A single repository for various bite-sized chunks of fiction I've written which would otherwise have no home. No particular relation between any of them, other than that they're very short, were written in a very short amount of time, or most often, both.
Tagged "incomplete" in case I add some more stories to it in the future. Don't hold your breath, though!
The rainbow-maned pegasus frowned down at her dwindling card stack. This couldn’t be happening! She was Rainbow Dash, card-shark extraordinaire! Yet there could be no doubt: the overly-effeminate unicorn across the table from her was winning handily.
Seeing her opponent’s frustration, the unicorn smiled sweetly and said, “If you want to give up now, Rainbow Dash, I certainly wouldn’t begrudge you. Of course, there is the matter of our little wager...”
Dash scowled at her. “Just play, Rarity. We’ll see who’s laughing at the end of this game.” But despite her bravado, Dash knew she was losing badly; it would take a miracle to win now.
At that moment, a familiar purple unicorn walked into the room. Looking at the two card-playing ponies, she asked, “Um, girls? What are you doing?”
Rarity looked up and smiled. “Why hello, Twilight! We were just playing a friendly game of cards!”
“Well yes, I gathered that. But... are you playing war?”
Dash growled at her. “It’s the only game I know. What’s it to you?”
“The poor dear had never even heard of bridge!” chided Rarity. “Don’t worry, Twilight, the game’s almost over. Dash just has yet to concede defeat.”
Dash humphed. “This is stupid. You’re just lucky you got dealt all nine aces at the start.”
Twilight frowned. “What are you talking about? There’s only four aces in a deck.”
The two players froze. Dash glared at Rarity, who favored her with a sheepish grin.
After that, things went quickly downhill. Their only consolation was that the subsequent argument, fight, and hospital visit were all significantly more fun than finishing a game of war is.
The three friends sat around the table, their heads hung and their visages grim. They had been sitting for hours, and had made no progress at all.
Spike spoke up. “What if we tied her guards’ wings together? Then when they try to take off with her chariot, they’ll just tangle up in a heap!”
Dash shook her head. “Did that in April. What if we gave her a cake for a gift, but baked a bunch of red-hot peppers into it?”
Now it was Pinkie’s turn to shoot down the idea. “She always brings an official taste-tester with her, ever since that ‘yellow punch’ thing. What if we hit her in the head with a frying pan, and then she forgot who she was, and then we had to hide her from the guards while we tried to help her get her memory back, but she kept wandering off to have hilarious misadventures with the townsfolk?”
Spike facepalmed. “Okay, first of all that’s not new OR original, it’s the plot of that movie we all watched last night. Second, I’m pretty sure concussions don’t work that way. Third, even if they did, any prank that involves physically assaulting the Princess is a very, very bad idea. Right Dash?”
Dash didn’t respond. She was busy looking at her hooves, wondering what the equine equivalent of a facepalm was. Facehoof? Nah, that just sounded silly. The three of them lapsed into silence again, each struggling to think of an original, funny, and preferably non-lethal prank to play on Celestia when she visited tomorrow.
Suddenly, all three simultaneously exclaimed, “I’VE GOT IT!”
*****
The next day, a very angry-looking Princess Celestia returned to her court in Canterlot rather later than expected. Her crown was askew, her mane disheveled, and her entire body covered in what looked and smelled for all the world like butterscotch. Courtiers and nobles scurried out of her way, fearful that they might become the target of her wrath. She stalked up to her royal trip adviser. The old pony quailed, but managed to squeak out, “So, erm, how was, ah, Ponyville?”
She glared at him. “From now on, send my body double to all Ponyville functions instead of me. I am never going back again.”
The adviser looked confused. “But my Princess, you don’t have a body double! Who else could pos—”
“THEN FIND ONE!” she screamed, and with that she stomped into her room, slamming the door behind her.
Scootaloo was nervous. No, scratch that; she was terrified. Rainbow Dash was famous for being one of the fastest fillies in Equestria, and she wasn’t even going to give Scoot a head start this time. She glanced at the small crowd of onlookers, and her nervousness only intensified.
Dash, for her part, was showing no signs of stress or fear. She stretched her sides, laughing and joking with the other ponies. Noticing how nervous Scoot looked, she leaned over and whispered, “Hey, just do your best, right? It’s all in good fun!” Scootaloo felt a little better hearing that, but she was still determined to at least make it close. She desperately wanted not to embarrass herself in front of her idol.
At that moment, Pinkie appeared, winding her way though the party carrying a pair of two-liter jugs of store-brand root beer. Dash smiled as she approached, accepting one of the two-liters. Scoot took the other and twisted off the cap, preparing for the race of her life.
Throwing on a black- and white-striped referee’s hat, Pinkie told the competitors, “Alright, I want a good, clean race. No bumping your opponent or her bottle, first pony to finish wins, spill any on the ground and you’re disqualified. Any questions?” The racers both shook their heads. Scoot tried to still the trembling in her legs. “ALRIGHT! On your mark... get set... GO!”
With that, Scoot raised the bottle to her mouth and began chugging root beer like there was no tomorrow. She could hear the crowd chanting and cheering as if from a great distance, but she was in her element. She pounded down more and more of the syrupy brown soda, ignoring the bloating she was already feeling in her stomach.
After what felt like hours, Scoot finally pulled the empty bottle away from her mouth and collapsed on the ground, her stomach protesting against every move. Looking up, she saw Pinkie hovering over her, a big smile on her face. “Did... did I win?”
Pinkie beamed and said, “Of course not, you silly filly! Dash beat you by a mile. They don’t call her the fastest pony in Equestria for nothing! But you’re the youngest pony I’ve ever seen break the two-minute mark. That was great!”
Dash appeared in Scoot’s peripheral vision. “Yeah, that was awesome! I’ve never seen somepony your size chug a bottle like that. You’ve got real talent, kid; you should be proud!”
Scootaloo tried to tell Dash how much it meant to hear her say that, but something else came out instead. Dash smiled apologetically.
“Oh yeah, I guess I should have noticed you were turning green. Don’t worry about that. I’ll get a mop.”
Scoot tried to get up and help, but that just started another round of retching. Instead, she decided to lay still and bask in the praise of her idol. And a puddle of her own root beer vomit, but mostly the praise.
The morning began much as any other for Derpy. Her alarm went off at 6:30, giving her plenty of time to make Dinky breakfast before school. She stretched her legs, yawned, and trotted to the bathroom to attend to her morning toilet.
Then she leaned over the toilet and vomited her guts out. That was definitely NOT part of her daily routine.
As she helplessly emptied her stomach, Derpy tried to figure out what was wrong. Had she had some bad hay the night before? Was she contagious? A voice from the doorway interrupted her thoughts, however. “Mommy, are you okay? I heard some funny noises...”
Derpy looked up, eyes bloodshot and even less focused than usual, to see young Dinky Hooves standing in the bathroom doorway. Derpy tried to say something comforting, but all that came out was another round of retching. She was afraid that Dinky’s reaction would be fear, but the young filly surprised her.
“AWESOME!” cried the young unicorn. “Now’s my chance! Wait right here mom, I’ll be right back!” With that, Dinky ran off downstairs, and began loudly thumping about in the living room. Although Derpy didn’t know quite what was going on, she had an inkling. She grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a note on it, trying to ignore the waves of nausea still washing over her.
A few minutes later, Dinky returned, this time carrying Derpy’s mailsack. “Don’t worry, mom! I’m gonna be a mailpony just like you, and now you can stay home and rest! I’ll be extra-careful, don’t worry!”
Rather than argue, Derpy gave her daughter a big hug. “I’m sure everything will be fine. Now you’d better hurry to the post office, Silver Scroll will be waiting for me.”
Dinky nodded and rushed out the door. “This’ll be so great! I’ll let her know you’re sick, and then I’ll do your route, and then maybe next time we can both do it together!”
Derpy smiled and waved at Dinky’s retreating figure. She could imagine what would happen when the little pony showed up at Scroll’s office with her note pinned to her back. “Dear Scroll,” Derpy had written, “I’m too sick to come in today. Please make sure Dinky gets to school on time? I don’t think she’s had breakfast yet—if you could get her something from Sugarcube Corner, I’ll pay you back tomorrow. -Derpy.” She felt a little guilty about passing off the job of letting Dinky down on her boss, but another wave of cramps dispelled those thoughts. She was too sick to deal with Dinky right now.
Slowly making her way downstairs, Derpy put on a pot of tea. It was the only thing she felt she could stomach. A grin crossed her face as she realized that this would be the first time she’d missed a day of work in over three years. Walking over to the couch, she lay down and tried her best to enjoy her impromptu vacation.
(Also Considered Were "Marebergers" and "Mareshalls")
“You have GOT to be kidding me!” exclaimed the sky-blue pegasus. “Rarity, we JUST spent the last three hours in a clothing store! Why are you taking me into ANOTHER one!”
“Mind your tone, Dash, darling,” chided the white unicorn. “It simply DOESN’T do to ALWAYS accent every THIRD word, after all.” Rainbow Dash merely huffed in response. “Besides, we were just at Neiman Marecus. Marrods has a completely different set of lines! Why, I have no doubt we’ll need to spend at least as long here, if we really want to see everything!”
Dash ground her hooves into her temples, trying to dispel some of her frustration. “I. DON’T. CARE. For Celestia’s sake, we’ve been at this since dawn!”
“Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you made that little wager. You aren’t thinking of reneging on your promise, are you?”
Dash grumbled a few words under her breath, but shook her head. “I still don’t know how you managed to convince me that this was a good idea..."
“You wanted me to make you that Wonderbolts replica jersey, and I did. Now you’re going to spend the rest of the day here in the Canterlot shopping district with me, and by my watch—”Rarity glanced down at her wrist—“There’s still almost six and a half hours until sundown. Now come on, I understand they’re having a sale on cashmere sweaters!”
“It’s LLAMA,” Dash sulked. “Why do they have to come up with fancy names for freaking llama hair?”
“It’s actually a kind of goat, and from what I understand they’re very nice. Don’t be so gauche, darling.” Rarity flicked Dash’s nose with her tail. “Now come along; we’ve still got a looong day ahead!”
As Rarity trotted into the sprawling store, Dash turned her eyes to the heavens and silently asked, “Why me?” Finding no response, she sighed and slowly flapped after her unicorn friend.
Applejack sighed contentedly as she slipped off her boots. Although the hardworking earth pony was used to putting in her fair share of legwork, heels (even the low, flat, and utterly practical ones that Rarity had designed) were an unfamiliar strain on her legs, and she was glad be rid of them. Carefully she stowed the boots away in a box labeled “fancy stuff,” along with the rest of her Gala outfit. Shoving the box to the back of her closet, she shook loose the cramps in her legs and hopped into bed. At long last, this day was over. Applejack closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the farm through her open window as she drifted off to sleep: the lowing of the cows... the rustle of the curtains... the quiet clop of hooves creeping closer and closer to where she—
“Heya, AJ! You busy?”
Applejack sighed; she had long ago accepted the unfortunate fact that being friends with Pinkie Pie meant occasionally being interrupted in the middle of the night. Sometimes Pinkie wanted to share her latest party plans, sometimes her visits were a little more... random. Usually the pink pony was kind enough to bring coffee, at least. Cracking her eyes open, AJ muttered, “Ah suppose I shouldn’t have expected y’all to take the night off just because o’ the Gala. Well Pinkie, whaddaya—” she paused as she got a good look at the pony standing by her bedside, illuminated by the full moon. “Rainbow Dash?”
The blue pegasus smiled brightly. “The one and only!” she exclaimed, but then she frowned. “Wait, you were expecting Pinkie?”
“Well no, it’s just that she’s—”
“WOAH! I don’t wanna hear it. Whatever you two do late at night in your bedroom is your guys’ business, alright? No need to tell me all the juicy details.”
Applejack’s face went red. “Now, hold on a minute there, sugarcube! That ain’t—”
Dash held up a hoof. “No no, I really, really don’t want to know. Um, I guess I’ll come back tomorrow, if you two are gonna be... you know, busy.”
“AH AIN’T SLEEPING WITH PINKIE!” screamed Applejack. Then, realizing that the rest of her family was still asleep (and probably didn’t need to hear that, anyway), she plunged her hoof into her own mouth. A few awkward seconds ticked by before she heard a voice from down the hall:
“Eee-yup.”
“This really is the worst night ever,” Applejack muttered under her breath.
Dash shrugged. “Whatever. Anyway, you got a minute?”
Applejack strongly considered throwing the pegasus right back out her window, but ultimately decided against it. After all, she was curious what Dash wanted, especially if it was important enough to cut into the notoriously lazy pony’s sleep schedule.
“Ah suppose. What’s wrong, hon?”
Dash shuffled her hooves. “Um... could you teach me how to bake an apple pie?”
*****
“Alright, now let me get this straight,” Applejack said tiredly. She and Dash were downstairs in the kitchen, Dash wrestling with a chef’s hat and apron while AJ nursed a fresh mug of coffee. “This Wonderbolt stallion, Soaring—”
“Soarin’,” corrected Dash, “He’s Romaneian.”
“Soarin’,” AJ continued, “was the fellow who bought a pie from me at the Gala. And he liked it a lot.”
“He said it was the best pie he ever tasted! It was like, the only thing he would talk about!” Dash exclaimed as she unsuccessfully tried to free her wings from the apron’s strings.
“So now you want to make a pie for him, and it needs to be done by dawn—”
“—Because tomorrow morning the Wonderbolts leave for their overseas tour of Zebrica! This is my last chance to make him one before they come back for the Fall shows!” Dash’s voice was somewhat muffled, as her chef’s hat had fallen down over her face.
“And you want to bake this pie for him so badly because you think then he’ll let you into the Wonderbolts.”
“NO! Well, maybe a little. Look, it couldn’t hurt, right?” Pulling the hat back up and straightening her apron, Dash smiled. “Besides, how hard can cooking a pie be? Pinkie does it all the time, right?”
Applejack sighed. "You know, we’ve got extras in the pantry. Ah could just give you a pie to take to Soarin’.”
Dash shook her head. “No, it’ll be more personal if I make it for him myself. It needs to be something he remembers me for, you know?” Dash started pulling out pots and pans from the cupboards, apparently at random. “So, do we need a special pie-making bowl or something?”
AJ forced a smile to her lips. “How about I get out the ingredients and materials. Meanwhile, you can try puttin’ that thing on the other way ‘round.”
Dash looked down at her inside-out apron and frowned. “Man, cooking is hard.”
*****
Dash stared at the little numbers on the ring of spoons in frustration. How could something so simple be so deceptively difficult? Turning around, she shouted, “AJ, I forgot again! Which one’s the tablespoon and which one’s the tea—” she cut herself short as she saw Applejack curled up on the ground, face resting on the cookbook in front of her. Careful not to disturb her friend’s slumber, Dash slid the book out from under Applejack and propped it up against the sack of flour. AJ had already helped her get all the ingredients and stuff ready—surely even an idiot could follow the book’s directions from here?
She glared at the next line of instructions, ‘Cut room temperature shortening into flour until mixture is uniform and shortening resembles large peas.’ Shrugging, she grabbed the shorting and a knife and started chopping off bits into the bowl. She’d cut about half of it up when it occurred to her that the shortening was still brick-cold. Oh well, she thought, that probably doesn’t matter.
As work on the pie continued apace, Applejack slept blissfully on.
*****
Applejack woke up with morning’s first light, as was her wont. She stretched her hooves as she yawned, and noticed two things in rapid succession:
First, she noticed she had a terrible crick in her neck, probably from sleeping on the linoleum in the kitchen all night.
Second, she noticed that there was a pile of dirty dishes several feet tall sitting right next to her. This latter point she observed immediately after inadvertently bumping it with her hoof, and immediately before being buried in an avalanche of pots, pans, and cutlery.
Upon extricating herself, she saw a note taped to the counter in front of her. It read:
Thanks for the help! You fell asleep halfway through, but I had everything under control. I, uh, had to make a second pie though, because the first one didn’t turn out quite right. And a third. And a fourth. And a... anyway, the rejects are on the counter, you can have them. No need to thank me, I know how awesome I am. -Dash
Applejack saw a large pile of blackened, irregular lumps sitting on the counter. Turning the note over, she saw there was more writing:
PS: When it says 30 minutes at 400 degrees, you can’t do 3 minutes at 4000 instead. PPS: did you know that with a few simple household tools, you can jury-rig an oven to go to 4000? PPPS: you should never put the microwave inside the oven, even if it seems like a good idea at the time. PPPPS: Since I baked the pie, I figure you can do the dishes. Also, you need a new microwave. And a new oven. And you’re out of flour. And eggs. And... well, I think there’s still some apples left in the pantry.
Applejack sighed as she looked at the disaster zone that had once been her kitchen. “Aw, heck,” she groaned to nopony in particular, “Ah’m gonna have to clean this all up mahself, aren’t I?”
From the room above the kitchen, she heard a deep voice affirm, “Eee-yup.”
*****
Dash made it to Canterlot mere minutes before the morning train to the coastal city of Tampa Neigh departed. The Wonderbolts usually kept their travel schedules secret to avoid crowds of fans, but Dash had managed to finagle the morning schedule out of Spitfire last night—well actually, she’d gone through Spitfire’s purse when the orange-maned pony went to the bathroom and found the tickets, but that was just a matter of semantics.
She came running up to Soarin’ just as he was boarding the train. “Hey Soarin’! Wait up!”
The Wonderbolt turned when he heard his name being called. “Yeah, who’s there—Oh, hey! You’re that pony from last night, aren’t you?”
Dash puffed up her chest, doing her best to look confident. “Name’s Rainbow Dash! Hey, uh, I know you guys are leaving for a while, so I made you a gift...” she shoved the tinfoil-wrapped fruit of her labors into Soarin’s hooves. “I know you like pies, so I kind of—”
“You baked a pie for me? No way, that’s so awesome!” cried Soarin’. At that moment, the train whistle blew. “Woah, looks like we’re going. Hey, thanks for the pie, Rainbow Dash!” Soarin’ waved once, then hopped aboard. The train quickly sped off, leaving Dash standing alone on the platform.
For a moment, she was silent. Then she whispered, “He knows my name. Soarin’...from the Wonderbolts... knows my NAME!” Joyfully she cried, “This is the BEST DAY EVER!”
*****
Aboard the train, the other Wonderbolts looked on in disgust as Soarin’ munched contentedly away at his gift. “Soarin’, please,” Spitfire pleaded, “You’re going to be sick if you eat that... thing.”
“Mfrre—are you kidding? This is the best pie I’ve ever had!” Soarin’ blubbered between bites.
“I know, but you say that about every pie. Look, it’s black. There’s an apple core sticking out the top. I can see at least six different ponies’ hairs in it—look, there’s a red hair, and there’s an orange one—”
“Don’t care. Good pie.”
Spitfire sighed. “Soarin’, I’ll buy you two pies when we get to the next station if you’ll please just throw that away.”
Soarin’ considered the offer for a minute. “Hmm... nah.” And with that, he plunged his face back into Rainbow Dash’s pie.
Twilight shuffled and dealt the cards, then telekinetically picked up her own hand. Only six high-card points, and no length in any suit. “Pass,” she groused, unable to resist muttering “again” under her breath.
Lyra looked up from her cards, giving Twilight a glare she had perfected since they’d started playing bridge together; a look which said, “Your tone of voice is offering clues about your hand’s value, and while I know you aren’t trying to cheat, that’s exactly what you’re doing. Now quit whining, it isn’t like you’ve never seen a bad hand before. We all have, so deal with it.” She’s got some awfully specific facial expressions, Twilight idly observed as Lyra passed as well.
Rarity quickly glanced at her cards to confirm her intent, then announced, “One diamond.”
In the final seat, Rainbow Dash had given up trying to grasp the cards in her teeth, and was now attempting to scoot them to the edge of the table. She managed to get one halfway over the lip, then craned her neck to peek at its underside. Looking up at the other three ponies, all silently waiting for her, then back down at the twelve cards she had yet to see, she stuck out her tongue in frustration.
“Whatever, I got this. Hey Twi, what’s the good one?”
Twilight blinked. “‘The good one?’ The good what?”
Dash rolled her hooves. “You know, that thing that you said is worth more points if you bid it than the other ones.”
“Oh, do you mean notrump?”
Dash nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. I bid all of them. What’s that, seven? Alright, seven notrump!”
Lyra seethed silently as Twilight calmly doubled and the group passed around. As Rarity played the ace of diamonds to bring the contract down one (at least), she leaned over to Lyra and whispered, “I think from now on, it would be wise not to invite Dash to fill in when your partner's away for the week.”
Dash, meanwhile, was trying to get one of her cards to flip up. With a grunt, she shoved it face-down towards the center of the table, and with an apologetic smile asked, “Lyra, would you turn this one over for me? I think it might be a diamond. Maybe.”
“Actually,” Rarity continued as Lyra ground her teeth, “Let’s just go with a ‘unicorns only’ rule from this point forward.”
Regarding “the incident” last night: allow me to shed some light on how it came to happen, which I think will show that everyone involved was a victim of circumstance, and that nobody needs to be banished anywhere (please).
Cheerilee’s class has been preparing to put on a play about the life of Neighbraham Lincolt, and being the only friendly dragon within a hundred miles, Spike was asked to play the role of his assassin. Spike was very excited to be part of the production, and I spent many hours helping him practice his lines. Well, line, but nevermind that.
Unfortunately, he came down with a terrible cold the day of the show. Poor Spike was snuffling and sneezing all afternoon, and I feared he would be unable to perform. But he is a little trooper, and refused to even consider the possibility of letting an understudy play the part.
I got him into costume and stood backstage with him, but things only went from bad to worse. It was very dusty back there, and he was soon in quite a dreadful state. His eyelids were so swollen from the dust that he could hardly see a thing! I practically begged him to let me take him home then, but he was adamant that “The show must go on!” And after how much work he’d put in, I couldn't say no. Instead, I pointed him in the right direction as his scene approached, and told him to head right back the way he’d come when he’d delivered his line.
What happened next, I can only speculate. As Spike ran onstage, he simply vanished. I suspect he must have tried to hold in a sneeze; I know you’ve told him never to do that, but he can surely be forgiven for not wanting to ruin his dramatic entrance, can’t he? In any case, I now know why you told him to never “censor his emissions.”
I didn’t learn what became of him until I read the newspaper this morning. In light of what I’ve explained, I hope you will now understand why Spike appeared in front of you last night in court, shouted “Sic semper tyrannis!,” hurled a pie in your face, and then turned and ran to your prime minister, crying, “There, I did it! Aren’t you proud of me?”
The six ponies looked down at the town. Well, what was left of the town.
“In retrospect,” Twilight said, breaking the nervous silence, “I probably should have read the description of that spell before I cast it.” She looked to the other five, hoping that one of them would take up the burden of justifying her decision. When none of them did, she testily added, “But, well, come on, who has time to muddle through two pages of fine print when you could just cast the darn thing and find out firsthoof?”
The other five ponies looked at her mutely, and Twilight shrunk down a bit. “Twilight,” Rainbow Dash began. “You’re, like, the biggest egghead I know. Isn’t reading boring stuff in teeny-tiny letters kind of your thing?”
“The spell was called ‘Colticus’s Continuous Caramel Cascade!’” Twilight snapped. Does that sound like a dangerous spell?”
“Um, what part of ‘Continuous’ was confusing ya?” asked Applejack.
Twilight huffed. “I’m just saying, this was clearly a product error. Misleading labeling, and all that.”
Pinkie Pie looked back down at the town, then whistled appreciatively. “Ooh, a wave just took out the Ponyville Caramel Emporium and Interactive Museum.” She scratched her head. “Twilight, is that irony?” Twilight answered with a glare. “What? I’d look it up, but, you know, library full of Continuous Caramel Cascade.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Wait, is that irony?” Twilight glared harder. “I mean, irony’s not really my thing. I’m more into slapstick!” She grabbed a nearby tree branch and gave it a few cuffs, grinning hopefully at Twilight.
Twilight glared hardest.
Pinkie sighed, tossing the branch away. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”
A hush descended over the group once more. They stared down at what was left of Ponyville, as more and more of it vanished under the rising tide of browned sugar.
“Heh,” Dash finally said. “Slap-stick.” She looked around. “Get it? ‘Cause she slapped the stick?”
Silence.
Dash shrugged. “Eh, you’ll figure it out.”
Fluttershy stepped up to Twilight, putting a supportive hoof on her shoulder. “Well, Twilight, I want you to know that I certainly don’t blame you for any of what’s happened. What’s done is done, and I’m sure you didn’t mean to destroy Ponyville. Again.” She smiled supportively, but the grin faltered as she looked back at the town. “But, um… now what do we do?”
Twilight sighed. “I can’t reverse the Cascade without the original spell… which is currently somewhere in an ever-growing lake of caramel.” She tried to grin at her friends. “Don’t worry, though! There’s another copy in the Fillydelphia Royal Archivararrium. I sent for it right away, so now we just have to wait for the archivists to find the spell and send it here!”
Rarity eyed the rising tide apprehensively. “And how long will we have to wait?”
Twilight glanced up at the sun. “Well, today is Thursday…”
Rarity stepped forward. “Darling, you know I am very fond of you.” Twilight winced in anticipation of the but which she knew was coming. Rarity did not disappoint her. “But, given that you’ve just deluged Ponyville in sucrose—”
“Fructose, actually,” Twilight couldn’t help correcting.
“...In goop,” Rarity continued, “I think it’s only fair that you tell us what we’re clearly all wondering.” She took a deep breath, and stared deep into Twilight’s eyes. “Why on earth did you cast that spell in the first place?!”
Twilight quailed. “Well, Spike did such a good job cleaning the library this morning that I said he could have a bowl of ice cream with his lunch, and we were all out of toppings…”
All of the ponies stared at Twilight incredulously. Rarity recovered first. “So… is Spike still…”
Twilight pointed down toward the library. From the hill, the ponies could just make out Spike paddling about in an ice cream-carton canoe, using his spoon as a makeshift paddle. He didn’t seem to be making much progress, if only because he kept stopping to lick the spoon.
Rarity sighed. “Next time you find yourself short on condiments,” she finally said, “just make an extra trip to the market.”
An Equestrian gaur! So exotic; so far from home! Speak, gaur! Why did you roam? Why did you chance the foam and roil Of endless seas; the toil Of unfamiliar soil and air, What was it drew you there? Is pony-land so fair and free That you should wish to be Equestrian, and see no more Your homeland’s jungled shore? Is this your fancy? Or, perchance, When you see young foals prance And play their games of chance, and laugh, Perchance you see a calf.
Perchance you see a calf who played Such games; who often made To gambol through both glade and grove. The calf who always strove To linger when dark wove its way Among the trees; when day Did close. Poor calf! What lay in wait When you came home too late? Who stood beside the gate alone? A matron cow of roan Whose searching, pale eye shone with ire. And glinted by the fire. A crone whose sole desire in life Was to bring endless strife To the calf. For his life, she thought (Aye, she knew that it ought) Should be built on the thought and tales Of those gaur whose regales Would charm the farmers’ vales, those haunts Where storytellers jaunts Did ever lead, their wants exchanged For food and drink. Where ranged The Speaker, who arranged to tell The world’s news; to whom fell That sacred duty: tell a tale. So each night, without fail, The cow would tell The Bale of Gold, A story now so old That not even the boldest sage Could say its truthful age, Or else, perchance, The Wage of Tấm, Or of old Lac Long Quân, the Drake, Whose fairie-wife did make to birth The Breezie-lands, and Earth; Whose love was greatest mirth, and yet Who did forever set Their love aside, and wet the lands With their tears. By their hands Were Fey-dusts and Earth-sands sewn. But now, they are alone.
As is the cow of roan; no more Is there a calf to bore With dusty tales of yore, quick heard, Quick lost; a thousand word All heaped about, all blurred, forgot, Ignored, all left a plot, A name, a fragment shot with woe, Or laughter, or a slow Excitement, quick to grow… to what? I cannot recall what. I no longer know what is lost. There was so little, crossed The wild and tempest-tossed wide sea So little still with me. So now, in Equestria… here… I watch the young foals cheer, And in them, through them, peer and see A calf, too, too carefree Too quick to turn and flee a gift Too quick to set adrift, to spurn The tales of home, to yearn For distant lands and burn as dross The golden story-floss Which—fool!—he once did cross the earth To flee its burden-girth.
But still remains some worth of thought; Some tales remain, some plot, Some monsters still are caught in mind, Some heroes still I find. And properly designed six-eight; The Lục bát to create. The better for to state my pride, My culture, long denied, I’ll share what still abide in mind, In ear and tongue, my kind. And when I do, my kind shall be Not I alone, not me, But us! We shall be we! and when We meet and mix, why then… We’ll be Equestrian and gaur!
“Ugh!” Spike tossed his pencil to the ground. “TWILIGHT! I need help again!”
It took only a moment for Twilight to find her favorite baby dragon, sitting at his desk with a pile of papers strewn about him. She chuckled. “Still having trouble with your story, Spike?”
“Yeah… well, no. I mean, I’m done!” He gestured at the heaps of scrawled-upon paper. “But now I don’t know how to end it. Everything I write just seems cheesy, or lame. You know?”
Twilight smiled. “You’re writing a children’s story, Spike. Isn’t it okay if it’s a little cheesy?”
Spike frowned. “No, I… aww, nevermind. You don’t get it.” He turned back to his story. “Forget it, I’ll figure it out.”
Twilight trotted in front of his desk, and shoved her face in front of his. “Come on, try me. What’s wrong?”
Spike looked away with a pout, but after a moment he sighed and turned back toward her. “Well, it’s just that… so, I said I’d write a story for the Cake twins, right? And Mr. and Mrs. Cake were all like, ‘Oh, Spike, that’s so sweet of you, We’re sure they’ll love it, you’re so talented,’ right? I mean, talk about pressure, right?”
“They’re babies, Spike! I don’t—”
“So am I!” he yelled, and Twilight’s wings flared out in surprise. “I mean…” he continued, more quietly, “you always call me a baby dragon, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care, does it? Just because someone’s still little, that doesn’t mean they can’t have something nice.” He looked down at his feet. “I guess, I just—”
He was stopped short as Twilight pulled him into a tight hug. “You’re right, Spike,” she said as she held him. “Just because they aren’t adults, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try your best.”
After a moment, she released him, and her eyes drifted down to the page. “So, what’s wrong with ‘happily ever after?’ You wrote them a fairytale, didn’t you? That seems like a pretty good ending.”
Spike shrugged. “Yeah, that’s what I thought at first, but…” he grabbed his pencil off the floor, gesturing as he spoke, “...but it doesn’t really seem like it fits. Sir Pound and Princess Pumpkin saved Stableton, but when you say ‘happily ever after,’ it just…” he ground his free hand into his temple. “Arg! I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”
Twilight looked thoughtfully at the page. “Maybe the problem is that the story’s not really over.”
Spike gaped. “You mean I’ve got to keep writing?”
“No, no! Not unless you want to.” Twilight scrunched up her nose as she thought. “What I mean is… well…” Her eyes lit up as the words she was looking for came to her. “If you were going to write a story about you and me, where would it end?”
Spike shrugged. “I don’t know. When you became a princess, maybe?”
Twilight nodded. “Right, that would be a good place to stop the story—but it wouldn’t be the end, would it? It’s not like nothing else happened after I got my wings.”
“Yeah, I guess… maybe it could end after you and the girls beat Tirek, and we got this tree-castle?”
“That would be another good place to stop—but it’s still not the end.”
Spike threw up his hands. “What, am I supposed to end with, ‘and then she asked me what the end of the story should be?’ That’d be a terrible ending!”
Twilight beamed. “Exactly. Because that’s not the end either, is it? You and I have so much more to do, and so much more to see. Things we can’t even imagine yet! You can’t really tell the end of our story at all. All you can do is tell a part of it.”
“So… your advice is ‘you can’t write a good ending?”
“My advice is ‘don’t worry about making it end at all.’” She tousled his scales, then trotted toward the door. “The last line’s not the end, after all. Just the end of the part you’re telling.”
Spike turned back to his story as she left the room, frowning at the page. For a long time, he thought. Suddenly, a smile crossed his face. Setting pencil to paper, he wrote the final words:
And they both had many more wonderful adventures… but that’s a story for another day.
“Okay, squirts! Line up, and get ready to learn how to win!”
Rainbow Dash strode slowly but purposefully down the rag-tag line, looking at the crew assembled before her. They were young yes, and they were raw… but they were hers. She directed a piercing stare at each pony in turn, letting them know that she would accept nothing but excellence from each of them, letting them know she—
Twilight quickly stepped in front of Dash, smiling reassuringly as the foals gathered in front of them. “Learn how to have fun, she means. Hopefully we’ll win some games, but if we don’t—”
“—Then it won’t be any fun!” Dash cut in, muscling back in front of Twilight. “Trust me, I’ve lost before—I mean, I lost once, just to, er, to see what it felt like. And you know what? It was no fun at all! You runts want to have fun, we gotta win every. Single. Game!”
The fillies and colts looked to one another silently, resignation and apathy playing across their faces in the precise mixture one might expect from a group of youths who were just beginning to realize what their summer afternoons would entail for the foreseeable future.
Twilight chuckled nervously. “Well, in any case, we should probably get started, since—”
“—We’ve got a lot of work to do if we don’t want to be disappointments to ourselves, each other, and Mom and Dad!” There was an awkward silence as nine young foals and one alicorn princess stared uncertainly at Dash. “...Ah, to your Moms and Dads.”
Twilight coughed. “Okay, so, let’s start with some basic throw-and-catch drills! I want you all to stand in a circle, and toss the ball back and forth. The goal is to throw the ball as many times in a row as we can without dropping it, okay?”
The young ponies nodded, then shambled into a crude facsimile of a circle. “And remember,” Dash yelled, “I want everyone to give 110%!”
“She means 100%, everypony,” Twilight quickly corrected.
Dash let out a single, barking laugh. “Just 100%? That’s what losers give! You guys need to give me 110%, every time we practice!” She paused, and put a hoof to her chin as she took on a more contemplative demeanor. “And maybe an extra 20% when we actually play, if we’re gonna win every game.”
“No, no, 100% will do fine,” Twilight said, a little more forcefully. “In fact, it’s the ideal amount to give, since you literally can’t give more than that.”
“...Unless you want to win, in which case 110% is, like, the bare minimum.”
“Rainbow Dash,” Twilight said, her voice soft but strained. “Why don’t you come over here so we can have a little coach’s conference?”
Oblivious to the danger in that voice, Dash nodded. “Sure, whatever. Okay squirts, the goal is ten million throws without a drop. Get started, and we’ll be right back!” She trotted out of earshot with Twilight, leaving the nine foals alone with a ball.
“Okay, Dash,” Twilight began as soon as they were alone. “I know I promised to let you take the lead on this pee-wee league co-coaching thing—”
“I don’t know why none of their parents would trust me alone with those kids,” Dash grumbled.
“—And even if I don’t think it’s the best choice, I’m prepared to let you destroy everypony’s self-esteem with your unrealistic expectations and incessant projecting of your own failures and successes onto them.” Twilight frowned. “I mean, I still don’t think that’s what you should do, but my research indicates that it’s standard practice among pee-wee coaches.”
“There’s nothing ‘standard’ about Rainbow ‘Professionalism’ Dash’s coaching style.” Dash buffed a hoof against her chest. “But I accept your compliment. So, can we get back to—”
“—But I am drawing the line at teaching bad math!” Twilight flared her wings angrily. “You can’t give 110%, Dash! Once you’ve given 100%, you have exactly zero percent more to give! That is what 100% means!”
Dash shrugged. “Um, duh?”
“So you need to—wait, what?” Now that she thought about it, Twilight wasn’t sure what reaction she was expecting from Dash, but it certainly wasn’t ‘immediate acknowledgement.’
“Well, yeah. Obviously you can’t actually give 110%,” Dash said. “But you can always give more than you think you can. Saying, ‘give it 110%’ is just a way to remind everypony that if they ever feel like they’re playing as hard as they can, they’re wrong. If you wanna improve, you’ve always got to push yourself to do more than you think you can.”
Twilight gaped silently. Finally, she stuttered, “W-well, I still disapprove of you using improper numerical nomenclature.”
Dash waved a wing dismissively. “If that’s Twi-speak for ‘I still don’t like it,’ then how about I let you do a correction at the end of our practice? The kids need to do some cool-downs anyway, you might as well be talking then.”
“Okay, but then—”
“Cool.” Dash turned back to the foals, who had, over the past two minutes, transitioned from ‘throwing the ball,’ to ‘staring listlessly at the ball’ and had just graduated to ‘ripping up chunks of sod to see who could find the most worms’ for the colts, and ‘plucking dandelions and braiding them into each others’ manes’ for the fillies. “Alright, squirts, back to work! We’ve got to make up for lost time—that means giving at least 112% for the rest of practice!”
The doctor frowned down at her patient. “It looks like we’ll have to amputate.” She turned to her left. “Nurse, pass me the hacksaw, will you?”
The nurse glared at her. “Shouldn’t we, I dunno, figure out what’s wrong before we go choppin’ off limbs?”
Scootaloo rolled her eyes. “It’s obvious the patient has a case of explosive wommblosis… as you would know, nurse, if you’d gone to medical school!”
From the hospital table née clubhouse bench, Sweetie Belle timidly raised a hoof. “I think nurses go to medical school, too.” Scootaloo turned her glare tablenéebenchward, and though Sweetie balked, she managed to squeak out, “A-and maybe, could I just take a pill or something instead?”
“I’m afraid there’s only one cure for explosive wommblosis, and that’s radical surgery. Now, let’s get radical!” The gleam in Scootaloo’s eyes made Sweetie Belle shrink back.
“Oh, c’mon, Scoots,” said Apple Bloom. “Can't you at least try to take this seriously? Like, ask her how she feels, or listen to her heart with that neck thing, like a real doctor would?”
Scootaloo scoffed. “Sure, I could do that... if you guys wanna play doctor the boring way. Hey, maybe I could tell Sweetie to get lots of rest and drink plenty of liquids!” She stuck out her tongue. “That’s what a boring doctor would say, I’ll bet.”
“Actually, yeah, that sounds about right,” said Apple Bloom.
“And now that you mention it, a glass of milk and a nap sounds kind of nice…” added Sweetie.
Scootaloo was on a roll, however. “That might be what a so-called ‘real’ doctor would do, but what would an awesome doctor do?” She stretched a hoof heavenward, and in a softer, almost reverent voice, asked, “What would a Rainbow Dash doctor do?”
“Call a real doctor?” suggested Sweetie Belle.
“Ya know, a snack and a nap does sound pretty nice,” said Apple Bloom. “What do ya say we head back to my house? There’s still half a pie leftover from dinner last night, and I’ll bet Big Mac’d let us have a slice.”
Sweetie nodded happily, and the two fillies left Scootaloo to continue her soliloquy. Scootaloo, for her part, didn't even notice them leaving as she worked her way into her rant. “She’d diagnose her patient with explosive wommblosis, that’s what she’d do! And she’d be so awesome at diagnosing that she could do it in ten seconds flat! And then, once she did that, she’d amputate all the patient's limbs with a hacksaw to stop the disease from spreading, because she’d know that extreme diseases call for extreme measures! Besides, after she was done she could probably just get her friends together and use a magic rainbow to put the legs back on again, or something.” Scootaloo scratched her chin. “It’s a real pancake-ea, that rainbow thing they can do.
“So that,” she concluded, “is why we’ve gotta dismember you. Now nurse, pass me the—” she looked around, and finally realized that she was alone. “Nurse?” she called uncertainly. “Uh, Bloom? Belle?” But nopony answered.
“Well, fine,” she pouted to the empty room. “‘Doctor’ is a stupid game, anyway.”
Before she could really get into her pout, however, Apple Bloom poked her head through the clubhouse door, Sweetie Belle’s appearing just above it a moment later. “Uh, Scoot? If you’re done waxin’ poetic, Big Mac said I should ask if you wanted some pie, too.”
Scootaloo turned her back on them and glowered at the opposite wall. “Go away, you two. I’m being mad at you.”
Apple Bloom thought for a moment. “Well, we could really use an awesome surgeon to amputate some slices for us… if you think you’re up to it.”
Although she continued to face away from them, Scootaloo’s ears swiveled. Sweetie Belle pressed the attack. “Big Mac said we could have ice crea—I mean, that we’ll need to put the limbs on ice after you cut them off. Cream.”
“Well, when you put it like that…” Scootaloo slowly turned around, a grin on her face. “What kind of a doctor would I be if I let that poor, helpless pie suffer? Nurse, take me to the patient!”
Grins on their faces, the doctor and her assistants galloped off to make their gruesome yet delicious housecall.
The Conclave of Wyrms met but once a century. It was a gathering of the oldest, wisest, and most powerful of dragons, meeting at the sacred isle of Lónillummea Hanacolóce—a name typically left untranslated from the long-forgotten language of which it was the solitary remnant, both out of a sense of tradition, and because “Island that’s Always Crawling with Giant Lizards” didn’t have quite the same ring to it. The name was fitting enough, however: though the meetings were rare, their magnitude in both draconic numbers and might were almost beyond comprehension.
A hundred Wyrms—dragons of such power and majesty that the word “dragon” alone did not suffice to describe them—were gathered in the grand cavern that day. And yet, it was not until the hundred-and-first Wyrm arrived that the Conclave began.
At his coming, all conversation died, his mere presence enough to chill the souls of the mightiest of drakes. As one, they fell upon their bellies, prostrating themselves as the final Wyrm entered the chamber.
We shall begin
The voice was felt, more than heard. And then, he strode to the center of the chamber, his ebon frame seeming to suck the very light from the cavern. All eyes were upon him.
We have borne the tyranny of ponykind too long
Their princesses enslave our sun and moon
Their populace dictates our weather
But at last
It shall end
The other Wyrms of the Conclave whispered to one another, uncertainty playing across their faces. “How shall it end, oh Great Despiser?” one of the bolder drakes dared to ask.
“We cannot attack them directly,” put in another. “Though they are weak enough individually, they swarm their country like ants. And their princesses are fearsome foes in their own right.”
An onyx-sheen claw was raised; the assembled Wyrms fell silent.
They are many
It is true
But great schemes are afoot
There is in their land
One of the draken line
Smuggled amongst them long ago
Purpose hidden for this moment
He shall be our fifth column
He shall accomplish by guile and treachery
What strength alone cannot
He shall be our flame
And we shall leave naught but ashes in our wake
Cheers of approval rang through the conclave.
Prepare yourselves
Wyrms of the Conclave
When the Black Flag of QIj JoqwI' flies over Canterlot
ALL SHALL KNOW OUR MIGHT
*****
“Spike!” Twilight’s voice echoed through the crystal tree-castle. “Wake up! You’ve got a letter!”
Spike groggily rubbed his eyes as he sat up in bed. “Wha… right, coming!”
A few moments later, he staggered down the stairs to where Twilight stood. “So who’s sending me mail?” he asked. “I don’t think anyone’s sent me anything since we moved here. Even the stuff I burp up is always for you.”
Twilight shrugged. “I don’t know, there’s no return address. And what’s really weird is that it doesn’t even have your name. Look, it just says ‘For only the eyes of the draken-child, death and misery to ye who tamper in affairs beyond your station.’” She shook her head. “Sounds like somepony was in a bad mood when they sent this.”
Spike eyed the letter dubiously. “It’s not from the Tax Bureau, is it? Rainbow Dash said they send out letters that start like that.”
“Rainbow Dash is a special case,” Twilight said. “Now go on, open it up!” Cautiously, Spike ripped open the envelope, and scanned its contents.
Draken-child,
After long centuries of biding, the time of reckoning is at last upon us. You, though you have known it not these many years, are to be the instrument of draconic vengeance. The risk was too great to tell you before this moment, but know now that you are where you are as part of an ancient plot—one which you shall bring to fruition.
You will find the Black Flag of QIj JoqwI' enclosed. At your earliest convenience, please slaughter any and all current princesses of Equestria, and replace the banner at Canterlot Castle with the Black Flag. Mounting their severed heads on spikes to display to the populace is optional, but encouraged.
Taste victory ere your ire cool, death to the sun tyrant, etc.,
Blackguard, son of Blackheart, of the Council of Wyrms
Spike sighed as he pulled a faded black banner from the envelope, then tossed them and the letter in the trash can. “Wait, what was it?” asked Twilight.
“Just some dumb Pinkie prank, I think.” Spike rolled his eyes. “How does she even come up with this stuff?”
“Welp, thanks for helping with that, Twi,” said Applejack, nodding happily at the pile of papers stacked neatly in front of her. “It’s seven o’clock, so registration’s over! All that’s left here’s a little timekeeping. You can head on home, if you like. I reckon it’ll be late before they’re done, and there’s nothing left to do that I need any help with.”
“Actually,” Twilight said, “I’d like to stick around and watch, if you don’t mind.” Applejack raised an eyebrow at that, so Twilight continued, “I mean, I don’t know anything about how cows elect their leaders! I’d like to stay and learn, if it’s okay.”
The two were standing at the entrance to Applejack’s barn, at a table laden with sign-in sheets and records. For the past two hours, they had been processing the steady trickle of cows and bulls: matching names to lists, and helping first-timers register to participate. It wasn’t hard work, but Applejack had asked Twilight to help her out “on account of you being my go-to mare for anything paperwork-y,” and Twilight had been happy to oblige. Now, there were over a hundred bovines gathered inside, ready to begin their quadrennial voting tradition.
Applejack looked inside at the milling crowd, and back to Twilight, who was practically beaming with anticipation. Twilight’s smile brought a matching one to Applejack’s lips; she’d seen that smile many times before. She’d never before met a pony who could be so pleased by the simple prospect of learning something new.
“Well, shucks,” she said, “of course you’re welcome to stay. I gotta warn you, though, it can be a mite boring.”
Twilight’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, I’m sure it will be fantastically educational!” Her cheeks flushed a bit. “And, uh, I thought that, if I’m going to be a princess, I should probably start learning about other species’ politics.”
Applejack chuckled. “Whatever you say there, Princess.” Twilight’s blush deepened. “Now c’mon, let’s head inside and close the doors.”
*****
Applejack was right. It was boring.
“So… do they eventually start, you know, voting?” Twilight eventually asked. So far, all the cows had done was huddle in small clumps, chatting amongst themselves.
Applejack shifted slightly in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable way to rest her haunches on a stool that had never been designed with comfort in mind. “This ain’t an election proper, Twi. The cows don’t just show up and vote. At a cowcus, they—” she paused as Twilight snrked. “Something funny?”
Twilight tried to cover her giggle with a cough, but failed. “No, of course not, it’s just… a cowcus? Do they really call it that?”
Applejack rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Yup. I reckon they don’t realize how silly it sounds. Hey, you know what they call their governmental charter?”
Twilight shook her head.
“The Cownstitution!”
Both girls laughed. Luckily, nocow seemed to be paying them any mind, and their laughter hardly stood out above the dozens of simultaneous conversations filling the barn.
“Oh, goodness,” Twilight said. “I really don’t know enough about cows. Do they name everything after themselves?”
Applejack nodded. “Hard to imagine an intelligent race not seeing how silly it sounds, but there you go.” She finally gave up on the stool and stood, leaning herself against the door. “So, I take it you don’t know anything about how these cowcuses are run, then?”
Twilight nodded, looking slightly embarrassed. “I guess I just assumed that voting was voting.”
“Well, lemme give you a run-down. Right now, the cows are all discussing the cowndidates—”
Twilight giggled again. “Really? How can they possibly take themselves seriously when everything is a pun like that. It would be like it we called Canterlot ‘Ponylot!’”
“That would be pretty silly, I admit.” Applejack cleared her throat. “Anyway, they discuss the cowndidates first, and once everycow’s pretty well settled on who they’re backing, they’ll have the vote proper.”
“So, who’s running?”
“Well, there’re more than a dozen folks running to be Cowmander in—”
Applejack waited until Twilight got her breath back.
“It’s really not that funny, Twi.”
“I know, I know,” said Twilight, wiping a tear away. “But… oh my goodness, is everything a cow-something with them?”
“...So, there’s a buncha folks running to be Cowmander in Chief, but there’re only a couple that’re likely to do very well tonight. First off, ya got…” she trailed off. “Actually, hold that thought, Twi. Looks like it’s about time to kick this thing off.”
The two girls watched as several of the cows moved toward the edges of the barn, where they picked up hoof-scrawled signs with the names of various politicians on them. The room briefly quieted down, as cows stopped talking and trotted to whichever sign-holder they preferred. Twilight noticed that most of them seemed to be congregating around two sign-holders in particular.
“So, they don’t do a ballot? They just count who’s standing where?” she asked.
“It’s a little more complicated than that. One second…” Applejack stomped her hoof a few times, and all the cowcussers turned their attention to her. “The viability cut-off is sixteen! Cutoff’s in fifteen minutes!” she shouted. Immediately, the volume level shot up, as cows started shouting back and forth at each other. Twilight looked on in bemusement.
Applejack leaned back against the wall. “See, this cowcus gets to nominate a certain number of delegates, and those delegates are divided up based on which cowndidate gets the most cows standing under his name,” Applejack glanced at Twilight to make sure she was following along, “But the delegates are only divided between cowndidates that get at least fifteen percent of the vote in here.”
“So they need sixteen cows under a name,” said Twilight. “Okay.” She looked over the clumps of bovines spread throughout the room. “Looks like only two of them are anywhere close.”
“Yup.” Applejack gestured toward the largest group. “That there’s the group for Dewlap Trump. He’s real big on strong fences. He’s promised to build bigger walls around all the cowpens, and he says he’s gonna make the ponies pay for them.”
“Why would ponies agree pay for new walls around cowpens?” Asked Twilight.
“I dunno, but apparently it’s a popular issue in the herd. And that,” she pointed at the other large group, “is the crowd that’s for Bruise Cruise.”
Twilight quirked an eyebrow. “Wait, did you say ‘Bruise Cruise?’ As in, the minotaur politician?”
Applejack nodded. “He’s real popular with the voters, as you can see, but there’s some talk that he might not be a natural-born cow.”
“He isn’t. He’s a minotaur.”
“Well, that’s for the courts to decide.”
“I really don’t think it is.”
Applejack shrugged. “Well, all I can tell you is that him and Dewlap are running neck and neck.”
Twilight looked at the other groups, seeing a number yelling back and forth. “So, that’s it? Those two are going to split the delegates?”
“Oh, no! First, all these cows supporting nonviable cowndidates get a chance to join together. Like, that group’s got more’n a dozen cows already, so they’ll probably try to pick up a few votes from one of the smaller groups that won’t meet the threshold anyway. Then, once they’ve had fifteen minutes to meet the threshold, any remaining nonviable groups will be eliminated, and all their supporters will be free to vote for whichever viable cowndidate they want. Then, once everybody’s voted the way they want, we’ll divide up the delegates proportionately, and each group will vote on which cows it wants to be its delegates. Then, those delegates will go to the regional cowcus in a couple of months and do the same thing all over again with other cows who’re nominated by their cowcusses, and then the delegates from that cowcus will go to the national cownvention this summer, and vote one more time with cows from all over the country.”
Twilight blinked hard. “They do all that just to pick a head of state?”
“Naw, they do all that to select one of the cows who gets to run for Cowmander in Chief. Once they do all this, then they start the actual election.” Applejack shook her head. “I thought pigs were messy, but they’ve got nothing on democracy.”
Twilight scrunched up her nose. “That sounds ridiculously convoluted.”
Applejack smirked. “Yup, I reckon you’re right. In fact, I’d be hard pressed to think of a sillier way to pick your rulers.” She paused just a moment. “Well, except maybe for lifetime appointments for anypony who invents a new kinda magic.”
Twilight stammered, then blushed, then paused on the tip of saying something. Instead, she looked back at the cows. A hundred and more, all yelling back and forth, trying to get an arbitrary number of their fellows to stand in the same part of a barn on a cold February night.
Slowly, she smiled. “You know, maybe it’s not the silliest way,” she said.
It's Either That in the Cart, or a "Slightly-Used" Crocodile
"Heya, Missus Top!" cried Lucky, cheerfully dragging his cart up the street. "Care to buy a bushel of clover?"
Carrot Top could already feel a headache coming on.
"Lucky, what have I told you every single time you've dragged that wagon full of clover into town?"
Lucky scratched his chin as he considered the question.
Carrot Top waited patiently.
Lucky's eyes traced the sky. He "hmm"ed to himself thoughtfully.
Carrot Top continued to wait.
Finally, his eyes lit up. "Was it—"
"I told you," she interrupted, "That clover is a weed. Do you know what farmers do with weeds, Lucky?"
"...Buy them in bulk for greater savings?"
"We weed them, Lucky. Hence the name." Carrot Top sighed. "I spent all Thursday afternoon pulling clover out of my garden. If, for some unfathomable reason, I wanted some, I would have kept that clover, instead of throwing it on my compost heap." She cast a dubious eye over the wilted pile of greens in Lucky's cart. "And in any case, it'd be fresher that way. Where did you even get these? They look like you picked them and then left them out in the sun for a week."
Lucky straightened. "Actually, I grabbed these from a magic pile of clover that suddenly appeared right next to your house a few days... ago..." He trailed off, slicking back his hair unconsciously as the gear inside his head churned. "...Which I'm starting to suspect wasn't really a magic clover pile after all..."
"'Magic clover pile,'" Carrot Top repeated, her nested quotation marks clearly audible.
Lucky brightened. "You know what that means, right? These are just as fresh as the ones from your garden!" He grabbed a hoofful. "Sure you don't want to buy some?"
Deep in the bowels of Tartarus, the frail centaur stirred. “Celestia?” he croaked.
At her name, the princess strode into the light. “It has been a long time.”
“Near five centuries, if I’ve kept count,” he said. “Of course, it’s hard to keep count when you’ve only your own thoughts for company.”
“Self-pity does not become you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why have you come here? Not to trade pleasantries, certainly. Why, then? Just to make sure I haven’t gone anywhere?”
Celestia didn’t answer.
“Well, your trip was a waste, then.” He spat. “I may not have managed to escape yet, but I will in time. And time,” he stretched the word out, making it something between an accusation and a gloat, “is something I have no shortage of.”
“It’s strange you should say that.” Celestia looked off into the darkness which forever permeated the realm. “Tell me, do you know the etymology of the word ‘Tartarus?’”
“What game are you playing at?”
“It comes from Old Earth Pony,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “They called this place Taru-tírléas. Literally, ‘the rending of the inglorious.’” She shook her head. “A bit dramatic, if you ask me, but an apt description.”
Tirek scoffed. “There’s not been much rending either time you’ve confined me down here. Just sitting about, waiting…” he twisted his lips into a sneer, “plotting.”
“So far, yes.” Celestia looked at him closely. “Tell me. Do you feel weaker than you did a few centuries ago? More lethargic? Less… present?”
Something about the way she stressed the last word put Tirek’s nerves on edge. “How do you mean?” he demanded. “What do you know?”
She smiled, but there was no pleasure in her expression. “This is an ancient place. Long before you came to this land, and long before I ruled, there was Taru-tírléas: the realm to which the wicked were banished to wait… and to extinguish.”
Tirek’s sneer returned. “I hope you’re not waiting for me to perish. Surely, after all these centuries, you’ve realized that you’ll not be rid of me so easily?”
“Oh, I know that you’re immortal. But there is power in this realm deeper than life and death. Tartarus is a place of existence and non-existence.”
Her eyes shifted away from him, back to the darkness. “Those bound in Tartarus exist only so long as the mortal races of Equestria remember them. And when they are no longer remembered, they disappear.” Her eyes glinted. “Not death. Simply… nothing.”
Tirek’s heart paused. Carefully, he asked, “Am I still well-remembered in Equestria?”
“You are not.”
He looked at his hands. Were they frailer than they had been before? He tried to remember what he had looked like, a century ago. Had he always been so… insubstantial? “How much longer?”
“Until you are forgotten? That’s a very good question. There are none among the mortals who personally remember you anymore, of course. Your defeat is not celebrated in any popular songs or famous legends. You are not the villain of any holiday, nor the boogeymare invoked in any household. Truth be told, I’m a little surprised you’re still here at all.” She shook her head. “If nothing changes, you’ll disappear very soon.”
As she spoke, his heart began to race faster and faster, until he could barely hear her over its pounding. “You cannot do this to me!” Tirek cried. “You cannot let me vanish! You wouldn’t! You can’t!”
“I can.” She paused. “But I won’t. Not yet.” She levitated something out from behind her: a book. “To celebrate her 500th birthday, Princess Twilight Sparkle is about to publish an autobiography recounting her early adventures, and it has a whole chapter dedicated to you.” She sent it through the invisible wards, setting it at Tirek’s hooves. “Given how popular she remains, and how grand an affair a quincentenary is, I’m sure that will buy you at least another generation. I thought you might appreciate an advance copy.”
Tirek stared at the book, unable to take his eyes from the cover. “Why are you showing me this? What is your plan?”
The sad smile returned to her face. “I believe in second chances, Tirek. And third chances, and fourth chances, and as many chances as it takes. I want nothing more than for you to walk among ponykind freely—as a friend, or at least not as an enemy. I have waited thousands of years for you to take the hoof that is offered, as Discord and so many others have done. Will you not give friendship a chance?”
Finally, he tore his eyes away from the book. “I came here twice in chains,” he said. “I’ll not leave in them, whether they’re physical or not.”
Celestia seemed to shrink. “As you would have it, then. If you… I hope you’ll change your mind. Remember, though: time is not on your side.” She turned and trotted away, and within moments had vanished into the darkness. “Goodbye.”
For a long time, Tirek didn’t move. Finally, he picked up the book.
Once, there was a terrible monster who lived in a cave atop a distant mountain. This monster was said to be the most hideous of creatures, but none could know the truth of that claim, for to so much as glance upon it was to be turned to stone. For many years, no griffon dared come near that peak, until the King offered a bounty of ten million golden coins to whoever could bring him proof of that horrible beast’s death.
“Then I shall go!” declared the valliant Sir Gravelle, wielder of the fabled Sword of Impudence. “I shall cleave the beast’s head from its body, and bring this grisly trophy before the King, for gold and glory!”
“Nay, I shall go!” cried the mysterious Lady Gerring, possessor of the magical Staff of Occulism. “My arts shall turn the monster’s power against itself, and its statued likeness I shall bring before the King, for gold and glory!”
“Fools!” bellowed the mighty Gowgaw the Implacable, owner of the fearsome Hammer of Smashing. “I shall crush the monster’s bones to splinters, and bring its bloody ruin before the King, for gold and glory!”
The three might have come to blows then, so intent were they upon being the one to quest forth, had another voice not spoken. “Is there not enough gold for three griffons to share?” asked Gladies the Titleless, a peasant girl of no import. “Surely, you three might undertake this adventure together, and share in the triumph and treasure alike.” As the three considered her words, and she continued, “What say you to this, then: let you all journey to the top of the mountain, which lies many days travel away, and if in that time you are still unconvinced, you may battle it out then. But I do not doubt you will think otherwise once you have reached the peak.”
“And what is it you seek to gain from this?” asked Lady Gerring, eyeing the girl suspiciously.
“There is only enough gold for three griffons as great as yourselves,” Gladies said then, “but I believe there is glory enough for four. I ask only to accompany you, to fix your meals, to set up your camps, and to be at your side. My reward shall be to say that my humble name once was spoken in the same sentence as those of such esteemed griffons as yourselves.”
The three great heroes looked one to another.
“I suppose it cannot hurt to try,” allowed Sir Gravelle.
“If the only price of a traveling cook and porter is to put up with you two a bit longer, then mayhaps it’s worth it,” said Lady Gerring.
“Aye, to crush you later is no more work than to crush you here and now,” rumbled Gowgaw the Implacable.
And so the four griffons set off for the lair of the monster. As they traveled that first day, the minds of the three heroes were filled with thoughts of how they would defeat the other two and claim sole victory upon reaching their target. But as the days went on, a strange thing happened: as they shared one another’s company, the three heroes found they had more in common than they would once have believed. Sir Gravelle discovered that beneath the spell-cloaked mysticism of Lady Gerring lay a brilliant tactical mind, and many an evening did the two stay up late into the night discussing the finer points of military stratagems. Lady Gerring discovered that the rough-and-tumble mask that Gowgaw the Implacable wore hid a surprisingly empathetic nature, and often as they flew together during the day, he would pierce her with some insightful question about her feelings or her past; she found herself opening up to the giant of a griffon as she never had to anyone before. And for his part, Gowgaw the Implacable discovered that Sir Gravelle could belch the entire Griffic national anthem, which cast into doubt all his previous assumptions about the sissifying influence of traditional knightly training.
So it was that when the three of them at last came near the peak of the mountain, they paused.
“Now that we have come this far,” began Sir Gravelle, “I find myself thinking that losing two thirds-share of the reward is a small price to pay to keep your companionship a while longer.”
“Indeed,” concurred Lady Gerring. “I would fain not give up your company, and wish to face the beast not alone, but beside my… my friends.”
“Friends, eh? I like the sound of that,” said Gowgaw the Implacable. And then he turned to Gladies. “And we have you to thank, girl. Without your good advice, I’d have beaten these two to a pulp and been a bit richer in purse, but far poorer in heart.”
“Don’t be so sure of the outcome!” said Sir Gravelle with a breezy laugh. “But yes, we have you to thank most of all, friend Gladies.”
“You came here seeking a fourth-share of the glory,” said Lady Gerring, “and surely you shall have it. When tales are told of this quest, your name shall be set proudly alongside ours.”
“Now,” said Gowgaw the Implacable, cracking his knuckles, “let’s go crush this monster!”
And with a cheer, the three heroes charged up to the cave.
Gladies, for her part, waited until well after dark, when she was sure the monster must be slumbering, before she approached the cave, and the three statues that stood before it.
In the end, she could not claim the ten million golden coins which the King had offered, but she made almost as much by selling the Sword of Impudence, the Staff of Occulism, and the Hammer of Smashing. And she could not claim the glory of having slain the beast, but she did gain the respect and admiration of all in the kingdom for lifting herself out of peasantry’s shackles with nothing more than her wits and a few weeks’ menial labour.
But, even as she hoped, her name has forever since been spoken in the same sentence as Sir Gravelle, Lady Gerring, and Gowgaw the Implacable. Thus, with her profit and fame secure, she lived happily ever after.
Moral: The real treasure is the friends we make along the way.
There once was a dragon who lived in a hill which it styled a mountain, at the base of which lay a village which it styled a city, filled with ponies whom it styled its subjects. Every month it would come amongst them and take whatsoever it wanted—food and valuables, and if the villagers lacked enough of either to satisfy it, then young fillies and colts, for it was ever in need of servants to shine its scales and marvel at it on command.
How long it had been thus, only the dragon itself knew—but years enough that its cavern filled with treasures, and its larder was never bare, even as the villagers grew ever more gaunt and miserable. Until one day a pony marched into its cave.
“Dragon!” she cried, “I come to challenge you!”
“Who are you, that speaks so boldly?” the dragon boomed, flexing its claws as it considered the best way to deal with this pest.
“I am Sweetroot, from the village of Hoofholt, which you hold in thrall. And I challenge you for the freedom of my village! If I defeat you, then you shall trouble Hoofholt no more!”
“And if I win?” the dragon asked, its annoyance untempered, but its curiosity now piqued.
“If you win, then Hoofholt shall be yours.”
“You offer me only what is already mine,” the dragon noted, “but I accept nonetheless, for I shall find it pleasing to crush you. My only condition is that this challenge be to the death.” It smiled, thinking itself very clever. A pony might, perhaps, dream of winning a challenge of riddles against a dragon, but how could such a small creature hope to stand against it in deadly combat?
But Sweetroot was not deterred. “Very well, if you shall let me choose our weapon.”
“As you wish. It makes no difference how I slay you.”
“Then the weapon I chose is time. Let its passage leave one of us defeated!”
The dragon laughed. “A tricksy answer. You think yourself wise, do you not? But you are foolish, indeed. A dragon lives ten thousand years or more! Will you live so long, little Sweetroot?”
“We shall see who the winner is,” Sweetroot replied.
And so the two settled into their great battle. Of course, as Sweetroot pointed out, the dragon could hardly continue its looting with its ownership of the village unsettled, and this seemed fair to the dragon. After all, there would be plenty of time to resume its depredations after the duel was concluded.
But as the battle dragged on, the seemingly massive larder began to empty. So at Sweetroot’s suggestion, the dragon sent its servants to the village to bring back food and supplies. Yet since the colts and fillies could hardly compel the same submission the dragon itself did, Sweetroot proposed that they take a bit of gold from the cavern’s vast stores, and trade for the goods instead. The dragon acceded, the wisdom of her advice obvious. Nor did it object when she further proposed that those fillies and colts be sent home to their parents, on the condition that they return once a week to handle the shopping arrangements. After all, the benefit of having fewer mouths to feed was undeniable, under the circumstances. And in any event, the dragon found Sweetroot was rather more pleasant company than the gaggle of terrified foals had been.
And when winter came, Sweetroot quite fairly noted that she could not bear the cold as well as a dragon, and that a bit more gold might be spent to bring her blankets and coats. For after all, the chosen weapon was time, and not temperature. And the dragon could hardly disagree. It perhaps need not have cloaked her in quite such fine garments, but that was only fairness as well, it told itself.
And as months turned into years, and even the great store of gems with which the dragon sustained itself began to diminish, it was Sweetroot who observed that perhaps the dragon’s less consumable valuables could be traded at the village for precious stones. After all, one cannot eat paintings and pottery. And it was clear to the dragon that this, too, was true.
And so the years passed into decades, until at last Sweetroot grew sickly and frail. Sweetroot did not have to ask the dragon to send for doctors, for it knew well that time was the chosen weapon, not illness. But the medical ponies it summoned at great expense from distant cities all shook their heads. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do,” they said. “It’s simply her time.”
With an angry roar, the dragon sent them away, and curled itself around Sweetroot’s sickbed. And there it lay, listening to her rasping breath.
“It has taken long enough,” murmured the dragon at last, “but it seems my victory is at hand.”
“Perhaps,” answered Sweetroot. “Revel in your victory, then. If so you esteem it.” And having spoken those words, she died.
And the dragon looked about its bare, empty cavern.
*****
At dawn, the dragon brought Sweetroot’s body down to the village. It demanded no tribute, seized no goods. It simply laid her down in the square, declaring, “Here lies the greatest of ponykind, who has defeated me in a battle to the death.”
And from that day forward, it troubled the ponies of Hoofholt no more.
