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1 - Waylaid1,331 words
2 - Night Out1,980 words
3 - Not For Hire1,823 words
4 - On the Road Again1,829 words
5 - The Nameless Book1,856 words
6 - Judging Foals1,759 words
7 - A Filly's Path1,549 words
8 - Bonds1,479 words
9 - Farewell?2,357 words
10 - Regrets3,051 words
11 - The Greater Good2,374 words
12 - Infiltration2,564 words
13 - Life or Death2,323 words
14 - No Victory is Without Cost2,733 words
15 - Alliances1,976 words
16 - Purpose3,223 words
17 - The Lion's Den2,216 words
18 - The Lioness2,254 words
19 - Upheaval3,047 words
20 - Looking Forward2,666 words
Epilogue - Life Goes On158 words

1 - Waylaid

The storm was but a dark speck behind me. For all its crying and howling, it seemed to have little interest in following me. Once I broke free of the cloud curtain, the journey to Pasture was easy, sunny, and even a little boring. The mostly barren hills certainly weren’t inclined to jump up and show off their beauty, anyway.

Some ponies might wonder why a pegasus would ever flee from a storm, but here’s a little secret: we’re not immune to extreme climates. You will respect rogue weather, unless you want to be torn apart feather-by-feather was the mantra of my weather instructor. Not much of a writer, but she got the point across.

As much as I would have liked to shut down that storm, even if I had been one-hundred percent on my game, it would have left me a sopping wet mess of charcoal hair wrapped in a soggy green scarf and tangled blue mane. While looking like a swamp monster would have been an annoyance, the bigger concern was the potential for serious illness.

Funnily enough, my flight satchels—the A-shaped, smaller-and-less-likely-to-chafe-the-wings cousin of saddlebags—would have been unaffected. Unlike the standard satchel set, I had forgone getting my gear-and-pencil cutie mark on the buckle in favour of a more-durable nylon.

My victory was tempered somewhat by the fact that I had to trek out to Pasture in the first place. While years of travel had made constantly changing plans a fact of life, the little backwater was my last choice of emergency town. Unfortunately, it was also my only choice.

Four hours off the road and sporting a nasty old legend about a necromancer, Pasture was less than ideal. A fearsome defiler of the dead, the Necromancer knows no boundaries. Those foolish enough to wander the roads at night have vanished, only to turn up later as part of the Necromancer’s restless army. A classic boogeymare’s tale.

I’d learned just enough about magic to know few unicorns could handle the strain. But I was also not so naive as to believe the legend didn’t have some basis in reality. Personally, I suspected wild predators sneaking out of the woods. A little biased, but spending a lifetime next to the killer forest that is the Everfree tends to do that to a pony.

Whatever the real deal was, the key would be to figure out where everypony else was looking and walk the other way.

True to its name, Pasture was a small village sitting in the middle of a plain. Lopsided wooden shacks sprung up from the grass, looking something like an oversized grove of mushrooms. A withers-high fence, unlikely to stop even a foal from escaping, ran a circle around the town. Several clumps of ponies were scattered along the roads, almost assuredly engaging in the day’s gossip.

As I approached, the expected smell of dust, disturbed greens and day-old fruit was overshadowed by the sharp scent of iron. A few seconds’ ponderance was cut short when I realized the group closest to the gate contained not one, not two, but three sentries. A closer look gave me all the reasons I needed: Their barding was a patchwork mess of scraps, helmets were nowhere to be found and their spears were crooked enough to border on scythes.

Their leader, an orange unicorn mare with a chipped ear, met my gaze. She pulled herself taller and cocked her head to the side, staring out from under her fiery red forelock. “Ain’t seen you ‘round here, stranger. What’s your business?”

I gave her a onceover and smirked inwardly. Here was a young mare, no older than me, pretending she wasn't just some wannabe guardsmare posturing in front of a misshapen wooden arch.

“Had my travel plans disrupted by a rogue storm,” was my level reply. “I’m hoping to get a room for the night.”

The mare circled me, staring me up and down at random intervals, a technique I’d seen my mother use with far more skill. I’d even given it a few tries, myself. If there was one thing this mare and I had in common, it was that we lacked the stature to make it work against most ponies.

I raised an eyebrow as she finished her lap. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah, you look fine enough. Just stay out of trouble. As for the inn, hit the town square. Can’t miss it.”

“Trouble? Is there something I should be aware of?”

The mare grunted. “Just don’t steal anypony’s shit and you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.” I gave a quick nod and carried on my way.

That mare was hiding something, and rather badly, I might add. However, I wasn’t too keen on pestering a guardsmare. Not when there were surely more chatty ponies around town. I made a mental note to go looking for the bar when I had the chance.

The day was wearing on and a red tint settled on the road. I trotted toward the horizon, following a fresh set of wheel tracks as it cut through the intermingling of older hoofprints. Smaller branches broke off here and there, narrowing as they approached the various huts.

Most of the houses managed to be the same without actually being the same, as though somepony had drawn them up without bothering to use a ruler. They were all vaguely rectangular, jammed into the ground at an angle and even from the main road I could see several rows of planks were crooked.

I wondered just how sturdy they really were and, as if on cue, a stiff breeze washed over the town. Neither the structures nor the ponies around them seemed to take much notice.

As I passed the first few groups of ponies, I noted their coats and manes were tidy enough for brushing to be something other than once-in-a-blue-moon. A couple wore ball caps and a third a tied kerchief, all of which appeared to be cared for. These ponies were rather meticulous compared to those of other Equestrian backwater towns. Although, being from Ponyville, prime target of Canterlot snobbery, I tried not to be too harsh when it came to strictly social attire.

I could feel several eyes wandering my way, crawling up and down my coat. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal, me being a stranger in a little town and all. However, as I came across the sixth set of ponies, unease crept into my muscles. The second armed group wasn’t particularly notable, especially if I was charitable enough to assume they had an organized night watch. But this was the third set of guards, crossing into high alert.

A knot formed in my stomach. Come on, nothing to see here. Just a traveling mare, that’s all.

My ears flicked, picking up on every shuffle, every whisper. I forced my eyes to keep a casual pace, to belie nothing as I assessed each group. Most of the guards met my gaze, while the others looked away. In the end, they returned to their conversations and I breathed a sigh of relief.

During my travels, I’d found fear of outsiders to be an all-too-common trait of smaller towns. Throw in some minimally trained ponies, who often consider their gear permission to act like a bunch of schoolyard bullies, and one has a recipe for violence.

When I reached the town square, I quickened my pace, eager to be free from the townsfolks’ suspicious eyes. If I was lucky, perhaps the innkeeper would be in a less edgy mood.

The inn was indeed impossible to miss, its broad, two-story frame dwarfing everything else. As if size wasn’t enough, a bright yellow and blue sign, accented by a cheesy little sun, proclaimed it the ‘Sunny Skies Inn’.

I smirked. Whatever. Any place to rest my hooves.

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