//------------------------------// // Somewhere // Story: Lutscintorb // by Mary Sue //------------------------------// The air crackled like hoofsteps in fresh snow, soft and contained. But it was also unmistakably loud, announcing its presence to any and all who’d listen to its burning tongue. An open flame licked the air, sending embers towards the twilit sky along a poking, sizzling crescendo. Its heat scorched the nearby ground and suckled its base for precious fuel. Wild grass that stood too close saw itself charred, collapsing with tiny embers riding the fall and sparking new licks of flame. A dirt-stained hoof quickly stamped the tiny fires out. “Dammit!” a stallion cried, stomping on the burning grass while simultaneously trying to pull out other stalks before they too could ignite. “I told you to clear the area before you started the fire, Whiskey! You’re gonna light the whole damn field up!” Whiskey was a tired stallion, a unicorn who used his horn to cut corners more often than he used it for something as trivial as cutting grass. His fur was a brownish orange, the same color of the sky as the remnants of the sun’s rays lost its battle to the already-here night. But the hair on his head and stuck to his tail was a darker shade, just a touch lighter than the nightly shadows washing over the world around them. And his eyes were a vibrant yellow, reflecting the generous warmth of that sweet fire now keeping him awake. That, and currently trying to spread its way north. “Stupid fire!” he cried, smacking it into submission with his wide-brimmed hat. “You’re the stupid one!” the other stallion remarked. “I don’t need lip from you, Sharpy!” Whiskey hollered back. “It seems to be the only way to get things through your thick skull,” Sharpy muttered. For an earth pony he wasn’t exactly well built, but then again neither was Whiskey and he was sure he could beat that lazy stallion at even the most menial of tasks. His fur was a more relaxed shade of yellow, but the dirt stains, the leather vest, and the machete sheathed at his side betrayed any soft outward appearance. His green hair was shorter than Whiskey’s, something he found ideal when spending weeks at a time under the sun, if not entire months. Finally the fire was restrained. It snapped at them before settling into an angry little ball in the center of a wide ring of dirt. Whiskey threw another log on top of the pile as an apology and returned to his lazily assembled hammock: a sheet tied between two rungs on either side of the driver’s box of their stagecoach. It was slightly off centered and when he sat in it, the bottom contacted the bottom of the driver’s seat. But he didn’t care, it was comfortable enough for him. Sharpy removed a short flask from his vest and took a quick sip, finding a spot in the fresh dirt comfortably between the fire and the grass. “Today’s Tuesday, right?” he asked after a pause. “Always,” Whiskey said, tilting his hat down to cover his eyes. “Don’t worry you itchy legs none, Sharpy. We’ll make it to the town before the shipment does.” “I know that,” Sharpy said, rolling onto his back. “I’m just getting tired of pulling that wagon is all.” “Hey, I pull it too you know.” “When you’re not sleeping, or eating all our packaged foods, or drinking from both of our hootch stashes.” “You owed me that one, remember?” Sharpy hummed. “Soon enough, you’re going to return the favor. What’re are we at now, three to one?” “Something like that,” Whiskey said, his voice softening. “Could be two now that I saved your stupid face from painting this side of the mountains with hellfire.” “Whatever,” Whiskey snorted. “You just had to go out and get those fancy new reins: one hundred bits! And half the time we don’t even use them.” “And half the time we do,” Sharpy remarked. “Like now.” “Fair enough.” Whiskey turned in his hammock, which he was discovering to be less comfortable than he had hoped. But sleep was falling over him all the same. “Wake me if something exciting happens.” “Right-o,” Sharpy said, before taking another swig from his flask. He didn’t bother to put it away, instead holding it to his chest as he stared up the stars. The moon was now center stage, having beaten back what remained of the day and bearing down on the dusk. He found this process oddly soothing to witness, the sky turning darker so slowly he’d never realize it changed at all until his wandering mind returned, all the while it grew brighter with every star that bled through the wake into being. The wind had returned, and with it the night’s cold blanket. But the fire warded the latter off well enough. As an earth pony, with the ground pressed firm against his back, he felt right at home in this wide and open field, away from the distractions of society. The wind still kept, however, a distraction that caressed the surrounding tall grasses and reminded him of the fire’s existence. Despite its overbearing presence, it somehow turned forgettable as the night fulfilled its complete control of the sky. He wondered how that was, where the time had gone, but soon he couldn’t care about those thoughts either. The night was here, in all its majesty, and he couldn’t think of anything better than letting it take him too. But that wish was cut short by a brilliant, audible flash somewhere in the distance. The air was overtaken by a new kind of crackling and popping, the tang of a powerful discharge of magic, one he was certain his sluggish friend would never be capable of.