Act I
“Is this some kind of joke?”
I sigh. “Trixie does not joke, she is always serious.”
“Oh yeah? Then cut the act, Trixie. Talk like an adult.”
“Hmph. Whatever do you mean?”
He goes silent after that. Which is good, because I am not in the mood for that particular conversation. I’m literally in chains, obviously in no mood to tolerate another scrupulous unicorn telling me how to carry myself.
I adjusted myself on this cold floor, still no hope at accomplishing any semblance of comfort. How long am I meant to stay here? There’s no way for me to lay down without putting uncomfortable weight on my fetlocks. And I can’t lean on my side, either. And I’m cold.
“What kind of accommodations are these, sir?” I break the silence, impatiently. “Can’t you loosen her shackles or something? Heat up this room? Maybe turn down the light? Nopony should be subject to these conditions!”
I turn my eyes to the mirror, but I don’t think he’s looking at me. So, I settle for myself.
My mane is unkempt, and my fur is in tufts. I’m dirty, decorated by smudges of disgusting black dust. What is this filth? I’d attempt to rub it out, if I could reach. What I could see of my hooves are chipped in a few places, too. I look at my face. My eyes are sinking into very, very dark circles. As if an orb of crystal into a black swamp. Goodness, I am a disaster. Something else new gets my attention. What is this? A line? Running along my…? Is that…? A cut…?
“Let’s try something else,” from behind my reflection. “This book is a waste of time.”
My focus returns. “On… on the contrary. With Trixie in such a compromised state as she is, reading along is the best way to discover her recent whereabouts.” Goodness, just having looked at myself makes me weary again. My voice is low.
“Just talk, Trixie. How do I know you didn’t just write this?”
“It’s clear, sir, that Trixie has no control over that scribe. Or she would have ‘edited it later’ as it said. In fact, it is probably likely that the information it can provide is more accurate and objective than anything Trixie could tell you.”
He's getting frustrated. “But… ugh. Come on, this can’t be all.”
“Humph. Take her as she is, good stallion. If you could be called that after restraining me so rudely.”
I watch him fidget behind the mirror. I can see him, that he is there, but not what else was back there or anypony else. He was alone, for sure.
“The shackles are standard, Trixie. We don’t know what you’re capable of. And if your memory is foggy, we can’t let you go. You could remember something vital as you recover. As for the temperature…”
I’ll admit that I’m hopeful. Something about his tone has shifted.
“You’re going to have to put up with that. The light, too. It’s part of mana suppression.”
Naturally. Ugh.
“I don’t think you did it, honestly,” he continues. “You don’t seem… smart enough.”
“Tsk!” I scoff, jokingly of course. I don't know what happened; what expectations can I have? “How dare you. Trixie is a genius, and a very skilled sorceress.”
“How long ago was this written?” he asks, quickly back to business.
“Oh, dear. Let me think. Perhaps half a year, maybe less? Like she said, a few things are still cloudy.”
“That recently? Impossible.”
“Well, maybe she just forgot! Honestly, continue reading. Trixie is still exhausted.”
He sighs, just barely. “Okay, fine. Have it your way.”
Good. He is becoming a little more agreeable. Hopefully, whichever Princess is involved would be, too. Especially if I really had made this mess.
I add, “Oh, and please do voices. It’s much more fun that way.”
"No, no, Miss Doo,” Trixie continued. “Pay close attention.” She was repeating herself. “Though most creatures cannot ‘use magic’ in a traditional sense, all matter at all times is exerting mana in some way or another. Mana has two parts; the direction, or the ‘Meta’, and the magnitude. If you were to imagine a world where every dimension exists, and there was not only 'forward' and 'backward' but 'hotter' and 'colder', 'here' and 'there', 'is' and 'is not', 'blue' and 'not blue', such that all qualities had each its own anti-quality that lay exactly opposite, you would have a simple picture of Metaspace. Understanding, concentration, awareness; this controls the first part, the 'direction' of mana. And, therefore, magic is steered by a unicorn’s own understanding of what she’s doing. Which is why she need only read a spell to...”
Miss Doo was finding it difficult to pay close attention. She was more interested in the new fireflies along either side of the path. They did not flicker, but remained wholly lit for a good moment before fading. Their humming was akin to a deep breath, like music fully drawn from strings.
“...magnitude is another effort entirely, relating to the Annihilation Quotient. A non-aware material may have it increased via enchantment. Conversely, an aware being may be physiologically capable of increasing it in a safe and...”
Blah, blah, blah, she just kept talking, didn’t she? Trixie’s refined and haughty droll had been going at mostly the same pace for a few good minutes now, no heed to the darkening sky. The opaque glimmers along the sides of the path let a little yellow into the evening palette, now beginning to adopt a darker blue. There was a lamppost up ahead.
“Though of course most ponies hardly—”
Thud!
A fleshy “thud” from up the path stopped the two mares in their tracks. There were several ponies under the lamp, one fallen to the ground as the object of said thud. An altercation was taking place.
“Think again, twinklehoof,” sneered one. Three stood, one lay on the ground. “You messed with us once, we ain’t letting you get away with it again.”
Miss Doo whispered. “Whoa…! Trixie, are those... bad guys...?”
She had spoken to no one as Trixie had already hidden behind a nearby tree. Miss Doo turned a few times before finding her, beckoning quietly with an upturned hoof.
“Quiet, Miss Doo, lest we make ourselves known,” she whispered as the pegasus approached, joining her beneath the path-side shrubbery. “These ponies probably don’t want to be seen.”
Miss Doo raised an eyebrow, though her voice was heavy with concern. “Shouldn’t we do something…?” she whispered. “Can’t… aren’t we…?”
Trixie had snatched the scribe from its nearby hovering place, her eyes scanning the words. She scoffed lightly. Probably the “blah, blah” part. “There’s nothing we need to do, Miss Doo. They, this… this is not our responsibility, it’s alright, it’s fine.” After coming across her own words, the latest sentence written down, Trixie nervously cast her eyes downward, pushing the scribe and its pages down rudely. “We should wait!” she concluded. “We should wait until they leave, then help when we can? There’s no point in getting involved.”
“Ooh… oh… ooh…!” Miss Doo fidgeted with her hooves and mane. “Can’t we just…!?”
The fallen pony spoke. Mumbling something.
“Ugh, speak up,” from the leader. “You really should’a been smarter. If you’d a' brought some friends with you, maybe you’d a’ had a shot. But no. An’ now? We can’t come back. So forget it. Fellas?”
The other two roughnecks, dark coats and mildly at attention, rose their glances.
“We go in. Now. Ditch the old pony.”
Miss Doo had been slowly reading along. “Gah! Trixie!” she pleaded, putting a hoof to her shoulder. “Can’t you do something? Aren’t you ‘The Mighty Trixie’ or whatever!?”
“Great and…! Ugh!” Trixie squeezed her eyes closed, grinding her teeth against each other. “Trixie cannot build a reputation if she gets assaulted by thugs! No, Miss Doo! We mustn't—!”
“Hey!”
All eyes turned to the lovely mare in the road. She was standing firmly on her hooves, legs along a prism, ferocity directed at the standing ponies under the lamp. Her golden mane drooped in front of her eyes, slightly. But that did not stop the heat in her stare. No, it was the three shadowing, dagger-eyed, terrifying ponies that now stared back that cooled her gaze.
“Leave… leave him alone!” she attempted to shout, obviously now shaken by their knowledge of her presence. “He… he’s not hurting anypony!"
The fireflies on the edges of the road overtook the brief moment of silence with their long-drawn lights. The glances the thugs shared gave an awkward impression.
“Get her,” gestured the leader to one. “Watch the wings.”
Oh dear.
The ne’er-do-well approached, step by step, with a rope in his teeth and a blade on his hoof. Miss Doo kept her face forward, but her posture was shrinking. Dampening with each of the thug's pounding steps forward.
“I-I…” she stammered. “J-j-just go away…! W-we don’t h-ave t-t-to fight!”
In vain. His steps did not cease. After what may have been an eternity, Miss Doo was cowering wordlessly before an aggressive criminal.
Of course, what kind of story would this be if Miss Doo were to be done in so soon? If this thug’s hoof were to come down, bruise the poor pony’s head, and tie her up, likely leaving her under the lamppost if not worse? Make no mistake; the scribe cannot anticipate the future. None can. Though Trixie was following along with the scene as it unfolded on the scribe’s pages, made surreal by the audible sounds of hoofbeats and pleas, something about these events had a peculiar effect on the strength of her grip on its pages. It was tight, but vibrating, trembling in a way. Likely that they were drained and weary, as the so-called ‘Great-and-Powerful’ mare was holding her breath.
Then, as she watched the last of the thug’s steps fall, the crossest of looks scratched across her face. Tightly, her teeth ground and her brow clenched as she took in a breath, opened her eyes, and disappeared.
Naturally, she appeared again between the thug and Miss Doo, forcing the former backward with the impact of the teleportation spell. The latter, aghast and surprised, tripped and fell backward with an “oof”. Trixie, looking forward and noting the awe on her opponents’ faces, then turned around. She held a funny look to her capsized companion.
“D-d-don’t be so daft, Miss Doo!” she blathered cheerfully, with a confidence that sounded extremely fake. But as her words continued, its fallacy diminished. “L-l-leave… leave this to the professionals! Ha!”
Carefully, kindly, and with a hoof lightly trembling, she removed her own hat. Then, as a cherry on a sundae, it was gingerly placed on Miss Doo’s head.
“One moment, if you’d be so kind.”
And with a blazing flourish, the Great and Powerful Trixie spun on her hooves to face her challengers. Her cape absolutely billowed as a symphony began, the sounds of steel stroking steel to accompany the white sparks in her wake. A slender shape. Sharp. Bladed. Following a horizon along her two eyes, in a flash, it solidified.
A conjured sword, in fine magenta, was now gripped in her magic. It’s name was Eloquence.
“Who’s f-first?” Trixie hiccuped.
The leader of the criminals, glancing forward, then from side to side, spoke to his allies to answer their pleas for orders. “Unicorns can’t fight. Rush her.” The thugs shared a nod before neighing dust from their noses. The nearest scrambled to his hooves and rocketed forward, this time with the knife in his teeth.
Clang! The impact of their blades clashing brought surprise to her eyes. If not at her strength, then her success. She let his momentum continue, lifting him with her cross-guard until he flipped over her, and had landed on the ground hard. He mumbled after that, vanquished. To the next, Trixie brought her blade forward. She parried, swayed, flawlessly, flowingly, more skillful than willful, practiced and perfect, until she brought the blade’s pommel to the back of his head. Out cold.
She did not dare wipe the sweat from her forehead, nor the hair from her face. “W-w-well…?” she asked the leader. “Flee, thief!”
What could be seen of his eyes went wide. Soon, though, his gaze became narrow, and he lowered his head in defeat. “A shame,” he blurted, with acrimony. “That I came all this way alone…!” Following, as poison to the tip of his salted words, half a dozen ponies emerged from the foliage, a blade in each their hooves and a scar on each their faces. One even wielded a spiked ball from a chain. And, intending to their target’s dismay, each of their shadowed bodies knew the strategy best to take when dealing with one so particularly skilled. That is, a daring offense.
A frustrated sigh forced from Trixie’s lungs before she continued. With feeling, Trixie magically procured a spotlight from inside of her cape. Her horn lit it up, and a blinding, brilliant, blaring white washed over her assailants. They were stunned, and the opportunity presented itself. She felled them all. With a shining blade that reflected the light, she traced a path between targets; onlookers blinked with each strike until seven thumps on the ground showed who was victorious. Then, the light went out, and the fireflies resumed. Like warmth on a curtain closed.
Trixie then retraced her path, dismissing her weapons. Step by step, avoiding a few beaten foes, she made her way back to where Miss Doo was still sitting, dumbfounded.
“Humph!” Trixie scooped up her hat, and crowned herself with a trace of her hoof around the brim. “H-h-how’s that for ‘something’?” she snapped from above. Her stare down at Miss Doo was charred. From her eyes to the pony below, there was some odd hint of malice.
Miss Doo could hardly speak. “Uh…! I…! That…! Wa… wow…! The…! The old pony!” She raced to her hooves, and tripped only once as she rushed over to the fallen stallion.
The old stallion beneath the lamp post, lit a gentle yellow, wore a simple vest with a few pockets. Several of his devices had spilled out when he fell. His face was gruff, wrinkled both with age and wear, but not so grim. In all honesty, he probably was not “old” old. Just old enough for grand foals certainly. He groaned as Miss Doo collapsed at his side.
“Hello…?” she prodded. “Old pony? Twinklehoof?”
Coughs heaved from his chest, and he grumbled loudly as he came to. “Ugh…” he began, roughly. His honest eyes, caked with age, settled on Miss Doo. “Huff. My name ain't Twinklehoof, ya’ goose.”
“Oh.” Miss Doo cocked her head to the side after helping the gentlecolt to his hooves.
Trixie used her magic, a kinesis spell, to retrieve the scribe from the foliage she rudely pushed it into. And then she did not say anything.
“Are you okay, um…?”
“Crass Wax,” came the stallion. “And I didn’—!” he stumbled on his hooves. Miss Doo swiftly worked to his rescue. “And I did not,” he resumed. “Need y’alls help. I got some fight left in me.”
“No offense, Mister Wax, but there were seven or eight thugs back there! Nopony can do that by themself!”
He only grumbled in response, attempting to hold more of his own weight as he inevitably continued to lean against Miss Doo.
“Come on, you’re hurt. Let’s get you home, huh! It’s getting dark.”
“Oh…!” Miss Doo teettered nervously. “Are you sure we were okay to just leave those guys?”
“Yeah…” the old pony groaned. He was still leaning. “Acornwood’s got enough to hold it ‘gainst half a dozen thieves. If we warn ‘em, fer sure.”
“Okay, if you say so…”
The three ponies were walking along the path, nigh to the nearby town of Acornwood. What a boring name for a town. Anyway, Trixie walked apart from the others, quietly focused on the path ahead per usual. However, per the unusual, she was still absolutely silent.
“So what were you doing out here?” Miss Doo asked over the chirping crickets.
“I’m out here every night. Someone’s gotta keep a candle in that there lamppost.”
“But we’re pretty far, aren’t we?” she asked. “And you walk all that way at night by yourself?”
“Nice to get a late walk in. Rough in winter, course, but that’s life, in't it? 'Sides, it’s fer travelers to know when there’s a town close by. Just a mile.”
Trixie kept staring forward, walking as if she had some purpose.
“Huh! What a fun little story!” cheered Miss Doo.
It was a fun story.
“Oh! You old fool!”
Scarlet Wax, Crass’s older sister (who was “old" in a more traditional sense), pounded her hooves on the side of his bed. Miss Doo and Trixie had returned the old stallion safe and sound, and were now seeing to his care in the small but modest room.
“What did you think you were doing!? You ain’t what you used to be, you know, Crass!”
From the bed, he raised his voice. “Don’t you go yellin’ at me, Scarlet, I wasn’t abou—“ cough, cough! Crass’s wheezing voice was cut off by a few rough coughs, and he held his hoof to cover his mouth.
“My point!” she jeered. “I don’t wanna hear none of that! Not! Enough! Bits! In the world! To replace ma little brother! Leave the heroism to the younger generation, mmkay?”
Crass just rolled over, grumbling under his dirty sheets. Likely more at home than he would willingly admit.
“Now you two!” Her loud voice snapped Miss Doo to attention, while Trixie moved her glance from the window to the old mare. “What exactly happened back there!?”
Miss Doo scratched her chin. “I… it was…? Oh! The book probably wrote it down!” She pulled it over from nearby, and began peering at a few pages. She turned one, scanning carefully. She turned another. Looked some more. She was still several pages behind. Of course, the scribe can continue writing even as the book closes or the pages are turned. The floating quill tracing letters on the pages is really just for show. Not a lie, per say, but an embellishment. After all, the scribe was crafted quite carefully by a very skilled sorceress many, many years ago; resilience and flair come naturally. Perhaps Miss Doo noticed some of this, as she was staring at some of the filigree in the pages’ corners and margins. Or perhaps not, as her eyes did have difficulty agreeing on where to look next.
Scarlet Wax tapped her hoof on the hard floor.
“Oh! Sorry!” Miss Doo gave a weak smile. “I’m kind of a slow reader.” She turned one more page. "Here it is! Okay, so there were a couple of bad guys, and we saw Crass on the ground, and then they said ‘We go in. Now. Ditch the old pony.’, and then I said ‘Hey!’… And then Trixie beat them up!”
“Hmm?” came Trixie from her daydreaming state.
“Little unicorn!” the old mare pleaded. She approached the showmare, speaking with care and comfort. “Did you save ma brother?”
Trixie cleared her throat nervously. “I… uhm… Trixie, yes.” She brought her hat to her chest, and bowed lightly. “The Great and Powerful Trixie vanquished the nine thieves attempting your brother’s good health and your village’s well-being.”
“Well, I’ll be..!” Scarlet Wax took two hoofsteps closer, then draped a leg tenderly around Trixie’s neck in a small half-hug. “Butter me up and call me a biscuit,” she said at an appreciable volume. “Thank you kindly, little unicorn.”
Trixie broke up the gesture. “Y-yes, well, it was no large ordeal for a pony as skilled as she.”
“Tell you two what!” Scarlet began. “It’s our nephew’s birthday today, why don’t y’all head on down to the fire and snatch yourself up some food? We don’t have much round here, but we’d a' had a lot less without your help!”
“Aw, that’s so nice!” Miss Doo chimed. “Thank you very much.”
“Pleasure’s ours! Now, off you go! I’ll take care of old Crass, here! You two’ve done enough!”
“Alright, alright,” Miss Doo, rubbed the back of her head, reddening in the cheeks as the pair walked out. “You don’t have to—oof!”
A combination of walking on three hooves and not watching where she was going had premised her impact with the door frame. Nonetheless, she made it outside intact, and Trixie followed.
It was night, but hardly silent. Crickets chirped quietly, but were obfuscated by the music from what could be called “uptown”. Faint drums, and some country strings could be heard. Other than the crickets, of course. Lampposts lined Acornwood’s central, cobbled street, each with its own wax candle. That, and the party’s fire up ahead were the only light against the deep blue night sky. Stars watched the two mares walk, and their steps clopped quietly on the pebbles.
“It’s nice tonight, huh?” Miss Doo remarked, breaking what little silence was left. Her eyes wandered all around, even behind for a moment. She took in the sight of the well-crafted lamps, the simple wooden homes. And the wind, too, breezed past her mane. “It’s cool. Almost like winter, but a little more inviting.”
Trixie glanced at the scribe floating nearby, and did not answer.
“Hey, oh yeah. I wanted to ask you something.”
“Hm?” she groaned. "Yes, Miss Doo?”
“What changed your mind back there? Weren’t you scared?”
Trixie sighed, as a mother would to a child. “No, Miss Doo, Trixie was not scared.”
“But you stuttered!”
“Humph. No, she did not.”
“Yeah, you did. The book, it said ‘with confidence that sounded fake’ or something.“
“What? Where, when did you read that?”
“Just now, in Scarlet’s house. It’s okay, I was scar—"
“Trixie was not scared!” she spat. Her voice frayed as she did so. Loud as she had been, it was doubtful anypony else heard her. No, Miss Doo was the only pony that had flinched.
“Oh… okay…” she muttered, hanging her head a little. “Sorry.”
As they walked, they did not cast shadows. There were lamps on either side of them, lining the way to the fire. Still, the night managed to provide its dark.
Trixie responded with tentative force. “Please do not force Trixie’s hoof, Miss Doo. She… she is a Great and Powerful pony, but she cannot go around solving everypony else’s problems. There is too much to do, too much at stake. She can’t… she doesn’t…” She sputtered, putting a flustered hoof to the tense bridge of her nose. “Do you understand, Miss Doo? Trixie has a reputation to maintain."
“Mmmm… Nnn…” Miss Doo muttered, twisting her mouth. “Nnn… no. I don’t get it, Trixie. I mean, what exactly is at stake or…? Oof. Never mind, I’m just such a dope sometimes. Sorry; I won’t bother you anymore.”
“Miss Doo, just—“
“Hey howdy!"
A young stallion made himself known with his greeting, galloping up from behind to meet the mares. Though it was hard to tell in this light, he looked a dark tan, with a few horseshoes as a cutie mark. More significantly, there was a springiness to his voice.
“Tell me now! Just talked to Scarlet. You the ones who saved Uncle Crass?”
“Oh—!” came Miss Doo. "Um, yes, I mean, Trixie…"
“Well I’ll be. She did not do y’alls good looks justice,” he replied, emphasizing the “did not”. “Name’s Twinklehoof. Crass Wax’s my uncle.”
Miss Doo’s reply came out like spilled, bouncing marbles. “Oh, uh…! Twinklehoof, ha, that’s… good, good looks, I…? I… I’m…. Ditzy Doo. Is my name. And… and… um, this—?”
“Could I ask y’all to dance?” he asked, to cut her dribbling short. He was looking at Miss Doo specifically, smiling, and holding out his hoof. “If um… y’all wouldn’t mind?”
“Y-yes.” Miss Doo tried, taking the hoof and stumbling tentatively. “Yes, you, um, you can.”
And at that, the two of them trotted to the circle of rambunctiously dancing country folk, the drums and fiddles tapping in time to everypony’s hooves. Some hooves tapped twice, some only once. And the fiddle was doing a good job keeping up, too, as the bows ran across their strings. Yes, some dancers wore skirts and some pants, and some had bits of straw in their teeth or tools in their pockets. But none of that was important. Rather, the rhythms and sways that the dancers evoked were what sired such a good time. Each and every pony did their best to avoid stepping on their partner’s hooves. They trod firmly, kicking up dirt; they were dancing so hard. Twinklehoof was kind. He laughed with cheer as Miss Doo struggled to learn the steps. But, that’s okay, because she was laughing at her silly fumbles, too.
Oh yes. And Trixie. Trixie had been left standing where Miss Doo had left her. Bewilderment quickly disappeared.
“Humph.” she scoffed. “Better she than Trixie. She supposes.” She looked around; a quick survey found the party’s food. Trixie settled humbly on a blanket, a place to sit she assumed had been provided. Surely nopony else would mind. They were all dancing, or had gone home.
“Now, for you…” she began with drifting words, munching on an apple and a few nuts. She pulled the scribe from its floating position, laid it gently on the blanketed ground, and cast a subtle light spell with her horn. And then, she read. She turned a few pages back to the beginning, fluttering through with her magic, and read all the words she had accomplished so far. Though, the pages were not very numerous; approximately six thousand two hundred words by the end of this sentence. But, still did her eyes move along every word. She stopped at a few, and frowned. A pad and pencil were procured from her cape, and she jotted a few notes. Twice while reading, she chuckled. The first was at the words “How’s that for something?”. And the second was when Twinklehoof, just prior, had introduced his name. But she soon made her way back, to Miss Doo’s words from earlier. She was looking at the words “what exactly is at stake”, furrowing her brow and scratching her chin. Her mouth twisted, and her eyes narrowed off to the side.
What exactly was at stake, Trixie?
“Trixie…” she began, speaking to herself at the darkness nearby. “Trixie is a showpony. She is not, I mean, she is... I mean she means… I mean…” This was a struggle for her, it seems. “Trixie is not one of those ‘Daring Do' or 'Element of Harmony' types. She doesn’t look for danger she… she has too much going on...” She nodded. She nodded again to herself as she continued. “Yes, she… She has a show in Canterlot, and she’s busy with a novel. She doesn’t have time to be a big 'hero' or anything,” she affirmed. "She is soon to make history. And besides, she has an image to maintain, a career to think about…"
Her speech faded, and the darkness naturally did not answer. Trixie’s words of consolation vanished as soon as she said them. Except to the end that they were written down, of course.
She let her gaze drift and eyes fall as she put out her light spell and settled down. Watching the silhouettes of Twinklehoof and Miss Doo, she then closed her eyes. Goodness, for how clumsy that mare was, she could learn to dance quite well.