A Quarter of a Century old today!

Would you believe I turn 25 today? I certainly don't.

Anyway, my profound apologies for the absence of New PonyScape, folks. I'm rather afraid my original deadline of end on May was shunted back by my LPC Finals and attempting to find a job.

Either way, I had been aiming to get it out today and hopefully I still will, but if I don't here's a little present from me to you all to say "Thank you". So, please enjoy this extract of the first chapter of PonyScape: A Mother's Love

GuthixianBrony

It was the smell, Spot decided. He could put up with the cramped conditions of the wagon, even the snivelling and mewling of their younger charges was tolerable; Hounds, they were practically homely. But what he truly couldn’t stand was the smell. And these ponies were raising such a stink that even Mighty Fenrir, first among Hounds, would have pawed at his muzzle and whined in protest.

It wasn’t the fetid stale fugue of unwashed bodies; Spot was no stranger to caravan security, and so far as he was concerned “high-jeen” was a strange, black magic almost as terrible as the B-word. What caused Spot’s nasal-ache was the cocktail of sour odours each pony subconsciously exuded; fear, anxiety, desperation, uncertainty, all classic scents of fugitives and a thoroughly unpleasant time for a diamond dog’s nose. Still, that was life on the surface for you; big jobs, small jobs, fun jobs, messy jobs; a dog couldn’t really complain, and if that dog was looking to retire with enough gold to buy his own gem mine then he took every damn job he could lay his paws on.

And the payday from this particular run would see Spot quite a bit closer to that goal. Hounds, a few more jobs like this and he might still be young enough to enjoy the attentions owning a huge shaft tended to attract.

A rhythmic thumping on the wall behind him pulled Spot out of his daydreaming, and grumbling he shifted position so that he could open the small hatch set behind his head. Another diamond dog’s scarred muzzle poked through, wrinkling in reaction to the smell within.

You should worry, Spot thought, I’ve had to put up with this lot the whole trip, whilst some of us got to ride up front.

“Well, Patch?” he addressed the muzzle. “Spit it out.”

“Ol’ Cah says we’re almos’ there,” the muzzle replied, “if’n the map this lo’ give us is right.”

“Right or wrong, they paid to get to this spot. So long as their coin’s good, who cares?”

The muzzle known as Patch grinned, showing a fine collection of rotten and broken teeth, before retreating through the hatch. Securing the hatch, Spot lumbered to his feet, stretching his limbs and sighing appreciatively as blood flow resumed its normal course. Satisfied, he clapped his front paws together, rousing the drowsy occupants of the wagon.

“Well ponies, we’re on the home stretch.” He beamed at them; the job had gone off without a hitch and the gold was as good as theirs. “Should be smooth running from here.”

He did his best not to gag as a sickly sweet cocktail of relief and gratitude washed over the passengers, along with a smatter cheering and more than a few sobs from the especially weary. Determined to get some fresh air before his sense of smell was permanently crippled, Spot loped to the end of the wagon, taking care to not trip on any outstretched hooves.

He pulled aside the thick canvas flaps and breathed deeply from the wintry air beyond. His lungs burned in protest, but Spot honestly didn’t care. Besides, if Patch and the Old Cow could handle the chill, so could he. He hunched up on the tailboard, letting his hind legs dangle above the ground, as the wagon trundled onwards. He glared up at the sky and gave a small shudder. Five years on the surface and he still felt like the damned thing was going to swallow him whole.

It started to snow, great big fat flakes lazily drifting down from the iron skies, quickly vanishing as they joined the thick white blanket that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Welcome to the North, Spot mused, sticking out his tongue to catch one of the fluffy morsels. Wild Weather, marauding yaks and prime tundra. Oh, and nameless and ancient evils if the rumours are true. Hounds...

“Why would ponies want to live here?”