"I told ye I could fly!" Plod whinnied with glee.

"You are quite right, much as I wish you weren't! I've had no stomach for flying after my brief affair with a harpy," Vrye replied, gripping Plod's back end with all his gusto.

The rush of air from the collapse of Versayls had blasted them both skywards. A terrible predicament it was, but nothing Vrye was not used to. It was all too common for his escapades to end in the most uncomfortable ways, and much too soon every time.

"I cannae imagine that goin' too well, neigh. Ye 'aven't got the feathers for it," Plod said. "Me though, got horsefeather stuffing. Gives a wee bit ay extra lift."

"I'd like a lot less lift about now. I'm missing the ground terribly."

"We'll hit it eventually. Don't ye worry, neigh."

When that finally happened, Plod bounced across the landscape, but Vrye did not. He landed, sprawled on his back in great pain beneath the bags. He was far too old for this business. The ache in his spine was spitefully clear on that part.

Left on his lonesome with nothing to do but contemplate, he hoped Merlo would lead the Wyverkiiri to a better place. She had the head for it, more than he ever did. Meanwhile Vrye would go elsewhere, for good. Although, when he sat up to look around, he found himself surrounded by a black expanse as far as the eye could see. There was not the slightest lump to use as a landmark, so he could not tell if he was nearer the mountains or the Marsh of Sticks.

Only Plod broke his otherwise dreary view, waddling back towards him like a pillow of hope.

"My overstuffed friend, what a sight you are!" Vrye called out to him.

"I was nay gone that long, neigh!" The unicorn's waddle became a trot as he crossed the last of the distance between them. "Had me worried ye'd run off on me though."

"I don't mind the company. You didn't happen to spot the Marsh while we were flying, did you?"

"The Marsh?" Plod turned this way and that, then shook his head. "Cannae say I did, neigh. What did ye need it fer?"

"It seemed as good a direction as any to never see another Tyvern."

"What aboot Alphonse, neigh?" Plod huffed, then sat down on top of him. "I'm gonnae wait fer 'im." For an old bag of horsefeathers, he was awfully difficult to shift.

"He seemed far too fragile to survive a fort falling down on him," Vrye said with a wheeze.

Then, inexplicably, there he was. Alphonse, trundling up to them without a worry in the world. "Oh, please, 'twas but a sneeze. Nothing I haven't tried at home!" he hollered. The fellow was a little frazzled, but cheery as ever and his return encouraged Plod to get up.

"I believe thanks are in order. You've saved me from a dreadful arrangement with that Lady of yours," Vrye said, struggling to his feet to offer a handshake.

Alphonse left it hanging as he searched through his supplies. "You'll need this. Can't have you catching a chill with how sickly you are," he said and pulled out a scarf. Though he wrapped it five times about Vrye's neck, the thing still hung to his knees.

"So after all that, are you next in line to become Lord of Tyrunvern?" Vrye asked, touching the gift. It was hideous, but part of him adored it.

"No, we'll both be enemies of the state, but I brought cunning disguises," the alchemist said. He returning to his bag, digging through it with a delightful wiggle of his toosh.

Vrye reached towards it, but Alphonse twirled around before he could make contact. In his hands were two pairs of spectacles with bulbous noses and bushy eyebrows, and a beard obscured his delicate face in a horrific clump of white fluff.

The alchemist bespectacled himself and did the same to Vrye. Then he found his jar of warts, fixed them to an extendable rod, and strapped that to Plod.

"Let's go find your dragon," he said with giddy excitement.

"I'm not precisely sure—"

Vrye was swept up and slung over Plod's cushion with the Alchemist on top. A most undignified way to travel, but his beau's bony behind managed to land in just the right spot to kick a stubborn crick from his back.

"I shan't tell you where he is if you insist on treating me like the saddle I'm slung over."

"I don't need you to. The wart-jar will tell us the way." Alphonse spurred Plod on with a slap of his woolly flank.

"Aye, I think it's this way. Or maybe—neigh. It's been a while since I 'ad any warts. Are ye sure this will work?" he said, wobbling around in a circle.

"I don't know why it wouldn't. They should jiggle in whatever direction has the most Nonsense, and dragons are the most Nonsensical." Alphonse rattled the stick holding the jar. It seemed he had failed to account for the Nonsense growing from his head. "He's not under us, is he?"

He leaned over a little too far and fell off.

With the alchemist off his back, Vrye could mount the plush steed properly. "You will never find him, you silly fellow," he said and removed the jar-on-a-stick from Plod's head. He tossed it to Alphonse and at once the little lumps inside whizzed away like excitable beans. "Kyos is no more Nonsensical than you."

He did not feel so high and mighty when Alphonse slumped down, all the mirth gone from his grin.

Plod reared up with an unimpressed whinny. "'E rode all the way oot 'ere tae save ye and this is yer idea o' gratitude, neigh?"

Vrye slid off his back, then went to help Alphonse back onto his feet. He took the silly jar from him and tossed it over his shoulder. "I'm not ungrateful, but you will need me to show you the way."

"Ye do nay even know which way the Marsh is, ye daft sausage!" Plod shouted and galloped after the warts.

"You wouldn't have something to help orient us in that bag of yours, dear Alphonse?"

"Only had warts for that."

Vrye took guilty pleasure in that fact, happy to remain lost forever in present company. He nudged Alphonse's chin up, then slipped an arm around his narrow hips. "Time for a spot of wandering, then. We're bound to find something I recognise eventually."

He stroked his new chin fluff and surveyed the surrounding gloom. There was the slightest red glow two turns left from where they were standing, likely caused by Tyvern shroom cities, so he made four turns to the right and set off on a hopefully hopeless search.