//------------------------------//
// X 
// Story: Wayfarer 
// by The Plebeian 
//------------------------------//

The Baltimare cityscape takes form in glossy dark hues. Incredible box-like buildings stretch far into the sky from a concrete grey. Pale white light bounces off glass panes in multitude, and although there are few colors adopted throughout the city, it somehow seems like it needs them not. Down on the black-paved streets, separated only by a trolley-line through the middle, the pale light finds the ground only through reflection, and the starlight is all but lost. The moonlight dies coldly on the pavement, simply too modern for its tastes. If it does manage to strike the pavement, it is not noticed. 

Myriad lights decorate the glassy buildings, whether mere beads or lit windows, both in the apartments and the offices. The way the buildings send light leaping across the city is remarkable, and makes it glitter in fantastic multicolor. The strange lights become the city’s own set of colors, challenging the sky to match it. Still, the stars take no such challenge, and keep their dim illumination constant. It is an art they have mastered. The lights of the city claim victory, unable to understand that no city light can truly mimic a star. Stars are, by nature, unreachable, untouchable. Therein lies their splendor. Still, the city revels in its own flickering splendor, unaware. 

The street is empty, and the metal and concrete add to the cold chill of the scene. The buildings are, for the most part, unmarked, though a few boast the names of companies. It seems strange to build so far upward, in hundreds, thousands of feet. In Canterlot, buildings are made tall for splendor, elegance. However, the strange buildings of Baltimare are the same floor, repeated artlessly, their only distinguishing marks from floor to floor being the lights in the glass. Most of the rooftops simply end flat. Others add an extra pyramid-like point at the top, but are, in the end, no more interesting. The street extends endlessly forward, featuring an impossible stretch of such buildings lined nearly side-to-side. The black paving is bisected every two hundred hooves or so by another street. A perfect grid.

Side by side, they walk, and he speaks.

His wings are tucked at his sides, though the tempo of his walk seems broken, nervous. His blue-green eyes try to meet hers, but appear wide, in a sense of fear. Still, his mouth is open in a warm smile. The flame-red feather is tucked back against his mane, his bag swinging carelessly back and forth along his right side, his money pouch still sorely unweighted.
She is to his left, an invisible nervousness locking her muscles tense, but still managing somehow to walk. Her wings look strained to stay folded, nervously shaking and shivering. Still, she smiles, her eyes fixed upon his. Her head is lowered a bit, unsure if and how she should respond.

She decides she likes how he talks. If she could only find the strength to talk back.

The moon finds its way to them through the urban sprawl, adding a faint shine to their coats, although neither finds a particular vibrancy in the moonlight. The vibrancy lies, once again, where their eyes meet. Both find a certain hope in each other, though they know not whether its image is true, or merely an illusion. Her eyes have taken in many illusions before, many ghosts. It leaves her wary, but he has struck a part of her quite differently. He is not silent like she is, but perhaps she never looks for her own silence. Perhaps she merely needs to find a stallion who knows what to say. Has he ever loved before? Perhaps she should ask. In her eyes, though, is found a longing. She is afraid to lose this moment, this wonderful night. She hopes that it never ends.

Is that love? Does she love him, or merely this night with him? That is difficult.

He recalls from two nights before to her, how similar it had been. Yet, so different to his heart. He is alone, the beginning of that night. Then, he sees her, meets her. Now, they wander together, for their first time, penniless. He wonders if she minds it, being without even the money for board. He is used to it, of course. Any money he finds or works odd jobs for. He gazes into those deep brown eyes, wonders if that is something he can bear to do to her. He wants to be sure that she is happy. She has already left with him, though. Surely, she must be ready to adjust. But maybe she has not yet thought of how she must live. Perhaps that could break them apart. He must show her that his way is better anyway, that in his way of life is a greater beauty than that of roots and routine, that his way is something far more worth her eyes, her art. He does not want to lose her now, after coming so far. He is anxious, the cold night only just suppressing his sweat, though only adding to the stiffness of his bones.

There is something frightening about the thought of staying still. The idea of waking up to the same sunrise, to the same scenery, the same faces around him, sickens him. Although, this one he could have with him, he could love every day, he could discover once more each morning. He could see her eyes with any sunrise, her smile paired with every landscape they meet. He would cherish each venue all the more with her at his side, his heart warmed. For once, his journeys are calm. It is not driven by some hungry excitement, but by the hope of discovery, of his surroundings, of her. She tempers him. Something about her feels steady, like he does not simply jump from city to city looking for something. He has what he wants already, and the scenes are much clearer.

Yes, he knows a place to share.