//------------------------------// // Putting your talon on the stove // Story: Volition // by PredictableOffender //------------------------------// You take in another refreshing breath of coal before you another explosive loose in the tunnels. A group of your fellow Gryphons jog away from the blast zone and towards around the corner. You feel a talon pat you on the back. “Ready?” A Gryphon with a pitch black crest. “Yes.” His name is Tudor, he has been your friend ever since you started working here seven months ago. He is friendly, energetic, loud and you keep him around just to juxtapose your own blasé apathy to everything. “Five!” “Four!” “Three!” “Two!” “One!” The explosion rocks the tunnel system and chops out a new section of rock to reinforce and mine. The time until lunch passes with no problems showing up or significant delays caused by your lazy ass. While the other miners take to the surface, you and Tudor like to eat lunch in the locker rooms, no one uses them though they still somehow smell like wet paint. The tile floors, empty lockers and the bare concrete walls are strangely more comforting than looking at a mountaintop view in a lot filled with loud stupid Gryphons chatting about broads n' birds. For lunch you had a beef sandwich, a bottle of water, and six assorted snack bars all arranged neatly in your lunchbox so you could have room to store your water bottle. Tudor takes out his lunch and a ball he likes to play with it. “I heard the Ugly Club has a shipment of Ponyville Cider” Tudor says to you. “I've been wanting to taste something that wasn't mass produced.” “It’s the last workday of the week we should head down there after work and a shower.” Tudor brushes some of the soot off to reveal his snow white crest. “Thank the powers that be for workplace hazard compensation.” “You’d think warriors would have days off like this?” “They have all sort of other government goodies and privileges.” “But we really should head out to the Ugly Club tonight.” The Coalsack Ugly Club is Coalsack’s number one bar for middle aged gryphons that are bored with life and those in that same mindset. Tudor just likes to hang with his new best friend and understands how much you like your alcohol with a side of depression. The two of you converse until the lunch bell goes off and the topics have to switch to work. The two of you arrive at your newly blasted tunnel before anyone else and decide to get working ahead of time. Both of you took half an hour to fill the one cart in the area and did not have a single sight of another gryphon walking around. Once the cart was filled the paranoia growing inside you fills to the brim setting you off on a panic. As if on cue the automatic gas alarm sounds causing the two of you to instantly jump into a sprint. You race towards the sounds of the surface, Tudor pulls ahead of you. The familiar maze of grid like tunnels start to feel like a grave you dug for yourselves. The last time someone forgot to pull an alarm ended very badly, the auto alarm is now a sign of certain doom. Tudor is suddenly consumed by a fireball that overtakes every one of your senses leaving you in a blind haze. You regret opening your eyes. ~~~ Two years later. . The Sun rises once again even against all the protest of every single lazy bastard in the world, maybe you should send a letter to Canterlot. You decide to sleep in for a while hoping no one will yell at the flightless crippled mute for being late. This is all because no one took the time to pull the alarm. You gather the willpower to roll out of bed and exhaust the remaining power to get to the bathroom. Your one eyed reflection has a layer of ruffled unkempt feathers, you had some expensive ass unicorn specialist attempt to put you together as best you can so you still have feathers. Your right eyelid was melted and fused to your eye so it is pretty much useless. You examine the missing chunks of flesh where the skin settles right up to the bone to remind yourself just how lucky you are to still be breathing. You have a job at the mine to get to. Granted you are ironically the new health and safety inspector, with your appearance and history no one ever protested against the changes you requested no matter how Byzantine. It gives you a sense of power even if you can no longer hold a tool with any semblance of grace. With no delusion of an afterlife, your life is too important to waste. Since you can’t talk you were given an assistant to give you a voice and a pair of hands to smack people with. You assistant is a young, nice, even tempered young male with a slight build. He works as an accountant when not tending to your disability. The two of you spend your days in a bored stupor correcting common-man’s brainless mistakes so they don’t end anyones life. Or in your case reassign them to a new monotony. You used to have ambitions but that is unimportant now. ~~~ Yet another workday ends and one more commute home brings you past a blacksmith’s storefront. Your reflection spots you from the gleam of polished axe. You smile softly at your own reflection reassuring it that it is the luckiest being in existence, living proof that there is a point where things can only get better. It would have been interesting to see how things could have gotten worse. You continue along path right before a realization hit you like a runaway train, it is the end of your work week. You make a turn towards the bar in some dim hope to resurrect the past by re enacting it. You weakly push open the doors to the Ugly Club to reveal the bored looking patrons of the establishment. Most of whom paid no mind to your battered appearance except one old blade scarred male in the back of the bar. He beckons you to his table so you comply. “Admiral Artorias Abysswalker.” He extends his talon to shake your hand and to return the gesture easily. “You have the markings of a warrior but I’ve never given you a medal. You got a story?” signing to people is kind of a passive aggressive response on your part. “I've seen enough boys in your situation to know what you’re saying... Now tell me how you got those scars.” You decide to find another seat. “You lost someone in that incident did you?” He shocked you back into your seat. “Such a common thing In this town.... what would it be..... a mining accident maybe.” “Don’t underestimate a full fledged Admiral.” “I’ll get this started... how about you ask me why I’m here of all places.” “We are building a base here to help try to secure some of backwaters... you know keep people from being robbed.” He adjusts his seat. “Now how about I order you some drinks and we share bedtime stories?” When it came to alcohol you were a lightweight now with most of your body mass burned off you got impressively smashed very quickly. The Admiral managed to ease the story out of you with some crafty word play you made every attempt to learn some of his tricks. He didn't dwell on anything and understood perfectly, the man can somehow read your mind.