As it turned out, art was in fact, therapeutic. With a scowl of intense concentration, Dim moved the stone around like clay, using a stone-shaping spell. It was something he had learned quite some time ago, a common trade spell. Well, common being a relative term. Not every unicorn could cast stone shaping magic, but some could. Not at all a common tradespony, Dim attempted to create a statue, a shrine to Chantico.

Pteroșani, he felt, needed a shrine to Chantico. After so much destruction, Dim was filled with an odd compulsion to create something, so he did. He felt his representation of the half dog, half cat creature was a pretty good one, with a fierce but fair face, and wide, welcoming paws. When he was done, he would enchant the paws to burn with self-igniting flames, a symbolic gesture to ensure that the fires of the hearth could always be kindled.

It was like digging a well so that there would always be drinking water. Fire was common, even easy now, but this wasn’t always the case and keeping the fires of the hearth lit used to be a time consuming chore. Many creatures lacked magic and had to make fire the hard way. Dim, a well-read unicorn, had read many a tale of firekeepers, unicorns whose responsibility it was to go from home to home to keep the fires lit for earth ponies and pegasus ponies.

There was a bit of a crowd watching him, but he ignored them and remained focused upon his task. Like a potter sculpting clay, or a painter trying to blend just the right colour, Dim strove for perfection. Oblivious to those watching, he was unaware that a unicorn colt was now the proud bearer of a brand new cutie mark. Or that a mare was contemplating the great mysteries of life, that is to say that she wondered how the same unicorn that had almost destroyed the town could now make something so meaningful and beautiful.

A long time ago, wizards were the lifelines of the communities they served, travelling in vast circuits, fighting monsters, pushing back the wilderness, keeping the darkness at bay, maintaining the wards, and keeping the fires lit. There was something about Star Swirl’s Charge, a list of commandments and standards left behind by Star Swirl himself, but Dim couldn’t remember what these were. What he did remember was that his mother had dismissed them as meaningless drivel.

His mother dismissed a great many things as meaningless drivel, leading Dim to the conclusion that Dark Desire was a unicorn that had somehow lost her way. Unicorns had obligations, they had duties, there was an unspoken, seldom mentioned commitment to being a unicorn, and the Dark family had been lax in keeping this sacred trust. Much of his family had mocked these things, but Dim had clung to these stories, these tales, these powerful narratives. Knights and wizards who had done great and wonderful things.

The Dark family had retreated to their tower, their sanctuary, and in that dank space, they had thoroughly corrupted themselves. Their proud, noble bloodline, their royal bloodline, it had once been populated with heroes unbounded. Some of the greatest threats to Equestria had been put down and laid to rest in the dirt because of the Dark family. There was still an Equestria because of the Dark family.

Now, it seemed, those Darks who remained sought to destroy what they had once held so dear.

A family that had once been the moral guardians of a fledgeling nation were now the embodiment of moral decay, the toxic runoff of decadence, privilege, and complacency brought about by rampant hedonism, by licentiousness, by self-indulgence, by degeneration. Morality, once like a gleaming suit of steel armor, had rusted, the joints were seized, and what had once been the symbolic defense of others was now stricken with immobility. Trapped inside of a rigid, immovable, rusting hulk of what had once been everything great and good, the Darks had been consumed by their own depravity.

Dim himself had drank from this chalice of corruption, this wineglass of wickedness, and had not found the contents therein to his liking. Much to his own dismay, he had still sampled far too much, imbibed all too willingly, and if the truth were to be told, he had no good excuses for his own actions. The books had been there as moral compasses all along, from a tender age, and Dim too, had sinned with complacency. He had only pushed the cup away from his lips after overindulgence had made him lazy and ennui had become a consuming cancer in his mind.

Reaching out with his magic, he tweaked Chantico’s nose, hoping to get it just right.

There was no excuse for what he had become, but there was penance.

Dim sought expiation, but as one who stumbled around in the light, he lacked direction, understanding, and purpose. He was as blind as newborn, as blind as he was on the very day he had left his home and had stumbled through the crowded streets of Canterlot, a babe still damp from bloody, terrible birth. For one so blind, trying to explain morality was like trying to describe the colour blue—an impossibility. To achieve morality—to see and understand the colour blue, as it were—one first had to achieve vision.

And Dim had only just opened his eyes.

Self-igniting flames were not difficult enchantments for Dim, merely time consuming. Not helping matters at all, not in the slightest, Blackbird acted as a distraction, doing immeasurable harm to his concentration. She was—for whatever reason—in high spirits and this meant being a pest. At the moment, she was playing with his spear, which appeared to be more of a javelin in her talons, or perhaps a pilum. It just wasn’t long enough to be a spear in comparison to the sheer bulk of her body.

And what a body she had.

Dim could see why some would be disgusted while others might be intrigued. She was up above him, sitting on the edge of a roof, showing off her wings, whistling, and twirling his spear like a baton in a flashy display of dexterity. All Dim could think about was, if Chantico’s essence was in the spear, was she getting dizzy right now as Blackbird spun her about? If she was, it would fall on Blackbird to appease her, there was no way that Dim was going to take the blame for that.

With a cackle of satisfaction, flames erupted from the left paw of Chantico’s statue and did not sputter out of existence. Pausing, Dim considered the colour of the flames. Fueled by aether, not by wood, oil, or coal, changing the colour of the flames was easy, with easy being a relative term. Years of extensive study and schooling, along with a thorough understanding of the application of spell matrix interlocking to produce subtle changes in how the aether burned allowed him to do this with ease.

Snorting, he snuffed the flames and they sprang back to life in seconds. Satisfied, he began to nod, knowing that no storm, no blizzard, no bit of foul weather, nothing of the physical world would stop these flames from burning. That said, the enchantment could be undone, but there was nothing he could do about that. For Dim, his only obligation was to make the fire, others would be responsible for protecting it.

For Blackbird, it seemed, whistling was not enough and with her chest puffed out, her wings spread, and her eyes wide, she burst into song: “Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye. Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie. When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing; wasn't that a dainty dish, to set before the king. The king was in his counting house, counting out his money; the queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey. The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes, when down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose. That naughty little blackbird, ‘twas baked inside a coffyn. She became the king’s favourite dish and he nibbled on her of’en.”

Looking up from his work, Dim let slip the first thing that came to mind: “I might not be a king, but I have a chance to eat like one.”

In growing shock, It took Blackbird a moment to register Dim’s words, her ears rose and fell, she blinked a few times, and then she looked down at the lewd little pony below her. “No,” she whined, “you made the song dirty… my papa used to sing me this song! You horrible fiend, I can never un-hear what you just said! Ugh!”

When Dim made no response, she continued, “He would kiss me when the song was over and blow raspberries against my neck. I knew it was coming, but I never bothered trying to stop him or escape. Sometimes he would make ‘om-nom-nom-nom’ noises… and I’d laugh myself silly.” The hippogriff paused, drew herself into a more dignified position, and shook her head. “I miss my father. I gotta find my mother.”

Just as Dim was about to try and say something reassuring, a bell began to ring.

The airships of Equestria were beautiful things, made to look like whales, fish, or birds, and they were built with an aesthetic in mind. This airship was clearly not from Equestria. Black smoke shot out of the back end in crepitative blasts and the entirety of the thing offended Dim’s sensibilities worse than Blackbird’s vardo. It had all of the aerodynamics of a castle’s cornerstone and appeared to be trying to batter the air rather than slip through it with grace and ease. It was the very spirit of industrialisation, given grotesque shape and offensive form. It wasn’t even symmetrical; on the left side a large steel tank could be seen protruding from the hull, with an enormous brass nozzle that dangled down like a floppy, oversuckled nipple dangling down from a mare overrun with far too many foals.

All around him, ponies were scrambling. Carts were loaded in a hurry, barrels were being rolled out, and more bells were ringing. In all of this chaos, Dim remained calm so that he could focus on finishing his enchantment, something he intended to do before he left. Leaving a job undone was… wrong. For all of Dim’s faults, of which there were a great many, he did tend to finish what he started. Harsh Winter, wizard for hire, had a reputation, something Dim valued.

Overhead, a wide swingarm crane folded out from the side of the airship as it began to maneuver itself over the marketplace. Pegasus ponies flew up to greet the ship and the overall mood of the city of Pteroșani was ecstatic. For all of Brand’s pessimism, perhaps this place would survive. In Dim’s experience, survival had many meanings, not all of them good. A slave did not survive in the same manner as a warlord, and said warlord did not enjoy surviving as a king might.

Smoking a fat joint slick with clove oil, Dim watched as the town scrambled, his project now finished. Chantico stood with her paws extended and pink flames flickered from her upturned palm-pads. He peered out from beneath the brim of his hat, his goggled eyes protected from the cruelty of the light, and the long silver stem of his cigarette holder glinted in the midday sun.

It was time to go, that much was for certain.

Blackbird was already gone to gather their few possessions. Not much was left after the burning of the vardo. Dim had lost some of his books and his copious notes about the strange magic of the Grittish Isles. His spellbooks had survived—they were warded against the many hazards of magic, after all—but his many modifications and improvements to the standard fireball spell that he had written in his journal were now just so much ash.

It was painful, to be sure, but Dim had started with nothing but his own wits. He had what was important, which was also what was bothering him: Blackbird. Just like his notes, his writings, his musings, his many insights into the world, magic, and the workings of a fireball spell, she too could be destroyed. She was vulnerable, something that could be taken away from him, and there was a part of Dim that resented life for doing this to him. For all of the many strengths that friendship offered, crippling weakness was the counterbalance.

Amidst all of the hubbub, Dim was distracted by a squeaky voice asking him, “Who is Chantico?”

Turning, he saw a unicorn colt, who, just a half-an-hour before, had his cutie mark appear. The colt was looking up at him with eager eyes, a glowing horn, and he seemed to be brimming, almost bursting with curiousity. In the foal, Dim saw something of himself, almost as if he stared into a mirror. A love of learning was present and keen intelligence was evident.

“What is your name, little one?” Dim asked.

“I’m Briar Burr,” the colt replied, and seeing that Dim wasn’t so bad, he rushed to be closer. “I just got my cutie mark! Flames! I’m going to do magic! Sizzle! Pow! Ka-BOOM!”

“Those are noble aspirations.” There was nothing mocking in Dim’s voice, no sarcasm, in fact, there was a strange, almost out of place gentleness to his words. “Tell me about your parents, Briar Burr.”

“My Mum-Mum is a miller and my Dud-Dud is a chemist.”

Smiling, Dim felt a profound sense of relief. “So you want to know more about Chantico, do you? I only just met her myself. I went out on a quest to battle the Jaguar Witch and in doing so, I revived Chantico from her slumber.”

“Tell me more, please!” The foal’s voice was pleading.

“Before I do, little one, tell me… how do you feel about burning the wicked?”

Author's Notes:

Hopefully, he never goes door to door...