//------------------------------// // Heather Rose vs. Luster Lock - Winner: Luster Lock (by Vote) // Story: OC SlamJam - Round Two // by OC Slamjam //------------------------------// Steam, Snow, Salt, Stamps - by Heather Rose's Author Luster Lock looked up in minor annoyance as the bell over her door tinkled. She flipped her loupe up with a wingtip and winced as a blast of cold air whistled through the door. An adolescent stallion wearing a knit cap and the navy vest of the Equestrian RPO stepped into her store and pushed the door shut behind him. She sighed and slid her current project—a cylindrical-key padlock—to the top of her workbench. She hadn't figured out how to pick it yet, but it was only a matter of time. “Which door?” He blinked in surprise. “Um, to the mailroom. From the platform. Stamps—“ “Lost the key,” Luster finished. “Again.” She slid her lockpicks into a roll pouch and tucked them under her wing. This time when I make a key, I'm going to make a spare. For me. But she wouldn't. Not because it was against the rules: she knew as well as any mare that sometimes rules were made to be broken. Instead, she wouldn’t bother because the lock was laughably easy to pick. “Let's go,” she ordered. She flipped the sign on the window and practically shoved him out the door, closing and locking it securely behind them. One more leg, and the trip’s over. Coming home after Hearth’s Warming was always bittersweet for Heather Rose: she already missed her family, but she longed to be back home. She shifted around on her bench and glanced up and down the coach. A few new ponies had boarded, but nopony she recognized. Up in front, a foal started squalling, and she pinned her ears back.To think, I thought he was cute when his mother brought him aboard. His shrieks were answered by the howl of the locomotive's whistle. She felt the familiar jerk as the locomotive took the slack out, and then she felt the pulsing of the drive wheels as it tugged the train. Heather's ears turned forward as the pulses became erratic; in a lull between the child’s wails, she heard the locomotive's usual chuff-chuff replaced with a chuff-wheeze. Then there was more banging as the railroad cars bumped to a stop. The train was mocking her. It had only moved forward far enough to frame the HOOFINGTON sign with her window. She stuck her muzzle to the pane, then pressed her cheek sideways against the cold glass, trying to see down the length of the train. Did it come off the tracks? There was nothing obvious, so she got out of her seat and went to the vestibule, squeezing between a pair of ponies who already had their heads out the window. The train didn't look to have come off the rails—newspaper pictures of derailments invariably showed the railroad cars lying all cattywampus around the tracks. Her train’s were all upright and in their proper order. As she watched, a soot-streaked mare climbed down from the locomotive and walked into the cloud of steam and smoke which constantly emanated from the front of the beast. When she re-emerged, head down, Heather Rose sighed. I guess I won't be meeting the girls at the spa tonight. It was a short trip to the train station; when Luster got there she threaded through the cluster of last-minute passengers boarding the waiting train. A single trolley sat by the door in question, two full sacks of mail leaned up against the front bulkhead. “Lucky we got the outgoing mail loaded before the key got lost,” the stallion commented. “Or else the train would have to wait.” “Luck had nothing to do with it.” She walked up to the door and sat on her haunches just as Stamps rounded the corner, a lecherous grin on his face. “I'm so glad you could make it. I loaned my key to one of the mail stallions, and he lost it, can you believe that? You just can't trust teenagers.” He moved so close she could have counted the hairs in his thinning brush-cut. “I'll have it open in no time,” she muttered, opening her wing to drop her tool roll on the ground. At the conductor's call, she glanced back at the train. I'll have an audience for once—let's see if I can get this opened before the train leaves. With practiced familiarity, she slid the tension wrench and snake rake out of their pouches and set to work. “I think they might have jammed it somehow,” Stamps offered as she twisted the tension wrench. Sure enough, the rake didn't move the tumblers at all. Luster Lock sighed, set the rake down, and grabbed a diamond pick, almost dropping it as the train’s whistle howled. She scraped the pick through the lock several times, finally withdrawing it and examining the fine powder on the very end. Luster sniffed it.  Smelling nothing she stuck her tongue on the pick. Cold and totally tasteless—it was ice. Her ears fell. Picking a lock was one thing; picking a frozen lock was impossible. Even if she'd had a key, it wouldn't unlock. She glanced over at Stamps, who was leering at her. Clever stallion. “Can I get you anything?” he offered solicitously. She was about to tell him off, when a hiss of escaping steam caught her ear. They both turned their heads, and immediately noticed the prodigious quantities of steam escaping from the exhaust valve on their side of the locomotive. While Stamps gaped at it, Luster lock turned back to the door. How in Equestria am I going to melt this ice? Heather Rose hesitated on the boarding step. Her luggage was safely tucked away in the baggage car, where it would be safe—but if for some reason she didn't get back before the train was repaired, it would leave without her, and who knew where her baggage might wind up? One look at the crew gathering by the locomotive reassured her that this train would be going nowhere soon, and she hopped down to the platform, her thoughts already on how to spend the delay. Hearth's Warming softened her purse strings; not only for family and friends, but for herself as well. This year, nothing had caught her fancy, but she felt almost obligated to spend something, and this was the perfect opportunity. She was halfway down the platform when she noticed a dim grey pegasus crouched next to a trolley and working on a door, while a balding stallion watched her intently. It was none of her business, and she almost passed by, thinking about how a necklace would feel around her neck. Nothing fancy, a simple setting with a semi-precious stone, something practical she could wear whenever she got dressed up. It was none of her business, but when the stallion slid slightly closer to the pegasus, kicking a slim blade across the platform, it bothered her, and she bent down and picked it up before moving over to return it to its rightful owner. She wedged her way between the pair, directing an insincere “excuse me” at the stallion. “You dropped thif,” she said, tilting her head towards the mare, and pushing the stallion a bit further back with her rump. “Hey,” he muttered, and she turned her head to face him, not seeing the locksmith's wingtip come up and reach for the wayward tool. Heather wrinkled her nostrils as Luster's primaries tickled at the slender rake, and then both were gone as the locksmith turned back towards the door. “Didja lose the key?” “He did.” Luster tilted her head towards the stallion, who had the grace to blush slightly. “And then somehow, the lock got filled with water, and it froze.” “Oh.” Heather looked at the platform—under the overhang of the station roof, there was barely more than a little snow-grit that the wind had blown around. She sidestepped, bumping the stallion again, then sat down beside the door. “So you need to melt the ice out of it. You could put salt in it.” Luster flinched as if she'd been slapped. She let go of her tools and flexed her wings, while she took her first real look at her visitor. If her time touring with Trixie had taught her anything, it was how to read ponies. Flower cutie mark, windblown mane and tail, slightly shaggy winter coat, and scrapes and scuffs on her hooves no hooficure could ever remove—this was a farmer. She might as well have worn a sign about her neck. “You could weed your garden by salting the ground, too.” Now it was Heather Rose's turn to wince. “Okay, bad idea.” She tapped her hoof to her chin in thought. Luster didn't reply, just went back to working a slender screwdriver against the pins. Half the battle was to get them to move, then it would just be a question of whether she could put enough force on the tension wrench to make the cylinder turn. “If you could catch some of the steam from the locomotive and bring it over to the lock,” Heather mused out loud, “that would melt the ice.” “Is there a steam hose at the station?” The pegasus looked up from her work, and glanced over at Stamps. “I don't know,” he said honestly. “Why don't you go look?” Heather offered. “Since you're not doing anything useful.” He got reluctantly to his hooves and looked up and down the platform, as if one might materialize within eyeshot. When it didn’t, he trotted towards the locomotive and the cluster of mechanics gathered there. “You don't have a bottle of light oil, do you?” Luster brushed a curl of steel-blue mane out of her face and jabbed the screwdriver back at the lock. She'd gotten the first two pins free, and was working on the third. “What, in case I was planning on baking a batch of cookies on the train?” “Sorry.” The locksmith pulled the screwdriver out and blew into the lock to dislodge the ice she'd chipped off. “I could maybe get some from the engine oiler.” “She’s only got heavy stuff. Too viscous, especially when it's cold.” She went back to work with the screwdriver, turning her body to get better leverage with her wing. “Alcohol?” “In my trunk. Does the station sell it?” “Nothing strong enough.” She sighed. “I've got a bottle back at my shop, but didn't bring it. Should’ve thought Stamps'd be clever enough to try something like this, just to keep me out here. where he could gawk at my pretty flank.” “He's old enough to be your father.” Heather Rose scrunched her muzzle. “Grandfather.” “Ew.” Heather got back to her hooves, brushing the grit off her rump with her tail. “Think he'll find a steam hose?” “If he does, it'll have a hole by the time it gets here, or the coupler will be broken.” Her ears fell. “Probably what's taking him so long. I'd like to have this lock open before he gets back.” “What if . . . “ Heather moved close to the lock to examine it. “I could ask the attendant to get my trunk, maybe make a little funnel out of a piece of paper.” She looked back at the stationary train, and the baggage car coupled behind the tender. “It's a shame that there's a big iron boiler right there, but no way of getting the heat here, where it’s needed. Pegasi can't grab steam clouds, can they?” “Not unless we want to burn our hooves.” “What about a coal from the fire?” “Again, the hoof-burning. You're welcome to try.” “I bet there's a shovel in the locomotive.” Heather turned and trotted to the stationary locomotive, pulling herself halfway into the cab. Luster watched with interest, waiting to see what developed. It only took a minute before the earth pony backed down off the steps, moving carefully on three hooves—when she turned, Luster saw that she now wore a thick hoof-mitt on her right foreleg. She walked over to the door and unceremoniously jammed her mitted hoof against the lockplate. Instantly, a muffled hissing came from the lock. Heather held it there until the small puffs of steam had totally subsided, then pulled back and let the ember drop to the station platform. Luster kicked it out of the way with the toe of her hoof, then stuck the snake rake and tension wrench in the keyhole. A moment of practiced wiggling, and the lock surrendered with a final click. She pushed the door slightly ajar, just to make sure, then the two mares exchanged a high-hoof. Just then Stamps huffed up to the duo. “I found a hose,” he said proudly. “Took you long enough,” Luster sneered. “I got the lock open without it.” “What? How?” He took a step forward, landing on the hot ember with a painful-sounding sizzle. His pupils shrank, and he started dancing on his hooves before galloping towards a snowbank. Luster slid her tools back into her roll-pouch and slipped it back under her wing. “Now all I've got to do is make a new key, and I can do that back at my workshop.” She looked back at the door: the paint was slightly discolored around the keyplate, but it was otherwise undamaged. “Want to come with me? You might find something you’d like.” •        •        • “That's a lot of locks.” “Can't be too careful.” Luster let the keyring fall on its lanyard and nosed the door open. The guttering lanterns inside barely illuminated the workshop, so Heather stayed back as Luster turned their wicks up. It wasn't much of an improvement. Nevertheless, Heather entered, closing the door tightly behind her. And just stared around the room. She'd never seen so many locks in one place, although it stood to reason that being a locksmith's shop, it'd be full of locks. She'd never seen so many different varieties, either. Various kinds of padlocks hung from pegs, nails pounded into the wall, and a short section of chain-link fence. Boxes stacked around the shop contained locks for doors and chests, if the drawings on the ends of the boxes were to be believed. The whole shop smelled of metal and oil and meals eaten at the workbench. It was cluttered, confining—Heather couldn't imagine how a pegasus could stand it. Her house was cozy and neat, and had big windows that looked over her fields. Back at the bench, Luster hunched over a key blank, carefully filing teeth into the key’s bit . She'd jotted down the pin-lengths while she worked, and the measurements were familiar enough that she barely needed to use calipers. Satisfied with her work, she set down her tools, ruffled her primaries, and rolled her neck. Then she picked up the key, blew the shavings off it, buffed the raw edges with a cloth soaked in linseed oil, looped a length of ribbon through the bow, and draped it around her neck. Luster spun on her stool and hopped to her hooves. She used a foxtail brush to sweep the bronze shavings into a bin, and then walked over to the earth pony. Heather Rose was studying one of the love locks clipped to the chain-link. Luster rolled her eyes. “You don't want one of those. Nopony wants one of those.” “Why not? I like the color.” She brushed it with her hoof. The pale magenta was a near match to her coat. “It's a love lock, isn't it?” “How do you know about those?” Heather blushed. “Um, I watched The Bridge of Love in Canterlot, and the pegasus soldier had one. He tossed the key down a well to show how unbreakable his love was.” “Trust me, it's a lot less romantic when police ponies have bolt-cutters and lawyers.” “But you could use it someplace where nopony would be bothered by it,” Heather insisted. “You might find hoofcuffs more enjoyable. I have some for sale, if you or your coltfriend is an adventurous sort.” Heather scuffed her hoof on the floor. “I don't actually have a special somepony.” “Me, either,” Luster muttered. “Not for a lack of trying.” She thought back to her last dinner date—he was cute, but like so many others, he was gone too soon. Heather Rose brightened. “But I still want the lock.” “You don’t have to take pity on me.” “I’m not.” Luster looked into the guileless green eyes of the farmer and nodded. “Well, hope springs eternal.” She reached up and unlocked the heart-shaped padlock, handing it and the key to the earth pony. “Five bits—I'm giving you a deal, 'cause you figured out how to thaw the lock at the train station.” It was more than Heather wanted to spend, but it was rude to make a deal and then back out, so she reached into her coinpurse and pulled out a six-bit coin, flinching back slightly as Luster again brushed her lips with a wingtip. •        •        • Heather Rose trudged through the deserted Ponyville streets, forcing her way through the drifts forming across the road. She didn’t mind so much; it was nice to be home, even if she wouldn’t get to see her friends until tomorrow. She dropped her trunk on her front stoop, but instead of going into her house right away, she went around behind her house and looked over the gate. She stood on her hind hooves, leaning against the top of the rough-split wood, and just watched her field slumber under its blanket of snow. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, she pulled the gate's latch back, and then used the love lock to fasten it permanently open. The Facts of Ponyville - by Luster Lock's Author Heather loved the feel of the comb—the knowledge that each tooth was slowly working her mane into neat, tidy rows of rosy hair, like flowers lined precisely in a field. Even if it wouldn’t stick for any longer than an hour or two. “Und meine Mutter,” said Lotus, behind her, “sie hat diesen winzigen Hut getragen, und sie sagte, ‘Was ist los, Kinder? Zu groß?’” She tittered, nearly dropping the comb. Heather giggled herself, but felt a pang of guilt, recalling her own mother. She’d have to send a letter soon. The farm had just been so hectic recently… Lotus hummed and took away that blessed comb, and already Heather’s scalp missed it. “Fertig,” said the spa pony, coming around and offering Heather a hoof down from the table. The delightful sound of hooves on tile spread out through the heavy air as the duo made their way to the front room. Lotus walked around to the back of the counter while Heather waited in front, coin purse in hoof and a smile on her face. This part was well rehearsed. As Lotus scribbled in a ledger, Heather measured out some bits and passed them over the counter. “Danke schön, Röslein,” said Lotus, smiling brightly. “Come back soon, ja?” Heather mirrored the smile. “Bitte,” she said, and she accepted the complimentary soap Lotus offered. “And I will. Give the others my best.” She started towards the door, calling back, “Tschüs!” “Tschüs!” Out the door, and the afternoon sun was shining bright. The warmth and cheer in the air of the (relatively) bustling thoroughfare sent a giggly shiver up Heather’s spine. She closed her eyes, taking a moment to drink in the little town she called home, and all of its perf— She was on the ground now, a light twinge in her shoulder. She could feel the dirt worming its way into her not-so-groomed-anymore mane. Not two minutes. It must have been a new record. Groaning, Heather opened her eyes to find a set of grayish hindquarters. That wasn’t the least common thing to see after getting knocked over in Ponyville, but… This other pony—while she was indeed a pegasus—had a lock for a mark rather than bubbles, and hair that was far from blonde. The other pony turned, frowning, and offered Heather a hoof. “Sorry ’bout that,” she said, her voice boyish in manner if not in timbre. Heather took the hoof and stood, saying, “Danke.” “You’re”—the other pony raised an eyebrow—“‘wel-ke’?” Heather shook her head. “You want ‘bitte’. Sorry, habits.” She took in the sight of the pegasus, from curly hair (unkempt, but clearly for longer than Heather’s own—it was practically encrusted with sweat), to over-the-shoulder knapsack, to dusty hooves. This pony was a traveller, and unless Heather had forgotten a face, new to town. “So,” said Heather, “what has you walking backwards down our little town’s main street?” The other pony snorted. “What’s got you standing still on it?” There’d been a bit of a sneering edge to that question, and Heather didn’t like it one bit. She couldn’t help but frown. “Er.” The pegasus cringed. “Sorry. My business, is all—plus I had kind of a long trip. Luster Lock.” She offered her hoof once again, her knapsack balanced awkwardly now with nothing holding it. Heather shook it, saying, “Heather Rose.” Luster’s eyes widened, and suddenly Heather’s flank was the unwilling subject of a rather focused (and creepy) bout of peering. “You’re just what I need!” the mare shouted. Looking all about, Heather grimaced at just how many of the town’s eyes had turned their way. She hissed through her teeth, “And you’re in public!” But Luster had a grin that wouldn’t quit. “Your cutie mark,” she said. “Bunch of heather. What’s it mean? Flower farmer or something, right?” Oh. A potential customer? “That’s it precisely,” said Heather, “minus how it symbolizes my—” Luster waved a hoof. “Doesn’t matter. You’re perfect.” “Perfect for what, exactly?” Heather was frowning too much today—it was market day, for goodness sake! But that might have been the big issue. She needed to go set up her stall and start making her bits, yet here she was, waylaid by a strange— “I need info from somepony who’s really boring,” said Luster, still grinning. “Somepony who’s really small-town, really scared of big disasters—and, like, change in general, preferably.” Heather felt her eye twitch, and she turned away. It was time go fetch her cart and her wares for the day. “Hey!” Luster called after her. “Aw, come on! Do you at least know any other flower farmers, or some old-timey farriers, or anything? Ugh.” After all those years, Heather’s stall still wasn’t popular enough. Ponies didn’t realize (yet) just what they were getting when they bought themselves a batch of Heather’s Heath brand heather honey. Or heather honey in general, for that matter, but good luck finding any other brands around Ponyville. Heather itself is a stubborn plant, only blooming naturally for a scant few weeks out of the year—the real sort, anyway—so heather honey has to be extracted from bees feasting on it during that brief window. As an earth pony, Heather could widen that window, coaxing the heather to bloom for upwards of about a month and a half, but any longer and the excess of magic needed would bother the bees—which themselves were on loan for that period, and not Heather’s to bother. So heather honey is a rarity, so what? It’s just another kind of honey, right? Wrong. Aside from being darker and richer in flavor than most other honeys, heather honey is so packed with protein that it’s practically solid until you stir it. Add to that all of the carbohydrates, nutrients, antioxidants, und so weiter that you get from any honey, and heather honey is the good-tasting health food. And Luster Lock, standing before Heather’s stall in the local market—with a full range of heather honeys, meads, beers, bread (Oma’s recipe), jams, jellies, and bare, tasty flowers laid out before her eyes—said, “Let me get a couple of those dried ones. They look tasty.” The ‘dried ones’ were a decorative heather wreath, and she’d been perfectly earnest in her request, Heather was sure. “Please go away,” said Heather, voice and face made painstakingly neutral. Luster sighed. “I’m sorry for insulting you before.” She rubbed a wing—odd as that looked to Heather—through her still-dirty mane. “I really would appreciate your help.” Luster’s eyes seemed so sincere, even if it looked like her mouth was about to creep into some kind of smirk. Plus, it wasn’t like there was a line forming behind her. “Fine,” Heather grumbled. “How can I help?” “Like I mentioned before, I need info,” said Luster, lighting up and leaning on the stall’s counter. “Somepony as bor—” She froze as Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Ahem. Somepony like you, a small-town flower farmer, probably does her best to avoid big, awful disasters and such, right?” “Right,” said Heather with brow raised. For all that she loved Ponyville most of the time, she did hate it whenever monsters attacked, or a local said heather was too bitter a plant, or ancient evils resurfaced in town. Did that really go hoof in hoof with her occupation…? Luster continued, “And you’ve lived in Ponyville—a place pretty much infamous for exactly that kind of thing—for how long, now?” “A little under five years.” “Great!” Luster beamed. “I figure, that attitude and all that experience, you’ve got to have a disaster sense by now, right? When’s the next one coming?” Friendly chattering and the rolling of cart wheels over cobblestone and the heated sounds of bartering filled the silence. “What?” said Heather. Luster didn’t falter. “When do you think Ponyville is due for trouble?” “That’s the most ridiculous—” But it wasn’t, Heather realized as the word left her mouth. It wasn’t ridiculous at all. There was an equation forming in her head—or, no, not forming. It had been there, invisible, in the back of her mind. Market days were her favorite days of the week, and this was true for most of the town’s many farmers. Likewise the weather, sunny and comfortably warm. But there was a balance to be maintained there: get some good, get some bad. Harmony. Though, there had been plenty enough bad today, in the form of the quirky pony with whom she was talking—her hair had even been ruined much sooner than the norm, she recalled. But… No, there were two equations. Her personal unpleasant experiences today only balanced out personal enjoyments, like the—she now remembered—extra long and entertaining spa visit. The perfection of the day on a town-wide scale had yet to be checked by… “Today,” Heather breathed. “Within twenty-four hours for sure. Oh, großartige Schwestern…” “Today?” said Luster. She shot up from the counter. “Perfect!” Heather watched as Luster set her knapsack down and used her wings to widen the drawstrings. From within, she pulled out a length of thin but remarkably sturdy-looking iron chain. And pulled. And pulled. She wound it around a foreleg and, after no more came out, she withdrew also an ornately carved—was that a dragon face?—and solid-seeming lock. She left it open, but with its clasp bridging the first link of the chain to the last and holding the whole heavy, menacing arrangement taut against her hoof. And then… she started pulling out more chain, for her other foreleg. What an uncomfortable burden that knapsack must have been. It was about when a second lock reared its vaguely leonine face that Heather summoned the presence of mind to ask, “What in Equestria are you doing?” Lock in place, Luster danced a little jig, rattling the chains to her giggling satisfaction—and everypony else around’s sweat-beaded consternation—and looked back up to Heather. “Getting ready,” she said, grinning like predator, “to whup and or restrain and or sell some custom locks to the trouble.” “So you came to Ponyville to throw yourself at disasters…?” At Luster’s nod, Heather could only shake her head. “‘Du spinnst,’ my Oma would say. You’re going to fit right in, I’m sure.” As misfortune would have it, there came a sudden roar from the other side of town, and the local birds loudly flapped and cawed their way off. Heather’s mind froze even as her body kicked into practiced action, frantically beginning to pack up her wares along with all of the saner stall owners around the market. Luster’s grin had magnified tenfold, but Heather saw her make a concerted effort of reining it back into a quivering smile-smirk. The pegasus drew some bits out from her somehow-still-not-empty knapsack, tossed them onto the stall counter, and grabbed a bottle of heather mead with a wing. She popped the cork and took a good many swigs. “Ahh,” sighed Luster, slamming the bottle back down onto the counter like she was cool instead of just hurting the wood. “My compliments to the brewer.” “Danke,” said Heather with an absent mind. Luster turned her smirk back to Heather, saying, “You’re bitte.” Heather winced, rolled her eyes, and just barely managed to correct Luster and pack away her things before the stomping said that it was time to be anywhere else. The town of Ponyville’s collective palate still somehow managed to overlook the strikingly crisp flavor of a fine heather ale, with its notes of floral, even vaguely sweet— Oh, who even cared? The Thirsty Draft had it on tap, and that was all that really mattered right then. Of course, it was Heather’s Heath brand heather ale, but The Thirsty Draft was the most wonderful sort of pub that Heather could imagine; they charged a local supplier only slightly more than what they paid that supplier in the first place for the same amount of stock. For coppers on the bit, Heather got to drink her ale at a better temperature and out of a nicer glass than what she could manage at home, and the atmosphere—warm and loud and littered with ponies, but rarely any of it to an unpleasant degree—came free. And so of course the only open seat at the bar was next to a battered but radiant Luster Lock. After all, it had already been such a train wreck of a—no, such an average, balanced day—that Ponyville couldn’t let it be over just yet. “Did you win?” said Heather as she sat. The bartender, without even needing to meet her eyes, had already laid down a frothing glass for her. Almost everything was right with the world. Luster turned Heather’s way and smiled, and she served up a light punch of recognition to an already aching shoulder. “Not really,” she said. “No lock sales today. And he sure was better at doling out a whupping.” Her smile went a little soft. “Had fun, though.” Heather giggled lightly, and she asked, “What was the other thing you were going to try? ‘Restraining the trouble’?” Grayish wings rose up in some kind of gesture—a shrug, maybe? “Opening locks is more my thing, I guess,” said Luster, smile back to its earlier… luster. There Heather went giggling again, even if there wasn't much call for it—but she realized it was the first time she’d laughed since leaving the spa, and it felt good. Though, she supposed it was hard not to be happy when half a glass of ale had made its way down her throat while Luster had been talking. And no sense in leaving the other half waiting. Luster whistled. “You sure can put it away, huh?” She held up her own glass, eyeing what was left. “And I guess I can kind of see why.” What did—Oh! That hazy gold color, and that earthy nose! “You’re drinking my beer?” Luster nodded, taking another pull. “Oh, danke schön, Luster! Ponies here rarely even give it a chance.” Heather raised her own glass high—full again, that wonderful bartender. “How does it taste?” Emptying the glass and setting it down, Luster shot Heather one final, all-enraging smirk. With a tone of the utmost self-satisfaction, she uttered, “Bitter.” There were times, however rare, when The Thirsty Draft did get to be too hot and loud for Heather’s liking. During the occasional good-natured bar fight, for instance.