Spring 5: Southern Comfort
Spring Chapter 5
Southern Comfort
“’Tis a situation I would deem to need a good drink.”
Apple Cobbler said this as the four of them finally exited the D’oro Trading House, leaving behind a cart full of barrels, but having gained a big cloth pouch full of jingling gold coins. George had to admit, his eyes had nearly popped out of his head when he saw that the things were pure gold. Something like that had been unheard of back home.
“Ah should take ya to the guards fer what’cha did,” Applejack growled, and threw a glare towards the other orange mare. “Ya used Twilight’s name fer your lil’ scheme to make more money! Ah’m ashamed to know that you’re mah cousin! Trickin’ honest ponies like that is simply unfair an’ uncalled fer!”
“Cousin, ‘tis not a sin to be clever,” Cobbler answered with a deadpan expression. “Not to mention that had I not taken advantage of their weakness, rest assured, they would have done so instead. ‘Twas simply a pre-emptive attack, if you will.”
“I really didn’t mind, Applejack, but… well, it doesn’t seem right to lie just for your own gain,” Twilight said, her face a troubled mask.
“Those merchants can surely take it,” Cobbler said. “’Twas not a large sum they will lose in the trade, if any, and complaining overmuch about how they were tricked would simply make them seem like sore losers in the eyes of their peers. Appearances are everything for a merchant, and if you are tricked by words, then you might as well be at fault.”
“Hey, if you’re stupid enough to trust infomercials, it ain’t anyone’s problem but your own,” George chimed in, flashing a grin at Cobbler, who returned it. However, the two other ponies looked confused.
“Info-what-now?” Applejack asked. “Ah’ve been meanin’ to ask ya this, but ya keep usin’ mighty strange words, Gorge. Where’d ya get all of ‘em? Your homeland? An’ where do ya hail from, exactly?”
Ah, right, medieval otherworldly society. Can kiss the cable goodbye, George thought. Let’s just hope these creatures have decent booze, or the nights at the farm’ll be unbearable. That or I’ll just have to kick up some moonshine.
“Hmh? Yeah, something like that,” George gave a noncommittal shrug, which was surprisingly hard on four feet. “And I’ve been on the road for quite a long time. I was born in this small village, you’ve probably never heard of it. It was called… well, erm…”
Frantically, George racked his brains for a good name, and finally just blurted out the first word that came to his head.
“Whiskey. Whiskey… Valley. Yeah. Totally,” George hurried to say.
Apple Cobbler suddenly had a hacking cough that sounded oddly like restrained laughter. Applejack, on the other hand, peered at George even more suspiciously. The only one who didn’t seem to find the situation strange in the least was Twilight, who was already smiling innocently.
“… Is that so?” Applejack asked slowly, cocking an eyebrow at the stallion.
“That is so,” George firmly stated, refusing to avert his eyes from the stare.
“Well, ‘tis not something to be concerned about, methinks. After all, Mr. Sparrow is nowadays a resident of Ponyville, is he not? Oh, which reminds me…” Apple Cobbler turned to look at Twilight. “Your Majesty, is it all right if I leave the arrangements of the loan to you? I would not ask such a brazen thing if Ponyville had an actual bank, but alas…”
“Oh, sure! Lately there hasn’t been anything but reports on the reconstruction anyways,” Twilight answered and nodded. “Is it all right if I contact the Murgese bank? They abide by the contractus trinus, so you’ll be protected by law against loan sharking. Plus they’re reputable, so there shouldn’t be any problems.”
“Hmm, ‘twas not my intention to deal with Istallians again so quickly… yet, I suppose your suggestion makes sense,” Apple Cobbler said. “Just remember that I shall be marked as the guarantor of the loan, and my financial situation is not to be doubted. A year should be plenty enough time to pay back this loan.”
“What? You actually have faith in my skills?” George asked, unable to hide his rather sarcastic expression. Cobbler answered with a sly smirk.
“No, but ‘twas never a question of trust in you,” she answered. “I do trust in Faraway Farm, however.”
“Lovely.” A dry grin crept up to George’s face. “I can tell we’re going to get along fine, you and I.”
“Which was why I was suggesting we would celebrate this budding business relationship with a drink or two,” Apple Cobbler stated. Then, as if it had been an afterthought, she gave a dirty look at Applejack. “You, cousin, are not invited, however. ‘Twould spoil any beverage with the bitter taste of a sore loser.”
“Ah didn’t plan to join ya,” Applejack answered rather loudly. “Unlike some others, Ah’ve got a heap of work to do back home. Now if y’all don’t mind, Ah hafta get goin’. Catch ya later, Twilight.”
“Um, sure! Later, Applejack!” Twilight said.
Thus, the positively grumpy-looking farmer pony left the group, muttering something under her breath the whole way. As she stomped away, the remaining three turned to look at each other. The sun was already on its way down from the sky, and even George noticed that the amount of creatures on the streets had increased. He figured that it was just like anywhere else: work days were ending, and the citizens were all in a hurry to get home.
“So, I’ll have to get back to the castle to finish up the paperwork. I’d join you otherwise,” Twilight said with a smile, and both Cobbler and George nodded.
“’Tis a shame, but I suppose it is for the best. Who knows what sort of reaction Your Majesty would cause if she entered a bar unannounced,” Cobbler answered. “Indeed, it seems that Mr. Sparrow and I shall have to survive on our own.”
“Hey, if it’s a bar, I can survive there for a whole week,” George chimed in. “Just point me in the right direction.”
Both Cobbler and George chuckled at his words. However, Twilight seemed somewhat anxious, clearly wanting to say something before she left. Eventually she cleared her throat, inhaled deeply, and took a stern expression upon her face. George found this a bit surprising, considering the purple pony princess had exhibited nothing but the traits of a naïve fool so far. The look in her eyes now, though… it seemed unexpectedly wise.
“And Apple Cobbler… I know it might not be my place to say this, but… can you try to get along with Applejack? I don’t know what happened between you two, but I think it’s for the best if we all can smile and laugh together,” Twilight said with a somber tone. “Especially if you’ll be staying here ‘til winter comes. It’ll get hard on everypony if you two keep bickering like that.”
The surprisingly stern eyes of the purple pony kept staring at the merchant with intensity, but even so, Apple Cobbler refused to budge. She answered that stare almost rebelliously, her trademark smirk keeping its tint of bitterness hidden in the corner of her mouth. George had seen a look like that many times, usually when he stared into the mirror; he knew that Twilight’s words were meaningless to the orange mare.
“… I hate to disappoint Your Majesty, but that is one order I cannot obey,” Cobbler finally answered. “’Tis a situation which stems solely from the stubbornness of your subject. If my cousin were not prideful overmuch, she might understand the true source of the quarrel here. Oh, and do not get me wrong: I am sure she is humble as a pony can be. But… yes, I suppose one could say there are prides of many sorts. Let us simply leave it at that, lest this bad blood affect the relationship between you and I, Your Majesty.”
Twilight continued to stare at the mare, and for a moment, George was sure that the princess would press on despite the warning. To him, she seemed just like all the other “kind souls” that he had met on his journeys, ready to stick their noses into other people’s business even when they shouldn’t. These people then had the gall to act surprised when that nose was bloodied quickly in such an event.
I don’t give a rat’s ass about the situation between those two… and that’s the way Cobbler clearly wants it, George thought. Perhaps you should understand that, Meddler Princess?
Finally, Twilight sighed and closed her eyes, clearly backing down.
“All right, I understand. Just take my words as a piece of advice, okay?” she said. “Now, I guess I should go.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Apple Cobbler answered, before looking at George. “As for the two of us… there was a talk of a drink or two, was there not?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” George said and grinned. “Believe me, toy horse, I could empty every keg from here to the border right about now.”
Without caring for the slightly confused expressions of the mares, George hurried Cobbler to show him the way to this much-talked-about ‘bar.’
◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊
“Hah, that does indeed hit the spot!”
The empty wooden pint hit the counter, accompanied by a short barking laughter emanating from Apple Cobbler. The Cheshire Cat-like grin of the mare was back again, showing her good mood. Meanwhile, George was resting his chin against the wooden counter, his eyes almost lifeless and a hopeless cloud hanging above his head. The pint next to him sat half-empty, the foam on top of the cider quickly disappearing.
“When you talked about ‘cider’, I had the measly amount of hope you meant hard cider… but this…” George said and groaned, glaring daggers at his pint. “This cider can’t even quench my thirst, let alone get me utterly plastered! A waste of a good pint, I say!”
The place the two had eventually ended up in was the purportedly “oldest saloon” in Ponyville, situated on the eastern side of the river that ran through the town. It was an old white brick building with a wooden roof, making the place stand out amongst the thatched roofs of the neighboring houses. The weathered façade of the building was deceiving, though, as a closer look revealed that the building was very sturdy for its age, and nowhere near toppling over yet. It was simply the artistic choice of whoever had built it to make the place look like it had been sitting there long before the town. However, while the bar gave off a good atmosphere, George had to admit that he cringed when he saw the name of the fine establishment.
‘The Pony You Came In With Saloon.’
One of the first urges George had when stepping into the place was to slap whoever happened to be the owner.
Still, the promise of alcohol and something to eat had managed to win him over, and eventually he had settled next to the counter with Apple Cobbler. There weren’t many patrons in the place, allowing George a good look at the saloon. He genuinely felt that if it had been a place back in his home world, he would have visited there more than once. The saloon itself was nothing more than one large room with two corners separated by brick archways for private meetings. The counter was at the other end of the room, near the fireplace and a corridor that must’ve led to the kitchens. Old barrels worked as tables, and while there were no chairs to speak of (for obvious reasons), most of the floor had been carpeted to make sitting easier. The red brick walls and low ceiling gave the place a cozy and almost intimate appearance, if a bit crowded. It didn’t help that one of the halls was solely reserved for the huge barrels where the cider was stored.
Indeed, the cider, which had become an object of pure hate for George. He had noticed it walking in, but nowhere on the carpeted floor or the wooden support beams could he smell the stinging, fermented stench of watered-down alcohol. Even the roaring fireplace that kept the saloon warm was surprisingly clean, with no sign of trash or wooden mugs thrown into the mix by drunken ponies. The whole place, for the lack of a better word, felt too clean. The only sign of actual staining in the passably cleaned establishment was near the doorway to the kitchens, most likely caused by grease that had seeped into the wooden floor.
So, while the smells flowing from the kitchen were almost irresistible, the warning bells were ringing in George’s head the whole time as the barkeep, a middle-aged unicorn with a bushy moustache, took their orders.
In the end, it turned out his suspicions were right, and what he got in his pint was the tasty yet cheap swill of a cider without a smidge of alcohol in it.
“I hate this place!” George proclaimed loudly as he leaned back, a groan erupting from somewhere within him. “Filter it! Filter it, you damn mules!”
“I take it you have something against the cider of Equestria?” Apple Cobbler asked, her grin devious enough to frighten spymasters. “What, pray tell, might this problem be?”
“This,” George said and raised his mug. “I wouldn’t feed this sugary swill to kids, let alone adults. What is wrong with you creatures!? Can’t any of you work a decent brewery, or are we under prohibition? If so, introduce me to local bootlegger come tomorrow. I can’t take another night with stuff like this.”
“’Tis the pride of the Sweet Apple Acres. Bottled for later consumption, of course, but still the local favorite. That being said, I cannot fault you for insulting their products, even if your reasons make no sense whatsoever,” Cobbler answered. “Not to mention I could hardly understand half of the words you said. Even if you are from far away, you have to adapt to the local lingo.”
George groaned and shot a glare at the mare, who simply chuckled at the sight. It seemed that the bartender had learned the skill of discreetly ignoring his customers, of which George was thankful. He had enough problems figuring out the orange creature who had suddenly become his business-partner. The last thing he needed was an overly curious taverner.
“Oh shut up. I’m doing my best to adapt, despite the horrible situation I’ve been thrust into. This town just ain’t making it exactly easy,” George said and let his eyes wander around the saloon. “It’s like I keep getting slapped across the face with a sledgehammer with the word ‘ridiculous’ written on it, over and over again. So yeah, one problem at a time.”
Cobbler sighed and signaled the bartender to fill their pints again. After the stallion had done as instructed, she took a sip from her drink, before looking at her companion. George had entered some sort of odd staring contest with the three other patrons of the saloon. Whenever he would avert his gaze from one, they would try to sneak a glance at him. Of course, this attracted his attention, so he ended up staring at the pony in question. Being stared at by the off-white pegasus, however, made the patrons quickly avert their gazes far too innocently. Indeed, it was a game of cat-and-mouse between overly curious ponies and someone who just wanted to be left alone.
“Well…” Cobbler answered, drawing the stallion back into the conversation. “Dialect and attitude aside, I think your number one problem is Death Valley—”
George’s ears perked up. For a moment, he was sure he had heard something extremely strange come out of the mare’s mouth. Two words that felt oddly foreign to this place, to this world, had just been spoken, and even he could catch the moment’s distortion.
The stallion’s eyes snapped at Cobbler, and for a moment the two of them ended up staring at each other in odd silence. Eventually George managed to break the uncomfortable, eerie lull hanging around them.
“What… what did you just say?” he asked. Apple Cobbler blinked in confusion.
“Huh? ‘Twas simply a reminder that your number one problem is still the debt. Actually, you’d do well to keep a calendar of some sort to remind yourself of the date of repayment,” Cobbler repeated, looking even more confused. “Were you not listening to me?”
George turned his eyes to the pint in front of him. The yellow liquid in it bubbled and sizzled, but seemed to offer no answers to the befuddling moment.
Did I just imagine it? Did I just doze off momentarily? George thought, frown scrunching his face. If not, then… what? Did she say what I thought she did? … Nah, that can’t be. Even if she did, why would she? That wouldn’t make a lick of sense.
Eventually, George was shaken from his thoughts by Cobbler’s voice.
“And to think they thought of me as weird when I left,” Apple Cobbler said and chuckled. She took a sip of her drink before continuing. “Would I not know better, I wouldst entertain the thought of you being some poor colt with a befuddled head, confined to his home for his whole life. Or perhaps you are, and have just escaped to the freedom of this vast world?”
“Are you picking a fight?” George asked, frowning at the mare. “Of course I’m not. I just got a bit lost in thought for a moment. Anyways, there’s nothing interesting about my past. I’m just your Average Joe, getting by in the world. I’ve done my fair share of travelling, and I guess for some god-forsaken reason, I’m punished for it by being stranded here. There, end of the story.”
“Truly? ‘Tis a bit hard to believe that a stallion that smells of nothing but innumerable roads would not have a story or two to share of his journeys,” Cobbler said, smiling slyly.
“Ain’t a single one, let alone two,” George answered bluntly and emptied his pint with one huge swig. “Look, I’m not prying about your past, so leave mine alone. It’s not remarkable and it’s not interesting, so there. End of story.”
“Oh, is that so? But I have no qualms of telling you about my past,” Cobbler said, giving a bit of a theatrical wave. “As I’ve said, I’m a travelling merchant. Like my name indicates, I am part of the Apple Family whose blood runs strong here close to Canterlot. But… well, I am not part of the main family. No, ‘twas to the north where I was born, past the bayous and plains, in the city of snow, lakes, and forest: Whinneapolis.”
George almost spat out his drink because of the name, but managed to settle it with a hacking cough. After giving the stallion a pitying look, the mare continued.
“A place where summers are mercifully short and winters depressingly long… A beautiful city illuminated by the night-time snow that glitters under the stars granted us by Princess of the Night,” Cobbler spoke, a hint of nostalgia creeping into her voice. “’Tis a world where branches of the pine trees reach forth like wings of great eagles, grand enough to carry a weight of a pony or two. Inhospitable at first glance, yet with warmth that can be found when you know where to look.”
To his surprise, George saw a strange look appear on the mare’s face. She was clearly no longer seeing the cider which she was staring at, but rather, the land which she spoke of. Even he could somewhat imagine it: endless forests of great trees, snow-capped by the ever-falling white powder that came from the skies. All of that, illuminated by the wondrous moon that managed to peek through the curtain of grey clouds that otherwise wanted to swallow the midnight sky…
… He had been in a similar place, once. Long time ago, during his travels. Simply hearing someone talk of it with such fondness rekindled, if only for a moment, the emotions that George had felt during those short winter days.
“Well, I gotta admit…” George finally said, ending the short silence. “… It sounds like a nice place.”
“Indeed ‘twas. But, alas, that was no place for a young filly with wanderlust in her bones,” Apple Cobbler said, and chuckled sardonically. “So I began travelling south, and only recently have I stopped. The life of a merchant overtook my desire to see these faraway places… though sometimes, I still get to visit lands I’ve never even dreamt of.”
Slowly, though somewhat awkwardly, George swirled around the pint in his hooves. Unlike he had expected, Apple Cobbler had not simply given him an exaggerated lip-service when it came to her past. At least not in the way he thought she would. Instead, she had honestly spoken of where she came from, and what had driven her forward. It was… a surprising showcase of familiarity, to be sure. So far, he had seen only a reflection of himself in the mare: unfriendly, sarcastic, and full of bitterness channeled as strength to drive herself forward. But now it started dawning upon him that maybe things weren’t that simple.
Or, rather, maybe the mare wasn’t as simple as George himself was.
“So? I’ve divulged some of my personal tales. Surely you’ve gotten comfortable enough to indulge my curiosity?” Apple Cobbler suddenly said, leaning closer to George with a sly smile on her face. “Of this… ‘Whiskey Valley’ you spoke of.”
Gah, I’ll take that back, George thought as he grimaced. She’s just devilishly clever, that’s all.
“Ugh, okay, God. You’re so persistent…” George finally relented, taking a sip of his cheap cider before continuing. “Let’s see… something interesting…”
For a moment, silence reigned between the two again, before George finally lifted his gaze from the surface of the counter.
“Well, there was this time I used to wrestle for living,” he blurted out. Cobbler stared at him with eyebrows reaching for her maneline.
“W-wrestled, you say? That sounds… odd, I admit.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t anything too special. Bunch of showboating and such. It wasn’t even real fighting, not like you’d see in illegal competitions and such,” George continued. “The winners were decided beforehand, and the only thing we’d have to worry about was putting on the best show we could for what measly crowd we could gather. The pay wasn’t good and my body still aches because of it, but at least it brought food to the table.”
It seemed that for Apple Cobbler the concept of professional wrestling was absurd to say the least. The mare stared at her drink, brows knitted together. George didn’t know whether it was because of what he had told specifically, or because Cobbler found what had been said too implausible to even consider as truth. Whatever the case, he had spoken honestly; even if he himself was the only one who knew this.
And it’s not like my hip is going to let me forget any time soon, George mumbled in his mind. The injuries suffered on those sweaty, bruise-filled days were still with him even to this day.
“Oh, taverner,” Cobbler suddenly called out, interrupting George’s thoughts. “Is the kitchen open already? I’d like to place an order.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” the mustachioed stallion behind the counter answered. “What would you like?”
Swigging the rest of her cider down the hatch, Apple Cobbler leaned forward on the counter, a somewhat excited smile on her face. George had to admit that the smells coming from behind the closed door were enticing, and even in this world where meat seemed to be a rarity, he could hope for something delicious.
“’Twas two years ago that I previously dined here,” Cobbler said. “Do you still make those delectable baked potatoes covered in goat cheese? I’d like to have four, please. Two for me, and two for my business-partner here.”
The bartender looked surprised for a moment, clearly not expecting someone to remember a dish from so long ago. However, his face quickly melted into a pleased smile.
“Certainly. If you wait for a moment, I’ll let the cook know.”
The mustachioed stallion left for the kitchen, leaving George and Apple Cobbler alone on the counter. While the rest of the tavern had been slowly filling up with ponies returning from work and what-not, George quickly noticed that not many of them were willing to approach where the two of them were sitting. In small towns like this, there was always a certain sense of unity, and strangers stuck out like sore thumbs.
Well, if these things had thumbs, sure. What should I say: ‘stick out like sore… I dunno, hooves?’ Can hooves even get sore? They’re supposed to be like keratin or something, right? George mused to himself.
Still, there was no denying it: he and his partner were left in peace, and that was just fine. The last thing George needed right now was more nosy ponies trying to pluck seeds of information out of him. The merchant sitting next to him was quite enough.
“Still, four potatoes?” George said, finishing up his own drink. “That’s hardly a snack, and more like a meal.”
“’Twas the intention, really. I have not eaten anything since I left Dashville this morning, and travelling does take a lot out of you,” Cobbler answered, signaling the taverner who had returned to refill their mugs. “What about you? Have you managed to fill your stomach already?”
For a moment, George’s thoughts returned to his breakfast. It had been delicious considering his situation, but frankly, not enough to fill one’s stomach. Not to mention that the Stetson-wearing pony had managed to abduct him before he had even managed to finish it. It probably still lay on the grass of the farmstead, unless some forest animals had made away with it.
“No, not really. Actually, now that you mention it, I’m starving,” George admitted. “Good call.”
“Oh, just wait and see,” Cobbler said while smiling mysteriously. “This is your first time eating this dish here, after all.”
The mare did not lie. When the potatoes finally arrived, George had hard time holding back the drool that threatened to slip down his lips. The potatoes had been baked to the color of deep gold, and steam still rose from them, spreading their irresistible smell. The wooden bowl the taverner had brought the potatoes with was not small one, and still it seemed that the four potatoes were more than enough to fill it to the brim. George didn’t know whether it was because the potatoes were so large, or because he was smaller in size, but at this point, he did not care. After all, his stomach was already letting out rumbles of joy for what awaited it.
And then there was the goat cheese: rich and fatty in substance, creamy in composition, it had been melted over the potatoes in vast quantities, almost drowning the potatoes. In a sense, they looked like white-capped, boulder-shaped mountains of pure deliciousness.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” Cobbler asked, amused by George’s astonished expression. “Let us ‘dig in’ as they say.”
Together, both George and the mare took one potato and proceeded to break them in half. This revealed the steaming center of the potato, which was bright like sun itself. Unable to wait anymore, and not caring about the clear possibility of burning his mouth, George popped one of the halves in his mouth. Apple Cobbler was quick to follow suit.
And for that brief moment, the two of them tasted the heaven of culinary simplicity.
“Mmm~! Oh, God, wow! Man, oh, oh… oh God…!” George managed to say, tears streaming down his face. “This is… this is…!”
“Good, is it not?” Apple Cobbler chuckled.
George could only nod enthusiastically.
“You have no idea.”
◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊
About hour later, George finally found himself outside the tavern. However, this time, he was in the backyard, searching for the telltale signs of an outhouse. Even if the cider they had served him was cheap, sugary swill with not even an inch of alcohol, it still did its job. Eight pints later, he had suddenly found his bladder entering the danger zone, and thus, some actions were required.
“’Tis at the backyard, if I remember correctly,” Apple Cobbler had advised him. “Now go before you embarrass us both any more with your strange jig.”
It seemed that the ponies, or at least Cobbler, were unfamiliar with the famous dance of a person past their urinary limit.
Still, even after he spotted the house of relief, George couldn’t help but to take one last look at the darkened sky. Stars were already out, and a beautiful full moon was rising from beyond the horizon. As he had noticed the last time, it really seemed that the night arrived faster than back in his own world. For a moment, George wondered if it had anything to do with the size of the supposed planet he was on, or if the orbits of the celestial objects were simply different.
Then again, it’s not like the days feel any shorter. It’s just that the moon seems to shoot up quick, almost like it’s trying to show off or something, George mused in his mind as he used his hoof to swing open the outhouse door.
To his relief, the outhouse was, as with rest of the pony buildings, much cleaner than their human equivalents. Gone were the stains of urine and feces in the ceiling, and even the roll of toilet paper seemed to be in rather good condition. George was almost about to praise such tidiness, until he remembered that ponies probably had a hard time even utilizing something like toilet paper because of their hooves.
“Damn these things… such useless flabs of meat,” George muttered as he sat down on the toilet. “Then again, I suppose that’s not a big difference compared to my old arms. It’s not like they were good for anything else than punching people.”
Heaving a sigh, George began to work and relaxed. From between the planks of the outhouse he could still see the shine of the moon as it continued to climb up the sky. It was then, staring at that light, that the absurdity of his situation started to dawn once again to George. There he was: in a body that wasn’t his, sitting in an outhouse in a world that was worse than Saturday morning cartoons… and yet, he ended his day in about the same way as he usually did. Emptying his bladder because he had drank too much.
“Hah. If I just were plastered, this’d be no different from home,” George said and laughed quietly, his gaze shifting down at his stumpy little legs hanging over the edge of the toilet.
Only, instead of the off-white legs that ended in hooves, he was now staring at a pair of weather-beaten, hairy, muscly legs. Human legs, to be exact. And his hind legs that rested on them had been replaced by familiar arms that ended with five digits.
“Oh, bollocks!” George hissed, looking at his once-again-human body.
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This again? Really?
I'm enjoying this. Keep it up!
Pshhhh-
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To understand their meaning, study of the bigger picture might be needed.
6696807
I have to admit, I love it when readers notice the nods I've left to other, much better, forms of media. It shows I'm not alone in writing what I do write about.
That being said, you are right about Cobbler. There's more than a little bit of Horo in her. Of course, her relationship with George is not as "romantic" as it is with Lawrence and Horo (that is reserved for someone more like a... polar opposite, if it even comes to pass, I don't know if readers want romance in this story about farming), but that has certainly served as an inspiration. The same sharp wit is there indeed.
Anypony else see that werehuman streaking through town?
And where'd Gorge get to?
I was expecting George to change in the middle of a crowd of ponies. Well, he lucked out here, by comparison at least.
Now to see what he does, and what Apple Cobbler thinks of this strange werehuman (would it be werepony? I don't think so, because he changes back into a human at night)
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(It would indeed be werepony, since "were" would mean "man")