Bugger Your Decorum!
“Bugger Your Decorum!”
Ponyville's long, humid summer day had come, quite without fuss, to its gentle end. The trailing rays of the last of the light had done their merry dances across the lawns and commons of the little town, and now a post-sunset lambency settled on the steeples and thatches, as if the day was entirely comfortable where it was, and wished to stay around for a bit longer. The cloak of night hurried the sprite away soon enough, however, and darkness fell.
All of the town's meticulously orchestrated weather schedules detailed a slow and turgid environment, with no wind to balm the brows of sleepers, progressing into more of the same until morning, at which point it would become insufferably hot again. Ponyville's denizens were just preparing for their fitful, broken sleeps, contemplating the risks of snoozing in ice boxes, and generally entreating the sandmare to bestow her loving touch, when a great and sphincter-clenching bang rolled through their very souls.
The tell-tale flash of lightning shortly followed the thunder, and all who saw it were too stunned and confused to question why it had not been the other way around. In that moment, a dozen angry letters were mentally quilled, ranting in explicit and outraged language as to the disruption in the schedule, of which the unannounced storm was surely a sign of. Some particularly eager complainants to the Crown had even begun to write them when the freezing rain started to fall, rising to a fever pitch in moments, lashing their windows and mudding up the roads and paths.
Weather Master Strati Form rode his captive cumulonimbus up through four kilometres of altitude, curving the feathery steed around with sharp twists of his wings. He stood resplendent on the crest, rain streaming over his shaven skin and taut muscles, surveying the work of his covert dramatists. DRAMA, he thought, sternly. No event is beyond our reach.
An ominous and doom-laden thunderhead slotted into place below him, shepherded by the expert ministrations of winged agents. It rippled with cloud-to-cloud lightning and gave off low rumbles, and was a fine specimen of the fateful species. When it entered the pathway set out for it, which howled with eye-stinging wind that caught the harmonics of buildings just so, producing a ghostly whisper, it sped up, flickering and throwing off the odd thunderbolt.
Strati Form grinned as it collided with the complex array of holding winds in the middle of the town, ensuring it would hold position in the centre and provide the maximum dousing of climatic and thematically appropriate weather. He unhooked his goggles, wanting to see with his own eyes. Getting down on his belly, he peered in the abyss.
A swirling and chaotic vortex of angry clouds, too disconnected and bizarre to be given names to or hope to put in any cloud atlas, tore at the rooftops, their rain discharges already creating the perfect muddy ground through which chases, desperate struggles and other grim events could easily take place with the grandest of aplomb. Lightning went off like cannon fire, replete with the thunder of those weapons. Any tumultuous speeches, sinister announcements or final conversations prior to titanic conflicts would be punctuated by it, and with a high chance of it happening at all the right moments.
Strati Form bit his lip and, though it was whipped away by the high-altitude gusts as soon as it fell, a tear rolled down his cheek. When they write the history of this day, they will say 'This was their finest hour'. If only we knew what all this was in aid of.
*
Berry Punch was staggering out of the Sneaky Stepladder, Ponyville's lone watering hole and a total dive bar of the kind she loved the most, when the rain commenced. The torrent was kept off her face and neck by the wide, rafetta brim of one of Punch Drunk's premier apparel products, the Goode Tymes Rolle On Forever Funbrero. Drinking straws dangled from it, swaying around near her mouth and dribbling Old Peculiar into the developing mud, and the slosh of the bottle that was slotted in under the crown was drowned out by peals of thunder.
She'd been drinking for most of the afternoon, and was in the full sails of a nicely drunken stupor. In all the excitement and rude songs being sung, she'd quite forgotten about the incident some time past where she'd presented a certain alicorn Princess with the formula to Nectar number one. Those memories came drifting back in a murky haze, followed by a sharp sting of lucid adrenaline when she realized. Berry Punch glanced up too quickly, sending the funbrero crashing into the mud.
Luna's tits! It's the end times! I've got to get moving! So much to do!
She broke into a zig-zagging gallop across the small park the Stepladder let out onto, putting on a real streak of speed and managing to fall over only the once.
*
“I'm genuinely concerned that there exists a...” Truth rolled her head, pausing for a moment as she searched for the right word. “Species, a certain type of pony, extant in Equestria, who enjoys engaging in this sort of bizarre proclivity.”
“Oh, come on, it's just a story, isn't it? Fantasy fiction, of a particularly grimy nature,” Emboss said, flicking through the pages of the book which his wife had found in their room. “On a Wing and a Neigh-er, even the title is a stupid joke.”
“I'm not convinced. What would you even call such self-destructive behaviour? Some extreme extension of the power play paradigm?” Truth sighed and continued to relax on the foredeck, the continuous magical exertions tiring her. “Mrs Spun Glass used to like that kind of romantic adventure, but it was all, you know, chains and whips.”
“I'm not sure that I do know, dear,” Emboss said, frowning disquietly. “Why would anyone want to be tied up and whipped? That just sounds scary and painful.”
“I'd hazard a guess on that being the point.”
“Well then, how is that any different to someone having a fantasy about...” He stopped rifling the pages halfway through the book, reading from it. “Right, here we are, a fantasy about having four gryphons, after they do their... well, you know, anyway, after they do that, eating you? It's just words on a page!”
“Darling, the thing here is that activities like what Mrs Spun Glass got up to are all safe, in the end, and they go to great lengths to make it so. You would never be happy just looking, just thinking about it, would you? No, you'd want to actually do it. There's no coming back from a locked room with a randy gryphon for we herbivores.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about chains and whips.”
“Don't I just?” Truth yawned and flicked her tail, rearranging her mane for the umpteenth time as the winds were constantly putting it out. “Agh, that bloody hippogryph knows nothing about navigation; the horizon is emptier than a nest in winter and it's got to be almost lunchtime.”
“I'll go see what the situation is,” Emboss said, eager for any excuse to end the conversation. “Back in a moment, sweetling.”
The hippogryph in question was sat further back on the deck of the Barely Eagle, emplaced on a big chaise lounge which the ship's zebra had brought up earlier, amidst much grunting and sweating. He was writing in a journal with some obvious aplomb, narrating the contents of his words with flicks of his head and clicks of his beak. His fountain pen had a band of gold and onyx around its copper construction, and several of the tungsten nibs that fitted into the bottom each, of course, with their own equally lavish embellishments, lay here and there on the rests and pillows of the sofa.
“I know what you're going to say,” he muttered, not looking up from the journal. “Oh, Astrapios, me old chum, why aren't we at Noble's Isle yet, when are we getting there?” He pulled off a pretty decent impersonation of Emboss' accent, itself strongly Cantish, which begged the question as to why he didn't put on a better one for regular use. “I'll tell you what my old cocksmaster used to say--”
“What?” Emboss said, furrowing his brow. “Cocksmaster?”
“Mid-level manager, bridges the gap between officers and the rank-and-file,” Astrapios said, tapping his pen on the paper. “Anyway, he used to say 'ye seas are a fykle beest, no hen norr cock norr mare norr stallion maye hope to tayme it.' ”
“I see, did he put on all the stresses on the archaic words too?”
“Seacock's flare!” Astrapios snapped, shaking his head. “Our culture is rich and storied.”
“So what you're saying is that you have no idea when we're going to arrive?”
“Soon,” he grunted, peering quickly up at the horizon. “Probably.”
“Probably!” Emboss huffed. “I'm not a mathematician, nowhere near it as a matter of fact, but I know how to work out time and velocity! Come on, all you need to know is where you are, how far away the place you're trying to get to is, and the speed at which you are traveling!”
“Well, if you hadn't set us going like a pony with an eel up his backside, I would know all of those things, but the fact of the matter is that I don't.” Astrapios set down his journal and stood up, puffing himself out to his full height, which wasn't very much at all. “So we'll get there when we get there, and you silly horses are going to have to like it, or you can bloody well lump it!”
“An eel?! Ye Gods!”
Astrapios grumbled and squinted at Emboss, then got back on his chaise lounge, making a show of rustling and resetting his feathers, as if to show how annoyed he was.
“First, my wife is on about gryphons rutting ponies, then eating them--”
“Oh, she read my book?” Astrapios suddenly beamed eagerly.
“--now you're on about eels in places where there should not be eels, not ever!”
“Did she like it? What did she think?”
“Ask her yourself! I've had enough of all you perverts!”
Emboss promptly stormed off, passing by the large central mast, which he had not yet, up to this point, noticed was shaped like a gigantic penis, originating species unknown, possibly fantastical, but very spiny indeed.
*
Twilight had given up on the uncooperative diamond dog, and now sailed aimlessly through the dry desert skies, unsure of where to go or what to do. So much of her fall and all the intervening parts were a blurred mess of half memories and sensations. She could not place them within the scope of her previous life experiences. They were alarmingly alien, and faded in and out of cognizance like a dream, remembered and forgotten. There was no way she could tell where Whom had come down and, for all she knew, the hapless pink thing was on another continent.
Worse still, her panniers were missing. This was intentional for, as sturdy as they were, they would not have survived the heat of their return. Only Twilight's magical nature had allowed her to remain intact, for a given definition of the word, and she silently beseeched any and all deities who might be listening that she had put in enough of the magical good stuff for Whom's protection to have gone the distance. What hadn't been intentional was the part where she'd fallen off. Poor mare, she will have learned to fly on the moon, not to mention walk. I wonder, if she was born in the normal manner, or rather hewn from some thaumic stuff. Both ideas raise more questions than they really answer. Perhaps she sprung fully formed from the void, bidden by a divine's will. That, perhaps, is more palatable than the idea she sprung from another void entirely.
Twilight had not been planning on doing much more with Whom, after dropping her off at home to be looked after and, if possible, kept far away from Luna, at least before she had a chance to stage manage that particular reunion. There was no telling how either would react, but Twilight knew that it would be a negative one for her pink friend. Whom had said and inferred a great many horrid and mysterious things in their short time together, and she had seen so much more in the way of grim madness, just in one part of the Nightmare's demesne. She had not visited the other fortress, which had towered so menacingly in the horizon when first she'd turned up on the moon. There would need to be a long process of decommissioning after all this was over, possibly spearheaded by a large number of geldings, or those with chronic empathy disorders.
Can one really 'decommission' an entire ecosystem? Maybe we'll have to abandon it all in place, end what suffering we can. We'll need to determine what is suffering first, though, and what is merely an illusion of it, and what amongst those awful things is quite happy doing what it is doing. I will write a book, I think. And I could fill three volumes just with what was in and about the Imbrium! Winking deer and giant squid. Ye star-drenched foals!
Now, however, Whom had her panniers or, at least, she was last seen with them. Twilight would surely find them in, near or possibly smeared over a large area around, the crash site, wherever that might be. Her idle scanning of the horizon suddenly picked up a brown blemish in the otherwise pristine and unchanging undulations of the massive and empty desert. Wadi. An area around the termination of a water course or natural spring. Bigger than an oasis, something like a tiny valley, and more common. Essential habitat for many specifically adapted species. Whom will want and need water. Even a silly filly like her will follow the urges of her biology.
The Princess winced as she put on speed, the alicorn nature simulating the pain such an action would have on an unaccustomed and untrained flier, even if no actual damage or strain to the muscle was occurring. It's as good a place as any to start looking.
*
Across the desert floor, a strange and improbable caravan of equinoid figures traced a determined and unwavering path. At the front of them was a mare with white fur so pure it seemed unreal, as though the Divine Artist had forgotten to add a colourscheme on this particular individual. Though her frame was slight, and was perhaps more familiar to an environment of luxury and little work, she carried nearly two hundred kilograms of weight in mismatched and well-worn panniers.
Behind her was a stallion, whose sire's sire had clearly been a zebra, as his stature was of those creatures; majestic and noble, every part of him an equation with purpose and meaning, even if it was too grand to see. Though he was a pony, little stipples of stripes in black and white betrayed his far ancestry up his barrel. Muscles slid and slipped over each other with each strident motion, and the chestnut of his coat had turned a warm cappuccino with two weeks of unshorn growth and the oppressive sun. He wore nothing, and was as naked as the day he was born, despite the heat mandating something at least to cover the head.
Last in their convoy was a minotaur. These supposed monsters came in many shapes and sizes; some were towering copies of their ancient selves, vast and brick-like. Others were tiny and lithe. They were not meant for the world, and were a late addition. Their genetics were confused and messy, giving rise to so many apparent species, clades and other categories that little serious academic work had yet been undertaken to place them in Equestria's kingdoms of life. Science still awaited some gifted genius, of a kind found once in ten generations, to tackle that bastard of a binomimachy.
He walked upright, muscular head and shoulders swaying gently with his gait. Unusually for his kind he wore a collection of clothes, none of which were from the same fashionista or design house. Leathers and hemp of no fewer than eight different colours fought for space around his tubular midsection, along with cotton bandoliers, map tubes, pots and pans, water gourds, and so on. His big cloven hooves were not as stable a platform as the wider pony hooves of his compatriots, and so he had on a pair of wide-soled shoes, allowing him to keep pace.
“This is a bastard thing, Lus!” the minotaur bellowed, suddenly, in a language very few would have recognized or even have heard before, spoken in deep and mellow tones with harsh notes, like honey being mixed with nails. “We should have found Boundless Joy by now!”
The mare walking at the front turned and shot him a gaze that might have turned the sand into black glass had its vitriol not been poured into the minotaur's frame.
“I know that! Don't you think I know that, Lap?” Lus said, her voice tense and strung out, every word an effort of immense will. “Shut your stupid mouth and keep moving!”
“We've had nothing to eat in two weeks! I can barely move my mouth, let alone my legs!” Lap said, too plaintively than what might have been expected for something of his size.
“Lads...” the stallion in the middle said, distractedly.
“Oh, and you think I don't feel hungry too?” Lus said, growling. “I wish I could eat you!”
“Lads!”
“What?” Lus spat, through clenched teeth. “What is it Auks?”
“There's a pink horse over there.”
Everyone turned to look in the direction that Auks indicated with his nose. About half a kilometre away on the top of a sand dune there was indeed a pink equine. It was heading straight for them, leaping and bounding up into the air for a few seconds of flight before crashing back down again in a big puff of sand. The extreme pinkness cast a bizarre reflective glow over the desert, like a miniature sun was setting. It was obvious that she was very enthusiastic about wherever it was she was going, just judging by how often she simply dragged herself back up on her hooves and carried on.
All three of them immediately stopped and sighed with tremendous relief. They stood panting, waiting for her to come to them.
“Greenie moves in mysterious bloody ways!” Lus shouted, laughing. “Food, glorious food!”
“I want its lingering adoration for the same gender!” Lap said, eagerly racing off away from his peers, the patience of moments ago vanishing rapidly. “Calling it now, closeted homosexual feelings!”
“Hey, wait for me!” Auks whinnied, breaking into a pained canter. “You can't have that bit, that's my favorite bit!”
“The Aleph always gets the first taste!” Lus snarled, chasing the stallion and the minotaur. “Just because we've been in a survival situation doesn't mean we can piss all over decorum!”
“Bugger your decorum, right up the bum!” Lap laughed. “I'm hungry!”
*
Noble's Isle appeared on the horizon just after the sun had begun to climb down from its zenith. Smoke and other signs of life had come first, shortly after which the smudged, hoof-shaped brown of the central volcano appeared. Crouched around it were traces of green, but the strikingly black caldera dominated. It was a kernel of life and dryness in a massive pond. Dotted along their approach were the white sails of caravals and the ochre of dhows, which they rapidly overhauled.
The sea life was denser here, and many pods of dolphins jumped in and out of the waves, bullying shoals of fish and lone squids, as well as the ubiquitous orange flyers. Birds of the littoral waters followed the dolphins, eager to snap up the extra prey. Occasionally, there was a glimpse of a giant reef deep below the waves, a whole pastel array of pinks and oranges. There was no apparent risk of striking them, though. The draft of the Barely Eagle was already small, and with the extra speed they'd lifted out of the water somewhat.
Emboss hadn't devoted much time to moping about being trapped on a ship of perverts. They had, after all, thrown in with them in a great hurry, and beggars could not be choosers, even if they were paying for the ride. He'd come back on deck, vaguely sullen and hoping not to be noticed, just as Astrapios was launching into a little speech on the history of the island. He held himself all proud and officious on the prow of the Barely Eagle, tail wagging its fuzzy fly whisk ball around.
“--which of course, is as good a reason as any, I think, to found an island out here,” he said, laughing at his own, unheard joke.
“But what did Celestia want with all that salt?” Truth said, looking eager to take a proper break from magically impelling them. “Equestria has so many salt mines. They won't run dry for decades, and even if they do we can just dig new ones. There are whole stretches north of the capital that haven't ever been prospected, let alone exploited. I know that we don't use so much, and the gryphons don't need it for storage, they eat all their food fresh.”
“Maybe she just buries it again somewhere else. Maybe its a tax dodge. Maybe she sells it to the zebras in exchange for illegal and exotic life sustaining elixirs. Tartarus, maybe she's stashing it all in the basement.” He grinned. “Nobody really knows for certain where the salt goes,” Astrapios said, letting the intended mysterious tone hang in the air. “Or rather, went, because about two hundred years ago, the Crown sold this whole island chain to the Independent Guild of Hircine Interests, for the nominal sum of one bit. Gretsch Nobeard himself delivered it to Celestia's own hooves, and that, as they said, was that.”
“I've never heard of the Independent Guild of Hircine Interests,” Truth said, furrowing her brow.
“Goats, my dear, but also the sheep and other close relatives,” Astrapios said, as though it were a bit of a dirty word. “They'll take anyone these days, though. They used to be an ethnically pure trading house, with some extracurricular activities in the areas of freebooting, piracy and smuggling, which is basically just a sort of trading anyway. Minotaurs are especially fond of this place. The common perception is that Celestia didn't want them to integrate any more closely with pony society, which they'd been merrily doing for about five centuries, though in a very slow and gradual way.”
“What changed? To think of it, I can't recall ever seeing a goat or a sheep. Are they... you know, like us?”
“Somewhere between us and your bovines, I'd say.” Astrapios clicked his beak a few times, a gesture Emboss didn't recognize. “Though they might just be different. As for what changed, their birth rates skyrocketed. Celestia exported them, though they were and are still convinced it was their own decision to diaspora. It's a considerable matter of local pride, actually. Don't mention any of this when we're on the island. Implying that Celestia had any serious influence on their nation building is the quickest route to a black eye around here.”
“A little history lesson, eh?” Emboss said, slipping in between his wife and the hippogryph and nuzzling her by way of greeting.
“Hello, love,” Truth said, touching him back.
“So the Guild runs the island as a fiefdom, the chief of which runs all the way back to Nobeard down the male line, but they also have the port of Pronto, which is where we're going. That's a Special Economic Zone which the fiefdom taxes as a whole, operated by all their family members.” Astrapios squinted at the approaching island. “It's pretty complicated, but they do have the only bit of useful territory between Equestria and the broodlands. Considering how rapidly trade has been picking up this last decade, I think they're in a fantastic position.”
“Special Economic Zone sounds like a euphemism for something,” Emboss said, flicking his head warily. “Something gross and fetid, possibly performed in a dark alleyway in exchange for bits or bottles of grog.”
“It's just a freeport, lad, but it does mean the port isn't subject to any of the island's regular laws, nor is there a jurisdiction held by the chief's thief takers over it. That allows them to freely shrug their shoulders and do nothing, claiming their hooves are tied, if they get extradition requests or anything of the sort. That's why it's so popular with outcasts.” The hippogryph smiled suddenly, which was still quite unsettling for the equines. “And golden retrievers, of course.”
“Golden retrievers?” Emboss said. “As in, the breed of dog?”
“Yes indeed, there's a whole wild colony of them on the island. Nobody's really sure how they got there or why they like it so much, but they are a sight to see.”
“Aww!” Truth cooed, eyes widening with excitement. “Really?”
“Thousands of the buggers. Don't get me wrong, I like a good dog, but when you're as little as I am, a really big one can pose a bit of a problem.”
“Oh, gosh, I suppose so,” Truth said. “Are they friendly, then?”
“Absolutely, the goats wouldn't tolerate them otherwise. Pronto is a peaceful enough place, and the port police have a no nonsense attitude to the enforcement of the pax pronto. In other places, Equestria for example, if you offend society's ideals...” He paused, laughing under his breath. “Either the mob gets you or, if you're lucky, the local guard gives you a swift kicking then fines you for good measure. For worse stuff, it's the regional Assizes and a date with a judge.”
“Don't they have a legal system in Pronto then?”
“If you come to the attention of the police there, they throw you in the harbour.”
“What?” Truth frowned in confusion. “No more complex judicial system? What if I murder someone, or rape, crimes like that?”
“That is the punishment for any and all offenses. A big team of burly goats, minotaurs and ponies will grab you by the scruff of the neck and chuck you in the harbour. They'll continue doing this until you get the hint and bugger off. Or drown. Or are eaten by sharks.”
“What about the people who live there? Surely they don't expect them to swim a thousand miles to serve exile?”
“Nobody lives in Pronto,” Astrapios said, shaking his head. “Locals are guild locals, they go back home at the end of the day, or rather, to sleep, regardless of the actual time. People stay there, sure, but never permanently. It's so the fiefdom can keep the outside world at hoof's length, whilst still scraping every bit we have out of us.”
“We should get a dog, honey,” Truth said. “Maybe a beagle, or a golden retriever. Oh, what about a labrador? Those are really great, one of my manedresser's friend's sisters breeds them as a hobby. We could probably get a deal on a pup or two.”
“Whatever for? Are you feeling broody again already?” Emboss looked faintly concerned and quite uncomfortable, as if he'd just sensed some swollen spider crawling up his spine. “I think I'm more of a cat person myself.”
“Because they're adorable, that's why. A mare's best friend, or so they say.”
Astrapios snorted mirthfully and shook his head, drifting away from them in order to stifle himself.
“I'm going to rig the sails for entry to the port,” he said. “Please cut the power to your spell whenever you are ready, or we shall be dashed on the rocks and eaten by stray golden retrievers.” He turned and winked. “They have right of first salvage around these parts.”
Truth nodded and dug her back hooves into the deck, closing her eyes. Emboss stood back, allowing her some room. Magical discharges loved commingled unicorn pairs to jump between in order to even out the unnatural buildup, which was why romantic magic was often so risky, or at least one of the reasons. She gasped and began to writhe in place, as if someone was rubbing a silk swatch over her teeth, or scraping their hooves down a blackboard.
Emboss felt harmonic interference fill the thaumic band, the roots of his own horn twisting and producing that same silk on teeth feeling. He winced, but then it was over. His wife sighed pleasurably, as if in deep relief. She began to pant, recovering from the sustained effort. At the same time, the Barely Eagle very noticeably slowed down, a great spray of warm, salty water shooting up over the stern and drenching them.
He let off a very unstallionly squeak of surprise, but Truth just shook herself off and laughed at him, then folded herself around his neck in a gentle hug. Above them, the complex mechanisms of the automated rigging system kicked into life, taut hemp ropes and copper pulleys rattling and straining. They began to haul over left, pointing the prow toward the island. The big sail with the crouching gryphon hen on it rolled neatly up with a series of zipping noises, the action of which released the catches on the smaller, tighter sails that would catch the littoral winds better.
Emboss peered up at the whirling, twirling devices and machines that ran everything. He suddenly caught sight of the spiny protrusions that ran up the oddly conical main mast. As soon as he noticed what it was, he groaned and buried his head in his giggling wife's mane in dismay.
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I love the reference in the title. I have Dr. Strangelove on dvd.
Poor Whom. I hope her and Twilight are reunited soon, they have a great dynamic.
5288562
Thank you so much for your kind words. It makes it all worthwhile for me, to know that I made people happy or, at least, entertained them.
5285852
This alternative Equestria is defininately a darker place. But its not explicit, is it? There's no explicit descriptions of horrible deprivations. Yeah, dramatic things happen and the status quo is disrupted, but that's only so the conclusion can be all the sweeter. I apologize if you felt mislead at all. That was not my intent.
What is your opinion on it? Do you think the darker elements of the plot contribute in a positive way or not?
5286762
Whom and Twilight are currently my favorite power couple. You have a fragile, naive pony, developing a relationship with Twilight, who is immortal. So Twilight more and more feels like she has to look after the innocent that she inadvertantly rescued. I'm so glad that you find it as intriguing and enjoyable as I do, and others have.
5283412
Amongst others, but yes. War leaders and all that.
5285175
Me too. Black satire has produced no greater film to date.
So, if I'm reading this right, there's a group of weather ponies that secretly arrange for dramatic weather? That's a fun idea.
Huh, I had totally forgotten that Berry Punch had been involved in starting Twilight on the path towards brewing the Nectars.
Heh.
Whom just ran into a party of changelings or some other emotivore? The seems like it could go badly, but I'm not sure for whom.
Interesting island that Truth and Emboss just arrived at. I'm especially wondering about the golden retrievers, that's a funny detail.