Dear Administrator Ash Leaf,
I regret to inform you that the operation in Southeastern Equestria, commonly referred to as “The Vile Stretch”, was in unmediated failure. As usual, the local municipality was unwilling to agree to whatever proposal that was set forth unless taxation of their trade sectors would be significantly reduced to nearly half of what it is currently.
As usual with protocol, I explained to them the boundaries that I am able to function within and that the requests they put forward were wholly unreasonable to an agreement that would mutually benefit the ponies in their region as well as all throughout Equestria.
It was immediately following this statement that the discussion was officially dissolved by the local mayor, Girder Rust, and I was informed (quite hostilely so) to vacate the room.
I understand that the resources that these ponies possess can be quite valuable to the internal needs of the country, but as I have suggested on numerous occasions, I recommend that are efforts be focused elsewhere to ponies or other creatures more compliant towards actually making progress towards something.
Sincerely,
Alistair
The young human boy of fair skin, chestnut hair and a large nose which contrasted greatly against the rest of his face read back the letter he’d just written. Perhaps some elements of the composition were a bit too emotional, and maybe he should try to stretch out the dull professionalism that was encouraged when writing such highbrow government documents, but as it stood currently, he couldn’t care less about how it looked.
Placing the letter into an envelope, he sealed the paper shut and tossed it haphazardly onto the small boat’s floor, opting to deal with the matter of his work when it would feel less like a waste of time. When that would be, he didn’t know.
Alistair wordlessly looked out across the dark waters of the Equestrian-Griffon Sea, and sighed. A magnificent blue nebula hung peacefully over the still ocean water, the twinkling stars reflecting off the water as it quietly sloshed against the small cutter he road upon.
Grasping the edge of the rudder with his left hand, he steered the medium size vessel into a pointed position further north up the coast.
“Beautiful night,” he mumbled with a reserved satisfaction. “At least something positive came out of this trip.”
True, his skin hadn’t gotten a bad reddish-burn this time around; he’d kept himself moderately in well order in terms of cleanliness, and he was fairly sure that he hadn’t contracted a lovely case of food poisoning from sampling the local wares. Maybe adaptations among mammals did occur faster.
For the past few weeks he’d been trying his hardest to secure a fishing trade deal with the ponies of the Vile Stretch, a backwater etch of marshland that would only look even partially desirable to the backward ponies that lived there. And, as another one of his periodic trips into Equestria’s armpit neared its conclusion, it once again felt like an absolute waste of time.
The little prats were trying to play the system (was anything new?), refusing to deal in anything Canterlot put forward unless some ridiculous kickback was given to them in whole, and in return, they would promise something that might pass for moderate civility among their stinking clans towards whatever Canterlot would ask of them in the future.
But he knew this was nothing but garbage and he’d picked up on that the very first time his leather shoes first squelched against the land’s muddy soil. Those ponies would continue to make their voices clear that being under the banner of Equestria was the last thing on their list, and the fact that an External Affairs diplomat was the one attempting to make trade deals with them only spoke volumes on how bad the problem was.
Still, he’d kept himself useful and was able to again get out of the madness that was the External Affairs office. And even though the fervor of a high reaching government facility was replaced with murky mud pits and pea soup fog, the change of scenery was still well received on his part, even though the stink would take a few days to wash off.
Looking out across the long expanse of water, he could see the distant lights of Canterlot casting themselves into the passing clouds that nearly scrapped the tip of the mountaintop city. At the rate his boat was maneuvering, he expected to pull into the metropolis’s service docks in no less than an hour.
And as the imminent event of his arrival back in Canterlot literally loomed in the distance like a rolling storm and the succeeding day that would of course be spent performing his daily rut of money management and returning telegraphs, he couldn’t help bit feel a twinge of disappointment creep up.
This wouldn’t have happened if you’d just stayed in Ponyville the voice in his head declared. Maybe if you’d just learned to cope with—
He grunted restlessly and promptly shook his head, extinguishing the discomforting thoughts along his subconscious. Sighing in dejection once more, he passively scanned his perimeter for anything interesting that might hold his attention until he got home.
On his third absent look, as he was about to peer back down the horizon, something off to his right skittered in the corner of his eye. Turning towards it, he was immediately left with a sense of wonder and confusion over what it particularly was.
It appeared to be a large fog of some sort, its gaseous cloud churning and floating not but one thousand yards away from his ship. It seemed odd how easily the specter-like-mist had evaded his normally keen eyes, almost appearing out of nowhere when he wasn’t looking.
Grabbing the main sail rope, Alistair leered the cutter away from the approaching fog and felt a burst of wind pick up from behind him. Feeling the craft surge forward, he almost sighed a breath of relief at the much needed speed. But instead, he felt the craft begin to lurch itself into a starboard turn, moving away from the safety of the coast and directly into the fog’s path.
“What the—”
Alistair yanked even harder against the sail’s controlling rope, doing his best to reposition himself back to the craft back to its original course. But the boat did not budge an inch, continuing its slow approach into the shimmering ghostly mist.
Gripping as hard as he could, he gave one last desperate pull, feeling the rope’s friction sting against his reddening palms.
The cutter broke through the edge of the fog’s cloud, and floated steadily into the center of its mass. Slowing itself to a halt, the boat stopped suddenly, with nothing but the eerie low rumble of the fog being heard.
From a distance just along the edge of the coastal inland, a bright white flash could be seen from within the shimmering cloud. And, as the odd display of light slowly glowered back into darkness, the cutter, Alistair, and even the fog itself, had abruptly disappeared.