>Why, in the name of everything that’s shown under Celestia’s sun, were you here? >Gustav’s Great Griffon Goods was a butcher, no matter how he tried to dress it up for pony sensibilities. >Grimey, greasy, and thoroughly in the center of Manehattan’s Griffontown, it was a place no self-respecting equine would patronize. >Yet here you were, outvoted as usual. >You’d wanted to go to the Corner Cafe, it was dandelion season, and nowhere else in the city made better sandwiches. >It seemed like a no-brainer! >Yet, here you sat at quad-Gs, soundly outvoted two to one. >And one of those two couldn’t even be bothered to get here on time! >Which left you with two options. >A: continue to pick at the most pathetic dandelion sandwich you’ve ever eaten (which you’re certain Gustav only added to the menu because you kept complaining). >Or B: trade barbs with the friend who was here. “So, you asked him out yet?” >The hen sitting across from you stops, sputtering as her half-chewed food comes to roost in her throat. >The look she gives you could kill, but it was worth it to put a pause in her pecking apart the piece of carcass she called food. >”Flock off, Beacon. For the last time, I’m not goin’ to.” “Come on, everypony from here to the station knows you like him. Even Gustov! You should do it, I think he’d say yes.” >She rolls her eyes, and tears off another piece of that “country fried” whatever with her beak. >”You must’ve copped an extra chromosome’s worth of that optimism gene you ponies seem born with.” >A barb like that might have cut some ponies to the bone, but Dazzling Beacon was not some ponies. >Or you were just used to it. >Choosing to believe it was the former, you peacock your wings right there in that greasy booth. >It's profoundly uncomfortable, but worth it to show how not bothered you are. “Don’t hate me just because I’ve never had a bad idea.” >The griffon cocks a feathered brow. >”You call rushing a Cipactli a good idea?” >Okay that one actually hurt. “I thought we agreed—” >The involuntary trip down bad-memory lane is stopped by the soft “ding” of the entrance’s bell. >And in walks the stallion of the hour. >As usual, he’s got no less than three scrolls floating around him, suspended by a lavender glow. >Even as he trots into the shop, his eyes continue flicking between them. >This is just embarrassing, time to save your friend from himself, again. “Anonymous!” >He looks up, like he’s surprised to already see the two of you there. >”Oh! Beacon, Lieutenant! I assumed I’d beat you here.” >And just like that the scrolls are rolled up, slipping back into the saddlebags marked with a question mark. >His very fitting cutie mark, if you’d say so yourself. “Beat us? Dude you’re at least twenty minutes late. Lou had time to order!” >As always, (Former) Lieutenant Gaelle is more than willing to look past the faux pas. >Instead, she points toward the scrolls he just filed away. >”Get a load of you! You’re heaps better now. I remember when you could barely wrangle one scroll.” >You scoot further into the booth, and he quickly jumps in beside you/ >”I’ve been practicing, it's why I was late actually,” he says. “Apperantly the ‘slow your perception’ spell I’ve been trying out works a little too well.” >Unfortunately any further haranguing you hoped to do was utterly smothered by the arrival of the shop’s owner and sole employee. >The mustachio’d griffon practically soars out of the back when he hears Anon’s voice. >”My oh my!” He says, coming to a stop at the end of your table. “Why if it isn’t my favorite pony in all of Manehatten! I tell you what, I just got something I guarantee you’ve NEVER had before on my block today.” >”Oh?” >”Cockatrice,” Gaelle says with a smirk. >Gustav throws up a talon, and you’re suddenly very happy you’re on the far end of the booth. >”Wha!? Why you gotta go and spoil the surprise like that!? Why I outta...” >Come on Anonymous, for once, just once, say no. >But your heart sinks as he says, “Cockatrice? I haven’t had that before.” >Gaelle pecks off another chunk, not waiting to swallow before speaking, “‘Ts what I got. Pretty good.” >Anon gestures to her plate, “May I?” >By the grace of Celestia herself, the red tint at the edge of her plumage hides poor Gaelle’s blush. >”Yeah, course,” she sputters. >You look away as he picks up the fork you left him, unable to stomach the sordid scene. >Honestly, you can’t decide which part of the sight is worse. >A pony willingly eating meat, or a stallion being so utterly clueless. >He HAS to know how intimate sharing food is for a griffon. He HAS to. >It’s like one of the THREE things they teach in the cultural studies class every school has. >But then again, when you met Anon he had the magical knowledge of a unicorn who’d skipped magic kindergarten. >Maybe he was just THAT bad of a student? >Seems kind of hard to believe, a bookworm like him. >When you reopen your eyes, he’s thankfully finished whatever bite Gaelle offered him. >”I think I’ll have that too, and a cup of that ‘Edge of the Empire’ brew you were telling me about, Gustav." >The griffon grins at the perverse display of a pony eating his wares. >”Right away!” he says as he departs. >Anon turns back to Gaelle, “You can have a bite of mine as payback.” >Oh come ON! >Now he’s just being cruel! >Between your groan and the now VERY obvious blush on Gaelle’s face, Anon’s attention is split right down the middle between the two of you. >”What!?” >In the end, you and Gaelle elected not to inform poor Anon he’d essentially told Gaelle he was down to buck. >It was simpler that way, and it let Gaelle continue whatever sick one-sided cockfriend roleplay she had going on. >You knew she took joy in it, no matter what she said. >It was by no means easy to avoid telling him though, the two of you were dodging questions right up until Gustav brought his order. >Once that stallion had the cup of coffee in his hooves, it was all over. >”This is amazing,” he said after only one sip. “The best cup of coffee I’ve ever had!” >His voice was quiet, level. >He didn’t jump for joy, he didn’t shout it to the heavens. >His ears stayed firmly forward, and his smile was small. >Most ponies would have looked at a display like that, and assumed he REALLY didn’t mean it. >But you’ve gotten used to the way Anon works right now. >He might as well have just set off a firework. >It was a style of emoting most ponies found off-putting, however, griffons loved it. >Reminded them of their own temperament, if you had to guess. >”I knew you’d like it!” Gustav beamed before departing back to the kitchen. >Then, much to your dismay, Anon puts down the cup and picks up a knife and fork. >Again, you avert your eyes. “Celestia, how can you eat that stuff? Uh, no offence, Gustav!” you shout back to the kitchen. >”None taken.” >He chews thoughtfully, yet vilely, and swallows. >”Why not? It tastes good, and ponies aren’t obligate herbivores." >It's your turn to sputter this time, flummoxed as usual by his in-equine logic. “It’s not about can, it's about SHOULD. Griffons, they don’t have a choice. But Faust gave us, ponies, the free will to choose NOT to eat the flesh of others! So we don’t do it.” >You also have a hard time believing it tastes good, considering it smells TERRIBLE. >You’re not saying that in Gustav’s though, that would be a bridge too far. >Gaelle gestures a thumb at you, mouthing, “This cock.” >But Anon just stares at you, expression totally unreadable. >As well as you know him, his poker face is still unmatched. >You’d figured he was just a private pony at first, but considering how uncoordinated he can sometimes be, you sometimes wonder if it's nerve damage. >”Your appeals to my spirituality fall on deaf ears, Beacon.” “Why? Because you’ve already solved the mystery of what happens after we die?” >His expression becomes even more inscrutable, somehow. >”If we agree to meet at the Corner Cafe next time, will you give this a rest?” >You almost agree outright, how foolish that would have been. “Only if you agree to try their daffodil sandwich.” >He sighs, what kind of pony sighs at the idea of a daffodil sandwich!? >”Deal.” >Gaelle lightly drums her talons on the table, “Right, glad we got that settled. Now Anon...” >She leans over the table. >”What’s our next adventure?” >He smiles, that same small smile, and unfurls a scroll from his bag. >”Have either of you heard of the Camazotz?” >Hardly a few hours later, the three of you were on an overnight train. >You, Anonymous, had elected to take one of the bottom bunks. >Seeing as you were the only one who couldn’t fly, it made the most sense. >Gaelle was on the bunk above yours, hanging her front half upside-down off the side of her bed. >In her claws was the very same scroll you’d unrolled in the diner. >”All this for some... giant bat?” she asks. “Not just any giant bat! Several early Thestral cultures believed a union between the Camazotz and Princess Luna birthed their tribe.” >Beacon snorts from the top bunk across the room. >”That thing and Luna? Princess Celestia would never.” >Gaelle rolls over, tossing the scroll down to you. >”So, who’s the sap pickin’ up our tab?” >You roll your eyes. >You’d hardly call the people who fund your new life’s work “saps”, but you suppose that’s just griffon culture for you. “A noble named Countess Sepulchria. She’s got a castle right on the border of Thestralvania — didn’t I tell you this already?" >The two of them stare down at you, quite flatly. >”You forgot to slip it in between the detailed anatomical descriptions and every possible documented sighting in the last two hundred years,” Beacon says. “Oh,” is all you can muster. >You feel a small burst of shame, which doubles on itself when you forget to pin back your ears. >Damn, you keep forgetting! >Why couldn’t these things be natural, automatic!? >Thankfully your friends are used to it at this point, they don’t even comment on it anymore. >”Hang on,” says Gaelle, “Some iso noble wants us to track a crypt that used to be the ‘father of all Thestrals’? Did you land us in some cult thing!?” “No!” you add defensively, this time remembering to pin your ears back. “Her letters were completely normal!” >Okay, maybe not COMPLETELY normal. >But this was such an opportunity! >This was a whole new country to explore, and a chance to see a creature equine eyes haven’t beheld in centuries! >You honestly don’t understand how ponies do it. >Their whole world is full of all these amazing things! >Mystical creatures, breathtaking vistas! >All waiting to be discovered, documented, and shared! >Yet they’re content to toil away in their little cities, utterly uncurious about this fantastical world around them. >Well not you, you’re not wasting your new life on a “career” like a dumbass rube. >Not again. >So what if the Countess’ letters were a little... odd? >You were probably being paranoid, Thestrals were still ponies after all. >This world was so much more earnest and straightforward than your last. >There’s no reason to look at these things with the same paranoia you had as a human! >At least... you hope not. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” >That night on the train was restless, as they intermittently were in the year since you became a pony. >It was... unfortunate. >Facial expressions weren’t the only thing improperly wired up by whatever bizarro process had granted you this new body. >Ponies process things differently than humans; you witness it every day. >In both others, and in yourself. >Sometimes you’ll get these feelings, feelings that logically make little sense to you, but your body VICERALLY reacts to. >Tonight is, unfortunately, a common one. >Lying here in bed, you feel so... alone. >You assume it's an aftershock of being the only one of your kind here. >But when you try to face these feelings, process them, they make no sense! >You and other people always had a tenuous relationship at best. >And now you’ve got better friends here than you ever had on Earth! >Sure, you’re a little isolated from the wider population of ponies, but no more than you were from the wider population of people. >Yet as a human, you never felt this yawning emptiness. >It crawls into your chest and leaves you desperately craving... craving... >...something. Honestly, you’ve got no idea what. >Another problem with the constant misfires between your brain and your body. >Oh well, whatever, you’ll just do what you always do when a mood like this strikes you. >Focus on something else! >Your studies, usually. >Although you’ve done enough cryptozoology for today, now's the time for another newfound passion of yours. >Magic! >Unfortunately, lighting your horn up like a Christmas tree here would surely wake the others. >And you’ve yet to attain a level of efficiency that allows you to cast without losing all that extra energy as light. >Ponies say it's impossible, but people thought things like psychokinesis were impossible, too. >You just need to figure out /how/. >That’s not for tonight, though. >Quietly extracting yourself from the bedspread, you slip out of your shared bedroom and into the hallway. >The hallway of the train car is fairly dim, the stewards having turned the lamps down hours ago. >That, and your admittedly subpar four-legged coordination, leaves your pace very sedate as you head for the dining car. >You don’t mind, though, it gives you time to absorb the atmosphere of the late-night train. >The gentle rocking, the distant sound of the steam engine pulling you along... >It's very soothing, and another experience your life as a human would have utterly lacked. >Finally passing across the coupler, you enter the dining car. >Equally dim, filled on either side with a row of finely upholstered tables and chairs, and totally abandoned. >Perfect! >In the far back left, you can just make out the car’s bar. >The top shelf liquors rested exactly where they sat when the bar was open, utterly alone and unprotected. >It was amazing what precautions you didn’t have to take when you were a pony. >For a fleeting moment, you’re tempted to pour yourself a free drink. >But it passes, like hell you were going to be the one to betray this society’s high trust. >Taking a seat at one of the random tables, you begin the same way you begin all of your magic studies. >With a precision task! >It was good practice, especially after the first pony doctor you ever saw described your ability to regulate mana as “on the same level as a foal”. >After several attempts at opening windows led to their utter destruction, you believed him. >Now it's been months since you’ve broken anything, and you’re hoping to keep up that streak. >Closing your pony eyes, you allow your mind’s eye to open in their place. >Now you can feel something all around you, flowing in through your horn and back out. >An energy. >Opening your eyes back up, you reach out to it. >Willing reality itself to conform to the idea you have in your head. >Soon your horn is alight with a now-familiar purple glow, and it gently envelops the latch. >Without a pane out of place, the window slides open. >You smile as the gust of cool night air slams into you, sweeping through your mane and fur. >Another sensation you’ve come to truly enjoy. >From there, you move down your little list of spells you’ve been practicing. >Illusory objects, pyrokinesis... >Fairly basic stuff, but you’d like to think your improvement has been rapid. >Although the failure of that perception-slowing spell still stings. >Nothing like turning a fifteen-minute walk into a thirty-five-minute walk to remind you of your limits. >You were midway through constructing a scale model of a banana when a voice shatters your concentration. >”Beautiful, isn’t it?” >Your hard work vanishes back into the aether from whence you summoned it, and for once, you’re thankful for your poker face. >You’re pretty pissed off that you were interrupted by that, BUT the voice was a dead ringer for a stereotypical sweet old lady. >No need to put that on her. >Inclining your head toward the sound, you spy a Thestral. >The mare looks as old as she sounded, her already diminutive frame exaggerated by the way the elderly seem to curl into themselves. >Oddly, you can’t really make out any of her features beyond that, thanks to the dim light and the shawl she’s wearing. >If nothing else, you can see her fangs at least. >”Yes, the Princess’s night sky is truly something to behold.” >You figured she wasn’t talking about your magic purple banana. >Looking back out the window, you take in more than just the sensation of the night breeze this time. >Above the shadowed trees is a sea of stars, untainted by light pollution. >You recall your first nights here, staring up in wonder at it. >Far beyond what Earth’s night sky ever had for you. >After months of staring at it, you’d honestly started taking it for granted. >But it's nice to be reminded of another one of the little gifts this world has given you. “It sure is,” you reply after an unintentionally long time. >The old mare climbs into the seat across from you. >”I’m glad some Unicorns remember. In the days of old, your tribe used to spend the nights with ours. Reading the stars for the Princess’s gifts of prophecy.” >You’re hardly much of an anthropologist (equinologist?), but her words nonetheless intrigue you. >You certainly hadn’t read anything about THAT in the Equestrian history books you’d picked up. >Now your attention’s fully on her. “Is that so?” >She nods. >”It is! We all relied on the wisdom of the stars to see that things occurred at their proper time. Planting, harvests...” as she trails off, her head starts to hang. “Sadly, things have become so routine for ponykind, the art has been all but lost.” >Makes sense to you, you suppose. >Not much need for oracles when you control every aspect of the natural world. >Still, you’d have to agree with her that it’s a shame. >”Where are you headed, dearie?” >The change in subject is so abrupt, you almost answer truthfully. >And yet, you don’t. >A pony would see no reason to distrust this old bat. >More than likely, she’s just a regular old passenger, looking to talk to someone, just like all elderly people are. >What harm could she do with knowing where you’re going anyway? >But... you’re not a pony. >Something about this situation isn’t sitting quite right. >Maybe it’s the way she inexplicably entered the compartment totally silently. >Maybe it was the weird topic of conversation. >Maybe it's the way that you can’t really discern any of the features of her face, even as it's hardly a foot away. >No matter what it is, your human mind is putting its foot down. >You’ll give her something vague, and let her know you’re not alone. “Thestralvania. Some friends and I are on vacation.” >She lets out a bat-like screech, which you take as some wordless sound of approval. >”That’s wonderful! Eee, you’ll love it here. Back in my day, a handsome stallion like yourself would’ve never left. Some strapping young mare would surely have swept you up and taken you home to roost!” >As far as analogues to “swept you off your feet” go, that’s certainly the creepiest. >You tactfully chose to leave the comment unacknowledged. >Thankfully, before that choice can turn the conversation awkward, she continues. >”But whatever you do, you mustn't go to Castle Sepulchria!” >Your interest spikes once more. >As far as you understand, Thestralvania has plenty of castles, most far more famous than Sepulchria’s, and far less remote too. >It wasn’t the kind of place you’d assume most sight-seers would seek out. >What’s going on here? >You search what you can see of her face, hoping to read some sort of intention. >But you get nothing. >As it is, your only hint to her thoughts are the fangs protruding from the shadow of her veil, and those aren’t giving you much. >You try to squint and get a better look without making it too obvious. “Oh really? I’ve never heard of it,” you lie. >She hesitates, for just a moment. >Like she wasn’t expecting that answer. >Got her. >”It's no place for a nice colt like yourself, Anonymous.” >Once again, you’re thankful for your poker face. >If you were a regular pony, you’d look moments away from shitting your pants. >Because, admittedly, you are. >But at most, right now, you must look mildly confused. “Excuse me? I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.” >Her fangs twist into a smirk. >She’s not buying it. >”Dearie, don’t you know it's impolite to lie to your elders?” >Her voice sounds less like an old mare’s now, and more like a mocking impression of one. >But that isn’t the only thing wrong. > Throughout this, you felt the whipping of the night wind against you from the open window. >You no longer do. >Your gaze snaps to it, and the scenery is gone. >This train isn’t driving through a forest at night anymore. >It's diving through an empty void. “What’s going on here!?” >You attempt to leap back from the table, but your nerves get the better of you. >In times like this, human muscle memory takes over. >Instead of landing solidly on four hooves, you land unsteadily on two. > It's not enough to halt your momentum, and the train falls back, back, back... >Until you're tumbling down the length of the car. >But it's not /you/ that’s the problem. >The train car has flipped vertically, and now you’re in freefall. >The old bat, still seated in her chair, continues like nothing's wrong. >Even as she drifts further away by the second, you can still hear her as if she’s sitting next to you. >”Castle Sepulchria is full of hidden dangers. If you insist on going, you must do one thing.” >You scream out for Beacon and Gaelle as the air whips through your mane once more. >But this is no comforting night wind; it's the air resistance from plummeting to your death. >You should have hit the other end of the car by now. How are you still falling? >”Don’t forget to check under your pillow,” she whispers in your ear. >Your eyes snap open. >Shooting upright, you scramble, hands that are no longer there desperate to find purchase on anything. >But all you manage is slamming your hoof into the wall. “FUCK! Ow!” >There’s a loud squawk from above you, followed by the thud of someone falling off a top bunk. >Gaelle is at your side, looking like she just rolled out of bed. >”ANON!? What’s going on? >It's then you realize where you are. >Not falling down some endless traincar, safe in your bed. >No bat, no black void, just your friends and the morning sun. >It was all just a dream... >...but you don’t really believe that. >Everything felt too real. “Someone doesn’t want us here.” >”You mean some-PONY,” a groggy and annoyed sounding Beacon corrects you from across the room. “No.” >You sincerely doubt that little old bat was that thing’s true face. >Could’ve been a pony, changeling, anything really. >Pushing yourself out of bed, you wince as you land on the hoof you just introduced to the wall. >Glad it wasn’t your hand, might have goddamn broken it. “It was a very... peculiar run-in. I’ll tell you about it over breakfast.” >The others look at you, with obvious concern on their faces. >”A run-in that happened... in your bed?” Beacon asks. “Are you sure it wasn’t Gaelle?” >Like a lightning bolt, the hen grabs your pillow and hurls it with pinpoint accuracy. >It slams right into his muzzle, with enough force that he’s actually knocked back ever so slightly. >His muffled cry is music to your ears. >But before you can question what Gaelle would be doing in your bed, she turns to you, beet red color vanishing off her face. >”The flock’s that?” she asks, pointing to where your pillow had been. >The bat’s last words to you ring out in your mind as you turn to look. >There, sitting where your pillow had been, was a glass amulet. >A Nazar amulet, straight out of your eighth-grade history teacher’s classroom.