//------------------------------// // Chapter 3 // Story: Finding Inspiration // by bahatumay //------------------------------// Wind Shear chewed absentmindedly on the weeds he'd just pulled. Not bad, but they could definitely have used some salt. A sharp gasp made him look up. He saw a shadow flit behind the house. That had looked like a pony! “Hello?” he called, following. He made it behind his house, and saw the shadow disappear around the next corner. “Hey!” He spread his wings and flew after the mysterious pony. He was faster; he cut in front of the stranger and landed in front of the open gate, barring the path. It was a pink pony wearing a black cloak, who quickly turned around to face the other direction, prepared to keep running. “Stop!” Wind Shear called. After the briefest of hesitations, the pony did. Now that he could get a good look at her, he could see it was a very ragged cloak, very tattered and threadbare. The pony wearing it looked like a mare, though, even under the hood. “Was it you?” he asked. She didn't answer. Still facing away, she pawed uncomfortably at the ground. “Did you save my life?” Wind Shear tried again. She still didn't answer. Wind Shear lowered his voice. “It's alright. I just wanted to say ‘thank you’. Don't be afraid.” “I'm not,” she whispered. Her voice sounded lovely. “Then turn around.” “Then you'll be afraid.” Wind Shear snorted. “Of what? Of you?” In answer, she turned around and flipped her hood down in one motion. “Of me,” she confirmed. Wind Shear froze. His ears pinned and his eyes widened. He rocked backwards and stuttered, “G- g- g-!” “Gorgony?” she supplied softly with a small, vicious smile. For she could be nothing else. Her pupils were slitted, sharp fangs poked out from under her upper lip, little patches of green scales that looked almost like alopecia dotted her body, marring her otherwise pink coat, and her mane was composed of five writhing, brown, restless snakes. “Y- yeah,” Wind Shear breathed. “That.” There was a pause. They looked at each other. “Little tip for you: Don't eat those weeds.” Then she turned and ran away, circling around his cottage and jumping over the fence, disappearing into the forest at a dead gallop. Wind Shear could only stare at her departing form, his lips wordlessly working, unable to articulate the words on his mind. All legends had some basis in fact, sure, every writer admitted it; but this… this was insane. Wind Shear ate wholeheartedly. The weeds from earlier had made him a bit sick, and, long story short, his stomach (and bowels) were completely empty and his house needed to be aired out. Badly. Happy Trails came over to refill his glass. “So, did you find them? Your knight in shining armor?” Wind Shear chuckled. The best lie was the one with mostly truth in it. “I think so, but she ran away before we could really talk. I think she was just shy.” Happy Trails chuckled. “Nothing wrong with a little shy pony,” she said. She looked back over her shoulder to where Green Hooves was working in the kitchen. She winked, trying to get her attention, but she was watching her muffins intently through the oven door. Wind Shear looked down at a strange sensation of cold. “Happy?!” “Oh!” For in her distraction, she had forgotten the glass, and water was now pooling on the table. “I'm so sorry!” Wind Shear was a pegasus, and was certainly not opposed to a little water. But he was also not opposed to receiving free apology dessert, either. Everypony knew that the earth ponies were the keepers of the food. One version of the Hearth’s Warming Eve play specifically mentioned that the earth ponies were put in charge of the food because they knew instinctively which plants were good to eat and which were not. And Wind Shear was most definitely not an earth pony. He could have sworn that those mushrooms he had found looked identical to the ones in Greenie’s salad, but judging by how his world was spinning and how the sky seemed to be beneath him as he walked, they were most definitely not. He'd already thrown them up, but the damage had been done. He wasn't even sure where he was going. He had hoped to get back to his house to sleep it off, but he probably should have gotten there by now, right? Which way was home, anyway? Sick and delirious, he wandered on and on and on. Trees he passed looked familiar. Hadn't he passed that bush? Or was that bush the one by his cottage? He had no idea. Surely he was close to there by now? He could not remember, but he still pressed on. But the splotches around his vision grew darker, what he could see grew blurrier, and his legs quit responding properly, turning his stumbling into dragging and sliding. The last thing he remembered was a blurry smudge of black and pink. Wind Shear slowly opened one eye, taking in his surroundings. His first impression was that he was safe, probably. He was wearing a blanket. Wild animals wouldn't give you a blanket, especially not if they were intending on eating you. Wait. No, this was that black threadbare cloak the gorgony had been wearing. Oh, dear. He looked over, almost afraid of what he might see. Sure enough, there was a pink mare facing away from him, holding a large knife. His ears pinned, remembering how the legend said she ate ponies, and his mind jumped to himself being chopped up and cooked in a stew. Boiled! One of the snakes noticed his movement. It looked over at him, unblinking, and flicked its tongue; and the mare suddenly looked over. “You're awake!” she said pleasantly, setting down the knife. Wind Shear thought it wise to not antagonize the pony who had rescued him twice now. “Yeah, I- ow!” For she had hit him upside the head with the lettuce stalk she had been cutting. “What were you thinking?” she demanded harshly. “What?” She whacked him again. “I know the signs of Ear of Threstral poisoning when I see them. You ate mushrooms you weren't a hundred percent sure on, and almost paid with your life.” She exhaled and dropped the lettuce back onto the stump she was using as a cutting board, much to Wind Shear’s relief, and turned back to her work. “Just be grateful they weren't a bit more pink. I'd’ve found you dead.” “I thought I'd had them before.” She scoffed. “And you didn't stop to think, ‘oh, these are a bit more bitter than I remember, maybe I shouldn't eat them’?” she demanded, turning to glare at him. “I did; I just… thought I hadn't prepared them right,” Wind Shear defended himself weakly. The gorgony shook her head. It was a strange sight; her head moved, but the snakes stayed in place, all watching him, judging him. “Just… maybe avoid eating wild mushrooms from now on.” “Alright,” Wind Shear agreed with a shudder. At this point, he doubted he’d be able to eat anything with mushrooms again, regardless of who had made it. She turned around and continued chopping. “Anyway, you should be good by now. I’ll get you something to eat, and then get you home.” “Thanks, uh…” Wind Shear realized he didn't actually know her name. She didn't offer it. “You're welcome.” “I'm Wind Shear,” he tried. This attempt didn't fare much better. “Charmed,” she said with just a hint of sarcasm. But if there was any consolation, the salad she slid in front of him was tasty. Light, composed of wild plants, and served without dressing or cheese, but tasty. He couldn’t help but notice, though, that she did not eat. Wind Shear grunted as he bumped his hoof once again into something he couldn't see. “Ow! Is the blindfold really necessary?” he whined. “You can’t know where I live,” she insisted. “Why not?” Wind Shear asked. “It has never ended well when ponies learn where I live. Hunting parties. Foals exploring late at night on dares. I once got approached for one of those pyramid schemes, and that mare would not leave.” She audibly smirked. “Her bits are still in her pockets. Won't do her much good now that she’s a statue, though.” “So that part’s real?” Wind Shear asked, morbidly curious. “Yes, and I'll prove it on you if you don't shut it,” she warned. Wind Shear decided to choose life and did so. A few stumbles and trips later, Wind Shear was certain that he had more bruises than he had hooves. And at least one fetlock was bleeding. Still, the smell of parsnips let him know that she had indeed brought him home. She roughly tore the blindfold off. “If you follow me back, I'll turn you into a stone scarecrow and put you in your own garden,” she threatened. “Right,” Wind Shear said. He sat down, and noticed with mild trepidation that her tail had no hair; just the bare dock that would have done almost nothing to cover her. “I'll, just, uh, stay here, then.” She pulled the tattered cloak over herself again, covering the pair of white, pentagonal flowers on her flank. “Wise choice.” She tightened it, and as she turned to leave, she paused. “Morning Glory,” she said, not looking back. Wind Shear cocked his head. Wasn't that a plant? Was it a warning? A request? “Is that something I-” “No. Th- that's my name. Morning Glory.” “Oh. Nice to meet you.” “Thanks.” And with that, she took off back into the forest.