[Fillydelphia] A descent into Madness (closed. Pm for info)

[Blueblood]

Unfolding like a marionette, Psmith emerged from beneath the tea tray, dusting himself off with the care of a scrupulous valet.  "The agent is recommended to take all care in covert operations not to draw attention to oneself.  Thus, I had to ask myself, what would the hotel staff be more likely to notice, extra weight on a trolley, or a new face among the buscolts?  I deduce, from the smallness of the establishment, that the turnover of employees must be as rare as the customer ordering room service.  From there, the proper course of action is elementary to follow.  Social dynamics, comrade Storm, are always the key to life, unlocking the hidden doors of knowledge and pleasure!"

 

Whipping out his monocle, the unicorn studied with interest the indicated urn, clicking his tongue as he examined the faults in the pottery.  "They always say that one has plenty of time to sleep in the grave.  But do the restless dead find good dreams in their repose?  An interesting question; I must remember to file that away next time Princess Luna opens her mailbox."  After having inspected the mortal remains to his satisfaction, Psmith turned his gaze from the dead to the living.

 

"I believe the first step is to pay a little visit to the pub comrade Blueblood indicated.  The sharing of names is rarely a coincidence."

[BeGoneThots]

Storm slowly closed the book and nodded. "Let me catch a shower first. I dont exactly want to walk in there smellig like sea salt and sweat."

He wandered to the small bathroom and stepped in. With the door shut he showered. It didnt take him long. Once he came out his mane and tail were still damn, but had a more natural bounce and curl. he went to his saddle bags and retrieved a single gold tail ring. Using magic to slip it on.

If no pony knew better they may have thought him a mare with his figure and posture. "Shall we go?" He asked politely. The stallion seemed more at eade now. Tucking the urn and saddle bags under the bed. He levitated the room key and tucked it into his mane behind his ear.

[Blueblood]

Psmith gave Storm a sideways look as he requested a chance to shower.  "If I were you, comrade, I would refrain from over-zealous bathing.  Sweat and sea-salt are the very air of the docks, and at least one of us should blend in."  Being himself incurably dapper, the young noble felt himself exempt from suiting the action to the word.  In any case, proper verisimilitude would need a day or two at sea to properly set up, and that was more time than they were willing to spend on mere preparation.

 

The unicorn's disagreement with the nature of Storm's proceedings only increased once he saw the stallion emerge.  "I do hope, comrade, that you are prepared for the natural consequences of our actions."  Psmith, in any case, showed no inclination to in any way change his own appearance.  For all his talk of covert operations, they were essentially alien to his character.  He would stand out like a sore hoof rather than not be true to himself, which ironically assisted in his mixing with ease in varied companies.  In the words of a friend of his, "He's a nob, not a snob."

 

 

Said talent was about to receive its greatest test, however.  Having called a cab (putting the outrageous fee for a ride across town on the Prince's bill), the pair were soon deposited in front of The Shimmering Rock.  The pub sign, of course, was of a gem-studded boulder.  It had been recently repainted, by the looks of it, and the color scheme included copious amounts of glitter.  Both the lips and eyebrows of Psmith curled up at the sight.  "Ah, it seems we have found one of those unique little institutions that defy explanation.  Let us proceed into the unknown!"

 

There were enough windows to keep the interior feeling cozy rather than dim.  Or, at any rate, it would have been cozy had not the pair come in during off-peak hours.  It was just after lunch was over; the only customers lingering being old retired salts, spinning yarns over pints of porter under the indulgently exasperated eye of the proprietor.  As the bar owner was a mare, Psmith tipped his hat to her, requesting "A pint of your very best!  We have crossed the seas in search of the fabled elixir, and all the legends pointed to one establishment, and one only!  The Shimmering Rock is truly a jewel of its kind, and, if I may be so bold to say, a proper setting for another."

 

She answered his subsequent wink with a snort.  "Flatterer."  But there was a spark in her eye as she turned back to the taps.  "Mind if I ask who youse came lookin' here for?"  Her words came out rapidly in the style of the Manehattanite; the city accent had long since conquered the provincial dialect of the place.  "Sweet talkin' aside, dis ain't the sort of place a gent takes his dame out to, not even at 2 o clock on a Saturday."

[BeGoneThots]

Stormstride had remained silent for the most part. Sitting quietly snd just observing. Eyes roving slowly and taking in the area. Words eere for Psmith. Storm was here for evidence and information. The building was old. Old enough to possibly have existed before the warehouses.

"Im interested in local legends and history. My gentlecolt is accompanying me." The voice... was not like the original. In fact it was cultured and soft. Elegant even. Turning to face the barmaid storm smiled. "Im curious... what sirts of storied come locally?"

[Blueblood]

If Stormstride's sudden change in voice surprised Psmith, the young noble didn't show it.  Then again, it was a particular boast of his class and kind that they never betrayed any kind of surprise or emotional reaction whatsoever.  In what degree this was a true boast was debatable; many instances could be cited of a visibly distressed Duke.  But the unicorn was doing all the stereotypes of his class proud today; perhaps it was a part of his "covert operations practice."

 

In any case, the pub-keeper took it well, with barely a hint of of derision.  "Scholar, huh?  We had one of youse sort a few weeks back; was interested in seeing how much of the place was 'original'."  The contemptuous quotation marks clanged in the air like iron shackles.  This was not a pony with an outsize respect for the intelligentsia.  "Don't know what the big deal is.  This ain't the Gallopheim museum here; 's a pub, you're here to drink and jaw.  Not poke about to see what somepony did 200 years ago to keep the rain out."

 

She deposited Psmith's pint of beer in front of him, to which the unicorn responded with a grateful tip, which softened her face enough to loosen her lips.  "You want stories, talk to the old salts in the back."

[BeGoneThots]

Storm nodded and moved along. Coming to the group the pony smiled softly. "Gentlecolts... I was hoping one of you could help me with some questions. About the history of this place and a township known as Shimmer Rock."

For intents, this was an intellectual mare asking questions. But behind the facade was a seaoned scholar and guard, reading faces and body language. Suble shifts in posture could speak a multitude of words no pony couls give voice too. "I would be happy to buy a few drinks for the pony with the most information... especially about the Voyager II."

[Blueblood]

The first reaction visible on the faces of the old sea-faring ponies was... no reaction.  Long years of strenuous work under dangerous conditions made old sailors and old soldiers simple, firing subtleness out of their characters like dross from gold.  They clearly unsure of what to make of the intellectual "mare" and dapper gentlecolt.

 

"You with the papers...?"  One of them ventured, hesitantly.

 

"Naw, they don't ask for what happened long ago.  Less'n there's some kind of festival or anniversary of some dead pony."

 

"It is after the dead that we are enquiring."  Psmith interjected into the confusion, deftly as a knife inserted between the halves of an oyster.  "My companion here encountered the remains of an old ship, wrecked upon the bar, along with the remains of its captain, requiem non pacet, as it were."  The turn on the old Roaman phrase also seemed lost upon these uncomplicated souls.  "We wish to put his spirit at rest, comrades," The unicorn clarified, "And so we should like to locate his old homestead and lost love."

 

There was a general shifting as the old salts all looked at each other, then nodded.  It made sense to them; they would do the same for each other if they had to.  It was simply the right thing to do, and that was enough for them.  "All right then, missy and lad, we'll tell you what we can."

 

"Whish ain't mucsh."  One of the more toothless members interjected.  "But I can tell youshe what my grandpappy told me."  The old stallion wet his whistle before continuing.  "This tavern 'ere wash built just as the cobble roads came out from the city.  It shwallowed the town, Manehattan did.  Cannibal city, it is.  O' courshe, can't stand in the way of progressh, or good beer."  He raised his mug in a toast, to which Psmith responded in due solemnity.  "Shimmer Rock, you shay?  Think that'sh what it wash called.  Dunno how big it wash, but if it wash anywhere, it'sh here."  He took another swig, then shrugged.  "Can't tell you more than that.  Grandpappy's gone, and took the namesh of dead ships with 'im"

[BeGoneThots]

Storm levitated a chair over and sat silently. Listening intently and committing every word to memory. when the old salt had finished, Storm spoke softly, "Any old tales of a bride gone missing? Something from about 200 years ago."

 

'She' knew it was a long shot, but anything would be worth hearing. even old legends. As storm listened, she kept her legs closed and sat with posture, as a mare of decent upbringing would. She looked to and fro at the faces. looking over the wrinkles and old lines. Age was a story, and the face of the pony was the book. These old timers had long stories for certain. 

 

Though in the back of her head, Stormstride knew.... it would never be this easy. It would be days, if not weeks of searching to acquire the knowledge. And what's more is that even knowledge was worthless if the pieces were scattered. But any piece of information could make or break a case. Storm knew that very well. 

[Blueblood]

There flashed around the table a look, the look of non-intellectual ponies doing laborious amounts of mental math.  "Eh..."  The oldest among them was the quickest to answer.  "That would have been in the time of my grand-pappy'sh grand-pappy.  Don't know much about that time, misshy, but I could tell you a story or two 'bout shimilar thingsh in my time..."

 

From there, another round of stories began, all tales of lost love or broken hearts.  The years had drained the pain from the telling, leaving only the sweet sadness of savored melancholy.  It was a mark of Psmith's breeding and manners that the talkative pony did not interject with tales of his own.  But then again, tragedy was not in his wheelhouse.  As the round of stories came to it's conclusion, another round of drinks were started.  The unicorn took that as his cue.

"Many thanks for your time, gentlecolts.  Allow me to put your next round upon the House of Psmith.  In fact, let us make that two, so we may toast both days gone by, and to come."  This got a cheer from the table; commoners loved to see a noble being free with his money.  It didn't hurt that he drank the same beer as the rest of them, not insisting on some more "high-class" beverage.  Finishing out his pint, Psmith left the bits with the proprietress and strode out the door, with only a little wobbling.

"We are light-headed, comrade Storm; our liver has yet to finish its basic training.  A year in Prance, and another in Germaney, and the thing is done.  As it is, I can only dream of the day when I match my father, who takes his daily bottle like the aqua ordinaire."

[BeGoneThots]

Stormstride stood and smiled. Following Psmith outside the 'mare' stepped closer to support him. "Come on." Coming to the corner storm hailed a cab. It took a bit because of the lack of experience. The ride back she was quiet.

Thinking. One of those stories had struck a cord. A ghost on the bay. But only there one day a year. Storm filed that away, assuming it was another lost soul to save. As the cab arrived at the hotel, she got out first. "Come on." Paying the tab she led him back to the room. Thankfully without meeting staff. After arriving she locked it and dropped her facade. "Take a nap. I will make up some notes. Thers still food on the trays. That will help make it easier on you."

[Blueblood]

As soon as Storm dropped his facade, Psmith dropped onto the bed, levitating over the buttered crumpets from the tea-table.  "I must congratulate you, comrade Storm, upon your mastery of the operations covert.  You shifted so well into an assumed identity, not only in voice, but instinctual body language, which is the bane of every amateur actor."  He took a huge bite.  The unicorn was always careful in his movements, and hence left few hints as to his state of sobriety.  The only sure tell was that he let the butter drip onto the sheets, which was a sure tell.

 

"Should you so adopt that persona in the future... *yawn* is there any name you should prefer I substitute?  Something memorable and punchy, I think, but not too artificial.  I suggest... Fortunate Rain..."  Psmith was rambling, and drifting, in thought and word.  Such pilgrims naturally find their way to dreamland, and so the unicorn noble went.

[BeGoneThots]

Stormstride snickered. "That.. was me before i ran away from home. The voice you hear regularly is just how i trained myself to talk and act after becoming a guard."

The stallion sighed as he sat softly. He closed his eyes. His mane covering his face. "Psmith... do you think that sometimes... our purposes in life are not clear? What we once thought was a maybe just an illusion?" The question came honestly. And in a softer voice.

Looking up, stormstride was confused. Upset and confused. Having trouble disearning truth and fact from lies and fairy tales. Glancing at the urn, fear became visible. The fear of a hellish existence after death. A constant nightmare of never ending unrest. With things that could not be finished.

As his...her eyes came back on Psmith, they wateres some. The barriers built after a life time were cracking. Holes were peeking through.

[Blueblood]

Pontification came as naturally to Psmith as breathing.  He regarded philosophy as the by-product of thought as much as carbon dioxide was the by-product of life, one of those things that just came out of him at a moment's notice.  To be asked such a question, even while his better wits were wool-gathering, was to him therefore an utter delight.

 

"Well, my dear comrade Storm, in order to fully dive deep into that proposition, and fish out the great pearls of wisdom from between the clamshells of a troubled mind, we must adopt the position of the medieval schoolcolt: Begin at the beginning, think it through, and when you get to the end, stop."  Psmith's tones were rich, as if he were savoring every syllable like fine wine.  His eyes were at the ceiling, not paying attention to the watering ones of his current room-mate.  "First, the question of purposes.  Do we have them?  Let us test that by comparing its negation: if life had no purpose, would it be bearable?  No, comrade, it would not.  Do ponies therefore give up on the business?  No, they do not, choosing instead to grin and bear it, as the colloquial phrase puts it.  Therefore, we conclude that life is not pointless.  QED.

 

"Next, we consider the nature of illusion.  It implies either that we are deceived, or we deceive ourselves.  Now, is that relevant to the first proposition of purpose?  One must say, as far the logic of the thing is considered, yes.  Some ponies believe that life is about acquiring curious little bits of yellow-colored clay or metal.  Somesuch material, the name of which escapes me, but of which I am assured no inherent value is associated.  Thus, coming back to the original question, we may conclude conclusively, in the iron realm of abstract logic, that the answer is, 'possibly.'"

 

So much talking for so little of an answer.  But then again, when Stormstride asked a pony with an empty word bubble on his flanks a question like that, he was pretty much asking for it.  The young unicorn's head lolled, finally looking at the older one.  "Is there any particular reason you have for... *yawn* inquiring?"

[BeGoneThots]

"Because... i dont know who i am anymore." Wet eyes did not always shed tears. But they told a story.

Stormstride sighed. "I tried so hard to live up to the expectations of others... i never set any for myself." Sitting on the opposite side of the bed the pony stared at the ceiling. "I thought leaving Equestria would help clear my head... but seeing those ponies in the pub... i dont think i should anymore. Maybe i should just go out and travel some. See how things work around the world. And when i come back... maybe then i can figure myself out."

This was a pony utterly confused. Not just with life but ones self. Looking at the urn again, the face became more determined. "We need to track down the dock of his ship. Where would the records of ships be located?"

[Blueblood]

If asked, Psmith would class himself among those who observed life, rather than proactively engaged in it.  That was, of course, more a statement of preference than a statement of fact, but he had altogether spent much time in the watching of ponies, and had grown acute in reading their foibles and meaning.  In this instance, it was clear to the young stallion that Stormstride was confused in identity, both in terms of calling and of gender.  

 

There was only so much advice that a pony who all his life had been comfortable in his own skin could give, but Psmith felt no hesitation for all that.  "I should advise you to dedicate as little thought to that matter as possible.  Identity is, naturally, an important issue, but we may define 'sanity' as the ability to be careless about existential matters.  After all, what got you into this mess, Comrade Storm?  Thinking, that is what.  Always thinking about who you were, who others wanted you to be, who you wanted to be and how you weren't that stallion yet, or ever... Bosh, the lot of it!  To properly develop the character, one only needs to do the right thing, whatever the circumstances.  If a part of you eases the effort, enhance it.  If another trips you up, let it atrophy.  Simply do for others what you wish to do for, say, our canned comrade in the urn, and you will find your mind unburdened."

 

The unicorn wasn't sure if Stormstride would find the advice useful, but it was the best Psmith could do.  After all, that was more or less the philosophy he practiced for himself, honestly given and at length.  What more could anypony expect?

 

He yawned, the effort of pontificating driving his wandering mind to dreamland.  "I should say... the mercantile registry... we'll... *yawn* shake them down... later, comrade..."  Two seconds later, he was asleep.

[BeGoneThots]

Storm took what was said. As Psmith fell asleep, storm lay down and sighed. Just as the pony's head hit the pillow, she was gone. Stormstride found some peace this time. Slumbering peacefully and quietly. She didnt even notice the sunrise until it began to light the room.

Sitting up slowly, she brushed her mane from her face. Moving to the restroom, she stood before he mirror and began brushing her mane with a brush on the counter for the tenant to take.

As she held the brush magically, she just watched the mirror. Her face seemed.... softer. Rested. The dark spots undet the eyes were gone. And she was finally in the mood for some proper food. Something with honey or fruit.

She paused and looked out. "Psmith... are you awake yet?"

[Blueblood]

It is rarely a pleasant experience to wake up, when one has fallen asleep in a full suit.  Psmith had done it several times, and it always irked him.  Not only did he feel scratchy and uncomfortable, but his clothes became irreparably rumpled!  No, this would never do.  Thus, he cast off his suit along with the bedclothes upon joining the land of the upright and awake.

 

"Night's candles are burnt out, along with the ashes of Morpheus' blanket.  A most incautious spirit about his nighttime illuminances, our comrade Morpheus.  He was wise to retire when he did; the realm of dreams is in more careful hands now."  As it happened, the afternoon had moved on during his nap, and it was much closer to eventide than morning at this hour.

 

Taking up the hairbrush for himself, Psmith straightened his own tangled mane, only commenting once upon Stormstride's appearance.  "You look like a pony much desirous of restoring the tissues.  Let us raid this desert oasis, and feast upon its comestibles, I saw a tray of them downstairs.  Over the spoils, we shall plan our next campaign, on behalf of the Jarred One.  What do you say to this proposed course of events?"

[BeGoneThots]

"It suits me well. Though i ponder, upon what may they prepare light cakes ate this hour?" A well versed voice came forth. Belying the strength and battle hardened speaker.

Stormstride stepped into the room. With her magic sweeping the covers back to a more acceptable appearance. Once done she levitated the suit. "This wont do." She whispered. Humidity increased around it until it hung more limply. The stretched back out until the wrinkles releases. Finally heated ait lightly caressed the fabric. Laying it across the chair back she smiled. It was not perfect. But at least it looked better. Moving to the chair opposite she sat to wait.

As she pondered she thoight of things elsewhere. Namely her daughter and brother. How were they? Last heard they were headed for Cloudsdale. But that was a month ago. Surely they were elsewhere now.

[Blueblood]

"Oh, upon china and silver, for any and all occasions.  One never knows when little cakes might save a life, whether from starvation or depression.  Little pastries are packed with love; one wonders why changelings do not regularly raid bakeries.  Perhaps they do."  With this and other inconsequent ramblings, Psmith departed to raid the hotel's comestibles.  A charming and polite smile has been known to wrangle many things from a maid, after all, cakes among them.

 

Storm hadn't long to wait, just enough time to steam and press the suit.  It was, therefore, a mutual presentation of felicities that the young unicorn returned to.  "My, my."  Psmith remarked, setting down the tray before walking over to his suit.  "You are a... pony of many talents."  He had been about to say 'mare' but that might have been presumptuous.  After all, Storm had said nothing about how they wished to be addressed to him yet.  "In any case, I shall eat before dressing, so as not to ruin your work by the scattering of crumbs."

 

 

The consumption of light dainties can either take a long time, or very short, depending upon whether one is inclined to stop and talk.  Given that their investigation should be proceeding at due pace, it was quick.  Even with the delicacy with which the lavender stallion approached eating, he set a pace of which any schoolcolt would be proud.  Foalhood habits dying hard, as it were...

 

In a few minutes, the tray was empty and Psmith was dressed.  "Do you suppose we ought to bring Comrade Shipwright with us?  The sun will probably set before we return, and it would be nice to give him some air, I should think.  Also, one never knows what surviving relic among the buildings might not trigger a memory.  Luck, after all, must have its place in order for us to receive its gentle rain in our endeavors."

[BeGoneThots]

Storm took her meal in quiet thought. She didnt listen to her friend, but in reserve. When finished she nodded. "Yes. He may still see thing we no longer can. As well there is a chance things may change his mind and he may see others we can not. Ghosts of ghosts."

Just as she moved to the urn she paused. Looking at the urn she sighed. "Would you do me a favor? Fetch me a wash cloth please. A dry one if you would."

After recieving the cloth she wiped off the urn and then picked up her saddle bags. Setting them on she smiled. "Come on. Lets go."

[Blueblood]

And with that, Equestria's most chipper funeral procession proceeded from the doors of the hotel.  The receptionist didn't bat an eye, but then, when you work at an affordable hotel in a big city, you see some pretty rum things in your shifts.  

 

That was the thing about Manehattan, as the most populous city in Equestria.  Ponies tended to mind their own business, if not jolted out of their routines by something loud or forceful.  It didn't make the population less sociable, but it did force the sociable ponies to be more brash than the national average, simply as a part of cultural evolution. 

 

Such, at any rate, was the substance of the lecture Psmith was giving storm as the two proceeded down towards the Naval records office.  Or to be more specific, its East Side Branch.  They were getting into the parts of the city where a nice suit was rarely seen walking down the street, and ponies in them were apt not to linger.  Psmith, as said before, was no pony to hurry, especially while making a point.  "...And that, comrade Stormstride, is why we have not been interrupted by passerby, even though we have been carrying a dead body through the heart of a busy city."

[BeGoneThots]

Storm nodded softly and smiled. Inwardly she was alert. Outwardly, she was relaxed and barely paying attention.

She paused to look toward the side street before catching up. Her pace matching his. The mare stopped one moment to look at the sky. "It will rain later. Better stay close to me or you may well get soaked." She said softly.

As they approached the building, she looked it over. "it seems to have been renovated in the last few years. But it still looks old. I wonder how oft they have to delve into the old records."

[Blueblood]

Psmith looked up at the sky, his face a study in non-chalance.  "Oh, one can hardly fault the generosity of the heavens, towards the unwashed masses beneath.  I had neglected my daily duty to shower, owing to the stress and bustle of modern life.  But, in their infinite wisdom, the lords of the sky will send the gentle, cleaning rain!  It almost makes one regret not being a teetotaler; what a bacchanal rain must be, to the water drinker!"

 

Inconsequent ramblings aside, the unicorn did keep a weather eye out for the weather.  His other eye was towards the naval office, noting the architectural signs of renovation.  "One never knows, comrade Stormstride, one never knows.  Obviously, they are kept for a reason, and that reason must presumably include reading them.  How often that task is considered to be worth the trouble is one of those little problems in group psychology to which the Academy has devoted insufficient attention.  It is we, practical ponies of the world that we are, that must conduct the field research.  And so we proceed, comrade, to the advance of knowledge!"

 

And with these portentous words of potent pretension, Psmith opened the door to the records office, to reveal the clerk within.  The office was apparently not usually busy, to judge by the dust of the waiting area seats.  The clerk himself would have made an excellent first-year problem in reading ponies, as his own moods were an open-book test.  From the recently donned hat, the ordered papers on his desk, and the crestfallen look on his face, this was obviously a pony who had thought that he could now escape a day of tedium, and now faced the prospect of staying over-shift.  Thus, the curtness in his voice was a little excusable.  "What do ya want?"

[BeGoneThots]

Stormstride cleared her throat as she stepped forward. Levitating the plank with the ships name on the sode she set it down gently. "Records pertaining to this this. Lost at see. Presumably 200 years ago.... and a lottle less attitude if you please." Her tone was even. But masked that ever present temper.

As she leaned on the desk a bit her front legs rippled. Still having some of that guard like muscle. "We can take copies and leave if you wish." She wasnt actually trying to be menacing. She was trying to be polite. But rusty manners were not so easily refined.

And the urn seemed to shift in her saddle bags softly. She felt it and quickly sat still again. Maybe a different approach. "Of course a look at the records ourselves may merit... some appreciative tips."

[BeGoneThots]

Stormstride cleared her throat as she stepped forward. Levitating the plank with the ships name on the sode she set it down gently. "Records pertaining to this this. Lost at see. Presumably 200 years ago.... and a lottle less attitude if you please." Her tone was even. But masked that ever present temper.

As she leaned on the desk a bit her front legs rippled. Still having some of that guard like muscle. "We can take copies and leave if you wish." She wasnt actually trying to be menacing. She was trying to be polite. But rusty manners were not so easily refined.

And the urn seemed to shift in her saddle bags softly. She felt it and quickly sat still again. Maybe a different approach. "Of course a look at the records ourselves may merit... some appreciative tips."