A flurry of tooth and claw dived at them from all directions.

Cananor sharply sucked in what may have been her last breath of air, gritted her teeth, balled her forelegs and was prepared to go down fighting against the world, brave and just to the end like a true stallion.

She didn’t even get a chance to swing before the first paw, splintering with branch-like claws, caught her on her temple, and she went down effortlessly like a sack of potatoes. She heard Starfire let out a low, pained grunt as she hit the sodden ground, but of him there was no sign betwixt the anarchic, savage orgy of violence that the Timberwolves acted out. Only his screams were heard above the vicious howling, and at once, Cananor feared the worst.

She collapsed against a drooping tree. Some last stand that was. She closed her eyes, lowered her head, and waited for the Timberwolves to finish her. She only hoped that they had enough decency to do it quickly. Desire to suffer, she had not.

Then everything stopped, and she was still far more alive than she had any right to be at that moment. She didn’t open her eyes, but she knew the Timberwolves were still there; she could feel their presence, their wispy breath breeze across her mane. And yet they didn’t attack, didn’t finish her off as she lay there, defenceless.

Why?

Not surprisingly, the unicorn peeled apart her heavy eyelids, demanding to know the nature of the holdup. Of course, the lack of death on her part wasn’t a complaint, and whatever was preventing a severe mauling falling upon her soft, squidgy body, she was thankful for it.

She spotted the figure at the same time she heard the quiet mumbling. It stood atop the fallen log, towering above the carnivores below it, and had all the presence of a king, tall and proud and not at all afraid. The pony, for that is what it looked like, wore a long, tattered brown cloak which was draped along his shoulders, and the hood obscured any features of his face, leaving only a shadowy black void from which glowed two luminous yellow ovals, as threatening and full of authority as those belonging to the Timberwolves themselves.

The mumbling was very low and quiet indeed, barely above a whisper, and Cananor struggled to make out any of the words. What little she could pick up was practically undecipherable, as it was spoken in a tongue foreign to her, that is, if it were part of any common language at all. The whispering belonged to the newcomer but was slightly detached, as though it came not only from the pony’s mouth, but from all around him, as though the very air itself spread his message for him.

Whatever strange incantations came from under that hood were having an even stranger effect on the wolves of timber. As though spellbound by black magic, they froze like statues, all eyes locked on the mysterious stranger, hanging on his every word. Cananor wasn’t sure whether the foreign look in their inanimate eyes was fascination, admiration, respect or fear. Perhaps it was a mix of them all. Slowly, murderous gazes turned to the ground, and stayed there, their heads bowed like those of a disobedient dog after a good telling off from its master. Cananor herself was rather fascinated by the hooded figure. He had such an aura of hugeness, and the way he commanded the attention of the wild animals was extraordinary. Never before had she seen another pony stare down a pack of Timberwolves so fearlessly, calm and controlled and cool as a cucumber.

Louder and louder the chanting became, the wolves that squandered below the figure’s godly domain swaying to and fro like beings entranced, until the stranger threw down a bracelet-adorned foreleg heavily upon the wooden log that he stood valiantly on like a heavenly pedestal. His bangles jangled as the hard hoof connected with a resounding thump, carried by the vast hollow emptiness of the dead tree. As he did so, he bellowed, “BEGONE, BEASTS!”

The Timberwolves obliged, not that Cananor bore witness to their exit. The pony on the log reached into the limitless confines of his identity concealing cloak and, as quick as a flash of lightning, threw what must have been a smoke capsule of sorts onto the grass below. It went off in an instant with a muffled pop, and out seeped a magical greenish mist from the expired cartridge. Cananor hacked out a cough and found herself blind amid the soupy gas.

When the mist cleared, dissipating away in all directions, the lawyer found the clearing devoid of any Timberwolves. They left no sign of their existence, pawmarks vanishing without a trace, as though the soil re-knit itself in the brief period of confusion. Her saviour, the cloaked figure, was no longer atop his log when her vision came back to her. He was steadily approaching the softly groaning body of Starfire, who to Cananor’s instant relief was still clutching to life rather admirably.

This relief was quickly replaced by unease when the figure stopped and turned to face her. Yellow orbs burned through the darkened hood, and Cananor felt a shiver run down her spine as their gazes met. How could he be sure that this newcomer was friend or foe? Yes, it was true that the stranger had just rather bravely saved them from a horrible demise, but she had no way of knowing whether the cloaked stallion did so to harm them all the more himself. There must have been a reason that the Timberwolves had reacted to him so. Could this be a classic case of, ‘Out of the frying pan and into the fire?’

The mare plucked up enough false courage to talk. “Who are you?” She gulped down her sheer terror as she stood as tall and defiant as the figure facing her. “Reveal yourself!”

‘Perhaps that sounded a tad ungrateful,’ Thought Cananor as those peculiar, disembodied eyes narrowed tightly, and caused her to shudder uncontrollably as they sized her up.

But the figure, after quite a few seconds of taking in her full furred form from head to hoof, did as Cananor requested. Slowly, the jewellery-covered leg lifted and began to cautiously and deliberately pull back at the hood. The shawl fell back and light smothered the stranger’s face, and Cananor’s eyes widened in surprise at who lay beyond the cloak.

For one, it was not a HE but a HER, nor was it even a pony. A strong, well toned zebra mare stood before the unicorn, white moonlight bouncing from her stack of golden neck rings. Heavy ornamental earrings, brazen and well worn, hung from her twitching ears. The shawl fell from her shoulders and crumpled to the grass below, and exposed her fur to the duo, her skin tattooed with the most marvellously hypnotic black stripes which cut through her grey-white coat, and complimented the intricate swirled design of her tribal stylised cutie mark. The zebra’s mane was cut into an untidy Mohawk, the hair shaved cleanly from either side of her scalp, alternating in segments from white to black and vice versa, much like her fur. It protruded like a tower over her sapphire blue ornate eyes, hard but with a hint of kindness, and deep and mysterious. Her lips parted, and she spoke.

“Is this some trick?

Have I gone blind?

Alas, not so!

More pony kind!”

Her voice was thickly accented with a dialect foreign to Equestria, but was dark and magical and dripping with wonder. The lawyer could tell straight away that she had travelled for many miles from a distant land, a different land, a dangerous land. She had done things and seen things that Cananor could not even begin to imagine, inconceivable things, witnessed brilliant and terrible things alike in her past and maybe, just maybe, in the future as well.

Her strange speech stunned Cananor for several moments. She’d never seen a zebra before in her life, since she rarely strayed outside of her homely, boring, predictable small town, but in the larger cities like Manehatton, Fillydelphia and Canterlot, the populace was much more culturally and racially diverse than mere ponies, and zebras were likely not all that uncommon.

Starfire the city slicker confirmed Cananor's suspicions. Unfazed by the unusual sight of the striped horse, he sat upright, winced, and spluttered, “Thanks,” something Cananor had clean forgotten to do. “We’d be goners if you hadn’t come along.”

The zebra turned to the struggling stallion.

“I came with haste,”

She replied with a warm smile.

“When your screams led me to this place.

I do not need your thanks or praise,

But we must leave this field where the cattle of death graze.”

That was certainly a funny way to say, ‘We should probably not stay in the hunting grounds of a pack of vicious Timberwolves,’ but Cananor decided to say nothing on the matter. She didn’t want to upset her newest saviour on a matter as trivial as her flowery language, least of all should she leave them and the Timberwolves return to finish the job.

“I’m up for that idea.” She instead spoke.

Starfire, as grateful as he was, was still clouded with doubt. Suspicion was evident in his calm and soothing tone. “I’m grateful for your help. But what are you doing out here?”

She smiled a tight lipped smile, and chuckled; a deep, throaty laugh.

“I could ask you that as well.

Tell me, can you stand?”

She leaned over the immobile pony and offered him her hoof. He hesitated for a brief moment but came to his senses and grasped it firmly. Powerful muscles rippled in her forelegs as she yanked him upright to his feet, and the stallion swallowed a swear as pain exploded through his gut. The zebra sensed his discomfort.

“It seems you hurt yourself as you fell,

From what I understand.”

Starfire nodded meekly and nearly toppled to one side. His stomach felt as though it were engulfed with a hellish flame, from where the Timberwolf’s scratchy claws had caught him and dug deep into his soft underbelly. His coat was tattered and ragged, and bore clawmarks like coats of arms. Clearly, the quick skirmish had left him battered and bruised, and fatigued him greatly.

The zebra continued. “I’m proficient in herbs and can heal you fine,

Come with me quick, we can’t waste time.”

And yet the duo made no attempt to move with her. She sighed. Ponies could be so suspicious sometimes.

“I can help you both, and make you well.”

The two ponies exchanged uneasy glances.

“Do the names Weatherstorm and Derkington ring a bell?”

This most certainly caught their attention.

“What?” They cried in union, hobbling over to her as fast as their broken bodies would allow. “You know where they are?”

The zebra snatched her shawl up from the tramped grass, and threw the brown sack back over her perplexing form, her beautifully stitched designer dress of a fur coat disappearing under the rugged patchwork of the rag.

“Follow me and I’ll lead you there,

I’ll explain along the way.

We don’t have too much time to spare,

So stick close, and do not go astray.”

She waited no further for any responses. With supreme skill and flexibility, she daftly wheeled herself around and catapulted over the idle log, and into the bushes beyond, from whence she must have came. The shrubbery shivered as she entered them, and her tail vanished therein.

Cananor and Starfire said nothing, but they could tell that they were on the same wavelength. Was this mystifying lady to be trusted? How did she know of their missing friends? Should they actually follow her?

They knew they had little choice either way. In bad shape, lost, hungry and defenceless, this zebra was their best chance of survival. Whether she would ultimately turn out to be a friend or foe remained to be seen, but for now, they would abide by her side. If she wanted them to follow her then by Celestia, follow her they would. They were far too hungry and tired and sore and miserable to think of the possibility of traps.

Starfire squeezed through the bushes after her, and the shrubbery barely reacted, for he had not the atmosphere and magnificence of the mare. Cananor paused before she too waltzed through; she was suddenly overcome with a feeling of Déjà-Vu. Craning her slender head backwards, she saw, to utter dismay, hundreds upon hundreds of luminous yellow eyes.

They began to exhume flumes of wispy golden smoke, wafting out from the bushes and trees and wherever else they dwelled, accompanied by several low, droning growls. A fierce wind blew through the encampment at that very moment, and the extinguished campfire scattered as though to emphasise the situation.

Cananor didn’t think twice before diving headfirst into the deepest plane of the unknown world after that.

As it turns out, the zebra, for some reason or another, explained little as they paved their way through the wilderness, the exotic one taking her place at the front of the party and peeling back the darkness of their path, but still managed to keep them in the dark as to who she really was, and how she knew their friends.

She allowed them a name, however. Zecora, she introduced herself as. No second name was given, nor was it really necessary, that is, if she held one at all. Apparently, she had recently moved to Equestria from her homeland. Why she made this obscure decision to move to the middle of a barren, hostile forest would remain a mystery, for when Cananor asked her of it, the zebra’s lips pressed shut tightly and her face shifted to what was either anger of sorrow, and so she decided not to press the matter further. Whatever the case was, it was nether her, nor Starfire’s, business, and Cananor should respect her privacy. And so, the rest of the journey was made in relate silence, Zecora only communicating with her followers to warn them of the occasional pitfall, or predator lurking in the shadowy undergrowth.

Luckily, any possible confrontations were avoided, and Cananor felt relieved that she had the zebra as a guide. She may have only recently taken up residence in the forest, but Zecora was certainly an observant sort, and any danger was quickly snuffed out by her seemingly vast knowledge of the local area. She was a real life Daring Do, of sorts. Sure, she may not have looked like an adventurer, but she had an explorer’s heart and soul; boldly treading where no pony had tread before. Had it not been for her, Cananor was sure that they would have perished countless times by now.

In a way, Starfire was glad of the prolonged silence. It allowed him to soak in the forest in its entirety. Too many times on his adventure, he’d been so caught up on other matters and found himself ignoring the world around him He vowed to rectify that. The range of animal life was stunning, and beautiful in its own, deadly way, as was the flora. Vibrant neon blues and greens and purples attacked his senses, and he smelled in the distance the fragrance of sweet honey and pungent roses, and for the first time since his meditation session, he felt at ease. As a biologist, it interested him greatly. The call of some unknown bird gently fluttered down from the fern green ceiling, and wild grey back squirrels hugged the trees which stood tall and easy and swept him forward with their gentle wooden smiles. Starfire returned the smile. The forest sure had its moments of being deceptively serene.

“Look alive

We have arrived.”

Arrived, they had. The thin, veiled woodland path reached its end, and successfully ferried its occupants to their destination. The trees merged together and bunched tightly alongside the next, like brethren, their long and twisting roots sealing off the swampy marshlands which had slowly been consuming the forest, one patch of grass at a time. The bubble and pop of the invading territories could be heard amongst the perpetual chirping of the wildlife, and the swish of the low growing forest ferns, which sprung from between the gaps in the mounds of boulders, nestled to the side of the ramshackle homestead.

Starfire hadn’t been expecting a mansion, but he was certainly surprised when he saw the ‘hut,’ that is, if it could be labelled so. Zecora lived not in a hut or a house or even a shed, but something far more simplistic yet so much more complex. She had rather skilfully utilised one of the many recourses at her disposal, in this case the over abundance of trees, to not build a house but transform into a residence. The city slicker could see a pattern emerging here; ponies out in the countryside seemed to have a fascinating fixation with living inside of trees.

Starfire made a quick mental note of the home’s features. Of course, he took a scientific perspective. A doorway had been cut through the trunk, and a grainy wooden door filled the gap. ‘Good,’ thought the student, ‘For opening and for closing, and for passing through to enter the house.’ Two oval holes, both varying in size, acted as windows, and a warming yellow light spilled out from within. ‘Windows. Very useful to see out of.’ His studious eyes were drawn, as though by voodoo magic, to the empty bottles and elixairs that hung around the thick branches of the tree-house, making the most delicate little melody as they blew like windchimes in the breeze, playing out their ballad of butterflies. ‘Decorations,’ Starfire nodded. ‘Good for... looking pretty.’

“Please, my friends,

Please do come inside,”

Zecora offered warmly, nudging open the door and standing aside.

“I haven’t much as of yet,

But you are welcome in this abode of mine.”

Cananor whispered a word of thanks, her voice dropping to below the squeak of a terrified field mouse, almost expecting the hideous four headed hydra to come crashing from the surrounding swampy pools which made up Zecora’s back garden. Hurriedly, he zipped inside.

Starfire, being the gentlecolt he was, stepped back and allowed the owner of the house to pass through before him. Ladies first, his mother and father had taught him. He gave one cautionary glace over to the homeowner’s acquired taste in garden furniture, and then pulled his hooves, heavy as lead, through the doorway, and swung the equally heavy wooden door shut.

Both visitors were taken aback by the grandeur, scale and utter bizarreness of the zebra’s residence. It was, in truth, much smaller on the inside than the outside, but Starfire would dare not call it small. ‘Homely’, he would dub the building, were it not for the overall emptiness of the single room. When Zecora had stated that she had recently moved from her homeland to the Everfree Forest, she certainly wasn't lying. Cardboard boxes sat in tidy bundles against the caveish walls, marked with mystery, for whilst they had what appeared to be letters scrawled upon them, they formed no words that neither Cananor nor Starfire himself spoke, a language foreign to them both. There was one box engraved with a word that he could hazard a guess to the translation of, however; it must have read, ‘This way up’ or something to that effect, for it was accompanied by a bold, black arrow. Naturally, this made it fairly easy for the stallion to notice that the box was upside down. And, of course, there was a certain brown coated, ginger maned stallion perched atop the box. His head swivelled around like that of an owl’s when he heard the door click.

What came next was a confusing blur of brown and orange and unnatural movement, and then the Pegasus was up from his makeshift stool and his forelegs were wrapped lovingly around the two guests. They were blushing from either the awkwardness of the reunion or from their constricted breathing due to the stallion’s tight squeeze, drawing them into his torso with little effort and holding them hostage in his prison of kindness.

“Starfire, Cananor, my friends!” Beamed a rather elated Derkington Robert-Alexander Bellray, tightening the muscles in his forelegs and further squeezing his friends until the pips seemed fit to squeak. Starfire tried to gasp out a response, but Cananor beat him to it.

“It’s good...” She grunted, writhing free of those deceptively capable hooves, “To see you as well, Derky.” The mare gave a slight stumble backwards upon escaping the friendliest grip of death known to ponykind, and she saw what Derky had been leaning over, tending to so intently.

The reclined figure of Weatherstorm stared back at her, wearing a half smile. His mane was matted, likely with sweat, and his fringe hung low over his eyes. It was a rather queer thought, but Cananor realised that for as long as she’d known him, she’d never seen the journalist without a gel product keeping his hair afloat. Maybe he was finally letting his hair down, as it were.

It took groggy eyes a good few seconds to find the newcomers, heavy eyelids concealing the most of the bloodshot blue marbles. Starfire, sweat trickling down his crimson cheeks, offered Derky a warm, if rushed, greeting and tore politely away from his hug. He too stopped dead when he spied Weatherstorm, lying rather comfortably atop a dark couch, crafted from mysterious and foreign plant life, the likes of which the student had not seen. When his rolling eyes rolled over the two silent ponies, standing like statues in the doorway, they widened, but his half smile did not fade, nor did it grow into anything more fantastic.

There was a brief period of uncomfortable silence. Weatherstorm had wronged Starfire. Derky had wronged Starfire. Starfire had wronged Cananor. Cananor had wronged Starfire. They’d all acted a little out of sorts, and the whole sordid incident was little more than one big confused mess. After minutes of uncomfortable shuffling, Weatherstorm began to sit up, winced inaudibly and wrinkled his muzzle, before lying back down again.

“Well, it’s certainly nice to see you chaps too.” He finally broke the ice in the only way he knew how; polite sarcasm. “Starfire,” He gave a slight nod at the stallion.

“Weatherstorm.” Starfire returned the gesture, still feeling a little conscious and troubled over the events of their last encounter, and hoped that time had healed the wounds they had all helped to create.

“Canan...” He stopped, and his smile instantly grew larger until it consumed his features. “Forgive me, for as you know, my eyesight is nothing short of abysmal without my spectacles, but did you do something with your hair?”

“What now?” Cananor’s hoof instinctively shot through her hair. Her face fell at once. And to think she’d almost forgotten. She remained quiet for a short time, struggling to find the right words, least she be mocked and laughed at, or called crazy or unnatural of freakish. At last, she just said it as it was. “Oh, yeah, I’m a mare, would you believe it.”

“And a very pretty one at that. Alas, I believed that to be of common knowledge.” He smirked, and rubbed at the pristine white bandage that covered the most of his abdomen, and obscured his right wing, with an equally bandage adorned hoof. Clearly, he’d gotten himself into a bit of a scrap, and he’d lost.

“No, really.” Cananor’s features hardened and she clenched her teeth. “This isn’t a joke.”

“It certainly isn’t. Your father doesn’t find it the least bit funny. I tease, naturally. All in good fun.” He reached his other hoof out and groped blindly along the top of a nearby box. His hoof brushed past an ornate mug filled to the brim with a frothing liquid, which would have toppled and smashed upon the hard wooden floor had it not been for Derky, who swooped past and caught the thing mere seconds before Zecora was down one glass. Derky breathed a sigh of relief and gently passed the immobile Pegasus the cup. “Many thanks,” the journalist acknowledged his companion’s efforts and downed the contents in a single chug. When he pulled the glass away from his mouth, foam clung to his muzzle like a beard.

“I’m not kidding,” Cananor repeated. “I don’t know how, or why, but I’m a mare.” The anger in her voice rose, and the sound of her teeth grinding was there for all ears to behold with splendour.

“Oh, come now.” Weatherstorm snapped his hoof, and Derky immediately brought him a handkerchief, embroidered with the letter, ‘Z’. Starfire didn’t need to put two and two together to realise that the handkerchief did not belong to him. Weatherstorm wiped the excess froth from his mouth, and the striking resemblance between he and a rabid animal faded altogether. “What nonsense this is. Mare, indeed.”

“He,” Starfire quickly corrected himself. “SHE isn’t joking around, Weatherstorm.”

Weatherstorm had to stop himself passing remark of, ‘And why should I believe anything you say?’ at the last possible moment before it came blurting from his mouth like a spew of ill-advised, cutting, old-wound-opening vomit. He disguised his efforts with a hacking cough, then settled down, and stretched his mummified limbs out behind him. Derky scurried over like a little maid or a nurse, and made sure he was lying comfortably, dampening a white cloth and laying it upon his glistening forehead. The journalist cleared his throat, and continued. “Well then, that certainly is odd. Mind filling me in on what happened?”

“We fell off a cliff and when I woke up it was gone.” Called Cananor begrudgingly. It was obviously a sore topic of conversation, and his pride hurt as much as his aching body.

Raising an eyebrow, Weatherstorm queried, “What was gone, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“MY BEAUTIFUL MANE!” The mare yelped back, water forming at the sides of her moist eyes. She adjusted the pitch of her voice with a slow exhale. “My dignity, my father’s respect, my self confidence... what didn’t I lose?”

“And my horn, too,” Chipped in Starfire. He adjusted his scraggly mane, wafting away his long fringe with a steady hoof. Alas, the unicorn was no unicorn, and the forehead was barren of any horn. Weatherstorm needed no glasses to spot as such.

“Oh, my,” He gasped, suddenly turning rather pale. Derky dropped the thermometer he had been hovering over Weatherstorm’s now fully agape mouth in shock. It clattered to the floor, and a puddle of greyish mercury expanded at the bottom of the sofa, and lapped noisily at the supporting legs. “That was quite the shock. It may take me quite a while to recover from such a ghastly sight. Derky, bring me another cider, will you, so I may forget that gristly image?”

Derky obliged, and carefully fed the injured stallion his beverage like a mother feeding a foal its bottle. The removal worker’s eyes couldn’t help but wander back to his friends; Cananor with her soft, willowing mane and curved, sleek form, and Starfire with his rounded forehead, as smooth as a young colt’s bottom. They were the same ponies that he had remembered, just tweaked a little. Against his better judgement, he smiled. “It’s freaky, but it’s pretty cool.”

Nopony was prepared for ‘Stormy’s reaction. At first, he seemed to choke on the frothing liquid that Derky was gently feeding pouring down his throat, and with a horrified expression, Derky removed the mug from the gasping stallion’s mouth, which was a bad idea. The very moment the rim of the glass was removed from quivering blue lips, a steady stream of foamy white, semi-brown, gingery spittle gushed forth like a waterfall, narrowly missing the onlookers by millimetres.

“Derky!” He croaked, cider dribbling down his chin. “It isn’t ‘cool.’ How rude.” He glanced down at the liquid slowly plopping off the couch and onto the floor, where it blended and mingled with the mercury into one unsightly mess. “As am I, it seems. My, my, here not only a day and already I’ve made a complete mess of our host’s house. I do apologise, Miss Zecora!” He called into the back room, where the zebra hoisted herself up from rummaging deep within a mountain of boxes and, spotting the aforementioned mess, sighed. Derky, with nary a complaint, scrunched up a roll of absorbent kitchen roll and began to scrub furiously at the wet patches, making sure to avoid any contact with the mercury, but draped another piece atop the liquid metal and hope that it absorb.

“As I was saying,” Weatherstorm continued, a little embarrassed of his extravagantly over the top reaction, “It’s not ‘cool’ and, in the words of Starfire, certainly no joke.”

“Ah, but it is, oh pony folk.”

All heads turned to the zebra. She still busied herself with her unpacking, but when she felt the eyes trained in her direction, she stopped, swivelled and leaned confidently against the cardboard stack, mouth twisted into a scented smile. She looked confident, knowing, superior.

“The mare and earth pony reek of poison joke.”

Starfire’s eyes widened, and despite his exhaustion and general weariness, he snapped to attention at the mention of this ‘poison joke.’ “Did you just say poison?” He gulped, turning a lot paler than he already was.

“And how dare you say I reek,” chirped in a pouting Cananor. “It’s just my natural musk. Also, we’ve been in the forest for at least four days by now.”

“Nights.”

“That wasn’t funny then, and it isn’t now.”

“Sorry.”

“What, pray tell, do I reek of?”

“Sweat and cider.”

“Do you think, perchance, that Miss Rarity likes the smell of sweat and cider?”

“...No.”

“Please, PLEASE!” Zecora rose her voice significantly to be heard above the ruckus, and the room settled in a heartbeat. She waited until all attention was focused on her.

“Poison Joke is but a plant

Its name, I thought you knew.

But tell me, strangers, as of late

Have you contacted a flower of blue?”

Cananor scrunched her nose. “We’ve been in contact with many blue flowers. 24/7 blue plants on up in here.”

The zebra nodded mater-of-factly, sauntered from the small room-cupboard, swaying her hypnotically pattered hips as she did so, and placed a hoof on the mare’s shoulder. She jumped, just a little, upon contact, as a rush of electric tingled along the back of her neck, and nearly made her mane stand on end. Zecora was certainly different, all right.

“The plant in question is unique, you see.

Widely regarded for its magical energies.”

And then the memories came flooding back to Starfire. The clearing, the serenity, the birds and the bees and the humming. Blue flowers. So powerful, intense. Blue flowers. Meditation. Poison?

“Oh, those blue flowers.” Cananor recollected, pulling the memory through the groggy mists of time. “I pressed quite a number of them with my behind.”

Sweat dribbled down the student’s teacher's forehead uncontrollably. His long, golden locks sucked up the moisture in a fashion akin to a sponge, or a mop, to better suit the context. He stumbled over his lolling tongue. “P-poison? So we’re sick? Is there a cure?”

Starfire wasn’t a prideful pony, at least, not since he was a foal. He could take a joke at his expense, or at least that’s what he believed, but their current situation was not at all humorous, not at all. So when the tattooed equine threw back her head and laughed, a deep, booming witch’s cackle, it took everything in the former unicorn’s power to stop him cantering over, there and then, and wiping that smile off her face.

“No, you misunderstand. A simple mistake.

You’ve no need to worry, I hope.

It’s nothing but a harmless jape,

As the name suggests, a joke.”

Again, she was met with three very blank stares.

Derky felt a twinge of embarrassment, and sighed heavily, allowing his shoulders to visibly droop. His friends could be so dim sometimes. He arose from his busy task, climbing to his hocks like an anointed knight... ‘Arise, Sir Derkington of Bellray...’

“Zecora knows all about plants and things. She says it’s the plant’s defense mechanism.” He started, without looking up. “I remember hearing about them once: coming into contact with the flowers results in some pretty funky side effects, kinda like a practical joke on the victim. Each joke is suited to the pony it effects, and I don't think any two ponies have had the same symptoms, but then again, due to like, how rare they are and stuff, there’s basically no records of poison joke sickness anyway... or whatever. With Cananor and Starfire, the flower has made the jokes special, just for you, ya'know? Like, Starfire, you're really proud of your magic, and as such, it makes your horn go bye-bye. In Cananor’s case...”

The mare loudly cleared her throat. It was obvious she wanted the conversation to go no further. “Thank you, Derky. That’s enough.” Cue crimson cheeks and bashful, avoiding eyes.

The Pegasus went back to mopping up the spillage. “It’s really just a funky practical joke.”

Starfire’s mouth hung open like a stable door, unaware of the silvery saliva trail which dangled from his lower lip. He was gobsmacked and bamboozled and confudled and flabbergasted and every manner of other funny sounding words, all amounting to his surprise and bewilderment. Not only was that the longest he had heard the Pegasus talk to date, but how did this stallion, this blue-collared simpleton, become so educated on the subject? How did he know things that Starfire, a biologist, a university educated scholar, did not? He wanted answers, but Weatherstorm beat him to it.

“Hold your horses, old sport” chimed Weatherstorm, taking another steady gulp from his mug. His face turned sour, and he blinked away the dizziness with a twitch. “I thought you, and I quote your very own words, ‘didn’t get flowers.’”

“I took a night class once,” was the only reply. “I was bored. Would you like another drink?”

“That would be lovely, thank you. The pain hasn’t quite faded yet.”

“Derkington is right, o Starfire,” Said Zecora to the aforementioned stallion.

“‘Tis a harmless joke, no need to worry.

Of course, a cure to combat the effects does exist,

But I have not the ingredients; to find them, we must hurry.”

Cananor leaned sceptically against the nearest wall, crossing her hooves. She anticipated what she knew was to come next. “What do you mean?”

The zebra nodded to Derky and he nodded back in the like, as though communicating through some secret code. The bookshelf that hung above the black Weatherstorm-adorned sofa-bed was one of the few pieces of furniture that had been unpacked, and atop it sat a row of musty tomes, a stark contrast to the relative newness of the place. The caramel Pegasus fluttered gently as a breeze to the shelf and, without thinking, slid the third book across out from its new home; a blur of green as it gruffly passed hooves from Derky to Zecora. The mare caught it daftly in midair, and with nary a second motion, the book was open. A flume of dust erupted from the book like a forbidding spirit, and wisped away through the open window as the covers peeled apart.

‘Supernaturals.’ Starfire noted the title of the book. It wasn’t a tome he had read, nor one he was likely to have an interest in. He had a scientific mind, did Starfire: he read of realities and probabilities and hard, cold, calculated facts and equations. Such a book would likely focus on ghosts and goblins and zombies, and he was far too adult to believe such nonsense. However, it beggared the question: Zecora did not seem the sort to keep such a book for a spot of light reading, so why was she in possession of a copy? And of what relevance was it now?

She didn’t even have to flick through the hardback to find the page she desired; it had opened obediently and effortlessly to the correct topic, as though black magic was at play. The page was then shoved into Cananor’s unsuspecting face.

“These ingredients must be sourced,

Before a potion can be brewed.”

Cananor took a list of ingredients that made up this ‘Poison Joke cure,’ accompanied by a slew of illustrations that covered the dog-eared pages. “Let’s see...” She skimmed down the list, mumbling aloud every ingredient. “Most of these aren’t really that hard to find. The shops in Ponyville sell all kinds of herbs and spices.”

“Whilst I have only just arrived,

I know that to be true.

However, I have yet to visit your peaceful town,

I have so much unpacking to do.”

Starfire knew that, when she did get the time to visit the quaint little hamlet off in the distance yonder, the residents of Ponyville would make her feel right at home. They were so hospitable and friendly, Ponyville folk. Celestia knows they’d made an effort to make him feel comfortable.

Derky chimed in again. “Zecora, we could go into town and collect the items you need, if you want.”

Weatherstorm was quick to correct the Pegasus. “Derky, do you happen to have the time?” He queried.

“Nope!” He smiled. “But it’s dark outside, so I’m guessing it’s late at night.”

“Indeed.” Replied Weatherstorm. “It has been for quite some time, hasn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“And do you know when the shops close, Derky?”

Derky, again, was quick to reply. “Why, they close at n...” Realisation dawned. “They close at night.”

“Now, couple that with the fact that most of the town thinks that this is the end of Equestria, and are probably huddled in their homes with their families. What is the likelihood of any shops being open for business?”

Derky thought for a moment. “Seven?” Asked he, cautiously.

“No, but you’re close.” Cooed the journalist. “Unless we’re willing to not only break and enter somepony else’s property, but steal their merchandise as well, in the dead of night no less...”

“That is not an option, I see,

Which brings me to plan B,”

Agreed the zebra, closing the book with an echoing thud.

“These forests can provide what we require,

From the Sloberry seed to bottled dragon fire.”

Cananor groaned and slunk further into her slouched position. “Dragon fire? Really? We all know how stubborn and reckless dragons can be. They’ll put up quite a fight.”

Zecora ignored her gripe and scooped a thin, glass vial from one of her seemingly bottomless boxes. A cork was jammed tightly into the rim. She followed suit with a small coinpurse, stitched from some patchwork cloth, and bound by a pull-cord.

“These will keep our desirables secure,

Our dragon fire fresh,

And our Sloberry pure.”

“I mean,” the attorney continued, “I don’t even know where we’ll find a dragon in these woods. This ain't the big city. You don't just come across dragons strolling the sidewalk in Ponyville.”

Starfire placed a guiding hoof on Cananor’s sleek shoulder. He ushered her to the window, and they both peered out into the night. “See that big range of mountains in the distance?” He asked.

“I’d be blind to not see them.”

“Well then, there be dragons. It’s called ‘Dragon’s keep’ for a reason.”

Sure enough, if she looked hard enough, the mare could spot the beasts, far off into the distance but recognisable, circling the tip and soaring through the clouds like, deadly, fire-breathing birds, with sharp teeth and spiked tails.

“I’m not going up there.” Cananor huffed and threw her forelegs across her chest in defiance. "Never met a dragon and don't plan on it, neither."

“If you wish to return to your usual self,

It is YOUR assistance I seek.

This task does require unicorn magic.

I trust you do not feel too weak?”

“Listen stripes,” Cananor pouted, wiggling a hoof in her face, obviously forgetting her place. “I appreciate you letting us into your home and all, and saving our flanks from those Timberwolves, and... ahem, point is,” abridged the mare, “You can’t expect us to just go out there again, tired and hungry, and go up against dragons. It's not even a joke. It’s just insanity.”

“Hear, hear,” agreed Weatherstorm as he spilled his mug of golden cider across his lap. Making a face, he stifled a swear.

Insanity was Zecora’s middle name, or it may as well have been, for the zebra was defiant in her decision.

“Starfire will be able to help you,” Cananor replied when Zecora insisted, a little ungratefully. “He’s far better at magic than I’ll ever be.”

“I realise...”

“Nah.” Cananor cut off the mysterious mare. She knew she was acting like a mule, but darnit, she was past caring. She was tired and sore and hadn’t eaten in days, and in no mood to get burnt alive by dragonfire.

Her eyes were suddenly transfixed to the floor when she saw Zecora’s face turn dark, and at that moment, she felt as though she would be transformed into some vile and repulsive creature, like a worm or a newt. Instead, Zecora went easy on her bashful soul, lending her ears but a stern warning.

“I would ask that you weren’t so curt

I ask this job of you as you are not hurt.”

That much was true. Whilst Cananor was fatigued, she bore no damage, but Starfire was in a bad way, and was evident to all. The wounds left by the Timberwolf skirmish had cut deep, and the stallion even found breathing a laboured effort, never mind fighting off a squadron of fire breathing, gold hoarding psychopaths with wings. He was hungrily gulping down air like each inhale was to be his last and, even if he tried his best to disguise it, he was in rather intense pain; the witch-doctor could read his face like an open book. Four unsteady legs wobbled and only the pain in the pit of his stomach could keep him from falling to slumber there and then, his exhaustion winning this ongoing battle of endurance.

When he felt all eyes upon him, his flitted back open. “Huh!” Coughed the teacher, snapping away the drowsiness that held him so comfortably. “Power nap. Just a power nap.” He tried his best to hold back the inevitable yawn but it slipped out, and the pain in his gut only intensified.

He dearly wanted to go. He did. WILD Dragons were one of many creatures that he would sorely like to see. Living in Fillydelphia for much of his life, he was no stranger to the winged reptilians, having passed by the Dragon Town district every day as a shortcut to his old school. Half the customers in his father's cafe, as renowned as it was, were dragonkind. They were a friendly sort, full of stories and songs and energy, but they were too... NORMAL. Now, not even the city dragons knew much of the wild migrating dragons when he pressed them, never choosing to dwell on the subject for long, as though there was a flicker of embarrassment towards their uncivilized brethren.

For too long he’d read precious little about them in books, and stared intently at the pictures, and listen to the ballads, the myths, the legends, and the cold, hard (or rather, flaming hot) truths. But Starfire liked, if nothing else, a little fieldwork. So far in this ‘expedition’, though he had nearly wiped-out in several messy instances, he could not help but treat the outing like one big research study. He’d learnt so much about new life, strange plants, other cultures. He’d made friends, lost friends, and found a morsel out about what was possibly, to him, the most complex being of all: himself. He couldn’t allow himself to miss this opportunity, nay, he WOULDN’T allow himself to miss this opportunity. With his familiarity of how half of their society lives, he could bring something new to the table, perhaps make successful contact with wild, migrating dragons at long last, a once in a lifetime chance to learn and grow and discover something worthwhile, to make a name for himself in the scholarly field. It was too valuable, too great. Sure, he ached like heck, his eyes refused to stay open for longer than a few seconds and he felt so weak that he couldn’t for the life of him have taken another step but gosh darn it, he was going with them. He’d drag himself if need be, because sometimes in life, you have to be just a tiny bit stubborn.

He opened his mouth to voice his strong opinion.

“No.” Zecora butt in coolly and quickly before a single syllable managed to manoeuvre its way out of his cake hole. He clamped his jaws shut tightly. She was a firm mistress, Zecora; he had no doubt in his mind that she was likely stronger than all four stallions in the room combined, and then some, and he certainly did not want to disobey her. He half sat, half collapsed onto the edge of the couch, and let out as much of a disappointed sigh as his broken body would allow.

Attention returned to Cananor. It looked like her fate was sealed. She was about to pick up her protest but stopped when she saw what appeared to be, for the briefest moment, the silhouette of a dark, shadowy figure, larger than life and suspiciously Griffon-shaped, flash by the back room. She also could have sworn that the figure, elusive as it was, drew up one of its limbs to its blackish blob of a face and curled it into what could only be a fist. The second shadowy tendril, likely the other arm, wrapped itself around said fist menacingly, and Cananor didn’t have to be a complete genius to deduce the message of the gesture. It was a little heart warming to see Phoenix was still keeping tabs on her. She still needed a little shove in the right direction. “Fine,” she grumbled reluctantly, sinking deeper into her cardboard sanctuary. “But if I get burned to a crisp out here, I’m gonna haunt you for the rest of your days and make your house stink of kindling. Good luck getting THAT smell out.”

Zecora was mature enough to ignore the childish threat.

“We may also need an eye in the sky,” Said she.

“For that, a stallion that can fly.”

Weatherstorm coughed up his cider once again. “Apologies.” Then he choked on his own manners. “As you can see,” he explained after his coughing fit died away, his voice suddenly horse and raspy, “I’m dreadfully ill, as you can tell.” His face then wore such an expression of pain that it put all those whom had ever suffered to shame. He groped meekly at his side and trailed his hoof along the fields of snowy white bandages that caressed his torso and wing. What a poor dear. How feeble and distraught he looked, and in no way did he appear well enough to move a muscle, nor collect Sloberries or chase down dragons for their breath. “I can’t move my wing, I’m afraid, so flying is out of the question. And I... I....” He stopped, his voice no longer audible, and perched his chapped lips just-so, that he bore more resemblance to one with trapped wind than somepony in dire need of medical attention. Derky, sympathetic as ever, fluttered over to where he lay and fluffed his pillow gently before slipping it back under his matted mane.

The zebra rolled her eyes and sighed.

“I’ll go,” Derkington announced, unsurprisingly. He sounded particularly thrilled by the prospect of meeting a real life dragon, face to face. “I’ve got wings, and such. Only... who’ll look after Weatherstorm when I’m gone?”

“I will,” replied Starfire. “But he can take care of himself, honestly.” There was a hint of malice there, directed at the blue coated stallion. He still wasn’t sure whether previous words had been forgiven or not.

“He’s right, Derky.” Whispered Weatherstorm with a delicate cough. “I... I can take care...” A laboured breath was held for several seconds, then released with a short convulsion of silent pain. “...Of myself.”

Derky screwed up his face and furrowed his brow. “Are you sure you’ll be okay while I’m gone?”

The Pegasus mouthed the word "yes" but no sound came from within. A blind, shaking hoof lifted with a mute grunt of effort and reached for the half-full mug that sat atop the nearby round table. This time the mug really did topple and smash, and Weatherstorm stiffened with a jolt, blushing alizarin red. “Go...” he whispered. “Zecora needs you... Equestria... needs... you... GUH!” He threw his head back down in a dramatic fashion that befit stage performance and his eyes snapped shut.

Zecora bundled her makeshift party to the door, one concerned of her own safety and the other concerned over the health of a perfectly capable Pegasus.

“Starfire, would you kindly mind Weatherstorm?

His wing is sprained, and it may be some time before he is airborne.”

The trainee gave the zebra his consent, but asked in a hushed whisper, as Weatherstorm took another fresh mug of frothing liquid to his mouth, “What’s with all the apple cider?”

“When he came to me, pale of colour and tattered of mane,

I could tell at once he was in some pain.

I’m afraid to say I had no anaesthetic,

So apple cider did the trick,” came her murmur of a reply.

Starfire saw the sense in that, but something else troubled him greatly, especially if he were to care for the fellow in their absence. “Don’t you think he’s drank more than enough by now?” He saw, in the corner of his peripheral vision, the stallion reach for yet another brimming mug, drawn from a seemingly endless supply. The last thing Starfire wanted to do was wipe up the vomit of a drunk.

Zecora couldn’t hold in her laughter.

“Worry not, for he won’t grow sick.

Between you and me, that cider is non-alcoholic.” She conveyed the message as quiet as a mouse.

Of course. The placebo effect.

Starfire gave the group a friendly wave of goodbye as they passed through the door, one by one, Zecora leading the way. “Good luck!” He called as her mysterious stripes merged back into the darkness of the outside world, the dark world.

Weatherstorm too saw them off with as much of a smile and a wave as he could manage in his current condition. “Farewell, Derky,” he announced, the triumph and vigour returning in his throaty voice as he saw them disappear into the night, “I wish you good fortune on your quest. Au revoir, mon ami! Au revoir!”

Derky was a hard character to read. His face usually bore no expression, nor emotion, nor any hint of how he felt deep down, but as he twisted his head around, standing half in, half out of the doorway, his mouth and brow were so oddly bent that he could be in nothing short of inner turmoil. He wanted to see dragons, but perhaps Weatherstorm’s health was more important? Weatherstorm gave him another wave, “Do come back in one piece, and uncooked!” and then Derky too faded to darkness and dissolved out of view.

Cananor was the last to leave, reluctant as she was. She envied Starfire . Starfire envied her. Weatherstorm envied nopony at that particular moment. The mare stopped and her blood turned cold when she heard,

“And auf wiedersehen to you too, Candy.”

The words of farewell were directed to herself, of that Cananor was sure. Who else could he possibly be talking to? Certainly not Starfire. She turned, slowly, to face the offender.

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Auf wiedersehen.’ It’s Germane for ‘good bye,’” Was Weatherstorm’s smarmy response.

“I know that. What did you call me?”

“Oh, that?” The Pegasus took a long, loud gulp from the mug, gripped tightly in his hoof. How better he seemed already... “I believe I called you ‘Candy.’ It just doesn’t seem appropriate to refer to you as Cananor in your... current state. A mare’s name is more fitting, for the time being, that is.”

“DON’T YOU EVEN THINK,” Cananor zipped over and tried to slap the glass from his mouth. “OF CALLING ME THAT!”

“My, my, how unladylike. Do mind your temper, Candy. I’m ill, and fragile; You might break me with your delicate touch.”

“Don’t call me Candy!” cried Candy in desperation. “It sounds horrible!”

“Candy, Candy, Candy. With an ‘i’ at the end.”

“Don’t you dare!” Warned Candi with an ‘i’ at the end.

“And an adorable little love heart to act as the tittle above the ‘i’. How cute.” Weatherstorm’s smile then was more evil and malicious than anything they had collectively seen in the forest thus far.

“You sicko.” Candi with a love heart above the ‘i’ retched. “Can you possibly belittle me further?”

“But of course!” The writer seemed to take great delight in the challenge. “There is so much I can work with...”

“Candi!” Cried the aside Derkington. His voice was garbled in the wind, but audibly tangible enough. “We’re going to miss the dragons!” A dark copper hoof shot, disembodied from the rest of the pony, through the open doorway and caught the protesting mare under the foreleg, then tugged harshly. She was swept off her hooves and stumbled out of the room, and the door swung shut of its own accord.

Weatherstorm released his pent up laughter. They say laughter is the best medicine, and maybe a good hearty laugh was what he needed. By the time he wiped the steamy tears from his cheeks, his face was peaky and full of colour. His chest hurt like eternal heck, but it was worth it.

“I fear I may have annoyed her somewhat.”

Starfire nodded. “I got the same impression.”

Weatherstorm sighed, contentedly and comfortably, and rolled placed his hooves on the flat of his stomach, smacking his lips all the while.

“Say, Starfire, old chum, pull up a chair and sit beside me, would you? I would rather like to pass the time by conversing with you, if you don’t mind.”

Starfire obliged in silence, and slid a rigid box filled with mystery and bound by a strip of clear tape over to the Pegasus. He dared not disturb the contents. The stallion mounted the box at once, wearily collapsing onto the makeshift stool.

“Oh, but before you do, be a dear and pass me another glass there, would you? Yes, right there... I would reach for it on my own you see, but I’ve already met my daily quota of obliterating our kind hostess’ finery, and I wish not to overwork and strain myself.”

Perhaps it was just the way that the Pegasus spoke that irked Starfire. Perhaps he was still sore about allowing the scientific opportunity he could have, nay, SHOULD HAVE embarked upon to pass him by, but more likely, he was just sore in general.

And he still hadn’t forgiven Weatherstorm for the way he had acted during their last encounter, not that the journalist had apologised quite yet, nor did he expect him to in the foreseeable future.

Whatever the case, he would have liked nothing more at that moment than to lift a glass mug and smash it over the top of his smug head.

He suppressed that urge successfully, but it required a lot more willpower than he actually possessed. Weatherstorm hungrily drank down the apple cider, allowed the glass to loll along the clean-swept floor beneath him, and politely asked for another. 'Then he would be willing to talk.'

Starfire could tell it was going to be a long night.