There are uncounted stories about how the Town got started, most involving a mythical goddess of the evening. She is usually depicted as a blend of Celestia and Stellamara because... storytellers are lazy, I suppose.
None of the Folk use the word "Twilight" much. With nearly everything West of the Black Ridge having some variation of that word attached to it, everybody just says "the Docks", "the Valley", "the Mountain", or what have you, for simplicity's sake. Some new residents will even go as far as to only say "dusk" or "sunset" in normal conversation, even when it sounds awkward. That's purely an affectation, and it has the opposite of the intended effect, marking them out as pretenders.
That's not to say that nobody believes in the Alicorn of the Evening. Quite the opposite. There must be a half dozen major sects in town plus more little near-cults than it is reasonable to keep track of, all certain that they know the exact particulars of how Twilight the Terrible wanted everybody to conduct themselves. There's one group that goes as far as to stipulate which hooves must touch the floor in which order when arising in the morning, and they're not the weirdest bunch.
Fortunately for the rest of us, every archdiocese, oddfellowship, and llamanate agrees on one unalterable divine precept: "Get along, or else." The exact consequences are not stipulated. As devout followers of the Scholar Queen, the congregants are given free rein to imagine the appropriate horrors. The rest of us Townies pretty much agree with that particular rule and go about our business, neither knowing nor caring about any other holy truths.
On the rare occasion that I gave the matter of our founding any thought at all, I assumed that, because our national symbol is a bull's head, the Town had most likely been started at some time in the far-distant past by minotaur traders. Our half-day, half-night creation myth must be the product of pony chauvinism, or an attempt to one-up the foreign alicorns in Canterlot who moved the sun and moon. It's very easy for a goddess to be superior to both Celestia and Stellamara combined when she didn't need to actually exist.
But I have come to—doubt my casual disbelief.
I had lived in Town for several years and settled in quite nicely, forming a small and select circle of friends and lovers. But things change.
I moved out to this little bungalow when I became too restless to be good company. The joy I used to take at dining out and lingering over coffee or drinks in the Old Town had disappeared. Sitting at a café and attempting to exchange pleasantries and gossip with friends who happened to pass by had become tedious.
The bungalow had come cheap. It was isolated and exposed to storms sweeping in off the sea. Unpleasant for the outgoing and friendly Folk, but ideal for my mood. There were only two rooms, but the tiny one at the rear of the house was ideal for the foal, and the larger one that opened onto the broad veranda on three sides suited me well enough.
I spent most of my time outdoors, reading or merely staring at the crash of waves on the black basalt far below. I thought I would drink more, but the bottles on the low shelf beside the door gathered dust, only occasionally smeared by a hoofprint.
Meadowsweet had arranged for a pegasus filly to come out and clean for me once a week. I hardly needed it; I am a stallion of neat habits and the foal wasn't old enough yet to produce significant dirt or disarray. Well—I'm sure Sweet had given the cleaning girl private instructions to evaluate my "situation" and report back. At least the filly did her work quickly and efficiently without attempting to converse with me.
The foal was at the crawling stage, so I carefully attached fine netting all along the veranda railing. I tried to keep its explorations confined to the large room where a decent enough carpet covered the floor, but the open air, the clouds, and the birds seemed to fascinate it, and there was no sense in taking chances.
Occasionally, someone would come up from the town with my mail or some business papers to sign. I am not one to neglect my duties, and so I carefully stomped the forms and replied to the enquiries and put the unopened envelopes of personal correspondence in the drawer of my nightstand.
Sometimes there were storms and I would fasten the big shutters across the front of the house to block out the rain. Sometimes the sea breeze died entirely, and I fastened the big shutters across the side of the house to block out the noise from the town below.
I had dreams, of course, but I hardly ever remembered their content. When I did, I drank.
That particular night was fine. The breeze was gentle and balmy and the sky was bright with stars—unclouded. I opened all three sides of the bungalow. I read for a while before bed, using some of my limited supply of lamp oil in order to finish a particularly interesting chapter, and then lay down on top of the covers and drifted off.
The nightmare came suddenly. I dreamed an explosion of lightning, and rolled over to see a huge, dark shape ripping at the railing of the veranda, shattering the wood and tearing away the netting as easily as if it were paper. I started up in terror and backed away toward the stairs that led to the narrow, cliffside path to town.
But the dark mare wasn't interested in me. She turned to the back of the house, her rapier horn scoring the roof beams and her flared wings casually tumbling the furniture as she strode to the doorway of the back room.
I screamed out something, a wordless protest barely audible over the thunderous hoof falls of the thing that scooped the foal out of its crib with a black wing. She turned and gave me one merciless sneer before growling, "Mine, now."
The alicorn leaped into the roiling storm and vanished as I awoke, gasping.
The night was quiet. The gentle breeze had cooled. I stumbled to the back room to find the foal was gone.
I wasted several frantic seconds searching the confines of the small space and then I knew. I knew with that awful certainty one sometimes has in dreams, and I ran to the veranda to find a little tear in the netting. It was so very, very small, yet large enough.
But there, nearly below the level of the floor, dim in the moonless night, was a little spot of color, the pale green that I knew so well. And there was a soft, desperate cry that could have been a sea bird disturbed in its sleep.
I lifted her up and untangled her tiny hoof from the frayed bit of netting, then hugged her to my chest and wept as silently as I could until she quieted and fell asleep.
I looked out into the night and whispered to a creature that may have been a demon or may have been a goddess, "No!” I paused for a moment, looking for some sign I had been understood before continuing, "Mine. She's my daughter."
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