Vast sections of descriptions without dialogue, the foundations of slice of life · 12:14pm Jul 6th, 2018
Mindful of his hard claws scraping or tapping against the floor, Spike crept through Twilight’s study with nary a sound made. Twilight had fallen asleep at her desk—again—and as her most trusted assistant, it was his duty to check on her. Her face was smudged with ink and the corners of her mouth were crusted over with what appeared to be peanut butter. Probably peanut butter. Twilight had whole lectures prepared about the effectiveness of peanut butter as a provider of quick, efficient energy.
The problem, as Spike saw it, was that Twilight expected too much of herself. Some jobs could be passed along to assistant—and many were out of necessity—but Twilight had such a high success rate because she personally dealt with so many of her tasks. Somehow, Twilight, through her endless correspondence and communications, convinced parents to allow their foals to attend an untried, untested school that had been attacked several times. Then there was the fact that one of its students had been foalnapped in a daring raid in the first year of the school’s existence. The fact that he wasn’t in school at the time didn’t matter, the mere fact that he was a student was the primary talking point that the media loved to seize upon.
Twilight alone navigated these many hurdles an pitfalls. Perhaps another could as well, but so far, Twilight hadn’t given anypony the chance. Though it frustrated him to no end, Spike understood. Twilight was constructing a future, a reputation, she was crafting an image and it was only through her vision that the school had lasted as long as it had. Though she was overworked, though Spike found her asleep at her desk so many mornings, there could be no denying that her efforts bore results.
Spike understood Twilight’s passion, and to some extent, shared Twilight’s vision of the future. Tail held high so it wouldn’t slap or flap against the floor, Spike waddled over to the filing cabinet in the corner, tugged open the well-oiled bottom drawer, and pulled out the somewhat musty smelling folded blanket found within. With one well-practiced motion, he unfurled the blanket—an action that he had done hundreds, if not thousands of times—and then went over to cover Twilight.
It was only fair, covering Twilight. To reciprocate. How many times had she covered him? During the most helpless years of his infancy, he had been downright narcoleptic, as dragons tended to be, and he would doze off at the most inopportune times. Twilight always got him into a bed—even if only a makeshift one—she ensured his comfort and saw to it that he was covered, because it was just something that ponies did. They covered one anothers sleeping forms with blankets, perhaps because it was a thoughtful act of kindness.
And so he did so now. Twisting his body about at his chubby waist, he flung the blanket over Twilight and scored a perfect toss. Using the handles of its drawers as a makeshift ladder, Spike clambered up onto the desk, grabbed the corners of the blanket, and tugged everything into its proper place. In response, Twilight slipped even deeper into slumber, her breathing deep, regular, and a bit rumbly.
Though a dragon, Spike was fond of blanket rituals.
A lot can be gleaned here for a careful reader with a good eye for detail.
For example, we see that this is the second year of the school's existence. The aftermath of previous events have meaningful, lingering consequences and Twilight is struggling to counter them. And of course, perhaps the most important detail of all: Spike is best dragon.
