Wedding March is finished at last.

No, that line of text isn't a visual hallucination induced by deprivation and madness. The strange aeon's come; the bloody thing's done and dusted and done again for good measure.

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I remanifest from wild, internetless parts! And what do I find but no less than a hundred and sixty-five notifications of various stripes, mostly pertaining to The Commander's Shilling, which must have lingered in the Feature Box much longer than I'd expected, though I'd scarcely expected it to end up there in the first place. To everyone who clapped eyes on it and liked, faved, commented, or at least didn't recoil immediately in disgust, thank you. You're all excellent. Even

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Two chapters in over half a year is pretty feeble going, by most measures.

Happily, three chapters is vastly less feeble, if my feeble-mathematics isn't letting me down. Have a third chapter accordingly! With any luck, the great-grandchildren of those currently living might behold the next. It can become a regular tradition, like Halley's Comet.

For Wedding March, at long, long, long last.

Oh god, I'm sure seventeen thousand words seemed like a good idea at the time. Future chapters shan't be quite as door-stoppery, I swear.

In the interest of full disclosure, I'm not actually a cuboid with Rarity's details on it. As proof, I offer up the following selfie.

Say what you will about the Pliocene epoch, but having elephant-sized versions of these trundling around must have been rad as balls.

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