The violet-haired tailor looked away from one of her latest sketches to take another sip of coffee. She briefly let the warmth of the beverage flow through her body, then returned to work, leaning over the slanted desk and filling in the design with a bit of color from a pencil. The woman crossed her arms and envisioned how the dress would look in motion. She gave a content nod at her thoughts. The emerald green, open-sleeve dress she was designing was bold and inventive, summer attire inspired by Cabello's deep south culture. She focused especially on the green-black embroidery work she had planned on doing across the piece—it would help to suggest an hourglass figure for even those not graced with one.

A knock at the front door stopped her from making any additional notes or doodles to the sketch. As early as it was, Rarity knew exactly who was waiting to be let in.

Her suspicions were confirmed. Just outside, squinting at the early morning glare of the sun, was Jack. The blonde crossed her arms and bit at her lip, seeming to be lost in her own world. Without a second thought, Rarity unlocked the door and held it open.

“Thanks,” Jack said, entering. The two looked one another over in silence. Finally, Rarity kindly smiled.

“How are you doing?”

“G-good enough, I reckon,” Jack carefully replied, crossing her arms once more and glancing at the floor. While Rarity was the very definition of tactful, she knew being blunt was sometimes the only way to approach the tall woman.

“Listen, darling. About the other day--”

Jack perked up, interrupting the tailor. “--Wasn't that great? The fireworks were really somethin', yes sir! Add on some of the best darn tastin' tuna sandwiches I've ate in a long time an--”

“Jack,” Rarity sternly said. “Don't ignore the issue.”

The farmer briefly held on to her more positive expression, before deflating. She met the beauty's eyes. “F-fine. What about it?”

Rarity shook her head. “I simply wanted to state that although our... liaison didn't turn out quite as well as either of us hoped, I still had a wonderful time.” She reached up, brushing a stray lock of Jack's hair out of her face. “Nothing will change that. We'll simply wait until you're ready.” She looked down and adjusted the collar around the farmer's shirt, making it even all along the neckline. After a brief moment of observation with a raised brow—a sculptor observing stone—she licked her thumb and ran it along Jack's right eyebrow, then nodded in approval. Rarity reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black pencil. She reached for Jack's eyes—the farmer backed off in a heartbeat.

“Hell no,” she said with a few quick slaps of her hands towards Rarity. “Ain't no way I'm doin' eyeliner.”

“But they're such a pretty green. Wouldn't you enjoy havi--”

“No.”

“But--”

“Ain't happenin', Rare.” Jack crossed her arms and shook her head.

“So insufferable,” Rarity pouted, putting the pencil back into her slack pocket. She gave a small doff to her own styled hair. “Anyway... I suppose you're wondering why I called you here?”

The farmer tilted her head. “Nah. Figured it'd be you jus' wantin' ta do somethin', or talk about...”

“I said what was needed regarding it, Jack. We'll simply do the adult thing and try when you're ready again—there's no need to dwell on it unless it shows after repeated attempts.” She began to walk away, gesturing for Jack to follow. “No, the reason I asked you here is because I finished a design that I believe you'll be quite enamored with.”

Jack gave the tailor a flat look as she moved to catch up. “I ain't the dress type, Rare. Ya know that.”

The violet-haired woman gave a coy smile that spoke volumes. “Who said it was a dress?”

“Uh...” Jack trailed off, heat on her face.

Rarity laughed as she ducked into a room just off the hallway behind the store front.

“Nothing alarming either, I can assure you. If anything, this may be one of the most practical articles of clothing I've made in a long while.”

“Practical, huh?” the blonde mused, rubbing her chin. “Ok,” she conceded, following into the other room. “Let's see what ya got.”

On a stand in the far corner of the room strewn with half-completed clothing was something that gave Jack literal pause when she entered the room, thanks to its strange juxtaposition with the more innocent, mundane dresses and suits resting in the room and on racks flush against the wall.

The stand housed a tall suit of obviously high-grade leather armor, oiled until it nearly shined. Each piece was immaculately detailed, from the thick, strapped boots to the individual pieces of leather protecting every digit on the hand. It was crowned by a thick hood.

“Ya make this?” Jack questioned, glancing over at the tailor.

“Mmm.” She nodded once, her keen eyes staring hard at the piece. “It was a bit outside my area of expertise, but I feel like it was a respectable try.”

“Respectable? Thing looks great ta me.”

Rarity brightened, offering a warm half-smile. “Well, thank you. I hope it serves you well.”

The farmer did a double take. “Wait, what?” she asked, tilting her head.

“I don't believe I need to explain it. It's for you.”

Jack shook her head. “Nah, Rare. This is too nice, I ca--”

“You can and you will, darling. It's just your size, and...” She looked towards the floor briefly. “And if something like Dorado ever happens again...”

“I don't plan on doin' somethin' like that again,” Jack instantly answered. After a beat, she continued, “but... this thing might do me well in Iron Will's class. I mean, he wanted us armor trained, and I reckon he wouldn't mind us bringin' our own, so...”

Rarity gave a pleased clap. “Excellent! Shall I give you a hand putting it on?”

The farmer was ready to reject the offer, but if the thing was even close to some of the plate armor Jack had seen, she'd be here all day putting slapping on buckles and yanking belts. “Sure, Rare.”

“You should be fine in your clothing, but please remove your boots and hat.”

The farmer complied, kicking off her cowboy boots and gently placing her hat to the side. She stood like a doll, arms extended and held out to her sides and her legs spread. Rarity called her magic forth, levitating the armor and bringing the pieces towards the two.

“I almost never see you without that thing,” Rarity said, covering Jack's shin with a piece of the leather and clasping it shut with a small buckle on the back.

“What? Oh, my hat?” Jack questioned. She gave a shrug as Rarity helped her into the thick leather boots. “It was my dad's, so...”

“Say no more, I understand.” Rarity nodded. She worked her way up Jack's muscled legs, getting both of her thighs equipped.

Jack briefly shifted around in the boots. The weight felt off compared to her normal pair, like something was added. “Stuff ain't jus' leather, is it?” the farmer asked.

“I'm impressed,” Rarity said, rising off of her knees and starting to work on Jack's torso. “I didn't expect that you'd notice. Yes, every individual piece has flattened chainmail weaved into the interior of the leather, alongside a protection charm conjured by yours truly.” She huffed after a thought. “While it won't do anything to protect you from a monster like a minotaur, it should at least soften some of the blow a normal man could give you.”

“Norfolk are men too—ain't like Will or someone's all that different from us.”

“Of course. You know what I mean, dear. I'm sure you instructor is a sweetheart. It's just... he has all that strength. It's hard not to be a bit frightened of him,” Rarity replied, reaching around the tall woman's waist as she put the chestpiece on.

Jack could understand the tailor's view on that. Strength like that could scare even the one controlling it. Or, on one occasion, not controlling it.

Rarity locked the buckles at the blonde's back, then briefly returned to how she was a moment ago—her arms held around Jack's stomach. They tightened slightly, speaking the words Rarity didn't need to say. The farmer took her own hand and placed it on top of Rarity's, returning the squeeze. Each stood wordlessly for a moment, simply listening to the muted sounds of a morning well on its way.

“Hey, Rare?”

“Mmm?” she asked.

Jack swallowed. “Ya... ya shouldn't be afraid of someone like Will. O-or someone like me, fer that matter.”

“Why would I be scared of you?” Rarity questioned, moving one of her hands to Jack's hair. The tailor brushed the farmer's hair to the side and planted a small kiss on the nape of her neck. Normally Jack would have melted like putty. Right now though? She had to say her piece.

“Because I can do jus' about what Will can, ya know?” Jack briefly broke their embrace and turned, looking into Rarity's blue eyes.

“But you won't,” the tailor said.

“Jus' hear me out, sugar.” Jack gently held Rarity's wrists. “Ya shouldn't be afraid of nothin'. Yer the strongest woman I know—muscles don't mean shit compared ta what ya got inside ya.” She gave Rarity's chest a small tap. “A good heart. One willin' ta give jus' about anythin' ta take care of someone. That's real strength right there.”

The two stood briefly. Finally, Rarity gave a small shake of her head, embarrassed at the flattery. “Darling, I appreciate the sentiment, but I don't deserve the praise. You're the last person I expected to wax poetic, however.”

“Happens 'bout once in a blue moon. Give or take a few years.”

The tailor snorted in mirth. She paused, nearly shocked at the unladylike action. Jack smiled in return.

Eventually, Rarity coughed. “...I suppose we should finish getting you dressed—I'm exceedingly curious at how I did. Not that I doubt my ability, of course, this was nothing compared to the nightmare that was last year's Gala in Camelot!”

Rarity gave a small circling gesture towards the farmer; the blonde sighed, but turned around as Rarity levitated a pair of gauntlets the her way. Jack grabbed one and donned it. She flexed her hand, appreciating the tightness of the leather around her knuckles.

Jack's curiosity got the best of her. “So, how'd ya do the chainmail? I figure makin' that would'a taken forever.”

“I didn't make it, dear. I'm a tailor for the highest cusp of society, not a blacksmith. I had one of my partners take care of that. He provides metalwork for me quite often—people always clamor for accessories with their clothing, after all.”

Jack donned the other gauntlet as Rarity worked on the shoulder-pads.

“How'd ya know my measurements, anyway?”

The tailor offered a cunning smirk. “I've been in this profession for a few years now, darling. I know a thing or two about estimating sizes. Besides... I can say your body is quite memorable.”

Jack felt heat radiate throughout her face—her bronzed skin turned a dark shade of crimson. “Uh...” she trailed off, struck dumb once again by the violet-haired beauty.

“You're so easy to tease!” Rarity tittered, her laugh sounding as lovely as a chime on a gentle breeze to the farmer's ears.

Get outta here, Jack thought. Yer startin' ta think like some girly poet.

“Well, Rare. If ya don't mind, I reckon I'mma mosey fer a bit—I wanna get this broke in.” Jack gave a wide, ear-to-ear grin, showcasing her white teeth and briefly seeming to be more innocent child than woman. “Thanks again, sug. I love it.”

“It was nothing, darling. I mean it. I simply hope it helps you.”

They moved towards the door, heading back to the lobby.

“Just as well that you need to depart—I've got a busy day today.” She let out a breath of air up over her face, briefly lifting her coiffed hair. “Between clients and school assignments, I feel quite stretched out as of late. I barely have enough time for myself, it seems.”

“But ya had enough time fer this,” Jack said, gesturing down her body.

“Of course I did, dear. Heavens, I don't want to see you hurt again, after all.”

The farmer leaned forward, giving a small peck on top of Rarity's head. “Well, jus' keep some time fer yerself. Ain't no need fer ya ta go crazy worryin' an' loadin' stuff onto yer back. Lord knows I learned that firsthand.” Jack opened the front door and stepped out. “Well, I'll see ya soon, sugar.”

“Mmm,” Rarity agreed, nodding.

“An' Rare?”

“Yes, Jack?” the tailor replied, leaning against the doorframe.

“Well... was thinkin'... maybe sometime this week...” Jack rubbed the back of her neck, suddenly looking incredibly sheepish. She cleared her throat. “I mean—ya know. S-sometime when we both ain't busy we could... could...”

“Try again?” the violet-haired beauty coyly suggested.

“G-good way ta put it.”

Rarity smirked, her violet-hued lips almost too much for Jack to handle. “Well, I despise denying your advances, but I am booked solid for at least a few days. I have deadlines advancing on me with reckless abandon, alongside a few appointments I need to take care of. However, you have my word that when I have time...” Her smirk turned devilish, hungry. “You won't be able to keep me away, darling.”

Jack felt a shiver run along her spine at Rarity's words; she nervously grinned back.

Fer God's sake, move yer legs, ya dingus, she mentally chided herself, turning and walking down the pathway towards a side-street of St. Charles. She squinted at the sunlight rising just over the sleepy town's roofs.

A small part of her suggested that she return to the academy—classes were starting fairly soon, and if she missed her math class one more time, the teacher was going to be pissed.

The bigger part of her remembered that she hadn't even touched her homework, so going there was a pointless endeavor. Jack chose the obvious winner here and trekked towards Sugar Cube Corner, intending to get a muffin or something to start the day off with. If she was going to blow off class, she'd at least blow off class on a sated stomach.

She came from one of the side-roads and onto Ponyville's main strip, still dead as a doornail thanks to the early time. As she turned left to head towards the bakery, something caught her ear. She listened closer. A harmonica playing a slow blues tune.

Curiosity got the best of her; Jack crossed the street, heading towards the sound.

Her amble lead her to a pond on the town's outskirts, where a white-haired woman sat cross-legged at the water's edge. Her brown hands carefully held the harmonica, her eyes squinted shut as she concentrated and balanced a slice of half-torn bread on one knee—a victim of the ducks placidly swimming the pond's surface, perhaps.

The farmer recognized the woman—she was the showboating archer Jack saw a few days prior. With a shrug, the blonde approached. “Mornin', Gilda. It is Gilda, right?”

The archer stopped playing instantly, her steely yellow eyes looking hard at the farmer. With a breath through her teeth she replied. “Who's asking?”

Jack blinked. “Uh, Jack. Jack Apple.” She offered her hand, used to aloof business introductions enough that she remembered her manners. Gilda looked at the hand offered to her, looked back at the farmer's face, then seemed to relax, returning her gaze to the pond. Jack rolled her eyes, letting her hand drop limply to her side.

“Will says you've got a hellava swing.”

Jack tilted her head slightly. “Didn't know the big guy talked 'bout me much.”

It wasn't much, but Jack could almost see the ghost of a smile on Gilda's mouth. “He might mention you on occasion.” The archer reached into her bomber jacket pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. She offered one to Jack.

“Nah. Quit.”

Gilda grunted and lit up. “I assume you're not here to show off the gear you're wearing. What do you want?” She turned her head to face the tall woman.

“Want?” Jack repeated. “I ain't wantin' nothin'. Jus' heard a harmonica. Curious ta see who was playin'.”

“Well, you know now,” the white-haired woman bluntly answered, returning her attentions back to the water.

The farmer could tell Gilda wasn't interested in talking—that was fine. In fact, Jack debated just calling it quits. Wasn't any skin off her back.

I think it makes her lonely, in a way.

Jack paused at the thought. Will might have had a point the other day. A part of her didn't care regardless, but...

“So...” the farmer trailed off, rocking on the balls of her feet. “Ya come here often?”

“No.” The pond turned silent once more, Jack with nothing to carry on for small-talk, Gilda feeling like nothing else needed saying. Finally, the archer rolled her eyes and continued the conversation. “Usually prefer the hot-springs.”

“Hot springs?” Jack repeated. Gilda tilted her head east.

“At the school grounds. Little pond on the opposite side of the stables.”

“Well I'll be. I might have ta try one sometime.”

“Good luck. They've got it divided. Most of the stalls are one person and they're usually booked pretty tight.” She took another heavy drag from her cigarette and watched the smoke wisp away in the air. She seemed hesitant to talk again. Right before Jack was going to excuse herself, Gilda spoke.

“Apple.”

“Mmm?”

Gilda took out the smoke from her mouth and briefly lined it up straight across the horizon. She stared down the cigarette with the same cold calculation and analytical thought that made her such a frightening archer. “Your roommate Isabelle?”

Jack raised her brow. “Isabe—Oh, right. Eyup. Dash is mine.”

“...Do me a favor, hick. Tell her I want to talk. No strings, no games, just words.”

“What do ya need ta--”

“None of your damn business!” Gilda shot back, her open-toothed scowl showing off unusually sharp teeth. “Get her here!”

Jack's hand clenched involuntary into a fist as Gilda shouted—for a moment, the farmer thought the other would snap.

Gilda frowned and took a few calming breaths. After another beat, she finished. “Just... please.”

The farmer looked Gilda over. After a beat, she shrugged. “Yeah,” Jack agreed. “I'll give her the message next time I see her. Promise.”

The brown-skinned woman briefly smiled. It didn't reach her eyes, but Jack thought it seemed sincere enough. “Thanks.”

“Eyup.” The blonde nodded, leaving the pond without another sound.

The farmer returned to school and spent a few hours tending to the animals at the stables, earning a few curious looks from the stablemen as she broke in her equipment. Jack then went for a brisk jog through the school grounds. Once that was said and done, the farmer briefly returned to her room, stripping off the suit of armor and feeling like a free woman in her button-up shirt, jeans and spare boots. Lunchtime finally came; Jack remembered she had promised to eat with Twila today.

It wasn't more than five minutes later that she entered the crowded lunch hall and searched across the dozens of tables for a lock of purple hair. She craned over the throng of students wandering the room, using her height to her advantage—Jack finally spotted the woman at one of the corner tables, sitting alongside Chylene, Pinkie and Dash, like usual. The farmer made her way over and took a seat next to the rainbow-haired woman.

“Howdy, y'all. Sorry I'm late.”

“Geez, where you been? Was itching to do some running, bro,” Dash said. She yawned, clearly just now facing the day.

“Had ta check up on Rare, then did some odds-an'-ends stuff. Ya know how it goes.”

Isabelle gave a disinterested flap of her hand. “Yeah, yeah. I hear you, hayseed.”

The farmer put a finger to her brow and paused, noting something was amiss. “Aw, hogwash. Fergot I left my hat at Rarity's.”

“Well, I think you look nice without the hat,” Chylene quietly offered, smiling kindly.

“Totally! Fantaborino!” Pinkie giggled, nodding. Twila simply ran her spoon around in her quickly cooling soup, clearly distracted.

Jack raised her brow. “Uh, somethin' the matter, Twi?”

“I'm worried,” Twila plainly replied. “The princesses are coming in a few days and--”

“You don't have to worry! Turn that frowney upside-downey! Just relax! It's not like they're critiquing you!” Pinkie gave a snorting giggle. “I mean, remember the last time you panicked about them visiting for a whole night?” Her gaze turned serious. “I don't want this to be another 'Thrush incident.'”

Dash shivered. “Real talk? I still get nightmares about what happened to that cat.”

“What cat?” Jack questioned. The table ignored her.

“It's something more serious than that, Pinkie.” Twila then added in a grumble, “Though I thought we all agreed to not speak about the 'Thrush incident' ever again.”

“What cat?” Jack asked again.

“Someone's been stealing plant samples from the biology lab.” Twila ran a thumb along her dark cheek. “I think there might be an attempt at poisoning the royal line.”

Jack put her cat questions to the side. “What? How does stealin' plants lead ya ta regicide?”

A silence settled over the table. Twila scratched her head. Chylene had shrunk, nearly disappearing into the yellow turtleneck she wore. Pinkie let out a snort of laughter, and Dash quirked a brow.

“What?” The bronzed woman asked, perplexed.

“Regicide, bro? When did you start speaking like the egghead?” Dash questioned, nodding her head towards a mildly irritated Twila.

“I know jus' as many fancy words as y'all!” Jack countered. A pause. “An' I may of bought a word-a-day calender over the weekend.”

“Anyway...” Twila started with a quick glance everyone's way. “I made the connection between the stolen plants—they all have some form of toxin in them. Curarine, mandrake root, weaverleaf...” She rapped her fingers on the polished wooden table briefly, then pushed up her glasses along the bridge of her nose. “I have a feeling that the next and possibly last target should be magesbane.”

Jack shared a glance with everyone present. “Now, I don't know nothin' 'bout these herbs an' spices that got stolen but--”

“Heh, almost makes it sound delicious,” Dash grunted.

“Whatever.” The tall woman shrugged. “Anyway, ain't magesbane sorta an anti-magic weed or somethin'? I think one of my family's friends made a potion with that when we had a timberwolf infestation last zapapple season. She dabbed it 'round our property line, an' the things didn't cross the woods by our house.”

“Intriguing. I'd presume the nullifying powers in the magesbane would work quite well at preventing a magically created creature like timberwolves...” The dark-skinned woman put a thumb to her chin in thought. “I wonder if that potion mixture is anything like the Firstborn ward used in the ancient times of the Egyptians?”

“We're getting off track here.” Dash frowned. “So magesbane is a magic suppressant, right? What about the other three plants?”

“Curare plant... has, um, turbocurarine,” Chylene quietly whispered. “T-that's a skeletal muscle relaxant. Stops automatic functions l-like breathing.” She looked down at her fidgeting hands. “Some norfolk used it to hunt animals. S-saw it once. Poor thing. If I didn't have my BVM, that poor deer would have been dead in minutes.”

“Damn, Chy. Someone's making us look bad—you've got brains on you.” Dash smirked, watching the pink-haired girl blush. ”So, we're looking pretty obvious, so far, bros. Whoever is stealing those plants wants the person they're targeting unable to cast magic and helpless. That's about the only way you'd take out an all-folk.” Dash nodded. “Add on being temporally deafened by 'drake root and blinded by weaverleaf... you're not doing shit for at least an hour or two. Long enough to take care of what you want.”

“Why not jus' kill 'em? It's be easier.”

The Ritter gave pause. “Unless they're wanting to send a message, maybe?”

Twila's eyes sparked in a sudden thought. “Or they're wanting to send one of the princesses to the Dreamscape.”

The others swapped looks.

“I have no idea what that is!” Pinkie announced with enthusiasm. “But it sounds kinda nice!”

The purple-haired woman blinked. “Oh, right. I forget sometimes that Rarity's the only other soul-folk in our group.” Twila took off her glasses and breathed on the lenses, then took to cleaning them with a handkerchief from the breast pocket of her jacket. “The Dreamscape is... hmm... do any of you know what lucid dreaming is?”

“W-where you're able to control your dreams?” Chylene guessed. “I-I think, anyway.”

“Correct. Think of the Dreamscape as a way for soul-folk to lucid dream while awake—a daydream, if you will.”

“A daydream? Seems like a pretty nice thing ta send the princesses to, compared ta jus' straight out killin' 'em.”

“Not quite. I believe the assailant may subjugate either or both of them to mental torture by sending them to the Dreamscape helpless.” Twila chewed on her thumbnail, frowning worriedly. “I couldn't imagine visiting the place without the comfort of knowing I could escape it as I pleased.”

Jack shook her head. “Sounds more an' more like a terrible idea ta visit the place. Why would ya?”

“A multitude of reasons, Jack. For starters, it allows you to experiment with destructive spells without burning your home into char. You keep your physical and magical ability, so it's a fantastic way to gauge strength. Some visit in order to gain tranquility. The Dreamscape can take you to many beautiful lands—it's all a matter of how you focus. I know several who enter it in order to reflect and calm their hearts.” She offered a small smile. “My favorite reason for projecting myself there is to study. It is quite the fount of information.”

Jack could feel another one of her Twila-induced headaches coming on. “So it's like yer steppin' inta yer brain fer a stroll, right? Like, yer body's still here.”

“Correct. Like lucid dreaming.”

She scratched the back of her head. “Uh... OK. How in the sam hill do ya study in somethin' like that? Like, I can't say I've ever had a dream that gave me time ta read a book.”

“It's lucid dreaming, Jack. You can do almost anything with it, provided you're in the right mindset. Not to mention it's a sort of passive magic in and of itself.”

The farmer smirked. “So, like, do ya carry 'round a bookbag or somethin' while yer thinkin', or, uh, dreamin', or whatever?”

“Don't be silly,” Twila scolded. “I go to the library inside my mansion.”

Jack blinked, waiting for a punchline. “Do what now?”

“When I enter the Dreamscape, I always envision myself standing in a garden behind my mansion.”

“So all yer dreams start out the same?”

“All my Dreamscape travels, yes. There's a difference between normal dreams and Dreamscape trances. Soul-folk have to sleep like everyone else, after all.”

The blonde winced, her head hurting. Twila continued.

“So I simply wave hello to my butler Wadsworth, travel up the second flight of stairs, and enter the library.” She took a sip of her tepid soup. “I then search the shelves, which I have organized alphabetically by title, genre and author.” She paused. “I need to resort some of the books, next time I visit.”

“Aw, geez. Anyone got some aspirin? All this mumbo-jumbo magic crap is givin' me a headache.”

“It's not that bad, hayseed. The book thing actually reminds me of a memory trick people use. They think of a house and fill the rooms inside with mementos. You just think about what you need and...” Dash shrugged. “But that only gets you so far. Your stuff's the same, right? Just sorta appetizers on memories, rather than the full course. I mean, you're an egghead, but still.”

“No, Isabelle. It's pretty extensive.” Twila shrugged. “I mean, I don't write everything I see or do in there, but I am pleased to say I have an exceptionally large spell compendium.”

“Come on. Even with a photographic memory, I'm sure thin--”

Twila's eyes squinted shut for a few seconds. When they opened, the dark-skinned woman pointed at Isabelle.

The effect was instantiations. Her multichromatic hair instantly lost its vibrant colors, turning raven black. It then proceeded to grow and increase in volume, first reaching past Pinkie's modest head of hair, then flowing past Jack's casual ponytail, and finally settling on Chylene's long, thigh-length hair.

Dash paused, running an unbelieving finger through the silken bangs, then glaring over at the slyly grinning scholar. Her eyebrow twitched in irritation.

“That was eight spells I haven't touched in years. Every color had to be adjusted to black—I couldn't just change the whole thing. Thankfully, I simply entered the Dreamscape, ran upstairs, and looked up 'H' for 'hair.'”

“Ok, ok, you made your point. Fix this.”

“With pleasure.” A snap of her fingers, and Isabelle's vibrant colors returned, starting at the roots and spreading out. Her hair began slowly retreating upward.

“Actually,” Dash quickly said. “Give me, eh... two inches more than I started out with.”

A small disinterested flick of a finger from Twila canceled the retraction, leaving the athlete with hair that fell halfway down her neck in the back and kissed her rose eyes in front.

“Yo, Pinkie, got a compact on you?”

“Indeedaly-doodaly!” The bubbly lady slid her mirror over. Dash looked into it, cracking a smug half grin.

“Aw yeah... lookin' like a friggin' gold mine here.” Dash put a hand to her chin and looked at her face from different angles. “Heh. Classy as fu--”

“--So ya get an' entire library in yer noggin' thanks ta that Dreamscape thingy, right?” Jack asked, addressing Twila.

“To really simplify it all: yes.”

The blonde scowled. “Man, I'd kill fer one of them durin' a test.”

“Unfortunately, the classrooms here have a ward installed that informs teachers when a student enters the Dreamscape. Shame, too, it would have been quite a boon when I was tested on the world's countries.” Twila smiled. “Regardless, there are a lot of benefits to the Dream.” Her smile faded. “A lot of scary things too.”

“How so? Ain't ya in control?”

Twila pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Except when we're not. Dreams can quickly turn to nightmares if you enter the world under adverse effects or moods.”

“So if ya got blinded and deafened, then were forced ta enter...”

“You'd have better luck navigating a hydra's nest blindfolded,” she finished. “The lack of stimuli would quite possibly drive a person mad, especially if they were trapped for longer than a few moments.”

“Damn. That plant thief means business,” Jack concluded. She leaned forward on the table, narrowing her eyes. “Shame we're gonna be too. Ain't no way they're hurtin' 'em. I swear it.”

Twila nodded. “I'm taking place in a watch tonight—hopefully we'll apprehend the person if they try to get a sample of magesbane. If not... I'm counting on you to protect the throne.”

“You got it, egghead,” Dash said with a nod. “No way in hell anyone's getting past us.”

000

Twila took another sip of coffee as she sat against the wall of the botany department, the crickets chirping outside the room's windows the only company she had at the moment. With a sigh, she looked around the room, noting the desks in neat rows to her left, and row after row of glass displays filled with various flora from across the far reaches of Cabello's lands to her right.

It had been a long, uneventful night so far, the shift before hers ending at one 'o' clock, and she had been here for—she reached into her jacket, producing a pocketwatch—two and a half hours. Twila groaned in irritation. She knew that it was imperative that they didn't let magesbane fall into the wrong hands, but she was starting to assume that the thief had caught wind of the watches Twila and a few other soul-folk she trusted had been doing for the past week. Granted, the old adage of 'no news is good news' was quite true—if the thief never showed up, he'd be missing an important ingredient for the poison.

Provided he really is wanting to send Celestia or Luna into a coma. She only touched for a moment on the thought; they were all-folk, the magic that swam in their bodies would be more than enough to fight off blindness caused by a venom—that same thing could be said about deafness and paralysis. There would be absolutely no way a natural toxin could pierce their constitutions. Magesbane would be required for any true harm to take hold of the princesses. The thief had to come here, and he had to do it tonight.

It's the reason she volunteered to be the last on watch tonight. If he was still planning to get the magesbane, he might be desperate enough to hurt someone. Though Twila was loath to fight, if it meant keeping Celestia and Luna safe, she'd do it in a heartbeat.

With that in mind she made a quick gesture and thought of a command word; the colors of her skin and clothing shifted, turning nearly translucent. She leaned back against a cabinet and patiently waited, stopping only briefly to turn around and look out the second story window directly behind her, taking a slight amount of solace at the full, engorged moon in the starry sky. She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as a ceiling fan lazily spun above her. If he was going to strike, it'd be in moments—Twila was certain. Four'o'clock was one of the most opportune times to initiate an attack against someone—the target would almost always be disoriented by sleep, or lack thereof.

The violet-haired woman checked the time again. Eight minutes since the last time she checked. Twila was just about to groan in frustration, when out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a mist slowly filtering underneath the door to her left.

An alteration spell? Would explain how he was able to get into the room previously, perhaps.

Twila kept an eye on the gathering mist as it slowly spilled out from the door, a condensing cloud that began to take shape.

Twila thought of a few brief command words and gave a subtle gesture with her off hand, while holding a palm out with her right. She felt an invisible weight land on her hand. It wasn't much, but a force sphere could certifiably knock out a tooth or two. Just as soon as the mist took shape, she'd launch it. It was just a matter of--

A crash from behind showered her with broken glass. Twila had barely moved when she felt a hard kick land at her back. She stumbled forward and landed on her knees, her spell lost from the interruption. The dark-skinned woman squinted her eyes shut and summoned the strength to rise. When she opened them, she found herself in another world.

Gone were the desks and samples—even the classroom had vanished. Instead, she found herself in a misty, obscured autumn forest with dozens, if not hundreds of trees in every direction.

A teleportation spell?! No way! That can't be—she stopped that train of thought and mentally kicked herself in the head. She was worrying about something exceedingly illogical. Now wasn't the time to panic, she instead thought it over as she scanned the forest, paranoid at being this open.

Teleporting an unwilling person was something that required an exorbitant amount of magic—Twila could do it, just barely. Even if she had been transported to an unknown place, the caster would be dead tired.

Which is why it's not a teleportation spell. Listen. Twila briefly focused, cupping a hand to her ear.

The blowing of wind. The sound of leaves scraping through the treeline. Footsteps skulking behind the trees.

The low-key white noise of something powered by soul-folk created electricity. Like a ceiling fan.

An illusion spell. She should have guessed.

“You can cancel the spell. I know you didn't transport me anywhere,” Twila announced to the forest, clenching her hands into fists.

“A shame,” a deep man's voice answered. “It would have been better for me if you had drained your magic with a futile spell.” She heard footsteps behind her; Twila turned and was greeted by the sight of a large, scarred man in a bomber's jacket and a bandana covering his bald head. She could feel magic radiating from his being.

“Hiding behind an alteration spell too?”

“Of course,” he answered in a chipper tone, taking a few steps towards Twila. “It wouldn't be wise to reveal the performer before the show. I changed my body and speech mannerisms for just such an occasion.” He gave a smug smirk. “As you're well aware, the alteration only lasts for about an hour, so I really should get moving. Do nothing, and I suppose I'll let you live.”

Twila conjured her force orb once more and stood defiantly towards the man. He gave a sigh and a theatrical roll of his eyes.

“Then I suppose you die. Scream, if you have to.”

He held his palm out and a small orange orb about the size of a pea appeared, levitating an inch away from the center of his hand. It rapidly expanded, covering his entire palm, then swallowing his fingers and wrist. The bald man brought the sphere back, then launched both his hands forward, propelling it towards Twila.

Her mind quickly ran through the situation, thundering through multiple scenarios faster than many people could speed read.

Fireball. Conjuration spell that burns on average up to 260 degrees Celsius on contact with anything it touches. On impact, it expands to upwards of 9.15 meters. Dodge to the side? No. Flame explodes behind me, gives assailant time to attack from both angles. Counterspell? Perhaps. Would involve me losing my force sphere but—her eyes widened. She held her hand out and launched her own sphere, connecting with the fireball. The moment before it impacted, she made a wide, circular gesture with both of her palms across her body; thick, heavy walls of ice launched upwards from the ground, cocooning her inside a protective sphere just as the flames shot forward.

Her dark world was bombarded with a sharp hiss as her ice fortress melted under the flames. As soon as she knew the fireball had dissipated, she cast a small teleportion spell, popping outside the shell just as the man had charged forward, his hands shape-shifted into spears. He plunged both of his morphed hands into the ice, then roared in frustration on seeing Twila outside of the object.

The spears at the ends of his arms shifted, retreating, becoming squat and wide. In a heartbeat, the squat mess shifted outward and became hands again.

He stared hard at Twila. The scholar returned the favor; both instantly took to making gestures with their hands; the man rigidly putting his hands together in prayer, and Twila wildly tracing an Alpha symbol in the air. From the dark-skinned woman's hands, a powerful wind launched out, sending the falling leaves whipping like daggers along the way. The wind slammed into the bald, pale man, but had no effect. He stood proudly, silently mocking the other for attempting a spell.

The bald man sprinted forward, with him came heavy iron footsteps and an unusual sheen on his body.

It dawned on Twila why he wasn't affected by a gust that could level houses.

Iron skin—impressive. She ran through what she could do to stop something like this and froze.

Lightning. She gave the smallest nod at her spell selection, and tried to think of the mental command words and hand gestures associated with the spell. She scowled, coming up dry; Twila hadn't used an electric spell for months now, and she certainly didn't have enough time to enter the Dreamscape and look it up—the very thought of doing something that left her vulnerable for even a moment against another soul-folk was foolish. She'd have to improvise.

When the man closed the distance to about fifteen feet, Twila gestured upward with a tense palm. A small, rounded column of earth shot upwards, hitting the man's shin as he dashed forward. He stumbled, landing on the ground with a heavy crash.

Using a sewing motion with her hands, Twila conjured vines from the ground—they quickly entangled the man with the bomber jacket, pinning him to the ground.

Enhanced strength from iron skin or not, Twila was confident that he was staying there unless he utilized a spell of some sort. If that happened, the dark skinned woman was sure it'd turn into a war of attrition—a field where Twila would have the advantage. She had been keeping her spells as simple and low-key as possible in order to conserve her powers, a stark contrast to the bald man.

The violet-haired woman looked down at her opponent. “Give up. A head-on attempt is foolish,” Twila stated, frowning deeply.

“You're right,” he readily admitted, smiling without a trace of humor. “Shame this is a doppelganger.”

Before Twila could respond, the forest illusion they were under vanished, wiped clean from her visual slate. The absence of the illusion spell occupying her senses alerted her to the rest of the room. The smell of burnt wood from the desks, the breeze blowing inside from the carriage-sized hole in the wall, the busted tiles where her vines had sprung up.

The woman heard a loud noise—broken glass. She turned, snarling when she saw the man, holding a pot with a magesbane sample in one hand, and a clear, translucent sphere of energy in his other. Without taking his eyes off her, the man shot the force ball. It connected hard on Twila's chest, knocking her off her feet and blasting her out the hole in the wall.

The man smiled as he casually walked towards the classroom's door, listening to Twila's scream as she plunged down two stories.

While normally he'd take this moment to gloat, the bald man knew he needed to leave and leave now. Not only was the alteration spell on its last legs, but he could already hear the footsteps of several people sprinting down the hallway towards the botany department—a magic duel never went unnoticed, even by mud-folk.

He was fine with that—as a performer, it was his duty to get noticed.

With a bow to a crowd that had yet to arrive, he channeled his magic into a teleportation spell. As soon as he finished the mental command words, pain, unlike any he had felt in his years, assaulted him from his neck, all the way to a needle point at the forehead. He bit hard onto his lip, silencing the screams he was sure he'd utter otherwise.

The man in the bomber jacket heard the footsteps growing closer and closer, slapping the linoleum flooring in haste.

He had to go and he had to go now, mental limits be dammed. The man concentrated, clutching the pot of magesbane tightly to his chest, thinking of somewhere, anywhere that wasn't here. His brain finally made the connection and he disappeared with a loud pop just as a group rounded the corner.

The man groaned in pain as he lay on the rooftop of the school, every part of him sore, aching agony. He weakly ran a hand to his brow, feeling more drained than he ever remembered feeling—completely listless and weary from the strain of using his powers beyond normal limits. The man felt a wetness come from his left eye and roll down a cheek. He swallowed and brought a hand to it, looking it over. A dark crimson stained his fingertips.

Blood.

The man gave an unbelieving shake of his head. Apparently he was closer to the grave than he thought—one was fixable with just a large amount of bedrest and no magic for a few days, but both eyes were almost always a death sentence.

He sighed, refusing to dwell on it. All he had to do now was wait for the alteration spell to wear off. The built man ran a hand over his dome, pausing when he felt a thin tuft of white hair at the back of his skull.

It was already happening.

He stood, putting the magesbane to the side. His hair grew, covering his head and thickening until it reached his shoulders. The man had an odd feeling in his gut as his body shrunk several inches and his arms thinned out. His face became less chiseled, turning feminine just as his hips expanded slightly outward and his stomach pinched in, each making an audible crack as the bones rearranged and pitched him forward, stumbling on his narrowing feet as his center of gravity changed. It didn't hurt, but it felt bizarre. As bizarre as two mounds of flesh sprouting from his chest and expanding, filling the width of his small hands. Finally, his groin pulled tight against his pelvis, disappearing into itself with a small popping sound.

A few more minor adjustments to the body and Trixie finally stood, kicking off her oversized pants and wearing the large bomber jacket around her body like it was a heavy dress. She briefly scrunched her face and clenched her hands—alteration spells were always so strange to adjust back from. Granted, it was easier changing from a man back to a woman than, say, the time she changed from a rat and back. She had caught a reflection of herself in a mirror during that one. No matter how Great and Powerful she was, that brief glimpse mid-transformation had made her shriek like a child.

She kicked off her now too-large shoes and walked barefoot towards her prize. She smiled wickedly. The magesbane was the final piece to her mixture. With it, she would have an almost embarrassingly easy time trapping who she wanted in the Dreamscape. Trixie still didn't understand why Dorcis had ordered her not to hurt the woman, but as long as that man kept her swimming in bits, it didn't really matter what he wanted.

The soul-folk smirked, picking up the magesbane and walking to the edge of the roof. She took to patrolling the parameter, until she saw the hole Twila had blown out below her. Trixie chuckled to herself and looked towards the ground, hoping to find the remains of Celestia's favored. Her smirk disappeared as she searched the area.

Nothing. Not even a bloodstain. It was like that worthless excuse of a soul-folk had vanished off the face of the earth.

She got a teleportation spell off, Trixie concluded in thought, her scowl intensifying.

“How?!” the white-haired woman whispered to herself, instinctively tightening the bomber jacket she wore. After a beat, she relaxed slightly, a bitter, jaw-clenching headache pounding in her temples from her overuse of magic.

That's alright, though, Trixie thought, calming down amid the constant beat of pain against her skull.

Even if that gutter-trash had pulled off a spell under that much duress, the strain of a near-death experience would wear on the other, preventing her from any real heroics.

All she had to do now was spend the day doing a little bit of chemistry and the rest would sort itself. Her boss would be happy, she'd have enough money to live like royalty, it'd be win-win.

With a smile, she walked along the rooftop, looking for an easy spot to drop down to. Tonight, the curtain would rise, and the show would start.

Author's Notes:

Bonus points to whoever caught a nod to one of my favorite games in this chapter.