Wild Fire
The goat will carry on itself all their sins to a remote place;
and the man shall release it in the wilderness.
—Leviticus 16:22
A filly of about eight years of age sat in the middle of a long wooden table, and eleven pairs of eyes regarded her—some with curiosity, some with suspicion, and two with joy. The latter two belonged to a young mare and stallion who stood close to her. A few weeks later, when her mind fully cleared, she learned that their names were "Moonsnail" and "Stanchion". All of the other faces were considerably older.
The second-oldest of the gathered faces spoke first, its voice neutral on the surface, but with a perplexed undertone. "A pony with wings." The speaker looked toward the young couple expectantly, as if asking them to explain such a thing.
Moonsnail beamed. "We've thought of calling her 'Albatross'," she said.
A murmur ran through the assembled Elders. Even a casual observer could tell they were not particularly impressed.
"We have no foals of our own," Stanchion said. "Surely, she was sent by the gods."
"Perhaps, yes," the first speaker said. "But which gods?"
* * *
"Whales! Whales! Quickly, to the boats!"
As the call went out, and spread through The Village house by house and street by street, the brisk summer wind carried it aloft to the shack built into the top of the great sequoia tree that towered above the town centre. Inside, upon a bed of straw and rags, a filly of about thirteen years of age stirred and ruffled her feathers.
Her mind swam to consciousness—slowly at first, then all at once as she realized the cry of "whales!" was not a remnant of some fading dream. She leaped to her hooves, wings half unfurled and heart daring to hope.
She brushed a few errant strands of brown mane from her face, then plodded out the shack's door and onto the broad wooden platform that faced westward, toward the open sea. Nearing the edge, she slowed, crouched down, and peered at the scene below. Despite the good sign, she did not yet feel safe enough to show herself to the Villagers.
Albatross watched as most of the able-bodied stallions, and many of the mares, pushed long dugout canoes down the sandy beach, and piled into them once the sterns had cleared dry land. Wasting no time, the hunters seized oars and gave chase to the whale pod, which Albatross could see breaching in the distance. Mares, foals, and older ponies were emerging from every house and hovel, hurrying through The Village's narrow streets, carrying flint knives, large blown-glass jars, and other implements needed to reap the gifts of the whale.
Under her breath, Albatross wished them all luck. If the hunt went well, she might be able to venture out during the day. And if there was another sign of good luck, such as a breaking of the drought that had baked The Village for over a month, the Villagers might even let her pass among them unhindered.
Of course, such times never lasted.
Even in their haste to catch up with the pod, the hunters made a broad, curving detour around the spit of coast north of The Village, where, half sunk in the sand, its pointed front sticking upward above the tide line, squatted the remains of the Omen.
Albatross turned from the edge, trotted inside, and approached the centre of the shack, where a small wooden table was piled with charcoal, birch bark, and the few natural dyes she could make by chewing colorful plants. In the middle, held down by a few pebbles, was a half-finished sketch of one of the limestone caves at the foot of the mountains that stood some miles to the east. She picked up one of the blackened sticks and examined her work, trying to remember where she had left off.
* * *
The canoes returned in the early evening. A subtle change in the undertone of The Village's collective murmur made Albatross's ears prick, and she turned from the table and made her way to the platform in the same manner she had that morning.
One whale, made buoyant with inflated seal skins and towed across the ocean's surface by several canoes pulling at once, had already been beached. The waiting mares had begun to carve broad strips of blubber from the carcass. Nearby, just above the tide line, smoke rose from the oilworks, where ponies stoked the fires that would soon bring the huge stone cauldrons to a boil.
Albatross looked farther out, to count how many other hulking carcasses had been brought back. She blinked and looked again. Most of the canoes had by now reached the shore, but no more whales were present. Making things worse, the lone grey shape on the beach was smaller than most she had seen in previous summers.
Albatross retreated from the sight, her head low, and her heart lower. She was tempted to retire to bed, in the hope that the next dawn might bring better luck. But she had an appointment to keep, once night had fallen and most of the Villagers were indoors. At the northern spit, near the Omen's prow, she would meet the only pony she knew she could trust.
* * *
"Uh, hi."
Albatross looked up. Her eyes, bleary from crying, took a moment to focus on a granite-colored colt, about her age. "B-Bullhead?"
"Easy to remember, huh?" He tapped his bulbous forehead.
A few seconds of awkward silence passed before Bullhead spoke again. "It's Coral, isn't it." He articulated it like a statement, not a question.
Albatross answered by moving her forehooves to uncover a few pieces of birch bark, soaked through with sea water. On these, there were a few smudges that had recently been charcoal drawings. She turned away from them and buried her face in her wings.
Bullhead sighed and sat down beside her. "My father says ponies like that push others around because it runs in their families. Plus, Coral's grandpa is an Elder, so she gets away with everything."
Albatross said nothing. Bullhead frowned, and changed his tack.
"They pick on me too. Actually, just about everypony picked on me before—" He cut his statement off abruptly. Albatross guessed he was going to say, "Before they had you to go after."
"But my father gave me some advice, and now ya know what I do?" he said.
Albatross pulled her wings back a bit and looked at him.
"I stick my tongue at 'em, and then I say, 'You ponies only have foreheads. I got a fivehead.'"
In spite of herself, Albatross chuckled a bit.
* * *
Bullhead's family home was at the north edge of The Village. After his bedtime, he would slip out the window and stealthily make his way to the Omen. Albatross usually reached it before him, having flitted there on soundless wings. For the last three years, she had spent every day looking forward to these visits.
Around whale season, Albatross had to be extra careful to avoid the sharp-eyed watchers who looked for disturbances in the ocean's dark ripples through the night. A cry from one of them, and the whole Village would gallop from their beds. As for Bullhead, whenever Albatross expressed concern for his safety, he would simply say, "They'll never catch me." But she knew it could not be easy to sneak across the cleared space between The Village's edge and the thick temperate rainforest that stretched all the way to the mountains. The vegetables did not provide much cover.
They met near the Omen, because none of the Villagers would go there. Even Bullhead said that for a long time, he had to swallow his fear before drawing close to it, and had refused Albatross's invitation to tour the interior. In the five years since the fateful storm had brought it there, its main bulk had fallen to pieces bit by bit, but its masts, which were far taller than any house in The Village, still jutted upward, cutting through the horizon. When the sun set, ruddy light shone through the Omen's curved ribs where the planks had rotted away.
This night, Albatross did not have long to wait before Bullhead appeared, creeping through the thick underbrush. When he saw her, he shrugged off a small satchel, reached into it, and withdrew yams, squash, some root vegetables, and two full water skins.
He could not always bring much, being limited to what he could glean here and there, and to Albatross's unique diet. She had never been able to stomach the flesh of any animal. Bullhead had mentioned this oddity only once, and had not done so again. It reminded Albatross of how truly different she was from the ponies of The Village, and brought back memories of Moonsnail asking, "How do you expect to grow up as strong as the others if you don't eat whale meat?"
In response to Bullhead's gift, Albatross simply said, "Thank you," as she did every night.
Bullhead seemed hesitant to respond, and even though the moon had not fully emerged from the horizon, Albatross could see his deep frown, and his young face crinkled with worry.
"I saw this year's hunt was bad," Albatross said.
"Worse." Bullhead sat down on a grassy mound and looked out to sea, as he always did when delivering bad news. "When they caught up to the whale they got, one of them—Lirularia's dad—he... while he was attaching a float to it, he fell in, and hit his head on the side of a canoe as he went down. He drowned."
Albatross felt as though she had been kicked in the gut. She knew who would be blamed.
"Them only getting one whale makes it worse," Bullhead said. "But, my father said the pod was only about a quarter as big as it usually is. Maybe they split up, and the rest will come later. He said it happened once, before I was born."
Albatross supposed he was right, but in the meantime, it was little comfort. The nearly full moon had by now emerged from the ocean, and Albatross sat down to watch it glitter across miles of dark ripples.
"Um... the Elders..." Bullhead paused when he saw Albatross wince at the mention of them. "They're trying to keep everypony from coming after you."
"Of course they are." There was acid in Albatross's voice. "But it's not like they could catch me even if they tried."
This was true. Three years ago, when she took up residence in the old watchtower, a couple of ponies had started trying to cut the tree down, but were quickly stopped by those whose houses the tall, thick trunk might have fallen on. Since that day, whenever she was seen flying over The Village, ponies avoided looking at her, or threw curses or bits of rubbish as she passed overhead.
She realized too late that her mind had dwelt on the matter too long. As unwelcome memories flooded her consciousness, she squeezed her eyes tight, trying in vain to banish them.
* * *
A filly of about ten years of age was curled up in a chair at the middle of the long wooden table, and nine pairs of eyes glowered at her. She could not meet them with her own, but she felt them from all sides, as if they were trying to bore holes into her soul.
"Albatross..."
She glanced up at the speaker—a dour stallion named Tegula—but quickly looked back at the floor. She took a ragged breath, and forced words out, one by one. "I couldn't do anything... th-there was too much smoke..."
"You had lived as Stanchion and Moonsnail's daughter for two years, correct?" Tegula said.
Albatross bit her lip, barely holding back tears, and nodded.
"And you were aware that Moonsnail had lately been with foal?"
In the few hours since she had awoken to the smell of smoke—which her coat still reeked of—Albatross's mind had been too occupied with mortal terror to fully comprehend the enormity of what had happened. Now, she found herself struck by a heart-wrenching wave of grief. In that fire, there had been three deaths.
She looked from face to face, searching in vain for a sign that the Elders felt as she did. Their frowns told of concentration on serious matters, but not of any apparent sadness.
Albatross wondered, what was wrong with them?
"Perhaps," Tegula said, "you thought they would prefer their own foal over you. Perhaps you caused an accident, hoping she would miscarry, and it went farther than you intended."
Albatross stared at him—through him. On top of everything else, this was too much. She leapt from her seat, and beating her wings, hovered above the heads of the gathered Elders. "No! I wouldn't! How could you think...?"
"Perhaps not," Tegula said. "But we have heard the Villagers speak among themselves, and that is what they are saying."
Albatross again looked among the faces below her. She saw no sign that any of them were open to being reasoned with.
"I'll... leave," she said. "I'll go and live in the mountains. You'll never..."
"No." The Elder's tone was blunt. "You will not leave The Village. We will order the watchtower at the top of the great sequoia abandoned on grounds that it is no longer safe. You will take what possessions you have left, and live there."
Nopony raised any objection, nor added any comment. Albatross realized then that the decision of what to do about her had been made before they had summoned her to their hall. The grief and pain in her heart was joined by a prickling of anger.
"We suggest you destroy the stairs. Otherwise, the Villagers may fall upon you when you are asleep, and cannot cast spells against them."
Spells? Albatross thought. But she decided it did not matter. "I don't want to stay. You can't make me."
"Show her," Tegula said.
One of the younger Elders (who was old enough to have grandfoals) approached, carrying a cedar box. He lifted the lid, revealing a small orb inside. It was perfectly round, and pitch black, with a sheen that reflected the light from the hall's windows and lamps. It was secured within the folds of a sealskin, bunched up on the box's floor.
"This is the Scrying Stone," Tegula said. "Within it, we can see anypony, anywhere. If you try to run away, we'll find you in due time, no matter how far you go."
Before Albatross could take a closer look, the lid was placed on the box again, and it was carried out of the Elders' hall.
"Fear and anger make the Villagers obedient," Tegula said. "And if you do not follow my instructions, we will ensure that The Village forces you to obey."
For a moment, there was silence, as the Elders waited for Albatross to answer.
"But, why do you want me to stay?" she said at last.
From the far end of the table came the wheezing voice of Urticina. Surprised, Albatross turned to face her. Nopony knew how old Urticina was, but her flesh was a mess of crisscrossing wrinkles, her mane had thinned to near nonexistence, and she could barely stand on her own. She rarely spoke, but when she did, all other voices fell silent.
"A long time ago," Urticina said, "when the gods saw fit to plague us with many sufferings at once, the Villagers would sometimes pick one of their number—one disliked—to blame. They were cursed as witches, chased down... destroyed." Urticina slowly raised a shaking forehoof and pointed it at Albatross. "Now, you will be our witch."
Albatross stared at Urticina. Though only a few seconds passed before the reality of her situation fully sank in, it seemed much longer. Finally, though she made no conscious effort to speak, a low, rasping voice slithered from between her clenched teeth. "Maybe," it said, "one of these days, it will be you who is forced to obey."
* * *
A thousand times, Albatross reminded herself that it had been a freak incident—that Moonsnail's glass lamp must have been improperly made and had cracked open from too much heat, spilling liquid fire. But she could not help wondering—if she had been braver, would her small wings have carried them to safety, one after another? Or would she have succumbed to the smoke as well?
Either way, she would have been spared the three ensuing years of hiding from the Villagers, and only showing herself when The Village had uncommonly good luck.
"It's not fair." Bullhead looked down, and kicked at the ground a bit. "My father says the world isn't fair, but what they all say about you is really not fair. And it's only 'cause you're different from everypony else, and 'cause you came with the Omen. Father says, if the Elders didn't have you to blame for everything, the Villagers would start to blame them when things go wrong. They used to, you know. And the Elders had to keep blaming evil spirits."
"I want to run away," Albatross said. Her voice was neither sad, nor determined, nor wistful. She simply said it.
"Won't they find you with the Stone?"
"I bet it doesn't really work. I bet they were lying."
Bullhead scrambled to his hooves. "I'll join you," he said. "We'll steal a small canoe. And we'll pull it down on the beach to the north, but turn south when we're on the water, so they'll go the wrong way when they try and catch us."
There was another silent moment as the two imagined a daring getaway. It did not last long. They knew, of course, that such an escape could never work. Even if they were not caught, there was no way of knowing in what direction Albatross's homeland lay, and they would likely perish before meeting another living pony. Plus, they could not be entirely sure if the Stone really worked, and the pair hated to think what would be done to them if they were caught. And Albatross certainly could not go alone; she and Bullhead would each miss their only friend too much.
"Why do you suppose it does that?" Bullhead unexpectedly said.
Albatross turned toward him, her wings half-flared with surprise. "What?"
Bullhead pointed his snout toward the moon. "Rise. And set. Get bigger and smaller."
"I don't know."
"Maybe it comes from the same place you did. And the Omen, too. And maybe the ponies there have wings, 'cause they need to get from earth to the moon. I mean, you had to come from somewhere, which means there are other ponies in this world, far away from The Village." A boyish grin spread across his muzzle. "Who knows how many kinds are out there?"
"I wish the Omen could still move," Albatross said, regarding its remains. "I don't know why you're scared of it. You're not scared of me."
Bullhead's hooves shifted a bit. "You're a pony who looks different from the others. That's not scary. But no way the Omen was built by ponies." His gaze darted toward it, then away. "The gods don't like ponies messing around where we're not supposed to."
"Well," Albatross said, "they say I flew into The Village in the middle of a storm. And the next morning, the Omen was here. So it must have carried me most of the way here."
"Well, maybe the gods sent you here for some reason. Anyway..." He picked up his satchel and put it on—in a bit of a hurry, Albatross noticed. "I should get home."
After Bullhead disappeared into the undergrowth, Albatross turned toward the Omen, considering it. If it had not been half-rotted, and partly exposed to the waves during high tide, she might have decided to live there, instead of in the watchtower. In the days following her partial exile from The Village, she had found its contents useful.
* * *
The interior was dark—so dark, that after she had taken only a few paces through the hatch in the upper deck, Albatross had to pause and strike flint against iron pyrite, lighting the lamp she had brought. She had taken care not to be seen as she made her way to it, for she knew what the Villagers would think, if they saw one omen visiting another. But she decided to risk it, because it was one of the few places, outside of the forest and within easy flying distance of the sequoia, that she could still go.
Beneath the deck was a floor, and beneath that, yet another floor. These were divided into rooms—some large enough to fit many canoes within, and others barely enough for a pony to squeeze into. Rotted sections of rope and material were scattered all about, along with many objects whose purpose Albatross could not guess. The stenches of dead fish and rotting wood permeated the structure, but Albatross could easily stand it, having been present several times for the gutting of whales.
The bottom floor was essentially empty. Holes in the wooden walls allowed the sea to enter during high tide, and cover much of it. But the front of the structure was high enough to remain dry, even so close to the sea. Albatross approached it, then recoiled at the sight of a pony's skull, picked clean by sea creatures and stuck between two half-rotted wooden casks. Gathering her courage, she looked again, and saw a short, spiraled horn protruding from the forehead. Somewhere beyond the sea, there must have been yet another type of pony, different from both herself and the Villagers.
In the year since her arrival, she had been warned to stay away from the Omen. She supposed that if she had not, she might have found many more remains of whoever else it had carried. At this thought, she turned swiftly, and hurried outside for fresh air.
In the weeks that followed, she made many more excursions to the Omen, each time bringing back some surviving trinket. She had names for them, but had not named them herself. When she laid eyes on one, memory of its name appeared in her mind, like a canoe emerging from a fog bank. As she could not go to the water whenever she wanted, she looked at herself in the mirror, and painstakingly cut her bangs into a perfectly straight line using scissors. (The mirror also allowed her to watch herself grow bigger year by year, reminding her that someday, she would not be so easy to push around.) The squat disc, whose arrow always pointed north, was a compass. The various small objects made of metal were finely crafted, and Albatross wished she could remember where metal came from. Exposed to the elements for so long, many of the larger pieces of metal had corroded to uselessness. Albatross wondered why these few small ones had not.
Leaning against one corner of her shack was a hollow wheel made of rubber. Thus far, it was the only salvaged object Albatross had not found a use for.
On the Omen's stern were figures—painted, and nearly faded away. Individually, they were meaningless, and nothing like the Elders' pictograms. But as Albatross looked, she realized she knew those symbols.
She sounded them out under her breath. "Se... le... s... ti... a." She frowned. Were these sounds stirring up another distant, half-forgotten memory, or was she just imagining they were?
* * *
"Witch... witch... witch..."
Albatross awoke, and immediately wished she had not. It had finally begun again.
"Witch... witch..."
She picked up two of the less-dirty rags and covered her ears with them. It helped a bit, but after a few minutes, the muffled chant, carried up from the town centre by the wind, registered in her head. The last time this happened, it had carried on for hours.
At last, she could take no more. Albatross bolted upright, and half-galloped, half-flew to the platform outside. The weather still had not broken.
It looked as though every pony in The Village had turned out. As usual, each face was covered with a sealskin mask to prevent Albatross from knowing who to place curses on.
Albatross took a deep breath and shouted down at them. "Go away!"
When they saw her peer over the platform's edge, they raised their right forehooves as one, and made a gesture of casting something away—the sign for banishing evil spirits. The chant continued.
Albatross knew that gesture well, and hated it. She leaned farther over the edge, reached her right hoof out, and made her own exaggerated version of the banishing sign. She yelled again, louder. "Leave me alone!"
The mob's chanting did not even pause, instead growing in volume.
Albatross's eyes narrowed. She gritted her teeth, gathered her strength, and dived straight down at the thick of them, only pulling up at the last second. At the bottom of the dive, she brought her forehooves together and snatched the mask from the nearest head. The mob's unity at last fractured, as the chanting of several of their number turned to alarmed yelling, and they shoved one another in their rush to get out of the way.
She wheeled and looked down. The head she had uncovered was that of the Elder, Tegula, who was now putting on a show of trying to cover his face with a forehoof. His cold voice rang in her head: "... The Village forces you to obey." She snarled and dove again, this time nearly skimming a few of the Villagers' manes, and those in her path again dove out of the way. A few others haphazardly threw bits of rubbish upward, but the shots went wide.
Her face contorted with rage, Albatross hovered over them, just out of range of their stones. She screamed down at them, louder than she had ever thought she was able. "HOW MUCH LESS CAN I ASK FROM YOU PONIES?"
But even as she said it, she knew there would be no good answer. With a few beats of her wings, she bolted back into the shack, and despite the summer heat, closed the door and storm shutters before throwing herself onto her bed once again.
The chanting resumed.
Not for the first time, Albatross considered gathering mud and driftwood to drop on them the next time this happened. The last time, Bullhead had talked her out of it, and his tone had suggested he would be loathe to keep speaking to her if she did it.
A few hours later, a piercing scream from a single mouth sounded out from somewhere in The Village. At this, the chant turned to a rumbling murmur, and then slowly died off.
Albatross did not investigate.
* * *
"I don't think I can meet you for a couple days."
Bullhead had shown up quite late to their meeting, and this was the first thing he said after dropping the scanty supplies he had brought. Something in his voice made Albatross's hackles rise.
"Why?"
"Limpet's mother had a foal." Bullhead choked a little on the last word, and swallowed before continuing. "When it came out, it was dead."
Beneath her coat, Albatross blanched. The chant of "witch" pounded inside her skull.
Over this, Bullhead's voice was barely audible. "The cord was around the neck..."
Albatross's knees threatened to buckle. "They think I..."
"Witch... witch... witch..."
"They think you were punishing them—attacking one of them at random, so everypony who joined that mob would wonder who would be next, if they did it again."
Albatross knelt down and stared at the grass. "Why do they bother?" she said, thinking out loud. "There's a drought. Most of the whales still haven't come. Shouldn't they work? Try to make things easier for themselves?"
Bullhead shifted his forehooves a bit, and opened and closed his mouth a few times before at last deciding on how to respond. "My father says, sometimes when anger builds up inside us for a really long time, it gets to be stronger than we are, and we're forced to obey it. I guess it can happen for a whole bunch of ponies at once, too." He paused, choosing his words. "He wasn't in the mob. He was carrying water from the lake all morning. You know, he... he wanted to take you in, back when you... but he was afraid."
Albatross nodded, but gave no other answer.
"You're right." Bullhead seemed to be trying to prevent an awkward silence. "Everypony should have been working. We haven't had a drought this bad since I was four. The river's just a trickle, so everypony has to go all the way to the lake to get water now. At this rate, we'll be dry until the rainy season starts."
From the thick salal bushes nearby, there came a rustling noise. The two ponies turned, expecting to see some animal emerge into the moonlight. But a voice shouted, "Now!" and six dark shapes charged from the foliage.
Reacting from instinct, Albatross flared her wings and leaped into the air, only to find herself dragged to the ground by lines that tangled into her limbs. Two fish nets, weighted at the edges with stone sinkers, had been thrown with skill, and Albatross's peripheral vision caught a glimpse of Bullhead trying to untangle himself. He was closer to the bushes, and of the six attackers, four went for him first. In a matter of seconds, they had him on the ground.
In those same seconds, Albatross had half-untangled herself before the other two Villagers seized her by the wings. She gave a sharp yelp of pain as they pulled down, trying to pin her to the ground. Even in her half-panicked state, she knew that once Bullhead was subdued, his attackers would come for her.
Albatross was no stranger to fighting. More than once, she had been caught in the open, or misjudged how lucky The Village had recently been, and had to kick and bite her way out of groups of attackers. Her left forehoof waved free of the net, and she jabbed hard to the right with it. She was not as small as she had once been, and the kick she aimed at the rightmost shape made contact. It was a lucky shot: The attacker stumbled back, clutching its snout and emitting guttural oaths.
She pulled the net from over her head, and swung the weights at her attacker's face. The attacker parted his forehooves just long enough for Albatross to pull her wing free and take to the air. She gained altitude until she was well out of range of the nets, then looked down. The six Villagers had Bullhead tied up, and as she could not hear him yelling, she assumed they had gagged him.
She considered a desperate dive to save him—a million-to-one shot that they would not expect. But a second later, she realized a rescue effort would be useless, as the large shapes below picked Bullhead up and disappeared into the dense undergrowth, which would tangle her wings.
She turned toward The Village with all speed.
* * *
A ring of oil lamps, mounted on short wooden pillars, illuminated a space around the main entrance to the Elders' hall. They were already lit by the time Albatross returned to The Village. Unseen, she perched on top of the hall's high, A-shaped roof.
A large crowd, many holding small lamps of their own, had gathered around the hall. She supposed somepony must have seen Bullhead leaving The Village, and the crowd were preparing for his return. She guessed she knew what they intended. A hollow feeling began to creep into her gut.
She had not long to wait before the small group of marauders dragged Bullhead into the circle and threw him roughly to the ground. One of them pulled a sealskin rag from his mouth, and he coughed and wheezed before regaining his breath.
"This is him!" The shouting voice came from just outside Albatross's view. "He is allied with the witch!"
The gathered Villagers' voices swelled like a swiftly rising tide, and they began to close the circle around the helpless colt.
Albatross shifted her hooves and spread her wings, calculating a path for a rescue attempt. But one hoof slipped, and she scrambled to keep herself from falling. Her heart pounded, and she noticed just how heavy she was breathing. A crippling, bone-deep fatigue, brought on by the exertion from her fight and flight, and made worse by having fasted for almost twenty-four hours, had caught up to her. She steadied herself, and tried to calm her breath.
"Wait!" Bullhead's voice, driven high with mortal terror, cut through the mob's angry rumble, and for a moment gave them pause. "It was the Elders! The Elders! They made me do it! They want to keep Albatross alive, so you can blame her for everything! They said they'd kill me if I told!"
Another voice rang out—an older one. "He lies! Destroy him!"
The mob surged forward again—faster this time.
"Stop!" A muscular stallion, whose colours matched Bullhead's, charged into the light, circled Bullhead, and reared up, jabbing his forehooves. "Get away! I'll kill the first pony who sets a hoof on my son!"
Alabatross's breath caught in her throat. Even from a distance, she could read enough of his voice and body language to know he meant every word. Again, the mob hesitated. Their numbers could easily overwhelm the lone stallion, but none of them seemed to want to take the lead. He pawed at the ground, and his nostrils flared.
A voice—an aged voice—called out from off to one side. "Destroy them both!"
Albatross, her breath now somewhat regained, saw her chance. She would swoop in, seize Bullhead, and carry him to the watchtower. She would then come back and try to lure the Villagers away from Bullhead's father, so he could more easily fight his way out. She knew she could do it; she was faster than any one of them. She crouched, gathered her strength...
There was a blur of movement in the semi-darkness, and a harpoon appeared, its barb stuck into the stallion's chest. It had been thrown by someone Albatross had not noticed. The stallion looked down at it and raised a hoof to try to pull it out. In that moment, the crowd moved like a wave, swallowing up Bullhead and his father like a sandy islet at the height of a rising tide.
Albatross's breath stopped.
There was nothing she could do.
Her instinct screamed at her to look away, and spare herself the inevitable sight. But something compelled her to stare, and it was not until after the mob had begun to pull away that she turned her head down and shut her eyes tight. The image of two broken bodies filled her mind's eye.
A singular voice screamed out above them all, but it came from farther away, in the direction of the shore.
"Whales! Whales!"
There was a great pounding of hooves on earth as the Villagers rushed to the shore, seemingly forgetting what they left behind. Albatross fought to keep her bile down. She took off and headed for the watchtower. Reaching it, she turned to see lamp-lights gathered on the beach, and the canoes being launched.
Her insides felt hollow, and her outsides numb. When her friend needed her most, her own body had betrayed her. Was it true that Bullhead had been ordered to keep her fed? Worse, had he been told to give her somepony to talk to, so she would be less likely to try to flee The Village? No—they had been friends since before the fire. He must have said it in a last-minute attempt to save himself. But if he wanted to do that, why had he not just said Albatross had put a spell on him and made him her minion? The mob would have been more likely to believe that.
Did this mean there was some truth in what he had said? Albatross realized that if so, it was impossible for her to know how much, and decided it did not really matter now. After five years, he had paid with his life for having been her only friend. Now he was gone, and she had not seen anypony raise the slightest objection.
The hollowness inside her began to disappear, replaced by something white-hot that clawed at the back of her mind and threatened to burst from her body. Teeth clenched, limbs rigid, Albatross glared at The Village below, killing them with her eyes. She heard a low, snarling whisper—her own voice.
"We're all forced to obey," it said.
* * *
The next morning, Albatross picked up the rubber wheel that, for the past few years, had lain unused in a corner of the watchtower, and flew it toward the oilworks.
The oilworks was the only structure in The Village made entirely of masonry. All the land and beach around The Village was sand, soil, or hard bedrock that could only be chipped off in small chunks, so it was difficult to find stones large enough to build with. Boiling the oil from blubber required such heat that drums made of wood or glass would be useless.
Every house, hovel, shack, and storeroom in The Village was made of wood.
Knowing there would be plenty of time before the canoes returned, she had waited until the small hours of the morning. The hunters would follow the whales through the dark, but killing them at night was too dangerous. Now, there was just enough darkness left before those in The Village started to awake.
As she neared the beach, Albatross saw that not a single one of the hunting canoes remained. She was in luck: The fewer ponies in The Village, the better. She knew she would never have another chance like this one, and her heartbeat quickened at the thought of failure.
The oilworks was made up of several large, square mortar-work structures. Ovens were built into their bases, and open cauldrons into the tops. When blubber was boiled in one of these, it rose to the top of the cauldron, and flowed into bulky storage barrels, which were kept in a large shed nearby, and opened when oil was needed.
Less than a quarter of the barrels were full, but it would be enough.
Over the years, Albatross had, by necessity, learned to navigate well in dim light. Opened wide, the shed's double doors allowed in just enough moonlight to make out the objects inside. She set the wheel down off to the side, along with a shoulder satchel containing two water skins, her few personal effects, and her three best charcoal drawings. Beside the barrels were large jugs, used for portioning out the oil. Albatross seized one of these with each foreleg, dipped them in the nearest barrel, and set to work.
Hovering slowly above the ground, and tilting one of the jugs just right, she dripped a stream of oil that led from the barrels, out the door, and up the slope to the first of The Village's narrow streets. She zigzagged from building to building, making sure to splash a little extra on each wooden wall. When the jugs ran dry, she flew back hastily to refill them.
As she worked, she caught herself giggling under her breath, in spite of all that had happened. This is for you, Bullhead, she thought. Your father too. They won't give you a funeral pyre, so I will—the biggest one ever.
Soon, four streams of oil ran from the shed and into the nearest parts of The Village. For good measure, she traced another up the shed's outer wall, and onto the roof. She wanted to do more, but knew that every passing second increased the danger of being caught by some early riser.
Returning to the shed one last time, she felt a breath of wind on her face and paused. It came from due west, blowing in just the right direction. Morning ocean breezes often picked up soon after they started. It was as if nature itself offered to help her.
She shouldered her satchel, then picked up the rubber wheel and dipped it into the dregs of one of the barrels. Once it was thoroughly oiled, she carried it out the door and set it upright on the slope, between the middle two of the oil streams that now ran up the hill. She could have lit the oil directly, but decided, for safety's sake, to allow herself a bit of a time delay, to get airborne before the blaze began in earnest.
From her satchel she took a short, stout bit of wood, and set it down within easy reach—for sending the wheel on its way once it was engulfed. The wheel was not far from where the streams intersected, and she knew she would have to work fast. She took her flint and iron pyrite and began to strike sparks onto the wheel.
But from behind her came the soft thud of a hoofstep, and in the same instant, a pair of forelegs wrapped around her torso from behind and began to squeeze. She dropped the tools, and began an awkward, half-panicked struggle.
Her attacker was larger than she, and neither wings nor hooves could directly strike anything. She found herself wrestled backward in an attempt to bring her to the ground. Albatross knew that if anypony else saw what was going on, it would all be over. She dug her hind hooves into the ground, doubled over, and attempted a sort of forward somersault. To her surprise, this lifted her enemy up and threw him down.
She turned back to the wheel, and found another surprise: It was burning. One of the last sparks she had struck must have found purchase on the oil, and smouldered before igniting. With no time to do it the right way, she reared up and balanced on her hind legs, lining up a kick that would send it to where the four oil streams intersected. But she kicked a little too hard, launching the wheel directly onto the intersection below. With a whoosh, the soaked earth went up.
With no time to lose, she grabbed her satchel and took off, clearing the rapidly spreading flames. She noticed a searing pain in one of her front hooves, and looked down to see whale oil stuck to the place where she had jabbed the wheel. She dove toward the sea, landed in the shallow surf, and kicked at the sand to scrape it off. Only the hard enamel of her hoof had struck the wheel, but the heat had been enough to hurt the flesh, and she would have to tread carefully for some time after.
She looked up the shore. The oil shed now spewed black smoke, and wind-fanned flames ran the distance between it and The Village's edge. Even now, the outskirts were going up. In the midst of all this, the pony who had attacked her was struggling to its hooves. Its motions were slow and not well coordinated. By the time it managed to stand upright, flames had surrounded it. If it was fast enough, it could jump over them before the smoke around it grew too thick. But instead it stood still, looking from side to side. Puzzled, Albatross took off and flew closer, trying to catch a glimpse of its face.
It was Tegula.
That was why she had fought him off so easily, and why he could not now escape the fire. The struggle, and the force of being thrown, had taken what energy his aged, frail body had. For a moment, Albatross wondered why he happened to be awake, and near the shore, so early.
Maybe he lost sleep over what happened, she thought sardonically.
Something compelled her to fly closer to him. As she passed through the rising smoke clouds, she held her breath. On the other side, the air smelled strongly of burning wood and oil.
She hovered before him, almost close enough to reach out and strike. Though the building behind her was hissing and spitting, and The Village above her was crackling and beginning to roar, she heard his words.
"Albatross... what have you done?"
He was answered by the same snarling voice from before—the voice that came from Albatross, but was not hers. "I am what you made me," it said.
The two stared into one another's eyes. Ignoring the thickening smoke and rising flames, one mortal enemy dared the other to flinch, to beg for mercy, to even blink.
At last, Albatross made the first move. She extended her forelegs, and pressed the hooves together, making a loop. Tegula stared at this, not comprehending at first.
"But I'm not like you," Albatross said.
By now, the air around them was getting unbearably thick, the black smoke from the burning oilworks blown toward them by the strengthening wind. A moment more, and Albatross would have to leave, or else suffocate.
Tegula stared at her, and his expression of disgust somehow deepened. Albatross realized he was considering death over a grievous wound to his pride.
At last, he raised first one hoof, then the other, and linked his forelegs with hers. His eyes were focused on the ground.
Albatross beat her wings as she never had before. She strained against the air, hauling the larger pony upward, inch by inch. She dared not cough, or twitch, or relax any muscle in her body. As they passed over the streams of fire, smoke stung her eyes and made breathing difficult.
It was all she could do to descend to the sand just beyond the second stream without dropping him. Once he had regained his balance, he avoided her gaze, pointedly staring at the broad column of black smoke that now rose from The Village. Albatross's first impulse was to turn and leave, but the snarling voice inside her requested a parting word.
"You'll never find the Scrying Stone in the wreckage," it said. "And even if you did, you're better off rebuilding than..."
"It doesn't work."
Albatross paused. "What?"
Tegula turned, and with obvious difficulty, was able to look her in the face. "The Stone. It doesn't work. It never did. It's just a big pearl."
For a moment, Albatross's mouth hung open. Little by little, an odd, irregular noise emitted from it, beginning as a chortle and escalating to some twisted cross between a cry and a belly laugh. Her legs buckled, and she sprawled in the sand. Tegula grimaced and looked away.
At last, Albatross regained her breath and rose, shaking the sand from her wings. "Why didn't you say so?" She chortled again. "You'd still have a roof over your head!"
She turned, flared her wings, and ascended on an updraft.
North of The Village, she perched near the top of a tall pine at the edge of a clearing and looked upon it for the last time. The hungry beast had already engulfed a third of it, and owing to the drought and the ocean wind, was spreading at a rate that took Albatross's breath away as she watched. Ponies were running from houses, carrying those too old, young, or sick to escape on their own. On the part of the outskirts closest to her, Albatross saw Utricina's great-grandson carrying her to safety on his back.
Despite everything, Albatross hoped nopony would be killed. They would rebuild The Village, of course. They were hard workers, especially when time was critical. Maybe, hopefully, this disaster would teach them a lesson. If not, it might instead make them more ruthless and barbaric. In any case, Albatross realized, this was the last time she would ever see them.
She turned all about in midair, taking in the horizon—mountains to the east, ocean to the west, wind-swept coast to the north and south. No longer was it just scenery. She could go to any of those places as the crow flew. She only needed to choose a direction.
In the distance, a white speck caught her eye. It was drifting on the wind, heading north along the coast. She blinked hard and looked again.
It was an albatross.
* * *
"Dad! Hey, dad! There's somepony here. I think she's hurt."
A colt with a tan coat and light brown mane scrambled back up the roadside embankment he had just descended, and galloped toward the small covered wagon on the road's shoulder.
A stallion with a tan mane and a light brown coat looked up from his wagon's front axel and frowned. The breakdown and the blazing mid-afternoon sun had put him in an unpleasant mood, and his first thought at his son's statement was, Why me? Even so, he did not hesitate to drop his tools and hurry to the place the colt indicated.
Down the bank, just out of sight from the road, an adolescent filly lay on her side, upon a mat of flattened grass. She was lean and wiry, and at least a few years older than the colt. Beside her was a ragged satchel, half full of indefinite objects. The marks on her haunches resembled burning tires.
As the stallion drew closer, he saw her chest was moving up and down, though barely. He considered trying to move her, but thought better of it. "Bring water," he said. "And some clean washcloths."
The colt hurried to obey, and a moment later, the filly had a damp cloth on her forehead, and the stallion was using another to moisten her cracked lips. It was not long before her eyes twitched, then fluttered open. Her legs kicked out weakly, and she struggled to rise.
"Easy there, young lady," the stallion said. "We're here to help." He passed her the water bottle, which she seized and began to gulp from. "Not too much at once, now," he said, gently pulling it back. "You'll get sick."
He and the colt stepped back to give her some space as she struggled to stand on shaky legs. She flexed her wings, which the stallion noticed were badly in need of bathing and preening.
The colt's eyes had been almost perfectly round as he watched the proceedings. "What's your name?" he said.
She turned and looked at him for a long moment, studying him as though something had jogged her memory. A look of deep sadness passed over her features. "Wild Fire," she said at last. "My name is Wild Fire."
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Finished reading your tale that you and your friend have woven, I must say that this is quiet deep though I guess I wouldn't expect anything less from you Horse_Voice.
The stories pacing is really smooth, very good transitions from past to present during those scenes. Structure wise I can't really see anything wrong with it. Everything held well together, the characters were well defined enough so that the reader would know who's who and which character to go for.
No spelling errors, though that was pretty much a given since you already took the time to smooth out the edges of it and fixed anything that needed to be fixed. All in all you and Professor did an excellent job.
Ok, upon reading it, I get what he said. Something, imperative word there, is just a little off. Don't get me wrong, you've done a wonderful job of the story. In my opinion though, she doesn't SEEM like someone who'se been treated as a witch to me. She seems a little too stable. I give this three days before it hits equestria daily.
>Moonsnail beamed. "We've thought of calling her 'Albatross'," she said.
>A murmur ran through the assembled Elders. Even a casual observer could tell they were not particularly impressed.
>"We have no foals of our own," Stanchion said. "Surely, she was sent by the gods."
>A few of the Elders glared at him. He had spoken out of turn.
If he spoke out of turn, so did Moonsnail.
>The hunters would follow the whales through the dark, but killing them at night was too dangerous.
I thought this meant killing the hunters at night was too dangerous. It took me a long time to figure out my mistake.
Hmm. I need to know something about this OC to understand why you wrote this story. On its own, I can't figure out what it's about. It's more like a tragic backstory given to a character as part of another story, than a story of its own. If we go by the standard theory that a story is about the protagonist changing/learning something, or failing to do so, this story has the protagonist learning that she isn't helpless, and that she can be brutal. That seems more like the opening of a novel than like the point of a story.
3095090
All good catches. I'll fix them presently.
This is the OC of Sabrina "Sibsy" Alberghetti. There's a lot of fan art, but no stories, so I thought I might write an origin story. A friend of mine who goes to a lot of cons mentioned the synopsis to her in person, and she said, "Yeah, I can see that". Well, what was I supposed to do?
Thanks very much for the feedback.
At Everfree Northwest this year, I totally got Sibsy's permission for this story to exist.
3180516
I like how you've expanded the world to included non-Equestrian ponies. The hints of a more ... primitive society are interesting and how it all ties into the backstory is great. There really wasn't much in the way of twist or surprise but that's not a bad thing per se (though a bit odd from you Mr. Shamalama-dingdong). I could tell where it was going from fairly early on - though where the tire came from was a mystery to me until it appeared. They have those and still clipper ships? Scitzotech indeed.
I mean, there is nothing that I can see that is intrinsically 'sub par' about this at all. It is good - very good - and it tells the story with feeling. It's a slightly darker take on a Cutie Mark story (rare itself unless it's wrist-slash emo or 'grrrr manly violence grrr') with a pretty damn rare character. It just feels like it's missing something.
I think I lack a catharsis about the Village. What happens just doesn't seem like it was enough. Or maybe because you stopped writing about the Village after the event (EDIT: because the Village stopped being important to the story and I realize that) and I don't see the effects of that action, it hasn't hit me how much of a just or unjust act that was. Ah, there we are - I lack a feeling of true justice-as-I-see-it (emphasis very much important) and closure. Like many of your works, it mirrors life a bit too well in that - sometimes (often) - bad things happen that are wrong but there are no real easy answers to how to right those wrongs. And even when 'righted' we still might not feel that it was enough or it may feel distant and unreal. Another author had a similar reaction from me though I felt he went too far in seeking justice (Eakin BTW, in case you were wondering). So yeah, I'm glad I could find out what was bugging me because now I feel satisfied in giving this the praise it deserves.
Though it does beg the question - what IS her special talent? Working with fire or revenge?
Fantastic story
Horsey Skull does it again!
New Horse Voice.
Drop Everything.
This was a nice little story; I enjoyed reading it. Poor thing.
Scapegoat stories can be fun, though they're always a little bit depressing.
He speaks for the pones, the Vox.
Not bad, man. Not bad at all. Surprised! Pleasantly so--to see something from you!
3180798
Rest assured, there would have been one, if I had thought of a good one. But it's better to go without, than to shoehorn in a bad one out of habit.
I, er, really like the aesthetic of wooden shipwrecks.
I actually have half a mind to write a second part, in which exactly that is covered. But I don't know--not many people are reading his one. We'll see if I can't bring in some more people from EqD.
It's the drawback to having a background in creative non-fiction. I won awards for my non-fiction in college, but my first not-crap fiction was "The Savage Way". This was after years of trying to get it right. Well, I appreciate the in-depth feedback. Someday, I swear I'll learn to write good closure.
This sketch by Sibsy seems to suggest the former.
derpicdn.net/img/view/2012/11/13/151179.jpg
3181228
3181822
...I write another story about once in a blue moon. It's true, it's true!
I'm going to try and get back into writing amusing blog posts during dry spells, to show I really do care.
Yay!
The last couple days of my life have felt too much like a country song for my liking. The Imaginary woes of fictional characters is just what I need.
A good rewrite:
And a congratulations for getting it to the point where you felt comfortable setting it out for folks to read. Sometimes I find the hardest part of writing is convincing myself that I've actually finished whatever story I've been working on...
Mike
3184774
Actually, it was me threatening to kill him if he published the story before it was ready. He kept saying he wanted to publish it immediately, and I kept insisting he wait two weeks. Two weeks later, he was thanking me for that advice.
3184798
Threats either way:
Are always good. Cookies, too, but they're just a different kind of threat when you get right down to it.
Mike Again
Augh I suck. I am a bad pony. I completely failed to preread this after our back-and-forth, despite your patience.
I am, however, glad to see this posted. Having only read the finished version, it seems that your rewrite at 3184774's suggestions turned out very well. I'm drawing a blank on suggestions for further improvement, which mean that your edit cycle definitely did its job (or this was perfect to begin with
). I enjoyed the story itself, and constructive criticism-wise 3180798 has already covered that ground better than I would have — although given that it's explicitly an origin story I think that sense of lingering incompleteness is necessary (this IS a prelude, it's just a prelude to stories that are Sibsy's to write, rather than to something you'll do).
Fun fact: Carnivorous behavior among horses is not unknown, although it would presumably be odd to have meat be a substantial portion of their diet. Magical talking ponies, though? Who knows.
> Albatross
I see what you did there.
Best,
H
3184774>>3184798
Couldn't have done it without you guys. Thanks again.
3185811
No harm done. Really, it's me who should be making a point of commenting more on others' stuff.
I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about.
3186232
>Ancient mareiner.
3185453
If you consider cookies to be a threat, I need to have you threaten me more often.
… or … wait. Were you implying something about the quality of your cooking?
4.bp.blogspot.com/-svG4PXVYMa0/TaPjIRvTLSI/AAAAAAAADVs/NGGmA7By8dw/s320/7.jpg
3186835
3180798
The first practical pneumatic tire was made in 1887.
Our own world's seaways were still rife with windjammers in the 1930s. The last square rigger merchant was the Omega. She sank on a cargo run to Huacho in 1958.
upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/7e/StateLibQld_1_144023_Omega_(ship).jpg/300px-StateLibQld_1_144023_Omega_(ship).jpg
Our world is usually stranger than fiction.
3188195
Tires weren't really common until the demand for them skyrocketed thanks to cars and by then - while there were clippers still around - clipper ships were rather a bit more rare.
Still, I actually think that kind of adds to the pony-esque feel. They have movies and photographers but still use plate armor? It fits - it's just kind of scitzotech-feel.
3186835
3186883
I'm sure:
It's been done, but I'm seeing Applejack standing on her hind legs and glaring at the viewer, an oven mitt on one hoof, an apron around her waist, a desert landscape behind her with the words "Baking Bad" superimposed over the blue, blue sky...
Mike Again
I always love that in your stories you present that individuals don't always come up with the best solution to things when the time is right like in most stories, and just sometimes their decisions can sometimes be really rash but they can still live with themselves at the end of it...sometimes. Truly objective decision making is tough, especially when it goes against what's easiest.
I always love your stuff, I reread Writing on the Wall constantly, I love it so much, despite being totally non-sequitur to what I just wrote
3189232
The internet has you covered.
The Internet is a pop-culture remix machine. It impressed me, though, that there are even mashups of MLP with Buffy, which came out while the average MLP fan was in kindergarten. (If you've watched through the whole series, this parallel is hysterically beautiful.)
3189125
This was filmed in 1914.
This picture was taken in 1914.
greatwar.nl/kleur/cuirassiers.jpg
Scitzotech competition scores so far:
Equestria: 2
Earth: 2
Name any example of mismatched tech in MLP, and I will find you an example of the same from our own history.
Anyone else who wants to play is welcome to. C'mon, show us what ya got!
3189796
images.wikia.com/mlp/images/2/21/Royal_guard_didn%27t_notice_S2E25.png
Spears - in a world that had radios and fireworks.
EDIT: Better image though it's not exactly from the show:
th01.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/i/2012/281/1/2/unicorn_royal_guard_by_x_celestia_x-d5h91i7.png
EDIT2: And I mean in the sense of actual, usable weaponry not just for show or ceremony. Show me an industrialized nation that still uses spears.
3189811
The time: 1918
The place: Germany
Radios - Check
Fireworks - Check
Industrialized - Check
Spears - Check
alamy.com/thumbs/6/%7B0891DA95-1330-4A48-9E11-F7863DEE95AF%7D/BFNN5F.jpg
Ditto Poland in 1939.
polamjournal.com/Library/APHistory/Cavalry_Myth/p-cavalry.jpg
Besides, so far all the spear bearers in MLP have looked pretty ceremonial themselves. More like the below picture than the above ones.
images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20110530185308/deadliestfiction/images/7/7c/SwissGuard.jpg
For all we know, the standard equestrian infantry(or would that be cavalry? Cavaltry?) weapon could be the No. 4 Mk. II light plasma rifle.
Bring it on!
*Edit*
The Eqestrian's spears would appear to be far less of an oddity than our own because we have yet to see them use gunpowder weapons.
3189963
The fuck it could. They have their entire capitol under lockdown and guards at every possible opening. They brought out the big guns, the best of the best, the best they had ... spears.
EDIT: Beyond that quills, a very prestigious play in the center of their culture using grade-school special effects, carts and carriages instead of motorized anything ... you're pointing out EXCEPTIONS in humanity's case, I'm talking about massive and widespread inconsistencies.
3190002
The plasma rifle idea was just an amusing thought that demonstrates our limited exposure to the show's world, not a serious suggestion. I do however submit that if we had not figured out how to weaponize gunpowder, our soldiers would probably be using spears today.
As for the special effects, our special effects of a century ago weren't a lot better. Besides, how are we to know it's not a traditional theater style? There are plenty of theatrical traditions in our wold that date back hundreds of years, and are preformed today with almost no change.
If my real wold examples are exceptions, how can we say the examples from Equestria aren't? And even though my examples may be exceptions, they're pretty long ones. The overlap of sailing ships and tires is 70 years after all. Those Polish lancers(most of whom watched movies) may have been an anomaly by 1939, but the European cuirassiers of 1900(who also watched movies) were less so, and their predecessors form 1800(no movies for them =( ) were certainly not. Even then, effective individual gunpowder weapons had been in use for over 300 years.
My point is that technological progression is not a neat, clean liner line, sloping up the graph at a constant pace. It's usually messy an illogical. Just like humanity.
3190002
Take a look at this.
Woah, quite dark and nicely done. Glad I saw mention of this, er, somewhere.
3346748
If you remember where, please let me know, because no one aside from my followers seem to be talking about this one.
3346857 Fairly sure it was a blog post here by one of the authors I follow, but that doesn't narrow it down much. My initial guesses were either Bad Horse or Augie, but glancing over their most recent blogs I'm not seeing a mention of it, so who knows. I use the fav system here as a have-read-this/read-this-next tracking list, so I only got to this story at lunch today despite fav'ing it going on four days ago. Apparently that's the outside limit to my short term memory.
3347071
Aww. Thanks anyhow.
What I found the best in this tale was the ability to create and ultimately engross the reader in the atmosphere. You create a really engaging air for the story, along with a picturesque setting (and I'd add 'vivid', if not for the generally bleak of the mood
). The ability to accomplish this is a huge boon to writers, and most every one of them should aspire to reach it.
The plot was rather predictable, though it was because it's what I would call "the classic tragedy" if not for the fact that (spoilers) our protagonist actually survives and the story ends on a somewhat happy, or at least bittersweet tone. I honestly cannot tell if a few twists would do good for the storyline, but it's an idea to play with.
So, I'm the first one who admits the skillfulness that went into this piece (upvoted, by the way). The fact that I, in reality, didn't actually like it was more because of personal preferences than anything else, for I don't, usually, go for the tone you so expertly painted here. Why did I read, then? Good question.
Also, I like Sonata Arctica as much as the next guy (probably even more), but I felt that reference was a little cheesy. Again, personal preferences. And I probably shouldn't mention that stories that feature innocent protagonists suffering from the cold masses are almost like a pet peeve of mine... Well, now that I think about, I should really hate this story. Yet I don't. I just didn't like it, but I have no doubts that those who like this kind of atmosphere a little better will have a real good time with this story.
Finally, I should mention that even though this story was probably not written for me, I still spent a bit of time thinking about it after finished reading, so it was by no means a waste of time! I'd actually call it a success from your part as an author, and that's why at the end I decided to give it a thumbs up.
3574312
It's true, there were not a lot of surprises in this one. There would have been if I had thought of any good ones. But if, like M. Night Shamalamawhatever, I tried to cram a twist into everything I did, I would eventually end up using bad ones. I seem to be adept at writing original stories about characters' deaths, but when it comes to origins, it's back to basics.
Believe it or not, I've been toying with the idea of a "Wild Fire Part II" (this one would have less to do with the song of the same name) that might have a few more twists. But since almost no one would read it, well...
I was hoping at least one person would get the Arctica reference. But now that you mention it, sneaking in all those references probably wasn't such a hot idea.
But it's a pity it didn't resonate with you like my other stories have. Perhaps my next one will suit you more, as it will be a very different animal. Now, if only I could speed up production a bit...
I liked the narrative style. It reminded me of a fic you wouldn't have read. Not pony.
But anyways, the character was actually relatable.
The small-minded will always be ruled and rule by fear, and will seek to cast blame for their own failures on others, while greedily accepting accolades for actions they took no part of.
The elders in this tale had to blame evil spirits, or witches, on misfortune because they claimed the blind luck of weather and animal migration as their own doing.
I enjoyed it greatly.
Well, as a resident of Oregon, I certainly enjoyed the setting, at least.
The whaler ponies are intriguing, though. How did they end up as they are?
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You mean, in the creation of this story? I've always been interested in old cultures, and since I needed a way for Albatross to burn the town, and whale oil was the only handy thing, I soon found myself researching how they hunted whales in those days.
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I was thinking more in-universe, but that's interesting too. It's the most striking piece of setting-flavor, but it came very late in the concept process, then?
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Hell if I know how their civilization got started, but one part that got cut was a scene where Albatross visits a series of caves and finds paintings which hint at the Village's origins. But the story didn't miss much through its absence.
Truth be told, I don't remember whether the whales showed up early on or later in the conceptual stage. Thing is, all of my serious stories are heavily influenced by stuff I'm already familiar with. That's why three of the four take place on islands or coasts. So the history and landscape of the Northwest Coast was a heavy influence on both this story and Monsters.
Further background here.
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Random question pursued via PM.
The logic I followed in figuring the whales came late is that, if the whale oil came in as a device to burn down the village, then the idea of burning down the village would have come before, and possibly some of the reasons for burning down the village--pretty far along in conceptualizing the parts of the story that relate to the character arc.
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Well, yes, more or less. I admit, everything was in aid of the big pyrotechnical climax. That it brought in subject matter not usually associated with ponies was a bonus.
Unfortunately, I could never quite get this one right, no matter how much I polished it, and no matter how many people gave feedback. It's sort of the red-headed stepchild of the Horse Voice bibliography.
http://teamyume.tumblr.com/post/81295042337/team-yumes-dramatis-lectio-wild-fire-from-the
I demand more Wild Fire!
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You guys always seem to release these just when I'm having a bad week, and need a good distraction.
I consider this the weakest of my four serious stories. The production was troubled, and I was trying to do too many new things at once. The reading of it was made more difficult by my accidentally making the story too Canadian. The terrain, flora, and fauna in this story resemble those of the Pacific Northwest. All of the OCs are named after creatures that live in the ocean here. For example, I used to collect the shells of dead moon snails from beaches. I wrongfully assumed that all species of birch shed thin, pale bark, but this seems to be regional as well. Finally, the name "Albatross" is a reference to a rather famous poem.
It's a little-known fact that real horses have been known to eat meat, and even exhibit predatory behavior. One of my great weaknesses is that my stories are too informed by the weirdness of reality.
As for a sequel, I had actually wanted to do it. But, as I said on my blog post on the subject:
Despite having given her a hard copy, I never heard back from Sibsy, so I assume she didn't like this story. Sadly, a second part is just not in the cards.
In any case, if you do intend to grace another of my humble works with a video, I will look forward to it with great interest.
Cheers!
Well I guess it's my own fault for not being well-versed in Canadian folklore. None the less, I believe this story is a small gem that deserves some attention... And you know, you could usually write a story about her adjusting to Equestria and learning about her past. You don't need to bring her back to THE VILLAGE, you could have her face new adventures as well.
What I'm saying is, you don't need MandoPony or a coltfriend ;)
But alas, we'll definitely read more of your stories.
¡Those villagers reaped an harvest of the hate and anger they sewed!