• Published 6th May 2023
  • 155 Views, 15 Comments

The Song of Oak - Visharo

Burnt Oak, an old stallion, working as a log salesman. Torch Song, a young mare, working as a singer for the Pony Tones. Why, it's a match made in heaven!

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Burnt Oak, a stallion well into his years, was stacking firewood on top of each other. A burnt brown as his coat and his previously gray mane now aged white. Stubble on his chin and a nicely trimmed mustache. An old blue bandana wrapped around his neck and a nice hat snug on his head. He is the definition of a background pony and he knew it, but that didn't matter. He had a job he loved and he had the chance to see his beloved friend's kids grow up. Burnt was old, he knew it, and he decided then and there that he lived a good life.

The final log was placed on the clump and he took a step back and wiped his forehead. Sweat dripped off his foreleg and the amount caught Burnt off guard. He chuckled, acknowledging that his body wasn't as spry as before. A simple run form the forest to his house on the outskirts of Ponyville was now the equivalent of working the fields for a full day way back when. He sighed wistfully, remembering fond memories of his good buddy.

"Macintosh, ya sly devil." He chuckled once more before heading inside. His house, simple and rustic, as were most houses in Ponyville. Despite the newer technology in housebuilding, everypony agreed that this was the best. They were easy to rebuild and Celestia knew how many times they had to rebuild.

The interior was simple as well. A dining table adorned with four chairs, a kitchen, a livingroom with a bookcase and a couch, his bedroom was upstairs as well as the bathroom. A balcony jutted out, perfect for lounging around on lazy days. All of his furniture and knick knacks weren't of much value to him, why should they? He was an earth pony, bound to the land, not to the possessions a pony might obtain. That being said, his bandana truly did mean a lot to him. It was a present from Bright Mac all those years ago, and he's kept it ever since. The second item of value was a picture, the only one in existence which contained Bright Mac and Burnt Oak, smiling and standing in front of a field that they had plowed.

Burnt hung his hat on the stand and went to the kitchen. He had an hour to kill, as it were, before he would make his way to Fillydelphia. His latest shipment of logs. He decided, oh, say about a decade or so, to branch out and visit some of the places much farther than Ponyville, Appleloosa, Dodge Junction, and the like. The reason was that he needed bits and maybe, just maybe, find somepony. Of course, that didn't happen, as shown by the empty house, but it didn't matter much to Burnt. He liked life just the way it was.


Burnt Oak gripped a relatively sturdy branch between his backhooves so the wood wouldn't slip. Then, using his mouth and his forehooves, he would use several tools to whittle away. A sudden jolt from the train had his heart in his throat and it took several breaths to calm him down. After the slight panic passed, he chuckled mirthlessly.

"A heart attack, ey? There are worse ways to go." He ignored the curious glances from the other passengers. Most ponies in Ponyville knew of his sudden and sporadic ramblings and they respected his privacy which in turn he respected them for it. There are the exceptions of course, a certain pink pony, but those are few ad far between. He is perfectly capable of having a normal conversation with another pony and does so on a regular basis, just to set the record straight, but still, he would prefer the silence and solitude of his chosen life.

"Hey mister?" Burnt looked up. It was a colt.

"Yes?" Perhaps he was going to ask why he said what he said. Wouldn't be the first time.

"Do you realize you're bleeding?" He looked down and blinked. He was indeed.

"Oh, thank you." Burnt quickly washed away the blood oozing out of a cut that probably happened when the jolt happened. Such are the hazards of whittling while on a train. He took care of the wound in such a proficient way that could only mean he'd done it many times before, and he supposed he had done it many times before, as is evident by the many scars that lined his forelegs.

There was a chime. It snapped Burnt out of his musings and he quickly packed up his tools and wood. He stood up and watched as the train slowly eased into the Fillydelphian station. Tipping his hat to the colt from before, he cantered out and waited for several unicorns to lug out his luggage. Burnt paid them some bits after they were done and within a moment, the train was off again. Paying no mind to the haste, he grabbed his baggage and hoisted them onto his back. Filled to the brim with firewood, it was quite a strain, but he's been doing this for years and soon enough, he was able to weave his way to the marketplace.


Burnt Oak lounged back in his easy pop up stool, made exactly for this scenario. The autumn sun was bright out today and the market wasn't as shaded as it would be during the summer. Thus the marketplace wasn't as busy as most days. There, in the fourth slot was where he was. He had his logs put into bundles of seven logs each and sold them for only three bits. It was cheap and he wouldn't be able to live much off of the profits, if he even got profits today, but it was how he operated.

Many of the other shopkeepers and vendors criticized his prices, saying they were too low and he would always reply with, "I have more sales then you." It was dirty, he knew, they knew it, but sometimes you just had to roll in the mud to find treasure. They smart ones shut up after that remark. The ones who didn't, found out what would happen if his peace was interrupted for too long.

As of right now, it was slow. Burnt could only see three or four shoppers, he wasn't sure if that mare was a vendor or not. Deciding that waiting around would be boring and ultimately, a waste of time, he produced his whittling project from earlier. The wound he received from that slight accident was now wrapped in several layers of gauze, enough to stop the bleeding.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, whittling. He did know that he had finished several woodland creatures before he stopped. There was a bird, a squirrel, that one was his favorite, an owl, and most interestingly, a manticore, despite him never seeing one. It surprised him to see how much he made and the quality too. The more he thought about it, the more curious it was. His creations were never this detailed nor accurate. He grinned a slight grin, perhaps this hobby was going to bear fruit.

"Excuse me?" He turned and looked. It was her.

Author's Note:

Fun fact: This is the first Burnt Oak fic on this website, as is Torch Song. Funny that. By the criteria alone, this is the most unique story ever!