//------------------------------//
// 01: Into the Valley 
// Story: A Pony, A Druid, a Fighter, and a Kobold Walk into a Pub . . . 
// by AShadowOfCygnus 
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I'm sure I don't need to explain how I came to be in the lands to the east, across the sea. The fare is cheap if you've the gold, and the seas only as rough as one's hooves aren't steady. Suffice it to say I, Sleipnir, fourth of my name, seventh of my mother, learned early on there was no room on the rock farm for me, and decided other pursuits were called for. So I apprenticed myself at the temple, learned to heal, saved up some gold. 

Then I embarked across the sea. Many adventures were had, and much was learned of the ways of the Sun (blessed be, it rise in Her name), but eventually, time passed, restlessness faded, and I began to dream of home. And so, in that land far to the east, I decided it was time to venture back across the sea, to the lands of my birth, to see my kin and kind again (for there are, you see, no ponies like us on that eastern shore -- on that continent, they claim, that sinks deeper with every passing day). And so I bid goodbye to the monasts on their hills, the peasants in their huts, and embarked on my long journey to the West.

What's that?

Yes, you impetuous boy, this is going somewhere. 

Hrumph! The nerve of these young folk.

As I say, I journeyed West, towards the setting Sun (blessed be, it sink in Her name), with naught but my sword and a few hymns for company. And thus it came to pass, that I found myself at the head of a rather remarkable Valley, filled to brimming with trees! Huge trees! The tallest I'd seen on either side of the sea -- half as tall at least as Mount Canter, where the Princesses (blessed be--

If you roll your eyes like that again, boy, I shall knock them straight for you.

-- where the Princesses reside.

Camped at the head of the path leading down into the valley -- I was at the narrow end, you see, and this was the only obvious way forward -- were three hard-looking individuals who seemed to be enjoying a late lunch.

The first of them was Daria, a short, slim, and dangerous-looking Human, with two swords strapped to her back and girded in the heaviest platemail modest money could buy. She wore a perpetual frown, knitting her brows into a single, unbroken line, and spoke quietly of how frequently she ended up having to kill things. She was the most martial among us, and we called her Fighter.

The second was the Elf, Taranath: tall and slender and pointy-eared, like all of his kind. He wore light, leather armour, in the manner of his forest upbringing -- all fur and feathers and tanned hides. His round, easy face held shadows; of that I was certain even then. He carried a wooden bow, and a sword at his waist. He claimed to have travelled far from his home forests to reach this spot, and, like me, was similarly adventured. He called himself Druid, a clan or house or title he refused to describe in any detail.

The third was a surprise even to me. I had met many creatures of his ilk in my travels, but never once broken bread with one -- most were too busy trying to cook me up for supper. I refer, of course, to Kobolds, a race of tiny lizardy men standing barely as tall as our withers. And a Kobold he was, all nine hands of him, dressed in a silver-flecked black cloak, and nothing else. Of himself he spoke little, but something in his eyes spoke of unplumbed depths. I came to learn, over the course of our adventure, that he was one of a small number of gifted mentalists renowned in that part of the world: a Psion, who could wield arcane energies with the power of his mind alone, bypassing magic entirely. 

And me? Well, I was much as you see me now, if a bit less grey. I was tawny stallion of perhaps fifteen summers, a good twelve hands tall, and wore the barding of my order: the High Clerics of the Sun (blessed be, it rise in Her name and, BOY, I swear if I had my sword). I was brash, devout, convinced that introducing the world to my own, adventuresome brand of the True Companionship preached in the halls of Canterlot was the only worthy endeavour to be pursued, and I carried a very large sword to that effect.

This motley crew introduced themselves to me by clicking their tongues and offering bits of carrot from their dinners. Well, except the Kobold. He was too busy trying to levitate himself onto my back and nibble at my ears. I bucked him off easily enough, introduced myself, chuckled when they recoiled at my speech.

Yes, yes, laugh as you will, but remember the kind of brutish horses they’re forced to put up with in place of us noble ponies out there.

That did not apply to you, Rich.

Anyway, I settled down, relieved myself of my pack and sword, and supped with them. They seemed to adjust to the idea easily enough, and we fell to talking of this and that. They told me they had each planned to head down into the valley, each deflecting questions as to why, and had met up at the head of the trail not long before I'd arrived. The Elf, in particular, spoke feverishly of heading down into the valley before it got too dark, and was the first among us to notice the plume of smoke billowing from between some trees below us and a little to the right of the path.

The narrow, switchback path into the valley looked dangerous enough as it was, and we didn't fancy risking it in the dark, so we packed up camp and edged our way carefully down into the valley. There were some rough patches, and some breaks in the path where a landslide had come through, but we all eventually made it down in one piece. 

(Though, Taranth did slide a good thirty feet down the cliffside at one point after trying to step over a five-foot gap. He'd apparently mistaken the distance.)

And thus we found ourselves at the foot of the cliff. The path wound into the tall, tall trees ahead, and the pillar of smoke rose through them to our right. It looked for all the world like chimney smoke, as Daria commented.

So we made our way forward along the path, keeping our eyes on the smoke. Soon enough, the path branched, the well-worn road went straight on ahead while a smaller, rougher track ran off to the right. By common consensus, we explored the smaller track, following it to a small clearing.

Well, I say clearing. It was a circular space cleared of vegetation, but it was no more open to the sky than the rest of the forest had been. In the centre of this space, the source of the smoke became apparent: a small, two-level inn, half-timbered in the regional style. Chickens and a cow were lazing near a stable built into one side of the building, and a worn dirt track led up to the front door. 

Once again by common consensus, we meandered up the path and knocked at the door.

‘Ooh, my stars, ‘oo could that be?’ came a crackly old voice, likewise of regional dialect.

There was a shuffling of slippered feet, and an old crone in a headwrap answered the door. 

‘Eh?  ‘Oo’re you, then?’

‘Yo, we need a place to sleep.’ Taranath, there, exercising his obvious skill in diplomacy. 

‘Fair madam!’ spake Daria, obviously covering for her companion. ‘We come seeking shelter from the elements. Could we trouble you to open door and your hearth to us?’

‘Ehhh,’ the woman grumbled. ‘We don’t get too many guests ‘round ‘ere. It’ll be five gold a room.’

There was a general spluttering. Five gold was, after all, an outrageous price for a room in even the finest quarters of the Imperial City; to say that this hovel warranted that much was base heresy in the minds of this adventuring bunch.

‘If’n you don’t like the price,’ said the old woman over their grumbling.’Tha’s a fine, err, pony? you’ve got there.’

I nickered softly in my throat, but said nothing further.

‘We are not selling the horse,’ said Taranath, forking over ten gold for himself and Daria. 

Krat looked down at the money-pouch hanging from some interior fold of his cloak, then folded his arms defiantly. ‘Hell with that!  Keep room! I sleeping outside.’

I followed him as he stomped off in the direction of the stable. I could hear a certain amount of arguing from within the hall, but the details were lost through the thick stone wall. I peered in one of the large, single-plate windows between the front door and the stable -- a view into the dining hall, as it transpired. A roaring hearth and several long table-and-bench sets took up the majority of the room, with a few doors leading off to a kitchen at the back of the house, and a few more leading off in the direction of the front hall.

An inn, indeed, but where were the guests? Those tables looked ready to accommodate three-score hearty adventurers -- perhaps more. And yet the room stood empty. Something about that troubled me, but the growling of my stomach seemed a more immediate concern, so I left off my window-peering and headed for the stable.

Krat, it transpired, had not been idle in my absence. The little lizard-man -- whom I noticed the livestock were studiously avoiding even looking at -- had dug himself a little pit in which to bed down for the night, and now lay curled around a flame of no obvious source. He lifted his head slightly as I approached.

‘Fire warm,’ he muttered contentedly, then nestled more deeply into the blanket of his cloak. I chuckled at the odd display and hefted my bags and sword into an unoccupied corner. Then, in an effort to stretch my legs, I meandered out to the lawn and began browsing the grass, hoping to fill my belly enough to get me through the night.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have thought twice about simply asking the old woman for some scraps, but tonight it seemed the better part of valour to stay outside. It was becoming obvious to me that we were the first guests this place had had in quite a while, and while the old woman had comported herself well enough before, reintroducing her to society by way of talking horse seemed unwise.

Perhaps it was simply the exertion of the day, but the grass was surprisingly fresh. I never found the fields of the east nearly as tasty as those of home -- too sparse, and too often trod by uncaring hooves. But this -- this was particularly delightful.

And it seems I wasn’t the only one enjoying my supper -- though I was too wrapped up in my own meal to notice, Taranath and Daria were sitting down to bowls of meagre stew in the great hall (the board as horrifically overpriced as the room, from what I later heard.)

What’s that, barkeep? Yes, I suppose I could go in for a hay, lettuce, and tomato. Just be sure and get orders for this lot, too. Some of these foals are skin and bones -- I can practically see the ribs on that one!

Anyway, where was I? The grass, right?

Oh, wait, we have a question. I’m sorry, little one, these old ears aren’t what they used to be. You’ll have to speak up.

. . .

How do I remember all this, you ask? Excellent question! There are rather a lot of little finicky details, aren’t there? Well, child, let me put it to you this way: has there ever been a moment in your life that was so important, so breathtaking that you’ve remembered it with perfect clarity ever since? First time you saw it rain, perhaps? Watching your little brother, little sister greet the Sun (blessed be, it sit there in the middle of the sky in Her name) for the first time?

Well, this was mine. Admittedly, a month is rather longer a memory than a minute, but every moment shines through clear as sundew in spring. And you may sit there all agape and agog as I say so, but let me assure you: it’s nowhere near the gift you might imagine.

Regardless, a fine question, little one. Budge up there, the rest of you, I want this one front and centre. She’s got that gleam in her eye tells me I haven’t quite lost the touch for this storytelling business yet. Good incentive to keep going.

Hrr-hem.

Right, anyway, the grass was delicious, and soon enough I ate my fill and settled down near Krat’s little nest of earth and flame and, nestling my hooves under me, fell into a contented sleep.

To this day, I’m still not sure what woke me. An idle scrape, a rustle of leaves -- something that’d otherwise have been completely innocuous. But that night, in that place, I awoke as soon as I heard it, knowing something was amiss.

It took me a moment to rise, but as I did so, I noticed that the little lizard-man’s fire had been extinguished, and the Kobold himself was nowhere to be seen. I glanced, around, knees half bent, trying to figure out what was going on.

And then, in that truly uncomfortable position, I froze.

Two pairs of glowing yellow eyes were staring balefully at me from the edge of the clearing, half a house-length away. 

My breath quickened a little. Trying not to break eye contact, I shuffled backwards, as low on my hoofs as I could comfortably manage, trying to get to my sword. The eyes regarded me, unblinking, then slowly began to circle to my left, just inside the treeline.

A few tense moments passed this way: I taking a step back, they a step to the left. I had almost reached my sword when--

“AWWWRK!”

I had inadvertently stepped on poor Krat’s tail, eliciting a strangled cock’s-cry from the little Kobold. Apparently, he’d burrowed under my pack in an attempt to get away from ‘them big scary eyeballs’. I hefted my sword in my teeth, and he shot out from under the canvas sack, his caped and shuddering form clinging leech-like to my back leg.

‘Look!’ he squawked, one trembling claw extended. ‘Lookit! Wolveses!’

I whipped my head up, and, sure enough, the owners of the glowing eyes had come forward a ways into the clearing. They maintained a cautious distance from us and the house, but even as I watched, they continued to circle to our left, heading in the direction of the front door.

Everypony was tense in that moment -- Krat, myself, the two wolves. Everypony was sizing up everypony else, probing the motives of the mutually inscrutable.

I suppose, in hindsight, we should have noticed that the livestock had not roused themselves for any of this, or perhaps that it was but two wolves bearing down on us, rather than a pack. Perhaps it was our natural wariness of such creatures that guided our hooves, or simply heroic instinct; the result was the same.

Krat and I have discussed this many times since, and neither of us quite remembers who fired the first shot. It might have been the hoary blast of psionic cold that toppled the first wolf, or my wild, whinnying charge at the second, but in the space of a confused moment the battle was joined.

The wolves (both, as Krat’s . . . spell? I never did learn what he called them . . . had knocked over but failed to kill the first) charged us. Sword met claw met tooth met hoof, and Krat provided magical covering fire from the shelter of the stables. I dodged and swung, weaved and struck, and the wolves did much the same. Blood welled under fur, tooth scraped over armour, and steel bit deep into flesh.

Our dance had gone on less than a minute when lights started coming on upstairs. Even from outside, I could hear the confused clamour of voices, and the clatter of heavy hoof-falls. The door smashed open, and there stood Taranath, wild-eyed and fully-armoured. His eyes raced over the scene, fell upon the wolves -- and he grinned.

In that moment, I learned to respect the name ‘Druid’. 

Taranath let loose an animalistic howl, and all pretense of battle ceased as we turned to look. His flesh was . . . well, I don’t know how else to describe it: curdling. Muscles rippled, eyes spun wildly, and with a sickening, bony crunch -- Taranath the Bear stood on the inn’s stoop. Raising himself to his fullest height, he bellowed again at the wolves, who turned, hackles aquiver, to face this new onslaught.

Taranath loped forward, the wolves circled back to fight side-by-side, I hefted my sword once more, and the battle was again joined. Hearty wolves, our opponents were, and they only seemed spurred to greater action by the addition of a third combatant. They jumped and snarled, twisted away from sword, hoof, and claw, and scored good hits on myself and Taranath alike. 

Finally, after what seemed like ages of countering the deftly acrobatic motions of the wolves, Taranath scored a lucky hit on the first wolf’s flank, and Krat fried a second with a bolt of some kind of lightning. As one, they loosed a horrible, pained howling, and bolted away from us -- and directly into the house.

We all stood agog for a moment. No-one could quite believe the implication.

‘Fuck,’ rumbled Bearanath, and it was agreed that was a good summation.

Now, you may be wondering: where was Daria while all of this was going on? Well,  our dear Fighter had invested in full-plate  armour, which, as everypony knows, is hard as a Hydra’s scaly arse to get on, and even more cumbersome to wander around half-clothed in. Such was her plight: to be stuck in her room half-dressed, as the fight raged on outside.

Around the time Krat was firing off his last lightning bolt, Daria threw down her gauntlets in a rage and, clad in half a breastplate and a nightgown, stalked out into the hall. The first wolf, whimpering in defeat, reached the top of the stairs at the same moment. Wild-eyed, it turned to Daria, trying to gauge its chances in the narrow corridor. It squared its shoulders, and in a mad dash, tried to jump over the half-dressed Fighter.

Daria was having none of it. She caught the creature mid-arc, her sword slicing the beast open from throat to navel. It was dead before it hit the floor. 

Somehow sensing her work was not yet finished, Daria then moved to the head of the stairs. The remaining wolf was at the bottom. Its golden eyes moved from her bloody sword to her pale, set face, and it snarled.

The subsequent charge ended much as the leap had.

Taranath and I were piling through the door as the wolf’s lifeless body slid back down the stairs, and we were the only ones to see the old woman standing over Daria’s heaving shoulder.

We had no time to warn her, no time to say a word.

‘Wha’ve you done?!’ screeched the old woman, regarding the lupine corpses with horror. ‘Wha’ve you done t’my babies?!’

Taranath stepped forward to explain, but in a whirl of fur and musty linens, the old woman was an old woman no more, and instead, a large, snarling, and quite obviously irate Dire Wolf stood in the upstairs hall.

Armour was soiled in that moment, though no-one ever admitted it. Taranath and I froze on the spot, petrified. Daria, sword still dripping with childly viscera, meeped something incoherent, and fled back towards her room, running full pelt. 

The Dire Wolf -- dare I call her the Wolfmother? -- let loose a pained, grieving howl, and charged after her, sending side tables, candlesticks, and wall hangings flying in all directions.

I was still dumbstruck by the whole thing -- the wolves, the inn, all of it -- and so I barely noticed when Taranath (now of elven shape once more) brushed past me, charging up the stairs to Daria’s defence. The Wolfmother took one look at him and, swinging wide one mighty paw, swatted him back down the stairs like an errant pup. He fell into a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, and did not stir.

The Wolfmother stalked, seething, towards Daria’s door.

I blinked, several times, before realising my healing craft was needed. I knelt at Taranath’s side and, rather than spend precious energy reciting incantations, pulled a healing potion from my pack, swilling the contents between his lips.

As the contents of the flask drained into his eager throat, I heard a soft whump to my left, in the great hall. Turning my attention there, I saw Krat, surrounded by a cloud of thatch, scurrying in the direction of the kitchen. Apparently, he had made his entrance by way of the roof.

Daria, meanwhile, was frantically gathering all she could of her equipment. The first loud crunch of splintering door-timbers caused her to drop it all again. At the second, she grabbed her dagger and heaved it at the single-pane window, hoping to break it and dive to freedom.

She missed, and rather spectacularly, at that. Her dagger lodged in the bedpost a good eight or nine hooflengths wide of the mark. The sword ended up similarly lodged in the wardrobe in another, further corner of the room. She only managed to retrieve the sword before the door was blasted off its hinges by the third and last of the Wolfmother’s powerful swipes.

Daria pondered the panting, enraged mother for a moment, sighed, and dived out the (unbroken) window. A conveniently-placed hay pile (‘My, how convenient!’ the fighter was heard to exclaim) broke her fall. She rolled off the scratchy pile only a few scrapes the worse for wear and took off -- still half-clothed -- in the direction we’d from which we'd first approached the inn.

Taranath had regained consciousness as the door upstairs splintered, and together we watched Daria streak across the lawn like a well-armed Lady Godiva, as another howl sounded from upstairs. Still very much aware of the clear and present danger, Taranath and I turned to face the hulking beast stalking towards the head of the stairs. The Elf was barely on his feet after the first, near-fatal swatting, so I sent him outside to cover the retreat, with a healing spell to spur him on.

I had just steeled myself to head for the stairs when, without warning, Krat reappeared, a hock of venison clutched in each claw and a poker between his teeth. Squealing with a mixture of what I can only assume were abject terror and mischievous glee, he scampered between my legs and out the front door into the night beyond. 

The Wolfmother and I stared, blinking, for a moment, before remembering what it was we were supposed to be doing. I muttered a few words under my breath, and suddenly found the room much smaller. Embiggening spells were tricky, but I reckoned narrowing the size difference between the enraged creature and myself would . . . level the field, so to speak.

I see by the looks in some of your eyes you find it hard to imagine an Earth Pony wielding magic, as I do. The details, I think, are a story for another time, but at the very least, rest assured, my little ponies -- the very same power that flows through our brethren the unicorns and the pegasi flows too through us. It just sometimes take a bit more work to get it to come out of hiding.

Where was I? Embiggening, yes.

Well, I was embiggened, and somehow still managing to squeeze my way onto the stairs. The Wolfmother stood firm at their head. Pulling my sword once again from its sheath, I trudged up to meet her.

We eyeballed each other for a moment, the Mother of Wolves and I. She, determined to get through me to avenge her children; I, determined to keep my companions safe from harm (the recentness of our acquaintance be damned; I was a young and headstrong sort). She crouched, and prepared to pounce. I squared my withers, and braced myself for her attack.

She swung a massive paw in my direction; I blocked. Another swing; I parried and chopped, scoring a hit. She lunged in for a bite, and teeth raked my side as I narrowly slid past. The skin beneath the fur stung, and badly, but I was still on my feet. 

Then, the unexpected: as I prepared to put my full and considerable weight behind another attack, the Wolfmother pounced, and together we rolled to the bottom of the stairs. 

We grappled as we fell, we two titanic beasts, but in the end, she came out on top. My sword clattered away, and I was left with but my flat, broad teeth to defend myself. I snapped at her, knowing it was only delaying the inevitable; she had me pinned, and my companions were long gone. One quick bite and it would all be over. I only hoped they were somewhere safe. 

Or, at least, not being eaten. I’d settle for not eaten.

But obviously, she did not bite; no, else I would not be sitting here beside this cosy fire telling little colts and fillies this story, would I? No, for whatever then-inscrutable reason, the Wolfmother stayed her paw, and, rather than wrap her teeth around my defenceless throat, she head-butted me.

I was suitably confused at this, of course (well, that and the violent impact my head had on the wooden floor); no-one expects to be headbutted by any creature other than a goat, and sure as I was seeing stars, she was no goat. The second headbutt left me dazed and on the edge of consciousness, and the third finished the job.

What happened then was related to me by the others afterwards. Apparently, those goodly souls decided they just couldn’t bear to leave me behind, and charged back in -- piecemeal, for whatever reason -- to save me. 

Krat was closest to the door, and thus was the first to poke his little nose in. There seemed no immediate threat, so he edged forward to the bottom of the stairs, where I was apparently still flopped like a sack of middlingly-holy potatoes. He had just enough time to ascertain that I wasn’t bleeding before, as he put it, ‘a large, furry, and very angry blanket’ descended upon his head and laid him flat.

When Krat did not immediately respond to the calls of the others, a panicked and half-whispered discussion broke out: fight or run? The frank possibility of death was apparently too much for Daria, who ignored Taranath’s protests and ran for the cliff. The Elf himself, however, was not to be dissuaded from doing the heroic thing, and charged headlong towards the house, bellowing war cries. He stopped at the door, however, upon seeing my insensate corpse being dragged in the direction of the kitchen. This chilled him so thoroughly that all thought of attack was immediately abandoned, and he, too, took to his heels.

Thus began what could only be described as a cock-up, a cock-up of the first order. It was the kind of cock-up that leaves everyone blaming everyone else, the kind of cock-up that the very cocks themselves will be crowing about every morning for the next century, at least.

First, as he ran, Taranath transformed himself into a wolf, attempting to mimic those we had fought (and Daria had killed) earlier), his reasoning apparently being that he could outrun the Wolfmother in that form, or perhaps that the Wolfmother wouldn’t kill what she perceived as kin. 

Regardless, it was in this form that he ran towards the cliff.

Daria, meanwhile, was attempting (unsuccessfully) to scramble up the cliff face, which seemed a good deal smoother than she remembered, although she could not, in her blind panic, determine why. She heard Taranath coming, had the wherewithal to turn and prepare to attack whatever came flying out of the forest, but she apparently failed to put two and two together when she saw a wolf identical to those she had slain earlier come charging out of the underbrush with its tail firmly between its legs. 

So she raised her sword high, and as Taranath the Wolf yelped in surprise, swung it in a clean, cleaving arc. A rather surprised head flew in one direction, body in the other, and Daria lauded herself on a job well-done.

She had just enough time to note that the wolf’s body was looking distinctly more elven than it had a moment earlier before another, larger mass of fur tore its way through the forest to her right, pinned her against the cliff wall, and smacked her into unconsciousness.

And that w--

Oh, leave off your wailing, children, please! The story’s not over yet, not by a long shot. But dinner looks to be ready, and I could use a little time to catch my breath. 

Just give it a moment, and we’ll pick up right where we left off.