Got Lucky
The grey-brown oatmeal served for breakfast rather matched Sundance's mood. It looked how he felt. A congealed mess of… something. Sullen, out of sorts, he tapped the wooden bowl with his hoof and watched as the disturbed glop sent up a curled column of steam. Was it a cry for help that only other bowls of oatmeal could understand? A part of him hoped this was true, even if it were a silly thing to think. Again he tapped his bowl of oatmeal, and it was disturbed enough to slap against the sloped side of the bowl. A pony ate oats; that was the way of things, but Sundance didn't feel like eating oats this morning. Eggs with sunny yellow yolks would have been cheerful, at least—not that he was in the mood for eggs, either. But oatmeal? It was the colour of dreary, dour, despondent depression.
"The colour of my breakfast doesn't agree with me," he muttered to himself.
Beside him, Turmeric seemed far less concerned with the colour of his breakfast—or burning his mouth for that matter. He'd already eaten most of the contents of his bowl and after a moment of hesitation, Sundance slid his uneaten oatmeal over to his friend. The long night was at least tolerable with Turmeric's company. Sundance didn't sleep much, though when he did, he had troubling dreams that he couldn't remember upon waking. When at last he finally sensed the coming dawn, it was a relief.
But now, he didn't know what to do with his day, and he wasn't going to start it with oatmeal.
"There is unfinished bunny business," he said aloud, and this caused several heads to turn and look at him, Paradox among them. "I think I'll follow through with that today. Do a flyover of the beaver dams and see what's going on up there. After that, I think I'll check out Drowned Rabbit Gulch."
Did he just name a location within his barony?
It seemed that he did.
Would it stick?
"I'd like to head out early, before it gets hot," he said to Paradox. "Are you up for another bombing run?"
"I can be," she replied. "Are you sure that you're up for this?"
Saying nothing, Sundance's response was a brief nod.
"Maybe a little sightseeing might do you good," Paradox said, which got another nod out of Sundance. "Our last trip was… exhilarating. I hope this one won't be quite as exciting." Then, she was quick to add, "For your sake, Sundance. I think you need a nice day."
Pushing her empty bowl aside, Corduroy entered the conversation. "I've spoken with Floodgate and some of the others. Restoring the flow of water will really bring everything back to life. The meadows and thickets beyond the orchard used to be all farmed land, with a river on each side. It's about a mile or so wide at its widest point, and several miles long. I was told that all of it used to be a sea of sunflowers as far as the eye could see."
"And it will be again," Sundance said to his nurse.
"There used to be houses out that way," Corduroy continued, "and there were cellars. We might need to do a careful sweep of the ground so that we don't have ponies falling into a hole like Amber Dawn did. The last thing we need are broken legs, or worse."
"Houses?" More than a little intrigued, Sundance seized upon this delightful distraction.
"The land between the two rivers was given to knights and ponies of importance. There used to be nice houses out that way. I was told that the knights and wizards watched over the peasants that lived in the houses down in the orchard ravine. We might even find the ruins of an old wizard's tower. Could be dangerous."
"I'll keep an eye out," Sundance said in response.
"That is good land," Turmeric said around a mouthful of mush. "The sort of land we can offer to homesteaders. When I get back to Canterlot, shall I start making appealing advertisements? Rustic will have a lot to say about this."
Without thinking much about it, Sundance nodded. "Yes, start an advertising campaign for homesteaders. The sooner we have ponies living on that land and tilling the soil, the better. I suppose it is even more important to restore the flow of water now and get everything back to how it was."
"Miss Blintz knows a lot of earth ponies who wish to be farmers," Turmeric said after he swallowed. "They wish to return to the land and get out of the cities. This might be a dream come true. I'm excited about this… that I'm a part of this."
"Turmeric…"
"Yes, Sundance?"
"Work closely with Miss Blintz. I mean, she's here. Talk her ear off. If she already knows ponies willing to homestead, it might save us a lot of trouble. See if you can sort out a screening and application process. I want something based on need… those with the most dire of circumstances are to be first to be seen. Homeless families and the like. I'm sure that will help my image campaign."
"Sure thing, Sundance."
"Make a day of it, Turmeric. When I come back from bunny bombing, I'll want a report."
"Can do."
"There's only so much daylight," Sundance said to his companions. "Let's make the most of it."
Hennessy was reading a book. The studious stallion had skipped breakfast in the dining hall and ate apples as he studied. While there was some guilt for disturbing him, Sundance didn't allow himself to feel too bad. Sitting in the sun as he was, the earth pony's pelt revealed remarkable highlights and colour, fantastic streaks of gold hidden amongst ruddy browns. Effeminate or not, he was still handsome—and there was a lot of him to look at.
"What are you reading?" asked Sundance as he sat down in the grass beside Hennessy.
"A real page-turner about new diseases," was Hennessy's somewhat dry reply.
"Sounds… riveting."
"Oh, it is." The studious earth pony looked up from his book, licked his lips once, twice, and then a third time just to be certain to get every last drop of juice. "There's a new viral infection going around. No name yet, as far as I know, at least when this book was written. It's a fascinating two-part illness. The first stage is extreme constipation, which corks you up and lasts for days."
Even though he did not want to do so, Sundance asked, "And the second part?"
"This is what makes it so fascinating," Hennessy began with much enthusiasm. "The constipation goes away and is replaced with explosive bloody diarrhea… which just so happens to be incredibly infectious. It really is incredible when you think about it. Rather clever!"
Something vital within Sundance's brain seized up in such a way that it might never function again. The metaphorical curtains of his imagination parted and he was treated to a mental image of a distressed pony that grew larger and larger, his eyes bulging, his sides swelling, and a grimace of pain plainly visible on his face. When the imminent explosion happened, Sundance waved his front legs in front of his face in a desperate attempt to dispel the horrible mental imagery, but his mind's eye was as merciless as it was relentless, and he saw every terrible, deranged detail.
"Oh, that oatmeal is coming up—urp!" Turning about Paradox shook her head, gagged, and then somehow managed to moan out, "I gotta go!"
And just like that, she was gone, gone, gone.
"Infectious diseases," Hennessy said while Paradox ran away, lickety-split. He pointed to his biohazard cutie mark, smiled, and nodded his head. "It started when I noticed that I could smell sickness. Well, as it turns out, that was just my brain's way of turning my talent into a means of interpretation that I could understand. Now, I can sense it. It is like an itch between my ears and just behind my eyeballs. Not only can I sense it, but I'm damn good at predicting where it will be and how it will get there. While I have a lot of natural talent for this, if I want to be the very best that I can be, it means reading and studying. Sometimes while I stuff my face."
"How would you like to bomb some bunnies?" asked Sundance, who had nothing at all to say about the topic of infectious disease, not after what his brain had shown him. He was in a hurry to move on.
"I'd love to," replied Hennessy, "but I think Paradox has already released her payload."
"Baron Sundance, before you leave, a word with you if I may."
Grandmother Growler stood beside Wort, her dutiful grandson that served as her eyes. Her feathered crest was tugged upon by the wind and her milky, rheumy eyes seemed to stare right through Sundance, who was right in the middle of giving the sky truck a pre-flight onceover. He gave all of his attention to the old, wise griffoness, and he couldn't help but think about how his own grandmother would be proud of him for doing so.
"You fight to keep us safe," the old griffoness said.
"Well, I try. Not that great at it, I'm afraid."
"Well then, you try to keep us safe. That's different. Most lords I know send others to fight and die in their stead." Her head tilted off to one side, as if she heard something, and the feathers of her graceful neck rippled as the wind gusted. "I have something that will be of use to you. Not much use to me, I'm afraid, not since I lost my eyes. Since you fight for us, you should have something to fight with. So I am giving you my old battle harness and tomahawk."
She reached into the satchel that was slung against her side and pulled out what appeared to be a tangled mess. When she held it up and gave it a gentle shake, the mess became something recognisable, something beautiful and horrible. A leather harness. Actual real leather, old and battle scarred. It had rings on it to clip gear onto, and the handle of some kind of small axe could be seen. The wood was old, smooth, gleaming, and glossy with wear.
"It's a figure-eight harness," the old griffoness said. "One half of it goes over your head and down your neck. The part in the middle goes over your chest, and rests between your front legs. The other loop goes up along your sides, and the ends clasp together just behind your wings. As for the tomahawk itself, it can clip on to any spot that feels comfortable to you."
She moved forward, without warning, and at first Sundance thought he was getting a hug—but no. While he was embraced, it was so that she could slip the harness on. One end looped over his head—it tickled his ear for a moment—and then she made a few quick adjustments. Leaning against him, she moved beside him, reached beneath him, looped the opened end of the harness, and pulled it up over his back, just behind his wings. There was a soft click as the brass latch closed, and Sundance couldn't help but wonder how he looked.
Then, quite without warning, Grandmother Growler pulled the tomahawk from its leather sheath, and held it up right below his nose, a mere hair's breadth from his vulnerable, fleshy lip. Eyes crossed, he stared down his nose at it, and he did not dare to move for fear that he might become rather faceless. The tomahawk was made from a shoe—a pony shoe. One end of the shoe was wedged into the wooden handle and secured with brass pins. As for the other end of the shoe, it formed the bottom of the blade, and the entire curved edge was honed to razor perfection. It rather looked like a question mark, the shoe and the handle of the tomahawk, and what a deadly question it was.
"Might not look it, but it is balanced for throwing," she said to him as she began to twirl it in her talons. "You'll have to learn how to throw. I might be able to teach you, we'll see. It's called Lucky, though as far as I know, it's not magical. Just superstition about shoes, ye ken."
When he reached out, she pressed the wooden handle into his fetlock. The wood was warm to the touch and the weapon had more weight than he expected. In all of his life, he'd never seen anything like this, not in the movies, and so he had nothing to compare it to. With Grandmother Growler's talons wrapped around his foreleg to guide him, the tomahawk was slipped back into its sheath, which rested just above where the harness passed between his front legs. Once it was secure, she pressed his hoof against the flap, and after a moment of increased pressure, he heard a metallic snap.
"Keep us safe," the old griffoness said with a great degree of solemnity.
"I will," Sundance promised, without realising that he'd done so.
"Come along, Wort. We have much to do. You remember what yarrow looks like, right?"
"Sure do, Granny."
"Good boy." Then, bowing her head, she said to Sundance, "Thank you. I like it here. Reminds me of the home I never knew I wanted. Go and give those pesky bunnies what for, will you?"
Touched and somewhat emotional, Sundance nodded. "I will. Thank you for the gift. I'll do my best to be worthy of it."
"One day," Grandmother Growler said to him, "you'll be old but wise. Try to pass it along."
"I will," he was quick to say. "I promise."
"Good. Good." She gestured at her grandson. "Come along, Wort."
Vision blurry, Sundance watched as the two of them departed.
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Why does he get to have Lucky?
I love it when a good homestead comes together.
Next chapter: Bunny Bombers 2: Fuego Foxtrot
10078838
Your insistence that River Raider can't have a romantic relationship reminds us of your insistence that Luna didn't love Gosling
Grandmother Growler just gifted Sundance with a amazing weapon.
this is a awesome chapter i love it.
10077646
I detect no heresy in this.
Wort wort wort
that pun at the end there was just awful
dreadfully awful and it needs to be contained
but it was also funny
A throwing shoe?
10080844
The Imperatrix protects, brother.
For some reason I imagined a smal set of notes playing when he got Lucky.
It even equipped itself on pickup.
Sundance does seem to have a Better record with axes than his javelins.
I wonder if there actually will be a noticable effect if he believes in the name.
Either trough his connection to the barony or the axe itself
Having absorbed some faith troughout its lifetime.
Can nonliving objects even absorb faith or magic like grandmother oak did?
Ah now to build a machine that creates fictional characters and use it to tell Ma to calm the fuck down bout that coronavirus
10080792
It's more that any relationship would only be viable after a LOT of therapy and psychological mending.
That one song about lucky insomnia kinda sucks, now that I think about it.
10081110
Drive the Rhino closer! I want to hit them with my
chainswordfriendship stickTwilicane!10081145
Maybe not immediately. A weapon needs a bit of age to gain a soul.
But given time, investment, and a glut of lifeblood, if you put enough faith, or take enough lives, yes. A weapon can become more than a sharp edge. They can become (name.) Whatever they were meant to be.
And grandma growler just got cooler!!!