The first thing that struck Smolder about Ponyville was just how soft it felt.
Her rough scales and sharp claws, acclimated to the Dragon Lands' rocky, kindred terrain, flattened the deceptively named blades of grass and dug into the malleable dirt that lied beneath. The vibrant buildings, exposed and predominantly flammable, almost begged her to stop by, a far cry from the jagged, unwelcoming caves that dotted the nooks and crannies she knew so well. Tartarus, not even the air felt familiar; here, it was cool and crisp, unburdened by the sulfur-laden smog — both volcanic and draconic — that permeated the skies of home.
It was all so… comforting. Too comforting. Like it was just asking to get kicked around, engulfed in flames, and ripped into the little smiling shreds it clearly deserved to be.
And she was supposed to learn something from this place?
Ha. How silly.