His name was Blue Flamer, and he really didn't deserve any of it.

The young stallion was a rookie police officer, and held that status in a way where every word in the description needed to be capitalized, along with using a few italics and the occasional strategic touch of boldface. This didn't mean he was bad at his job: he had the mark for the work, and had been steadily boosting his skills through training. He simply lacked confidence. In a settled zone where most problems could be resolved by a careful recitation of all participants' full names (because the implication said that if the officer knew that, then there was a plethora of potential embarrassments waiting right behind it), he tended to stammer. And he'd been late to the fight against the monster, something else which hadn't been his fault: he'd just been on the other side of town when everything started.

His fellow officers rather liked him. There was a sincerity to his eagerness, and the misery which crashed his expression whenever he felt he'd gotten something wrong inspired a completely natural desire to groom his ears while telling him everything would be all right, which wasn't exactly practical in a police station. So as an alternative, with his having missed the true opportunity to prove himself, his coworkers had thoughtfully provided another one: the first guard shift outside the monster's cell. He wouldn't miss too much of the party and when he finally joined it, they could talk up his courage in standing as the first line of defense against the monster, preferably in front of a few smiling (and lightly inebriated) mares. They all felt it would go a long way towards building his confidence, not to mention getting around the problem he had with talking to mares by getting a few to speak with him.

He wasn't a bad pony. He was just... scared.

It was just him outside the cell -- well, technically, his current position (far end of the approach hallway) still counted as 'outside the cell'. Yes, there was another line of defense, just in case, but... right then and there, it was him. A single young unicorn and the monster on the other side of the distant door.

He could smell it. (He didn't know how sharp its own sense of smell was, and it wouldn't have helped.) He was about average for a pony there: there were things he could pick up on, and so much more which he missed. But the monster had its own scent. Some of that came from mud: the thing, along with its garments, had been rather dirty when it had first appeared, and that status hadn't exactly been improved by the drag through the streets. But it had clearly been exerting itself before the fight, something which both accounted for the first group of wounds and intensified its natural odor.

The worst part of the smell was that which was almost familiar. It almost matched the delicate natural perfume which could arise from the fur of a healthy young mare, only it was... off. (Perhaps the injuries had something to do with that.) But it could never be that enticing scent, because there was something else mixed in. Something which probably arose from the other torso. The hideous part.

He had risked a glance (because a guard had to check on the prisoner), felt his legs go into reverse when the monster had exposed its teeth. But it had been enough to get a sense of the thing, and -- he had been trying to imagine it as a pony. What would it have been? An earth pony, as that strength suggested? (There was far too much bulk for a pegasus, let alone a unicorn.) What would it -- or she, some of his fellows thought it was a female -- have looked like?

Part of Blue wanted to imagine that. And every time he came close, the scent reached his snout, and the warping crashed back in.

The totality smelled like nothing he'd ever scented before. Fur and flesh, added to mud and skin and other and --

-- blood.

It smelled like blood.

(His legs tried to back away again. The base of his tail bumped against a wall.)

Well, that was natural: the monster had been injured. He'd seen that. It was bruised -- it was so easy to see the bruises on the parts without fur -- and battered, with a number of cuts. So it was bleeding, and that blood smelled like blood should. Perhaps all blood was the same, once you got that far down. It was just that... it had smelled like blood from the very start, and he could only hope that all of it was the monster's own.

But that scent was getting stronger.

It's hurt.

It's a monster.

A soft, choked-back whimper wafted through the gaps in the bars. The scent intensified yet again.

It's hurt.

They had called for their leaders, and... well, strictly speaking, having them arrive to find a dead monster would probably just mean an unoccupied cell within what would have been its final, inevitable destination. But there were rules about how you were supposed to treat prisoners, and while he'd only ever applied them to ponies...

Blue had grown up in the town, had never really left it. His experience of the world was limited to something much less than a single square gallop. It wasn't the sort of town where the farmers hosted much in the way of tenants, but there were a few. He'd seen alpacas, and to be seen was to be spit on. Gotten dirty while breaking up fights between pigs. But that was the total extent of his other-species experience: working with tenants. When it came to those who held their own nations, he'd never even met a donkey. He didn't know how to deal with something which possessed that level of command over their own sapience. He just knew that the thing on the other side of the door was a monster.

But he also knew it was in pain.

(His legs were beginning to shift, again without conscious intent.)

Could it bleed out before anypony arrived? He didn't believe it possible -- but the increased strength of that blood scent wasn't fading. Perhaps monster blood didn't clot in the same way. And what about food? Did it live on magic alone, stealing the power of others for its sustenance, or was grass required? What about hay or fruit? And this was a monster: nothing said it would be adverse to -- he automatically gulped back the sudden nausea -- meat. At the very least, it probably needed to drink...

The monster had been in at least one fight before breaching the town's border, and perhaps that was why they'd won: it had already been pained. But he didn't know how much pain it was in. What that pain, untreated, might result in.

(A few body lengths had been gained.)

Blue was guarding the monster. But as a police officer (a marked one, whose deepest understanding of the job occasionally arose from the soul), he also had an obligation towards it: the single most basic. To make sure it didn't die on his watch.

Slowly, he approached the door. Listening.

The monster's breathing was slightly ragged. (He had seen it breathe. Too many things moved.) There was a little scrabble of keratin on stone, but that was as normal as anything could be with the creature: just hooves moving across the floor. There were enough gaps in the nets for a hoof or two to stick out, and the monster had been in a position where contact was possible.

Admittedly, it was a rather light sort of scrabble. If it had been a pony, he would have thought the minimal noise represented the sound of something trying to move very carefully. But it was a monster.

How was he supposed to communicate with it? His best option was probably to just bring in a bucket of water, place it near the hideous head, and see if the thing tried to drink. He could do the same with food, although he wasn't looking forward to any attempt at finding meat. But for first aid... police officer training included some of that, and he could render minor assistance to a pony. This was a monster. He wasn't sure what he could do there, if that was anything at all. It was possible that every physician in town would fail --

-- but the blood smelled the same.

Blue kept forcing himself forward. He was nearly at the door now, just about at the point where he could be able to look through the bars and check on the thing: he paused to brace himself accordingly.

Bottles were lined up along the wall, and being so close was making him wonder if the owner would miss one.

He was really hoping it didn't need help with toiletries.

Try to just -- look at the torso. The proper torso.

He didn't want to even do that much. (He knew some of the other officers had a term for mares with attractive bodies and repellent features, and thought it sounded like ButHerFace. In this case, it was ButEverythingFromTheWhiteGarmentOnUp.) But to check how badly it was injured, he would need to do a full-body examination, and that included everything which was warped.

The thought froze him again. More illness was swallowed back, and he listened.

It stopped moving.

It's breathing, but it isn't moving.

I should get in there --

-- it could be a trap --

-- it's my job --

He was shivering slightly, standing in that stone hallway. The outer expression of the inner war, the message of his mark battling with the more primitive drive of his fear. It meant he never quite reached the door, and so he wasn't in any direct danger when the entire thing jumped.

The sound came at the same instant as the movement, the moment when his widening green eyes saw that the bolts had just been jolted halfway out of the hinges. It was a familiar sound, because there were farmers in the area and he'd visited their homes during harvest season. It was the sound of extremely powerful hooves impacting against wood, only magnified.

Blue didn't have time to think. There was no chance to move. But he wasn't on the other side of the door, and so he didn't get hurt when the next impact sundered the hinges entirely, shot it out of the frame and into the opposing wall -- after it took care of what had been in the way.

Glass shattered. Several rather fine vintages died, and an old saying almost randomly passed through Blue's near-frozen mind, something Connemara ponies had supposedly been known to claim: that when you died, you would be suspended upside-down in a barrel filled with all the alcohol you'd ever spilled and if that was enough to drown you, then -- well, that was where his memory ran out. But it was presumed that since you were already dead, the next part had to be really bad.

The monster, who'd clearly had time to land, plant, and spin, was visibly huge enough that shattering everything in the hallway wasn't going to put it at any real risk, plus there would be some issues in finding a properly-sized barrel.

It plunged through the door. The blue eyes (forward-set, predatory eyes) had already spotted him, and the thing crossed the scant distance before he could move, the second torso dipped towards his level and the hands lunged forward, got a grip at the base of his forelegs and lifted --

-- it wasn't quite done moving yet and so in the middle of everything, he felt his back hit the wall. It was enough to make him lose the sensation of points jabbing into his fur.

It had just lifted him, and seemed to have done so almost casually. Its lips were pulled back from its teeth again. The furious blue eyes were staring directly into his, and it made him want to look anywhere else. But in one location, there was blood flowing from scraped skin. Another found covered mounds of flesh heaving from the anger in the monster's breaths. And to look at the face...

The mouth opened, as he initially failed to muster any degree of horn corona in his overwhelming terror. As he waited to die.

Its hot breath hit his snout.

"Où est mon épée?"

The little cerulean horned horse frantically neighed.

Cerea knew she needed all the time she could get: it was possible that the sound of her breakout had been audible on the upper levels, and reinforcements could already be on the way -- but somehow, that still left a moment for feeling stupid. The stallion couldn't understand her, and she had no way of verbally communicating with him. She was capable of producing horse noises: the flexible vocal chords of her species provided there -- but it wasn't a matter of simulating natural sounds any more. She was dealing with a language, and she would have no idea what she was saying --

-- hard-sparking green light was starting to build around its horn, the glow matching the exact shade of the horse's eyes. The light which could attack.

Her left hand pressed the horse more firmly against the wall, allowing the stone to take some of the weight while freeing up her right for a few seconds. It let her poke the plastic hairpin into its horn.

The glow fizzled, winked out. The pony winced, and its expression somehow carried across a sudden feeling of deep-seated nausea. The horn remained dark.

"Right," she rather pointlessly said, and had to fight back the blush. (She had been told she was one of the world's greatest blushers. She'd had far too much practice.)

She wished she had her ascot. If she couldn't talk to the stallion, then leaving him free to call for help was an even bigger mistake -- but she couldn't bind his jaw with the red cloth. It was somewhere in the forest, where the first drops of her blood had been absorbed by strange soil.

But she needed to communicate with him. She had to find out where her sword was, the only thing which might give her a chance. There were knights bold and daring accomplishing great feats in any number of stories and despite her deep faith in them, Cerea almost suspected the greatest among their number might still encounter some difficulty in escaping a castle while armed with a hairpin.

There was no point in trying to use any other language she knew. (Several, and she'd continued to study Japanese after moving to that nation, hoping to achieve a native level of fluency. She loved the formality of the tongue, the multiple levels available for offering respect.) But there were ways of communicating which didn't require sound.

She twisted her right arm, shook it a few times to get the blood flowing, let her run down her hand. Quickly smeared the wall in three sharp slashes: one for the grip, another for the hilt, and the longest represented the blade. The horse's fearful eyes watched every movement, and she watched the intelligent mind behind them take in the shape. Spotted the recognition.

Cerea knew the next word was equally pointless, and yet found herself saying it anyway.

"Where?"

Blue stared at the image. The sword made of blood. The thing which could do so much damage if the monster took it back.

He was in some pain: the impact against the wall hadn't been too bad, but the currently-unbalanced grip meant too much of his weight was resting on a single joint. And there was a lingering feeling of deep illness, something which seemed to radiate from his horn -- but he was still able to think.

The monster furiously nodded at the image. Looked at him again. Waited.

I can't --

-- he could. It was close by.

Strictly speaking, it shouldn't have been. Anything seized should have gone into the evidence locker, something a police department with very little need for one still possessed. In fact, it had all of the standard enchantments and then some, because the unused part of the budget had to be spent on something. Whenever you took custody of evidence or an item which was just dangerous, you trotted with it through the frame which projected the initial screening spell. Then you picked one of the open-front cubes which created the second screen, opened the door which was receded into the properly-sized face, placed the item into the container and its third layer of enchantments, and that was the whole problem. Everypony had realized that to bring something so hostile to magic through magic might completely disrupt the station's security. It could potentialy negate it, and the only way to prove it wouldn't happen was through giving the disaster a chance to strike.

So the sword had been put in the castle. Given a room to itself, one where all of the devices and wonders had been cleared out first. Left completely alone within its binding of ropes, so that nopony would have to touch it.

He could bring the monster to it. Or rather, he could bring the monster to the upper levels. Create a chance for the escape to be seen, and thus stopped. There were other residents in the castle, and it wasn't as if the monster could be missed. All he needed was for a single pony to spot them, gallop for the outside, sound the alarm.

But he would be putting that pony at risk. The monster could catch her (he was picturing a mare), as it had caught him. It was his job to assume the risks. To protect. And if he could just get to a window...

It was looking at him again, with that predatory gaze. He wished it would stop.

I can't do anything down here.

He would have to take it to the ramp. Bring it into the upper levels, and hope for his chance.

Blue tilted his head to the left. Made something of a show out of looking up.

The monster slowly nodded. (It could do that much in making itself understood, and he stared at the bruises which mottled the neck.) Gradually, it knelt down, sliding him along the wall as it did so, maintaining the pressure. The right arm went back, and he heard a tearing sound.

A ragged length of black fabric came forward. Then it went around his jaw, and all he could smell was the monster's blood.

The left hand let go. And before he could move, it firmly grabbed his horn.

She was just glad there wasn't more of a gap in their sizes: having to move with her upper torso leaning to the left would have been too awkward, especially since she wasn't --

-- they are not getting me into that shop. They had very nearly succeeded on the last attempt: Miia had pretended they were taking her out for a surprise, the blindfold was just part of the fun, but the treatment used to make lace brilliantly white had a certain drifting residue and she'd picked it up at the moment the door opened, with the initially-blind break for the unseen horizon coming a heartbeat later. It wasn't as if Miia had been able to keep up, not with the way she had to move, and even with Papi's surprising speed in the air...

...no better than second to...

...it didn't matter. They weren't there. (Miia would have hated the castle, the cold stone relentlessly pulling heat from an ectothermic body.) She knew where they were. Cerea was the one who was lost. Gripping the horn of a little horse as it reluctantly led her forward, somewhere far from home.

That reluctance wasn't exactly hidden. An unwrapped mouth would have still left her unable to understand its neighs, but the body language was writ larger than the actual body. It didn't want to be doing this. She had no reason to believe it was taking her the right way, and had already made tentative plans to release it and race through the hallways if it seemed as if there was any possibility that she was being led towards a trap. Reinforcements would have also counted, especially without her weapon.

Weapon. It was strange to think of the sword that way, especially in light of the way she typically used it: to wit, she couldn't. Oh, she was proficient enough -- but at best, when facing humans, she might get to make a display of strength by taking out her temper on a water bottle. She couldn't touch them. Other liminals and demis -- those could be fought: the laws had no restrictions about battling her own kind, let alone the myriad of others. But against humans, the ones who so often seemed to be looking for any opportunity to hurt her...

The head of their strange household wasn't like that (although such had taken a little while to realize: the first impression had been horrible). And that was why she had ultimately started to love him.

She wanted to fight for him. To be his knight. But the laws stayed her hand so much of the time, she couldn't even bluff when everyone knew what those laws were, and during the rare occasions when she could do something -- she was holding a plastic sword without an edge.

She was a centaur, and that meant her body was a weapon. A kick in the right place could kill --

-- but the best knights don't have to kill --

-- and yet she had continued to find herself in situations where her strength meant nothing. Where her skills were meaningless. Where, to be dismally frank about it, the newly species-integrated world mostly seemed to exist as a series of means for shredding her blouse. (It was torn in a few places now, but mostly around the sleeves and waist: an almost-refreshing break from routine.) She fought, she lost, and if she was lucky, she got to cover herself with her arms as best she could before galloping off to find a quiet place. Something isolated, somewhere she could weep in solitude.

To find love. To be a knight. Those had been the goals of her new life, and so she was both repeatedly and doubly a failure.

Right now, all she wanted to do was find her way home. And so much of her expected to fail at that too.

But the stallion trotted, if reluctantly. She followed. And he was leading her up.

She looked around as they emerged on the next level. More stone for the construction, but the surfaces were smoother, seeming more like a home. (It helped to be away from the smell of wine.) The hallway was also rather extensively decorated. Alcoves had been hollowed into the sides, and the majority of them hosted sculpture. Not always well: some portion of the statues occasionally jutted into the hall, and Cerea had to steer carefully around them. The lighting felt oddly dim, and the only movements she could hear were their own.

But she could hear the little horses. The sounds were distorted, weakened through distance and stone -- but the sounds were there, although the source was probably outside.

She knew what horses sounded like when they were happy. This was similar -- but she'd never heard it in such quantity.

They were happy. They might have been celebrating something, out there in the streets of their strange town.

Cerea felt she knew what the celebration was about.

She looked down at the stallion, and found herself regarding one of the icons which had been branded into his fur -- no, it was the fur itself, the strands forming a rather exacting pattern. Some sort of badge, with a matching image on the other hip. She couldn't smell any dye. It looked natural.

Her flanks were only partially covered by the torn skirt: there had been enough damage to reveal some portion of her own hips. To show where no icon was present. Simply fur, dirt, and slow-drying blood.

She'd caught the stallion looking at that part of her body. Over and over, as if his gaze had been pulled inwards towards vacuum. And she didn't understand why.

There weren't any ponies: it was a relief, and it was also a nightmare.

The relief came from realizing that the castle's residents had been, for just about all intents and purposes, evacuated. There was a party going on outside, and so most of the town's oldest family (plus servants) had apparently ventured forth to play their part in it. Additionally, even with officers posted, some of them had been understandably nervous about having a monster in their wine cellar: Blue could easily imagine a few ponies heading for the hotel, which at least gave those business owners something to do for once. It meant they wouldn't get hurt.

The nightmare had him in the corridors with a monster keeping a tight grasp on his horn. The inner corridors, because his guard post had been the first line of defense and the main entrance to the cellar was near the center. There were at least two more officers posted outside the castle. He needed a window. One good kick could hurt the monster enough for it to let go, and after that -- well, in theory, he just had to hit the glass horn-first.

If he could get up enough momentum to even try. If the glass wasn't reinforced by spells and for a castle this old, it almost had to be. If...

The main door would be easier. But there was still a benefit to leading the monster past a town-facing window: the chance that somepony might be looking at the castle and so would see a monster go by. It was in his best interests to try and lead the thing towards the perimeter. They'd beaten it once.

If he could just find the perimeter.

It was a big castle, and he hadn't spent a lot of time in it. He basically knew the path down to the repurposed wine cellar, and something about the way his horn was being grasped... whatever had produced that feeling of illness was still there, if at a lesser level.

(It was possible that the females could only drain by touch. That the monster was directly, slowly pulling his magic away, and he kept looking at the warped shadow which fell over him. Waited for it to grow.)

It wasn't painful: he would have expected that having the core of his being ripped free would hurt. But it was disorienting, and that was literal. He couldn't quite seem to keep track of where he was supposed to go. Left and right first became confused, then threatened to switch with back and front. And the monster had to be getting suspicious. There were times when he risked looking up at it and found that tiny nose slightly upturned, testing the air. He couldn't tell if its eyes were narrowed from his current angle, not when the eyes were so small to begin with. And it required a fairly extreme, very visible head tilt to risk such glances: anything more subtle and the mounds got in the way.

He looked at the way those mounds constantly, subtly shifted with just about every movement and breath the monster took, and the word Yearrggh... went through his mind, with company. The monster had many ways of inspiring nausea.

But he had to focus. He had to remember where he was supposed to be going. He had to get help.

Statues. More statues. Some doors, very few of which had statues behind them: she was opening everything she could. This occasionally required a double foreleg dip so her left elbow could press on a lever: when her right hand got involved, she could feel little indentations in the wood, and the dim light was still sufficient to reveal tooth marks.

A place where no one had hands.

It made her think of Papi. Harpies had flight -- but they had paid a price for that. Their bodies, by necessity, were small and thin: it was easy to mistake an adult for a youth who'd barely reached adolescence. Metabolisms could be far too quick: any truly extended effort would require food immediately after, and the desperate raids on any source available had led to a few of the legends which had survived segregation. And unlike some of the other flying liminal species, harpies had but four limbs.

Where arms should have been, harpies had wings. And just before the full span of those wings swooped out and down -- a single protruding talon, and bone to press it against. It was all Papi had for hands, all any harpy had. And she didn't see it as a price which had been paid, because flight was too dear. The fact that she could barely make her way through ground life and its constant need for manipulation didn't matter, mostly because Papi seldom thought about it -- or much of anything else.

Cerea suspected Papi would have loved the little horses, largely because so many were brightly hued. But to adjust into a world without hands... that might have been easy for her, where so little else was.

You had to look after Papi, because she could seldom look after herself. (The exception was combat. The wing talon was almost useless. The three on each foot could rend flesh.) She was the same age as the rest of them, and her lack of intellect still made her the baby of the group. Trying to keep the harpy from getting into trouble could be a near-constant demand on Cerea's time -- but she'd been a lone foal, there had never been the chance for a sister and --

-- I have to get home.

The stallion was staggering a bit, and it didn't feel intentional. Like he was starting to weaken.

Is that from the hairpin? She'd been keeping it pressed tightly against the horn --

-- and then she saw it.

The corridor ended in a T-intersection. There was a side door plus two statutes to move past before getting there (with one of those statutes significantly poking into the hallway, a very large, poorly-balanced effort that looked as if the sculptor had removed every human element from a gryphon and left nothing but the animal) -- but that would put her at the partially-open door at the exact center of the passage. The one where a familiar glint off metallic paint had just reached her eyes.

She saw it. Her sword, and did so in the first moment she'd ever truly wanted it.

Cerea saw it, and so did the stallion.

She missed the moment when his eyes widened. Had no way to know about the desperation which had just seized his thoughts, the self-hatred at having somehow led her to where she wanted to go. Neither of them understood why the door had been left open, and it would take long hours of questioning before any admitted to having accidentally dragged the blade into contact with the lock. But it was her sword, she focused the entirety of her being on that, and so misplaced the stallion until the moment when he kicked her.

She yelped: she couldn't help it. Even with a rather ineffective kick to the side, that foreleg had already been bruised.

The renewed pain loosened her grip.

The illness began to drop away.

It wasn't instant: he still didn't feel entirely like himself. But it was enough for focus, to see the monster wildly glance between himself and the sword. To make a choice, and the huge body began to gallop forward, leaned to get past the statue, had a new rent placed in a sleeve when the new angle wasn't quite sufficient. Heading directly for the door at a speed he couldn't match --

-- but he didn't have to. His corona got there first.

Green energy (still wavering around the edges, sparks dim and flickering) surrounded the door, began to pull it closed. Prepared to hold it against anything the monster could bring to bear.

He wasn't spectacularly powerful for a unicorn: his field strength was above average, but it wasn't as if he'd been anywhere close to getting into the Gifted School. He was merely prepared to commit everything he had, and his corona began to surge around his horn as he pushed.

The monster's right shoulder went into the fast-closing door, and all of that hideous strength pushed right back. All of the mass, and the spike of pain which began between his eyes told him something about just how much mass there was. It was more than he could ever hope to lift, exponentially so, he couldn't fight like this and --

There would be other questions, before the next stage began. Many of them, and a rather forceful series would take his tactics apart. He could have switched focus, pulled on a single hoof, tried to yank the monster off-balance and hoped it would crash to the floor. There was always the option to twist ears: that kind of pain distracted most creatures from their current goals. But he was (although he did not realize it) the victim of stories. He had arrived too late to the battle and so had been told about the sword, with recent history already beginning to distort into legend. Blue knew what the sword had done, and also knew what ponies had told themselves it could do. The two were rapidly becoming confused. And so his priority was to keep the monster away from it, he already had the door in his field, his eyes were starting to water as his horn's corona went double, a single moment of switching targets would allow it to go through and it was already winning, the door was opening more and more by the second, he forced himself to trot forward in the faint hopes that lesser distance would allow him to apply more force, past the side door, up to the statues...

Green flashed and surged, within that hallway, and Blue had no way to know that he should have already lost. How tired the monster was, and how hurt. It wasn't the creature's first night in pony lands, and every hour had taken a toll. It had been beaten in the fight, wounded, had already lost so much blood. Its own strength was beginning to ebb. But what remained was enough.

It pushed, and he screamed as the light broke, the pressure too much to bear. The double corona winked out, and he crashed to the stone floor.

He barely had the strength to raise his head. To see it seize sword and scabbard, quickly untangling both from the nets, using the confiscated belt to put them in their proper place. All he could do, as a monster was set free, was watch the end of his world begin all over again.

Blue could merely watch, and it was the only sense which seemed to be fully operating after giving so much to his desperate effort. He was only slightly aware of the stone below his barrel. He felt as if he could barely hear.

But somehow, the sound of the side door opening still reached him, as did the little gasp.

The castle's current owner, a young mare known to be less than proficient at parties, rushed forth. Dropped down to mauve knees, her chin moving forward to press against his forehead. Basic medical attention: checking for a fever.

But then she saw it.

It had donned its weapon, found some means of turning within the little room until it was facing in their direction.

They had no way to read the expression on its face, for it was the face of a monster.

It charged.

It was galloping directly for them. And Blue tried, he delved within himself for anything that might be remaining, he sought one last burst of strength, enough to push a mare who was paralyzed by terror to safety, get her away from the inevitable trampling, but there was nothing left and

it jumped.

The monster went over them, easily clearing both bodies and nearly cracking its head on the ceiling in the process -- but the upper impact was avoided. Instead, its flank merely hit the griffon statute, and they heard the cry of the beast, scented the latest flow of blood.

It landed, staggered somewhat from the pain. Instinctively glanced down its flank, trying to see how bad the wound was --

-- it had hit the statue. It knew that. So did Blue, because he could see the results.

The monster was huge. Heavy. And a precariously-balanced sculpture, impacted by a monster, was starting to tilt into the hallway. It was about to fall and when it did so, there would be two ponies underneath: one too frightened to escape, the other too exhausted to move. The first two fatalities of the monster's reign.

He was supposed to protect ponies.

He had failed.

Blue closed his eyes and waited for the final surge of pain.

The impact was followed by a scream.

Then he realized neither had been his.

He looked up, and the monster was standing over them. He could see barrel, belly, powerful legs, and little more, right up until he managed a glance to the side.

It had spun, jumped again: the heavy hooves landing around them had been the impact. The scream had come when the statue had toppled into the monster's flank.

It screamed again, threw all of its weight to that side, and the statue moved. Straightened, then fell backwards. Crashing into the alcove.

The monster staggered a little more. The huge body moved over them, with none of the hooves coming close to impact. It barely managed a turn, angled itself to look down at them, and the expression was mostly unreadable. It was possible to see the pain.

Then it ran.

It wasn't all that hard to find the point of exit: the castle had several windows on the ground floor, the one which faced the open pasture that stood between structure and the forest border (and incidentally faced away from the rest of the town) was very large, and while the glass had in fact been reinforced by numerous security spells, the monster had apparently hit it sword-first.

After that -- there were hoofprints in the dirt for a while, heading for the trees. And once they crossed the border, the search stopped. It had to stop, because the residents knew they needed help.

The tales were flying, and some of that was literal: pegasi had a certain advantage in spreading gossip. Some of those who hadn't been there were the ones who swore they knew exactly what had happened. Blue tried to speak, was backed by the young noble, and both had to struggle to keep their words from being lost: something which became all the worse with one barely able to stay conscious, wearily forcing himself towards morning.

But he didn't have to wait quite that long, for ninety minutes prior to the arrival of daylight, the sun came to them.

It had brought company.

The questioning began in earnest, conducted by those who could listen. And when it ended, the elder looked to the younger, for the younger was once again there to be sought.

That pony nodded. A simple movement, one which almost managed to contain the sheer power behind it.

"Begin the hunt," the younger ordered them.

And with both that and the statement which followed, the world changed.

"We will join it."