//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 // Story: Finding Inspiration // by bahatumay //------------------------------// The evening wind blew warm and gently through the forest. It was a lovely evening, with winter having been wrapped up shortly before. Spring was just around the corner, and everywhere the animals were waking up and staking out their claims. Not all of those animals, though, were friendly. A chicken’s head popped up out of the bushes, red eyes gleaming in the setting sunlight. It ducked back down, rustling the leaves slightly. This was a good place, he decided, sneaking through the bushes, his long snake body propelling himself forward at a rapid speed. Here there was plenty of food, shelter, and… He slowed to a stop. A pony? In his territory? His eyes narrowed. Not for long. He scuttled around through the bushes, barely making any noise. Sneaking up on ponies was too easy. But something was different this time. The pony paused, and her ears pricked. She looked up, looking at nothing in particular. “I know you're there,” she said softly. “Hiding, in the bushes.” The cockatrice blinked. How? No matter. The element of surprise may have been lost, but a cockatrice was more than just sneaky. He slithered out rapidly, scuttled in front of her, and with a threatening ‘ba-kaw!’, he glared. The magic flowed through his eyes, turning the hapless pony rapidly to stone. At least, that was the plan. But nothing of the sort happened. She merely stared back, unblinking; remaining soft and squishy as ponies normally are. The cockatrice was taken aback. He shook his head and stared even harder. Nopony could resist the stare of a cockatrice! But the mare remained stubbornly unstoned. A little smile played at her lips, one side pulling up enough to reveal a tooth that was pointed, like the fangs he himself bore. A cold fear settled in his stomach. This was not a normal pony. And then she stared back. The transformation started at his tail. It thickened and hardened. He was turning into stone! He squawked and tried to run away, but found his feet had also started changing. The transformation slowly crawled up his legs. The cockatrice leaned back, horrified, unable to do anything else. What was this creature? “This is my territory,” she hissed. She looked away, breaking the spell and letting the stone that had been encasing him shatter. The cockatrice needed no second invitation. Squawking wildly, he fled, sending leaves and sticks flying in his hurry to escape. The strange creature watched wordlessly as the cockatrice disappeared. With a ‘thump’, the suitcase hit the ground, sending up a small cloud of dust. The pony who had tossed it there exhaled through his nose and ran a hoof through his mane as he glanced around. It was early morning, but it was still pleasantly busy, with ponies moving around about their business. This seemed like a nice enough place. Maybe here he’d find what he was looking for. Doubtful, he mused as he passed the fare to the pony pulling the cart, but still possible. Wings spread wide for balance, he lugged the heavy suitcase across the entryway into the Happy Hooves Hotel. He set it down and glanced around. He would probably describe this place as quaint. It was nothing fancy, but it was clean, decently-sized, and it smelled rather good in here. A small restaurant was on his far side, with rates scrawled neatly on a blackboard for guests and visitors. At first glance, the prices seemed fair, and he resolved to try the daisy sandwich tonight. “Hi!” a cheerful voice broke in through his thoughts. He glanced over to the front desk, where a very cheery-looking, slightly pudgy mare with a light blue coat sat. She waved to him excitedly, as if to ensure he knew who had spoken to him. He cracked a small smile and dragged his suitcase over. She seemed to be wiggling in place with excitement, like a filly half her age. “Welcome to the Happy Hooves Hotel! Do you have a reservation?” She was certainly living up to the first part of that name. “I don't,” he admitted, “but-” “That’s alright!” she interrupted perkily. “Always plenty of room here at the Happy Hooves Hotel!” She pulled a clipboard up. “I’m Happy Trails. What’s your name?” He cracked a smile. “Not Happy Hooves?” “Green Hooves is my- partner. She’s in the back.” She looked up expectantly. That little hesitation told him all he needed to know (if not more) about their ‘partnership’. But it was now his turn to hesitate. Giving his name tended to have a different response, and giving false names had always come back to bite him. “Wind Shear,” he finally answered. To his immense relief, she didn’t seem to recognize him. “Alrighty,” she said, scribbling his name down. “Wind, Shear. And do you have any preferences to the room?” He shrugged, relieved to have escaped notice. “I’d prefer someplace quiet,” he answered. “We can do that,” she said, making a note. “So what brings you here, anyway?” “Just… looking for someplace quiet,” he answered, making her giggle at his repetition. “Maybe a little inspiration.” She chuckled again as she dug around under the desk for the paperwork. “‘Quiet’ is a pretty good descriptor of around here,” she said as she laid it on the desk. “It's a nice little town, and the forest nearby is nice and quiet as well.” A devious smile flitted across her face. “Just as long as you watch out for the gorgony.” “The what, now?” Wind Shear asked as he flipped through the paperwork. “The gorgony.” She chuckled and settled against the counter, eager to tell the local tale. “The gorgony is a wild mare who lives in the forest. She’s half pony, half cockatrice, and she has snakes for a mane and her eyes can turn anypony who looks at her to stone, just by looking at them! She lives on eating birds and mice whole, and swallows little foals who stay out too late, alive and whole, just like a snake.” She opened her mouth wide for emphasis, showing off her pearly white teeth. “And if she’s not hungry, she turns you to stone. The statues are out there in the forest, only a short walk away. Ponies. Turned. To stone.” She ‘ooh’ed and waved her hooves mysteriously. Wind Shear cracked a smile against his will. “Or they're from a cockatrice, or they're abandoned statues from some old castle buried somewhere in the forest that somepony tried to steal and abandoned when they got too heavy. Either way, it’s a fun story. But seriously. Forest is dangerous, stay away if you value your life and all that good stuff.” She finally selected a key from off the wall behind her. “Alright, your room is room 114, all the way down on the right.” She looked over her shoulder. “Greenie! We got a guest!” A rust-colored earth pony, somewhat larger than the average mare and just a little bit taller than Wind Shear himself, poked her head out from the back room. Her reddish mane hung over one eye, and she gave a small (if shaky) smile. That single eye widened and the smile faded as she recognized him. Her jaw dropped and the cleaning rag she had held in her mouth fell to the ground unnoticed. Wind Shear smiled wryly and gave a little wave at her. So much for anonymity; it had been nice while it had lasted. Moving much faster than seemed physically possible for a mare of her size, she darted over and quite literally dragged Happy Trails away off her stool and behind the door she had come from. Happy Trails didn't even have time to react beyond a few startled squeaks of surprise. He could hear her scattered, confused protests louder than the words Greenie was whispering, but he could tell the exact moment when she revealed his identity (mostly because the protests stopped). And when Happy Trails poked her head back out, her grin was more than the tiniest bit predatory. “So,” she said as she sauntered back and clambered back onto her stool, only able to suppress about half the smile on her lips. “Greenie here says you're quite the author.” “Does she, now?” “Says you wrote the whole Wandering Wheel series.” “Guilty as charged,” Wind Shear said with a half smile. “And the Lonely Heart series.” “Also guilty.” “And the Open Door series.” Wind Shear’s smile flickered. “I've been pretty guilty so far,” he said. “You sure you want a pony of such questionable character staying in your hotel?” “Oh, sure!” Happy Trails said brightly. “We’ve always wanted a celebrity in our place!” “Ha,” Wind Shear snorted wryly. “Pretty sorry celebrity. I haven't published a book in years.” He nodded to Green Hooves, asking her to corroborate this, and she nodded wryly. “Endorsements are about all I'm good for now.” “It's something,” Happy Trails said hopefully. “Anyway, there's your key.” One side of her lips curled up. “Should we be expecting anypony else to send your way, oh master of romance?” Wind Shear scoffed. “Love is for my characters. Or, it would be,” he added quietly. Happy Trails didn't comment, but she did purse her lips knowingly as he left to follow Greenie to his room. The room was nice and cozy, but Wind Shear didn't stay long. He had come for a productive purpose, so he set up the bare necessities, dropped off his bags, and left. Before long, Wind Shear hovered in place, looking out at the forest. This looked like a nice enough place. Happy Trails had been right about at least one thing: the forest was nice and quiet. Perfect for some writing. He landed and scouted out a nearby rock to use as a desk. Finding one, he pulled his typewriter out of his saddlebag and set it up. Now. To write. It was a dark and stormy night, but not too stormy. Or dark. Mostly overcast. With enough light to see, but not clearly. A young colt stepped gingerly through the forest. He was trying to get home, and had decided to take a shortcut through the dangerous forest. He had heard the rumors—who hadn’t?—but he needed to get home. He soon realized it was a mistake. There was a rustling in the woods. “Wh- who’s there?” There was a flash of movement, and then he saw it! A terrible sight! A mare; but what a mare! Her top half was that of a beautiful mare; but her lower half-! A snake! Long and brown and scaly! She approached, her lower jaw unhinged, and with a mighty gulp, she swallowed him whole. Wind Shear tore the paper out of his typewriter, crumpled it between his hooves, and tossed it aside irritably, and it bounced off a rock and into the river and floated away, like all the ones he'd thrown before. And there had been quite a few. Three weeks. Three weeks he'd been here. And that? Forced and bland, just like everything else he'd written here. Nothing was inspiring him. Nothing at all. The negative thought he had been keeping suppressed bubbled up again, and with a heavy sigh, he was finally forced to acknowledge it. Maybe he was done.