Collection One: Old Shame
Even the “dry season” left Rarity’s mane matted to her forehead. Five minutes ago, she had been standing in the lobby of her embassy, correcting the orientation of her necklace in the mirror—her mane perfectly curled, and her makeup perfectly placed. Now she was shaking like a blade of grass in a tornado as she wandered through the market. Each step brought forth the stench of brine, rotting wood, and whatever other foul delicacies the ponies of Sturm seemed utterly enthralled by.
Despite the steady rainfall, the marketplace cackled with life. It would take a flood to shut down the market, and even then it would come as no surprise if the merchants broke out their boats and commerce carried on as normal. Ninety-nine point nine nine percent of the population had been brought up on the waters of the ceaseless torrential downpours that gave the nation its name; Rarity was the point one percent cowering underneath an awning as the rain picked up.
I have made a terrible mistake, she thought for not the first time that day. She stuck her hoof out from beneath the safety of the mildewed wood, and shivered as dozens of droplets assaulted her at once. She groaned and sat back, then promptly yelped and rocketed a good two feet into the air. Puddles. She always forgot about the puddles.
When gravity took back over, she came down right in one of the countless rivulets streaming down the sidewalk. Water splashed against her underbelly, and her hooves fell out from under her. She hit the cobblestone ribs-first. Gasping and writhing, she wished nothing more than a slow and painful death for whoever had decided building a city in such a stormy hellhole was a good idea.
