//------------------------------//
// Gruel Scum. 
// Story: The Dark Below 
// by WindigogoGadget 
//------------------------------//

The kitchens had never been colder.

Ponies had never- ever, been in charge of the kitchens to this degree. Nor did they have so many willing volunteers. But most importantly, the kitchens had never felt so much more...

Empty. 

Gruel Scum, didn't understand. The kitchens felt empty and cold and lifeless, in a way that hurt its heart and head, pains that it didn't comprehend. Physically it was fine, uninjured. So, what had been the problem?

Did anybody expect Welcome Home to retire? No. Nobody did. Retirements didn't happen. Jobs would change, and ponies most certainly did retire, but they were ageless, purpose built and made to last, so to retire was an oddity. An oddity made even stranger by the frequent breaks they took, and the odd stillness that the old owner had in privacy.

Gruel Scum said nothing. But felt an oddity. None had asked it what they had seen, so it had said nothing.

They had all made one banquet at the largest table ever made or tended in the hall, and with all that cheer, things seemed like they'd be fine. But when he left, it was as if a little bit of colour had been drained from the building. 

Then the patrons stopped being so happy. It had noticed this as it had to dial back the typical excitement for the days greeting, the modern ponies either accustomed or annoyed. But they seemed quieter. They ate less, made less noise. It was strange.

There was less to clean. And it felt something strange at being told that it's job was done earlier than anticipated. 

It felt even stranger, as more and more of the crew- the family, the staff, began to retire. They too fell into those odd fits. They too deteriorated. Cake Baker & Hearth Keeper were the first go after Pot Tender had left. 

The hall was colder without Hearth Keepers natural skills, the way they made coals dance and flames roar. The smell of fresh breads and pastry was like-wise diminished, even as they continued to produce at the expected daily amount. They had half, maybe less, of the original staff. It didn't even know they could do something other than work here. Nor did it ever hear news of them again.

Gruel Scum wandered. He. Wandered. Unexpectedly and consciously aimless, he wandered the hall. He picked up plates, now neat and orderly instead of spread around and messy with crumbs and sauces and marks from mugs decorating the tables. He picked up plates, and cleaned.

Returning again to the main dining area, he stared at the painting. He looked at it. Inspected it. Thought about it. A rendition of the city built upon a hill, in front of a setting sun. Yellow and green grass, gold dipping behind black waters. It inspected it with understanding, and yet what it was about and what it was, was still so far away. It was the last remaining constant in the hall. 

It cleaned the dust off again, carefully, tenderly, afraid to break it in spite of decades of practiced motions and experience. As it cleared away white dust from its idol, it had but one thought, one giant idea that it held close like a spear delivered from the heavens- to ward away the darkness and weary air that encroached on its existence. 

Deliver us from evil.