//------------------------------//
// Myriad of Monotony 
// Story: A Ripe Old Age 
// by HeartTortoisePigeonDog 
//------------------------------//

"Poor Dear!"

To a servant at the other end of the modest-sized room, waving her forehooves about wildly, somehow indicating that the tea Daring Do spilt had to be cleaned up presently by anypony other than her, the Queen, who instead, in an extraordinarily long and breathless sentence, in too many words, said to Daring Do what could have been conveyed in but less than a dozen: that the elderly are prone to accidents; this, of course, implying far beyond the mere forgiveness of accidents one, perhaps, could not help, but, hidden under the piles of letters, the true meaning, something though perhaps lost to the lesser experienced or without penetrating observation of intelligence, had found its mark to strike Daring Do to the very heart, producing latent alarm, something which the Queen thought and convinced herself that she had quite cleverly and expertly, in her over-refined manner, obscured from perview under the lofty fluff of false eloquence, under the perception and precomprehension that those who mouth difficult words understand difficult and really intelligent things, something, she felt she had gathered, Daring Do did not possess, either because she never had them or lost them in her late age, she evidenced by her rough appearance and lack of refined speech.

"These things happen," the Queen ended, reassuringly, as though reassuring not only Daring Do, but the whole room. "Don't fret," she added, pouting as a parent might pout at cleaning up the mess their new-born had just made, with motherly affection, clouding cold irony.

All those in the room, each in their own way, without thinking, reflected the Queen's empty expression, as though sympathizing with Daring Do, all their eyes on her under masks of pity they themselves hardly understood they were donning.

In that moment Daring Do became a little filly again.

Tongues flicked and wagged; the Queen leaned into the ear of some scholarly pony or other with marvelous rings adorning their horn, a derisive grin playing on her lips; Hoofcliff scoffed with Catherine; Sir Bristlewood flushed with embarrassment not because the archaeologist next to him was making some contemptuous lewd remarks about Daring Do but because he knew what the pony dared only whisper were true. The King, as though he neither wished to notice nor comprehend anything that was being said around him, with that typical indifferent air those in power often take concerning things which have no concern with their own perceptions, again began the attempt to open up the conversation to the matter at hoof. The whispers of the ponies were at once transformed into dunnish smiles repressing to the best of their will expressions of amusement.

"Miss Do," the King of Saddle Arabia began, adjusting himself on the cushion. Somepony dropped a wispy snort at the word miss. "May you please refrain from these distractions so apparently your wont that you may heed what we know and of it what we think you must do?" His ear twitched. He scratched his beard. "Whether you know already or not, for I do not know for sure how far Sir Bristlewood, Hoofcliff, or Catherine has caught you up to speed, regardless I will make all of what we know clear to you."

Daring Do absorbed herself into her newly-filled cup of tea, drinking the transient  phantoms. If I haven't already heard this talk of treasure and culture and politics in countless variations. Nevertheless, he has yet to develop that habit of eloquence in refined speech as not only his wife has but as most royals possess and have mastered by repetition and tuning in the fine art of telling lies through means of the mechanical process of conversation. And my own payment--nothing extraordinary, but the job's easy. Why am I here?

"And so it is, that we, the collected present party, have come to the universally unanimous conclusion," (his wife smiled derisively) "that you of all ponies would most benefit us in this enterprise, given your vast years of experience in the field and in the study. So we, though our choice is restrained, nevertheless freely choose to bequeath to you the responsibility of not merely pursuing over not merely the map (I hope you have made some heading as to its meaning last night) but several fragmented documents Sir Hoofcliff and Lady Catherine have happened upon in their businesses that we feel very strongly relate to the present case, but, providence willing, in your future travels, recover the ponies of the aforementioned previous expedition, whatever the condition you may find them in."

"Among the ponies who will accompany you on your expedition of course includes myself, but as well as your old friend, Captain Rainbowdash," Sir Bristlewood chirped. "I hope this will be some comfort to you to have familiar faces along with you on your journey."

Daring Do flattened the map and motioned to Sir Bristlewood. The archaeologist beside him dunned her spectacles and followed after him. Arriving at Daring Do's side, she leaned over Sir Bristlewood's shoulder, pressing in her glasses, not exchanging Daring Do's glance.

Daring Do swung her gaze around the room, and proceeded:

"At first the script appeared to me to be Kappa in origin; if one has seen Kappa script once, it is not difficult to pick out: their swirls are unmistakable. Kappa are water-creatures that look like small monkeys with frog skin and a duck bill and have a shape in the top of their skull of a shallow bowl that holds water," she added their description emphatically in anticipation of looks of inquiry. The archaeologist's glasses slipped. "On second thoughts however I seem to have been correct in my aforementioned assumption. Of course, Kappa script does not mean the map was draw by Kappas, nor even written by Kappas--the most I can presently come to is that the one or ones who put this map together have knowledge of Kappanese, at least enough to write it tolerable well. I will need a few things from my place, or access to some very special library to translate it--alas, I've rarely encountered this language, so I apologize deeply for being unable to avoid begging permission to call a lift back to my house for that purpose. From there, of course, we can set off and see where your premier expedition went wrong."

Sir Bristlewood assented without a second thought. The King and Queen leaned closer to the map with all the affected interest one could have at looking at something one has already seen quite enough of. The rest of the room exchanged whispers, perhaps expressing doubts that she even knew what she was talking about, and that they'd be doing best to simply set out in the same general direction as the last expedition; the locations of the majority of the map, if nearly never visited, were at least not unknowns.

"What for?" The archaeologist dropped her spectacles.