//------------------------------// // Chapter Four: Life Goes On // Story: Inquiline Imposter // by Nyarlathi //------------------------------// With an infant’s sleep schedule, White Hat couldn’t be sure how many days were passing, just that pass they did - and without any sign of rescue. It was a thought that weighed heavily on him, and, if he was honest, he was kind of thankful that his status as a baby gave him free rein to cry without the judgement of these strangers who had become his family. Babies cried all the time, and the clutch he’d been hatched into was no exception. It helped, he found, to openly cry with the others and be gently comforted. This sort of comfort, if his truly young self had experienced it, was too far back in his childhood memories for him to easily recall. For this reason, although he felt guilty for deriving some comfort from his situation, he decided to latch onto the opportunity to be loved, to accept the affection meant for a true member of the clutch he’d been planted in. He needed the support right then, so why not accept it when it was so freely and earnestly given? He began to respond more to the cuddles, nuzzles and grooming he was given, reciprocating as best he could. Considering how changelings fed, this was a wise choice, though he hadn’t actually considered that angle. For another thing, though he didn’t know it yet, he was being groomed for the throne, and a growing Royal needed more love to develop than an average ‘ling. He had noticed an increase in appetite as time rolled on - that was normal for a developing larva, right? Technically it seemed to be, but… he seemed to be the one who was hungry the longest, somehow. It wasn’t just by fluke either - it was a consistent effect, and the adults around him seemed to expect it. Was this perhaps more evidence for his hypothesis that he was considered sickly and being treated as such? Was it possible that he had wound up somehow malnourished in the shell? He was glad, if that was the case, that this culture didn’t seem to dispose of unhealthy infants. Still, he hoped that he’d be able to shake off whatever ailment he might have soon - he was starting to feel quite bloated, uncomfortably pressed against his skin, and so very itchy. To his dismay, though he was the first to present such symptoms, he was far from the last. Apologetic and under the impression that he had spread some kind of infection through the nest, White Hat crooned softly to his siblings and nuzzled them, trying to be comforting. His actions seemed to please the Queen, who broadcast love and affection to him first, and then the others. As he tried to lift his clutchmates’ spirits, cracks began to appear in their fluffy skins, revealing damp fresh fuzz beneath, and he realised with a start what was really going on. They weren’t sick, they were shedding skins! Not something he’d have associated with equines, but they were quite a bit like bugs… An idea sprung upon him, and he did his best to send it to the others over their fledgeling hivemind links. Nothing fancy, just a mental image of tiny changeling jaws pulling at the old skin while he demonstrated on the nearest larva to him. To his delight, the others immediately followed his lead, chewing on him and each other until finally they could all relax, sprawled in their nest regaining their breath as the grubs they now were. Basking in the Queen’s love and pride directed their way, White Hat realised with glee that he had legs now. That would be useful for exploring with - among so many other things - however stubby they were. For some reason, he seemed to be larger now than the other grubs, something which puzzled him, but he was too sleepy to really give it all that much thought. Yawning, he snuggled down and sank into slumber. Meanwhile, far from the snug safety of the hive’s burrows, a lone doe racing her way through the trees with fearful swiftness sought out a place to hide. Leaping over bushes and fallen branches, she ducked into a bolthole, sucking in air as she steadied herself. In truth, nothing had been at her heels, but even as she rested her achy old joints, terror still lanced through her. She’d been on her way home from the fawnsitting job she’d picked up in Thicket, feeling content and somewhat replete. That was fairly normal, it was true, but what she’d seen - that was about as far from normal as a Discordian disco. Those eyes - like miniature fallen suns, feral of any alicorn whim and filled with terrible understanding. A hollow coat of cold ashes, hanging mid-air untouched by the breeze, dusty magnifying glass suspended within. For hair, a weave of dulled, trapped sunbeams, and - and she needed to stop dwelling on it so much. Panic could get you out of danger, but it could just as easily land you right back in, if you weren’t careful. Not to mention, the others had to be warned. Not yet quite daring to leave her hiding place, she reached out for the comforting togetherness in her mind to make her report. If the Lost Filly was active, then the darker forces she was tied to naturally would be as well, and that was a threat not to be left unchecked. To the aged Scout’s profound relief, the paternal mental presence of Patrol Leader Pronotum assured her that the matter would be handled. How, she neither knew nor cared, so long as she could get back to her nice, safe burrow and not have to worry about any of this. Stepping cautiously out of the bolthole she’d taken sanctuary in, she flickered out of deerhood to seek out a hive entrance in the form of a manticore - to avoid being bothered by any creature, hopefully. This matter had ceased to be her problem, and she just wanted to rest up.