> Landsick
>  by redsquirrel456
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Grey Space
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Empty mugs thrust in her face. Angry griffons behind them, screeching, laughing, scowling. Gertie tried to smile as she tipped the barrel in her arms, pouring rich amber rum into the offered vessels. Drinking was the closest thing griffons had to a religious experience, and drinking in unison was sermon, hymn, and benediction all at once. The crew of the airship Harridan was especially devout. Pouring her way down the line, Gertie belted out the opening stanza of Teeth of Karrak’s Peak.

Oh, the fire on the mountain burning bright, how I long to sail the Sword Wind now!

Her voice was drowned out by near three dozen others, male and female but all stentorian, all vicious, cutting the air with their words. The kind of voice that would shred the throats of lesser creatures. The kind of voice that rejoiced in shredding.

Two hundred spears took wing that day, two hundred eager warriors born to slay!

Her blood was high like all the rest, and she missed the final mug in line, spilling rum into the lap of a big male named Viktor who had the head of a golden eagle, which put him about as far above Gertie on the hierarchy as a cloud from a fish. Everyone knew that falcons like Gertie just did not mess with eagles—eagles messed with whoever they wanted. Of course, the one thing griffons found more hilarious than punishing transgressions against tradition was laughing at the violence involved in the punishments, and that’s exactly why everyone found her breach of conduct so easy to laugh at. They whooped and hollered at Viktor’s enraged expression, but all Gertie got was a hammer punch to the jaw. She went spinning through the air and fell across a table at the far end of the mess hall. The griffons sitting there raised their drinks to save them from spilling.

They all laughed as well, and she forced herself to join in. To show weakness over such a minor incident would only invite more scorn, and as a falcon, weakness was both expected and despised. She could not afford either with drinks and punches flying tonight.

“Gertie!” an owl-headed female named Hedwig said, lifting her by the scruff of her neck. “Still causing trouble?”

“Oh, you know me,” Gertie said through the pain in her chin, “big enough to get in the way, too small to take a punch.”

“Well, hopefully you get a black eye,” Hedwig said, dropping Gertie on the seat next to her and patting her back, which for a griffon essentially meant punching someone between the shoulder blades. “You’re a falcon, so you need to show them you can endure.”

“Ha! I made it three weeks on this junk ship with Viktor stepping on my tail. I can take anything with that oaf in my way.”

“Still a week till we make it back to Aeria,” said a gruff eagle-headed male next to Hedwig. “If I were you, I’d charge back over there and clout the lout with his own mug. Might spark a riot. It’d blow off some steam before we make it to port.”

Gertie looked down at her claws, clenched into fists. She felt her talons digging into her scales. Twitching. Aching.

She gritted her teeth and shook her head, smiling even though it made her beak ache.

“Nah,” she said. “He’s an eagle, they’re always jerks—no offense, Otto.”

“None taken, it’s true,” the eagle-headed male said. “So it’s license to rake your claws across his face. He spits on your honor.”

Gertie shrugged. “He’s punching so far down everyone knows he’s all talk anyway.”

The others shared uncertain looks as Gertie settled in with them, surreptitiously snatching a full mug from the table behind her. She was always better with her hands when they weren’t fists.

“So! Last leg of the trip, huh? Figures it’s the worst one.”

“The crew has been getting impatient for days. I think it is disgraceful,” said Hedwig. “A warrior needs patience and discipline.”

“A warrior needs enemies!” crowed Garth, another male. “A month-long stint on a cramped trading vessel is sure to drive anyone mad. It’s the peace, I tell you. It makes a griffon want to fly. And when griffons fly, it’s to hunt!”

“We’re hunting good deals,” said Hedwig.

“The captain is hunting good deals. Honor will be heaped on his banner, not ours.” Garth rounded on Gertie. “And if this one would just raise her own banner up a little higher...”

“Do we really have to talk about me so much?” said Gertie, leaning back as her claws tap-tapped the table. “I can’t be the only thing worth gossiping about on this tub.”

Garth shook his head. “You keep trying to hide, like a mouse! It makes the others sniff you out. If you don’t do something worth talking about before this trip’s over, you can kiss your chances of further recruitment goodbye! Might as well move to Griffonstone where the other unambitious among us live.”

“Speaking of unambitious,” Hedwig nodded towards the front of the mess hall. A trio of griffons were gathered around a small, huddled shape against the wall.

“Oh, no,” said Gertie. “Are they bullying the passenger again?”

Otto shrugged off her concern. “He paid for space on a griffon ship. Should’ve known to stay out of the mess hall.”

The passenger was an earth pony, his ash-grey coat easy to spot under the mess hall’s lanterns. He had the typical stocky build of earth ponies, stretched over a lean, quick frame totally lacking the pudge of most ponies. Though, most ponies weren’t found riding on griffon airships at the edge of the world. He bowed his head as a griffon shoved his shoulder, hiding his eyes beneath a mane the color of autumn leaves.

A pair of playfully brawling hawks—it was still playful because blood had not been spilled—blocked her view of the unfolding abuse, and Gertie turned away with a miserable sigh.

“That isn’t fair,” she said, picking at the table. “We should all know better than to push around someone who bought fair passage.”

“He should know better than to mess with griffons,” Hedwig said, shrugging and taking a swig of rum. “What do you care? His reasons for being so passive are not yours, Gertie. Ponies are supposed to be weak. It’s what they do. It’s in their blood. You are a griffon. It is your nature to fight.”

“Are you that curious about the softer folk?” Otto asked. “Don’t tell me you still wish to speak to him. Two weeks on this crate and he hasn’t said a word, just stares off into space.”

“Well, maybe if someone didn’t walk up expecting a fistfight every time…” Gertie muttered.

“Bah! If it worries you so much you go talk to him.”

“Maybe I will!” Gertie exclaimed. “I’m just saying he shouldn’t be expected to know our ways. If he did hit back they’d tear him to shreds anyway.”

“He’s an earth pony. They’re supposed to be tough. So let him tough it out,” Hedwig said with another, more aggressive shrug. “Oh, speaking of… he’s leaving.”

Gertie turned around to see the pony retreat aft-ward, towards what passed for the cabins, and the ladders leading to the upper decks.

“Another pony thing,” Garth muttered. “Running away. Always running! Cloistering themselves in ‘Equestria.’ Let ‘em have it, I say. Griffons can have the rest.”

And deep down Gertie agreed with him. Let them have Equestria and their strange, soft ways. Let them have their queer home across the sea. Let her have the hope of somewhere to run.





Gertie found the pony in his usual place later in the evening, leaning against the forecastle railing near the bow of the Harridan. Thick fog smothered the ship, beading on the stallion’s fur. The breeze was a steady reminder of the airship’s forward momentum here in this impenetrable fog bank. The click of Gertie’s claws on the deck perked his ears, and he glanced over his shoulder. They shared a nod, brusque but not unfriendly.

The mist smothered sight and sound with a holy stillness, and they felt obligated to keep speaking to a minimum.

“You’re soaked,” Gertie finally said, waving her wing at his damp trench coat. It hung heavy over his flanks.

He grunted and returned to his aimless vigil, staring over the ship’s bow into the void. “Yeah,” he said, with gruffness that made him sound older than he looked. “I’ve been here a few hours.”

“A few days, more like,” Gertie said, smirking as she reared up on her rear legs and braced against the rail. “What are you hoping to see out here? This is Mistarkand. Obscuring fog is in the name.”

The pony considered that for a while, watching the mist as it roiled. “I happen to enjoy the sensation of forward motion,” he said, with a hint of southern Equestrian drawl. “Ponies like feeling the wind gust their mane, you know. But I’m no aeronaut, so a clue to our current heading would be much appreciated.”

Gertie clacked her beak, giving the pony a sidelong glance. “Compass says we’re heading south-southeast, but until we clear the fog bank it’s up to the rudder and the mistgliders to keep the path straight.”

“You don’t trust the compass?” the pony huffed. “That explains why we’ve been in this pea soup for two full days. Probably should’ve found a different ship.”

“Heh.” Gertie’s tail lashed the deck. “You can’t really trust your own senses here. The mist is magical. Instruments sometimes fail. The gliders will see us through if our compass kicks it, though.”

“Heard something about those at the last port,” the pony said. “What exactly are they?”

Gertie smiled, and joined him in leaning on the railing. One of the only things to do on these slovenly merchant junks was entertain passengers with talk of the local legends—ponies usually made good audiences, with their big expressive eyes and penchant for ‘oooh’ing and ‘aaah’ing at the slightest provocation. “Like will o’ the wisps, except they don’t kill you. Nobody knows what they look like, on account they seem to be made of air. All you see is a parting of the mist, and the feeling of eyes on you. Some way wind spirits, some say ghosts. When someone is lost in the fog, they show up when you least expect it, and give ships a gentle nudge out, even big old galleons, so they gotta be big. Some say they hear songs like whales. They don’t let you sit still, either. Pirates have tried to use this place as a base of operations more than once.” She smirked with cocksure mischief. “At least until the gliders nudge them out of the fog and into range of navy cannons.”

“How fortuitous,” the pony agreed.

A moment of silence, punctuated by a cough.

“My name’s Gertie,” she said, picking at the wood beneath her claws.

“Happy Trails,” the pony answered.

“Seriously?” Gertie scoffed. “Ponies and your poetic names, I swear.”

“Wouldn’t really know,” the pony said. “My friends call me Trails.”

“What for?”

“Shorter to say,” said Trails, shrugging. “Full pony names can be a bit of a mouthful. I never really took to them well.”

Gertie peered at the way he leaned on the railing. Most ponies leaned bodily against a given surface, but she hadn’t seen Trails drop to all fours since he boarded the ship. Mostly, he just stayed still, here at the railing. “Looks like you don’t take to a lot of pony things well.”

“Yeah?” Trails asked. His face scrunched with suspicion as he hopped off the rail and stood on all four legs, turning to face her fully. “How so?”

“I don’t mean anything by it!” Gertie squeaked, raising her claws. “I was just trying to say you don’t usually see earth ponies riding airships this far off the normal trade routes, y’know?” She attempted to smile; instead, she showed her teeth in an awkward grimace. “It was supposed to be a segue.”

He grunted and turned back to the mist. This time the silence fell like dead weight, pulling an invisible curtain down between them. Trails seemed to think the conversation was already over. Gertie tapped her claws together, her cheeks burning from an embarrassed blush, which only made her even more uncomfortable. Griffons hated one thing more than any other, and that was being caught off guard. She hadn’t expected a pony of all things to be so… anti-social. All the others she knew had been inveterate chatterboxes.

“Well, anyway,” she said, more to save face than a desire to acquaint herself with Trails, “the whole point is you’re an earth pony and you’re way up in the air. That’s a bit incongruous.” She shrugged. “Learned that word from a well-read gazelle, heh.”

Trails blinked slowly.

“... I’m not usually this talkative,” he said, deadpan.

Gertie smiled. “Ahh, it’s okay. I like having a good conversation partner. You may not have noticed, but the rest of the crew is kind of a bunch of jerks, which I guess is saying something given this is one of the hardest stretches of the trip yet, and—”

She stopped talking when she noticed Trails’ raised eyebrow.

“Oh that was a joke!” she blurted out. One might mistake her gritted teeth for a smile. “I get it, because you don’t actually say much and stuff! Ha ha ha and all that! Good one, good one...” 

“... Sure,” Trails drawled. “A joke.”

Gertie turned away, rubbing the back of her neck. How long until her next shift again?

“Is it really the hardest stretch?” Trails wondered aloud.

“Well, yeah!” Gertie blurted out. “Mistarkand is one of the most remote places in the world, and we’re heading to one of the most remote villages in that most remote place.”

“So long as it’s far as they say, that’s good enough for me,” Trails muttered. “What’s the place we’re docking next called again?”

Gertie smiled. “Dust.”

“Dust?”

“It’s a mining town. That’s what I heard, anyway. Nobody cared to name it anything else, and mining kicks up a lot of dust, so… Dust. Did you not check where we were going before you boarded the ship?”

“Heard it was going far away,” Trails answered with a shrug. “Heard there was somewhere even further’n that beyond these mountains. Decided I’d try to make it.”

“Terminus?” Gertie squawked. “Are you really going to Terminus?”

“Oh, izzat what it’s called?” Trails said with a low chuckle. “It must be the end of the world if they call it that. And if it’s the end, then that’s where I’m going.”

“Well, the end of the map, anyway,” Gertie said. “Why are you going there?”

Trails turned away until she couldn’t see his face.

“‘Cuz it’s the end,” he said. “No better place for someone like me.”

The silence that fell then did not feel holy, or heavy, or much of anything at all. It simply was, with no sign that a word had ever passed between them. Gertie cleared her throat and backed away, heading for the lower decks once again, to the rowdy mess hall and the surly crew, impatient with the long journey and eager to vent their frustration on anyone who looked at them funny. This part of the trip was the best time to talk to passengers to avoid her crewmates’ nasty tempers, but that short conversation felt about as comfortable as getting her tail tied in a knot—and she knew what that felt like, thanks to Viktor.

Passengers at least kept to themselves this far away from civilization, and made for better conversation. One just didn’t come out here without a very good, usually very interesting reason. But this pony was better at keeping things close to his chest than the usual drifters. Maybe his reason was too good, and she was being rude by prying.

She looked back one more time.

He was back on two legs, chin on his hoof, staring into the mist. As if they hadn’t even spoken. As if his mind was already elsewhere, beyond the horizon, past even the furthest edge a ship dared to travel.





When she bumped into the pony next—he was still at his usual spot, but on all fours this time—she did it because she couldn’t see out of her left eye. She rammed him shoulder-first and only disentangled after a lot of squawking and squirming.

“Ow, watch it,” growled Happy Trails, shoving her away, and then, seeing her swollen face, “Geez, you get in a fight with a yak?”

“Friedrich, actually,” Gertie replied, gingerly tapping the bruise. “It happened yesterday, doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

Trails glanced uneasily back and forth. “Should I be worried, or…?”

“Huh? Nah,” Gertie said, chuckling. “Griffon crews get rowdy after so long on a boat. I actually broke my first stool over Hans’ head today! Everyone was really congratulatory.”

“Right,” said Trails. “I haven’t met many griffons in my time. You’re the least prickly of the bunch for sure.”

“It’s my curse to bear.” Gertie smiled, fluffing her wings proudly. “I will say you’re lucky to meet me! Most griffons don’t have time for people who won’t assert themselves.”

“And that’s what that is?” he asked, gesturing at her shiner. “Asserting?”

“More or less. Relieves boredom. Improves your reflexes. Promotes bonding. It helps.”

Trails squinted suspiciously. “Helps, huh?” he muttered. “What if you ain’t interested in hitting back?”

“Griffons are always interested in hitting back,” Gertie said quickly. “Always. Really!”

“Uh huh,” said Trails, giving her a sidelong glance. Gertie’s smile did not waver.

He turned back to the open sky. The ship had broken out of the fog bank some time during the night, and now hovered over a hostile mountain wasteland.  A vast and terrible expanse of cold stone and frigid air spread out beneath them, lit by cold, harsh sunlight. Many still had stubborn snow on their peaks even in the middle of spring, but most were were ancient and weathered down. Even so, the only vegetation to be seen were thin skirts of evergreens and hardy shrubs. There was not a single road to be seen.

“Shoot,” Trails hissed. “This is the kind of land’ll kill you soon as look at you. How’d anyone even get out here in the first place?”

“Duh,” Gertie said, playfully flapping her wings.

The airship slipped between two proud peaks still pointing spear-like into the sky, and followed a thin river snaking its way eastward. The hard stone finally gave way to a thin valley below, run through with that miserably small river (which looked more like a stream) and patches of dry tundra grass. A third mountain bulged into the valley from the north, cradling a sad smattering of buildings upon a wide flat shelf that almost looked carved into the rock itself, as if someone had taken a saw and sliced out a portion for the town to rest in. A rickety tower stood at the edge of the precipice, shepherding a dilapidated pier and several warehouses.

“No lights,” Trails muttered. “No ponies, no griffons.”

“There used to be a signal fire at the top of the tower,” Gertie said. “But they don’t bother with it anymore. The only ships that come through have taken the route so many times they know it like the back of their paws. Used to be talk of making this a major stopping point on the way to Terminus, but ever since investment in colonization dried up, it’s just the end of the line. From here you gotta walk.”

“Folk in Terminus don’t need trade?” Trails wondered.

“Folk in Terminus don’t want trade. Nowadays going there is a one-way trip. They only go there to get away from it all, or have nowhere else to go.” Gertie said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “Leastways, I’ve never heard of anyone coming back. Is that what you’re looking for?”

“Sure ‘nuff,” Trails answered. “My legs were gettin’ itchy anyways. If I gotta walk so much the better.”

“I like wings, personally,” Gertie said with a happy flap. “You can just eat up the miles with these babies.”

“Well then,” Trails grunted, chin in hoof, “too bad bein’ a pegasus weren’t in the cards.”

Gertie tilted her head. “Yeah, too bad we can’t all go back in the egg for a second go-around, huh?”

Trails sighed, shaking his head. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, and very deliberately turned away. Gertie’s wings twitched nervously, and in the silence that followed she felt the cold understanding of someone who had said something dreadfully wrong but did not know what. Seconds dragged into minutes that dragged her away as Dust drew closer and she was called to help prepare the rigging. She left, but the guilt remained, and she couldn’t help but send one last remorseful look over her shoulder.

Trails stayed right where she found him. Not once did his gaze waver from the sight of the distant mountains and the unknown reaches of Terminus beyond, and when the Harridan lurched into port, he was off and walking before anyone even saw him leave.
> Dust
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dust lived up to its name. From the moment Happy Trails stepped off the gangplank with bulging saddlebags, dust and grit flooded his nostrils. It smelled old and musty, the grime of years left unswept until the filth felt like home. The town huddled miserably in the shadow of the mountain, the dark ramshackle buildings bowed like monks in prayer. The streets were full of creatures of near every size and stripe: diamond dogs, goats, a yak or two, some Abyssinian big cats; anyone and everyone who was big, burly, and unafraid of hard, dangerous labor. Every species stuck in groups no smaller than three of their own kind, glaring at each other from opposite sides of the town, claiming territory on porches, beneath awnings, and even discreetly avoiding one another on the street as they hauled crates and wagons under the eyes of surly foremen. Not a single one seemed friendly.

A terrible place for a pony, and here he was walking right down the center street bold as you please. It was always a gamble, being a pony and walking out in plain sight. Nobody respected ponies this far from the reach of Equestria and her princesses. He was just a common vagrant like everyone else.

But here, nobody so much as batted an eye, even when he almost bumped into a diamond dog pushing a wheelbarrow.

“Watch it, tail-dragger!” the dog snarled at him, a refreshingly generic insult. For once, everyone was too miserable to think about pushing around the little pony.

It certainly beat the company of griffins.

“‘Scuse me,” Trails said to a goat standing around doing nothing. “Need a room for the night.”

“Room?” the goat said, staring off into space. “Lots of room. Pick a spot. Nobody’s staying here much longer anyway.”

“Well, yeah, but I meant like a bed.”

The goat’s eyes swiveled around to focus on Trails, but his head stayed still. They stared uncomfortably at one another.

The goat shrieked horribly in Trails’ face. For a moment, he thought the goat was having a heart attack, but then he realized the awful sound was laughter.

“Wuuuaaah! A bed! Here? We sleep on rocks, stranger!” the goat crowed. “Money doesn’t come in here, it leaves! Thinking we can afford a bed, really!” His eyes turned to Trails’ saddlebags, fat with miscellany and traveling supplies. “That’s a lot of junk you’re hauling, stranger. Wuuaah! Lot of junk for a town like this! You’re gonna be robbed blind and thrown down a well before the week’s out. I promise you that!”

“I wouldn’t have so much ‘junk’ if anyone was able to keep that promise,” Trails said. “But if you’re done with idle threats, I’d like directions.”

“Only directions you should want are the ones that go back to Equestria, pony,” the goat spat. “All Dust has is rocks and ill intentions for your kind. Mines are drying up. Only stuff left to pry outta the ground ain’t even fit for a diamond dog to spitshine!”

“Tuff heard that, rock-for-brains!” a skinny diamond dog roared as he crashed out of a nearby door, wielding a broom as ragged and patchy as his fur. “Last time! Tuff bans you from Tuff’s side of the street! Get!”

The goat screeched again as the diamond dog swatted him with the broom and sent him scurrying away. Trails watched in nonplussed silence, eyeing the broom carefully.

“Why pony stare? Pony need directions?” the diamond dog snapped, rubbing his paws on his apron. “Tuff save you from goat. Can’t save pony from stupid! Stupid pony to come here.”

“Just need a bed is all,” Trails muttered, brushing his mane over his eyes. “Rocks’ll do, I s’pose. But, uh, thanks I guess. For puttin’ paid to that goat scoundrel. He was a real, ah, rocks-for-brains, mister Tuff.”

Tuff lightened up considerably the moment the insult against goats left Trails’ mouth. “Mmm! Pony smarter than goat, yes. Tuff like creatures who don’t like goats. No goats at tavern! Pony should go there to sleep. Tavern has beds without rocks.” He grumbled under his breath. “Only building without rocks.” His shoulders sagged. “Only place with no rocks on menu. Tuff works there on weekends, to get away from rocks. No gems. Only rocks.”

Trails cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah. Mind tellin’ me which way it is?”

“Ha! Pony is stupid. Got eyes, yes?” Tuff pointed at a teetering wreck of a building five stories tall in the center of town. The top floor held a clock tower, stripped of walls and emptied of  mechanisms, with only the idle clock face stuck at six thirty.

“There, find bed. Maybe stay until next ride out.”

“Why haven’t ya’ll left?” Trails asked.

“Pah! Think boats are free? Think if Tuff had pack, had gems, had somewhere to go, would not have already left? Only other choice is Terminus, and that is not a place for ponies who dream of home. Dust is a hole, pony.” Tuff’s eyes narrowed. “Only thing to do is keep digging.”





The tavern looked even uglier up close, with more than a few wood planks rotted off the walls and every window belching the stench of smoke and sweat. A rotting wood sign out front claimed “Many vacancies, cheap rates” in flaking red paint. A rusty can sat next to it, with a paintbrush petrified in dry paint.

“What a surprise,” Trails muttered to himself. “Seems like such a cozy place for a summer getaway.”

He pushed through the double doors, waded through the reek of alcohol and mine dust. His nose stung and his eyes burned. A concertina wheezed drearily in the hands of a melancholy minstrel over the sound of grumbling conversation and clinking glasses. The tavern was twice as crowded as the streets, and the clientele looked just as nasty. Unused pickaxes leaned on walls and chairs, and everything was coated in a fine layer of dust. Hardly anyone noticed as Trails meandered inside, ducking thrown mugs and folding his ears back when the singing got too loud. There was an air of desperation to it all. For every singer there were two who stared listless into their cups or dozed on tabletops. For every animated conversationalist five more grumbled and complained, or stared insensate at the walls. What a dreary existence, stuck in place with no hope, no anticipation of tomorrow, because it was all the same as today.

Trails could relate, which was why the town repulsed him. He had only to purchase enough supplies to make it to Terminus. He didn’t mind grazing grass right off the ground—he’d been forced to do it before, and he would do it again. Once you got past the chewy texture and occasional bug, it was no different than a hayburger, just without the hay, or the burger.

“Whatcha got?” he asked the bartender, a grey-furred Abyssinian missing half an ear.

“Nothin’ good,” grunted the cat. “You got money?”

“Just need a room for the night,” Trails said, pulling out a hoofful of bits. “With a lock on the door.”

“Still got a couple of those,” the bartender said. “Locks are extra.”

“I’ve got extra.” Trails pulled out a pouch that clanked when he set it on the bar. He peeled back the cloth to reveal a glint of silver. The Abyssinian gulped audibly and wiped his brow.

“Well, if you don’t mind spending,” he said, snatching the pouch and slipping it beneath the bar.

“I don’t need it where I’m going,” Trails replied. “Now, some of nothin’ good, please.”

He crawled onto a barstool and sat there, planning on remaining immobile until nightfall.

His plans were interrupted by a griffon kicking open the doors, followed inside by still more griffons. Trails recognized several of them as crewmembers from the Harridan and rolled his eyes. No doubt things were about to get loud.

The miners seemed to agree, and were in no mood to share space or alcohol with rowdy aeronauts. The griffons stuck together, joking and laughing as they pushed through an already crowded tavern that didn’t bother to make room. The griffons were forced to push several  miners, but they didn’t seem to mind. They managed to find a corner to themselves, mostly through being so boisterous the loners occupying several tables were forced to get up and move elsewhere. They did not give up their spaces without issue, leading to a short shouting and shoving match between griffons and miners that almost erupted into a fight. If anything, it just made the atmosphere more excitable.

Trails shook his head when he noticed Gertie trailing behind them like a lost puppy. That one was too nice to want to stick with company like that. But one didn’t get to choose the company one stuck with, more often than not. Trails understood that now more than ever.

“Here you are, sir,” a quiet, raspy voice said next to his ear. He turned and saw a monkey-like creature standing on the bar, dressed in some robes wrapped tightly around its gangly limbs, and a headband holding a large gear against its forehead. It offered him a mug of something frothy and bronze-colored. Beer came to mind, but who knew what they used for ingredients here in the middle of nowhere?

“Uh, thanks,” he said. The monkey bowed deeply and hopped onto a stool, then on down to the floor, carrying a tray full of more drinks destined for other tables.

The bartender came back from attending to drink mixing, and noticed Trails staring. “Gizmonk,” he told him, as if that explained everything. “Hired him after the machines stopped running.”

“Sure,” Trails grunted. He turned back to his drink and swirled the froth around and around. It almost smelled alcoholic, in the way rotten eggs almost smelled like food, but he had learned again and again that this world did not abide by the old rules of what constituted alcohol, even if the effects were about the same.

He took a sip and felt it… tingle. No burning. It felt like a trail of tiny firecrackers going off all across his tongue to the back of his throat. Not quite fizz, but not quite anything else either, like the liquid itself jumped over his taste buds. No real pain or kick to be had, but a shudder ran through his body, as if someone had jolted him awake. There was a vague sweetness behind the crisp, almost-barley flavor.

Why, it almost tasted just like the Cola he treated himself to on Saturdays when he went into town to fetch the gas. There was dust there too, far more than in this sad little town. In those days the dust was ubiquitous, as if the world would end with it. He recalled one summer morning driving down Midtown Avenue, right after the second-largest storm Merrimack County had ever seen, and popping into Herring Brothers General Store. The town was still smothered in grit. But the Herring Brothers’ prized soda fountain with its glistening ivory handles still worked, and chased the taste of sand right away when the bubbles came roaring out and the sweet syrup hit his tongue with a tingle just like this.

“God,” he whispered, and wiped away the wetness in his eyes with the back of his hoof. “Even out here. Even comin’ this far…”

A yell made him jump, splashing his drink on the floor. Just behind him stood a muscular goat with thick horns and a beard nearly a foot long, looming over the quivering Gizmonk.

“I warned you,” snarled the goat. “I warned you not to bump into me again, creep!”

“Sorry, sorry!” the Gizmonk whimpered. “It’s crowded, I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to,” the goat snorted. “Like your kind ‘didn’t mean’ to wreck our diggers? Didn’t mean to send our whole operation into a death spiral?”

Trails looked at the other patrons. Hardly anyone seemed to be taking notice, or at least they pretended not to. The few that did, close enough to hear the argument over the ambient noise, glared at the Gizmonk rather than the goat.

“Please! Not our fault!” the Gizmonk sniveled. “We tried, we tried to fix it! Machines were old, the firestone, the dust—”

“And what’d they leave you behind for, huh?” the goat huffed. “Why are you still here, hooter? Your kind all sure left in a hurry when you couldn’t turn a profit.”

“That’s enough!” the bartender said, slapping his paw down on the counter. “Yarmouk, I told you not to make trouble!”

“The only trouble is this little hooter you took in!” the goat said, a grating bleat rising along with his voice. “He’s a curse like the rest of them! First they break the machines, then suddenly it’s only the Diamond Dogs who get to dig, get paid. If all I’m gonna do is sit around with my hoof in my nose, I’ll put it to better use.”

He turned back to the Gizmonk and shoved him roughly to the floor. The other goats at his table bleated viciously.

“Yarmouk, I’m warning you—” the bartender growled, his hackles rising and his lips peeling back to reveal fangs.

“No, I’m warning yooouuu!” Yarmouk bleated. “We’ve all sat on our duffs too long. This little hooter is responsible for the state of this town, and I will have satisfaction!”

“D-don’t call me that,” the Gizmonk whimpered.

“Oh, you don’t like that name? Hooter?” Yarmouk sneered. “That’s what you monkeys do, is it? You hoot like lunatics. Ook! Ook! Ook!” He gave the Gizmonk another shove, laughing as he tripped over his robes.

Trails tried to shrug off his revulsion. There had to be some justice here, right? He glanced quickly to the bartender. He had some muscle on him, but all he did was stand there, spitting and cursing under his breath. The rest of the patrons didn’t even seem to notice the escalating confrontation—the griffons were arm-wrestling, and a yak with his back to the Gizmonk blocked the view from most of the tavern.

Nobody cared. Not that he should, either. He didn’t survive this long by getting involved.

“Ain’t that your employee?” Trails muttered to the bartender.

The cat huffed and puffed, his shoulders hunched… and then, to Trails’ disbelief, sagged. “Whole room’s a powder keg,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll lose my business if I help out a Gizmonk more than I already have.”

“That’s a bit cold,” Trails said, eyes narrow. “This whole town’s already lost its business.”

“Keep your nose out of it, stranger,” the bartender hissed, his tail whipping the air behind him. When Trails’ glare didn’t waver, he stomped away to a back room and didn’t return. Trails’ eyes dropped down to his drink. Not your problem, he told himself. You don’t know the situation. Nobody here’s your friend. Don’t make more enemies than you already got. But all the words in the world failed to douse the fire growing in his chest. It reminded him so much of himself. Small. Weak. Alone. At the mercy of someone who had none at all.

Another pained squeal made his mouth go dry. The guilt settled like a shroud. The memories came flooding back. A face lit with malevolent glee and horrid green light. Hideous instruments, dank cells, the smell of mould and damp and stone, a lunatic’s laughter mocking, taunting, haunting. 

You’re alone, creature. You’re alone and no one will save you.

He forced himself to look over his shoulder.

Yarmouk had the Gizmonk by the tail. He pulled on it viciously until the Gizmonk screeched, ‘ook’ing relentlessly.

“Come on, hooter!” the goat sneered. “Hop! Hop around like your kind always do.”

“Stop! You’re hurting me!”

Yarmouk pulled harder, dragging his prey across the floor. “I said hop, you little snitch! Hop or I’ll make you limp!”

“Please!” the Gizmonk wailed, loud enough to get a few stares that were more curious than pitying.

Yarmouk’s face twisted into a hideous snarl. “You’re pathetic,” he spat. “I hate that, you hear me? I hate you and all you scampering freaks, toying with our machines, breaking what isn’t yours. Goats are just as strong as dogs, but you let them have our spots in the mines. Well there’s no one left but you! You’re alone, get it? You’re alone and no one’s gonna help you.”

Trails’ hoof thudded into the side of his face.

A meaty thwap echoed through the tavern. The blow hurled the goat and the Gizmonk apart. Yarmouk stumbled in a daze until he collided with the rump of the yak, who only now grunted curiously and turned to see what the fuss was about.

Yarmouk wheezed. The other goats stared. The Gizmonk curled up on the floor.

Trails stood in front of him, hooves planted firmly on the ground.

“Stop,” he said.

Yarmouk stumbled back to his hooves, his eyes bulging. Trails suppressed a shudder. He always found goat eyes mildly unsettling, and that was before they were attached to a creature that could seethe with anger like Yarmouk was doing now.

“You…” the goat snarled, puffing his chest out and throwing his horns left and right. “You!”

Trails braced himself.

“You hit me!” Yarmouk shrieked, loud enough to rattle the windows.

The music stopped. Talking halted mid-sentence. Now, everyone turned to look.

Trails gulped. His chest tightened. His mane itched. Eyes on him. Eyes everywhere. Hungry, angry, vicious, empty. Staring, peering, asking. Who are you? Where’d you come from?

But he couldn’t back down now. He turned back to Yarmouk and matched his glare.

“You were distractin’ me from my drink,” he said, shrugging. “Ain’t you got cards to play or somethin’?”

“Cards?” Yarmouk said, spittle flying from his mouth. “Cards?! I’ll play drums with your face, pony! All you outsiders coming in, making life tough on us!”

“Us?” Trails said. “Who’s us?”

Every goat at Yarmouk’s table stood up in unison.

“Us,” Yarmouk sneered.

A jolt of adrenaline ran down Trails’ spine. He flicked his tail and turned his ears forward. He felt the old thunder of his heart pounding in fear and anticipation. Cold sweat beaded on his brow.

“Okay,” he said warily. “Let’s all just agree one little… uh… Gizzomonkey ain’t worth the trouble, huh? Did I hurtcha? I got the money to buy your whole table a drink, an’ that’s the honest truth. Buy whatever you want, get yourselves totally splifficated an’ come morning you’ll forget any of this ever—”

“Shut up!” Yarmouk snapped, stomping his hoof. “You interrupt me, now you get what was coming to him!” He pointed behind Trails, but the Gizmonk had vanished. The door to the back room squeaked open, and as it closed they saw the flash of a monkey’s tail disappear around the corner.

Trails blew out a heavy sigh. Not that he blamed the little guy for running, but he could have at least stuck around as moral support. Yarmouk just got angrier.

“That’s it,” he growled. Foaming drool gathered at the corners of his lips. “I’m gonna rearrange your spinal cord with my horns, and then… and then I’m gonna ram into you paste! Then we’ll all stomp you six feet under!”

Trails hung his head. “... I don’t wanna do this,” he groaned. “Just… come on. You can’t even take one little punch—”

“Little punch from a little pony!” one of Yarmouk’s goons said. “You’re just a little pony!”

Trails’ throat tightened. “No I’m not,” he said. The room seemed to shrink. A rumbling noise drowned out everything but his own voice. His body shook like a flag. Like the weathervane during the summer storm.

“I am… not. A little pony,” he said in a low, quiet voice.

“Little pony!” the goats bleated in unison. “Little pony! Little teeny tiny little—”

Trails jumped up on his hind legs in full view of the tavern, twice as tall as before and steaming mad. The goats went quiet. The other patrons leaned back in their chairs.

Trails stomped on two legs towards Yarmouk without missing a beat, who took a step back as if to flee while he stared up in stark, unbelieving shock. Trails pulled his hoof back, and the goats collectively flinched.

His hoof crashed down on their table. An almighty snap followed by the ruckus of breaking glass bounced off the walls. A gasp went up from the crowd. Trails heard none of it, only the jackhammer of his heart as he stared down at the ruins of the table he had broken clean in half.

Still on two legs, he lifted his gaze. Yarmouk and his crew paled beneath him. One of them had fainted, and lay on the floor stiff as a board. Oh, how Trails had missed looking down at these critters.

“... That’s what an earth pony does when he gets mad,” Trails whispered, shaking his hoof in front of Yarmouk’s nose. “So unless you all want that to be your bones, I suggest you shake a leg and scram.”

The goats gulped and shared a frightened look. One by one, they started to retreat, meekly wandering off in confusion, as if nobody had ever threatened them like that before. In all likelihood, no one ever had. How often had they tormented creatures who couldn’t defend themselves? Trails didn’t even want to think about it.

He took a deep breath, gathering up the fear, the mortification at being seen on two legs with such uncanny ease, the anger at Yarmouk’s harassment. He balled it all up in his chest, knowing the cat was out of the bag and wanting to take it back was useless. Then he let it all out in an explosive sigh, falling back on all fours.

“Glad that’s over,” he muttered.

Then a full mug of ale smacked him in the face.

The first punches flew before he even hit the ground. Yaks roared, dogs yipped, cats yowled, griffons shrieked. Even Yarmouk and his friends turned around and rejoined the melee, ramming every unsuspecting behind they saw. An eagle-headed griffon stood on a table and cheered before leaping off to perform an elbow drop on the nearest diamond dog.

Trails sputtered and coughed, wiping his soaking mane out of his eyes, and yelped as a diamond dog nearly collapsed on him, crashing to the floor as it wrestled with a griffon warrior. Trails crawled along the floor, tripping more than once on his thick duster coat, dodging between the legs of sparring tavern-goers until he could prop his back up against the bar. Chairs, glass shards, and bodies rained down all around him.

Just then the bartender came roaring out the back room, howling curses and throwing what appeared to be grape-sized balls. They burst open when they struck the floor, causing an ear-splitting pop and a flash of bright pink light that made Trails feel downright discombobulated. But it was the weird pink smoke they left behind that really made his head spin. Mostly because of the sparkles. Or maybe that was just the dizziness.

Surprisingly, all the explosions did very little to calm anyone down.

Trails looked up, where his drink still sat untouched. He reached up and grabbed the mug like a lifeline, taking a great big gulp he nearly choked on. A yak crashed to the ground next to him. Bottles spilled down from the shelves. The entire building shuddered from another explosion.

“I’m out,” Trails said, and slipped through the back door.
> Vagabonds
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

That evening, a gentle rain fell over Dust. It tamped down the eternal haze of grit, replacing it with a haze of grey, but sure as the sun rose it would be back the moment the rain stopped. Even for the temporary relief it brought from the dust, hardly anyone was out to enjoy themselves. This was mountain rain, and it fell cold and heavy in big fat drops that plinked and plonked, making quite the racket where it hit shingles and awnings. On a few occasions, thunder punctuated the susurrations of distant water, and the rumble that followed made everything shake like the mountain stirred in its sleep.

Gertie liked the rain. Nobody else in the crew did; in fact few griffons cared for it whatsoever. It washed away the scent of prey and interfered with flying, freezing their wings and weighing down their feathers. ‘Above the clouds or not at all’ went the old saying. Griffons did love to look down on others.

But Gertie liked the rain. It washed away more than smells and grime. It washed away worry and fear, cooled the hot-blooded, pelted the proud and reminded them to lay low until the storm had passed. Why, if it rained long enough, Gertie reckoned the rain could wash away the entire world, and what a sight that would be.

The entire town was cool and silent. A far cry from the sounds of yelling and smashing and the sulphurous reek of explosives. Magical explosives at that, designed to confound the senses and disperse crowds violently. Gertie was shocked the tavern still stood after the Harridan’s crew made such a mess and the bartender assaulted everyone with his arcane grenades. The rain also helped with the ringing in her ears.

But that pony, Trails. She’d seen him, watched him from the corner of her eyes. She saw the way he attacked the goats. That did not surprise her; what surprised her was how the pony attacked. None of them got up on two legs without very good reason. Not that they couldn’t. They just didn’t. Ponies enjoyed being close to the earth, crouched to run. They were built for it. But Trails had stood up like a minotaur and slammed his hoof down like a fist.

Very curious.

“Unnatural,” said Otto when she pointed it out. “A pony who doesn’t talk, and stands on his hind legs like he was born to it! Should’ve been a minotaur.”

“He split that table with one clean blow,” said Hedwig, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “If he was a griffon, I’d get to know him better…”

“And then he ran,” said Garth. “Like all ponies do. Shameful. Weak. Starting a fight and not seeing it through to the end? Just means you’re a troublemaker.”

“Or smart,” Gertie muttered to herself. “The rest of that fight wasn’t his. He didn’t throw a single punch more than he had to.”

Nobody heard her, or if they did they didn’t care. A griffon threw as many punches as he wanted, after all, and only throwing one was boring. But Gertie just had a different idea on how many punches were necessary.

She had escaped the melee inside the tavern mostly unscathed, and now stood beneath an awning in the middle of town while the rest of the crew sheltered in the Harridan. While some routine maintenance was done the ship would rest in port, but soon enough it would depart for stranger lands than this. Gertie enjoyed these moments of freedom in between weeks in the air. The short moments of flight and wandering around on the ship essentially amounted to running laps. There was nothing more discouraging to a griffon than seeing the open arms of Mother Sky, and knowing they could not fly into them. The ground let her feel like she could explore.

With the rain spoiling any more mood for fights, Gertie wandered the streets alone, letting the mud squelch between her claws. Most griffons despised mud as the ultimate symbol of clingy, dirty earth, weighing good griffons down and pulling them to early graves. Movement was a griffon’s favorite part of life. But Gertie enjoyed the give of mud, and how it felt cool on her feet. Besides, if she got dirty the rain was more than enough to wash it away.

She passed a Diamond Dog grumbling to himself as he shook a sheet into the rain. Wood chips and dust fell to the ground.

“New visitors,” the Dog muttered. “Always trouble, always bring Tuff trouble. Tuff must fix tables outsiders break, must clean cloths they bleed on, must do this, must do that—”

“Sir?” Gertie asked, stopping to stare. “Is everything okay?”

Tuff stopped in his tracks, turning to Gertie with a squinty glare. “Oh,” he said, “you are new griffon!”

“That’s right,” Gertie said with a smile. “I just noticed you looked like you needed help—”

“Tuff hates new griffons!” Tuff barked. “They make fights, real fights, like that pony. Break our only tavern!” He whined and turned to go back inside. “Only beds without rocks, must break those too?”

“Oh, wait!” Gertie said, taking a step after him. “I feel like I should apologize.”

Tuff stopped again. This time, he turned with a more curious stare. “Apologize?” he asked. “Griffon wants… apologize?” He sniffed warily. “Griffons… never apologize.”

“This griffon does,” Gertie said. “My crewmates have been real eggheads the last few weeks. It’s bad enough they take it out on each other, but… I mean, when we start smashing up a building that might fall on our heads, well, you have to draw a line somewhere.”

“Oh!” Tuff said, ears perking up and tail wagging. “Then, griffon speaks to captain, gets Tuff insurance! Reparations for town!”

“Ah…” Gertie winced. “No. No, I can’t go that far.”

Tuff’s face fell back to a frown.

“But I can apologize!” Gertie said, grinning hopefully.

Tuff sighed, rolling his eyes. “... Get out of rain,” he grumbled, gesturing for her to come inside. “Don’t want angry goats to catch you alone.”

“Ha, not while I got these,” Gertie said, flexing her wings as she gladly loped through his door. “I may be small for a griffon, but a goat? Please, I can take them out with a look. Even that pony sent them packing in the tavern!”

“Nnn, yes, Tuff saw the pony. Only started huge brawl,” Tuff muttered, closing the door behind her. The house was only two small rooms, a front and a back, and the back was stuffed to overflowing with crates. The front room was cramped and dark, but warm. Apart from the door there were only two small windows, both shuttered tightly, and a fireplace in the wall crackled gamely against the night’s chill. Everywhere Gertie looked, there was a pile of… something. Dirty clothes piled high. What looked like a hookah pipe atop a mountain of cushions. Chairs and stools were piled on top of each other, crowding a workbench where an unfinished table leg sat next to a file and handsaw. Sacks of dried foodstuffs, boxes of tools, a Dog’s food bowl, a shelf full of small, wooden figures...

“Are you a carpenter?” Gertie asked.

“Nnn. Yes, fix tables when patrons break them,” Tuff said, weaving around a table jutting into their walking space and grabbing several throw pillows to drop them in front of the fire. “Also miner. Also sweeper. Whatever you need, Tuff does. Must do many things to live in Dust. Sit. I make tea, too.”

“Oh, I love tea.” Gertie settled onto the pillows, fluffing her wings and folding her legs beneath her. “It’s such a nice change from alcohol.”

“Dust ran out of alcohol three weeks ago,” Tuff said, filling a tea kettle from a large water barrel. He hung it over the fire before dropping down next to her with a heavy sigh. “Dipping into whatever we can, now.”

Gertie tapped her claws together. The guilt over the tavern brawl weighed more heavily, especially since she had joined in near the end. Just to avoid the scorn of the others, of course. The fact she had smashed a chair over a yak’s head while imagining it had Viktor’s big stupid face only made her feel worse, now. 

“Seems like this town doesn’t have much longer,” she whispered.

“It does not,” Tuff muttered, staring into the fire. “Why my house so crowded. Tuff leave soon, before things get worse. Tuff keeps everything under one roof so Tuff can travel easier. Maybe buy space on a ship. Maybe take wagon and walk. Tuff prefers ship, leave rocks behind faster.” He leaned back, propping himself up by his big digging paws. “Tuff… so, so tired of seeing rocks. No gems. No soft, warm dirt. Only rocks, big and cold.”

They lapsed into silence for a time as the water boiled. The dull hiss of rain on the roof echoed around them, punctuated by a rumble of thunder.

“Why can’t anyone mine here?” Gertie asked.

“Firestone,” Tuff grunted, taking the kettle from the fire. He slowly, deliberately poured a precise amount of tea into two small cups, and wrapped both his large hands around one to warm them. Gertie merely cradled hers gently between her talons.

“The firestone,” Tuff said again, “we find two years ago, while looking for gems. Firestone volatile. Explosive! Sparks, fire, boom. Only a little on clothes? Don’t sit next to fire, you are hazard. Bad to breathe dust. Veeeery special equipment needed. Is why we had Gizmonks, they build good machines. But, eh, money started leaving. Nobody wants firestone, too dangerous for fireworks, starting fires. Only use? Big, big explosions. And who needs big explosions?”

“Armies,” Gertie whispered.

Tuff nodded. “When last time you see big army? Nobody want firestone. Too much peace, not enough war. Then dragon king died, whole horde up for grabs. Gem market… pssshew!” He pointed his index finger down and plunged it into the rug. “Why mine what no one wants? And blows up if one mistake? Gizmonks bored. Miners not paid. Mine starts to die. Town starts to die. Fewer ships come. Dust is far. Dust is expensive. Gizmonks start to leave. But machine made by Gizmonk? Only Gizmonk understand. Now no one can run machines, nothing can be done. Gizmonks who stayed spit on for ones who left. So much anger, so much despair. Some, put whole life in this.” He shrugged his massive shoulders, and took a sip of tea. “Good idea, at the time.”

Gertie lifted the teacup to her beak and sipped. It was herbal. Strong. Bitter. A good kind of tea for a night like this. “... I’m sorry,” was all she could say.

“Mmm. So is Dust,” Tuff replied. “Tuff will return to Diamond Dog lands. Rocks are softer, Dogs always need good miners. Griffons will fly away soon. Miners will disperse, or die with Dust. But that pony…”

“Happy Trails? I spoke to him,” Gertie said, her attention suddenly rapt.

Tuff shook his head suspiciously. “Hnn. ‘Happy Trails.’ Not look so happy. Only pony Tuff see going east. Thinks other ponies live there?”

“There are people living in Terminus,” Gertie pointed out. “Past that, uh… I dunno, actually. What made you bring him up?”

“Most interesting thing in Dust since Dust was made!” Tuff exclaimed, raising his teacup as if in salute to the weird pony. “Ponies never leave Equestria. Mad if they do. Is like, erm, Diamond Dog leaving his pack!”

Gertie squinted. “Well, you seem to be living alone…” she said through another sip of tea.

Tuff snorted. “Diamond Dogs never really alone. Where two or more are found, there is pack. Tuff surrounded by his kind, even here. But Trail-pony? Only pony for miles! Why pony come so far, and then keep walking? Why east? What is east? Empty land for empty hearts!”

“They say there’s more land out beyond Terminus, and the sea. At least that’s what the explorers say.”

“Hnn. Won’t find ponies there, that is certain. Ponies are for Equestria,” Tuff said with a firm nod, as if that were an immutable law of the universe.

“Did you see where he got to after the fight?” Gertie asked, trying to sound inconspicuous and failing.

Tuff chuckled to himself. “Griffon should mind business of griffons,” he said over the rim of his teacup. He took another sip, and that was all he spoke of the pony again. Gertie eventually finished her tea, thanked him for the shelter, and walked back into the rain once again. Tuff wondered why she would leave right after drying, but it didn’t bother her too much; a griffon would be pretty useless if a little rain ruined their feathers.

Gertie turned to walk deeper into the town. She did not worry about being bothered; her status as a griffon would help her walk unchallenged. Even as a falcon, she got some measure of respect out here, which was why she had no plans on bunking on the ship tonight. Viktor would be there, and after the bar fight he would be looking for more victims to prey upon.





The rain had lessened to a light drizzle as she passed a small warehouse-like building sometime around midnight, next to a now-closed entrance to one of the mines. A sign next to it claimed this was the first tunnel dug when Dust was founded, the ore inside long since tapped and the shafts all collapsed. A railroad track ran from the mouth of the tunnel, curving around to the door of the warehouse, open just a crack with faint light glowing inside. 

Gertie’s first thought was it was a squatter, but upon very intentionally taking a peek inside, she saw the tell-tale silhouette of a pony walking (on two legs, no less) out from behind a carriage, if a carriage was an incredibly small house with wheels and an engine compartment instead of shafts for draft animals, and the house was a wooden box with windows and a roof made of whatever sheet metal was on hand. A dizzying array of pipes and axles sprouted like vines from the engine compartment and ran along the carriage’s frame and underside, to what purpose Gertie had no way of knowing.

She slipped inside and cleared her throat.

Happy Trails yelled and spun on his rear hooves, clutching his chest and falling against the engine. His eyes were wide with a prey animal’s kind of fright, and Gertie suddenly felt more sorry than mischievous.

“Land sakes, you scared me!” Trails hissed, dropping to all fours. He growled and waved his hoof at her, turning away. “You’re quiet as a feather on the breeze, girl. Well, congratulations, you found me again, now lemme ‘lone.”

“Sorry,” Gertie said, scratching her claws in the dirt. “Griffon instincts, I guess. I didn’t want to go back to the ship.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Trails grunted, lifting a bag from the floor. He moved around the back of the carriage and tossed the bag inside with a raucous clanging and banging. “S’why I’m leavin’ before the sun’s up.”

“Oh,” said Gertie, forcing her tail not to twitch. “You’re not staying in the tavern?”

“I just needed a place with a lock between me an’ everyone else for a while,” Trails shrugged. “D’you have any idea how hard that is to find out on the road?”

“More than you know,” Gertie said.

Trails sighed and slammed the carriage’s rear door shut. “Okay, why are you followin’ me? I’m not taking no hangers-on, Gertie. Trust me, bad as that ship is, bein’ with your folk is better’n where I’m going by far.”

Gertie shifted her weight between all four feet, fluffing her wings. “Well,” she said, her voice gaining strength as she spoke, “I guess I just want to know why you’re out here by yourself, because I like being by myself, and I thought maybe we had developed some kind of, you know, rapport or something! I learned that word from an ibex in Ungolia.”

Trails stared at her for a good long while, squinting hard. “Well now,” he said, “ain’t that cute as a bug’s ear. Gertie, I don’t know who you are, or what you’ve been through, but that’s exactly why I’m telling you: get out of here, go back home, an’ stop bein’ the bee in my bonnet. I didn’t ask for a shoulder to cry on, an’ Terminus is set to be my last stop. Not like it’s a utopia from what I’ve heard, anyway. You’re better off where you are.”

“I agree! And I think you’re making a mistake,” Gertie said, the words rushing from her mouth before she could stop them. “Trails, you’re right, I don’t know you, but I do know… I do know what it’s like not fitting in. Getting…  getting looks behind your back, people whispering like you’ve got something to hide, and maybe you do, but not really because all you’re hiding is yourself and people just… just hate you or something? How it feels to walk on eggshells because you think every step is going to be the last and, and you’ll just be up against a wall and everyone is going to see who you really are and that’ll just be the end of the whole friggin’ world, or something! But being alone doesn’t make you feel any better because smiling at a mirror just get so old sometimes and all you want is someone to just… just look at you? And tell you ‘hey, you’re cool, I’m cool,’ everything is… is cool, and…”

Her voice slurred into a low mumble as Trails stared implacably at her, one eyebrow raised. She ducked her head behind her wing and winced.

“I’m just saying going off to die in the wilderness, it won’t fix your problems? Maybe? And… and I guess I thought we had some things in common, and maybe you were tolerating me because, hey, wow, a griffon who isn’t a jerk for once, and I thought I could help you with some advice and I’m just really embarrassing myself here so I’m gonna shut up now.”

The silence stretched on. Gertie couldn’t see Trails’ face behind her wing, but she imagined him thinking she was insane, because she was, insane and stupid and just never good enough for even a decent conversation, right? Gertie felt hot tears singe the corners of her eyes, and she slapped a claw over her face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m just… so sick of trying to fit in, sometimes. I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you. I’ll leave you alone now. You did good sticking up for that Gizmonk.”

She sighed and turned away, spitting curses at herself. Stupid. Viktor and the others were right. Falcons like her really were just eggheads. They couldn’t help being what they were. They couldn’t help being born weak.

“Y’know,” Trails said, his voice subdued and soft, softer than any time she’d heard him speak before. “That Gizmonk put this contraption together for me, as a thank you. Just in the last few hours, actually. He didn’t have a horn, but he worked some real magic. This thing was a simple minecart this morning. Hell, I don’t even rightly know what it runs on, but it runs. Should get me to Terminus in one piece, maybe.”

Gertie sniffled and wiped her nose, making sure she had a smile on before she turned back to him.

“Well, what goes around comes around, right?” she said.

“Not always,” Trails said, leaning almost fondly against one of the carriage wheels. It was nearly as tall as he was. “I don’t mean to be short with you, Gertie. You seem like a decent sort. I appreciate what you said. Really, I do. That took guts.”

“Oh, well,” Gertie said, scuffing the floor. “I don’t mean to blow up like that…”

“Hey,” Trails said gently, “I know what it’s like to bottle things up. To keep secrets you’re ashamed of but shouldn’t be. How it eats at you. Claws at the back of your throat until you just wanna scream an’ let it out. Thankfully for me, these hooves are good for punching stuff when I get frustrated.”

“Heh, you did do a number on that table.”

“Ah,” Trails shrugged. “It was askin’ for it. Anyway. Thank you. For showing some concern about my welfare. It’s, ah…” He scratched his mane, looking self-conscious. “It’s been awhile since anybody did that.”

“But you seem so nice!” Gertie blurted out. “I mean, when you aren’t acting like a jerk so nobody follows you. Not everybody would punch a goat right in the face; I’d break my hand on their skull!”

“Suppose you’re right,” Trails said, buffing a hoof on his chest. “I’ve found there are at least a few perks to being a pony. Ain’t all bad.”

“Are you still going to Terminus?” Gertie asked, shaking her head.

“Eeyup.” Trails hopped into the driver’s seat, fiddling with some levers and twisting the steering wheel. “I’ve got my reasons, Gertie. But don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. This Diamond Dog set me up with some supplies he had squirreled away; guy’s set up for Judgment Day or somethin’. I would be too if I lived in this dirt pile of a town.”

“You mean Tuff, right? I met him!”

Trails turned to stare at Gertie. “How’d you know that?”

“Um.” Gertie sheepishly tapped her claws together. “I asked about you and he got real reticent. Made it kind of obvious you visited with him.”

“Sheesh, lady!” Trails scoffed. “You’d make a private eye blush. Ever think of being a cop?”

“Not talking much on a merchant vessel, you learn how to notice things,” Gertie answered. “Like, uh, it may not be my business, but I don’t know if this automatic carriage thing will get you all the way to Terminus in one piece…”

“Well if she don’t, I can dump the engine and haul her. Also got plenty of supplies, like I said. This place is loaded with all kinds of useful junk lying around.”

“So you stole it,” Gertie said, without judgment. Just stating a fact.

Trails sputtered and coughed, raising his hooves helplessly. “Gertie!” he said. “Guy’s gotta live. I’ve been on the razor edge for a long, long time now, because as you well know, Equestria is just one little country in a big ol’ everything-eat-pony world, and it doesn’t take kindly to ponies who don’t know to just pony up and toddle back to the land of friendship and lifetime offers on root beer and party supplies!”

Gertie tilted her head as Trails angrily adjusted switches and levers, and even leaned out the driver side window to polish the rearview mirror.

“So… why aren’t you going to Equestria?” she asked.

Trails turned and fixed her with a look so severe Gertie could swear he could pass for a griffon emperor of old.

“One, because Equestria is a long way from here and I stand a good chance of dying before I get there. And two, because Equestria is a home for ponies.”

He slammed the door to the driver’s perch shut.

“Which means it ain’t my home.”

He flicked some switches and pulled a large lever. The engine sputtered, coughed, hissed. Something popped, something put-put-putted, and the carriage shuddered and groaned before settling into a steady hum.

“Kindly get the door,” he said.

Gertie looked at the half-open door. “Terminus is where people go to find the end,” she said. “You won’t come back from it, Trails.”

“That there’s the idea.”

“Look, I don’t think it’s worth it! It can’t be! I mean, I don’t fit in anywhere but you don’t see me abandoning even a chance to live with my people! You’re the one who just told me to go back to them!”

“Yeah, well, do what I say, not what I do. Step back, please.”

Trails pushed a pedal and the carriage lurched forward like a confused cat trying to pounce. Trails cursed and stepped on the pedal more gently before the carriage settled into a slow, steady pace, pushing the door open with a loud crack.

“Well, it was nice hearing advice from a friendly source, but I better get going,” Trails said, turning into the street. A few bystanders looked up in awe as the contraption rumbled past them, pumps and pistons hissing and churning.

“Trails!” Gertie said, trotting alongside the carriage. “I’m not gonna tell you again! Are you sure this is what you want?!”

“It’s not about what I want,” Trails said simply. “I got reasons for staying on the move an’ frankly they do not concern you.”

Gertie leaped up and landed on the driving perch’s roof, peering upside-down at an irate Trails.

“Did you ever stop to consider that maybe asking for help could fix some of your problems?!”

“I said,” Trails replied, detaching one of the many levers off the dashboard and poking Gertie with it, “it’s not your concern. Now get off my roof an’ kindly let me saunter into the sunset, Gertie. I’d rather we part on amicable terms.”

Gertie refused, batting at the poking stick. “Trails, you don’t even know how far it is! I don’t know how far it is! There’s no real way to Terminus, you just pick a path and hope it doesn’t kill you!”

“I been lucky so far,” Trails replied, his voice growing more strident and his poking more insistent. “Now get your feathered tail off before you make me crash into something!”

“But you’re pretty much signing your death warrant!”

Trails stomped on the brake, sending Gertie flying forward to tumble into the mud. She squawked loudly and came up spitting dirt, wiping her eyes clean.

Trails was upon her before she could recover, turning her to look at him. There was no more peaceful indifference in his eyes. Only anger, and fear. A griffon knew fear by instinct. Trails oozed with it. Fear and pain and remorse, like a prey animal who had chosen the wrong path to take and saw their doom approaching.

“My death warrant?!” he bellowed, shaking her shoulders. “You wanna know about my death warrant, Gertie?! It wasn’t signed by me, you stupid bird! This damn world, and all the insanity that lives in it, that’s what killed me! Even after the War, even after the damn dust, I’m a whole world away from where I wanna be, an’ there’s still mad men with too much power making life miserable!”

Gertie shook her head, shaking in his grip. She remembered how cleanly he had snapped a piece of furniture in half. “Wh-what are you—”

“I’m not just a homeless bum, Gertie!” Trails snarled, shaking her again. “I’m not just some pony who don’t like other ponies! I’m on the run, you oversized turkey, an’ if you know what’s good for you, you’ll run back home before—”

A massive fireball tore the sky apart just a hundred yards up the street, blossoming like a flower and bringing such heat and light it seemed like dawn just broke over the town. Trails and Gertie flinched against the awful glare but Trails less so, throwing Gertie and himself against the front of the carriage and covering his head. Something roared like a lion, and there was another blast, more concussive this time, enough to ripple the air around them. Though so far away, the shockwave still hurt their ears. The roaring subsided, replaced with the distant crackling of burning wood.

“What was that?!” Gertie yelled.

“Stay down!” Trails answered.

Burning shrapnel rained down around them, fizzling in the mud. Embers, burning timber. A yak’s horn.

“No,” Trails whispered, curled into a ball. “No no no no…”

“Trails, what was that?” Gertie hissed, sitting up and poking her head around the carriage.

One of the buildings up the road had been blasted apart. In its place was nothing but two stories of burning wreckage, a swirling vortex of blazing yellow and orange flame.

“How’d it find me?” Trails whimpered, trying to hide beneath his duster, pulling it tightly around his body. His eyes were wild, panicked and unfocused. “H-how’d it… how did it…”

“What are you talking about?” Gertie asked, her voice seeming to come from a great distance away The blast had deafened and dazed her, and she staggered a few steps towards the blaze. Maybe someone needed help…

“NO!” Trails yelled, tackling her to the ground. “Don’t go back there! You gotta fly, you gotta outta here, now!”

“What do you mean?” Gertie squeaked, struggling weakly. “Get off me!”

“You have to GO!” Trails roared, shoving her away. “I gotta go! If I go, m-maybe I can draw it off, I gotta…”

He turned to the carriage and threw the back door open, ripping a tarp off a large metal chest. He flung it open, rummaging around, and came back out with a crossbow and queer looking bolts. Instead of arrow tips, they ended with small canisters.

“Trails?!” Gertie shouted, fur and feathers frizzing wildly, soaked as she was by mud. “Wh-what are you doing with that?!”

“Shut up, just shut up!” Trails barked, holding one of the strange arrows between his teeth as he turned the crossbow’s cranks, pulling the bowstring back inch by inch. “Make sure the engine’s still running, oh God, please, just a little more time…”

Another explosion, smaller than the first, ripped through the street. Dust’s inhabitants were awake now, poking their heads out of doors, shouting to each other, trying to organize a response to whatever it was that just struck their sleepy town. Some ignored it. Others walked. Most ran. Here, there, everywhere. Gertie stood in the midst of it, confused, frightened.

Another explosion. Another roar of fire. Gertie turned back to the blaze. It had moved from the line of buildings, into the street, illuminating shadowy figures shouting, running. But there were no buildings to burn. How was it spreading over  mud? Griffons had taken wing from the Harridan, circling the sight of the blaze, pointing and shouting at something down below in the midst of raging conflagration that just kept spreading out and out...

Gertie’s eyes finally adjusted to the glare. She saw what the griffons were pointing at, and her heart skipped a beat.

The fire wasn’t just spreading.

It was moving.
> The Knight of Fire
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fear.

Raw, animal fear. Trails never felt that back home. His fears then were sophisticated. Philosophical. A child’s fright seeing his parents argue about things he did not understand. The twist in his heart when he looked over the farm’s accounts and saw numbers that never added up. The grinding anxiety of land that drank and only got more thirsty, of seeing clouds of dust reaching to the sky on the horizon, of letters ignored on his desk.

Those were the fears of man. Chased away by drinking and staring into a crackling fireplace. Fire was a man’s comfort. No more unnatural than a blanket or a chair. Only animals were afraid of fire.

Today, Trails was an animal.

It was only here in this mad world he knew what fear of fire meant. That sheer, unstoppable terror welling up in his belly, pushing his heart into his throat. The total loss of control, over feelings, limbs, the world. Nothing mattered but movement. The need to get away before the horrible monster that ate and ate and never stopped was far behind.

But this fire gave chase over rocks and under rain, never dimming, never dying. This fire walked. It ran. It hunted.

“Trails?” Gertie asked, her mouth hanging agape. “What’s going on?”

“Bad stuff,” Trails, said, checking his crossbow. Tension was right, bolt was secure, safety was off. He would only get one shot. Not because of what would happen if he missed, but because Trails would not be able to stand the fear any longer.

“I gotta distract it,” he said. “‘Fore it kills more of ya. Gotta get outta town. Gotta run, gotta hide…”

But he said this as he walked towards the fire, leaving Gertie to yell after him in fear and confusion. He repeated the mantra over and over. Run, hide, run. The same as he always did, always would do. It gave him a measure of comfort, quelled the fear for a little bit longer. He could get out of here once he lost it again. Could go to Terminus, where nobody would ever find him again. Where he could die in peace.

He walked on two legs; he had to to use the crossbow effectively. Not that it wasn’t made for creatures who went on all fours. It just made him feel more comfortable. He didn’t care who saw him this time. They were too busy running past him, the same animal fear alive in their eyes. Doom had finally come to Dust. They all knew it would happen someday, but none of them thought it would be today.

What a human notion.

He stopped when he saw shadows circling above the fire. Griffons, swarming like flies. Silver--no, steel--glimmered in their hands. Swords and spears to fight, as if it would make a difference.

“Damn fools,” he whispered, breathing hard to keep the fear coiled deep in his gut. It would unravel soon, and then all the weapons in the world wouldn’t keep him from running. That was part of the curse. He was doomed to always be afraid.

He didn’t go further forward, squinting against the glare. He was close enough to feel the awesome heat. The rain gave no respite from it. He waited while his eyes adjusted, wiping rain from his brow. He had to get a clear shot. Had to make sure he wouldn’t miss. Only one shot, Trails. That’s all you’ll get before you turn tail again. Gotta make it count.

The griffons began descending.

“Don’t do it,” he whispered, though in his mind he shouted. Why wasn’t he telling them? Why wasn’t he warning them? He was here to keep them from doing something foolish on his behalf. And they wouldn’t even know it was for him.

But he was terrified. Terrified of drawing attention. If he shouted now it would come charging out, would see him, would find him… No. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to get the drop on it. Had to surprise it and then run, run like hell.

“Don’t do it,” he said, a little louder this time, as griffons dropped in a semi-circle in the street, around the center of the blaze, which had consumed five whole buildings and looked to hungrily spread to others.

The wind picked up, blowing down from the mountainside. The rain intensified, dueling with the fanning flames. The fire gulped in the air and grew higher, higher. A new storm front had settled over Dust.

“Run,” said Trails. “Run, or you’re gonna die.” But none of them did.

From the main inferno, a ball of fire pulled away with purpose, and moved slowly into the street towards the griffons. Mud boiled around it. Rain sizzled into steam. The fire roiled and churned, coalescing into a single being.

The Knight of Fire. That’s what the wizard called it.

It stood on four legs, ending in hooves that released sparks and gouts of flame with every step. Its skin was crimson with radiating heat, molten veins coursing up towards the horse-like body encased in obsidian armor, charred with otherworldly fire. A tail of burning embers lashed the air behind it, leaving smoke and ash in its wake. Where a horse’s neck should rest, a man’s torso jutted up, wearing a breastplate that may as well have been forged by Hell itself, black as pitch. Naked arms flexed, bulging with hate and heat and dribbling magma. And hands, charred, grasping hands with five fingers just like Trails used to have, hands that reached out with open palms as if to welcome the griffons who steadied themselves before it.

Trails never saw the Knight’s face, if it even had one. Its skull was totally encased by a helmet of black iron, opened by two round holes to give the false impression of eyes, but only twin pools of swirling, blood-red anger rested there. Two other vents further back let out a constant stream of spiraling fire and smoke, curling like horns overhead.

Trails stepped back as gut-wrenching fear bubbled up, making his stomach turn and his heart quiver. Of course the monster of his nightmares looked like this. It only made sense.

Damn wizards and their love of irony.

The griffons were shocked into silence, but only for a moment. Though the centaur-creature stood higher than them by a head or more, they greeted the new threat like they did everything else: with violence.

A griffon stepped forward and hurled her spear with an ear-splitting screech.

“NO!” Trails yelled, far too late.

The Knight’s head swiveled towards him, and for the barest moment terror consumed Trails like fire, burning straight to the bone. Then the spear struck its shoulder, and those hateful eyes turned away. Trails felt his heart beat again.

The Knight looked down at the shaft embedded in molten, rock-like flesh. It shrugged, and the spear burst into flame, burning away until only fire that held the shape of a spear remained. The Knight plucked the burning rod from its shoulder and stared, as if to examine its worth.

Then it lunged forward with a roar of heat.

The griffons, to their credit, stood their ground. They did as any clever hunters should, spreading out to surround the beast and attacking from many angles. But the creature suddenly in their midst was not an animal. It was a lord of war.

It swept the spear at their heads, forcing some to duck beneath, and in one fluid motion flicked the burning tip down and plunged it into the shoulder of one too slow to dodge. The griffon screamed and fell back as his feathers burst into flame, rolling in the mud to save himself. 

The rest attacked the monster as one, plunging swords and spears and axes into any exposed hide. All met the same fate, recoiling as their weapons were immolated, or became too hot to touch. Trails even saw a spark of magic sputter and die at the tip of a blade as it struck the Knight’s breastplate, and shook his head helplessly. No enchantment he knew of was strong enough to banish this horror.

The Knight’s counterattack was swift and brutal. Where the spear couldn’t reach, it settled for fist and hoof, scalding and igniting whatever it touched as it pummeled, kicked, and throttled any griffon that did not immediately retreat to a safe distance. Trails could only watch in horror, unable to follow the confused melee of feathers and flame. The moment the griffons left arm’s reach, the spear whirled and stabbed, cutting open deep wounds that sizzled and smoked. As the Knight moved with deadly grace and perfect fighting form, it glowed with sun-like intensity, as if some unearthly bellows fed its inner flame.

“Trails!” Gertie shouted behind him, shivering in the rain. “Trails, what is that?!”

“You’re a griffon!” Trails barked, grabbing her shoulder. “You gotta tell ‘em to stop, Gertie! It only wants me, but it’ll kill anyone who gets close to it!”

Gertie looked into his pleading face. She looked back up the street, where her fellow griffons fought and screamed and…

And died. The Knight’s spear pinned a warrior to the ground through the chest. It yanked the weapon free effortlessly, and continued its attack.

Gertie’s pupils shrank. She shuddered and stepped away.

“I-I can’t...”

Trails cursed under his breath and shoved her away, raising his crossbow. He wouldn’t get a better shot than this. But the others were too close...

A raptor's shriek sounded over the tumbling rain, and a large griffon with the head of an eagle swooped down, swinging a huge claymore. Behind him was an owl-headed female with a crossbow.

“Garth,” Gertie gasped. “Oh, Hedwig, no…”

“Get back!” Trails roared helplessly. “Get back! All of you! It’s me he wants! Just stop!”

The griffon warriors paid him no heed. Why would they? He was just a pony.

Garth twisted in mid-air as the Knight’s spear snaked out, meeting the blade of the claymore with a clang and a shower of sparks. Immediately after Hedwig’s crossbow twanged, sending a metal bolt into the Knight’s back. It sank into the armor and disappeared. The Knight did not even notice.

Garth curved around the street, stooping to the kill with another brave shriek. The Knight reared up, and Trails saw its other hand glow. A throwing dart of red-hot volcanic stone materialized in its fist.

As Garth smacked the spear with his sword and spun away again, the Knight flung the dart. Its aim was true, sinking the tip deep into Garth’s side beneath the wing joint. He screeched in agony, and sank like a stone from the air. Somehow he kept his wits about him, twisting as he fell to land on his feet.

The Knight was already upon him, thrusting with its spear. Garth parried once, twice, rolled to the side and swung, his sword clanging off the charnel black armor on the Knight’s flanks with a spray of sparks.

Another bolt sank into the Knight’s neck, but the monster did not even flinch. It took the spear in both hands, and the whole weapon flared with white-hot intensity. When the glow cleared, a burning sword remained. The Knight lunged for Garth again, even as Hedwig threw her crossbow in frustration. It struck the Knight’s side and exploded into flame without even slowing it down.

Without even a backward glance, the Knight hurled another burning dart with one hand. It struck Hedwig square in the gut and knocked her to the ground, where she lay still.

Garth staggered back, trying to keep his footing in the mud, bobbing and weaving and parrying for his life. But his wound pained him, and Trails knew the Knight was too fast. Too strong.

“Shoot it!” Gertie begged Trails.

“It’d kill the griffons,” Trails said, shaking his head. “But…”

But the Knight had already won.

Somewhere in the flurry of blows, Garth raised his sword just a little too slowly. The Knight saw the opening, and plunged its blade into his chest. There was a hiss of steam and scalding flesh. Garth struggled, raking his claws against the Knight’s helm in futile defiance even as they melted down his fingers. The Knight viciously twisted the sword in his chest. Garth let out a blood-curdling gurgle, then fell limp.

The Knight pulled its sword free and turned back to Trails before Garth even hit the ground.

“Why didn’t you shoot?” Gertie asked, letting out a gutted whimper of fear. “Trails, wh… why didn’t you…?”

The Knight held its sword by both handle and blade, then pulled, stretching the sword like toffee. The weapon collapsed into a drooling tongue of fire, spooling out until it dragged in the mud, sizzling and boiling. The Knight whipped the red-hot strand.

Crack.

A noose made of fire unfurled.

The Knight charged.

Trails raised his crossbow, took aim down the sights, put his hoof on the trigger. Everything shook from his heaving breaths and nauseous stomach and his heart jackhammering out of his chest. The horrible noise of thundering hooves seemed to fill the whole world. The Knight grew in his mind until it was ten times as big, taking up the horizon. Every thought, every action, was within its sight. Consumed by its fire.

He froze.

His vision tunneled down the sights of the crossbow until he saw nothing but the demonic Knight and its hollow, hate-filled eyes, hooves pounding louder than his heart. It was always there, just behind him. He had thought he escaped. Thought he got far enough. Of course he hadn’t. Of course the curse wouldn’t leave him. Stupid to even try, really.

The hesitation was just long enough. The Knight came in range and hurled the burning noose.

Time slowed to a crawl. Trails knew it was too close now. His fear had won. The Knight would kill him or he would kill both the Knight and himself, and for a hair’s breadth of a moment the thought pleased him. He didn’t even notice Gertie charging at him from the corner of his eyes.

Gertie slammed into him, and he pulled the trigger on the way down. There was a brutal thwack of snapping string and springing wood. For the briefest moment, as he and Gertie tumbled to the ground, Trails saw the canister gleaming in the night sky, saw every raindrop it struck as it arced gently through the air. It struck the Knight in its shoulder. Trails saw it crack open, saw the faint spark that grew and grew, and then he saw nothing else.

The explosion was like a god slapping the mountain. A massive crack followed by a furious roar, accompanied by a lavender fireball that engulfed the Knight. Windows shattered up and down the street. Trails heard the initial blast, and then just a loud ringing in his ears. He felt mud cover his face before his senses gave out.

Time passed. He did not know how much. Gradually, sight and sound returned. The rain still hammered down and cold mud held him fast. He sat up with a squelch, flicking his ears to clear them.

Someone was crying. When his vision cleared, he saw it was Gertie, lying on the ground and clutching her side. A line of blackened feathers ran down her wing towards her shoulder, and continued over her back. The Knight’s lasso must have fallen on her, and she had rolled in the mud to douse the flames.

“Aww, no,” Trails muttered, staggering to his hooves. He looked over his shoulder to see what his weapon had done.

In the middle of a shallow crater, the Knight still stood. Its right arm had been blown off at the shoulder, and its head dangled by a thread of what looked like molten glass. Magma dribbled from the open wound, hissing and shrieking as it hit the muddy earth.

A hand twitched.

”No,” Trails moaned, his heart sinking like a stone. If he had hit it dead on, then maybe… but Gertie had shoved him down, and then…

He turned back to Gertie. She didn’t seem to notice him, and yelled out in pain and fear when he grabbed her and rolled her over, studying her injuries. Nothing bed rest wouldn’t fix, but good luck getting rest tonight...

“Stay still,” he said. “Wound ain’t too deep. His weapons vanish when he can no longer use ‘em.”

Gertie’s gaze darted back and forth, taking several seconds to focus on the pony. “Is it dead?!” she gasped, reaching up to grope at the collar of his duster. “Did that… did it… what was that?!”

“Firestone,” Trails answered glumly. “Courtesy of our friend Tuff. I didn’t shoot cuz’ I didn’t wanna kill those griffons. Not that it helped.”

Gertie squeezed her eyes shut. Even in the rain, Trails saw tears glistening. “I can’t move my wing,” she said. “I can’t move my wing! Trails, I… I can’t… they’re dead, Garth and Hedwig are dead, oh sweet stars they're dead and I just stood there, just stood there…”

Trails gulped. He had already wasted too much time. “You just lay still, Gertie. Rest of ‘em will be along soon.” He spoke quickly, pushing her talons away, keeping her pressed to the ground.

“Wh-what about you?”

“Leavin’,” he said simply, and turned to do just that, picking up his crossbow as he went. Every second that passed was a second longer the Knight had to knit itself back together.

Gertie grabbed his tail to stop him.

“Don’t,” she said, through gritted teeth, through pain and anger that struck Trails to the quick. It was the kind of helpless voice he had, back when he first arrived. “You can’t… you need to explain…!”

“Get off,” Trails said, kicking her away. Fear bubbled just beneath his calm exterior, rose like bile in his throat. The Knight was still alive. The fire still burned. Run, run, before it catches you. “It’ll chase me. You ain’t safe if you follow.”

“My friends are dead!” Gertie wailed, grabbing his rear leg. “Garth, he… he used to give me advice. Hedwig listened to me. The others… I just stood there and did nothing! They’ll know I did nothing, and if I go back it’ll be worse than before! They’ll hate me for not fighting!”

Trails shook her off again. “No they won’t.”

She punched the ground, her eyes wild and unfocused. “It’s what griffons do! I’m a falcon and I watched them die! I have no honor left! They'll leave me for dead or kill me! They’ll make me Grounded!”

Trails closed his heart to her anguished cries. He almost felt for her; she clearly wasn’t thinking straight, what with the pain of losing friends and flight. But the fear overrode everything else. He closed the carriage’s rear door, hopped into the driving compartment, and unlocked the brakes.

“Trails!” Gertie shouted, almost hysterical. “Trails, please! No one will protect me on the ship!”

At least you won’t be dead, Trails thought to himself, slamming the pedal and lurching the carriage into motion. Luckier than everyone else I know.

The rumbling of the carriage prevented him from noticing Gertie hauling herself into the rear compartment, mud-splattered and sobbing.

The inhabitants of Dust hid themselves away in their homes, terrified of the noise and the horrible corpse standing statuesque in the middle of their town. Some of them watched Trails’ strange contraption rumble down the main road, quickly gain speed, and race out of town with the speed of a sprinting pony towards the long sloping road leading down to the valley below. Nobody stopped them, and nobody followed them.

In time, some crept back into the open, eyeing the fire that finally started to smoulder and die down.

But when the griffons found the courage to creep back to the battlefield and retrieve their honored dead, the Knight stirred.

All other movement ceased. Every eye that dared to look outside was fixed on the Knight. Minutes passed in ominous silence. Even the rain died down, as if shocked to find the horror still alive. Flicking of fingers became flexing of arms and legs. The tail of embers whipped the air, crackling and snapping. Bit by bit, the Knight returned to life. No one tried to stop it.

With its remaining arm, the Knight grasped its drooping head and pressed it back into place. The strand of glowing red glass melted down, becoming a strong, muscular neck once more. With its head properly set, jets of fire once again screamed from the vents in its helmet. The Knight rolled its shoulder and clenched its fingers. A fire spear reignited in its fist. The gaping wound in its side continued to spew bubbling magma in place of blood and viscera, supplied by some otherworldly plane, but the hole was already shrinking of its own accord. The people of Dust retreated from their windows, some hiding under tables, others behind buildings. The griffons hung back, terrified, though none would admit it.

The Knight stepped forward, and fire leapt happily beneath its hooves. It looked down into the mud, studying the tracks Trails' wagon had left behind.

Without a word or sound besides the thunder of hooves, the Knight of Fire charged down the street after Trails’ wagon, swinging its spear as it went. Sparks flew, and more fires started wherever they landed. Wood, rock, mud, it didn’t matter. All of it burned, even as the rain screamed down from the sky.

The fire was too hungry to be stopped now.
> Mercy
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wagon jolted as it went over a large rock. Nothing broke, so Trails kept driving. For a gem-powered land vehicle jury-rigged from spare parts and a minecart, it certainly was fast. Not fast enough, though. Nothing was.

His hooves gripped the wheel tighter. His eyelids fluttered, but he forced them back open. If he closed them, he would see it. The fire consuming the town. The screams of the dying. Gertie’s stare, angry, confused, sad. A child’s eyes in the head of a beast. A human mind in the body of a bird. Asking him why.

The past lurked in the shadows of his mind, thrown into sharp relief by the flames. Old voices whispered over his shoulder. Regrets enough to pave the road all the way back to where he had come from. Back to the Tower that he left it in flaming rubble before taking his first true steps in the new world.

He remembered staring into the flames next to steady old Myrluk and frail, frightened Caspian. Too shocked by the cold grip of freedom to run just yet. The others had scattered already, or died in the Tower’s collapse. The wasteland plain was deathly silent save for the crackling of the fires.

Where will you go? Myrluk asked him.

Far away, said Trails. Try to fall back out of the world like I fell into it.

Wizards do not forget or forgive, Myrluk told him. If he survived--

He didn’t, Trails had said, almost screamed it. The Tower was done. The experiments were done. The wizard was done. All that was left was to wander until his feet found their way home.

Trails had gotten at least one of those right.

He remembered Caspian with his big blue eyes begging Trails to join him, to go back to Abyssinia. Surely the wizard would never think to look there. Surely there was nothing that distance and time could not fix. But Trails never had enough of either not so long as the Knight was after him.

He pushed the pedal a little harder. A little harder.

The weather calmed by the time he reached the bottom of the mountain, but the sun only peeked through small breaks in the clouds, like holes cut in ice over deep water. Gradually, mist came up from the ground and settled over every low place, but as long as Trails had a compass pointing east, he was content. He chanced a glance over his shoulder. No more smoke. Maybe Dust hadn’t burned down after all? What did it matter, he wasn’t going back.

He sighed and looked ahead again. Another village behind him, another slew of deaths he could have prevented.

If you’d stayed behind, this would’ve been over a lot sooner. Wouldn’t that have been nice? Would the Knight really kill you if it caught you? You’re wanted alive, Trails.

He breathed deeply, trying to force the nagging voice away. It stayed coiled around his shoulders like a snake, hissing in his ear.

Why let the Knight keep causing chaos when you can just stop any day now? How long until you find the next village? Until it catches up again?

How long until you let yourself become part of the collateral damage?

He smacked himself. Intrusive thoughts not worth considering. He had transportation and a goal getting closer every moment.

Don’t think about them. Don’t think about any of them. Just the road ahead.

Ever onward.

When he finally found the courage to stop for a time, Trails did so at the crest of a knoll overlooking much of the valley. He hopped out of the wagon and stood on his hind legs, raising a hoof to shade his eyes as he peered into the vast distance ahead. The valley beneath Dust was a hard-bitten land of small shrubs and carpets of sedge and dry grass, rolling over little hills and spilling into ravines that broke up the rocky terrain. Golden shafts of sunlight pierced the slate-grey sky, traveling across the wasteland like searchlights. A scraggly river wound its way southeast, parallel to his route. It snaked back into the mountains some miles off, carving a path between the peaks. It flowed eastward there, probably all the way to Terminus.

He reached back into the driver side window, searching for his canteen. He needed a good stiff drink, and the bubbly not-quite-soda the Gizmonk had smuggled out for him had just enough kick to masquerade as alcohol.

He pulled out the canteen and gave it a shake. Empty; what rotten luck. He must have guzzled it down in the panic of his escape. Cursing, he walked round to the the rear compartment of the wagon, and reached blindly inside. His hoof felt wood, cloth, metal, feathers--

“Oh, jeezus--!” Trails yelled, tripping on his tail as he staggered back, falling hard on his rear.

Gertie’s mud-streaked face poked out of the wagon.

“Oh, you gotta be kiddin’ me!” Trails growled, jumping to his hooves. “You ain’t supposed t’-- this ain’t a-- ah, consarn, dad-blammed--!”

“I’m sorry,” Gertie whispered, but Trails wasn’t listening. He stomped the ground and made strange, bitter noises that might have been curses, but he was too angry to even think of what to say. Words tried to come out, but they just got gummed up in his throat. His father called it ‘choking mad.’ When he finally turned back to Gertie, who looked contrite as a sinner on Sunday, he was in no mood to forgive.

“You!” he said, pointing at her. “You need to get the hell outta my wagon right this instant!”

“You have to drag me out,” Gertie said. Her voice shook like a loose leaf. “I can’t fly, Trails. Really, I can’t. I can’t go back.”

“You hornswoggled me!” Trails snapped. “Waitin’ until I’m miles outta town with the Grim Reaper’s fiery cousin on my tail like this, I suspect you’d’ve waited until we were all the way to Terminus before sayin’ anything!”

“I’m sorry,” Gertie whispered. She stared at the ground, front talons curled up beneath her and tail coiled tight around her hindquarters, trying to make herself as small as possible. “I have nowhere else to go.”

“You think you’re the only one with that problem?!” Trails said. “Did you not see the flamin’ monster tearin’ up the town?!”

“It killed my friends, of course I saw it,” Gertie said, unmoving and unmoved.

Trails’ nostrils flared. He felt a rush of extreme anger he didn’t like nor knew where it came from, and it balled up in his hoof and he almost felt ready to punch Gertie right in the face. But he didn’t do any of that. Instead he stomped away, grinding gravel underhoof, and counted to ten.

He didn’t hate that she was being stubborn, or that she was justified about it. If Trails had been in her place, he might have done the same thing. No, what got his goat was how much she reminded him of himself. Scared, alone, certain they would stay alone. Looking at her felt like looking into a mirror, and nowadays he hated mirrors. He turned back and snorted.

“Ya really can’t fly?”

She turned and showed her damaged wing. The line of burned flesh scored into her hide made him hiss through his teeth. Feathers were still crinkled and black, burned into the scarring in some places. She tried to flap, but all that got her was a wince of pain.

“All right, don’t move,” he said. “Jus’ lay there. I’m not too good with surgery, but I’ve treated some wounds in my time. Lemme have a look.”

“It hurts,” Gertie whispered. “A lot.”

“It’ll hurt a lot worse without bandages and some disinfectant,” Trails muttered, looking the wound over. “Which I’ve got some of, thankfully. I learned this back when I was stayin’ with a doctor in Brayzil, y’see. Nice ol’ antelope travelin’ the world like me. Ended up as his assistant for a time, makin’ rounds to farms and fancy villas. This one time we got called out to help this tapir, gone an’ hurt himself trying to cut down a hedgerow with some cockamamie scheme...” He kept talking as he pulled out a doctor’s bag from beneath extra blankets, bidding Gertie to stretch herself out and relax as he prepared his tools. One thing he had learned was to keep the patient distracted from the pain any way you could.

“... Darn near took his leg off, poor fool,” he said around a pair of forceps in his mouth, plucking out charred feathers. A scalpel cut away dead flesh, and the disinfectant washed away the rest, leaving an angry red gash across Gertie’s back. Gertie winced every time he touched her, and cried out during the cleaning, but she kept her eyes on Trails almost the whole while, and didn’t struggle. She watched him with quiet reverence and deep gratitude that might make him flustered if he noticed, which he did not. It was one reason he was such a good assistant to the old doctor; he never let the patient distract him. Their animal eyes disturbed him deeply back then, so he learned how to ignore them.

“That’ll do it,” he said at last, giving the bandages one last tug. “For now, anyway. It’ll sting like high hell, but the bandages’ll hold up.”

He stepped back, dusting his hooves off. Gertie looked up at him, her chin on the floor of the wagon. The sun had finally broken through the clouds, and a breeze picked up his mane, the orange-red locks dancing like fire. He peered eastward, then over his shoulder. Somewhere far off he thought he saw a sharp glint of light, harsher than the sun, moving along the floor of the valley. Getting closer.

“Thank y--” Gertie said before Trails shut the door in her face.

Trails hopped into the driver seat, kicking the wagon into gear again. He turned towards a scar of cleared ground that hinted at a road leading into the mountains, likely put down by the miners before their livelihoods vanished.

A few minutes later, Gertie poked her head in through the hatch to the rear compartment. She looked nervous. Trails looked forward, leaning his head on his hoof and bracing his elbow against the driver side window. His free hoof gripped the steering wheel with a distinct nonchalance, like he didn’t care if he lost his grip any moment.

“Thank you,” Gertie said. “No one’s ever treated me that gently before.”

“What?” Trails asked, raising his head. “Nopony ever… didn’t nobody patch anyone up on your ship?” he asked. Memories of his time on the griffon ship hit him, and the disgust came soon after. “Surely with all that fightin’ they do…”

“No,” Gertie whispered, eyes wide and haunted. “Griffons hurt each other a lot. Nobody ever picked anyone up, or gave you bandages. You did it yourself or you went to the ship’s doctor, and if he wasn’t drunk he’d berate you for wasting his time if the injuries weren’t severe enough.”

Trails hissed through his teeth. “Wonder that ship stayed in the air,” he muttered.

“... Yeah,” said Gertie. She waited for Trails to say something else. He did not.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“Nothin’,” said Trails. “Because soon as I am able, I am gonna dump you on the side of the road, and I will keep going with my original plan.”

“... Oh,” said Gertie. She tapped her claws on the back of the seat.

“... It’s just,” she began, “I thought--”

“That I suffer stowaways? No,” said Trails. “Gertie, I’m grateful for what you did. Just about saved my life. But you ain’t meant for this journey. It’s mine alone. The Knight’ll kill you in the shape you’re in. Better if I just drop ya off an’ let you walk back. Might wanna give the road a wide berth though, it’ll--”

“No!” said Gertie, surprising herself with how forceful she sounded. At first, she stared at the back of Trails’ head with grave determination. When Trails slowly turned and fixed her with an evil eye, her courage failed and she hid behind her wing.

“I-I mean… no, please,” she said. “It’s a death sentence to go back for me now. The other griffons… they’ll hurt me. Trails, I can’t, I-I really… really can’t. They’ll make me Grounded and spit on me and kick me and Viktor will tie me to the b-bowsprit--”

Trails tsked, shook his head. “Now listen, Gertie--”

“I’ll die, Trails!” Gertie wailed, curling into a ball, ignoring the pain of her injuries as she clutched her shoulders and huddled against a crate. Her voice quivered, and hot tears stung the corners of her eyes. “Don’t you get it? I don’t have anything to go back to! They’ll call me a coward, say I have no honor left. I’m a falcon freak who ran away from battle while her friends fought and died. They already think I’m weird and small and they hit me, they hit me every day and I… I tried to be like them, I fought and I kicked and I scratched but it didn’t matter at all, it never stops, it never…!”

She balled her claws into a fist and slammed the wall of the wagon. “Never stops!” she screamed, tinged with the harsh screech of a falcon. The tears flowed freely now, not just for herself but the few griffons who stood up for her lying dead in the mud, for the pain of bruises still festering beneath her feathers.

“They just come at you, and come at you, always testing, always fighting, and I hated it!” She turned back to Trails, who felt her angry glare on the back of his head, and lunged forward to grip the cushion of his chair.

“I’m not going back, you hear me?” she said, trying to put a snarl in her voice and only managing to gargle the phlegm and snot her outburst had built up. “I’ll… I’ll fight you! I’ll take your wagon if I have to!” She crawled further into the driver’s cabin, hanging halfway out of the hatch. Her claws kneaded the seat cushions like a cat. “You think I can’t take a pony?” She leaned towards him, snapping her beak aggressively. “You think I’m weak?”

Trails kept his eyes on the road. He was quiet for a time, listening to Gertie’s angry, desperate sniffling. His ribs twinged from where the griffons had kicked him, back on the airship.

“I think you need to mind your bandages,” he said at last.

“Don’t make fun of me!” Gertie whined, punching the back of the seat.

“I’m not,” Trails said with a sidelong glance. “Find a place to sit an’ sit still.”

Gertie gulped, eyes darting rapidly. As if she thought he was a fake and some other Trails lay in hiding, ready to push her out the back. “You’re not gonna kick me out?” she asked through fresh tears.

Trails shrugged, tapping the steering wheel. “Jus’... sounds like we’re in the same boat, is all. No need to kick each other over the side.”

He appeared outwardly calm. In truth, he felt intensely jealous. It had been a long time since he had the sweet luxury of a nervous breakdown. He had never been good with others crying, or himself. In fact, he could barely remember the last time he let himself cry. Gertie’s meek, submissive voice disturbed him; he finally began to realize the power he had in this situation. It reminded him far too much of how little power he had once had, and the realization struck that he was being somewhat merciless to someone who desperately sought a little mercy. Surely he could let her share the back of the wagon, just for now? Surely he could just drop her off later if and when her wing felt better. A little burn like that wouldn’t keep her from flying more than a day at most. She could glide if it came to that. Then he could be quit of her guilt-free, and at least she could still make the trip back to Dust without fear of running into the Knight. He just had to stay ahead of the damn thing for a little while longer.

The wagon rumbled on. Gradually, the sound of Gertie’s sniffling faded to sullen silence. Trails looked over his shoulder and sighed at what he found. Gertie had indeed found a spot to settle in next to the hatch, and lay with her head underneath her good wing. Her breathing was peaceful, and the blood stains had stopped spreading. Even with the occasional bump of the wagon over the rocky road, she did not stir.

It was honestly the first time in months he had been so near someone else in such a tranquil moment. Rest was an abstract thing in his life now. When he felt too tired to go on, he simply stopped moving and closed his eyes. For a time, there was welcome oblivion, free of fear or want or choice. Other times there were nightmares of fire and blood. Scalpels and beakers. The horrible wind chime of magic reaching down into his bones, prodding at his nerves and peeling away the skin and fat. Spearing into his brain to hook memories like fish and dredge them up to the surface, where they were examined, filed, mocked. The wizard always had a smart remark for his memories.

Then he would wake up, often only minutes later, a few hours if he was lucky. Eyes still heavy. Limbs still sluggish. Mind still clouded by a million tiny anxieties clamoring for attention. He almost never had time to savor that sweet revival, to appreciate that he even had a place to lay his head for a time. The Knight was never far behind.

But more than the Knight, the knowing that this was not his home. The rejection of his body by his own mind, rejection of the alien soil he was intimately connected to by his earth pony body, but had never known until a short while ago. How did you rest when every bed was not yours? When your spirit struggled with magic it wasn’t born with? When your own body did not fit the shape your mind saw when you closed your eyes?

He felt so very, very tired these days.

Trails shook his head and sighed. He’d fall asleep at the wheel at this rate.

“What was that about being Grounded?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Huh?” Gertie said, blinking wearily as she raised her head. Trails felt a twinge of guilt; she must have been sleeping deeply.

“Grounded,” he said again. “I’ve heard it said by some griffons, but never got the chance to ask.”

“Oh,” Gertie said, sounding disappointed.

Trails gulped. He felt more like an earth pony now than ever, clumsily stomping along. “You don’t have to say if it’s personal.”

“It’s personal,” Gertie said, “but I guess it would help if you knew why I can’t go back to that.”

Trails raised an eyebrow. “Is it like exile?”

“It’s worse,” Gertie replied, eyes wide and haunted. “They wouldn’t force me away. They’d force me to stay.”  She sat up, crossing her front legs, and spoke in a tight, frightened voice. As if she could see the fate befalling her already. Trails knew what that was like, too.

“When you’re Grounded, everything is taken from you. Your position, your clan name, your place in society. You can’t fly unless a superior tells you to. You’re given the least desirable jobs. Your family ignores you. You are a slave to anyone and everyone who gives you an order. I would be one of the weak among the strong. And nothing, nothing would ever reverse it. I could save the world tomorrow, and being Grounded, they would spit on me for daring to try and rise above my position.”

Trails blinked, cleared his throat. “Well gosh,” he muttered. “Ain’t that just a right boondoggle. Back where I’m from a guy is always allowed to make somethin’ of himself. Why would griffons do that to each other?”

Gertie sighed, scratching the floor of the wagon. “To get that, I need to explain what being a griffon is about. We love the sky. Even more than pegasus ponies.”

“That’s a bold claim,” Trails said.

Gertie shrugged. “I think it’s because we can’t control it the way pegasi do. Ponies can mould clouds, sculpt snowflakes, even hold lightning in bottles. Griffons are at the sky’s mercy. We can push clouds and form them, sort of, but we never built anything like Cloudsdale. We can hide in storms, but we can’t create them. We have to fight against nature, because fighting is nature. It’s the one thing we can’t control, the one thing that is absolutely, totally free. Free from fear… and especially free from weakness. That’s why we love it. And it’s why we hate everyone who isn’t as strong as the sky.”

“Izzat why they beat you an’ me up on the ship?”

Gertie sighed miserably. She still felt guilty about that. “Partly. Since the sky is everything to us, we also hate anything of the ground. Ponies aren’t of the sky to us, not even pegasi. They corral the sky. Tame it and measure it and make it safe. They take a griffon thing and make it more like a pony. As if that’s such a terrible thing, to be a safe little pony.”

Trails might have said something about that, but he was smart enough not to.

Gertie continued, “Griffons only feel safe when they’re dominating everything around them, surrounding themselves with power. We test each other to see if we can fly on our own. If you can’t or won’t fight back… what good are you? To the clan, to your nest, to yourself? If you aren’t strong, you’re just prey. And conveniently, since we already believe we’re superior to everyone else, we get to see the whole world as prey.”

Trails wrinkled his nose. “Includin’ each other, huh?”

“I’m a falcon, Trails. We’re naturally smaller and weaker than the hawks, the owls, the eagles. We’re above the weak, but we’re not strong enough for the rest of griffonkind. We have to fight twice as hard for everything. They say it’s for our own good. They say it’s to keep our claws sharp. But slip up like me… and they strip away even that pretense. I came from a pretty prestigious clan, you know. The Windsong. Everyone born to the Windsong is supposed to get a leg up in life. But I was born a falcon, so my family threw me into the world to fend for myself. Had to ever since.”

“What about your friends?” Trails ventured, gently.

“They pitied me,” Gertie said, lowering her head to the floor. “That was it, really. Everyone’s only ever shown me pity. Now I don’t even have that much. Now I have nothing.”

She fell silent.

Trails had nothing to say. He settled in for the long haul, and rested his hoof on the pedal. This time, when Gertie drifted back to sleep, he did not disturb her. The Knight was somewhere behind him, but he wasn’t here yet. Trails just needed a little more time.

Just a little more time.