Not All Who Wander Are Lost

by RazedRainbow

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Scootaloo awoke to a suffocating cloud of dust. Bleary eyed, she blinked, snorted, and wiped at the assailants before pulling the blanket over her face and groaning. The mattress smelled of rotten cheese and the blanket didn’t fare much better. Gagging, she tossed it across the room, and sat up. Her gaze lazily drifted around the room as she tried to blink some moisture onto her dry eyes . She hunched over, rubbing her face and suppressing another retch as the fetid smell of the mattress wafted up her nostrils once more.

A half-remembered dream pulsed in her mind—weak but steady. She had dreamt about her mother. Her best dreams—and her worst—always seemed to be filled with visions of her. It was a memory. That much she did know. When it had occurred, she was not certain, but it had happened. It wasn’t a cherished memory, but it wasn’t a haunting one either. It simply was. Groaning and swiping at a buzzing gnat, she let her mind drift.

___

They were in Cloud Nine, one of Cloudsdale’s finest boutiques. Dozens of mannequins stretched from corner to corner, donning frilly gowns and frumpy hats. Plastic roses lined the walls. Clothes racks spray-painted gold and tall mirrors covered every inch of the shop’s floor. Scootaloo stood on a stool in front of one of these mirrors, a purple and gold pegasus wrapping measuring tape around her posterior. Her mother, Flare Chaser, sat nearby, skimming over the latest issue of "The Equestrian Inquiry," occasionally glancing up at her daughter, smirk growing even larger. Scootaloo trotted in place, looking at her mother with eyes that said, “Please let me leave.” The pleas fell on deaf ears. Flare Chaser grinned on.

“Do I have to wear this?” Scootaloo whined, stamping her hoof—much to the ire of the dressmaker.

“You know how your father is,” Flare Chaser said.“ He always wants to look presentable at every show.” A hint of bitterness crept into her tone as the words faded, but Scootaloo paid no mind, focusing instead on the pins she was sure the dressmaker was just waiting on pricking her with if she turned away.

“Yes, but why does that mean we’ve gotta wear these dumb things?” Scootaloo rose an ornate-stocking-covered foreleg for emphasis. “Nopony would be caught dead wearing these.” The dressmaker grunted bitterly.

“You won’t hear me argue,” Flare Chaser said with a hearty laugh. “If I had my say, we’d be going to these expos with nothing on at all, but they’re important to your father. If we didn’t dress up, he wouldn’t sell any of his pieces, and then where would we be, hmm?”

"Happier,” Scootaloo said, flicking a hind leg as the fashionista tried to wrap a measuring tape around it. Flare Chaser covered her mouth with a wing and turned away from an increasingly agitated and tangled Scootaloo. “What?” Scootaloo asked. “What’s so funny? You asked a question, and I’d definitely be happier if I didn’t have to dress up like a loser every other week.”

Flare Chaser squeaked, guffaws threatening to burst forth. Suddenly, she groaned and doubled over, one foreleg reaching for her belly while the other covered her mouth. Scootaloo hopped down from the stool and hurried to her mother as fast as she could in a frilly dress. By the time she reached her, Flare Chaser had let out a belch and lowered her hoof from her muzzle.

“Mom?” Scootaloo tilted her head, wings fluttering madly. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Flare Chaser looked at her daughter and smiled through clenched teeth. “I’m fine,” she said softly. ”Just a... just a stomach cramp. Ugh.” She threw a hoof over her mouth once more, doubling over.

Scootaloo leaned down, wings numb and hooves shaking. “You sure you’re fine?”

Though her wincing face told otherwise, Flare Chaser nodded. She stood and stumbled past Scootaloo and over to the dressmaker. After a brief, whispered conversation, the dressmaker nodded and trotted behind the counter. She dug around, tossing aside various scarves and ties, before emerging with a key in her wing. Flare Chaser took it in her mouth, retching then immediately dropping it into her feathers. She gave Scootaloo a gentle nuzzle on the cheek and cantered to the back of the shop.

Scootaloo watched, her wings slowing to a stop, the cloud seeming to sway beneath her hooves. She took a shaky breath and stepped back onto the stool. The dressmaker finished the fitting without a single kick of protest.

___

Scootaloo lifted her head and sniffled. The memory was quickly lost, replaced by a thick and pungent whiff. Celestia, had it managed to get worse? The rotten and musty stench wasn’t reserved to just her bed—it seemed to seep from the walls. Scootaloo gagged and coughed, spitting on the floor. Outside, the songbirds were already chirping away, their melodies chipping at her nerves.

The sunlight did provide a few positives. For one, she could finally get a good look at the inside of the station. She took in the room, bile building with each darting glance. The interior was just as forsaken as the outside—if not more so. The walls weren’t painted, giving Scootaloo a lovely view of fractured walls and rotted supports. In the front corner, right next to the door, she could see the remains of a long abandoned wasp nest. Above her, exposed cross beams bent and sagged, some hollowed out by termites, some waterlogged and cracking, every grain--from end to moldy end--colored a sickening green. She was lucky it hadn’t rained during the night; if it had, there was no doubt that she would have been drenched to the bone come morning. What sunlight peeked through the broken blinds reflected off the shards of broken glass that littered the floor alongside the faded candy bar wrappers and rat droppings.

She’d never wanted a bath more in her life.

Her back still ached from the previous night’s fall, and she itched all over—a result of the insect-ridden mattress, no doubt. As she scratched her irritated chest, checking for bed bug bites, she noticed a black lump on her foreleg. Assuming that it was just some dried mud, she wiped at it. Despite at least a dozen wipes, the lump remained. She lifted her foreleg close to her face and noticed that the dirt had tiny moving legs. She let out a sound between a shriek and retch.

Give me strength.

Hesitantly, she clamped the tick between her incisors and pulled. Luckily for her, it hadn’t burrowed in deep yet and came off with little effort. That was where her luck ended. Warm liquid drenched her tongue as the tick burst. She tasted blood. Moaning, she spit it on the floor and stomped on it for good measure. Assured it was dead, she opened her saddlebags and pulled out her canteen. She sloshed the lukewarm water, then spit it out. There were quite a few red streaks in it. How much of it was hers? She spit again. Some things were better left unknown.

Between gags, she clicked the top back on her canteen and tossed it into her saddlebags. She checked the rest of her legs for ticks, but thankfully found none. What parts of her wings she could see looked clean as well. Sitting in place would make her a resting buffet, so she hopped off the bed and headed for the window. The debris outnumbered actual floor, making the walk a difficult task. She tiphoofed around the shards of glass and feces, stumbling on occasion like a foal taking their first steps. Each stumble was followed by the reverberations of sliding glass and hoof-on-concrete. No pain, though. That was good, though it did nothing to quell Scootaloo’s growing hatred for the station.

It came as no surprise that there was no way to raise the blinds. She grumbled and dragged shuffled back to the bed, not even bothering to be cautious this time. Shards of glass slid across the floor, but once again she was not greeted by pain. With a loud gunt she threw her saddlebags over her back, remembering to tighten them before she hurried out the door. The sun had yet to fully crest the mountains, but it was still bright enough to force a squint. She stumbled forward, trying to navigate the world through a burning, blurry gaze. She took only a couple steps before tripping and falling flat on her face.

Today is not gonna be my day.

She lifted her head. Much to her relief, the area around the station was still very much desolate. Not a pony in sight. Her father had likely awoken and reported her missing by now. Her gut twisted; luckily, she had her sore nose to distract her. She pressed her hoof to her snout, wincing as pain shot up it. It wasn’t the worst pain, and her fur had picked up no blood. Not broken. Satisfied, she rose to her hooves, prepared to give whatever had tripped her up a swift kick. The culprit still lay at the top of the stairs. It was a small felt pouch. Scootaloo tilted her head to the side, eyebrow raised. Is that my bit pouch? She walked up to the stairs and leaned in close. Upon the pouch, messily stitched with frayed threads sticking out, was a Wonderbolts logo. The bottom fell out of her stomach. She’d asked for an official Wonderbolts bit pouch, but times had been tough back then. Her father had lacked inspiration, and her mother had turned into a hollow shell. Far from a pleasant Hearth’s Warming Day, but a memorable one--for all the wrong reasons. After the smoke had cleared, she’d managed to talk her father into buying her a Wonderbolts patch from the local general store, and he’d done a halfway-decent job of stitching it on.

Her legs shook as memories of the previous night came back swinging. She’d found her pouch, sure, but there was still the matter of the lost bits. She could question the hows and whys after she’d found her lifeline. Sighing, she picked up the pouch, stretching her wings out for a lengthy hunt They fused to her sides as a jingling graced her ears. The pouch fell back to floor, the distinctive clamor of bit-on-bit ringing out when it hit. Scooping her jaw back in place, she fell to her knees and opened it up. The blinding glint of sun on gold flashed her eyes. She yelped and thrust out her forelegs, knocking the bag over. Bits rolled and shook, but none left the safety of the top step. Scootaloo breathed quickly as she climbed atop the stairs and meticulously counted and recounted the spilled bits, her jaw falling further agape with each count of ten. Fifty. Not a bit missing.

Not even the five she spent on a train ticket.

The door to the station slammed shut, nearly making Scootaloo fall down the steps once more. She trotted over to the door and pushed with all her might. It wouldn’t budge. A chill shot down her spine, cold sweat trickling and matting her disheveled bangs. Something about this station was wrong—very, very wrong—and she wanted nothing more than to be hundreds of miles away.

She gathered her bits back up in the pouch and tossed it into her saddlebags. Without a second glance, she made a break for the woods. Despite the growing light, a thick shadow draped over the outside of the station. The entire structure—from the top of the platform to the chipped stairs—seemed to sag and wither, a dying station long forgotten by pony and time.

Scanning the woods, she spotted an opening in the tree line. It wasn’t wide enough for a stallion or even a bulky mare, but for Scootaloo it was the perfect breadth. She ducked under a low-lying tree branch, then jumped over a fallen log and down a steep embankment. By now, the station was well out of sight—though not out of mind—and she slowed her cramping hooves. She leaned against the trunk of a tree, gasping heavily as she pulled out her canteen. A wave of relief rushed down her throat as she took a quick swig. It seemed colder and fresher. She poured some on her head, the chills rushing down her spine a welcome relief for once. Her throat burned and a metallic taste pooled in the back of her mouth. Her legs might have been some of the strongest in her class, but her lungs never could keep up. On field day at school, she dominated the obstacle course, but always finished near the back when it came to the races. Sprinting probably had a lot to do with that--pacing might have been healthier but there was nothing cool about it--but her lungs always seemed to betray her even when she took on a lame pace. Even at a sprint she wasn’t the quickest. No, running was more Apple Bloom’s game.

Scootaloo tightened her canteen. It was lighter than she thought possible. A sea of trees surrounded her, nary a stream or cabin in sight, but… well, she was on a path--though, judging from the overgrowth, not a frequently traveled one. All paths lead somewhere, and with ‘somewhere’ there was, more often than not, water. She was sure that she’d come across a means of refilling her canteen if she kept pushing forward--either by town or river. After all, there were trees and plants everywhere; you couldn’t have greenery without a water to feed them, right?

She nodded, silently agreeing with herself, and trudged forward.

* * *

… And come to think of it, what kind of special talent does a silver spoon represent anyway? Her name’s Silver Spoon, does that mean that her special talent is her name? What the hay are you supposed to do with that talent? “Hi, I’m Silver Spoon. I’m a spoon and I’m silver. That’ll be ten bits. Tips are expected.” And then there’s the coincidence. Did her parents know what her cutie mark was going to be, then named her after that? Hmm... my name’s Scootaloo. The thing I’m best at is riding my scooter. Scooter. Scootaloo. Wait a minute...

Scootaloo passed a tree. It was identical to all the others. A long and thin trunk, adorned with thin limbs and faded-green leaves. If there was one thing distinctive about this particular tree, it was that its trunk was damp, the soggy leaves squishing and stinking up the path, but she’d passed at least sixty-two trees with dew-soaked bodies. No, it was just another tree, which she’d reached with just another step, marking yet another minute spent walking. The only difference between this mile and the prior ones was the path itself. Worn down grass had given way to ankle-high shrubs and jutting roots primed to trip. She found her eyes set on the ground with each step, and all the while she continued to monologue.

… I mean, sure, Fluttershy sounds a lot like ‘butterfly,’ but there’s still a difference. A huge difference. If her name was Butterfly, yeah, that would be similar to my case, but it’s not. Did my parents know I would be a good scooterer, or did they force me to pick the thing up so they’d look smart? “Yes, that’s my daughter, Scootaloo. Notice how she SCOOTs. She’s quite a SCOOTerer, my SCOOTaloo.” But then what would the ‘-loo’ stand for?

She took a brief rest from her internal performance to wipe some sweat off her brow.

When she had first started hiking down the trail, the sun had just cleared the horizon. Now, it bore directly down on her, cooking her wings and back. Her mane sat plastered against her face, and she’d long since given up trying to brush it away. The canteen was bone-dry. She kept her ears perked, hoping that the distant sound of rushing water would grace them. Or even the voices of ponies. Fellow travelers would likely have a canteen on them, and she had no doubt that they’d spare her a swig or two if she gave him the ‘puppy dog eyes.’ Hay, I’ll take a flash flood or a mud puddle. Just give me something...

She noticed a fallen tree beside the path, and sat down on it. Her legs felt like they were being prodded with millions of lit matches and her joints locked a little more with each step. She laid back on the rock with a loud grunt. A steady breeze had picked up, though it did nothing to calm the sweat trickling down her forehead. Leaves and branches swayed with each gust, causing the light and shadow to dance like a kaleidoscope. Her body began to relax, and her eyelids grew heavy. She kicked and forced herself into an upright position. She still needed to find water and shelter, and she wasn’t going to find either by laying on a rock all day. Hooves protesting, she lowered herself back onto the path and continued forward. Even her wings were beginning to ache, and she hadn’t even used them—a fact that only strengthened her disdain.

Flying would make this so much easier. Rainbow Dash would have made it to the Phoenix Pool and back by now. Scootaloo sighed and kicked a pine cone along the path like a soccer ball. This is what I get for being some half-blood. I’m not even a “real” pegasus. What’s the point of these wings if they never work right? I haven’t flown yet, have I? Nope. Nope, I’m almost at flight school age and I can barely hover a second. Yeah, Scoots. Some pegasus you are. If you could fly, maybe Rainbow would still be alive.

She screamed and kicked a pebble, sending it careening off the path and down a slope. It bounced off rocks and leaves, echoing through the forest. Soon, it was but a tiny crackling, only audible because there were no other sounds for Scootaloo to perceive.

And then she heard the splash.

At first, she thought it was her mind playing tricks, so she found another rock—larger than the pebbles around it—and kicked it down the same embankment. It bounced and tumbled and grew softer and softer. Then, after it seemed to have stopped, there was another weak splash.

Scootaloo practically bounced with glee, and bounded down the slope. She lost her balance at several points—bumping hard against a tree at one point and doing a somersault when her hoof got caught in a loose root at another—but she barreled forward, and the sounds of a creek started to sneak in between the crackling twigs and labored breaths. The path leveled off and Scootaloo skidded to a stop. She was in a vast, flat area of land. The trees were less tightly packed—sometimes dozens of meters away from each other—and the air was filled with a gray mist. The sun was nowhere to be seen.

She followed the sound of water. First a gentle trickle, building steadily into a strong roar. Within seconds, she came across a bubbling stream. It was roughly as wide as she was, and the flow was far stronger than she would have guessed. She couldn’t fight the grin spreading across her lips as she pulled out her canteen and let the icy water flow into it. Once it started to overflow, she lifted it to her lips and gulped it down heartedly. It chilled her burning throat, and she could feel it flow down into her stomach, then out to her sore extremities, cooling everything it touched.

Topping it off once more, she snapped the lid shut and took a seat on a nearby log. Part of her demanded that she keep moving, but the sun still rested high in the sky and the burning in her legs had given way to numbness. Any attempts at walking would no doubt end in a mouthful of dirt. Sighing and letting the breeze caress her twitching wings, she dug through her saddlebags, eventually emerging with Daring Do clutched in her teeth.

The rail map had once again taken over the job of bookmark. Scootaloo removed it, twirled it around in her hoof, then opened it. Seconds later, she let out a groan and tossed it aside. The map was perfect if one was taking a train, but beyond the lines there were no lined paths, no trees to speak of. She glanced skyward, squinting into sun. It was past noon; that was as much as she could tell, but it was enough. The sun rested a little to her left, so… that was west? She groaned and buried her face in her hooves.

Just relax. She practiced steady breaths. They shook and faltered but her wings steadied. There’s a path. All paths lead somewhere.

Birds sang on somewhere over head. Scootaloo still found her face slightly numb, but she had bowed, not broken. It was something. She rubbed her eyes once more and found herself staring at the book. Biting her tongue, she flipped the page back and forth. There’s time for that later, she chided herself, but as she moved the paper in her hoof, the letters bled into words.

– – –

Packing tape. Daring Do had many foes in life--from the bizarre beasts like Auizohtal to the rival academics like Dr. Caballeron--but packing tape… packing tape was up there with the best of them.

Swiping her covered wing at the air, along the desk, and against the brim of her hat, she took periodic glances at her desk, then the hourglass, and then the desk again. It was nearing ten. Pallah had said he’d be in contact, but so far the ashes in the dish had remained still and lightless. Thoughts of her last conversation with the linguist flashed through her mind. Cringey as the discussion had gone (Daring had been fine up until he’d asked if she made sure to dust ‘all the folds’ of the book), she had used some choice words. Should I send the first message? She grimaced, putting a wing to her mouth and nearly getting a wad of tape stuck to her lip. What if he takes that as an invitation?

A knock sounded at the door. Daring spun around, head tilted. Another knock. Daring gulped and took up a nearby paperweight in her wing. "It's open," she whispered, barely loud enough to hear.

Still too loud. The door swung open, crashing into a bookshelf and sending several bronze amulets clinking to the floor. "Ayyy! Darey!”

Oh, please, no

She blinked, hoping that her vision would clear and this all would be a nightmare. “Darey!” the voice shouted once more, and in he walked, clad in equally loud clothing. Tiki shirt unbuttoned to his chest, mane taking on a plastic sheen from the bottles of gel used to comb it back--some ponies simply never left college.

Daring flopped face-first on a box as she groaned. “Pallah why are you here?”

“You told me you wanted to talk about that boo--”

“Yeah. Over fire. Not… in person.”

“Uh huh.” He moved closer, but for once kept his hooves to himself. Groaning, he sat back on her couch, joints popping as he stretched out. “You ever try reading ancient script over firewire?” Pallah snorted, opening up a box and pulling out a box of mints. “Small, gray writing on paper smudged gray from the flames? Yeah, I’d do better here. Besides, I missed you.” He sniffed the mints then gagged, tossing them back in the box. “What’chu packing up for, anyway?”

Daring shrugged, moving back to packing her books. “Moving back to Father’s manor in Mexicolt for a bit. As you enjoy researching a real copy, so do I enjoy being near the source material.”

Pallah found an apple amongst another box and bit into it. “I can see the book right there,” he said with a point, spitting bits of apple on the opened book with each word. “That is what you’ve been sending me, right?” He turned his head, sending yet more apple guts raining on the ancient pages. “Ah, yep! I know those curls there.”

“I thought you’d recognize them.” Daring let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. Daring had noticed the book, but it appeared he had not been curious enough to check the letter from the Dean resting on her desk. She’d burn it later. Real fire instead of dragon flame. The latter could be saved for a witty retort.

Or finding yourself a better linguist. Sighing, she pulled out a strand of tape and closed yet another box. Once it was stacked with the others, she sat down at her desk, unscrewed the cap off a bottle of Yakyakistani whisky and took a swig. Cough as she did, the warmth definitely had a way of settling her nerves—especially the Pallah-induced ones.

“I didn’t realize you were having a party, Darey,” said Pallah, tilting his head this way and that as he ran a hoof along the pages. For all his quirks and flaws, he was a skilled linguist. A skilled linguist who took weeks to decipher tablets because he kept getting distracted by any mare who’d wander within a half-mile of his lab, but a skilled linguist, nonetheless.

“Yeah, and I don’t think I sent you an invitation.”

“Lame.” Pallah looked up from the book, eyes soft. “Hey, uh, you alright?”

Daring took another swig of whisky. “Yeah.”

“If you want to talk about it—”

“Pallah, you’re not the first pony to tell me that, and you won’t be the last. When I want to talk about it, I will.”

“Alright.” The stallion frowned as he moved the sticky-noted page back and forth. “These are Griffonian by the way. Ancient, but definitely Griffonian.”

“What?” Daring rushed over the table, pushing Pallah aside with a swipe of her wing. “You figured that out in two minutes, tops.” Her eyes narrowed as she stared at him. “You knew this already. If you think this’ll win you any brownie points with me—”

“I told you: sending copies of this crap by dragon fire makes it all bleed together.” He flipped the pages, the text a blur gibberish. Stopping after a few pages, he pointed to a blocky paragraph covered in slash marks. “See these symbols? What do they look like to you?”

Daring shrugged. “You said it was Griffonian, so I’m going to say talon marks?”

“Exactly.” He smiled, looking too smug for his own good. At least this time, Daring had to admit he had earned it. “An ancient form, at least. Take a closer look.”

Daring leaned in close, nose touching the book. Pallah pulled her back. Giggling, she flapped her wings to steady herself. Yakyakistan whisky truly was as pungent as Dad had described. Her eyes burned. She slapped them with a wing. Not now. Not while there was work to do. Tears would be pointless if she did her job right. Peering once again at the book, she scanned a single line of scratch marks, back and forth, left to right, then right to left. “Just looks like a bunch of waves to me.”

Pallah smiled, leaning close. “Exactly.” Daring tilted her head but the whisky kept her hooves still. “Waves.” He pointed to a series of sideways marks shaped like a bunch of noodles. He pointed to another set of symbols, an arrow pointed skyward with slash marks through its middle. “Mountains.” Another symbol with the same point but with slash marks shooting upwards. “Fire.” At last he pointed to a series of three diagonal slashes. “War.”

Taking a sharp breath, and one last drink, Daring let her wings fall upon the book, flipping through the pages. While her Griffonian was far from fluent, she could see what Pallah was talking about. Maybe the thin slash mark with multiple slashes shooting out of its top could be a symbol for ‘tree. The circle slash with waves around it… an island, maybe? Or maybe the alcohol was just getting to her? She chuckled at her own joke, then nearly choked as she flipped the page. The whisky flushed from her blood in an instant.

It was the sketch that had drawn her attention the most. While the book held a few interesting illustrations—a depiction of an ancient funeral service in the Zebracian art style, a dagger seemingly melded with bones (or maybe a fang, she couldn’t be sure)--but the drawing of the ‘Pool’ itself was the centerpiece. At least she had assumed it was the pool, as the words below it still ‘read’ like complete gibberish. Mostly complete gibberish. Taking the book in her wings and lifting it to her nose, she could barely make out the symbol on the side. An arrow pointing upward with tri-slash marks rising up out of its point. If Pallah were right, she’d found her first clue: “Fire.”

“Huh?” Pallah grunted. “What was tha--Woah!” He fell backwards onto the couch as Daring rushed over to a pile of boxes near her bookshelf. ‘Textbooks?’ No. ‘Dissertations?’ At this school, definitely no.’ ‘Academia Catalog?’ Sure, why not. Her wing found her whisky, and the vapors made her shake as she ripped off the masking tape and dug through the box.

“Pallah,” she grunted, “if I turn around and you’re looking, I swear on my life…”

“I’m not. I’m not.” The stallion managed to sound truthful. He also somehow managed to sound worried. “Hey, uh, Daring… you never really told me what this book is about. Figured it was just research, but, sheesh, you’re acting like not deciphering this thing’ll kill you.”

“Exact opposite, really. Ah ha! Here we are! ‘Archeology Academia.’” Risking papercuts, she flipped through the pages at blinding speed. Within seconds, she had found the directory for ‘Griffon Archaeology.’ It only took up a single page, about four names, but if they held the answers, then did the quantity really matter?

Her wing settled on the first name. ‘Squall, Cay: Adjunct Professor of Griffon History, College of the Five Sons, Vanhoover.’ There was nothing special about the university--its history program was considered merely ‘adequate’ among Daring’s former colleagues--nor the title. What made the name stand out like a sore feather was the name itself. ‘Cay.’ The rest of the names started with ‘G.’ It was not a griffon’s name, far as she could tell, but a pony’s name. A pony was good. It meant she’d actually done the research to earn the degree.

Screw it. She jotted down the information, hastily scratched a note, and threw it into the fire. It was only after the green ashes had fallen still in the dish that Daring realized she hadn’t even thought about what she was writing. She went for another drink of Yakyakistani whisky, but found the bottle empty.

The world swam around her.

“Daring?” Pallah caught her before she could hit the carpet, walking her over to the couch. “Easy now.” Daring curled up. He’d even placed a cover over her. She made a note to give him a hug after she’d sobered up. “Daring? What… what’s this book even about?” He lifted it up, aiming the picture of the fanged dagger at her blurry eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Fixing an injustice, she wanted to answer. Righting a wrong. She reached across the desk, resting a hoof on an ancient fan, spread open upon the wood. She’d been just a filly with nary a helmet small enough to fit her head. Some Canterlot noble with deep pockets and an even deeper gut had purchased a large swatch of land to build upon. Father had tried for months to protect it, claiming there were treasures amongst the snares and caves. But words were just that: words. Daring, however, had a name to live up to and just enough of a lack of size to squeeze through the vines. She’d come out with an ancient fan in hoof. It was enough to buy the land, protect the potential ruin. But heavy pockets can push away even the most cherished of Caballan history, and her father insisted that the fan belonged in the university. She’d argued, she’d whined, but the lesson he’d taught her that day had carried on through the years.

Some things weigh more than gold. Some things are worth cherishing, protecting, and even if only a small piece can be salvaged—one fan amidst a treasure trove, a single worthy life amidst the millions—then it’d all be worth it in the end.

She ran a hoof over the dusty blades as the stupor took hold. “Daddy…”

– – –

Scootaloo closed the book with a sigh. A bunch of pointless drivel, but… griffons. A ‘fire’ symbol. ‘Vanhoover’ had appeared on the map, and it had been mentioned in the chapter, so… maybe a little spoiler would help her get on her way. She flipped back to the map, put her nose right up to the page, and laughed. Sure enough, the symbol of an arrow pointing upwards, additional marks slashed up through its point, rested beside Vanhoover’s read lettering. A part of her wanted to get up and dance, but her legs were still in rebellion from all the running.

Besides, nice as a destination was, it would all be pointless if she never got out of this dumb forest.

Much to the chagrin of her joints, she stumbled off the log and wobbled to the edge of the water, looking downstream. Its width grew as it flowed down the hill. The water rushed over stones at an ever-increasing rate. This is bound to lead somewhere, she thought.

The descent down the slope was a tricky one. The leaves on the bank were soaked and the ground sloshed and slid with each step. Her legs were covered in layers of mud by the time she reached the bottom of the hill. The rest of her body didn’t fare much better. She’d slipped nearly a dozen times, and now donned a patchy mask of muck. It smelled like a dog after a rainstorm. She’d still take it over the soggy wetness soaking through her flanks.

As the ground leveled off, she noticed a sound. Distant at first, but growing with each quickening step. A powerful thunder-like noise, constant and booming. Scootaloo began to run again. With each step it became more deafening. Her excited giggles were drowned out and erased by the rapids. She could barely hear herself think.

Rapids! River! Society!

Though there was still a chance—miniscule as it may be—that this river would lead her nowhere, she chose to get her hopes up. If there was a hint of civilization in the forest, be it a bustling village or a single hut with one insane occupant, it would be along the riverside. The town she was supposed to get off at the night before had been located right beside the river, if she remembered correctly. It was a long shot, but then again the whole quest was a longshot. With fresh air in her lungs, she trudged forward.

Only a few steps in, the trees came to a halt. Her wings burst into a flutter as she stared down, the tips of her front hooves hanging over open air. The stream she had been following fell off into open air, trickling down and darkening the moss-covered cliff faces. Below her, a river ran from horizon to horizon, flowing like a stampede. Boulders the size of houses jutted out of the foamy rapids, and limbs and tree trunks were carried downstream as if they were mere feathers.

It was frightening. It was beautiful.

She leaned out over the cliff face. The river stretched on forever, trees flanking it through every turn and dip. Occasionally, the trees would stop—the river briefly turning into a cascade—but resumed again when the river leveled off. Frantically, she scanned the span, searching for boats or docks or even a stray shack in either direction. Only more water, trees, and mountains replied. “Great,” she muttered as she kicked a pebble into the abyss.

Then she saw it. In the distance, hovering over the sea of trees, was a long trail of gray smoke. Not far from that, another. And another!

Scootaloo erupted into joyful, borderline maniacal, giggles. She fell back onto her haunches, the giggles mutating into intense belly laughs. Why am I laughing? she asked herself. No answer came, only more laughter. She didn’t bother asking again. Eventually, the joy subsided, replaced by a growing tinge of worry. She looked over the edge of the cliff once more. The river was at least thirty meters below her. Flying would probably be the safest way down, but that wasn’t an option. She scanned the face for vines or paths. The ledge she was standing on stretched out at a level height for quite a ways, before suddenly ending. No gradual decline to river-level. Just a few kilometers of land and then Bam! A wicked drop. As usual, all those hopes, only to be crushed. I bet that path I was on led straight down there. She kicked a stone over the cliffside, each bouncing scrape like clawing in her skull. Too bad you decided to leave it and get yourself lost! Idiot! Glaring, she scanned the path for more rocks to throw--maybe a boulder.

And once again, her eyes seemed to fall upon the right place at the right time.

About fifty or so yards away, and five meters down the cliff wall, was a tiny ledge. It was barely wide enough to be noticed without squinting, but it still appeared to be wide enough for a small filly like Scootaloo to balance on. From a distance, it was difficult to tell if the ledge was sturdy or not, stability was the farthest thing from Scootaloo’s mind. Her focus was set upon the downward angle of the lip, the sudden curve. The jutting rock angled down once more, then curved, then repeated the cycle all the way to the river. It was a path, a way down. A way out of this hole. Or, well, into, Scootaloo thought with a smile.

And straight into another, her mind retorted. She tried to ignore it, but the thought reverberated in her mind as she climbed down the paper-thin path at a centimeter-per-minute pace. For a minute or two, she thought about what would happen if she were to lose her balance. From this height, this location, it all ended the same. Broken legs, paralysis, cracked skull, each option would finish hundreds of kilometers downstream, in the middle of nowhere with the vultures feasting on her before a search party could arrive—if a search party even came out this far.

If they even sent out a search party.

Halfway down the side of the cliff, the path widened a couple of meters. Scootaloo seized the opportunity to catch her breath, flopping onto her haunches with a heavy grunt. The wind was picking up; even her stuffed saddlebags were swaying in it. There was a hole in the rock face. Scootaloo guessed that an animal had used it as a burrow at some point in time. It was in a good location—near water and food supplies, yet out of reach of most predators.

She looked up and noticed that the sun had begun its descent. “Have I been walking that long?” she said to nobody in particular.

A growl emitted from the hole in the rock face.

Scootaloo shot to her hooves, nearly toppling over the cliff then and there. Heart racing, she hesitantly leaned forward, peering into the hole. The inside of the cavity was pitch black. Even the noon sun failed to illuminate past the first few inches. It growled again. Scootaloo felt its breath against her face, warm and putrid. She looked to her side, debating whether she should make a run for it.

Attacked by some creature or a long fall onto sharp rocks. Pick your demise.

She looked back into the hole. Her body stiffened.

The creature was partially visible. The tip of its long rough snout was inches from her face, sunlight reflecting off its razor-sharp fangs. Though it was difficult to tell, Scootaloo could have sworn she saw bits of flesh hanging from its molars. None of that was what left her paralyzed with fear. What made her blood run cold was the eyes. They were narrow, piercing, and strikingly red.

She didn’t think twice. Her legs moved on instinct. Run, turn, run, turn, run, turn; the process repeated itself for what felt like hours. The floor didn’t appear to be getting any closer, and Scootaloo wasn’t feeling any safer. She heard what sounded like claws scraping on rock behind her, as well as the all too familiar panting of a ravenous beast. Not like this, her mind whimpered. Not like this.

Run, turn, run, turn, run, tur— Stop!

Scootaloo looked down, then across. There would be a uncrossable gap in the middle of the path. She looked behind her. Pebbles showered down from above, tell-tale signs that she was utterly screwed. Again, she had to decide: fall to her death or get eaten alive. She glanced at her wings; they twitched nervously. The cogs in her mind turned so fast she thought they’d melt. She looked across the gap and narrowed her gaze.

I can do this.

Behind her, the beast growled. Below her, the forest waited with an open mouth. She took a deep breath and flapped her wings.

I can do this.

She leapt forward, eyes closing as soon as her hooves left the ground. She flapped her wings slowly and with confidence. Focus. Don’t push the air, let it push you.

I can do this.

Her progress halted.

I can do this.

She fluttered desperately.

I can do this.

She craned her neck. The other side was barely visible.

I can do this.

The leaves of the trees had three points on each side. They were sharp and painfully scraped against her face.

I can do this.

A limb met her nose and everything went dark.

*

“What should we tell her?”

“Nothing. We tell her nothing.”

“Honey… I can’t even imagine what you’re going through, but she knew. She’ll ask questions.”

“And we’ll tell her nothing.”

“What good would that serve, Flare?”

“She doesn’t need to know.”

“But she should. Flare?”

“I won’t do it. I won’t. No. Shut up. Shut up!”

“Flare? Easy, honey. Just sit down. I’ll get--”

“I won’t!”

*

The world came back in waves.

First came the gasping breath as the world rushed in around her. Scootaloo took a breath, then another. She was alive. Not long after that came the waves of sensation: grass rubbing against the back of her head, wind ruffling her mane, droplets of liquid—rain maybe—pattering across her chest, thicker water lapping at her hind hooves. For a moment, she was thankful for the sensation—she had made it through with her nerves still connected at least.

And then the pain poured in like a tidal wave.

Her nose felt like railroad spikes had been driven into each nostril. Pains, dull and sharp, fired through her limbs. A metallic taste filled her mouth. She spit and felt the thick liquid fall back onto her face, mixing with the grime and rain. She began to roll over onto her side, but her bruised ribs screamed in protest. All the while, the rain fell against her—the tiny drops like red-hot needles.

She was alive. At that moment, she wasn’t sure if that was a blessing.

Scootaloo’s hooves slid around on the muddy earth as she tried to stand. Each movement felt like a hundred fire ant bites, but she’d rather be in pain and moving than laying there and withering away. No pain, no gain, right? She began to chuckle at her quip, but her tender ribs quickly ceased the laughter. Hoo boy, that was a big one. How’d I survive that? She rubbed her face with a forehoof, sending more fire and coppery scents rushing up her nose. What the hay was that thing anyway? She listened closely for the distinctive sounds of an approaching beast. All she heard were her own shallow breaths and the pitter-patter of rain. She stood upright, legs still wobbling like a foal taking its first steps, as she tried to regain her bearings.

Sight was finally returning to her. She noticed two things. The first was that she had been unconscious for quite a while. She had seen many thunderstorms in her life--from the five-second-long whimpers to the massive, hour-long monsters. She had seen enough to know that even in the largest, most ferocious storms, the sun was still evident. The clouds would block out most of the light, but you could still tell that it was the middle of the afternoon. The world around her now was pure darkness, save for the occasional flash of lightning. No, it was well-past dusk. Not to mention, the skies had been clear when she’d tried to jump the gap. She guessed that she’d blacked out for at least six hours, give or take.

Ugh… She blinked and rubbed her eyes. A ringing rattled her ears. Celestia. That can’t be good for my head...

The second thing she noticed was that she was nowhere near where she had fallen. She had hit a tree branch on the way down, yet there were only a few trees in the area she was in now. Far less than the sea of firs that she’d descended into. Even more perplexing, there were no cliffs anywhere near her. Sure, the river could have pulled miles downstream before spitting her onto the shoreline, but… there was a feeling beneath all the shocking aches and throbbing bruises. A hole bored into her stomach.

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

She looked up and down the river, finding nothing but water and trees. Then she peered behind her. She instantly regretted looking behind her.

A pair of eyes glowed in amongst the brush. They watched her, unblinking.

She gulped. “Hello?”

They continued to stare. Scootaloo noticed they were a dark shade of rose. She began to back away, never once breaking contact. Just keep your eyes on it. If you keep looking at it, you’ll be fine.

A growl emitted from the darkness. Scootaloo’s heart raced. The sound of snapping twigs approached her. Closer and closer. The eyes grew until they were the size of dinner plates. They were mad. Ravenous. Hot, rank breath tickled her nostrils. Saliva dropped on her hoof—its consistency denser than the rain or blood. It burned slightly, though not as much as her sinuses. She began to quiver. All she could see were the eyes.

A bell rang out to Scootaloo’s left. She turned her head. The bell rang out again. She turned back. The creature had vanished. For a second, she could’ve sworn that she could hear the distant sounds of snapping twigs and rustling brush, but all noise was drowned out by yet another chiming of the bell. Once her breathing returned to a steady pace, Scootaloo trotted back to the bank, eyes set downriver. The bell continued to ring:

Four, five, six.

She leaned over the water and washed her face off. The water burned, and it was probably not the most sanitary way to clean her wounds, but it got the blood off. Or so she hoped. Her nostrils still smelled of copper. The bell rung on:

Seven, eight, nine.

Scootaloo craned her neck, peering down river. She could almost see around the bend, but her muscles were still tense. Every movement of her head sent jolts shooting down every nerve. Grunting with each step, Scootaloo began to walk towards the tolling as best she could. The ringing in her ears threatened to drown them out, but she pushed forward. At moments, she swore she saw lights flashing among the trees. Her hooves trembled, guided themselves towards the flashes. Every inch of her ached and sagged. Somehow, she managed to keep herself on the path. The lights were just another trick. Another reminder. Another punch to her restless gut.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

The bell ceased. Twelve. It was midnight, and she was in the middle of the forest, soaking wet and probably bleeding all over, with no shelter and no idea where she was. Scootaloo had decided long before now that someone on a higher plane of existence hated her guts; this only solidified that belief.

The walk was an arduous one. Each step hurt more than the last. She hadn’t made it a single kilometer before she had to stop and take a break. By the time she could move her legs enough to proceed, the unseen bell had already tolled once. The river curved to the left, and Scootaloo rounded the bend to find herself staring directly at a village. A fishing village by the looks of it—even in the dark she could make out fishing nets and rods.

Compared to Ponyville, the village was a speck of dust. Scootaloo counted five building—though there were probably others that were obscured by the night or other buildings—and only one of them was taller than a single story. The lit lanterns swinging on the sides of the huts showed that, unlike the station she had spent the previous night at, this village expected visitors to pass through—or at least living beings. A couple lanterns rested on opposite ends of a bridge over the river, several sat atop windowsills, and one large flame rose above the front door of the village’s one two-story building. It illuminated an old wooden sign. From a distance, she couldn’t read the words written on it, but the image messily painted on it spoke volumes. And what divine volumes they were.

A tankard.

She could barely suppress a wave of laughter as she scurried towards the beacon. Her legs groaned and trembled in protest, but they could just shut up. Luck hadn’t been on her side the whole day, and she knew that getting her hopes up would only lead to more disappointment or near-life-threatening injuries, but she would be damned if she didn’t believe. Luck always turns eventually. Sure, her bad luck extended back past the previous day, past the previous weeks, all the way back past the start of the year, but that just meant that, according to what she remembered from those boring statistics lessons, her luck had to change eventually.

Right?

* * *

The Gatehouse—an odd name for a tavern, considering Scootaloo saw no gates anywhere near the place—smelled of ales, cigars and rotten vegetables. A thick haze of smoke enshrouded everything and everybody. Voices seeped through the veil. Loud, slurred ramblings, spoken almost exclusively in four-letter by voices rougher than sandpaper. Scootaloo tried her best to ignore the diatribes and flying bottles, but each shatter and shout was like a hammer to the head.

She strolled up to the bar and hopped up on one of the stools. This is what you do, right? she asked herself, though she knew there was no known answer to that question. She was still in school. By law, she shouldn’t have even been allowed in the front door, but nobody had stopped her. Judging by how shoddy the bar was she doubted anybody cared whether she was of age or not. They might not even give a flying flip if she ordered something. She rested her hoof on her bit pouch. She’d seen her dad drink some of this stuff when he’d chipped a hoof while sculpting, so maybe it’d do her muscles some good. Jingling the bag, she sighed and let go. With her luck, she couldn’t afford to waste bits on anything but necessities.

Despite the rowdy atmosphere, the bar itself was nearly deserted. Most of the patrons were gathered around the many game tables cluttered together in the corner—the center of attention an intense game of Liar’s Dice between an eyepatch-wearing unicorn and a large zebra. The only other figure at the bar itself wasn’t a pony—wasn’t even equine at all. Rather, he was a griffon, and a large one at that. He wore a bandana around his neck, and the fur around his beak was just black, offsetting his ghost-white coat and feathers. He stared straight ahead, and Scootaloo stared at him.

She’d never seen a griffon before. She’d heard about them, sure, but before this moment they were but drawings in her head. Now, she could see the sharp talons and oddly shaped legs. She could feel the power radiating off him. Or her. How did they look different? Even in a madhouse, this griffon stuck out. Such strength. Such nobility. Such—

“The fuck you starin’ at?” the griffon growled. “Turn your eyes ‘fore I mess that nose up even more.”

Scootaloo didn’t even know how to respond. She looked down at the bar. Between the emptied glasses and ale residue were dozens of newspapers—some splotched in dust, some coated with fresh ink. Tilting her head, she could make out a few of the headlines. Bad Moon Rising: The Princess of Night Returns! Shadows on the Horizon: The Return of a Threat in the North? The Canterlot Times Investigates; Kingdom in Turmoil: The Striderian War Continues to Escalate; Where is Luna? The Mysterious Case of the Missing Princess.

Swallowing against an arid throat, Scootaloo ran a hoof along the last article. The pages wrinkled and tore from mere touch. Ancient. The date was a blur of ink. How old could this possibly be? There’s no way… Sighing, she pushed the thought aside with the yellowed frontpage, turning her attention to the headline of the paper beside it. Her blood ran cold.

Remember the Fallen! Element Slain, Dozens Wounded in— She pushed the paper away. It fluttered to the floor with an unceremonious ruffle.

Some creature cleared its throat. “That’s what I thought, fledgling feathered fruit.” The griffon scowled on.

“Hey, Terry, I’m back. I tell ya—Oh, come on, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me! Another one? Terry, who’s the kid?”

The griffon looked up with glassy eyes. “Do I look like I know?” he said before gulping down his shot of scotch. He pointed a wing at the glass. “You’re lucky she ain’t all over the damn floor, way she’s gawking about.”

Scootaloo blinked her eyes back into focus. Standing just to the side of the clipping was a donkey. His black mane was long and unkempt, falling over his back and nearly touching the floor. In his mouth was a cigarette, smoked to the butt. He pulled a bottle of scotch from a shelf behind him and poured half of it into Terry’s glass. The liquid poured over the lip, through the cracks in the top, and all over the griffon’s talon. Terry glared, but the donkey’s attention had already shifted to Scootaloo. He leaned forward on the bar, stared at her through yellow eyes, and scowled.

“What are ya doin’ here, darlin’?” His teeth were as yellow as his eyes. The stench was unbearable. “Clearly ya ain’t a smart one—eyein’ Terry like that—but even a fool’s gotta know they ain’t s’posed to be here. Ya know that, don’t ya?”

“I was. I, uh. Um.” The words got caught in Scootaloo’s throat, held back by the smoke. She took a deep breath, but it only pushed forward more hacking coughs. “Uh… I was just... uh, wondering if you ha—" She wheezed and wiped her watery eyes. Clearing her throat, she attempted to finish her question. Do you have rooms?” The barkeep raised an eyebrow. “Like, to spend the night in, I mean?” Scootaloo finished.

“Normally don’t deal with y’all young folk ‘round here,” he said, eyes drifting to the game tables. Well, one eye. His other stayed in place, its emotionless pupil focused on nothing. “But lookin’ at ya… well, if ya got the bit, I might be of service. Ya got the bit, right?”

“How much?” she asked.

“Depends how much ya got.”

Scootaloo reached into her saddlebags and pulled out her pouch. She counted her bits several times before looking up, the smokey tendrils wrapping around her throat. “Um… Five b-bits?”

The barkeep put out his cigarette in an ashtray and pulled out another. “Normally charge two.” He paused and lit up. “But, if we got caught housin’ y’all young folk ‘round here, we’d get shutdown faster than ya can say ‘whiskey.’ Not to mention we’re packed tighter than a magic school honor’s student ‘round here, so that’ll cost ya extra.” He stopped yet again, chuckling at a joke Scootaloo must have missed. The laughter ceased almost as soon as it had begun and his chest lurched. With lightning-fast reflexes, he pulled out a handkerchief and put it to his mouth right as a series of harsh coughs burst forth. The fit lasted for nearly a minute, and Scootaloo began to wonder if she should call for help. The donkey noticed this and lifted a hoof. A few more rounds of coughing fired off before he lowered the handkerchief and wiped off his lips. He grimaced as he looked into the rag. Grunting, he tossed it underneath the sink and began to talk again. “Sorry ‘bout that. What were we talkin’ ‘bout?”

“A room for the night.”

“Ah, yes... as I was saying.” He took a drag from the miraculously still lit cigarette and blew out a near-perfect ring of smoke. It drifted directly into Terry’s face. Terry glowered and extended both his middle talon and feather. The donkey laughed. “Anyway. Normally, I’d charge ten or fifteen bits for a filly like you—fines for housin’ y’all minors are insane—but I’m in a good mood tonight, and ya look like you’ve gone five rounds with Tartaurs itself, so I’m gonna let ya off with three. Deal?” He motioned to his nose. “Ya want that looked at by the by? Been a while, but I can still clean that up and set it.

“I’m fine. Yeah, sure, whatever, three bits.” Scootaloo didn’t want to look at him. Something about him rubbed her the wrong way. She tossed five bits on the counter. The ants were on them before they stopped bouncing. “I’m beat,” she continued, stretching and yawning for emphasis. “Where’s my room?”

The donkey bent down and rummaged around underneath the bar. “Room Seventeen’s where you’ll be. I’m Sal, by the by. I’ll take ya to it.”

Scootaloo rolled her eyes. “I don’t need an escort.”

The donkey looked up, a dead serious expression on his face. “Oh, ya do, darling. Believe me, ya do.”

Scootaloo sighed. It was clear she wasn’t going to win this argument. The donkey looked over at Terry. “Hey, hold the fort for a few, will ya? And don’t drink my stock either.”

The griffon merely gave him another feather. “Up yours, Sal.”

Sal chuckled. “Never change, Terry. Never change.” Terry gave him a look of utter contempt, to which Sal responded with another gravely chuckle. Gunting as he grinned, he turned back to Scootaloo. “Ya really do look like crap, darlin'. What'd ya do, get into a deathmatch with a grizzly bear?”

Scootaloo shrugged and hopped down from the chair, legs nearly buckling once again, as Sal walked out from behind the bar. With his hooves on the ground, Scootaloo was surprised at how short he way; her head neared his chin. As they walked past the bar, towards a narrow staircase, Scootaloo noticed three steps leading to a raised platform. Probably to make him feel tall. Scootaloo thought, trying and failing to hold back a snort. The donkey either didn’t hear her or minded not. “What brings ya out here, anyway?”

Scootaloo straightened up. How long had he been talking? “Huh?”

Sal stopped and pointed at Scootaloo’s chest for a single second before turning and continuing forward. “Them goggles. They got the Ponyville flag on ‘em. That’s not exactly nearby.”

“Wha?” Scootaloo nearly tripped over her forehooves. “How do you know what Ponyville’s flag is? Are you from there?”

He gave a hearty laugh. “No, no. Oh, Celestia, no. Farthest east I've ever been is Hogwater.” Scootaloo raised an eyebrow. “That’s a farm a few clicks down the trail that runs through town. Not far from here, in other words. Jed, the stallion who owns that place is a mighty kooky ol’ pony. Best horseshoe player I ever met, though. I remember... oh, it musta been ten years ago. Me and ol’ Jed were playin’ horseshoes, and decided to make this bet, his chickenhouse or my outhouse, right? And I... I’m gettin’ off topic aren’t I? What were we talkin’ ‘bout?”

“Uh, Ponyville.”

“Ah, yes, of course! Ponyville." He shuddered slightly. "Yeah, I have a cousin who lives there. Name’s Matilda. Ya know her?”

Scootaloo shrugged. “I’ve heard that name before. Might have even seen her a time or two, but... no, I wouldn’t say I know her.”

“Thank the father.” He paused, shaking his head. “Nah, that’s not fair. Good girl, that Matilda,” he sighed. “Just don’t know why she decided to waste away in Ponyville. Not that Ponyville's all bad, just... boring and… never mind. Different story for a different time.”

“I’m looking for somepony,” Scootaloo said absentmindedly.

“What a coincidence, your roomies are too.”

“Roomies?”

“Yeah. Don’t ya remember nothin’, featherbrain?” Sal said with a throaty guffaw. “We’re packed to the ceilin’ here. Only got three rooms, so you’re just gonna have to share a room. Luckily there’s two other fillies here to bunk with so ya don’t have to deal with Gertrud.” He shivered.

Scootaloo stopped, hooves nearly falling over one another. “Three rooms? But you said my room was number seventeen.”

“It is. I don’t believe in number order and all that junk. Just give ‘em the number I want, and who doesn’t love seventeen?” He slid to a stop before Scootaloo could answer. “Ah! Here we are.” The door was as worn as Scootaloo expected. The number “seventeen” lazily hung near the top, written down in ink on scotch tape.

“If ya need anything just holler,’ Sal said, already near the end of the hall. “Would love to stay and chat, but Terry’s probably already tryin’ to start a fight.” And with that, he disappeared around the corner, leaving Scootaloo to stare at the door.

Alright, Scootaloo, take a guess. What’s behind door number seventeen. Ghosts? Gallons of blood? That... thing from earlier? Or is it something worse? ‘Cause you just know it’s gonna be something worse. How could it not?

She took a deep breath and placed the key in the lock, and that was as far as she got. The door creaked open, nearly smacking her tender nose. Eyes locked and jaws fell agape. Silence filled the air, threatening to smother the two petrified ponies. Scootaloo was the first to speak, her words nigh incomprehensible under a deluge of squeaking gasps.

“Apple Bloom?!”

Author's Note:

Special Thanks, in both 2012 and 2019, to Bronius Maximus, Corejo, Cynewulf, Flutterdude, and Tayman

Comments

[WatchMeShadow]

This just gets better and better, :)

[-newt-]

I have to agree. This is quickly becoming one of my favorite fanfictions on the site!

[Ficta_Scriptor]

Another great chapter. Scootaloo's displays of bravery are so endearing it makes me smile. Now she'll have the support from her friends that she so desperately deserves and needs. I'm feverishly waiting in anticipation of what comes next!