//------------------------------// // Chapter 4: Ashen // Story: Arcana's Wrath // by oop //------------------------------// Winter months were an overbearingly positive time to the town of Appaloosa, primarily because it didn’t really result in much of a change in the weather. Hot to temperate was such a slight alteration that it would go unnoticed in any realistic circumstance. Though the more sensitive members of the town would insist there was a chill in the air. The large advantage of being the one warm place in late November was that the trees, still bearing fruit, were suddenly in high demand. After the somewhat ridiculous incident a decade or so ago, there was a heightened level of acceptance between the area’s settlers and the natives. Really it was suspected they had always wanted a sort of integration but with the settlement being on property technically granted by the royal family it would’ve been a public relations nightmare. Unicorns and buffalo had been on shaky terms for some centuries now. Earth ponies, thankfully, were able to find a lot more common ground, they were farming people, both of them, as well as people of the earth itself. The ‘incident’ so to speak was more of a staged affair than anything else, advantageous with Celestia’s own protégé to play witness. Even now it was hard to believe it had worked, pies as weapons? Canterlites must have figured Appaloosa was remarkably backwards. Still, eleven or more years had been spectacular with the assimilation, tepees were erected as often as wooden houses in what seemed less and less like a town and more of a smattering of homes. Business of course flared much like it could be expected with salt bars, bath houses, pony sort of things dominating, though not without a buffalo industry here and there. As much as the integration might be more a tossed salad than a melting pot, it did lead to a lot of opportunity. It opened lines of trade for buffalo in a market that, thanks to unicorn bureaucrats, was increasingly race driven. The earth ponies, being far more decent people, tried not to take advantage of the situation, but with the assistance of buffalo farming took another, stronger dimension, an association a certain democratic country across the sea could only dream to parallel. Naturally though, it wasn’t perfect, and seriously nothing ever was. Welcome to the world, there’s always going to be problems, and in this particular part of it there was a visitor, a permanent visitor, one whom the buffalo regarded as a mistake by the ponies, and the ponies a mistake of the others. And then there was the matter that the Equestrian secret service, which never really had reason to come to light in the first place, was putting in a presence to make sure this visitor was kept as one of their own, and to make sure his origin was a quiet matter. The latter of these wasn’t much more than a joke, the townspeople were too open with one another to really hold a secret, and the person in question was a little too open about it himself. On top of that he was pretty conspicuous, for one, totally unused to the culture, apparently more adjusted to something like a millennially aged structure, and his own appearance was so wildly different from others, not to mention ironic to the point it could be considered a folly of the universe itself. Or it could be fervent penmanship of an omniscient author who happens to just really not like him. Even under management different than the one who had handed down such a fate it seemed as though fate was irreversible and the young buffalo in question would come to a pointed and terrifying realization as his fur began to grow in more thickly, a mature mold sometime around age ten. Now, a year later, things were not going well for him. A full coat was a sign of adulthood, at least enough to work, and he had definite resentment for that. Being the son of a chief had never helped him, ever, and it was an especially worthless title in a tribe that had traded ancient customs in favor of kinship with those short, hornless mongrels. As if that weren’t enough the stampede had fallen from useful to merely ceremonial, meaning it certainly didn’t count as work, which would’ve at least been acceptable. Apple bucking, he would rather have a job picking the thorns out of briar patch than kick alongside the idiot ponies. One boon came from the work in the orchards, and that was dust. A mess in ones coat was usually totally unnoticed by a buffalo whose fur was of the same color as the ground. For the poor cursed bison with a one in a million color it just felt more like he was blending in. He was white, a curse to be spat on in his mind, setting him apart from others entirely, adding a sense of entitlement to his self-imposed isolation, keeping almost wholly to himself when he wasn’t working or trying to sneak into the salt bar, though he probably would’ve done this anyway given his immeasurable sense of entitlement. Black Mesa was not one for conversation. In fact his time in Appaloosa had turned out to be about as remarkably boring and useless as he could ever have imagined. For a chief’s son from the world of the past to be brought across the millennia by a group of young ponies and one blind zebra the new world was shockingly boring, particularly when he was called forward by the word ‘Albino’ more than his actual name. He had his own private suspicions that albinism was not responsible for his awkward chroma anyway, his eyes were orange, firmly orange, even if they might appear red at a distance that was just a normal trait for a buffalo, why it should doom him to being so unusual he would never know. Whatever the reason, tired of it didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what he was feeling when he noticed the row of half a dozen wagons lined up near the orchard. It was typical to have one of these on any given day, just for usual shipments at a steady pace and all, but to have a whole caravan? This was something particularly unusual, suggestive of a massive order, probably for a single purpose. Who the hay would need that many apples? This was precisely the question he posed, speaking to a mustached pony standing by one of the wagons, chosen less because he looked like he was in charge and more because he had a block of salt beside him. Accurate assessment on Mesa’s part at least, the old stallion was anything but lucid, murmuring something about a party. Mesa picked at his mashed potato brains for a little longer, trying to piece together the whole story but he apparently wasn’t going to get much out of him until… “Canterlot…” Mesa had been about to give upon it before he mumbled to word without prompting “Damn unicorns,” he paused here, releasing a belch “Them’s so darn uppity thinking they can just,” he paused again, this time holding back his release of air “Scuse me… It’s just I ain’t proud of makin’ such a big order all for some fancy do up north…” “It’s a big waste,” Mesa wasn’t sure he could even be heard through the fog, but agreeing with him could be interesting “What sort of thing is it you’re getting all these pies to Canterlot for?” The laughter from the stallion didn’t seem particularly warranted, even when he choked the explanation out “It’s a bucking birthday party,” he managed through the drunken laughter “It ain’t for no one important neither! Some Duke! Now I ain’t got a clue what duke means, but if it’s what it sounds like-“ “Thanks,” Mesa cut him off there “Hey, when is the shipment leaving anyway?” the dregs of a crazy idea were hovering in his mind and he half wondered if he would even dare… “Oh…ten minutes?” the stallion hiccupped again “I’m pulling number four if you’re looking for a ride, but it’ll,” he paused again, eyes going blank for a moment as he tried to collect his thoughts “What was I just saying?” Well this made his decision a whole lot easier. There were some prominent figures who wanted him to be firmly in place right here in Appaloosa, meaning that leaving would be a pretty big stir. Now, if there was one thing Mesa liked above anything else it was causing trouble. And this was Canterlot they were talking about, and that meant there was one gentle benefit, as much of a grudge he would have for it. “I have a rich… friend in Canterlot, I’ll make sure you get your extra bits.” He had paused at the title, he certainly did know someone rich, but he hated the guts of that pegasus and was glad for the opportunity to rob him of some cash. The drunken stallion chuckled once more “Well sonny, I guess you’ve got a ride, just push some pies around and try not to make too much noise.” Mesa checked himself quickly, he had a small pouch secured to his side that contained a few odds and ends, some ten bits or so, an old brick-like gamecolt with ponymon dusk, something to keep him busy on the trip he supposed. That was enough to make a getaway with he figured so without further ceremony he followed the stallion to the wagon. “My name’s Bandwagon,” said the stallion, apparently having a short moment of lucidity “I typically like to know at least the name of my cargo.” Mesa flushed, as he always did when someone asked, knowing that the irony involved in introduction would probably earn laughter from Band for the first half of the journey “Black Mesa,” he said, voice barely audible as he pushed his pale fluff between two stacks of pie into an alcove among the produce. The following silence surprised him, not a dreg of laughter, just a shrug as Bandwagon equipped himself with the reigns, “Well ain’t that somethin’” he said half to himself “But it’s a weird world we live in, and I’ve seen stranger things than that by far. You situated okay?” “Yeah, I’m good,” said Mesa, the lack of ridicule pushing aside his usual need to fire a retort at him, he couldn’t think of anything funny anyway. Caravan travel was never famous for being a fast, easy, or comfortable way of getting anywhere. What it was famous for, however, was the price, being particularly cheap. The bits Mesa had on him could very well have been enough to buy him a ride to the capital city, but why pay when you can extort after all? Another thing wagon travel was good for, was the ambient time to think. It wasn’t quiet by any means, in fact the creak of wood, scent of canvas, and rough feel beneath the flank was a sensory bombardment. But it was a constant one, and many great western artists and authors would take long carriage trips for the cheap and inspirational environment. Mesa used the opportunity of time in the wagon to play a video game, one which he had defeated long ago but still found reason to play for long stretches. It was a vague sort of playtime though, involving a lot of the same thing in which he would repeatedly challenge the five final bosses or run around in the grass searching for simple foes. Because of this semi-automatic routine he was free to reminisce throughout the ride without ever getting bored. The ‘friend’ he had in Canterlot, was a pony apparently of some repute and they had met under admittedly shaky circumstances, involving a blind zebra, an ancient cult, and if memory served a very attractive red earth pony. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on, particularly given the fact the last part made him feel frankly sick of himself, to be attracted to a pony was ridiculous, and he mostly chalked it up to having been young and naïve at the time. It had been fun keeping her prisoner though… Either way, that little venture had apparently involved time-travel, and he had been, so far, permanently separated from anyone he ever knew. Good riddance, he had hated most of them anyway. As if being on the chief’s good side wasn’t enough for those limp horned losers to hate him, he was sure the growth of his full white coat would’ve been plenty. Mesa tried again to focus harder on the game, but the memories were painful, hard to repress, a seemingly recurrent psychological theme. There was one thing Mesa had over the other three with his problem though, he cared about it a whole lot less. Yes, it was an undeniable fact that he was a lonely outcast in Appaloosa but that was his element. He reserved anyone who ever took him out of that element, particularly that one grey pegasus. Heaven knew the pegasus in question was no longer half as grey, but the harbored hatred would turn out to burn just as bright. But while this rivalry would be heavy on the mind of the white buffalo as he drew slowly closer to the capital city, it would pale in comparison to a much greater threat looming ever closer.