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// The begining 
// Story: The Origins of Steel Gear and Gizmo 
// by trtkdninja 
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The Origins of Steel Gear

I remember every moment of that event as if it were happening now…
“What do you have this time?” she asked with a yawn. Although it was barely daybreak in the small town of saddleville, my friend and I had already snuck outside ready to test my latest invention. Celestia’s dawn showed the deep bags under Gizmo’s eager violet eyes. The slight early morning breeze ruffled the violet bandana that she always wore around her neck as it flowed down the dirt path between the single-story, thatch-roofed houses of our little village. Our breath showed like small white ghosts in the frosty autumn air. But a little chill would not dampen our excitement.
“Something fun” I whispered mysteriously, taking off my saddle bag. It had been about a month since my last idea came to fruition…and nearly made me lose my mane. With this invention however, no one could get hurt, if used right. “I present to you the pocket rollers!” I said while thrusting them out of the bag and into the air like a knight hoisting his sword. They were fairly simple, but they worked. In truth, each set was no more than a pair of stone wheels with two pieces of wood between them that could be adjusted to reduce size and a v-shaped strap to hold it onto your hoof and leg.
“Wow, Steel, those look pretty cool! They won’t cut off my mane will they?” she said with a giggle. My black cheeks turned a slight shade of red at the obvious sarcasm as I shouted the negative. She and I both knew that they looked pretty lame, but she was always very supportive of me. Despite their appearance, I knew for sure that they worked—I had tried them out myself already.
“You know you want to try them,” I said, pushing the rustic rollers toward the mare across from me. Despite being a year older than me, she still shared my “childish” excitement, and it showed as she grabbed the wood and wheels from my hooves and hastily put them on. Not caring about her helmet at home, she put on the goggles that her mother had given her and began gliding around on the road. Her grace had been gained from her real, professional roller blades that she had had since she was just a filly. Even the uneven surface of the dirt road and the grit of the stone wheels, she slid along with great ease. Her ashy coat was full of life as it streaked by the somber gray of the buildings—her amethyst mane and tail shimmered in front of the emerald grass along the road. As smooth as a snake, she came to a stop next to me.
“These work great! You did really well with them. I’m sure Celestia would love a set of these.” With that we burst out laughing; the thought of the great and royal Princess Celestia in my shoddy wheels was too funny to bear. That was the dream we shared: to become great inventors of Equestria, recognized by even the Princess herself.
“What about you?” I asked, “What did you make?”
With that she reached into her saddle bags to bring out a large box-like thing. “I present to you, the wooden clock!” Seeing the disappointment and confusion slowly grow on my face, she quickly explained; “This isn’t any ordinary clock—it works only on wood. That means no metal springs, no magic winding spells, just the power of wood.” My mood revitalized, I began to inspect the clock closer. I was overwhelmed by the detailed carvings that enveloped the timepiece. Myriad flowing vines gripped the frame as they interwove within each other. Several small creatures were to be seen frolicking among a mass of foliage: minute hummingbirds frozen in flight, plump mockingbirds caught mid-chirp, fuzzy squirrels solidified while scurrying, fluffy bunnies locked in leaping. They all seemed to dance on a stage of leaves from every tree imaginable, thin bristles of pine, stout points of maple, petite disks of cherry blossom, fat leaves of banana. The endless folds of a rose adorned each of the eight corners, delicate to sight but sturdy to touch. Each curve, line, and crease was precise down to the smallest detail.
“Gizmo…” I whispered, lost for words. After another moment of soaking in the display I managed to speak, “Gizmo, this isn’t just a clock, it is a masterpiece. No wonder it took you three months to make this. Celestia would be lucky to have something as beautiful as this.” This was remarkable, even by a unicorn’s standards, and Gizmo is an earth pony. She must have put all of her free time into making this clock, each spare moment, and even some hours of sleep. Red-faced, Gizmo studied the ground and poked at the dirt with her hoof.
“Steel, we should get back to our houses before our parents notice that we’re missing.” With that, we said quick goodbyes as we quietly repacked our things and turned opposite ways to return to our dwellings. As I sauntered along, I noticed the cool breeze again. It no longer made me shiver, but rather I looked forward to feeling it again as I helped my dad, Crimson Leaves, harvest the parsnips later that day. It may have been easier for me to pull out the roots with my magic than he did with his mouth, but it was still hard work when pulling a couple thousand roots each day. I had already began thinking of some plans for a simple harvesting machine that he could use to make his work easier. That would have to come later though, work came first.

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Out in the fields, my father and I toiled with the soil. I used magic and he used hooves, but our method was the same.  It was a rather simple process, but tedious. We would part the dark brown earth around the root, tug the light yellow plant out, and toss it with all the others into our saddlebags. We would head back along the holey ground we had just made and toward the ancient burgundy barn. We would unload our haul into the great wooden bin of parsnips. We would set back out to repeat the process. We would try to distract ourselves from the monotony by whistling tunes together.
That day was no different. We worked at a brisk pace; enough to take the brisk chill out of the wind. Within one hour, my father’s maroon coat was slick against his hide as sweat seeped through, and I was the same only a short time later. The sleek lines of muscle that defined my father’s figure and the way he carefully yet efficiently plucked the plants from the soil told the story of his many years of labor on these grounds. By the sweat of his brow and half an acre of land, he had begun this farm and brought it to the four acres of fields that it was that day.
On that day, a bit before noon, we were whistling away and plodding along the rugged path to the barn when we heard a guttural cry unlike any I had heard before. With a quick glance at each other, my father and I disregarded everything else and rushed toward the source of the cry. We soon reached the town square. If there had been no panic, we might have been enjoying the calm cool breeze with some other ponies, eating some lunch from my mother’s worn wicker basket, lounging on the luscious green grass circle under the big apple tree, anything but what we were doing now. We were not alone in our search for the cause of distress—many ponies from the houses and fields were already there, more were still running up. There was general din and confusion in the area as everypony questioned each other, searched around, or just panicked.
Suddenly, a gruff voice rose much louder than the rest, “EVERYPONY SHUT YOUR TRAPS!” Silence quickly fell on the scene as every head turned to see three strangers with bags full of bits standing in front of the bank. The three stallions were as diverse as they come; one was a large, menacing earth pony who had navy blue eyes, whose dull gaze told of the dull mind behind them, and a fiery auburn coat with so many scars that it was hard to see where many started or ended; the second was sleek pegasus with callous, calculating eyes and a crimson coat that showed the definition or each trim muscle; the third was a diminutive unicorn with a dirt-covered white coat, one bright, hawk-like yellow eye, and one spot where an eye used to be, but now was just flat eyelid with a scar stretching up from the top of his muzzle to the outside edge of his brow.
“Good,” said the small one, no longer using his magic to project his voice, “Now that I have your attention, it’s time to tell to tell you the rules.” The wicked smile that slowly spread across his face told us all that these rules would not be amusing. “First rule: you pretend like nothing happened today; it’s just a normal day in saddleville.” Small whispers began to circulate in the small crowd. “Second rule: you let us walk out of here unhindered; don’t even think about trying to stop us.” The whispers began to turn into small calls of protest. “Third rule, you don’t try to get help, not that it would matter; we’re much more than just three thugs.” With this admission of villainy, the crowd grew restless. “What’s stopping us from stopping you?” “Who do you think you are?” “Yeah! Get out of here!” The crowd kept throwing their accusations, but the three goons simply stood their ground, smiling smugly. Suddenly, one voice was heard distinctly from the rest, “Where’s Sheriff Gold Badge?” The voice came from Gizmo.
This caught the attention of the trio. “I’m glad you asked, little filly,” said the unicorn, turning towards her. “You see, your dear departed sheriff decided to try and stop us. I must admit, he was mildly talented with his hooves—for an earth pony—but against my magic, Crunch’s strength, and Crimson’s skill, he was easily dealt with.” This revelation left the crowd mute with shock. The three villains began to laugh. The filthy white crook began to shout with in a hysterical crazed tone “That’s right! Your sheriff is dead! If anypony thinks they can stop us, let them come forward now so they can join their Gold Badge!” For a moment the world was still. The only thing that moved was the cool breeze as it flowed through the crowd, tugging at the manes on our head and freezing the wounds in our hearts.
Soaking in the stillness, the trio’s smiles spread as they looked around, searching for any sign of opposition. Their menacing looks were met by ones of fear and hatred alike. But amongst all the glares, not a soul would step forward. After they felt satisfied in their silent gloat, their leader spoke again in his casual tone, “It seems the rules are understood. Excellent. We will be on our way now.” With that, the threesome began sauntering out. The small circle slowly parted as the crooks approached. As they left, all eyes watched them flee at an overly casual pace. Not a single creature moved until the three felons were out of sight.
Then, as one, all the villagers turned toward the bank. Slowly, one pony stepped towards it, and others began to follow his lead. I took a tentative step forward, but my father’s foreleg on my chest prevented me from taking another. “No, Steel, you’re not meant to see this.” The troubled look in his eyes resonated with the troubled feeling in my stomach. After a minute, a few ponies came out. One of them, baker White Hat, affirmed the tragedy with a grim tone; “It’s true. Sheriff Gold Badge is dead.” The remaining ire towards the murders was overwhelmed by the sorrow enveloping us as the true gravity of the situation finally set in. Someone from the crowd faintly asked, “What about Coin Counter, what happened to her?” Hat answered, “The banker is alright. Although she’s a bit shaken up by witnessing the fight, she should recover.” After a small pause, he spoke again, taking charge of the situation, “Everypony, go to your families, your homes. Stitches, bring Counter to the clinic and see that she recovers. Green Grass and Nails, help me with our sheriff. We will have his funeral tonight.”
My father and I turned, like everpony else, and took a somber saunter home. The possibility of somepony being murdered was unheard of in our town until now. We were greeted at the door by my mother, Silk Sunlight. The small relieved smile on her face did not reflect the deep frightened look in her eyes. Her white body showed no signs of fear, but the slight twitch in her golden tail showed the underlying distress. Silently, we followed her inside our one-story house and into the kitchen. We each took our seats at the small table.
For a long time, we merely sat, without talking to each other, without looking at anything, without thinking of anything but what had just transpired. Soon my mind began to wander, forcing itself not to think of the recent trauma. I focused on the circular table in front of me. I examined the light yellow birch wood which held solid against my taping hoof. I counted the five knots of wood, two of which were close enough for me to touch. I traced the darker tan lines of the grain with my eyes as they wound back and forth in front of me. I noticed the small mars on the table’s surface—divots, scratches, and light stains covered the surface. I imagined food in a bowl before me—local vegetables tossed together into a stew of myriad flavors. I savored the peas and beans and carrots and parsnips and chives and potatoes as each warm scoop of imaginary soup flowed through my lips, over my tongue, and down my throat. I tasted the unique flavor of the oaken spoon as it deposited each warm scoop in to my mouth.
The small clay vase in the center of the table seemed out of place with its solitary tulip—it was too real. The flower was too lively. Its green stem climbed from the quaint pot rising as it carried life, its petals emerged from the stem while exuding a vibrant mixture of sky blue and pearly white, its pleasing aroma flowed out from the center—it reeked of life. It was not right. It seemed like it should have not existed, not after what had just happened.

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Time passed like this, I don’t know how long, it could have been minutes or hours and I wouldn’t have noticed. Eventually, a pony came to our house to tell us it was time for the burial. As we walked out of our house, I hardly noticed the other ponies walking towards the cemetery with us. No words were said, no smiles nor frowns, just the subtle sound of hooves treading on hard-packed dirt. The sun and moon had just begun changing places in the sky as we trudged along with leaden legs. The sky was a splendid ocean filled with waves of pinks, oranges, blues, and purples which starkly contrasted the gray hue that seemed to cover everything on the land.
Had such misfortune not befallen us, we would have been heading the opposite direction, to home, to comfort, to happiness. Instead, we entered the graveyard to find feelings of loneliness, of anxiety, of melancholy. The mob had formed again, this time to grieve. There was a hole in the ground with a wooden casket inside. This was the second funeral I had been to, but it was the first where I was old enough to understand what was happening. After the baker opened the opportunity to speak to the throng of mourners, there was no shortage of those willing to communicate their thoughts. One after another, almost everypony went up to speak, even if they had little to say. Many of the speeches were long; the sheriff had known each pony well, and had been of great service to the town upon multiple occasions.
Once the service ended, we all left as we had come: silently. The moon was high in the sky now, and I was weary as well as dreary. My head drooping from sorrow and sleepiness, I felt my bed beckoning me. Upon reaching our house, my parents went straight to their bed, and I straight to mine. Seeking the relief from the troubles of the waking world, I collapsed onto the hay-filled mattress, sank my head into the cotton-filled pillow, and fell into a nightmare-filled sleep.

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The next day was dull.  We did not work. We stayed in our homes. We said very little to each other. The weight of what had transpired weighed heavily on our minds. Gravity was pulling us down with double force whenever we tried to move. The lethargy of the town was something we had not experienced since the death of Gizmo’s mother. That day was one of reflection and mourning.
The following day was little different. All the townsponies gathered on the grass in the town square to share their grief. I found Gizmo under the big apple tree and lay next to her as we heard the good deeds of the sheriff recounted. He was never truly needed for major crimes, but he certainly helped the town upon many occasions. Sometimes he was just needed to discipline children like me when we misbehaved. I had received quite the lecture from him after the whole mane-trimmer accident. He was nonetheless a great pony though. Many stories of how he had helped others where recollected. He had done everything from holding open doors for mares to helping put out the fire on Gizmo’s house. These stories brought some smiles to saddened hearts, but sorrow still remained.
Hearing the tales of the sheriff’s good deeds certainly helped lessen the pain that I felt. As each account was told, I felt a little numbness recess. The words flowed from my ears to my heart as I watched the sun lighting the green grass in front of me. The stories imitated the bright lime blades shine. After several hours of heart-to-heart discourse, there was a long period of silence. We were all laying, relaxing, reflecting, and trying to enjoy the sun and each-other’s company. The slight breeze returned, and with it returned my gloomy memories.
The gentle wind cut through my coat despite the warmth around me. The breeze ruffled my fur, shaking any cheerfulness from the hairs of my skin. The other ponies’ small smiles made my minute frown all the more deep. The scream rang on in my mind, never ending. When the breeze brushed my hide, the deathly howl would sound powerfully, ringing in my ears. When the air was still, it would fade, becoming a mere whisper in the back of my mind. However, for the eternity that we lay on the green grass in the warm town square, the shriek never left.
We all laid around, enjoying each other’s memories. As the sun reached the peak of its arc, the mass began thinning. Gizmo and her father left, and my family departed soon after. Inside, my emotions were at war; the happy thoughts of all that the sheriff had done clashed with the never-ending scream. By the time we had returned home, both thoughts lay defeated, and my mind was utterly vacant. Sitting down at the table and eating my hay sandwich, I could not perceive any flavor nor texture; I merely chewed and swallowed. After lunch, my dad decided that it would be best to go back to the fields and continue harvesting the parsnips.
When we reached the fields, we found our bags where we had dropped them three days ago. The parsnips that they used to contain, however, were mostly just rubbish left by rabbits, rats, and other creatures. After tossing the refuse onto the compost pile, we proceeded to continue on the row we had abandoned. The tedium of digging, picking, placing, and repeating had returned. Today however, there was no whistling to change pace and add interest; dreary, stark monotony was in my work as well as my mind.

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The only event of minor interest was that White Hat was voted to be the new sheriff. The progression of dull work and dull mind continued for three more days. The pattern continued to cycle: wake up, eat breakfast, work the fields, eat lunch, work the fields, eat dinner, go to sleep. My mind had given up on trying to think logically. Everything that happened was merely a process that happened. Normally the repetitiveness would have driven me crazy, but at that point there was nothing left to make insane.
Change came on the fourth day when gizmo decided to join me for lunch. When she arrived, my mother and father had already finished and were already in the other room. She joined me at the table where my insipid meal lay half-eaten before me. After a minute of silence, she asked how I was feeling. I merely stated, “I am not feeling” with a disconsolate tone that matched my dull gaze. A worried look crossed her face, but I was just surprised that she was not as dejected as I was.
“Steel,” she started, the concern still apparent but fading from her face, “I’ve been thinking; why couldn’t we do anything when those bandits attacked? What if—” I cut her off with a stare that would have frozen cider. Quietly, but forcefully, I uttered “I do not want to talk about that day.” Pausing for a moment, a small bit fear showing through the new wave of concern on her countenance, Gizmo whispered “Steel, please, let me talk.” After a moment of silent staring, I scowled back at my food and gave the slightest nod.
Gismo resumed, “Steel, I feel awful about what happened—almost as awful as when my mom died,” she gave a small wince at that, “I want so badly to change what happened, but I know I can’t. But Steel, what if we can do something?” I raised an eyebrow at her when she said this contradictory statement. She continued, “We can’t change the past, but we can change the future. We can find those bandits, and we can make them pay.” I was truly confounded at this thought, the greatest reaction I had given for days. 
As I rolled the concept over in my head, I thought of the pros and cons. “How on earth would we fight back? We’re just two young ponies!” Gizmo replied without pause: “We certainly won’t go alone, I’m sure that many ponies in the town would enjoy the opportunity to thrash those brutes.” I hadn’t run out of questions, “But how would we beat them; besides Green Grass and Mr. Pine, I’m the only unicorn here, and none of our magic is very strong.” Gizmo was unfazed, “We build, Steel, you and I will build weapons and gadgets to help our town achieve the upper-hoof!” I was shocked at the boldness of the plan, yet the more I thought about it, the more I thought it might work.
Gizmo sat smiling as she watched me think the plan over, but after a few minutes of contemplative silence, I had one last question, “Gizmo, if we attack them, how are we any different than them?” The small smile of triumph on Gizmo’s lips faded. Looking me in the eyes, she said in a solemn tone, “Steel, we are not murderers. We are not bandits. We are nothing like them. They deserve any horrible thing that might happen to them. We have every right to fight back against any who harass us.” Reflecting on those words, I nodded my understanding. “So, how do we start?”

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We had spent that night planning, designing, fool-proofing. The next day, during lunch, we brought our plan to White Hat. Despite his initial hesitation, there was no hiding the passion flaming in his eyes at the thought of fighting back. With further detailing of our idea, we were able to convince him to give it further thought. That evening, during dinner, the town was called for a meeting in the town square. The sheriff called us out to explain the situation. We began describing our project to the ponies sheepishly at first, but our courage grew as we were rallied by our own words. The crowd seemed skeptical at first, still morose from recent events, but soon the sun setting behind us glinted off the zealous eyes of ponies ready to avenge their fallen friend.
The plan was simple in form, but laborious in implementation. Each pony had their own tasks to undertake. Most of the farmers were to continue their work in the fields so that we would still have food, but most of the craftsmen were recruited to help Gizmo and me. Two pegasi, Blue and Storm Cloud, were in charge of finding out about the bandits; where they lived, what else had they done, and were there more than the trio. The woodworkers and blacksmiths were especially helpful in carving and forging the bits and pieces that we needed to construct the devices of battle. The other children of our town were tasked with gathering supplies from our town and the area around it. Gizmo and I were the main brains behind the designing of weapons, but two other ponies, Heavy Hammer the smith and Nails the carpenter, were able to contribute their creativity to designing.
The task was a heavy one, but it had to be done to accomplish our cumulative goal. Gizmo and I directed and participated in each stage of the process. Each day was full of work; we would design, build, redesign, and build again, only stopping to eat and sleep. The work was tedious but, to me, invigorating—it gave me satisfaction with life. No longer was I bound by the sorrow of tragedy, but rather I was compelled by the drive to avenge that tragedy.
After three had weeks, the devices created great in number, but small in variance. Gizmo and I designed sets of armor to be worn—wooden sets for the pegasi and iron sets for the earth-ponies. Gizmo herself had designed a slingshot-like launcher that would mount to a pony’s foreleg that could hurl anything from fruits to rocks. Hammer and Nails had designed a kick enhancing mechanism that was fitted to the rear legs of a pony and allowed them to buck with three-times normal force. I personally designed a contraption that consisted of spinning clubs attached to poles extending from a torso mount; the downside is that it could only be powered by magic and therefore only worn by myself, Green Grass, and Mr. Pine.
Together, these implements would provide the powerful edge we would need to fight the brigands. Nearly a month after the outlaws arrived in our small town of saddleville and caused disaster, we were ready to avenge our fallen sheriff. Blue and Storm had come back with the temporary location of the bandits, and the news that they had many members—at least forty. Including Gizmo and myself, our posse of rebels consisted of twenty-seven members. We knew that we faced poor odds, but that would not discourage us, nor would it diminish our confidence. We were ready to do whatever it would take to avenge our beloved sheriff and to bring these thugs to the justice they deserved.
The marauders had been hiding out in the cave system of the mountains that lay about five miles from our home town for a few days, and they were likely still there. Saddlebags full of food and supplies, bodies armored, and hearts ablaze with the fire of vengeance, we set out to the sad and hopeful cries of our loved ones and the morning sun rising behind us to see us off. Our band of farmers turned fighters consisted of ten pegasi, fourteen earth ponies, and three unicorns, adolescents and adults counted alike.
A five mile walk was tiring when wearing armor and carrying weapons, even for hard-working farmers and crafters. After about two hours, we had come upon the small valley that led to the entrance of caverns where the bandits had been hiding all this time. The area was slightly forested surrounding the entrance, so we took a small break outside the valley in a clearing to rest and strategize. Drawing in the dirt of the forest floor, we laid out a plan of attack. It was rudimentary, but we thought it should work. Our main goal was to protect each other while attacking the bandits. We would all charge in by forming a triangle and ramming our way though, and then we would take the next formation. The earth ponies would form a two layer ring, eight kicking on the outer layer and six shooting with the launchers from the inner layer. The unicorns were to help the outer circle, spread out to three points on the circle, and create light in the darkness and a triangle of kicking and bludgeoning. The pegasi would fly above and try to ward off any enemy pegasi and then attack the ponies on the ground with kicks and projectiles—from the reports, this should not be too difficult, because there were supposedly only six pegasi in the brood of crooks. With the plan set, we took a few more moments to rest and prepare ourselves.
After a small phase of repose, we all silently looked at each other, eyes meeting in wordless agreement; it was time. We stood, stretched, adjusted armaments, and readied our minds for battle. We trotted towards the mouth of the cave, already in formation, adrenaline beginning to pump through our veins. My heartbeat accelerated, my senses were honed, and the world was clear.
Every vibrant detail of the forest around me became distinctly rich. Each lime-green blade of grass pointed this way and that, every tumbling orange leaf danced its way from the hard brown branch to the lush ground. I could distinguish every hair of fur on the ponies around me. I noticed how the armor pressed tight against the form of each one, and made hairs point skyward in some areas and lay flat on their flanks in others. The launchers wrapped around the legs of several ponies were tense and ready to fire, the rubber stretched back and tightly gripping their ordinance.
Time seemed to slow when we paused before the entrance. Words repeated in my mind: We were ready. We were ready. We were ready. We were ready. We, were, READY. With a simultaneous roaring with the voices of beasts bent on destruction, we charged through the black maw.
Chaos erupted immediately. There seemed to be confusion among the bandits in the tall hollow, but they all seemed to realize what was happening and quickly retaliated. We were swiftly in the center of the cavern, and our double ring was formed. Ponies came charging at us from all directions, but they seemed to not be coordinated; surprise had left them disorderly. Seeing that they were rushing at us with no clear tactic, we knew the advantage of our strategy. The battle was a blur in slow motion. One moment would freeze time, everything stopping, but the next moment would come, freeze, and leave before the first had time to be noticed. I watched as my hooves sluggishly stretched to strike against the chest of one pony, then suddenly they were crashing into the hooves another. The clubs seemed to spin in leisurely circles as different ponies flashed between their destructive paths. Despite the motionless seconds, I could not look to my sides and see the other ponies; there was only myself and the adversaries hurtling into my beating and striking.
Hooves colliding with snouts, chests, and other hooves, rocks smashing faces, ribs and legs, our rings held strong. The pegasi above were faring well, swiftly downing their winged adversaries. I stood in my corner, looking behind and kicking, clubbing, and growling at the brigands. The battle could have lasted hours, or it may have been over in minutes; I could not tell. There was thrashes, crunches, clangs, and thuds heard, but then there was a sudden silence broken only by heavy panting. Our ring stood strong, not a single friendly pony gravely injured, but all foes laying strewn across the floor. None of them were dead, but they were certainly crippled beyond repair. As I looked around at the moaning bodies, I recognized the pegasus and the brute from back in the town, both battered beyond restoration, but still barely breathing.
I continued to search among the bruised and broken faces, but I did not see the one I sought, the one unicorn that aided in our sheriff’s death, one of the three who caused this insurrection. I voiced my concern about the missing pony, and others remarked the same. Where was the monster? We disbanded our formation and began to search for the lost mad-pony. We split into three groups, two to search and one to watch over the bandits. After covering every inch twice, we all met in the center with much of the stolen money in bags, but there was no evil unicorn. Having no success in finding the renegade, we turned to probing the defeated. After some questioning and a few more kicks, we determined that either they were too loyal or they were truly ignorant, but either way, we received no further information. The decision to return home was suggested, and it was met with approval. We left the groaning forms with a warning: if we were to be raided again, we would retaliate again, with more force. Furthermore, we promised to spread word to the other towns around our own about what happened here and how they could be defeated. Carrying the bags and helping those with bruised or broken legs, we started our slow journey home.
On the journey, we counted the injuries; four of the earth ponies had badly bruised legs, including Gizmo, two others them had broken a leg, one pegasus suffered a harsh blow to her right rear leg, and Green Grass had wound up breaking both hind legs, and was therefore carried between two ponies on a tarp like a stretcher. The only thing I had hurt were my hooves from smashing them against fur, flesh, and bone. I was pleased to see that the armor had served its purpose well, having protected many of the ponies from being injured further. There were dings and nicks in every set, but they were worn proudly.
The return trip took considerably longer due to exhaustion and injury, but we walked into town with heads held high and sun behind us. Once we were in sight, everypony began emerging from their homes, anxious to hear our tale. Seeing confidence in our tired steps and the triumph in our eyes, they realized the result before we spoke. Prior to recounting our victorious battle, we brought all the seriously injured to Stitches in our small infirmary. Proceeding back to the town square, we stood before the eager crowd and recounted our account of the brawl. The story was fairly simple, we were not ones to exaggerate; White Hat proceeded to tell most of the tale, but some of us popped in some with some extra details. After our account was told, we went to hug and be with our families on that grassy green, and we answered a few questions about our personal experiences. My parents were overjoyed to see me returned, especially with no real injuries. We embraced each other in a lingering hug before we separated and I too was questioned.
After a time, the new sheriff spoke up, “This victory over evil calls for a celebration! Tomorrow night, we shall have a feast! Bring as much food as you can, we always grow more! Bring your tables and chairs; we shall eat here in the square. Tomorrow night, we will rejoice for the first time after so much sorrow.” Excited chatter arose from the crowd, and the families began to trickle back their homes.
My mother led us to our house, where she had prepared dinner. I had not realized how hungry I was until the aroma of roasted carrots, grilled onions, baked potatoes, and melted cheese assailed my nostrils. Drool began seeping into my mouth and around my lips when I spotted the source of the welcoming scent before me. The victory stew sat on the table, waiting to be consumed. Manners forgotten, I began devouring my meal, shoving each delectable spoonful into my mouth as soon as the last had passed into my throat. That night, I had sunk into my bed, warm-bellied, and dreamt the first nice dream in almost a month.
The town was abuzz in the morning. The battle, the feast, and the preparations seemed to be all that anypony would talk about. My father and I went out to harvest more parsnips before noon. Time seemed to fly as we went about working; the thought of labor was drowned by the wave of every thought about what had transpired. When noon arrived, we had harvested more than enough for the whole village twice over. We brought our load back to the house, where we ate a quick lunch of grass sandwiches, before we brought our parsnips, and other foods, to the town square. Leaving our hoard of edibles to my mom, my father and I made a few more back and forth trips to bring out our chairs and table. As the night approached, the other families had joined the ones already present, and had formed their furniture into a ring of counters, benches, desks, and tables. Torches and fires were lit outside the ring, and the food lay in an outer-ring buffet-like row of long benches. 
Everypony partook in the food, taking their fill of whatever they wished. Scents flooded the green with their beguiling aroma; the honeyed smell of baked goods, the sweet smell of myriad candies, the roasted smell of the grilled vegetables, the fresh smell of ornate fruits. The feasting itself went on for a full hour, and as ponies finished, they began conversing with each other, telling jokes, and having a merry time. A short time after, any pony who could play an instrument was up joining in a chorus of noise. There was no distinct tune or pattern to the music, yet it remained upbeat and joyful. With the music came the dancing. Like the collage of melody, a variety of motions flowed together inside the ring. From flowing to erratic and back again, the townsponies danced carefree across the grass, enjoying a bliss not felt in months, for some; not in years. The dancing and playing carried on into the late hours of the night until the revelers finally tired in their mirth. Leaving furniture unattended in the green field, each family returned to their homes, finally ready to rest their heads, calm their hearts and sleep.

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Rising much later in the day than traditional, the town had cleaned the green of the remnants of the gathering, and the people were back to work. This was we were in saddleville, we were quick to move on from one hardship and work hard until the next came. That was how it went, working hard to make up for money lost to the bandits, food lost from the party, and supplies lost to the construction of the weapons and armor. Flowing through the fields, the tender whips of cool breeze returned, tugging at my fur and my memory. It brought the bitter memory of our lost sheriff, but it also pulled out the greater rumination of conquering evil. The breeze came out each day to greet me as I worked, whisking away the heat and encouraging me to carry on. And so I and the rest of my town did; we carried on working to replace what was lost and to prepare for the future.
Things were not to be the same though. After a few weeks, once things had fully settled again and life was back to the usual, I was hit with heavy news; Gizmo planned to leave. I found out only when she told me to meet her in the square and I found her with saddlebags already packed. “Why would you leave?” I demanded, tears hanging on the rims of my eyes. “I’m sorry Steel,” she said, a smile on her face but sorrow in her eyes, “But it’s a great opportunity for me. My dad even wants me to go; he can handle the repair business by himself, I can go and start my own business elsewhere. Just imagine, free to help so many ponies and free to build inventions whenever I want, wouldn’t that be great?” Looking in her eyes, I couldn’t believe that my best friend, practically my sister, was leaving. In those I saw reflected the memories of a time not long past, sharing joys, sharing sorrows, sharing inventions. “What about me, Gizmo? What am I going to do?” She smiled sincerely, “Steel, you’re going to take care of yourself. You’re going to take care of your family. You’re going to take care of this town. But most of all, you’re going to keep inventing. Promise me that, Steel.” Eyes clamped shut and tears overflowing, I shouted “I promise!” Feeling her foreleg wrap around me, I returned the embrace. Still sobbing, I whispered into her fur, “I know you’ll be great Gizmo. I’ll miss you.” “I’ll miss you too,” she sighed, “I’ll keep in touch. I’ll try to send letters whenever I can, okay?” “Okay” Releasing each other, we looked into each other’s eyes one last time, we said our final goodbyes before I turned and slowly trudged to my home; I could not bear to be there when she said her final farewells to the townsponies.
The next days, I had felt like another pony had passed away. However, as each day went by, I realized how truly great this opportunity was for her. The thought of her in her own workshop, fashioning marvelous creations, making lots of new friends, doing what she loved, it made me happy for her. This cheerfulness soon overcame the sorrow that had resurged. As I dug at the ground each day, meticulously uprooting each plant one by one, I thought of her uprooting from the town and moving on to a better life. Soon the north field was empty of parsnips, and the time came to rotate the crops. Our south field was filled with onions. Our task now was to replant each one in the other fields so that they could use the fresh nutrients of the fresh soil. As I relocated each onion to its new home, I thought of Gizmo finding her new home, and her flourishing from the fresh start.
The more these thoughts flooded my mind, the more I thought it was a great idea, not only for Gizmo, but for myself as well. Plans formulated in my head, plans of when to leave and where to start anew. More than about a month after Gizmo left, I brought my idea of leaving to my parents one night at dinner, but it was quickly faced with rejection. They believed that I was too young, too foolish, and too necessary for the town. I disagreed, arguing that the town would be little different without me, and that Gizmo was only half a year older than me, but they were not convinced. Undaunted and a bit angry, I finished my dinner and went to bed without another word. Obviously my parents became suspicious of me, and were careful to monitor me after that, but I still remained undeterred. Another week passed before I felt I was truly ready to go. In the deep of night, I slipped out of the house, leaving but a note on my bed. It told of how I was sorry to leave without permission, but I knew it was what I had to do, and it told how I would always love them and that I would try my best to stay in contact. Although it was my calling, it still wrenched at my heart to leave my parents with almost no warning. I took almost everything I had with me, I wore my armor and my kickers, and my saddlebags contained my launcher, some foods, a pen and paper, my canteen, and my pocket rollers. Unsure where I intended to go, I ventured north, towards the closest town, Dust Ditch.