Carousel

by Thornquill

Chapter 1 - Homecoming

The sight of Ponyville had never made Rarity feel so miserable. As the train swept through its final curve towards the little town, the dark spire of Town Hall rose to prick the overcast sky, as if to draw down even more of the little icy specks of sleet that were muddling the view. The landmark was indisputable confirmation that she was finally home.

All of her disappointment and shame, which she had managed to push away during the journey, returned in a rush. Her heartbeat quickened painfully, and a stiff, anxious pressure rose in her throat.

She looked away from the window as Ponyville drew closer, sniffing once before blinking away the hot tears threatening her makeup. Her parents would be waiting for her at the station, and she felt like she already had plenty to answer for. No need to complicate things even more with a show of emotion. That would only send her mother off on a binge of hovering, comforting, and generally smothering her for days.

Rarity quickly checked herself over as the train began slowing to a fitful halt. She had her saddlebags, a gauzy scarf, and a light hat which had seemed far more practical in the almost unseasonably warm Manehatten weather. I should have known better! she reprimanded herself. The village’s lead weatherpony, an old mare named Hoarfrost, always brought winter to Ponyville early, calling in extra cloud cover and causing the temperature to plummet before Cloudsdale had even started making its annual rounds. Rarity couldn’t stand how the local population had tolerated it for so many years. As a filly, she could remember thinking that the entire town seemed to either love the dead cold just as much as Hoarfrost or else just didn’t want to make an issue of it.

That’s Ponyville for you. A town full of ponies either too meek to shake up the status quo, or too stupid to realize it needs shaking up.

By contrast, the heat and hubbub of Manehatten had been like a dream come true. But like all dreams, it had turned out to be a very short-lived one, and now she was being forced to wake up again. She glanced ruefully at the copy of the Manehatten Times she had bought at the Grand Central Station to occupy her for the trip home.

Seam Stress Steals Show

Manehatten’s pride blew critics away at the 996 Pony Panoply Promenade, once again raising the bar in modern couture.

“The clock’s counting down, and everypony is starting to push the envelope in anticipation of the Millennial Summer Sun Celebration,” Prim Hemline, one of the show’s sponsors, told our reporters.

“Though it’s still four years away, it will be a once-in-a-lifetime event, and every designer from here to Baltimare knows that now is the time to make their mark. There won’t just be photos of the dresses worn at those events in the magazines—they’ll be in the history books.”

Grayscale photographs sprawled over most of the front page, showing proud mares and stallions strutting with practiced poise along a fashion runway, showcasing a dazzling array of sweeping gowns and severely trimmed suits. Even poor photography couldn’t detract from the perfectly cut lines, the expertly-creased pleats that seemed to magnify power and wit—exactly what discriminating buyers from Canterlot, Fillydelphia, and Manehatten wanted.

“Making a mark,” Rarity whispered as she dropped the paper back on the bench. “I’d have settled for working the production line.”

As the train finally shuddered to a halt, she stood and made her way to the door.

“Miss? Excuse me, miss?” a voice called out behind her. “Did you forget this?”

“Oh, I’m finished with it, you can just...” she said, expecting that they were referring to the abandoned paper. As she glanced back, she saw the conductor, whose gray cheeks were buried beneath monstrous muttonchops, holding up a sleek black portfolio. “Oh... yes, I’m sorry. Thank you.” She accepted the portfolio with her magic and stepped out onto the cold, damp platform.

For a moment, she just stood there, fighting to keep her teeth from chattering as she looked around. Down the road, she could see the tree that housed the town’s library and the first of several small shops and homes that lined the northwestern edge of town. The streets were noticeably emptier than usual, however. She supposed the sleet had driven everypony indoors to their warm quilts and hearths. As it was too early for the lamps that lined the streets to be lit, the empty, soggy lanes were left dim and lifeless as they wound between walls whose colors had been drained to muted tones of dead browns and lifeless grays.

“ ‘Welcome home, Rarity,’ ” she groused in a mocking imitation of her mother’s voice, feeling the heat of tears rising again. “ ‘So good to see you... so soon... how was your trip?’ ‘Oh, just wonderful, mother, thank you for coming to pick me up...’ ”

She was interrupted by several purple and blue trunks being hefted down from the train and deposited unceremoniously on the platform in a series of wet thunks. She didn’t think she was imagining the way the damp boards suddenly seemed to sag beneath them.

“Where are these going, miss?” the conductor asked, breathing heavily as he stacked the sixth one onto the pile.

“Oh, my parents should be coming with a coach soon,” she replied, glancing around the deserted streets again and biting her lower lip. “Could... could you please put them under the roof for now?”

“Right away, miss,” he said, gesturing to the other two ponies with him.

After the luggage was out of the way, he blew a sharp note on a brass whistle and closed the door of the coach behind him as the engine responded with a deep, echoing blast of its own, and Rarity watched as it slowly began to heave itself away.

She turned and regarded the empty streets again. For a little while, the only thing she was aware of was the cold air in her nostrils and the tiny plip of sleet periodically hitting her hat. She scratched one foreleg with the other, then gave a short sigh of resignation.

Now what?

She stood like that until she realized her mane was starting to sag with the damp. She shook herself and walked sluggishly to the protection of the overhanging roof, dropping her portfolio on the ground and turning away from it. The clock above the station door showed 4:37. She’d only spent seven minutes at the station, but it already felt like thirty. She sat down on the ground beside her trunk and, with nothing else to do, stared into the soupy gray expanse as she waited.

At 4:51, her parents finally trundled up to the station in a hired carriage. The sleet had transitioned to a bitter, semi-solid spray, and Rarity grimaced as she realized the poor Earth Pony pulling the carriage was probably getting soaked through the badly-fitting oilskin coat he wore. She hitched a tired smile onto her face and waved as they pulled up.

“Oh my goodness, sweetheart, you must be freezing!” her mother exclaimed, hopping down from the carriage almost before it had stopped moving and sending up a large, muddy splash.

Rarity winced, cringing away as her mother trotted towards her, an inevitable, crushing hug bearing down on her with muddy hooves. Her father followed a little more reservedly, shielding a tiny filly bundled up in one of his forelegs from the sleet as Rarity tried her best to avoid any mud from her mother’s embrace.

“Oh you poor thing, you’re positively soaked! I’m so sorry we’re late! I can’t believe you had to wait for us in this cold, but you know your father. I swear, I haven’t been less than twenty minutes late since the day we met!”

Her father rolled his eyes, and Rarity gave him a small, knowing grin behind her mother’s back; they both knew Cookie Crumbles hadn’t been on time once since the day she had been born.

“We’d better get these things loaded up and get you home.” Her father said. “Your mother’ll have a hot meal ready for you in no time.” He levitated one of the large trunks, wincing a little as it wobbled towards the carriage, while the carriage pony hefted another.

“Oh yes, I’ve had bread baking all day, and I have just the soup to go with it. I thought I’d try putting it inside the bread like they do in all those fancy Manehatten restaurants. Did you get to eat at many of those? Oh, I just can’t wait to hear all about your trip on the way back!”

“Of... of course.” Rarity’s smile wavered just a touch.

“I think we’d better let our little girl rest some first. She’ll have plenty of time to tell us everything later,” her father said, seeming to pick up on her reluctance as the last of the luggage was placed and the carriage’s suspension sagged another inch. “But wait’ll you hear what Sweetie Belle’s been up to while you were gone,” he continued, lifting the bundle he still held, where Rarity’s little sister was sleeping soundly.

Her mother’s eyes lit up as she and Rarity moved quickly to the carriage. “Oh, she’s just been adorable, and I know she missed you, Rarity; she’s been so fussy ever since you left! And she’s been getting more active by the day, you should see her...”

And that remained the topic of conversation for the duration of the ride to her parent’s home—to her home, Rarity corrected herself. Cookie regaled her with every tiny detail of her little sister’s diminutive adventures during the five days Rarity had been away. Listening was a compromise, but one Rarity was still grateful for. As long as her mother was talking about Sweetie Belle, Rarity could put off talking about Manehatten for a little longer—hopefully until a warm house and warmer food could make it a tiny bit easier to do so.

* * *

The house was indeed warm, and the soup was almost tolerable, though it did soak through most of the bread before it had a chance to cool. If there was ever a mare who proved baking and cooking were two different arts, it was Cookie. Yet despite Rarity’s hopes, none of it was enough to lift her mood. Throughout the evening, a frown descended on her face every time she dared let her mind wander, which happened more and more as the long train ride finally started to take its toll and her eyelids grew painfully heavy.

“Thank you so much for dinner, Mother. It was delectable, really,” Rarity said, smiling genuinely at her. “But I think I should go to bed, or I’ll have bags under my eyes for a week.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, sweetheart,” her mother replied, hugging her tightly before shooing her towards the stairs. “I made sure to clean your room and the bathroom before you got here. Just let us know if you need anything!”

“Sleep tight, marshmallow,” her father called from the table, his warm grin beaming up at her.

“Thank you. Goodnight,” Rarity called back.

The warm light of the living room vanished as she ascended into the unlit upper level. She didn’t bother lighting any of the brass lamps set into the walls; the clouds had finally thinned a little, and squares of blue-gray moonlight slanted through the windows and guided her down the long, narrow hall toward her bedroom. She had just enough energy to pull her makeup kit from her saddlebags and remove what little she had bothered to wear that day. As desperately as she wanted to lie down, she knew she’d regret it in the morning if she left mascara and eyeshadow on overnight. That done, she stepped heavily into her room and gently kicked the door shut behind her.

Everything had been moved. Her mother always tried to put things back in their places when she cleaned, but she usually got most of it mixed up. The sheets smelled of detergent, and they were cold and brittle to the touch as she pulled them back. Her father had piled the trunks wherever he could find space. They crowded the floor and even obscured the window that looked out over the still, gray water of the pond their house sat beside. The trunks were filled with nearly every outfit she had ever put together, all packed up in the hope that one would prove suitable to be shown in Manehatten. She knew she would have to unpack them all tomorrow.

I should probably throw out a good deal of it, she thought sadly. Some of it’s just old and taking up space. It was foolish to pack it all, but one never knows...

She heard muffled, high-pitched wails downstairs. Sweetie Belle was fussing again. Rarity hoped she would not be kept up half the night, or she really would have bags under her eyes all week. Her gaze roved around the dark corners of the room. Moonlight reflected from a glass-framed diploma, and she felt the tightness return to her chest. It was dated C.E. 994 with a gold-leaf seal from the University of Fillydelphia stamped neatly above Rarity’s signature.

She pushed herself into the chilly sheets with less care than usual. She felt her hoof bump against something that nearly slid off the short, single-pony mattress. Glancing up, she saw the black square of her portfolio perched precariously on the edge of the bed.

Father must have left it there. The portfolio held photographs of the best designs she had made, as well as detailed drawings of her favorite creative concepts and her most ambitious ideas. She had even included designs she had sketched out but couldn’t yet pursue because she lacked the equipment or the materials.

She looked at it for a moment. Then she kicked it to the floor from beneath the covers. It fell with a muted thud and flipped over once, coming to rest with some of the pages bent beneath it. Rarity turned away and shut her eyes.

She was home. She had no job, no professional contacts, and no idea of what to do next. She was back to living with her parents in little, out-of-the-way Ponyville, the fashion capital of nothing.

She had never felt like more of a failure.

* * *

The next morning found Rarity sipping a hot chai latte while looking absently out the window of the local cafe. The maddening sleet had finally stopped sometime in the night, but the blanket of clouds smothering the sky only seemed to have grown thicker and heavier. The temperature had fallen to a biting chill that penetrated even the heavy purple-and-silver sweater she had donned for the day.

Fluttershy sat across from her, cradling a steaming cup of a musty-smelling green tea blended with bitter goji berries. Rarity looked away from the window, set her own cup down, and dabbed away a thin band of froth the tea had left on her lip. “And that was it. I didn’t get anything more than vague half-promises from a few secretaries, and I wasn’t able to get any more interviews before I had to come home.”

“Oh Rarity, I’m so sorry,” Fluttershy said, her mouth drawn into a pitying grimace. “I can’t believe so many of them would just cancel your interviews like that.”

“Cancel is an understatement,” Rarity said, staring into her cup. “Stiff Collar’s staff pretended to have no record of an appointment at all. They said he was engaged in all-day meetings and couldn’t possibly arrange anything. And then, of all things, Stiff Collar himself happened to pass me in the lobby on my way out, and I overheard him talking about taking a client out for golf and lunch.”

“Oh my goodness... that doesn’t seem right...” Fluttershy said quietly.

“Business is business,” Rarity replied, trying to affect a brisk tone. “Flawless Stitch and Thread Tread were wonderful though, and I still can’t quite believe Seam Stress herself gave me an interview. But it was the same answer each time: ‘Your work shows wonderful potential, but we’re really looking for somepony with more experience’.” Rarity snorted lightly and shook her head. “A polite way of saying they weren’t impressed if ever I heard one.”

“So, what will you do?” Fluttershy asked.

“I don’t know, Fluttershy.” Rarity sighed and looked back out the window. “I mean, I suppose I’m not terribly surprised. Going to the big firms was a desperate gamble to begin with. It’s just so much harder to find design firms in other cities. Manehatten really is the fashion capital of Equestria. Unless you count Canterlot of course, but Celestia knows I won’t get anywhere near there for years.”

“I’m sure something will come up. Maybe something will open up here. I know your parents weren’t looking forward to seeing you go so far away.”

Rarity glanced back at Fluttershy, a fond smile playing across her face at the unstated implication. She hadn’t been looking forward to leaving Fluttershy behind either. Rarity knew many ponies in town, but Fluttershy was the only one she had ever found close rapport with. There was no one else she could “talk shop” with. While her parents indulged her, it was hardly satisfying conversation, and it usually ended with something like, “oh, that’s nice sweetheart. Erm, pass the flour, wouldn’t you?”

Fluttershy, however, listened. She didn’t just let somepony talk—she took in every word as carefully as she took in the little birds she cared for in her cottage every winter. Just like she was listening to Rarity now.

“I know, darling,” Rarity said, hiding her smile behind another sip of her chai. “But unless you know of any design firms that happened to set up shop here in the week I was gone, I really don’t know how much more I can do here.”

“I understand.” Fluttershy’s eyes betrayed a hint of sadness as she smiled back. “This really isn’t a town for ponies with... well, careers. At least ones like yours.”

“I’m afraid that’s a bit of an understatement. The closest thing we have to a fashion outlet is old Bridlebit’s Tack Shop, and I’m fairly certain he doesn’t want my expertise.”

“Um, no,” Fluttershy giggled. “I doubt he does.” She took another sip of her tea. “Still... I wish I could help more. I don’t think I know enough to tell you what to do.”

“I don’t think I do either, Fluttershy,” Rarity sighed. “I don’t think I do either.”

* * *

Rarity wandered aimlessly after she left the cafe. She had asked Fluttershy if she would like to take a longer walk, but Fluttershy had apologized and said she needed to get back home. Shivering, Rarity wondered if Fluttershy had just thought it was too cold to stay out. If so, she could hardly blame her. Under normal circumstances, Rarity would hardly linger outside for longer than absolutely necessary, but the only other place she had to go was home.

Home to sketches and mock-ups that had gotten her little more than an extremely expensive sightseeing trip and some stressful conversations. Her mother would be there, popping in every ten minutes and asking if she needed anything or trying to strike up a conversation with the latest gossip from the older generations in town. Little Sweetie Belle would probably be making noise too, and any chance Rarity might have of figuring out where she had gone wrong or where to go next would be thrown out the window.

So she wandered, her sweater and hat soaking up the cold like a sponge in an icy lake, her too-thin scarf flitting to and fro like an antsy spirit in the breeze. The day’s drier weather had brought shoppers creeping from their homes into the market, but she noticed them only as gray shadows as they passed in front of and around her. She wished her comment to Fluttershy about Ponyville’s fashion had been in jest, but as she looked at the muted bustle around her, she realized just how bad the issue had always been.

There really is no market for fashion in this town, she thought. Even now, when the bitter weather demanded all but the hardiest ponies don some kind of protection, all she saw were ghastly, utilitarian coats and hats from the Tack Shop—chunky, formless things made from heavy black and brown cloth with dingy, puffs of fleece peeking out beneath. Here and there, she saw pale imitations of decent fashion purchased from the shelves of Barnyard Bargains. They were cheap, badly-made things, and she guessed they didn’t do a very good job of holding the cold at bay, judging from the way the ponies wearing them shivered and grimaced with every breeze.

And little wonder, Rarity thought. The fittings are loose approximations at best. You’d think Filthy Rich believed we all had the exact same body type or something. She thought back to the owner of the cab her parents had hired yesterday, and wondered if his ill-fitting oilskin was another victim of the production lines Filthy Rich employed to mass-produce the stuff. I should have offered to tailor the fit for him. Nopony deserves to be out pulling carriages in gear like that.

She followed one of her favorite walking routes which took her out of the marketplace and into the village park. The grass had gone brown after the Running of the Leaves, and black, spiny tree limbs stabbed nakedly into the sky like the legs of monstrous spiders in their death throes. A fountain had frozen over, leaving dirty water solidified into a shapeless mass at the bottom of the chipped stone bowl.

She carried on past it, climbing a low hill midway to the forest that offered a view of town that was normally much more pleasant. The town cemetery was built there, and she usually passed through it before cutting through Whitetail Woods to circle town and arrive back home. As she passed the thin rods of pitted, wrought-iron fencing that enclosed the graveyard, she was surprised to notice she was not alone. A pink Earth Pony stood in one corner of the cemetery, her head bowed over a small gravestone. Rarity turned away respectfully and looked out over the town. Ponyville was laid out below her in an achromic huddle, the large windmill spinning listlessly as a ponies drifted in and out of sight among the buildings.

“There’s just no color,” she said quietly to herself. “There’s no use for my kind of talent in this place. I don’t belong here anymore.”

The only response was the hiss of the wind through the barren boughs of the nearby trees. Somewhere nearby, dead leaves rustled as they were blown away.

“Still,” she continued, “It’s hard to believe it’s just because there’s no demand. There have to be at least a few ponies who would buy a bit more discriminately, given the chance.” She could think of a few without even trying: Fluttershy; the Riches; the owners of the finer shops; the mayor and her staff. She even knew for a fact that many of those same ponies ordered garments from suppliers in Manehatten and Canterlot because they needed finer couture than anypony in town could provide.

“Something really should be done...” She mused with a thoughtful frown. As she considered it, her heart clenched with the apprehension she was beginning to know so well, but at the same time, there was a familiar little hook in her head: the mental tug she felt when inspiration struck and insistently pulled her towards the realization of a new idea.

Ponyville had no fashion market. That either made it a town that was hopelessly devoid of demand... or a town with a ravenous, famine-induced demand that was just waiting for the right merchant to come in and sate it with creative vision. Her mind wandered back to her university economics courses, the ones she had barely managed to slog through with passing marks. She remembered the case studies she had chosen for her papers, stories of now-famous boutiques that had started with nothing more than some sweat and a sewing machine at just the right times to fill markets with clothes they had desperately wanted.

She could think of a thousand reasons it was a bad idea, even a profoundly stupid one. Whatever the case studies said, those other ponies had definitely possessed more resources than she did right now, such as startup funds, a cheap, reliable source of materials, perhaps wealthy family with spare storefronts and warehouses to gift them. They also always seemed to have an inborn knowledge of exactly what to do with those resources, the business savvy of a Manehatten skyscraper’s employee population packed into one brilliant, multi-talented mind.

But even so, her mind wouldn’t stop flooding with the possibilities. As if reliving her walk through the market, she saw the once-vague forms of the ponies there in perfect detail: a stallion strolling by in a parka so overlarge, his limbs were awkwardly splayed and he had to manage a funny little waddle to get by. In a flash, she had mentally replaced it with a trim, crisp pea coat, giving him a flair of casual formality to accentuate his refined jawline and manecut.

She remembered a mare by the baker’s shop wearing a pitifully thin, bright-orange autumn wind-breaker that clashed violently with her pink hair, her two foals clad in outfits that suited them just as poorly. She sized them up in her memory, her eyes flitting about as she gazed at nothing in the cemetery.

The filly, blue like her mother but a little paler. She was hanging back at the window, so probably a little demure, shy even, but what a heart she must have behind those riveting green eyes. Something gray accented in red to bring those out—a little swing coat, maybe with matching hind boots.

The colt, the one rearing up and leaning on the window, oh, he’s the rambunctious one, isn’t he? Something close-fitting with a strong, synthetic outer shell, nothing less would do. And the mother, wouldn’t something like the princess-cut frock I have put away in one of my trunks look fabulous? Though, maybe in a different color.

Rarity saw all of this and more. Little traits of all the ponies she had seen jumped out at her and practically cried out to be accentuated by textiles while measurements and details snapped into place on pattern sheets flying through her mind.

It was an absurd idea, and she tried to dismiss it as something she couldn’t even think of attempting without a great deal more experience or education on her resume. Nevertheless, the possibility wouldn’t leave her head.

Well... I suppose there’s no harm in looking into it a little more. Perhaps I can drop by the library soon and see if there are any articles on this sort of thing.

That decided, she turned and started towards the back gate of the cemetery. As she left the graveyard behind, she noticed the other pony had also left at some point. Seeing no sign of other wayfarers on the familiar path through the thickly-clustered trees of Whitetail Woods, Rarity passed into the shadow of the trees, and the cemetery was soon hidden from sight. Occupied with her thoughts, she hardly noticed the heaps of mud-brown leaves that sent waves of a sopping-wet, spongy smell to her nostrils with every step. The innumerable trees finally strangled the incessant breeze, leaving the air still and clear. Rarity’s mind, however, was becoming increasingly cluttered with ideas. One by one, impossibilities turned into questions she just might be able to find answers to. Hay, if Thread Tread could do it, then why not...

The rasp of damp leaves sliding over each other disrupted her train of thought, and she shook her head a little in annoyance, refocusing on her questions. Hayseed, all the things I’d need to do. I’d need a shop, for starters. There’s just no way I could do anything sharing space with two parents and a growing filly.

Another heap of leaves was disturbed by the wind nearby, and Rarity huffed in annoyance. There was something especially distracting about that sound today, something that her mind wanted to puzzle out. But there were more important matters at hoof, or at least more interesting ones. Still, as she glanced about, expecting to find peace and renewed focus in the motionless branches, she only found herself unsettled. Aside from her own shuffling hoofsteps, it was totally silent. The animals had all either migrated or prepared their burrows in preparation of the oncoming snow. There wasn’t a breath of wind to be felt or a hint of motion to be seen.

There was nothing to stir the wet leaves that suddenly rustled somewhere behind her.

Rarity turned and glanced back, brow furrowed in confusion. The path leading away from her was empty and barren. Nothing moved there that she could see. The circumstances, however, were giving rise to a paranoia that she felt unwilling to casually dismiss. Despite the obvious answer that there were probably still a few animals active during the winter, her imagination was putting shadowy figures where they didn’t belong, and sensing someone watching her who wasn’t there.

She resumed her pace, glancing around every few steps. The thin path vanished into obscurity ahead of her, and the forest’s dense growth and detritus cluttered the ground around it. Thin trees clogged the space with jagged, barren boughs that stuck out across the empty spaces like entwined knives, but at the very least, one thing seemed clear—the forest around her was empty.

Leaves rasped softly, accompanied by a thin, friable creak. Rarity’s ear twitched to the sound, and her eyes followed an instant later. A single low-hanging branch, about ten feet away from the edge of the path, was quivering gently, as if a bird had just taken flight.

She turned homeward again and continued at a trot. This isn’t Manehatten, she told herself. This is Ponyville, for Celestia’s sake. Nothing happened in Ponyville. A lady could take a thousand walks in its darkest and most deserted areas for decades and never come to harm. She was safe. She ignored the leaves she could hear behind her. It was animals, birds, a stray breeze that was merciful enough to leave her frigid and shivering body alone. Nothing more.

But when the twig snapped, she couldn’t help herself. She swung her whole body around, eyes piercing the dim light for the source. For a moment, she still saw nothing but the familiar path through the woods. Then, about thirty feet away and a few yards to the side of the path, she saw a tree’s outline that bulged a little ways off the ground in just such a way that looked like a head perched atop a long neck. It looked like it was leaning ever so slightly away from the trunk, and the shadows fell in nearly the right spots to give the impression of indistinct eyes looking at her beneath an ear-like twig.

“Who’s there?” Rarity called, impressed that her voice sounded as stern as it did. The pony-shape didn’t move. Rarity took a step towards it. Then another step. And two more. It didn’t move, but the sense she got from those eyes—no, the eyes I’m imagining, she told herself—intensified. She felt like a foal that had wandered into a very high-end shop and suddenly met a very unfriendly shopkeeper who knew she didn’t belong there—who wanted her to get out.

Rarity backed away, glancing around before bringing the strange, shadowy shape back into her view. It continued to remain perfectly still, and as she neared the next bend in the path where it would be difficult for her to see it any longer, she had almost convinced herself that she had been spooked by nothing more than an oddly-shaped chunk of bark.

But you aren’t sure, her mind seemed to say.

Don’t be absurd. There was no reason to venture off the path. It’s muddy enough out here as it is. Despite herself, she continued walking as quietly as she could, but she heard nothing that would indicate anything was following behind her. After a few minutes of careful listening, she picked up her pace to a brisk trot and kept an eye out for the cottages at the edge of Ponyville. She was looking forward to getting out of the woods and into the warmth of her parents’ home.

As she left the tree line and stepped onto the hard-packed roads of Ponyville, she couldn’t help but continue to keep her eyes and ears trained for any sign of something amiss, but she noticed nothing. Her house was just down the lane, and she quickened her pace in anticipation of a warm fire and maybe a mug of hot chocolate to relax with as she mulled over the ideas that had come to her.

But as she laid her hoof on the freezing iron of the door latch, her ears twitched as the strange feeling anxiety returned—the feeling of being noticed and then carefully watched. She looked around her and saw a few ponies going about their business, but none of them were looking at her. Then she glanced back at the edge of town, where the beginnings of the forest path were just visible. She couldn’t see anything clearly at that distance, but she thought she could just make out the faint shape of a pony standing just behind the first trees, looking right at her as she stood at her parents’ door.

Rarity shrank back for a moment, then hurriedly let herself in before firmly shutting out the cold air and anything that remained out in it.

Comments

[teamidris]

I enjoyed that :) it's nice to see how she got started.
Also,it set the scenes well and the mood. I saw a few typos, but you can chase those things down forever :D

[Emperor]

So, reading this on a recommendation.

I like how you write the imagery of Ponyville in this first chapter, in particular near the end with Rarity's stroll in the forest. As Rarity walks through it at the turn of winter, it sounds rather desolate and lonely, and for Rarity, a fashionhorse who craves sophistication, it fits right as she desperately feels trapped, having briefly got out of Ponyville only to come crawling back with her tail between her legs.

Rarity's parents at least seem to have an idea of what's up with her career ambitions, and are giving her some space and time to come out of her shell.

[Godiswithus3]

Huh. I actually can relate to Rarity here concerning failed dreams and what-not, even though Rarity and I have different passions. This alone has me interested in how she will succeed.

[Lurks-no-More]

A captivating opening! You're doing very well, building up an atmosphere -- the scene in the forest was subtly ominous in a way that promises good things about the rest of this story.

[TheJediMasterEd]

HEATHCLIFF!