Night Flights
Night Flights
At the piano, Featherweight played an unshakeable, bold melody, its keys stirring a wave of enthusiasm throughout the saloon. Years and years of practice honed his notes, providing the tempo and harmony to Sweetie Belle’s crooning serenade.
Babs and Turner opened the doors to the bar and took a few steps within before stopping. There, levitating her empty glass with her magic, Sweetie sang into her mock microphone, each word, pure, serene:
Stirred by the thought of whiskey on their lips, a few miner-ponies and familiar muzzles trotted into the bar as the song began. Stepping aside for her patrons, Babs led her father over to the bar, where Apple Bloom waited with three glasses of vodka on the rocks.
The first customers did not bother with beverages yet. They took their seats at a few tables near the piano, mesmerized. Emboldened by drink and reunion, Sweetie Belle continued to sing, her gaze fixated on Silver Spoon, her smile beaming bright in the growing dark.
Scootaloo and Silver Spoon sat at the nearest table to the piano, the latter darting her eyes back and forth between her mare and the floorboards. Scoots nudged Silver and asked in a voice barely above a whisper, “What song is that? Never heard her sing that one before.”
“Not sure,” Silver whispered back from the corner of her muzzle. Sighing contentedly, she added, “She writes songs all the time… She calls me her muse.”
With a laugh, Scootaloo said, “Muse, huh? Wouldn’t have ever thought you’d be my best friend’s muse…”
“Things change.” Silver Spoon smiled, a speck of regret behind her countenance. “I know it was a long time ago, but, Scoots—“
“Don’t worry about it. The past is the past.”
Silence took up residence between them, anything but unwelcome.
More and more hooves began to make their way inside the frontier’s bar, many foregoing their initial drink order to enjoy the music. The two bartenders and Turner looked on, sipping at their glasses. Sweetie Belle soon finished her number and, pausing only to whisper a request to Featherweight, began a new song once his music led her:
Behind the bar, amongst stacks of empty bottles, cleaning rags, and glasses of all shapes and sizes, Babs Seed found one of Apple Bloom's forehooves and gripped it tightly with her own, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Turner tore his eyes from the singer and smiled towards his favorite mares in all the sands. “She’s youze friend, eh? What a voice.”
“Ah know. It’s beautiful, ain’t it? Never seen a bar full o’ drinkers sit an’ listen ta music instead o’ orderin’ like this.” Apple Bloom squeezed her mare’s forehoof back, the lyrics not lost on either of them.
Babs nodded to the stallion. “She’s gonna be the biggest voice in all o’ Equestria soon. An’ I’m honored ta call her one o’ ma best friends.”
“Good kid,” Turner said. “All o’ youze. Good kids.” A grin twitched at the corners of his muzzle, falling away at some wayward thought in his mind.
“Summat wrong, Turner?”
Sipping on his vodka, Turner answered, “Oh, it’s nothin’. Jus’… jus’ makes me think, youze know? Her songs. Songs ‘bout love. Dey make youze think.”
Concerned, Apple Bloom asked, leaning a little closer to him, “Well… Do ya have a special somepony back home, Turner? Somepony waitin’ fer ya?”
Swirling the last of his intoxication in the bottom of its glass, Turner stared off into some unknown point in the distance, in the east. And then, as the last notes of Sweetie Belle’s song rose to a crescendo—the entire saloon watching and listening, tears shining in many weathered eyes—he muttered, “I hope there is, kiddo.”
A chorus of whoops and hollers accompanied Sweetie Belle’s bow, her cheeks crimson from a mix of gratitude and alcohol. She staggered over to Scootaloo and Silver Spoon’s table, Featherweight trotting behind her.
Glancing to the bar, Babs beckoned the four friends to join them. With more than a few crossed hooves and near-mishaps, four stools filled, filing next to Turner.
Proudly, Babs Seed clapped her forehooves, directing the attention of her friends. Flinging a forehoof around his shoulders, she announced, “Everypony, dis is somepony I want youze all ta meet. Dis is—“ she paused before finishing—“Turner. Turner, dis is Scootaloo, Featherweight, Silver Spoon, an’ Sweetie.”
He lifted a forehoof in greeting. “Nice ta meet all o’ youze!”
Four muzzles beamed and offered, “Nice to meet you!” in return and uniformity, prompting a fit of laughter from the group.
Though Babs had been unable to utter the final and sacred truth, nopony along the counter was a fool. Nevertheless, they did not comment on her hesitation, themselves tangled in their own unspoken words in one manner or the other.
Cursing her hesitation, Babs distracted herself for a few moments with refilling Turner’s glass. Stupid, stupid! Why can I jus’ say it? He’s ma fatha… So what iffa it’s been almost eight years since I saw him, an’ twenty befo’ I knew? The past is the past. I can't fault him fo'... things dat happened.
“So, everypony… How did I do?” Sweetie asked, sprawling her forehooves on the counter and hanging on. The saloon before her eyes was unreal, intangible, adrenaline and alcohol battling in her blood for dominance.
“Just wonderful,” Silver Spoon answered, chuckling and nuzzling the unicorn. “Those are new songs, aren’t they, Sweetie?”
Blushing, she looked away from her inspiration. “Heh, yeah. For my next album. Hope you all liked them. I’ll be recording them soon. Oh… and thanks, Featherweight, for the music!”
Lifting his empty glass, Featherweight cheerfully replied, “No problem.” He, too, felt light as his namesake, the clamor of tens of chatting patrons all melding into one comforting background noise. “Hey, Babs, Bloom, can I get some more vodka?”
Before a bartender could swipe the glass from him, Scootaloo pushed his forehoof away, shaking her muzzle. “No, no, no, don’t serve him any more. We have a long flight ahead of us tonight.”
“Flight?” Babs inquired, confused. She capped a bottle of high-quality vodka and tucked it back on the shelf. So soon?
Tilting her head slightly, Scootaloo asked in disbelief, “You didn’t read the letter?”
“What letter, Scoots?” Apple Bloom took Featherweight’s empty glass and stashed it beneath the counter. “We haven’t had any post at all today.”
“Ah. Well, tomorrow morning, Featherweight’s got some kind of press conference to attend in Cloudsdale. Something about the location of this year’s water supply. I think it’ll be Fillydelphia again,” Scootaloo explained, yawning. “And Spitfire’s asked me to be at the same conference… the bit—“
“Scoots! That’s your boss!” Featherweight scolded, face-hoofing. Rolling his eyes, he huffed as he said, “You can’t talk that way about your boss!”
Smirking at her stallion, Scootaloo shot back, “Tell me again how much you simply love your manager. What’s his name again? Press Time? No? Whatever.
"Anyway, Babs, Bloom, you’ve gotta hear this. So, one day, I come home from training, and what’s Featherweight doing? Sitting on the couch, writing a list of ways he would ki—“
“Well, dat jus’ means he’s normal!” Turner smacked the table and laughed. Once he calmed, he began addressing the group of six. “Kids, there’s a support group out there fo’ ponies who hate their jobs. Lots o’ ponies attend. Wanna know what it is?”
They all nodded.
Leaning forward, Turner whispered, “It’s called a bar, an’ dey meet at five o’ clock.”
All but a swaying Sweetie Belle dissolved into a chorus of laughter. The unicorn blinked away the stars buzzing in front of her eyes and stared curiously at her fetlock. “But… but… it’s not five o’ clock anymore…”
Laughing, Babs Seed tapped the counter in front of Sweetie, snapping her from her stupor. “Heh, no, it’s not. Far past dat. But youze all know what time it really is?”
“What’s that?” Scootaloo asked, tucking in her outstretched wings and glancing coyly at her coltfriend from the corner of her eye.
Babs grabbed a glass of her own and filled it half-full with Equestria’s finest vodka. Apple Bloom, knowing her mare far too well, mimicked the action and whipped up a drink for herself.
Raising her drink, Babs announced, “A time ta toast. Ta friends,” she said, making eye contact with each and every pony at the bar. “Ta ol’ times, an’ new ta come. Ta new careers, new homes, new adventures. Ta what lies ahead an’ what we’ve overcome. Ta yesterday an’ tomorrowa."
“Ta the friendship ‘tween us, dat’ll neva fade, no matter the distance.”
An’, she thought, stealing a glance at both the weathered stallion in front of her and the beautiful mare beside her, ta love, an’ family, an’ things dat’ll always be. Foreva be.
Seven glasses clinked together merrily, their resonation rising above the clamor of the saloon.
~
The night galloped through their reunion, chomping through several hours of precious time long before anypony was willing to admit they were ready to leave. Stories were hashed, told, and retold with vigor and wonder, erasing the lost time between Cloudsdale, Canterlot, and the west.
Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle, true Crusaders they were, were fulfilling their dreams, launching into the forefront of their careers, which were far from over. The loyal, loving special someponies by their side guaranteed that there would be no giving up or giving in. They pressed each other onwards, forwards, no matter how radically different their goals.
Featherweight and Silver Spoon, although initially somewhat hostile to each other, bonded over embarrassing stories about their lovers. Apple Bloom and Babs Seed recounted their own tales of survival and toil, reunion and revelation, to the amazement and wonder of the others. Their journeys, they assured their friends, were far from over. This latest venture in the frontier was one but one link in a chain they planned to stretch far into the future, perhaps even further beyond the deceptive horizon.
There was an entire world to explore, after all.
Turner offered up no stories of his own, listening intently. His second drink gave way to three, and then four, the entire night a blur of laughter and revelation and high-hooves. To most, meeting the friends of one's daughter (especially in these complicated circumstances) would have been an exercise in patience and withholding at best. To this particular stallion, however, he found himself jettisoned back to his own colthood through their stories. This proved to be a blessing and a curse in the same instance.
The moon had almost reached its highest point in the sky when the inevitable was brought forth at last. With a quick glance out the window of the bar, Scootaloo said, “Well…nit’s getting pretty late. We’ve got a long flight back to Canterlot. Gonna drop these two flightless wonders off before me and my coltfriend here wing it back home.” She stretched a wing around Featherweight’s torso, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning.
Oh, Celestia, Scoots. Ugh. Babs Seed stuck out her tongue and retched.
“Hey!” Rolling her eyes, Scootaloo said cheekily, “Me and Sweetie had to put up with you and Apple Bloom being lovey-dovey for, what, almost eight years?”
Smirking, Apple Bloom hopped off her stool and muttered as she trotted past her mare, “She’s got ya there, sugarcube.”
… Dammit. “Whateva.” Taking to all four of her hooves, Babs asked, “Youze all takin’ off now? O’ maybe wanna stick ‘round fo’ a bit mo’?” Damn, stupid, cross-eyed pegasus, slackin’ on the job an’ I had ma hopes up…
“We’d better,” Featherweight said, attempting to divert attention from his flushed muzzle. He helped Sweetie and Silver (who, lacking any transportation responsibilities, had continued to imbibe) to the floor. “Gotta get these two home and get some sleep before the big show tomorrow morning. Boss stallion says it’s a big chance for me to shine.”
“An’ ya will! You always were a great Editor-In-Chief fer the Foal Free Press,” Apple Bloom chimed in, bringing up the rear of the pack. She steadied Sweetie Belle, letting the unicorn lean on her as they made their way towards the front doors of the bar.
Many of the regulars had already left the saloon, spurred to action by thoughts of love forgotten and forsaken. Those who remained buried themselves in their glasses, mourning hearts long broken. The group of six friends brushed past a table of Earth pony stallions playing a round of poker, dodging unseen daggers hurled their way by the grumbling gamblers.
Turner accompanied them, following as they burst the saloon doors wide open and trotted into the cool of night. The air was crisp and clear, a blanket of bright stars awaiting the four for their night flight back to the east.
A pleasant wind brushed past their muzzles, teasing their manes, beckoning them to follow. In the south, a distant column of smoke pierced the stillness and billowed up to the heavens. Soapy’s cookin’ fire. O’, watch-fire now.
Babs followed after her friends and Apple Bloom off the porch onto the cool, welcoming ground, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. Turner stood on the porch to the bar, waiting patiently, willing ready blood into his tired hooves. Five miles lay between him and the smoke in the south.
Goodbye is the hardest word…
Stretching her wings, Scootaloo smirked at her coltfriend. “You know, Feather, if you’re feeling tired, I bet I could fly both Sweetie and Silver on my back all the way to Canterlot. That little flight here was nothing!” she bragged, stomping her hooves excitedly into the sand.
Featherweight snorted and rolled his eyes. Sweetie Belle leaned against Silver Spoon, her face flushed scarlet with lingering vodka, laughing and pointing to a cactus. “It looks like a ‘W’! Like a letter! What do they call this desert? The ‘W’ desert? Hehehehe!”
Silver Spoon caught eyes with Featherweight and whispered from the corner of her muzzle, “Wanna trade dates for tonight?”
Scootaloo shot off her hindhooves, wings outstretched, up into the air, screeching, “Hey everypony! Wanna see me fly through a cactus?”
Featherweight groaned. “You really wanna deal with her instead, Silver?”
“… You have a point.”
“Scoots! Git down from there!” Apple Bloom scolded in vain. Scootaloo climbed up, up, up, streamlining her wings and slicing cleanly through the desert night. She made one counter-clockwise loop upon reaching the height of her thermal, then sent herself careening towards a cactus near the bar.
Face-hoofing, Babs muttered, “I can’t watch dis…”
WHOMP!
Missing her target by only a few inches, Scootaloo smacked straight into one of the outstretched arms of the prickly plant, mumbling, “I’m okay...” as she slid down and landed, face-first, into the sand.
“Yeah...” Silver Spoon steadied her mare upright with a groan. “I think I’ll stick with Sweetie. Featherweight, be a dear and peel Scoots off the ground, will you?”
Concerned, Babs turned to Apple Bloom and muttered, “Uh… should we let dem go an’ fly? I mean, I don’t think Featherweight’s strong enough ta fly ‘em all—“
“I heard that!” Featherweight snapped, pulling Scootaloo to her hooves.
“Yea, yea, whateva.” Blowing a strand of mane from in front of her eyes, Babs continued, “Bloom, maybe we should get ‘em rooms at the inn fo’ the night?”
Shaking herself back down to Equestria, Scootaloo rejoined the group and piped, “No can do! Too much important stuff going on tomorrow morning, remember?”
“I know, Scoots, but—“
“Babs, you worry too much! We’ll be fine! Right, Feather?”
The stallion ruffled his feathers and looked away, grumbling, “I told you not to call me that.”
“Oh, you big whiner! You’ll pay for this later. Alright, enough dawdling!” Scootaloo exclaimed, leaning down on her forehooves and stretching her wings to their full, impressive wingspan. “Now who wants to ride back to Canterlot on a Wonderbolt?”
Snickering, Babs remarked under her breath to her mare, “I think I can make a few guesses…”
Waving a forehoof excitedly, Sweetie Belle half-hopped, half-tripped over to Scootaloo, hiccuping and laughing all the way. Featherweight, shrugging, prepped himself for flight beside the other pegasus. He held back a snarl of discomfort as Silver Spoon climbed on his back and tightly gripped his mane, lacking reins (which, he reasoned, would only be slightly more humiliating).
“Y’all ready?” Apple Bloom giggled and stomped her hooves in amusement, shaking her head. “Don’t get in trouble fer drinkin’ an’ flyin’, Scoots! If Ah hear ya smack inta another cactus o’ somethin’ equally stupid, yer cut off fer life from us!”
“Aw, horseapples!” Scoots countered, raising her wings. “We’ll be fine! And we’ll be back soon, so you’d better have some Applejack Daniels for us next time!”
“Only fo’ youze, Scoots. I’ll save youze one,” Babs joked, wrapping her forehooves around the daredevil pegasus.
Exchanging near-tearful hugs for the final time with their fellow Crusaders and their special someponies, Apple Bloom and Babs Seed took a few hoof-steps back towards their bar, nodding.
Featherweight and Scootaloo, after an unspoken affirmation, lifted their wings and extended them to full sail, ready for flight. Weighed down only slightly by their precious cargo, they kicked off their hindhooves, forehooves outstretched. Sweetie Belle, clinging to Scootaloo, snapped her head around and called out, “Next song!”
“What’s that, Sweetie Belle?” Apple Bloom yelled back.
“Next song… I… Hic!... Write is gonna be… for you and Babs…” she replied drunkenly, closing her eyes. She slumped onto Scootaloo’s back as she was lifted into the cool desert night, first a few feet, then a few more.
Hovering side-by-side, Featherweight and Scootaloo (along with the one conscious passenger) waved frantic farewells. Babs, Apple Bloom, and Turner called out to them, wishes of good luck and good flight and see-you-again-soon.
They didn’t stop waving, even as Featherweight and Scootaloo became indistinguishable against the blue-black of the horizon, rocketing towards the east, the beast.
Something more than dust in the wind irritated one of Babs’s eyes, prompting a tear.
~
“So, what youze think?” Babs asked, trotting beside Turner as the three of them headed back to their bar after a few minutes of quiet contemplation.
He grinned and patted her on the shoulder with a forehoof. “Good friends. Good kid. Youze did well in dat department, too, it seems. Now, iffa youze jus’ go an’ have good fo—“
“Horseapples, that shootin’ in Appleloosa was sure one hell o’ a damned mess…”
The bellow of a gruff stallion’s voice shattered Turner’s words and froze two sets of hooves in their egress.
Babs Seed rushed up the steps and barreled through the double doors, the hinges creaking in protest. “Who said dat?” she asked, hissing through her teeth and narrowing her eyes.
“Babs!” Apple Bloom cantered to meet her, Turner in slower tow. “Did ya hear what Ah think Ah—“
One of the poker-playing Earth pony stallions whipped around in his stool, a half-chewed, extinguished cigar dangling from his lips. “Ah said that. What’s it ta ya, barkeep?” he asked, defiant, daring.
Lacking any discernible target for the primal fight-or-flight response, adrenaline nonetheless began to fire in Babs Seed’s blood, reaching her stomach first. An invisible forehoof socked her square there, sending a wave of nausea upwards. Leaping towards him, Babs slammed her forehooves onto the stallions’ poker table, chips flying in disarray.
“What in tarnation?!” one of the others growled, scrambling to pick up his chips.
Ignoring him, Babs rounded on the first stallion, demanding, “Where did youze hear dat? Shootin’ in Appleloosa? When?” Derpy’s only been gone fo’ a few days, an’ summat like dis happens! What iffa Ma, o’ Citrus, o’ Brae tried ta write? What iffa—
“Quit wit’ the interrogatin’, an’ Ah’ll tell ya!” the stallion snarled, placing the cards in his forehooves face-down on the table and reaching down to retrieve a few (of the others’) chips off the floor.
Adding them to his bounty, he chewed nosily on his cigar and began to explain. “Went inta Appleloosa earlier this morn ta get some supplies. Everypony’s riled up there, bodies hangin’ from the clock-tower an’ a huge public funeral scheduled fer this evenin’. Was a huge shootin’ last night. Bunch o’ scoundrels came in, set fire ta the saloon there an’ tried ta burn down the salt-bar too. Townsponies got hold o’ ‘em, but after the bar was already in flames. Only the shell o’ it survived. All the booze’s gone.
“An’ they attacked the Sheriff an’ the Deputies too…”
Apple Bloom, now standing right beside Babs Seed, swallowed uselessly, her throat drier than the relentless wasteland. To her horror, the words began to echo… The Sheriff and his Deputies, Deputies, Deputies…
“A... Are dey... alright?” Babs choked, her muzzle rapidly draining its color.
The stallion shook his head. “Ah’m not sure. Ah know that Silverstar's dead, an' one o' the Deputies lived, an' one died. That’s all Ah know."
Babs's forehooves slipped from the table, leaving marks in the wood. They met the floor, somehow, her consciousness struggling to rise from the deep. It’d taken the plunge at the word funeral and dove deeper still at Deputies.
Brae, Ma, Citrus…
“Youze two alright?” Turner joined them at last, clutching his side and panting. “S-sorry. I tripped a bit there on the steps, but I’m fine now. Youze two look like youze seen a ghost. Summat wrong?”
Dey attacked the Sheriff an’ the Deputies too.
“Kiddo?”
Apple Bloom was the first to break through her fog. Wrapping a forehoof around her mare’s neck and shoulders, she gently pulled her away from the stallions’ poker table, avoiding their suspicious glares and mutters of displeasure.
Turner, eyes wide, followed behind, one mare leading the other. The other, breathless, wordless, rode on a carousel of two words, two words that injected deep into her veins.
Once outside, Apple Bloom lifted Babs’s chin to face her. “Sugarcube… Are ya in there, sugarcube?”
“What’s goin’ on, Apple Bloom?” Turner stood nervously beside his daughter, who squeezed her eyes shut.
And began to hyperventilate.
Appleloosa… Shootin’… Deputies… Funeral…
“Babs! Snap outta it!”
One lived an’ one died…
In, out, in, out. Stars. Stars everywhere.
Last night… thirty-five miles away…
A pair of forehooves gripping her muzzle and shaking it snapped her eyes open and ceased her rapid breath.
“Babs! Ah’m here! Ah’m right here!”
Catching it. Catching it somewhere between Appleloosa, Yukon, and no-pony’s land, somewhere around midnight or 0100 or maybe even Witching Hour. Catching it somewhere with Apple Bloom’s eyes shining in front of her and her forehooves on her muzzle and Turner’s forehooves around her shoulders.
Catching her breath, her heartbeat beginning to slow, Babs Seed said, “Appleloosa… Sheriff’s dead, a Deputy’s dead...
She shook her muzzle, releasing it from Apple Bloom’s grasp. Her eyes wild, she whispered, “But which one? Which one, Apple Bloom? Is Brae alright? Is Citrus alright? An’ Ma—“
“Wait!” Removing his forehooves, Turner leaned down to meet his daughter’s eye level. “Youze motha lives in Appleloosa?”
“Yea,” Babs said breathlessly, rubbing her muzzle and her eyes. Breathe. Breathe. Calm down. “An’ ma sister, too. An’ our cousin Braeburn. He’s a Deputy there.” One deputy dead. The otha alive.
The stallion brought a forehoof to his muzzle and turned away, lost for words.
Apple Bloom shoved Babs’s forehoof away from her face. “Are ya alright, sugarcube? You went white as a ghost an’ ya started—well, what ya did, you haven’t done since ya were a foal…”
“I-I’m fine,” Babs said, breaking away from her mare. She began to pace on the porch, to and fro, for eternal seconds, the night pressing down on her, suffocating her, the sounds of joy and celebration within the saloon fading far away.
In silence, one paced, one watched the pacer, and one leaned against the porch-railing of the bar, dread taking up the space within and without them all.
And then, her tone barely above a growl, Babs halted her pacing, looked to the northeast, and declared, “We’re closin’ early ta-night, Apple Bloom.”
Apple Bloom trotted over to her, placing a forehoof on her shoulder. She asked no questions, knowing the answer already.
Babs Seed said, staring into her, “We’re goin’ ta Appleloosa.
“Now.”
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2524671 they're amazing! What did you think of mine?
These last two chapters reminds me of a classic game called Outlaws.
There is going to be a mixture of relief and outrage in the near future...great chapter :)
Who does not enjoy a story building chapter?, I can narry wait for turner and Libra to meet again si0.twimg.com/profile_images/1251973825/clayton_squeee_face.jpg
"RELEASE THE KRAKEN!"
..the cute, orange, furry one with a notch in one ear. Yeah, that's the one.
2525672 I know right! I'm just like webtrax.hu/myfacewhen/faces/my-little-pony-friendship-is-magic/soon-sweetie-belle.jpg
2526344 Sooon...
tinypic.com/view.php?pic=2zji3jr&s=5
2524218
Fair enough.
2524237
Love the three stanzas and corresponding italics--really captures the separate sections of this chapter. Awesome as always!
2524569
Absolutely the best ever!
2524579
Madhoof in a poem. Bravo.
2524671
Dang, I was wrong too!
2524843
Damn, now I want to play this! It suits these chapters so well.
2525552
Indeed, my friend! Thank you!
2525672
2525743
You've got that right! Babs is the pony-shaped land-loving kraken of the desert.
2526344
You bring popcorn to the next chapter as well. Or maybe root beer!
2526668
Link es broken, mi amigo!
2527172 Well, the games is outdated and you would need DosBox to run it.
2527172 Consider my popcorn grabbed
Joy
Pungent as the whiskey in our breath,
Spreads across the room like warm sunlight,
Golden chains of laughter
Connect family and loved ones
As stories are swapped,
And the music fills the room,
Light,
Shimmering in the shot glasses,
Brightening the desert sand,
Warming our hearts
And illuminates the evening,
So we may see the love around us
As the sweet music continues
Night
The malevolent force soon murders light,
Shrouding the desert in cold darkness,
Washing over the land in a vicious flood,
Drowning its victims in icy fear,
as ominous chronicles are uttered,
And the music leaves the room.
2527172 My popcorn is ready 4.bp.blogspot.com/-cNUI5pZuM54/UHJIx9pmqOI/AAAAAAAAAZk/xtw2qoRvIbw/s1600/pinkiepie_popcorn.gif
2527313
And broken is your .gif.
The gang is now headed to Appleoosa. I can't wait for Turner to reunite with Libra.
I just hope that something doesn't happen to anypony on the way there. Thirty miles is quite a distance on hoof...
amazing chapter, cant wait for the reveal, onwards!
“Ta ol’ times, an’ new ta come. Ta new careers, new homes, new adventures. Ta what lies ahead an’ what we’ve overcome. Ta yesterday an’ tomorrowa.
You forgot a speech mark.
We knew it was coming, the night.
In the fire we felt it, the cold.
Will white make its move, and win?
On another note, going back to the topic of voices, Sweetie's singing voice in my mind was automatically supplanted by Samantha James.
Because Samantha James. I love Samantha James.
2527195
I have DosBox, so I'll check it out. Thanks!
2527306
2527313
Save me some popcorn, Pinkie!
2527537
I get the idea it's hilarious!
Babs would be less than amused...
"What?! I coulda been hurt o' summat an' youze jus' bet enough ta buy a tree?! Where are we gonna put it? Up youze--"
"BABS!"
"'Ey, Babs, give 'er some credit. She has some faith in youze...unlike ma friend Slinga ova there..."
"...An' why didn't youze fight alongside him?"
"An' get maself hurt? Ova his lil' scuff? I don't think so."
"..."
"Babs, where are ya goin'?"
"Ta soak ma head, youze all crazy."
2527669
We'll see next chapter on both of those things.
2527963
Thanks! Soon, my friend!
2528318
2529809 2529830
Excellent as always, my friend, especially the last stanza of the second poem! You get AppleDash approving emoticons.
2531481
We shall see, my friend!
2531681
Damn, she has a beautiful voice. I think it would suit Sweetie well.
2539104 2542337
It's actually against the rules to post "First!" (check the site F.A.Q.) but I don't mind if people do on my stories...not a big deal to me. But bad philosopher, bad!
Man it's sad that all emotions I get normally turn to anger, because if I heard that kinda news Babs heard I wouldn't have have froze in time I would threw a table and chair... sometimes I worry if I have little man syndrome and just don't know it... or maybe I just don't know how to emote property >.< well despite all that well done this chapter like the rest in the past
Adele? In a pony story?
Preposterous!
Sweetie Belle singing Adele songs, and one of them "Set Fire to the Rain", which is one of my favorites.
That was just great.