Chapter. 1 Prologue
Under the steel skies and the cool autumn winds, the wet branches dull any leaves and the hot sun shielded by the dark clouds. On a field adjacent to a small river is a farm. The smell of dirt and hay on an icy day, the sound of hoof sinking into the muddy river bed. His fur and the muddy river have a lot in common, brown, wet, and rough. The sharp rocks break apart the water flow, though he doesn't know where these rocks came from. Holding a rope connected to a bucket, he dips his head down to get some water, and he sputtered when the water went up to his nose. It almost opens his mouth and makes him drop the bucket. He envies the unicorns who could use their magic to get their water. His tongue is used to the scratchy texture of the rope, but still, no matter how many times his ma tells him to fetch the water, he disdains the rope taste.
Valiant, a young stallion at the age of 16, looks back towards the farm. He lets out a gentle huff before approaching the building. Earth ponies like him are pretty used to the roughness of farm life. He would kick his legs one by one to remove any dirt from his hoves as he enters his home. The house is a simple one, made of wood with the base made of stone. Carvings decorate the walls and ceilings, the walls of his ancestors. They depict stories and history of the family; some of the carvings are that of flowers, some are of storms, others are of different ponies throughout the ages, every single generation found and lost, written in the house's walls. The smell of porridge slips into his nose as he places the bucket on the table, taking a small sip from the bucket's water. The muddy freshness washes the taste of the rope.
Stirring the pot at a steady pace is a mare. Her long dark mane resting upon her shoulders, her tall magnificent stature, and her slim figure, she is a foreign pony. There are some grays in her manes, the worn-out textures of her hooves, and the scruffiness of her coat show that she worked her entire life. After placing the spoon on the side of the pot, she looks at him, and her piercing green eyes stare straight at his leafy green hues.
"You brought the water, good. Now go clean yourself. The Haunt will arrive soon, and I want you to look your best for your first job."
She speaks, grabbing a jar of lavender oil and dripping into the water, and the scent is lovely to his nose. He rarely ever use the oils, mainly cause Ma refuses to let anyone touch it, but now to smell it gives him some anxiety. After cleaning himself using a wet rag and his mother's help, he found out that lavender oil river water tastes worse than old rope.
The house is quiet; only the sound of the fireplace crackles across the room as Valiant stood near the flames, feeling his coat drying up with the warmth. His father went to the village to fetch a basket of apples. Valiant can't help but frown, feeling his heart fall to his hooves in the thought of not seeing his family again; he probably won't be able to say goodbye to his father and his six older brothers. He waits in anticipation; the Haunt could be at his door at any moment—the pique of anxiety and the stomach-churning sensation. Approaching the window to take a tiny peek, his left hoof rests upon the dark wooden window frame. Staring out towards the North, at Stallion String Hill, how he remembered hearing eerie noises from that hill at night. Legends say that after the great war, they rounded up every soldier that surrendered, and the soldiers who ran away from the battle were hanged there, the trees so large that hanging a station was easy as cutting butter. Legends also say that the ghouls and ghosts want to snatch away the bodies of those who linger on that hill. Looking away from the window, he approaches his mother, opening his mouth to speak.
The world swirls around him as the churning anxiety crawls up his neck, the sense of dread of the reality hitting him in the face. He will have to leave everything behind for a future unknown, and for what? He may be coming of age, but there ought to be a different, safer job than to be a haunt, right? If he runs away now, will his mother and father still look at him with dignity? Swallowing his words, his ears soon perks up when his mother began to speak.
"Valiant, you are old enough to work, and yet you have no cutie mark." Speaks his mother, her tone low, sending a wash of shame to flush down Valiants throat. His ears duck low as he looks away, a sigh escaping his lips. "This is a natural thing; you are born to be great. You need some time to marinate." She comments distantly. Valiant nods his head silently, still unsure of what to say to her. No matter what he says, it won't matter to his mother either way. Despite her words of him becoming great, he feels so...small and useless in the eyes of his mother. He wonders, if secretly deep down, she hates him.
There came a knock at the door. The Haunt is here.
Valiants heart leaps up to his throat. He slowly opens the door, and in walks a hooded figure. The leather is of good quality, despite it being so worn. Heavy hooves and a thick and heavy head, as if all of the years weigh down his face. Deep blue eyes are similar to a wolf's stare down at the shivering Valiant. His coat is that of coal, with his hair the color of twilight. A draft horse, tall built, never had he ever seen a pony so big.
"You must be the haunt," Speaks the mother unfazed. "A pleasure to have you in our humble abode."