Octavia remembered a dreary, cloudy, positively disgusting day from long, long ago, when she was but a young filly in the middle years of grade school. The day, as long as it seemed but as short as it was to her budding life, had been rather horrible to be honest. To start it off, she had been woken up in her bed earlier than was usual for a school day by an otherwise adorable Buddy's slobbery tongue, which fussed up her mane and caused her to accidentally tumble to the floor on something hard. Besides the fact that she had had a horrifying nightmare that she'd rather not dwell on the night before, tumbling onto the fragile, cardboard container of midnight fruit snacks she always kept by the foot of her bed definitely eased her into what was already expected to be a pretty not-great day.
Grumbling, out of both pain and annoyance, little Octavia had tried to make an effort to at least make her mane just a little bit presentable before stepping out of the room with a cute huff, her loving Buddy following close behind. Her morning rituals would've been mostly unaltered were it not for the unfortunate lack of toothpaste in the bathroom, the bathroom's cupboard, the bathroom's cabinet, the pantry outside the bathroom, and the linen closet across the bathroom. Apparently they were all out of Ridge toothpaste, and the half-snoozing stallion still lying on his comfy, springy bed sleepily told his daughter he'd go out and buy more that day.
So... great, the young filly had thought, everything was going swimmingly already. Octavia had then trotted over to the kitchen table, eaten an admittedly delightful meal of cinnamon oatmeal with strawberries, and called for her mother that it was time to walk to her school. School days meant that her mother was heading off to work. And school days usually meant that her mother would be waiting for her to walk with her to school, not the other way around like it happened to be at that moment. And so, with her bumbling younger brother by her side and a trio of dogs tumbling about rambunctiously, little Octavia sat next to her equally little brown saddlebags for a bit over ten grueling minutes, waiting for her mother to leave the bathroom so she could get to school, which, if she remembered correctly a whole fifteen years later, she was thirteen minutes late for. Her mother, half-tired, hadn't even given her a hug before she trotted off.
Waking up earlier than usual after a bout of nightmares. Having to brush her teeth with water for a day. Waiting for her mother. Being already late for school. Not even getting a hug. Little Octavia had most likely sighed—present day Octavia couldn't remember—not even bothering to watch her parent leave as she turned tail and headed inside, immediately bumping into the side of an obviously sixth-grade stallion two years older than her but five less in intelligence who took one glance at her and growled before heading off. He had involuntarily flung spit on her mane with the nonverbal shout, but Octavia didn't want to try to wipe it away in fear of messing up her mane.
She had to look presentable, imposing, for today was supposed to be a big day for her. Present day, twenty-five year old Octavia smiled nostalgically at the reminiscence. That horrible day was supposed to be the day she stood up to those mean foals on the playground, the ones who played the dumb game with the schoolhouse's dumb red wall and the dumb, too-bright green tennis ball. No seriously she had actually called it that. She really enjoyed the word dumb as a filly. She giggled, some internal part of her sputtering for life once more amidst the sea of dust and cobwebs.
Okay. Where was she? Oh yes. The wall-ball professionals, as they had called themselves. That horrible, horrible day in the fourth grade was the day she would yell at them, curse at them, make them look like the fools they constantly made themselves out to be. She would do so at lunch, when all the young fillies and colts headed out into the sun to play, frolic, and what-have-you. The world, already crummy for that specifically important day, hated her state of living like the present-day trains that haunted her travels, and so her indoor classes that had led up to that fateful encounter at lunch were both dull and insulting.
She'd rather not go into it to be honest. To sum it up, staples and pencils weren't things to be trifled with, and report cards were horrifyingly stressful things for young ponies. Gods if she were the Queen of some civilization somewhere, she'd ban report cards at a moment's notice. What kind of sick pony would just scribble down letters on a piece of paper that needed to be signed and then give it to ponies who so much as ignored other sheets of paper regarding matters they already knew how to do? She didn't envy grade school teachers, no, she felt oddly sorry for them.
The time for lunch came quickly. The young filly was so caught up in her sour mood that she almost missed the bell that signified recess. Thanks to the resounding call and the gentle slapping of a ruler against her desk from her teacher, she had scrambled outside, the spring air greeting her furiously as she stepped into the now sunny day. She wasted no time in walking toward the professionals, ignoring the calls and screams of her overjoyed friends on their swing sets and slides. She stepped onto a small selection of concrete, walked past a young colt with his hooves against his cheeks sitting on the sidelines, and strode up to those boorish ponies playing their make-believe game.
She didn't exactly recall all that she had said to be honest. She could only remember one line, one single, solitary sentence she had, as a ten year-old filly, yelled in broad daylight.
"If you lot continue your stupid sport you're all partaking in, I'll make sure that it's a closed casket."
It made absolutely no sense. It was just a simple combination of cliche one-liners she had heard countless times in old action flicks her father constantly watched. It shouldn't have—assuredly not—but it had worked like a charm. A charm that honestly shouldn't have been. She had walked away with a disgusted frown on her face that she really wasn't used to having, the distinct sound of a ball bouncing against pavement and the telltale noise of fleeing colts telling her all she needed to know about her result. There was no real direction she was heading after completing her intended goal, and so she found herself trotting toward a...
She paused.
A small smile crept onto her lips.
...trotting toward a cute, shy colt a few months older than her.
They were friends.
She coughed, a sad expression suddenly taking over her face. She didn't want to dwell on that. Where was she? Yes, the horrors of that day. Blah blah blah, she had headed home, annoyed beyond belief. The sunny day made way for clouds, rain, and puddles galore. It was fantastic. Fun. She splish-splashed in the water and raised such a ruckus that her mother found herself groaning in disbelief once the young filly had stepped across the threshold of the front door, covered in mud and frowning as heavily as a stationary guard in the wind. Yeah. She had lied about that fun part. And the puddles? She had tripped.
Pretty darn hard if she remembered.
Roots were also a hater of her state of living. Such pathetic things. They were attached to motionless objects for their entire lives, there was nothing for them to hate about her.
She shook her head.
Oh yeah her story. The one she had been telling, another fine addition to her rather worrying collection of stories she had recently thought back to. Dut duh duuuuh, hmm, uh...
Where was she going with this again?
Her eyes widened.
Something called to her from far away in the distance. No, scratch that. It was right next to her. Behind her. In front. To her left. Above her ear. Inside her. Nestled in her heart.
A low noise previously unnoticed by her brain began to increase in volume.
Wait–
"Octavia?"
She turned her head, the stirring uproar instantly disappearing. She batted her eyelashes, looking from her left and to her right absent-mindedly.
"Yes?" She hoped she had asked calmly.
W, L, V, and T stood around her, presumably partaking in an eyebrow raising contest with one another.
"We've got the jewels," W spoke, rustling his bag. Octavia faced forward, finding the small protrusion in the ground completely devoid of said jewels. Had she really been out of it for that long?
...
Was "being out of it" even the proper term...?
"And," L said, a grin on her beak, "we know the way out."
The mare stopped.
Oh.
Cool.