//------------------------------// // Something Wicked this Way Comes... // Story: The Ninety-nine Nectars of Princess Luna; Or How Twilight Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Her Wings // by NoeCarrier //------------------------------// Chapter Eleven "Something Wicked this Way Comes...” “--and furthermore m'lud, pursuant to the eleventh complaint of gross indecency, I wish to submit the following photographic negative into evidence...” Astrapios rested his feathered head on the desk in front of him, barely fighting the urge to fall asleep. The courtroom was cool and comfortable, with just enough of a breeze filtering in through into the place from the outside. This earned him a sharp tap on the withers from Mr Ruffley, one third of Ruffley, Buggritte and Runne. The stallion was immaculately dressed, sporting a three-piece blue silk suit, complete with matching horseshoes that were fastened to his hooves with sterling silver clips, and a short tie that bore the trifecta logo of his firm. This was rather expected of his kind, that is to say lawyers, but Mr Ruffley took it to the extreme. This made him look quite intimidating, or at least, so Astrapios thought. Barely Eagle Magazine was no stranger to various sorts of litigation. If it wasn't the gentle undercurrent of antigryphon troublemakers, then it was a haughty dam of some description, after her pound of hay in a court of law. Nothing much had ever come of it. This feels different, somehow, he thought. More organized, and there's more of them, too. And how did they arrange this so fast? “Mr Astrapios, you simply must remain awake,” Mr Ruffley whispered, as the bailiffs maneuvered the boxed photographic evidence up to the stand. “Come on, Ruffley,” Astrapios said, in an equally quiet tone. “This is just the normal nonsense, isn't it?” “Do you see who that is up there?” Mr Ruffley said, sternly. “That's Judge No Quarter, otherwise known as No 'Legsmasher' Quarter, dearly departed of the Canterlot underground back-boxing scene.” “Back-boxing?” “It's like boxing, but played from behind.” “I see, why is that a problem? We're not in the ring with him.” “Judge Quarter is Celestia's pet attack dog. She keeps him in a dark hole in the ground, only letting him out when there are poor, virginal barristers to hunt down and defile.” Astrapios peered at the pony in the dock, a blue-maned old stallion wearing a red smock and an expression that somehow simultaneously displayed contemptuous disinterest and furious, hoof-stamping outrage. There was something grizzled about him, in the way he chewed his lips and moved the trial forward with nothing more than a nod of the head and a swift crack of the gavel. He'd seen this kind of personality before, though usually it had claws and a fondness for eating things that were still mostly alive. “I like the sound of him already.” Astrapios chuckled. “He reminds me of my grandfather.” “Sir, that is as well as maybe, but the fact of the matter is that he is not a regular New Corral judge and, therefore, not usually eligible to preside over trials that take place in the city!” Mr Ruffley had become quite animated by this point, though still desperately trying to stay quiet and professional, his voice rising to barely above a loud whisper. “Do you understand? Somepony, somepony big and white, has sent him here on special assignment.” Ruffley loaded the last part of his sentence with what Astrapios presumed was his best attempt at ominous foreboding but, coming from the mouth and voice box of a pony, sounded like a flea auguring doom at first sight of the comb. The hippogryph tried not to laugh, immediately feeling guilty about it on account of his own small stature. “Cogs turn in the background. Something is afoot!” “Don't you mean 'ahoof'?” Astrapios said, grinning. “What?” “You said 'afoot', but the phrase is 'ahoof'.” “Many species have feet!” Ruffley's eyes went wide. “Don't change the subject!” “Calm down, Ruffley, we'll be fine,” Astrapios cooed, placing a claw on Ruffley's withers. “Look, I think they're just about done setting up the evidence...” Up in front of the judge, beneath his lofty perch, the bailiffs had constructed a montage of Barely Eagle centerfolds. The photographic negatives, from which the lithograph blocks were cut and drawn from, had been developed and printed, and were displayed in harsh black and white, the blowing up process having robbed them of a lot of detail and resolution. They sat affixed to cork for all to see, or stuck to card and propped up on blocks, all bearing little black exhibit tags. Astrapios glanced over at the jury. The twenty-four individuals who would determine guilt were as diverse as the city itself, and representatives of all the major species now stared at the array of flesh and feathers, or talked amongst themselves. The ponies in particular looked the most stunned. He had seen many of those sorts of looks before, all of them on equines. I wonder, what do they teach in schools here? It can't be very good. They're so innocent and naïve, those poor things. It's just as well I don't put out anything that might get the average hot-blooded stallion going. Or, perhaps I do. Maybe I can bribe the jury with signed prints, or a lifetime subscription. * Twilight and Whom were on the edge of the forest when it began to rain. Curiously, it did not do so in the way that Twilight was used to. Back home, the weather schedule was published in every paper, and any new burst would begin quite suddenly and rise immediately to peak intensity, with teams of local weather stewards milling around in the cloud base, hard at work to make it so. In the Lunar Principality the clouds moved roguishly, this way and that, as if driven along by the wind and nothing much more. When they chose to deposit their leaden cargo, they did not pause, with light drizzle progressing into short periods of more enthusiastic torrents in a way that was as random as their movement. None of this seemed to bother Whom in the slightest. In fact, she was thrilled by the shower, giggling playfully as the solid, angular leaves of the metallic trees turned into impromptu gutters. She dove headlong through the curtains of water they created, then took to the wing for short bounds through the air to shake herself off. Twilight merely conjured a small umbrella, which was like her former self before the alicorn business; simple, functional and with an easy role in life. When they finally climbed back up the low hill that surrounded the castle and walked through the gates, Twilight found her hooves had become quite muddy. The fields around Whom's castle were not, it seemed, made from the same stuff as the ground beneath the metal forest. Whereas that had a cleansing effect, this was quite the inverse, and was by far the most normal thing around. Immediately, the purple mare felt a pang of painful nostalgia. She glanced out between the arches of the portcullis gate and up at the sky, and for the first time began to question her recent actions. This is the longest time I've spent away from Equestria, she thought, absent-mindedly sitting down on her haunches in the cover of the gate, pulling open her panniers with her magic and drawing out the items she would need for the next part of her quest. “By the ninety-nine virgin mares of Dionysus, Twilight!” Whom shouted, her voice petrified. “What are you doing with that?!” “With what?” Twilight said, shooting her a puzzled glance. “That knife!” Twilight twirled the object she'd slipped out of her panniers. The thin, flat blade of Joyeuse glinted as its platinum edge reflected the light that her magical field generated. Along the handle, which was cylindrical and made of polished meteoric nickel-iron, Old High Equuish characters inscribed: Discipulus meo carissime, Ego Lætus, composuerunt de eodem ferro et animos Durandal et Curtana. Cum summa amore, Dei Ex Sol. “This old thing?” Twilight said, frowning. “Princess Celestia gave it to me years ago. I use it as a letter opener.” “What are you doing with it?” she said, fuzzy pink ears folding back against her skull. “That squid eye has to come out somehow.” “Twilight! That's horrible!” “Oh, come on! It's not like I'm going to do it to a living one.” “Just put it down!” Whom was, by this point, becoming quite hysterical, inching away from Twilight to press against the other side of the gate, so the Princess did as she was asked and slid the blade back into its plain brown scabbard before hiding it away within the recesses of her panniers. “Look, I think it would be best if I go and get this eyeball,” Whom said, as soon as the offending thing was out of view. “You make yourself comfortable upstairs in my private quarters, wipe some of that mud off.” “There's really no need,” Twilight said, imagining Whom trying to fight a giant squid. “I think there is! You were going to just cut out their eyes!” “So? They don't need them any more! They're dead!” “Only things that are alive can die.” “I don't understand.” Whom sighed and trotted into the castle courtyard, pausing only once she was in the middle of it. Twilight noticed that all the tracks on the ground, presumably made by Whom, started and finished in the same place, where she now was standing. “I really think it will be safer this way,” Whom said finally, then vanished. Twilight immediately attempted to run after her, but the doorway that Whom had opened through the Gap and back onto the lunar surface had already closed. She prodded space-time rather sharply, trying to will it into accepting, or even recognising, her commands, but nothing happened. She focused her teleport locus, visualising the mathematical coordinates for the same point on the moon that she had arrived at to begin with, but found herself lacking the power required to make the transit, a disappointing fizzle her only reward. Wherever the Lunar Principality was in relation to the moon, it was well beyond her range. Cursing herself for not having read up on the mechanics of pocket universes, she gave up trying and went to look for Whom's private quarters. * Twilight eventually found what she was looking for, but not until after a great deal of wandering around and backtracking. Whoever or whatever had designed Baroque Number 87, they must have been quite mad. Tall, sweeping staircases lit by Hearth's Warming decorations flowed upwards, as though introducing some grand suite of chambers, but then ended abruptly in a mess of naked brick and unfinished fixtures. Long sets of gloomy corridors went equally to nowhere, with more than one door revealing what, at first glance, appeared to be an opulent dining hall or drawing room, but which was actually a carefully painted illusion, designed to give the feel of depth and nothing more. Whom's chambers were located behind a nondescript piece of wooden panelling, which Twilight only found after noticing all the scratches and scuffs on the jet black flooring leading up to it. She pushed it open with a cautious kick of her hoof, peering inside with a sense of growing alarm at what strangeness she might uncover next. Somewhat anticlimactically, the most normal part of the castle now presented itself. On a polished oak floor sat an unusually large futon, drowned in embroidered black pillows and surrounded by a few solid looking dressers and chests. There was a clear surfeit of possessions, but what little she had was obviously held dear. As she entered and came closer, Twilight saw that on the nightstand was a clock, which had nine hands and didn't seem to be working, and a tiny lithograph picture in a glass frame. It was a scene from outside the front of an old Canterlot building, one that she didn't recognise. A little herd of fillies and colts, all different races and colours, stood in front of a pair of mares, who were wearing bright, cheerful smiles and the most ridiculous hats she'd ever seen. Taken together, it rather reminded Twilight of her great-grandam's rooms. She had been a humble pony of small means, in service to the Crown as a seamstress, and had thus been entitled to one of Canterlot Castle's infinite rooms, secreted away beneath its cellars and kitchens. The bedroom had a little en-suite bathroom, which continued the traditional, minimalist, themes. Neat slate tiles covered the walls, and a carved wooden sink with a steel bowl sat beside a toilet which looked more like a bizarre instrument of torture than anything else, far removed from the reasonably modern conveniences now common in Equestria. Everything was fastidiously clean and organised; even the glass bottles full of soaps and creams and so on were lined up in regimented rows. Twilight smiled. A mare after my own heart. There was no shower or bath, not even of the old type that was more a sort of stall with a tap in it, so she washed the mud from her hooves as best she could with just a cloth from the neat pile next to the toilet and her magic. The two outlets above the sink were marked with orange and black enamel dots, but both dispensed only freezing cold water, and were therefore not much help. Thus cleansed, Twilight replaced everything in the bathroom that she had moved, wiped the last of the mud from the floor, then went back into the other room to wait for Whom to return. * Devoid of much to interest it, Twilight's attention span was measurable in minutes. The minimalism, it seemed, was a truly prevalent motif. She'd lain on the futon for a moment, stretching her tired muscles and bones on the pleasantly soft duvet. The pillows, made of a sort of lustrous jet material that she didn't recognize, smelled faintly of persimmon and wild strangle oak, a fiery, peppery, cooling smell that was as though mint, chilli peppers and piper nigrum had somehow crossbred. Their embroidery, with fastidiously neat onyx cotton lines, showed a series of triangles and squares overlaid on top of each other. In neat coils and lines between the gaps in the shapes were, to her surprise, words in Middle Dales Equuish, a dialect nobody had spoken outside of a string of high mountain valleys eight hundred kilometres south of Canterlot, about four hundred years ago, and which she had only seen in books. Whoever had stitched the pillow seemed to have a strong grasp of it, even replicating the peculiar orthography and numerous fricative stop marks with alacrious expertise. After the futon had worn out its primary interests, she'd lifted up the pillows and created a comfortable nest, wings fluttering quite of their own accord. The material, still unidentified, clung strangely to her fur, occasionally crackling with static electricity, as she pulled a pinion-feather sized scroll of paper from her panniers, floating it across the room from where she'd lain the big leather things prior to her makeshift bath. Seems so long ago that Punch gave this to me. It's like months and months have passed, and yet, it could only have been half a day ago. I suppose the lack of the day and night cycles to which I've become accustomed has played tricks on me. The Princess unrolled the scroll and held it in the glow of her horn, liking a fixed, known source for reading older works. Her tail swished idly back and forth as she ruminated on the contents. She folded her legs beneath her, a preferred position, one honed to perfection through a long and obsessive autodidactic career. At once, her thoughts shifted toward the culmination of the quest, and how she might actually achieve the creation of the Nectar she desired. The elegant mouthwritings, for there appeared to have been multiple writers behind the list, stopped short of talking much about what one should do once one had collected all of the items. Twilight ran her tongue over her lips and felt out the crowns of her flat teeth, tongue twisting this way and that in time with the repeated readings of the same, scant lines of text, as though searching for something hidden in the background. Calling up a little magic, she ran a standard battery of cryptographic probes on it, looking for the minute, tell-tale, spiny shimmers in the thaumokinetic feedback that would reveal if there were obfuscated parts. All matter possessed a magical field, some types more strongly than others. The work of a few moments showed that the fine, cyprus and larch derived material was as natural as could be expected, and perfectly ordinary. The iron in the ink felt smooth, even mixed in with the fuzzy gallnut tannins, sticky gum tree resin, and tiny, crunchy traces of the oil of vitriol that had been used to treat the iron in the first place. Shifting her hips from side to side and yawning, the Princess allowed her eyes to close, and thusly, her mind to wander. She settled her head down on a particularly plump example of the pillows that cushioned her. From nowhere, a vague memory of something she had read, though at what point in time she could not say, bumped up against the lower boundaries of her awareness. It bobbed there for a spell, like a the petal of a dead flower, curled at the edges and stained brown with decay products. Then, the machinery of her thinking gyred and gimbaled, and in the wave that followed, the petal struck out for higher places. Blast Wells' ninety-eighth precept on the true and just conditions of magic. All other things being equal, sequential revelations are preferred, as the mind of a mage is prone to wander and, if he is in a hurry, may skip vital steps, believing in error that they are not required, or that the function they perform is accomplished elsewhere. Blast Well was talking about incantations for deriving cubic equations and figuring out the triangular arrays of binomial coefficients, though, she thought, blearily playing a mental demon's advocate. This thing of paper – she waved it around for effect – is less magical, enchanted, hexed, or otherwise different from what I imagine to be several hundred million just like it, apart from, obviously, the text. Twilight fluttered her wings in annoyance. It was a largely subconscious act but, as the muscles that controlled them were now integrated into her peripheral nervous system, she could not help but sometimes unintentionally move them, to assuage some internal frustration. The tip of her right wing, where the longest purple flight feather spanned out to total length of twice that of her body, grazed the solid, ponyoak headboard. Immediately, her own magical field trembled, like a tense sheet of tarpaulin having ping pong balls dropped on it. That familiar, eerie sensation reverberated up and down her horn, sympathetic inductions of the keratin and organoceramometallic deposits. She gasped sharply, eyes flicking open, trying to determine the source. Thaumic triangulation was a tricky science, more art than anything else. Indications of distance and vector prickled intuitively, coming from all angles. A low and tricksy warmth washed over her, and she knew this feeling too. Heat crossed her cheeks too, but it had nothing to do with the rising impetus that swelled in her. Around the base of her spine and through her haunches it rose, layering itself anew and again, becoming more complex. In time with this the levels of magical energy were steadily increasing, the vibrations in her skull becoming more forceful. Twilight flapped her wings and she leapt off the bed and into the air, arcing ungracefully across the room. Mid-flight she rolled her body, the higher output of whatever thaumic thing was in the vicinity allowing easier triangulation, inexorably drawing her attention to the source. The Princess landed with a thud, the walls of Baroque 82 proving just as sturdy and unyielding as they looked, if not more so. She ended up in a pile, mind jarred and body stinging, but couldn't take her eyes off what had appeared where, moments ago, was nothing. Sitting at the head of the bed, rump against the wood, was a dusky brown stallion, and unmistakably he was a stallion. Long and wild brown mane flowed over his broad and imposing shoulders. Thick bands of musculature covered every inch of him, bulging tightly, like some sort of skinless anatomical model. His immaculately trimmed hooves were shod with a tasteful band of silver and copper, practical, but light on the foot. Striking blue eyes inspected her idly, though interestedly, like a pony anticipating the approach of a waiter. “You are not Whom,” he said, in an unidentifiable, though faintly modern, accent that sounded like warm butter being spread on fresh baked farmhouse bread. “That's very observant of you,” Twilight said, throat croaky from several hours of silence. “I'm certainly not that pink. I'm sorry, who are you?” “I am usually referred to as Olisbos, as that is my function.” “Your function?” she said, shakily getting to her hooves, the sensation of strong magic, and the feeling of tricksy warmth, making her shiver. “A-are you a slave here?” “I am not an anything, other than what I am, which I have already explained,” he said, patiently and without much tone to his voice, besides that which was pleasantly helpful and rustic. “That's a bit cryptic,” she said, approaching closer back toward the bed, sniffing for scent clues and identity but finding none. “I'm not familiar with the term 'Olisbos'.” “I can demonstrate for you if you wish, as I am not familiar with the term either, beyond an understanding that it is descriptive of my function,” he said. “Do you dance then, or something?” she said, frowning, trying to find something in the cavernous spaces of her memory that could explain or account for what she was seeing and sensing in the magical field. “I've heard stories of the zebra kings and their lifelike clockwork automata. Are you something like that?” “On four occasions, I have been told I possess attributes somewhat like a zebra,” he said, cocking his head very slightly. “Does that help? I am not sure on your first point, as I lack sufficient information to answer the question.” “Could you demonstrate your function?” “Certainly, though you will need to answer a few questions before we get started, as you are a new user. First, please tell me your name and preferred titles, ensuring that you include any honorifics and pet names.” “Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Equestria and all Her Domains, Defender of the Realm, by the Grace of Celestia and Luna, Third Pillar of the Triarchy, Guardian of Dusk, She Who Trots the Jagged Line, and so on,” she said, smiling apologetically. “Also, Duchess of Ponyville, though that is more of a formality. Just my first name will do or, if you must, 'madam' is infinitely preferably to 'your Highness', or anything like that.” “Do you like it rough?” “I beg your pardon?” Twilight said, stepping back. “I'm sorry, I said, do you like it rough? As opposed to liking it done softly. What I mean to say is, do you like to be mounted aggressively and with lots of biting and so on,” he said, as though he were explaining the specific operational instructions regarding some bit of mundane equipment. “Or do you like to be treated more gently, with lots of tongue action, both north and south of the equator.” “What? Oh!” Twilight's eye went wide as the reality of the situation dawned on her and, if she had been red in the face before, it was nothing compared to the colour she now went. “I'm sorry, I think there's been a bit of a mix up here. I didn't realize. How do I... turn you off?” “I can be toggled to the off setting very easily, either through vocal commands or, if the user prefers, by casting the simple counter-spell, details of which are located in the manual that came with this unit.” “Please turn yourself off.” “Is this gender not suitable? I do apologize, Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Equestria and all Her Domains--” “I’m not gay!” “Don’t worry, I’m very capable of displaying the outward appearance of all genders and for--” “Turn yourself off!” “Would you prefer a different species? I lack the capacity for judgement, whatever your proclivities are, I can accommodate. One moment.” The stallion, in a sparkling instance of flickering lights and odd contortions of body and form, transmuted into a gryphon. Twilight had never seen a more perfect and prideful looking thing, from is immaculate and razor-sharp claws, to his beak, which simultaneously portrayed incredible lethality and the refined efficiency of Equestria’s only apex predator. He clicked the edges of it together a few times, then let out a staggered, cawing noise, which she recognized as the mating call of a brood-master in full flight. The nose-wrinkling musk of his oily pheromones assaulted her senses, making her wretch. “Turn it off! Off!” The gryphon vanished. There was no sound or fanfare to mark this. All that happened was that he ceased to be, the levels of thaumic discharge plummeting down into the low background range, local supplies of the stuff temporarily exhausted. The pleasant sensation of neuromuscular euphoria went too, though it, being mediated by cells and hormones, was not so quick to die away, though the tingling and prickling that had joined it in the last few moments became less intense. Sweet skies. I hadn't thought about that angle before, but it must get terribly lonely up here for a mare. We all have needs, I guess. The level of enchantment is something else, though. The Thaumic Artificers would probably swap their first born foals for a look inside it. She trotted very carefully up to the back of the bed, magically feeling along the wood. At first, it seemed like an ordinary, if very large and sturdy, block of wood, well varnished, though showing some age in places. Then, as the purple, shimmering tendrils of her magic latched onto the futon’s headboard, she discovered that part of it came away, revealing a narrow cavity. She peered inside, and was greeted by an aureate cube the size of an average house brick, covered in runes, tied with a loop of satin and embedded into a recess within the cavity. Yep, definitely the first borns. Probably their wives and maybe a limb or two as well, if it came to it. Is that a May Hew Inverse Reintegrator? But what have they done to it? It's got nine flanges! That's a direct violation of the Nine-Folded-Swans law. She raised an eyebrow and laughed. Remarkable. “Twilight? Are you in here?” came a decidedly pink voice, cautious and curious. “I've got your squid eye!” Oh bugger me! Twilight hurriedly replaced the small section of headboard she'd removed, trying to strike a balance between moving quickly and not making any suspicious noises. She was just finishing remaking her nest of pillows when Whom nosed open the wood panel that served as the entrance to her quarters, a white sphere about the size of a beachball, which looked like a gigantic pickled silverskin onion, trailing sluggishly through the air behind her, wrapped in a luminous aura. “S-squid give you any hassle?” Twilight said, making a good attempt at miming having just woken from a nap. “None at all, they're always very polite to me,” Whom said, placing the eyeball beside the doorway with some difficulty, like she was pushing a heavily laden cart through treacle. “I was, um, just having a little snooze,” Twilight said, enthusiastically plumping the pillows. “I-I hope you don't mind me using your bed, but this adventuring stuff really wore me out, then our little walk through the woods, and I didn't get a good sleep las--” “No need to worry, Twilight, what's mine is yours,” she said, smiling exhaustedly, then moving through into the en suite, smelling of sweat and exertion. “I'm just going to towel off, that eye is heavier than it looks.” “I did offer to help, but you wouldn't let me go,” Twilight said, experimentally lifting the orb with her telekinesis, discovering that it weighed perhaps no more than ten good sized apples before quickly setting it down next to her panniers. “That's because you were going to take that knife to the poor things,” she said, her merry voice echoing out of the bathroom, amid the sound of taps being turned on and water pooling. “It really is as simple as asking, there's no need to do anything as violent as that, least of all not with your letter opener.” “You weren't joking about that?” Twilight examined the eye, noting that it didn't have any of the usual signs of traumatic or even surgical removal, as her biological research specimens displayed, or any trace of leaking fluid, be it blood, or ocular in origin. “Kevin says 'no worries', and to enjoy yourself, but also that you should be safe, and that he's really happy someone's brewing the Nectars again,” she said, emerging from the bathroom, candyfloss mane now somewhat tousled, but free of sweat and smelling faintly of melons. “Lovely guy really, he's just gotten engaged again, but he falls in love too fast and then--” “I'm sorry, who is Kevin?” “The giant squid, you met him earlier, I think. Anyway, he's just gotten engaged to this girl, really pretty bit of calamari but--” “The squid is called Kevin?” Twilight said, unsure about which of the parts of her statement were the most bizarre. “But that's a minotaur name!” “Is it?” Whom seemed genuinely confused. “Usually, yes, though I suspect there's little 'usual' about any of this.” “I think we've gotten off track, that's my fault, I'm sorry.” “What are you apologizing for?” “I was trying to make mareish small talk with you, like what always happens in the magazines,” she said, suddenly looking crestfallen. “You know, about stallions and relationships. I was going to ask you how you do your mane, and then we were going to do each other's hooves so we looked good when we turned up in Equestria for the first time.” “Ah,” Twilight said, nodding. “I see, well, say no more, but you really shouldn't try and engineer social situations like that, especially not whilst reading from a book like it's some kind of official edict. Trust me, I know.” “Are you still going to take me to Equestria?” Whom said, in a tiny voice. “Of course, if that's what you want.” “I'm really glad to hear that!” She giggled infectiously. “There will be so many other ponies there!” “You'll get on like a castle on fire, I'm sure, just wait until you meet Pinkie Pie.” “Ooh, I like the sound of her already!” Something began to rumble. It was only a small sound at first, but there was a certain, ominous overtone to it, a complicated nest of discordant subharmonics, that made Twilight turn and look toward the door. Oddly enough, it seemed like she'd heard this sound somewhere before. A few seconds later, her leather panniers began to rattle. It was the magical jar, which contained her insectoid prize from the metal forest. The creature trapped inside was flinging itself around with alarming and renewed force. “Whom?” “Yes, Twilight?” “Get your things.”