The Witch

by Zodiac

Chapter I: Of Witches and Tobacco Dealers

“Verily, there is nothing so hideous as these monsters, so contrary to nature, known as witches, for they are the offspring of foul sorcery and devilry. They are rogues without virtue, conscience or scruple, true diabolic creations, fit only for killing. There is no place amidst honest ponies for such as they.”
—Anonym, “Mostrum, or Portrayal of the Witch”

---

Chapter I: Of Witches and Tobacco Dealers

She entered the town as if entering a brothel—loudly, briskly and full of confidence. She even used the occasion to have a little squabble with the guards at the eastern gate. The mare trotted through the main street, with looks of indignation, fear, interest, and hatred following her every move. She paid them no heed, nor was she concerned by them. The streets were crowded at this time of the day; the citizens rushed to work, the soldiers to their guard posts, the beggars to sit under shrines, and the harlots wherever they could.

She stood out from the throng because of her choice of clothing, inadequate for this kind of weather. Although it was the middle of summer, she wore a black, hooded coat, covering her entire body. The only thing visible was her pipe, poking from under the hood.

Despite the crowd, she had no trouble with passing. The reason was simple: everyone was avoiding her, trying not to bump into her, or—gods forbid—say anything. Finally, to the citizens’ relief, she turned into a back street. The alley was quiet, empty, and dirty. Incredibly dirty. Every spot was littered with rotten fruits and vegetables, and rats kept coming out of their holes to fight endlessly for food with those, for whom fate was not kind. Or, to be more precise, who had fate kick them in their arse, quite strongly at that. The place was far from attractive, but it held one advantage: it could be used to go around the main plaza and reach her destination quicker. After a few minutes of walking, she arrived at the right place.

The tavern’s name—A Drop of Cider—was far from adequate. Not a single barrel of cider had ever even passed near it. The best one could find in there was potato vodka and “vine” that tasted more like watered-down piss, than alcohol.

The tavern’s interior was to her taste. It was mostly empty, apart from one table, occupied by a few guys who broke their fierce debate upon her entrance, but returned to it after a short while. And changed the subject.

An elderly stallion with a graying mane stood behind the counter, his chubby face inspiring trust. He was cleaning a mug with a piece of rag, undoubtedly after serving some kind of “delicacy” in it not too long ago. When he saw the mare, he put the mug aside and frowned. It was obvious that her visit wasn’t well received.

“Want anything?” he grunted, as the mare trotted towards the counter.

“Vodka,” she replied. Her voice made the hair on the innkeeper’s neck stand on end. It was cold, harsh, and somewhat strange-sounding.

The innkeeper grunted something incoherently and went to the back. The stallions sitting in the corner started to scrutinize the mare with unpleasant, and even hostile looking glares. She ignored it. All she wanted was a drink. At least for now. A moment later the innkeeper returned, carrying a tray with a mug and carboy. He poured the life-giving liquid in the mug with one swift move and gave it to the mare. She drank it whole in one gulp, smacked her lips and shook her head.

“Good,” she judged, both to the innkeeper’s relief and content. “There was supposed to be a package waiting here for me.”

“Well…”

“Do you have it?” she asked calmly.

“Yeah…” The stallion pulled a small package from underneath the counter and passed it to her.

The transaction seemed to catch the interest of the fellows from the corner table.

“Thank you,” she said, giving the innkeeper a small yet quite bulgy and jingling pouch.

The stallion immediately took a liking to her. That’s why he felt a little sad when three thugs left their corner and started to follow her as soon as she left his tavern.

Before she could get too far, she was stopped by the voice of one of the stallions—a brownish green unicorn with a white, short mane.

“'old on!” he called. “No need to be in such 'urry, right?”

The mare didn’t answer.

“This a dangerous neighbourhood,” the stallion continued. “One can easily come across some thugs, prowling around like the plague… And that is why I 'ave a proposition for you!”

She still didn’t say a word. The stallion took that as a sign to go into more detail about his “offer.”

“A fair lady like yourself surely 'as a lot of coin, as I gather by seeing you pay for the pisswater that whoreson dares to call vodka. It’s dangerous to wander around like this, so 'ere’s my offer: you give us your money, and nopony’s gonna be thinkin’ about robbing you. As for us, don’t cha worry your pretty little 'ead. We can 'andle ourselves, right boys?”

His two companions nodded gaily, clearly showing that they don’t fear any assaults and felt safe thanks to their flimsily made hatchets. She was still silent, and after a moment she started to trot on, completely ignoring the bunch. The unicorn felt slightly confused and his comrades looked totally dazed, but they quickly calculated that the opportunity was just too good to pass up.

“Now listen 'ere!” The unicorn’s tone lost its former politeness. “I tried being nice, but I’m not gonna stand for such rudeness! Either you give us your money, or you’ll be giving us both your money and yourself. And we’ll be 'aving a right proper time together, sweetie, oh yes we will... You won’t be able to walk till Sennia after we’re done with you!”

Still ignoring the unicorn, she walked right past him. He finally lost his temper.

“No bitch’s gonna be ignoring me like that!” he yelled and latched on her cloak with his magic, ripping it off of her.

The thugs momentarily concluded that they should've stuck to the more friendly approach.

She was a zebra. Quite tall, slim, but muscular—which didn’t deny her beauty, for it was also of higher standards. She was wearing a leather jacket with puffy sleeves that gave her a noble appearance. It was quite clear that it wasn’t a cheap thing, but something affordable only to someone who earns his money in a dishonest way, at least in the society’s eyes.

The most impressive thing was her sword, slung over her side. It was long, possibly a bastard blade, with a length of about five feet. Its hilt was richly ornamented: the pommel was shaped like a dragon’s head, and the cross-guard was long and curved in the direction of the rain guard. The scabbard itself also looked very grand, with its tip made from the skin of some kind of reptile, probably not your average snake or lizard, and had silver ferrules.

These were not the only rich elements of her attire: on her neck hung two thick, golden rings, and a similar earring adorned her left ear. Two smaller rings tied her mane in the back.

All of that was unusual, but logical. What the thugs found illogical, however, was a belt with small bottles, filled with various strange contents, slung over her chest. She looked almost like an apothecary. Almost, for that’s where the similarities ended.

But no amount of swords, clothes, or strange bottles could have such an impression on the trio as her eyes did. Those beauteous pools of blue had a touch of exotism to them, their vertical cat-like pupils staring into the thugs like eyes of a hungry predator. They bore so deep into their minds that they evoked a primal sense of fear and anxiety.

Hence they were even more horrified when she started to study them with those eyes. And to make matters worse, she didn’t look too happy.

She looked at her cloak, now lying in a puddle, with a critical eye, and then turned her gaze back to the unicorn, who had his face frozen in fear. The stallion kept shifting his eyes from her to his companions, probably calculating the odds. After what was probably the biggest calculus problem in his life, he seemed to reach the conclusion that three was probably more than one, regaining some of his confidence.

“Ha!” he shouted. “You can’t scare us! You’re alone, and there’s three of us!”

His companions seemed to like his short motivational speech, and expressed it with nasty grins and energetic nods. Yet it could not be said that they were not afraid. The zebra still stood, unshaken, like a tax collector ripping the last bit from a poor family.

“Come on, boys!” the unicorn cried. “Let’s get 'er!”

He lunged at her with his cleaver, his two companions following suit. The zebra smirked. The unicorn’s cleaver, held by his magic, swung at her direction, but in less than a second the zebra pulled out her sword and parried the sloppy cut, striking the cleaver out of his grip—it flew away and buried itself in a nearby wall. She twirled, dodging the blows of the two other stallions, and smacked the unicorn with the blade’s handle. Her enemy dropped to the ground, unconscious, with blood slowly pouring down his forehead onto the pavement.

The other two stallions were so stunned that they didn’t even notice when she got between them. The first one got a powerful kick to the belly. Groaning and bending over, he earned himself another blow, this time to the back of his head. Only one left.

The dun stallion—an earth pony—started to back away in panic, staring at the mare, whose face was calm and impassive as a mountain. His legs shook and tangled, giving up on him, making him tumble to the ground and forcing the thug to crawl. The zebra simply stood, not even moving. But as soon as she raised her sword, the stallion immediately spurred into action. He leapt to his hooves and started to run like a madpony. He didn’t even care that he was heading straight for a wall; he hit it with such force that it shook from the impact, and a potted plant fell down from a windowsill directly above him, knocking the thug out cold.

The fight was over.

But she wasn’t done yet. The zebra looked around, searching for that one particular thing. The area was littered with all kinds of rubbish: wagons parts, buckets, waste, bottles, and other useless junk. But nowhere could she find that one thing. Finally she approached the ruined remains of a wagon and looked inside. And smiled.

The unicorn started to regain consciousness. His head pounded like after that one time they celebrated the successful heist on that merchant from some time ago. He tried to remember what happened. He was drinking with his friends in that dingy tavern, when…

He suddenly heard the clatter of chains. And then he remembered.

---

The stallion regained full consciousness feeling completely numb, the sound of unfriendly murmurs and shouts filtering into his ears. He opened his eyes lazily, simultaneously trying to make out the muffled voices around him. He heard somepony yell curses and threats, shout obscenities and whistle shrilly. When his eyes finally cracked open, he saw flashes of orange, most likely torches. Various shapes loomed before him, eventually blending into one indescribable mass. For a moment there he thought he saw a crowd of ponies.

He tried to move, to get up. Unsuccessfully. His legs, both front and rear ones, were chained together. Once that realization hit him, he began to worry, trying to yank himself free. A sudden pain in his temple served to sober him up. A sudden explosion of intense and dull pain. Pain that could have been caused only by something hitting him hard. Something…

Like a stone.

The stallion looked ahead in frustration, expecting to see a bunch of punks that decided to have some fun by throwing rocks at decent thugs like himself. And indeed, he saw such a bunch. But not only: behind the youths stood a group of enraged stallions and mares, holding various, unpleasantly looking tools. A moment of thought made him realise that he recognises some of their faces. Most of them were robbery and rape victims, all of which were committed by him and his fellows. He also realised that the mob had no intention of pursuing those matters through legal means.

He wanted to call for his companions, but quiet moans coming from behind him told him that they also were a bit tied up at the moment.

Another rock flew past his head. The next one hit him square in the teeth. The mob started to come closer, hungry for blood. The unicorn started to scream, wail, to cry. His shouts woke up the rest of the thugs, who quickly joined him in his despair. One of the mares lifted a hoe and hit him in the shoulder. The stallion screamed in terrible pain, crying pathetically as he looked up.

He was greeted by the site of more tools flying straight at him.

---

Veks was sitting behind the counter of his shop, clearly in a bad mood. Customers were even scarcer than usually, though he thought that impossible. To make matters worse, the guards choose this day for an inspection and once again he a lost part of his goods because according to them they seemed “suspicious”. It was the third time this month, and the goods were by no stretch of the word substandard. Nor were they cheap. Veks started to wonder how in Equestria was it that none of the garrison commanders seemed bothered by the fact that even the lowest-ranking guards could afford the best tobacco on this side of Everfree. Then again, they probably had their share in all this. Either way, there was nothing Veks could do about it.

He checked today’s balance sheet. He earned about three hundred forty-seven bits today, and lost at least five hundred. He could bear the guards taking the zebricanian pepper tobacco or the saddledesert one. He could even bear the loss of the rehenian tobacco, flavored with a drop of manticore venom. But he couldn’t get over the loss of the pure imperial tobacco. Sometimes he balanced on the fine line between contraband and black market trade and legal sources just to get a bit of that delicacy. He also did everything he could to keep his source of this rarity hidden. If somepony found that out, taxation, confiscation, or even shutting down his business would be the last of his concerns.

His meditations on the gross powerlessness against the unfairness of the authorities were broken by the creak of opening doors. He looked up lazily, expecting to see yet another yokel wanting to buy some cheap shit. He was mistaken, but what a happy mistake is was.

For it was her that entered his shop.

Veks stood up immediately, squinting and rubbing his eyes as if they were fooling him. But they weren’t; a zebra, dressed in a leather jacket, with a sword by her side and potions hanging on her chest was walking towards him. The shopkeeper’s face brightened and his bad mood was quickly forgotten. The zebra’s initially stony facade also crumbled, morphing into a warm smile.

“Well I’ll be… Ha!” the cream-coated unicorn laughed happily. He trotted towards her and hugged his guest tightly. “Dammit, Chromia! I’ve missed you.”

The zebra called Chromia hugged him in return, also smiling. The smile gave her a warm expression and, along with the unusual eyes, enhanced her substantial beauty. It was safe to say that Chromia was far more attractive when she was in a good mood.

Like most mares, plainly speaking.

“Good to see you too, Veks.”

Veks was just about to answer, but a loud, pain-filled scream pierced the air like a sudden thunderclap. The scream got stronger over time, and soon it was joined by two others. The shopkeeper did not waste any time and levitated a large crossbow from underneath the counter.

“Again...” he snarled. “Butchering themselves again, whoresons! If any of those bastards come near, I’ll give him a proper welcome!”

“Easy there,” Chromia said. “There’s no need for panic, Veks. It’s not a riot, nor pogrom.”

“How do you know?”

A smile appeared on her face, though this time it was not a charming one. Combined with those extraordinary eyes of hers, Chromia would now be capable of scaring the living daylights out of quite a few daredevils.

“Um… do I really want to know? Probably not,” he added quickly.

Chromia snorted.

“So,” Veks started, “did you get my package? That bloody piss-server didn’t lose it?”

“Yeah, I got it. But I don’t understand what’s with all the secrecy.”

“Ha ha,” he laughed, putting his crossbow back in its place. “My dear, naive Chromia. Do you have any idea what could happen to me if that package was found in my shop? Believe me, I would be praying for the noose, or better yet, for the ax.”

“That bad?” The zebra raised an eyebrow.

“No sooner than three hours ago I had an... inspection from the guards. Bunch of pigs! I hate them! You have no idea, how much I bucking hate them! They confiscated five hundred bits worth of goods! That’s robbery!”

“What about profits?”

“Profits?!” Veks laughed grimly. “Do you know what customers I have? Two kinds: either they take my stuff without paying, or they’re so poor that they can’t afford anything but the cheapest crap. Only an occasional client, like you, buys something better that tobacco mixed with sorrel!”

“Speaking of which… I need some tobacco. My supplies had run dry two days ago, and sucking on this pipe stirs my clients imagination, leading then to misinterpret my profession.”

“I misinterpret it just by looking at you.” Veks eyed the mare and smiled. “Really, I don’t understand how someone with your looks can have such a line of work!”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“That they can be,” Veks nodded. “Just look at the streets. You’ll see normal citizens and guardponies patrolling everything. But the truth is that everything here is run by bandits, cutthroats, and rapists, and the streets are full of crooks, humbugs, whores, and quite a few rapists too. This town… Damn, this whole world is going to the dogs!” He sat and bowed his head, sighing deeply. “I wish I was born before the First Rebellion. Those must’ve been beautiful times…”

“You know,” Chromia started, “not everything written in books has to be true.”

“Even if,” Veks looked at her, “I rather not know that and live with a dream.”

“If that’s what you want.” The zebra rolled her sky blue eyes. “Believe in what you want and live the way you want, as long as you keep supplying me with this fine tobacco.”

The shopkeeper brightened. “At least someone appreciates my stuff. So, what would you like today?” he asked, pointing to the shelves filled with various, small packs with different labels.

“Hmm,” Chromia scratched her chin. “What about the stuff you gave me last time?”

“I'm out,” Veks replied. “The guards took it all. How about I give you something from your homeland? Maybe some zebricanian pepper tobacco?”

“I have about as much in common with Zebricania as you do with King Preest.”

“Oh, come on. You’re a zebra. It’s… Like it or not, even if you didn’t come from there, your ancestors did.”

“Again with this thing,” Chromia sighed. “Listen, Veks, I didn’t know my parents, so I also have no idea who my grandparents were, or my great grandparents, or anyone from my family for that matter. So what if they were from Zebricania? I look like a zebra, but I was born and risen here. I act and think like everyone else in the Duchies.”

“You can’t deny that you’re different. And I don’t mean just the stripes or your profession.”

“Enough, end of topic!” she snarled. “You have the tobacco or not?”

“All right… But still, I recommend trying the pepper tobacco. It’s really strong and aromatic!”

“Give me a sample.”

Veks handed her a small box with zebricanian pepper tobacco. Chromia sniffed the dried herbs and smiled. They smelled really good. She tamped the chamber of her smoking pipe with it, placing it in a special, spiral way. This technique had a great influence on the quality of smoking, and it also proved to Veks that Chromia was no novice in that field. The zebra lit the pipe and took a few puffs of the smoke. Not too strong, not too weak. Rhythmically and slowly. This resulted in a wonderful aroma of tobacco mixed with pepper.

“Mmm…” she murmured contently. “This is excellent.”

“I knew you'd like it. How much do you want?”

“Three boxes.”

“For you, that will be… fifteen bits.”

Chromia raised an eyebrow. “Not that I’m complaining, but… isn’t that a little too cheap?”

“Don’t insult me,” Veks looked at her with indignation. “You have a bloody discount for the rest of your life after what happened on that bridge near Old Baltimare!”

“That’s my job,” she replied coldly.

Veks shook his head. No. For him, it wasn’t just a case of hiring a witch. She saved him. There were enough bones lying under the bridge to Old Baltimare. Chromia’s act to him was nothing short of salvation, and since he was a stallion of honor, he knew he had to return the favor.

But Chromia herself saw that in a different light. For her, saving a merchant was just another job. Her daily routine. Her goal. Veks’ case was in no way different or special. Not for her. She was a witch, and she was just doing what she was meant to do.

That didn’t change the fact that Veks decided to make Chromia his best friend. Not that it was onerous for Chromia—quite the opposite, in fact. Discounts, free accommodation, and food can make anyone happy, and the zebra was no exception. During the last three years their friendship grew. He was alive and could keep running his business thanks to her, and in turn she could always count for a bed, a full plate, and cheaper tobacco.

“Alright, I get it. It’s what you do. Oh, that reminds me! Are you visiting this rathole because of something in particular, or are you just passing through?”

“A job. I’ve heard that the local banneret has some kind of problem. A not-easy-to-fix one.”

Veks grimaced and frowned. It was clear he heard about the issue. And he wasn’t exactly thrilled to find that his friend was suppose to take care of it.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “You see… Rent Banner’s son has gone missing.”

“And he wants to hire a witch to find him?” Chromia asked in surprise. “That’s—”

“Let me finish. What makes this problem unique is that the lad got lost somewhere in the Forest.”

“The Everfree?” Chromia’s ears raised upon realizing what Veks just said. She started to study the stallion. “Now I understand. Hmm, yes, this contract really is starting to look uglier by the minute. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve spend my last money on this jacket, ‘cause my last one got torn up by ghouls. I need this job.”

The shopkeeper shook his head and started to mutter something under his breath. Chromia ignored him. “Do you know anything about this disappearance?”

“They say the little snot went there to impress some mare. A whore, from what I’ve heard, but those can be just rumors. Anyway, he went into the forest and never came back. I’m willing to bet a whole lot of bits that by now he’s been torn apart by timberwolves or something worse. It’s a lost cause, I’m telling you. And the banneret won’t pay you anything if you don’t find his brat.”

“Either way, a job’s a job. At least I won’t be bored.”

“Yeah, and instead you’ll get yourself torn apart.”

“If I was so easy to kill, you wouldn’t be standing here today either.”

The jab hit home. Veks’ ears dropped and he looked away, to the zebra’s great satisfaction.

“You’re setting out today?”

“No. Tomorrow, as soon as the sun rises. There’s nothing quite like the crisp morning air and the sight of fresh corpses to start the day.”

“And young hookers. Don’t forget about young hookers.”

For a moment, a deep, impenetrable silence filled the room. The two ponies stared into each other’s eyes, their stony faces betraying no emotions. It was so quiet that Chromia could clearly hear every breath the stallion took. Veks in turn was able to see even the slightest twitch of her ears. Veks managed to inhale four times. Chromia only once.

And then they both broke into laughter.

The laughter lasted much longer than the silence. When they finally finished, Veks wiped a single tear from his cheek. “You know the way?”

Chromia nodded. At the same moment, the front doors burst open. A stout stallion, dressed in a light chainmail reinforced with armlets and greaves entered the shop. On his shoulder he wore an emblem depicting a tower. The stallion, an earth pony, had a murky-mint coat and fawn, gray mane. His brown eyes were sharp and cold, radiating with anger. A scar disfigured his face, stretching from his temple, right next to the eye, to his cheek.

The newcomer leveled them with a cold look. Veks grew serious and told Chromia to stand aside, while he moved back behind the counter.

“Greetings, captain,” he welcomed the stallion, fake respect clearly heard in his voice. At least Chromia could hear it. “How can I help you, sir? You require tobacco? A new pipe?”

“Shut your trap, Veks. I know very well that you love me as much as you love a tax collector, so you can cut the charming prelude,” the newcomer muttered in a low voice. “Give me some of that saddledesert specialty.”

Veks’ expression did not change the slightest, still artificially polite. “I’ll have to go to the back to get it. I’ll be with you in a moment.” He disappeared behind the doors.

Silence filled the room. The captain was leaning on the counter while Chromia stood against the wall, examining her hooves, but at the same time paying close attention to the minty stallion. He didn’t seem to have the same patience and just started to stare at her. By the look on his face, Chromia deduced that he was another typical, narrow-minded boor, the likes of which you can meet everywhere. He eyed the zebra with curiosity, but also with distance and contempt. Chromia could not tell if that was because of her race, profession, or maybe just the fact that she was a swordsmare.

She sat quietly, ignoring him.

“What are you looking for in our city?” he finally asked.

“A chance to earn some bits,” she replied calmly.

“There’s no place here for the likes of you.”

“Yet somehow I manage to fit in.”

“So you think you’re funny, huh? Then I must disappoint you: you’re not. You’re just a freak the citizens don’t have to, and—I assure you—won’t tolerate. This is a decent town, with decent citizens. You don’t belong here. And anywhere else for that matter.”

“Is that your opinion, or are you just repeating after someone else?”

The stallion was getting more agitated by the minute.

“If you know what’s good for you, zebra, you’ll cut your smart-talk. Your big mouth can upset some people. And those people tend to send those who upset them to the gallows. And you won’t be so smart there. Yes, you’d probably still be yapping, but I’d bet my monthly wage that you wouldn’t say a word after the show started.”

Chromia didn’t answer and started to study the stallion’s face. Their eyes met for a brief moment. The tension immediately grew, as sparks of hatred started to jump between them. The stallion frowned and straightened up, turning fully towards the witch. The zebra stood silently, her face impassive. It looked as if they were about to attack each other any second. The stallion’s eye started to twitch slightly. The atmosphere was so intense that it was likely to explode.

Luckily Veks had great timing and came in at just the right moment to defuse the situation.

“Here’s your weed.” He lifted a fair-sized package with his magic. “That’ll be forty-five bits.”

“How much?!” the minty stallion yelled outraged.

“Forty-five. What, is that too high?”

“Of course it’s too damn high! Last time it was only thirty!”

“Sorry, but I’m almost out of stock.”

“And that’s why you’re raising the price?”

“If you want more, ask the guards. They’ve got plenty,” Veks replied dryly.

The stallion grunted and grimaced. He took the package and threw a large pouch on the counter. Nodding, he muttered something and started to leave. Before he passed the doorstep he threw a last, warning glance at Chromia.

Veks plumped on a stool behind the counter and sighed heavily. Then he rested his head on his hoof and started to massage it.

“A charming fella,” Chromia observed.

“Captain Gladius. The banneret’s higher captain. A pathetic excuse of a soldier. And a thorn in the societies flank. You best keep an eye on him, he’s unpredictable. They say he once killed an innkeeper just for serving a donkey.”

“So he’s a racist? Nothing new there. I’ve had my fair share of the likes of him. They can’t surprise me with anything.”

“You know, Chromia, life taught me one thing.”

“What is it?”

Veks sat silently for a moment. He was looking in the distance, as if searching for memories.

“Life taught me,” he started, “that we learn all the time. But we don’t remember anything from those lessons.”

---

The house’s inside wasn’t very rich. It wasn’t even half as grand as the residences of the wealthier merchants, but it was still better than a house of a typical citizen. Paintings of stallions and mares hung from the walls. Most of the stallions wore some kinds of armour. Some of them were similar to the place’s host—the banneret Rent Baner. Therefore, the painted figures must have been some kind of his ancestors.

Here and there, time-worn tapestries hung from the walls. They were discoloured, frayed and smelled of dust and moths. Chromia suspected they aged back to times before the First Rebellion.

The house also lacked the typical amount of servants seen in a noble’s residence. The witch noticed only one or two maids. And no one else.

Chromia trotted down a portrait-decorated corridor stretching through the whole length of the floor. It seemed as if the ponies from the paintings were looking at her, asking questions which she could not hear. It was a strange feeling, ever for her.

She reached the door and knocked. Silence. She knocked again, harder. Still no response. She was just about to try again when she heard a stallion’s voice, hoarse, yet still clear, beckon her from the other side: “Enter.”

Chromia gently pushed the door open and entered. The room looked very elegant and much richer than the rest of the house. The first thing she noticed were the hunting trophies. The walls were decorated with skins, horns and claws of various creatures. Chromia could recognise all of them easily. A manticore’s skin and stinger, a vomit’s jaw, minotaur horns, basilisk feathers, and hippogriff paws. Remains of beasts so dangerous that killing one required no small amount of skills… or a huge amount of money. The witch suspected the trophies to be heirlooms left by the banneret’s more illustrious ancestors.

On the opposite wall, behind a desk, stood a considerable and decorative fireplace, cold and empty at the moment. But facing the fireplace was an armchair—tall, carved, and giving its owner a feeling of importance and significance.

Chromia did not fall for that.

“Sit down,” a voice coming from behind the armchair said.

The zebra sat in one of the two Dante chairs standing near the desk. She remained silent.

“Since you are here, I assume that you want to take this job. Very good. As you can see, I am in a dire situation and every second counts, so allow me to get to the point right away.”

She sat quietly, not interrupting.

“You see… about a week ago, my son has gone missing in the Everfree Forest. It is quite a blow for me, as a father. I can barely sleep at nights since then, and so does my wife. So far, nobody whom we asked could help us, or simply choose not to do so. Therefore you must surely understand why I have asked for your assistance.”

Chromia was silent.

“All know how witches work. It’s not a typical task, but surely fitting for your methods and skillset. That is why I ask… You are to find my son in the Everfree Forest and bring him back alive.”

Chromia still didn’t say a word. She knew the banneret had something more to say. She likely knew it better than he did.

“Of course,” Rent Banner continued, “you will be handsomely rewarded. I’m ready to pay you five hundred bits if you bring my son back. I trust you do not find that price offensive?”

“No,” she replied.

“Very good. Do you require something else? If not, please begin the search as soon as possible.”

“As a matter of fact, I do need something.”

“What is it?”

“Informations.”

Rent Banner was silent for a moment.

“What kind of informations?”

“How did it happen that your son got lost in the Everfree. Did he go there by himself? If so, why? And why did he go there in the first place.”

“That should not concern you,” the banneret replied nervously.

“If I am to find him, I need to know. He might be under a charm.”

“A charm?” Rent Banner sounded more surprised than concerned. “But… no. That is impossible. Who would… ?”

“Plenty individuals know that kind of tricks. You don’t need a specialized wizard, just someone who knows the basics of magic. But the question is: why?”

Again, the banneret fell silent for a long moment. Chromia couldn't see him, but she could hear his heavy breathing. He was nervous. “You said that it might be a charm.”

“That’s right. But if it’s true, I need to find out more. Sir… do you have any enemies?”

“What?” he asked angrily. “N-who doesn’t? There’s always someone who’s a pain in the rear.”

“Could any of them hire a wizard?”

“I do not know,” he replied without hesitation. “Anything else? I am a busy pony. If you have finished asking question, then please, start the search.”

“I have a few more.”

“Then ask!”

“He’s gone missing a week ago, but did he act strangely before that? Was he distant, lost in his thoughts? Maybe he was disappearing somewhere?”

“He’s a spoiled brat. He tended to roam across the whole damn city, squandering my fortune, drinking with no limit, plowing mares. I suspect he got drunk and wandered off to the woods.”

“So he vanished at night? What makes you so sure he’s in the Everfree? Someone might have…”

“Don’t even think that way!” Rent Banner yelled angrily. “His calpac was found near the Forest's border.”

“Can I see it?”

“The calpac? What for?”

“I need to check something.”

“I repeat, it’s not a charm!”

The banneret stood from his armchair at last. He turned out to be an aged stallion, but he still was holding up good. A square jaw and wrinkles on his orange face gave him the appearance of serious and prudent pony. His once black mane was dotted with grey hair. His green eyes studied the zebra closely, paying attention to every detail and—in Chromia’s opinion—peered into her very soul.

Yes. Banneret Red Banner seemed to be a serious, experienced and knowledgeable pony. One, which ate bread from many an oven and drank water from many a well.

But those were just looks, and those often were deceiving. The bannered was no different than a typical back-water nobel, and Chromia knew that full well.

Banner grabbed a hat from a shelf and tossed it towards Chromia. “Here. My son’s calpac. If it will help you find him, you can even take it with you. I don’t care. I just want my son back.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking a look at the hat, “but that won’t be necessary.”

The beaver calpac seemed cheap. It was worn, dirty and old, it stank with dust and mold. The brace adorning the front side was rusty. Only two peacock feathers saved the headgear from being called a piece of junk. I was hard to believe that a noble—even a poor one—would have, or for that matter, wore such a thing.

Chromia muttered a simple spell while making circular movements with her hoof. The banneret started to watch her with curiosity and anxiety. When the witch was done, she put the calpac back on Red Banner’s desk. He shoot her a questioning look.

“I had to make sure.”

“Of what?” the banneret mocked. “That it’s not cursed?”

She didn’t answer.

“Is that all? If so, please get down to work.” The stallion rubbed his chin and once again sat in the armchair.

Chromia did not ask any more questions. There was no need for that. She stood up from her chair and trotted towards the exit, casting another look at the trophies. The banneret didn’t stop her. He didn’t say the thing the zebra had in mind. She trotted into the corridor, where Banner’s ancestors were watching her with looks she did not recognize.

For those were friendly looks.

---

“So what you’re saying,” Veks put a package of sea tabacco on the shelf, “is that our noble was seduced by a fairy?”

“I’m not sure. The banneret was acting strangely. Like he didn’t even want to take into consideration that spells might be the reason behind his son’s disappearance.”

“Are you surprised? Everyone’s afraid of wizards. If Banner has enemies amongst them, then no wonder he’s afraid. Aside from you and your colleagues, wizards are either arrogant assholes or power-hungry, dog-eat-dog arrogant assholes.”

Veks was right. Since the First Rebellion and the following war, magic has been available only to the very best, the elite. Ordinary unicorns could no longer use spells, apart from simple telekinesis. It seemed the world was forever deprived of magic. But it was just a baseless fear, for soon after the war’s end, old archives about fields of magic available for everyone were found in the Empire.

Of course the citizens of New Equestria's worldview transformed. The term “available for everyone” was forgotten. Only those, who were somehow important could get anything. And magic being free to use by every pony race was something unacceptable. So it was decided that the secret arcanes will be vielded only by chosen ones, under the supervision of the Great Six.

New schools and universities of magic started to form. Yet this time only the smartest, most intelligent, patient, and persistent could learn to wield the ancient and powerful powers. The others slowly started to forget about it, until magic became a thing unreachable for simple ponies.

The only exceptions were renegades, who did not want to submit to the imperatives and laws of the Six. Those renegades fled, for fear of losing their heads, and developed their talents on their own, often drifting towards darker and more suspicious magical arts. Those were good reasons to be afraid of the likes of them, and that’s exactly what Veks suggested—that it was one of them who struck fear into Red Banner.

There was yet another reason behind Veks’ suspicions, for even legally operating mages did not shun from dirty tricks such as murders, abductions, tortures or seductions to achieve their goals. No wonder they were not popular amongst simple people, and magic became an appalling thing.

“That’s possible,” Chromia said finally. “But Banner said that his son was quite the reveller. Maybe he tread on somebody’s hooves? Fucked the wrong mare? Said the wrong words while being drunk?”

“Maybe, maybe... ” Veks scratched his occiput, searching for an empty space on the shelves to put another package there. “Basically, that’s the most likely scenario. Banner means nothing in this town, to be honest. No one cares about him. Actually, even an innkeeper could have beaten up his son for molesting some lass. They say the young fella often used to do things like that. He once even lost a few teeth in a tavern.”

Chromia’s ears pricked up. “Which one?”

Veks stopped cleaning up the shelves for a moment and turned towards the zebra. An odd look appeared on his creamy face, one expressing astonishment and disapproval. “Why do you want to know?”

“It’s always some trace, right?” Chromia smiled charmingly, and Veks completely softened. “Better to go there than straight to Everfree.”

“I suppose that’s true…”

“So?”

“What are you exactly expecting? Even if he was clubbed to death there, no one will tell you that. You must be out of your god-damned mind! You might end up earning a bump yourself.”

“Veks, Veks, Veks…” Chromia shook her head. “Don’t you know me long enough to know that I eat tavern thugs for breakfast?”

“You better watch out not to choke on that kind of starter,” the shopkeeper replied coldly.

The witch shook her head again. Veks’ caring for her was a riddle. He considered her a friend, yes, and the feeling was mutual. But he was too worried about her life sometimes. It was truly a puzzle to her, but a pleasurable one.

“Calm down, Veks. I’m not some typical adventurer. I always work discreetly, slowly and keep my guard. There’s no need for you to worry.”

To Chromia’s great relief, the stallion sighed and gave up. “All right. Young Banner got his snout beaten in The Lyra tavern. For fondling with waitresses, it seems. Only…” Veks thought for a moment. “Rumours say it wasn’t the innkeeper who’d beaten him up, but some scamps.”

“What’s so strange about that?”

“Are you serious? Who pays attention to things like groping some lassy these days? Come on. The innkeeper I can understand, but some shady-looking individuals?”

“Maybe they were brothers of that waitress?” Chromia suggested.

Veks only shook his head. “I used to believe in fairy tales, when I was young. Now… I don’t.”

“With a few small exceptions,” the zebra added quietly.

“Those are no fairy tales!” Veks became indignated. “It’s the purest truth! You just allow your mind to be poisoned, just like the rest of those simpletons. They want us to forget. They want us to blindly dance to their music!”

“Who?”

“The Lords, who else? The descendants of those, who provoked the First Rebellion and turned this world into ruins.”

Chromia sighed. Veks’ obsession about the pre-war order was something she noticed shortly after meeting him. Or, to be more precise, something Veks made sure a person like Chromia knew—despite the fact that she didn’t like to and almost never did talk about politics and conspiracy theories. But the tobacco dealer never gave up and tried to draw the zebra into a discussion each and every time. Despite all his waffle, Chromia could never stop wondering why was he so obsessed with that topic. Why was he more interested in the way Equestria looked nowadays, rather than, like every other salespony, complain about taxes, customs and tax collectors? It was a fait accompli and no one—especially not a tobacco dealer—could do anything about it.

And Chromia simply could not understand it.

“Veks,” she started, “drop it. You’re constant yapping won’t change anything, and opinions like that can only take you straight to the noose. Just deal with it, like everyone else. Dammit, why are you always so eager to dwell on the pre-war times?”

Veks seemed confused. He fell silent, looking for an answer. “I have my reasons,” he said finally.

The witch shook her head with a smile of compassion. “Well, I don’t know them, but I’m sure they’re not worth losing your head.”

Veks didn’t reply.

The outside was resonating with sounds of the town’s streets. Someone yelled and cursed, screaming snots, running in all directions, could be heard. The streets were full and crowded at this time of the day. One could think Veks’ store would be now filled with clients. Yet no one visited the tobacco shop. His only guest today was Chromia, who bought virtually nothing.

Veks stared bitterly at the full shelves, his heart bleeding when he thought, how much all those goods costed him. Tobacco from every corner of the world, various pipes made of different materials. Everything just lied and got dusty, giving Veks almost no profit.

“Why don’t you move away from here?” Chromia asked, as if reading his mind. “Why don’t you open a shop in, I don’t know, Manehattan? There are bound to be some nobles in the capitol who could afford even your semi-legal specialties.”

Veks grimaced at the idea. “No,” he replied without conviction. “I don’t have the money to move.”

“And I’m a pretty little princess.”

Maybe not a princess, thought Veks, but the rest I can agree with. “Besides… I was born here… and I don’t want to leave.”

Chromia eyed him for a moment with great consternation. “And they say that is us mares, who are hard to understand.”

“Because you are. Well… in your case it’s easier.”

“Meaning?” The witch raised an eyebrow.

“Meaning, you’re not so complicated. All you want is just a roof over your head, some food…” Veks was starting to get more and more tongue-tied. “And, well… you’re not like other mares.”

“Thanks, Veks.”

“No! I didn’t mean to offend you! I just… I… and you’re laughing again.”

True, Chromia extremely enjoyed playing with Veks, as if playing on a flute. Even more so, since the stallion was very vulnerable for such tricks.

“Ha ha. Very funny. Don’t you a tavern to visit?”

---

There was something going on in the town, that was certain. Chromia noticed it as soon as she left the tobacco shop. The street was less crowded than usually, and all of the citizens seemed to go in one direction: to the town square. A few mares passed by the zebra, chatting keenly about something; Chromia could not hear about what exactly. A young soldier ran on the other side of the street and almost tripped over a cat; started to throw curses at the furry ball, still running.

Everyone was in a hurry. Everyone. Something important must have been going on. Some important social event. A spectacle? Performance? Maybe a speech from the highest cleric or overlord? Yet Chromia suspected something else.

She managed to stop the next citizen who was hurrying past her.

“What?” he snarled at the zebra. “What do you want?” The blue stallion with greenish hair glared at her. And immediately regretted doing that. Chromia was patient, she didn’t even grimace in anger. Yet the stallion still started to shake and stutter.

“Calm down,” she said. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to know why everyone’s in such a hurry.”

The stallion’s eyes grew big. He completely forgot about fear. “You don’t know?”

“About what?”

“An execution is taking place today! They’re hanging the non-ponies! Those bucking terrorist! Are you coming? Quickly, or we might miss it!”

Chromia let go of the stallion. He immediately started to gallop towards the town’s square.

Contempt of life, Chromia thought. A senseless desire to murder, bloodlust. Entertainment, fun for riffraffs. Public executions, torment meant to give an example, giving the rabble entertainment instead.

I despise you, she thought.

---

There were five of them.

They stood in a row, with nooses on their necks. The crowd surrounding the gallows shouted and chanted, demanding death for the convicted. The show attracted a fair part of the town’s inhabitants. The rich, the poor, the educated and the dumb—all of them whistled, spat and shouted as one.

It was truly a spectacle for them.

Finally, none other that captain Gladius himself walked onto the platform. With him came also the executioner, wearing the typical, face-covering hood. The duo turned and faced the crowd. Gladius smiled. The sight of almost all the citizens, demanding death for the five non-ponies, made him happy.

Gladius looked at the sky. Not a single cloud ruined his day, and the sun was flooding everything with brightness and warmth. A perfect day for an execution.

The captain lifted his hoof to silence the crowd.

“Listen, all of you!” he shouted. “Here stand five terrorist, who call themselves Foxes! Murderers, rapscallions, thieves and rapist, that is who they are! Mules and donkeys... ”

The throng shouted with approval for the captain.

“These bandits have been bothering you for too long! For too long they planted fear and anxiety in your hearts! But today, the hoof of justice has finally reached them! Today their lawlessness ends! May they serve as an example for all non-ponies, so that none of the them will even think of disturbing law-abiding citizens, unicorns and earth ponies, stallions and mares, foals and old... The time for punishment has come!”

The crowd cheered, applousing for the captain.

Gladius faced the nearest donkey. “What do you have to say now, scum?”

“Go to hell!” the Fox spat.

Gladius motioned at the executioner, who pulled a lever. The flap opened, and the donkey standing on it fell. Before he died, he managed to wheeze a little.

The crowd started to cheer wildly. Shouts of joy filled the air, caressing captain Gladius’ ears like heavenly music. The rest of the Foxes watched everything with disgust and contempt. But not with fear. They were not afraid. They knew the fate that awaited them. They knew this was the way their fight ended for many of them. They knew that they will suffer loses. But each of them accepted his fate with honor. They were not afraid.

Nor did they give up.

“This fate,” Gladius shouted, “awaits every rebel and troublemaker in this town! There is no mercy for traitors! We allowed them so generously to live among us, and this is the way those filthy scums thank us?! No mercy!”

One of the mules snorted. Gladius approached him and looked straight in the eyes. The mule did not look away.

“Filth.” The captain grinded his teeth, and pulled the lever himself.

The throng started to shout again:

“Death to non-ponies!”

“Trounce them with the flails!”

“To the bestiary with them!”

The crowd’s screams resounded on the square through almost the whole execution. Those ponies wanted blood. The two other donkeys and mule eyed the spectacle with contempt. Not fear, not even anger, but contempt. With hatred, directed towards the ponies standing under the gallows.

“Fuck you, whoresons!” the mule shouted.

Gladius approached him and smacked in the snout with a shod hoof. The mule spat blood, and then spat again, straight in the captain’s face. Gladius wiped out the saliva with stoic calm. He punched the mule a few more times, to the crowd’s further delight. Only then did the executioner pull the lever, and the Fox hang.

Gladius approached one the donkeys.

“This one here was caught while trying to steal grain. Is that truly such a big crime? Can’t he work it off? Fix? After all, it was only a few bags.” The captain kicked the lever, and the trapdoor beneath the convict opened. “Just joking. I hate thieves.”

“You’re a mangy mongrel, Gladius,” the last donkey snorted. “A pathetic louse. The time for you will come, you’ll see. A day will come, when you all will be begging us for mercy! When you will wail, cry and slosh in the mug, begging for compassion! But we will have no mercy for you then, no compassion. Because on that day it will be us arranging public executions! You’ll see, our time will come!”

“Their time,” Gladius corrected.

“What?”

“Their time. You won’t be there.”

The captain approached the lever and kicked it. The flap under the freedom fighter opened, and he hanged. The crowd shouted, cheered. Gladius was breathing heavily, feeling hot. Drops of sweat appeared on his forehead and started to run down his face. An odd sensation run through him.

He had a bad feeling about this.

---

Chromia observed the execution from a nearby rooftop. She watched the Foxes being hang, one by one. Such fate awaited every one of them, eventually. Every Fox died from the hooves of ponies sooner or later. Every Fox knew what will happen to him. Despite that, they continued to fight. The witch found that impressive in a way.

But she didn’t have time to think about it.

It wasn’t her fight.

---

The interior of the tavern was drowned in deep dimness. The air was heavy with scents of smoke, cabbage and beer. A lot of ponies were still watching the execution, so there were not many guests inside. Only three tables were occupied. One by a rather unusual couple—a pegasus and an earth pony mare. Both wore something resembling armours, light and rather decorative. They sat quietly, eating onion soup and drinking beer.

The next resident was a monk, or some other cleric. An elder unicorn, dressed in long, gray robes. He sat at the table, fighting with a quarter of a loaf of bread and water. The fight was tough for him, for he dozed off every now and then.

The third resident was Plane. A carpenter.

Plane sat in the inn’s corner, eating slowly some sauerkraut. He wasn’t at the execution. He did not want to go there, he disliked the whole rigamarole. He was one of the few who did. But since he could not even word his disapproval out loud, he simply decided to avoid those kind of shows.

The carpenter eyed lazily the interior of the tavern. He looked at the drowsing monk, who slept on the bread like it was a pillow. Plane also looked at the unusual couple, but quickly averted his eyes. His father always told him that “everything different among normal things brings trouble”. Plane had a strange feeling that the rule applied in this case. He knew there was a war with the Foxes going on, and all kind of mercs and bounty hunters came to town. It was always like this. This was the the natural way of things. Just like a girl loosing her virginity with someone her father hated most.

The Lyra tavern was quiet, only with the old unicorn’s occasional slurping breaking the silence.

The atmosphere become more lively when she entered.

As soon as Chromia opened the door, every eye turned her way. Well, maybe except for the monk’s eyes, since he was sleeping. Plane looked at the zebra and gulped. A witch always meant trouble.

The odd couple lazily lifted their heads from above their plates and looked at the zebra. She didn’t awaken their interest, so they returned to eating.

Chromia trotted towards the counter, surprised to see that the innkeeper was not there. She waited for a moment. At last the kitchen’s door opened, and a stallion emerged from them. The red unicorn was tall and slim, with a elongated and kind face, which hosted a bushy, coal-coloured mustache—briefly speaking, his looks denied every characteristic of a stereotypical innkeeper. He approached the bar’s counter.

“Ah! Welcome ta my inn, The Lyra,” he smiled towards the zebra. “Welcome! My name is Cold Ale. What can I get ya?”

Chromia was surprised by the innkeeper’s unexpected, friendly approach, but she quickly found her thread back. “Information,” she said.

“Of course. Yup, I hear some interesting things every now and then. Ponies tend ta get incredibly talkative after a few drinks, and the gods blessed me with a good ear. But informations are also goods,” he waved his hoof, “so they have a price.”

“How much?”

“Ten bits and I’ll even tell ya who rolls in the hay with who!”

The witch muttered under her breath something about flay-flinters and innkeepers, but Cold Ale’s good ear didn’t catch that. She pulled out the said amount of money and put it on the counter. “So, for a start,” she said, “tell me, did Stained Banner use to visit your inn?”

“Stained Banner, huh?” The innkeeper scratched his head, gathering thoughts. “Yup, that he did. He tend ta spent a lot of money and grope my waitresses. I tell ya, dear witch, he was a real philanderer! It’s hard ta believe. Every time he came here, he undressed every one of those mares with his eyes. And there was hardly an evening, when he wouldn’t undress one literally as well. Not in the inn, of course.”

“Understood,” Chromia nodded. “I’ve heard… rumours saying that he once took a beating here. Precisely for ‘undressing the ladies’.”

Cold Ale averted his eyes and looked sadly at the bits. He probably regretted not asking for more.

“Well…” he started hesitantly. “Some lads rose up when they saw him pat one of my girls in the rear. A few clients run away straight off. The lads approached young Banner and started ta lecture him about the proper way ta treat mares and so on. Stained tried ta lie his way out, and later ta mend fences with money. One of them told him that he’ll give him a free lesson: he grabbed him by his coat-tails and headbutted straight in the snout! Then he told him a few more things and they left. Luckily they paid first.”

Chromia nodded. “Can you tell me something more about those thugs?”

“I… that’s all I know! They were dressed in coats and… and hoods! I didn’t see their faces.”

“Are you sure?”

“I swear ta my mother’s grave!” Cold Ale whined pitifully.

“All right, all right. How many were them?”

“Five, including the one that lammed young Banner. Most suspicious lads. Horseapples, they scared away my clients. Now I have them even less coming here.”

“And what about those thugs? Did they come here again?”

“No,” the innkeeper shook his head. “I haven’t seen them since then. Actually, I haven’t seen them before either. They came here only on that one evening.”

During which Stained Banner disappeared, Chromia noted.

“What about Banner?” she asked. “What did he do after they left?”

“He got up, brushed it off, finished his beer, paid and left. He didn’t even want anypony ta help him with his bleeding nose. He probably went straight ta Underwall.”

“The poverty’s district? Why would he go there?”

“Why?” Cold Ale felt surprised. “For the strumpets, of course. Everypony knows that it’s the cheapest place, if you’re looking for one. There’s nothing there but filth, stench and poverty. And cheap lassies. The whole city knows that young Banner used ta go there all the time.”

The innkeeper looked around, as if making sure no one was eavesdropping. Every ear could be attached to a gossiper, or a snitch: the carpenter, the odd couple, even the drowsing monk, who only pretended to be drownings to dull the other’s vigilance.

“Rumour has it that he fell for one of them,” Cold Ale whispered.

“I’ve heard that before. Do you know anything more?”

“Who, me? Of course not! I’m a decent citizen! I don’t wonder around the Underwall and hang out with some Jezebels!”

Chromia smiled lightly. “Thank you,” she said and left the tavern.

Plane was still sitting in the corner. He watched the witch exit. He didn’t want to leave right after her. The catnapping monk raised up, shouting something about the moon, looked around and once again fell asleep. The carpenter shook his head. It was almost late afternoon.

Plane emptied his mug, paid and was about to leave, when he passed some tall, hooded stranger in the doorstep. The carpenter’s face went slightly white, when the stranger passed by him, heading for the counter. Plane didn’t want to hear, but he did.

“She was asking you questions.”

“I didn’t tell her anything. I swear!”

Plane didn’t want to hear anything more. He run out of the tavern, as if being chased by the devil himself.

---

Underwall.

Filth, stench and poverty. The district of the poor, commonly affronted and avoided by everyone. Home of the worst scums, outcasts, murderers and rapist. A place where criminality blooms like daisies in April. A place where normal, decent citizens are afraid to even set hoof.

Smuggling, hazard, prostitution, contraband—the Underwall was perfect for the development of those and other procedures. The guards rarely—if at all—came here. The criminals and pickpockets had a total freedom of action, unintruded by law. They battened on those, who were forced to live in this gods-forsaken place. They took remains of what the beggars had left.

But the criminals were not the only thing haunting this place. Diseases and plagues run rampant, constantly taking their toll and leaving corpses that served as food for the rats, who, in turn, spread even more diseases, over and over again. This resulted in another bane—rotfiends.

In such favorable conditions there was no way the ghouls, graveirs or cementaurs could not run rampart. No one knew where, but everyone knew they were always hiding. And waiting. They could be heard at nights, roving on the empty streets, searching for food.

The Underwall was truly a nightmare.

As Chromia approached the district, she noticed the change in architecture. The deeper she went, the more sordid, ruined and scruffy the buildings got. Broken windows, leaky roofs and walls full of holes. Dirty and rotten houses, looking, as if only a miracle was keeping them from falling apart.

The streets were full of litter, mud and feces. The witch barely managed not to trod into something that she really didn’t want to trod into. Here and there, the piles of rubbish were occupied by rats, who seemed more likely to be hunting cats, than the other way around.

The air was filled with a stench that was the accumulation of the whole Underwall’s smells. From litter and rot, through feces, and ending with corpses.

The citizens sat near the ramshackled buildings. Beggars and paupers, parodies of real ponies. Scrawny, dirty, ulcerated. They sat in ragged clothes, eyeing the witch with fear. Young and old, mares and stallions. Well, the number of stallions seemed to be bigger. Most mares in the Underwall followed a simple rule: live long and hustler. And while they also did not look appealing, they still looked better than the paupers occupying the streets.

And then there were also the district's lords.

Bandits, crooks, murderers, rapist, pickpockets and thugs—true rulers of the Underwall. It was impossible to make a few steps without noticing that someone was looking at you in the same way he looked at his breakfast, all the while toying with some nifty tool, the very sight of which made you sweat. Unless you were a witch, of course.

Chromia trotted by the main street of Underwall, focusing everyone's attention—from the beggars and prostitutes, to the bandits—on herself. That didn’t really suit her, but she made do. She was searching for someone, like a harlot, who she could question safely.

“Charming place,” she muttered under her breath.

She hardly managed to make more than ten steps.

“Hey, you!” someone behind her shouted. “This is our place. What do you think you’re doing here?”

The witch turned and looked at the shouting pony. He was a stately earth pony, with a navy blue coat and bald skull. His whole body was covered in sloppy-made tattoos, and his only clothes were a pair of rugged and dirty pants. However, his mace, hang over his back, was quite impressive.

“What are you doing here?” the thug repeated.

“Looking around,” the witch answered calmly.

“Better watch out where you look then. But I think there are other places, where you should be looking.” The stallion smiled lecherously. “Like the inside of my pants! Ha ha ha!”

“They’ll never learn... ” Chromia sighed and raised her voice. “I’m looking for a certain mare. I doubt I’ll find any near your pants.”

She might have as well hit him in the balls, for the result would have been the same. She just hurt his masculinity, the very thing that, like every true stallion, he protected most. And, like every true stallion, he called his friends.

The stallion whistled, and a few of his pals came out from the nearby alleys. All of them had different clothes and weapons, but they also had one thing in common: the love for hurting others. And right now, probably nothing would make them happier than hurting Chromia.

“And I was thinking this would be a boring walk,” the witch smirked.

In the split of a second she drew her sword. The thugs also took out their weapons, but not as quickly as Chromia had; they were all armed with clubs, maces, hatchets and low-end swords. They also took a step back. Chromia noticed that the streets emptied, leaving only her and the aggressors. Most of the paupers were looking out through windows and wall holes.

“This is your last chance, bitch,” the blue stallion shouted. “Throw down your weapon and spread your legs, and you’ll live to see another day. I promise it won’t hurt… too much.”

Along with his comrades, he burst into laughter.

“I’m also giving you a last chance,” the witch shouted back. “You throw down your weapons and change your behaviour. Find remorse and start living like normal, decent citizens.”

The gang’s laughter only became stronger.

“So I thought.”

“Now you really made me merry… Throw down that sword!”

“Go plow yourself.”

“All right, now you pissed me off!” the stallion bellowed. “Come on, boys! Take her!”

The stallions lunched at Chromia en masse. The witch didn’t waste time and also attacked. The first stallion, running towards her with a cleaver in his teeth, she slashed in the throat with her sword. Then she jumped towards a pair of thugs and cut one of them in the face, and the second one in his larynx. More enemies approached. The witch evaded two blows of a hatchet held by a yellowish unicorn. He was too close to hit him with the blade, so Chromia simply slided on his back, and slashed another thug, standing behind him. Then she twirled and cut the unicorn in the occiput.

“Idiots!” the gang’s leader shouted. “Can’t you even handle one mare!?”

The rest of the thugs stopped charging blindly towards the witch. They backed up, surrounding her in a circle. The blood from the five bodies started to form red pools on the rugged street. The bandits looked at one another, terrified. Finally, two of them decided to attack the witch from two sides; one from up front, one from behind. Chromia jumped, evading a rusted blade and grabbed a claret-coloured earth pony attacking from up front. Then, with one leg on the ground, she twisted around to face a green unicorn, who was already striking at her with his hatchet. But instead of hitting her back, the weapon hit straight in the claret pony’s face. The unicorn’s eyes widened in shock when he saw what he did. Chromia kicked the corpse in such a way that it bumped into the unicorn, and then used his disorientation, piercing them both with her sword. The thugs landed on the ground in a position resembling a grotesque hug. The unicorn twitched in convulsion for a moment, and then became still forever.

The witch whisked her sword through the air, sending drops of blood on the faces of the still standing gang members. They all backed up a few steps, nearly tripping.

“Clumsy oafs!” the chieftain shouted. “Pussies, not stallions! I’ll show you how it’s done!”

He ran into the circle, shoving aside the bandits on his way, and immediately began fighting. He made a horizontal strike with his mace. Chromia jumped away and took a defensive position. The stallion started to brandish his weapon in a furious way, but still quite fast and deftly. The witch only avoided the strikes; deflecting them with a sword would have been pointless.

The chieftain attacked from above, with a strike from his mace. Chromia rolled to the side, and cut the stallion in his arm. He snarled with pain and continued the storm of strikes. Chromia kept aptly avoiding them. At last her enemy made a vertical strike again. The witch rolled over behind him and cut him in the back with the tip of her sword.

The stallion lost his balance and fell into the mud, face first. Chromia jumped back. It was a good move, for the chieftain didn’t lay for long. He roared like a dragon and attacked, fury simply oozing from him. His strikes became even faster and stronger, though less accurate.

Chromia continued her dance, avoiding a few more blows.

Time to end this, she decided.

The chieftain raised his mace, preparing to make a powerful blow. With one precise cut, Chromia deprived him of the ability to feel his hooves—for it is impossible to feel those parts of the body, which have been chopped off. The weapon, along with the hooves still holding it, feel over the stallion’s back; only then did he realise the fact of missing extremities. He started to scream and balance on his back legs, trying not to trip over.

The witch did not waste a second.

She twisted in a graceful pirouette and slashed the stallion in the belly. Red blood erupted onto the pavement. The thugs started to retreat. Or at least some of them did, for a few simply balked, their faces white as clean canvas.

But the chieftain didn’t fall. He cough, spitting blood, but still he stood. Chromia decided to change that. With stoic calmness, she approached the stallion, and then, in one, swift motion, thrust her sword through his chest. Straight in the heart. The stallion managed only to cough once more, and when the witch drew her blade back, he fell over. A poll of blood appeared under his dead body.

Chromia turned towards the rest of the gang, eyeing them with her keen eyes with horizontal pupils.

“Start running, you vermin,” she snarled. “Maybe I won’t chase you.”

And so they started to run, some of them even losing their weapons on the way. The witch wiped her sword into one of the dead ponies clothes that was not wet with blood. Then she eyed the carnage with disgust and bitterness.

“They’ll never learn.”

---

“For you? A hundred bits.”

“No thanks.”

The prostitute—a seablue earth mare with a intensively green mane and blue eyes—was honestly surprised. It was just unlikely for someone to come to Underwall and start chatting with a hooker, but not wanting to actually use the offered service. Situations like that usually meant trouble.

“What else do you want? If you came to gossip, then sorry, but I’m busy. A have a lot of customers to deal with.”

Chromia looked around on the empty street. “Riiight…” she elongated. “So you’re not interested in earning some money without the need to do the typical service?”

The mare’s ears pricked up. “What do you want?”

“Information.”

“Who am I, an innkeeper? Honey, I don’t know too much. The clients don’t really say much. At least nothing more than ‘move aside’.”

“I’m looking for one of your… fellow workers,” Chromia answered. “You see, I’ve heard that the local noble’s son used to come here quite often. To one, particular mare. I want to talk with her.”

“So that’s what it’s about, hmm?” the prostitute mused. “I’ll tell you… for fifty bits!”

“Twenty,” Chromia replied flatly.

“No way! Fifty!”

“In that case, I bid you farewell,” the witch said, turning around and starting to walk away. “I wish you a good day and lots of clients.” She started to walk away.

“Hey, wait!” The mare ran and stood in Chromia’s way. “I’m sure we can make a deal! Come on… Forty?”

“Twenty.”

“Thirty?”

Chromia thought for a moment. “Deal,” she said finally. “Now, tell me what you know.”

The seablue mare looked around. “Her name’s Lila. The one, which young Banner fell for. Those are no rumours, it’s the plain truth! He’s been coming here for a month now. Every day. At first we thought that she just managed to please him really well, but no! He started to give her flowers and gifts, like jewelry. Or, to be more precise,” she laughed, “some cheap shit, which didn’t even lie near real silver.”

Chromia kept listening.

“But little dumb Lila,” the prostitute went on, “she fell for it. They used to wonder around in the back alleys. They were really lucky no one sliced their throats open for their money! I don’t know, if she gave him free service, but I know she didn’t stay insensitive. And so it went on, until one day Banner didn’t show up. Which was odd, since he was here earlier and they both disappeared, like usually. After that, Lila came back alone. That was the last we’ve seen of Banner.”

Somewhere in the distance came the sound of cursing and breaking dishes. A black cat observed Chromia from a nearby balcony.

“Where can I find this Lila?”

“In the local brothel, The Lifted Tail.”

Chromia raised an eyebrow. The prostitute didn’t catch the hint and awaited for her payment. The witch reached for her pouch and handed it to her. The mare started to count the money, eyes wide.

“Hey!” she shouted happily. “There are—” She lifted her head, but the witch was nowhere in sight. “Forty bits in here…”

---

The brothel was no richer than the rest of the neighbourhood. Maybe only less damaged. It was a fair-sized, tall building, placed at the end of the main street. In front of the brothel and a few other surrounding buildings a couple of fires burned, with various thugs sitting around them. As soon as Chromia neared them, a few scram away, and the rest sat with their tails between their legs.

The Lifted Tail’s interior also did not please the eye with its style and elegance. It was just a large room, with a table standing in the middle, a stove in one of the corners and shelves with food. Not the typical amenities of a brothel.

The staircase leading to the first floor were a different case. Chromias suspected that was where the proper part of the business was located.

The large table was occupied by a few mares with—by the Underwall’s standards at least—quite fair looks. By the head of the table sat a pink, scarlet-maned mare in a green corset. Her eyes shined like emeralds, with which they shared their colour, but her face had a overly serious look for someone of that kind of profession. Something about her appearance and attitude gave her the impression of being different than the rest of the mares. Special. Important.

She was the bawd.

And so she became Chromia’s first port of call. As soon as she approached, however, the rest of the mares shot her curious and alarming looks. Apart form the bawd herself, who instead eyed the witch with interest.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said, “but this place doesn’t serve mares. I don’t have any stallions here, and I’m certainly not going to hire any. Unless you’re here, because you’re interested in the job yourself.”

Chromia immediately stifled that thought.

“No,” she replied. “I’m not looking for a job, neither for fondling.”

The employees exchanged looks. They looked at Chromia and their boss.

“Then it seems you’ve come to the wrong place, because you won’t find anything else here.”

“You’re wrong,” the witch said, coming up closer. “I want to talk to you in private, if that’s possible.”

The ginger-haired mare examined the witch one more time. Then she turned towards her girls and winked.

“Come with me,” she said at last.

The witch followed the mare to a room that obviously served as a larder. It was full of loaves of bread and cheese wheels. There were also sacks of flour lying around, but mostly there were crumbs and mouse holes.

“I’m Carmel,” the bawd introduced herself, “and this place belongs to me. What are you looking for here, if not a job or excitement?”

“I’m looking for a mare named Lila. I’ve heard she used to meet here with a young noble. I just want to talk with her, nothing more.”

Carmel studied Chromia for a moment.

“Then it seems you have a problem,” she said finally. “Because Lila hasn’t showed up since yesterday.”

Comments

[Ares Prime]

I am so proud... and happy. This fanfic gonna be awsome!

[Spike the Scribe]

I'd really want to see this fic succeed, it's just too awesomely brutal and true to the witcher-verse to be overlooked. Watching Equestria reduced to a racist-ridden, whore-filled, thug-run shithole has this charm to it that makes me all giddy inside

Aside from a few missing words and repeated segments (or fragments thereof) the translation seems solid. Of course, I didn't read the original chapter (blame my lack of time, I've meant to do it for a month now ), but still it's quite good, definitely worth a read. The only real issues I do have is that in a few places the translation seemed too direct. Remember that not everything can be directly translated and sometimes one needs to slightly alter the sentence for it to keep its meaning.

Oh, and before I forget: it's cheese wheels, not cheese circles.

[atom2004]

4228733
Yeah, I knew some issues would come up.

The original version also had a few repeated segments that I was aware off and I did try to rewrite them when possible... but it seems the author's style has rubbed off on me a bit I assume most of that is connected with the fight scenes? As to the direct translations, if there are some, they are usually there because i wanted to translate the text directly and felt it made sense (but of course I can be wrong - I'm still a novice in the translation field).
Thanks for the feedback. And the cheese

[Spike the Scribe]

4231367

Actually no, the fight sequences are cool, not too much repetition in them, and even if there is some, it's only because there's just that much one can do to present something in a graphical manner with words alone. What I'm talking about is that there were at least two or three fragments that seemed to be repeated directly after itself, like if someone just copy-pasted it there without checking. And as for direct translating -while it's commendable that you try doing something like that, there are times when one just needs to sacrifice staying true to the letter of the source material for it to make sense. Different language groups makes it a bit harder to convey the meaning sometimes, that's the main reason why for example it's so hard to translate language-based humor. Some things just don't make sense outside of the language they're written in.

Of course I'm not saying that there are issues like that in here. At most there are some strange choices of phrasing some things, but that's the extent of it, and anyone with half a brain should be able to understand what you were trying to convey. I'm really just nitpicking at stuff, I'm a bit OCD when it comes to things like that Now if only I were like that when writing myself...

[Sunsette]

This is the best fic i've read in a long while