Day 6…
I dreamed of the blind sea pony.
“A touch of destiny…” she said before releasing a cackle. Then there was a harsh booming noise.
*
I woke with a start when I heard the storm. Shift instantly shot towards my head, shaking like a leaf. Grabbing my bag (I didn’t want to lose anything), I went up on the deck, where I could hear the captain shouting orders to his crew, which included his niece, a familiar silvery blue unicorn. The captain continued.
“Trixie, Lower the sails! Mr. Lagoon, secure the rigging! We’ll ride out this storm, and I need all of you in order to make that happen!”
In the confusion, nopony noticed me.
Just like how I did not notice the figure who tossed me over the side into a lifeboat. As my head hit the wood, the world faded to black.
…
Day 7…
I heard sea birds, and I felt the sun on my face. I opened my eyes, and I was greeted with the sight of Shift’s face. He cocked his head and chirped questioningly.
I smiled. “I’m fine. Have you seen the bag, Shift? I want to make sure everything in it is okay.”
Shift pointed, and I turned to see the bag lying in the sand. I got up and went over to it, carefully opening it, and thanking Celestia that the bag was just as waterproof as the salespony had promised. All my supplies appeared to be in place, save for my hoodie, which I had left in my quarters.
I looked at my surroundings. It appeared as though Shift and I were trapped on an island, with several trees, though something seemed off. Then I realized what it was, and my eyes widened, the pupils shrinking.
The trees were only about six feet high. Whoever had thrown me overboard (and I had a good feeling that it was a certain black pegasus mare) had inadvertently allowed me to find the place I had been looking for!
Something flew up to my face and hovered in front of my nose. It appeared to be a giant species of hummingbird, with a wingspan about three feet long and a plumage which was a deep blue color. But that was not the most unusual thing about it. No, what was unusual was the fact that it appeared to have a complex rigging attached to its underside, strapped inside which was a tiny yellow pony, only about six inches tall at the shoulders. He stared at me in shock, and then, pulling the reigns of his mount (is it technically still called a mount if the rider and harness is slung under it?), he turned, causing the bird to fly back towards the miniature forest.
I stood there for a minute before Shift rapped my skull with his knuckles. I snapped out of my daze began running after the flash of blue.
…
I wasn’t quite sure how Shift and I had been ambushed. One minute, I had been following the bird, the next, Shift and I were tied to the ground and surrounded by tiny ponies waving swords and shouting in a very musical language. I noticed one thing immediately. These ponies were a race of FLIGHTLESS PEGASI! Their wings only seemed useful for allowing them to jump farther than normal. I remembered reading something like this in one of Dartwing’s books.
I have noticed on my travels that it seems to be the common practice of certain winged creatures, that when presented with a sufficient amount of food and a limited amount of predators, over time, experience atrophying of the wing muscles. They may keep their wings, but they will eventually adapt to a purpose alternative to flight, such as balance, as a method of underwater propulsion, or for display. I can easily imagine a group of pegasi who, by living a more and more terrestrial lifestyle, could eventually be rendered flightless, their wings becoming smaller, useful only for extending their jumps, or perhaps becoming brightly colored in the males to attract mates. Such is the way of nature.
Here was the proof of what that great naturalist had written, for I noticed the small stallions also had brightly colored wings. I was able to observe this well, as some sort of leader now stood before me. Well, I assumed he was a leader from his fancy purple robe and tiny feathered headdress. He was a soft green color, but his miniscule wings were adorned with bright scarlet and baby blue stripes, a common feature I noticed in all the males. He looked at me, and said something quickly in a foreign language. I attempted to signal to him that I did not understand his tongue, and to my surprise, he seemed to understand my meaning, if not my language. I tried to request that I would like to be free of my bindings, and though he seemed to understand, he shook his head in a definitive “no.”
A conversation started up. Among the words I heard, the phrase “Kippickt nagall” was repeated. Several days later I would realize that this phrase could be translated loosely into “Mare-Mountain,” perhaps not the most flattering title (I didn’t sneak Bonbon’s candies away that much… okay, I did, but it wasn’t noticeable!), but I guess it was fitting to them, considering how massive I must seem.
The leader raised a hoof, and the crowd fell silent.
“Mikitsi flooparl!” he shouted, and the soldiers (at least, that’s what they looked like) began to go through my bag! Well, that was more than I could take!
I honestly had not wanted to use my magic. There had been stories of pony researchers who had lived among primitive tribes who eventually worshipped them as deities. Eventually, those researchers began to believe the lie, and eventually either died when they tried to prove they were immortal or were rescued and taken to the nearest asylum for rehabilitation. The last thing I wanted was to be worshipped (okay, I did actually want to be worshipped, but by a nice stallion, not a race of pygmies!), but I couldn’t let them go through my stuff. My horn glowed, and the ropes holding me down came loose. I looked at the tiny pegasi and said very clearly, “That’s MINE. DON’T touch it unless I say so.”
There was a standstill, and I wondered what would happen next.