Love Locks

by Burraku_Pansa

Round 2: The Facts of Ponyville (Luster Lock vs. Heather Rose)

Author's Note:

Character biographies here. Original entry alongside my opponent's here (Warning: chapter link).

Thanks go out to Pascoite and ChromeMyriad for pre-reading. Extra thanks to Pasco for helping make sure I didn't mess the German up too much. Heather Rose is a character created by Admiral Biscuit.

---

Heather loved the feel of the comb—the knowledge that each tooth was slowly working her mane into neat, tidy rows of rosy hair, like flowers lined precisely in a field. Even if it wouldn’t stick for any longer than an hour or two.

“Und meine Mutter,” said Lotus, behind her, “sie hat diesen winzigen Hut getragen, und sie sagte, ‘Was ist los, Kinder? Zu groß?’” She tittered, nearly dropping the comb.

Heather giggled herself, but felt a pang of guilt, recalling her own mother. She’d have to send a letter soon. The farm had just been so hectic recently…

Lotus hummed and took away that blessed comb, and already Heather’s scalp missed it. “Fertig,” said the spa pony, coming around and offering Heather a hoof down from the table.

The delightful sound of hooves on tile spread out through the heavy air as the duo made their way to the front room. Lotus walked around to the back of the counter while Heather waited in front, coin purse in hoof and a smile on her face. This part was well rehearsed. As Lotus scribbled in a ledger, Heather measured out some bits and passed them over the counter.

“Danke schön, Röslein,” said Lotus, smiling brightly. “Come back soon, ja?”

Heather mirrored the smile. “Bitte,” she said, and she accepted the complimentary soap Lotus offered. “And I will. Give the others my best.” She started towards the door, calling back, “Tschüs!”

“Tschüs!”

Out the door, and the afternoon sun was shining bright. The warmth and cheer in the air of the (relatively) bustling thoroughfare sent a giggly shiver up Heather’s spine. She closed her eyes, taking a moment to drink in the little town she called home, and all of its perf—

She was on the ground now, a light twinge in her shoulder. She could feel the dirt worming its way into her not-so-groomed-anymore mane. Not two minutes. It must have been a new record.

Groaning, Heather opened her eyes to find a set of grayish hindquarters. That wasn’t the least common thing to see after getting knocked over in Ponyville, but… This other pony—while she was indeed a pegasus—had a lock for a mark rather than bubbles, and hair that was far from blonde.

The other pony turned, frowning, and offered Heather a hoof. “Sorry ’bout that,” she said, her voice boyish in manner if not in timbre.

Heather took the hoof and stood, saying, “Danke.”

“You’re”—the other pony raised an eyebrow—“‘wel-ke’?”

Heather shook her head. “You want ‘bitte’. Sorry, habits.” She took in the sight of the pegasus, from curly hair (unkempt, but clearly for longer than Heather’s own—it was practically encrusted with sweat), to over-the-shoulder knapsack, to dusty hooves. This pony was a traveller, and unless Heather had forgotten a face, new to town. “So,” said Heather, “what has you walking backwards down our little town’s main street?”

The other pony snorted. “What’s got you standing still on it?”

There’d been a bit of a sneering edge to that question, and Heather didn’t like it one bit. She couldn’t help but frown.

“Er.” The pegasus cringed. “Sorry. My business, is all—plus I had kind of a long trip. Luster Lock.” She offered her hoof once again, her knapsack balanced awkwardly now with nothing holding it.

Heather shook it, saying, “Heather Rose.”

Luster’s eyes widened, and suddenly Heather’s flank was the unwilling subject of a rather focused (and creepy) bout of peering. “You’re just what I need!” the mare shouted.

Looking all about, Heather grimaced at just how many of the town’s eyes had turned their way. She hissed through her teeth, “And you’re in public!”

But Luster had a grin that wouldn’t quit. “Your cutie mark,” she said. “Bunch of heather. What’s it mean? Flower farmer or something, right?”

Oh. A potential customer? “That’s it precisely,” said Heather, “minus how it symbolizes my—”

Luster waved a hoof. “Doesn’t matter. You’re perfect.”

“Perfect for what, exactly?” Heather was frowning too much today—it was market day, for goodness sake! But that might have been the big issue. She needed to go set up her stall and start making her bits, yet here she was, waylaid by a strange—

“I need info from somepony who’s really boring,” said Luster, still grinning. “Somepony who’s really small-town, really scared of big disasters—and, like, change in general, preferably.”

Heather felt her eye twitch, and she turned away. It was time go fetch her cart and her wares for the day.

“Hey!” Luster called after her. “Aw, come on! Do you at least know any other flower farmers, or some old-timey farriers, or anything? Ugh.”

---

After all those years, Heather’s stall still wasn’t popular enough.

Ponies didn’t realize (yet) just what they were getting when they bought themselves a batch of Heather’s Heath brand heather honey. Or heather honey in general, for that matter, but good luck finding any other brands around Ponyville.

Heather itself is a stubborn plant, only blooming naturally for a scant few weeks out of the year—the real sort, anyway—so heather honey has to be extracted from bees feasting on it during that brief window. As an earth pony, Heather could widen that window, coaxing the heather to bloom for upwards of about a month and a half, but any longer and the excess of magic needed would bother the bees—which themselves were on loan for that period, and not Heather’s to bother.

So heather honey is a rarity, so what? It’s just another kind of honey, right? Wrong. Aside from being darker and richer in flavor than most other honeys, heather honey is so packed with protein that it’s practically solid until you stir it. Add to that all of the carbohydrates, nutrients, antioxidants, und so weiter that you get from any honey, and heather honey is the good-tasting health food.

And Luster Lock, standing before Heather’s stall in the local market—with a full range of heather honeys, meads, beers, bread (Oma’s recipe), jams, jellies, and bare, tasty flowers laid out before her eyes—said, “Let me get a couple of those dried ones. They look tasty.”

The ‘dried ones’ were a decorative heather wreath, and she’d been perfectly earnest in her request, Heather was sure.

“Please go away,” said Heather, voice and face made painstakingly neutral.

Luster sighed. “I’m sorry for insulting you before.” She rubbed a wing—odd as that looked to Heather—through her still-dirty mane. “I really would appreciate your help.”

Luster’s eyes seemed so sincere, even if it looked like her mouth was about to creep into some kind of smirk. Plus, it wasn’t like there was a line forming behind her. “Fine,” Heather grumbled. “How can I help?”

“Like I mentioned before, I need info,” said Luster, lighting up and leaning on the stall’s counter. “Somepony as bor—” She froze as Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Ahem. Somepony like you, a small-town flower farmer, probably does her best to avoid big, awful disasters and such, right?”

“Right,” said Heather with brow raised. For all that she loved Ponyville most of the time, she did hate it whenever monsters attacked, or a local said heather was too bitter a plant, or ancient evils resurfaced in town. Did that really go hoof in hoof with her occupation…?

Luster continued, “And you’ve lived in Ponyville—a place pretty much infamous for exactly that kind of thing—for how long, now?”

“A little under five years.”

“Great!” Luster beamed. “I figure, that attitude and all that experience, you’ve got to have a disaster sense by now, right? When’s the next one coming?”

Friendly chattering and the rolling of cart wheels over cobblestone and the heated sounds of bartering filled the silence.

“What?” said Heather.

Luster didn’t falter. “When do you think Ponyville is due for trouble?”

“That’s the most ridiculous—” But it wasn’t, Heather realized as the word left her mouth. It wasn’t ridiculous at all. There was an equation forming in her head—or, no, not forming. It had been there, invisible, in the back of her mind.

Market days were her favorite days of the week, and this was true for most of the town’s many farmers. Likewise the weather, sunny and comfortably warm. But there was a balance to be maintained there: get some good, get some bad. Harmony. Though, there had been plenty enough bad today, in the form of the quirky pony with whom she was talking—her hair had even been ruined much sooner than the norm, she recalled.

But… No, there were two equations. Her personal unpleasant experiences today only balanced out personal enjoyments, like the—she now remembered—extra long and entertaining spa visit. The perfection of the day on a town-wide scale had yet to be checked by…

“Today,” Heather breathed. “Within twenty-four hours for sure. Oh, großartige Schwestern…”

“Today?” said Luster. She shot up from the counter. “Perfect!”

Heather watched as Luster set her knapsack down and used her wings to widen the drawstrings. From within, she pulled out a length of thin but remarkably sturdy-looking iron chain. And pulled. And pulled. She wound it around a foreleg and, after no more came out, she withdrew also an ornately carved—was that a dragon face?—and solid-seeming lock. She left it open, but with its clasp bridging the first link of the chain to the last and holding the whole heavy, menacing arrangement taut against her hoof.

And then… she started pulling out more chain, for her other foreleg. What an uncomfortable burden that knapsack must have been.

It was about when a second lock reared its vaguely leonine face that Heather summoned the presence of mind to ask, “What in Equestria are you doing?”

Lock in place, Luster danced a little jig, rattling the chains to her giggling satisfaction—and everypony else around’s sweat-beaded consternation—and looked back up to Heather. “Getting ready,” she said, grinning like predator, “to whup and or restrain and or sell some custom locks to the trouble.”

“So you came to Ponyville to throw yourself at disasters…?” At Luster’s nod, Heather could only shake her head. “‘Du spinnst,’ my Oma would say. You’re going to fit right in, I’m sure.”

As misfortune would have it, there came a sudden roar from the other side of town, and the local birds loudly flapped and cawed their way off. Heather’s mind froze even as her body kicked into practiced action, frantically beginning to pack up her wares along with all of the saner stall owners around the market.

Luster’s grin had magnified tenfold, but Heather saw her make a concerted effort of reining it back into a quivering smile-smirk. The pegasus drew some bits out from her somehow-still-not-empty knapsack, tossed them onto the stall counter, and grabbed a bottle of heather mead with a wing. She popped the cork and took a good many swigs.

“Ahh,” sighed Luster, slamming the bottle back down onto the counter like she was cool instead of just hurting the wood. “My compliments to the brewer.”

“Danke,” said Heather with an absent mind.

Luster turned her smirk back to Heather, saying, “You’re bitte.”

Heather winced, rolled her eyes, and just barely managed to correct Luster and pack away her things before the stomping said that it was time to be anywhere else.

---

The town of Ponyville’s collective palate still somehow managed to overlook the strikingly crisp flavor of a fine heather ale, with its notes of floral, even vaguely sweet—

Oh, who even cared? The Thirsty Draft had it on tap, and that was all that really mattered right then.

Of course, it was Heather’s Heath brand heather ale, but The Thirsty Draft was the most wonderful sort of pub that Heather could imagine; they charged a local supplier only slightly more than what they paid that supplier in the first place for the same amount of stock. For coppers on the bit, Heather got to drink her ale at a better temperature and out of a nicer glass than what she could manage at home, and the atmosphere—warm and loud and littered with ponies, but rarely any of it to an unpleasant degree—came free.

And so of course the only open seat at the bar was next to a battered but radiant Luster Lock. After all, it had already been such a train wreck of a—no, such an average, balanced day—that Ponyville couldn’t let it be over just yet.

“Did you win?” said Heather as she sat. The bartender, without even needing to meet her eyes, had already laid down a frothing glass for her. Almost everything was right with the world.

Luster turned Heather’s way and smiled, and she served up a light punch of recognition to an already aching shoulder. “Not really,” she said. “No lock sales today. And he sure was better at doling out a whupping.” Her smile went a little soft. “Had fun, though.”

Heather giggled lightly, and she asked, “What was the other thing you were going to try? ‘Restraining the trouble’?”

Grayish wings rose up in some kind of gesture—a shrug, maybe? “Opening locks is more my thing, I guess,” said Luster, smile back to its earlier… luster.

There Heather went giggling again, even if there wasn't much call for it—but she realized it was the first time she’d laughed since leaving the spa, and it felt good. Though, she supposed it was hard not to be happy when half a glass of ale had made its way down her throat while Luster had been talking. And no sense in leaving the other half waiting.

Luster whistled. “You sure can put it away, huh?” She held up her own glass, eyeing what was left. “And I guess I can kind of see why.”

What did—Oh! That hazy gold color, and that earthy nose! “You’re drinking my beer?”

Luster nodded, taking another pull.

“Oh, danke schön, Luster! Ponies here rarely even give it a chance.” Heather raised her own glass high—full again, that wonderful bartender. “How does it taste?”

Emptying the glass and setting it down, Luster shot Heather one final, all-enraging smirk. With a tone of the utmost self-satisfaction, she uttered, “Bitter.”

There were times, however rare, when The Thirsty Draft did get to be too hot and loud for Heather’s liking. During the occasional good-natured bar fight, for instance.