First off, dear reader, I would like to give you my own, personal opinions about the characters in this story. Now, I'll admit, I've been wrong about my characters before. I'd tell my reader, "Hoof is a miser and an ass—no offense" ("None taken..."), and he'd go on and do nothing miserly throughout the tale! In fact, he'd be nothing but helpful and fair and sensible! Why, such rebellion! To tell the truth, only time, and their actions within this story, will tell what their true character is; this is only my prejudiced opinion, and you should take it for what it is.
I mean, you think you know someone, you raised them from foalhood, gave them everything backstories could buy, and the second you give them some trust, the very instant you actually put them on stage, they start writing their own lines and, and it's "Oh, I have my own idea how this should go!" and "No, I won't do that, that's insane and contrived and stupid, buck your plot!" Argh, rashin' fashin' ramnable writtle...
Ahem, where were we? Ah, character introductions.
Now, for starters: Princess Celestia is a mediocre leader. I have a magnificent proof for this hypothesis, which this margin is too narrow to contain.
Now, let's get on with the other characters:
Straw Mare is a special case: she's defined entirely by her opinions. She was orphaned in an accident in her childhood, a fire in the town of Hotspringville, not far from Fillydephia, and has lost all sense of self. The mare who rescued and later adopted her, Neigh Check was an old widow, with an impressive beehive hairdo and piercing eyes, that lived and died by the soapbox—as in, she died while giving an impassioned diatribe on how modern children's entertainment was corrupting our youth by eliminating all the blood and violence that had been traditional in it since times immemorial. [Need to elaborate a funny scene here] She would write angry, outraged letters to every single newspaper, of any political leaning, contradicting them for the principle of it, calling out every hypocristy, inconsistency or weakness with , and signing her letters "Disgusted, of Hotspringville"—or "Disgusted of Hotspringville", if the town itself had earned her ire.
[...]
Fisher Prize is a gamer, a player, a gambler, and a sportsmare. She will challenge the odds, and beat them up with their own rear ends. She will win hearts, and then she'll play and she'll play and she'll play and she'll play them to the beat. Do not underestimate the things that she will do if she feels challenged—and, above all, be wary of what she will do if she feels unchallenged. Everything is a game to Fisher Prize—and she plays to win!
Don Jairo is a fashionista. Not an establishment fashionista, mind you; he will hardly ever be featured in Cingle or Navigue or Capitalitan except as a curiosity, the sort that is showered in backhanded compliments by journalists who think themselves clever, and snickered at by their readers, who concur. No, Don Jairo belonged to the alternate scene, the gritty underground, thought of himself as a provocateur. That he provoked laughter rather than ire, he didn't seem to noticenotice—or perhaps he didn't care, so long as he was provoking something. Perhaps, knowing that he lived in a reactionary world, he exploited it for all the reaction it was worth? At any rate, Don Jairo's appearance is so byzantine, so complex, so eye-searingly strident that I don't dare attempt to read it, let alone hotlink an image to it.
Now, Platero, Platero was something else. Platero was an ass. A young ass. A soft, hairy ass: so soft to the touch that he might be said to be made of cotton, with no bones. Only the jet mirrors of his eyes are hard like two black crystal scarabs. On a sunny day, he goes to the meadow, and, with his nose, he gently caresses the little flowers of rose and blue and gold.... You call him softly, "Platero?" and he comes to you at a gay little trot that is like laughter of a vague, idyllic, tinkling sound... He eats whatever I give him. He likes mandarin oranges, amber-hued muscatel grapes, purple figs tipped with crystalline drops of honey... He is as loving and tender as a child, but strong and sturdy as a rock. When on Sun Days you walk with him through the lanes in the outskirts of the town, slow-moving country folk, dressed in their Sun Day clean, watch him a while, speculatively:
"He is like steel," they say.
Steel, yes. Steel and moon silver at the same time.
He—was my foal friend. The only equine who wouldn't whinny and rear every time he heard my name.
I miss you, Platero.
Here, have a profile pic:
And a portrait:
Isn't he gorgeous?
There's also MIKE and BOB lurking somewhere in the background. But there will be time enough to introduce them.
Katawako is a dragon from the Far East. She doesn't breathe fire, and she has no hooves or hands, and she's blind, so some would consider her a cripple. Her response to being called "gimp girl" or any such derogatory expression was lightning-fast, as in, she would electrocute them on the spot: Katawako had a long, scaly body, and a short, scary temper, and control over the weather, of a different sort than pegasi had. However, she's good-natured in accepting that her blindness is a bit of a running gag among her friends, as she's so perceptive they often forget she is blind, and inadvertently end up doing things like showing her a piece of paper or asking her if they look pretty today. She may be cranky, but she's got a kind, generous, loyal, honest heart. And a wicked sense of humour, as long as the targets are other people.
Oh, speaking of differently-abled characters, in this fic, Princess Twilight Sparkle has lost her wings during the battle against Tirek. Only when harnessing the Rainbow Power of Harmony and Friendship do they temporarily come back, but, otherwise, Twilight Sparkle is mostly ground-bound, and must learn to appreciate life without her beautiful wings, never to freely soar in the heavens, streaking the clouds of purple and red in the sunset like she once did. Oh, the tragedy of it!
Now, our protagonist, ladies and gentlemen: anon, which is short for "anointed". He is the son of Man, the Redeemer, the only resident of Equestria with qualia. Through his True Consciousness (fake), he is the only sapient being to justify Equestria's existence to itself. anon is , however, a shy, subtle, ambiguous figure, working backstage and in mysterious ways. He has one grand plan: to share his gift with all of Equestria, giving souls to to all living beings, and ending his terrible, terrible loneliness.