From Canterlot with Love

by Sagebrush

Chapter 10

Somewhere to the south, although Storm couldn’t say how far, a mysterious well awaited him. Though, he figured, it probably didn’t care either way. He stood at the perimeter of the stone circle, his eyes tracing the southern path for as far as they could follow, which was not far at all: thick, black forest swallowed it and obscured it in its mists. Near its wooded edge grew colonies of the spotted red mushrooms; their red and blue glow teased at something in Storm’s memory, though what this was eluded him at the moment. Silver-leaved branches stirred in a warm breeze. The forest was beckoning him to step, to disappear into its depths.

“Yeah, like that’s happening,” he said, as he shifted his camping bag between his forehooves and took flight.

After all, he was on the clock, and he didn’t know how fast that clock was ticking. There was no point in traipsing through and tripping over a bunch of trees and roots when all he needed to find was the spring-shaped hole in the middle of them. Plus, he felt confident that he’d be able to identify the hazel trees that marked it, having flown headfirst into one.

However, upon climbing higher into the air and gaining a greater vantage over the tree tops, he let out a low groan. Less than a mile ahead, the mists rose above the canopy, and the silver forest disappeared into a silver fog, killing Storm’s hope of winging it. Looking down, he had to admit that the stone circle really did stand out as a landmark though, which was a bit of a silver lining.

He descended and tightened the camping bag over his withers once more. Flight might not have been an option, but he did have a back-up plan, which was to run as fast as he could until he hit water. He broke into sprint, galloping down the path into the forest.

---

Meanwhile to the north, Crack Shot and Check Mate were moving at a more reasonable jog over hills that rolled like the waves of an emerald sea. And on the subject, Crack Shot was still waiting for that beach to show up. There had yet to be sign of any dunes, and he was beginning to suspect that he might have been possessed of a misconception or two.

“So, this castle they’ve got us lookin’ for,” he began, “what do you think it’s gonna be like?”

“I could not begin to suspect,” said Check. “It is a curious thing though; the pookas, from what we’ve observed, have not seemed prone towards masonry or architecture outside of their ring of monoliths and trilithons. If those were even of their creation. It makes me wonder just who or what might call it home.”

“Heh, maybe it’s haunted,” whispered Crack Shot, grinning and widening his eyes.

Check hummed in thought as they crested another hill. Crack Shot raised an eyebrow.

“You think it might actually be haunted?”

“Well, I wouldn’t actually expect it to be. However, I think that by now, in this world, I’m not ready to rely on expectations. For whatever may await us, we should remain vigilant.”

“Yeah, no doubt. Heck, if I had my choice of places to haunt, it seems like it’d be hard to go wrong with a castle. All of those echoin’ chambers and chandeliers to rattle? Pretty sweet gig, if you ask me.”

Check gave a laugh. “Yes, you may be right.”

“…Then again, I know that Dorcha said that the pookas didn’t put anypony in charge, but if there’s anything like royalty around here, I bet you’d find it there.”

“Royalty, now?”

“Yeah, why not? A castle seems like the best place to shove it.”

Check shook his head. “Goodness, Crack Shot, to ‘shove it’? As a member of the Royal Guard, you should really try to speak of royalty with a bit more decorum. If I may proffer the suggestion.”

Crack Shot stuck out his tongue. “I’d prefer not to worry about it, dude. You gotta relax a bit about that kind of stuff. If you act too serious, ponies are gonna think you’re… mm, what’s a good way of saying ‘hella lame’ without being a jerk about it?”

“Square?” suggested Check.

“Ha, what?! Dude, nopony says ‘square.’ Saying ‘square’ is square. It’s like a squared square. It’s a cube.”

Check smiled. “Actually, I believe a squared square would be a hypercube, or a tesseract.”

“You know you’re totally makin’ my point here, right?”

Check gave another hum as they approached another hill. “Though, on the subject of fourth dimensions, I have been pondering over something. Did you notice anything odd about our hosts’ demeanor prior to our departure?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Mm, the furtive whisper that preceded their caveat about the flow of time here comes to mind.”

“Ah.” Crack Shot nodded in tacit agreement. “You think there’s some romantic tension there.”

“What?! Of course n—well, it’s not really my place to say—but I do not suspect that to have been a susurrus of sweet longings or anything of that sort.”

The two guardsponies leapt over a patch of tussocks crowding the saddle between hills.

“So what do you think it was?” asked Crack Shot.

“I’m not entirely certain, honestly.”

“No kiddin’? I didn’t think the light bulb over your head ever burnt out.”

Check rolled his eyes. “There is little worth to a conclusion that is hastily drawn. It may very well be that I am reading too much into it, but I nevertheless found it strange.”

The guardsponies came to the top of the next hill which was, it would appear, the last of them. From its vantage, an expanse of gray land laid itself out ahead of them. It was an inordinate gray, with no hint of any other shade or hue; it looked as if in response to all of the rich and varied color around it, it had decided not to bother. In the grass near its edge, several yards down the hill’s slope, stood a white figure: a tall, well-built stallion, by appearances, for what little those were worth. He was facing away from them, and beside him lay a large wooden wheel.

“Huh, wonder who that is.” said Crack Shot. He lifted a hoof to his mouth and shouted, “Yo! Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú?”

The stallion turned towards them and waved. “Tá mé go hiontach!” he roared back. “Sláinte agus saol chugat!”

“Oh, jeez,” said Crack Shot. He turned to Check. “Line?”

“Perhaps ‘hello’ might suffice?”

The guardsponies made their way down the hill towards the stallion, whereupon Crack Shot gave it a try. The stallion considered them with eyes like polished chalk as they neared. He was smiling expansively, and they saw that even the inside of his mouth was pale, distinguished only by the shadows within it.

“It’s about time ye showed up,” he said, his voice booming with a deep earthen timbre, like the rumble of a tectonic plate. “I’ve been waiting for ye!”

“For us?” asked Check.

“Really?” followed Crack Shot.

The stallion pressed his lips together in a thin, white line. His irisless eyes might’ve shifted to the side uncertainly.

“For somebody, anyways! Pretty much all I do is wait here, ye see. And I figure since ye’ve shown up, why can’t it be that I was waiting for the two of you.”

“Oh,” said Crack Shot, sharing a glance with Check which came back as skeptical as it was given. “Been waitin’ long then?”

“For as long as it took. And ye intend to cross the mires ahead. I could tell the moment I sensed yer approach.”

“The moment you sensed our approach?” said Crack Shot. “Dude, you had your back turned when we came over the hill.”

“Aye, but still I sensed ye. I sensed the sounds of yer voices, the aim of your steps.”

“That is to say you heard my friend call out to you, and upon turning towards us saw the direction from which we came?” asked Check.

“Aye, there were many ways in which I sensed ye,” the stallion said. He grinned mysteriously.

“Dude, what?”

“And I must warn ye that these mires”—the stallion arced a colossal foreleg over the view of gray—“form no other than the Plain of Ill Luck.”

“‘Plain of Ill Luck’? Huh, no wonder nopony’s been comin’ by. A name like that’d kill the tourism industry here in no time.”

“But it has earned the name, for it presents terrible dangers. Those ashen flats ye see are part of a great quagmire, a morass of clay and hidden depths that will snare those foolish enough to step foot into it!”

“Huh.” Crack Shot scratched his chin with the tip of his shoe. “I dunno…”

“DO YOU DOUBT ITS PERILS?!” the stallion bellowed.

Crack Shot’s ears folded back in self-defense, or were possibly blown back by the blast. “Jeez, turn it down, dude! I get enough of that back home.” The stallion subsided just a bit. “Anyways, it’s just that, you know, it doesn’t seem all that unlucky. Getting your hooves stuck? Sounds more inconvenient, really. The Plain of Inconvenience.”

“I highly doubt that anybody would hear a name like ‘The Plain of Inconvenience’ and treat it with the gravity it deserves.”

“Yeah, I guess,” conceded Crack Shot. “It does sound awfully plain.” His eyes lit with inspiration. “Hey, what about calling it that—”

“We appreciate the warning,” interrupted Check, before the conversation was drowned in this wellspring of creativity. “However, sir, you imply that a nontrivial span of time has elapsed while you’ve waited here, yes?”

“Aye, but time is a trifling thing for one such as myself.”

“Yes, but not for clay.” Check walked down the hill and tapped a gilded hoof against the flats to the sound of a dull click; he took a few steps out. “I do believe the ‘Plain of Ill Luck’ may have desiccated.”

“Must be our lucky day,” said Crack Shot.

The stallion went aghast. “That’s not supposed to happen!” he whinnied.

“The evaporative processes involved would disagree,” said Check.

“No, this is no good at all!” the stallion continued, stamping a hoof into the grass and sending a fine cloud of white dust drifting inexplicably into the air. “It throws everything all out of whack! Yer supposed to use the wheel to cross the Plain, not just go mucking across it, tossing caution to the wind!”

“Yeah, about that,” interrupted Crack Shot. “Shouldn’t that wheel be attached to something? Like a cart?”

“No, no… ya just roll it ahead of ya, and it takes care of the rest. Or at least it would’ve.”

“How would that have helped?”

In answer, the stallion stood the wheel up and gave it a halfhearted kick that still managed to send it flying several yards into the air. The wheel spun towards the plain and, upon landing on it, burst into a corona of flame and light that the guardsponies had to shield their eyes against. It sped into the distance at an impossible speed, a towering, brilliant conflagration flaring behind it, before reaching the other side, whereupon it exploded.

“How would that have helped?” repeated Crack Shot.

“It was meant to harden the clay and make a safe trail to follow,” the stallion said in spite of all evidence to the contrary. “To be a guiding light, ye see?”

“One that you’re not supposed to look at directly?”

“Well, it’s not like it matters now…” The stallion sulked, his huge shoulders collapsing forward like a landslide.

“If it is any small solace, we could traverse the plain along the wheel’s course,” said Check. The air above the wheel’s burning path rippled in its intense heat. “Erm, once it has stopped smoldering, of course.”

“Would ye? Gosh, I’d really appreciate that.”

“And I would wager that the scorch marks will make it trivial enough to follow,” added Check, encouragingly.

“Aye, that they will! Just… mind the fumes, if ye would; the clay tends to release them when it gets hot.” Before this could be questioned, he continued. “Now, if yer crossing the Plain of Ill Luck, that means yer also going to be travelling through the Perilous Glen.”

Crack Shot snorted. The stallion looked towards him with a stony glare. “Do ya find something odd about that name, too?” he growled.

“Hehe, yeah.”

“Well, ya shouldn’t! There are dangerous beasts which prowl its cliffs, ravenous and mad for prey. Ye’ll need something to protect yerselves.” The stallion ducked his head deep into the grass at his hooves and plucked from it a round, golden apple. “Lucky for you, I’ve got just the thing.”

Crack Shot looked at the large piece of fruit and asked, “Where is it?”

The stallion probably rolled his eyes as he barked, “Just take it,” through clenched teeth.

“So we’re bringin’ them dessert?” asked Crack Shot. Then his eyes drifted towards the other end of the clay flats, where a shallow, charred crater marked the end of the wheel’s journey like a giant, black punctuation point. He looked at the apple. He took a step backwards.

The stallion exhaled. “It ain’t going to blow up,” he said. “It ain’t even going to bruise. It’s indestructible.”

“So in other words it’s inedible?” asked Crack Shot.

“Aye, that’d be true,” agreed the stallion.

“Then isn’t that worse?”

The apple dangled from its stem like a pendulum as the stallion stared at Crack Shot. “Eh?” he said.

“I’m just thinkin’ that if we might be dealing with starving monsters, maybe it’d be nice if we could add another option to the menu besides us?”

“If it comes to that, ye’ll figure out what to do.”

Crack Shot looked towards Check, who gave a small shrug. “If you say so,” he said, before reaching back to open a saddlebag pocket. He reached out a hoof to take the apple, then tossed it into the air with a flick of his foreleg. It landed cleanly within his bags, jingling the bits at the bottom of them. “Thanks.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Check.

“Aye,” said the stallion. “And thanks to the both of ye for dropping by; I was long overdue for a lie down.”

The guardsponies said their goodbyes and began the march across the Plain of Ill Luck, following the blackened trail left by the stallion’s wheel and trying not to breathe in the stench. A few minutes into their trek, Check looked backwards and saw a curious sight. Covering a large portion of the grassy hill they’d descended was a figure outlined in chalk. It was crude, but he could make out four white legs, an eye, a tail. The stallion they had met was no longer standing in wait behind them. Check would’ve wondered where he had gone, if he hadn’t felt certain of the answer.

---

Storm’s hooves would have thundered if the path wasn’t so soft. His breath would’ve steamed like a train engine if the air wasn’t so warm. His mane would have billowed if not for the helmet pinning it down. As it stood, the circumstances weren’t at all conducive to descriptions of speed, but these were the things that would have happened in a proper narrative. But, he was running fast and showed no sign of slowing, maintaining a sprint that in others would have required a runner’s high located somewhere in the mesosphere. The problem was that he didn’t know where this sprint was taking him.

For over an hour he had run, finding no clue, no marker, as to the location of the well. Everything looked the same, and the forking road just kept on forking! He had tried to rely on the method of solving a maze, of choosing one direction, left in his case, in the hopes of working towards an exit. However, that method depended on all erroneous paths ending at some reasonable point. He wasn’t sure that a forest path would follow this rule. Uncertain of how deep into the forest he had gone, he decided to gamble on a right turn at the next opportunity to see where it would take him; it wasn’t as if he could get any more lost. When the next turn came, he found it opened into a clearing. The stone circle stood not far into it. He greeted the sight with language not fit for print, before dashing back into the forest to try for round two of the trip, hoping it wouldn’t be so round of a trip until he got to the well.

He had gotten as far as a split in the road and was considering just barreling straight through the bramble between it, when a call caught his attention. He skidded to a stop and turned towards the direction it had come from. A white mare approached him, thin, pale eyebrows knit with worry. Her eyes were as green as the sea and they shone with concern.

“An bhfuil tú caillte?” she repeated more softly. It looked like she had been swimming: water dripped from the tresses of her mane, making them frame her face. She wore a bridle that appeared to be woven with reeds of some sort.

“Um, sorry,” said Storm. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

She blinked once. “Oh! I mean to ask, ‘Are ya lost?’”

Storm hadn’t expected her to understand him. “I think I might be,” he said. “What gave it away?”

“Well, ya have run past here no fewer than a dozen times.” A shy smile crossed her face. “Unless yer just doing laps, of course.”

“Er, not deliberately. I’m still trying to find my bearings.”

The mare gave a small, melodic laugh. “What is it that yer looking for?”

Storm didn’t answer immediately. There was the question of who he was speaking to. There was the question what he was speaking to. But, he decided, there was little harm in saying. Besides: by the look of her, if anypony knew where water was, she did.

“I’m trying to find a well,” he said. “It’s supposed to have some hazelnut trees around it, but I don’t know any more about it than that.”

“Ahh! I know just what yer talking about!”

“…You do?”

“Absolutely. And no wonder ya got lost; yer not going to find it following any road.”

“Well, I wish I could blame getting lost on that, but—”

The mare laughed once more and waved this off with a hoof. “Oh, and yer humble!” She lidded her eyes. “A very charming trait indeed. Come along, then—I’ll show ya the way.”

The mare stepped off the trail into the thick overgrowth, water trickling off of her body and wetting the foliage she brushed against. Storm swallowed once and then left the trail to follow after her.

---

As Crack Shot and Check Mate continued on their way after crossing the Plain of Ill Luck, the character of their surroundings began to change into something hostile. The grasses thinned and wilted and died, leaving the ground barren and rugged. Large, jagged rocks started to rise around the two guardsponies, jutting skyward in grotesque spires. And the sky itself was not immune to this corruption. Much of it had dimmed into deep, bloody reds and purples, and other parts of it had blackened into something darker than night, something starless and empty.

“Figures this place would have mood lighting,” said Crack Shot, glancing up with a frown. “So what makes a glen a glen, exactly?”

“It is a type of valley,” answered Check. “I believe they are distinguished by their narrowness, as opposed to, say, a strath.” He glanced from side to side at the steep hills and cliffs surrounding them. “Although, I might consider this to be more of a ravine.”

“A perilous one?”

“Mm, cheerless, perhaps,” said Check. “Bleak, dreary, forlorn, tenebrous. As for perilous, however—”

A piercing howl from nearby stabbed a hole in their conversation. The guardsponies’ gaze turned in the direction it came from as their ears turned in all the others, alert for any threat that might be nearby. Another, nearer howl answered the first from behind them, followed by a throaty growling. They spun towards it. Yet, there was nothing to see, nothing that could have hid it, only the uneven, sterile soil. It had sounded like it was only feet away. A few final howls echoed from off in the distance; for a few minutes the guardsponies waited, but that was the end of them for the time being.

“…as for perilous, this place may yet earn that distinction,” Check finished in a whisper. “Let us hold off on further conversation until we’ve made our way from it.”

Crack Shot nodded, and the two continued on in a silence broken only by their hoofsteps against the craggy earth. The path formed by the cliff walls bent frequently, making it impossible to see where it led next. It narrowed, creating the worry that those cliff walls might eventually close in. Farther on, the sky blackened further, and the gap between the cliff faces narrowed such that it was no longer possible to walk abreast. Check led the way as best he could, in spite of the dark, uneven footing; he didn’t dare light his horn.

Once more there came a series of howls, but they were far off and soft as whispers. They would have only been heard if one was making the attempt, as the guardsponies certainly were.

Crack Shot was tempted to share his relief, but he opted to keep his mouth shut. Check did the same. There would be no celebration until they were certain they were in the clear; it would be foolish to behave otherwise. That’s why what happened next felt so terribly unfair.

Around the next bend, the path widened suddenly, like a yawn, into a space ringed by the cliffs that had funneled it. And atop those cliffs were the creatures that had been making all the noise.

“Tesseract,” swore Crack Shot.

---

Deeper into the forest the mists had grown thicker, lending to the otherworldliness of the place. The black, gnarled trees blended and disappeared into its grayness, and Storm felt like he was walking through the world of a charcoal painting. The mare had moved in a determined yet seemingly aimless manner, meandering around fallen logs and dried creek beds. The trail had long since fallen out of sight, and its location out of memory; Storm doubted that he would be able to find it again. The thought of that alone did not trouble him, given that ‘west or east’ was not an issue with ‘up’ a wing’s beat away, but he did wonder: how would he have been expected to find this well, as hidden as it was proving to be? Each step he took was like a metronome’s beat, like the tick of a clock, echoing Síofra’s warning.

“It’ll just be a short ways away, now,” said the mare. “It’s a lucky thing that I found ya; who knows how long ya’d have been out here otherwise.”

“I appreciate it,” said Storm. “Sorry to put you to the trouble.”

The mare turned and gave him a contented smile. “It’s no trouble at all; I consider it a pleasure. Now I might be forward in saying so, but yer certainly not from around here, and ya must not have been here long because I know I’d remember a face like yers.”

Storm flushed slightly. Was she flirting?

“What business is it that ya have here?” she asked.

“Actually, right now I’m just trying to find a way back home for my friends and me. Somehow this well’s water will enable me to do that, don’t ask me how.”

The mare sucked in her lips and shifted her gaze upwards. As she did, more water ran in rivulets down her brow; Storm marveled how it was possible that she hadn’t yet dried. “I suppose I can see how that’d work. But…,” she continued, something akin to disappointment creeping into her voice, “I hope ya aren’t in too much of a rush to leave. I’d be interested in getting to know a bit more about ya.” She hummed. “Ah, I think I got the wording wrong. I’d be interested in getting to know ya a bit more.”

“Uh, I’m really not that interesting. I’m probably one of the least interesting ponies you could meet.”

This earned another small smile. “Again, so humble…”

A little farther ahead, the soft forest loam rolled into a gradual slope. A few meters below where they stood, clear water washed up against a rocky shore, just visible through the mists. The mare made her way down and took a seat on a large, smooth stone. It was well above the water’s surface, but water began to puddle where she rested nevertheless. Storm walked to the water’s edge and was about to remove the ewer from his camping bag when he remembered what else he was looking for. He scanned the nearby shoreline. Plenty of trees ran along it, but none of them were hazels. He stepped beside the mare; she looked up at him with a soft expression.

“Er, are you sure this is the right place?” he asked.

The mare turned away as a blush crept across her features. “I… might have taken us on a wee bit of a detour,” she said. Storm winced at this unwelcome revelation. “…But, I thought you might not mind if we stopped here,” she continued. “A lovely sight, isn’t?” The way she said it, the way she looked at him as she said it, Storm was certain that she wasn’t talking about the water. She took a small step toward him; he took a small step back, maintaining their distance.

“Listen,” he began in a quiet but firm voice. “I really appreciate your willingness to help me. And yes, this is a very lovely”—she took another step forward, and he took another step back—“place. But I don’t have time for this! And it’s not just my world that I want to return to, it’s the ponies in it. And there’s a very important pony waiting for me; I need to hurry or else she might not be there waiting for me when I get back!”

“Oh…” The mare put her lips together in a moue. “A mot?” she asked.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“A sweetheart,” she sighed.

“Ah. Then yes.”

The mare looked crestfallen. Storm wondered if her eyes had begun to tear up, or if it was just the water dripping from her mane. Why was it still so wet? Compassion nearly compelled him to pat her back or pull her into a hug, but he felt that such a gesture would be inappropriate.

“…I suppose I won’t be getting a thank-you kiss from the strange, dashing winged visitor then,” she said eventually.

“Sorry…” Storm rubbed the back of his head. “Would a thank-you hoofshake do?” he asked. “And perhaps a name? I think we might’ve forgotten introductions.”

The mare gave a fragile smile and said, “Well… I suppose that’ll do at that.”

“I’m Storm Stunner.” Storm removed a shoe and extended forehoof. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The mare stood and touched it with her own. Storm immediately became aware of a number of things. Her hoof was clammy and cold, deathly cold, with a chill like the bottom of the sea. When he tried to pull his away it held fast to hers. And her smile, which had been so small, shy, demure, was widening now, opening, and its teeth were far too sharp.

“Now, a girl needs her secrets, and I’m just a tad too shy to go sharing mine right away, but don’t worry,” she whispered beside Storm’s ear, “we’ve got all the time in the world.” Then she threw herself back towards the water, yanking him along with her. There was a glass crunch as he slammed against the shore’s rocks, but it was lost to him as the wind was knocked painfully from his lungs. He had only a fraction of a second to draw another breath before he was dragged beneath the water’s surface.

---

They were huge canine shapes, looming from the cliffs above Check and Crack Shot, with fur as white as snow and ears as red as arterial blood. They stared down from their perches with eyes like burning coals (which is the wont of many supernatural and infernal creatures, next to the ever popular ‘sulfurous glow’). One by one they bared their teeth and by the trembling of their lips seemed to growl, although it was as faint as the wind. A pair of them leapt from the cliffs, a distance dozens of meters high, and landed with a soft patter. They began padding towards the guardsponies.

Crack Shot flared his wings and turned towards Check. “Ready for a lift?” he asked.

Check’s ear twitched. He threw himself as hard as he could into Crack Shot’s side, sending them both tumbling just as another of the giant beasts flew through the spot where they had stood. It landed noiselessly and spun back around to face them, as the other two hounds came beside it.

Crack Shot leapt to his hooves. “Jeez, too friggin’ close!” he gasped. “How’d you hear that thing coming?!”

“It was just that—I didn’t!”

Check stood, facing the direction they had come from and the source of another unnatural silence. It stood there, a bloody eared sentinel blocking their path. Check realized that it, along with its partner, must have been following behind him and Crack Shot for quite some time, quietly ensuring that they would have no means of escape.

The two guardsponies stood together, turned in opposite directions as the hounds circled them. More of them waited at the edges of the nearby cliffs, ready to throw themselves down upon them should they try to fly.

Crack Shot hissed and his ears pinned back. “So much for that air lift, huh?”

The hounds began to move together, slowly closing the distance and tightening the circle. Their growls, unheard, began to resonate instead within the guardsponies’ chests in a cold pitch of dread. Perhaps they were waiting there to reunite with their owners’ teeth.

“Well… we do have another option.”

Crack Shot nodded uncertainly. “If you think it’ll work, dude.” In case it wouldn’t, he shifted a hoof beside one of the nearby stones, prepared to make a missile of it for what little it would do.

“We can only hope. Pardon the intrusion—”

Not letting his eyes leave the approaching hounds, Check unfastened Crack Shot’s bags with his magic, removed the golden apple, and held it out in front of him, an unlikely aegis. All of the hounds came to an immediate stop, freezing at the sight of it. As each of them stood there fixed in place, their hellish eyes flitted down towards the ponies, these intruders into their territory. The roar of instinct echoed in the rush of blood running hot through their veins, demanding that they rend the ponies to shreds.

Their eyes returned to the round, golden object floating just away from their quarry. For a minute, neither they nor the guardsponies moved.

Then, instinct shifted its focus. One of the hounds began to wag its tail.

“Well, I… I can’t say I quite expected that,” said Check. He levitated the apple towards Crack Shot, the smoldering eyes of the hounds following it. “Would you, er, care to do the honors?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Crack Shot spun around and gave the apple a swift kick, sending it flying. The hounds immediately scrambled after it. “So uh… should we keep goin’ then?”

“Yes… yes, I suppose we should.”

As the hounds fell into a pile over the apple, the two guardsponies stepped gingerly around them, making their way from the circle of cliffs. Crack Shot glanced back as one of the hounds rolled over with the apple secured happily within its massive fangs.

“Huh,” he said. “I guess an indestructible fruit would make for a pretty good chew toy.”

“Seemingly so, and better it than us.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’.” Farther away, the calls of the white hounds gradually grew louder as the guardsponies left them behind. “I hope Storm’s havin’ a better time of it than we are.”

“As do I, Crack Shot.”

---

Tiny bubbles of trapped air bled in a cloud from Storm’s fur and feathers as the mare pulled him deeper into the water, farther from land. Lower and lower the two of them sank, until finally they settled on the silty lake floor; thin aquatic plants rippled and brushed against him. He vaguely registered the wet, muted noise of a splash, but underwater each sound seemed to come from all directions. Why was he being pulled underwater? What had he gotten himself into?

Despite the obvious peril of his situation, a part of him tried to deny it. He wanted to rationalize it and excuse it. He wanted to believe this to be a game, a misguided show of affection, a joke in bad taste on the mare’s part. He was unable to accept, to wrap his mind around the idea—

“My, ya can yer hold your breath,” she purred, her voice as silken in the water as it had been on land. “I wonder just for how long.”

—that she was going to kill him.

She was going to kill him.

Nopony had ever tried to do that to him before.

The revelation nearly stole his breath, though thankfully he kept his mouth shut. Somepony that he had known for no more than hour or two, for less than a day, was going to rob him of all his tomorrows. And she was going to do it with a smile on her face. The thought of it burned in his mind like a fuse. He began, then, to kick his rear legs and beat his wings; they churned through the water with a force and fierceness defiant of viscosity. The mare’s eyes widened; Storm met them with a glower which he turned towards the water’s surface. He briefly caught sight of a black and gold shape nearby before hastening his climb.

It is said that there are five stages one faces when confronted by their mortality, and Storm had been confronted by his. There is, first, denial of the circumstances, followed by anger at its perceived causes. Bargaining and depression come one after the other, leading finally to acceptance of its inevitability. Storm had decided that he’d only bother with the first two. Neither the heaviness of his armor, the awkward and restricting mass of the bags on his withers, nor the unearthly pull of the mare could match the weight of his fury. He erupted from the water like a depth charge, sending waves rocking off into the white haze around them.

As water showered around and off of him and the mare, as the mists twirled and trailed in their wake, as the rapid-fire beating of his heart pumped a jet-fuel mixture of blood and adrenaline through his body, Storm released in one great exhalation the breath that had him lasted minutes. It came out as, “What the heck is wrong with you?!”

“Oh my,” breathed the mare, dangling from his forehoof, “and yer strong too.”

“For the love of—stop that! Stop flirting! And let go of me!”

He took off across the water, weaving wildly through the air in an attempt to shake her free.

“There’s one way to get me to do that, but ya might not like it!” she shouted. “It really depends on how attached to yer hoof ya are.” She gave a wink above a dagger-toothed grin. “Although, yer hoof would need to be a lot less attached to you either way. Now why don’t we head back down? The water’s fine, and—not to disparage my weight—ya can’t be keeping this up for long.”

“Don’t be so sure—we’re on my turf now.” Storm spun around, trying in vain to find a tree top to fly into, trying to find the land on which it’d grow. Had they really gone this far from shore? He picked a direction and flew towards it. Then, knowing his luck at guessing directions, he flew the opposite way.

“‘Turf’?” yelled the mare over the rush of wind, watching his wings beat awkwardly against his larger bag. “Be it far from me to correct ya on yer own language, but I doubt that air and sky would be considered turf.” She tutted. “Well, at least ye’ve got beauty if not brains.”

“Whatever!” shouted Storm, immediately wishing he had come up something wittier. “I had a sinking feeling about you!” he added, desperately. It wasn’t much but it would have to do.

The mare laughed again, that siren song of a laugh. “Ya might be having another one,” she said, before swinging her free hoof upwards as Storm’s wing came down, latching onto it. “And ya really shouldn’t feel so sure about things yerself.”

Storm cried out as his wing was pinned, and the two of them spun back down towards the water. He struggled against the mare’s grip, to gain lift or at least a glide, but it was futile. He grit his teeth as the lake’s surface flew towards them like a wall of glass. Maybe he could swim, maybe he could fight back somehow without getting further immobilized. Maybe if he were more delusional he could actually believe any of that. Robbed of fight and flight he braced himself, prepared to crash into the lake and prepared for nothing beyond that.

“Oy! Lig dul dó, ya kelpie bogtrotter!”

Storm’s ears swiveled towards the voice, and his head immediately followed. A blur of black swept past his vision, just over the mare, and stole away with her bridle with an audible rip. Storm felt the grips on his wing and forehoof weaken and fall away, and he quickly beat his wings to correct his free fall, thankful to be beating the both of them again. Stabilized, he surveyed the aftermath. Below, the mare stood on the surface of the water, a hate-filled glare on her face. A few meters in front of him hovered a golden-eyed kite; it was clutching the mare’s bridle in her talons.

“…Síofra?”

“Are ya alright, Storm Stunner?” she asked. “Ya sure know to pick yer company, don’t ya?”

“Uh.” Storm just stared at her for a moment, an influx of thoughts of the sudden turn of events numbing him as his wings dutifully kept him aloft. “Wow, um… good timing.”

“Hey!” shouted the mare. “Give that back! Give him back! I saw him first!”

“Now that’s a fiction!” Síofra yelled back. “And even if it wasn’t, I doubt that he’d want that ya saw him last!” She turned back towards Storm. “What do ya say we scatter?”

“No complaints here,” he said. Then, as he flew towards her, the contents of his camping bag shifted with a clinking of broken glass, just over the clinking of his bits. Both he and Síofra paused. “The ewer!” he hissed. “It must’ve shattered when I got dragged down those rocks.”

For a very long minute, Síofra said nothing. Then, finally, she neared Storm and held out the mare’s bridle towards him. “Do ya mind holding this for a moment?” she asked in a strained voice.

Storm nodded and took it.

“Thank you,” she said, clippedly. She then narrowed her eyes at the mare and plunged into a dive, screaming something that Storm couldn’t understand, but that he wagered would require a very particular kind of language dictionary to translate. Most likely the kind that’d be sold from the top shelf, purchasable only by matured ponies of immature tastes.

The mare stared upwards as a razor-sharp beak and knife-tipped talons flew towards her. Of course, there was also the swearing bird attached to them, although she didn’t command quite as much attention as the previously noted points of interest. She made a decision.

She looked towards Storm with a wistful expression, and mouthed what looked like a good-bye. For a moment the whole of her form appeared to ripple. Then she simply dissolved into water and mist, disappearing into the lake as Síofra buffeted into it. She had done so as easily as she might’ve taken a breath; Storm wondered if that was something she ever needed to do. In spite of himself, in spite of what had transpired, he felt a sudden, small pang of sorrow for her; he would not have been able to say why. Síofra flew back towards him.

“She’s right lucky she fled before I turned those green eyes of hers black,” she fumed, breaking him from his spell. “And yer lucky too, by the way. That one’s kind is extremely powerful; they could put ya in thrall just by shedding a tear on ya.” She cocked her head to the side, staring at Storm with eyes as bright and hard as gemstones. “And yer sure yer alright? She didn’t weep on ya, did she?”

“…No, I’m fine,” Storm replied. “What was she?”

“A kelpie. Or an aughisky, maybe.” Síofra tilted her head to one side. “…Or a ceffyl dŵr, or a shoopiltie, or—gosh I feel like a gobdaw for getting them all mixed up.” She noticed Storm was staring at her blankly. “None of these names aren’t ringing any bells, are they?”

Storm shook his head. “No, sorry… is all of her kind like that?”

Síofra gave as close to a shrug as a bird could give midflight. “I couldn’t tell ya; I haven’t met all of them yet. But the ewer…,” she groaned, shaking her head.

Storm thought back to the task he had been given, of how strange the ornateness of the ewer had seemed compared to everything else he had observed here. “Was it magical?” he asked. “Or glamorous?”

“What? No, it wasn’t glamoured…”

“Er, then what’s the problem?”

Síofra’s beak fell open. “Did ya see it?!” she yelled. “It was a really nice ewer! It had all those little fancy flowers cut into the side and it caught light like nothing else—they don’t grow on trees, ya know!”

“Oh, uh, right. Sorry. But… then why’d you give it to us?”

“It’s big enough to carry the amount water that we’d need, and I didn’t think any of ye would go and get yerself dragged into a loch, but imagine my surprise.” She took a deep breath and sighed it out. “No use cribbing about it, I guess.”

Síofra led Storm through the mists to the rocky shore of the lake and alighted on one of the larger stones, taking an earth pony’s form as she did so. Storm set the tattered remains of the mare’s bridle near the water, glad to be rid of it. Nearby, he found his discarded shoe, which gave greater credence to a question that had been forming in his mind.

“By the way… how did you know I was in trouble?” he asked. “What were you doing out here?”

“Following ya, actually. At least until you started running in a circle, at which point I buggered off to grab a bite. It figures ya’d pick that moment to break out of yer loop. Of course being a shape-shifter leaves me with a few shapes that are just fine for tracking, so all I had to do was sniff out yer trail.”

“Er, I see. But still—I recall you saying that you were going to trust my friends and I to take care of these tasks on our own.”

“Aye, that I did.”

Storm followed as Síofra led the way up from the shore towards the path he had left behind, still unsatisfied.

“Then how do you explain what you were doing?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Síofra stopped to turn and look Storm in the eye. “I lied, of course,” she said without an ounce of guile. “Pretty convincing, wasn’t it?”

Storm frowned. “You know, most ponies wouldn’t be so proud of that.”

“Huh, really now? Well a pooka wouldn’t worry about it. In fact, they’d take pride in doing such a good job of it. Ya aren’t trying to tell me that ponies don’t lie, are ya?”

“No!” Storm lied. “That is to say… we try not to. And we’re not so celebratory about it.”

“Well I suppose that makes it alright then.” Síofra smiled. “But I must say I’m impressed. The path is pretty much a straight shot to the well and it only breaks in two spots which are connected to each other. Yet, ya still managed to get lost. How exactly does one pull that off?”

Storm bit his lower lip. “I figured if I just kept going left I’d get there eventually, I guess.”

“A fine strategy if yer not running so fast that ya miss the first left.” Síofra ducked her head beneath a low branch and leapt over a fallen tree. Unlike the path of the one she had identified as a kelpie (et al.), the path she took was as straight as the crow flies, possibly in thanks to personal experience. “I suppose it’s on me for trying to give ye boys a kick in the rear.”

“‘A kick in the rear’? Wait—are you talking about—”

“At the worst ya might lose or gain an hour when ya leave here, depending on if we’re leading or lagging the moment ya step back into the other side.”

“So all of that panic was for nothing?!”

“Well it got ya movin’!” Síofra scratched the bottom of her chin. “Though not in the right direction and bit too much in the left one. But at least ya can take solace in the fact that we were technically telling the truth then.”

“Ugh. I guess it’ll be no different than Daylight Savings Time, then.”

Through more underbrush, the trail finally came into view.

“So then what about this well water?” asked Storm. “Is there still any point in fetching that, or could I just shake out my coat over a bowl and say that I’ve suffered enough?”

“There’s still a purpose to that. Losing the ewer really throws a kink in it, though.”

Storm thought for a moment. “I’ve got a canteen if that would help.”

Síofra stopped walking and turned to face him. “Really? That might do it.”

Storm unfastened the camping bag, set it down, and removed the canteen from one of its pouches. Upon seeing it, Síofra shook her head.

“No, I’m afraid that’ll do no good unless yer willing to make a few trips, and I’ve got the feeling ya won’t. We might not have a choice though.”

Storm tapped a forehoof against the ground in thought. “So, this well water is special… but it’s still water, right?” he asked.

“Aye, that it is, why?”

“In that case, I think I have an idea.” Storm swung the camping bag back over his shoulders and began down the trail.

“Really, now? Well, I suppose ya could give it a shot. One thing though, Storm Stunner?”

“Yes?”

“The well is in the other direction.”

“Ah.”

---

The ridges of the Perilous Glen softened into hills, and eventually flattened altogether. However, Check and Crack Shot found that they had not yet left the cliffs behind, but had only gone from the bottom to the top of them. They now stood at the precipice of chasm. Hundreds of meters below, black ocean water swelled around pointed rocks and crashed against its walls, and long, dark shapes slithered within its depths. A baleful wind resonated with the crush of the waves, creating a mournful soughing which filled the air like a wail. Crack Shot had found his beach and he was not pleased with it one bit.

On an island plateau on the opposite side they spied their destination: a fortress that stood like a shadow against the horrible light of the sky outlining it. Unembellished and warlike, the closest thing to ornamentation would have been the crenellations at the top of its parapets. It might’ve been able to pull off a gargoyle or two, but, then again, those probably would’ve cheered up the ambience too much. It was a stark reminder that beyond ceremony, beyond symbolism, a castle was a line of defense. If those stony, somber walls could talk, they would have said, ‘No solicitors.’

Nearby was a wooden bridge that appeared to have been added as an afterthought, and most likely a grudging one. It was narrow, and its planks were so thin and spaced that if it were disconnected at one end it could have served as a ladder. Crack Shot shook his head as he stared through it at the fall below.

“I don’t trust this thing at all,” he said.

Check Mate kneeled down to examine the posts anchoring it in place. “I can find no obvious wear in the ropes, or rot in the wood, but it does seem needlessly precarious, doesn’t it?”

“You are wise to be wary of the Buckling Bridge,” purred a voice from behind them. They turned to find a tall, black cat sitting behind them, his tail curled around his paws; a white shock of fur the shape of a diamond stood prominently on his chest. He gave them a cheshire grin. “Are ye surprised to hear a cat speak?” he asked.

“Nah,” said Crack Shot. “What’s up with this—engh—Buckling Bridge, though? Seriously, these names.”

“As ya might surmise from the title, it buckles. Observe.” The cat stalked forward and placed a paw on the first plank of the bridge. Immediately it began to bow and bend, and soon it was rippling like a plucked violin string. “Of course, there is a trick to crossing it…”

“No doubt,” said Crack Shot. He turned towards Check. “Second offer on that lift, dude.”

Check stared across the bridge, judging the distance. “No, I do believe I will be alright. But thank you, nevertheless.”

“But I won’t share that trick for free,” the cat continued. “How would ye two feel about a game of riddles, a wager of—”

“Actually, I think we’ve got this,” said Crack Shot as he flew up and off across the gorge. “Thanks for the heads up!”

“Hey!” the cat shouted, his fur bristling and his tail twitching. However, although he had been thrown off guard for a moment, he naturally landed on his feet. He turned towards Check and said, “I suppose that means yer going to be solving two riddles then, yers and his, and each is going to be twice as difficult because of it. And if ya get them wrong—”

“Oh, I would love nothing more than to partake,” interrupted Check with an apologetic smile. “But, we truly are harried at the moment. However, any other time I would have been delighted to engage you in a mental spar. Pardon our hasty departure.”

With a flash of light he disappeared, reappearing less than a second later on the other side of the bridge. As he gave his head a shake to clear the spots from his vision, Crack Shot landed beside him. There was a caterwauling behind them which they both chose to ignore.

They approached the heavy wooden gates of the fortress, which must’ve been at least two stories tall. They gave the impression that if one were to give them a knock, it would take at least a second for the sound to travel to the other side. Check noted that each was made of a singular black slab of wood: no boards or nails had been used to fashion them. He wondered what sort of tree could have possibly yielded them, how ancient it must have been. A gruff voice came from above.

“Liath Macha? Dubh Sainglenn?” it called down.

The guardsponies looked up to see two pinpricks of red within a small silhouette staring down at them from the fortress’s ramparts.

“Heya!” answered Crack Shot. “Sorry, but we didn’t understand that!”

“Really?” The silhouette cleared its throat and shouted, “I said, ‘Liath Macha? Dubh Sainglenn?’”

Crack Shot looked at Check, who gave a small shrug. Crack Shot turned and gave a larger one in case their conversation partner had missed it.

The silhouette continued to stare at them. Then it said, “Guess not. Who are ye and what do ye want?”

“I’m Crack Shot, and this is Check Mate. We dropped by because we heard that a spear we’re lookin’ for was in a castle up this way, and we were wonderin’ if this was the place. You wouldn’t happen to have any lying around would you?”

“Aye, we’ve a few,” said the silhouette. It disappeared from view, before returning a moment later. “Are ye looking for a pike, a halberd, a partisan, a lance?”

“We are told that the spear we seek is notched,” said Check.

“Notched…? Ah. Ah!”

“Ah?” said Crack Shot.

“I think I know what yer talking about, and it’s a quite the request, coming from a couple of strangers. Unless…” High above there was a flash of white, which may have been the figure grinning. “Say, ye two wouldn’t be planning on sieging the dún, would ye?”

“No, not that we know of,” said Crack Shot.

“Really?” replied the silhouette, sounding slightly disappointed. “Why not?”

“Well for one thing, it seems needlessly pugnacious,” said Check. “I also doubt that the two of us alone could mount a viable siege.”

“Now, now, don’t sell yerselves short! If ye’ve gotten here, that means ye two are no ordinary plonkers. Ye would’ve had to forge through the morasses of the Plain of Ill Luck, to overcome the cŵn annwn of the Perilous Glen, to listen to that tosser that skulks around by the bridge prattle about the secret of crossing it—”

“What is the trick to that, anyways?” asked Crack Shot.

“Ya jump over it. Anyways, I bet ye could mount a great siege if ye really wanted to!”

“But we don’t want to!” said Check.

“…How do ye feel about infiltrations? I could cover my eyes and count to thirty if ye’d like.”

“Can’t you just let us in?” asked Crack Shot. “We’re not kickin’ down the door, and it’d probably take like a year if we tried.”

“Bah, where’s the fun in that? Do ya know how boring it can be, waiting around in a fine dún like this with nobody having the common decency to try to raze it? It’s a waste of good workmanship!”

Crack Shot groaned and dragged a hoof down the bridge of his snout, before spreading his wings. “I’m gonna fly up there and talk to this guy.”

Check nodded. “Very well, but be careful.”

Crack Shot took to the air and circled upwards until he was level with the top of the ramparts, and there he was met by the red-eyed stare of a stallion’s face. The first thing Crack Shot said was, “Er, where’s the rest of you?”

The floating head of the stallion crooked an eyebrow in confusion for a moment, before his eyes lit up with realization and no small amount of red glow. He gave a snort of laughter which sent a small gout of flame shooting from his nostrils.

“I must’ve left my body back down in the courtyard,” he said with another flaming chuckle. “Like they say: ye’ll forget yer own head when it isn’t bolted to yer neck, and my mind does tend to wander.”

A pony could not be blamed for being unnerved by all of this, but as the stallion seemed to find it normal, Crack Shot figured, well, why couldn’t he? He was about to ask why the stallion was so intent on having him and Check storm his castle—or dún or whatever—when the stallion suddenly leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. Or maybe he leaned. Without the neck it was hard to say, but it definitely felt like a lean.

“What is that yer wearing?” he asked.

Crack Shot was sure he knew the answer but looked himself over anyway, because it’s just about impossible not to when asked that question. “Armor?” he hazarded.

“Aye, but what’s that all over it?”

In spite of himself, Crack Shot looked again. “Uh, gold?” he ventured.

The stallion reared back, or at the very least gave the impression of it. “Guh!” he cried. “And ya let it touch ya?”

“What the heck is with everypony here freakin’ out over metal? Like, don’t any of you have anything like a tetanus shot?”

“Get it away!”

Crack Shot flew back a few feet, and then recalled why it was he had come up here. “Heh, wait a sec. Weren’t you just beggin’ us to bust into this place?”

“Aye, but that was before I knew ye were gold plated! That changes things! That changes everything!”

“What if my buddy and I were to set our gear down outside? Would you let us in to talk about that spear?”

“…Let ye sneak in?”

“Dude, come on. It’s been a long day.”

“Engh, fine, I’ll go and let the others know yer coming in,” said the stallion’s head, before floating towards a staircase, grumbling all the way. “…Here these two come in pursuit of an ancient treasure, and they’re not even willing to kick down a door for it…”

Crack Shot flew back down and landed beside Check who asked, “Was your discussion fruitful?”

“Yeah,” replied Crack Shot as he began kicking off his shoes. “He didn’t seem too happy to hear that we wouldn’t be tearin’ down his dún, but he agreed to meet us if we left our gear outside. He wasn’t all there.”

“Well I should think not, if he earnestly desired that we behave like vandals.”

“Nah, dude, like, he literally wasn’t all there. You’ll see.” Crack Shot ducked his head down, allowing his champron to slide off next to the pile of his shoes, before moving on to his saddlebags and peytral.

“Also, that is an odd request regarding our armor, is it not? If he wanted us to play the roles of warriors, why wouldn’t he want us accoutered as such?”

“Something about gold, I guess. For some reason it’s a total fashion faux pas; it totally freaked him out.”

“Hm, I see.” Check followed Crack Shot’s lead and began removing his equipment. After some consideration, he removed one of his bits from his saddlebag and tucked it within his mane, just behind his ear. A tiny amount of magic and a larger amount of concentration were needed to keep it in place, but he had enough of each to spare. The enormous doors creaked open with a labored, wooden groan, and he saw just what Crack Shot had meant. He stifled a gasp.

There in the portal loomed the sable body of a stallion, a head above the guardsponies even without the head. It stamped a hoof against the stone beneath it, kicking a shower of sparks into the air; they created an orange light that briefly lit the entrance corridor and was lost into the darkness of the stallion’s fur. The body began stalking towards them. It yawed slightly to the right, walked into one of the doors, and fell over.

“Oof, I really need to watch where I’m going,” came the gruff voice from a short distance away. A pair of red eyes appeared from around some unseen corner and drifted towards the stallion’s body, which was just now sitting up. The body reached out a hoof and pulled its head towards it and onto its neck. “There we go!” the stallion said with a grin, now that he was in one piece. “Alright, come with me.”

“Uh, it’s kinda dark in there, don’t you think?” said Crack Shot, squinting for the brief second it took to realize how counterproductive this was.

“Really? Can’t say I ever noticed,” said the stallion, stepping back into the darkness of the dún. “But this is the Island of Shadows—”

“Aw, jeez.”

“—so ye’ve got to expect that there’ll be shadows.”

“Sure, shadows,” repeated Crack Shot, stretching the final ‘s’ so far it nearly straightened into an ‘ſ.’ “Not one big, fat one, though.”

The stallion sighed and stamped a hoof, causing rows of torches along the walls to come to life with a black flame, revealing a severe stone hall. Spears and blades hung from mounts along it, not as ornamentation, but to be grabbed at a moment’s notice.

Crack Shot, awestruck, pivoted his head from left to right as the flames danced. “Whoa, awesome. I didn’t think fire could do that.”

“Aye, but unfortunately it’ll make yer teeth glow all yellow.”

Check quirked an eyebrow at the other effect of the flames: the shadows they left were brighter than the light they cast. He glanced back towards the door as it slowly closed behind them; he could see no obvious mechanism by which it operated outside of whatever powers were at play in the dún. He filed these thoughts away and said, “You asked us something earlier. Or two things, perhaps. ‘Liath Macha? Dubh Sainglenn?’ I believe it was.”

“Ah, aye, just a case of mistaken identity that was. From far off, ye two looked like a couple of other feens from a long time back, chariot pullers like me and the others.”

The stallion turned down another, shorter corridor, and another line of torches ignited along their path.

“You pull chariots, eh?” said Crack Shot. “So does our other friend and me. We oughta swap stories.”

“Just one chariot, really, and I doubt that it’s like any you’ve ever seen.”

The stallion ended it at that, leaving the guardsponies to guess at his meaning. Ahead of them, on one side of the passage, was another wooden gateway; it was large, though nothing compared to the main gate.

“But it is a strange coincidence, the two of ye looking so much like that pair,” the stallion began once more. “Given what yer here for, that is to say. Anyways, the others’ll be outside in the courtyard, killing time.” He stopped at the gate, where muffled yells, cries, and the clashing of weapons resonated through it.

Crack Shot’s ears pricked up. “Time and what else?”

The stallion reared up and slammed his hooves against the doors, shoving them open and spilling the sounds of violence into the hall. In the sooty courtyard, beside the wall of a squat central keep, two stallions as phantom-like as the guardsponies’ host were circling each other, while three others cheered them on. Long pale blades were clenched in their teeth. With a scream and a snort of fire, one lunged forward with a swing that was only narrowly parried. The guardsponies watched with shock as the defending stallion feinted forward, ducked beneath the responding strike, and came up with a lash beneath the chin that sent his opponent’s head flying.

“That puts it at four to four,” said one of the bystanders casually, as she scored a tally into the dirt.

“Feh, lucky shot!” shouted the bested stallion as his head flew through the air, his body ambling after it. His sword fell blade first and stuck several inches into the ground.

“My… my word!” gasped Check, as the stallion’s head rolled towards his hooves. It grinned up at him; one of its eyes was sealed with a scar, and the other one winked.

“Mind lending a hoof?” it asked.

“O-of course.” Check levitated the stallion’s head towards his body.

“Ooh, fancy trick, there,” said the stallion, as he took his head from Check and placed it back onto his neck. “Much obliged.” He then wrenched his weapon from the ground and leapt at his opponent with a muffled ululation; their blades met with not a clang, but a loud, dull crack.

“What the heck is going on?” whispered Crack Shot.

“Just a bit of dueling,” said the gatekeeper. “It’s great craic. Oy!” he shouted. “Wrap it up for a second, ye mogs, and come greet our visitors!”

There was a bit of grumbling as the group dispersed, peppered with a few last playful swings of their weaponry at each other. They gathered around the guardsponies and thrust their swords, their spears, and, in one impressive feat, a shillelagh into the hard earth. Four and half pairs of lambent eyes considered them, before their owners at last grunted and cussed out various greetings.

“Erm, charmed,” said Check in response.

“Really?” The mare that had been keeping score looked between her companions. “Wasn’t me.”

“‘Ey, ye all knows who they’s looks like?” said the stallion that had won the earlier death match. His eyes were a deeper, darker red than the others. “Those two ponces what dropped off that spear. Ya know, that spear.” He took a step forward and narrowed his eyes at Crack Shot’s wings and Check’s horn. “‘Cept these ones gots some extra bits stuck on them.”

“Aye, that’s what they’re here about,” said the gatekeeper.

“The extra bits?” The dark-eyed stallion cocked his head at Crack Shot, who gave a confused look in return. “Huh, looks like ya stopped leaking red out o’ yer eyes too, eh? ‘S a pity.”

“I meant the part about the spear, ya gom! They’re here to collect it. I swear that yer as dim as yer eyes, sometimes!”

Another mare, the one that had slammed the shillelagh a foot into the ground, gave the guardsponies a glare like a heat lamp. “And ye think we’re just going to give it to ye?”

“Would you?” asked Crack Shot. “That’d be, like, really convenient.”

The mouth of the mare fell open in disbelief.

“My friend asks a valid question,” said Check. “Is the spear something you would willingly relinquish?”

The mare sneered and spat a tongue of flame from the corner of her mouth. “Not bloody likely.”

Check and the mare stared at each other in silence. With no other competition, the wailing of ocean wind filled the courtyard like a dirge.

“Would that mean, then, that the only option left to us is to seize it?”

The mare’s grimace bent into a half of a grin, a dare. “Aye, I suppose it is at that, though I wouldn’t make it sound so easy.”

The coolness of Check’s gold coin tickled the spot where it pressed behind his ear. He turned towards his fellow guardspony. “Crack Shot?”

“Sup, dude?”

Check began towards the gates leading back into the outer halls of the dún.

“Let us go. It seems that we are finished here.”

“…Really?” asked Crack Shot, and it would seem he had an echo; the others were just as surprised as he was.

Check looked between the six black… not ponies… Fae, were they? Or something else?

“We are not thieves, and we are not thugs,” he said. “And, ultimately, the spear is not ours. We are not going to take it just because we want it.”

“Boo!” shouted a third mare. Unfortunately, she had no real distinguishable characteristic for the purpose of this busy dialogue, such as a scar or speech pattern, and she’d have to settle instead for a number for the sake of narrative convenience.

“Aye! ‘S what she said, ya ponce!” said the dark-eyed stallion. “‘S boring, ‘s what it is!”

“Hey!” shouted Crack Shot, flaring his wings. “Nopony calls him whatever that is!”

“What about a contest then?” interjected the stallion with one eye. The stern-faced mare turned the heat of her glare on him. “What?” he said. “It’s not like we’re using it. A contest might liven things up a bit around here.” He bit his upper lip. “Hrm, poor choice of words there.”

“What manner of contest?” asked Check.

Above the head of the dark-eyed stallion, a candle flicker of inspiration guttered and burnt out. “How’s ‘bout a raffle?” he said, which was met by five colorful variations of ‘shut up.’

“If they’re interested in the spear, then I say it should be a test of aim,” said the scorekeeper. “It is meant to be thrown, after all.”

This was much more permissible expression of creative thought among most of the group, and a general sense of agreement rode the grumbling that followed. A grin didn’t creep across Crack Shot’s face so much as it leapt out and waved.

“If that’s all, bring it on,” he said. “I’m definitely cool with that.”

“Hmph, without even so much as hearing the terms,” said the stern-faced mare. “How bloody bold. In that case…” She stepped towards Crack Shot, and her scowl curled upwards into something predatory. “…I’m going to put that boldness through the wringer, and it might end up bloody. Do you match the weight of your words?”

Crack Shot shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Is this with or without my shoes on?”

The mare gave a humorless chuckle before turning towards the others. “If ye all are going to insist on giving such a prize away for the spectacle of it, then I’m going to set the rules about how we do it. Any complaints?”

If there were, none of the others’ faces belied them. If anything, they looked more than interested in seeing where she was going with this. She walked to where one of their spears had been stabbed halfway into the ground and plucked it free as easily as a feather. She dropped it at Crack Shot’s hooves, who flicked it into the air with the tip of one of them and balanced it on his sole as it came back down on top of it.

“Wow, not heavy at all,” he said, as he curled his foreleg up and down, testing its weight and looking it over. In contrast to the black wood of its shaft, the spear’s blade was a dull, yellowish white.

The mare gave another laugh, chilly in spite of the flames that carried it. “They’re made with something far lighter than metal. But that’s unimportant. Let’s see if yer daring holds out once ya learn what yer going to do with it—the two of ye, actually.” She pointed down the length of the courtyard. “Thirty paces away or so is where yer going to be with that spear, but don’t go rushing off yet.”

She turned towards Check and stepped towards him. “As for yer part in this, ya see these rocks strewn about?”

Check lowered his gaze to the ground momentarily, where a number of stones lay scattered, each no larger than a walnut; they might have better been called pebbles. He nodded. “As well as I can in this light.”

“Ya think ya can balance one on yer head?”

“Ah. I see.” Check levitated a stone and turned it over in his magic, brushing the dirt and dust from it. “I would have thought a piece of fruit, an apple perchance, to be more traditional for such a ghoulish exercise.”

“Heh, ya catch on quick, don’t ya? So that’s the game. Ya may win yer prize. Or…” Her fiery stare bore into Check’s. “You may lose yer life”—she leaned her head towards Crack Shot—“and you may end it, and have that on yer hooves for the rest of yers.

“Of course, I leave the choice up to the both of ye.” The grin resurfaced. “Of course, yer always free to turn the offer down.”

Crack Shot, the spear slung over his shoulder, looked to Check and raised an eyebrow. “You cool with this, dude?”

Check levitated the stone and set it on the poll of his head, just out of line with his horn. “Yes, but I would be grateful if you were mindful of grazing my mane.”

“No prob, dude.” Crack Shot looked in the direction the mare had indicated. “Feh, paces,” he said, before flying a few dozen meters away.

He considered his throw. Check was watching him impassively, the rock resting on his head; in the gloom it almost looked like a second horn. Or a third ear, maybe? Either way, it looked like a target. Crack Shot flipped the spear into the air, caught the end of it in the sole of his forehoof, and let it soar.

For his part, Check didn’t so much as bat an eye or flick an ear as the spear tip struck the stone, split it in half, and sailed past him a few more meters and buried itself in the ground. He turned towards the others as Crack Shot came alongside him.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

The group fell into whispers for a minute or two before breaking up.

“Ehh… well… not really,” said the one-eyed stallion. There were murmurs of agreement.

Crack Shot’s mouth fell open. “What?!”

“Now don’t get me wrong; it was a great shot—”

“Yeah, ‘s fantastic, ‘s what it was,” added the dark-eyed stallion.

“—but ya did it so fast! Ya didn’t let any dramatic tension build whatsoever! How are we supposed to be at the edge of our seats if ya don’t even give us the chance to sit? Ya made it look too easy!”

“Uh, sorry, I guess,” said Crack Shot. “But it’s not my fault you had me do something that I happen to be really good at. How do you think I got these?” He nodded to the red bull’s-eye on one of his flanks.

“I figured it was ringworm,” said mare number three.

Crack Shot gagged. “Ugh, what?! Gross! No! It’s my friggin’ cutie mark, not worms!”

“Actually, despite what the name implies, ringworm is a fungal affliction,” she said knowledgeably.

The scorekeeper blinked. “Cutie mark? And ya call it that with a straight face then, do ya?”

“How’s ‘bout another run o’ it?” said the dark-eyed stallion. He picked up a stone and balanced it on his head. “Go on and give it another shot, but this time lets the moment steep in the drama for a little longer, eh?”

“Hey, careful there,” said gatekeeper. “Ya might end up losing an eye like someone we know.”

“I didn’t lose it,” said the one-eyed stallion matter-of-factly. “I know exactly where it went.”

“Ya might end up missing an eye,” corrected the gatekeeper.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I miss it, either.”

Check looked towards the stern-faced mare, the voice of, if not reason, at least constancy. Although, her face wasn’t looking so stern now, and looked to have gone from blatant disdain to reluctant acceptance. This was encouraging. It had seemed earlier that the only thing that could have left an impression on that steely countenance was a metal press.

She didn’t bother with congratulations or approbations and said, simply, “Very well then, come with me,” and beckoned them towards the gates of the central keep.

---

For hours Storm and Síofra walked, though, as Síofra had claimed, the trail had no other branches for the rest of its length, save for those hanging above it from the trees. It was a fortunate thing, for the farther they travelled, the thicker the mists became, until the trail revealed itself only a few meters at a time. The charcoal painting became more and more like an empty canvas. Storm considered that the mists might grow thicker still, that Síofra would drift out of sight with the trail soon after. He considered that he might be left with only her voice to navigate through this pale void, where even their hoofsteps were muted. And then, with another step, the mists broke around them.

The world opened suddenly as they stepped from the trail into a field of wild clover. Storm noted that several had four leaves, and he smiled at the memory of Sprite chasing her brother after he had eaten hers. A few meters in front of them, the gentle ripples of a pool lapped at its banks. The swishing ebb and flow rang with an uncanny clarity to Storm’s ears: not loud, but unmistakable. Trees were spaced equidistantly around the edge of the water—nine, he counted—which he recognized as hazels. Behind them the mists rolled against an unseen and unfelt barrier that ran in a circle around the well; it stretched upwards into a homogeneous whiteness, into a ceiling or into infinity. The whole place felt sacred.

“Wow…,” he breathed. “There’s no mistaking this place, is there?” He approached one of the hazels and watched, curious, as each of its hundreds of nuts fell in one instance from its boughs, bouncing and splashing into the water.

“Don’t eat any of them,” warned Síofra from behind him.

Storm nodded absentmindedly. From where the nuts had fallen, small, pink petals began to unfold from the branches, and soon the tree was covered in tiny flowers. He walked along the water’s edge to another hazel tree. It still had nuts on its branches, and he could swear that they were ripening before his eyes, reddening like a slow blush. If only Hazel were here to see this. After a few minutes, they too spilled from their tree, rolling into the pool. Looking from tree to tree, from bough to bough, was like looking at a progression of stills through the seasons. Storm imagined them to be the hour markers of a large clock, each rain of hazelnuts a measure of time.

“And don’t drink any of the water, either,” added Síofra.

“Alright,” said Storm, as he shifted his attention from the hazel trees to the well. “Any reason why, though? It looks pretty normal to—” he was silenced once he saw his reflection. “…Never mind.”

“Aye,” agreed Síofra, as she stepped beside him.

What Storm saw in his reflection, what had given him pause, was himself. He saw himself as he stood there at the bank, a gold-plated champron above a widening pair of blue eyes. But beneath that, beyond the water’s surface, he saw a much younger pony, bright-eyed and ruddy. As the water rippled, the image distorted like an old memory. Something stirred in Storm’s mind, something lost, buried, and forgotten. He watched as the scene unfolded.

He was flying, weaving through the air and darting around clouds (and sometimes through them) with pure, reckless delight. Others’ voices, youthful in their timber, were warning him not to go too high, not to go too far, to wait up, but he was cheerfully ignoring them. Something had him too excited.

Another shower of hazelnuts disturbed the surface of the water. When it had settled, the scene had advanced.

Storm had flown far beyond where his friends had dared and far beyond where they could reach, but he was not alone. Just above him, just beyond his grasp, shooting stars were zipping across the night sky, bidding him to join them. He wanted to see if he could catch one: surely, it’d be worth a lifetime of wishes. In school, his instructors had warned of the risks of flying too high when they had listed the different -spheres that formed the layers of sky; their names, number, and order he could not recall. His instructors had gone on at length about how the air would grow thin and cold and dangerous; he wondered if they had been exaggerating.

He climbed higher and higher into the night sky, until it seemed there was not enough air for his wings to push beneath him to take him farther. His lips were chafing, his ears were numb, and each draw of breath tickled his throat, but it was all worth it for the view. He could think of nothing better than to have the stars raining all around him in brilliant streaks, there on top of the world. That is, until one struck him on the back of the head.

His unconscious form fell through the sky like so many meteorites, plummeting through several layers of cumulus, before this inglorious descent finally ended with him landing face first in a pile of compost, his hind legs dangling from it limply. His flanks began to glow.

And another tree released its contents into the water, ending the memory and leaving Storm’s embarrassed reflection to stare back at him.

“Uh, you didn’t see all that, did you?” he asked Síofra.

Síofra smiled and shook her head. “The well will show all manner of different things. Whatever ya saw, I likely missed it. But what I did see makes me think I can trust ya.”

“So you didn’t see any scenes with rotting fruit or vegetables or…” Storm shuddered. “…worse substances?”

Síofra’s smile flipped on itself and she tilted her head to one side. “Noo… I didn’t. But now I wonder if don’t wish that I had.”

“What did you see?”

“What the water always shows: the truth.”

Storm remained by the water, staring down into it. An enormous fish, the largest he had ever seen, slowly swam towards him. It settled in a deep portion of water near the shore and stared up at him.

“Hey,” said Storm. “It doesn’t look like drinking the water has given this guy too much trouble.”

“Ah. Yer looking at perhaps the smartest salmon in all of existence.”

“Oh?” Storm stared down at it. It didn’t seem particularly smart, but, then again, it didn’t seem particularly dumb; he hadn’t met all that many fish.

“Aye. Within those hazelnuts and within these waters rests omniscience. It’s what ya might call a well of knowledge, with the power to grant those that drink of it insight into the past, present, and future of here, elsewhere, and anywhere.”

Storm was about to voice his doubts about such a thing, when he thought about what he had just witnessed. “That sounds like a lot to try to fit in one head,” he said.

Síofra nodded.

“But if it does as you say, why didn’t you or the others know about my friends and me? I mean, given what you’re saying this water can do.”

“Ya pretty much answered yer own question there, Storm Stunner.”

Storm gave this some thought. What would omniscience mean? It would mean never being surprised again. It would mean never being excited by a piece of unexpected news, never wondering. It would mean an end to life’s mysteries, big and small.

“I see,” he said, watching the salmon. “Still, for an omniscient fish, he seems to be behaving pretty normally.”

“Aye. I guess that after having all the options available for consideration, he decided that normal was the happiest thing he could be.” Síofra stepped away from the bank. “Now, ya said that ya had an idea about how to bring more of this water back?”

“Ah, yes, I did.” Storm raised his wings. They pressed into the sides of his camping bag.

“And yer going to be able to fly well enough like that? Yer really going to want to be able to fly.”

Storm brought his wings down and lifted a few feet into the air. “It’s awkward, but I’ll manage,” he said. “Plus, I need my hooves free.”

“Alright then. I hope ya don’t mind, but I’m going to get a bit of a head start.”

Behind Storm there was a rustle of feathers. The salmon watched him for a moment longer, before swimming towards the center of the well and disappearing into its depths. Everyone was ready, it seemed. Well, there was no sense in keeping them waiting.

Storm took off over the water. He repeated his motions from a few days prior, skimming the water with his hooves, drawing it up into a trail of vapor. Although it took adjustment to account for the camping bag on his back, he managed to build a thick mass of fog over the center of the pool. He lashed his tail into it, saturating it with air so that it began to lift from the water’s surface. That’s when everything beneath him began to tremble.

It started with a swaying of the hazel trees, which soon intensified into a violent rocking as the earth began to rumble. The ripples of the pool grew into waves, then into white breakers which crashed into the shore and did not recede. The well was rising.

“Ya might want to speed it along!” called Síofra from above.

“Almost got it!” shouted Storm, the wind whipping away his words.

Storm tightened his circuit, trying to stay just above the water as it reached towards him, forcing his eyes open as the tears streamed from them. In the center of his gyre the cloud billowed and darkened; thin, bright lines of electricity crackled across it.

“I really insist that ya speed it along!” repeated Síofra’s voice from higher up.

Averting his focus from his work, he saw the reason for her urgency. The wall of mist surrounding the pool had been replaced by a wall of water in his vision, and it was much, much closer. It crested high above him, high over him, and was about to crush him. He swept beneath the cloud and raced with it skywards as the waves above him came crashing down, contact with the cloud creating a tingle that started in his hooves and ended with a copper taste in his mouth. He beat his wings as hard as he could, flew as fast he could. But with gravity on its side, the water was just a bit faster.

The rush of it swept into his lower body before he could clear it, threatening to pull the rest of him down. Threatening to fill him with its swell, to drown him in knowing, to wash away who he was in a tide of omniscience. Then something firm pressed into his back before he could sink, buoying him against the surge and tug of the well water’s flood. He glanced back to find the salmon beneath him, pushing him upwards. With a numb nod of thanks towards it, he flapped his wings and brought himself the rest of the way above the water, receiving a helpful talon from Síofra. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Phew, that could’ve gone a lot worse!” said Síofra, brightly. She looked at the cloud Storm had created. “Probably would’ve been easier just doing a quick drain with the ewer though, eh?”

“You said that it overflowed,” said Storm, quietly. “I think that was an understatement.” He stared into the water, where the dark blue silhouettes of the hazel trees wavered and distorted with the roll of its ripples, far beneath its surface. Its rise had formed an ocean below him and Síofra.

“Maybe ‘deluge’ would’ve been the better choice of word?”

“I don’t know if there is a word that properly describes what just happened. Does this occur every time water is drawn from here?”

“Aye, though it can be a bit fickle. Sometimes it’ll go off if you walk around it widdershins too many times. I think it’s got a personality.”

“Not one that’d win any friends.” Storm’s attention fell to the cloud floating beside him. “It really makes you work for it, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps, but ya won’t find a better price. I hear that at other like places, if a draught of water doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, it might at least cost ya an eye.” Síofra flew a few feet ahead. “But with that taken care of, I suppose we’d best be heading back, Storm Stunner.”

Storm flew alongside Síofra, dragging the rain cloud beneath him. They climbed through the mists, breaking free of them into her world’s version of night. After everything he had been through that day, Storm found the chaotic mix of colors and motes of light a welcome view. Several miles away, he made out the tiny shape of the stone circle. He realized at that moment, truly realized, how close he had come earlier that day to never seeing it, or anything else, again.

“…Just Storm is fine,” he said. “You don’t have to say my whole name each time.”

“Heh, now that’s a funny thing, ain’t it? Here yer kind deals with the whole hassle of naming yerselves, and then ya don’t even want to bother with half of yers.”

They flew on in silence for a minute more.

“Thank you, by the way,” he added. He couldn’t believe it took him so long to say it.

“Aye, don’t worry about it, Storm.”

They continued on, the stone circle growing ever larger. Storm wondered how Check and Crack Shot were faring.

---

Upon stepping inside of the central keep, Check and Crack Shot had learned that the reason for its short height was that it had merely been built in the other direction. Cut into the earth were steep, treacherous, uneven staircases, likely designed to slow the descent of would-be intruders (or possibly to speed it up). Farther down the air dampened, and Check considered that they might have descended beneath the waters that surrounded the island. Similar to the entrance hall, the walls of the lower catacombs were adorned with harsh, utilitarian makes of weaponry. They wouldn’t have served well as conversation pieces, but they could have easily gotten an interrogation underway.

More black torches cast their umbra as the guardsponies and their hosts descended, revealing the way down if not exactly lighting it. It all led to an unassuming chamber where an even more unassuming spear hung from its rack. Dust plumed into the air as they entered, lending an odor of age and decay.

“Boys, yer prize,” said the mare.

Crack Shot approached it first, curious to know what was so special about it. His eyes traced its length, which was covered in a thick layer of the same dust that filled the air. It was straight, more or less, which was always welcome in a spear. The spearhead was, in fact, notched as was to be expected from the name. But other than that…

“Not much to look at, is it?” he said.

Check hummed as he appraised it. “That may be; however, I don’t think we should put stock in appearances alone.”

“Ahh,” responded Crack Shot, knowingly. “Artistic merit, right? Kinda like that one exhibit you dragged me to with all of that junk on display with the weird names—found art, or whatever it was. What’d they call that one snow shovel they had on display? ‘Broken Leg Waiting to Happen,’ or something like that?”

“Ah, er, it was something close to that, yes, though I feel that we are veering slightly off the topic.”

“You know, they could’ve just called it ‘Snow Shovel.’” A thoughtful look crossed Crack Shot’s countenance. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t be fine art if it made any sense.”

“Wait,” said the mare, stepping in front of them. “Do the two of ye mean to say that ye came all this way to get this weapon, and ye don’t know what it does?”

“It does stuff?” asked Crack Shot. “Like, besides bein’, uh, notched? Honestly, I was kinda goin’ with the idea that gettin’ it was all just some sort of weird, messed-up version of capture the flag.”

“Ah, then allow me to explain.” The mare took the spear from its rack, spilling the dust from it in a thin cloud, and held it up reverentially. “‘The Notched Spear,’ though not its only name, is a name as subtle and insidious as the appearance of the weapon itself. Aye, as you said, it is not much to look at…” She held it up, the thin glow of her eyes illuminating its short, narrow blade, staining it red. “…That is, until it sees usage.”

She lowered the spear and met the stares of the guardsponies. “Are ye two familiar with how the roots of a tree travel?” she asked. “The way they coil and twist, through soil, through stone?”

The guardsponies nodded.

“Think of this spear’s blade as a seed. Once planted, its roots will spread, growing and grasping until there’s no more space to fill, tracing every nerve, every vessel, radicating and eradicating. No matter where or how shallowly sown, all of its wounds are mortal.”

“Whoa,” said Crack Shot, his eyes widening.

The mare held the spear out to him. “Go on then; take it. It’s yers.”

Crack Shot shook his head and gently pushed the spear away. “Sorry, that was more of a ‘dang, that’s really messed up’ kinda ‘whoa,’” he said. “I… think I changed my mind.”

“Really, now?” said the mare, her face unreadable. “With this spear in yer hooves, there’d be nothing that could stand against ya. No foe that ya could not fell in an instant.”

“Yeah, maybe… but I kinda like things standing instead of falling.” He glanced at the tip of the spear and shuddered at the thought of the gruesome wickedness it could inflict. “You know, given the alternative presented. So you’ve all just been lettin’ it sit here collecting dust then, right?”

“‘S not likes we usually get visitors coming down here,” muttered the dark-eyed stallion, slightly affronted. “No sense in prettying up the place if nobody’s using it, I say.”

“Er, no offense intended, dude,” said Crack Shot, earning a curt nod from the stallion. “Anyways, I don’t think I wanna be the one that brings that thing out into the world. This one or any other. The way I figure it, buried underground beneath a layer of dust is the best place to keep it.”

“Really?” said the scorekeeper. “After all of that hassle, yer gonna leave empty hooved? Why even bother then?”

“Because… crap,” he turned to Check. “We’re stuck bringin’ this thing back, aren’t we?”

Check had considered this and had no misgivings about what he and Crack Shot had been sent to retrieve. However, he had also considered his friend’s arguments and sentiments. Weighing his options he wasn’t sure which was the better of them; it was a situation he did not oft find himself in. But he made his choice.

“Hmm, I wonder…,” he said, as he placed a hoof to his chin. “As I recall, it was requested that we recover a notched spear, and we were given little more instruction than that.” He turned towards the others. “Would all of you be willing to entertain the notion of a barter?”

“Barter?” asked the one-eyed stallion.

Check nodded. “As it currently stands, my friend and I now have ownership of the Notched Spear, capital letters and all. I wonder if you would be willing to trade it for one of the more mundane spears to be found here, although we would of course need a couple of notches chiseled into its blade.”

The mare that had been stern, hostile, and taunting was now suddenly blank faced. Then she began to laugh, and a laugh was all it was. There was no malice, no derision, just pure amusement. She replaced the Notched Spear on the wall and gave an unambiguous smile. “Now that is interesting. Very well then, ye’ve got a deal.”

“Oy, not so fast!” All eyes turned towards the dark-eyed stallion. “These terms are cat, ‘s what! I don’t agree to them!”

Crack Shot groaned. “Come on, dude!”

“Nothing doing,” said the stallion. “Not until we march back upstairs and ya knocks a bleeding stone off my head with a javelin!”

---

Storm had been waiting with Síofra at the stone circle’s table when he saw Check and Crack Shot approaching, a short, black spear pinned between the saddlebags and armor of the latter. As he leapt up to greet them, Síofra standing up behind him, Crack Shot gave a wave, and Check a smile.

“Good to see you guys!” he said. “How’d everything go?”

“We played fetch with some dogs, and joined like the most psycho game of darts ever,” said Crack Shot. He canted his head towards the spear on his side. “We also picked this up. You?”

“I got caught up in an unwitting triathlon, but I managed.” Storm nodded towards the nimbus floating just above the table. “With some help and a bit of improvisation, I should add.”

Síofra stepped towards Crack Shot’s side and began craning her neck this way and that, examining the spear. He looked away and bit his lip. “So this is it, eh?” she asked.

Check raised an eyebrow: Síofra had a curious, worrisome nonchalance about her, as if she had asked the question just to see the kind of answer it would inspire. He thought it best to answer honestly.

“Yes, it is exactly as you requested. A spear, found in a dún to the north of here, of certain antiquity, and notched as was specified.”

Síofra scrutinized the spear’s head. “Pretty wojus-looking notches, I’d say.”

“But notches nevertheless.”

“Is there anything that might be considered unique about it?” she asked, innocently.

“Undoubtedly,” Check answered. “I would say that there exists no spear that is exactly like it.”

Síofra gave a small, appreciative laugh. “It’s amazing, really, the kind of fictions one can weave just by telling the truth.” She stepped away from Crack Shot, allowing him his space. “But, ye two did as was asked. Still, ye could’ve brought back a spear that was a lot more… unique, and I’ve no doubts that the both of ye know this. Any reason ye didn’t?”

Storm waited patiently for an explanation about all of this uniqueness to sidle its way into the conversation.

“You said we could keep it, but we didn’t want it,” said Crack Shot. “I’m not really down with the idea of giving somepony a second skeletal system in all the wrong places.”

Storm decided that didn’t count.

“Alright,” said Síofra, “that’s good enough for me.”

“Really now?” said Check. “I confess that your blitheness does make me ponder on the purpose of this exercise.”

“Well… I might’ve been a bit misleading about that. Although I said that having ye recover the spear was a means for ye to prove yer characters, I didn’t say what it’d prove. I figure that I was a lot more interested in seeing if ye’d disagree.” She turned towards the table. “Now there’s one more thing left to do. Ya mind grabbing yer cloud, Storm? There are some folks waiting to see what happens next.”

Síofra led the guardsponies from the stone circle and back into the pookas’ forest, down a path they’d yet to take, which, admittedly, there were many of. On the way, Storm told his friends about the well’s water, and what they might expect to see, which was to say just about anything. Regarding what he had found out about the passage of time here, both Crack Shot and Check were relieved to learn it, even if the latter wasn’t entirely surprised.

As they walked, they found no eyes following them and caught no whispers from the trees, but eventually distant murmurs could be heard. They built into the chatter of several conversations as Síofra and the guardsponies neared a bower lit with several drifting lights. The conversations diminished into whispers at the guardsponies’ approach, and into silence soon after that. Dozens of pookas in dozens of forms fixed their gaze upon them.

“Don’t mind us,” muttered Crack Shot, as his eyes wandered and met all those around them. “Not like we’d understand half of it anyways…”

“Still, ye three got a pretty good turnout, I’d say,” said a wolfhound nearby, Dorcha by the sound of it. “It ain’t always easy distracting folks here from all the nothing that they busy themselves with. I think ye’ve got them interested.”

“Right there in the center, if ya would,” said Síofra to Storm, pointing towards a wide, shallow basin cut into the forest floor. “And then if all three of ye could stand around it.”

The guardsponies nodded and approached the basin; it was formed of a smooth, black rock. Storm placed his cloud above it and, with a good stamp, filled it with downpour.

“So what… now…” Crack Shot trailed of as he looked down into the water, its ripples ebbing away. “…I can see my house from here.”

“G-goodness,” whispered Check, lost in his reflection.

Around the guardsponies the pookas gathered, scurrying or flying or trotting closer for a better view, a better idea of who these newcomers were. Each pooka witnessed something different. They might have seen a pony sitting on a floor of straw, talking another through her fears and self-doubts. They might have seen a pony risking their life to save that of a child’s from the charge of a metal beast. They might have seen a pony feeding a group of recalcitrant ducks with the one that he loved. They might have seen any number of things. But they had seen enough.

Afterwards, by hoof or paw or wing, they began to filter away, discussing with each other what they had seen. A few gave the guardsponies a grin, a few said some friendly words—some recognizable, some not—but most simply left now that the show was over. Síofra and Dorcha remained behind.

“Dang. After all that, not much of a hero’s welcome, eh?” said Crack Shot.

Síofra smiled. “Aye, but indifference is better than suspicion, and if anybody saw anything damning, they’d have spoken up quick.”

“I dunno. It looked like more than a few of ‘em were still feelin’ pretty unimpressed.”

Síofra shook her head. “Ya shouldn’t let that bother ya,” she said. “It’d be expecting a wee bit much to think that a day’s worth of work would reverse a millennium’s worth of isolation.”

Check Mate’s ears perked. “A millennium? Would… would there have been any particular catalyst for this isolation, then?”

Síofra stared at him thoughtfully. “Aye, there was at that. Believe it or not, there are quite a few here that find yer world a stranger place than this, and that are quite uncomfortable with the idea that a single individual could threaten it. We don’t go in for rulers here, and we really don’t go in for tyrants.”

“Hm… do you speak then, for example, of what transpired with our Princess Luna?” asked Check.

“And others, but aye.”

“Hey, hold up!” interrupted Crack Shot. “If you’re talkin’ about the whole daylight shavings thing way back when, she was just possessed! Like, she got better—”

“But she got worse, first. That left a wound on my kind that has been slow to heal, and a certain unease about yers.”

“And then one day here we come, heading directly your way, dressed in royal armor,” said Storm.

“Aye, like was said, that raised some eyebrows when we all learned about that,” said Dorcha.

Storm looked at Síofra. “Whatever you saw in that well, you said that it made you think you could trust me, and I assume you trust my friends as well. Can I tell you why we’ve come this way?”

Síofra nodded. “Aye, it saves me the trouble of asking.”

“Princess Luna asked us to. But,” he continued, dismissing the looks this received, “it wasn’t to find out your weaknesses, or those of anypony, anybody else. We didn’t come here to figure out how to best launch an assault. I think Luna just wanted to know that the rest of the world was alright, along with all those that occupy it. Or that used to occupy it.”

Síofra gazed upwards into her world’s moonless night, considering this. “And she wouldn’t come out herself, if she was that curious?” she asked.

“Would you have been there to meet her?” asked Check.

Síofra conceded a smirk. “Fair point. So the three of ye are ambassadors then?”

“Or just some dudes in armor,” said Crack Shot, shrugging. “On a work-vacation-errand thingy.”

“Heh, and maybe ye are at that. I suppose ye’ve got a longer road ahead of ye, then, and yer eager to get back to it. But before ye go, stay and rest up, alright? Ye could use it.”

“No arguments here,” said Crack Shot, with Storm and Check voicing their agreement.

“Could ya show them the way back?” she said to Dorcha.

“Aye, it’s no problem,” he said, reaching his paws forward and stretching his back. “Shall we be off then?”

He padded towards the bower’s exit, the guardsponies following behind him. As they walked, Storm let his gaze stray from the path. As before, the eyes of the pookas drifted towards him and his friends as they passed, but they no longer lingered. All but a few conversations continued unmuted and uninterrupted. For all he and his friends had been through, it was, as Crack Shot had said, no hero’s welcome. But, Storm figured, it was good enough.

Dorcha came to an abrupt halt when a she-wolf stepped out into the path; she was tailed by two smaller creatures: a fox kit and a hare. She looked at Storm, then turned to Dorcha and said something that Storm couldn’t understand.

Dorcha nodded as he listened, then said to Storm, “She says she wants to apologize for threatening ya when she first saw ya, and for any trouble her young ones might’ve caused ya. I take it ya did a bit of looking around, then?”

Storm blinked, then smiled. “Heh, yeah I did. Tell her not to worry about it. I’m sorry if I scared her or her kids; it wasn’t something that I had meant to do.”

Dorcha began relaying the message. The wolf nodded as she listened, then said something else. Dorcha gave a whistle.

“She also says she’s really sorry for calling ya a… an… well, I’m not sure how best to translate it exactly, but woo is it a doozy!”

The wolf blushed.

“Perhaps it’s, uh, best left lost in translation. She doesn’t need to worry about it.”

The hare hopped towards Storm and asked something.

“He wants to know how ya were able to move that cloud around and make rain come out of it,” said Dorcha.

“Well… I guess it’s just a sort of magic,” said Storm. “Or glamour,” he added.

The hare understood that and gave a satisfied nod, feeling it a more than adequate explanation. He added something else, more a statement than a question.

“And he figures it must’ve been glamour that made your tail stick straight out when you stomped on the cloud.”

Storm gave an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah… that and electricity.”

The guardsponies stayed there for a while, speaking with the wolf and answering her children’s questions. The two younger pookas showed delight when Check showed them how his horn could create light and levitate objects, and expressed amazement when they saw how easily Crack Shot could fly. Eventually the family said their good-byes, and Dorcha and the guardsponies continued on their way.

“Heh, maybe I was wrong about the hero’s welcome thing after all, eh?” said Crack Shot.

Dorcha smiled. “Aye, maybe ya were at that.”

---

The next… morning, Storm decided to regard it as, the guardsponies were awoken by Dorcha, who was once more in pegasus form. He had a hunted expression.

“Is… everything alright?” asked Storm as he sat up from his mound of grass.

“Ye’ve been invited to breakfast,” said Dorcha. It sounded like an apology.

“Really?” said Crack Shot. “Sweet.”

“Oh, ye should only be so lucky,” moaned Dorcha. “She actually decided to cook something. I don’t think they have names for the flavors ye’ll find, but I doubt they’d be safe for young ears. Once ye’ve gathered yer bags, yer spear, and yer armor—not that they’ll protect ye, mind—we’ll head out to meet her.”

The guardsponies began collecting their items, unsure of what to expect. When they were ready, Dorcha led them from their lodging and down the series of paths that ran towards the stone circle. Storm gave the black spear on Crack Shot’s back a sidelong glance.

“So are you going to bring that along?” he asked, tapping it with a wing.

“Yeah, I figure it oughta make a good souvenir,” said Crack Shot. “Figures that one of the first ones I find doesn’t even fit in my friggin’ bag, though. I wonder if the leaf Dorcha gave me will keep?”

When they arrived at the stone circle, they found Síofra standing beside its table, which was topped with a large grass basket. She waved them over with a hoof, her choice of appendage for the moment.

“It ain’t much, but help yerselves,” she said.

“And the best way to help yerselves would be a polite refusal,” said Dorcha. Síofra’s lips pressed together in a tight line, but she didn’t rise to it.

Inside of the basket were what appeared to be bread rolls. They had a strange speckled blue and red pattern, but they were otherwise inconspicuous. Crack Shot took one out and turned it over in his hoof.

“Hey, looks like we do get to try pooka food after all,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d call it food,” said Dorcha.

“Shut it,” said Síofra.

Crack Shot lifted the roll to his lips and took a bite, chewing it thoughtfully. “Eh,” he said eventually. “It’s… okay, I guess.”

This was worrying.

“Are… are you sure they’re safe to eat?” asked Storm. To Síofra’s side, Dorcha shook his head.

Síofra huffed. “Just try it and decide for yerself, would ya?”

Storm nervously took a roll from the basket in his hoof. It looked safe enough to eat… He bit into its hard crust, and choked immediately. “Guh! This is awful!” he coughed.

“Now, ya see, this is one of those times when a nice little white lie would be more than appreciated,” growled Síofra. “I spent hours making these.”

“Even though they’re a half hour recipe,” added Dorcha.

“My mouth isn’t getting used to it,” said Storm, desperately, “it just keeps getting worse. I swallowed what I bit off—why does my mouth keep tasting worse?!”

Check, who had taken a bite for decorum’s sake, had begun to hyperventilate.

“Come now!” shouted Síofra. “It ain’t going to kill ye!”

“Aye,” said Dorcha, “that’d be a mercy.”

Síofra narrowed her eyes into two thin slits of gold. “I swear, if ya don’t be quiet—”

“What, are ya going to make me have a bite?”

“They could probably use some more salt or something?” said Crack Shot, who had moved on to his second roll. “I’m not sure what it—” Suddenly his whole body shuddered, causing him to stagger in place. “Whoa jeez, friggin’ head rush,” he said, rubbing his forehead with a hoof.

Storm stepped towards him. “Hey, are you alri—” The words froze in his mouth as the thrill of something electric seized his body, and a wash of gold filled his vision. A second or two later he regained his senses, slightly dizzy but no worse for wear; beside him Check was shaking his head, also recovering from whatever strange apoplexy had afflicted the three of them. “…What was that?” asked Storm.

“Probably the only part of the recipe she got right,” said Dorcha, which earned him a face full of hair.

“I suppose ye wouldn’t know this, but the food of the fae is special,” said Síofra, lowering her tail. “It is tied strongly to this realm and in turn it gives those that consume it a link to it as well.”

“What does that mean for us?” asked Storm.

“I suppose ye three could think of it as, hmm, a standing invitation. Anywhere ye find a mushroom ring, ye’ll find a way to visit here again, without the need for one of us to hold the door open. It might be useful if ye ever need to get out of the rain again.”

“Well… that is an honor,” said Check, uncertainly, “but would the others here agree with this decision?”

“There was a fair bit of talking about what each of us saw in the water’s reflection while ye three slept, which allayed a lot of concerns. Besides, I think it would be a fine thing to have fellows such as yerselves dropping by every now and then to prove that yer world isn’t such a terrible place.”

“And if I may ask, what exactly did you observe in the water?” asked Check.

“The exact same thing I saw when Storm stared into it for the first time,” said Síofra, with a smile. “The truth.”

“I saw a big, orange, angry bird chasing ya around and pecking at yer head,” said Dorcha to Crack Shot.

“Oh, ha! Yeah, that was probably crazy friggin’ Philomena.” Crack Shot would have smiled at the remembrance of this particular incident if it had been particular at all.

Síofra’s expression went sour. “So much for mystery and intrigue,” she muttered. “But before the three of ye leave, there is one more thing I’d like to ask.”

“What would that be?” asked Storm.

“Ye three are heading north of here, I recall. Do ye know what yer looking for?”

“Whatever the map says,” said Crack Shot. He panned his head around, taking in the stone circle’s architecture, the silver forest in the distance, the whirling sky and its dancing stars. “Which is starting to seem like not a heck of a lot, to be honest.”

Síofra hummed as she tapped a hoof against the stone table, before placing it down and looking across at the guardsponies. “Would ye mind if I came along?”

Dorcha gave a choked cough. “Sorry,” he gasped. “I just tried one of the rolls.” The tail was thrust into his face once more.

“You wish to accompany us?” said Check. “Why is that?”

“The three of ye have shown yerselves to be capable, and there are some things I’d hope to learn about by venturing out a bit. For one thing, the storms in our valley.”

“Such as the one that buffeted us on our way here? Was there something aberrant about it?”

“Aye, they’ve been becoming more frequent in recent times,” said Síofra. “Whatever their nature, they’re not natural at all. There’s glamour to them and no mistake, and I’d like to see if I could find out a bit more about them.”

Check looked to his friends. “Storm? Crack Shot?”

“Why not?” said Crack Shot. “The more the merrier.”

Storm gave the idea a bit more consideration than that. They had only known her for a short period of time, and during it Síofra had shown herself to be aloof and not entirely forthright. However, this was likely because she had been trying to understand his and his friends’ motivations as well. Even then, in her own way, she had given them the benefit of the doubt, hadn’t she? And she had also saved his life. If she had been willing to give them a chance, why couldn’t they? She seemed like someone you could trust, even if you couldn’t believe every word she said.

“That’s alright with me,” he said.

“I appreciate that, and I’ll try not to get in yer way,” said Síofra. “In fact, maybe I can speed it along just this once.”

“Are you gonna turn into a cheetah or something?” asked Crack Shot.

Síofra blinked. “Er, I hadn’t planned on it,” she said, as she stepped away from the table. “But if ye’d come with me, I’ll show ye what I mean. Although the flow of time may not really differ as much as I, mm, might have alluded, distance tends to be a lot less analogous.”

A short walk away, they found a small grove near the base of the stone circle’s hill, and within it a glade like the one they had first arrived in. A ring of red and blue, white-spotted mushrooms ran the length of its perimeter. At its edge, Síofra turned towards Dorcha. The guardsponies waited for the two to say their farewells.

“I’ll see ya when I see ya,” said Síofra, “which’ll be too soon.”

Dorcha nodded. “Aye, take care and have fun then. I’ll find somewhere isolated and barren to bury the rest of yer leftovers so they can’t harm anyone else.”

Síofra readied her tail to swat him in the face once more. But instead, she pulled him into a fierce hug, before stepping into the mushroom circle, vanishing from view in a wisp of gold. Crack Shot nudged Check in the shoulder, which the unicorn dutifully ignored.

Storm stared at the spot where Síofra had disappeared. “So, is there any special way that we need to go about doing this?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s real easy,” said Dorcha. “Just click yer hooves together three times while yelling real loud, ‘There’s no place like home!’”

Storm stared at him. Dorcha grinned.

“Or ya could just step into the center, there,” he added. “That’ll do it right quick.”

“Heh, got it.” Storm stared at the ring of mushrooms. Their caps glowed with their faint, red luminescence and lit the grass beneath them with their cold blue light, waiting quietly for him and his friends to step within them. “So, uh, so long then.”

“Nah, dude, it’s ‘slán go foill,’” said Crack Shot. “How was the pronunciation that time?”

Dorcha gave him a pat on the back. “We can work on it the next time ya show up, eh?”

Together, the guardsponies stepped into the center of the mushroom ring.

Once more, there was a shift in the air.

Once more, there was the ring of wooden chimes.

Once more, there was the whisper of words, unknown but now familiar in their sonance.

And of course there was the ‘POOF!’

---

“Aw jeez, was it this cold when we left?” asked Crack Shot, each word a gout of steam.

Back in their own world, the guardsponies had found autumn’s chill waiting for them, and it felt like it had a lot of catching up it wanted to do. Above them the thunderheads had gone, leaving the sky a wash of stationary blues. The only thing drifting through it was the morning sun to the southeast, which lent a thin and transient heat that did little to combat the frigid dampness left by the previous storm.

Less than a mile north rose a range of mountains that made molehills of those the guardsponies had first crossed. Their peaks were capped with snow that might have been decades old.

The guardsponies stood at the edge of another ring of mushrooms; they had a vivid redness, though it was nothing like that of those in the fae realm. Síofra was waiting outside of them, and it seemed that her eyes had lost a bit of their glow as well.

“I imagine that probably shaved a week or so off of yer travelling time,” she said. “Hopefully that’ll make up for all of the running around I had ye do.”

This would have been all well and good, except for one thing.

“I have to go back,” said Storm. “I still need to find that pot and everything else that got left behind.”

Síofra face fell into an uneasy grimace. “Are ya... are ya absolutely sure about that?” she asked, the pull of anxiety stretching her voice taut. “As far away and all as it is, maybe ya could get by without it?”

“Why does iron make you so nervous?” asked Crack Shot. “Like, what does it do?”

“It’s just…” Síofra’s face contorted as she thought of how to explain her concerns. “Can ye name some things that are poisonous to yer kind?”

“There’s poison,” suggested Crack Shot, helpfully.

This flattened her worried expression into a blank stare. She didn’t know what to say to it: it was just so correct in such a useless way. “Nevermind,” she decided, “I won’t get into it. Just so long as it doesn’t come near me, alright?”

“It won’t. Síofra—” Storm waited until her eyes met his. “You have my word.” He shifted the camping bag off of his back and held it out towards Check, who took it in his telekinesis. “If it’s a week’s walk, I should be there and back within a day or two of flight.” He spread his wings and took to the air a few yards above the ground. “You guys can start making your way north if you like; either way I’ll catch up with you soon.”

He pivoted towards the south, where only hills and sparse woods were visible behind them. Even the mountains they had crossed were too far in the distance to see. However, distance mattered not if the alternative was leaving Gentian’s heirlooms to rust. Storm began to beat his wings.

“Erm, before you go, Storm,” came Check’s voice from below, “perhaps you might rethink the means by which you handle the first leg of this detour”— he gestured towards the circle of mushrooms—“given the expediency that we’ve now available to us?”

Storm’s cheeks went red. “Er, good point,” he said, before diving towards the mushroom circle and disappearing in a plume of golden mist.

“…He’s really committed to keeping all of yer cookware together, isn’t he?” noted Síofra, as the mist faded into nothingness.

Crack Shot nodded. “I can’t blame him, though; Check here is a pretty kickin’ chef. Urp.” Breakfast came to his mind as it nearly came up in a hiccup. “And maybe he could even teach you a couple of things.”

Comments

[LittleSallyDigby]

Covering a large portion of the grassy hill they’d descended was a figure outlined in chalk. It was crude, but he could make out four white legs, an eye, a tail. The stallion they had met was no longer standing in wait behind them. Check would’ve wondered where he had gone, if he hadn’t felt certain of the answer.

Anyone else get to this part and think "Land Under Wave"?

[LittleSallyDigby]

The mare looked crestfallen. Storm wondered if her eyes had begun to tear up, or if it was just the water dripping from her mane. Why was it still so wet? Compassion nearly compelled him to pat her back or pull her into a hug, but he felt that such a gesture would be inappropriate.

I call kelpie on this.

[Themaskedferret]

*Grins* Welcome back, your work has been missed. I like how their merry group is slowly filling and changing on their travels. I can't wait to see what they tell Luna this time.

[LittleSallyDigby]

What Storm saw in his reflection, what had given him pause, was himself. He saw himself as he stood there at the bank, a gold-plated champron above a widening pair of blue eyes. But beneath that, beyond the water’s surface, he saw a much younger pony, bright-eyed and ruddy. As the water rippled, the image distorted like an old memory. Something stirred in Storm’s mind, something lost, buried, and forgotten. He watched as the scene unfolded.

Crap in a hat.
Crap. In. A. Hat.
This is something like the River Lethe, and we're finally going to see how Storm got his cutie mark, aren't we.

[LittleSallyDigby]

Hmm. Well, having the water symbolize truth instead of forgetfulness changes a few things- it means you haven't necessarily been planning this reveal since the beginning of the previous story, for one thing- but still, this is a fun chapter, and one that moves the story along in a number of meaningful and interesting ways, including revealing at least part of Luna's original plan for the journey. Which is awesome.

[Poppo123]

2704748 Woot! Another Jake Long fan!

[Sagebrush]

2705124

Heh, fair enough, although for brevity you might be able to shorten "automatic contextual language deciphering system" to Wernicke's Area.

[TheMessenger]

piranhazone.com/graphics/zelda/ocarina/n64/0036_1.jpg

Do do doo, do do doo...

[Dr FudgeNuggets]

25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m81njlVf411rqknsjo1_500.jpg

That is all.

[Crosshair]

Really Nice Land of the Fae Ponies... still as ODD and slightly wierd as the fey should be, but not grimdark and still having the MLP spirit. The Contests with Crack SHot were hilarious.

[Lucky424]

Well, things almost went to shit for Storm there. Can you imagine the conversation with his mare (can't remember her name)?

"We're sorry, but Storm won't be returning. He managed to get seduced and drowned by a strange mare that was literally wet for him."

[WanderingPony]

>shoopiltie

I sea what you did there.

Also, the water isn't Lethe-like, it's more along the lines of what Odin drank from for wisdom.

[TheStratovarian]

Neat little story to finish catching up upon.

[CoastalSarv]

I like how sometimes the pragmatism, common sense and down-to-earthiness of the ponies challenged, confused and downright broke down the fae and their quest. "Yeah, you might be all mysterious and stuff, but we have things to get done. Pardon me."

[TheAndyMac]

Welp, that's a nice heaping of celtic mythology there I suppose it was only a matter of time before we saw a kelpie. The Cwn Annwn I'm not familiar with, but the idea that their howls get louder the further you are is a fun one.

What's the translation of the names of the pair that dropped off the spear? The best I can get is that the first word of the second name is 'Black'.

Part of me is really hoping it's 'Black Snooty'

[djthomp]

That may have been the best visit to faeland ever. And as expected with such a visit they came back a little different (that mushroom circle standing invitation), but in a completely harmless way as also expected with this group.

[Sagebrush]

2708790

I'm glad to know that the Celtic influence did catch some interest! I spent a fair amount of time with some of my books on the matter for this chapter, attempting to get a nice degree of authenticity that I could then blatantly disregard. Hopefully those familiar with Irish myth will recognize some of the places, items, and creatures.

As for Liath Macha and Dubh Sainglenn (spellings vary), they were the two chariot horses of Setanta,who is also known as Cuchulainn, a mythological hero (and a bit of a womanizer).

[Puzzle Reader]

That was a very enjoyable chapter; thank you.

[Classy Toad]

Hey man, just walk into the magic circle of shrooms, and get teleported to another reality! Sorry, it's just like another 5 books and or stories I read.

[Sagebrush]

2709311

I imagine that's due to the historical and cultural significance of faerie rings.

[Classy Toad]

2709405 oh... Well I think I found one in my back yard... Like 3? Years ago? But the mushrooms looked like big white pinecones. I am actually not joking on this one.

[Sagebrush]

2709422

Really? That sounds like a cool find.

[Classy Toad]

2709431 Yup. It was gone in a day.

[j-grizz]

Fun chapter. Liking this story.

[Ytak]

This story and the characters just grow on me more and more with every chapter. It's fun and interesting.
Unrelated, this is the first comment I've ever posted to a story here. But, I only opened the account a few days ago.

[Sagebrush]

2719442

Ah, well welcome to the site; I'm glad you're enjoying the story!

[BowenMP]

2704731
I assume you mean Tiffany Aching style of Land Under Wave.
If so, then yeah, I caught it too.
Come to think of it, the writing style of this story reminds me of Pratchett all the time.

[nemryn]

“Sure, shadows,” repeated Crack Shot, stretching the final ‘s’ so far it nearly straightened into an ‘ſ.’

This is a fine joke.

What would omniscience mean? It would mean never being surprised again. It would mean never being excited by a piece of unexpected news, never wondering. It would mean an end to life’s mysteries, big and small.

But on the other hoof, it would also mean that you'd know how to cope with never being surprised.

[LittleSallyDigby]

2729787 Yep!

2732102 Good point about omniscience... but then, knowing what you need to do and being emotionally capable of just doing it are two very different things.

[Gordon_Freemane]

Another great chapter once more!
Keep up the good work, I love this story!

[Dubs Rewatcher]

To be honest, I'm not too excited for Siofra to join them...

...but knowing you, Sagebrush, you'll find a way to make it amazing.

[Aurum]

For a time I've actually forgotten why I liked this story (so sorry). But after reading the last 4 chapters I've missed, I've found my reason again. Keep being awesome!

[Nyerguds]

...do you realize this chapter has half of the word count of ALL of "In Her Majesty's Royal Service"?

Well, anyway, off to try to get through it!

[xbox432]

Nice to finally get caught back up with your story, though I gotta say that I was pretty intimidated by the chapter lengths, I had to wait til I had plenty of spare time to devote to finishing it.

[Sagebrush]

2762011

The chapters are broken into delineated scenes, so I figure that folks can read bits of them at their leisure, and not all at once if that doesn't suit their reading habits. As for the lengths, I just decide on what needs to be said in a given chapter and write until I get there ,

[xbox432]

2762056>>2762056 Hah! Don't worry about it, usually I prefer the stories I read to have some length to them. I was mostly just ......eh, whining, I suppose. Because I came back from vacation and a dozen stories updated with multiple chapters, each around the 10K mark. My inner bookworm was begging for mercy.

[Nyerguds]

Welp, I got through it

Haa, the Pookas are so bad at the whole quest giving thing

"Farther on, the sky blackened further"
Can I just say I really love this sentence, with its correct uses of "farther/further"? Because, I really love this sentence

“Tesseract,” swore Crack Shot.
Pffhah. Sublime.

"When he tried to pull his away it held fast to hers."
Agh. Can't a guy take a nice stroll in the woods without getting lured away by a damn selkie? -_-

“My, ya can yer hold your breath. I wonder just for how long.”
Ten minutes. Exactly. Not a second more, though. He learned it from some pirate wannabe

Hah, Síofra's cooking. Just... that whole scene... brillliant

By the way, you forgot the accent on the 'i' in Síofra's name at one point

[Sagebrush]

2762396

"By the way, you forgot the accent on the 'i' in Síofra's name at one point"

Good eye.

[Graf Zeppelin]

Holy cow finally adventure!!!!!!

It was a little undermining the fact that the time aspect was for all intents and purposes a prank, but the rest was fun, Storm's little adventure being the best, and overall this chapter kinda cemented my old complain of the older chapters being too mundane, too uneventful, and above all dragging for too long.

So yeah, when I saw the word count I almost dropped the story all together, given how the last chapter dwelt mostly on establishing the new world, when the one before that had left us in a very exiting cliffhanger, so overall leaving the impression of a letdown (even if I didn't said that last review), but reading it, it actually managed to surprise me in all of its length, from the fun characters, the Monty Python references, Storm and his brush with death and so on, very good indeed, and now that Síofra is joining our mane3 it could mean a very needed breath of fresh air for the character dynamics, making a possible return to mundane adventures actually desirable... just as long as it doesn't eat up another +50k words

Lets see how it goes next time.

[Sagebrush]

2766231

Consider if this is a story for you, because almost every comment I read of yours makes it sound like this story is a chore for you. Over the course of my writing it, you have told me who I should include, what is important, what things *aren't* important, what makes a character 'real,' and even how I should write the gender distribution. As a writer, it's very off putting to receive all these unsolicited 'suggestions' about what I should and should not do.

The fact is, I am not going to tell it exactly the way you think it should be told, nor will I tell it exactly the way anyone else thinks it should be told, because everyone will have different ideas of how the story could be told. I am telling this story in terms of what I think is worth saying, of what moments that I think are worth showing. Of course that won't be for everyone, but neither am I writing for everyone.

[Graf Zeppelin]

2766373
Hum, after all this months I finally hit a nerve. Oh well, as I told Autumn Wind back during easter, I will stop writing, given that it annoys you and I am NOT a troll.

It was a fun ride, and the day it finishes (If I'm still around here) you will hear from me once again.

¡Saludos desde Venezuela pana!

[Nyerguds]

2766440
I refer you to this post I made about half a year ago:
1561450

I sometimes wonder why I keep reading this, since there doesn't seem to be any advancing plot of any kind.

Then I read sentences like "Crack Shot hit a particularly high note, presumably with something blunt and heavy", am reminded of your literary genius again, and decide to just enjoy the ride

That is all

[SilentCarto]

Was the Notched Spear meant to be Gaebolg, or is it some other legendary weapon I'm not aware of? Or did you just make it up?

[kingtwelvesixteen]

2709135
Woah, ok. When I heard that a wound from the spear was like a seed that inevitably killed what it stabbed I was thinking that it would like, slowly poison the one stabbed over time and not that it was Cu Challain's 'horrible spear of exploding into spiky death all throughout the victim's body'. That is way more gruesome and violent than what I was thinking it was.

[Alondro]

Chapter 10: Storm is Doomed!

>>>The mare stepped off the trail into the thick overgrowth, water trickling off of her body and wetting the foliage she brushed against. Storm swallowed once and then left the trail to follow after her.>>>

STORM NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

*Storm's liver floats up to the surface of a pond and floats away...* Aye tried ta warn 'im, aye did!

[Alondro]

Chapter 10: God Nerd!

>>>“Aye. Within those hazelnuts and within these waters rests omniscience. It’s what ya might call a well of knowledge, with the power to grant those that drink of it insight into the past, present, and future of here, elsewhere, and anywhere.”>>>

Alondro hmms, "Ah, then eating and drinking of them would be redundant for me."

[AdrastosCastor]

I almost want to say that the notched spear is a reference to the Gae Bolga, cuchulains spear? These bits of mythology are amazing :D

[ImNotBatman]

I recently discovered this story as well as it's predecessor - by recently I mean just three days ago. It's spent many hours of my time, and I appreciate the how 'mundane' the story is, as some say. It makes me feel good about the world - both real and pony. The world is a happy place, with it's own unique denizens - the Ponyville folk we focus on all the time in the show, the Canterlot nobles we catch a glimpse of when metting Check's parents, the famers, etc - and this story focuses on building those people. That last part has not been lost on anybody, I've noticed, in spite of that being the purpose of the story.
Also, as a person whose grandma studied Celtic mythos for a PhD, only to change it right before finishing her dissertation, as well as someone of Irish decent, I REALLY appreciated the inspiration. In fact, in the last chapter, once I saw the sacred realm that went through an unassuming portal as well as the accent, the FIRST thing I thought was "Faerie Folk!" And you delivered on those expectations.

[Boott]

It may be the longest one but this is the best chapter so far in my opinion.
I just love all the failed fairy tale like trials.
Im also piking up on a theme of "everything is not always the way you think it is"
With the Kids asking about the guard and how its actually kind of boring and how in this chapter and the one before, the characters expected them to be "champions" of sorts.

And FimFction should get a guard face thing dammit!