“I’m just sayin’, that sounds like a load o’ crud,” Palatìn pokes at you.

“Is it really that unbelievable?”

Palatìn chortles, and it echoes slightly, reverberating to and fro in your slightly musty cell.

“Six girlies, galavantin’ all over th’ place and beatin’ baddies with the power o’ friendship? I don’t even know how you’re sittin’ here tellin’ me all that with a straight face.”

You hear his sheets shuffle briefly as you sit leaning against the cell wall adjacent to his.

“Actually, ya know what? I can’t even see your face, you probably got a shit-eatin’ grin or somethin’ plastered all over it.”

A laugh rises from your gut, and you hang your head as it rocks you in waves.

“Pal, why would I lie to you about shit that happens in a country you hadn’t even heard of until three hours ago?”

“Iunno, but I jus’ can’t bring myself to believe it. I mean, really?”

Aside from the quiet chuckle of your new friend, a silence hangs in the air after your exchange, interrupted only by the hushed sound of wind coming from just outside your barred, opaque window. For the past…

How long has it been? A few hours, maybe more? In any case, Pal’s been keeping you sane with idle conversation. That creepily chipper cultist keeps coming back every hour or so to grab a new prisoner, taking them god knows where. Most of them are ponies, presumably from the train, but a few are from other species, more than likely native to wherever you are right now. A couple of them, you can’t quite place what they even are.

They always come back with varying degrees of abuse over most of their bodies. True to Pal’s word, the feistier ones are covered in marks, sometimes bleeding from lacerations or orifices on their face. All of them return in quietude, complacent or defeated in stature and expression. It still shakes you a bit, but the frequency of it has dulled the initial shock.

You’re anticipating that unicorn’s return anytime now - it feels like he’s combed the entire block except for you and Pal.

“He’s, um…” The soft, almost frail voice coming from beyond the entrance of your cell catches you off guard.

Your head jolts to face it, and for a second, you can’t quite place that the voice belongs to the sobbing mare from earlier, now neutral and leaning against the bars of her own cell, sage-green shaded coat matted against them.

“He’s not lying. I live in the same town they’re all in,” she says, voice just barely over a whisper.

“No kidding?” Pal responds, sounding genuinely surprised. “They really did allat stuff with the moon mare and that chaos guy and all?”

She looks your way for a brief second, befuddled by Pal’s lack of world history, before turning back to him.

“T-They did. You noticed the nighttime lasting longer than usual a few years ago, right?”

Pal grunts in realization - that seems to have jogged his memory.

“Oooohhhh!” he exclaims, though careful of his overall volume. “That’s what that was? The eggheads here chalked it up to some kinda 'event foretold by prophecy.’”

You perk up a bit at the mention of ‘prophecy.’ So far, you don’t really know much about your captors other than that they’re some kind of religious cult, which was kind of obvious after you met that unicorn earlier. Beyond that, though, you’re flying blind here.

“Who are they, anyway?” you inquire, afraid of the answers you might be given.

Your new friend seems interested in this too; she perks up at your question, listening intently for Pal’s reply.

“Their name’s in some language I can’t get the grasp of, but I heard ‘em say it in Dunetongue once - Her Children.”

…A name like that doesn’t exactly bode well. But hold on a second, isn’t-

“Dunetongue?” the earth pony asks, clearly on the same wavelength as you. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“You’re speakin’ it right now, miss,” Pal responds humorously, not missing a beat. “Maybe we all got a different word for it? It’s just th’ universal language ‘round these parts, is all. Lotta different folk from a buncha different places live here, we gotta have somethin’ we can all speak.”

You have a great many questions about that, but you’ve got more pressing matters to inquire about for now.

“What’re they about? The cult, I mean.”

“Officially? Spreadin’ the ‘good word’ o’ the Holy Mother, their patron deity.”

“And unofficially?”

“Same as any other group a’ crazies,” Pal sighs, his tone lowering into agitation. “Control.”

You hear him shuffle slightly on his sheets, likely repositioning to convey his point more clearly.

“Their head honcho showed up outta nowhere four or five years ago and started swayin’ fellas over to her cause like it was nothin’. Now, she and her cronies have their mitts in almost everything, all the way up to th’ governin’ body o’ the mecca and its townships.”

You can’t hold the frown from appearing on your face.

“She just… wormed her way in? Just like that, with no resistance?”

“There was some, here and there,” he responds. “But it was a quiet affair overall, that’s for sure. Some’a us still didn’t sing their tune, and, well… here we all are, I suppose.”

“Are there others in town like you? Like us?” The earth pony asks, her expressing growing more dour with every sentence that leaves Pal’s mouth.

“There are. I ain’t seen any of the ones I know here, so they’re prob’ly still meetin’ in secret on the outer fringes an’ all, trying to get some kinda foothold back.”

“Listen, Anon…” Pal’s voice takes on a grave undertone as he addresses you directly. “I overheard that yuppie earlier sayin’ that his boss wanted to meet with ya personally. Just… don’t lean into whatever kinda shit she spews, alright? I don’t know what she’s got goin’ on, but it isn’t anything good.”

You take a deep breath, the heat of which fans out in front of you as a light fog against the cold of the prison. The sense of anxiety that’s been nestled within your stomach is beginning to spread.

“What can I expect?”

“Nothing pleasant,” the earth pony sullenly declares, a thousand-yard stare directed aimlessly at the floor as she no doubt recounts the events of earlier.

As much as you’d like to know what’s going to happen to you, you keep your distance from that topic out of respect. Actually, come to think of it…

“What’s your name, by the way?”

The earth pony perks up at your question, locking eyes with you and brushing her coffee-shaded hair out of her face.

“Huh?” she asks, seemingly having just been pulled out of her stupor.

The corners of your mouth creep up into your best attempt at a disarming smile.

“Your name.”

She shifts slightly to better face you, but winces as a particularly bruised spot up on her hind leg comes into sudden contact with a rough patch in the floor. You can tell she’s still wary of everything, judging by how skittishly she reacts to your voice when directly addressed, but there’s an unmistakable smidge of warmth behind her eyes - you’ll have to thank Pal later for helping with that.

“B-Blazing Hearth,” she stutters slightly.

It’s only fitting to offer your own in return.

“Anon.”

Suddenly, she squints at you, studying you up and down.

“I think I’ve seen you before, actually,” she says. “Back in Ponyville, once or twice over the past few years.”

“Yeah, I came down every so often to visit. Lived up in Canterlot before… well, three days ago now, actually.”

“Where’d you-”

Hearth’s question is left nebulous, interrupted by the telltale screech of an iron door swinging open at the end of the hall. The three of you let silence overtake your discussion as a set of sprightly hoofsteps echo on from your right.

Hearth instinctively shuffles away, fear overtaking her features as she shrinks back into the farthest corner of her cell. You relocate, too, standing up and taking your place in the center of yours. That’s what they usually tell prisoners to do, right? Stand back so they can open the door? Your knowledge of prison only extends to what you’ve seen in movies and read in fiction, so you don’t really know.

Before long, the echoes shrink against the soundscape, making way for only the unfettered sound of hoofsteps drawing nearer to you. And then, he comes into view once more - that sky blue sadist.

Instead of meandering past your cell like he’s done dozens of times since your awakening, he comes to rest just outside and locks eyes with you, flashing his trademark eerie grin, albeit in a strained manner.

“Her Grace is ready for you now,” he almost sings, brandishing with his magic a key ring from some hidden pocket in his robe.

You try to take note of the appearance of the key, but the only thing you can properly register before he slots it into the door is that the head is vaguely round. A breath sits deeply in your lungs, releasing as the door is opened.

As you leave your cell and join the sadist’s side, your new friends offer you no farewell - no verbal one, at least. You still can’t see Pal, but as the unicorn locks the door behind you, Hearth’s eyes meet yours. In them, beyond her ever-present fright, she pleads with you to be careful. You give a nod her way, hoping it’s sufficient enough to count as a reply.

The unicorn pockets the key ring before turning to you and pulling a cloth out of another of his pockets.

“I’ll need you to wear this,” he says matter-of-factly. “As requested by Her Grace until we reach her location.”

A blindfold? Well, finding an escape route was never going to be easy, was it? Reluctantly, you slip it over your eyes, and an uncomfortable darkness takes hold.

Interesting… you never saw him do this for any of the other victims he carted away.

You feel something metallic slip over your left wrist and tighten, accompanied by the jingling of chain link.

“Just follow me. We’ll be there in no time.”

He sounds oddly dejected. Well, as dejected as someone as him can sound.

In any case, you don’t give any sort of reply; you simply follow wherever the chain leads you when he starts walking. You hear the iron door open in front of you, and he leads you through into another quiet space.

Before long, voices of all octaves and tones steadily fill the soundscape, and the echo-y hall gives way to what sounds like a much larger room. Some of them turn to whispers as you draw nearer, as if your presence as an outsider is enough to curtail even the most casual conversation.

“Watch your step, we’re about to be on a staircase,” the unicorn warns you.

He even reaches out to support your back with his magic in case of a fall. His treatment of you strikes you as odd - most of the other prisoners came back with bruises or worse. Shouldn’t this guy not care what happens to you?

Up the stairs you go, regardless, before the path you’re being led on winds to and fro - a left here, a right there, a curve, a hard angle, more stairs…

Until the dull cacophony of voices tapers off, and you’re left with only the ringing of chains, the unicorn’s hoofsteps, and your own breath.

After being led through an open door, he comes to a gradual stop, and you follow suit. Your cuff is unlocked and removed from your wrist, which you begin to rub unconsciously.

You go to remove your blindfold, but the cold grip of the little sadist’s aura takes an uncomfortably firm hold on your forearm.

“Not yet,” he explains plainly. “Tradition dictates that your blindfold remains on until Her Grace greets you verbally.”

His magical grip loosens, and you let your arm fall to your side once more. Inwardly, you’re more than a bit irritated, but you think it’s best to play it cool for now.

Huh.

Maybe those four years of brown-nosing might finally benefit you. Who knew?

“There’s a seat in front of you now. Wait there until Her Grace calls for you,” the unicorn instructs as you feel out for the seat, slipping into it when you do. “Behave yourself, creature. This is an honor that few receive.”

For the first time since you laid eyes on him, you can actually hear a bit of venom on his tongue. It’s not exactly threatening, but you’re wary all the same - he put you to sleep without much of an effort last time, and that’s to say nothing of his sudden change in disposition.

A deep stirring in the pit of your stomach rises in severity, as if to signal incoming danger. You hear the unicorn leave, shutting the door behind him with a gentle click of the latch. The temptation to rip the insufferable piece of cloth off of your face is titanic, yet you hold steady in the face of your predicament.

And what’s with this chair? You were expecting something akin to what you’d see - feel, in this case - in a torture chamber, not plush and comfortable. The back of your seat rises up to your head, cushioning and all, and is slightly leaned back for lounging. It doesn’t feel like cheap cloth, either - it caresses your skin like cashmere. If you were somewhere more accommodating, you might be tempted to fall asleep after everything you’ve been through.

You let your hands rest upon the chair’s arms and wait as patiently as you can. Wherever you are, it’s certainly spacious - it echoes slightly, like the ground floor of Flair’s office building. Immediately under your feet, you feel a plush rug, and just a foot or two away, hard tile.

You wrack your brain to try and figure out wherever you could be, but it comes up short no matter which avenue of reasoning you tread down. Your thoughts, however, are interrupted by the door behind you opening once more, though this time with no audible “swish” of aura to speak of.

The door clicks back into place, this time with the audible latching of a lock.

It must be her, right? Who else could it be?

As calm as you’d like to be, your heart would love to beat right out of your chest. Would you be any better off without the blindfold, or would it be worse, you wonder?

The unannounced presence draws nearer to you with a careful, drawn-out gait - hoofsteps, if your ears don’t deceive you. It reaches your left side and starts encircling you, not unlike a shark investigating its prey.

One rotation, two, three…

Eventually, it pauses to your right and leans in to get a good whiff of you. You just barely keep yourself from recoiling in apprehension.

After a few moments, it pauses, heading off to somewhere in front of you. You hear fabric shuffling for a bit, before-

“My, my… What might you be?” Her voice is husky and drawn out, like molten caramel dripping from on high.

You raise your hand to remove your blindfold, but hesitate as you thumb the fabric, letting only a smidge of light in. She chuckles to herself, a throaty song of amusement.

“You may.”

You finish your motion, all but ripping the blindfold off of your head, desperate to remove the headwear from your person. Your eyes first dart to the room around you - you can hardly believe you’re in the same general location as your prison.

The layout is relatively open, with floor-to-ceiling marble pillars spaced out a fair distance from the center of the room, which you’re currently seated in, in a hexagonal pattern. Everything you can see, from the patterning in the tiled floor to the upholstery and decorations, is decorated in white, gold, or some combination of the two. Every now and then, especially in the curtains, some muted burgundy peeks out, but it’s all done tastefully.

Statues of some historical figures dot the place here and there, none of which are familiar to you. Vast windows to the cold of the outside are opened, and you take a quiet microsecond to appreciate the fresh air as opposed to the dank staleness of the prison.

You can’t see any land outside from where you’re sitting, in fact. It gives off the impression of being separate from the earth as a whole, right up until-

“A wandering eye, are we?”

Your attention is, at once, ripped from your surroundings and directed toward the lightly plum-colored mare lying across from you on a raised cushion, silk sheets built up behind her. Her pale hair spills forth from her head in carefully kept rivers, apart from in front of her surprisingly welcoming sapphire eyes, wherein it’s cut relatively flat across her brow. Oddly enough, she isn’t wearing anything ornate or intricate on her supernaturally lithe figure - simply a necklace with an opal pendant.

You try to sneak a peek at her cutie mark, but it’s covered by a spot of flowing silk over her flank. In fact, the only thing you do spot from under the sheet is a wingtip - a pegasus.

“There you are,” she coos, a sickeningly sweet smile arresting any further analysis on your part. “I bid you welcome, outlander. Make yourself comfortable… we’ve much to discuss.”

Your dread piles up in your throat, which tries in vain to shove it all back down. A million reasons for her sudden interest in you fly through your head, but none of them hold form long enough to make any sort of sense. Luckily, your body ends up acting for you long before your mind comes to any sort of decision.

“I’m grateful for the opportunity.” The words come out strained and uneasy, but there it is - a starting point.

For what, you’re not entirely sure, but first thing’s first…

Set the expectations.

“Forgive me if I seem tense, this is… well, it’s been a long day.”

She dismisses your concerns with a wave of her hoof. Suddenly, she claps both of them together twice, looking somewhere deeper into her vast chambers.

“Musicians!”

With some shuffling, cloaked bipeds saunter into view, taking their place at instruments that you hadn’t quite spotted before - namely, several golden, engraved harps, almost as tall as you. Without even a word, they begin their melody.

“My forgiveness is given freely.” she finally replies, turning back to you. “Yours has been an unusual journey, indeed.”

She reaches out and grabs her cup, taking a swig as gracefully as one possibly can. Her movements are airy and light, as if each part of her body were floating, guided only by her will.

“Speaking of which,” she continues plainly, “How much did you hear?”

“…I’m sorry?”

“You were conscious upon your arrival, were you not? Surely, you must have heard some of our discussion before you were incapacitated.”

The nonchalant nature with which her inquiry is formed unsettles you. Surely, the head of a cult would be more than upset at the thought of private business leaking past her inner circle? As much as you’d like to hide that you heard anything at all, you feel like telling the truth here will take you farther in the long run.

You almost imperceptibly fidget with your hands as you deign to do so.

“Something about a benefactor, and having found your ‘quarry.’ Apart from that, I couldn’t hear much.”

Her brow barely furrows for but a moment before returning to a more relaxed state.

“Well, I suppose I can’t place blame on you,” she replies, a hint of resignation in her voice. “Nobody can listen selectively, after all.”

You’ve never heard that from a pony before.

‘Nobody.’

Initially, you thought that she might be an Equestrian, but her minute difference in dialect has thrown you for a loop. She notices you deep in thought, and her smile widens once more as she shifts into a position that more directly faces you.

“I’m sure you have no end of questions, outlander, but before I answer them, I have a few of my own…”

Her eyes crawl over every pore of your body at an agonizingly slow pace lingering here and there to drink in more of you. You fight the urge to close your already-clothed legs when her gaze lingers downward and stays there for a moment or two.

She looks back up at you with a few sumptuous beats of her eyelashes.

“What’s your name?”

You clear your throat so that your voice comes through as more than a hoarse croak.

“Anonymous.”

“Really?” she asks, raising an almost playful eyebrow at you. “I’ve known many exotic names in my time overseeing the mecca, but yours is… well, to be curt, it’s quite ‘out there,’ as it were.”

Huh. Haven’t heard that in a long while.

“That’s what it says on my citizenship papers back home. Lemme go grab ‘em, I’ll show you.” The sass leaves your mouth before you can put a lid on it - you inwardly curse your years at Flair.

Thankfully, she simply giggles at your not-so-subtle suggestion.

“Oh, no, I trust you,” she responds, enjoying this a little too much. “Perhaps one day, I’ll let you prove it to me, but for now… just what are you, Anonymous?”

Every word that leaves her tongue is subtly saccharine, which only raises more questions that bounce around your head with reckless abandon.

“I’m a human.”

“Ooh… I’ve never heard of your kind before. Where do you hail from?” Even sweeter now, replete with her soft, attentive gaze affixed squarely on your face.

You clear your throat again, more fervently this time - her attempts at charm are throwing you off of your game. Fuck’s sake, why couldn’t she just be outwardly cold or something?

…Just focus on what’s in front of you, Anon.

She gestures to the cup in front of you with a hoof, bolstered by a crooked, yet genuine, grin.

“By all means, have as much as you like. I thought you might be parched, so I had my servants keep it ice cold for us.”

Even with the weather being a bit nippy as is, an ice cold drink does sound really nice right about now. When’s the last time you had something to drink, anyway? Before the train, probably?

You lean forward in your seat and reach down, taking hold of the cylindrical porcelain cup and bringing it closer to look at its contents. It looks like plain water, but you’ve seen all the spy movies and political thrillers and whatnot - what if there’s something in it that you can’t smell? Or, hell, even taste. Some sort of poison, or something that leaves you open to suggestion?

You look up at her for a brief moment as she cocks her head at you. She’s perturbed for but a moment before she understands what’s happening, a sinful smile taking hold as the realization dawns on her.

Rather than reply verbally, she slides off of her cushion onto all fours, the silk sheets on her back hugging the curvature of her barrel as they slide off. She glides to her full height, a mere inch or two shorter than Luna, and sashays over to your side of the table, stopping just short of you, so close that you can feel her body heat radiating off of her.

Notes of jasmine waft into your nose as she gently takes your cup from your hands and brings it to her own mouth. She holds eye contact with you as she slowly gulps down a third of your water, the muscles in her throat constricting visibly with every swig.

Once she’s had her fill, she gives it back to you, pushing it into your still hands. She doesn’t back off, though, choosing to remain painfully close to you as she eyes you expectantly.

Well… she did just drink it, right? You suppose there’s no harm, in that case - you bring the cup to your mouth and tip it toward you.

The water brushes past your lips and runs over your tongue, bringing with it the startling realization of just how dehydrated you really are. Your conservative sip turns into a greedy chug, your eyes slamming shut as you let the chill of the liquid bring you to a genuine state of relaxation for the first time since your arrival here. All the while, your hostess chuckles beside you, a weight joining you on what you now realize must be a loveseat.

Before long, the last of the water trickles into your waiting maw, and you swish it around a bit before swallowing to stave off any additional thirst.

“Trust is what keeps us not simply alive, but prosperous out here in the Great Basin,” she explains as you set your cup down once more and turn to face her. “The sooner we take this truth to heart, the sooner we may all benefit from it.”

You don’t care to believe a word out of this mare’s mouth, but she doesn’t need to know that. Might as well answer her question while you’ve got the space to speak.

“Would you trust that I’m not from this world?”

She looks you up and down again, a growing excitement in her eyes.

“You certainly look otherworldly. So, you’re saying you’re from another planet, then?”

“That was one of Cel’s theories, yeah. I wasn’t conscious for any of it, so even my own guesses are just conjecture.”

“How fascinating…” Her growing smile is, against all odds, somewhat infectious.

“You really believe me? Like, right off the bat? Even my friends were skeptical at first.”

She shifts in her seat, leaning her side against the back of the cushion as she more forwardly faces you.

“Had they seen you as I do, they would not have been.”

You’re about to ask what she means by that, but she continues.

“For you to not just arrive in this world, but to appear before me in the manner that you did… She has great things planned for you.”

Or ‘she’ hates you. That makes far more sense to you right now. Speaking of…

“‘She?’”

“The Holy Mother,” she explains, beaming with pride as she launches into a speech that she’s no doubt rehearsed before. “Our patron deity of prosperity and longevity. Though I claim my position as head of our religious organization, I am but Her humble emissary, spreading Her benevolent teachings to whomever will listen.”

Your eyes leave her to wander aimlessly in front of you. What do you even say to that? You’ve never exactly been part of a clergy, so you’re just kinda winging the brown-nosing here.

“So you’re something like an interpreter for your holy texts?”

“Close, but not quite, Anonymous.”

You turn to look at her again - she’s only a few inches from you on the loveseat now. When did she get this close…?

Strangely enough, you’re not altogether repulsed by it.

“We do not have any holy texts - we have no need of them. I interpret Her will through direct communion.”

Yeah, your ass.

“You can really talk to her?”

“Only when She reaches out,” she explains with a twinge of disappointment. “But yes, I can. She even told me a bit about you, shortly after our little soiree with the train.”

Your. Ass.

“Only good things, I hope?”

Subdued laughter rises from deep within her throat, a husky thing that sounds like a song over the musicians’ strings.

“Very good things,” she emphasizes, dropping her eyelids halfway with an oddly confident smile.

Christ, it’s getting warm in here. Did someone shut the windows while you weren’t looking?

“And that you’re searching for purpose, ever since losing your vocation.”

…

“How’d you…?”

The words die in your throat as you drink in her features. They’re sharper than you’d expect for an otherwise normal pegasus - really, she’s more akin to an alicorn in appearance alone, save for her lack of a horn. Her gaze seeks to shred away layer after layer of you, until the barest form of self remains. It’s…

Oddly exhilarating.

You lean into the back of your seat, the cashmere below you akin to an angel’s wings.

“She could not reveal too much, but She told me of your struggle to find your place in this world…”

She shuffles forward, gently crossing her two front hooves over your leg. The sensation of her touch, even through your pant leg, is startlingly acute, as if your senses were dialed up to eleven.

“But what if I told you…” Her voice barely pokes out over her whisper, and your lips involuntarily part - you’ve been holding your breath.

“…you already have a place in the world?”

Your mind’s on fire. Every thought turns to slush.

“Wh… what do you mean?” you shakily exhale.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you feel as if you should be alarmed by what’s happening, but… you aren’t.

“We are to be joined, Anonymous,” she breathes right into your face, jasmine dominating your world. “To be bound as one, as ordained by the Holy Mother herself. Would you enjoy that?”

You slide onto your back against one end of the loveseat, and she slides right down with you, orienting far more of her barrel onto your midsection as she takes her place in between her legs. She paws at your abdomen, and you’re suddenly aware of how cramped it is down below. As if on autopilot, you reach out for her neck, which she leans into with gusto, never once breaking eye contact with you.

“I-I don’t even… know your n-name…”

She giggles, and her chest vibrates against you. Your whole body feels like it’s on fire.

“Ambrosia, my dear. My name is Ambrosia.”

The irony is not lost on you, a dopey smile taking hold of your mouth before you can even think to curtail it. She crawls up further, her whole body now saddled over you. It’s only now that you’re aware of another unyieldingly intense heat down below - and it isn’t yours.

Whatever objections you have against what’s happening, they’re buried under a sea of molten desire.

“Now…”

She leans in, her lips a mere fingertip away from yours.

Ṭ̴̨̛̰̲͔͆̐̐̉̈ẍ̴̨̺̤̖̣́̓͊a̷͍̖͒̃̚ȋ̵͍̜̘̲̗̳͗͊̾́̌ŝ̵̬̩͖͂̀̉̕͝ ̵̲͎͉̮̻̙̍̾k̸̤̽̉̌̒͠͝ú̵̢͖̲̿v̷̖̟̜̓̈́͆̈́͒.̴̲̄̒

…

…Huh?

You frown quizzically as her garbled speech quite literally hits you like a freight train, no clue on earth what she just said. It actually kind of freaks you out, despite your obvious tent that’s smooshed up against her.

“Whuh…?”

The high of the moment plummets like a boulder dropped from a cliff, and she’s wrenched from her state of bliss by your reaction. She’s downright perturbed - far more than she was earlier, when you initially refused the drink. She says… whatever the hell that was again, and it starts to really put you off.

The strangeness of the moment causes you to shift backward a bit, your right leg pushing against the ground to help you straighten up in your seat. She backs away from you as well, and thankfully, your inhibitions return in short order.

Your body does feel like it’s on fire - what the hell happened to keeping your guard up earlier? What the fuck was in that drink? She took it, too, so is that why the loveseat and your lap are soaked through right now?

And what the fuck even was that thing she said? It sounds stupid in your head, but her words actually felt prickly whenever she spoke them. The weight you felt was real, too; you could feel its residual pressure leaving your chest.

“What was…?”

She says nothing for a moment before suddenly remembering that you’re asking her a very important question.

“I-I apologize, Anonymous,” she says, flustered for the first time since you’ve laid eyes on her. “I was… simply reciting a customary phrase our people say before taking their beloved to bed. Are you alright?”

You look down at yourself. You’re not drunk, not by any stretch of the word; if anything, the world is far more acute and available to you than it was before. Sitting up, you’re painfully aware of even the individual stitches of your shirt brushing against your back.

“I… I-I don’t know. Listen, Ambrosia, I…”

You have to buy time.

She said this shit was ‘ordained by the Holy Mother,’ right? A fanatic like her isn’t gonna wait around forever for you to finally get your dick up and ‘fulfill your hallowed duty’ or whatever. So just…

Play along for now.

“I’m not against the idea of being with you, but…”

Your eyes search the floor for your next words.

“But?” she asks, walking on eggshells even with a simple interjection.

“I w-wanna be aware when we do this, you know? A-and I wanna get to know you more first. I mean, I just learned your name, like, twenty seconds ago…”

You look back up at her with the most genuine smile you can manage. She, however, gawks at you like a deer in headlights, jaw slightly slack as ragged breaths leave her every other second or so. It takes her an eternity and a half to finally reply to you.

“O-Of course… how thoughtless of me. I must apologize, it’s been s-so long since I’ve… done this from the very beginning.”

You’re in the black.

“It’s alright. Like I said, I just… need some time to get to know you first, is all. It’s not like it’ll be that long, either, you’re… beautiful, honestly.”

A little bit of bile comes up, but you choke it back down.

“I can… do that,” she utters, still perturbed but regaining composure by the second. “Do you wish to continue, then…? With our conversation, not our more carnal desires.”

Not even for one second. You’ve gotta get back to Pal and Blazing Hearth, let them know what’s going on.

“I don’t know if I can hold a conversation after… that. A bit distracted, you know?”

You’re not lying, not even remotely so. It’s downright painful down there now.

“I understand. Normally, I’d insist that we continue, but… I’m afraid I have other matters to attend to.”

She shifts backwards slightly in her seat, and the reason for her hesitation makes itself plainly clear.

She’s totally going to get her rocks off.

“I get it. I really am looking forward to seeing you again, though.”

More bile, more suppressing.

She looks up at you once more, smiling as if she were a high schooler talking to her first crush, and not some terrorist leading a cult.

“The feeling is mutual, Anonymous. Heavenly Virtue will take you back to your cell tonight, since there’s no room and board at this outpost, but we’ll leave for the mecca tomorrow. There, we’ll have plenty of room for you and I to… get used to each other.”

The sultriness has returned, against all odds. You involuntarily shudder, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Virtue!” she calls out, her voice still trembling ever so slightly.

The door to the room unlocks, and in the blink of an eye, that sadist pony from earlier stands at attention, eyes affixed to a distant point in the room.

“Yes, Your Grace?” he barks, a dutiful dog.

“We’re finished for now,” Ambrosia relays. “Take Anonymous back to his cell for tonight, but arrange a space for him to travel with us tomorrow.”

“Right away, ma’am!”

Ambrosia lifts herself off of the loveseat, wings jittering as she stretches them out for the first time in a while. She turns away to retreat to the inner sanctum of her room, but before she does, she looks back at you one last time, winking at you in two separate ways.

“Until tomorrow, dear,” she coos, sashaying away into the inner depths of the chambers.

Evil be damned, that’s one hell of an ass.

…God, fuck whatever she put in your drink.

DID YOU KNOW:
Most of the OCs featured in this story have their origins rooted in songs that I've listened to and drawn ideas from. In Ambrosia's case, she came about after listening to Santana's "Black Magic Woman" on the way home from a late night out on the town, hence the chapter title.