Motte and Bailey made for an odd pair to pull a wagon, but there was no denying their effectiveness. The two unicorns walked with their horns glowing and the packed dirt road literally rose up to meet them. Deep ruts smoothed over, loose patches firmed up, and with each step taken, the road became an ideal surface to travel upon. Even more impressive, the two earth movers did this with a minimal amount of effort; Dim could sense and measure their magical expenditure and found that they almost—but not quite—drew in as much magic from the earth as was required to move it, meaning that the resulting drain was a mere trickle.

It was impressive, efficient magery, and Dim could see why Eerie sent the pair.

The smooth road made for remarkably comfortable and easy travel. A fine, steady pace was kept and the day grew warmer as it progressed, though the wind stayed quite bitter. Another wagon followed behind them, a trader’s wagon, and it was pulled by a pair of stout earth ponies. This wagon was loaded down with pots, pans, blankets, sundries of all kinds, books, and wooden crates of unknown goods. The axles creaked just loud enough to be annoying and wore away on Dim’s last nerve.

Blackbird circled overhead, which made Dim think she was rather like an oversized buzzard; she hardly ever flapped and only spent a bare minimum of energy to remain airborne. Leaving the city, many had fled from her with cries of “Sphinx!” which left her quite upset. Now, she was no doubt pouting while she kept watch for trouble.

Bombay Sable walked on one side of the wagon while Munro walked on the other, with both of them doing whatever it was that they were doing, which is to say, they were keeping watch, but both appeared to be having a most excellent time doing so. At some point, Munro had picked up a black woollen felt beret and it sat perched upon his head just between his stubby horns. As for Bombay, she wore a ridiculous broad-brimmed hat with an ostrich plume tucked into the band—it was so absurd that Dim had trouble even looking in her direction.

Pâté au Poulet rode in the wagon and was currently asleep with a bottle of wine cradled in his forelegs. He seemed a bit more frail than usual and it might have been because he had stayed up a little too late. As for Dim himself, he should have been studying, but found it hard to concentrate; the countryside really was beautiful once one got out of and away from the city.

There was magic here, strong magic, magic that was raw and dirty. It was distinctly different from the magic of Equestria and of the Grittish Isles, with the best word to describe it being polluted. It was like taking a drink of water and finding it was off. Dim had been exposed to corrupted magic a number of times and this felt different; while there was some corruption here no doubt, this magic was just befouled… contaminated.

Sighing, Dim committed himself to study and tried to pull his mismatched eyes from the beautiful farmland all around him.

At the crossroads was a well, a couple of two-wheeled carts, a few ponies, and a gaggle of young griffons armed with what appeared to be muskets. Dim kept a wary eye on them, but the young griffons were no troublemakers; far from it, they appeared to be some kind of makeshift constabulary force or perhaps a militia. Their purpose, so it seemed, was to keep the peace around the pump-powered well, and one of them, an eager, bright-eyed youth, was kind enough to operate the pump handle for a mare hauling cabbages.

Motte and Bailey were having a well-deserved rest and a bit of lunch. The Bard continued his fitful slumber, his head resting on his bottle of wine. Munro was haggling with a pony who had a cart full of apples and Bombay watched with an amused expression upon her feline face. Meanwhile, Blackbird was showing off by juggling, and a small crowd had gathered to watch her.

As for Dim, he studied the world around him with a distinct pink hue in his vision and was aware of the presence within his mind. It occurred to him that he was essentially a spy at the moment and that by seeing through his eyes, Princess Cadance was gathering intelligence about the goings on around a well located at a crossroads in the countryside around Gasconeigh, in the country of Fancy.

Being a helpful, gregarious, social mammal, Dim tried to stare at as many backsides as possible.

“Regardez, ce sphinx jongle!” said a pony pulling a cart full of turnips as he approached.

Blackbird almost dropped her cucumbers when she reacted and said, “I’m not a sphinx!”

Having haggled, Munro was now filling his pockets with apples and the minotaur appeared to be quite choosy in his selection, taking great care to find perfect specimens, no doubt with unblemished skins. Watching this as it happened, Dim came to the realisation that he was happy, which was a strange, almost unknown state of being. His constant state of lonesome apathy had departed and he discovered a vast wellspring within himself.

It was the perfect excuse to ignore his studies and spend the afternoon navel-gazing.

In the distance, an alchemical still belched smoke into the sky. The compound was walled in and like so many other structures in the countryside, the walls were covered in fresh whitewash. A heavy wooden gate, also whitewashed, was open at the moment, allowing a good view of the potion distillery inside. From the smell of things, Dim knew they were working with something fungal, but what exactly remained unknown.

There had been quite a number of alchemical factories in Gasconeigh, and Dim found that to be a reprehensible, irresponsible practice. The dangers that alchemical operations posed were great; having them located in the middle of a vast populated city was foolish, or so Dim believed. Of course, getting workers out this far away from the city might be problematic, so Dim understood why alchemical factories existed in cities, even if he did not agree with the practice.

“Stop,” Dim commanded and he turned his eye on the walled compound. “I wish to do a bit of trading.” With a sigh of regret, Dim turned to wake the Bard, certain that his services would be needed.

A curious amount of aconitum lycoctonum was being processed here, which Dim found quite fascinating. It was a toxic plant with interesting magical properties, most commonly it caused violent magical allergy reactions in canid species. Also of note was the stockpiles of lycoperdon mushrooms, a name that when translated literally meant ‘wolf-farts.’

This entire alchemical operation produced whitewash with canid-repelling properties.

There wasn’t much in the way of supplies, which Dim found disappointing, but there was a great deal of alchemical-grade purified salts, which made the stop worth it. The Bard was busy discussing an agreement with the manager of the distillery and Dim continued to have a good look around. Perhaps there was a diamond dog problem here, or blink dogs, dire dogs, death dogs, or maybe a problem with wolves.

There were some dangerous species of magical wolves, most of which were extinct in Equestria. Perhaps there would be a chance to see something rare and exotic here in Fancy, something he had only previously seen in books. Nearby, a wagon was being loaded with barrels of finished product and Dim wondered if perhaps the distillery owner was preying upon the superstitions of the peasants to sell a product. What need could there possibly be for this odd concoction?

Did it have something to do with the warnings to not go outside at night?

Twenty-five miles, or maybe thirty-ish. Dim was impressed at what Motte and Bailey could do. It was now late afternoon, but not yet evening, and they had stopped at a farmhouse. Said farmhouse was more like a fort, surrounded by a wall as it was, and it was quite impressive. At one end of the long rectangular building was a squat tower with an aerie, no doubt for the griffons that had come out to greet them.

The wall protected the main house, the pumphouse, the mill, and what appeared to be a narrow barn. Everything was whitewashed—everything. Every wall, every surface, and even the tall brick chimneys were whitewashed, giving the farm a curious, distinctive appearance. The chimneys had metal grates over the openings, though some had a little conical roof-thing that Dim didn’t know the name of.

“Votre badigeon est-il frais?” the Bard asked.

The griffon, the largest of three, nodded. “Oui. Juste ce mois-ci.”

Dim lost track of the conversation and was now having a better look around from where he sat in the wagon. His magic sense told him that the whitewash had a touch of magic to it, not much, but it was there. One of the griffons was sitting on top of the wall, a female, and she held an ancient flintlock in her talons. Guns were dreadfully expensive here, with modern weapons having astronomical values, and glancing in Blackbird’s direction, Dim was seized with an idea.

“Offer one of Blackbird’s firearms in exchange for lodging,” Dim said to Pâté au Poulet. “I know that she has a veritable arsenal packed away.”

“Hey!” Blackbird replied in a chirpy, chipper voice. “That’s a good idea. I did keep them for emergencies and for trade afterall. I have several Webblewood Arms four-fifty-fives. Grittish-made. Common ammo.”

The Bard translated everything Blackbird had to say and the big griffon’s expression became one of surprise. Silent communication happened between the griffons, each nodding and making gestures to one another, and then the big griffon said something to the Bard, all while nodding. In response, the Bard bowed his head, and then the griffon bowed his head in return.

“We can stay,” the Bard said to his companions, his words both strained and weary. “They will feed us and keep a roof over our heads. We must get inside now, because they close and lock the gate at the fourth hour, which approaches.”

Dim could only guess why the gate was closed and locked so early.

A family of earth ponies lived on this farm with their griffon protectors, a curious relationship that Dim found fascinating. It seemed like every farm had a few griffons and Dim wondered how this mutual arrangement had been started. What did the griffons get out of it? There was a story here, no doubt, and Dim found that he was interested enough to want to hear it.

The youngest and smallest of the three griffons, the female, was fawning over her new pistol. It was not a careless act, but like Blackbird, the young griffoness handled the weapon with immense care while she examined every inch. A small herd of foals watched her, three colts and four little fillies, all of which had been brushed and cleaned up for company.

An older stallion sat near the hearth smoking a pipe and watching a younger mare while she stirred a pot that hung from a swingarm over the fire. A younger stallion was hauling in coal, enough to last the night, and his eyes lingered on the pretty young mare stirring the pot. Armed with a cleaver, a young griffon—a male—chopped up mushrooms, leeks, and little purple-red potatoes while an older mare with a stern face watched his every move.

As for the big griffon, he had returned to the aerie to keep watch.

“You are very kind, thank you,” the young griffoness known as Griselda said to Blackbird. She spoke in broken common, each word halting and said with a great deal of effort. “Guests of greatness… um… demand stay. Not give payment. Not kind. This help us.”

“I hope it does,” Blackbird replied while she counted out brass on the table in front of her.

“Too few of us left. Mama and Papa died.” Griselda struggled for more words and a look of intense concentration caused her eyes to squint. “Bandit fighting. Gavin Uncle, he work twice as hard now. Graeme not good at fighting, but good at farm work. Is hands for farm. I am to marry, find mate, and make more protectors.”

“Why do you protect the farm?” Dim asked while Blackbird set out another row of brass.

“Always have we protected this farm and this family. Is proud. Is duty. This farm not fall, never fall. Both families old. Is… matter of… pride?” Reaching up with her talons, the grey and tawny female scratched at her neck. “Is what griffons do here. Is our way. Earth ponies grow food but need hands, need protectors. Griffons need farm, is way it is. Honest griffons we are, not bandits. Not thieves.”

“So this is a matter of honour… of pride.” Dim puffed away on one of his clove and cannabis cigarettes while studying Griselda.

“Mama and Papa died here. Are in land here. Many mamas and many papas. All in land, beside ponies also in land. Earth ponies have no magic but griffons have hands.” She waved her talons about and waggled her talon-fingers. “Earth ponies need no magic with griffons around, but griffons not good at making things grow. Earth ponies keep the land alive and soil not sour. If no earth pony, soil go sour like milk in sun. Happen fast too, land around city… um… um… land around city go bad. Turn. Ruint.”

“Yes, that certainly seems to be the case,” Dim replied, “and earth ponies are probably the only reason why anything grows in this soil. It is good of you to protect them. You are keeping the land alive by doing so.”

“Yes. Oui. Is good!”

“Tell me more about the land and the customs,” Dim said, making a humble request. “Satisfy me and I will see to it that Blackbird gives you a little more ammo. How does that sound?”

Griselda’s eyelids fluttered like butterflies in a gale and her tail swished from side to side with excitement. “I am schooled, yes! Went to schoolhome. Can tell you much! Am good at words because Gavin Uncle wanted me smart to attract good mate. My words I can share!”

“And I would love to hear them…”

Author's Notes:

"Riddle me this, Blackbird..."

(I hope my Fancy is okay)