> Telling Tales
>  by James Washburn
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Chapter One - Foreshadowing's a Hell of a Thing
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter One


Foreshadowing's a Hell of a Thing


It seemed like a good idea at the time. Tall Tales was in the park, having a rest on a bench when things were set in motion. He’d come a long way, and had a long way to go yet, but he was determined to walk the distance. Walking was tiring business though, so he'd lain down on the bench, tugged his bowler hat over his eyes and had settled down for a doze. Storytelling wasn’t a way to get rich, so he had plenty of experience sleeping outside. And anyway, this far south it was quite warm, so sleeping out was quite pleasant, really.

Well, it would have been if somepony hadn’t woken him up.

"Heya!” she’d said. She was cheery, to be sure. And pink, very pink. She looked like candyfloss given life.

“Hullo,” said Tales, slightly bemused and blinking sleep out of his eyes.

“You new here?” she was still beaming and leaning in just slightly too close.

“Ye-es, yes, just travelling through, though.”

“Oh? Where are you ‘just travelling’ from?”

“From up north.” he’d replied. “I’m on my way to a big get-together in Connemara.”

“Oh?” said the other pony, tilting her head to one side. “Family or friends?”

Tales had to think about that. The kind of people he worked alongside couldn’t really be considered family. Or friends, when you thought about it, but there was a kind of twisted camaraderie to it. Usually, anyway.

"No, not as such. There’s a big gathering of storytellers there.”

The pony’s face lit up even brighter, which Tales wouldn’t have credited as being possible. “So you tell stories?”

She had him bang to rights there. “Ye-es.”

She... well, the best onomatopoeia for it was probably 'squeed'.

“What kind of stories do you tell?” She asked, breathlessly.

Now, that question he really hadn’t been ready for. It wasn’t the kind of question you were asked up north. If you walked into a pub in Stalliongrad, or a dive bar in Grimesby, or a long hall in Pasturekhan and announced that you were a storyteller, everyone knew what that meant and what to expect. ‘What kind’ didn’t come into it.

He floundered. “Oh, er, all sorts.”

The pony was insistent. “Yeah? What kind of sorts?”

“The kind of stories you hear, y’know?”

“What, so, not like stories you'd find written down?”

“Well... no. Just, stories that exist,” Tales said, fully aware he was clutching at straws. He flailed for a good explanation. “Like... Like Hearth’s Warming eve, you know that?”

She looked puzzled. “So you go around telling ponies stories they already know?”

“No, it’s... well, sort of, but not really.”

“So what is it, then?”

Tales opened and shut his mouth while his mind spun like a cog cut loose. He knew the rough shape of the idea of what he wanted to say, but it didn’t fit into words.

“Don’t you know what kind?” said she of the pink frizz, frowning.

Tales took a moment to compose himself. “I know exactly what kind, it’s just hard to explain, is all.”

That cut no ice. “Sounds like an excuse to me.”

“Well, it’s not. I know exactly what I mean,” said Tales, a mite defensively.

“Well that’s no help,” she said, sitting back and folding her front legs. Then, she grinned again. “Hey! I know! Why don’t you show me what kind? You’re a storyteller, why not tell stories?”

Tales panicked. “What, now?”

“No, of course not now, silly, I’ve got things to do now,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What about later? What about here, at sevenish? You’re not doing anything today, are you?”

He was about to say ‘well I was going to head to Connemara’, but something stopped him. This was a challenge. Here was a pony who didn’t know storytelling, here was a pony who didn’t know her history. Well, okay, she knew her history, but she didn’t know his history, history like they told north of Manechester, where the summers were short and frantic and the winters long and harsh.

So instead of telling her to get stuffed, he’d said, “No, not doing anything. I’ll see you here at seven.”

And in all likelihood, that had been his big mistake, but it was too late by then.

The pink pony nodded and trotted off, saying, “See you then!” 

*    *    *
That was then, and this was now. Seven o’clock, to be precise, and Tall Tales had the distinct feeling he’d been Had. He’d assumed, perhaps naively, it’d be a private performance, just him telling to one pony, but no, she’d invited the whole town it seemed. Fifty or so ponies sat around the fountain, chatting amiably among themselves. The Pink Devil moved between them, greasing the social axles which all sought to grind Tales down.

They didn’t see him approaching, so his first thought had been to leg it. If she wasn’t going to play fair, neither was he. She had him on false pretences, he wasn’t prepared for a full audience (certainly not unpaid) but he knew those excuses wouldn’t work. Not on her, and certainly not on him. He couldn’t let her get the better of him, not now. What would his old mentors say?

He took a deep breath and walked over through the crowd. He tried to calm himself by taking some deep breaths and ignoring the audience. He stepped out in front of the crowd, and a hush descended. Not a reverential hush, you understand, but more a confrontational sort of hush. It was a hush that said ‘come on then, show us what you’ve got’.

Tales took a good look at his audience, which was a pretty mixed bag. There were young ponies (he was particularly worried about the three fillies up front), old ponies (well, two, as far as he could tell), ponies in between, and what looked like a small dragon. It was a mostly female audience, though (so lay off the Murmanesk sailor routine, eh?), mostly about his age, really.

But best not to think about that. The Terror from Twenty-Thousand Leagues under the Candy Store was grinning at him from the second row. So, what story to tell? Well, best start off with a couple of funny ones, a couple to appeal, then we go out on a bang, show these southerners what’s what, then we head off for Connemara. No problem.

He cleared his throat. “Hullo, all.”

There was a murmur back. Good start.

“Pardon?”

“HELLO,” came the reply.

“Heh, you alright?”

Another murmured reply. Well, fair enough.

“Okay, everyone, I’ll assume you’re alright. Well, have I got stories for you! I’ve got stories new, stories old, stories from near and stories from far. How does that sound?”

Murmurings continued.

“Alright, alright, if you’re going to be like that. Now, I don’t know about you, but I reckon it’s good to start at the beginning, so we’ll start with a story from the garden at the beginning of everything...”


> Chapter Two - Love and Madness
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Two


Love and Madness


In the beginning of everything, there was a garden. In that garden lived all the vices, virtues and emotions of the world, in a time before there were ponies to have them. Of course, all the vices, virtues and emotions still looked like ponies, because they were all ultimately for ponies. Anyway, one day (“I say one day, it was always day in the garden”), Boredom reared his great ugly head.

"I’m bored,” he said.

And perhaps it all would have ended there, if Agreement hadn’t piped up.

“Yeah, I’m bored too.”

Then Peer-Pressure said, “Well, if you’re going to be bored, then I’m bored too.”

Soon enough, there was a small crowd of them, all complaining of boredom.  It might have turned ugly too, if it hadn’t been for Imagination.

"Don’t worry, everyone,” she said, bouncing along, “we can all play a game!”

“What sort of game?” they said.

“What about Hide and Seek?”

Now, of course, none of them had ever heard of Hide and Seek, so Imagination had to explain it all to them. One pony stays and counts, everypony else hides, the latter has to hunt down the former, you all know how it goes.

They all thought that sounded like a pretty swell idea, so all the vices, virtues and emotions  decided they’d all play Hide and Seek.  Naturally, they needed a seeker, so at random they chose Madness. So he stood facing away and started to count.

One, two, three, four, five.... ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty...

“MADNESS!” shouted Imagination. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

"Fiiine...”

So he counted, and all the others ran off and hid.

“Ninety-nine, a hundred! Right, that’s it, I’m coming for you!” said Madness.

He turned, took a step, and tripped over Laziness who hadn’t even bothered to find a place to hide. Just over there, Daydream was sleeping up in on a cloud, so Madness had to pull him down. Misdirection cunningly hid behind a sign saying ‘Misdirection isn’t hiding here’ which had Madness flummoxed for a bit, but he got through it in the end. Bravery was quite easy to find, since he refused to do anything so cowardly as hiding, and since he went everywhere with Courage he found two at once.

It was tough work and it took a while, but finally, Madness found all the other vices, virtues and emotions, from Abnegation to Zoophobia. Well almost all.

All except one. Try as he might, Madness couldn’t find Love. He looked high, and he looked low, but she was nowhere to be found. Finally, it reached the point (you know how it gets) where it had gone on too long. Madness was getting sick of searching, so he turned to the others.

“Look, has anyone seen Love?” he asked.

There was silence for a moment.

“I have,” said Betrayal, slyly. “She’s in the rose garden.”

Of course! thought Madness, triumphant at last. He tramped along to the rose garden, which was dominated by one huge rose bush. Now, he was certain he’d find Love hiding in that bush, so he tried to sidle his way in to find her.

He tried to slip a hoof through the thorns, to grab her but OW! He caught himself on one. It was razor sharp, the size of a lion’s tooth. He drew back and tried again, edging a hoof in through another... OW! Sonofa-! This was going to be tricky. He tried again, but OW! And again, (OW!) and again, (OW!) and again (OWWW!)  but he just couldn’t get through those thorns. And he was getting pretty frustrated now, pretty angry. In fact, he was furious! He grabbed a pitchfork in one hoof (“Well, it was a garden.”) and thrust it into the rose bush.

There was a scream, and Madness leapt back in fear. The other vices, virtues and emotions rushed over to see what all the fuss was about. Slowly, Love walked out of the rose bush, blood dripping from her eyes.

“Madness, what have you done?” she said.

And everyone could damn well see what he’d done. He’d put out her eyes. 

(Tales felt the audience just drop. He knew the punchline, though)

He was lost for words. All the others just stared at him. After a time, Madness stepped forward.

“I... I...I’m so sorry,” he said. “Please, forgive me.”

“Forgive him?” said Disbelief. “He put your eyes out!”

“Hangin’s too good for him! Burn him alive, I say!” said Overreaction.

“What if he goes on a rampage? No eye will be safe!” said Panic.

But, Love paid them no heed. She forgave Madness, because Love forgives all. But Madness wouldn’t accept it. To allay his conscience, he pledged himself to her, that he would always be at her side to show her the way.

And that’s why, even now, love is blind, and guided by madness.

*    *    *

The audience groaned and laughed in roughly equal measure. Tales grinned to himself. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. He’d show them yet.
Another funny one to ease them in? Why not.

“So you see, some stories are about the big things,” he said, pacing to and fro. “Love, death and suchlike, but other stories are more... close to home. Like this one, which is maybe a little bit more... relate-able...”


> Chapter Three - The Matter of the Fence
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Three


The Matter of the Fence


There was once this stallion and he was a pretty happy chap. He had a wife, two foals, and a herb garden. Unfortunately, two of those things didn’t get along. His children were always getting into the garden and tearing it up something fierce. He’d replant it, but as soon as he did, those tykes were in there again, eating everything they couldn’t uproot. In the end, he decided it was time for drastic action.

He went to the town carpenter, and told him his trouble. “What I need is something to keep the lights of my life away from the other light of my life.”

“I know just what’d work,” said the carpenter. “You need a fence to go around it. That way, you can keep the kids out and the herbs in.”

Which sounded like a fine idea. So it was agreed, the carpenter would build a fence, at a rate of one bit per metre. They measured it out at ten metres, so it came to ten bits. The stallion promised to pay the carpenter when he got back and the job was done. He was a sailor, you see, so he was away for a while, ploughing the ocean wave.

(“Damn fool,” said an earth pony in a stetson hat, sitting near El Pinko, “the plough’d only sink.”)

When he came back, he found the new fence, which was very strong and sturdy, and had kept the kids out his herb garden. All seemed well, until he went inside and found his wife slumped at the kitchen table, crying her eyes out. He rushed over and asked her what was wrong.    

“It’s all your fault!” she said. “You and that ruddy fence! The carpenter’s asked for more money.”

“What? But why? We agreed, one bit per metre, he built ten metres of fence!”

“Yeah? Well, he says there’s another ten metres on the other side of the fence you didn’t pay for!”

True enough, there were two sides to the fence, each ten metres long. So the stallion, he despaired. What was he to do? So he did what he always did in trying circumstances. He went to the pub.

("Or 'bar', if you're southern," said Tales, putting just the right flavour of scorn into the word 'southern')

And while he was there, drinking away, a stranger came in. She was a unicorn, with heavy saddlebags, and she was a strange sight in an earth pony town. She wandered over to the lone stallion and sat beside him.

“It’s a terrible thing to have to drink alone,” she says. “What’s say I join you?”

So he did. The two drank together, and the stranger told him all about where she’d been, where she was going to, and after a time, the unicorn asked him, “So, what’s got you in here, drinking alone?”

And he explained. “Oh, you see it’s the carpenter. He’s as crooked as can be. He built me a fence, ten bits for ten metres, but he says there’s another ten bits on the other side of the fence I didn’t pay for, and I’m not paying twenty bits for a ten bit fence.”

The unicorn looked thoughtful. Then, she levitated a ten-bit note out of one of her saddlebags.

“You give him this, alright? It’s worth ten bits in gold, it is.”

“But that’s no good,” said the stallion, puzzled. “That’s still only ten bits.”

“Ahah, that’s where you’re wrong,” says the unicorn. “Because you see, there’s ten bits on this side, but there’s another ten bits on the other side.”

*    *    *
Tales had to wait a moment for the audience to get it, but soon enough, there was a ripple of laughter and groans. There was a murmur of ponies explaining the joke, and another ripple of chuckles and yet more groans.
“Oh I see!” shouted the Pink Devil, nodding knowingly.”You do it like stand-up.”
“Well, I dunno,” said Tales. “I got serious stories too.”
She frowned. “Sad stories?”
Not a sad one, then, Tales thought, but still serious. What did he know that fit the bill? Ahah! That donkey story he’d heard in Badenoughstok. Perfect.
“I got those too, but this one isn’t sad, as such. It’s just more... serious.”


> Chapter Four - Juan and the Carrot
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Four


Juan and the Carrot


This story is about a donkey, way down in the country of Burro, where the sun bakes the ground red and the trees brown, and there’s places that haven’t seen rain for hundreds of years. Now, this donkey, he was called Juan, and he was a poor donkey. He was a campesino, you see, which is a kind of farmer. The only problem was that he didn’t get to keep what he grew. He had to give half his crops away to the lord who owned the land for the privilege of being able to farm the land.

(Tales saw a good many ponies shaking their heads and muttering darkly. It was, as he’d guessed, an agricultural audience)

This meant he barely had enough to feed his family, let alone himself. So to ensure his family didn’t starve, he went hungry. Every day, he would eat little to make sure there was enough for the others. But that meant he was hungry all the time. Every day when he got up in the morning, he was hungry. When he was working in the fields, under the blazing sun, he was hungry. And when he got home, he was hungry. Always, he was hungry.

Every day when he was walked home, he passed by the lord’s gardens.  Now, these gardens were astonishing. They were full of rare, mysterious and delicious flowers, full of sweet grasses, and it even had a vegetable patch with potatoes, cabbages, carrots and all sorts of things. Whenever he passed by, his nose always filled with the scent, and he got even hungrier. He’d have liked to just lean over and take a bite out of something, but there was a wall, and crossing that wall meant crossing the lord, and that would mean getting thrown off his land.

But it went on, and on, and on, and he was getting hungrier and hungrier, so one day, Juan had had enough. He was sick of starving, he was sick of working, and quite frankly, he was sick of giving everything he grew to the lord. One day, on the way home, he clambered over the lord’s wall and broke into his gardens. He ran to and fro, grabbing everything he could find, snatching bouquets of flowers, uprooting rows of potatoes and carrots and snatching bunches of grapes straight from the vine. He balanced as much as he could on his back, and what he couldn’t balance, he held in his mouth.

He was just about to take his haul home, when he was spotted. The lord’s wife saw him from the balcony and screamed, which put the wind up him like nothing else. Juan ran over to the wall and scrabbled back over, just as the lord’s bodyguards rushed out. He ran as fast as he could down the road, shedding his loot as he went.

He ran on into the hills above his town and didn’t stop until he was certain he had left the lord and his men behind. He stopped and slumped by the roadside to check his haul and catch his breath.

In his haste, he’d dropped everything on the way. All the flowers, all the grapes, potatoes, lilacs, everything. Well, everything except for one carrot. He sighed with regret and relief. Well, he thought, it was better than nothing. At least he had something he could eat.

He sat down with his carrot, and was just about to take a bite when the lord trotted up, riding on the back of one of his bodyguards. He was puffing and panting, although not as much as the poor chap he was on.

From atop his employee, he said, “You there, with the carrot! I demand that you give it to me! I’m quite exhausted, what with all this rushing about.”

Juan looked up at the lord, then at his carrot, then back at the lord.

“No,” he said, plainly. “This is my carrot, and I’m going to eat it.”

“Give it to me!”

“No. I go hungry every day because you take from me and give nothing back. You are not kind, and you don’t deserve my carrot.”

The lord harrumphed. “Well, fine then. Keep the wretched thing.”

And with that, he dug his hooves into his bodyguard’s sides and rode off, leaving Juan alone with his carrot. He held it up to the light, and savoured it. He looked it up and down, and imagined how fine it would taste, how crunchy, how wonderfully sweet and delicious it’d be.

He was just about to find out, when... when...

(Damn, thought Tales, he’d have to be artful here. In the usual story, the donkey God turned up, but that wouldn’t work now. The nuances’d be lost on this audience. Think of an alternative, think!)

...when a stranger turned up, tall and mysterious, and all dressed in white. She stood beside Juan and coughed politely.

“Donkey, will you give me your carrot?” she said, sweetly.

“No,” said Juan. “I go hungry every day, I want to know what it’s like to not be hungry. I’m going to eat all of my carrot.”

The stranger threw off her hood. “My dear donkey, I am Princess Celestia! I raise the sun every day to shine down on you. I bring light and life to the world. Don’t I deserve the carrot just as much?”

“No.”

“Donkey, I am powerful,” she said, warning. “I am more powerful than you can imagine. I can crush mountains, I can empty seas, I can level cities. Do you not think I deserve your carrot?”

“No,” said Juan. “Although you are powerful, you don’t help me. You raise the sun, but leave me to toil in the dust and heat, and you leave me to go hungry at the mercy of my lord. You’re not kind and you don’t scare me, and you definitely don’t deserve my carrot.”

Princess Celestia harrumphed and left, leaving Juan alone with his carrot again. He admired it some more, wiping the dirt from it, wishing he’d brought a cooking pot, or something to cook it with. But it would do by itself. He was just about to take a bite out of it, when another donkey, dressed in a worn black cloak, walked up beside him.

He did not ask for Juan’s carrot, but sat beside him and was silent. Juan saw that this stranger had a scythe strapped to his side, which was odd, since the wheat harvest wouldn’t be due for another few weeks.

“Hello, stranger,” said Juan.

"Hello, Juan,” said the stranger.

“You know my name, already then,” Juan replied, a little surprised. “I don’t suppose I could ask yours?”

“I am death.”

Juan was silent for a moment. He turned his carrot in his hooves thoughtfully. Then, he broke his carrot and passed half to death.

Death looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

“Because you are kind, death. You come for everyone, regardless of who they are or what they do. You’re the end of pain, the end of trial and the end of everything wrong. You, you are kind.”

So Juan sat there with death, and ate half of his carrot. And although he might have still been hungry, he was content now, because he knew death was looking out for him, wherever he was and whatever happened.

*    *    *
Tales waited for applause, but there was an awful silence instead. He cursed himself quietly. Juan and the Carrot was a story for impoverished places, where you had troubles and trials to be relieved of by death. Back in Badenoughstok, where winter was the norm, that story from had brought the house down. But here? Here death was something to be feared rather than respected. 

He heard the mutterings of his mentors in his head. Tut tut, they said, never a good judge of audience, were you?

Wait, hang on, that wasn’t in his head. Someone was actually muttering. There was a low whispering somewhere in the vicinity of the Pink Doom.

“...and anyway, it makes no sense as to why Celestia would want a carrot in the first place, let alone go to Burro to find one...”

She was purple, and a unicorn, and really quite pretty, even now when she was scowling like no one’s business.

“Is there a problem?” said Tales, trying to break the ice forming over his audience.

“I was just saying that your story seems awfully far-fetched,” she said. “Princess Celestia’s role in it doesn’t make much sense, and it doesn't stand to reason that death would stop for a chat with a random donkey.”

“Whyever not?” said Tales, trying to smile. He knew better than to say but it’s just a story. “Do you know him?”

“Well, no, but I know Princess Celestia.”

“Hah! Well you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

“No, she actually does,” said the Pink Doom. “She studied with her and everything!”

Tales sighed internally. Sure she did, he thought. And hey, even if she did, she wasn’t the only one with connections in high places.

“Well, that’s as may be, but I knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who knew King Art Quilldragon of Canterlot!”

There was further silence.

“Who?” a voice called out.

“You mean you never heard of him?”

“Well, sure,” said the unicorn, although the rest of the audience looked clueless.

“Oh well, I’d better tell you about him then,” said Tales with a smile. He had a good story about King Quilldragon. Perfect, in fact, for an audience like this.
                    


> Chapter Five - The Mare's Choice
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Five



The Mare’s Choice


This story takes place way back, long before the Princesses, and long, long before Hearth's Warming Eve, but it happened right here in Equestria. See, long before the three tribes of unicorns, pegasi and earth ponies turned up, Equestria was populated solely by earth ponies.

(...or unicorns, or pegasi, depending on the audience. It paid to be flexible. Although Tales could see the purple mare in the second row fuming with the historical inaccuracy)

Back then the land was divided into many small kingdoms. These kingdoms might just be a valley, or a few acres of woodland, but some were bigger, and the biggest of them all was Canterlot. From the grand stone castle on the side of the mountain, the great King Art Quilldragon ruled his lands with the help of his Knights of the Round Table.

(“Hmph, they never proved it was round,” muttered Pretty in Purple. “Academic consensus was that it was rectangular.”)

Well, they were supposed to help him rule. In truth, they’d generally just take time out to go and cavort with the deer, who still lived in the woods of Equestria. They’d arrange games, mock battles, with the Knights on one side and the deer on the other, and chase each other down.

Now, on this occasion, the Knights and the king were doing the chasing, rushing about the forest looking for the deer and trying to pull them down. Being earth ponies, they had endurance on their side, but the deer were faster and lighter on their feet. They ran rings around the Knights, leading them on a merry dance through the woods.

King Art was getting hacked off by all this, so he decided to strike out on his own. He crept through the woods by himself, looking for a likely target and soon enough, he found one. A white hart stood with a small retinue of nervy-looking deer in a clearing. If Art could get him, it’d be a victory for sure.

So he leapt out of cover and dashed across to them, that white hart in his sights. The deer broke and ran in every direction, but King Art paid them no heed. He ran after his foe, dodging between the trees, turning on a dime when the deer did, getting closer and closer and closer. They ran on, through the forest and alongside the river, King Art puffing and blowing, but still determined to get his hooves on that deer.

And he was just about to leap up to pull it down when it feinted left. The King, without the deer’s agility, answered the call of inertia and rocketed straight into the river. The hart trotted off into the woods, chuckling to itself. King Art clambered out of the river, coughing and spluttering.

He lay for a while on the riverbank, getting his breath back. He blinked and rolled on to his front, only to find himself looking at a pair of big, black, iron horseshoes.

The horseshoes were attached to two long, black iron greaves, and from there to a solid, black iron chestplate, and then on to a black iron helmet which contained two big, yellow eyes. Oh bugger, thought the King. And well he might, for this was none other than the Black Knight. Tall he was, and imposing too, dressed head to hoof in black armour, and he was grinning, with all his big yellow pointy teeth.

“So, King Art,” he said, smug as anything. “Seems I have you at a disadvantage, don’t I?”

King Art tried to smile. “Aye, that you do.”

“You know, it’d be the easiest thing in the world to buck off your head here and now,” said the Black Knight, nonchalantly.

“Aye, that it would,” said Art, in no position to disagree.

“Do you think I should?” said the Black Knight. “Then your kingdom would be mine. None of your knights are around to stop me.”
King Art stood and pulled himself up to his full height, which was still a good six inches shorter than the Black Knight.

“That’s true, I am defenceless, and it’d be easy to kill me now.”

The Black Knight grinned all the more at that. “I could, but you know what? I’m not going to. I’m going to have my fun first.”

King Art tried to look dignified, even though he was still dripping wet from his dip in the river. “And what’s that to be? Are you going to run me down like a wild beast? Gouge my heart out with a spoon? Bite my legs off?”

“Worse,” said the Black Knight, “I’m going to set you a challenge.”

Well, that hardly sounded worse to King Art. He was a pretty strong, wily pony, and he was fairly confident he could beat anything the Black Knight threw at him.

“Alright then, what’s your challenge?”

The Black Knight’s grin grew wider still, showing off more of his teeth. “You’re going to come back here, in a year, with the answer to my question.”

“Okay then,” said King Art. “What’s the question?”

“You'll never get the right answer,” said the Black Knight, grinning. “'Cos you see, the question is: What is it that mares desire more than anything else in the world?”

(Tales felt the atmosphere change. Glances and murmurs were exchanged, and there were a few isolated giggles. He made a point of making sympathetic eye contact with the small male contingent of the audience)

Well, King Art was feeling more than a little worried by that, but he was never one to let on.

“Hah! Only that?” he said, with false cheer. “That's easy!”

“You say that now,” said the Black Knight, “but if you don’t find the answer, the right answer mind you, you’ll be for it.”

To make his point, the Knight drew a hoof across his throat, as if King Art needed telling twice.

So, with that question in mind, King Art went back to his court at Canterlot to explain the challenge to his Knights. They all gathered around the Round Table (“Rectangular!”) to discuss what they should do about it.

“Why don’t we just find where this Black Knight bloke lives and beat the snot out him?” said Sir Gadabout, who it was said had been born with fists for brains.

“See, I would,” said King Art, “but he’d beat us right back. They say he’s not a mortal pony, and that he’s had every limb removed, only to grow them right back the next day.”

“Hmph, let’s see if he can re-grow his head,” muttered Sir Gadabout, but no one listened to him.

After some discussion, they agreed that they had better find the answer, and that the best way to do it would be the world’s first Public Attitudes Survey. They ventured forth into the kingdom of Canterlot, asking every mare they met, ‘what is it you desire more than anything in the world?’

And they got plenty of different answers. Mares wanted love,  they wanted friendship,  they wanted jam, tea, socks, money, a new house, the list went on.

(Tales could barely hear himself think over the general tittering, and the less salubrious suggestions the mint-green mare in the corner was whispering to the pony next to her).

King Art was none too sure they were the necessarily the right answer, but nonetheless, he wrote them all down dutifully.

So they searched the kingdom, asking every mare they met, until, eventually, the day rolled around again, when King Art had to see the Black Knight.

He went with his Knights this time just in case. They were making their way through the wood, when an old mare stepped out in front of them. And she was old. Old, old, old, old, old. So old the world ‘old’ stopped sounding like a real word. Her hair was grey and wiry, her face was wrinkled, her lips were thick and rubbery, and-

(Tales saw a lime-green earth pony of advanced years glaring at him from the third row. He stopped himself)

-anyway, she stepped out in front of the knights.

“Oi! You lot!” she said.

King Art pulled up short. “Hullo, ma’am, what can we do for you?”

“Nah, ‘s more about what I can do for you,” she said, grinning with all her teeth (all three of them). “See, I’ve got the right answer to your question.”

King Art frowned. “Hang on, how d’you know we’ve got a question? More to the point, who the devil are you?”

“'Round here, they call me Rag Nail. And never you mind how I know. Point is, I’ve got the answer. I know what mares desire more’n anything in the world, so if you want to live, you’ll wanna hear it.”

“Okay then, what is it?”

Rag Nail kept grinning. “I do sommat for you, you do sommat for me. I’ll give you the answer on one condition.”

King Art shrugged. Whatever she wanted couldn’t be as bad as dying. “Alright then, crone. Name it.”

“I want to marry one of your knights.”

King Art’s jaw dropped. He stared at her, hoping she was joking.

“You can fight among yourself for that honour,” she said, smugly.

He blanched and ran a hoof through his mane. Who the devil would want to marry this old harridan? 

“Alright then,” he said, turning to his knights, “which one of you wants to marry this old harridan?”

A grand total of no one said yes.

“Come on, chaps, please?”

Still no one.

“Anyone?”

Nope. King Art was about to swallow his pride and offer himself up, when Sir Goin’, the youngest knight, put up a hoof.

“I’ll do it, my liege,” he said, grimly. “What kind of Knight would I be if I left my lord to such a fate?”

King Art and the others sighed with relief.

“There we go then,” said King Art, turning to Rag Nail,  “you’ve got your half of the bargain, now give me mine.”

“Very well, y’lordship,” she said, “lean in, and I’ll whisper it to you.”

So he did, and she told him the answer. Instantly, King Art’s face lit up. Of course!

He was grinning from ear to ear now, as they set off. They met the Black Knight by the river, where he was sharpening a hoof-axe. When he saw the Knights arrived, he stood and sauntered over to them. It was anyone’s guess if he meant to make the light flash so menacingly off his axe.

“Alright then, let’s get this over with,” he said, standing nonchalantly. “I’ve got heads to be cuttin’ and a kingdom to be rulin'.”

So, they unrolled their long, long list of answers and read them all. The Black Knight laughed off every single one. King Art started to fret as the list was whittled down (he'd had a good feeling about 'money' and all), but he refused to look worried, certainly not in front of the Black Knight and very certainly not in front of his knights. Eventually, the Black Knight turned to him.

“That it? Shame, I was hoping you might find the right answer, but apparently not. Welp, put your head down, and we’ll get this over with-“

“Wait!” he said, “I have another answer!”

The Black Knight sighed. “Oh? Well, let’s hear it then.”

King Art took a deep breath to calm himself, then said, “What mares desire more than anything else in the world, is sovereignty. The ability to choose for themselves, and have their own way.”

(There was a cheer from the audience, and the handful of blokes in the audience gave Tales a desperate kind of look. He couldn't help but laugh)

The Black Knight's jaw fell open.

“How on earth did you know that...?” he said, incredulous.

“Oh, it was just a matter of asking the right ponies,” said King Art, checking his front hoof nonchalantly.

The Black Knight was furious! He stormed, stomped and stropped about, and eventually harrumphed and left, grumbling all the way.

Well, King Art was happy as Larry after that. After all, nothing cheers you up like knowing you’re not going to die. The knights returned to Canterlot in high spirits, fully prepared for a long afternoon, evening and night of carousing (and they were experienced carousers. No one could carouse like them. They were devils for a spot of carousing). However, as they drew nearer to the gates, they saw somepony waiting for them. Hunched, grey-haired and with a glare that could blister paint. Rag Nail was loitering like a bad smell.

“Oh, King Art, you survived! What good news!” she said, smiling broadly with all one of her teeth. “Now, am I getting married today or tomorrow?”

What could he do? Sir Goin’ had promised, so it was officially His problem. And Goin’ didn’t like it, but he had no choice. What kind of Knight would he be if he refused?

So it was arranged for them to be married that day. Of course, it was a full royal wedding, with all the pomp and ceremony that entails. Sir Goin’ wore his best armour, and his... bride was dressed up as best she could be. She at least looked presentable in her dress, but that couldn’t hide the fact she wasn’t the most genial of ponies. She passed wind at the altar, substituted the vows for ones of her own that blistered paint, and pelted the bouquet so hard it did a bridesmaid some serious damage.

It got worse at the reception. She slopped soup everywhere, she talked with her mouth full, and didn’t even bother trying to eat with any kind of manners, stuffing her face into her plate.

(Tales noted a white unicorn in the vicinity of Pink and Purple turning faintly green.)

She was, in short, an embarrassment. All the ladies of refinement (and colts of a different persuasion) who’d had their eyes on Sir Goin’ muttered and glared. How could he marry this grotesque old biddy? What did he see in her?

Thankfully, there came a point where she ran out of people to embarrass and offend and chose to leave. She staggered upstairs to the bedchamber, full of fine wine and finer food. Sir Goin’ stayed downstairs, not wanting to go and face what awaited him in bed. He hung around with the knights, enduring their jibes and jokes, knowing that anything they could do would be peanuts compared to the hideous thing he had in his wedding bed. He stayed for as long as he could, but eventually, he had to go.

He slunk upstairs, careful to be as quiet as he could. He crept up to the door of his room, and opened it just a crack. In the bed, he could see a lump where his... ugh, his wife, lay. Luckily she was snoring, with a sound like a bandsaw going through a table leg. Thank god! thought Sir Goin’, she’s asleep.

Carefully, he crept across the room, slid up beside the bed, twitched the covers aside and quick as anything, slipped in and twitched them back. His wife was still snoring behind him, and he felt his breathing slow. By degrees, he calmed down.

He was just about to settle down to sleep, when a pair of lips brushed his ear, and he heard a voice say, “And what about a good night kiss?”

Now, Goin’ had faced dragons, he’d faced manticores, he’d faced boggarts, bogeybeasts, Black Shuck and knuckers, but that was all small fry compared to this. Never before had he felt such total and utter bowel-knotting fear. He didn’t want to move. Every muscle in his body revolted at the idea of shifting so much as an inch. He tried to think of a way, any way out of this situation, but, damn it, he was still a knight. He was supposed to be fearless, noble, courageous and all those other things, and if that meant... what it was he had to do, then he’d damn well do it.

He shut his eyes tight and turned his head to hers slowly, not wanting to see what he’d shacked up with. He puckered his lips and leaned forward, fully expecting to meet his rubbery, wet, hairy doom.

But, he didn’t. He met quite the opposite. Warm, soft, sweet smelling. He opened his eyes, and immediately didn’t believe them. What had been a hideous, trollish, ill-mannered old biddy, was now a beautiful young mare, with a long raven black mane and big fluttering eyelashes.

“Who the devil are you?” said Sir Goin’, quite shocked.

“I’m your wife, you dolt. I'm Rag Nail.” she said, with a laugh like two champagne flutes chiming.

Sir Goin’ laughed nervously. “No you’re not. My wife’s... different to you.”

She rolled her lovely eyes. “Dear, that is me,” she took a deep breath. “It’s... it’s a curse. During the day I have to be... well, you met her. But at night, I’m myself, as you see me now.”

Sir Goin’ boggled.

“But, you see, now you’ve married me, you have to choose,” she said, her face set serious. “See, I can be like this during the day, or during the night. But, the rest of the time, day or night, I’ll be that crone you saw earlier.”

Now, this was a lot to lay on a guy who’d gotten married (and had a pretty stressful time about it) a few hours before, and Sir Goin’ was not a night owl. He was at his best mid-afternoon, maybe early evening, but definitely not at godawful past midnight. The point was, he was in a bind.

I mean, he was thinking he could have her be herself at night, and a crone by day. That was looking like a good idea right now, with her so very... close. He wondered idly how she’d look in tube socks...

Ach! But what kind of Knight would he be if he did that? He couldn’t leave her to be a crone in court. It’d be hell for her, running the gauntlet of jealous, bitchy maidens every day. No, better to leave her to be herself during the day. But that’d mean he’d have to sleep with... eesh, it didn’t bear thinking about. He mulled it this way and that, but whatever way he thought about it, he drew a blank.

Finally, he shook his head. “Sorry, I really can’t choose. You... you decide.”

And with that, she embraced him, tears of joy streaming from her eyes.

“You magnificent pony!” she said. “You’ve done it!”

“I have?” he said. “I mean, yes, I have! Wait, what have I done?”

“You’ve broken the curse, you pillock!” she said, grinning. “You’ve saved me!”

“But... how?”

“By granting me sovereignty, of course. By giving me the choice!”

So it was, the curse was broken, and all was well. Lady Rag Nail got to be herself at all hours, Sir Goin’ had a beautiful wife, and King Art didn’t die horribly. And if anyone noticed that the hag Sir Goin’ had married had mysteriously vanished, well, they didn’t mention it.

*    *    *
Tales bowed his head, and was greeted by a loud clatter of applause this time. Tales looked up to see Pretty in Purple was muttering to her companions, but they didn’t seem to be paying too much attention. The audience was on his side, it seemed. Inside, he sighed with relief. Right, now you’ve got them in your hoof, give them something good. Then we can be off to Connemara.

Something with local appeal, maybe. Of course, he didn’t he know about any town south of Manehattan. In Manechester, Herd’s Hollow, Buckston he’d be fine, but Ponyville...

Actually, there was one thing. Discord. He was a gold mine of stories. Some stories about Discord happened in Ponyville (although it wasn’t worthwhile believing everything you heard).

“Now, how about a newer story?” he said, over the cheers. “‘Cause I got one no more than a year old right here!”

“YES,” cheered the audience, except Pretty in Purple, who was still muttering about historical accuracy. Tales decided to pay her no heed. What did she know?
                    

> Chapter Six - The (Attempted) Reign of Chaos
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Six



The (Attempted) Reign of Chaos


This is a story from when Discord rocked up, looking to make trouble. He realised he would need a base of operations, somewhere where his chaos could spread from, so he thought long and hard about where he could go. He thought for a good long while before he decided to go for the town of Buckston.

Now, the ponies of Buckston heard Discord was coming for them, and their first reaction was, quite naturally, to panic. Some tried to flee, some stayed to fight, some tried to get everyone to calm down but only succeeded in getting themselves wound up.

One pony, though, wasn’t going to take this lying down, and his name was Dirt Cheap. He was an earth pony, and he decided he was going to do something about Discord.

“I’ll go out,” he said, boldly, “and I'll stop him in his tracks.”

Of course, no one heard him because they were all panicking. He sighed and went to fetch his father's gun. His father had been a traveller back in his day as far as Zebra country, where he had bought a jezzail, a kind of huge gun. It was as long as a pony then half as long again, a big metal pipe with a long lever for a trigger. It took all of Dirt Cheap’s not inconsiderable strength to lift it on to his back. He packed his saddlebags with powder and shot to load it, and set off out of the door.

“Where are you taking that?” said his mother.

“To stop Discord, mother,” he said, simply.

“Are you mad?” she said, incredulous that anyone would think to try, let alone her son. “You'll never kill him with that gun. He'll turn the shot into biscuits in mid-air, or he'll turn the gun into a drainpipe, or he'll turn you into something else unnatural! In fact, the only way you'll take him down with that gun, is if he puts it into his own mouth and pulls the trigger himself.”

Dirt Cheap shrugged. “If that's how it is, mother, that's how it'll be.”

And with that, he left, walking through town. Ponies stopped their panicking to watch this lone figure, walking quite calmly out of the town. Dirt Cheap paid them no heed, trying to think of a way to defeat Discord, ultimate force of chaos and commotion.

Already chocolate milk was falling, turning the long road out of Buckston to mud. The sky was pink with cotton candy clouds and the pigs were roosting in the trees. Regardless, Dirt Cheap walked on, the jezzail across his back, the shot and powder heavy in his saddlebags.

The rain became heavier, the clouds became thicker, and a troupe of dancing hippopotamuses rushed by. Dirt Cheap soldiered on through the storm, one hoof held out to shield himself from the driving chocolate milk. His burden grew heavier and heavier and heavier, until at last, he fell down at a crossroads.

He lay there for a while, face down in the mud until he heard laughter. Deep, hearty chuckling it was. He looked up and saw a proper jumble of a creature. Bits and pieces of every animal you could think of. A lion's paw, a dragon's claw, a goat's horn, wings of different colours, there was only one thing it could be.

Dirt Cheap lifted himself up and hollered over to him.

“Hey! Mr Discord!”

Discord turned and glided over with a sound like a steam whistle.

“Hullo, my little pony,” he said, with a grin like a peeled banana. Knowing him, it might actually have been a banana. “Wherever are you from?”

“I'm from Buckston,” said Dirt Cheap, his face stern underneath the mud.

“Is that right? And where are you going?”

“To find what I'm looking for.”

"How wonderfully vague.” said Discord. “And what's this on your back?”

“That,” said Dirt Cheap, smiling, “is a pipe.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Discord, irritably. “It's a long metal pipe with a wooden bit at the end and a little mechanism.”

“Ah, yes, but more correctly it's a smoking pipe.”

“Smoking pipe?” said Discord. He'd been in stone a long time, so he hadn't the faintest clue of what a pipe was.

“Yes, you put tobacco in one end, light it, then take a big drag of it into your chest, then blow out the smoke.”

Discord peered at the gun. “Sounds rather... interesting.”

He picked it up in both claws, this gun that Dirt Cheap could barely carry, and looked down the barrel and fiddled with the hammer and the trigger.

“How does it work?” he said, curiously.

“Ah, let me show you,” said Dirt Cheap. “Could you stop the rain for a moment? The tobacco must be dry if it's to light.”

Discord grumbled, but stopped the rain anyway. Dirt unhitched his saddlebags and set about pouring the powder into the gun.

"What's that?” said Discord, peering at it suspiciously.

“This is the tobacco,” said Dirt.

Then, he set about pouring lead shot into the barrel.

“And what's that?” said Discord.

“That's the weights,” said Dirt, ramming it all down, “to stop the tobacco from floating away.”

“Right,” he said, “now it's ready. First, you need to put the pipe bit into your mouth."

“'Ike 'is?” said Discord, his jaws wrapped around the muzzle.

“Yes, like that. Now, this is a rather fancy pipe. You see, you have to pull that lever down there, and the flint will make a spark and burn the tobacco.”

Discord nodded sagely. He reached out with a cloven hoof and pushed the trigger down. The flint fell, sparked in the pan, and then...

BANG!

It blew Discord's head clean off. With that one drag, he’d got higher than he'd ever been. His body keeled over backwards and landed in the mud with a slap as his head soared into the sky. Dirt Cheap smiled to himself and lifted the gun back onto his back with the bags of shot and powder, and set off back to Buckston.

Discord's head flew through the sky, through the clouds, into the stratosphere, orbited the earth once, then fell back down, through the fire of re-entry, back on to his neck at that crossroads.

He shook his head, checked it was all okay, and tried to remember where he was going. Buckston? No, not Buckston. Whenever he thought of Buckston, he got a terrible headache. He looked at the sign by the crossroads, and saw that one road led off to a town called Fetlock. There perhaps, he could set up his base of operations, his chaos capital.

So Discord set off on the road to Fetlock. However, he was seen by a lone pegasus, desperately trying to fight off the waves of pink clouds buzzing around the town. Seeing Discord coming down the road, she rushed back to Fetlock and told everyone what she'd seen. And again, there was panic. Ponies were about to flee, fight and try to calm each other down, when a single voice spoke out, loud and clear.

“Don't worry, everypony, I have a plan.”

The local cobbler, Boot Black, stood in the centre of town with a large bag, smiling proudly.

“I need all your old shoes,” she said. “Every pair you can spare, bring them to me.”

So they did. They were a little apprehensive, maybe, but Boot Black seemed to know what she was doing. Soon enough, every thrown horseshoe, every worn-out workboot, every out-of-style high heel in town was in that bag. Boot Black slung it on her shoulder and headed down the road towards Discord.

She walked over the hill just outside town, and sat by the roadside with her bag of shoes. Before long, levitating pies came, then the flying pigs, the line-dancing bison. Finally, Discord came along.

“Hullo,” said Boot Black, conversationally.

“Hello, my little pony,” said Discord, a little cautiously, maybe.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To Fetlock,” he replied.

Boot Black drew the air through her teeth, hissing and shaking her head.

“You don't wanna go there, mate,” she said. “Long way to Fetlock from here.”

“How far?”

“Well, I set off from Fetlock a good ten years ago,”

“Ten years?” said Discord, incredulously. “No way.”

“Yes way, mate,” said Boot Black. She lifted the bag of shoes and dumped it in front of Discord. “Because that's all the shoes I've been through since I set out.”

Discord balked.

“Well, to hell with that!” he roared. “I'll find somewhere closer!”

And with that, he turned back and stomped off. Boot Black smiled to herself, and when she was sure he wasn't watching, she slipped back to Fetlock with her bag of shoes.

So Discord stood at the crossroads again, fuming with anger, chocolate rain pouring down around him. This time, he looked up at the sign at the crossroads, and saw the arrow pointing down the road to Ponyville...”
*    *    *
“And of course, we all know what happened next!” said Tales.

“Of course we do, we were there,” said Pretty in Purple, abruptly. “This is absurd.”

“What do you mean absurd?” he said, more than a little hurt.

“All this! All these stories, all these... lies! Stupid tricks and chance encounters! That’s not how it works! That’s not real history!”

“Then what is ‘real history’?” Tales asked. Lies? As if they were lies! They were stories! A small voice in his head said, don’t get involved. This isn’t part of the plan, arguing with the audience. Come on you dolt, he thought, drop it or they’ll remember you as the arsehole who shouted at their friend!

“Magic!” she shouted, sounding somewhere between angry and desperate. “Dragons, princes, princesses, politics, brave heroes! That’s what history’s about!”

“We had King Art in there!” Tales protested, against his better judgement. “He’s a hero, and he’s real history!”

“Yes, but the Black Knight wasn’t!”

“Sir Goin’ got married to Lady Ragnail, that’s in books!”

“Yes, but it’s argued that-”

“SHUT UP.”

All eyes turned to a yellow pegasus, who abruptly shrank back.

“I’d just like to hear some more, is all...” she said, shrugging.	

“Ahem, sure, right, well.”

Tales scrambled for a story briefly. He cleared his throat.

“Well, as we all no doubt know, Discord’s return was not the first time Equestria has suffered under the rule of an eldritch abomination from before the dawn of time...”


> Chapter Seven - Nightmare Moon Meets Her Match
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Seven



Nightmare Moon Meets Her Match


You see, during the brief reign of Nightmare Moon, the Dark Tithes were established (Or, to use its proper name, the ‘Stygian Adjustment Tax’), the original basis for Nightmare Night. Every farmer was to give half of his crop directly to the Crown, so as to ensure food was distributed equally. Of course, since it was dark all the time, all crops had to be grown by lamplight. Farmers could hardly grow enough to feed themselves, let alone create a surplus, so the Tithe meant that inevitably they’d go hungry.

So one farmer (his name was Dutch Hoe) had had enough. He only had a small farm and the Tithe always hit him hardest, so he came up with a Plan. He went to the palace to seek an audience with Nightmare Moon. Now, she was eager to be seen as a benevolent and kind (which she wasn’t), so she let him grovel before her.

“Now, little pony,” she said, and she didn’t say ‘little pony’ the same way Celestia does. She knew you were little, and wanted to rub it in. “Why have you come?”

“Your Majesty,” he said, with a bow. “I have come to ask which half of my crop you would like this year.”

“Which half?” she said, puzzled.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like the half that grows above the ground, or the half that grows below the ground?”

“Well, what is it that you usually grow?”

“I usually grow wheat, you majesty.”

Nightmare Moon laughed, a deep and terrible laugh, like an echo from deep space.

“Why, then I’ll have half that grows above the ground!”

Dutch bowed again. “Very well, your majesty, as you demand.”

And he left and went back to his farm.

Time passed as time does, and all too soon it was harvest time. The farmers all took in their miserable crops and heaped up half for themselves and half for the Crown. Nightmare Moon herself went around with the taxponies and assessors to oversee the gathering of the Tithe. She took a bite of every farmer’s lot, just to make sure they weren’t trying anything on. Eventually, it came to Dutch Hoe’s farm, where a huge pile of fronds lay outside.

“Dutch Hoe! Is this half of your crop?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, humbly. “The half that grew above ground.”

Nightmare Moon leaned in and took a bite, just to check. She spat it out in an instant.

“What is the meaning of this?” she said, spluttering. “It’s vile! How is this suitable tithe?”

“Your Majesty, you asked for whatever grew above ground. I grew carrots,” he said, smiling.

Nightmare Moon raged and roared, stamped and stormed. She cursed Dutch Hoe and the ground he walked on, cursed his family to the Nth generation, but in the end, she took her half and left. Before she did though, she had A Word with Dutch.

“Well, little pony, if that’s how it’s going to be, next time I’ll have what grows UNDER the ground!”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” said Dutch, still smiling.

So another year passed. Dutch Hoe grew his crops and around him, the nation grew weary of Nightmare Moon’s tyranny. Soon enough, it was harvest season again. The  farmers arranged their crops in two piles, and Nightmare Moon and her taxponies  came to collect. They took potatoes, apples, corn and all sorts, and soon enough, they reached Dutch’s farm. But all he had in his tithe pile was a heap of roots.

“What the devil is this?!” cried Nightmare Moon. “Dutch Hoe, is this half your crop?”

“Certainly is, Your Majesty,” he replied, smiling. “The half that grew under the ground, just like you asked.”

“But I thought-”

“I grew wheat, Your Majesty.”

Nightmare Moon raged again. She stomped about, she threatened to blast Dutch Hoe’s farm to dust, to blast him into dust, but in the end she struck upon an easier solution. The Dark Tithe was to be collected from every farmer in Equestria. Every farmer, except Dutch Hoe. She had Plans for him.

She sent her Night Guards to bring him to her, for some punishment so terrible it’d be talked about for years to come in hushed tones, but when they got there, they found Dutch Hoe gone. He’d taken his surplus crops, hitched them on to his back and taken off for parts unknown.
*    *    *
There was a resounding round of applause, and Tales took a moment to take it in, smiling half in relief. Pretty in Purple was still sulking, of course.

“Well, it’s all the same now, of course,” said Tales, addressing the audience, but looking at her. “Princess Luna’s restored to us, and the Kingdom’s rejoiced.”

She just shuffled around to avoid eye contact. He frowned and thought for a moment. He could hear his old tutors, screaming at him to stop making this personal. You’re telling to a crowd, not an individual, they’d have shouted. Focus, you silly colt! A few stories, then we go on our way to Connemara! Not a personal vendetta!

“It doesn’t seem very appropriate to dwell on her past,” said Pretty in Purple, sulkily.

Well, that was that. From that, there was no stopping him.

“Well then what else am I supposed to tell?”

“I don’t know, anything!”

“Anything, huh? Well why don’t you try then, eh? If it’s so godamn easy to tell stories at the drop of a hat, why don’t YOU?”

He grinned nastily, until he realised Pretty in Purple was holding his gaze, and she was smiling back. That, he supposed, was worse than any violent outburst. He knew that smile. He’d seen mares smile that smile before. It meant she had a plan. He tried to think of some way to apologise, to take it back, but she was already standing up and walking over to him and he knew it was too late. She cleared her throat, quite calmly and faced the crowd.

"Well, I happen to know a story,” she said, icily. “I might not be able to embellish like you do, but I still think I have one or to two worth telling.”

Tales didn’t dare contradict her. Not if she was putting inflexions like that on the word ‘embellish’. Inflexions like that could do a pony some serious injury. She cleared her throat politely.

Twilight was not, for the most part, a pony given to theatrics. She did what she did, and did it in a well-organised and reasonable manner. She was not, and had never thought of herself as a performer. She had no spiel, no rapport and no experience. Luckily, she didn’t know that she needed it.

What she did know, was that she didn’t strictly speaking, have a story. Oh she had history, battles, princes, princesses, magic weapons, and such, but as for stories....

Well, there was one. She remembered it with the smell of cocoa, dragon smoke and almonds. Smells of the Palace, smells of the Princess. She cleared her throat, and began.

“When Spike was little, he used to be a real hoof-ful. I haven’t much experience with foals,” she said, with a pointed look to Mr. and Mrs. Cake, “but I know Spike. And when Spike’s bad, he’s bad.”

The aforementioned dragon in the second row folded his arms and harrumphed, but said nothing.

“So whenever he got too much, I told him this story about what happens to dragons who go bad...”

> Chapter Eight - The Dragon of Canterlot
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Eight



The Dragon Of Canterlot


This story actually happened, five hundred and twenty-three years ago, and I know that because it was told to me by somepony who was there. And what happened was this; a dragon came marauding across Equestria from the East over the sea, through the farmland towards Canterlot. And he wasn’t a nice small dragon like Spike, or a reasonable dragon like the one we convinced to leave last year. He was a big, angry dragon. Huge teeth, long, sharp claws and big yellow eyes. He could swallow a house in a single mouthful, he could burn an acre in a second, he could...

(“Sorry Fluttershy,”she said, shrugging to the yellow pegasus who was shaking like a leaf, “but that’s how it was.”)

He burnt everywhere, from Manehattan all the way inland to Canterlot, leaving nothing but ashes in his path. He destroyed homes, stole anything of any worth and even burnt and ate anypony who opposed him (or just burnt and ate them anyway). And of course, the more he stole and the more he burned, the larger and more dangerous he became.

A big dragon needs a big cave, and the biggest caves around were under Canterlot. So it was natural that he’d go there to sleep for a thousand years, which as we already know, would be a bad, bad thing. The dragon dug through into the old gem mines, where it bedded down on its treasure and soon, smoke billowed out of every crack and crevice on the mountain.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why Princess Celestia couldn’t deal with it. She is, after all, the most powerful pony in the land, who lifts and controls the sun (and at the time, the moon too). Well, you see, any magic she had great enough to defeat the dragon would’ve blown Canterlot off the mountain. A more nuanced, subtle solution was needed.

First, the Guards went in to fight it. They marched down the tunnels, with their shining spears, their shining armour (“But not my brother,” she muttered to herself, “he wasn’t born then, let alone in the guard.”), and their can-do attitudes, chests puffed out and their heads held high. They exited the caves mere moments later, scorched, battered and bruised. The dragon clearly couldn’t be removed by force.

So the university professors, all powerful unicorns, went in. They all had more specialised magic than Celestia, and had trained for years in their fields. There were experts in levitation, alteration, teleportation, thaumo-harmonics (theory and practice) and narrative causality. Famous ponies, like Doctor Golden Cowl, Professor Tinderdry and The Emeritous Professor Sunshine Lolipop the Sardonic.

(“Who?” said someone in the audience. Twilight just rolled her eyes and sighed.)

And, just like the Guards, they ran back out moments later, singed and fearful, and with them, came the dragon, with an ultimatum for the Princess.

“Now, this just isn’t neighbourly, interrupting of my sleep like this,” he said, in his deep booming voice (Although Twilight knew she couldn’t hope to match Celestia’s original dragon voice). “What’s say we make a deal? I’ll stop burning and looting and eating your kingdom, and in return, you send me... oh, I don’t know... one filly a month, just in case I get hungry down there.”

(“Not of course that he needed it, since dragons subsist entirely on a carbon-silicon diet,” she said to herself. “I think it’s symbolic of something, but I’m not sure what.”)

“Never,” said the Princess. “We don’t negotiate with bullies.”

“But you will,” said the dragon. “Because if you don’t, I’ll smoke out your entire kingdom, then I’ll eat whatever’s left and take all the shiny bits back to my horde here.”

“You’d never.”

“Watch me.”

So, what was the Princess to do? She held an emergency court session, to see if anyone else could see a way to solve the crisis, because at this point, any solution was better than giving in to the dragons demands. Every member of the upper crust in Canterlot went. Every Earl, every Duke, every Lord, every Prince and Princess, all looking for some reassurance that someone knew how to deal with the malign presence under the city.

Unfortunately, no one did. Everypony just stood together and worried. Princess Celestia was doing her best to keep everyone calm, but they were getting more nervy by the minute, more anxious. It was only a matter of time before everyone panicked, and then there’d be no saving Canterlot, no saving Equestria.

But at this point, when things looked at their worst, a single earth pony stepped forward.  His name was Doc Marten, but he wasn’t even a doctor. He didn’t even have a master’s degree. He wasn’t even a liberal arts major. He was a cobbler, and he was sick and tired of the dragon. It had burned his shop, destroyed his livelihood and now threatened to smoke out his country. He marched into that meeting and stood before Princess Celestia.

“Milady,” he said, because he didn’t have the time or patience for court etiquette. “I have a solution for our problem.”

Of course, the court was in uproar. Who was this pony?  A mere earth pony, and a tradespony. Just who did he think he was? But Doc was nonplussed, as was the Princess, who simply held up a hoof for silence.

“I shall need a woolen fleece,” he said, “and a hundred pounds of sulphur.”

“And how will that save us from this dragon?” she asked, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"Don't worry," he said, smiling. "I know what I'm doing."

No other solution presented itself, so she had to take his word for it. So it was agreed. Princess Celestia would provide Doc Marten with as much sulphur as he needed and a sheepskin (a gift in rather poor taste from a griffon ambassador). Doc filled the skin with the sulphur, and stitched it up so it looked, from a distance, like a sheep. Then he put it on his back and carried it down the tunnel to the dragon’s lair.

Down in the caves, it was smoky and dark, but Doc kept going. Eventually he reached the main chamber where the dragon lay, big as a castle atop his gleaming pile of treasure, puffing smoke and snoring. Doc cleared his throat gently, and the dragon awoke, eyes snapping open.

(“He was probably a light sleeper,” said Twilight. “There are instances of dragons sleeping through wars taking place literally on top of them.”)

“Who dares awake me?” the dragon boomed, as dragons are wont to do.

“Ahem, er, me,” said Doc, feeling less certain. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

“A gift? Is it gold?”

"No.”

“Jewels?”

“No.”

“Does it shine?”

“Not as such...”

“Well what use is it to me, then?”

“You could eat it,” said Doc, shrugging. “I brought you a sheep, milord, as a snack to keep you while you slept.”

“Sheep?” he said, enraged. “I asked for FILLIES!”

(When she first heard that bit, Twilight had almost wept with fear. When she wanted to be, Celestia could be astonishingly loud)

“Ah, yes, well, think of this as a down payment,” said Doc, quaking in his size-nines “We’ll give you the sheep now, and a filly later, how does that sound?”

The dragon grumbled. “Oh, well, if you say so. Just leave it there, would you?”

Doc nodded and bowed, and left his gift in front of the dragon. For a moment, wondered if his plan could work. The sheepskin seemed so small in front of the dragon... 

Regardless, he backed out and ran out of the cavern, up through the caves, and back to Canterlot. Everypony sneered when he emerged unharmed and unburnt. What kind of dragon-killer was he?

Meanwhile, the dragon was intrigued by the sheep. He sniffed it, and it smelled... tangier than usual. This wasn’t like any other animal he’d ever eaten. (“Dragons have good eyesight at long range, but they can’t focus on objects too close,” said Twilight, helpfully, “which explains why he couldn’t tell the difference between a sheep and a sheepskin full of sulphur.”). He took it between his teeth and, in one swift movement, swallowed it.

Sulphur, you see, is to dragons what salt is to ponies (She spoke from experience here. She’d fed Spike sulphur tablets and charcoal biscuits as an experiment when she was little, and that had ended spectacularly badly), and the dragon had just eaten a hundred pounds of the stuff. Even on a dragon of his size, that was enough to affect him. It made him terribly thirsty, his tongue shrivelled and his throat closed up.

That made him mad. He wanted water. No, he needed water, like he’d never needed anything else in his life. He thrashed and writhed, shaking the mountain from top to bottom, bringing some of the higher spires in Canterlot crashing down. Everyone stared at Doc Marten in shock. If anything, he seemed to have made things worse. Finally, the dragon could take it no longer, and he burst out of the mountain through the cliff.

He flew up high in search of water. He cast about desperately and, there! He saw the river, flowing through Canterlot and down the waterfall. He dived down and sat underneath it, drinking it dry in one gulp.

Now, as anypony knows, water and fire makes steam, and inside that dragon there was a surplus of fire, and now there was a surplus of water too. Thus, a surplus of steam was created. And, also as anypony knows, steam expands, but the dragon didn’t have a surplus of space inside him.

(She loved that line. It was just so neat)

The blast was heard as far away as Timbucktoo. Bits of dragon rained for miles around,  and the threat was no more. Doc Marten was hailed as the saviour, not only of Canterlot, but of the whole of Equestria. There were those who demanded he be given a knighthood, others that he be made a duke, other still that he deserved every penny of the dragon’s loot, but when asked what he’d like for a reward, all he asked for was enough money to set up his old cobbler’s business again, and go back to the life he knew. This was granted, and his fame ensured he always had business.

The dragon’s hoard was used to fund the rebuilding of the kingdom, and thus, Equestria rose again. A few weeks later, a set of shoes were delivered to the castle for the Princess. Each one was made from dragon skin, beautifully stitched, and (Twilight could vouch for this) smelled faintly of sulphur.

*    *    *

“...and so, Princess Celestia told me, that if Spike got too much, I should tell him that story, and warn him that if he didn’t start behaving, I’d go tell Doc Marten, and he’d make him into shoes!”

There was a ripple of laughter and applause. Tales laughed too, to cover the fact he was screaming in terror inside. By all accounts, this was a disaster. There was another teller and she was just as good as he was. She was up here, telling a tale he didn’t know, and she was being applauded. How was he supposed to get away now? She’d challenged him now. He tried to think of some cruel story to tell about uppity unicorns who got their comeuppance.

“I’m not sure I quite get along with all these stories,” said a white unicorn in the second row. “They’re all so...” she waved a hoof vaguely, “sordid. I mean, I’m not squeamish (shut up, I’m not), but exploding dragons, eyes gouged out, abominable table manners? Why can’t we have any pleasant stories?”

“Why don’t you tell one, Rarity?” said El Pinko.

Tales almost lost it there and then. He was going to let this preening sod on stage? He was going to LET THIS HAPPEN?

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” said the unicorn. “I mean, I’m not sure I really know any stories.”

Damn right you don’t, he thought, sullenly.

“Come on, it’ll be fun!”

No it won’t, thought Tales. You try doing it every day of your life. You spend three weeks living out of one suitcase and see how you like it! You try learning how to sleep on park benches! Walk a mile in my horseshoes!

“Yes, Rarity,” said Pretty in Purple, smiling wanly. “I bet you’d be great at this.”

The unicorn glanced away bashfully. “I suppose... I suppose I have one...”

OH NO YOU DON-


> Chapter Nine - The Instrument
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Nine



The Instrument (Or, Tales Makes a Run For It)


I read this story a long time ago. It happens in the City of Artists, where all the greatest craftsponies lived. Every buildings was designed by the best architects and built by the best masons. Every stitch of clothing was hand-made by the greatest tailors ever to walk the face of the earth, all made in the best possible taste. And it wasn’t just craftsponies who called the city home, there were great poets, great actors, (“Great storytellers too, presumably,” she said, nodding to Tales, who seethed quietly.) and, of course, great musicians. The greatest musicians of all were the Tune family. There was father Toe-Tappin’, mother Soft, daughter Sweet and the son, Jazzy.

The mother, father and sister were all brilliant musicians, naturally, and would play at all the greatest occasions. All the great society balls, soirees, box socials, and the like, when everypony dressed in their finery to let their manes down (“Not literally, of course, they spent a fortune getting their hair up, but you get the idea.”). The family all had cutie marks of music, of notes and of instruments, but Jazzy had no such luck. His flank remained blank, no matter what his parents tried. They gave him lessons, they tutored him in musical theory and musical practice, but despite their best efforts, they had no luck.

In fact, they had worse than no luck. Jazzy wasn’t just bad at music, he was downright awful. Guitars de-tuned whenever he went near them, piano strings snapped and violins screeched before he so much as picked them up. It was clear that Jazzy would never become a great musician, or even a good musician. At this rate, he’d never be any kind of musician at all. 

His parents shook their heads and awaited the day when it all fell into place for him, but that day never came. They had to face the fact that their son would never play with them. With great regret, they had him apprenticed to one of the city’s carpenters. Jazzy went, albeit reluctantly, and became a reasonably successful carpenter. Not the best, since this was the City of Artists and the bar was always set high, but he was still good enough.

So, time passed, and Jazzy might have stayed a carpenter if it hadn’t been for one thing. You see, in the City of Artists, there were always disputes over who was really the best. The tailors like Stitching Time and Golden Fleece, the jewellers like Get-DeBeers-In, the architects, the masons, the carpenters and, of course the musicians were always at each other’s throats, never content in being good. They always wanted to be the best. So naturally, they always argued about it. In an attempt to end the quarreling and bickering, Princess Celestia announced there was to be a grand competition of all the artists, to decide exactly who would be the best.

Now, when Jazzy heard about this, he was crestfallen, because he knew he’d have no place in it. His family would be performing as their band without him, and while he was a good carpenter, there was no way he’d be able to show his face at the competition. 

So instead, he went out into the woods that bordered the city with his guitar on his back. He mightn’t be able to use it, but he liked the sentimental value. And in the woods, when no one was around, he’d play it and tell himself that, no matter what, he’d get a cutie mark in music one day.

He was just getting to the end of murdering one tune, when he was distracted by a rustling in the shrubbery. Curious, he  brushed it aside and saw... well, what did he see but two little pegasus ponies, neither taller than a knitting needle, with beautiful gossamer wings. They were both smiling at him.

“‘Ullo, Jazzy,” said one.

“Good afternoon,” Jazzy replied, always polite to a fault.

The little ponies giggled. “You play the guitar, don’ you?” said the other.

“Um, yes,” he said, shyly. “Not very well, though.”

“Dun’ matter,” said the first, “'ow’d you like to come and perform for our king?”

Jazzy wanted to say no, but to his horror, found himself saying, “Of course.”

(Tales couldn’t help but sympathise.)

“Great! Follow us, then.”

The little ponies took off, Jazzy close behind. They flew this way and that through the woods, until they reached a tall tree, The two little ponies flew into a hole under one of the big, rugged roots.

“Down here, mate!” one shouted, just before he vanished.

Jazzy glanced about, a little puzzled. The hole looked just about big enough for him to fit in, so he squeezed himself through, pulling his guitar behind. He crawled down through that hole until he saw light at the end of it. Finally, he came out in a grand chamber.

Now, Jazzy had grown up in the City of Artists. He was used to opulence and grandeur, but even he was surprised by the beauty of this room. He hadn’t have expected much from a party at the bottom of a rabbit hole, but he was in for a surprise.

The ceiling reached high over his head, a great vaulted roof with tall, stained glass windows. Ponies swanned this way and that in long, flowing gowns and fine suits. They were years out of fashion (That had always struck Rarity as odd) but here they looked just right. And they were dancing, eating, drinking and laughing together, without a care in the world. At the far end of the room, a big rotund unicorn with a red, bushy beard was seated in a high throne, looking like a hot-air balloon in his finery. When Jazzy entered, he stood and gestured him to come.

“Ah! The entertainment!” he said, shaking the room with his deep, booming voice. “You’ve come rather early, I’m afraid. The music and the dancing will come at the end of the proceedings, so until then you can go about your business. Eat! Drink! Be merry!”

Jazzy thanked him and bowed. He went to the buffet, where there was a fabulous spread of food and drink. Naturally, he went for the drink to drown his fears. Performing in front of such a crowd seemed unthinkable! He knew as well as anyone that he couldn’t play so much as a chord without causing physical pain (Gosh, he was thinking, wasn’t this good wine?). He pondered how he could escape it, moving on to the food. It had been a while since he’d last eaten, and the food all looked rather good.

He watched the ponies pass him by, and noted they all seemed... off, somehow. As though there was some unacknowledged way ponies should be, and they all differed from it in a way you sensed more than saw. Jazzy watched them carefully, wondering just where in Equestria he was.

He didn’t have long to wonder before the big chap in the throne stood and threw a hoof  up for silence.

“Friends! It’s been a fantastic night, hasn’t it?”

Night? thought Jazzy. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon when he’d last checked.

“Now, I hope you all brought your hooves for dancing, ‘cause we’ve got none other than this guy,” he said, gesturing to Jazzy, who found himself cast suddenly into a spotlight, “who will delight us all with tunes from his homeland, won’t he?”

Jazzy was about to protest, but something in the unicorn’s tone made him reconsider. He levitated his guitar-

(“Oh, yes, he was a unicorn, did I not mention it?” Rarity blurted. Tales winced on her behalf.)

...And started to play. He gritted his teeth and dropped his ears, all too ready to face the jeers and protests of his audience, but instead, he heard music. Beautiful, and lilting. He played, or rather found himself playing, a gentle waltz. All the ponies present took partners and started dancing, but Jazzy paid it no heed. He simply focused on playing, astonished at this change.

After the waltz, he played a polka, then something wilder still, until he was barely thinking of what to play and just played. Around him, the ponies danced like the floor was on fire, reaching fever pitch. The noise, the movement, it was all a blur, and Jazzy saw as those ponies shifted, into something part pony, part something else entirely, things of unspeakable beauty and grace.

And then, all of a sudden, it ended. Jazzy’s music came to a natural stop, and the dancers slowed and went still, now all definitely ponies (and all looking like they had never been anything else). Jazzy panted, and dropped to the floor, his guitar clattering beside him. Across the dance floor, from the throne came a unicorn stallion, slate-grey with black beady eyes. He was smiling broadly.

“Thank you, Jazzy,” he said, bowing his head. He spoke with a gentle, Connemaran accent.

“H-how?” was all Jazzy could think so say.

“You drank our drink and ate our food,” he said, simply. “We find that it helps ponies really shine.”

“Who... who are you?”

The stallion’s smile didn’t falter. “We’re the grey folk, the Seelie, the Flitterponies. We are the Other Guys,” said the stallion, with a dismissive gesture. “But enough about us! We haven’t discussed your payment!”

“Payment?”

“Yes, for services rendered!” said the stallion, slapping Jazzy on the back. “What about a new instrument?”

“A new instrument...?” said Jazzy, breathlessly. “But, I’m no good, I’m a terrible musician!”

The grey pony chuckled. “Your flank says otherwise.”

Jazzy looked down, and where before he’d been blank, there were now three musical notes on his side. His mouth opened and shut with shock. The grey stallion just kept smiling.

“Now, about that instrument...”

And like that, one was brought forward by two grey pegasus. To call it merely a guitar would be to insult it. Never before and never since would there be a more beautiful and perfect instrument. It wasn’t a guitar, so much as the essence of a guitar, distilled. Its lines were sleek and straight, a mighty V of dark, varnished mahogany. Jazzy took it gratefully.

“Thank you,” he said, staring at his instrument. With something like this, he could become a truly great musician, worthy of the name of Tune. Then, he remembered. The competition! His family! If there was anywhere he needed to be, he needed to be there.

He coughed politely and turned to the grey stallion. “If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

The stallion nodded and gestured to the exit. Jazzy left the ballroom, went back up the tunnel, guitar strapped to his side. He came up into the forest again, under a clear blue afternoon sky, and set off at a gallop for the city.

In the City Hall, the competition was is full swing. The architects had presented their offerings, the bakers had made theirs, as had the carpenters. The Princess herself was watching proceedings, seated at the head of the hall. In front of her, artists queued for their chance to show their greatness, and slowly, they worked their way through

Soon enough, they had reached the musicians, and this being the City of Artists the competition was very tough. The Tune family were feeling a little uncertain at this point, a little worried that they mightn’t succeed. More than a little, in fact. They were terrified. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to put their reputations on the line and be rated alongside every other musician. They all seemed so much better.

They had no time to doubt, however. They were called up to perform. Toe-Tappin’ was on saxophone, Soft was on double bass and Sweet was on drums. They made eye contact and tried to calm each other. They'd rehearsed endlessly together for this moment, but they couldn't help but allay the feeling something was missing. All eyes were on them, and they were just about to start, when the doors at the far end of the hall flew open, and Jazzy entered. He was carrying what looked to everyone like half a guitar.

He walked straight up to his family, and hopped up on to the stage. There was an outburst from the queue, consternation as musicians contended this late arrival, when Jazzy levitated his guitar and strummed it. The notes rang out loud and clear, and hung in the air, humming for a moment. That silenced any complaints. And then, just like that, they burst into song.

They played Bahrns, they played Marezart, they played their own tunes, and when they ran out, they played whatever came to them. Through it all, Jazzy’s guitar screamed, weaving the song together as they played to the beat of Sweet’s drums. When they finished, the silence was overpowering. The assembled artists, even though they were a cut-throat and jealous lot, applauded. The other musicians got up and left, knowing when they were beaten. And Princess Celestia approached them, gliding down from her podium.

“Well, I think we have our winner,” she said, smiling broadly. “Congratulations.”

He stepped up on to the stage and shook their hooves in turn. When she reached Jazzy, her smile became more... curious.

“May I see your guitar?” she said, pleasantly.

He levitated it to her and she took it in her hooves, turning it over, examining it. After a moment, she smiled and passed it back to Jazzy.

“It’s a good instrument,” she said. “A rare thing for a pony to possess.”

Jazzy stayed silent, and simply nodded.

So, the Tunes were officially recognised as the greatest musicians in the entire city, Jazzy got his mark in music, and they all lived well and happy for the rest of their days.

*    *    *
“...now I don’t know how true that is, but I know for a fact that there’s a funny-looking guitar in the Canterlot museum, and they all say it came from the City of Artists. So make of that what you will.”

Tales stamped the ground in applause with everypony else. Inside, he was just... tired.

“Right, everypony,” he said, brightly, because if nothing else, being a storyteller meant you could act. “I think now would be a good time to have an interval.”

“Oh yes!” shouted the Pink Devil. “We can all go to Sugarcube Corner!”

There was a universal cry of agreement. Well, of course, Tales thought. It wasn’t a proper show without someone desperately advertising something. The pink one led the audience off to wherever. Purple and White followed on, chatting excitedly, leaving Tales alone.

He leaned back against the fountain and stuck his head in and didn’t take it out until he was running out of air. Then he swept his head back out and slumped down, dripping water.

Okay, now he felt better. He fished his bowler hat out of the foutain and shook it out.

Well, Ponyville seemed like a nice enough town. Large green spaces, nice architecture, pleasant community, and he had to leave immediately. He was confused, tired and out of time. They could do without him now. He’d started them off and they’d taken matters into their own hooves, telling stories for themselves. He told himself he’d shown Pinko all he needed to show her, and to be honest, things had turned out as well as could be expected. Right?

He got up and went. After all, he thought as he walked through the park, that was only the plan, wasn’t it? Show them proper storytelling, and leave. Simple as anything, and they seemed to have picked it up pretty quick. It was past sunset now, but the summer sun hung just behind the hills and lit the horizon faintly. Tales walked through the town, lost in his thoughts. He barely heard a gale of laughter behind him.

He was just setting out on the long road to the coast, a noise behind him, pierced his thoughts. It sounded like a spring twanging. Curious, he turned and saw...Oh god no.

The Pink One, the Pink Devil, the Terror From Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under The Candy Store was bouncing after him. Her expression was one of vapid, vacuous happiness.  She’d ask him to keep telling. She’d ask him not to leave, and he’d have a hard time saying no.  She’d want a reason, and he’d be entirely without one. Tales let his legs think for him, and he ran.

He ran like he’d never run before. He ran until his lungs hurt, then he trotted until his legs ached too. That didn’t faze him much though, truth be told. He knew he had to escape. He didn’t stop running until he was over the bridge and a good half-mile out of town. He collapsed by the roadside, panting. He lay for a moment to catch his breath. He could probably make it to another town tonight. Some other small farming burg perhaps. Bargain a few stories for a bed, maybe. He’d be alright. Keep moving was the important thing.

He went to get up, and a helping hoof was offered. He took it gladly and hauled himself up, only to find himself face to face with...

Oh no.

He sighed, defeated. “What do you want?”

“Well I was gonna tell you that we’d all gone into Sugarcube Corner and you’d got us thinking and we’d all started telling stories and it was all really fun ‘cause there’s cake and coffee and tea and stuff there, so we were all having fun and it turned out Ditzy Doo knows all forty-six verses of Tam Lin and Blossomforth was telling us a pegasus epic about the Trotjan War and they just go on and on, and I thought it was a shame that you weren’t there, so I went to look for you ‘cause I thought ‘gee what a shame that our storyteller isn’t here while we’re, y’know, telling stories', and I know that someone like you would be able to get Fluttershy to tell a story, ‘cause she’s so shy, and we’re taking it in turns and oh wouldn’t you please please please come please?”

She was grinning so broadly that Tales was entirely without a clever simile. He thought to say no, he thought to protest, and he definitely thought to tell this filly to shut the hell up and leave him alone. He had better things to do, he had to get to Connemara for the gathering. He couldn’t afford  to spend any more time here.

But... what was he if not a storyteller? Maybe... maybe he’d learn some new stories to tell at Connemara to show Loose Oats and Knell Phoenix. Maybe if he just made a short detour.

So, against his better judgement, he said, “Yes.”

> Chapter Ten - Tales Tells All
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Ten


Tales Tells All


As Pinkie had said, they were telling stories in Sugarcube Corner. ‘Colgate’ Minuette was holding the floor with a tale about three bears and a blonde filly, while the audience sat around drinking the wide and wonderful selection of warm beverages sold at Sugarcube Corner (only one bit thirty for hot chocolate and a muffin of your choice, offer until this Saturday).

And, as Pinkie had also said, Fluttershy was having no part in it. She’d tucked herself into a little yellow and pink ball in the corner, trying to shrink back behind her mane. Pinkie pointed her out to Tales as they walked in the door, and he couldn’t help but feel... irritated, yes, but also sympathetic. Hadn’t he been like that once?

He sidled over to her, unnoticed by the others in the cafe (Minuette was good, after all), and took a seat. Pinkie had been talking about Fluttershy all the way back to town, and Tales didn’t fancy his chances. She sounded like the wettest wet blanket in existence.

“Hullo,” he said, smiling as kindly as he could.

“'lo,”she replied.

“So, everyone’s telling stories, huh?”

“‘s.”

“Do you think you’ll join in?”

“No.”

“Aw, whyever not?”

“Don’ wanna.”

Tales bit his lip. 

“Huh. So, not feeling up to it?”

“Too many ponies.”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “All your friends are out there, and they told stories.”

“All two of them.”

He rolled his eyes. “Are you always like this?”

There was a pause.

“‘s.”

Tales sighed.

“Sorry.”

Behind them, Minuette finished to a round of applause and Fluttershy shrank back even further. Hm, clearly he’d have to do better than just telling her to buck up and be brave.

“Well, you wouldn’t be the first to have trouble telling stories,” said Tales, nonchalantly.”There’ve been more than a few ponies who couldn’t bear to.”

“Are you going to tell a story about one?”

Damn, she caught on fast.

“Yes, I am. But this story’s different, on account of it being true.”

*    *    *
Once, in the north, there was a pony, and his name was Trotsky McGee. He was not a rich pony. He had no qualifications, no skills, nothing. He worked on farms as hired help, but since no single farm had work all the year round he had to go from place to place, looking for work. This meant that more often than not, he’d have to rely on the kindness of others if he was going to get a bed for the night.

Of course, the ponies in the north are a hospitable lot, so anypony travelling far from home could expect to stay at least one night in someone’s house. They’d get food, a bed and rest, provided they gave something in return, which was most commonly a story. Real or made up didn’t matter, so long as you told one.

Now this was bad news for Trotsky. He couldn’t tell stories to save his life. He’d turn up at a stranger’s house, receive his food and bed, but when it came to tell a story, he’d curl up in a corner and mutter that he didn’t know any. This, naturally, tended to irritate a lot of ponies. In the best case scenario, he was grudgingly allowed to sleep in the shed. Worst case scenario, he was thrown out.

And it was one cold, wet autumn evening when Trotsky was wandering down a long and lonely road when this really got him into trouble. The wind was blowing and the rain was coming down in sheets, turning the path into mud. He stumbled on through it all, wrapping his anorak around himself. He was cold and hungry, and was just on the verge of panic, when he saw a flicker in the gloom.

He went towards it, and soon that flicker became a glow, which revealed itself to be a small thatched cottage, with friendly warm light shining through the windows. Trotsky dashed over to the door and hammered on it. It was opened by a short, wide mare with a big grin.

“Hullo,” she said, brightly. “Do come inside.”

Trotsky thanked her and hopped in. It was warm and cosy inside, a pot of stew bubbling above a blazing fire. Steam rose from Trotsky’s coat.

"Hang up your jacket,” said the mare. “So, young colt, what’s your name?”

"Trotsky McGee," he said, hanging up his anorak.

She gasped and put a hoof over her mouth. Trotsky hoped she hadn’t heard about him and was about to throw him out. Instead, she grinned and shouted, “Moor! Come in here! We’ve been graced with the great Trotsky McGee!”

A second mare trotted out, tall and gangly. “Trotsky McGee? Well then, we’d best put some stew out for him, Appletree!”

The short mare hustled him over to the dinner table, while the tall mare doled out a bowl of stew for him. Shortly, he had a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread to eat.

“Er, how do you know who I am?” said Trotsky, a little uneasily
.
"Oh everyone knows about Trotsky McGee!” said Appletree, putting a kettle of water on. “When Trotsky McGee comes around, you always give him a bowl of stew, bread, and a cup of cocoa.”

Trotsky was a little confused, but didn’t say anything. Soon, he had a cup of hot cocoa steaming by his elbow.

“I say, this is very kind of you,” he said. “I don’t suppose I could sleep here?”

“But of course!” said Moor, cheerfully doling out stew for herself and Appletree. “When Trotsky McGee comes around, you always give him a bowl of stew, bread, a cup of cocoa and a good bed. You can borrow our bed tonight. We’ll sleep in the spare room, which we wouldn’t dream of inflicting on you.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Trotsky, who was now tucking into his stew.

“Oh well, you know what they say,” said Appletree, with a glint in her eye. “When Trotsky McGee comes around, you always give him a bowl of stew, bread, a cup of cocoa and a good bed, because he will always tell you the best stories,”

Trotsky spat out his cocoa in surprise. “You WHAT?”

“Trotsky McGee always tells the best stories,” Moor repeated, calmly.

“I’m sorry, you must have me mixed up with a different Trotsky McGee,” he said, desperately. “I can’t tell stories!”

Appletree nudged Moor, still grinning. “You see? So modest these celebrities. Go on, Mr McGee, just a short one.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t know any stories. I can’t tell you any.”

Moor and Appletree’s faces fell. “You what?”

“I can’t tell stories.”

Whup. His bowl of stew was gone. Whup. His cocoa was gone.

“The nerve,” said Moor, shaking her head solemnly, spooning the stew back into the pot.

“Some ponies,” Appletree muttered, drinking Trotsky’s cocoa. “Thinking they can just turn up under an assumed name and fleece a couple of trusting mares like us.”

Moor tutted.

“It’s not an assumed name, it’s my name,” he protested. “I really am Trotsky McGee!”

“You’re clearly not,” said Moor, “otherwise you’d have a story to tell us.”

“You’re lucky we’re the kindly sort,” said Appletree, “otherwise we’d throw you out. You can sleep in the spare room. That’s punishment enough, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Moor, “but you mark my words, we want you out by first light tomorrow.”

They hustled him upstairs, muttering about the youth of today (though neither was a day older than Trotsky). They pushed him into the spare room and shut the door sharply, leaving him alone.

He slumped down on the bed, which was a plank of wood. He curled up under the thin sheet and sighed. He wondered who the other Trotsky McGee was, and what he was like. Presumably if he was such a success, he wouldn’t have to walk anywhere. Carts would give him a lift in return for a dazzling tale, or he’d make money (actual money!) and be able to take a train. He slept in feather beds every night and ate white bread. Trotsky pulled the sheet around him. Yep, being a storyteller like that’d be alright.

He was just dozing on the edge of sleep, when he heard something coming up the stairs. It bumped up slowly, with a thump, thump, thump. He hunkered down under the sheet, hoping the two mares weren’t coming to wreak their revenge. The thump, thump, thump came closer, and then reached the top of the stairs with one final thump! Then, the sound was dragged along the landing, wood scraping on wood.

The door to his room creaked open, and three ponies walked in. They were fine unicorn stallions, dressed in top hats and tailcoats, one white, one grey, and one black. They were dragging a coffin behind them, which they laid slowly on the floor. The white one turned to the others.

“Who’ll help us carry the coffin?” he said, solemnly.

“Who else, but Trotsky McGee?” answered the other two.

They took Trotsky by the hooves and dragged him out of bed, then stood him up and lifted one corner of the coffin on to his back. The white unicorn took the other front corner and the grey and black ones too the back corners. Together, they carried the coffin back down the stairs, through the house and out into the night.

The weather was clear now, but the ground was still wet. Mud squelched under Trotsky’s hooves and splashed from the white unicorn on to his coat. The white unicorn didn’t seem to be getting any mud on him, though. Bloody magic, he thought.

They walked on, for what seemed like miles. The unicorns seemed to be moving just slightly faster than Trotsky. Not so fast they outpaced him, but just fast enough that the coffin bounced and dug into his shoulders. And despite the fact these stallions were clearly so strong and capable, it seemed to Trotsky that all the weight was on him.

Eventually, they reached a gateway, overgrown with brambles. The unicorns forged on through it, Trotsky being pushed by the weight of the coffin. Briars and thorns scratched at his legs and sides, drawing blood. Through the gate, was a graveyard.  They walked between the headstones, until the three unicorns stopped at an empty plot.

“Who’ll dig the grave?” said the grey unicorn.

“Who else but Trotsky McGee?” answered the other two.

They put the coffin on the ground slowly, and lo and behold, there was a shovel waiting for him. He lifted it and started to dig. The shovel sank into the soft earth easily, but it was still hard work. After what seemed like an age, Trotsky was stood at the bottom of a hole six feet long by two feet wide by six feet deep. He clambered out, and found that the unicorns and lifted the lid off the coffin.

It had been empty the whole time! He opened his mouth to say something, but the black unicorn spoke first.

“Who’s going to get into the coffin?”

"Who else but Trotsky McGee.”

He felt two heavy hooves on his shoulders, pushing him into the coffin. He thought to resist, but he couldn’t move a muscle. The unicorns laid him in, crossing his front hooves over his chest, and slowly they levitated the lid down over him. He lay in pitch darkness, his nose just brushing against the lid. He felt them lift the coffin over to the grave and lower it in. The heard them take the shovel and he heard the pitter-patter of soil on the lid of the coffin.

And that sound broke whatever spell he was under. He burst out of the coffin, leapt out of the hole, ran through the graveyard, through the brambles, down the road, back to the house, up the stairs and under the sheets where he lay curled up, trembling. Somehow, he went to sleep.

The next morning was bright, clear and cool. Trotsky lifted his head slowly, his mind buzzing with thoughts of last night. Who were those unicorns? What had they been doing? No, it didn’t matter now. He was safe. It was all a dream.

Except that now, in the light of day, he could see the muddy hoofprints on the floor. His muddy hoofprints. He could feel the bruise on his shoulder where the coffin had dug in, and of course, all down his sides and legs were cuts and scratches from the thorns. He sat for a moment and gaped in shock.

After that, he very quickly reached a decision. He jumped out of bed and dashed downstairs. He pulled his anorak on quickly and pushed the door open. Behind him, he heard Moor and Appletree come down the stairs.

“Oh, just leaving were we?” said Appletree, snarking all she could.

“Damn right I am,” said Trotsky. “I’m not staying a moment later in this house. It’s haunted, or something!”

Moor raised an eyebrow. “Haunted?” She walked over to him slowly. “Now this house is many things, but haunted?”

“Well, whatever happened to me last night certainly wasn’t natural, whatever it was!”

Appletree gave him a curious look. “What exactly happened to you?”

So he told them. About the noises in the night, about the three unicorns, about the coffin, the briars, the mud, everything. When he’d finished, Appletree and Moor smiled at each other.

“You see?” said Moor, sounding relieved. “Trotsky McGee always tells the best stories.”

“The best stories,” said Appletree, smiling oddly, “but I bet he could tell them better.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we could show you how to tell stories properly. We could make you a storyteller..."
*    *    *
“And so they did,” said Tales, smiling faintly. “They taught me everything I know.”

Fluttershy’s eyes were wide. “But what about y- what about Trotsky McGee?”

He glanced nervously. “I’m Tall Tales now. I... I like it better that way.”

Fluttershy nodded slowly.

"So, how do you feel about telling now?”

Fluttershy thought for a moment. What could she tell? She didn’t know any stories...

Wait, what was she saying? Of course she did. What did she tell the little animals to make them go to sleep? What did she hear from Angel? You could learn a lot from animals, she’d found, if you took the time to listen. She stood up and walked into the middle of the room. Tales watched her go for a moment, like a proud engineer watching his ship leave port. Then he went to go and see if he could cadge a cup of hot chocolate.

All eyes turned to her (well, most eyes), and Fluttershy felt a hint of fear. She went on regardless.

“I’d like to tell a story,” she said, smiling a little uncertainly. “I know this one’s true because I heard it from the squirrel it happened to...”

> Chapter Eleven - Tales Hears All
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter Eleven



Tales Hears All


The squirrel was laid back in his favourite tree on a branch which hung over the river, the long, slow, broad river that ran down to the bigger, broader lake. He was just relaxing, not a care in the world. He was about to shut his little eyes and have a snooze, when he heard a voice.

“Squirrel,” said the voice, a whispery, wet voice, “squi-irel!”

Squirrel looked down, and saw a pike below him in the river. It was long and sleek, with a mouth full of sharp, pointy teeth. It was using all of them to grin at the squirrel.

“Hullo,” said the squirrel, whose branch was just above the pike.

“Hey, squirrel,” said the pike, ”The king of the fish is holding a party at the bottom of his lake.”

Squirrel nodded, a little uncertainly. “That must be very nice for him.”

“Ah, but it’s not a party without squirrel,” said the pike. “What’s say you come down from your tree and come along?”

The squirrel’s jaw dropped. “What? Are you nuts? I can’t swim!”

“Ah, don’t worry, squirrel. I’ll carry you on my back to the lake, then I’ll take you down!”

The squirrel squinted at the pike suspiciously. “You wouldn’t just be trying to tempt me down so you can eat me, would you?”

The pike gasped. “You’d suspect me of such a thing?”

"You are a pike.”

“Granted, but I’m not trying to trick you, I promise.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes!” said the pike, exasperated. “Come on, it’ll be fun! There’ll be singing, and dancing, and cake!”

(Mr. Cake glanced up out of habit)

The squirrel looked suspicious. He rubbed his chin with one paw and studied the pike carefully, but there didn’t seem to be so much as a flicker of dishonesty in his fishy face.

So, he glanced one way, and glanced the other, until at last he said. “Well, okay.”

The pike thanked him and slid up under the lowest branches of the trees, and the little squirrel clambered down on to the pike’s back. It was slippery, and scaly, and smelled unpleasantly of fish (not that the pike could help it, being a fish who ate fish and all, but the squirrel was not an accepting sort).

The squirrel hunkered down as the pike shot off down the river. The banks flashed past either side and the river slowed and widened. The squirrel hung on as best he could, even as the wind and the water tried to tear him away.

He tried not to think about the scaly, slippery fish below him. He tried to think about the party, tried to stay optimistic. Think of the singing, the dancing, the cake! He was going to have fun. The river soon widened into the lake, which spread out as far as the squirrel could see.

Finally, after what seemed ages, the pike stopped in the centre of the lake.

“Are we there?” said the squirrel, hoping the journey would soon be over.

"Ye-es, about that," said the pike. "I'm afraid I wasn't totally honest with you earlier."

“Oh...?”

“Yeah, you see, the real reason I brought you out here wasn’t really that the king of the fish is having a party.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, see, he’s in no position to have a part of any kind. He’s sick, you see, and I need a squirrel’s heart to make him better.”

The squirrel was quiet for a long time after that.

“Squirrel? Please don’t be angry.”

“So there’s no singing?” he said, slowly.

"Not as such.”

“No dancing?”

“Not really.”

“And no cake?”

“No, no cake.”

The squirrel was quiet a while longer.

“Well, you should have told me that to begin with!” he said at last, rolling his eyes and throwing his little arms up. “You see, I brought my lungs for singing, my feet for dancing, and my mouth for eating, but I completely forgot my heart!”

The pike sighed, exasperated. “Oh no, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Sorry. We’ve got to go back and get it.”

The pike sighed again, turned around and set off back down the river. They sped on through the water, through the spray, wind etc etc. 

Eventually, they reached the squirrel’s old tree. He hopped up into the lower branches.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be right back with my heart,” he said.

The pike nodded and waited. And waited. And waited. And as far as I know, he’s still waiting.

*    *    *
“... and that’s why, the squirrel says, he can never go back down to the river.”

Tales only pricked his ears up on that line, but it sounded good regardless. He put his mug down to applaud, and took a seat there. Well, everything seemed more or less in order. He’d have a drink and then head off. Yeah, they didn’t need him here any more, right?

“Hey there!” said a voice all too familiar and terrible. “That was good, don’t you think that was good?”

“I only caught the end,” said Tales, diplomatically.

“Well, trust me, it was real good.”

Thankfully, she seemed to run out of things to say. Tales sipped his cocoa and glanced around the cafe. He saw Pretty in Purple sitting a couples of tables over with a couple of other ponies and tried to catch her eye, but she studiously ignored him.

“What’s up with her?” he said to Pinkie. “Is she usually like this?”

“No, but I think you annoyed her.”

Tales’ jaw dropped. “I annoyed her?”

"Yeah, Twilight’s not keen on ponies lying.”

“I wasn’t lying! I was telling stories!”

“I don’t think she sees much of a difference.”

Tales took a moment to think. Well, to sulk thoughtfully, at any rate.

“I can’t imagine why,” he muttered.

“Probably because she’s lived through a couple of stories, and didn’t find them fun.”

Tales’ curiosity piqued. He wasn’t averse to true stories. “Is that right?”

“Yeah, she defeated Discord, and Nightmare Moon, and talked a dragon down off a mountain. I don’t think she really enjoyed doing it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “For real?”

“For real.”

Tales looked across at Pretty in... well, across at Twilight, if that was her name. He didn’t know how far to trust Pinkie, but if she was even a little bit right... well, it couldn’t hurt to ask. He went to get up.

“She’s the one who defeated Nightmare Moon and Discord?”

"Well, she had help,” said Pinkie, noncommittally.

He nodded and wandered over, quite casually. The Mayor was telling now. She had a story of local politics whose intricate, byzantine complexity would put even the most long-winded Connemaran Táin to shame. Twilight was sitting with the stetson-hatted earth pony and the white unicorn, and was quite absorbed in a discussion with a pegasus (who was a rather charming shade of Air Superiority Blue with a rainbow mane, if you must know), and didn’t notice Tales sidling up, not least because he had sidling down to a fine art.

“Excuse me,” he said, politely as he could. “Are you Twilight Sparkle?”

Never before had he seen such enmity in a single look, even in front of a Trotheim crowd after one off-colour reindeer joke too many. He wilted.

“Yes, I am,” she said, like he’d just said ‘no you’re not’.

“Ah, right, good, because I was wondering… you see, I’ve heard that... well...”

“He wants to hear about Nightmare Moon,” said Pinkie, who was standing beside him.

“How did you get here...?”

“Oh, really?” said Twilight, a little confused. “It’s not much of a story.”

“Are you kidding me?” said Air Superiority Pegasus, laughing. “It’s one hell of a story, ‘cause of the main character, none other than Rainbow Dash! You shoulda seen me when Twilight fell off that cliff!”

“Now jus’ hold on there,” said the earth pony, “don’t you go gettin’ caught up in it, RD.”

“Well what did you do then?” said the aforementioned RD.

“Girls!” said Twilight, exasperated. She turned to Tales. “It’s complicated, okay? Look, it was all in the newspapers at the time, didn’t you read it then?”

“I may have been elsewhere at the time,” he said, which was true. There wasn’t much market for Equestrian newspapers in griffon country, where literacy ranked some way below the ability to tear your opponent’s lower jaw off and use it as an ice cream scoop. They had a good ear for a story, though. “Anyway, I want to hear it from you.”

“What are we talking about?” came a breathy voice from behind them. Fluttershy had wandered over, a mug of tea balanced on one wing. Tales was surrounded now.

“Tales here was just asking about our rather sordid adventures with creatures of unknowable evil,” said the white unicorn. 

"And I was just about to tell him to -”

“Oh wow, really? That’d make a great story,” said Fluttershy, although it sounded to Tales more like a wheeze.

“Just what I was gonna say,” said Rainbow. “So there I was, diving to rescue Twilight...”

“Hey, you can’t just start in the middle!” the pony in the stetson protested.

“Yeah, you’ve gotta start at the start,” said Pinkie. “That’s why they call it a ‘start’! Unless you're using in medias res, but that's just showing off.”

“Ugh, where does it start, though?” said Twilight, her head in her hooves. “Most of it is just our lives."

Tales thought of something clever to say about that, but left it unsaid.

“Tell me the whole thing, from the start,” he said, instead.

“Okay, okay...” Twilight took a few deep breaths. “You sure? It’s a long story.”

"That’s okay, we’ll just take a break and tell it in two parts,” said Pinkie. “That’s how I remember it, anyway.”

“Okay... so, it was last year, and it was the eve of the Summer Sun Celebration...”
*    *    *
You know that story, right? Well, Tales didn’t. He lapped it all up. He’d heard all sorts of mangled versions of it up north, where Equestria was rescued by any number of miscellaneous persons, but this version, this version was the truth. Six mares between Equestria and eternal night. You couldn’t make it up. And it was good to hear it from the ponies it’d happened to. The way they told the bits that had happened to them, the way they bickered over the details, it was all... right.

Tales listened furiously. They began to attract the rest of the clientele of the cafe as the yarn rattled on. Heads turned, chairs and flanks shuffled over to listen, and by the time they finished, everyone was listening.

It had seemed perfectly reasonable then, to tell the story of how they’d beaten Discord. Everypony was rapt. Ponies who had been present in Ponyville at the time, who had witnessed the epic battle were still on the edge of their seats. They’d all agree later that they might’ve known the story, but hearing it like that made it new, made it proper.

There was applause, naturally, at the end, quite above and beyond what would be expected. The walls of Sugarcube Corner shook. It would be entirely true to say they ended the night on a high. Everypony went back home feeling that, in some small way, the world was a better place.

And what more can you ask for, really?

> Epilogue - Pinkie Pie Has the Last Word
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Epilogue



Pinkie Pie Gets The Last Word


Tales had managed to wrangle a place to sleep at Sugarcube Corner. They weren’t in the business of renting rooms they said, but in his case, they could make an exception. It was a store room really, and he was sleeping on flour sacks and that meant a sneezing fit every time he turned over, but in all honesty anything was better than a park bench. He might be used to sleeping al fresco, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

He was up bright and early, the moment light crept through the small, dusty window. He hopped up off the pile of sacks and brushed the flour off his coat. Then he patted it out of his mane. Then he had to upend his bowler hat to empty it. God, it was worse than the dust at Burning Mare festival.

He tip-toed through the empty cafe, hoping the Cakes wouldn’t mind the trail of white hoof prints. He opened the door as quietly as he could, and was about to leave, when he heard a creak behind him. He turned, to see Pinkie sitting on the stairs, quite calmly. Tales winced. He expected her to go off at any minute and start yammering, but strangely she stayed still.

She smiled at him oddly instead. That was probably worse.

“My parents always used to tell stories, every night,” she said quietly, casting her eyes low, “to me and my sisters.”

Tales was, for a moment, stuck for words.

“That’s... nice,” he said, edging out the door. He’d had a good run and all, but he really had to go...

“And there used to be caravans that came past the farm every couple of months. Roamer travellers. Gypsies. They always used to tell stories too...”

“Uhuh, uhuh,” said tales, still trying to get away as politely as possible. “Look, I have-”

“Stop leaving, I’m trying to talk to you,” said Pinkie, flashing Tales a glare that... well, he didn’t want to see it again in a hurry. He wondered where mares learnt such sharp looks. Pinkie bit her lip and looked bashful for a moment. “I just wanted to say, it’s nice to hear them again like that. Thank you.”

“Uhuh?” said Tales, his voice wobbling in disbelief. He’d had it all wrong. Here was someone who had always known the right kind of storytelling. She was a kindred spirit. She was a fellow northerner. His mind raced for the right words.

“All this time, then?” he said at last. “You knew?”

She shrugged. “I wanted it to be like the first time. I wanted to show everyone what it was like.”

Tales nodded, slowly. She was smarter than she looked.

“One thing, though,” he said, head tilted. “Where are you-”

“Near Herd’s Hollow,” she said, simply. “So I’m not that northern.”

He nodded sagely.

“Well, it’s been... an experience,” he said, smiling. “I’ll tell them all the proper story of Nightmare Moon at Connemara.”

“You better,” said Pinkie, smiling back. “Oh, and one more thing.”

She trotted down and slid a box off the counter and passed it to Tales. The label read ‘Cupcakes. Party-grade. Do not drop’. Below that, it said ‘For: Peppermint Twist (birthday)’, but someone had crossed that out. With pink crayon.

“For the road.”

Tales must have been a proper storyteller, because he took them without a thought. He held the box by the strings.

“Thanks,” he said, around his new burden.

“No problem,” said Pinkie, her smile growing into a grin. Tales could see the spell of calm was wearing off, so he chose his moment to go.

“Goodbye, madam Pie,” he said, bowing his head and holding his hat to his chest with a flourish. Pinkie giggled and bowed back
.
Tales gave her a wink, and left with his swag. He trotted out of the door, and into the early morning sunshine. It looked like they’d make it a nice day today, with a clear sky and warm air. Say what you want about the south, they knew how to put on a good summer.

He headed down the road east out of Ponyville, the road that led to the the coast, and led from there, to the boat to Connemara. It seemed so... straightforward when he thought about it like that. 

Too straightforward, really. Maybe... maybe he should take take the long way around. There were a few small towns between here and there he fancied visiting. Plus, he had some new stories to practice now. Whyever not, he thought.

That too, seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe it was.