Up ahead, Luna leads on in a measured, unhurried stride, clearly masking a disquiet that simmers beneath that unflappable exterior. Her tail swishes in tight, agitated arcs, the only outward betrayal of whatever maelstrom roils just beneath that placid surface. You fall in step silently several paces behind, uncertain whether to match her pace or give some deference with added distance. She approaches the chariot from earlier that night, her thestral batpony guards ever-vigilant as they cast you a suspicious eye.