. Behind the table was a bookshelf, stuffed thoroughly with tomes and logs to help this pony manage his affairs. Brass candelabras lit the study up nicely. He magically grabbed one of the books from the shelf and placed it on the desk with a loud “thud”. He then opened it and turned to the next blank page. Producing a quill and black ink, he readied the pen and placed the nib just above the paper. “Now, if you want the home, I need your name.” “My name…?” the alicorn placed a hoof under her chin, thinking for a moment, “Put down ‘Wintermail’. That’s what I've called myself for the last few years.” “You ain’t gonna go changing on me, are you?” The mare gave a soft chuckle, “No sir.” “Excellent. Let’s see…Wiiiiin….teeeeer. Is that one word or two?” She blinked a few times, “I…I’m not sure―“ “One word; it’ll save space,” he finished writing the name down: either it was very long to do so or he jotted down additional information. “There we are. Now your key…,” he then eyed the gilded box and sent a magic glow around the lock. With a few clanks the lock click opened. Lifting the top up, old Greymane fished through a dozen keys before finding the one he was looking for. Pulling it out, he then personally gave the key to his new tenant with his hoof. “Do not lose it, or I’ll have you pay for a new one,” Greymane jested as the mare happily accepted the key. She placed it into her bag and waited for any further instruction. The stallion indulged her, “Come with me and I’ll show you where the place is.” Wintermail followed her new landlord back into the foyer. Her ears turned in on the faint sound of ponies talking and laughing. Down the hall was what looked like a kitchen or dining room where the kind old unicorn was giving hospitality to the homeless and dispossessed. With such a nice stallion providing her residence, Wintermail felt finally her luck was turning around. At peace, she followed him out the door and further down the street. Ponies from their stalls and carts called out to Greymane, greeting him and gifting him fruits and vegetables. He deferred the presents to his son, claiming he had to look after this tall white mare. Wintermail couldn’t help but feel a soothing calm in her heart. Before long, they reached a wooden building stilted on large dark logs. A shallower, lower portion completed the foundation. An open area beneath the home would serve as a workshop for whatever the Wintermail wished to do. Greymane wasn’t entirely concerned with what she did with it so long as he received his rent. The unicorn stopped before the door at the bottom and addressed his tenant. “Well, here you go. There’s not much, if any, furniture. No plumbing, no yard, no nothing special. But she’s as sturdy as they come and it’ll keep you dry. I’ll be back at the end of the month for my money.” He started off, satisfied at another source of income. “Thank you, my Lord!” Wintermail shouted, trying to replicate the courtesies of nobility. Greymane giggled, “I’m no Lord, Miss Wintermail, just a very wealthy commoner. My name will do nicely. And if you need anything, my door is always open,” and with that, the stallion disappeared back into the crowd, leaving the alicorn to herself once again. Retrieving the key from her pack, she inserted the iron into the lock and turned it until the tumblers gave way. Sliding the latch out, she pulled the door open and crept inside. The first room was nearly empty, simple windows illuminating the interior and a small staircase leading up to the rest of the home. Wintermail gingerly placed a hoof on the black board of the first step and put all her weight on that leg. A mare of her size, despite being rather gaunt, still had considerable mass; she was afraid the stairs might collapse out from under her! But thankfully the board held. Encouraged, she cantered up the steps into the main room. The ceiling stood just comfortably above her, and the room was large enough for her to live without a looming claustrophobia. Off to the side were smaller rooms; all in sorry need of something to fill them. Walking forward, Wintermail came to the large window overlooking the street. From here she could survey the ponies outside and gauge the weather and traffic; not a bad vantage point. And from the pane she could see the sun; how high it was in the sky. Just a little past midday. There still was much to do and too many hours left to put her errands off until tomorrow. She had a bag of money and a desperate need of amenities and a workstation. Turning away from the window, she unclasped her cloak and slung off her bag. Emptying the contents of her pack, the mare placed every nonessential thing in a corner, hopefully temporarily until she could buy a table or cabinet. Spices and sweet fruits, soaps and mystical herbs, a canteen half-full of water and small wooden tools; anything she could unburden herself of. She then delicately took that purple egg and found a corner for it by its lonesome, intent on wrapping it warmly in linens and cloths. Next came her sword… She thought for a second as she undid the strong belt that girt Eónadin around her waist. The tool of the Wanderer would be retired. The straps falling limp down from the scabbard, the sword looked almost alien in front of her. A faint tear trickled from her eye, not necessarily a sad one. “This is really happening,” she thought aloud, reflecting on all her travels. And whether used or not, that blade of blackened steel had followed her through it all. She felt a powerful connection to this inanimate object. But those days were over. Forcing herself to set the blade down, Wintermail could feel a faint sorrow emanating from the sword. Almost as though it were…no, that was simply nonsense. She was a new mare; a more peaceful one. A violent end would not be hers…she’d live a long and fruitful life, free from the bloody ways the alicorns had come to know. Yes! And no ancient magical sword should steal that freedom away from her. She embraced that concept, stretching her wide wings out for the first time in what felt like weeks. Maybe someday she could walk down a street bearing herself in full; a nice prospect indeed. No doubt at least some individual she’d met on her journeys got wise to what she truly was. Evergreen’s mother, the now-deceased Ponevan King, and even that damnable Minotaur were not fooled in the least. But they were few and far between, mitigated hopefully by lack of any overt displays. Most would go on with their lives thinking there were only three races of ponies. This was for the best. Folding those giant cumbersome wings back against her body, the mare slung her bag back on. It was comfortably much lighter now. Then she put her cloak on and started back down the stairs. Before exiting, she took one last look at the house. Humble, dark, perhaps even ugly but she had grown use to far worse out in the wilderness. A roof over her head and a blazing hearth was a luxury she could delight in. But right now she had errands to run, things to buy, and places to go. Soon enough this house would become her home. She’d make the furniture herself if need be; lumber was in no short supply. All the drills and hammers and tongs she could ever want were literally a few steps from her door. The stonework for her furnace and the bellows certainly could be found somewhere and carts came hourly with materials. This might be easier than she thought. And over the next few days she gathered whatever things she required and established a few rudimentary amenities within her home, sleeping in a proper bed and eating at a proper table. Day by day the loose assortment of bricks and stone behind the loft accreted into a recognizable workshop with various benches and tools for the Wintermail to work her magic. By night she’d store everything not bolted down in her first floor and continue laboring the next day. By afternoon on the third, she had finished constructing her very own forge, an expression of herself and the old passion she learned from her late father. It was beautiful in its own hard and rugged sort of way, everything exactly as Wintermail wanted it; not a single nail out of place. At dawn, she emerged from her house and gazed lazily up at the dim blue sky. A hearty breakfast of bread and vegetables had left her feeling energized and ready to truly begin the next day of the rest of her life. She slept well that night and could not wait to begin toiling before a fire. Here at her forge she had purpose. Here she filled a vital role in the local society of Canterlot. Already some passerby soldiers had noticed her building the shop and ordered a couple swords. Excited to fulfill their requests, the tall white alicorn donned her apron and poured a basket of charcoal into the furnace. Striking flint, she then pressed down on the bellows and watched hypnotically as the coals burned bright orange. Smiling and wiping a bead of sweat from her brow, she took her tongs and clasped a long ingot of steel. Placing it in the fire, she waited until the metal glowed red-hot before bringing the iron to the anvil. Licking her lips in anticipation, the Wintermail raised her large hammer and eyed the steel, mentally working out what she wanted to craft. Now confident in her designs, the mare swung her hammer down with all her might, a loud din complimenting a flurry of sparks jumping from the metal.