//------------------------------//
// Sunday, Nov. 14 
// Story: Eagleheart 
// by Metal Pony Fan 
//------------------------------//

Sunday, November 14th,

So, I’m engaged.  Didn’t see that one coming, did you?  Neither did I.  But, it happened, and here I am, writing that journal entry I said I wouldn’t be writing.  I just don’t know what else to do.  I can’t exactly talk to anyone about this.  Though, I should probably explain why.

I am Eagleheart, son of Lionheart.  My father is the chieftain of a sizable aerie in the eastern Riverkill Mountains.  Interesting bit of useless linguistics, kill means river, so I live in the river river mountains, go figure.  Anywho, there’s another aerie on the western side of the range, according to everything I’ve heard, both aeries have been at war for generations, but the fighting stopped right around the time I was born.  Turns out there’s a reason for that.  Right around the time I was born, the chieftain of the other aerie had a daughter; I bet you can put two and two together.  I am now engaged to one Gilda Greypatch, a gryphon I have never met, or even heard of before today.

Needless to say, I am not happy about this, but the alternative is returning to war.  As much as I am trained to be a warrior, my studies have led me to appreciate peace.  I have read countless depictions of battles and heard tales from many who have fought, including my mentor, Silverclaw, and I must say I would not wish war on anyone. It seems that, for the sake of the aerie, my fate has been decided.  I can only hope this Gilda is easy to get along with.

Who knows?  She may even be cute.

Eagleheart

P.S.  Am I supposed to sign each entry?  I’m really not sure, this journal thing didn’t come with instructions.

P.P.S.  The military has been running drills since this morning.  Father said that there is going to be a grand demonstration at the wedding, and he wants it to be perfect.  That means they will be running drills day and night for the next two weeks.  Didn’t I mention?  The wedding is two weeks from yesterday.  (I’m so glad they gave me such an early warning.)

P.P.P.S.  It’s really hard to sleep right now, those military drills are quite noisy





Sunday, fourteenth of November.

Dear Diary,

I hate everything.

That stupid colt!  He didn’t even have the nerve to tell me in pony.  He just invited me to dinner and left a note at our usual table.  It read,



	Dear Rose,

Smudge, smudge, smudge.  It’s not you, it’s me.

Smudge.



I could barely read the thing, it was all smudged and covered in tomato sauce.  I assumed he wrote it while eating, so I asked the restaurant staff if he’d been there.  Guess what?  He was.  He had dinner with another mare.  At our table.  And he wrote the break-up letter while stuffing his face with pasta.  It wasn’t even written in pen or pencil, he stole a yellow crayon from a four-year old colt at a nearby table.  I was astounded he had the decency not to write it on a napkin, until I found out he wrote it on the back of the bill, the UNPAID bill.

Anyway, here I am, crying over my poor choice in stallions and pouring my heart out to a diary.  I feel sixteen again.  Only, when I was sixteen, I wouldn’t have been able to afford to spend fifty-three bits on Istallion food.  That’s another thing, he never spent that much on any meal before, that ungrateful little gelding!   He’s a pond-scum sucking low-life who with delusions of adequacy, and if that bag of fur ever-  You know what, I’m going to stop myself before this gets out of hoof, and just go cry myself to sleep.  I am giving up on this whole romance thing once and for all.

Also, happy birthday to me.  I didn’t even get a cake.

Rose(not so)luck(y)

P.S.  He had better not come around my flowershop on hearts and hooves day, or I will personally kick his flank to the moon.