A linguist's trip to the Crystal Frontier, delayed by illness, is endangered by fire in the sky and a looming civil war.
Rosetta Stone's long-awaited Crystal Frontier linguistic survey has already been thrown off by a bout with disease, and to make it worse on their arrival to the first town on the list, rumors from the south of a coup and a brewing conflict over the throne have set the frontier on edge. And to add insult to injury, a meteor goes right over town and smashes it flat, and who's just arrived in town not hours before, a prime suspect and a unicorn to boot?
Out of money, and run out of town, Rosetta's only option is to partner with a mountain mare to scavenge the meteor for its rare materials and hopefully pay off their debts. Rather than sky steel, however, what they find will leave them in the history books forever.
If the brutal wilderness of the frontier, the xenophobic Duke of Snowybury's militia, or Sombra's usurping troops don't kill them first.
The disease known in Equestrian since antiquity as “the Wasting” goes by many names throughout known nations, but is a universally-dreaded disease. Affecting griffons, yaks, ponies, and with reported cases among even the rare buffalo and dragon travelers through known lands, the progression of the disease begins with a cough and fever. After several days, the coughing intensifies and is accompanied by muscle cramps, weakness, and loss of balance as the fever breaks. From this point, depending on the age and health of the afflicted, the disease can proceed rapidly towards death within a week or linger for weeks to months. Those ill require constant care to stay hydrated and fed; most cases remain too feeble to do anything but talk or perhaps some handicrafts in bed for the duration of their illness.
While most deaths from the Wasting are young children and the old and infirm, the weeks-long convalescence and constant attention required by healthy adults is a bane to farmers and families everywhere. Long bedrest atrophies muscles and for many their breathing is never back to normal; this shrinking of the muscles and body from long unmoving periods of illness is what led ponies to coin its name. An epidemic of the Wasting often leads to famine as fields lie fallow or unharvested, their owners bedridden.
“Now, ain’t it a great thing to see you out and about,” the old farmer chuckled. “I’m glad to see the Wasting lose its hold so quickly.”
“Only due to your generosity, sir,” Rosetta replied with a bow. “I was lucky to come upon a homestead in my time of need, and I hope my services have been sufficient compensation in return.”
“Your stories were more than enough to keep a lonely old stallion entertained, and your letters of recommendation will save me a pretty penny next year at the winter’s-end fair for some scribing. There’s no debt ‘tween you and I,” the farmer replied. “In all honesty, I’m a bit sad seeing you off, after so many weeks.”
“Hopefully, my time in the north Emerald homesteads will be brief, and I will be able to see you off at the autumn fair in Canterine on my return south,” Rosetta said warmly. “’Twould be nice to catch up at that time.”
“Well, I’d best get you to town right quick, then!” the farmer replied, closing the latch on his cart and locking it. “Hop on in, and we can get you there ‘fore dark.”
Carefully, Rosetta settled themselves in the bed of the cart, wincing at the toll the Wasting had taken on their muscles. The strength from nearly a half-year of trekking through the eastern Empire had been eaten away by the six weeks of bed rest it’d taken to fight the Wasting off, and Rosetta was not looking forwards to the first few weeks of resuming their travels.
The north Emerald watershed was, at the least, not especially hilly compared to the terrain between Snowybury and Aquavitae, they thought. And if the timing was right, the downriver raft caravan for the fair would take off half the distance back to Canterine and take them out of the hills entirely.
Digging in their pack, hiking it up over the obelisk emblazoned on their flank, Rosetta retrieved their journal and began to review. Speaking the frontier dialect with their benefactor was all well and good, but he was only one pony, and every town had its own little quirks. It was best to be as prepared as possible to avoid any… mishaps.
They settled down and lit their horn, beginning to slowly flip the pages as the fields of the isolated homestead slipped out of view behind the endless expanse of conifers that gave the valley its name.
Emerald Vale, named after the valley it was nestled in, was barely even marked on Rosetta’s map. A small community of a few hundred ponies, to a head crystalline, sat next to the Emerald river. Farms and homesteads spread across the valley meadows to the edge of the forests, irrigation works taking the marshy area around the river and turning it into rich soil. The verdant valley’s only hint as to the harsh fall and winter approaching were the steep roofs that covered the barns and shops of the town.
The town center was not much more than a smithy and a mercantile store, perched next to the trail leading into town and a simple pier on the river, with a few crude log barges tied alongside. To Rosetta’s surprise, a few brown tents were camped on the grass along the riverside, flying a small flag of the Crystal Empire. A patrol through these areas wouldn’t have been expected until the harvest festival sent barges of food south to the fair, so why was there a squad here, in early summer?
They peered over the edge of the cart and spoke to the farmer, “Does Emerald Vale have a mayor, or some sort of leader?”
He scratched at his chin for a moment, slowing his pace as they neared the farmland. “Ain’t really a leader or anything, but the one who solves problems between ponies is usually Fuller, the smith. And from your stories, if you’re looking for someone to guide you on a wander around the smaller towns to the north, the only one in town who ventures far into the woods is Snowhoof. Not sure where she lives, so best ask Fuller.”
The cart slowly made its way down to the town center. “Now, you’d best be catching Fuller before he heads to bed—always did like to tuck in early, he did.” As Rosetta hopped out of the cart, the farmer tied the cart up to a pole and waved goodbye as he stepped into the store. “I’ll be looking for you at the autumn fair, friend!”
“I look forwards to it!” Rosetta replied, taking a moment to stretch and heading across the path to the smithy.
As they knocked, then pushed the door open, she found a burly brown pony at a grindstone. Sparks flew as he pushed a scythe against it, honing the edge, and without looking away he grunted, “Welcome, give me a moment to finish up.”
Happily, Rosetta noted that he spoke much as the farmer did. They took a few seconds to glance around the room, seeing all the typical tools of a small-town smith hung on the walls or scattered on workbenches. They returned their attention to Fuller as the grindstone squeaked to a halt and he set aside the blade, turning towards them. “Greetings,” the smith said, raising a hoof for a bump. “Name’s Fuller, and welcome to Emerald Vale, stranger. Where d’ya hail from?”
“Greetings, Fuller,” Rosetta replied, bumping his hoof. “I am Rosetta, from Equestria.”
“Mighty far north for a unicorn to be wandering,” Fuller said, raising an eyebrow.
“I am engaged in charting the dialects of the Crystal Frontier,” they explained. “I spent the spring in the villages near Canterine, and plan to spend the summer in the Emerald Valley before returning south to Canterine and then to the southeast during the winter.” Rosetta smiled slightly. “As you can imagine, I don’t think myself well-suited to a north Crystal winter.”
“You can say that twice,” Fuller chuckled. “Not as thin as you’re looking. I am surprised you’re still around instead of turning tail and heading south as fast as you can trot, though. You must really love your job.”
“Why would I be heading south?” they questioned. “Apologies, I have been laid up at a nearby homestead recovering from a bout with the Wasting for several weeks.”
Fuller grimaced. “Ah,” he said. “See those troops outside? They brought some unwelcome news. General Sombra’s staged a coup and taken the capital. The army’s split down the middle, and they say both sides are calling up levies for a short campaign before the first snow this year, to try to end things quickly.”
“And the Empress?”
“Nopony knows,” he replied. “The Prince is in Snowybury, but the patrol’s spent five weeks getting here, only a few days after the coup. What’s going on down south is a mystery, and will probably remain so until we make it down to Canterine for the fair.” He picked up the sharpened scythe and slotted it into a bin on the other side of the small room. “Not that it matters all the way out here; taxes twice a year is about all we saw from the Empress, and Sombra’s not likely to be much different.
“No idea about you southerners, though. Will your Princesses risk war to reseat the Prince, do you think?”
Rosetta shook their head. “Not unless Sombra was foolish enough to damage the trade routes or invade.”
“You’ll probably be fine wandering around up here, then, long as you don't make trouble,” Fuller said with a nod. “Best not spend too much time poking around near the borders, though, or the Duke might decide you’re a spy.”
“I’ll take that advice into account,” Rosetta said.
“Now, there’s not exactly an inn in our fair town,” Fuller said. “Where are you planning on staying?”
“I was planning on offering my scribing services or labor for a bed at a nearby homestead,” Rosetta explained. “I was told you’re somewhat of the local elder, and I thought you might be able to point me to some good options.”
“I’ll have to give it a bit of thought,” Fuller said. “Anything else?”
“I’ve also been told that if I were to hire a local guide, to seek out a Snowhoof.”
“You’re in luck, then!” the smith replied. “My next piece of work’s actually for her, so she should be around sometime around this evening to pick it up.” He moved over to another bin and pulled out a large knife. “Not too unlike the one you’re packing, but Snowhoof likes to give it a bit of a professional touch on the rare occasions she’s in town. A whetstone by the light of a campfire only goes so far, after all.”
Casting about for a moment, Fuller set aside the knife, pulled out a chair, and dumped the load of metal scraps on it to a nearby table. “Take a seat if you’d like, won’t be much more than an hour or two.” He wiped his brow. “Then again, with the forge lit it might be more comfortable if you took this outside. Up to you either way.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Rosetta replied. “I think I’ll spend some time taking notes outside.” Waiting for Fuller to take his hoof off the proffered chair, they lit their horn and floated it an inch above the ground, taking it outside.
Taking out their journal, Rosetta began to take notes on the short conversation, comparing it to the farmer and noting any differences, along with quirks to investigate with their host in the future. They hadn’t realized it, but six weeks with only one other pony to talk to had left them starved for some work; by the time Rosetta looked up from their notes, they’d used several pages and the sky was… brightening?
Wait a minute, that wasn’t right. Rosetta knew they could get lost in their work, but there was no way they’d spent all night out in their chair taking notes. Glancing up, they were transfixed by the sight of a massive ball of fire making its way across the sky, turning the evening sky as bright as noonday.
It was headed northeast, right over town, and in its wake it left a massive trail of clouds. Rosetta had never seen anything like it. As it swept down towards the horizon, it continued to brighten, so much so they had to close their eyes against the glare. Then, as suddenly as it came, it dimmed and disappeared, leaving only a line of clouds to mark its path.
The various Crystal dialects are fascinating in their diversity. While cosmopolitan Crystal is very similar to Equestrian, requiring only modest knowledge to gain fluency in, this is largely a result of the extensive trade between the old tribes and the Crystal Empire—it’s more accurate to call modern Equestrian a Crystal creole with the old tribal languages than the reverse. The Empire itself has a halo of nominally-loyal towns that see little to no interaction with the capital or Equestria, and have evolved dialects that verge on being their own languages. These small, subsistence-farming communities consist of only a few hundred to thousand members, and there are dozens, possibly even hundreds, of variations on Crystal, some of which diverged from the main dialect centuries ago.
Rosetta stood in awe for a few moments, amazed by what they’d seen. It had to have been a meteor, but they’d never heard of one so large, nor one in the daytime. As they returned their attention earthwards to note down the occurrence in their journal, Rosetta noticed a mare racing towards town.
“Fuller!” the mare yelled. “Did you see that?”
The door creaked behind Rosetta, and the smith emerged. “Snowhoof, what are you babbling about now?”
“The sky! It was on fire!” She bellowed back, skidding to a halt.
“What kind of nonsense is that?” Fuller grumbled, but paused as Rosetta nodded. “I saw it as well,” they said. “It must have been a meteor, but I’ve never seen one so large.” They bit their lip. “Something terrible must have happened in Canterlot to have Luna err so.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the smith said with a lopsided grin. “Not even a day in town and you’ve gotten tangled up in one of Snowhoof’s ‘things that totally happened that may-or-may-not-have-actually-happened.’ You’re gonna fit right in.”
Then the world exploded around them.
Rosetta came to sprawled on the ground, several feet from the porch they’d been standing on. Their ears throbbed, and a hoof came away specked with blood as they rubbed at it. Stumbling to their hooves, they cast a look around.
The mercantile store across the path was teetering, its walls knocked off its packed earth foundation. Shingles littered the ground and while the smithy’s stout walls had fared better, the roof was visibly damaged, stripped of its protective outer layer. The ponies with which they’d been speaking earlier were waking from their stupor as well, and as Rosetta attempted to help Fuller up, the other, who they assumed was Snowhoof, rolled upright.
The guard encampment on the riverbank had been flattened, tents sent flying. One pony, to Rosetta’s horror, was rolling on the ground, aflame. They must have been blown into a cookfire and came to in the flames. The silver lining to the deafness Rosetta was suffering was that they couldn’t hear the screams of the poor guardspony as other soldiers revived and smothered the fire with blankets and canvas.
A hoof nudged their side, and Rosetta turned to see Fuller mouthing something. They shook their head and pointed to their ears, mouthing back “Can’t hear a thing!”
As if summoned, the complete deafness gave way to a piercing ringing in their ears, driving into their head like a dagger. Rosetta grimaced, but internally they thanked Celestia for the ringing; stunning spells inflicted a similar noise, and generally hearing returned within a few hours of being hit with one. It was reassuring evidence that whatever had just happened was unlikely to be permanent.
But what had just happened? Rosetta had never heard of a stunning spell strong enough to nearly knock a building over, and in any case they were the only unicorn in town and most likely for a hundred miles or more.
It had to have been the meteor; that was the only explanation Rosetta could think of. They’d never heard of a meteor blowing buildings over, but meteors weren’t exactly common and its brightness meant it had to have passed overhead—close overhead. And that, Rosetta realized with a start, meant it had to have landed close to the northeast. An opportunity to study, maybe even recover, a freshly fallen star was something reserved for the Princesses themselves, or perhaps their proteges if they asked nicely. Even if Rosetta was a linguist rather than an alchemist or metallurgist, to pass up such a rare opportunity was unthinkable.
Besides, meteoric metal fetched a pretty bit for its rare magical properties and incredible hardness, and things made out of it floated around as relics for hundreds of years or more before they were eventually lost. A hoofful was enough to fully fund their next expedition without having to come to the crown hat in hand, begging for bits.
As they came out of their thoughts, Rosetta noticed Fuller staring at his stripped roof in dismay. Cantering over to one of the shingles now littering the ground, they picked it up and turned it over, examining it out of curiosity. The nails had pulled through the fastening, leaving small holes in the face, but otherwise the shingle seemed undamaged. If you flipped the shingles over, with some creative placement you could probably get the entire roof redone without issue. Squinting at the roof, they thought they could see the nails still embedded sturdily into the roofing.
Moving over to the smith, they tapped him on the shoulder, hoofing him the shingle. He blinked, took it and examined it as well, and then looked back at Rosetta quizzically. They mimed hammering, and he nodded in understanding, rushing into the smithy and returning with a light hammer and a pair of pliers.
Magically grabbing the pliers, Rosetta lifted them up to the room and after a few seconds of concentration, managed to pull a nail and bring it back to the ground. As she worked pulling the nails, Fuller produced a ladder from somewhere inside, leaning it against the building, and Rosetta started piling nails on the roof next to the ladder. Hammer in hoof and shingles in teeth, Fuller started making trips up and down the ladder to take shingles up and reattach them.
It only took a few trips before Snowhoof had grasped their intentions and started piling up torn shingles next to the ladder and hoofing them off to Fuller as he descended each time. Ears still ringing, the trio managed to hit a decent pace, and by the time the twilight was too dark to work safely, they’d managed to reshingle about a quarter of the roof.
Thankfully, the ringing in Rosetta’s ears had faded to an annoying buzz in the back of their head, and as Fuller descended the ladder for the last time, she called, “Might I stay the night, sir?”
“What?”
Shaking their head, Rosetta repeated themselves louder. “Of course!” Fuller yelled back, making them wince. “After the help y’gave me with the roof, it’s only fair.” Evidently, his hearing was not quite as recovered as their own.
Snowhoof sidled in with Rosetta, as if she’d done this a thousand times. Thinking back on the brief amount of banter between the two they’d caught, Rosetta guess she probably had wheedled her way into a night’s stay here more than once.
Fuller busied himself shoving things into corners and clearing some floorspace, before disappearing into the other room and returning with some thin thatch matting and a pair of scratchy blankets. “It’s not much, but it’s better than the dirt outside,” he apologized.
Snowhoof picked the far mat, laid down, and was seemingly asleep instantly—an enviable skill. Thanking Fuller once again, Rosetta settled themselves down on the mat, but rather than turning in they lit their horn and began to write by its glow, noting down everything they could remember about the meteor for future reference.
It was only then that they dispelled the light and closed their eyes.
Guardspeak, usually simply called “cant,” is another unique feature of the Crystal Empire: in order to quickly educate recruits from the outer reaches of the Empire and keep secrecy in Guard matters, a simple language of half-vocal cues, half-body movement was developed at some point centuries ago, and refined ever since. Attempts to study it have been stymied by the Guard’s secretive nature and the fact that the original variant was developed by a guardspony to begin with.
Recruits take an oath of silence on the matter, retaining its usefulness for small outfits in the frontier reaches. Several scholars attempting to study it have come to unfortunate ends, and disaffected retirees from the force tend to live short, isolated lives. For now, the dangers of attempting its study have persuaded most to steer clear—just as the Guard intends.
Rosetta woke with a start to a hoof over their mouth, and as their horn flashed in instinctive panic, a tap on it broke their concentration painfully. “Shhhhh…” the owner of the hoof whispered. “I mean no harm.”
Cautiously, Rosetta lit a light spell, dimly illuminating the dirty forge. Snowhoof blinked, adjusting her eyes, and removed her hoof. “Good lass,” she murmured. “It’s time to get you moving on from the Vale ‘fore the dawn breaks.”
Rosetta whispered back, “Is that a threat?”
“Heavens no, but what do you think those Guards outside are going to do once they’ve slept on it and finished caring for their singed friend? They’re going to blame an outsider—you. And at least some of the homesteads will go along with them.” Snowhoof grimaced. “It’s been a long while since the last lynching here and I aim to keep it that way. I’m taking you south.”
“I can defend myself,” Rosetta returned, and Snowhoof shook her head, mane splaying out over her face.
“Maybe you can, but against seven guards your chances are close t’zero, and you know it.”
Rosetta grimaced. “Damn,” she cursed. “You’re right, but I can’t just leave with my job unfinished. I’d never get funding for another expedition again.”
“Can’t do any more expeditioning if you’re dead,” Snowhoof countered.
Hanging their head, Rosetta sighed. “True.” For a moment they cast about for something—anything—to dispel the cruel logic of the mountain mare, and had a flash of brilliance.
“If we make a detour before heading south, I won’t need to ask for funding again,” they told Snowhoof. “That meteor yesterday? I tracked its course. It can’t have landed more than a day or two northeast of here, and filling your saddlebags with meteoric iron is enough money to buy your own barony. More, even.”
Snowhoof’s eyes lit. “Sky steel, we call it, and you’re not wrong. You’ve got a deal. We’ll split it 75-25, aye?”
“50-50,” Rosetta countered.
“That’s no fair deal, and you know it. I wager I could find it ‘fore the season’s out on my own. You’re here to point the way, and nothing more. Two-to-one.”
“You’ve got a deal,” Rosetta replied, bumping hooves softly.
“Perfect.” There was a small pause. “What’s your name anyway, lass?”
“Rosetta,” they offered.
“I’m Snowhoof, but I wager Fuller’s told you my name already if you’ve been in town more than a few minutes.” She smiled. “He get to telling you about any of my experiences? He’ll have called ‘em ‘tall tales,’ though.”
Rosetta shook their head. “Your order and then the meteor cut him short,” they replied.
Snowhoof’s ears flicked, then swiveled to the door. “Cant,” she muttered with a curse. “They’re coming for you afore you can leave with the dawn.” Throwing a hoof around Rosetta’s shoulder, she towed them over to one of the cluttered smithy tables. “Lie down, quick,” she hissed.
Rosetta didn’t have time to even settle fully onto their barrel before the wind was knocked out of them by Snowhoof flopping on top of them. The much larger pony nearly completely covered them in choking, shaggy fur, and a carefully-placed mane and tail flip drowned Rosetta’s face and rear hooves in light grey hair. Miming sleep, she slumped over and closed her eyes. Underneath the crystal pony, Rosetta could barely hear and was completely blind; they focused on breathing softly and not sneezing as the mountain mare’s mane tickled their snout.
Snowhoof’s haste proved wise, as only moments after drowning Rosetta in fur the door carefully creaked open. Quiet hoofsteps passed by Snowhoof, doing a quick once-around of the small smithy. A doorknob turned, but then, apparently thinking better, the guard released their grip without disturbing Fuller’s bedroom. They repeated their once over, and finding no sign of Rosetta except a discarded blanket, softly muttered an unintelligible curse.
The guard retreated back outside, and muffled cant conversation filtered through Rosetta’s furry prison. Even as the conversation faded, Snowhoof didn’t move. Not daring to complain, Rosetta lay there, and after several long minutes, finally her weight shifted and Rosetta took a welcome breath of fresh air.
Muzzle wrinkling, they stifled a sneeze. Snowhoof turned to face Rosetta, hoof over her lips. “We’ll wait for sunrise,” Snowhoof whispered. “By that point they’ll be out of the valley trying to find your trail before you get far. They can outpace the both of us in distance marching, so we need the extra time for them to go off on their wild goose chase.
Rosetta nodded. Snowhoof continued, “We’ll need to make a stop at my cabin first to grab a sled. I aim to take as much sky steel as we can find, whether that’s one pound or a thousand.”
Both of them lost focus as they thought of the unimaginable wealth their share of a thousand pounds of meteoric iron would bring them. Spending their time waiting inside the dark smithy occupied with daydreams was as productive as anything else, and the subject promised endless entertainment imagining castles, mansions, and endless luxury.
Finally, as light began to creep through the shutters, the two made their escape. Snowhoof peered out the door, checking for left-behind lookouts, and after seeing none, Rosetta followed her out into the dawn. Snowhoof set off along a footpath to the northwest, the linguist following closely behind as they left Emerald Vale behind them.
