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// As the day ends 
// Story: A Fancy Past 
// by SimpleAlternative 
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	It was a warm summer evening in Canterlot. The sun hung low in the western sky. The pegasi had even constructed a formation in which the clouds appeared to shine in compliment of the great ball of fire and its glorious epilogue. Fancypants was admiring the magnificent work, indulging in the fact that it was product of Celestia and the ponies rather than some random occurrence. After enjoying his gaze, he continued on his way to his estate. It had been a long day of reviews and criticism, and he was quite glad to be homeward bound. Fleur had opted to stay behind and get a combined manicure and pedicure, very expensive ones no less, to prepare for the upcoming events of the future. Fancypants did not mind, whatever made her content was worth it.

His walk home was a very leisurely one. Fleur was usually in his company throughout the entire course of the day, so time alone was a rarity. In most cases, when he was separated from Fleur, the crowd of ponies that admired him was not separated from him. This time he had evaded the entourage by accident; Celestia had appeared at the last event of the day. It was her coming that distracted his followers. She had come due to the art gallery’s newest piece: A large mural of her Summer Sun Celebration Ceremony titled “Rising Wonder”. It was an impressive work, masterfully depicting Celestia rising in unison with the sun to its zenith. It was her praise, coupled with his own, that had led to such high spirits in the gallery. He had even had a small chat with Celestia. Quite fun to speak with, he made a note to try to arrange some further meeting later. After the chat however, Fancy had decided it was time to depart, for the day was indeed becoming old. He and Fleur had made their exit. The crowd paid no mind, continuing to swamp Celestia with conversation.	

As he was nearing his estate Fancypants turned his mind to the day ahead. He wondered what the upcoming races may entail, and if it was worth his time to bet anything. It was a fun past time, but money was not an issue either way. In a sense, the betting was just a simple test of wits and observation, nothing more. He decided he would, simply enjoying the fact that if he lost, some of his wealth might be distributed to the respective winners of the guessing game. It would be a benefit to the business owners and artists that had enough to enter in the first place. Extra art and retail didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Finally reaching the doors of his mansion, he entered without delay. Solitude was his for the moment. A unicorn in his private fortress. Fancypants enjoyed the attention he received from his “job” and his spouse, but alone time never hurt anyone.

He glanced at the portrait of his father that hung opposite of the entrance. It was very large with an intricate frame. Within the frame, the face of a white stallion with a blue mane and a matching bearded goatee smiled at his beholder. It was quite obvious who Fancy mirrored in his family. Some had even mistaken the portrait for being one of Fancy himself. It always triggered fond memories of his childhood. His father, no matter how busy he was with reviewing great works, always made time for Fancypants. He had played games and had fun with Fancy while he was little, and was always there with wise words in his later years. It was his father’s ideology that Fancypants held onto the tightest. “No matter what or why, things often are more than they appear; don’t be too quick to judge, son,” his father had often said. He had taught Fancy to think deeper too, never letting first impressions be the only impression something makes. It was a sad day when his father passed. He, along with five other ponies, had been victim of a freak accident with a chandelier at a ball. It had fallen due to faulty supports. Every chandelier installed since then has to pass regulatory checks of integrity, load, etc. Regardless, Fancypants removed all chandeliers from his home.

Fancypants began to walk up to his bedroom. He crossed the vestibule, of which its size rivaled even that of Celestia’s foyer within her castle. He began to ascend the large flight of stairs that led to his living quarters. During the short trip he admired the architecture, mentally noting how long it must have taken to construct the intricate designs that laden the walls and ceiling. The mansion was of a reneighsance design, dating back at least three hundred years. Upon arrival of his bedroom, he removed his dress coat and other fixings of his current attire. Fancy was his name, but he was not going to sit uncomfortable in his own home. After this, he proceeded to his study. He wished to write down some of his thoughts of the day. Many great bookcases dominated the room. Opposite of the door, there was a desk that had writing materials situated upon it. Behind this was a stained glass window. It had no particular depiction, just a comfortable design of curved lines and shapes of reds and yellows that bathed the room in warm light. It faced the west, so evening was a perfect time to reside in this room; it took advantage of the magnificent display the window and the sun created. 

Fancypants went to sit behind the desk. There was no chair, but this was Fancy’s preference. He had seen a few ponies sit in such ways that would make use of the chair in this situation, but he couldn’t find that manner of sitting comfortable. The desk was perfect height for a pony to sit upon the floor and write anyway. 

As he documented some of his past experiences and mental notes, his mind turned to an observation he had made long ago. He knew that his opinion carried weight, but its actual weight was much heavier than he had first imagined. At one point, he had positively reviewed a fancy restaurant, and by the next day it had doubled in popularity. He actually held the power to entirely reverse popular opinion. He had tested this once on a barber shop that was known for having rather poor social service. He had said that it was a fine establishment in which the barber was so focused on his job that he nearly never spoke. It had become the most famous barber shop in Canterlot. Needless to say, Fancy was the recipient of free mane cuts and facial trimmings henceforth.

Fancy Pants tried to recall why his word was so important. Early on, he had accompanied his father to many auctions and art exhibits. He was probably pegged as his father’s successor, though not entirely untrue, and many ponies must have assumed he was just as versed in artistic judgment as his father. The earliest criticism Fancy could recall was when he said a certain statue was very well sculpted at an auction, and ten different ponies all began to bid like mad for it. The reputation from father to son stuck, as it seemed. Ever since then, crowds nearly begged for his opinion on what was what.

Fancy heard the doors close from down in the vestibule. Fleur must have arrived. He sat the quill he was levitating via magic down and started out of the room to meet his wife. It had been a long day and he was looking forward to relaxing with her, perhaps chat about events past by the lounge’s fireplace. He smiled at the prospect and met her at the staircase.